grace

You blinked. Once. Twice. Your eyes found Prentiss, her expression faltering as her gaze dropped. You followed it down, almost confused by the slow bloom of crimson spreading across your side and belly—like a cruel artist dragging a brush through water, letting the pigment bleed. The soft grey shirt you’d thrown on that morning—chosen with little thought—now looked like it had been made for this exact kind of tragedy. You hadn’t considered how well it would pair with blood.

The fabric clung to your skin now, hot and wet. The bleeding wasn’t fast—it was abiding, resolute, like your body had made peace with the idea of unravelling slowly. There was a pressure building beneath your ribs, sharp and incessant, like something vital had been nicked and was now screaming for your attention.

Your knees gave way first.

Footsteps pounded against the pavement, sounding somewhere far off. Or maybe they were close. It was hard to tell with everything starting to muffle, feeling like cotton had been stuffed in your ears and the world was beginning to fade.

Above you, the sky wavered, as if seen through glass smeared by an unkind hand—smudged and streaked, like it couldn’t decide whether to stay clear or fade with you. Your fingers twitched against the asphalt, seeking something solid to hold onto.

“Move! I’ve got her—move!”

His voice came before the rest of him and you forced your eyes to stay open.

Just a little longer.

Just to see him.

If this was it—if this was the breath before the end—then let it be him you carried into whatever came next. Let his face be the last light seared into the backs of your eyelids, the last shape your body remembered before becoming nothing more than a bloom in soil.

Let it be him.

He dropped beside you like gravity had pulled him down harder than the rest of the world. You felt the absence of his hands for a single, suspended second—like the earth had held its breath with you—and then they were everywhere. One braced behind your head, the other pressing into your side firmly, and oh, God, it burned.

You gasped, a wet, broken sound that cracked from somewhere beneath your ribs and he flinched, just once.

“S’okay,” you managed, your voice thready, ghostlike. “Not as bad as it looks.”

His eyes snapped to yours, overflowing with disbelief, and you tried to offer a smile—something crooked, something brave—but it faltered the moment you tasted copper. A metallic bitterness coating your tongue.

Your lips parted in confusion before the nausea caught up. You turned your head just as a frenzy of coughs clawed their way up your aching chest, wracking your frame.

Warm and slick blood found its way past your teeth, past your lips.

“No—” His voice cracked, low, hoarse, and terrified. One arm wrapped around your shoulders as you shuddered, trying to hold you steady, trying to keep you here. “You’re okay. I’ve got you. I’ve got you—just breathe.”

But it was getting harder to do even that.

Air was beginning to feel like smoke in your lungs, thick, stinging, and impossible to hold. Every inhale caught somewhere halfway, like your body was forgetting how to stay alive, or simply beginning to make peace with going.

Your gaze fluttered to his mouth, watching the way his lips moved.

The sound wasn’t reaching you anymore, not clearly. You had to focus, had to summon what was left of your strength just to hear him, just to hold onto his voice.

“…vest…” You watched his mouth shape the word, his hand still pressing against your side. “You didn’t have your vest on…”

Regret twisted in his features—not anger, never that—just devastation carved into bone. Like he was trying to figure out how to bargain with the universe. Like if he could go back, he’d put the damn thing on you himself.

“T-took it off,” you murmured, each syllable slow and splintered, barely more than air. You didn’t know if he could hear you. You weren’t even sure you were making sound anymore. “D-didn’t know…there w-was a second unsub…”

“You should never take it off.” The words sounded like they belonged in of his lectures, but his voice lacked the sternness it usually carried. “You know that, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart.

He hadn’t called you that in months.

Not through the check-ins he made under the guise of protocol. Not during the late dinners, the endless conversations in half-lit hotel rooms or your apartment where the line between exes and colleagues blurred just enough to hurt.

But now—now—when you were bleeding in his arms and slipping further from him with every breath, the word had tumbled out like muscle memory.

And for a second, it didn’t matter how much time had passed.

You were still his.

“T-tell me something,” you whispered, the words barely forming. Your eyes felt impossibly heavy now, taking more effort to keep them open than to let go. “Something warm,” you breathed. “I feel…so cold…”

You weren’t sure of much anymore—weren’t even certain if he was really there—but then his grip tightened around your hand, grounding you in the space between pain and unconsciousness. Your eyelids fluttered right as he leaned his head closer, his breath a small comfort against your cheek.

“Do you remember that night in Georgia?” he murmured, moving a blood-matted piece of hair from your face. “The motel with the broken heater…and the vending machine that ate your dollar?”

You blinked. Slow. Maybe a nod. Maybe just the way your breath caught a little differently.

“You were freezing,” he went on, the memory spilling out like a lifeline, “wrapped up in that ridiculous blanket you stole from the jet.”

“It was itchy,” you rasped, voice so faint he had to lean in closer to catch it. “The blanket… so itchy…”

“I remember, honey,” he said, his thumb brushing gently against your temple. “It was your excuse to steal my sweatshirt… and half the bed.”

You blinked again, slower now—and this time, your eyes didn’t reopen, content to shut with the memory of his face carved into the darkness behind your eyelids.

The soft curve of his mouth. The small, reluctant smile you hadn’t seen in so long. You clung to it, tucking it somewhere safe inside you, wondering if the universe would be kind enough to let you keep it.

“I…I still have it…the sweatshirt…w-wear it every night I miss you.”

You didn’t see the way his face crumpled, how his eyes squeezed shut like he’d just taken a bullet too. But you felt him. The gentle press of his forehead into your own, the way his hand tightened around yours like a vow.

“I never slept better than I did that night,” he murmured, his voice breaking in all the places he never let anyone hear. “You curled into me, and I tried to stay awake for as long as I could. Just to feel you near…. just to hear your heartbeat…”

You gathered what little strength you had left and squeezed his hand, hoping it was enough.

“I used to think,” he whispered, “that if I stayed still enough, breathed quiet enough… you’d never leave.”

“M’sorry,” you managed, two syllables slurred and soft, trailing into silence before everything went dark.

The unforgiving light clawed and seeped into your eyes, prying them open. You winced against it, lashes fluttering. Your tongue dragged over your lips—dry, cracked, and peeling like old paint left too long beneath a scorching sun.

Everything ached.

Not sharply, not suddenly—but deeply, as if your body was punishing you for choosing survival. As if every cell was still mourning the lost promise of eternal rest.

Your fingers twitched. Even the smallest movement stirred something beneath your skin. A needle—an IV, maybe. You hated needles. Hated the way they sat inside you, like splinters in your veins, begging to be torn free.

And lower, at your side, a steady throb pulsed there. Not bleeding anymore. Not fresh. There was no urgency in it now.

You were no longer bleeding.

You were clean.

The dressing gown they’d put you in was pristine white—so white it felt unnatural. Blinding. The colour of surrender. And the brightness of it overwhelmed you, pushed you back into yourself, and made you shut your eyes again.

Until—

“Hey you…”

You turned your head toward the sound instinctively, and pain lanced through your side, cauterizing and immediate. It stole the breath right out of your lungs, made you suck in sharply and squint against the fresh wave of ache as your eyes opened again.

“You’re okay,” the voice soothed, closer now. “Can I get you anything?”

Your vision cleared slowly, and there he was—Hotch—standing rigidly by the bed, one hand braced against the bedrail like he didn’t trust himself to get any closer without breaking something.

You tried to speak, but your throat seized, burning the words before they could form.

He stepped closer, reading the pain on your face like a map he knew by heart. "Water?"

You gave the smallest nod, and he was already moving, reaching for the pitcher near your bed. His hands, usually so sure, fumbled just slightly, the water pouring in a slow, uneven trickle into the cup.

Your vision wavered, but you caught it anyway, the faint smudges under his nails. Dark stains that might have once been red.

Blood.

Your blood.

Even now—even close to death—parts of you had found their way onto him, marking him in ways neither of you would ever be able to wash clean.

Hotch guided the cup to your lips, his other hand steadying the back of your head with a tenderness that threatened to undo you. You reached out too, a weak attempt to mask the need—the way your fingers curled around his, under the guise of helping hold the cup up.

The rim pressed against your mouth, trembling slightly between both your hands and his. You took a small sip, the water sliding down your raw throat like broken glass softened only by his touch.

His hand stayed cradling your head, his thumb unconsciously brushing the curve of your skull in grounding strokes. You swallowed, the effort exhausting, and leaned a fraction more into his palm without thinking, without guarding yourself like you usually would.

Your gaze lifted to meet his, blinking heavily, fighting against the pull of sleep. And when you found him—really found him—you sensed it in your chest, that same ache that had never faded, merely rested in the depths of your stomach, anticipating. Anticipating the times when both of you looked at one another for too long, lingered in touch for too long, spoke to each other for too long.

You wanted to reach out, to gentle the line between his brows with your fingertips, to dissolve the way he wore worry as if it were woven into his very skin. He didn’t deserve that weight. You didn’t deserve to be the reason it sat there.

You were not supposed to be his burden anymore. You had made sure of it. And yet—here he was, still looking at you like losing you would have hollowed out the parts of him you used to call home. 

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, more coherently this time, just as he pulled his hands away, setting the cup back down.

“No.” He shook his head immediately—the quickest movement you’d seen from him since you woke. “You don’t apologise. Not for this. Not for surviving.”

You wanted to tell him you weren’t apologising for surviving. You were apologising for still wanting him like this. For still reaching for him in the dark, even when you no longer had the right.

“Rest,” he instructed, his voice softening. “I’m staying.”

His hands found you again, one settling lightly on your shoulder, guiding you down against the bed. You didn’t protest. You let him adjust your pillow, let him fuss over you, knowing you would start scolding him for it tomorrow.

But for today, you let yourself bask in the comfort he was offering without thinking about how much it would cost you later. How much it would set you back. You shut your eyes, listening to the chair scrape as he pulled it nearer to your bedside, then the gentle thump of him settling in.

For a moment, there was nothing but quiet.

"Do you think things would’ve turned out differently if I’d gone through with the transfer?” The question slipped from your lips before you had a chance to consider the pros and cons of posing it. "Between us, I mean..." you added, voice unsure. "We always said it was the job that got in the way.”

Hotch didn’t respond immediately.

You took the quiet as a chance to glance at him, wondering if he’d even heard you. But when you shifted your head in his direction, you found his eyes already on you.

"Maybe," he answered finally, elbows resting on his knees. "You would’ve still been here. Still at Quantico. Still... close."

You nodded, a minor movement against the pillow.

“But close doesn’t always mean easy,” he continued. “And we were never very good at easy.”

“Yeah,” you breathed, the world barely scraping out. “Guess it always felt easier blaming the job than—”

“Me?”

“Us,” you corrected, shifting weakly against the pillow, the ache in your side feeling like nothing compared to the one rising in your chest. Again.

“You shouldn’t have had to choose between what you wanted to do and…me.”

“Why? Because you’d already made your choice?”

His eyes dropped to his fingers, until he noticed the dried blood under his nails. He quickly concealed his hands, as if he could somehow mask the guilt persistently attached to him.

You sighed, peeling your eyes away from him. “I don’t blame you, Aar,” you whispered. “We both made the same choice. I suppose now we’re both left to question if it was the right one.”

You heard him exhale, followed by the rustle of fabric. A second later, you felt his hand enveloping yours again. “I’ll always be here. In whatever way you need me to be.”

"I don't know if that's a good thing anymore," you admitted, voice cracking right down the middle. You closed your eyes—not just from the exhaustion pulling at you like a riptide, but because the tears behind your lids were so close.

“You don’t have to know right now,” he answered, and it almost broke you, the way he made it sound so simple. So easy. Like healing could be a choice you could make tomorrow instead of something you’d spend years bleeding over.

"Just rest," he murmured, voice dropping even softer. "And if you still feel like this in the morning... if you want me to go... I'll go."

You felt him gently squeeze your hand, like he already knew you wouldn’t be able to ask him.

“But I’m staying tonight.”

You said nothing.

Instead, you tried to will yourself into sleep, knowing full well you wouldn’t have the strength to tell him to leave. Not tomorrow. Maybe not ever.

“Don’t ever sell yourself short like that, kid,” Derek warned, his finger pointed at you. “If anything, Hotch is lucky that you’re looking at him.” 

“Hear, hear,” Emily agreed. “You are a bombshell, and he’s,” Emily looked towards Hotch, “just a man.” 

“You’re the best thing for him,” Derek said softly. “I’ve never seen him this happy.” 

You smiled at the kind words thrown by them, it was nice to have it wash over you until you looked over to the cause of your pain. She was touching his arm now, practically on top of him. He never allowed the team to touch him, minus you. 

“I’m gonna head out to lunch before everyone takes the brisket again,” you removed yourself from the group and heading towards the cafeteria. 

You were too in your head that you didn’t realise that Spencer called out your name, pouting slightly when you didn’t respond. “Don’t take it personally, kid,” Derek clapped his hand on Spencer’s shoulder. “She thinks that Hotch is in love with the new recruit.” 

“That’s ridiculous,” Spencer replied, confusion in his tone. “Everyone knows that Hotch is in love with her.” 

“Well,” Derek stretched out the word and looked at Hotch and Madeleine. “Can you blame her though?” 

“It’s probably not what it looks like,” Spencer frowned. “Maybe she just has daddy issues and Hotch is fulfilling that role.” 

Derek barked out a laugh, while Emily grinned in amusement. “Don’t think that helps the scene, kid.” 

The conversation naturally died down as Hotch approached the table, Madeleine in tow. Emily couldn’t help but roll her eyes. Sure, Canavan was a nice kid. A bit too nice for Emily’s liking, a bit too fake and green-eyed, but maybe she was biased. She was fond of you afterall. 

“She’s gone,” Emily provided, not looking up from her book and before Hotch could ask the question. “To lunch.” 

All she received was a frown from Hotch. Taking out his phone, he looked at the screen before humming and excused himself before leaving in the same direction that you did. 

“Oh no, kid, don’t even think about it,” Derek stopped Madeleine from following Hotch. “That’s their time. I would not interrupt that. And I would not get in between them.”  

“Yeah, one time I did and not that Hotch would ever admit it, but I think he hated me at that moment,” Spencer smiled tightly, looking at Madeleine. 

“Are they together?” 

“Worse.” 

“Worse?” She repeated, not quite getting the obvious inside joke between the team. 

“They’re practically in love but too them to say anything,” Emily snarked, looking at the girl in front of her. Narrowing her eyes briefly, she saw the despondent look on the other girl’s face. 

“Oh.” 

“So, don’t think about it,” Derek warned. “As nice as you are, those two only ever revolve around each other.” 

-

“There you are,” Hotch said, a smile appearing on his face as he saw you. “Brisket?” He nodded towards the food in your hand. 

Grinning you nodded, “Finally managed to grab some before DT grabbed everything. Got you some,” you tapped the tupperware next to you. 

“Thank you, honey,” placing a soft kiss on your head, he sat down next to you. “Are you okay?” 

You took a beat to say anything, just chewing your food and thinking. Maybe now was the right time to bring it up, everything that you were feeling. The insecurity and jealousy that’s been brewing inside of you. That for the first time since this started between you and Hotch, you felt that you were on unsteady ground. That you didn’t know where you fit into his life. 

However, as you looked around, you realised that bringing this up during work was not something you could do. 

And if Hotch said the worst things that your brain could conjure up, there’s no place to run or hide from him. You still had a good six hours until you clocked off. Plus, the embarrassment, there was no way you were getting embarrassed at work due to a man. 

“Just tired,” you eventually landed on. Which wasn’t a lie, technically. But you still needed a few days to figure out what you were going to say to him. 

Hotch looked at you, and as much as he didn’t want unprofessional feelings in the workplace, he couldn’t help it. You were mesmerising. Everything you did managed to leave him in awe. As if whatever you were doing was the first time he was seeing it. 

“Do I have sauce on my face?” You asked, your free hand tapping your face softly. 

Hotch shook his head, a small fond smile on his face, “You’re beautiful.” 

You softened, your foot tapping his, “I know.” 

Chuckling he couldn’t help but lean and kiss your forehead again. 

-

You watched, arms crossed as Hotch delegated the tasks, eyes flicking towards you every now and then. You gave him an encouraging nod as he began to shift his attention to the local police department. 

You waited for the orders, everyone pairing off. You perked up as you heard your name, and his, along with two others. Clenching your jaw as you saw her bound up to Hotch, too happy in this context, you turned your head to search for the other person in your little team. 

“Price,” the man held out his hand which you gladly took. It was rare that the local pd respected any of you, let alone the women. Introducing yourself, you both began to exchange information. 

Hotch and Canavan moved to where the two of you were, heads bent together as you discussed the different entrances that the warehouse had. “I’ve got your back, if you have mine,” Price looked to you, and for a moment you were lost in his blue eyes. 

If you met him two years ago, maybe you would have taken him out for a drink after the case, maybe you would have exchanged numbers. However, it was now, and a gentle hand on your back brought you out of your reverie, you looked towards the culprit who barely acknowledged his tender touch. 

“‘Course, Price,” you gave him a soft smile. 

“Officer Price,” Hotch interrupted your conversation, “if you could show Agent Canavan the layout of the warehouse,” he nodded to the woman standing next to him, looking a bit distraught as he sent her off. 

“He’s awfully happy to be partnered with you,” Hotch stated as he kept the man in his line of sight, his hand still on the small of your back, absentmindedly rubbing small circles.  

“You partnered us, remember?” You quipped back. “Price and I can take the inside of the warehouse, if you and Canavan want to go around the perimeter,” you suggested, already forming a plan in your head. That would be the easiest and most logical. 

“I’ll go with Price, stay with Maddy,” Hotch amended. “It would do her well to be with someone like you. I trust you to keep her safe.” 

“Maddy,” you mocked quietly, but not quiet enough as Hotch heard you. At his questioning look, “Nicknames, already?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Gonna start calling her honey as well?” You accused, envy embedding itself in every nerve you had. You stepped out of his hold and you watched as his hand stayed in the air for a moment, and then dropping to his side, a small clench of his fist. 

It was a standstill for a moment between the two of you, you too in your head that you didn’t notice the way that Hotch was studying you. The concentrated look that he only ever has when he’s trying to piece together a particularly frustrating puzzle. 

“As much as I want to listen to this telenovela, we have a case,” Rossi interrupted as he looked between the two of you. “Lives are at stake, remember?” 

You nodded, ashamed in your brief outburst. Rossi was right. This was an active case. People were dead and will die if you didn’t stop acting like a jealous, hormonal teenager. 

Hotch watched you leave as Rossi studied him, a knowing look on his face. “What, Dave?” Hotch exhaled. 

“Do you seriously not see it?” 

“See what?” 

Rossi made a noise and smiled tightly at him, “You know, for a brilliant profiler, you’re very stupid.” At Hotch’s glare, Rossi held up his hands. “All I’m saying is, how do you not realise why (Y/N) is mad at you.”  

--

“Canavan, stay back!” You ordered, shoving your hand in front of her. “Fucking, don’t go charging in there, we know he’s armed and he has accomplices, that may or may not be in there with him. So stay the fuck back.” 

“They have the victims in there!” She pointed to the room at the end of the hall. 

“We wait for back-up,” you commanded. “We don’t know if they have the victims in there, and again we don’t know if he’s alone.” 

“The victims are in there,” she all but growled, finding the strength to kick your leg and push you out of the way. 

“Son of a fucking bitch,” you angrily followed her, gun held to your side. “Canavan,” you whispered angrily, trying to keep up with her. “Fuck, Canavan!” You saw her getting yanked inside, screaming as she went. 

Without another thought, you ran towards her, from your memory, this was a big room. There were plenty of craters that you could hide behind, but it was far too dark to really see anything. If shots were fired and you didn’t know where it came from, you were screwed. But you had to try. 

As best as you could, you hid yourself behind a crater, as vicious as the unsubs were, they were stupid. Ego the gods could envy, they didn’t bother hiding when they were trying to shoot. 

Seeing your chance, you quickly straightened, once your eyes were on him, you shot two bullets into his chest. Running quickly, you took his gun and confirmed that he was dead. Suddenly you felt yourself being shoved into the wall, your head banging harshly against the concrete. Fumbling with your knife, you quickly pulled it out and lodged it in his ribs causing the unsub to groan and throw another punch at your face. 

Twisting the knife as much as you could, the man screamed in agony as he swayed back away from you, allowing yourself to stand up. Grabbing the metal, you tried to swing down at the man when he came up, grabbing it and directing a punch underneath your rib, causing you to drop to the ground. Taking the pipe from your hand, you saw the man grin as he raised it up, poised to hit you until you heard two gunshots. 

“Unsub down,” you could hear Derek tell the walkie talkie. “There were two,” you could vaguely hear Derek describe the scene, the ground in front of you suddenly the most appealing thing to look at. 

You could hear voices in your earpiece, vaguely hearing your last name, then your name, each call getting more panicked when you didn’t answer. 

“Shit, Hotch,” Derek ran over to you, “she’s down, unsub hit her.” 

“Canavan,” you muttered, trying to point to where you saw her last. “Knocked out.” 

Derek looked towards the girl, conscious and now slouched over by the corner of the room. Briefly glancing at her and seeing no visible injuries, he turned his attention back to you. “Alright, mama,” helping you up, Derek looked at your wounds. 

You saw the rest of the team run in, Hotch at the helm. He partially looked at Canavan, then nodded to Emily and headed straight to you. 

“What were you thinking?” Hotch started as he looked at you. The words coming out sharper than he intended as he saw the state of your injuries. 

“Hotch, man, back off,” Derek stood between the two of you. “We all heard that it was Canavan that came charging in. If there was anyone at fault,” he looked towards the girl who was now in Emily’s arms, eyes trained on Hotch. 

“Shit,” you wiped the blood from your nose and grimaced as you felt more blood gush down. The throbbing in your head escalated as the room became louder. You felt overstimulated as everyone gathered in the room, lights suddenly on and you felt like throwing up. 

You slapped his hand away, “I’m fucking fine, Hotch,” you groaned as you stood up. “Derek,” you handed off the unsubs gun, and he took it with a nod. Holstering your own gun, you began walking to the medic. 

“Where are you going?” Hotch walked with you, the team forgotten behind. 

“Medic,” was all you said. Gritting your teeth as you felt the throbbing underneath your ribs. 

“I thought you said you were fine,” Hotch commented, a worrying frown on his face as he took notice of you holding your ribs. He ignored the woman who called his name, his attention all on you. 

“Yeah, well, I know it’s going to cause a shitstorm if I don’t get it checked out,” you clenched your jaw as pain shot through your body due to the uneven ground. “Fucking,” you cursed under your breath as you felt Hotch catch your body, causing you tense momentarily. 

“Easy,” Hotch mumbled softly.

“I’m fine,” you tried your best to shove yourself off him, you could see the ambulances now, just a few feet away. “Fuck off,” you cursed at him. 

“What is going on with you?” Hotch narrowed his eyes, refusing to abandon you. 

You turned back to him, and you didn’t know if it was the frustration that’s been building up, your new injuries or the fact that everything was just too loud and too bright, you exploded. “Why don’t you go back to your girlfriend?” You spat the word out as if it offended you personally. As if it wasn’t what you’ve been wanting from him. 

Hotch briefly took a step back as if you’ve just slapped him, your eyes instantly zeroing on the hurt that flashed across his face. “What are you talking about?” 

Opening your mouth, you gritted your teeth as pain began to worsen in your head.

“Forget about it,” grumbling, you walked away from Hotch, slowly making your way to the ambulances. 

--

“She has some injuries, but you’re fine, well as much as you can be,” the medic finished taping up your wound. “She shouldn’t be alone, just in case.” 

“She’ll stay with me,” Hotch announced, eyes trained intently on you. 

“Jesus Christ, give me a break,” you mumbled under your breath, earning a breathy laugh from the medic beside you, which quickly stopped as he saw the look that Hotch gave him. 

“Thanks,” nodding to the medic, you slowly jumped off the edge and began walking to the team that was now outside. 

“Morgan!” You called out, “Need someone to supervise me tonight.” 

Grabbing your elbow lightly, Hotch pulled you towards him, “She’s fine, Morgan. I’m looking after her.” 

Whatever smartass comment Derek wanted to say was stopped by the stern look on Hotch’s faces, and the grip he had on you. Moving you towards the car, he helped you up and placed your seatbelt. “I’m not a child,” you frowned, yanking the seatbelt from him and clicking it yourself. All you got was an exhausted huff. 

“Are we going to talk about this now or are you going to wait until we get back to the room?” Hotch asked, as he got into the car, and when you didn’t respond, he let out a sigh and began driving. 

--

“Why are you being so stubborn?” Hotch asked as the two of you walked into his hotel room. “I can get your stuff or you can wear mine, I know that you feel more comfortable in them sometimes.” 

Ignoring his question, you rolled your eyes, tired from the night, from the case, from the situation that you found yourself in with Hotch and the trainee. You were a grown woman, and here you were feeling the same things and doing the same things you were doing when you were sixteen. 

“Why are you here?” 

“This is my room,” Hotch stated dumbly, and for the umpteenth time that night, you rolled your eyes. 

Exhausted, you stared at him, and exhaled loudly. “I mean why are you here with me, when your precious Canavan is also injured and needing to be looked after.” 

“I want to make sure you’re okay,” Hotch said softly, taking a step forward but stopping when he saw you taking one back. “I frankly don’t care about her right now.” 

“That’s not a very Unit Chief thing to say,” you quipped, removing your jacket, wincing as you stretched your arm too much. 

“Honey,” Hotch started, moving towards you, hands out ready to help. 

“Don’t,” you snapped, finally removing your jacket. You moved towards his bathroom, intending to shower until you heard him shuffle behind you. 

You exhaled loudly, turning to face him, exhaustion on your face, “What do you want, Hotch and if you say it’s because you want to make sure I’m fine, I’m going to castrate you in your sleep.” 

Hotch couldn’t help but chuckle at your retort, even when you were injured and in pain, you still managed to be so you. 

“You heard the medic, I just need some rest,” you waved him off and began to remove your trousers. “If that’s all,” you gestured to the bathroom door. 

“That isn’t all.” You looked at him expectantly, “You’ve been ignoring me.” 

Scoffing you paused your movements and ran your hand through your hair, “And? In case you haven’t noticed we’ve been on a case.” 

“Don’t be naive,” Hotch chided. “We’ve been different,” at the solemn look on his face, a small part of you softened. “We have been for a while,” Hotch confessed softly. What he won’t tell you was he was racking his brain, trying to think of anything that he could have possibly done to make you drift away from him. 

Did you finally realise that you were too good for him? That he was a damaged old man and you deserved someone who could keep up with you? That you deserve someone good?

“I wonder why that is,” you commented under your breath.

“What?” 

You scoffed, exasperated by everything and especially at the man in front of you. “Hotch, why don’t you just do us both a favour and just go relieve Morgan from his duty of taking care of Canavan. We both know you want to be in her room anyway,” you moved to close the bathroom door, a growl practically escaping you when he moved to block it. 

“Why would I go into her room?” By the narrowness of Hotch’s eyes and animosity in his voice, you knew that you had to tread carefully. 

“I’m sure she needs the big boss to comfort her after the big night she had,” you mocked and you felt like a bitch. Again, you wouldn’t feel this way, you normally wouldn’t say things like this, if it wasn’t for everything. You knew she was probably scared, it was one of her first times on the field and she got attacked. You closed your eyes at the guilt you felt. 

“What the fuck?” It wasn’t the first time you heard Hotch curse, you were one of the few he allowed to hear him like that, but the tone severity of his tone took you back. “Why would I go into her room?” He repeated again, this time enclosing in your space. “Why do you keep bringing her up when I don’t care about her outside of work?” 

“Oh, I’m sorry, were you and her not eye fucking the entire case?” You laughed bitterly. “For weeks, ever since I came back, all I can see are the two of you practically humping each other whenever you were in the same vicinity. I had to watch you laugh with her, Hotch!” 

“Is this why you’ve been such a pain the last few weeks?” Hotch frowned, but there was an underlying tone of teasing that you didn’t like. 

“Fuck you,” you spat at him, you shoved him from your space and stomped back to the bedroom. “Guess since I’m not the youngest, I lost my shine, eh?” You mockingly winked at him, venom in your tone. “She’s new, young, probably your type. Like I was once upon a time,” you almost regretted the words as soon as they left your mouth. You bravely stared at Hotch, ignoring the fluttering in your chest and the churn of your stomach. 

Hotch hissed your name in warning. “Do not,” Hotch warned. “Look at me,” he directed you.

There was something in his tone and his demeanor that made you keep your eyes on him. He was breathing heavier, his face flushed in anger. At you? At the situation? You didn’t know. 

“I’m in love with you,” Hotch said seriously, his eyes never leaving yours. “I’ve been in love with you since the first day that I saw you, and I fall in love more every single day I talk to you.” 

Standing there in shock at the confession, you didn’t know what to say. It was the first time that either of you put anything to what you were feeling. What this was between the two of you. Your shoulders sagged a bit, a small bit of the fight leaving you, but a big part of you who’s been on the edge of crashing out needed this fight. 

“You never did anything to tell her that you were taken!” 

“What did you want me to do? We’ve never talked about this!” Hotch raised his voice, eyebrows to his hairline. “I didn’t want to put words into your mouth in case you didn’t feel the same way.” 

Never felt the same way? You thought bitterly. Is he an idiot? 

“You never stopped her! You instigated things, Hotch. Don’t think I don’t have eyes,” you bit out. “Is it because I was away for a week? That suddenly you forgot me and she appeared.” 

“Do not insult me with the thought that my feelings are that fickle,” Hotch snapped. “That all it takes to forget my love for you is some woman throwing herself at me,” walking towards you, Hotch kept his gaze on you. Every step, every word was deliberate. “I didn’t realise what you saw, what you perceived was me eye fucking her, or practically humping her, when those actions are only ever reserved for you.” 

“I was being nice, I’m her boss,” he explained, more gently this time but still a firmness in his tone that isn’t usually directed to you. “This job is already hard, you’ve told me plenty of times that I need to be kinder, put myself in their shoes, to not be a hardass,” at that you couldn’t help but chuckle, Hotch mirrored it with his own smile. “I want to be kinder for you. You make me want to do that.” 

“I’m sorry for not stopping it, I’m sorry for allowing her to think that there was ever a possibility of me being into her when all I think of is you,” he moved forward now, internally elated when he saw you stay put. “I’m sorry for making you believe that I don’t live for you.” 

Hotch was frustrated to say the least, not at you but at himself. For not seeing what Canavan was trying to do. The hurt that you felt all because of him, because he was being an idiot. All he could do was hope that you gave him a fighting chance. That he wouldn’t lose you because of this stupid, careless misunderstanding. 

You briefly looked at him, you knew that he wasn’t lying. If there was one thing that Hotch would never do to you, it was to lie. You watched as he went through the different emotions, eventually landing on something that he only wore around you. 

Walking towards you, he took the risk of gently placing his hands on your neck, “I’m in love with you and I’m sorry. You are the only thing that makes me sane, the one that actually makes me want to come to work because I can see you,” he admitted. “Please don’t let me not know what it’s like to see you first thing in the morning, or what kind of furniture you want for our home.” 

And you wanted that. You wanted that with him. You wanted everything with Hotch, the good, the bad and the ugly. You wanted to know what kind of pots he preferred, if he liked multiple blankets on the bed. You wanted the laughs, the fights and bickering. You didn’t want that with anyone else. 

“You let her touch you,” was all you could say. Thoughts running a mile per minute. You cringed inwardly as your behaviour from the past couple of weeks bombarded your brain. Were you really that petulant? That juvenile? You could feel the tears of embarrassment line your lashes. “And you’re an idiot for not seeing that she wanted to jump you.”

“And for that I’m sorry. I promise that you’ll be the only one that gets to touch me.”

“Good,” you said defiantly, and you watched as the left side of his lips tilted up. Raising your hands, you placed them on his chest. “Because I swear, if that ever happens again, Aaron,” you threatened. 

“I know, honey,” Aaron nodded solemnly. He knew that if anything like this happened, you would be gone. Whatever future he wanted with you would be gone. 

“You know though right?” You said softly, hoping to convey what was caught in your throat. You followed Hotch as he sat down on the bed and pulled you to him. 

“Know what?” He teased, wrapping his hands around your waist. 

“You’re being annoying and I’m injured,” you whined, your arms slowly falling to his shoulders. “You’re annoying,” you spoke as you slowly sat down in his lap. 

“Baby, say it,” he hovered his hands around your waist, being extra careful of your injured side. 

“I’m kinda in love with you,” you rolled your eyes playfully, “and baby? Really?” You arched a brow. 

“Kind of?” Aaron smiled up at you. “I wanted to try something new,” he shrugged. “Weird?” 

“No,” you shook your head. “Just different. I love it.” 

“Oh, so you love that, but you’re kind of in love with me,” Hotch teased, fingers drumming against your waist. 

“It’s because you’re being annoying,” you supplied. “But ask me tomorrow morning and it may change.” Leaning down, you smiled at him, the tension and anger washing away as you looked down into his eyes. “Now kiss,” you pouted and bent down, slotting your lips slowly to his. 

It was soft and slow, like you had all the time in the world, and for the moment, you did. You grinned as you felt his stubble graze your skin. Placing one hand on the small of your back and the other on your thigh, Aaron pushed you closer to him, opening his mouth to allow your tongue to slide in. 

Tracing the inside of his mouth, you felt his tongue slowly try to dominate yours, allowing him, you let out a moan as you felt Aaron’s hand drift down to your ass. He squeezed once, eliciting another moan into his mouth as you pushed yourself closer, hips flushed together.

“You’re beautiful,” Aaron whispered against your lips, as he pulled away from you. “My beautiful girl.” And there was no lie in what he said. You are beautiful, on top of him, slightly panting and face flushed. “I love you.” 

“I’m kinda in love with you, Aaron Hotchner,” you grinned before kissing him again. Pushing him down, you began to slowly grind against him, hands grasping his shirt. 

“Honey, you’re injured,” Hotch smiled against your cheek, as he sat up. Kissing from your cheek to the path to your ear, Aaron gave your lobe a kiss before he whispered, “Once you’ve got the all clear from your doctor-,” 

“Pound town?” You finished for him, arching one brow. You flinched a bit as a bellowed laugh came out of Aaron. 

Smiling largely at you, you couldn’t help but be entranced by the dimples of his cheeks and the light in his eyes. “Yes, honey. Pound town.” 

--

You woke up to someone shuffling around the room, grimacing as you felt the telltale of a headache. “You okay, honey?” You felt the bed dip next to you. Opening your eyes, you were met with the beautiful sight of one Aaron Hotchner, wet hair and a towel wrapped around his hips. Before you could even truly appreciate the scene, a stabbing pain erupted behind your eye. 

“Headache,” you groaned and closed your eyes. 

Aaron tutted and moved around the room, opening his bag and running the tap. “Here, honey.” 

“Thanks, love you,” you automatically said Aaron handed over some meds and water. 

You didn’t see the lovestruck look on Aaron’s face, “Kinda in love with me or love me love me?” 

“You’re more annoying in the morning,” you chided, handing him over the empty glass. “But love you, love you.” 

Leaning down, he kissed you lightly, “Once this headache is gone, prepare for some serious smoochin’,” you warned. “Now come back, we have two more hours before we meet the others.” 

“You want breakfast?” He asked as he climbed into bed with you, towel forgotten on the floor. “Fruit might help you with your headache.” 

“Do you think they have scones?” You wrapped yourself around him, enjoying the warmth his body brought. “You smell good,” you placed a kiss on his neck, hand slowly drifting down. 

“Honey,” he warned. “You’re injured, I don’t want to hurt you.” 

“I’m not going to do anything strenuous,” you rolled your eyes, “yet,” cuddling closer to him, you couldn’t help the noise of content you let out. “I have three weeks of touching you to make up for, Aaron Hotchner.”

--

“What’s gonna happen to Canavan?” You asked as you traced nonsensical patterns on his forearm. Breakfast in front of the two of you, and Hotch was right (not that you’d ever say it) about the fruit helping with your headache. 

Hotch made a noise above you, shifting a bit to allow his back to be more comfortable. “Discipline from the board, I assume. Then they’ll have to look at her files, she may get kicked out of the academy if they deem her unsuitable. She’s out of the BAU, though,” Hotch commented. He didn’t wish any harm on people, but he came very close when he found out she was the reason you went into that room. The reason why you got injured. 

“She’s a good kid,” you muttered.

“I thought you hated her,” Hotch asked, leaning your body so he could look at you. 

“I hated how she made me feel but I don’t hate her. I’m pretty sure that I would have done the exact same thing when I was her age,” you shrugged. “But she’s a good agent. Maybe not for the BAU, but somewhere else.” 

It was silent for a little while, too long for your liking so you turned your head and realised that Aaron had been staring at you. “What? Did I say something wrong?” 

“You’re something, you know that?” Hotch said quietly. “You’re wonderful and I love you.” 

--

“Finally!” Spencer exclaimed as he saw the two of you walk into the jet. He grinned as he saw Hotch’s arm around you. “I knew it!” 

“Reid, please try to keep it down,” Aaron cautioned, as his grip tightened on you. 

“So it only takes for (Y/L/N) to get beat up for you to confess you’re in love with each other,” JJ teased as she gave you a hug and once over to make sure you’re okay.

“You guys couldn’t have become a couple like normal people?” Emily asked, as she raided her wallet and handed Rossi a fifty. 

“I told you,” Rossi waved his money and winked at the two of you. 

“Come on, honey,” Hotch guided you to your usual seat, hand drifting down too close to your ass. 

“Honey!” Derek chortled as he and Emily shared a look. 

“I’m sorry that you only have your hand to go home to, Derek,” you sniped, a grin on your face. Derek rolled his eyes as Hotch followed you with a knowing smile. 

“I booked my appointment with Doctor Mohan,” you told Hotch, as you put your phone on top of the table. “She should give me the all clear today, if we land on time.” 

“Not today,” Hotch chuckled lightly, his hand landing on your thigh and giving it a squeeze. 

“You said, and I quote, ‘once you’ve got the all clear from your doctor’,” you stared Aaron down. “Don’t tell me you’re a liar.” 

The rest of the team, minus Canavan, who was holed up in her own seat, watched as the two of you bickered. 

“So, kid, how long do you think they’ll take before he pops the question,” Derek questioned, opening up his notepad. 

“Six months,” Rossi instantly piped up. 

“You say that as if you know something,” JJ looked at Rossi who all but shrugged. 

Your phone rings from the empty passenger seat, you glance over, spotting Penelope’s picture flashing on the small screen. You ignore it, you aren’t in the mood to talk to anyone. The call ceases after a minute, but then the screen is lighting up again with a voicemail and a text message. You sigh, reaching over to press play on the message.

‘Hey babydoll, me and Prentiss are going Christmas shopping tomorrow, you in? Call me back, love ya.’

At least she doesn’t suspect the heartbreak you just experienced.

It had been a long case, the grueling cold of Minnesota only heightened everyone’s grumpiness. Christmas is in a week, everyone just wanted to get home to their loved ones.

Aaron had been snapping at you—and then when you separated from him and Derek to capture the unsub, he had snapped. He never yelled at you in front of the team like he did that day. You felt like a little kid again, being scolded over anything. You can’t get the pitiful face of JJ out of your mind.

You type a quick, ‘Sorry, I’m busy’ before throwing your phone back on the seat, redirecting your full attention to the road in front of you.

Your apartment is dark when you open the door, the bare walls and cold floor are what drive you to open the bottle of red wine stashed in your pantry.

The loneliness of it all—of having someone so tantalizingly close, and then losing it too much. His touch, his lingering glances, and whispered promises linger in your mind. The way his hand would brush yours while passing files or how he’d tap his knee to yours during a briefing; all of it is etched into your memory.

By the third pouring of wine you abandon the glass, opting to just drink it straight from the bottle. The TV plays a shitty reality show, you almost laugh as you listen to the rich snobs complaining about what to wear.

You lay your head on the back of the couch, and in the process of kicking your feet onto the coffee table you accidentally knock the glass over, spilling the remaining droplets of red wine and glass shards onto the light colored rug beneath you.

Normally you’d have cursed the universe for it, laughed a little, then cleaned it up. But now, you just stare at it. Broken and bloody—as dramatic as it sounds it’s how you feel at the moment, and you can’t bring yourself to get up and grab the broom.

You twist your body so you're laying down on the couch, and you fall asleep listening to the annoying voices on the TV and the smell of grapes.

You’re awoken to the sound of an incessant knocking on your front door. You’re not sure what time it is, but the sunlight peeking in through your blinds gives you enough clues to estimate.

You contemplate ignoring it, but then the nagging thought that maybe, just maybe, it’s Aaron. Maybe he’s hurting the way you are, maybe he’s sorry. In the process of getting up you feel glass crack on your bare foot, followed by a searing pain and a red footprint when you step off of it.

The knocking still doesn’t stop, and you conclude that you have to answer no matter what, so you can at least make whoever it is patch your foot up.

Blonde and black hair are all you see in the peephole, of course they came to get you anyway.

“Hey sweets.” Penelope is far too happy for you to understand, your head is already pounding from your previous wine drunk state.

You open the door wide enough for them to come in, and Emily notices your pained expression, before casting her eyes downward. “Jesus, what happened?”

“I stepped on glass.” You stumble slightly, gripping her shoulder to hold you up. Emily looks around your living room. She notices the empty wine bottle, the stained carpet, the messy blankets thrown about the room. She turns her attention back to you as Penelope searches for a first aid kit. “Are you drunk?” Penelope laughs, Emily gives her a look.

You hear Penelope mumble something about profilers as she approaches you with bandages and tweezers.

You try to get out of Christmas shopping, but part of you can use the distraction. The holiday lights flicker on the street, the sunlight making it hardly noticeable, but you notice.

“Aaron, where are we going?” You laugh, his hands around your eyes causing you to lean into him to steer you. “Just wait.”

A few more feet and he’s finally removing his calloused hands from your eyesight, you open your eyes in awe at the sight in front of you. Christmas lights blind you, from every direction.

In the center of the festively lit town is a large Christmas tree, it’s one you would see in a cartoon with how comically large it is.

Different strings of lights shine brightly and he watches with a wide smile as you take in the site. You love Christmas lights, he’ll never forget when you two drove past a house decked out in them after a hard case. Your eyes had glistened with joy in the passenger seat.

You turn back to him with a smile that could make him faint, and then the whole park goes black.

You’re the first to laugh, the idea that he brought you here to show you the lights just for the power to go out as soon as you arrive makes you gasp for air next to him. He looks grumpy beside you, preparing to pull his badge out to make them fix it for you.

He’d have captured a star for you if it made you smile, but hearing your laugh beside him was enough to snap him out of his annoyance, instead focusing his attention on the beautiful sound coming from you.

He laughs then, and you wrap your arms around his shoulders, standing on your tiptoes so your noses are almost touching. “It was beautiful.” You whisper against his lips, he almost tilts his head back with how overwhelming your presence is.

It’s embarrassing, how much of a lovesick teenager you make him feel by just being near him.

“I’ll make them fix it.” He says in return, causing you to laugh again as you press your lips to his pout. “You’re sweet to me.”

He doesn’t say anything to that, instead he presses a kiss to your forehead before pulling away in order to wrap an arm around your shoulders. “Come on, there’s more to do.”

Penelope snaps in your face, jolting you out of the trance you found yourself in. “Hey, what’s wrong? You seem upset.”

“I’m fine.” You sniffle, wiping it with your glove. “Seriously, it’s just cold.” You try your hardest to smile, it doesn’t quite reach your eyes and you know Emily notices, but she doesn’t say anything as you begin walking ahead of them.

You don’t buy anything, your Christmas shopping is long out of the way. You do it every year, you get excited by the upcoming holiday and accidentally buy everyone’s gifts the first week of November.

Aaron had found it endearing, how excited you got at the idea of giving people gifts they’ll enjoy.

“Let’s go in here.” The universe must be out to get you, because the store Penelope turns into is the same one you and Aaron would frequent on your occasional days off. It’s filled with antiques and books, something he didn’t particularly enjoy looking at, but you did.

The day continues on, little things remind you of him everywhere you go. You curse yourself for being so miserable, for letting someone have this effect on you.

You sip a hot chocolate as the sky darkens, pushing the memories of him kissing the whipped cream off your upper lip out of your mind as you wipe it away with a small napkin that Emily hands you.

Penelope is talking to the woman at the booth, asking her all about where her outfit is from, when Emily sighs next to you. “What’s going on?”

You turn to her, a little shocked at her question. You ramble as you attempt to come up with a reason for your sour mood. “Please—I’m fine. What makes you think something’s wrong? Seriously Em—”

“You ramble when you lie.” Emily says as she lifts her paper cup up to her lips. “So, spill.”

You hesitate, you can’t say anything. Nobody on the team even knows about you and Aaron. You’d kept it a secret for a year and a half, you definitely weren’t going to give it up now.

“Did something happen…with Hotch?” It’s like she can read your mind, and you bite your tongue in order to not talk and reveal your lie. Then your eyes widen, remembering that you hadn’t told her about Hotch.

“Hey,” She says your name. “It’s okay, nobody else suspects anything.”

“I don’t…” You stop yourself from rambling. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I saw you guys, a few months ago. You know, he smiles more these days.”

You laugh bitterly at that, suddenly angry at her revelation. He wasn’t smiling when he broke your heart.

“Nothing happened Em. Let it go.” Your tone is clipped, and she puts her hands up in surrender, dropping the topic as Penelope approaches the two of you.

Once they drop you back off at home you flop onto your bed. A few seconds pass before you grab one of the pillows and scream into it.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

The next weeks are torturous. Christmas is spent on a case in Florida, it would have been bearable if Aaron were still yours.

He knows you hate it, a white Christmas is your favorite thing, and the humidity of Florida is the complete opposite.

Hot weather has never been your favorite, the past summer you would complain you were dying every time he forced you to run with him. He thought it was adorable, and the image of you tinged with heat and sunburnt cheeks was one of his favorite sights.

“Alright, let’s get to work.” The current case is a local one, something you’re very grateful for. Sleeping in your own bed is much better than being in a suffocating hotel.

He calls your name, his voice void of his usual softness for you. “I need your report from the Michigan case.”

“I’m working on it.” You say, trying to remain civil as he stares at you. His eyes would usually soften when your tone was like that, stressed. Now he just stares. “Is that all?”

He nods, his voice suddenly dry as he tears his gaze away from you. You shoulder past him out of the conference room, heading towards Spencer as he works the geographical profile.

“There’s something there.” Aaron isn’t sure where Dave came from, but his shoulders slump slightly at the older man’s discovery. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about Dave.”

“Sure Aaron.” He claps his shoulder as he walks past him, standing in the same spot you just had. “She’s good for you—after everything.”

Aaron has to fight his scoff, if only he knew how good you were for him. He has no idea that he’d already indulged, already had you for the entirety of a year, and then some.

“I’ll remember that.” His tone leaves no more room for Rossi to speculate on his life, and with that he’s walking out of the room in order to go look at the latest body with Emily.

If Spencer notices your sadness, he doesn’t acknowledge it. It’s become your thing lately, a constant frown decorating your features. “Hey pretty girl.” Derek could usually get you to smile, but lately even those attempts are futile. “Oh come on, nothing? Baby, I don’t remember the last time you shined those pretty teeth.”

“3 weeks and 2.5 days.” Spencer says without looking up from a spot he’s working on the board. “Jesus.” You mutter. You spin your chair to face Derek, mustering up a big smile.

“Here.” You grit through your teeth. “Okay, that’s creeping me out.”

“You wanted a smile.” You shrug, causing Derek to laugh as he places a comforting hand on your shoulder. “We’re here for you, we all love you.”

This has you turning away from him. We all love you.

“Hey, I think I’ve got something here.” Spencer saves you from continuing your dreaded conversation with Derek.

The case seems to drone on forever, but once you finally find the unsub’s identity you grab your gun, preparing to retrieve your vest.

“You’re staying.” Aaron looks to you, his expression unreadable as you roll your eyes. “No, I’m not.”

“I need you here with Reid.” It’s bullshit, and you know it. But you don’t care enough to fight him on it, so you scoff before walking towards the small kitchen to get yourself some coffee.

Emily walks up behind you, placing a comforting hand on your back. “He’s protecting you.”

“Emily, don’t.”

“Why don’t you talk to him?” She persists, moving around you. “Don’t you need to go with them?” You ask, shrugging her off. She doesn’t say anything else, and you make a sour face at her pitiful expression.

Aaron spares you a glance as he leaves, your eyes meeting for a split second. But as quickly as the spark was there it was gone, and you're returning to the paperwork in front of you. He notices the shuddering breath you take, and the tired slump of your shoulders.

He wants to reach out, to console you. But he can’t, he can’t let himself do it because if he does he’ll never be able to leave you again. 

You’re gone once they get back, their killer in custody and the young girl he had kidnapped returned safely to her family. He rubs his hand across his forehead before heading up to his office.

Months ago you would have flashed him a pretty smile and the doe eyes that have him bending at the knees in order to get him to leave the papers and go home with you. 

“Aaron, come on, please.”

“I’ve got reports to do honey, just give me an hour. I’ll make it up to you.” You smile at him as you snake your arms around his waist, earning a warning glare from him. “Come on.” He shakes his head at you as he peels your arms off of him.

You sit with him for one hour, then two. After two you sigh, shuffling some of the papers out of the file and picking up a pen from the metal cup he keeps on the corner of his desk. He looks at you for a moment before going back to his papers, a fond smile remaining as he continues writing on the boring documents. 

Another hour passes when you finally stand up. You stretch your arms dramatically, pairing it with an overexaggerated yawn. He knows what’s coming, and before he has the chance to look up you’re wrapping your arms around his neck, pressing your face into his hair. “I’m going to make some coffee.” You press a kiss to the temple of his head before jumping off of him in favor of the door. You turn around with a smile on your way out, one he reciprocates instantly. “Thank you.” 

You return with two cups of coffee in your hands, you kick the door closed with your foot. “I got donuts too.” You grin goofily as you place the navy blue mug down in front of him. “Black coffee, horribly plain.”

“You drink sugar with a side of coffee.” He smirks as you take a bite of your donut. “And you’ve got the worst sweet tooth I’ve ever seen.” You stick your tongue out at that before lifting the donut up to his mouth. He shakes his head. “Right, I forgot you’ve got to be in shape for your triathlon.” 

“You’re doing it too.”

“Yeah, we’ll see about that.” You laugh before taking another bite of the chocolate donut. You look back down at the papers in front of you, careful not to get any chocolate onto the white sheets. You can feel his eyes on you, and you can feel your cheeks flush at his unmoving gaze. “What?” You laugh. 

“Nothing.” He shakes his head, his eyes still on your face. “You’re beautiful.” You smile at that, pulling your lip between your teeth as you avoid his gaze. “You know how to charm a girl, Hotchner.” 

“Only you.” He shakes his head as he lifts your chin with his thumb, rubbing it across your lip once you move your head towards him. It’s one of his favorite things, how easily you lean into his touch. You smile brightly at him as he leans in to capture your lips. 

His mind snaps out of the memory as he opens the door, the once warm office filled with your presence now bare and dull. 

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

Jealousy is a green-eyed monster. It’s not something you believed in the past.

In high school when Jessica Blake flirted with your boyfriend in front of your face you didn’t even flinch. 

You didn’t want to believe that Aaron was dating again when Garcia mentioned it. But then Rossi started teasing him when he thought no one else heard, you heard it though. 

“You’re staring daggers.” JJ whispers in your ear. “What?” You turn, your tone more clipped than you intended. You soften as you face her, mumbling a sorry. JJ puts an arm around your shoulders, “I know you have a thing for him, maybe she won’t last long.”

He just finished his triathlon, the one that you were supposed to run with him. You had trained with him for weeks. Weeks of your life you spent doing something you hated just because he wanted you to do it with him, wasted. “JJ, I don’t have a thing for him.”

It should’ve been you kissing him at the finish line, instead it’s Beth. You haven’t met her, and really you shouldn’t be jealous.

“Aaron, I can’t run any more. I think my side is going to explode.” You huff, bending over at the waste to try and catch your breath.

He laughed from his spot ahead of you on the track. “I’m not joking!”

“I’m not laughing at you.” He lies, the smile on his face giving him away instantly.

He grows more concerned for you as you don’t move from your spot, instead you plop down on the ground of the indoor track. “Honey, we can go get some water, come on.”

You laugh as you stare up at him from your spot on the ground, causing him to shake his head. “I think you need to carry me to the car.”

“Come on you dork.” He pulls you up by your arm, placing a hand on your waist to stabilize you. You lean into him as you two walk out towards the locker rooms. “I’ll meet you back out here.” He takes his arm off of you, causing you to stumble dramatically.

“Go change, we can get takeout and you can pick the movie.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time.” You giggle as you turn your back to him, heading into the women’s locker room to change into warmer clothes.

Once you’re finished changing you meet up with him again, taking his warm hand into your cold ones once the freezing air hits your skin. “I forgot my mittens.”

“I’m not surprised.” He chuckles. “So you should know to bring them for me, you know I always forget.” You pout, and he can’t stop himself from pressing a kiss to your puffed out lips. “I’m horrible.”

The next time he forced you to go to the gym, he brought your mittens and a scarf to match them.

From your spot on the sidelines you can tell she’s a way to forget you. 

He won’t forget you anytime soon though, you can see it in the way his smile doesn’t reach his eyes even while he’s surrounded by people who care about him. You can tell by the way he still searches for you in the huddle your team has formed around him, and you can tell by the way his eyes lock onto yours from across the park. 

You decide to walk up to the rest of the team then, making sure to not look away from him. Beth talks to him, and you can tell he’s giving her incoherent mumbles as responses as he finally breaks eye contact to turn towards her. 

Derek wraps an arm around you. “Babygirl, out of you four, you may be the happiest one today.” He gestures to the very hungover women of the BAU, you had opted out of ladies night in favor of wallowing with a tub of ice cream. “And that’s saying something.” 

You look at Aaron after Derek says the last part, making sure he knows that the jab from Derek was his fault. He looks away, unable to bear the guilt you’re trying to seep into him. “I need something greasy and fried.” JJ says, breaking the silence that took over the group. 

“I need a drink.” You mumble to Derek, who smiles as he ruffles your hair. “We’ve missed you coming out with us, you know.” He says as you all walk towards the parking lot. Jack comes up next to you, and you realize then how you haven’t seen him in months. You smile, unable to be annoyed at him over his father’s doings. “Hey Jack-O.”

He smiles at you, tugging your hand to get you to pick him up. “How are you buddy?” 

Aaron watches as you hold Jack in your arm, and it physically pains him. He brushes it off as an ache from the swimming portion of the triathlon. That was your favorite part, your giggles as you splashed him with the pool water during training echo in his mind. 

He turns back to Beth, reminding himself this is who he needs. Beth is simple, uncomplicated. She doesn’t work a job that puts her life at risk daily. She smiles at him, completely unsuspecting of his yearning for another woman. 

But then he hears your laugh and he’s ready to drop everything for it. It’s the kind of laugh that even the greatest musicians couldn’t capture into a song. The way your lips curl and your head tilts back is a site that even the most talented of painters couldn’t put onto a canvas. 

“Hey, good job out there. I’m going to have to train more to beat that.” Beth jokes to him, once again regaining his attention. Beth is good for him, she even enjoys running as much as him. 

You set Jack down, and smile as he runs back towards Aaron. You hear him ask his dad to invite you over again, which you quickly tune out to avoid the awkwardness.

You miss her approaching you. “Hey, I’m Beth. Jack is over there singing your praises, I had to meet you myself.” She’s friendly, and you can see why Aaron likes her. You wish you didn’t hate her so much, she seems like she’d be a good friend. 

“Hi.” You smile as much as you can, reaching your hand out for her to shake. “Aaron told me you're great too, at the job.” At the job. “I’m sure he did.” Your response is light, but if anyone knew about you and Aaron they’d know there are layers to it. 

He watches as you interact, carefully watching your movements. At the restaurant when everyone is occupied in conversations he looks at you. You can tell what he’s asking without any words being spoken. You shake her head, rolling your eyes in annoyance. He wants to make sure you were civil with Beth. 

The next morning you roll over in bed, your hair splayed across the pillow as you listen to the sound of the shower in the bathroom connected to your room. In your sleepy and hungover state, half of you expects Aaron to walk out.

Instead it’s a man with strikingly similar features. It’s not him, but he was a good hook-up to take your mind off of him. You know you're using this random guy as a surrogate, and you know the psychology behind it, but you don’t care. 

“Hey baby.” The stranger leans down to capture you in a kiss, you duck to avoid his lips. They don’t feel like Aaron’s, you remember how chapped they were last night when he had kissed you. 

“I’ve got to work.” You slip under his arm in favor of the kitchen. “I made you some coffee.” You groan, annoyed at the fact that this stranger had rummaged through your kitchen while you were still asleep. “I’m not the biggest fan of coffee.” It’s a lie, and if the man was smart he’d realize it due to the vast selection in your pantry, but alas he is not the brightest. 

“What’s your name?” He asks, coming up behind you in the kitchen. “Look, please, let’s not do this. I have work in..” You check the time on the microwave clock. “30 minutes. Shit, you have to go.” You usher him towards the door, barely giving him a chance to grab his shoes. “Come on, you can be late once. Let’s go again.”

“Get out.” You roll your eyes. “Bitch.” He scoffs, but retreats down the hallway of your apartment complex. Once he’s out you set your security alarm before racing towards the bathroom. 

Five minutes is a new record time for you to be ready, you quickly grab a muffin and mug of coffee before leaving. 

“I’m here, I’m here.” You take a seat at the round table, conveniently the only one available is next to Aaron. “Dang mama, rough night?” Derek laughs from across from you, earning himself a glare. “Alright, let’s get started.” Aaron snaps, gaining the attention of everyone. 

Once everyone disperses from the room, in order to prepare to leave, Aaron stops you, placing a hand on your upper arm. You freeze, not turning to make eye contact before shrugging him off. “Sir, I need to go get my bag.” 

He says your name, causing you to turn towards him. You scoff when he doesn’t say anything. “Coward.”

“Excuse me?” He gives you the same stern look he gives to everyone, but there’s something else in his expression. “You’re a coward.” You repeat, pointing a finger to his chest. “I suggest you cover that..mark..on your neck, Agent.” He moves away from your hand. 

“That’s what this is about?” You narrow your eyes at him, if looks could kill he’d be a puddle on the floor at your glare. “It’s unprofessional, and distasteful for you to present yourself like that at work.”

“Get off your high horse Aaron. There’s barely anything there.” You adjust the collar of your shirt to make sure it’s fully covered. “You’re upset with me, when you’re the one who went and committed to someone else. I mean, you’re the one who ended this in the first place. Go to hell.” 

It was late when the team got back from Minnesota, and everyone was tired. Aaron couldn’t focus on that though, all he could see was the scar running across your cheek, and the bruise on your eye. 

“My office.” He doesn’t touch your shoulder like he usually does when walking past your desk. His orders are cold, and leave no room for argument. 

As soon as the door is closed he’s berating you. “I should suspend you. I should have you evaluated for being so reckless. You endangered the lives of everybody today, and that’s unacceptable. You got lucky out there today.”

He’s angry, you know it’s because you almost died, but he’s deflecting like always. You don’t respond, you know you did the right thing and it resulted in a young girl being saved. “This isn’t working.” He runs a hand through his hair.

“What?” You attempt to take his hand, he pulls back. “This. It’s over.” 

“Aaron,” You pull his face into your hands, forcing him to look into your eyes as he breaks your heart. “You don’t mean that, you’re angry.” He shakes his head, pulling away from the touch he usually craves. “Emotions have nothing to do with this, it’s a fact. We aren’t going to work. I’ll expect your case report on my desk first thing in the morning.” 

“You want to fight? I can fight, I can scream.” You sound pathetic, and you never thought you’d be begging a man not to leave you. But he’s different, he’s everything. “I don’t want to fight. I want you to go home and think about what you did wrong, Agent.”

“What I did wrong?” You scoff as you swing his office door open. You’re gone before he can realize what he just did, leaving nothing but the lingering scent of floral perfume in your wake. 

The unsub is kidnapping victims who look increasingly similar to you. Aaron can’t fight the unease in his chest as he stares at what he was doing to these women. It’s hard for his mind to not drift to images of it being you instead of them. He makes sure to pair you up with Morgan everywhere you go, already knowing that him being with you won’t do either of you any good. 

You were just stepping outside to catch your breath, it was dark out, but there were people around you, how much danger could you really be in?

You remember pulling your phone out, and you remember a searing pain in your shoulder, only registering that you’d been shot after seeing the silencer in the attacker’s hand. “Don’t scream, or he’s dead.” You don’t need to ask who, your mind immediately flashes with images of Aaron. 

Your hands are bound in the back of his van, you fight a black out as you take in your surroundings. He’s disorganized, he shot you and left a witness outside of a station. From the brief look you got of his face you know he’s young. “What do you want from me?” You ask, as calmly as you can muster in your bleeding out. “I–I need a doctor.”

“You’re not getting a doctor!” He shouts, turning around while driving to point his gun at you. “Then I need you to hurry, before I bleed out back here.” You move to get more comfortable in the cramped spot he put you in. “I know you don’t want me to die.”

“I read about you, I’ve been to all of your lectures and conferences, and you never noticed me!” You squeeze your eyes shut, Aaron has noticed you’re gone by now, you know he has. “I knew I had to get your attention somehow.”

Back at the precinct Aaron is reeling. The woman who had witnessed it was shaking in one of the chairs. “I didn’t hear the gun—but when I looked up she was bleeding and this guy was yanking her by the hair.”

He puts his hands over his ears, trying anything to avoid the thoughts that you could be dead, that the likelihood of you being dead is high. Derek pats him on the shoulder, a reassurance that does nothing to ease his mind. 

“What if this is about her?” Emily looks up from the file. “The women all look extremely similar to her, but he never kidnapped any of the previous ones.”

“But why shoot her?” Rossi asks, taking caution with his words as Aaron paces back and forth. “She—she just did a bunch of lectures at the ivies. Over our vacation last year.” Nobody questions how he knows that, but they nod. Derek pulls his phone out, dialing Penelope’s number. “Hello my furry friends. How can I be of service?” 

Derek fills her in on what happened, gaining a large gasp from the woman on the phone. “Garcia, we need to cross reference all of the people who recently attended her lectures across New England. Ivy leagues–Harvard, Yale, Princeton.”

“Yes sir.” She responds, tight-lipped, to Hotch. “And Garcia?”

“Yes sir?”

“You need to be more professional.” Derek shoots Aaron a look at that. “Come on man, she didn’t know.” 

Aaron doesn’t respond as he walks outside to investigate the scene where you were taken from. Your blood is pooled on the ground, bringing tears to his eyes. Dave comes up behind him, placing a hand on his shoulder. Aaron quickly regains his composure, wiping the tears away from his face. “She’s strong Aaron. She’ll pull through.” 

“He shot her Dave.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I can’t–I can’t lose her.” Dave doesn’t say anything to that, he knows Aaron will blame himself for the rest of his life if he loses another woman he loves. “She’s everything, we–we were fighting last time we talked.”

“Then let’s go in there and find her.” He claps Aaron’s shoulder before turning back towards the precinct. 

You gasp as he pushes the bandages to your arm. The bullet was through and through, thankfully. “I lost a lot of blood.” You say, trying to sound submissive. “Come on, take these off my hands and I’ll do whatever you want.”

“No, no.” He shakes his head, pushing the gun to his head. “Stop talking.” 

You shake your head, fighting back the tears threatening to surface. You have to be strong, the team will find you. “What–” You shift. “What’s your name?” He twitches at you moving closer to him. “Come on, you know mine. I like to know the name of the man I’m with.” You want to throw up at the thought of flirting with him, but it’s the way to gain his trust. 

“Paul.” You nod at that. “Ok, Paul. I remember seeing you at my lecture. I…” You twitch slightly as he turns the gun around on you. “I wanted to talk to you, but you were gone before it ended.” 

“You wanted to talk to me?” You’re gaining his trust, you can tell by the way he lowers the gun ever so slightly towards the ground. “Untie me Paul, we can have some fun. I want you.” You fight the shudder taking over your features as he smiles at you. 

He unbinds one of your hands, the other is still cuffed to the chair behind you. “This is all I can do for now.”

“Thank you.” You contemplate kicking him hard, but ultimately it’s a fight he would win due to one hand still being stuck behind you. You’ll wait, and get him to trust you enough to unbind the other one. 

“I’ve got a name.” Penelope’s voice is professional, a stark contrast to her usual bubbly mood. Aaron doesn’t feel guilty for what he said to her, his attention too focused on not breaking down in order to find you. “Paul Danver. He attended every one of her lectures, and even began making obsessive comments about her in various articles.” 

“So he’s a stalker. That doesn’t explain the torture to the victims. He doesn’t want to kill her, he wants her attention.” 

Aaron thinks for a moment, racking his brain. He was at your lectures, he sat in the back to avoid attention. “The one at Yale, she was asked a question about how we pick our cases. She–she avoided answering at first but when he pressured her more she said we pick the most urgent ones. He went to these extremes for our attention, he knew it would bring her here.” 

Paul runs his fingers over your skin. Your shirt was gone, he had ripped it off in order to care for the wound on her shoulder. “Paul, I think it’s time. Untie this hand and we can be together.”

You don’t expect him to actually do it, and you fight your sigh of relief when he does. You wait a beat after he’s done it, giving him a second to lean back. He smiles as he takes in your compliant state, before leaning forward again to kiss you. This is your chance, you bang your head into his face, sending him stumbling backwards. “You bitch!” He roars, racing forward with his finger on the trigger of his gun. You push the hand holding it towards the wall as he pulls the trigger, narrowly avoiding a shot to the head. “I’ll kill you.” 

You struggle for a moment, before getting the gun out of his hand and pointing it at his retreating form. “I don’t think you will, Paul.” Aaron’s voice rings in your ears as the team fills the room. Derek puts himself in front of Aaron, knowing he’s too emotional to be confronting Paul. 

“Get on the ground.” Derek growls. Paul complies after realizing there isn’t a way out of this. 

“Let’s get a medic in here.” Aaron says into his mic before striding over to you. He breathes your name as he stands in front of you. He takes his vest off immediately, then his jacket to clothe your bare form. “I knew you’d come.”

“Always.” He sighs as he wraps it around you. A tear falls from your eye before you wrap your arms around him. He’s hesitant, not wanting to further injure your bandaged shoulder. “Please hug me back Aaron.” With your whispered plea he’s reciprocating instantly, breathing into your hair. 

“I should have killed her!” Paul shouts as they drag him away. “Get him out of here.” Aaron says harshly as he pulls away from you. “Come on honey, we need to get you to the ambulance. Can you walk?”

The team doesn’t dare say anything to the term of endearment that Aaron used for you. 

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

“I heard he broke things off with Beth.” David says to you one day while you're staring into his office. “Huh.” You make a noise without looking up from your case report. “Come on, go talk to him.” 

“Rossi, I’m working here.” You gesture to the paper, your pen has been unmoving for the past ten minutes, but he doesn’t need to know this. “You just got kidnapped, if now isn’t the time for a grand confession then I don’t know when is.” He retreats after that, heading back towards his office. 

The next day Aaron approaches you, muttering an quiet ‘my office’ just loud enough for your ears to pick up.

You smooth your sweater out as you stand, suddenly nervous at the thought of being alone with him.

The soft click of the door has him looking up, he almost seems surprised that you actually listened to him. “Yes?”

“Sit.” He gestures to the seat, at one point in time you’d have pulled it around to sit next to him. Now you sit on the edge, like you’re ready to jump up and escape at any time. “Agent, I think it’s in the both of our best interests to put our personal ties behind us. For the efficiency of our job, we should remain strictly professional.”

You scoff at his audacity, leaning back ever so slightly in your chair. “You want me to fight you on it. You want me to be the one who pieces this back together.”

He doesn’t respond to that, instead focusing his attention to the paper on his desk. “That’s all, I need your latest report as soon as you finish.”

He looks up slightly when you don’t make a move to leave, gesturing slightly to the wooden door.

“How’s Beth?”

He puts his pen down at this, finally looking you fully in the eyes. “She’s good.”

“Huh, I could have sworn Rossi said that she was old news.” You twirl a thread from your sweater around your finger. “We are still friends.”

“Oh, you can stay friends with her and not me?” You ask, leaning in closer to him. After narrowing your eyes you lean back in the chair again with a scoff. “Oh wait, I know why, you love me. Being friends with me would just be torture for you.”

“Agent.” His tone is warning. “Hit a nerve? I know you Aaron, I know you better than anyone. Did you tell her that you’re in love with another woman, or was the breakup mutual?”

“Enough!” He slams his hand onto the desk in frustration. “I love you, is that what you want me to say? You’ve almost died, twice in the past few months. Do you understand what that would do to me?”

Your eyes soften at his tortured expression. It’s full of many things—yearning, love, sadness. You stand then, and he prepares for you to turn around and walk straight out the door. Instead you shake your head, walking around to his side of the desk.

You place your hands on his face, cupping his jaw with one while the other moves towards his hair. He sighs, wishing you had slapped him instead. It would hurt less.

“Aaron, I love you.” You move his face so he has to look at you. His eyes are glossy, and tears brim them. “Aaron.” You whisper.

“I can’t lose you. I won’t recover.”

“I’ll be careful.” You smile as a tear rolls down your cheek. “Please.” You whisper, and that’s what causes him to break, the desperation in the singular word.

His hands find solace on your waist as he stands, wrapping his arms around your frame. He inhales the scent of your shampoo as you hug him back. “I missed you, so much.” His voice breaks as he speaks, it’s a side of vulnerable you’ve never seen from him.

You pull back slightly, smiling the smile that always has him putty in your hands. You lean in, pressing a light kiss to his pursed lips. “Kiss me.” You didn’t have to tell him twice, his lips are slotting into yours instantly.

You bite his lip lightly as you pull back, earning a throaty laugh. “Not here, I’m going to take you to dinner.”

“Always a gentleman, Hotchner.”

The team all watch with open mouths and shocked expressions as you and Hotch walk out together, hand in hand.

“Well it was a matter of time before they got together.” Derek shakes his head as he turns his chair back towards his desk.

“I thought they never would.” JJ admits. “They’ve been pining for so long.”

Throwing your head back, you groan silently. “Alright, I’m on my way.” You take a deep breath in and pull yourself off the floor like you weighed a ton. “I’m sorry, I’ve been called into work, gotta go.” You say, giving the poor guy a sad smile while pulling up your jeans and your very not work appropriate top. It was a dark red, covered in rhinestones, a deep v neck that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. A pathetic wave comes from your wrist, and the cold air hits you quicker than expected, climbing into your car.

The elevator ride up to the BAU floor took an eternity, each floor button lighting up as you pass it. It slows on floor four, and you shuffle over as the doors slide open. Your eyes don’t leave your shoes as one of the guys from cyber crimes steps into the space. Finally, getting to floor seven, you give him a tight lipped smile before stalking into the bullpen.

You hear him before you see him, Derek laughing at something dorky Spencer had said. Then, a loud whistle comes from him as you walk into view. “Wow, I guess someone had a good night.”

“Not even close.” You laugh, rummaging through your desk and yanking out the go bag, throwing it over your shoulder.

“Bad date?” He pipes, his eyebrows pulling together, concerned.

“Great date.” You sigh, giving a pointed look to Emily, Pen and JJ. All of them leant on Emily’s desk and she shakes her head.

“Again?” She asks, a disbelief in her tone.

“Again!” You exclaim, throwing your hands up before walking to the bathroom to get changed into your work clothes.

“Is this one of those girl’s night things I don’t understand?” Derek asks, a sassy hand on his hip.

“You don’t even know the half of it sugar.” Penelope shakes her head, the feathers she had stuck in her buns swaying back and forth.

“Round table!” Hotch barks to the group from the catwalk, his head nodding towards the conference room.

Everyone filters into the room, all taking their usual seats around the table. The projector screen pulls down slowly, and Penelope stood awaiting her go.

“Where’s-.” Hotch started, but was quickly silenced by your light jogging into the room, pretty much throwing yourself down in the chair.

“Good night?” Dave asks with a smirk. You glare at him darkly, like ice shooting from your eyes, a scowl forming on your face. “Ok!” He turns away from you to the screen.

Penelope clicks on the remote, and the projector whirs. Three photos of brunette woman pop up on the screen, and then gruesome ones follow up. “Here’s our victims, Lila Grey, Jess Jones and Kira Walker. All found slaughtered in alleyways, necks cut.” Pen squeaked, looking away from the screen.

“The Glendale police department want our help in locating the killer, they can’t figure out where in the city he is or who he is.” Hotch says, “Wheels up in 20, debrief on the jet, he’s escalating.”

-

The jet was warm, a stark comparison from the runway, that was biting cold and climbed through the fabric of your shirt. It was still a marvel to you that you had a private jet, it was smoother than an economy plane.

Magnolia files were plopped down in front of you, the back of Hotch’s suit comes into vision and he sits down in his regular seat, back to the small kitchenette. His eyes didn’t even cast you glance but that gets pushed to the back of your mind when your eyes are filled with puddles of blood.

“Seems pretty cut and dry right?” JJ calls, “Middle-aged, probably single, woman hating.”

You were all in agreement, “What did the women do for work?” You ask, staring at their photos.

“They all worked in finance, behind the scenes.” Derek says, “So maybe financial incentives?”

“They have a list of suspects for us to look at once we get there, two of them can’t be located so that’s our priority.” Hotch commands, “But rest till we get there, I know I interrupted your sleep.”

“Well most of us.” Emily jokes, nudging you with her shoulder and a catty smile spreads across her lips.

“Shut up.” You say with gritted teeth, and a light slap to her shoulder and you couldn’t help the bright red heat that spread across your face. Catching dark eyes across the jet, you somehow think you turn more red and focus on the file in front of you.

It’s early when you land, the sunrise just peeking through the clouds and shrouds everything in a bright orange hue. You stare out of the window of the police precinct, a cup of strong black coffee. Spencer was drawing on the whiteboard figuring out a geographical profile for the two missing suspects while the rest of the team checked on the others already interviewed, just to double check.

You stare at the map, the huge circles not making any sense. “What have you marked?”

“Where they were killed and their addresses.” He stated, stroking his straight tie.

“Add in their workplaces.” You say, Spencer adds the dots to the whiteboard. Connecting each women’s three points into a triangle and he circles it in a bright red. “Call Pen!” You instruct Spencer and he pulls his flip phone out, refusing to succumb to modern technology.

“You’re on speaker.” He tells her as soon as she picks up.

“Pen! Look for previous offenders in a three mile radius of Davis street.” A stressed hand pulls through your hair. “Look for previous assault offenders, battery, bar fights, domestic.” You list off, a nod from approval from Spencer.

“Sorry pumpkin! But there’s no one with a previous history in this area.” She says, deflated, before apologising and leaving the call.

“Stupid geographical profile.” You scoff, shoving yourself into the chair.

“Maybe we could add.” Spencer starts but you cut him off, tone harsh and sharp.

“We’re not gunna find him!” As it came out you felt the unneeded venom. “Sorry. Just frustrated.” You give him a weak smile and the rest of the team appear in that moment.

“Everything ok?” JJ asks, looking between you and Spencer.

“No result from the geographical.” You shrug with a sigh. “I’ve also looked over lots of people work priors. They either don’t normally branch to women or are back in prison.”

Morning turned to evening and you hadn’t left the same position from earlier, the whole team looking over files upon files. Hope was slowly dwindling as a large pile of takeaway coffee cups piled into a mountain.

“Alright, let’s call it a night.” Hotch says, leaning back and standing up. “Unfortunately for the hotel two people have to share. They were fully booked for the night, no cancellations.”

A collective groan comes from the team, that’s the last thing you all wanted to hear after a long day. The short ride to the hotel was a quiet one, silent prayers hoping, wishing to have a room to yourself.

-

“Ok, let’s draw draws.” Derek says, pulling out the straws he kept in his go bag. You all had decided when Strauss wanted to stiff you with sharing rooms, you’d draw straws, keep it fair and by chance. This led to Spencer rambling on about probability and how it wasn’t really fair due to preconceived notions on picking. “It’s bossmans turn to share so whoever draws the short straw, get cozy!”

Derek pulls his first, long. He sighs and holds them to Dave, long. His smile was brass and unwavering and he heads off to bed before anyone else had pulled theirs. Spencer pulls his, long. Derek finally gets to you, putting them in front of you.

You cast your mind back to Spencer’s rant about preconceived notions. You knew you were privy to picking straws on the right, due to being right handed. A leap of faith, you pull one on the left. It stops a second after you grab it and you shut your eyes in disappointment.

Everyone else releases the deep breaths they were holding. You tried to not show Hotch your face, trying to not deeply offend him.

Begrudgingly, you drag your feet behind Hotch, not missing the sympathetic looks from the rest of the team, waving them off weakly.

“Well there goes her nightly plans.” Emily snorts to JJ, tapping shoulders as they walk away with a snicker.

Hotch’s ears prick up at that, her hushed tone knowing that whatever that was wasn’t meant for his ears, especially because you shoved an aggressive middle finger in their direction. That only made Emily and JJ laugh more.

He leads the way to the room, carefully checking behind to make sure you’re still trailing behind him. You were, you looked exhausted. Feet dragging, bag dragging and rubbing your eyes. Holding the key card up to the censor, it beeps loudly and he pushes open the door.

One bed, he strode in the hotel room, putting his go bag on the small couch. “Sorry you have to share with me. I’ll take the couch.”

You rolled your eyes, you knew he was trying to be chivalrous. “It’s fine, and no. You won’t fit on that couch.” You shake your head. “You’re not the first man I’ve shared a bed with.” You joke, he doesn’t find it funny.

“I’ll take the side near the door.” He states seriously. You nod.

“Fine, you can have the first shower, I prefer to shower in the morning.” Your tone is harsh. He nods and you stare at his back, glaring daggers into his back hoping he’d bleed out and die so he couldn’t interrupt another one of your orgasms.

The shower turns on and rushes loudly. You pull on your pyjamas and slip into the sheets, staring longingly at your go bag, desperate for the release that was hidden away in a deep pocket.

He came out of the shower in just a towel. He was sparkling in the shitty LED light of the hotel room, he doesn’t look at you as he quickly rummages through his go bag, pulling out his pyjamas and muttering a “Sorry” then disappearing back into the bathroom.

Then he climbed into bed next to you, it was awkward and the two of you were ridged. Him because of the unwavering professionalism that suffocated his every move, and you still ever so frustrated of your lack of getting off. Realising the two of you had never shared a room before, you wondered what kind of sleeper he was. Emily was a wriggler, JJ a kicker, Spencer a mumbler and Derek a snorer. Rossi somehow had never shared a room with anyone on the team, you were convinced he rigged it.

He sat with a case file open and you sighed. “It’s getting late, can I turn the light off?” You ask, frustrated after thirty minutes of tossing and turning, the white bright hotel light hindering you.

“Yep.” His brows scrunch at your harsh tone. You look into his eyes, he’s profiling you, a deep breath sucked in and you flipped over.

“Night.” Your tone is clipped as the room is covered in a thick layer of darkness, you fall asleep quickly and set a quiet alarm for far to early in the morning.

You awoke to the first shrill ring of your alarm. Eyes pulling open into pure blackness. Sitting up, you take a couple moments to breathe, staring at your phone and reading a text from Pen.

‘How’s the boss?’

‘Ridged like a corpse.’

Your eyes gloss over him even though you couldn’t see him, you hadn’t woke once in the night to any movement or snoring, it was so… Hotch.

Wandering to the shower with your go bag, it spurts on, sputtering until it comes to a steady stream. You step in and the shower, it’s warmer than the hotel showers you were used to. An involuntary sigh pulls from you, hands running through your hair, washing out the shampoo. Your cheap body wash also being ran down the drain.

Before you knew it, your hands and slipped down south. Lightly touching, ghosting over yourself and you bite your lip. One of your fingers grazes your clit and a louder sigh crawls from you, you bring a hand to your mouth as you start moving in frantic circles.

Images of Hotch from the night before cloud your mind, his back muscles glistening in the hotel light and the faint glimpse of chest hair you’d seen when he hid away back in this very room. Before you could debate the morality of wanking to your boss who was one thin hotel wall over, two of your fingers slip inside of yourself and you bite a lip so hard you draw blood.

Your chest heaves and you lean against the shower wall. The white tiles were cold against the heat radiating from you, the contrast making everything more intense. Your mind filled with Hotch, arms, back, chest. That ten second glimpse was enough to send you spiralling. The warmth of him next to you in the bed had your legs trembling. Wandering, your mind jumped to what he would be like as a lover, would the strokes be deep or rough, you hoped rough. Teetering, closer and closer to the edge you were panting, deep in your fantasy you could almost hear his voice.

Except you could hear his voice, and he was pounding on the door.

“Hey! We need to get going and I need to brush my teeth.”

The shower turned cold, and you gasped loudly, jumping out.

A film reel plays in your head, there’s no way this is happening again. Every date, you finally get to the edge, the phone rings. No matter what time, nine am, two am, his voice always pulled you out of the deepest pleasure.

“Are you ok?” He shouted through the door, wrapping a towel around yourself you open the door to him standing right there.

“Yeah, there’s no more hot water.” You pull your lips together into a line, pushing past him so he can’t profile your flushed face. The bathroom door locks behind him.

You imagined taking an axe to the door psycho style, but then came to your senses, scrambling into your work clothes and running out of the room before he could finish up in the bathroom.

-

When you get to the precinct, Emily is already there. She’s pouring over case files and you sit down next to her, coffee already in hand.

“What have you got?” You ask.

“There’s this guy, lives just outside the geo profile and has a prior of car damage. Before you say unrelated, it was his ex’s car and she was in it.” You nod along and point to the very small yes pile.

“Somebody didn’t get a good night sleep.” She laughs looking at the tiredness on your face.

“He has a sixth sense.” You hiss quietly, looking around to make sure no one else was in earshot. “I was mid shower.”

“Yikes.” She grits her teeth and looks at you sympathetically. Then her sympathy turns to that sly grin she would get, when she was about to suggest something incredibly stupid. “You know.” Her voice is low, “There is one way to fix his sixth sense..”

“You’re crazy.”

“We all know you have a thing for him.” She tilts her head knowingly, you shake your head and look to the door.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about!” Swallowing thickly, you refuse to meet her eyes.

“The rest of the team might not be able to profile you well, but I can.” She teases and nudges your shoulder.

You roll your eyes and scoff. Eyes staring at the file in front of you, swiftly moving on from Emily’s brash accusation. Fingers tapping on the wooden table, a smooth rhythm.

The rest of the day goes slow, dragging by, each second like pulling teeth. Spent pulling files and cross checking.

You hum and grunt all day, dozens of trips to the coffee machine, gulping them down. Derek catches Emily’s eye across the table, he nods towards you with a raised eyebrow. She waves a hand dismissively as you come back in, mug full to the brim. It’s five when you finally get a hit.

“Don Forbes.” Penelope states. “Has a matching record with Emily’s car guy, and his face suspiciously matches the one from the mugshot. He changed his name, that’s why we couldn’t find him.”

Hotch stands straight at that, pulling on his blazer he’d haphazardly shoved off during the day. You all follow suit, pulling on your vests and triple checking the gun was settled in your holster.

“Prentiss.” He states as she appears next to him, pulling her to a small corridor away from the team. “Is she ok to be in the field?” He nods towards you.

“Yeah, I’m sure.” She nods, “She’s just..” She takes a pregnant pause. “Frustrated.”

Hotch furrows his eyebrows, “At the case?”

“She’s going to kill me.” Emily mutters and checks over her shoulder, seeing you strap Spencer into his vest. “You keep interrupting her, private moments.” She widens her eyes intentionally.

“Ah.” He responds flatly. Nodding that stiff nod he always did. “Let’s go then.”

-

“Don Forbes, FBI!” Derek calls through the door, banging on it loudly.

No answer, JJ peers through the window. “He’s running!” She shouts, and you and Hotch immediately run to the back of the house, Derek kicks down the door and the rest of the team file in.

As you round the corner, he barrels through his own back door and tries to barge through the back gate and into the woods that lined his home. But, Hotch grabs the back of his collar, yanking him back and throwing him down into his shed wall. Pulling his arms behind him and clinking the cuffs on.

Everything turns into a blur, the heat crawls up from your legs, up your torso and to your neck. It’s like the world goes silent, only focused on Hotch and how his biceps made the fabric on his shirt pull tight.

-

Finally, Don had been questioned, confessed and checked, to be kept in holding to his trial. Breathing a breath of fresh air, the team stands outside of the precinct.

“Let’s stay the night, It’s too cloudy for the jet now.” Hotch nods, glancing up to the sky.

“Alright! Who wants to hit a bar?” Rossi rocks back on his heels, throwing his blazer over his shoulder. An echoing chorus of yes’s and please’s come from everyone.

“I think I’ll give this one a miss, I’m exhausted.” You smile and wave, quickly walking over to the car, ready to drive off.

A knock comes on the window just as you put the key in the ignition. Hotch is stood there, and you nod. He pulls open the door and climbs in.

“Not feeling it?” You ask and drive out.

“No. I’m also feeling tired.”

You glance out the corner of your eye, “I must be great in bed huh?” You joke and your eyes widen. “That’s not what I meant.” Bright red flush covers your face and you are thankful to be pulling into the hotel car park.

“I don’t doubt it.” He says smirking, climbing out of the car.

Following him to the room, he clicks open the door and you flop down on you flop down on the bed face first, you sigh, the cheap hotel mattress feeling like a cloud after a whole day of ridged plastic chairs. “Could you grab my pyjamas?” You mutter to Hotch.

“Sure.” He laughs and shakes his head at you, your head pressed into the pillow.

Pulling through your bag, he grabs your pyjamas, they were long sleeved and had a pattern of small forest animals dotted all over. Underneath, there was a pink vibrator, staring at it.

“You always bring this with you?” You hear Hotch ask and you lazily turn your head.

He’s stood there, holding your vibrator in his hand taking steps towards you. You scurry up, and sit on the edge of the bed. And he was walking towards you slowly, clicking it on. You wanted the ground to open and swallow you up. The embarrassment consumes you, your mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air.

“I know about your little predicament.” He smiles, it’s teasing and tantalising. He’s now towering in front of you, taking your jaw in his hand and’s forcing you to look up at him.

“Oh god.” You didn’t think you could get redder, but the heat on your cheeks becomes burning.

He clicks off the vibe and throws it to the side. Pulling you up, and putting a stabilising hand around your back. “This ok?” He checks in, you nod furiously.

Then, he kisses you. His lips are warm, and you already squeak, his arms hold you close, his chest was hard, solid, his muscles flexing as one of his hand snakes to the back of your head. You grab his bicep, fingers digging in. He groans into the kiss now, catching your bottom lip with his teeth.

Your hands wander, the cotton shirt smooth under your fingers. The top button pops open easily, the next one too. You hadn’t stopped kissing, his tongue dips into your mouth and your fingers fumble with the buttons. He was warm, everywhere.

Finally, the bottom button pops open, the shirt flows open. Pulling away from Aaron’s kiss, your eyes drag down his naked chest. Unable to control yourself, your lips attach to the base of Aaron’s jaw, and your hands feel him up. He’s breathy, you suck on his neck, not caring about the consequences tomorrow.

Pulling you off, he looks down at you, those pools of dark brown hypnotising you. He bends down, now focusing on your neck, in between teasing kisses he whispers, “I’m sorry for interrupting your fun.” His nose drags up the side of your neck.

“How about I make it up to you?”

You’re sure you melt at that, your legs turning to jelly. His strong, sturdy arms hold you up, sweeping your legs up, he throws you down onto the bed. The old springs of the hotel bed creak as you bounce. Sliding up to the pillows, he moves.

It’s predatory, the way he crawled up to you. Him the lion, you the helpless deer. His fingers popped open your slacks, yanking down your legs, coming face to face with your red underwear.

“For me?” He smirks, pinging the elastic back into your hip, it makes you jolt. It’s a light stinging pain, you don’t mind.

“You wish.” You cut back, a flashy smile on your face. He doesn’t like that, the deep, serious unit chief spreads across his face.

“You’re going regret that.” He growls, pulling the panties down your legs, leaving you bare to him. Before you even suck in a breath, his mouth is on you.

Licking a deep stripe up you, entrance to clit, a deep shudder pulls from your body. Landing on your clit, his tongue flicks softly. Sparks of pleasure shoot through your pelvis, and your hands grip onto the pillow surrounding your head.

“Oh fuck!” You cry out, your head shoving back.

He smirks against you, big, thick hands pulling your thighs apart, leaving you wide open, to his mercy. His licks turn into sucking, taking your clit into your mouth and your thigh muscle tenses. His teeth graze it, and you’re sure you saw stars.

Legs trembling through his tight grip, your eyes squeeze shut as you cum. He’s relentless, licking you through your orgasm, making your hips jump.

He looks up at you, his eyebrows peaked, chin shiny with your juices. “God.” You sigh at the sight.

“Not God baby, just me.” He smirks and dives back in. Going back to the rough licks and pokes he was using before. He licks another full stripe up you, pulling back and blowing cool air over your clit.

Your hands jump into his hair, it’s softer than you thought it would be. You claw at his scalp and you feel your abs tense. One of his hands snakes down, sliding up from the bottom, catching your wetness as he goes. His finger slips inside of you and you moan out. “Sir!”

You don’t even think about the title, but you feel him groan against you, the vibrations travel up you.

“You can give me another?” He asks, and another finger pushes in. He pushes up and brushes your g spot. You swear you feel your brain turn to mush, the constant stimulation, his tongue flicking your clit and fingers pumping in and out you. The tension builds in your abdomen and you nod furiously, the front bits of your hair fall in front of your face.

Through your hair you meet his eyes, “Use your words.” He instructs, non relenting.

“Yes, Yes! Yes!” You scream out, sure the dirty looks you were going to get from the receptionist tomorrow morning would be scorning. You cum on his face again, your body going limp and you spread out, chest heaving up and down, sweat clung to the shirt you hadn’t removed yet.

That came off in quick succession, Aaron crawling up your body, hands grabbing one side each, he yanks. The buttons fly everywhere and he pulls it off you, snaking his hands around your back and unhooked your bra, also pulling that from your body.

“My shirt!” You whine, “That’s my favourite one.”

He kisses you softly this time, a look of fake sympathy in his eyes. “Aww, I’ll buy you three more, in different colours.”

He’s back on your neck, sucking the skin in, giving you a deeper hickey next to the lighter one he’d left earlier. Your hips jump up and brush against his cock, and you gasp. His teeth scrape along your neck as you push up against him.

He undoes his slacks, pulling them down and his boxers with them and your eyes wander down.

“Woah.” You say before you can think about it, your eyes become as wide as saucers.

He drags his cock up and down you, covering the tip of his cock in your wetness. Your teeth clamp down on your lip, as it catches on your entrance and he pushes in ever so slightly.

“I’m gunna rip you open.” He says breathlessly, his voice deeper than you’d ever heard it.

Before you can even formulate a quip, he pushes into you, the stretch making your eyebrows pull together and a begging look in your eyes.

“Oh!” You moan, and he pulls out and slams back in, the sudden fullness sending you into a deep pleasure spiral.

He lowers himself down to his forearms, his head right next to yours, his thick forearms flexed and the veins popping out. His thrusts are uniform and rough.

“You going to cum again for me?” He asks, knowing he won’t last long in tight warmth you had surrounded him in. It felt like every time he pulled out, you sucked him back in.

“Yea.” You whisper breathlessly, and you sink your teeth into the flesh on his forearms. Mumbling the constant string of moans pulling from your throat.

Feeling like you’re floating, you’d never felt this amount of pleasure as his cock dragged deliciously against your g spot. “So-so full.” You squeak out, eyes rolling back.

“Where’s all that annoyance now huh?” You could hear the smirk and his thrusts get faster, transporting you into another world.

“Ah- ah! Aaron!” You suck in a deep breath. You’re sure your brain goes black, not capable of a competent thought. Your whole body trembles this time, the coil in your pelvis just begging to snap.

“Cum for me baby.”

That’s all it takes, you tighten around him, nails digging into his back and a silent cry comes from your throat. He slows slightly, however, still thrusting and bringing himself over the edge.

Pushing to the hilt, he releases inside of you. He places his forehead against yours and he slips out of you.

“You ok?” He checks in, stroking your hair.

“Yeah.” There’s a satisfied smile on your face as he quickly darts off to the bathroom, coming back with a wet rag and cleaning his cum off of your pussy and inner thighs, you shiver, still sensitive.

Once you’re clean, he clambers into bed next to you, pulling the covers over you, neither rod you bothering to get dressed.

“You know, I might have to make a complaint to HR,” You joke. “I’m sure that my boss cumming in me might come under sexual harassment.”

“Hmm.” He hums. “Well I think my subordinate rubbing herself in the shower while imagining me naked also comes under sexual harassment.” He jokes back.

Horror pulls over your face. “I’m gunna kill Em-”

He cuts you off, “Emily didn’t tell me about the shower, but she did tell me about you not coming for a while, well she implied it.”

“Then how?” Your jaw is slack and that familiar redness lights you up like a christmas string.

“I am a profiler.” He smiles. “Your face was very, very red.”

“Oh shut up. You’re the one who came out here in a towel and decided to just show me those back muscles.” You roll your eyes.

“My back muscles?” He smirks, smugness all over his face.

“Fuck off.” You huff, “Sir.” You add slyly.

It’s now his turn to turn bright red.

-

“Is anyone going to address the elephant in the room?” Derek asks after everyone is a couple drinks in, looser from the alcohol.

“Or do you mean the elephants that aren’t in the room?” JJ snorts, taking another sip out of her drink. Her and Emily make eyecontact across the circular table and start giggling manically.

“What? What did I miss?” Spencer tilts his head in confusion. “There’s no elephants in the room.”

“Hotch and y/n sitting in a tree.” JJ starts.

“What you think they’re kissing?” Spencer exclaims, pushing up his glasses in shock.

“Oh they’re doing a lot more than kissing. I can’t wait to tell Penelope.” She finishes, typing furiously on her phone.

-

an: heyy party people, thanks for reading this!! this idea was a long time coming so please please like and reblog it! i need that fbi agent so baddddd. comment if you want to be added to a tag list!!

You’ve been with them for just over a year now. It only took a few months for it to feel a lot less like work and dangerously close to home. The two Hotchner men had quickly taken over your world and you wouldn’t change a thing. 

Jack liked you right away. Somewhere between the dramatic lightsaber battle and the joke about transformers and he was sold. 

Aaron, on the other hand, had taken longer. He was always polite and respectful, but he was also rigid. He moved like he was always bracing for impact. He trusted carefully in measured doses, and time and time again you proved yourself. 

“You’re still awake.” His voice comes through right after you hit answer. 

You smile and bite back the yawn you’ve been fighting. 

“So are you.” You comment, “That’s not good.” 

“No, it isn’t.” 

“You’re profiling a serial killer, and I’m trying to profile whether Jack actually brushed his teeth or not.” 

He lets out an exhale that is as close to a laugh as you can get while he’s on a case. You know there’s a small smile with it too. 

“Something like that.” 

“Jack informed me when you get back he needs you to know dinosaurs would definitely beat sharks in a fight.” 

He hums, “So he came to a conclusion?”

“He said sharks lose because they can’t climb stairs.” 

“Solid logic.” 

You snort out a laugh. 

“Thank you.” He says softly after your laughter has slowed. 

“For what?” You ask. 

“For this. For being there.” 

Your chest tightens in the way it always did when Aaron let the walls slip a little. 

“You don’t have to thank me, Aaron.” 

A pause. 

“I know.” 

You hear a soft unmistakable click of the back door in the kitchen. You straighten instantly, sucking in a breath of air. Aaron notices the change immediately. 

“What is it?” 

You slowly stand from the couch and take quiet steps back towards the stairs. 

“I-I think someone’s in the house.” You whisper. 

Silence. 

Aaron breaks it with no trace of softness left. 

“Y/n, get to Jack and lock yourselves in his room. Right now.” 

You grip the phone tighter in your hand, your heart racing. Your instincts are screaming at you, but part of you wonders if you really heard it. Did your mind make it up? The house has been silent ever since. 

“I-” You hesitate. 

“No,” His voice turning sharp before you can hear him shout to someone close by, “Garcia get the police to my house immediately. Someone’s in the house and Y/n and Jack are there.”

Your eyes are laser focused on the kitchen, taking a half step back toward the stairs. Then a shadow moves and your stomach drops. 

“Aaron-” 

A man lunges forward and you race for the stairs. You make it up the first three before his hand catches your shoulder. It sends the phone clattering against the hardwood floor. 

Aaron is hundreds of miles away, forced to listen. The sound of the phone hitting the floor echoes like a gunshot. 

“Y/n!” Aaron shouts your name, pacing the conference room of the Tennessee police department. Against his true desires, he puts it on speaker so the rest of the team can hear this and understand what’s going on. 

His voice tears through the line, but it’s useless and frantic. He could hear everything. Furniture scraping violently against the hardwood. Your cries and sharp gasps. The sickening sound of someone being thrown down on the stairs. Aaron’s entire body went cold. 

“Garcia, how far away is the unit?” Aaron asks, clutching the table in front of him. The sounds just continue to go on. 

“I’m on it, I’m on it!” She stutters, clearly distracted by the other phone on the line, “The closest patrol is three minutes away.” 

Might as well be three hours away. 

Aaron could still hear you fighting. 

“Get the hell off of me!” You shout, the unsub snarls something the phone doesn’t quite pick up. 

Then suddenly footsteps running upstairs. 

“No!” You shout. 

Because Jack is upstairs. You knew it and he knew it too. Everyone can hear the pure desperation in the way you shout. There’s more crashing, following by the awful sound of bodies colliding. You manage to throw yourself at him, taking both of you down to the bottom of the stairs. 

Aaron’s grip on the table grows so tight his knuckles start to burn. He could hear the sharp cry when the unsub yanked you back down to the floor hard enough to make JJ physically flinch. But you’re fighting like hell, kicking and scratching, anything purely for survival at this point. 

A small voice from far away calls out. 

“Y/n?” 

Everything stopped. 

You look up to the top of the stairs and see Jack standing there in his pajamas. He has one hand on the bannister, but his eyes widen with fear when he sees the reality of what’s going on. 

“Jack!” You cry, “Hide! Run!”

Your voice is clear and cuts through the chaos like a whip. 

“Now!” 

Aaron could hear the shift. The moment you started to fight harder, you could feel it too. The fear was gone, now you’re running off of protective fury. A sharp kick connects hard enough for the unsub to curse loudly and roll over onto his side on the floor. 

You pull yourself toward the stairs, managing to stand after using the railing for leverage. The unsub groans, slowly rising from the floor. You try to move faster, but he drags you back down again. You scream again but never stop fighting. 

Sudden sirens take over the neighborhood. Loud and close, the bright red and blue lights shining in the living room windows. The unsub freezes. He shoves you back again, hard, before taking off for the kitchen and you hear the back door again.

You crawl up the stairs to where Jack is hiding somewhere. 

“Jack?” You call, “It’s okay! He’s gone, the police are here.” 

Your voice is shaking now, pain starting to catch up to the adrenaline. Small footsteps bound down the hall, you sit on the top step unable to move any closer. You hold your arms open for him and he collapses into you instantly. 

“It’s okay, I’m here.” You sigh, running your hand over the back of his head, “We’re okay.” 

You repeat it over and over until the police break down the front door.

“They’re safe, Hotch.” Morgan places a cautious hand on his shoulder. 

Aaron can’t answer. He can’t answer because you’re hundreds of miles away, helpless and terrified, and all he could do was listen. Again. 

-

The jet was silent. It was heavy in a way that only happened when something was personal. This was a direct attack in Aaron’s home against you and his son. 

“Garcia said the officers think the unsub knew the house layout.” 

Hotch stares straight ahead. 

“He did.”

He didn’t need the officer's report to know that. 

“He knew where the backdoor was and he moved like he had been there before. He went upstairs.”

Toward Jack. No one said it, no one had to. 

Rossi leans closer, “We’ll find him.”

Hotch gives him one short nod, but his expression remains the same. 

The unsub isn’t the only thing weighing on his mind, he can’t get over the guilt pulling at this throat. Heavy and sharp. He heard it all happen, he listened to you fight for his son while he was useless. And you had nearly been killed because of it. 

The jet landed just after dawn and no one bothered with going home, they just went straight to the hospital. Garcia had already texted that she was in the waiting room and would stay until they got there. 

She jumps up from her chair when she sees them walking together down the hall and walks straight up to Hotch. 

“She has a dislocated shoulder, bruised ribs, stitches along her hairline, and enough bruising to make everyone working this floor visibly wince when they leave her room.” Penelope spits the words out quickly, Aaron’s face remaining the same. 

They slow as they approach your room, through the open door they can all see you. You’re asleep and carefully propped against white pillows. Bruises in ugly shades of purple and blue litter you, with one arm secured in a sling. The other arm is wrapped around Jack and resting on his back. He’s tucked against your side, out cold. 

Morgan swore quietly under his breath and JJ had to look away. Rossi, who has seen enough violence for ten lifetimes, stood there without speaking.

It was undeniable and written all over your body that you had but yourself between danger and Jack without hesitation and fought like hell. Aaron stood in the doorway like the air had been knocked out of him. 

Rossi gives him one firm nod before stepping back, “We’ve got the rest. Go be here.”

Aaron stepped into the room alone, shutting the door halfway. For a long moment he just stood there and watched the two of you taking steady breaths. He pulls a chair close to your bedside, sitting carefully like a sudden moment would have you both jump. Maybe it would. 

He doesn’t know how much time passes where he just enjoys the consistent sound of your breathing. Long enough that he notices the second it changes and you shift a little. Your eyes open slowly, heavy with pain medication and exhaustion. 

“Aaron?” Your voice comes out rough. 

He nods first because it takes him a second to trust his own voice. 

“Hi.” 

A small smile curls on the edge of your mouth. 

“You look terrible.”

A surprised laugh escapes him. 

“It's okay, I look terrible too. I think my face scared Jack earlier. But he’s used to having you around, so he managed.”

You try to lighten the mood, anything to ease the deep frown and heaviness all over his face. You’ve seen him after some terrible cases, but you’ve never seen him like this. He looks defeated. 

Silence settles between the two of you. You glance down at Jack, sleeping soundly against your side. 

“He finally crashed a little bit ago. He refused to leave.” 

Aaron looks over his son, then back to you. 

“He stayed because he knew you were safe.”

You swallow.

“I’m sorry.”

His eyes widen with surprise, “For what?”

“For not stopping it sooner, for scaring Jack-”

“Y/n.” He interrupts, his voice cracking. That actually makes you stop. He leans forward with his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped tight like he had to physically hold himself together. 

“You have absolutely nothing to apologize for.” He shakes his head, “You protected my son.” 

The next words were lower and less steady. 

“You put yourself between him and a man you knew could kill you, and you're apologizing?”

Tears flood your vision, but you still can’t pull your gaze from Aaron’s. 

“I couldn’t let him get to Jack.” 

“I know.” 

His voice was softer now. 

“I heard it. I heard it all.”

He heard it all. You had forgotten he was on the phone when the stranger broke in, which is likely what saved you. He got police to you within minutes. Everything could have been so different if you hadn’t stayed up waiting for his call. But he had heard it all. The fight. The fear. Jack. 

You lift your hand carefully from Jack’s back and reach out for Aaron to take. He looks at it for a second before using both of his hands to completely envelope yours. He stares at them for a minute while he gathers his thoughts. 

“I was on the other end of that phone listening to someone hurt you, and I couldn’t do anything about it.” 

“Aaron” You start. 

“I’ve only felt that helpless once before, and I never wanted to feel like this again.” 

His hands tighten around yours. 

“Aaron.” Your voice calm, pulling his focus back on you, “You got the police to us in minutes, Jack is okay, and I’m okay. You don’t get to carry blame or guilt over a man choosing to do something horrible.” 

He wants to look away, but he knows he won’t get away with that. Jack shifts, mumbling something in his sleep and both of you instinctively look down at him. The room stays quiet like that for a few minutes before Aaron looks back again. 

There’s something in his expression now that had been there for months but neither of them had dared to touch. It was also part of why you waited for your late night call. They had started as a way for him to say goodnight to his son, but had evolved to at least twenty minutes with you each night. 

“I don’t know what I would do without you.” He admits and your breath catches. 

Aaron Hotchner does not say things he doesn’t mean. 

“I’m not going anywhere.” 

-

By late afternoon, the hospital had reluctantly signed discharge papers. Aaron was given strict instructions to follow for three different pain medications and that you can’t lift anything heavier than a pillow. Hotch nodded along like he was taking an oath. 

You borrowed extra sweats from Aaron’s emergency overnight bag, and were entirely unimpressed with the mandatory wheelchair escort all the way to the car. The car ride to the house was quiet, Jack hardly making a peep as they got closer to the house. 

Aaron parks in the driveway and from here you can see the caution tape over the door. The wood is splintered where they kicked down the front door to get to you. You don’t make a move to get out of the car and neither does Jack. Aaron turns from the driver’s seat to face you. 

“The two of you wait in the car. I’m gonna run in and get our stuff, we’re not staying here.’

You blink, “We’re not?”

“It’s not safe to stay here until we know who we’re looking for. We’re going to go in to Quantico.”

“The BAU?”

“It’s secure. Garcia’s there and JJ is bringing enough snacks for Jack to qualify as a federal offence. Until we know who did this, I’m not leaving either of you alone. I’m sorry.”

You frown, “Don’t apologize for that.” 

He looks back at Jack and he gives him a thumbs up. Aaron gets out quickly and races inside, it doesn’t take him long to pack go bags for all three of you. 

“I get to see Uncle Reid!” Jack says excitedly. 

“Agent Reid.” Hotch corrects. 

“No,” Jack shakes his head, “Uncle Reid.” 

Aaron sighs, “Apparently I’ve lost control of professional boundaries.” 

You dare a smirk. 

“Long ago.”

For the first time since the attack you see the ghost of a real smile from him. 

The team was waiting when you arrived, Garcia launching herself at you before remembering your injuries. She settles for a cautious hug that you hide a wince for. 

“Oh my god, look at your face!” 

“I’m okay.” You laugh softly. 

Rossi leans in next to press a careful kiss on your cheek, “He’s gonna give you a really good raise after this.”

You laugh and look back at Aaron. You missed it, but Rossi gives Aaron a look behind your back that says ‘you’re in love with your nanny and everyone knows it’. Aaron ignores him with practiced precision. 

They set you up in the conference room with ice packs and coffee, Garcia is watching Jack in Aaron’s office. Everyone is sitting around the table, far from their typical victim interview but this was far from a typical case. 

This was personal. 

The hospital did pull DNA from under your fingernails, but whoever the unsub was, he wasn't in the system so it turned up nothing.

“Start from the beginning. Anything you remember matters, even if it’s small.” Hotch manages to keep his voice steady, staring directly at you. 

You nod slowly, setting down your coffee down on the table. 

“The back door first. The house was quiet, but I heard the click. He knew how to get in without making much noise.” 

Reid starts taking notes. 

“How tall was he?” Morgan asks.

“At least a head taller than me. Strong. He knew exactly where he was going, he didn’t hesitate.” 

You swallow. 

“He never looked around, he moved like he already knew the house.” 

The room fell to a still. Reid’s pen stopped moving and everyone looked up. 

“He was there for Jack.” Aaron states. 

You nod, agreeing with the theory. 

“And for you.” Rossi nods toward you. 

You look at him, “What?”

“People who target families like this aren’t improvising. It’s personal. They want fear, and they want the message to last.” 

“He could’ve killed me if he really wanted to.” You shake your head, “He kept trying for the stairs for Jack-”

“He probably wanted you to be scared.” Morgan clears his throat, “He was getting off on your fear.” 

The stuns you into silence.

Emily sets down her pen, “Did he say anything to you?”

You frown again, “He said…’He should know what it feels like’.” 

Aaron’s jaw tightens instantly because that isn’t random at all. That sounds like revenge, which confirms his biggest fear. Yet again his job is putting the people he cares most about in harm's way. 

-

The team had scattered to run more leads, but you stayed in the conference room. You find yourself standing in front of the evidence board for the case. Crime scene shots, the staircase, the broken bannister. Your blood on the hardwood. The photographs from the hospital that are so clinical and detached you don’t even recognize yourself. 

The woman in the picture looks like someone else. 

“You really shouldn’t do that.” 

You turn and see JJ in the doorway. 

“I know.”

She steps into the room and stands next to you, turning her attention to the same photographs. For a solid minute neither of you speak. Finally, you exhale. 

“It just feels like if I stop trying to remember something that’ll actually help… like he’s winning somehow.” 

JJ nods, “I get that.” 

“I hate that I’m scared of his house. That his house is crime scene photos again.” 

You know that this isn’t the same house he had with Haley, but it’s still been his home with Jack for years now. 

“Y/n, you were attacked. Being scared doesn’t make you weak.” JJ insists. 

“It feels like it does.” 

“No,” Her voice firm now, “what you did was beyond brave. You kept Jack safe and saved yourself.” 

You blink, “I was terrified.” 

“Exactly.” She finally smiles, “And you still did it. Bravery typically looks like that.” 

That hits you harder than you had expected. JJ softens even more when she realizes none of this has done anything to ease your concern. 

“For what it’s worth, Aaron is barely functioning.” She smiles knowingly, “He’s trying very hard to look like Unit Chief Aaron Hotchner, but the rest of us have eyes.” 

You let out a warm laugh. 

“He cares about you. A lot, honestly. I think he’s been trying not to for months.” 

Her words make you go completely still, eyes darting to his office on the other side of the room. JJ simply shrugs. 

“We all see the way he looks for you first when he walks in, and the way Jack talks about you. Hotch hasn’t been the same since you came into his life, and I mean that as a good thing.” 

“Why are you telling me this?” You look back at her finally. 

“Because I don’t like wasting time. Or seeing people I care about hurt without each other.” She reaches out a hand carefully for your shoulder before leaving the room. 

Maybe JJ is right. Maybe everyone already knew. 

-

You softly knock on the doorframe before letting yourself into Aaron’s office. He looks up from his desk instantly. You're wearing a spare FBI hoodie, but you're still wearing his sweats that are too long. You look as cozy as you can while wearing an arm sling. 

Jack peeks his eyes open, he had been faking sleep over on the couch for nearly a half an hour. 

“There you are!” He sits up. 

You smile at Hotch before making your way over to him. You sit on the edge of the couch and smooth a hand over his hair, gentle and automatic. Jack shifted so you had more room and he could tuck himself against your side. Within minutes, his breathing slowed. Sleep finally won. 

“He couldn’t sleep without you.” Aaron says softly, unable to take his eyes off the two of you. 

Eventually you look up, daring to meet his gaze. The bullpen is still a blur, but it’s warm and quiet here in the office. Safe. 

“He’s scared you’ll leave again.” 

His eyes dart down to his son. 

“I know.” 

“He doesn’t blame you,” You continue, “he is so proud of what you do. He just knows something bad happened when you were gone.” 

“Again.” He answers, “Something bad happened when I was gone, again. I’m supposed to be the person who keeps him safe.” 

You frown, “You are.”

“I wasn’t there.” 

The guilt is still there. How could he not still feel guilty? Here you are trapped at the FBI for your safety, covered in bruises, and he’s sure you still can’t take a full breath with your ribs.

“You got the police to us immediately and came home.” You offer a teary smile, “He knows you love him so much.” 

“Sometimes that doesn’t feel like enough.” 

You shake your head. 

“It's enough.” You disagree, “And you can’t blame yourself for something some lunatic decided to do.” 

He leans back in his chair, you can finally see the exhaustion that JJ was talking about. He looks tired in a way that sleep can’t even fix. 

“I can’t get it out of my head.” You shake your head, mostly saying it to yourself but Aaron is hanging on every word, “Who is capable of doing that to a family?”

Aaron’s eyes flash with recognition. 

“What?” You question, seeing the idea that just hit him. 

He steps out to the bullpen where the team is still there. You ease yourself carefully off the couch not to wake Jack and lean against the door frame. You watch him go down the steps toward the desks. 

“Garcia, look into Karl Arnold’s recent activity. I want to know everything that has gone on at his prison, any of his visitors, and all of his mail.” 

Morgan’s head snaps up, “The Fox?”

“On it, sir!” She begins rapidly typing on her laptop and you’re just as puzzled as you were thirty seconds ago. 

“Who is Karl Arnold?” You ask, pulling all eyes on you. Everyone hesitates in their answer, save for the youngest member of the team. 

“Karl Arnold killed entire families-”

“Reid.” Emily warns, effectively cutting him off. 

“He fixated on me during the case.” Aaron explains, “Personal resentment and control issues. He blamed law enforcement for his capture.”

“You think it’s connected?” Rossi asks. 

Aaron nods, “The one and only time I’ve seen him since then he was passing along a message for Foyet.” 

Garcia starts typing even faster at this realization. 

“Okay, digging into everyone’s favorite horrifying family annihilator. Prison records, visitor logs, and communications, give me… uh oh.” 

“What?” Aaron stops in his tracks. 

“Karl Arnold has had the same visitor for the past three months. Every Tuesday, his younger brother Daniel Arnold.”

Morgan crosses his arms, and Garcia connects her laptop with the big screen. A large picture of a white man in his mid-forties pops up. Your grip in the doorframe tightens to steady yourself. The second you see the picture, all of the color drains from your face. 

“That’s him.” 

No one moved right away. 

“He wasn’t just sending a message, he was trying to continue the work.” Morgan’s voice is low and careful.

You’re unable to pull your gaze from the screen. The same dark eyes from last night staring right back at you through the screen. 

“If he’s following Karl’s methodology, he was watching the house for weeks.” 

That makes you sick to your stomach, you slowly turn back into Aaron’s office and settle carefully back onto the couch with Jack. You don’t want to hear the rest. 

The bullpen was still moving fast, Garcia discovered Daniel has a storage unit in the area and a rental car that has been reported missing for nearly five weeks. 

“Okay, Mr. Creepy Brother also has a very concerning purchase history including lock picks and burner phones, because apparently subtlety is dead.” Garcia’s typing doesn’t falter for a second. 

Morgan checks his weapon, the rest of the team gearing up. 

“Got an address, mama?” Morgan looks at her. 

“There’s an apartment in Arlington.”

“Split up.” Aaron instructs, “Morgan, JJ, and Reid go to the storage unit. Prentiss and Rossi go to the apartment. Bring Anderson too.” 

He looks over the team one more time. 

“I’m not going.” 

“What?” Garcia blinks. 

Morgan looks up too, surprised. Rossi simply nods and pats his shoulder before walking toward the elevator. Rossi understood first, but the rest were not far behind. Family first. 

"We've got this." Emily nods, following the rest of them out.

The bullpen felt quieter immediately with the team gone and Garcia returning to the lair. You flinch when Aaron opens his office door, not expecting anyone to be here. 

“You’re not going?” You ask softly, glancing down at Jack once more before looking up at Aaron. He doesn’t move back toward his desk, he just takes slow heavy steps and lands in the chair right next to the couch. 

“No.” he sighs, “You were right.”

You frown, “About what?”

He looks down at Jack before coming back to you. 

“You said he’s scared I’ll leave again.” 

“Aaron…”

“I spend so much time trying to protect him by doing that job that sometimes I forget he also needs me to stay.” 

The honesty makes your chest ache. 

“I need to be here when he wakes up.” 

A beat passes while he studies you. You hate that. The advantage he has to every conversation and moment. You’ve gotten good at reading him over the past year, but it was nowhere near his capabilities. 

“You don’t need to be out there with your team?” You question carefully. 

“Everything I need is right there.” He reaches out to take your hand in his. It’s warm. 

“Really?” You smile. 

“Mhm.” He barely cracks a grin. 

“You know, for a profiler, you’re being surprisingly unclear.” 

That actually earned you a quiet laugh. 

“Probably because I’m very aware I’m saying this to the woman who was attacked in my house while protecting my son twenty-four hours ago.” 

You squeeze his hand. 

“Yeah, probably not your smoothest timing.” 

“Definitely not.” 

You look down at Jack again for a second, then back up. 

“I care about him.” 

Aaron nods once. 

“I know.”

“And I care about you.”

It was out there. No taking it back. 

You bite back a nervous smile, “See? Very brave of me. Your turn.”

His thumb starts to stroke back and forth on the back of your hand. You can tell he’s being extremely careful, like it all truly mattered to him. 

“I care about you too,” He swallows, “More than I should have let myself.”

Your breath catches. 

“But I did anyway, and I don’t regret it.” 

“Good.” You whisper. 

“Good.” He agrees. 

You sit up, letting him pull you closer to him. His kiss is soft, still careful but it still feels like relief for both of you. Like coming home. 

A mischievous giggle escapes from behind you on the couch. You both pull away and turn to Jack. He has one eye squinting shut, like he could still be asleep. 

“Hey!” You tease, turning on him to tickle at his sides. 

His giggles start instantly and Aaron is quick to jump up and join in. Jack’s laughs only get louder. 

“Okay! Okay!” Jack sits up, out of breath from his laughter. Aaron sits in the space it opens, all three of you squeezing together.

You’re confident neither of you wanted him to know about this quite yet. Maybe a trial run before letting the eight year old know that they liked each other. 

“I saw you kiss Y/n.” Jack grins. 

“I did.” Aaron admits, eyes checking in on you for a second before focusing back on his son, “What do you think about that?”

“Would you be home more?” Jack turns to look at you. 

You nod, “Yeah, it would be more time with your dad and I both at home. At the same time.” 

He nods eagerly, causing both of you to chuckle. Aaron’s phone rings on his desk, causing all three of you to look at it. He gets up to answer it, pausing for a second before saying ‘Hotchner’. 

He looks up after a few seconds, his eyes narrowing on you. He replies with ‘okay’ several times before ending the call with a ‘Good work. Thanks, Morgan’ and sets the phone back down. He turns to face the two of you. 

“Morgan has Daniel in custody.” 

You let out a breath of relief and it’s visible in your shoulders. You close your eyes briefly, it’s finally over. Aaron comes back to the couch, pulling the two of you closer to him. Jack sits on his lap, and you lean against his side. 

For the first time in days, the danger was gone and there was a new future ahead for each of you. It finally feels like everything really could be okay. 

-

“We watched them kiss how many times? You’ve moved on?”

You flip open your file, “You’re welcome for the obsession.”

Hotch doesn’t look up, “Focus, please.”

You look up and glance around at everyone in the room. Rossi’s eyes are already studying you with a small smile. 

He taps his fingers on the table before speaking, “Let’s profile a hypothetical.”

This cannot be good. 

Morgan perks up instantly, “Oh, this I like.” 

“Two coworkers,” Rossi continues, “Highly disciplined. Private. Excellent compartmentalization skills.” 

The team begins looking between you and Aaron in a curious way.

Emily laughs, “No way. Not with this unit. Impossible.”

“Is it?” Rossi questions. 

Hotch doesn’t look up from his file, and you take a sip of your coffee. No reaction. 

JJ leans forward, joining their hypothetical, “Okay, so what was the trigger event?”

“Undercover assignment that required intimacy.” Rossi gestures between you two. 

Morgan grins, “And boom, they’re both suddenly very convincing.”

“We’re right here.” You finally set down your file.

“Yes,” Garcia grins, “That’s what makes this fun!”

“That level of physical ease doesn’t come overnight.”

You don’t dare cut a look to Aaron, that would not go unnoticed right now. They go back and forth continuing to debate if Hotch was faking uncomfortability the first day undercover or if he was just uncomfortable under their eyes. 

“At the risk of my job,” Garcia meekly raises her hand, “After the Flagstaff case I did look into their schedules-”

“Garcia!” Hotch warns. 

She unsurprisingly barrels on anyway, “Their access badges have had the same arrival time since Halloween.” 

“Lots of people arrive at the same time.”

“Y/n and Hotch also leave within three minutes of each other on non-field days.” Spencer states. 

Hotch finally exhales one through his nose. You look up to the ceiling and fight the urge to just close your eyes. 

“And they have the same gym sessions blocked out every Tuesday and Thursday, but their badges are never scanned in.”

“Oh my god!” JJ gasps.

Rossi squints, “Why are you so calm right now?”

“Because,” You keep your voice even, “this is entertaining.”

Emily’s eyes widen and she smacks your shoulder, “Oh my god.”

You look over to Aaron finally, the corner of his mouth twitching up barely. 

“Hotch.” Morgan notices it too and calls him out. 

No denial. Just silence.

Morgan leans back slowly, “You’ve gotta be kidding me.” 

The realization sinks in over the rest of the team. They no longer shout their ideas and evidence over each other, instead they look between you two eagerly. Chomping at the bit for any and every detail. 

JJ covers her mouth and repeats, “Oh my god!”

Morgan’s jaw falls slack, “You faked gym sessions to hide dating?”

Hotch finally speaks, his voice is calm and dry. 

“Cardio was implied.”

The room explodes. 

“You aren’t denying it.” Emily is practically shaking your shoulders now. 

You laugh while shrugging her away, “You’re profilers. Profile.” 

“Oh, that is so confirmation!” Garcia squeals. 

Morgan suddenly stands from his chair, “Months! This has been going on for months?”

Rossi smiles, still just looking between you at Hotch, “Minimum.”

“I feel betrayed,” Emily groans, “How many girls nights out have we had?”

“You let me make undercover kiss jokes for weeks.” Morgan chuckles, shaking his head in pure disbelief.

You can’t help but grin, “You seemed happy.” 

“This is the most controlled long-con relationship in BAU history.” Spencer points out. 

Hotch meets their eyes. No apology. Just a quiet and quick acknowledgement. 

“Yes.” 

Rossi claps one, “Well done. Both of you.” 

“You realize that we’re never letting this go, right?” 

You smile softly now, “We never never expected you would.”

“Human resources have been aware since the relationship started.” Hotch states. 

“Which was when exactly?” JJ raises her brows.

You know that Hotch has a lot he wants to reassure the team about. The power imbalance. The age-gap. All of them are completely valid concerns. 

Hotch finally closes his file and sets it back on the table. It’s clear they aren’t going to start this briefing anytime soon.

-

Towards the end of the day everyone is reviewing their reports at their desks, trying to get their work done to head home for the weekend. The bullpen is still riding the high of the new revelation, the energy still bouncing off of everyone. You contemplated working in the lair to get away from everyone’s teasing comments, but you know being trapped one on one with Garcia is far more dangerous than everyone else.

The elevator dings. 

JJ looks up first, “Hey, Jack’s here.”

Hotch looks up immediately, coming to stand at the top of the stairs by the door to his office. His whole expression softens when Jack trots in with his backpack on and a paper in hand. He makes a beeline for his dad, but detours halfway. Straight to you. 

You roll back from your desk in time for a big hug. 

“Hi.”

You smile down at him and instinctively brush his hair back, “Hey, you.”

Morgan freezes mid sip and Emily’s brows raise a couple degrees. 

JJ whispers, “Oh this is going to be good.”

Hotch clears his throat lightly, “Jack.”

He turns to look up at his dad, “What?”

“You wanna show me what you brought?” Hotch nods down to the piece of paper he has protectively in his hand. 

“In a second,” He turns back to you, “Are you still coming over tonight?”

The bullpen goes totally silent. 

You don’t miss a beat, “That depends. Did you do your chores already?”

“Yeah, Dad said we should do it before you came over this weekend.”

“Jack…” Hotch warns. 

You can tell he’s just getting started. 

“Look!” He finally presents the piece of paper he had been holding. It’s a drawing of three stick figures all standing together holding hands. It isn’t labeled with names, but the details make it’s clear who he drew. Jack, Aaron, and you. One of many drawings.

“This is a good one!” You smile softly and lean down to press a kiss to the top of his head, “Go show your dad.”

He launches off of you to chase up the stairs to his dad.

“We built a full behavioral timeline and Garcia hacked into numerous FBI databases when we could’ve just asked the witness.” Rossi shakes his head. 

“Always ask the child.” JJ nods. 

“Thanks, buddy.” Hotch takes the drawing from him and bends down to scoop him up in a hug. 

“I know you said we’re not supposed to tell people at work-”

“It’s okay, buddy.” Aaron reassures. 

“Weeks of deduction.” Morgan shakes his head. 

“Hell, you should hire him.” Rossi chuckles, “He’s a natural.” 

Jack looks confused, “Y/n said that honesty matters.”

You laugh, “Yes, I did. It does matter.” 

You hear Emily huff an ‘mhm’ somewhere behind you. You’re sure the whole team just rolled their eyes. 

Morgan walks up to Jack and offers him a fist bump, “You closed the case faster than all of us.”

Jack beams, “Does that mean I get a badge?”

“Okay,” Emily leans against the edge of her desk and asks, “Details, Agent.”

Jack nods seriously, “She sleeps over a lot.”

“Jack.” 

Hotch’s warning to his son does nothing to stop the red that takes over your face. Your elbows are resting on your desk when you put your head down in your hands.

“What? Honesty matters.”

“Define ‘a lot’.” Morgan continues. 

You look up and make eye contact with Aaron. Wordlessly, still holding each other’s gaze while letting them continue asking Jack a plethora of questions. You smile, quiet teasing with a shake of your head, “Rookie mistake.”

"You've read this already?" You laughed, playfully arching an eyebrow as you swiped the file back.

Penelope opened her mouth to speak, but stopped midway. Guilty. "No... kinda. I merely held it up to the light." You hummed in amusement and she let out a whine. "It's been there for nearly an hour. A terribly long hour. When the prettiest set of flowers show up, and the recipient is momentarily absent, you have to take matters into your own hands. Especially when your own love life is clogged down the drain and there's not a plumber in sight."

"No plans tonight, then?" Morgan teased.

"On the contrary, you and I will get up to all sorts of trouble." She quipped in return, causing him to cackle.

"Ah... Valentine's Day." Dave chimed in as he joined the huddle, Aaron with him. "Something I used to be good at."

"You have been married three times,” Aaron deadpanned, crossing his arms across his chest.

As Aaron spoke, your gaze latched onto his. His brown eyes were warm and bright, brimming with affection. No words passed, but you felt it all, the quiet pull between your hearts. The unspoken moments were something the two of you had perfected, whether on a case or just within earshot of the team. Stolen glances and subtle gestures were the best you could hope for if you wanted to keep your relationship under wraps.

Even with the team possibly - definitely - watching, you couldn’t hide the smile that spread across your face as you looked at him.

You'd thank him later, in more ways than one, but hopefully for the meantime you were able to relay how much you truly appreciated and loved the gesture. How much you loved him.

"I wonder who they could be from." Penelope thought aloud, scanning the bullpen. Ironically enough, her eyes landed on every person except for the very one it was. "Who was here early? Are they even on this floor?"

"Oh- I know." JJ chimed in, smirking in your direction. Leaning forward and crossing her arms on her desk, "Agent Carter from Homeland Security has the hots for you."

You shushed her, immediately dismissing her statement. You were well aware of Carter's feelings for you - he's only awkwardly flirted with you a handful of times. Each attempt was admittedly sweet, but obviously unsuccessful as your heart belonged elsewhere.

You shook your head. "No, I'm positive it wasn't him." You’d made it clear that you weren’t interested, and the last time he tried to sway you had ended so badly you were sure it was the last time. 

"If not, I'm sure we can figure it out by lunch." Emily scoffed, clearly opposed to the idea that an agent would be so brazen. "Sending flowers to a profiler? He's practically begging to be discovered."

"If you want, I can organize data by floor, then narrow the possibilities to single men, and sort those from most to least likely candidates based on factors such as proximal age, interests, and number of conversations they’ve had with you since you started work here.” Spencer offered, his lips quirking upwards.

You gaped at him, though you really shouldn’t be surprised. "All before lunch?"

Penelope didn't miss a beat, raising a hand. "I can get you a list."

"On that note, if you’d all like to leave early today to make your evening plans, I suggest we focus on getting our work done." Aaron redirected smoothly, in a way that hardly hinted at any personal agenda behind his attempt to steer the conversation. "Roundtable in ten."

The team let out a collective sigh and drifted apart, eager to leave early. Dave returned to his office, the others to their desks. As she passed, Penelope patted Spencer on the shoulder, reiterating that she’d get him a list.

Meanwhile, you let out a soft laugh and remained near your flowers, unable to keep yourself from admiring them for just one more long moment before you got swept up in the workday. As you did so, you could sense Aaron's presence lingering behind you. 

Not much thought comes into it, not used to wearing them if not in the comfort of your home late at night but simply a necessity now. You don't not use them for thinking that they look bad, but because they used to bother you more than help you and now you've simply gotten used to the contacts.

Once you arrive at the bullpen, you're only five minutes late and don't seem to be the last one arriving. You let that be a victory.

With your morning drink close by, you finally start working on the mountain of files pilling up at your desk.

"Good morning." You're only half an hour in when the familiar voice sounds behind you, steps sounding closer as Aaron comes to stand beside your chair.

"Hey." You greet back, leaning your head to look up at him.

"I don't mean to put even more in your plate but i really need you to fill these out." It's only now that he looks away from the papers and at you, eyes widening for one second in surprise.

You try to ignore it, though it settles something in you. It's a strict rule that have to act professional around each other at work — all an atempt to not have Strauss ripping your heads off.

"No problem." You take the files from his hands with a polite smile, setting them in front of you to start working on them.

Aaron lingers on his spot, clearing his throat. "You're wearing glasses."

“I am.” You state carefully, not sure where he’s getting at. Though you find yourself shifting on your seat a little subconsciously.

You don’t think you’ve ever seen him so dumbfounded.

“Since when?” His eyebrows are furrowed as if wondering if he’s missed this trait, sweet Aaron.

“Always?” You say with confusion, “I just usually wear contacts. Was a bit late today and forgot them.”

Your boyfriend nods at your explanation, eyes still fixated on you with concentration as you feel your skin grow hot under his gaze.

“You look good.” His words are gentle as he speaks after a moment.

His hand comes to tug a little on his tie — something you’ve noticed he does when nervous. It’s hard to believe you’d be the one to make him nervous.

“Thank you.” You answer just as soft, a little like a question.

It didn’t cross your mind that he’d never seen you with your glasses when you put them on earlier. But you suppose his reaction makes up for it.

Aaron’s lips pull into a small, “Anytime, honey.” Even lower than before. And then he’s walking back into his office like he didn’t leave you melting.

You almost forget about it as you distract yourself with work, getting up from your chair once you’re done and knocking on the door to Hotch’s office.

Once you’re given the green light to come in, you slip inside and close the door behind you before heading to his desk.

“Here you go.” You leave the files on it, moving to get back outside.

But before you can reach the door, you feel his hand catch your wrist. A gasp leaves your lips as he turns you around and presses his own to them in a hard kiss.

Aaron’s hand are on your face as he kisses you, a sight escaping his nose as he gets the first taste of you in the day. Instinctively your hands come to rest on his arm, fingers slightly gripping his button up.

He tastes of coffee with a mix of the mints he always has while working. The bump of his nose against the rim of your glasses has him pulling you closer, one hand moving to your waist to help with doing so.

You let your own hand wonder to his shoulder, feeling the muscles relax under your fingers as you softly massage them.

“You’re driving me crazy, sweet girl.” He mumbles after pulling way, lips still dangerously close to yours.

“What?” You giggle with curiosity.

To prove his point, you feel his fingers tap the rim of your glasses with care. “These are the reason.”

Your heart thumps furiously, shy grin on your lips as you keep him close. “You like them?”

“Love them.” Aaron corrects with an arm tightening around your waist, eyes set on every detail of your face.

“Not too nerdy?” You muse, mostly teasing compliments out of him.

“Just enough.” He reassures nevertheless, lips to your cheek for a sweet peck. “So pretty.”

You squeeze his elbow in return, not surprised when his lips chase you for another kiss. Not that you can complain, relished by the attention.

This one is softer, as if he knows you should get back soon and not wanting to get himself worked up.

“Wear them to our date tonight.” He practically begs, lips shiny from you.

“Pervert.” Your joke earns a grin from him.

“Can’t help it when it comes to you.” Aaron says with honesty. His grip loosens, mouth pressed to your temple.

“Pervert and corny. Wow, Hotchner.” You snort, hitting his chest with your pointer finger.

He catches it with ease, bringing it to his lips for a quick kiss there before reaching to adjust your slightly crooked glasses. “There.”

Behind your stiff blindfold, you were left with little else to do in those rare quiet moments besides wonder. You thought in the beginning that it was maybe a leaky pipe somewhere in the room but surely if that much water were in the small room, a puddle would’ve made it to your bare feet by now. Then, as you struggled against your bindings, you thought it could be the beep of a tape recorder or camera streaming your every reaction to whatever sick pervert was given access to it. 

Yet as the cold began to seep into your bones through the thousands of cuts all over your raw skin, the tapping became an omen. It grew louder with each passing day, each visit from your captor, each broken sob that was ripped from your cracking lips. Death was tapping at that wall, reminding you that they would come soon to free you from this pain.

You could barely remember how this happened. There was a case, you knew that. But there was always a case, always death and pain. You could feel the leather of the jet’s seats against your arms as a crackly voice rang through the cabin relaying the grim details of a series of women who looked far too much like you were abducted and tortured. You could almost taste the terrible police station coffee, there was a warm hand on the small of your back as a solid body plastered to your side. The subtle smell of cologne filled your senses as you donned a stiff tac vest with the rest of your team, that same warm hand helping to pull the straps tight, his fingers lingering on the soft flesh of your stomach. Adrenaline made your body tremble as you swept the basement of a musty warehouse as your flashlight beam cut through the darkness.

Then nothing.

Then pain.

You had hope. You fought and kicked and screamed. You insulted and pleaded, picked at the handcuffs, thrashed in the chair for any sort of give. He planned this chamber too well, a methodical and psychopathic mind put to use fulfilling his darkest fantasies. The seat below you was solid like the ones in interrogation rooms, the arms were reinforced with welded seams that you could feel with your fingertips. Originally, there was nothing binding your feet, only the sharp metal around your wrists but after a well-placed kick to the crotch soon after you had first woken up, that had earned you rope around your legs and a beating that left you barely conscious. 

Hope weaned after he stopped giving you food and water. You forced yourself to fight then, despite the never-ending growl of your stomach and the dryness in your throat. You couldn’t beg anymore, could barely lift your head in acknowledgement. With each tap, each visit, you knew that there was only one way out.

The cuts were easier to take when you didn’t fight and the sessions grew shorter as your captor realised he wouldn’t be getting the same satisfaction as he had days ago. Or maybe it was weeks. He would slam the door with increasing frustration, growling indiscernibly with each disappointing reaction. This was the endgame, you knew that, he knew that and soon, none of this would matter. You would soon be that woman in a casefile.

A door slammed. The tapping continued. Footsteps echoed down the hall, heavy and rushed. He was panicked, frantic with worry. You suddenly were overcome with grief. You knew the hands that would hold your file, the brown eyes of the man you loved that would weep over your scant personal effects, the already broken heart that would shatter even further as they let your ashes blow away. You didn’t want Aaron to mourn you, you wanted to live. 

You had to live for you. You had to get out, to see the sun, feel the wind on your face, hear the freedom that had been stripped from you. You didn’t want to give that man the satisfaction of your demise. You hunted monsters for a living, made sure they would never hurt anyone again. This was just another man, he wasn’t the first, he wouldn’t be the last but you would make sure he hurt when he came for you. You wouldn’t make this easy for him.

You planted your feet firmly on the ground and with all the might you could muster, you tensed your thighs and pushed. Your heels dug into the concrete as the lock shook. The tapping began to speed up as you rocked backwards. You felt the concrete rip through the fragile skin of your feet but you kept going.

Even if this once again didn’t work, you’d make sure he knew that you didn’t give up without a fight.

The door swung open right as the front legs of the chair finally lifted from the ground. And for a moment, the world was still. There was no tapping, no frantic steps, just your body suspended in the air, balancing on the back legs of that goddamned chair. You held your breath as it threatened to tip forwards but then, the metal buckled and you were thrown backwards.

The air was knocked out of you but you didn’t stop. The bindings around your legs frayed as you struggled against them. Shaking hands grabbed at your shoulders, you twisted in their hold, jaw dropping open as wide as you could manage through the pain, and bit down on the closest flesh to you. His shout was near deafening to your sensitive ears, but you relished the sound.

The hands yanked away but they didn’t go far. You squawked dryly as they wrapped around your throat. You sucked in a breath before he started to squeeze. You knew a struggle would make the burning in your lungs worse, that it would be better to try and fake him out but suddenly, your right leg was free and you could feel his leg pressed to yours. 

You thrashed your upper body, making him curse and squeeze harder as he moved to straddle your chest. If you could breathe, you would have smiled in triumph then, he should’ve learned better. You kicked your leg up, nailing him firmly in the groin. And with the strength of your adrenaline and the pain you’d inflicted, you caught him off guard just enough to send him flying over you. He slammed into the wall with a satisfying thud.

The tapping rang around you like church bells as you rolled over onto your side. Pain rippled through your battered skin but you forced yourself to keep going, even as you felt blood drip down your legs. You wouldn’t be able to run or hide but you had a metal chair strapped to you and, based on the pathetic groaning from your right, you knew where he was. 

Fear coiled in your belly as you rose up onto your knees. The tapping was now the voice of Derek Morgan in your ears; ‘use your weight, keep him pinned for as long as you can until you find a soft spot’. You had to take this chance. 

The thin metal of the handcuffs sliced into your wrists as you crawled the scant few feet to where your captor lay. You turned your back to him and slammed down, the heavy back of the chair crushed his chest with a satisfying crack. He gasped, attempting to gulp down air like you had been, but like him, you don’t relent. 

His hands batter at your sides, your arms, anything he can reach but your will is stronger than those blows. ‘It takes 2 minutes minimum for a catastrophic chest injury to cause death. Unconsciousness is the first goal’. Spencer’s prattling had you pressing more of your weight backwards till your feet barely touched the ground. 

He kicked the floor in time with the tapping as you grit your teeth and pushed downwards but then, the chair failed. The bent metal legs slid out from under you, making you land firmly on your back beside him. Broken pieces of the chair arms sliced into the meat of your biceps.

He grabbed your neck before you could shuffle away, his stuttered breath in your ear made you cringe away from him. 

“You’ll pay for that.” Sparkles of light bloomed in front of your covered eyes, Emily called to you from the darkness; ’He’s mad, that makes him sloppy’. 

You curled your now free hand into a fist and punched the side of his jaw as hard as you could. You felt his head snap to the side, his grip loosening for just a moment, just long enough for you to take a breath and focus on the sound of the door opening once more.

His arms shook with the force around your neck, his fury growing with each second you remained alive.

TapTapTap. 

This was it. Your ears rang but still you could hear that sound. It was building to a crescendo that you would not live to hear the end of. You tried to punch him again but your arms wouldn’t move. Your mind was fading but one last voice called to you from the void. 

“It’s ok baby. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.” Aaron’s words curled around your heart, overpowering the fear. You exhaled one last time, eyes shutting behind the blindfold. Then, silence.

The pressure suddenly stopped, the weight was gone from your chest. You sucked in a breath too quickly and choked on the life that was now forcing its way back into your bones. A softer hand pressed to your side, gentle and apprehensive as it rolled you off the nest of metal that had been your cage for so long.

“I’ve got you. Just breathe.” There was a scuffle somewhere behind you, growling voices speaking over each other but you could only focus on the blindfold being carefully lifted from your head, letting you see for the first time since the torture began. 

The lights blinded you but you swallowed back the pain to look upwards, right into the sea of deep brown you loved so dearly. Aaron smiled as your gaze focused on the deep purple below them, the overgrown facial hair, the exhaustion and sadness written plainly all over his face. 

“You’re here.” His smile faltered.

“I’m sorry it took me so long. We looked-“ He shook his head, his eyes flicked over to the space behind you before he cleared his throat and pulled you into his arms. You breathed a sigh of relief despite the protest your lungs gave. He guided your head to rest in the crook of his neck before he stood, your body cradled in his grasp.

You wanted to shut your eyes until you were brought outside, part of you wanted to keep that room in the dark so it wasn’t real but you could still hear that tapping even as Aaron stepped over the threshold of the doorway. You propped your chin up on his shoulder and took it all in, in one fleeting glance.

It was a normal room- four unfinished walls, a grey ceiling with a single lightbulb hanging from it and a single window looking out over an empty field with a wind chime steadily tapping at the glass.

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Criminal Minds

@lokiandbuckysdoll @voice-activated @daytej @littlelearningbrat 

Aaron Hotchner

“Yeah. I particularly liked the one at the very start which highlighted my name and said ‘baddie.’”

He grins, looking extremely pleased with himself. “One of my students taught me that the other day. I thought you might appreciate it.”

It’s adorable, really, how much effort he’s been putting into learning recent internet culture—his references are otherwise a little dated—because when you’re not writing, or grading, or working, or hanging out with him, you are rotting in your bed and scrolling on your phone. “I did. But I don’t mean my diss, either. It’s—I’m starting to get a little, I don’t know, disillusioned with the job market.” One of the application portals (because of course, not every institution uses the same one) is currently staring at you from your screen, listing the dozens of postings that you’ve applied to. Their statuses are…not promising.

He nods thoughtfully at that, still shoving his breakfast into his mouth. “I thought you had that offer to adjunct at City?” Yep, still cute when he talks with food in his mouth, not disgusting, and you are in so, so deeply at this point.

“That’s kind of my point. I haven’t heard back from anywhere else, and everyone knows that adjuncting sucks, like, so badly, and I just. I thought that it would be fine that I missed the window to apply to tenure-track jobs, that I would just get a postdoc or a VAP somewhere and apply for those next cycle, but…I think I might not be cut out for this.”

“Hey. Look at me,” and he nudges your arm, because you had smushed your face into the table partway through your rambling. “Just because you haven’t landed something yet, doesn’t mean you won’t.”

You sigh and lift your head up to rest on your hand instead. “I don’t—this is going to sound super bitter and petty. But sometimes it’s hard to actually feel better when you say stuff like that, because it wasn’t like this for you. At all. You got a job, like, so quickly.”

“Yeah. And it sucked, and then I blew up my career, very publicly, and now I have a different job that I actually like.”

“That’s. Also true.”

“So. Maybe it works out, maybe it doesn’t. You’ll figure it out.” He smiles, then, and reaches over to grab the hand that isn’t holding up your head, running his fingers over your knuckles gently. “Okay?”

“…Alright.” You close your laptop, then, and squeeze his hand. “You should get going.”

Ryland glances down at his watch—he’s had to start wearing one, because he gets so distracted talking with you in the morning that he’s been late to work an alarming number of times—and mutters shoot before sticking the last piece of bacon in his mouth. The check’s already been paid, also something that started because of the being late thing, so he slides out of the booth and presses a kiss to the top of your head.

He turns around, and then he stops after half a second and spins back to face you, holding out his hand. You place a snack-sized pouch of sour Skittles on his waiting palm.

--

Hm. That’s not good, you think, looking at the alert for a severe blizzard warning.

You glance between your phone and the hole in your ceiling a few times before looking up some news articles about this alleged blizzard. Okay, scratch that, immediately;it is not alleged, there are apparently going to be record low temperatures this weekend, and an amount of snow that you know the city’s infrastructure is not prepared to deal with.

This is really not good.

You groan and lean back in your desk chair, but not too far, because otherwise the entire seat will fall off the chair’s legs. This is—you really needed to hunker down this weekend, because you are so close to finishing your conclusion, and once that’s done, you can send the whole thing off to your committee and the external reader, and then you can start wrangling them all into giving you their availability to schedule your defense. And then you’re free. (Well. Not really. You’ll have to grade for the rest of the semester. But still.)

Your landlord hasn’t responded to your weekly email asking about when the hole is going to be fixed. You probably should get a lawyer at this point, but that requires money, and you know how the rest of that statement goes. Couldn’t climate change have waited until your dissertation was done?

You send another email to your landlord, one that threatens legal action—you’re pretty sure you both know that that’s not going to happen—before standing up to see how many blankets you have laying around. The plastic will keep out most of the cold, right? Or maybe you could, like, keep the oven on and hope the place doesn’t blow up. Honestly, that would probably be a kinder fate to the building than what it’s going through now under its current management.

There’s a large pile of blankets collected on your sofa when you unlock your phone again, planning to text Ryland and bemoan the current situation, but you see that he’s already sent you a screenshot of the same alert you looked at earlier.

Did you see this?

yeah.

currently taking stock of all my blankets

hey, you’re a smart science guy, you probably know the answer to this

is it safe for me to like leave my oven on

for multiple days

with the door opened

DO NOT DO THAT.

I’m serious

I would say that even if I didn’t have a PhD.

okay jeez

i was joking

mostly

…what about the stove? that’s basically like a little campfire

You are actually kidding in that last text. You mostly just sent it so you could imagine what his face must look like while reading it. The three little dots pop up a few times, and your smile grows. He likely cannot even find the words to tell you how bad of an idea that would be.

It is not. It is not like a campfire

Still nothing from your landlord about Fra Mauro?

Right. He had started calling it that about a month in, when it was becoming increasingly clear that the hole was going to be a more permanent fixture in your apartment. According to him, it was in the stage between Apollo 13 and 14, because he still believed that they were going to actually send someone to fix it.

nope

i sent him another email and said i would sue

i’m sure he got a good laugh out of that

the plastic will probably be enough

that’s a thing right?

plastic is good at. temperature things

Sure.

Or. You could just pack a bag and stay with me for a few days.

And not freeze to death

Oh. You probably should have thought of that. You stay at his place half the time anyway, especially because he has a more consistently filled fridge. (It is not for this reason. It is because you really, really like him. Also, he doesn’t even keep a lot of fresh ingredients in his kitchen, because he hates cooking. Hence the diner breakfast every day.) But—

i really need to finish my conclusion this weekend

and.

we are not very good at being productive when i stay over

Really? I would say that we are very, very good at being productive

Just. In a very specific way.

Look at it this way: you will probably still be more productive here than at your place

Because it will be pretty difficult to type when your fingers fall off from frostbite

You bite your lip and look at the hole in the ceiling again. The plastic rustles, just a little, as if it were speaking to you. Yeah. You really need to get out of here.

okay :D

i’ll head over after you’re done at work on friday?

:)

--

“You have your faucet dripping?”

“Yep.” You kick off your shoes and let him take your duffel bag from you. It seems like he’s cleaned a little, and his apartment looks nice; it’s not crazy nicer than yours—he is a teacher, after all, and he doesn’t actually make that much more money than you do—but it is certainly an improvement from the crap hole, as Ryland would put it, that you live in.

He sets the bag down by his couch. “And your oven is off.”

“I swear I really was mostly kidding about that. I’m not that stupid.” He just gives you a look and then smiles, walking back over to you and wrapping you up in his arms. “I only seriously considered it for, like, two seconds.”

His hands rub your back idly. The temperature had already started to drop considerably, and the walk to his place had been less than pleasant. “Okay. Just making sure. That would have been—really bad. Believe me.”

You hum and then still once you consider the tone of his voice more carefully, and then you’re slowly pulling back to look at him. “You. You’re making it sound like this comes from experience.”

“It’s, well—alright, stop looking at me like that. I was once a very stupid college student. A long time ago.”

“Oh, I never doubted that for a second. Well, maybe the ‘long time ago’ part—” He kisses you, then, slow and sweet, and you can tell that it’s meant as a distraction. “I want that story,” you mumble against his lips, “and I am very persistent.”

“I know.” He pulls back reluctantly. “Okay. You can set up shop on the couch. And I will be in the bedroom. Not distracting you.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Seriously. It’ll be like I’m not even here.”

“Sure.”

Ryland slowly walks backward down the hallway, moving his arms like he’s actually walking forward, so it looks (sort of) like someone has taken a video and then put it in reverse. He keeps doing this until he’s out of sight, and even then, you’re pretty sure he keeps doing it right up until the point that he runs into a wall. “I’m fine,” he calls out. “Not here, I’m a ghost, start writing.” You simply shake your head at all of this, smiling, trying to fight the urge to follow him to his room.

He keeps his promise for about thirty minutes.

You’re making some headway, though you keep having to flip back to your previous chapters in order to meaningfully reference them in your conclusion, when he slowly meanders in and then just—stands in the kitchen. He opens a cabinet, closes it, then opens the fridge, looks around for a little while, and then closes that, too.

You don’t look up from your laptop as a small smile starts playing on your lips. “What’s up?”

“Oh, nothing.” He opens the fridge again. “What do you want for dinner later? I just stocked up.” By ‘stocked up,’ he likely means that he bought a ton of frozen meals and maybe some bread.

“Did you get any frozen pizzas?”

“Uh, duh.”

“We can just do one of those.”

Silence falls again, save for the sound of your fingers periodically typing away or clicking through the billion different documents and tabs that you have open. He does not return to his bedroom. Instead, he stands in the kitchen for a moment before slowing padding over and sitting next to you.

You attempt to shift over, but he pats your thigh in a way that says no, it’s okay, don’t move. “What was that about being a ghost?”

“I am. I’m just a very friendly and curious ghost. Like Casper.” He rests his head on your shoulder, sprawling his legs out to rest next to yours on his coffee table. “That’s a good sentence,” he murmurs. “Very punchy.”

“Thanks.” You scroll back up to read through what you have so far, because he is unfairly distracting, and it makes writing anything very difficult.

He grabs your legs, then. “Here.” There’s some maneuvering until your back is against the arm rest of the couch, and your legs are resting over the tops of his thighs. “How much more do you have?”

“You’re like a dog, you know that? Or, like, and extremely cuddly and needy cat.” Ryland says nothing at that, simply grinning and running his fingers idly over your shins. You’re wearing sweatpants, which apparently is bothering him, because he slides them up a little so he can feel your bare skin. Goosebumps are already starting to form. “I—there’s not too much more, I think. It feels really weird, being so close to finishing this thing that I’ve been spending literal years working on.”

He hums. “I remember feeling a little like that, too, but I was also so eager to move on to the next thing.”

“That sounds like you.”

It’s quiet again as he continues tracing idle patterns into your skin. You have been rereading the same sentence for the past five minutes, and finally, you sigh and go to close your laptop, but he stops you from doing so. “No, keep working.”

You huff at that. “And how do you suggest I go about doing that? You—you’re very distracting. I have dropped so many mugs at work because of you.” (You also drop mugs sometimes even when he’s not there, but that’s beside the point.)

“I’m developing your concentration.”

He lifts up your legs and shifts over, turning to lay on his stomach between your thighs. You slide down a little so only your shoulders and head are resting against the arm rest. One of your legs is now dangling off the side of the couch, and you have to pull your laptop up to rest on your stomach. “What are you doing.”

It’s not that you’re frustrated with this new development, because this is, frankly, so much better than working on your dissertation, but he still won’t let you set your laptop to the side, and you can’t really see him with the screen in the way. “Nothing.” He starts pulling your sweatpants down, then, and you let him. “Read it out loud. It’s a good way to catch mistakes you normally wouldn’t when you’re just reading it in your head.”

He is a menace. An absolute menace. “This is. You’re evil.”

A kiss is pressed against your knee once your pants have been discarded. “I’m actually so nice. Start reading.”

You sigh contentedly as his fingers grasp your thighs and pull them apart even more so he can inch closer to you, gently mouthing against the soft skin he finds there. “Alright. Okay. I’m starting. ‘The,’ um, hah,” you breathe, because he’s just nipped at your inner thigh, “Starting over. You are. Okay. ‘The genre of hagiography can be traced back to the—the—the late antique lives of the philosophers, but the medieval period sees the genuine formation of, of.’”

“Of what?” He murmurs, his nose pressing into you, just above the crease of your hip. The cool metal of his wire frames makes your hips shift a fraction.

You swallow. “‘Of the standard tropes and formulae which would come to dominate the public perception of the lives of the saints.’ Will you just—”

The laptop is still blocking him from your line of sight, but you can feel the shit-eating grin that spreads on his face. “I don’t remember ‘will you just’ being anywhere in there.”

Screw the frostbite you might have gotten if you had stayed at your apartment. This man is going to be the death of you. He doesn’t do anything else, simply waiting for you to continue, because of course this is one of the few circumstances in which he suddenly has an endless amount of patience. You close your eyes for a beat and try to take a deep breath. “‘Scholars have argued that—’”

His teeth graze against your underwear. “Which scholars?”

“It’s—there’s a lot of them, I have a footnote.”

“You should call them out by name.”

This draws an airy chuckle from your throat. “What, like a certain someone called out the top scholars in his field?”

“Exactly. Continue.” He grasps your thighs firmly when you try to wriggle your hips into his face. “Nope, not happening. Now read.”

You bite down an exasperated whine and blink, trying to refocus on your screen. It’s so close to your face at this point that the light is starting to strain your eyes. “‘Scholars have argued that these texts drew upon a static bank of stock characters, settings, and plots, with medieval authors merely cannibalizing upon their predecessors to deliver moral lessons or entertaining stories.’”

And then you gasp, because he’s dragging your underwear aside with his teeth. “Good word choice. ‘Cannibalizing.’ It’s very evocative.” One of his arms wraps tightly around your thigh so he can hold the thin strip of fabric out of the way. His warm breath curls out, providing just the barest stimulation, and you twitch.

Then he stills, again, and you clutch your laptop. He isn’t going to make you do this the whole time, is he? Surely not. “Should I—do I have to keep going?” Silence. You try to slide your laptop over so you can see his face, but his free hand comes up to push it back before it returns to holding your thigh. “Fine. ‘However, upon closer examination, medieval hagiography was a diverse and dynamic genre, where both authors and audiences could reflect upon contemporary issues by utilizing and transforming’—Jesus, Ryland,” you break off, because the flat of his tongue has just licked a long, slow, dragging line up your cunt.

“Too many ‘ands,’” he mumbles into you. It is impressive how well he is able to talk while doing this, and you know that he can, because he does it every time. “You’re—doing too much—in one sentence.”

It’s—he’s probably right, but you’re having a little trouble concentrating at the moment, so you highlight the sentence with a shaky hand and leave a comment to fix it later. “Alright, great, I’ll change it, can I please—fuck—be done now, please?”

His fingers curl around your underwear as he juts his face deeper into your wetness, sucking at your clit, and you would very much like to see him doing this, not just hear the sounds of him devouring you like it’s his last meal. His tongue dips down and then he shakes his head, so the tip of his nose rubs against the little bud, and you cry out.

“You are, fuck you, first of all, how am I supposed to—” Ryland stops, completely, and both of his arms tighten around you to stop you from rutting into him. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry, please don’t stop—I’ll start again, here, ‘by utilizing and transforming the conventions of the genre.’”

He lets go of your underwear, then, merely letting his face keep it out of the way, and he draws his arm back so he can slowly push his index finger inside of you. Your head thuds back against the arm rest. “You used ‘genre’ twice in that sentence.”

How he is able to keep track of that is beyond you, but you don’t say this, because you don’t want him to stop, not when he’s adding another finger and drawing careful circles into you with the tip of his tongue, so you simply add another comment in the document and keep going. “‘The case studies examined here have demonstrated how the lives of the saints provided a convenient medium to explore issues such as church doctrine, the changing landscape of medieval law, and the social realities of feudalism.’”

Ryland nods against you, and it means that his teeth brush up ever-so-slightly against your clit. “Good.”

The words are basically swimming off of the screen at this point. “I’m sorry, I really don’t think I can do anymore, please, please let me be done, it’s just—it’s so—you’re so good, you’re always so fucking good at this, and it is so unfair,” you babble, and evidently he decides to have a little mercy on you, because then the hand that isn’t at your cunt is reaching forward to close your laptop. Finally, finally you can see him, and he looks so perfect like this, face buried between your thighs, staring up at you with such intense fondness that you’re reaching forward to slide your fingers into his hair before you can even fully register the movement.

Your other hand slips underneath your shirt to clutch at your breast, to roll the peak of it with your fingers. Ryland tracks the movement closely and then groans, eyes fluttering behind his glasses, and the vibration of it and the intensity with which he presses his mouth against you causes your back to arch. “So, so sweet,” he sighs, “sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted.”

It’s—you would like to comment on this, because you have tasted yourself on his mouth enough times at this point to know that ‘sweet’ isn’t quitethe adjective you would use, but the sentiment behind it is so, well, sweet, that it makes you melt into the couch and clutch his hair a little tighter.

Then he does this thing with his fingers, crooking them just right, and your hips jerk. He doesn’t stop you this time, instead nodding so vigorously that his glasses start to slide down the bridge of his nose, and you move the hand that’s under your shirt to join the one in his hair to start grinding yourself against his face.

He honest-to-God whimpers at that, at the feeling of you using him to get off, at the way your thighs tremble and clench around his head. “That’s—please, please,” because if words weren’t coming to you before, they certainly aren’t now. “Just like that,” you manage to choke out.

You look down, then, and his eyes open to watch you while he presses his tongue flat against you so you can grind on it, focusing on gliding his fingers inside of you at the same pace, finding that perfect little spot over and over again. You’re a little worried you’re going to rip out some of his hair at this point, but it’s too good, you can’t stop chasing it—

And then the tension swelling at the apex of your thighs finally breaks, and you can’t help but close your eyes as your hips quiver against his face. Ryland doesn’t move an inch, doesn’t withdraw his fingers from your cunt, not until you collapse against the cushions. He presses a gentle kiss to your clit and can’t seem to help himself from lapping up your slickness, even as you twitch from the overstimulation.

When he finally pulls his hand back, there’s a beat before he’s licking them clean. “You are,” you breath heavily, “such a little freak.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

He grabs your laptop and sets it on the coffee table before helping you pull your sweatpants back on. “See? I told you that we’re very productive here.”

You snort. “I got through, like, three sentences.”

“Three is more than zero. And three’s a good number. Makes some of the most stable shapes,” he says as he stands, walking to the kitchen to get you a glass of water. You take it gratefully. “And can you blame me? I only get you here for two nights.”

“…Three. I brought my work uniform so I could just go straight to the diner Monday morning.”

Ryland breaks out into a smile. “Okay, I know I just said that three is a good number, but it’s also barely more than two, so I still feel justified. And you can’t argue with me because I am objectively better at math than you.”

“Hey.” (He’s right, and you also find that you agree with his assessment of the numbers anyway.)

--

You do not, as it turns out, go to work on Monday, or the day after that, because the city is blanketed in deep snow, so much that everything is essentially brought to a halt while they attempt to clear the streets.

Ryland’s school is closed, too, and so is your campus; your advisor even emails you to say that you can take extra time on your conclusion, which is surprising because, honestly, she’s just kind of mean. This news goes about how you would expect with Ryland, particularly because you have to start wearing his clothes after day three.

The days pass in domestic bliss. It makes you think more intensely about the doubts you were having surrounding the job market. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, you muse, watching him in the kitchen as he tries to make eggs (and fails, which is genuinely impressive, because scrambled eggs are really not that difficult to cook), if you took that adjunct job at City. The hours would suck, and the pay would be terrible, but—then you would have this. And that might be enough.

You’re pretty sure something is starting to burn when you pull out your phone to check your email. It’s probably your advisor, or maybe a reply from your external reviewer, or—

“Ryland.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, it’s burning, but I have everything under control here.”

“No, it’s—” You decide to just get up and show him your phone. Your hand is shaking. “I got an interview. I’m. I got an interview,” you repeat.

He fumbles for his glasses, which are laying on the counter, and jams them on his face so he can read, ‘We are pleased to inform you that,’  and he doesn’t get much further than that before he’s hugging you and spinning you around in his kitchen while the eggs burn. “I told you,” he laughs into your shoulder, “I told you it would work out. I am so—I’m so proud of you. Which one is it for?”

You pull away to read the email again. “It’s a postdoc, on the.” You bite your lip. “The one on the east coast.”

He’s still smiling, but—there’s a little less light in his eyes. “That’s. That’s awesome. When is it?”

“Next week.” You are suddenly feeling slightly less excited. “I know we haven’t. Well. There hasn’t been a discussion on what would happen, what we would do if—”

“Hey.” He grabs your shoulders, then, and looks at you intently. “We can. We’ll figure it out. Let’s just be excited right now. Okay?”

“Okay.” You nod. There’s a slight burning in your eyes, and you can’t tell if it’s because you’re about to cry or if it’s from the smoke curling out of the frying pan. “The eggs are on fire.”

“Oh—crap—”

--

The streets are finally cleared, and you go back to your shitty apartment, and you are trying to pretend that everything is still normal.

Your advisor is surprised when you tell her about the interview, which a few years ago might have stung, but now you’ve just accepted that she’s a little bit of a bitch. She tells you that she’ll do a mock interview with you over the weekend and emails you a list of common interview questions to prep.

You finish your conclusion. Ryland’s suggestions were helpful.

It should feel like there’s a weight off of your shoulders, because your dissertation is finished—actually finished—and you have an interview, and your landlord sent you an email late last night saying someone would be coming by next week to fix the hole in your ceiling. It is, of course, scheduled exactly during your interview.

But.

The weight is still there. It is worse now, actually, because you don’t know how to have this conversation with him, because you’ve only really been dating for four months, and you are realizing that a tiny part of you had assumed that he would just move with you, or something, and now the thought seems absolutely ridiculous. Would you move across the country for someone you’ve only been with for a handful of months? Are you the sort of person worth doing that for?

Okay, that’s enough of that, because you are at work, and you are currently staring at the coffee dripping into the pot like it’s a countdown to your death sentence. The door opens. You don’t even need to look. The bell chimes next to you.

“Morning,” you say as you slide his breakfast in front of him. The coffee’s next, and you pour his sugar in for him and mix it in with a spoon, and it is still an absolutely disgusting amount of sweetener to have in one’s drink.

“Hey.” Ryland takes the coffee with a smile, but it’s still not quite reaching his eyes, and you think you might be dying on the inside. “Everything okay?”

You sigh and slide into the booth across from him. Whatever. They’re probably not going to fire you for it. And if they do, then, oh no! You’ll be slightly more broke than you already are. “My landlord emailed me last night. They’re fixing the hole.”

“Nice. Apollo 14. Told you it would happen.”

“Yeah. It’s during my interview.”

He snorts and sets the mug down. “Of course.”

“I’ll probably just have to go into the department and do it. The bus will be annoying, but I still haven’t fixed my car, for obvious reasons.”

“Just do it at my apartment.” He doesn’t look up from his plate as he says it, casually scooping his eggs onto the toast. (Yes, they are still the same as they are every morning.)

You blink at him. “Are—are you sure?”

“Yeah,” he says around the food in his mouth, “of course. I mean, I am very pro public transportation, but the buses are terrible.”

This is very true. “Alright. As long as it’s okay.”

“Why wouldn’t it be? I’ll be at school, anyway.”

You fidget a little. “It’s just. We still haven’t really talked about. You know. The thing.”

“The thing.”

He really can’t throw you a bone here, can he? “The whole, ‘possibly getting a job across the country thing’?”

“Oh. That thing.” Part of you wants to scream, ‘what other thing would there be,’ but you do not, because in spite of what you just thought to yourself earlier, you would actually like to keep your job. “It’s just—I need some time. To think. About the thing.”

“I see.”

You should not be mad about this, because it is a perfectly reasonable thing to ask for, to have time to think about such a major decision like this, because he has a job and a life that you only walked into four months ago. It’s just—well, you thought that he would have seen this coming, that you’ve been pretty clear this entire time while you were applying to jobs, and maybe if the two of you were younger it would be less clearcut, but you’re not. You are almost thirty, and you’re not really sure you want to do long-distance, and you really, really like him.

He sets his fork down, gently, as if it were about to explode. “Is that…okay?”

“It’s fine, Ryland. Why wouldn’t it be?” You throw his line from earlier in the conversation back at him. Okay, you can admit, you are being a little petty and possibly immature, but you are getting mad about this. Dating sucks. This sucks. The door opens, then—thank you, universe, for that timing—and you get up from the booth. “I have to go. I’ll text you later, okay?”

You think he says your name, but you walk away too fast to be sure.

You still give him a mini Reese’s cup on his way out, because you’re not that cruel, and he’s left you a drawing on his napkin: it’s two little atoms, copper and titanium, holding up signs that have their elements on them and spelling ‘CuTi.’ There’s a small ‘e’ added at the end, and you wonder how long he spent debating whether or not to put it there and fix the spelling or leave it off to keep the pun intact.

--

You are staring at your laptop in shock, sitting at Ryland’s desk, because you are fairly certain that you just killed it.

Apparently, it’s really working out for you that your advisor is one of the most wicked and evil people you have ever met, because the mock interview with her had been so brutal that the real thing had felt like chatting with a friend over a coffee. The interviewers had said you’d be hearing from them very soon, because you were one of the last candidates they were meeting with, and they had all been wearing wide smiles when you thanked them and logged off.

You look at your reflection in the screen for a little while before slowly closing it. The apartment is quiet, because Ryland’s at work. You haven’t seen him in a few days. You’ve just been so busy, coordinating with your committee to schedule your defense—it was looking increasingly like it wouldn’t happen until next month—and prepping for the interview, and normally you would have just spent the night last night, but you had wanted to wait at your apartment to actually see if the maintenance guy would show up. He did, thankfully, and then you had needed to practically sprint to Ryland’s place and use the spare key to let yourself in.

And. You are trying to give him the time that he asked for. To think about the thing. Even though you are starting to get increasingly frustrated that he needs it in the first place, which just makes you annoyed with yourself that you aren’t being more understanding about this.

Whatever. It’s time to be happy and excited. No more of this mopey bullshit. You send a quick email to your advisor letting her know that it went well. She will either simply react with a thumbs up or reply with nothing other than ‘ok.’ Then you open up your text thread with Ryland, even though he is most definitely in the middle of teaching.

so

not to brag or anything

but i’m pretty sure i just fucking killed that

*freaking

sorry, you’re on school grounds right now

It is immediately marked as read. You send another text before he has the chance to reply.

dude

i thought you had a strict no phones policy in your classroom

…That’s for the students. I get special privileges

And that’s awesome!! I knew that you would.

:)

Thank you for correcting yourself

Even though there is still a curse word on my screen right now.

We should celebrate!

you and your positive reinforcement lol

not everything needs a party

This is not true. Parties are always necessary.

There’s science about it. Just trust me on this

Friday? At Bob’s?

careful

i have been getting much better at pool

i even beat you that one time

Yeah, because I scratched on the eight ball.

ok, and?

a win is a win

don’t take this from me

Fiiiiine.

7?

it’s a date

:)

:)

--

Well, you don’t win at pool, again, but it’s fine, because both of you are pretending that there isn’t a giant, terrifying conversation looming over you, and he’s smiling and doing stupid dance moves with the pool cue like it’s a cane, just to make you laugh.

You buy him his victory drink, and he protests just like he does every time. You explain, again, that it’s basically like he’s buying the drink himself anyway, because he still leaves you a tip at the diner, which is very weird, by the way. He says it’s just easier, because he’s memorized how much his breakfast costs with the tip included, and this way he doesn’t have to do the math every morning. You point out that this shouldn’t be a problem, because he’s a nerd who likes doing math. He throws a balled-up straw wrapper at you and misses.

“So. The date’s final, then?”

“Yup.” You watch as Ryland starts peeling off the label of his beer across from you in your booth. They should put a plaque with your names on it at this point. “It took the stars aligning to figure out a time when my entire committee was available, but it’s officially scheduled now.”

He hums. “What date?” You tell him, and he whips out his phone to plunk it in his calendar. “Oh, sweet, it’s on a Friday.”

“Yeah. I was a little pissed at first—don’t even—because it had to be so far out, but I’m pretty happy with that.”

It’s quiet, then, outside of the shitty song playing—the only singles in your wallet are coke singles, unfortunately, so no TouchTunes for you tonight—until he reaches forward to start messing with your fingers instead of his bottle. “Heard anything about the postdoc yet?”

You shake your head. “Not yet. They said by Monday, though, so.”

“Gotcha.” His hand finally settles around yours. “I am still thinking about it,” he says quietly. “I’m always thinking about it. I promise.”

You say nothing, instead squeezing his hand and giving him a small smile. It’s. You’re still a little frustrated, if you’re being honest with yourself. You had spent such a long time letting yourself rest in the comfort of being in the middle of things without seeing them through, but recently that has changed, and you’re finding it much harder not to push and finish this yourself. But he has to be the one to do this. So you’ll wait, even though it’s kind of killing you, because you haven’t quite gotten the patience thing down yet.

--

You get the second-round interview. You have to go into the diner on your day off to ask Gertrude to cover your shifts, and then you show her where you keep the candy.

Two weeks later, you fly out to the east coast. The campus is beautiful, and all of your potential colleagues are great, and your job talk goes swimmingly. The morning you fly back, you have two pieces of wheat toast, scrambled eggs, and some bacon for breakfast.

--

Your dissertation defense starts in five minutes, and you think you might be about to throw up.

This is fine, you tell yourself. You know the thing inside-and-out by this point. You had spent all of last night rereading it, and then Ryland had asked you mock questions, and he hadn’t pulled any punches, but he also gave you a kiss after every answer. He still hasn’t told you whether he’s reached a decision or not. You think he might be waiting until after you find out if you’ve gotten the job, and you are trying to ignore the rotten taste that the thought puts in your mouth.

You look at his ‘Good luck!!!’ text for the fourteenth time. Obviously, the defense was scheduled during normal work hours, which meant that he was stuck teaching, but he reassured you that he had something ‘very special’ planned. No amount of goading and pleading had gotten him to fess up about what this was.

The elevator dings in the hallway as you flip through your notes again. Probably some other grad student in your department coming in at the last second, although you’re pretty sure everyone you’re friends with is already here, along with the rest of your committee. Whatever. You are too busy trying not to hurl all over the table to wonder about it.

There are two minutes until the end of your graduate career begins, and then Ryland is walking into the room, squeezing past the people sitting against the wall and muttering apologies while he does so, and screw the throwing up, you think you are about to burst into tears. It is unclear whether this would be better or worse than spewing your lunch everywhere. He’s still wearing his bike helmet, even when he sits down and finally looks at you, when he smiles and gives you a thumbs up.

You mime taking the helmet off, even though you look absolutely ridiculous doing so in front of your entire department. He mouths oh, right, and unclips the strap under his chin before setting it on the floor.

The public portion of your defense finally begins, and you give a small presentation, detailing how you came to the idea, your general argument, the specific theories and scholarship that you drew on, your plans for turning it into your first book. You finish with your acknowledgments: thanking your fellow grad students, your committee, and, finally, Ryland, although you don’t call him out by name, simply addressing him as your partner who ‘made finishing it that much sweeter.’

It is incredibly cheesy, and you’re pretty sure that he’s starting to cry.

Then your advisor directs the audience to leave, and the real defense begins.

It takes an hour. It is grueling, and exhausting, and kind of the worst, but then it’s over, and you’re stepping out into the hallway so your committee can deliberate.

You think the other grad students are congratulating you, or something, but to be honest, you kind of can’t hear them, because you are laser-focused on walking up to Ryland.

“You came.”

“Of course, I did.” He pulls a pack of Skittles out of his pocket and hands it to you. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

You don’t eat the Skittles, because you’re fairly certain the sugar might actually be the thing that upsets your stomach enough to make you barf, but you slide it into your pocket for safe keeping. Then he just holds you, for a while, since you don’t think there are any words left in your brain, until the door opens and your advisor is smiling, possibly for the first time in her life.

“The committee is ready for you, doctor,” she says, and then everyone’s cheering, and it feels just like a movie, to be completely honest, particularly when you turn around and kiss him in front of your entire department. It should be embarrassing. It is so, so not.

--

You get the email while you’re waiting in your apartment for Ryland to take you to the ‘very special’ thing he has planned. He had told you to wear something ‘nice, but not too nice.’ Super helpful, thank you, Ryland.

You make it as far as ‘The department loved getting the opportunity to learn more about you and your research, however,’ before you look up at your ceiling, where the hole used to be but where there is now a tile that does not match the others, trying to blink away tears.

Okay. Alright. This is fine. Your first thought is that you should text Ryland, even though he is presumably on his way over, because this feels like the kind of thing you should tell him about immediately.

And then you still. No, don’t do that, that’s a really bad idea, you tell yourself, because you are suddenly considering not saying anything to him, because he never told you what he’s been thinking about all of this, and you would really like to know, even though it is no longer a reality.

You stare at the mismatched ceiling tile, waging war with yourself, until he’s knocking at your door, and you’re carefully dabbing at your eyes so it doesn’t smudge your makeup.

--

“Is this—really necessary,” you say, as you stumble for the fifth time in the past three minutes. His hands are over your eyes as he guides you along. He also made you close them just in case you tried peaking. You are being very good about not trying to do so anyway.

“Yes. We’re almost there.”

You huff but keep walking. “I feel like you can just tell me, then, if we’re almost there.”

“Nope.”

“Please?”

“Still no.”

The two of you are walking for a few more minutes. You only trip twice.

Then, finally, his hands move from your face. “Okay, you can open now.”

You blink a few times. It’s—“This is. The diner. My place of employment.” You turn toward him. “Okay, this might sound incredibly bitchy, but are we seriously—”

“Just—open the door.”

You give him a confused look before following his instruction, and you’re about to tell him that, look, it’s cute and all that you’re having dinner where you first met, but like, it is the place that you work at, and it’s a diner, in case he’s forgotten, which is not really the best way to celebrate finally becoming a doctor, but then you step inside. And all of your fellow grad students are there, and some of your professors are there, even your advisor is there, wearing her second-ever smile, and Gertrude is making milkshakes.

“This—what?” You whip around to face him. “How. What? The diner is open twenty-four hours. They don’t do special events.”

He simply grins sheepishly and rubs the back of head. “Yeah, I know. But I kind of give them, like, half of their yearly income, so it didn’t take that much convincing. I did have to promise we’d clean up after, though. Sorry.”

You kiss him in front of your department for the second time that day. “That’s—I don’t even care, I think I could clean this place in my sleep at this point. Thank you.”

Ryland just smiles softly and wipes a tear from the corner of your eye. “Go. There’s lots of people waiting to congratulate you.” Then he adds, “Doctor,” and you kiss him again.

--

When all is said and done, it is probably the most fun that you have had inside this establishment, minus all of the time you have spent with Ryland at the booth next to the window.

It’s almost one in the morning by the time everyone filters out, and you stay behind with him to run the milkshake glasses through the dishwasher. You’re wiping down the counter, turning over how to break the news to him that you didn’t get the job, when he comes up behind you.

“Hey.”

You turn around to face him. “Hi.”

The two of you look at each other for a few moments. “I’ve finished—”

“There’s something I—”

He starts to motion for you to go first, but then he stops. “No, actually, sorry, I need to—I’ve finished thinking about it. The thing.”

“Ryland.”

“No, no, I really have to say this, so just—I’ll go with you.” He blinks, as if he is surprised at how this is going, even though he’s the one driving the bus at this point. “Wait. There was more lead up. I had a whole thing. I’m just. Okay. I have been thinking about this every single day, to the point where my students can tell, and at first I thought it was about them. That I didn’t want to leave them. But. There are students everywhere. But—you’re not everywhere. This is not making any sense.”

“Ryland,” you try again, but he’s not having any of it.

“Please let me finish. I realized that I have been stuck, so stuck. I mean, I order the same thing for breakfast every day. You know this. I know this. And. I thought it was fine. It was fine. And then it wasn’t, and I’m not—gosh, this is not going the way I wanted it to.”

“Ryland,” you say for the third time, and three is still the magic number, apparently, because then he stops, simply looking at you, his blue eyes shining behind his glasses. “I didn’t get it. The job. I didn’t get the postdoc.”

“Oh.”

“Oh?”

“Well, that’s.” He pauses for a moment. “This is going to sound totally messed up, but that’s making this a lot less romantic than I thought this whole thing would be.”

You just look at him for a moment, then, incredulously, until you start laughing, and you can’t stop, and then he’s wheezing right along with you. “You can—you can try the whole speech again,” you say between gasps, “if you want to.”

“That’s really not necessary, it’s fine.” He wraps you up in a hug and presses a kiss into your temple. “I’m sorry. About the postdoc.”

“It’s fine.” You pull back and look at him, really look at him, searching his face and mindlessly pushing up his glasses for him. “You mean that? You’re actually sorry? Not just, you know, relieved that it’s not an actual thing.”

“Actually sorry,” he affirms, moving his hand to smooth your hair back. “I started. I was looking at apartments. Researching how to transfer my teaching license.”

That’s. It’s very sweet, is all you can think, but you don’t say it, instead bringing your hand to rest on his cheek, and then he kisses you, again, but it’s not the chaste kind, the kind that they’ve been all day; it is desperate, like he’s trying to give you the speech he’s been planning in this one moment.

When his hands move underneath his shirt, you pull back. “I’m sorry, it’s just—I don’t really know if I want to have sex in the place where I work.”

He rests his head on your shoulder and nods. “Fra Mauro has been filled in?”

“Yeah,” you giggle. “It has. The new tile is, like, several shades lighter than the rest of my ceiling, but there is no longer a hole. And it hasn’t rained recently, so. There should be no interruptions.”

“That’s. Really good. Great, even.”

The two of you don’t leave, not yet, because he’s fiddling with his phone, then, and playing a song through the speaker he brought, the Tears for Fears song that you always play on the TouchTunes at Bob’s when the machine will accept your dollars, and he dances with you in the aisle of the diner and sings along, even though he’s really not that great at singing.

--

epilogue pt. 2

You don’t even have to worry about the ceiling tile, because the two of you actually make it to your bedroom this time.

“I meant it,” he gasps, rolling his hips into you, his fingers intertwined with yours beside your head. “I think—I’d follow you anywhere.”

you, ryland, and rocky were all sat in the mental health node, or as ryland liked to call it, the "don't go crazy room," chatting about your lives back home.

rocky had just got done talking about his mate who he allegedly had been with for 186.3 Earth years. which of course caused ryland to make a stupid joke about that being the honeymoon phase.

after ryland explained the joke to him, rocky finally changed the subject.

"y/n have mate on human world? question." he asked.

you laughed awkwardly in return. "no.. not really, rock."

he quickly turned his torso in rylands direction as he spoke again, "grace have mate? question."

"uhh... I mean I did... but.. she thought I had my head in the clouds, and that I didn't really want to live in the real world.." he paused for a moment, "she was right.. and now she's with mark."

"rocky hate mark."

that statement stifled both a laugh out of you and ryland.

"me too, bud, me too." he responded.

there was a long pause for a moment before rocky spoke again.

"why don't you two mate? question."

"uh..."

your face immediately went pink. you looked to ryland before looking away. sure he was.. handsome.. smart.. funny.. and almost exactly your type, but you were coworkers. friends. you couldn't..

before you could spiral into any more deep thoughts about your friend, rocky spoke again "is yes or no? question."

"it's-" ryland began, but you quickly interrupted, standing from the metal platform.

"i'm gonna go... do something." you said, simply wanting an escape from the conversation.

as you left, you could hear rocky speak to grace again.

"grace is stupid. statement."

you laughed to yourself quietly before making your way across the ship into a more private area. you sat on the metal floor, head back against a wall.

you began to ponder. what rocky said.. wasn't exactly a terrible suggestion.

you and ryland were destined for death after figuring out why a random planet wasn't dying... so what was stopping you two from.. dating?

you thought about it for a while, but that only led your brain to think of more and more suggestive things. the way ryland looked when he was focused on something. the furrow of his eyebrow, the way he bit his lip... the movement of his biceps when he picked up something rather heavy... the way his body looked.

you eventually grew... aroused. which then let you into a spiral.. you hadn't been touched in forever.. kissed in forever.. fucked in forev-

"are you okay?" rylands voice cut through your train of thought.

"yeah.. just.. needed a break from... you know who." you muttered, swallowing.

ryland moved to sit beside you. "i know what you mean," he said, moving to press his hand to your back, "don't worry about him."

"mhm.." you mumbled.

⪻────★────⪼

later that "evening," rocky had settled down into his ammonia filled enclosure, sleeping while you and ryland watched.

"you should get some sleep, you know?" ryland said, breaking the silence.

"i'm not tired," you replied.

"yes you are. you've been working nonstop for at least three days now"

"eh" you shrugged, just as stubborn as you were on Earth.

he scoffed, "you're impossible, y/n. you've been working you ass off for god knows how long and you won't even admit to exhaustion? what are you made of?"

"oh, just.. atoms.. molecules.. cells... you know, the usual." you replied.

that made him laugh. "listen, smartass.. I'm just looking out for you."

"I'll survive" you shrugged again.

"y/n, come on. please, just get some rest." he said, getting up from the stool he was sitting on.

"I'm fine, ry, I promise." you said, looking up into his eyes with a smile as he approached you.

"I'm not asking you. you need to get some rest. you're going to burn yourself out."

you remained seated, holding his gaze with a grin on your face. oh how you loved testing his patience.

"I will drag your ass to bed."

you scoffed softly, "you wouldn't dare."

and you were proved wrong in only five seconds. he swiftly picked you up bridal style and began crossing the ship.

"hey-! put me down!!!" you exclaimed.

"I warned you, did I not?" he teased.

eventually, you made it to the sleeping quarters where he gently set you on your designated oval bed. you instantly felt drowsy as the memory foam hit your body.

"mm finally cooperative, huh?"

"whatever." you rolled your eyes and got under the thin sheets. "what are you gonna do? go to sleep? right?" you asked.

"maybe."

you glared. "ry."

"I'm not even tired." he fought.

"that's exactly what I said to you, but look where I am now."

"it's different," he protested, stubborn. "you're exhausted, you're barely holding yourself upright. i'm perfectly fine." he shifted against the wall, arms crossing.

"cmon ry, it's only fair." you said, giving him your best subtle puppy dog eyes.

he couldn't say no to your sweet face. he sighed in defeat. "fine."

"thanks so much." you hummed, teasing.

⪻────★────⪼

you only slept a few hours when you were abruptly woken up by the sound of your name being spoken.

"mmp.. y/n.." shuffling.. "just like- just like that-"

your body froze with shock. your body shot up, looking below you, where rylands bed was. and there he was.. shifting into his sheets, asleep.

your "coworker," and "closest friend" was having a wet dream about you.

you sat there. speechless. so he did like you.

you slumped back into your bed, closing your eyes in attempt to fall back asleep... but ryland just wouldn't stay quiet.

"y/n please.. I wanna be good for you.. I wanna..." he whimpered.

your eyes shot back open and your heart rate increased. you covered your face with your hands. thoughts began to consume you... he sounded so good. so needy and pathetic.

you couldn't help yourself.

your hand slid under the thin sheets, under your sweats and then your cotton panties.. right into your soaked mess of arousal.

"please please please y/n.. let me touch you.." he muttered softly, followed by what sounded like humping into his sheets.

two of your fingers began circling your already swollen clit. which only led you to buck your hips into your palm. you slid your fingers through your slick folds, circling them at your entrance.

"fuck.. y/n.."

that broke you.. you plunged your fingers into your wet pussy. hearing the squelching sound under the sheets drove you even more crazy. your hips were bucking relentlessly into your own palm, followed by soft whimpers leaving your lips.

your free hand moved under your shirt, groping at your breasts.

"ah- y/n I'm so close-" he whimpered.

all you could do was whimper in return, no matter how badly you wanted to climb into his bed and have your way with him.

you picked up the pace, hitting that g-spot, legs shaking already. this was the first sexual experience you'd had in over 11 years so.. what was there to expect. just as you were about to cum, ryland pushed you over the edge.

he let out a loud moan, followed by his heavy breathing. you came immediately after that.

you went to bed immediately after, still exhausted, but now warn out from what you had just done.

⪻────★────⪼

the next "morning," ryland and rocky were you hours before you. chatting and what not, until rocky decided it was upon him to wake you up. he climbed to your sleeping quarter and sat on your chest.

"y/n, wake up." he said.

you groaned in return. "rocky, go away.." you said in a frustrated tone.

ryland laughed at the sight, but then got up. he picked rocky up, placing him on the floor. "let her sleep, rock."

and they both did. you slept for another five hours.

by the time you had woken up from your deep deep slumber, rocky was already asleep. again. apparently you slept that long.

you shifted awake, sitting up.

"well good morning, sunshine." ryland teased.

you groaned in response.

"okay, okay, relax. I'll let you wake up."

he gave you a few moments to wake up. and eventually, you were wide awake. ryland was working on some type of 3d device that looked to be made by rocky.

you decided not to question it and you sat in the chair beside him, reading some random biology book you found in the laboratory.

"whatcha reading?" ryland asked

"some random bio book." you shrugged. you hadn't made eye contact with him since the previous day.

this of course, peaked his interest. "can I see?" he asked

you finally made eye contact with him as you nodded, handing the book over.

he scanned it, flipping through pages until something caught his eye. "oh.. this is quite interesting.." he hummed, his eyebrow furrowing as he read. "this book is incredibly outdated, but there's a segment on how the world would decline if the sun was dying.. it's almost like the author predicted what would happen."

he studied to pages for a long long 15 minutes. ranting to you about random things in the book that fascinated him. you couldn't help but stare at him. the way he got so excited over the things he was talking about. the way he got animated when trying to explain things.

suddenly his face faltered. "I'm sorry am I.. boring you?" he asked, chewing on his bottom lip.

"what? no, of course not" you replied.

"sorry I just find this incredibly fascinating.. can I continue?" he asked.

"of course. tell me all about it, ry" you said. and you were completely serious. if it was interesting to him.. of course you would find your way to wrap your head around it.

he rambled for about 23 minutes, in which you were staring at him with absolute adoration. eventually, the conversation came to its natural conclusion. and you both sat there, looking at each other.

the book laid there forgotten in his lap.

the two of you were sitting closer than you had earlier realized. and that just dawned on you.

"y/n.?" he began.

"yes?"

he opened his mouth, about to continue, but he stopped himself. "uh.. nevermind.."

"oh come on, what is it, ry?"

"i don't... know if it's the smartest thing to say.. regarding our situation."

your pulse increased.. what could he possibly mean?

"just spit it out.."

he hesitated for a moment. then opened his mouth again. "i.. i cant."

you frowned. you placed your hand on his forearm. rubbing it with your thumb.

"ry.. im not gonna ju-" but before you could finish your sentence, his lips were on yours.

you of course, melted into the kiss despite how shocked you were that this was actually happening. your face grew a dusty pink color as his hands met the soft skin of your cheeks.

you both pulled back for air, making direct eye contact, both hearts pounding.

but it was only seconds before he pulled you back in, kissing you passionately than the first time. without much thought,you stood up from the stool you were sat on, and you threw the book from his lap onto the floor, making room for yourself.

you sat yourself on his lap to where his hands instantly found your hips. he pulled back, but only to trail his lips down the collum of your throat.

"you're so fucking beautiful.." he whispered between kisses. "so pretty.. I can't stop thinking about you no matter what I do." he admitted before sucking softly on the skin surrounding your collarbone.

"I've dreamt about you.. every night." he whispered. he left a hickey that bruised almost instantly. you tilted your head up more.

"i... know. last night you..." you hesitated.

"what? what did I do?" he asked, dragging his tounge back up your throat. leaving wet kisses under your jaw line.

your breath stuttered. "y..you were whining my name in your sleep."

he paused. "i was..?"

you nodded.

he pulled back. "how did that.. make you feel.."

you didn't answer for a moment, staring into his eyes, your hands playing in his hair. "uhm... aroused.."

he chuckled softly. "yeah?"

you nodded.

"y/n?"

"yeah?"

"let me show you.. how badly I want to worship you."

the intensity in his voice sent a shiver down your spine. you nodded. "okay.."

with your consent, he kissed you again, much sloppier than the previous times. he squeezed your hips, now guiding you to grind against him... which made it a 10x easier to feel how hard he had grown in the past few minutes.

you gasped softly at the feeling. your own arousal had been growing as well.

his hands moved to the hem of your shirt. he pulled back and slid it up no problem before his lips landed back on yours. you didn't have a bra on.. because why would you need a bra on an 11+ year mission, so his hands slid up to your chest, groping your tit gently. you moaned softly into his mouth.

he pulled back again, tilting his head to kiss your neck yet again. you began to pull up his shirt as well, pulling it over his head as he let you. you instantly moved your hands to his abdomen, feeling the muscle there and dragging your nails down his chest.

with your hips still grinding into his, you couldn't help but whimper. you were incredibly touch starved after all. "ry.. please.." you said, panting softly.

"it's okay sweetheart.. im gonna take care of you." he said, sliding his arm around your waist. "stand up for a second" he said.

you obliged, standing up. he shifted his hips up so he could slid his pants down his thighs. you watched. once he had them slid down enough, he brought his hands to the waist band of your sweats, looking up into your eyes for approval before pushing them down to the floor.

once they were off, he pulled you back onto his lap. instinctively, your hips bucked into his. his bulge was much more prominent now that he only had one layer on. his hips shifted up to meet yours, causing both of you to let out soft noises.

"please.. let me fuck the stress and worry out of you." he said, his hand now in your jaw. "i'll do anything you tell me. whatever you want, baby.. just let me worship you."

you nodded, chest rising and falling quickly. "yes.. fuck yes." you said.

with that, he pushed his boxers down as far as he could. his dick springing free. god he was.. thick. you shivered.

you got off of him reluctantly, but just to slide your panties fully off before sitting right back on him. hovering just above his throbbing length. he held your hips in his hands, looking up at you with pure love and lust.

"tell me if we need to stop, okay?" he said, because of course he would.

you nodded in return and slowly sank down on him.

he let out a groan, which turned you on even more. once he was fully inside, you took a moment to adjust. the stretch burned... but felt so fucking good. his hands slid to your thighs, gripping them as he held himself back from moving.

you took that at your moment to rise back up, leaving just the tip inside before slamming back down on him. he moaned.

after a while of this, you finally set a medium pace, bouncing up and down on him.

"fffuck y/n you feel so good baby.." he groaned into your shoulder.

he pulled back to look at you, only to bring his fingers to your mouth. you opened it, and he pushed his fingers in, pressing then down on your tongue.

"that's it, good.."

he pulled them out with a soft pop noise and snuck his hand between the two of you. circling your swollen clit with a quick pace.

you gasped. "ry- fuck.. oh my god-" you whined. head falling against him. you wrapped your arms around his neck, setting a quicker pace as you felt your pussy clenching around him.

"come on baby.. that's it.." he nodded, bucking into you. "squeeze my dick with that pretty pussy.." he said, his fingers moving relentlessly.

you felt your high coming. whimpers spilt from your lips without your consent.

"ry- I'm gonna cum- I'm so close-" you moaned into his ear.

he huffed at the sound. it drove him insane. "i know, me.. me too.." he nodded, groaning softly.

there was a small silence, only slaps of skin and your heavy breathing for a moment, before you let out a loud moan, nails scrapping against his back as you finally came. legs shaking.

ry didn't stop just yet. he was so close, chasing release now. and it only took a few more seconds before he came as well. and you could feel his hot release inside of you.. so much it was dripping out of you.

the two of you sat in silence for a while until he finally spoke.

"that was.. incredible." he said, kissing your temple.

you nodded. "it was.. thank you.." you said, cuddling into his chest. "we should... probably get up and clean up soon.."

but neither of you made any move to do that.

"no.. just rest here a while." he said, rubbing your back. he then reached over to the big laboratory table, where you had just so happened to leave a blanket on from this morning. he took it and wrapped it around the both of your naked bodies.

and the two of you sat there silently, drifting off to sleep.

He huffs out a small laugh at whatever expression must be on your face while you go through these mental gymnastics. “Sorry—I come here all the time, and normally they just start making  my food when they see me locking my bike up outside, and then someone slides it onto the table without saying anything.”

Oh. Okay, that makes more sense. “They’ve probably already made it, then, and just didn’t tell me.” As if on cue, the bell in the window to the kitchen rings. “I’ll bring it over and try to remember that for next time. Oh—I’ll get you a water, too.”

The man smiles easily at you, and you take a moment to look him over. He seems a little older than you are, probably around five years, maybe a little more, you think, but he’s well-kept, despite the fact that his hair is kind of sticking up all over the place like he hadn’t bothered to brush it after rolling out of bed. Wire-frame glasses that are barely hanging onto the tip of his nose, striking blue eyes, and—okay. Right. You are at your job, and you need to be working, not giving this man the up-down. “I’ll take a coffee as well,” and then he squints down at your name tag, “uh…Gertrude?”

“Ah—yeah, that’s not my name, they just haven’t made my tag yet, but apparently I have to wear one for customer service, or whatever. Even though it’s not right.” You tell him your real name and he nods, probably because it fits a little better than Gertrude does. “I’ll be right back.”

You run over to the window and grab the plate. Pretty standard diner breakfast fare: two pieces of wheat toast, scrambled eggs, some bacon. You return with the food and a glass of water before scurrying off to grab the coffee pot and a mug. “Thank you,” he says, and it should be a little gross because his mouth is already full of food, but you find that it is actually kind of cute.

Stop that, you tell yourself. Don’t crush on this random guy at your workplace. That never ends well. And besides, you don’t have time for dating. Your current chapter was due two weeks ago, and your advisor has started sending you passive-aggressive emails checking on your progress. Sometimes she doesn’t even put anything in the body of the email, just a subject line that says ‘how many pages have you written this week’ in all lowercase. “No problem. Let me know if you need anything else, um…”

“Oh, right. Ryland.” He lifts up the lanyard around his neck, which has a little ID badge titled ‘GROVER CLEVELAND MIDDLE,’ underneath which is a picture of him and his full name, ‘Dr. Ryland Grace.’

There is a lot to comment on here. You think you live pretty close to that school, first of all, but that’s probably the least interesting thing, because you live close to the diner, too, and so he must stop here for breakfast on his way to work. You settle on the picture, because it is laughably bad: he is only sort of smiling, but mostly he looks surprised, like the flash caught him off guard.

Ryland notices you looking at that and grins sheepishly. “Not the best picture, I know. You think I would be used to the flash since I have to get my picture taken every year. But, no. And of course this is the one going in the yearbook, too.”

“That’s…unfortunate. And also amazing.” Your gaze drops to his full name. “What’s your doctorate in?”

“Molecular biology. So, as you might be able to guess, I teach science.”

“Little overqualified for middle school science, huh?”

He smiles, but it’s a little strained. Oops. You don’t know what you said that is causing this reaction, but either way, it’s not good, because you would really like him to leave a nice tip so you can buy groceries later. “You would be surprised. Teaching middle school is not for the faint of heart.” Wonderful. He’s not totally pissed at you. You might actually be able to eat dinner tonight.

You simply nod and look at him for a little longer, and then realize the coffee pot is still in your hands and is starting to tip dangerously toward the floor. “Enjoy your breakfast! And let me know if you need anything. Just call my name—or Gertrude, honestly, either works, because I’ve already started to respond to it.”

“Actually—” His voice stops you from turning around completely. The coffee sloshes in the pot, and you hold it with your other hand to stop it from spilling on your legs (again), and this is a bad idea because the glass is incredibly hot. You keep it there out of spite and embarrassment. His eyes dip down toward your hand, but he does not comment on it. “Could I get some sugar? For the—coffee. Not like that. Just normal sugar.”

Shoot. You forgot to ask him about that. “Of course. Any cream?”

“Nope, just some sugar. Coffee. Coffee sugar.”

Your eyes crinkle a little at the edges. This is very dangerous. He’s cute, and he has a job, and he is most definitely a nerd who is slightly awkward but still polite. “You’re fine. I’ve been working since four AM, and the late drunk crowd was—well, about what you expect. I got comments much worse than asking for some sugar.”

Ryland winces at that but doesn’t say anything else, so you leave to return the coffee pot and grab him one of the sugar containers from the counter. You watch as he immediately grabs it after you place it on the table and dumps an absolutely obscene amount of sugar into his mug. Like, it is so much. Enough that you wonder if the texture of the drink is now equivalent to wet sand. “I have a bit of a sweet tooth,” he offers, a little embarrassed.

“I might have figured that out, yeah.”

He takes a sip of the coffee and sighs contentedly, eyes fluttering shut. Oh, no. This is bad.

You clear your throat. “Let me know if there’s anything else. I’ll be around,” you gesture vaguely toward the rest of the diner, “for the next four hours or so. Not that you’ll be here that long. You know. Job. Not that I’d kick you out or anything. Okay. I’m going to go now.”

His lips pull into a smile as he raises the mug to take another drink. You turn on your heel to check in on your other table and try not to think about how much of a disaster that interaction was.

The diner starts to fill up a little more as the morning breakfast crowd comes in, mostly old couples and blue-collar workers. You do your best to turn up the charm, adjusting your lines based on the customer, hoping to maximize your tips. Your fridge has been depressingly empty for a few days. Maybe they’d let you take something home from the kitchen.

You stop by his table once to ask if he’s still doing good, and then again to refill his water and coffee. Finally, he signals for the check and already has his card out when you return with the receipt.

After you ring him up, you’re about to walk back over to give him his card and the final receipt when you see the bowl of Tootsie Rolls by the register. You grab one and place it on the table in front of him along with a pen. “Have a good day,” you say, and then after a few moments, you tack on, “and have fun with the middle school science. And that sort of stuff.” What is wrong with you?

If Ryland is wondering the same thing, he doesn’t show it, simply taking the candy and sliding it into his pocket before picking up the pen. “Thanks. We’re doing the Krebs cycle, which will be very fun for me, and possibly less fun for them.”

“That sounds…vaguely familiar? I haven’t taken a science class in—a long time. Probably over a decade.” You try to think back, but not a lot comes to you. “Isn’t that, like, really hard? Especially for middle schoolers?”

He grins and looks up at you, reflexively lowering his glasses. He must be far-sighted, you think idly. “I’m a bit of an overachiever.”

This should not affect you in the way that it does, but suddenly you are wondering if that extends to every area in his life. Like physical ones. Okay, that’s enough of that. “Well—good luck with all of that.”

When you return a little later to bus his table, you grab the receipt and look it over. Generous tip! Score! He didn’t think you were a total weirdo! You bring it a little closer to your face and realize that he’s written something on the back, so you turn it over. There’s a little diagram of the Krebs cycle, complete with little pictures and labels.

You are so screwed.

--

He’s back, two days later, when you’re working again. (Technically, he could have come in on the days you weren’t scheduled, but you don’t want to assume.)

“Welcome in,” you call behind you when the door chimes. “Be with you in just a moment.” This morning had been a little slower—no drunk crowd, just a few truck drivers stopping in for food before getting back on the road. You don’t realize that it’s him until you turn around from the coffee machine. “Oh, it’s you! Your food is probably—” The ding interrupts you. Thank you, bell.

After a few minutes, you slide the plate in front of him (two slices of wheat toast, scrambled eggs, bacon) along with a glass of water, a mug, and the sugar canister. You are very proud at how quickly you learned to carry this much stuff over the course of your first shift. “Morning, Ryland,” you smile, pouring out his coffee.

“Morning, not-Gertrude. Your name tag is right, now.” His eyes flick down. He looks about the same as he did two days ago; hair still slightly messy, the wire arms of his glasses begging to be put out of their misery, lanyard resting on top of his tie. It all creates the same fluttery feeling in your stomach that it did then, too. Whatever. Having a harmless crush makes the job more fun. “Oh, you remembered.”

Ryland is already grabbing the sugar and dumping it into his coffee. “Yeah, it’s a little hard to forget when someone pours a metric ton of sugar into their drink. I don’t know how you still have teeth.” He does the thing again, where he takes the first sip and acts like he’s seeing God. Something does a little flip in your chest. “And I have a pretty good memory. Mostly use it for dates and stuff, but it comes in handy for other things.”

He chokes a little on his coffee. That’s weird. “Er, dates? Like—dating?”

“Oh—no, no,” you laugh, “sorry, I can see how that’s confusing. I’m a grad student in history. So years and those sorts of boring things. I can’t even remember the last time I went on a date.” Hm. That was not a normal thing to say to a customer. “Uh, sorry, I don’t know why I said that.”

“It’s. You’re fine.” He takes a long sip of his water. “Grad student, huh? Masters?”

“PhD. Currently ABD, so. I’m kind of in hell.”

“Oh, gosh, I bet. I really do not miss that. How many years do you have left?”

You watch as he starts piling his eggs onto his toast before taking a giant bite. He really doesn’t do things halfway, does he? The overachiever comment from the other day pops into your mind, suddenly, as you watch him catch a stray piece of egg and pop it into his mouth. “Uh, this is supposed to be my last year.”

Ryland glances back up at you. You should probably end this conversation to go check in on the elderly couple at the counter, but you stay standing there anyway. “Supposed to?”

“I might be. Taking a little longer on my dissertation than I should be. My advisor is—she’s not very happy with me, at the moment.”

He smiles and his eyes go a little distant. You think he might be recalling some memory from his own grad student days. “Well, you know what they say. It doesn’t need to be a good dissertation, it just needs to be—”

“A finished one,” you interrupt, a little grin of your own playing on your lips. “Yeah, I think I’ve heard that line before. Once or twice.”

The two of you just stare at each other for a moment. His fingers start messing with the handle of his mug. They’re nice fingers, you think idly. Probably good at lots of things.

Like grading! That’s what you’re thinking of in that moment. You really need to go back to doing your job. “Well, I’ll leave you to your food. Holler if you need anything.”

He does a little mock salute before you walk away. Unfortunately, there are still not that many customers, which is bad both because you would really like more money and also because now you have nothing to do with yourself. You settle on watching him for a little while, promising yourself that this is not creepy. You are simply making sure he doesn’t need anything.

His water is only half empty, but you are really, really bored already, so you walk over to fill it up. “I forgot to ask earlier—how did it go with your students? The Krebs. Thing. Cycle! The Krebs cycle. And the ATP stuff.”

“Glad to see my diagram was helpful.”

“Oh, it was great. Very detailed. You must be a really good teacher.”

His ears start to turn a little pink. It is adorable. You are in so much trouble. “I don’t know about that right now. It’s—I may have overestimated the ability of pre-teens to understand cellular respiration.”

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” You have the sudden urge to lay a hand on his shoulder. The urge gets stomped down, because this man is a customer, and this is only the second time you have met him, and to top it all off someone has just walked in. “Welcome in! Take a seat wherever you’d like.” You turn your attention back to him. “Sorry, duty calls. Enjoy your mug of wet dirt.”

You hurry away before you can consider this last sentence over any further in your mind, because you are fairly certain it was one of your disastrous attempts at flirting. For some reason, you always default to playful insults, and—look, it’s been a while, what with the dissertation of it all looming over your head. The last time you’d dated was about four years ago, with someone a few years above you in your program. That did not go over well.

The next time you walk by, he asks for the check, and this time you bring it over with a Tootsie Roll and a mint. Those are immediately swiped off the table and stuffed into his jacket pocket.

There’s no diagram on the back of the receipt this time, but there is a drawing of a little cell guy. Next to it is a speech bubble. Apparently, the tiny cell is saying, “Thanks for the glucose!”

You take a picture in case you don’t remember to keep the receipt after you’ve cashed out your tips at the end of the shift.

(This does not happen. You think about the drawing for the next few hours, and before you leave, it gets gently folded and put in your bag. The receipt now lives taped up on your wall next to your desk.)

--

You are scheduled the next three days in a row. He comes in for two of them, Thursday and Friday, and each time you give him some candy with his receipt, and in return you get two more little drawings. One is a diagram of mitosis. The other is a mitochondria, with a very long pun about being the powerhouse of the cell. You wonder how long it took him to think of it, or if he just had that at the ready.

After your shift on Saturday, the day that you do not see him, you buy a variety pack of candy with some of your tip money. You tell yourself that this serves two purposes: one, so you can have a snack while you work. The second one is very obvious, and does not need to be acknowledged.

--

Ryland immediately notices the new candy selection.

“Wow, Skittles? I’m really getting the five-star treatment here.” This time, instead of putting the candy into his pocket like usual, he immediately opens the bag and chucks a few into his mouth. “Thanks. I didn’t even know you guys had these here.”

“Uh, yeah, I guess. I found them—in the back. Where things are stored.” If by ‘in the back’ you mean ‘in your backpack,’ then, yes, you are technically telling the truth. He doesn’t need to know all of that.

“How’s the dissertation coming?” He laughs when he sees the face you’re making. “Sorry. The dreaded question.”

You try to let the grimace slide off your face. “It’s—fine. There are. There are words. In a document.”

“Words are good.”

“When there’s enough of them, sure.” A sigh leaves your lips. “I really need to send in this chapter by the end of the week, but the AC in my shitty apartment isn’t working again, and if I go into the department I’ll just talk to everyone. It’s a problem. I’m probably, like, avoidant or something. I don’t know, I haven’t been to a therapist in a while.” What is it with you and oversharing with this man that you serve breakfast to almost every morning? “Sorry. Anyway, I’m thinking I might come here and try to power through the rest so I have something to give my advisor. At least I’ll have free coffee here.” Because your little Keurig is also broken. You are very, very broke. Hence the waitressing job.

Ryland simply nods along and doesn’t comment on the therapist thing. “A change of scenery might be good. Help the words come a little easier.”

“Here’s hoping.” You watch as he finishes the Skittles, shaking the bag so the last few fall into his mouth. His lips are a little stained from the candy. “Well, anyway. If you see me here in a few days out-of-uniform, feel free to pay your respects. Because I’ll be dying on the inside.”

The laugh that comes out of him is a little startled, as if he wasn’t expecting it to happen himself. You blink. The crush is not staying little, not remaining a tiny thing that you keep in your pocket and take out to pass the time at work.

It’s just been a while, you tell yourself. That’s all.

--

You pick a fantastic day to work in the diner, because it is currently pouring outside. While the rain helps cool things down—and therefore alleviates the AC issue—there’s a leaky roof tile in your shoebox apartment that still hasn’t been fixed despite your numerous maintenance requests. The thing drips incessantly, and the rhythmic noise of the water falling into the bin you’ve placed underneath it drives you absolutely insane.

Really, you need to find a different place to live, one that doesn’t fall apart every other day. But that requires money. Which you do not have. So, instead, you put the bucket down to catch the dripping, hoping that it won’t overflow in the time that you’re gone, and drive to the diner. Normally you just walk, but it is literally apocalyptic outside. Maybe, you decide, if you manage to finish your chapter, you’ll drive to the nearby strip mall and treat yourself to some window shopping. (Again: no money.)

The diner provides just the right amount of background noise to help you settle in. Well, it would, except you’ve been staring at the cursor in your document for about eight minutes straight, like you’re expecting it to do something on its own, but it simply blinks back at you.

The door chimes as it opens, and you reflexively glance up before returning to your staring contest. Then you look up again, because it’s Ryland, and he currently looks like a wet cat, both in terms of misery and being drenched. He sees you after a moment, and you offer him a little wave. (It’s one of those incredibly awkward ones, where you’re worried that the person you’re waving at might not see you, but obviously he’s going to see it, because he’s looking right at you, which just makes it all even more awkward.)

His shoes squeak against the tile flooring the entire time he walks over, until he plops down into the booth to sit across from you. He takes his helmet off and sets it on the table. Water drips from his hair, and one of the little rivulets slides down the bridge of his nose. That is—that’s an image to review later.

“Morning,” Ryland says cheerfully, in spite of the fact that he looked about ready to cry a few minutes ago. “It’s a little damp outside.”

“…Yeah. I think you might have brought the entire Bay in with you.”

Gertrude (whose name tag you borrowed for your first shift) comes by and slides Ryland’s breakfast and a cup of coffee in front of him without a word. Hm. He really doesn’t talk to anyone else who works here, you realize, because otherwise he probably would have made a joke about the chances of two Gertrudes working in the same diner on that first day.

You don’t know what to do with this information.

Nothing comes to you, so you chuck it away somewhere in your mind before sliding the sugar over to him. He smiles gratefully and starts concocting his cement mixture of a beverage. “So. How’s the writing coming?” You say nothing at this, simply resting your elbow on the table and smushing your face into your hand, giving him the most despairing look you can conjure. “That bad, huh?”

A frustrated noise grumbles in the back of your throat. “It’s just—I know what this section needs to do, and I’ve outlined it, but. Every time I write something, it’s shit.”

“Hey, language,” but it’s almost entirely muffled by a piece of toast (wheat) and eggs (scrambled).

“Sorry, Mr. Grace,” you scoff. You’re smiling, though. “I don’t know why I’m having such a problem with this chapter. I thought it would be my favorite one to write, but…”

Ryland swallows his current bite and looks at you for a moment before finally speaking. “Can I see it?”

“What, my dissertation? It’s not exactly easy morning reading.”

He waves his hand and starts sliding your laptop around to face him. “I’ll just look at the abstract and the intro to your current chapter.”

Then the only sounds are him clicking around the headings of your document and the bustle of the diner. This is, possibly, the worst: watching someone read your dissertation right in front of you, with nothing to do but wait for them to finish. At least when you send things off to your advisor, you don’t have to watch her angrily leave comments. Sometimes they highlight entire paragraphs and just say ‘bad.’ Super helpful.

After a little while—but not as long as you expect; he’s a shockingly fast reader—he nods and looks back up at you. “Take my advice with a grain of salt, because this is way out of my field of expertise, but I think you need to move your current section up. It makes more sense to go before the previous one, which seems to me like it’s actually the crux of the chapter.”

You blink at him a few times before slowly dragging your laptop back in front of you. You look at your chapter introduction again, and then skim the section he’s talking about. “Huh. That’s actually—I think you’re right.” You look up at him. “That’s the most helpful advice I’ve ever gotten on this thing. Genuinely. Can you be my advisor?” Ryland simply laughs at that and takes a sip of his coffee. His eyes do the thing. It’s fine. You’re fine. “Seriously, though. How come you’re not in a department somewhere with a cushy office? You’d have grad students lining up out the door.”

The coffee mug is set down gently. “I was, for a little while. Then—well. I might have. Kind of implied that someone wasn’t worth the organic materials they were made up of. At a conference. Um. The UNESCO conference. In Denmark.”

He looks at you while you take in this information. Finally, you say, “This might sound really insensitive. But that’s kind of awesome.”

This draws another laugh out of him, the startled one, and you can’t help the massive grin that grows on your face. “Really? It’s awesome that I insulted one of the most preeminent microbiologists alive and got my funding cut?”

“Well. When you put it like that, it’s less awesome. But do you know how many scholars there are in my field that I would love to call an idiot? There’s a lot,” you answer for him. “Do you miss it?”

“Honestly? No. I actually enjoy my life now.”

“There you go. That’s all any of us can hope for.”

Ryland starts fiddling with the spout of the sugar canister. “Yeah. My colleagues had a slightly different opinion, back then.”

“Fuck ‘em.” You don’t give him the time to call out your language again, even though you know he’s (mostly) joking when he does it. “I mean it. Obviously, I would kind of kill to have been in your position, because getting a tenure-track job feels less likely than winning the lottery, but if you’re happy, who cares what they think? You’re, like, preparing the next generation to be capable citizens, or whatever.”

He doesn’t say anything at that. He simply stares at you for a while with an unreadable expression. This is a new one, one that you haven’t seen on his face before—not that you spend that much time looking at his face (you do)—and you find that you would very much like to know what it means.

You do not get to, because then he’s looking down at his phone, and his eyes go wide. “Shoot. I am going to be so late.” Right after he pulls out some cash and slams it on the table, there’s a loud clap of thunder. The timing is almost comical.

“Ryland. I drove here. Do you want a ride?”

You think he might be getting ready to politely refuse, but then he glances at the window and the way the rain is pummeling the glass. “…Possibly.”

--

“I have to ask,” you say, white-knuckling the steering wheel, because it’s kind of hard to see out the windshield at the moment, and you really need new wiper blades (the reason you have not gotten them should be obvious at this point), “how exactly did you word the thing you said? At the conference?”

He clears his throat beside you. “I believe I called him a ‘staggering waste of carbon.’”

“Oof. That’s good.”

Ryland simply hums and then points out the window. “It’s the next turn, there.”

Then you’re pulling up to the school. It really isn’t that far from the diner. “Here, give me your phone.” You hold your hand out expectantly.

“Uh—why?” He looks at your hand like you’re holding a bomb.

“So I can drive you back to the diner later? Since you had to leave your bike.” It hadn’t fit in the back of your car, because the thing is really just a tiny, glorified bucket of bolts. You wiggle your fingers a little. “Give it here.”

After a few beats, he shifts in your passenger seat to pull his phone out before unlocking it and placing it in your hand. You tap your number in and set your contact as ‘Not Gertrude.’ Hopefully he gets a kick out of that. “Here. Text me when you’re done and I’ll come get you.”

He looks down at the new contact. The corners of his mouth lift up and his nostrils flare a little. “Will do. Thank you, again. Seriously.”

“Of course.” Ryland moves to open the door. “Wait!” You reach your arm back to grab your backpack and then dig around for a little while, until you finally produce a little snack-size bag of Skittles and toss it at him.

It hits his nose, and he does this little surprised squeak as he brings his hands up to catch it. He looks between you, your bag, and the Skittles a few times. “The diner doesn’t keep Skittles in the back.”

“Uh. No. You caught me?”

The new expression is back. You still really want to know what it means. He does not explain. Instead, he opens the car door and runs to the entrance of the school. Just before he vanishes inside, he turns around and gives you a little wave.

--

It is still raining out, though not the absolute downpour it was in the morning, when you get the ‘All done here!’ text from Ryland.

“Oh, thank god,” you breathe, because you think if you have to spend another second writing you will launch yourself into the sun. You quickly gather up your things and holler, “See you guys next week!” to the kitchen before leaving.

The drive to the school is less harrowing than it was earlier, since you can actually see further than five feet in front of your car. You pull up to the curb and park—hopefully you won’t get towed—and then pull out your phone to send a quick ‘here!’ back to him.

Then you wait. And wait. At one point, you realize that you haven’t added him back as a contact, so you spend a few seconds staring at the blank name line before simply putting in ‘Ryland Grace.’ You didn’t have anything funny like ‘Not Gertrude.’

After about five minutes, you start to get restless. “Fuck it,” you mutter, and you turn the car off and step outside. Your car probably won’t get towed. The rain feels kind of nice, so you walk leisurely up to the door. It’s locked, and you have to press the little intercom buzzer. “Uh, I’m here for Ryland Grace?” Nobody says anything back, but you hear the door click.

Hm. Slight wrinkle in the plan. You have no idea where his classroom is. Thankfully, the admin office is right by the front door, so you pop your head in. “Hi. I’m looking for Mr. Grace? I’m just—I’m giving him a ride home, and he didn’t respond to my text so. Now I’m here. Asking where his classroom is.” They probably didn’t need all of that information.

The directions are only slightly confusing—something about taking a left, and then another left, and then the second right, and his classroom is somewhere in that hallway—and you only make one wrong turn on your way there.

“Knock, knock,” you call into the room.

He jumps from where he’s sitting behind his desk. “Oh, crap, sorry. I got distracted—grading—you know how it is.”

You simply hum while he rushes to gather up his things. His classroom is kind of amazing. Plants, dioramas, cute posters, even a model of the solar system hanging from the ceiling. “How long did it take you to put all of this together?”

“Hm? Oh.” Ryland looks at you, then, gazing around the room in awe. “A few years. We don’t get extra money to decorate, so it all had to come out of my own pocket.”

“Damn.” You smile at him. “It’s really nice. I think this proves my point. That you’re a really good teacher.”

“…Thanks.”

It’s quiet, then, and he doesn’t move from where he’s standing. You’re about to ask him about the look, the new one, the one that is on his face again, but you don’t. Instead, you clear your throat. “Ready to go?”

--

Later that night (like, very much later), you finally send your chapter off to your advisor. Ryland had turned out to be entirely correct: moving the section up immediately made everything flow better. The relief that washes over you when you hit ‘send’ is almost indescribable.

You pull out your phone and stare at it for a few seconds before opening your messages up. It’s late, very late, and he’s probably not even awake, but you send him a picture of the email in your ‘sent’ folder anyway. The attached document in the picture reads ‘FINAL final draft 5.4.’

it is done

Then, about five seconds later, you’re picking your phone up again, because he’s already responded. The tiny workplace crush is, possibly, no longer just a crush at all.

That’s awesome!

What are you going to do to celebrate?

idk, probably put a bunch of stuff in my amazon cart and then never buy it

i have no money

in case you didn’t know that by now

I might have realized that at some point

You should actually celebrate, though.

You get up from your desk to lay on your bed. It feels a little like being a high school teenager in a movie.

i’ll probably just go to bob’s

Bob’s? On Sycamore?

yessir

That place is a crap hole.

It is adorable that his no cursing schtick extends to texting. This whole exchange is kind of adorable, actually.

yeah but it’s MY crap hole

wait

that sounds really gross

ignore that

they have cheap drinks and a pool table

what more could a girl ask for

also, sometimes the bartender gives me a free shot if i flirt with him a little

He doesn’t respond right away, and you bite your lip nervously. Was that too many texts in a row? Or maybe it was the bartender thing. You’re about to type out ‘jk but really it’s just close to my apartment’ when you finally get another text.

When do you think you’ll go?

You really, really hope this is implying what you think it is.

probably tomorrow night honestly

it IS a friday after all

tgif and all that

and i don’t work on saturday so. no need to worry about the hangover

What time?

This is silly. The excitement that you are feeling right now is just silly. The thought does not stop your cheeks from hurting at how much you’re smiling.

like 7

that way i can get drunk and still go to bed at a reasonable time

i’m not as young as i used to be

You stare and stare as the three little dots come up, and then disappear, and then reappear again. Finally:

I’m really bad at pool

Like, really bad.

Disastrously bad.

that’s ok

loser buys the winner a drink? :)

I was probably going to do that anyway

You’re broke, remember?

ouch

you wound me

Am I wrong?

…no

I’ll see you tomorrow

:)

You stare at the smiley face until your eyes start to drift shut, and you fall asleep holding the phone to your chest. It is very teen rom-com, and it is wonderful.

--

Ryland is right: Bob’s is a crap hole.

It is dark, and a little dingy, and the bar is cash only, and the door handle to the bathroom sticks a little. It is, possibly, your favorite place in this entire city, because it’s been there for you through everything: moving, getting over the breakup with that older grad student, passing your qualifying exams, birthdays, everything.

You take it all in with a small smile as you wait, sipping on your drink and guarding the pool table with your life. It’s really not necessary, because it’s only seven, and for now there’s only a few regulars sitting at the bar and a couple making googly eyes at each other in a booth.

A little bit of the condensation from your glass drips onto your jeans, and you frown and try to dab at it with a napkin. You spent way too long, probably, getting ready and trying to figure out what to wear, because it is unclear to you whether this is a date or a friends sort of thing. You know he’s single, obviously, he’s mentioned it before, but you are starting to nervously spiral a little bit. What if he doesn’t like that you’re a little younger? This thought seems a little silly, because you are swiftly closing in on thirty, but—maybe he’s just really weird about it.

All of that is to say that you settled on jeans and a somewhat cute top, because ultimately you are in a dive bar, and you are very serious about winning at pool and getting that drink. A complicated outfit will not be getting in the way.

The door finally opens again, and Ryland walks in. The place is tiny, so it does not take him long to spot you by the pool table. He is—he looks very cute, your mind supplies unhelpfully. His shirt has the periodic table on it, and underneath it reads ‘I WEAR THIS SHIRT PERIODICALLY.’ His jeans. Fit him very well. And the dirty canvas shoes are right at home in the bar.

Finally, you notice that his hair is slightly styled. Not much, and it’s still a little messy, but it seems deliberately ruffled, rather than the afterthought it usually is.

You do not have the chance to consider this any further, because he’s stopped walking to stand right in front of you. “Hey.”

“Hi.”

“Congrats on the chapter.”

“Thanks.”

“You already have a drink.”

You look down at the glass in your hand. You had already forgotten it was there. “I might have gotten here a little early. To scope out the pool table.”

“I see.” He glances behind you at the table, then, which you have already inserted quarters into, and the pool balls are already racked. “I’ll go grab a drink,” he nods towards the bar. But then he doesn’t move, not yet. “Is that the bartender?”

“Uh. Yeah.” You are wishing you had not shared that little tidbit with him.

Ryland nods and seems to be turning something over, very carefully. “Maybe—don’t flirt with him tonight.”

There’s no time to ask why, because he’s already walking away to order something. You already didn’t have any plans to flirt for a free shot, anyway, but now you almost want to, just to see what Ryland would do.

You watch him walk away and then lean against the bar top. You’re not—you’re not looking at anything in particular.

Okay, just one little look.

How are you supposed to—this is so unfair.

--

“You lied to me,” you say accusingly. “You are such a liar.”

He sinks another striped ball and walks around the table. “In my defense, I really thought you were going to be a lot better. You were the one who brought up pool in the first place.”

You gasp with mock offense. “I can’t believe you just said that to me. On today, of all days, when we’re celebrating my dissertation chapter.”

Another ball shoots into a pocket. “I’ll still buy you a drink.”

“Absolutely not. I need to win that drink. It’s about the principle.”

Ryland finally misses—likely only because there really weren’t any good angles—and you step up to the table. “I think you should—”

“Don’t coach me. The principle.” You line up your shot very, very carefully. “Watch. This is where the comeback starts.” If anyone were to ask you about your positioning right now, you would very tactfully answer that there is nothing purposeful about the way you lean over the table or the arch of your back.

You take a deep breath and—“Son of a bitch!” He raises his eyebrows when you stand up, a smile playing on his lips. “Don’t even, we’re in a bar.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Yeah, but you thought it.”

Your brain kind of can’t handle the look he’s giving you at the moment, so you turn your attention back to the table. Of course, you’ve given him the perfect angle, and he wastes no time to—

He misses.

You narrow your eyes at him. Ryland simply shrugs. “Lost my grip.”

“Uh-huh.”

He lifts his beer to his lips, watching you the entire time with a grin. “And I didn’t re-chalk before my shot.”

“Everyone knows that the chalk is just to look cool. It doesn’t do anything,” you scoff.

The bottle stills against his mouth, and then he slowly lowers it. “That’s not—I need you to know that that is not true. There’s a physics to it and everything.”

In your mind, there was a version of tonight where he did the incredibly cheesy move of wrapping his arms around you to show you how to use the pool stick. Apparently, the real version is him animatedly explaining the physics of pool, how factors like spin and angle affect the shot, the way to account for the friction of the table.

It is, you find, much better than the version you cooked up in your brain, because he’s looking at you the whole time, blue eyes wide with excitement, waving his hands around so much that his beer has started to slosh dangerously.

“Alright. Did all of that make sense?”

“I’m going to be so honest. I checked out for a while there. But I appreciate how enthusiastic you were.”

“What was that you were saying yesterday about me being a good teacher?”

You grin and stick your tongue out a little. You hope the way your nose is scrunching is cute and not stupid. “You are. I’m just a bad student.”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “There are no bad students. It just takes patience to figure out how they learn. What’s your learning style?” His voice drops a little at the question. Your fingers tighten around the cue stick. Being asked your preferred method of learning should not be affecting you in the way that it currently is.

There are options here. Either you play it safe, crack a joke, and take a shot that you will probably miss. Or. “I’ve always been a pretty tactile learner.”

Ryland hums. “I see.” Then he walks around the table and stands behind you. “Line up your shot,” he murmurs. You think that you might explode, because actually, it turns out, you do get to have the version of the night you concocted in your mind while getting ready.

It is suddenly very difficult for you to concentrate on anything, but you step forward and lean down, aiming for the red ball in front of the back right pocket. His arms come around you, then, and his hands slide over yours. You watch his fingers curl around your left hand. Yes, you think, his fingers are good for a lot of things.

“Keep your dominant eye focused. Aim right for the center since you have a pretty dead-on angle. The friction coefficient is around—”

“Ryland,” you whisper, “that means nothing to me.”

“Right. Just—hit it really hard, so the cue ball doesn’t go into the pocket. You want all of the momentum to transfer to the red ball.” His thumb smooths over your knuckles. Something swirls in your stomach.

You nod and try to ignore the way you can feel your hair catching slightly on his stubble. “Great. Hit it hard. Actionable advice, thank you.”

You draw the pool cue back. His arm moves with you, but he’s careful not to contribute any of his own force to the motion. After a few practice slides, you hit the cue ball for real, and it rolls into the red ball with a crack and stops. The red ball shoots forward into the pocket.

“Yes!” The two of you stand up, and you turn around to give him a high five. Ryland just smiles widely as he looks down at you. That look crosses his face again, and you realize how close you’re standing, and that his cheeks have started to tinge red, but—well. You really want him to buy you a drink. And you’re having fun, a lot of fun, and you want to enjoy it for as long as you can, just in case you are reading all of this wrong and it goes south later. “You’re going down. I am the queen of pool now.”

He shakes his head in disbelief. “One ball sunk and suddenly you’re trash talking. I’ve created a monster. Also, what about that whole principle thing earlier? About not being coached?”

“Fuck the principle, I want my free drink.”

You’re taking a sip of your current drink, the one you bought with your hard-earned tip money (which makes you realize that he’s kind of already bought you a drink, in a sense), when he suddenly blurts out, “Please don’t fuck my principal,” and then you’re choking and laughing, and a little bit of club soda is coming out of your nose, probably, because the joke is already pretty funny but is made that much better with the curse word. You wonder if that’s a very small reason he is so uptight about not cursing; he can wield those words with so much more effectiveness when he does use them.

He hands you a napkin so you can clean up the mess dripping from your face, and for a beat you’re a little worried that you look ridiculous, but he’s still smiling and looking at you with what you’re pretty sure is fondness.

You miss your next shot, and you find that you don’t really care.

--

Ryland does not let you win, because he is, as you have just discovered, intensely competitive. He still buys you your next drink, which you are now sipping on as you sit across from him in one of the booths along the wall.

“I still think,” you say around your straw, “that I could have pulled that off.”

“How so?” He leans his elbow on the table and rests his cheek on the heel of his palm, lifting one finger up to lower his glasses a little. Which feels unfair, but, whatever.

“It’s a feeling.”

“A feeling.”

“Mm-hm.”

“Doesn’t seem like a ‘feeling’ is based on much evidence.”

You scoff playfully and wave a dismissive hand. “You scientists and your evidence.”

His smile grows. You are pretty sure the two of you have not stopped smiling since he walked into the bar. “Aren’t historians pretty nitpicky about their evidence, too?”

“Irrelevant.”

It seems like he’s about to say something else, but whatever it was going to be is interrupted with a yawn. “Sorry, sorry.”

Right. He worked all day today. You’re surprised he’s still upright. “No, you’re fine. We can finish these and head out, you should sleep.”

It’s his turn to wave dismissively at you. “I’ll be alright.”

“It’s okay. Seriously. I had a really good time tonight. My chapter feels properly celebrated.”

“Good. I know I didn’t read the finished product, but—it was good. You’re a strong writer. Really vivid voice. And you made it really easy to follow along.”

Your face feels warm. “Well, that’s—I mean, you have a doctorate. You have lots of practice reading things like that.”

“Biology articles? Sure. History dissertations? Not so much. But I never felt confused when I was reading it.” He clinks his beer against your glass. “Take the compliment.”

“Okay.” You bring your drink to your lips at the same time he does, and the two of you simply look at each other, long after your drinks have returned to the table. There are—you have a lot of things going on in your mind, at the moment, and a question that you would really like to ask, and you’re pretty sure it’s going to go over well, but.

It pains you to admit it, but you are a little nervous, because it has been quite a while since you’ve done this, and the thing that started out as a little crush at work has turned into something so much larger, a thing that you really do not want to fuck up, and you’re realizing that it’s becoming a lot like your dissertation. It is not a thing that you do not want to do; actually, you want to do it so badly, and it is so important, and you are putting it off because there is comfort in remaining in that in-between stage, of being able to say that you’re doing it but never actually seeing it through.

“Okay,” you repeat, standing up, because this has suddenly become a lot. “I am going to go commandeer the TouchTunes now.”

“…Alright?”

The machine doesn’t like the first dollar you try to put in, which is fair, because you’re pretty sure the customer who gave it to you had used it to snort coke. The second dollar, after some smoothing, is accepted. Score. You scroll through different songs before just typing in one of your go-to’s.

A few seconds later, the song is filtering through the shitty speakers of Bob’s, and you slide back into the booth. “Tears for Fears. Nice,” he comments.

“Thanks. To be honest, this is the only song I know by them.”

“Hey, a classic’s a classic for a reason.”

The two of you go back to looking at each other. You try to steel yourself, because, just like your dissertation, this is a thing that ultimately needs to be seen through. All the way to the end. “I have a question.”

“Shoot.” Ryland makes a little finger gun. It is extremely cute and slightly soothes the nerves bunching up in your chest.

You turn your gaze down to your drink as you swirl the straw around the ice cubes. “Was this a date? Wait, I probably should have led up to that a little more. Except I don’t really know how. Okay. Like I said, it’s been a while since I’ve been on one, and I think I might be a little bit rusty, and I kind of like you a lot, but I have no idea if I’ve been reading all of this wrong. You have this look, you see, and I think I know what it means, but I’ve never asked, and I also don’t know if you’re weirded out by the age gap thing, which I’ve also never asked about either. And. I’m going to stop, now.”

If there’s a God up there, you think, please let the floor open up and swallow you now, because that was probably the worst speech you think you could have given.

But then he’s saying your name, quietly, and you look up at him. “Yeah. You’ve been—your read of the signals is correct. Very correct. I don’t, uh, I don’t leave little drawings for all of my waitresses.”

“That’s good. Good to know. That would probably hurt my feelings.” You feel like you’re about to start giggling like a maniac, because all of the tension in your chest is dissolving, leaving only giddiness.

He seems to be feeling something similar, but then he looks confused for a moment. “Also, ‘age gap thing’? Aren’t you almost thirty?”

“Yeah. Don’t remind me.”

“Hey now. And I’m pretty sure that’s around when that stops mattering.” Another beat. “How old do you think I am?”

“It varies. Sometimes it gets up to sixty because you order the same thing for breakfast from a diner every day of the week. Then it lowers down to upper teens when I watch you pour the entire sugar canister into your coffee. Seriously. I am concerned you are going to develop a health condition.”

Ryland laughs, and laughs, and laughs, and you giggle right along with him, and in a burst of confidence you reach forward and put your hand on his, and you’re thrilled when it shifts to hold your fingers gently.

“Do you—would you like to go somewhere else?” You ask. “Like. A secondary location. But not the kidnapping kind.”

His thumb brushes over your knuckles, just like it had when he was helping you line up your shot in pool earlier. “Your song isn’t finished.”

You shrug. “We can come back another night and I can play it again. I have lots of singles. Some of them don’t work because I think they were used for cocaine.” You pause. “I’m realizing that I sound like a stripper right now.”

Ryland snorts and squeezes your hand. “Yeah, we can go to a secondary location. I’d like that. As long as it’s not, you know, the kidnapping kind. That’s a non-negotiable.”

He keeps holding your hand as you both get up out of the booth, as you walk out the door and into the night air. Neither of you finished your drinks, you realize, but that’s fine. He’ll probably buy you another.

--

epilogue

“Welcome to my crib.”

Ryland takes in your shitty apartment. You had cleaned up a little earlier, in a spurt of confidence, although the bin that you use to catch the water leaking from the ceiling is still out, because it hadn’t finished raining until this morning. “Wow. This is. It is really a place that someone lives in.”

You punch his shoulder then, lightly, and smile while you kick off your shoes and flick the lights on. “Yeah. I really need to move out. But that requires—”

“Money,” he says at the same time you do. “If it makes you feel any better, you won’t be living on a grad student stipend forever.”

“Here’s hoping.” You walk into your tiny kitchen, then, and call over your shoulder. “You can sit wherever. And by wherever, I mean on the couch, because that’s the only seating I have. Do you want anything to drink? I have—” You peer into your depressingly empty fridge. “Well. There’s water, a half-drunk bottle of Sprite, and vodka. So. Pick your poison.”

“I’m fine. What’s up with the unfinished Sprite?”

You take a quick drink of water before padding over to the living room. “It’s a chaser. For the vodka.”

“Of course.”

Ryland is sitting on the couch, and it’s very cute, because he’s trying to be polite but is also incredibly restless, if the way his knee bounces up-and-down says anything. You climb onto his lap. “Hi.”

“Hey there.” He looks up at you at that, his hands coming up to rest on your hips, and you carefully take his glasses off and set them behind you on your thrifted coffee table. “I kind of can’t see without those.”

“That’s fine. If we do something that requires seeing, you can have them back.”

 “Sounds like a plan.”

Then, before you lose your nerve, you draw your hands up to cradle his face and kiss him, sweetly at first, until you open your mouth, and he groans as you lick along his bottom lip. He squeezes your hips, and his fingers mess with the hem of your shirt a little before slipping underneath it to run along your skin. Yep, your guess is still holding, his fingers are great.

You are about to start grinding down onto him when there is a loud crash, and then the two of you are jumping, and you look behind you. The leaking ceiling tile has, apparently, chosen this moment to collapse onto the floor and knock over the bin of water for good measure.

His chest is shaking with laughter when you lean your head against his shoulder and groan. “Can we just ignore that for now and go back to what we were doing, please?”

“Counteroffer,” he says, still laughing, “I help you clean that up, and then we can resume. And then in the morning you will put in a maintenance request.”

“Deal. And they don’t really respond to those. Hence the ceiling tile that just fell.”

“I probably should have guessed that.”

In the morning, you can’t cook him breakfast because there’s nothing in your fridge, but you order it for him as the next best thing—wheat toast, scrambled eggs, and bacon—and put it onto a plate in the kitchen, wearing nothing but his periodic table shirt and your underwear, as if you had actually cooked it yourself. He comes up behind you and kisses the side of your neck.