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“What do we have on our victims? Let's go through everything again.”

Hotch stands at the head of the table, arms crossed, expression unreadable as he looks over the team.

The conference room settles immediately. Files open. Pens lift. The familiar rhythm of a profile being rebuilt from the ground up.

Beside you, Reid reaches for his file. His sleeve brushes your arm. It's barely anything. A passing touch. Accidental. Meaningless.

Your entire nervous system reacts like someone fired a starter pistol. You keep your eyes firmly on your notes. You are absolutely not a grown adult getting flustered because Spencer Reid's elbow exists.

Across the table, Morgan flips open his folder. "Victim one, Franklin Harris. Forty-four. Janitor.”

Hotch nods. "Victim two?"

"Jason Blake," JJ answers. "Forty-one. High school guidance counselor."

Prentiss picks up the thread. “Victim three was Leonard Gibson. Thirty-four. Accountant. Lived alone.

"And victims four and five were the married couple. Rachel and Steven Beckett. Thirty-eight and forty. Married eleven years, Rachel was a realtor, Steven worked at a local farm.”

“Any theories on why he chose them? Why he labeled them as liars?” Hotch asks.

JJ looks up. “I have a theory. When we interviewed the victims' families, one of the relatives from the Beckett’s mentioned an accident."

You straighten slightly. "What kind of accident?"

"Car crash." JJ glances down again. "It happened about four months ago."

"Fatal?" Rossi asks.

JJ nods. "One person died."

"Who was driving?" Reid asks.

"Steven."

"And he survived."

"Minor injuries." JJ taps her pen lightly against the page. "The family member said there were rumors afterward."

"What kind of rumors?" Hotch asks.

JJ exhales. "That he ran a stop sign."

Morgan frowns. "But officially?"

"The investigation ruled him not at fault.”

“Okay,” Prentiss says. “So you think the unsub went after them for that?”

“It’s a good theory,” Morgan says.

“The man who died, does he have any immediate family?” Hotch asks.

JJ nods. “He left a wife and an adult son behind.”

“Bring them in, I want them interviewed.” Hotch turns toward the board. "What about the others? Any similar incidents?"

Prentiss straightens slightly in her chair. "I've been digging into Jason Blake." She opens the folder and slides a page onto the table. "He worked as a guidance counselor at a local high school."

Morgan nods. "We already knew that."

"Yeah," Prentiss says. "What we didn't know was that there was a complaint filed against him about eighteen months ago."

Your attention sharpens immediately. "What kind of complaint?"

Prentiss exhales. "A student committed suicide. The parents claimed their son had been experiencing severe bullying for months."

JJ winces slightly.

"The family repeatedly contacted the school." Prentiss  glances down at her notes. "Blake told them he investigated. Said there was no evidence of ongoing harassment."

A knot forms somewhere low in your stomach.

"And there was?" Reid asks.

Prentiss nods. "A lot of it."

The room falls silent again.

"He never investigated," JJ says quietly.

"The school eventually conducted an independent review after the student's death. Emails surfaced. Teacher reports surfaced. Statements from other students surfaced." Prentiss pauses. "Blake knew. He lied."

Across the room, Rossi slowly folds his arms. "The parents ever confront him?"

Prentiss nods. "Publicly."

"How publicly?"

"School board meetings. Local papers. Social media."

Morgan exhales through his nose. "So everybody knew."

"Pretty much.”

Hotch nods. “Alright. That gives us theories for why he was targeted. Prentiss and Rossi, talk to the parents who accused Jason Blake. Clear them and see if they had any supporters who may have been too supportive. What about Harris and Gibson? Any ideas on them?”

“Nothing yet,” Kessler says. “But Harris was an accountant, maybe he was scamming people?”

“It’s a possibility,” Hotch says. “Call Garcia, have her look into his records. In the meantime, I want Morgan and Kessler to go talk to Turner again. He knew about the unsub’s M.O., I want to know how.”

“Hotch, with all due respect, it is a relatively small town. Couldn’t he have just known from word-of-mouth?” you ask.

Hotch nods once. “He could. But I want to make sure he doesn’t know more than we think. While they’re gone, I want you and Reid to take Gibson. Dig into his past as well, and see if you can find a theory for why he was targeted.”

“Got it,” Reid says.

Hotch gives one last nod. “Let’s move.”

An hour later, the precinct is hectic. Everyone is doing something. Garcia tracked down a handful of people from Harris’s life to interview, ask if he ever hid anything serious. Morgan and Kessler are on their way to speak to Turner again. Prentiss and Rossi brought in the parents of the bullied student, as well as a few people Garcia found posting notable support.

And then there’s Reid, sitting at the desk next to you, staring at files and notes from Harris’s past. His brow is furrowed, his eyes trailing across the paper in front of him repeatedly, as if there’s possibly any more information he could gain from it. He keeps bouncing his knee, then catching himself and stopping the motion, only for it to start again a few moments later.

You’ve been skimming Harris’is life for any hints as to why the unsub chose him, but nothing has come up yet.

Suddenly, Reid pushes away from the desk and stands, his chair scraping across the floor. You look up at him, a brow raised in silent question. 

“I need a break,” he says. “Coffee?”

You glance back down at the files, then back up at him. “Yeah, I could use a break, too.”

So, the two of you walk together toward the break room.

It isn’t much, just a table and two chairs, a beat up fridge, a microwave that looks like it’s from the 50s, and a coffee maker that’s seen better days. You take a seat in one of the chairs, letting out a sigh as Reid starts the coffee.

“So,” he starts, facing away from you, “I, uh, saw you got a job offer the other day.”

“Oh, yeah, I was offered a research position at the lab I used to intern at,” you say.

The coffee maker spurts and drips loudly as the last bit of coffee fills the pot. 

“What was the research?” he asks as he pours the steaming liquid into two paper coffee cups. 

“Behavioral analysis,” you say, accepting one of the mugs from him. 

“Is that how you got into the BAU?”

“Sort of,” you say. He sits down in the empty chair across from you.

“Did you like it?”

“I loved it,” you admit. “Research like that is what I joined university for.”

Reid nods. At first, you think that's the end of it.

He wraps both hands around his coffee cup, staring down into it as steam curls between his fingers. The silence stretches.

You take another sip of coffee. Reid doesn't. His brow remains faintly furrowed.

“You'd be good at it,” he says finally.

“The research job?”

He nods. “You already think that way.”

You huff a quiet laugh. “Think what way?”

“Pattern-oriented.” His gaze lifts briefly. “Patient.”

“That's not usually the feedback I get.”

“It's accurate.”

The certainty in his voice lands somewhere uncomfortable. Not because it's unwelcome. Because it's Reid. And Reid doesn't hand out compliments casually. Everything he says tends to arrive after being examined from six different angles first.

You glance down at your coffee. “Thanks.”

He nods once. Then he goes quiet again. Long enough that you start wondering again if he's finished. He's not. You can see it happening. The way his fingers tighten slightly around the paper cup. The way his eyes drift away and back again. Like he's debating whether something is worth saying.

Finally:

“Are you going to take it?”

You blink. The question surprises you more than it should. “I—”

The word catches halfway out. You glance down into your coffee.

The answer should be simple. It isn't. Because the truth is, you don't know. Two days ago you would've said no immediately. Yesterday, maybe. 

Now?

Now there's a folder sitting in your hotel room and a voice in the back of your head asking questions you'd been perfectly happy not asking before you got that letter.

You open your mouth again, but your phone rings. The sound cuts through the room so abruptly both of you flinch slightly.

You glance down automatically. Morgan.

Seeing his contact name makes you anxious instantly. Morgan shouldn't be calling. Not while he's interviewing Turner. Not unless something went wrong.

Across the table, Reid's brow furrows.

You answer. “Hey, what's—”

“Where's Hotch?”

Morgan's voice is wrong. Too controlled. The kind of controlled that usually means something has already gone very, very bad. Your posture straightens instantly. Reid notices, raises a brow.

“What happened?” you ask.

“Turner's gone.”

“What the hell does you mean he's gone?” you ask.

Across from you, Reid is already standing. His chair scrapes loudly across the linoleum as he does.

Morgan exhales sharply through the phone. “He got transferred back to county holding about an hour ago. Transport van stopped for gas. Driver went inside. Deputy stayed with the vehicle.”

Your stomach sinks.

“He overpowered the deputy.”

“Shit,” you mutter. 

“He got the cuffs off somehow,” Morgan continues. “We're still trying to figure out how. Deputy's got a concussion and can't remember half of what happened.”

“We need to get Garcia on surveillance footage. See if she can track where Turner is running to,” Reid says.

“Kessler and I are working on getting the footage from the gas station. I’ll call Garcia next, but I couldn’t get ahold of Hotch.”

“He was talking to the chief, we’ll let him know,” you say.

By the time everyone gathers again, the energy is different. Not quite frantic, but it’s getting there.

Hotch stands at the head of the table, one hand braced on the back of a chair as Garcia’s voice fills the room through the speakerphone.

“Okay, so our favorite contractor is officially making horrible life choices,” she says, the rapid clicking of her keyboard filtering in behind her words. “I’ve got traffic cams, gas station footage, and one very grainy image that may just be a raccoon driving a pickup truck, but I am choosing optimism.”

Morgan pinches the bridge of his nose. “Babygirl.”

“Right. Serious. Sorry.” A few keys click. “Turner is definitely heading north. Confirmed by three separate traffic cams. Last visual was about forty minutes ago. He was driving a stolen 1994 Chevy Silverado, hasn’t been found yet but I put out a BOLO.”

“Any idea of his destination?” Hotch asks.

“Nothing solid yet, I’m pulling financials, cell activity, family members, former associates, ex-girlfriends, gym memberships, suspicious Yelp reviews. The usual.”

“Keep us updated.”

“You got it.”

Hotch turns toward the board. “Assume Turner is dangerous until located.”

“He already killed one victim. And took out a deputy,” Prentiss says.

“And now he’s running,” JJ adds.

The room settles into a brief silence. You feel it before anyone says it. The doubt. The question sitting in the center of the table.

Kessler is the one who finally says it. 

“If Turner fled immediately after being taken into custody,” she says carefully, “we need to consider the possibility that our original assessment was wrong.”

Nobody responds right away. It’s not a disagreement, just caution.

“He confessed to killing Lauren Powell,” Kessler continues.

“Eventually,” Morgan says.

“After significant pressure.”

Your jaw tightens. “Pressure doesn’t create confessions.”

“No,” Kessler agrees. “But it can shape them.”

Reid shifts in his chair. “The behavioral distinctions between Turner and the original unsub still stand.”

“They do,” Kessler agrees again. Always agreeable. Always measured. Never quite pushing hard enough to sound confrontational. “But behavioral distinctions aren’t always reliable evidence.”

Your eyes drop briefly to the table. You know where this is going. You know it before she looks at you. Before anyone does.

“Part of the determination came from the interview.”

There it is. Not quite an accusation, but somehow worse. An invitation. A request. Explain yourself.

You clear your throat. “He was lying about Lauren.”

“Yes.”

“And telling the truth about the others.”

Kessler’s expression remains neutral. “How do you know?”

The question nearly makes you flinch. How do you know? You don’t have a clean answer.

“I just… I know.”

Kessler waits. Patient. Reasonable. “Can you explain how?”

Your fingers tighten around your pen. 

You aren’t sure why her questioning feels like an attack. They’re reasonable questions. You haven’t built trust with Kessler. She doesn’t know how many times you’ve been right about these things, how long you studied behavioral tells. But it doesn’t feel simple.

“It’s different.”

Brilliant. Very convincing. You sound ridiculous.

“It’s just…” You struggle for something concrete. “When people lie, there’s usually tension behind it. Like they’re steering away from something.”

Kessler nods. “And Turner?”

“He lied about Lauren immediately.” You can hear yourself becoming less certain the longer she stares at you. “He reacted before he thought.”

The memory replays itself.  Turner shouting. Exploding. Panicking. Confessing. But now more thoughts slip in. Turner escaping. Running. Heading north.

“He never lied about the others.”

Kessler studies you for a moment. “Or he was simply better prepared for those questions.”

You don’t answer. Because you can’t immediately dismiss her concern. That’s the problem. You can’t prove any of this. You never could. You just know.

Except knowing sounds a lot less impressive when someone starts asking for receipts.

Kessler crosses her arms like she’s decided that’s enough. “I say we move forward with the theory that Turner lied.”

"The original unsub and Turner are different offenders."

This time the voice comes from beside you. Reid.

You glance up. His gaze is fixed on Kessler, calm and certain. "The crime scenes support that."

"They support the possibility."

"They support the probability."

Kessler tilts her head slightly.

Reid doesn't back down. "The carving patterns differ. Victim selection differs. Escalation differs.”

Kessler stays quiet for a minute. “And if it was his plan? To make us think Lauren Powell was different?”

“What's the difference between confessing to one murder versus five? If he wanted to throw us off, why would he confess at all?” Morgan asks.

“Pressure,” Kessler says again, “Maybe he confessed because he knew he was caught, but he assumed one murder was better than five. Maybe it was his plan the entire time, and he was just trying to make Lauren’s murder look different to throw us off..”

Reid's expression doesn't change.

"If Turner wanted us to believe Lauren Powell was a separate offense," he says evenly, "then carving the same word into her body would have been the worst possible way to accomplish that.”

Kessler doesn’t respond right away. She just looks at him, her brows slightly furrowed.

Reid continues. "He didn't create a new narrative. He borrowed an existing one."

Morgan nods once. "Exactly."

"The original unsub spent weeks establishing a ritual," Reid says. "Victim selection, post-mortem staging, geographic consistency. Turner copied the most visible element because it was the only part he understood."

Kessler leans back slightly in her chair. "That's an assumption."

"It's a conclusion supported by evidence."

Her gaze narrows just a fraction.

"The carving wasn't symmetrical," Reid says. "The depth varied. The placement differed. The scene organization differed. The victimology differed. The scene was outside of the established comfort zone. Every measurable component diverged from the established pattern."

You glance over at him. His voice remains calm. Almost detached. But there's a firmness underneath it now. It isn’t irritation, it’s conviction.

"The behavioral assessment didn't originate from the confession," he continues. "The confession supported conclusions we had already reached."

A brief silence settles across the room.

Kessler studies him for a moment. Then she nods once. “Fair enough."

But something about it doesn't feel finished.

You glance toward her. She's already studying the victims’ photos again. Already moved on.

Except she hasn't. You can tell. Because she asked. And asked. And asked. Not because she wanted the answer. Because she wanted to see what happened when you didn't have one.

Your eyes drift to the photos pinned to the board.

LIAR.

The word stares back. For the first time since this case started, a quiet, ugly thought slips into your head.

What if Kessler’s right? What if Turner isn't the only person you've ever been wrong about?

The room keeps talking around you. Routes. Search grids. Traffic cameras. Manhunts. But for a moment, all you can hear is your own uncertainty.

Hotch straightens from where he'd been leaning against the table. "Until evidence suggests otherwise, Turner remains responsible for Powell only."

And across the table, Reid glances at you once. Just once. A brief look, concerned and observant. Like he noticed exactly where your thoughts went. And doesn't particularly like it.

It takes another hour for Garcia to call. An hour of maps. An hour of traffic cameras. An hour of everyone pretending they aren't waiting for the phone to ring.

When it finally does, the entire room seems to shift toward it.

Garcia doesn't bother with a greeting. "I think I found him."

Every conversation stops.

Hotch reaches for the speaker. "Location?"

Keys clatter rapidly in the background. "Property about three hours north. Rural. Very rural. Like horror-movie-level trees. The land belongs to Turner's aunt, technically, but Turner helped renovate the cabin about four years ago after a storm damaged part of it."

A map appears on the screen. Dense forest. One access road. Nothing nearby.

Morgan leans forward. "Any activity?"

"Not confirmed," Garcia says. "No cameras out there, but the Silverado was picked up heading in that direction. After that? Radio silence."

"You think he's hiding there?" Prentiss asks.

"I think if I escaped police custody and wanted somewhere familiar, isolated, and free of witnesses, it'd be on my shortlist."

Hotch nods. "Local law enforcement?"

"Already notified."

"Good."

You study the map. The cabin sits alone in a sea of green. Hidden. Disconnected. A place someone could disappear.

"Could be coincidence," Kessler says.

Morgan looks at her. "You got a better idea?"

"No." Her gaze remains fixed on the map. "Just saying we shouldn't assume he's there until we confirm it."

Fair. Annoyingly fair.

Hotch is already moving. "Morgan, Prentiss, coordinate with local SWAT and clear the property."

Morgan nods once.

"JJ, I want you on a call to coordinate with Garcia. I want updates the second we get movement."

"Got it."

"Rossi, Kessler, finish interviews. Revisit everyone connected to the Beckett accident."

Neither of them argue. Then Hotch's gaze lands on you.

"You and Reid keep digging into Harris.”

You nod. "Got it."

Beside you, Reid is already gathering his files.

"Good," Hotch says. "Move.”

Once everyone leaves, the precinct feels quieter. 

Not actually quieter. Phones still ring. Officers still move through the precinct carrying stacks of paper and lukewarm coffee. Someone drops a file near the front desk and swears under their breath. But everything feels muted, like listening through glass.

You settle back into your chair beside Reid, pulling Harris's file toward you. 

Reid watches you for a second instead of working.

"You okay?" he asks after a moment.

You glance toward him. "What?”

Reid looks away first. Not because he's uncomfortable exactly. More like he's thinking. "You've been quieter."

You stare at him for a second.

“Since Kessler's questioning, I mean.”

You lean back slightly in your chair and force a laugh that doesn't quite sound convincing. "Wow. Profiling me now?"

"I wasn't profiling you,” he says. “Just observing.”

You shake your head. “What is profiling if not observing?”

The corner of his mouth twitches just slightly. Then his expression settles again. More serious this time.

"You know Kessler’s wrong.”

Your smile fades. Your eyes move back to the file in front of you. “Do I?”

"Yes."

The certainty comes so quickly it makes you look back up. Reid is already watching you, his gaze steady. Like he thinks this shouldn't even be a question.

You pick at the corner of a page. "She wasn't completely wrong."

"No," he agrees.

That surprises you even more. You furrow your brow.

Reid tilts his head slightly. "You can't prove it."

You huff a laugh. "Thank you, Spencer. That's extremely reassuring."

"I'm not finished."

You fall quiet.

He glances briefly toward the victim board before continuing. "You can't prove it because what you do isn't a measurable process." His fingers tap lightly against the file. "It's pattern recognition."

"That's a fancy way of saying instinct."

"No." The answer comes immediately. "Instinct is unconscious. What you do is different."

“Different?” you ask flatly. “Right.”

He shifts slightly in his chair. "You notice behavioral inconsistencies. Micro-expressions. Speech patterns. Emotional responses. Then your brain processes them faster than you can consciously explain."

You stare at him. "You make it sound scientific."

"It is scientific." Again, no hesitation in his voice. No doubt laced through his words. Just something he believes with certainty. "You've been right every time I've seen you do it."

The room suddenly feels much smaller. 

You glance away. "That's not true."

"It is.”

The immediate response makes you laugh despite yourself.

Reid frowns slightly. "I can think of at least three times you've noticed something everyone else missed in the last week.”

You shake your head. "That's different."

"Why?"

Because those times weren't important. Because those times didn't involve murder investigations. Because those times didn't involve people potentially going to prison. Because—

You don't actually have a good answer.

Reid waits. When none comes, he continues. "You know what Morgan says when you're interviewing someone?"

You blink. "What?"

"He says the fastest way to figure out who's lying is to watch who you're looking at."

Your mouth falls open slightly. "He says that?"

"Frequently.” A pause. "Usually right before he bets on whether you're about to make somebody cry."

You let out another surprised huff of laughter. Reid's expression brightens for a moment before sobering again.

"Kessler doesn't know you." The words are simple. Matter-of-fact. "She's known you for less than a week. I've worked with you."

Your chest tightens unexpectedly.

Reid shrugs one shoulder. "She's evaluating a skill she hasn't observed long enough to understand."

You look down at your coffee-stained notes. "What if she's right, though?"

The question comes out quieter than you intended. Reid doesn't answer immediately. For a moment, all you hear is the distant buzz of the precinct.

"What if she isn't?"

You glance up. His expression is calm. Gentle, almost. "If I stopped trusting every conclusion I reached the first time someone questioned it, I wouldn't be able to do this job."

The words settle somewhere deep. Because he means them. Not as encouragement, as the truth.

"You know what I think?" he asks.

You raise an eyebrow. "Dangerous question."

"I think you're one of the most observant people I've ever met."

Your heart promptly forgets how to function. Reid, thankfully, appears completely unaware of the damage he's just caused.

He keeps talking. "I think you notice things most people overlook." Another page turns beneath his fingers. "I think you've helped solve multiple cases because of it." He glances up. "And I think you're letting one person's skepticism outweigh years of evidence."

You stare at him. He stares back. Completely serious. No embarrassment or hesitation. Just Spencer Reid stating a conclusion he believes is objectively true.

Your throat feels strangely tight. "That's a very nice thing to say."

"It's not a nice thing." He frowns slightly. "It's an accurate thing."

The answer is so perfectly Spencer that a laugh escapes before you can stop it.

Next to you, his shoulders loosen slightly. Like that was the goal all along. Not convincing you, just getting you to smile again.

"Okay," you say quietly.

Reid nods once, satisfied. "Okay."

A moment passes. Then he slides the Harris file away. “I want to see your notes.”

“My notes?”

He nods. “You were taking notes earlier. I noticed you write something about his records being sealed.”

You blink. "Oh. Yeah."

Reid waits as you flip back through your notebook, finding the scribbled note wedged between timelines and victim interviews.

"There was a sealed record from about twenty years ago," you say. "Nothing detailed. Just enough to show something existed."

Reid leans slightly closer. "What kind of record?"

You shrug. "No idea. Juvenile maybe. The system flagged it and then immediately locked me out."

His brow furrows. "And you didn't mention this?"

"I was going to ask Garcia to unseal it.”

Reid nods immediately. "Let's do that.”

You pull out your phone. Garcia answers on the second ring.

"Tell me somebody found a body because I am running out of ways to entertain myself."

"Good afternoon to you too."

"Hello, my beloved government employees,” she says dramatically. “Now, what wizardry do you need me to perform?”

You explain the sealed file.

There's a pause. Then rapid keyboard clattering. Then more keyboard clattering. Then what sounds suspiciously like additional recreational keyboard clattering.

"Huh."

You straighten. "Huh good or huh bad?"

"Huh interesting."

Reid immediately leans forward. "What did you find?"

"Well first, whoever sealed this thing really wanted it buried." More typing. "And second..."

Silence.

Your stomach drops. "Garcia?"

"Franklin Harris wasn't the one with the record."

You exchange a glance with Reid. "What?"

"The file is attached to his name now, but twenty-three years ago it belonged to somebody else."

You sit up straighter.

"What do you mean somebody else?" Reid asks.

"It was amended after a legal name change."

Next to you, Reid freezes. The way he always does when a piece suddenly clicks into a larger puzzle.

"Garcia," he says carefully, "whose name?"

"Franklin Harris was born Daniel Mercer."

You look at Reid. Reid looks at you.

Garcia continues. "And Daniel Mercer was involved in a juvenile court case connected to a sixteen-year-old girl named Emily Warren.”

"What kind of juvenile case?" you ask.

Garcia exhales. "The official record is incomplete. A lot of the original documentation is missing.”

"Missing?"

"Missing missing," Garcia says. "Not redacted. Not sealed. Gone."

Beside you, Reid straightens. "That's unusual."

"That's what I thought." A few more keys click. "The surviving court summary says Emily Warren was sixteen years old when she reported Daniel Mercer for sexual assault. She was pregnant.”

For a second neither of you speak.

"Mercer was the alleged father?" Reid asks.

"According to the complaint, yes."

You feel a knot forming in your stomach. "What happened?"

Garcia lets out a humorless laugh. "What happened is somebody had money."

You glance at Reid. His jaw tightens.

"The case never went to trial," Garcia says. "Emily recanted part of her statement three months later."

"Part of it?"

"Enough of it."

The answer lands heavily.

"Family?" Reid asks.

"Oh, definitely family." More typing. "I found property records, campaign donations, legal invoices. Daniel Mercer's father owned half the county twenty years ago."

"Hyperbole?" you ask.

"Nope." A pause. "Actually less hyperbole than I'd like." You hear rustling on Garcia's end. "His father retained three separate attorneys within six weeks of the accusation."

Three. For a juvenile case.

You exchange another glance with Reid.

"The Warrens moved less than a year later."

"Moved where?" you ask.

"Three states away."

"And the child?" Reid asks.

"Looks like a boy." You hear more typing. "Born seven months after the complaint."

You sit up straighter. "Name?"

“Paul Warren.”

You and Reid are already on your feet before Garcia finishes speaking.

"Send everything you have on Warren," Reid says.

"Already doing it," Garcia replies.

The line disconnects a second later.

The two of you are halfway down the bullpen before either of you says another word. Hotch is still in the conference room when you arrive. Rossi, JJ, and Prentiss are there too, sorting through interview notes while they wait for updates on Turner.

Hotch looks up immediately. Something in your expression must give it away. "What is it?"

You set the file down on the table. "We found a connection to Harris."

That gets everyone's attention.

Reid moves toward the board. "Franklin Harris wasn't originally Franklin Harris," he says. "He legally changed his name twenty-three years ago."

Prentiss straightens. "Why?"

"Because Franklin Harris was originally Daniel Mercer. And when Mercer was seventeen, a sixteen-year-old girl named Emily Warren accused him of sexual assault."

Rossi's expression hardens immediately.

"The case disappeared," Reid says. "Records missing. Witness statements incomplete. Family retained multiple attorneys. The victim recanted part of her statement."

"Mercer's father had money," you add.

Hotch's jaw tightens.

"And the girl?" JJ asks quietly.

"Moved away less than a year later."

You glance down at your notes. "She gave birth to a son, Paul Warren.”

"Paul Warren?" Rossi repeats.

The name lands differently coming from him. You look up. Rossi is already reaching for a file.

"Paul Warren was one of the interviews."

Prentiss frowns. "What interview?"

"The Blake interview." Rossi flips open the folder. "He was one of the people we brought in this morning."

A cold feeling settles low in your stomach. Rossi finds the page and slides it across the table.

"Paul Warren was close friends with Tyler Evans, the high school student Blake lied about.”

“Is he still here?” Hotch asks.

Rossi shakes his head. “No, he left just before we found Turner's possible destination.”

Prentiss mutters a curse. “Let me guess—tall, dark hair, blue button up?”

Rossi raises a brow. “How did you know?”

“He was lingering before he left. Claimed he was lost,” Prentiss says. “But now, I think he was waiting to hear Turner's location.”

“We need to move,” Hotch says. “He could be on his way there now.”

“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. 

Harry stiffened. For a fraction of a second, his heart leaped, maybe she came back. Maybe she realized she forgot something.

The door slid open. But it wasn't Y/N.

It was Mrs. Higgins, his Saturday housekeeper. A stout, no-nonsense woman who had cleaned up after his parties for a decade without blinking an eye, she stepped in carrying her caddy of supplies only to stop dead.

"Good morning Mr. Styles. I..."

Her voice trailed off. Her eyes swept over the floor, taking in the twenty-foot radius of shattered glass and the overturned papers on the coffee table before finally landing on Harry. He sat there disheveled and bleeding, looking like a deposed king.

Her eyes widened. "Oh my god. Sir? Are you alright?"

"I am fine," Harry croaked. His voice was ruined. Clearing his throat, he stood up, swaying slightly. "I am fine, Mrs. Higgins. Just a mishap."

"A mishap?" She bustled forward, setting her caddy down with a clatter. "It looks like a war zone in here. Did someone break in? Should I call security?"

"No," Harry snapped. The volume hurt his own head, so he lowered his voice. "No one broke in. I dropped a bowl. That is all."

"You dropped a bowl," she repeated, eyeing the debris field that clearly indicated the bowl had been thrown with the velocity of a missile.

She didn't argue. She knew better. Sighing the sigh of a woman paid very well to deal with rich men's tantrums, she reached for the broom on her cart.

"Well, go get yourself some coffee, sir. I will have this cleared up in a jiffy. You do not want to step on this barefoot."

As she began to sweep, the sound of stiff bristles dragging glass across wood, scrape, scrape, clink, sent a sudden, irrational surge of panic through him.

She was erasing it.

She was sweeping up the violence, cleaning away the evidence of the only real emotion that had happened in this room in months. If she cleaned it up, the room would return to being perfect. It would go back to being a museum. And if it was a museum, then Y/N had never really been here at all.

Mrs. Higgins swept a pile of glass toward the coffee table, reaching down to pick up the scattered papers, the contract.

"Leave it," Harry barked.

Mrs. Higgins froze, hand hovering over the document. "Sir?"

"Do not touch the papers," Harry said, stepping forward and ignoring the glass crunching under his boots. "And do not sweep under the sofa."

Mrs. Higgins looked at him like he had lost his mind. "Sir, there is glass everywhere. It surely skittered under there."

"I said don't." His voice was low, cold, and leaving no room for argument.

He knew what lay hidden in the dust bunnies under the sofa, the brass key. He had knocked it there last night in his rage. If Mrs. Higgins swept under there, she would find it, pick it up, and place it on the hook by the door. She would treat it like a common object.

But it wasn't a common object. It was the only thing Y/N had left behind. It was the heavy, tangible proof that she had chosen to walk away, a shrine to his failure. He couldn't bear the thought of anyone else touching it.

"Clean the open floor," Harry commanded, running a hand through his messy hair. "Leave the area around the sofa. Leave the papers. Leave the table."

"Mr. Styles, I cannot leave a pile of broken glass in the middle of your..."

"You can if I pay you to," Harry cut her off. Pulling his wallet out of his back pocket, uncomfortable after sleeping on it, he extracted three fifty-pound notes and dropped them onto her cart. "Clean the kitchen. Clean the bathrooms. Change the sheets. Do not touch this room."

Mrs. Higgins looked at the money, then at Harry’s bloodshot eyes. She nodded slowly.

"As you wish, sir."

Taking her broom, she retreated to the kitchen.

Harry stood alone in the center of the living room, looking down at the contract splayed open on the table like a dead bird. He looked at the spot under the sofa where the key was hiding in the dark.

A wave of nausea rolled over him. He was safe. He had done it. He had successfully driven her away, protected her reputation, and secured her future. He had won.

Walking over to the bar, he picked up the empty bottle of scotch and dropped it into the recycling bin.

Clank.

He needed a shower. He needed a shave. He needed to go to the office and make a million pounds to remind himself that he was Harry Styles and that he didn't need anyone.

He turned his back on the mess and walked toward the stairs. But as he climbed, his hand brushing the railing where hers used to rest, he realized with a sinking horror that the silence in the house wasn't empty.

It was screaming.

The smell hit her first.

It wasn't the rich scent of expensive leather or the crisp fragrance of eucalyptus. It was the damp, cloying odor of wet towels and burnt toast, underpinned by the chemical tang of Lynx body spray.

Y/N rolled over in the narrow single bed, wincing as the springs screamed in protest. A sharp, metallic grating that tore her from restless sleep.

Staring up at the ceiling, she traced the familiar water stain in the corner, a map of a nonexistent country. Above it, a spiderweb swayed gently in the draft from the window that refused to close.

It had been two weeks.

Two weeks since she had dropped the heavy brass key on the glass table. Two weeks since she had walked out of the elevator.

For six months, her life had been a tale of two cities: Monday to Thursday, a student in a shoebox. Friday to Sunday, a princess in a Mayfair castle. Now the castle was gone, leaving only the girl in the shoebox.

A crash from the kitchen, followed by a burst of raucous laughter, shattered the quiet.

"Oi! You stepped on my charger!"

"Mate, watch where you are going!"

Josh. Her roommate.

At twenty-three, Josh was perfectly nice. He was studying sports management and possessed the energy of a golden retriever that had just consumed an espresso. And Y/N hated him.

She hated herself for it, knowing it was unfair. But every time Josh laughed at the television at 8 AM or left his sneakers in the middle of the hallway, a physical tightness constricted her chest.

God, she missed the silence.

She missed the fortress-like solitude of the townhouse. She missed the way Harry moved through a room like he owned the air inside it. Harry didn't leave sneakers in the hallway. Harry didn't yell about chargers. Harry was a man. Josh was a boy.

Dragging herself out of bed onto creaking floorboards, she shuffled down the narrow hallway to the bathroom. The tiles were cracked and cold under her feet.

She turned on the shower, waiting as the pipes groaned before spitting out a stream of lukewarm water. The pressure was pathetic, barely enough to wash the soap off her skin. Standing under the drizzle, she closed her eyes, trying to conjure the memory of the rainfall showerhead, the steam, the heated towel rack.

She had walked away from it. She had chosen the sticky floors and the freedom. But freedom, it turned out, felt a lot like being cold and tired.

Half an hour later, she sat at the wobbly kitchen table, her laptop screen the brightest thing in the room.

Josh walked in, wearing nothing but boxer shorts and a t-shirt that read Beer Me.

"Morning Y/N," he chirped, opening the fridge to swig milk directly from the carton.

A wave of irrational nausea rolled over her.

"Morning Josh," she mumbled.

"You look rough," he noted helpfully, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Rough night?"

"Something like that."

"You should come out with us tonight. Me and the boys are going to Wetherspoons. Pitchers are two for one."

"I am busy," Y/N lied.

"Suit yourself. More cheap booze for me." Grabbing a slice of toast, he wandered back to his room.

Y/N turned her attention back to the screen.

Thank you for your interest in the Assistant Editor position. Unfortunately, we have decided to move forward with other candidates. We wish you the best of luck in your future endeavors.

Delete. Delete. Delete.

The rejections were piling up. Despite the honors degree and the dissertation praised by her professors, the real world saw her as just another twenty-two-year-old with zero experience and no connections.

Harry could have made a call.

The thought intruded before she could stop it. Harry knew everyone. One word from him, and she would be sitting in an office at Bloomsbury right now. He would have handled it. He would have smoothed the path.

Opening her banking app, she stared at the number on the screen.

It was large. Six months of allowance saved diligently. It was enough to pay rent in this dump for two years, to buy a new wardrobe, or to book a holiday to Bali.

She hadn't spent a penny of it. Once a high score, a safety net, it now felt like a bomb.

It was the only thing keeping her alive. She had quit the café to focus on finals because Harry had told her to. Focus on your studies, he had said. Let me handle the finances. So she had.

Now she was unemployed, relying on the money of a man she had dumped. Every time she bought a carton of milk or paid the electric bill, she felt like she was stealing. It was blood money, and she was terrified of the day it would run out.

Closing the app, she looked around the messy kitchen. The sink was full of grey water and Josh’s cereal bowls; the window looked out onto a brick wall and a row of overflowing bins.

This was reality. This was the "normal" life she had screamed at Harry that she wanted.

She wanted to cry.

She wanted to call him. She wanted to tell him that she was sorry, that the light he talked about was actually just fluorescent and flickering, and that she missed his darkness. She missed his protection.

Harry hadn't just been a lover. He had been a shield, standing between her and the ugly, difficult parts of the world. Now the shield was gone, and she was exposed.

Y/N picked up her phone again, opening their message thread. The last text was from April.

I am not hungry.

Her thumb hovered over the text box.

I miss you. I made a mistake. Please come get me.

She typed the words out, staring at them. They looked pathetic. They looked like defeat.

She erased them.

Placing the phone face down on the table, she took a sip of the bitter black coffee. She hadn't bought milk because she was too scared to dip into the savings for luxuries.

She had made her choice. Now she had to live with it, even if living with it meant watching Josh drink from the carton while her heart broke a little more every single day.

The restaurant was quiet. The kind of quiet that cost three hundred pounds a head.

The air smelled of truffles and old money. In the corner, a harpist plucked at something unrecognizable while waiters moved like ghosts across the plush carpet, terrified of disturbing the peace.

Harry sat at the best table in the house, wearing a Tom Ford suit that fit like armor. He had shaved, styled his hair, and curated an appearance worthy of a Forbes cover.

Across from him sat Victoria.

Victoria was perfect. Forty-two years old, the daughter of a Viscount, and the ex-wife of a hedge fund manager, she was a study in elegance. Her blond hair was blow-dried into submission, her teeth were blindingly white, and her pearls were tasteful.

She was appropriate.

She was exactly the kind of woman a man in Harry’s tax bracket was supposed to be with, a partner whose presence at a board meeting signaled stability, a woman fluent in non-dom statuses and offshore accounts.

Harry wanted to scream.

"And then Charles said that the merger with the German firm was dragging on simply because of the unions," Victoria was saying, taking a delicate sip of her white wine. "Can you imagine? Holding up a billion-pound deal because of pension disputes. The working class is becoming so entitled."

She laughed, a light, tinkling sound like ice hitting glass.

Harry forced the corners of his mouth up. "Terrible."

"Exactly," she beamed. "So I told him to just liquidate the subsidiary and be done with it. It’s cleaner on the balance sheet."

She paused, looking at him expectantly. She was waiting for him to agree, to talk shop, to discuss the ruthless efficiency of capitalism.

"Liquidation is certainly efficient," Harry said, his voice sounding flat to his own ears.

"It is," she agreed. "Speaking of efficiency, I saw the quarterly reports for your firm. Your aggressive acquisition of that tech startup? Brilliant. Ruthless, but brilliant."

Harry picked up his wine glass and drank half of it in one swallow.

Looking at her, he acknowledged the facts: she was beautiful, smart, and successful. She spoke his language, the dialect of money, assets, and liquidity.

But she was suffocatingly boring.

His gaze drifted to her hands. Her nails were manicured in a pale, perfect pink.

Instead of admiring them, he remembered Y/N’s hands. He remembered the ink stain on her thumb from taking notes in the library, the way she gripped a pen like a weapon, the way she tapped her fingers on the dashboard when a song she liked came on the radio.

"Harry?"

He snapped his head up. Victoria was frowning slightly.

"I am sorry," Harry said. "I was miles away."

"I asked if you play tennis," she said. "The club has a mixed doubles tournament next month. I need a partner who can actually serve. My ex-husband had a wrist like a wet noodle."

"I don't play," Harry lied. He played very well, usually every Sunday with his banking friends.

"That is a shame," she pouted. "You have the build for it."

The waiter arrived with their appetizers: a single scallop sitting in a pool of foam.

Victoria looked at it with delight. "This looks divine. I love this chef. He keeps the portions so... manageable."

Harry looked at the scallop.

The memory hit him instantly: Y/N forcing him to eat a kebab at 2 AM on a street corner in Soho. The grease on her chin, her laughter when he dropped garlic sauce on his five-thousand-pound coat, her voice saying, It’s not food if you don’t need a napkin, Harry.

Victoria cut a tiny piece of the scallop and chewed slowly.

"So," she said. "I heard you’re looking into buying that property in the Cotswolds. The estate next to the Beckhams?"

"I am thinking about it," Harry said.

"You should," she nodded. "It’s a good investment. Land is the only thing that holds value these days. Besides, you need a place to escape the city. London is becoming so... crowded. Don't you think?"

She gestured vaguely to the window, to the streets below where normal people lived.

"Crowded," Harry repeated.

"Yes. Too much noise. Too much grit. I prefer the quiet."

Harry stared at her.

Y/N loved the grit. She loved the noise, the sticky floors, the mess of life. She made him feel alive because she dragged him into the crowd, not away from it.

Victoria was offering him a sterile, quiet, perfectly managed life where scallops were small, people were "manageable," and no one made bad decisions.

It felt like a coffin. It felt like death by small talk.

If this was the "appropriate" life he had sacrificed his happiness for, then he had made a terrible mistake. He didn't want the quiet estate in the Cotswolds. He wanted the argument. He wanted the passion. He wanted the girl who challenged him on literature and stole his t-shirts.

He could not do this. He could not sit here for another hour and pretend that he cared about property values or pension disputes.

Harry signaled the waiter.

"Check please," he said.

Victoria looked stunned. "Harry? We haven't even had the main course."

"I am not hungry," Harry said, pulling out his heavy titanium black card and dropping it on the table.

"Is something wrong?" Victoria asked, her smile faltering. "Did I say something?"

"No," Harry said. He stood up and buttoned his jacket. "You were perfect, Victoria. You were absolutely appropriate."

He looked down at her.

"That is the problem."

He didn't wait for the receipt. Turning on his heel, he walked past the harpist, past the maitre d', and out into the cool London night.

The air smelled of exhaust and rain. It smelled real.

He was alone, miserable, and definitely going to die in his big empty house with his millions in the bank. But at least he didn't have to talk about tennis.

The wifi in the flat was a test of patience, buffering constantly as Y/N sat on the bedroom floor.

She leaned against the radiator, hoarding its meager heat, wrapped in a crew neck sweatshirt she had stolen from Harry months ago. It no longer smelled of his expensive cologne or the unique warmth of his skin; now, it just smelled of her cheap laundry detergent.

With one final, agonizing refresh, the page loaded.

It was a grainy paparazzi shot taken from across the street, but the subject was unmistakable.

Harry.

He was walking out of that Mayfair restaurant with the three-month waiting list, wearing the charcoal suit she loved—the one with the silk lining. Even in low resolution, he looked devastating.

But he wasn't alone.

Beside him was a woman. Tall, blonde, and draped in a cream coat that likely cost more than Y/N’s entire student loan debt. She was laughing, head thrown back in an elegant display of joy.

Harry Styles, Chief Executive Officer, Vanguard Holdings, spotted dining with Victoria St. Clair, heiress to the St. Clair shipping fortune.

The caption was simple, yet it felt like a slap: New Power Couple?

A cold stone dropped into Y/N’s stomach.

It had been only three weeks.

Three weeks, and he was already out dining with heiresses, slipping back into the world of cream coats, pearls, and tax brackets that matched his own.

Victoria St. Clair looked perfect. She looked like someone who knew exactly which fork to use for the fish course and had never eaten instant noodles in her life. Y/N looked down at herself, sweatpants with a hole in the knee, toast for dinner, unemployed.

Zooming in on Harry’s face, she searched for a sign. He wasn't smiling. His expression was the unreadable mask he wore when closing a deal, but the context was clear. He was there. He was moving on.

She closed her laptop and pulled her knees to her chest, feeling incredibly, stupidly small. She had walked away to save herself, but looking at that photo, she realized she hadn't saved anything. She had just vacated the seat for someone who fit the mold.

Across the city, 9:00 PM found Harry still sitting in his office long after the cleaning crew had come and gone. Below him, the city lights of London sprawled like a circuit board, cold and distant.

He ignored the view. He ignored the merger documents on his desk. His attention was fixed solely on his computer screen.

A secure window was open. One requiring two-factor authentication and a biometric scan to access. It was the portal for his personal accounts. And hers.

He hadn't revoked his access. He told himself it was an oversight, a forgotten administrative task after the contract ended. But that was a lie.

He scanned the transaction history for Y/N’s account.

Tesco Metro - £12.50

TfL Oyster Top Up - £20.00

Pret a Manger - £3.50

Rent Payment (Theo Miller) - £600.00

Harry stared at the name. Theo Miller.

A flare of irrational, burning jealousy scorched through him. Who was Theo Miller? The landlord? A boyfriend? The guy with the nose ring from the pub?

He looked at the amount. Six hundred pounds. In London, that bought you a closet with mold on the walls and drafty windows.

Yet, the balance remained high. She hadn't touched the bulk of the allowance from the last six months. It just sat there, accumulating interest. She was living in a shoebox with some guy named Theo, eating Tesco meal deals while sitting on a small fortune.

Why? Why was she punishing herself?

Harry moved his mouse, hovering the cursor over the Transfer Funds button.

He could double it. Triple it. He could send enough right now to buy her a flat of her own, making her life easy again with a single click. His finger twitched over the mouse. He wanted to play the hero. He wanted to fix it, because throwing money at a problem was the only way he knew how to show love.

But then he remembered her voice.

I don't want a normal life! I want you!

She had rejected the money and the ease. Sending funds now wouldn't be a gift, it would be an insult. It would be a declaration that he didn't believe she could survive without him.

He couldn't do that to her. He had to respect her choice, even if watching her struggle felt like physical pain.

Closing the browser tab, the screen reverted to his generic landscape desktop background.

Swiveling his chair around, he faced the window and the city beyond. She was out there somewhere eating cheap food, living with Theo Miller, probably hating him. And he was up here in his glass tower, safe, rich, and completely empty.

He picked up his phone, scrolling past photos of potential real estate investments and art pieces until he stopped on a photo from six months ago.

It was accidental, blurry, taken in his kitchen on a Sunday morning. Y/N was wearing his t-shirt, laughing, her hand coming up to block the camera as the sun hit her hair. She looked happy.

Harry stared at the photo until the screen dimmed. He missed her so much it felt like bleeding out.

But he stayed in his tower, and he let her struggle. Because that was what she wanted.

The music wasn't just sound. It was a physical sensation. A relentless, thumping rhythm shook the floorboards and rattled the bottles on the bar, thickening the air with the smell of spilled lager, sweat, and cheap vanilla body spray.

Standing by the bar, Y/N lifted her boot, grimacing at the audible peeling sound as the sole separated from the layer of dried alcohol coating the wood. Her feet were literally stuck to the floor.

"Chug! Chug! Chug!"

Nearby, Josh stood on a stool, tilting a pitcher of something neon blue into the mouth of a girl Y/N didn’t know while Sarah cheered him on.

Y/N took a sip of her vodka cranberry. It tasted like rubbing alcohol and sugar syrup, warm and watery because the ice had melted twenty minutes ago.

She checked her phone: 11:15 PM.

In her old life, 11:15 PM on a Saturday meant sitting on the velvet sofa with Harry. It meant a glass of Pinot Noir that cost more than her rent, quiet conversations about books or politics, and the weight of his hand resting warm and heavy on her knee.

Here, it meant getting jostled by sweaty strangers in a room that smelled like a locker room.

"You look like you are at a funeral."

The guy sliding into the space next to her was cute enough, floppy hair, a nice smile, and a t-shirt that was a size too small. He smelled of vape smoke and Lynx.

"I am just tired," Y/N shouted over the bass.

"I’m Liam," he shouted back, leaning in too close. "I’m Josh’s mate from uni."

"Y/N."

"I know," he grinned. "Josh said his roommate was hot. He wasn't lying."

Y/N forced a brittle smile. Six months ago, this would have been flattering. A cute boy her age hitting on her in a bar. This was supposed to be the dream, the "normal life" Harry had insisted she needed.

"Can I get you a drink?" Liam asked. "You look like you need something stronger than that."

"I am okay."

"Come on," he insisted, signaling the bartender without waiting for her answer. "Two tequila shots! The good stuff!"

The bartender poured two shots of the house tequila, which was definitely not the good stuff. Liam handed her one, clinking his glass against hers so hard that liquid sloshed over her hand.

"To being young and dumb!" he cheered.

Y/N stared at the sticky liquid coating her knuckles.

Harry never spilled. Harry moved with a grace that bordered on supernatural. He would have handed her a glass by the stem, toasting to her eyes, her intelligence, or her future.

"Cheers," she mumbled, throwing the shot back. It burned all the way down.

Laughing, Liam wiped his mouth with his sleeve and leaned his elbow on the sticky bar.

"So," he yelled. "Josh says you just graduated. English lit, right?"

"Yeah."

"What are you gonna do with that? Teach?"

"I want to work in publishing," she said.

"Publishing," he nodded, glancing around the room as if already bored. "Sounds intense. My cousin tried to get into that. Said it pays peanuts."

He pulled his phone out of his pocket, checking a notification while she was still talking.

"Anyway," he said, shoving the phone back. "You wanna dance? This song is a banger."

He reached out and grabbed her waist.

His hand was sweaty. His grip was clumsy.

Y/N froze.

The memory of Harry’s grip crashed over her, the size of his hand, the way his thumb would stroke the sensitive skin of her hip bone, the heavy, possessive weight of his touch. It felt grounding. It felt like he was anchoring her to the earth.

Liam’s touch just felt clammy.

She pulled away sharply. "I can't."

Liam looked confused. "What? Why?"

"I have to go."

"Go? It’s not even midnight. The night is young!"

"I am not," Y/N said.

She pushed past him. She pushed past Josh, who was now wearing the empty pitcher on his head like a hat. She shouldered her way through the wall of bodies and noise, stumbling out of the club and onto the pavement.

The air outside was cool and wet. It was raining again.

Y/N leaned against the brick wall of the club, burying her face in her hands.

She was ruined.

Harry had ruined her. Not with malice or cruelty, but by being perfect. He had shown her what it felt like to be treated like a woman, to be listened to, cared for, and touched with reverence. Now, every other man on the planet felt like a child in comparison.

Looking up, she watched the boys stumbling out of the club. They were loud, messy, and exactly who she was supposed to be with.

But she didn't want them.

She wanted the silver hair. She wanted the lines around the eyes. She wanted the man who drank scotch, read Jane Austen, and made her feel safe.

"I hate you," she whispered to the empty street.

Wiping the tears from her face with the back of her sticky hand, she started the long walk back to the cold flat with the screaming roommate and the empty fridge.

The tray was heavy, loaded with flutes of cheap prosecco trying very hard to pass as champagne. Y/N balanced it on her left hand, feet throbbing in the cheap black flats she had bought at Primark only because the gallery manager insisted all temporary staff wear "sensible black footwear."

She was not an assistant editor. She was not a writer. She was "Event Staff."

It was a temporary gig. Two nights a week, ten pounds an hour plus tips. It barely covered the cost of her travel card, but it was money that didn't come from Harry’s bank account, so she took it.

The gallery in Soho was a white box with concrete floors and track lighting bright enough to perform surgery. The art on the walls was incomprehensible, a collection of red squares and twisted metal that cost more than most people earned in a decade.

Y/N moved through the crowd, keeping her head down, trying to make herself invisible.

Then the room went quiet.

It wasn't a total silence, but a shift in atmospheric pressure. A sudden drop in volume that started at the front door and washed over the crowd like a cold wave. Heads turned. Whispers started. The energy in the room shifted instantly from bored pretension to electric alertness.

Y/N looked up. Her heart didn't just stop, it plummeted through the floorboards.

Harry was standing in the doorway.

He looked like a weapon in a bespoke suit. Dressed entirely in black—shirt unbuttoned at the collar to reveal the tops of his tattoos, blazer with sharp lapels, his hair was pushed back, and his rings caught the harsh gallery lights.

He wasn't looking at the art. He wasn't looking at the frantic gallery owner buzzing around him. He was scanning the room, his eyes dark and predatory. He was hunting.

Y/N froze, hugging the tray of glasses to her chest like a shield as she stood near the center of the room, surrounded by people in furs and tuxedos.

Harry’s eyes locked onto her.

He didn't blink. He didn't look away or check to see if anyone was watching. He just started walking.

Cutting through the crowd like a shark moving through water, he ignored the people stepping out of his way, the whispers, and the pointing fingers. He walked straight toward her with a terrifying, singular focus.

Y/N’s breath hitched. She felt exposed, like a deer in the headlights of an oncoming train.

Harry stopped less than a foot in front of her.

He was so close that his scent, tobacco and expensive wood, overpowered the smell of the cheap wine, creating a sudden intimate vacuum in the middle of the crowded room.

The gallery owner hovered a few feet away, looking nervous, but Harry ignored him. The guests were staring openly now, watching Harry corner a waitress.

But when Harry spoke, he lowered his voice so that only she could hear him.

"Put it down," he murmured, a low vibration she felt in her chest.

"I am working," she whispered back without moving her lips. "I can't put it down."

"You are not a servant, Y/N," he rasped, eyes furious.

"I am tonight," she hissed. "People are staring, Harry."

"Let them stare." He took a half step closer, invading her personal space completely and forcing the world to disappear. "I don't care if they stare. I don't care if they take pictures. Look at me."

She looked up at him. His eyes were wrecked.

"You look thin," he accused quietly. "Are you eating?"

"I am fine."

"You are lying," he whispered. "I checked your account. You haven't touched the money. You are living on pennies and paying rent to some idiot named Theo Miller."

Y/N felt her face burn. "Harry, stop it. Not here. Theo is Josh's first name"

"I drove across the city because I saw the shift roster for this event," he confessed, voice raw and aching. "I came here to see you. Not to see art. Not to drink bad wine. Just you."

"You can't do this," she pleaded softly. "You can't just walk in here and act like you own me."

"I don't own you," Harry said. "But I am responsible for you. And seeing you like this... serving these people... it is killing me."

He reached out.

In full view of the room, he lifted his hand, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered on her cheek for a heartbeat. A gesture that was possessive, tender, and told everyone watching that they knew each other. But the words remained a secret between them.

"Come home," he breathed into the space between them. "Please."

Y/N looked at him, seeing the desperation in his eyes. She saw that he had broken every rule he had ever made about privacy just to stand here and ask her that question.

"I can't," she whispered. "I need to do this."

Harry’s hand dropped. The rejection hit him hard. Stepping back, the bubble burst, and the sounds of the room rushed back in. He looked around as if remembering where he was.

He turned to the wall beside them, staring at the massive black canvas with the red dot.

"This is garbage," he announced. His voice was loud now, carrying clearly over the murmuring crowd.

"It is titled The Void," Y/N said automatically, falling back into her role though her voice shook. "It is fifty thousand pounds."

"It matches your mood," Harry muttered low enough that only she heard it.

He looked at her, a dark humor flashing in his eyes.

"If I buy it," he asked loudly, "do you get a commission?"

"No," she said. "I am just the help."

"Pity."

Harry turned to the gallery owner, who was watching with his mouth open.

"I will take it," Harry said, pointing at the black painting. "Wrap it up. Send it to this address."

Pulling a card from his pocket, he scribbled something on the back and handed it to the owner. Then he looked back at Y/N, holding her gaze one last time.

"Don't let them work you too hard," he said softly.

He turned and walked away, cutting through the crowd that parted for him, leaving Y/N standing in the center of the room with a tray of champagne and a heart beating so hard it hurt.

The next morning.

Y/N was sitting in the kitchen eating dry toast. Josh was playing FIFA on the sofa.

There was a knock at the door.

"I'll get it!" Josh yelled.

He opened the door.

"Holy shit," he said.

Y/N walked into the hallway.

Two men in blue coveralls were standing there. They were holding a massive crate.

"Delivery for Y/N," one of them said.

"For me?"

They carried the crate inside. It barely fit in the hallway. It took up the entire living room.

Josh grabbed a screwdriver. "What is it? A fridge?"

They pried the lid off.

Y/N stared.

It was the painting. The black canvas with the red dot. The fifty thousand pound garbage.

There was a small white envelope taped to the front.

Y/N pulled it off. Her hands were shaking. She opened it.

Inside was a note written on heavy cream cardstock. The handwriting was messy and all caps.

IT IS PRETENTIOUS GARBAGE. HANG IT OVER YOUR WALL. - H

Y/N looked at the painting. She looked at the note.

"What is it?" Josh asked staring at the black canvas. "Is that art? It looks like a spot."

"It is," Y/N said pressing the note to her chest.

The painting was a problem.

Physically, it was a problem because it was four feet wide and six feet tall. In a gallery, it looked imposing. In a hallway that smelled of damp carpet, it was a monolith. It blocked the bathroom door. If you wanted to pee, you had to turn sideways and suck in your stomach to squeeze past it.

"We should sell it," Josh said for the tenth time.

He was standing in front of it, eating a bowl of cereal. He pointed his spoon at the red dot in the center of the black canvas.

"I Googled it, Y/N. The guy who painted this? Some Danish dude. His stuff goes for insane money. We could put it on eBay. Or Gumtree."

Y/N sat on the floor, her back against the peeling wallpaper, staring at the canvas.

She looked at the pretentious red dot. She looked at the aggressive black void. She remembered Harry’s face in the gallery. The way he had looked at it with such disdain, only to buy it ten seconds later just to make her smile.

He hadn't sent flowers. Flowers were cliché. Flowers died. He hadn't sent jewelry. Jewelry was a transaction.

He had sent a fifty-thousand-pound inside joke.

He had sent a massive, inconvenient, ridiculous object just because they had shared a moment of snark about it. It was the most absurd, excessive, "Harry" thing he could have possibly done.

A bubble of laughter rose in her chest.

It started as a giggle, then bubbled up into a full, wet laugh. She covered her mouth, her shoulders shaking.

"What?" Josh asked, looking at her like she had lost her mind. "Why are you laughing? It’s just a spot."

"It’s not just a spot," Y/N gasped, wiping a tear from her eye. "It’s a love letter."

"A what?"

"It’s him," she said, shaking her head. "He’s insane. He’s absolutely insane. And he squeezed this giant thing into my tiny life just to remind me that he’s there."

She stood up. The laughter settled into a warm, glowing resolve in her chest. The coldness she had felt for three weeks evaporated.

Harry wasn't trying to buy her. He wasn't trying to starve her out. He was trying to flirt with her. He was poking her from his ivory tower, waiting to see if she would poke back.

"I’m going out," she announced.

"Where?" Josh asked. "To sell it?"

"No," Y/N said, grabbing her coat. She checked her reflection in the hallway mirror. She didn't look tired anymore. She looked like a woman with a plan. "I’m going to return the receipt."

"The receipt?"

"I’m going to negotiate, Josh," she said, a wicked smile spreading across her face. "Don't sell the painting. I think it really ties the room together."

The building was a fortress of glass and steel.

Vanguard Holdings occupied the top ten floors of one of the tallest skyscrapers in the City of London. It was a building designed to intimidate. The lobby was three stories high, filled with polished marble and security guards who looked like they were ex-SAS.

Y/N stood outside the revolving doors.

She looked down at herself. She wasn't wearing an interview suit. She was wearing wide-leg jeans rolled at the ankle, a crisp white tank top, and a long, structured black coat. A black baseball cap was pulled low over her hair, and a leather crossbody bag was slung across her chest.

She looked young. She looked like the kind of person who didn't belong in a place like this, which made her stand out even more.

She pushed through the revolving doors.

The air inside was cool and smelled of expensive sanitizer. The noise of the city vanished, replaced by the hushed murmur of commerce. Men in blue suits walked with purpose, checking their phones. Women in heels clicked across the marble.

Y/N walked straight to the reception desk. The receptionist was beautiful, intimidating, and wearing a headset.

"Can I help you?" she asked, not looking up from her screen.

"I am here to see Harry Styles," Y/N said clearly.

The receptionist stopped typing. She looked up. Her eyes swept over the jeans, the baseball cap, the trainers. It was a look of dismissal.

"Do you have an appointment?"

"No."

The receptionist gave a small, pitying smile. "Mr. Styles’ calendar is booked months in advance. I can't just—"

"Tell him it’s Y/N," she interrupted, leaning slightly onto the high desk. "Tell him I’m here about the commission."

The receptionist blinked. "The commission?"

"He’ll know what it means."

The receptionist hesitated. There was a spark in Y/N’s eyes that suggested she wasn't a random petitioner. She looked like trouble.

"One moment."

The receptionist picked up the phone. She dialed a number. She spoke in a hushed voice, turning her chair slightly away.

"Yes... a woman named Y/N... No, no appointment... She says it’s about a commission?"

Pause.

The receptionist went pale. Her eyes went wide.

"Yes. Yes, sir. Immediately."

She hung up the phone. She looked at Y/N with wide, terrified eyes. The pity was gone. Replaced by awe.

"Mr. Styles says you are to go up immediately," she said, her voice shaking slightly. "Top floor. The private elevator is to your right. Scan this pass."

She handed Y/N a plastic card.

"Thank you," Y/N said, tucking the pass into her pocket.

She walked to the private elevator. She scanned the pass.

The doors slid open.

There were no buttons inside. Just a single panel that lit up as soon as she entered.

Floor 45.

The elevator rose. Her ears popped.

She watched the numbers climb. 10... 20... 30...

Her stomach did flip-flops. She wasn't just going up a building. She was ascending back to Olympus. She was going back to the god who had thrown lightning bolts at her in a gallery and left her with a storm.

40... 45.

Ding.

The doors opened into a sleek, minimalist reception area. It was all glass and white marble. A severe-looking assistant sat behind a desk that cost more than Y/N’s university tuition.

"You are Y/N?" the assistant asked, looking her up and down with open disapproval. The baseball cap seemed to offend her personally.

"Yes."

"Mr. Styles is currently in a meeting," the assistant said coldly. "Take a seat. He will see you when he is finished."

Y/N didn't argue. She walked over to a black leather bench and sat down. She stretched her legs out, her trainers scuffing the pristine floor. She crossed her arms and waited.

Ten minutes passed.

Then, the large double doors to the inner office opened.

A woman walked out.

She was in her forties. She had perfectly coiffed blonde hair and was wearing a tailored navy suit that fit her like a second skin. She was carrying a leather portfolio and looked every inch the successful, "appropriate" executive.

She stopped when she saw Y/N.

Her eyes raked over the younger girl, the baggy jeans, the tank top, the baseball cap. Her lip curled slightly in a look of pure disdain. It was the look of someone who recognized an intruder. A tourist.

She shook her head slightly and walked to the elevator without a word.

Y/N watched her go. That was the competition. That was the life Harry was supposed to have.

The assistant’s phone buzzed.

"He will see you now," she said stiffly.

Y/N stood up. She adjusted her bag. She walked to the heavy double doors.

She pushed them open.

Harry’s office was massive. It occupied the corner of the building, with floor-to-ceiling glass walls on two sides. London lay spread out below like a toy set.

Harry was standing by the window.

He was wearing a suit identical to the one he wore to the gallary. It was perfectly fitted, emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders and the narrowness of his waist. He was holding a tumbler of amber liquid. He looked breathtaking. He looked rich. He looked untouchable.

He heard the door close. He turned around.

He saw her.

He froze. The glass lowered slowly in his hand. His eyes swept over her, the coat, the jeans, the cap casting a shadow over her eyes. The contrast between her youthful, cool aesthetic and his severe, corporate surroundings was jarring.

He didn't smile, but his eyes lit up. It was the first time she had seen life in them in weeks.

"You came," he said.

Y/N didn't walk further into the room. She stayed by the door, her hand gripping the strap of her bag.

"Who was she?" she asked.

Harry blinked, confused by the lack of greeting. "Who?"

"The woman," Y/N said, her voice tight. "The blonde. The suit. The one who looked at me like I was the cleaning crew. Is that her? Is that the appropriate choice?"

Harry’s expression hardened. He set his glass down on the window sill with a sharp clink.

"That was Victoria," he said. "She is a client. We are discussing a merger."

"She looked like more than a merger," Y/N accused. "She looked like a Sunday morning. She looked like someone your parents would love."

"She is a bore," Harry said flatly. "She talks about tennis and pension funds."

"So you haven't moved on?" she asked. Her voice wavered slightly, losing its edge. "You aren't... replacing me?"

Harry laughed. It was a dark, humorless sound.

"Replacing you?" he repeated. He walked toward her, stopping just out of reach. He looked at her with an intensity that burned. "Y/N, I have spent the last three weeks staring at a wall and checking your bank account every hour. I went to dinner with that woman once and I left before the main course because she wasn't you. I haven't moved on. I haven't moved an inch."

Y/N let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. The knot in her chest loosened.

"Good," she whispered.

"Good," Harry echoed. He looked her up and down again, this time taking in the outfit with appreciation rather than shock.

"Ideally, I would have sent a courier," Y/N said, recovering her composure and walking further into the room. Her trainers made no sound on the plush grey carpet. "But the item in question is a bit difficult to transport."

Harry’s lips twitched. "Is it?"

"It’s four feet wide, Harry," she said, stopping ten feet from him. "It blocks the bathroom. I have to shimmy past fifty thousand pounds of Danish angst just to brush my teeth."

Harry chuckled. It was a rusty sound, but it was real.

"I thought it matched your mood," he said smoothly.

"It matches the damp spot on the ceiling perfectly," she countered. "Josh wants to sell it on eBay."

"He wouldn't dare."

"He might. He wants to buy a used Ford Fiesta."

Harry grimaced. "Please tell him I will buy him a Fiesta if he promises never to touch the canvas again."

"I’m not here to talk about Josh’s car," Y/N said.

"Why are you here?"

"I’m here to negotiate."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Negotiate? I didn't know we had an open deal."

"We do now."

She walked around the desk. She was now in his space. She was invading his territory just like he had invaded hers at the gallery.

"I have a counter-offer," she said.

Harry turned fully toward her. The playfulness dimmed slightly, replaced by an intense, hungry focus. "I’m listening."

"I am not signing a new contract," she stated.

"Okay."

"I am not taking an allowance for 'services rendered'."

"Okay."

"And I am not living in a schedule," she said. "If I want to see you on a Tuesday, I see you on a Tuesday. If I want to call you at 3 AM because I had a bad dream, I call you. No appointments. No shifts. No walls."

Harry looked at her. He looked at the fire in her eyes under the brim of the cap.

"That sounds chaotic," he murmured.

"It is," she agreed. "It’s messy. It’s unprofessional. It’s completely inefficient."

She took a step closer. She reached up and took off her cap, letting her hair fall around her shoulders. She looked up at him, baring her face.

"But it’s real, Harry. And I think you’re bored of perfect."

Harry stared down at her. He reached out and touched her hair, as if checking she was real.

"I am," he admitted softly. "I am bored to death of perfect. But I am also terrified of the mess.”

He looked up at her, and for the first time, the confident mask cracked completely. He looked vulnerable.

"You have to understand, Y/N... I don't know how to do that," he said, his voice rough. "I have lived my entire adult life in a contract. I understand terms. I understand boundaries. I understand ownership."

He stepped closer, his hands twitching at his sides as if he wanted to reach for her but wasn't sure if he was allowed to.

"I don't know how to do 'real'," he whispered. "I don't know how to handle the chaos without trying to fix it with money. So if we do this... if you want no walls..."

He took a shaky breath.

"You have to go slow with me. You have to be patient. Because this is new to me. And I am going to make mistakes."

Y/N softened. She saw the fear behind the power. He was a master of the universe, but he was a novice at love.

"I can be patient," she whispered. "As long as you are trying."

"I am willing to do anything to get you back," Harry swore. "I will burn the contracts. I will deal with the mess. Just... teach me how to do it."

"Deal," she whispered.

Harry looked at her mouth. He looked at her eyes. He looked like a man who had been holding his breath for a month and was finally exhaling.

"You missed a term," he said.

"Did I?"

"The living arrangements," Harry said, his voice dropping to a low rumble. "The painting doesn't fit in your flat. It’s a health and safety hazard."

"It is," she conceded.

"I have a wall," Harry said, stepping closer until their bodies were almost touching. "In Mayfair. It’s a very large, very empty wall. It needs something pretentious to tie the room together."

Y/N smiled. A genuine, blinding smile.

"Is that a job offer, Mr. Styles?"

"No," Harry said. He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her flush against the expensive fabric of his suit. "It’s a plea. Bring the painting back. Bring your toothbrush. Bring the chaos."

He lowered his head.

"Just bring yourself back," he whispered against her lips. "Because I can't survive another week of being appropriate."

"Deal," she whispered.

Harry didn't kiss her immediately.

He rested his forehead against hers, closing his eyes and letting out a shuddering breath that seemed to empty his lungs of all the stress and distance of the last month. His hands moved up her back, large, warm, and firm. One hand slid into her hair, cupping the back of her head, holding her like she was something precious he had almost lost in a fire.

Then, he tilted his head and captured her mouth.

It wasn't aggressive. It wasn't a demand. It was worship.

His lips moved against hers with a slow, devastating tenderness. He kissed her like he was memorizing the shape of her mouth all over again. He tasted like relief. He tasted like home.

Y/N melted into him, her hands clutching the lapels of his jacket, rising on her toes to get closer. The cold, sterile office faded away. The view of London disappeared. There was only the heat of his body and the beat of his heart against her chest.

Harry groaned low in his throat, the sound vibrating against her lips. He deepened the kiss, pouring every ounce of his fear, his need, and his unspoken love into it. It was a promise signed not in ink, but in breath and skin.

He pulled her tighter until there was no air left between them, kissing her until her knees went weak and she had to cling to him just to stay upright.

Then, the shift happened.

He didn't pull away gently. He tore his mouth from hers with a sharp exhale, his forehead knocking against hers. His hands gripped her waist hard enough to leave marks.

"Three weeks," Harry rasped. It wasn't romantic; it was an accusation. "You vanished for three weeks."

"I had to," Y/N breathed, trying to find her footing. "I had to see if I could do it."

"And?" Harry demanded. He pulled back just enough to look her in the eye. His gaze was dark, dilated, and terrifyingly focused. "Could you?"

"No," she admitted. "I hated it."

Harry let out a rough sound, half-laugh, half-groan.

"You have no idea," he muttered. "You have no idea what you did to me."

He grabbed her hips and lifted her effortlessly, backing her up until she hit the edge of the desk. He set her on top of it, stepping between her legs to get closer. The friction of his expensive suit against her denim jeans sent a jolt of heat straight to her core.

"I stopped going home," Harry confessed. He ran his thumbs over her jawline, holding her face still so she couldn't look away. "I stayed here. I slept on the sofa in the back office."

He leaned in, his nose brushing hers.

"I haven't slept more than three hours a night since you left," he said, his voice low and gritty. "I stare at the ceiling and I wonder where you are. I wonder if you're cold. I wonder if you're with someone else."

"There was no one else," Y/N promised.

"Good," Harry growled. "Because I don't share."

He didn't wait for more words. He crashed his mouth back onto hers.

This wasn't a soft reunion. It was a collision.

He kissed her like he was starving. His mouth was hot and demanding, his tongue sweeping into her mouth with a possessive rhythm that made her head spin. It was messy, desperate, and necessary.

Y/N met him with equal force, wrapping her legs around his waist, pulling him flush against her. She tangled her fingers in his hair, tugging hard, needing to feel the reality of him.

Harry groaned into her mouth. He tilted her head back, exposing her throat. He buried his face in her neck, but he didn't kiss the skin gently; he bit down lightly on the sensitive cord of muscle, scraping his teeth against her pulse.

"Harry," she gasped, her back arching off the desk.

"I hated it," he murmured against her skin, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss over the spot he had just marked. "I hated every second of the quiet. Don't ever do that to me again."

"I won't," she breathed.

"I mean it," he said, pulling back. His lips were red, his hair was a mess, and his tie was askew. He looked thoroughly unraveled. "We figure it out. We fight. We negotiate. But you don't leave."

"I'm not going anywhere," she swore.

Harry stared at her for a second longer, cataloging the truth in her eyes. Then he nodded—once, sharp and decisive. The mask of control slid back into place, though his eyes remained wild.

He smoothed his tie with a hand that was still shaking slightly.

"Get off the desk," he said, his voice rough. "I'm taking you home."

Harry walked over to the intercom on his desk. He pressed the button with a heavy finger.

"Sophie?"

The assistant’s voice crackled through the speaker, crisp and professional. "Yes, Mr. Styles?"

"Cancel the board meeting," Harry said calmly. "Cancel the dinner with the investors. Cancel tomorrow morning while you are at it."

There was a stunned silence on the other end.

"Sir? The board meeting is regarding the Q3 projections. They are already seated in the conference room."

"Tell them something came up," Harry said. He looked at Y/N. He looked at her messy hair, her oversized coat, and the defiance still lingering in her eyes. "Tell them I am handling a volatile asset."

He released the button.

He grabbed his long wool coat from the rack and shrugged it on over his suit. He buttoned it once, his movements sharp and efficient.

He didn't ask if she was ready. He didn't offer his hand like a gentleman asking for a dance. He reached out and captured her hand. His grip was firm, warm, and absolute. It wasn't an invitation; it was a claim.

He pulled her toward the door.

They walked out of the inner office. Sophie was standing behind her desk, looking pale. She stared at Harry, then at Y/N in her baseball cap and trainers, and finally at Harry’s hand clamped possessively around the girl’s fingers.

"Sir," she stammered. "Should I reschedule for Monday?"

"Yes," Harry said. He didn't stop walking. "And Sophie?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Send someone to the address I am about to text you. There is a large black painting in the hallway. Have it transported to the townhouse. Carefully."

"The... painting, sir?"

"Yes."

Harry guided Y/N into the elevator, his hand moving to the small of her back to usher her in. The doors slid shut on Sophie's bewildered face.

They rode down in silence. It wasn't awkward. It was the charged, heavy silence of two people who had just narrowly avoided a collision.

When the doors opened in the lobby, the security guards straightened up. Usually, Harry walked through the lobby like a ghost—fast, focused on his phone, acknowledging no one.

Today he slowed down.

He kept Y/N firmly at his side. He walked her past the reception desk, past the marble columns, and through the revolving doors out onto the street. He didn't look at anyone else. He made it very clear that the only thing in the building that mattered was the woman wearing the baseball cap.

His driver was waiting at the curb. Harry opened the door for her, waited for her to slide in, and then got in beside her.

"Home," Harry said to the driver.

The car pulled away into the grey London traffic. The interior was quiet, sealed off from the noise of the city.

Y/N leaned back against the leather headrest, the adrenaline finally fading into exhaustion. She turned her head.

Harry was sitting in the corner of the seat, watching her. His arm was resting on the window ledge, his hand covering his mouth as if he was thinking. His eyes were heavy, dark, and unblinking.

"What?" she asked softly.

Harry dropped his hand. He didn't smile.

"I missed you," he said. It was a statement of fact, devoid of poetry.

Y/N let out a small breath, a corner of her mouth ticking up. She reached over and tugged lightly on the end of his tie, which was still crooked from their collision in the office.

"A volatile asset?" she teased softly. "Is that what I am now?"

Harry caught her hand before she could pull away, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. A ghost of a smirk finally touched his lips, bringing the light back into his eyes.

"High risk," he murmured, interlacing their fingers on the leather seat. "But very high reward."

At the airport, the others had crossed the tarmac somberly while the pilot flagged him down. He’d stepped back into the hanger to be told by an air traffic controller that they couldn’t leave, there were massive thunderstorms coming and already blowing up along their flight path home. Dangerous storms. They probably wouldn't be leaving until morning.

Now, on his way across the tarmac to go and make a bad night worse—or so he thought—he heard music.

Loud music.

And was the jet… Bouncing?

He didn’t have to guess to know who was responsible, there was only one possibility.

You.

The newest and youngest member of his team, who had become like a younger sister or daughter to every other agent on the team.

Including himself.

You were nearly twenty years younger than Reid, making you the youngest agent ever on the team since Reid. In fact, you weren’t very much older than Jack, who was in his fourth semester at Harvard.

Hotch had hired you on because the older he and Dave got, the harder things became without a press liaison. Someone to keep things organized and take the weight off his aging shoulders a bit. JJ had trained you, since she was a profiler now but still knew very well how to the do the job. Though you had come in pretty well prepared all on your own.

Nearly a year later and they all adored you so much they truly might’ve allowed you to get away with murder… which could’ve been a problem given their job description.

Except, you were the least likely person he knew—other than Garcia—to harm another living thing.

You, the sweetheart that you were, had brought light and life back into the BAU. After two decades on the team, even Penelope’s innocence was completely lost, and they had all become terribly jaded. However, you had slowly begun to smooth out their rough edges. You were putting them back together again one piece at a time, and Hotch didn’t know how you were doing it, but he’d be damned if he ever told you to stop.

So as he trudged up the steps and onto the jet, he stopped to listen.

"COME ON ROSSI, YOU TOO!” He heard you shout over the blaring melody.

"BUT I DON’T EVEN KNOW THIS SONG!!” Dave protested.

"YOU DON’T HAVE TO KNOW A SONG TO DANCE TO IT!” You argued, “YOU JUST DANCE!”

The argument stopped, so Aaron assumed that you’d won, because—knowing you—you sure as hell hadn’t given up.

He crept up the rest of the stairs, stepping inside the jet, and leaned against the wall where the shadows still mostly concealed him, but he could see the rest of you just fine.

And what a sight it was.

You were standing on the couch, something he might’ve scolded one of the others for—once upon a time, when they were younger and wilder—because shoes didn't belong on the leather upholstery. The others were bouncing along to the music, though whether or not they were on beat was debatable. Terrible dancers… every single one except Dave and Derek. Though Dave was pathetically flailing around to this song, because he didn’t know what kind of dance he was supposed to be doing.

Hotch couldn’t help the small smile that pulled at his lips, and he knew Penelope would want to see this for herself so he pulled out his cell and FaceTimed her. Turning the camera so that the first thing she would see was you, jumping on the couch and screaming the lyrics of this song at the top of your lungs.

"EVERYBODY NOW!” You shouted, as the crescendo to the chorus began, “STARING AT THE BLANK PAGE BEFORE YOU, OPEN UP THE DIRTY WINDOW, LET THE SUN–”

Penelope answered, and at first she seemed confused, but then her face lit up and she began to laugh as he panned the camera around the cabin.

"I SEE YOU OVER THERE, HOTCH! GET IN HERE!” You demanded, he knew he’d been caught, and there wasn’t any sense in arguing… you’d win.

Throwing up his hand in surrender, he walked up to Prentiss and JJ—who were dancing together—to offer his phone to them, so that Penelope could feel included.

He didn’t know what else to do… so he followed the lead of Reid and Dave, simply bouncing along to the music.

"RELEASE YOUR INHIBITIONS! FEEL THE RAIN ON YOUR SKIN!!” All the women, and Derek, were screaming the words at the top of their lungs.

Hotch didn’t dare admit he knew the song—lest he be compelled to sing or dance more enthusiastically—but he would admit that he felt a weight lifting from his shoulders.

His chest felt lighter, he was smiling, his heart was racing in the best way, and all of his friends—his family—were happy. So he was happy.

All because of you.

By the time the song ended, Aaron was laughing just as hard as the others. Doubling over to catch his breath, he wound up catching JJ and Emily too as they stumbled into him, and all three of them wound up on the couch in a pile at your feet. Penelope waved goodbye—grinning broadly—and hung up as Prentiss handed back his phone.

You simply sat down on the back of the couch and beamed at all of them.

“There! Don’t you all feel better now?” You asked them, still giggling as you caught your breath.

“What on earth was that all about?” He panted, still out of breath and confused about what he’d walked in on and been forced to join.

“We were dancing it out, Boss Man.” You shrugged, and he rolled his eyes at the nickname, though he truly didn’t mind it. “It was all gloom and doom in here, and I couldn’t take it. We won! We got the bad guy, we saved that girl’s life, she’s going home to her family tonight, we’re all alive and healthy, and we get to go home and sleep in our own beds tonight. We have plenty to celebrate. So I thought we should.”

“Of course you did.” He smiled up at you fondly, shaking his head, then raised an eyebrow at you. “But the next time you stand on that couch with your shoes on, I’ll make you detail this cabin.” He warned you, but there was no bite in his tone and he could tell you knew he didn’t mean it.

“Worth it.” You grinned.

“I hate to put a damper on the party…” He murmured then, and he saw the others faces begin to fall, but not yours.

No.

You held onto your smile with every fiber of your being, even as the joy in your eyes wavered slightly.

“We’re not going home tonight…” He sighed, and groans went up around the cabin.

“Stop it.” You scolded, “Or I will make you all do the chicken dance and you will like it.”

That earned you several scowls, and Rossi murmured something about putting you in the cargo hold if you didn’t simmer down, but you were undeterred. In fact, that only seemed to encourage you, so he rushed to finish his announcement before you really did make them do the chicken dance.

“There are several lines of severe weather between us and home, so our pilot has decided that we’re staying until morning.” He explained, giving an apologetic frown, “I already got new rooms for the night, though we may have to share…” A glare from you kept the whines at bay, so he continued, “I’m sorry, I know it isn’t ideal but it’s the hand we’ve been dealt.”

Just then rain began to pound on the hull of the jet, so loud it was near deafening. The others all began cursing and muttering about how it couldn’t get any worse.

“When was the last time any of you just… danced in the rain? Literally, felt it on your skin? It’s just water, and none of you are sweet enough to melt, I promise. You all have forgotten how to let these things roll off your backs, you’re taking life too seriously!” You lectured, standing and pushing your way off the couch. “I am going out there, and I am going to have fun. You guys know that word right? I hope so, because we earned some fun this week. Now we get to hang out, and spend time unwinding with the only other people in the nation that know what it feels like to do this job! But if you guys want to sulk, and be miserable all night… then I will just go out there by myself and make the most of my night. If any of you want to join me, I have Tequila and Tunes that I will happily share in my room when we get back.”

You turned and headed for the door, grabbing your coat and pulling it on.

“Where did you get tequila?” Hotch called after you, more than slightly concerned.

“Flirted with the hotel bar tender.” You called back over you shoulder, confirming his need for concern. “Very cute, very gullible— oh shit… we’re going back. I may need someone to sneak me inside in their go-bag, cause that guy definitely thought I was gonna sleep with him.” You sighed, shrugged, then smiled back at them, “Oh well, ya never know. He could be a good lay, like the song said, ‘release your inhibitions.’” You swayed your shoulders as you sang the lyrics.

With that, you stepped out into the rain and they watched through the windows as you descended the stairs to the tarmac. Only to run through the rain with your arms out wide, head thrown back, mouth open wide, catching raindrops on your tongue.

“So… someone’s gonna make sure she doesn’t actually sleep with the hotel bar tender, right?” Derek muttered into the silence you left in your wake.

“Obviously.” Prentiss assumed the responsibility, “That guy was a walking red flag.”

“Do we think the tequila he gave her is any good?” Dave grimaced, and Aaron knew what he was thinking… they could feel the hangovers coming already.

“Does it matter?” JJ scoffed, already heading for the door. “Tequila is tequila. I’m going with her.”

“What the hell…” Prentiss shrugged, getting up to follow JJ. “What else are we gonna do tonight? Sleep?”

“Doubtful.” Spencer muttered, and also stood. “I’m gonna make sure they all make it to the hotel.”

“Wait for me, pretty boy, you’ll need back up!” Derek called, chasing after him.

They all exited the plane while the two older men watched them out the window as they caught up, and began to dance in the rain with you.

“Should we join them?” Aaron asked Dave after a moment.

“To dance in the rain? No. To drink cheap tequila and regret every life decision we’ve ever made come tomorrow morning? Absolutely, my friend. Absolutely.” Dave joked, earning a chuckle from Aaron, which he joined in, but once their laughter faded he grew serious. “How long do you think she’ll make it?”

“I don’t know… but I hope this job doesn’t ruin her like it has the rest of us.” Aaron sighed, letting his head rest against the window as he watched you jump onto Morgans back, wrap your legs around his waist and hold your arms out like an airplane as he ran around, spinning you in circles. “She’s too… pure… but she’s been good for us. We smile again. She had us all dancing and now those four are dancing in the rain! For her sake, I hope she stays this unburdened.”

“Maybe she will…” Rossi shrugged.

“Even Penelope hasn’t managed that, I don’t know how she ever could, but who knows.” Aaron shrugged, then smirked over at Dave. “Like the song says, ‘the rest is still unwritten.’”

You were always the sunshine person who would check on everyone, make sure they needed something to drink or eat, a break to breathe or even just your presence so they would have someone to vent out to without interruptions. That was you. 

Taking care of others, expecting nothing beyond a friend or company as long as they are alright. As long as they didn’t ask too many questions about how you were feeling, because if they did...well, no one ever did, so everything was buried inside and that was fine by you. 

Have a cry at your apartment at night or a cry between cases in the bathroom floor of the hotel rooms you and Emily usually share. 

It was controlled. It was how you dealt with feelings. 

Over the last month, fall arriving, no time to stop and appreciate the fallen leaves or enjoy a pumpkin spice latte with your friends at the local small coffee shop. No.  

This time it was another disgusting unsub, messing with women, making them female fatale before shooting them in the gut with a nail gun instead of with a camera. Sealing it with a bow. It was his motto. 

During the case, JJ and Emily have been talking about how women could be targets because of their peculiar beauty. The unsub had no peculiar taste, possibly the ones who were shyer or wanted to try new things. Things that could be done alone but it would be much easier with the confidence and words of persuasion from another women. Advice per say.  

To make them feel better about trying their sensuality. And even Reid was presenting results about statistics where the victims could have been more easily disarmed if another woman was behind this.  

Instead, Hotch was too focused on finding the man behind this obsessive and disgusting practice, not listening to the girl's views which after analyzing the case, could be the work of two people instead of one. 

You were trying to make him understand that he was not seeing the whole picture.  

That women can be capable of bad things too, even if you didn’t want to believe it, there were cases like this. God, you got at least 5 cases like this in the span of the 3 years working with them and not to talk about the cases you solved at the other station you were in. 

Yes, most cases are male leaded. Yes, men are a problem, but this case pointed the leads to a mix of both. 

After a while, you were all together going over the evidence, and you were feeling it bubble down in your stomach. The bad feeling, the stress.  

“Look, Hotch, I think Emily has a great idea of searching for clubs that are led by women. We three are insisting because Reid even confirmed it and come on...he is a genius. I don’t understand why you keep putting the hypostasis we have in the second plan.” You admit you were speaking too fast with nerves, both from the situation but especially from the pressure of the case. It could be considered too much, especially for you, the head leveled one. 

Hotch sighed for what seemed to be the 20th time that evening and put the papers down, brushing his hand over his forehead. “You are being too emotional. It’s clouding your judgement.” 

Oh no, he didn't! He didn't just say something like that. 

“Y/n we are trying to solve a case. Can you concentrate? If you need a break-” Hotch kept going as he turns his back on you. 

Everything was contained until it wasn't. Your voice was low and slow. Until it wasn't. And the shock in everyone's faces was an understatement. 

“I cannot concentrate when you are constantly disregarding JJ’s and Emily’s views on the case! Are you kidding me? Can you get out of the headspace you are in? Are you even listening to yourself?” 

Hotch sighs already stressed, closed fists. "I am listening. Loud and clear agent l/n.” Apparently it was enough to make him call by your last name for the first time in a year. 

A deep breath could be heard coming from you. The usual sunshine everyone loved had lost it. You turn him around. 

“Good then listen! Because you have no right to lose your freaking hearing during this case.” Assertive and direct.  

“We are all tired! And if you keep us from doing the job and overworking us, you and Strauss will have to listen to me. You are disregarding the smartest team around you and keep acting-” 

He clears his throat, finally looking at you. “We have limited time for this discussion to happen, l/n. So, if you will calm down-” 

“To hell with that! Because of you, we got to the other location too late. Another girl is dead!” A heavy pause in yelling as everyone looked down. “Think about that before saying I'm too damn emotional to care about victims and mostly family. Because the team is a family.” 

"Too emotional..." Hotch mutters under his breath. 

That made you smirk and shove your hand over his chest. “If you say so, I'm SHOWING YOU WHAT BEING EMOTIONAL MEANS!” 

You finally let it out. Yell, laugh like crazy, you didn’t care. All you have held in since a year ago, came out. 

“Tell me I'm too emotional when you and Strauss are too much. Tell me THAT when I do you favors of taking care of Jack when you are an irresponsible father that keeps working instead of being there for him.” 

He was fuming and literally was about to refute but closed his mouth right after, since you made it clear you haven't finished yet. 

“I will never do anything else for you.” You bring your hand up and start counting. “Taking care of Jack, staying up late in the bullpen, bringing things to make the environment less gloomy after a case, being the damn clown in the circus you and Strauss made this department to be.” 

Your jaw was hanging on so tightly and your cheeks were burning profusely.  

“Forget it...I'm out! And oh, before I forget, if you didn't listen to them, you heard me now.” 

You abandon the police station, door slamming behind you. 

The team stays completely still, looking at Hotch. They knew you had your days, but this right now; this was not like you. 

Hotch clears his throat after a few minutes. “Let’s focus back on the case. She’ll come around when she wants. Let’s let Y/n take a minute for herself.” 

“I didn’t know the little girl had it in her to yell like that.” Morgan looks at the door with a slight smirk on his lips.  

Rossi walks to Hotch and pats his shoulder like saying she is right, you had it bad, before he walks away to sit down at the conference table. 

JJ immediately texts the girl group chat, sending you a message to let you know if you needed anything you could call. 

During the rest of the case, you didn’t talk with anyone else and remained closed off until the theory of a pair of unsubs became real, and both of them got arrested.  

Once in the bullpen, you get your things from your desk and let your notepad with all the notes of the cases inside your drawer. You looked around as everyone was settling down to start their reports while you, instead of settling down, walked to Emily and slid her a paper. 

The light is green for right turns as you inch your way closer and closer to the intersection. And as you near, it switches to green for straight passage, giving you right of way—that’s when the sedan appears.

Its blinker flashes right, holding back for the cyclist in front of you, letting him pass—because that’s the traffic law.

As he passes, you’re only a few feet away from heading into the intersection. You keep your eyes trained on the car, it keeps waiting, seemingly waiting for you to pass too. You’re sure the driver has seen you... so you loosen your feet’s grip on the pedals, moving them forward again, easing off the brakes, trusting the driver to hold back, like they did for the other rider.

They don’t.

The sedan surges forward the exact moment you’re parallel with their mirror, cutting across your path. Time feels like it slows. It’s too late to brake as she swings further into your path.

You yank the handlebars right, trying to dodge the car, to make it far enough away from it that the driver spots you before you collide, because it’s your only option at this point.

But that doesn’t happen.

The headlights slam against your left thigh at a slow speed, but enough to knock you down. You lose balance, biking, twisting under you, and you fall toward the road—thankfully, the car has stopped by now.

Your hip hits the ground first, taking most of the impact, then your back, and lastly, your face slams into the asphalt. It feels like your brain rattles inside your skull as the impact processes.

During the impact, you bite down—hard—bruising the inside of your lower lip.

You’re up quickly, sitting before the driver even managed to get out of their car. Your vision swims, looking blurry and like static on an old television. You don’t black out, fully aware of everything around you.

People rush around you, the air filling with voices, gasps, people asking if you’re okay, where you’re hurt, if you know what day it is.

The driver—a lady, no older than your own mom—stands nearby, shocked, on the verge of tears, and barely coherent as she keeps saying ‘I’m so sorry’ and ‘I didn’t see you’ while the pedestrians and other bikers check you over.

You get up on your own, whole body trembling as the people gather your things and help you to the grassy patch on the side of the road. Somehow, you’ve managed to lift your bike up and pull it along with you. Nothing seems broken, it wheels smoothly as you walk it—that’s good, you tell yourself, probably not expensive to fix if anything is wrong.

When you sit down, you feel something drip down your face, running from the impact spot above your left eyebrow and running down the bridge of your nose.

“Am I bleeding?” You ask, knowing the asnwer is yes, but in your confused state, you need the validation, need to know that your brain isn’t lying in the middle of the road.

Someone presses a wad of tissue to the gash, confirming your question, while someone else hands you a water bottle, telling you to drink, that it’s important for your recovery until you can get to the hospital.

(A/N: I make a phone call to my dad here irl as all the people fussed over me. And he actually raced to the scene and was the one to drive me to the hospital in the end.)

Everything feels overwhelming. You’re completely surrounded by people on all sides. You should be crying, you should be screaming, yelling at the driver for being unattentive in traffic, but you don’t; you just sit quietly, answering the questions of all the people as they keep you awake.

You feel like you’re floating.

The grass is wet.

Someone suggest to move you to the bus shelter about thirty feet down from where you’re sitting, because there’s a bench there and you won’t get cold from sitting on the ground.

People start disappearing slowly as you get up—they need to get to work, you think, not stay with you, they don’t know you—your hands are around the handlebars of the bike once again, dragging it along, mostly to steady yourself, while someone brings your backpack in their hands.

“I have to call work and tell them I’m not gonna make it.” You state as they get you seated on the bench in the bus shelter. You find your phone, fingers fumbling to unlock it.

In your hazy state, you’re barely able to recall where your contact list is, you don’t call his office phone often, so it takes some time before you manage to press the call button on one of your contacts.

It rings twice before someone picks up.

“Hotchner.”

His voice is too lively and clear for it being...?—you pull the phone away from your ear, 7:30. He’s probably already at his desk working on the massive stack of paperwork in his inbox you saw last night before you went home.

“Hotch.” You whimper slightly into the phone before your voice turns flat, almost robotic, but still quivers slightly as you speak. “I’m not... I won’t make it to the office today. I just got hit by a car. Can you inform the others?”

The line goes dead silent.

Then he inhales sharply and says your name, in a tone softer than you’ve ever heard him use with you.

“Are you hurt? Where are you right now?” He asks, his questions nearly overwhelming you even further.

“I’m okay,” you answer, trying to gather your thoughts before continuing. “I think I have a concussion, but nothing seems broken. I’m on a bench in a bus shelter, and I’m gonna go to the hospital soon to get checked out. I just didn’t want you to think I was a no-show today.” You explain, babbling more information than he asked for, but is glad you shared.

“You were hit by a car,” he repeats. He sounds like he’s in disbelief, like he’s still trying to process the words you told him. “Which hospital? Tell me where you are.”

“I don’t know,” you admit. “The closest one?”

Hotch is about to ask you to stay on the line, at least until you’re at the hospital, but you’re already saying bye, telling him you have to go and ending the call, ready to go to the hospital.

You let the lady drive you to the ER after you lock your bicycle behind the bus shelter and check that your work laptop didn’t break—because you’re convinced Strauss would fire you if you had to apply for a new device.

Outside the ER, you ask the lady to send you all her details and a report of how she experienced the timeline of the accident.

You rattle off your phone number. She text you, just to be sure you remembered correctly—you did.

She keeps apologizing, and you keep telling her that it’s okay and that it was an accident. You just bid her farewell and that you’ll be in touch, before walking through the ER doors.

Inside, you find the nearest intake desk and tell the nurse stationed there what happened to you. She instantly gets you sat down, blood pressure cuff on—because you’re pale as a ghost—and calls it in.

She’s quickly beside you again, asking about your social security number to admit you. You’re amazed that you can recall it in its entirety.

The nurse is concerned about your low numbers, rechecks your blood pressure, and when they come back just as low, she guides you through the doors into the ER hallway and tells you to lie down on the gurney until she finds a room for you.

You lie there for what feels like hours, but in reality is less than thirty minutes. Nurses keep walking past you, eyeing you in passing to make sure that you’re not worsening.

You’re about to ask the next passing personnel for an update when the restricted access doors that you entered through burst open, and purposeful steps echo closer and closer to your bed.

You could pinpoint those steps from miles away.

Hotch strides through the hallway like he owns the place, already having spotted you—not that it was hard when you’re out in the open.

You push up slightly on your elbows, just enough to lift yourself to a position where you can see him approaching. “Aaron...?”

He’s at your side in seconds, flashing his credentials at the nurse about to threaten him with security.

Hotch looks at you, really looks at you. He takes in your injuries, the gash over your eyebrow, the road rash on your chin and nose, the way you look so tiny and broken in the hospital bed.

“I’m cold.” You whimper at him.

He doesn’t speak at first, just grabs your coat crumpled near your feet, and lays it on top of you like a blanket. “You said you were walking in,” he says quietly, worry evident in his tone.

“The lady who hit me drove me here.” Hotch brushes a hand across your forehead and over your hair, caressing the crown of your head with the softest look in his eyes. You can’t tell if he’s satisfied with the answer or not, but he definitely looks relieved that you didn’t walk all the way there.

Hotch sits with you in silence until a nurse comes and unlocks the wheels of your bed. He wheels the bed down the hall and into a proper room, giving you privacy, dimmer lights, and no passing eyes that seem more judgmental than concerned for your well-being.

Once situated in the room, the nurse clips a pulse-ox clip on your finger, telling you that the doctor will be in soon, and then he leaves.

Hotch sits in the chair next to your bed. Your coat has now been moved to his lap, and your back rests on top of it. He looks way too serious and domestic at the same time.

Thirty minutes pass before another nurse comes, cleans the gash over your eyebrow, and leaves.

It takes yet another thirty minutes before the doctor actually comes.

Hotch is with you all along. Quiet, observant of you, your health, the machines, everything. The only time you hear him speak is when he takes a call from Rossi, giving a quick update on your state ‘banged up but stable’ he says, chatting for another minute before hanging up at letting his focus return to you completely.

He starts by asking what happened, letting you recall the whole story. Meanwhile, he shines a light in your eyes, tells you to follow his finger, and checks your reactions while you talk.

When he’s satisfied, he moves on.

“You’re not gonna like me after this.” The doctor jokes as he starts pushing, with all his weight, on your hips, collarbones, squeezing your ribcage, moving your arms and legs. All to check your joints, to figure out how much pain you’re in, if anything is broken.

The doctor makes you peel your pants down enough to where he can physically see the spot on your thigh where you collided with the car. The bruise is already forming, and there’s what feels like a raised bump under your skin. But he’s not concerned about that.

He then moves on to your jaw, puts his hands in your mouth, checking your bite, looking at the spot where you bit yourself. It feels a little too clinical at this point. You voice your concerns about your potential concussion, but he doesn’t seem worried about it either.

The doctor tells you—well... Hotch mostly—to get some rest, to keep an eye on your injuries, to call your family medicine doctor if first if you feel nauseous and throw up, or if you generally take a turn for the worse.

You can sense that Hotch is starting to get a little annoyed with all the waiting as the doctor bids you a speedy recovery and tells you a nurse will be in shortly to give you a tetanus shot—just in case.

It’s been ages since you last got one, and you’re long overdue for a booster shot.

Yet another thirty minutes pass before the nurse comes; she barely readies the canula before she’s called away.

When she comes back, she finally manages to give you the shot and get you ready to be discharged.

It’s noon when they finally release you.

You slowly sit up, swinging your legs over the edge of the bed. You feel disoriented as you go from lying to a sitting position, closing your eyes for a brief moment to steady yourself.

Hotch is quick to grab your elbow as you begin to lower yourself to the ground, holding you steady as your hips buck slightly with a flash of white-hot stabbing pain.

“Let me,” he says quietly. No room for argument—not that you have the energy for that.

You let him wrap your coat around you and slowly lead you out of the ER to his waiting car.

Getting into his car is a quest on its own. Hotch supporst nearly your entire weight as you slowly pivot and lower yourself into the passenger seat before carefully lifting your legs in and buckling your seatbelt.

The drive to your place is mostly quiet. You don’t know what to say, don’t know how to feel. You just watch the city slide by through the window, resting your forehead against the cold glass, bandage taking most of the coldness.

Hotch guides you straight to your bedroom as you make it up the stairs and into your apartment, not allowing your suggested detour to the couch—because you’re more comfortable in your bed.

And he’s right.

The bed looks heavenly as you enter the bedroom. Hotch pulls back your duvet and fluffs your pillows slightly before he helps lower you until you’re sitting on the edge of the bed.

Every muscle feels like you weren’t just hit by one singular car, but a fleet of buses.

You don’t know where he disappears to, but he somehow returns with a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt.

You should feel embarrassed by your boss helping you undress and redress yourself. But it’s Hotch. And he’s so nice. And he came to keep you company, and he would never do anything to you. You keep telling yourself.

It’s a battle in itself to get you out of your office attire. The shirt is fine and changed in seconds, but the jeans are a nightmare, an actual nightmare.

It nearly takes five minutes to get them peeled off your legs, and not without winces, whimpering, and one snapped “Aaron!” when he pulls a little too hard.

He kneels down in front of you, opening the one leg of the sweatpants like a pair of tights and tells you to steady yourself on his shoulder.

You stand up enough to where you can lift your leg into the leg of the sweatpants, your entire weight leaning against his shoulder. Hotch works as quickly as possible, and once they’re on, he helps you lower yourself back to the mattress and position yourself lying on your “good side”.

You catch a glimpse of yourself in the dresser mirror across the room: still pale, the road rashes raw on your nose and chin, a thick white bandage over your eyebrow, your hand wrapped like a boxer’s, where you tried to brace your fall, but instead ended up scraping your palm open.

You look like you lost a fight with a truck. Which…isn’t far off to be honest.

Hotch pulls your duvet up over you before he sits carefully on the edge of your bed near your feet. His eyes search yours, assessing you, trying to figure out if you need anything, anything you’re not telling him, if you’ll be alright, anything.

“Get some sleep,” he says softly, placing a hand on your shin over the duvet, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Your body’s been through hell. You need the rest.”

“You don’t have to stay.” You whisper, alright fighting your eyelids as they get heavier and heavier by each passing second.

“I know.” Hotch moves his hand from your shin and brush as strand of hair behind your ear—he’s too good at this... but then againhe probably took care of a sick Jack enough times to know what to do, you think to yourself. “I’m not leaving yet. I’ll be out at your dining table with my laptop if you need anything. Just call my name. Even if you just need me to sit with you.” You give him a tiny nod, giving him the go-ahead, ‘allowing’ him to stay.

“Okay,” you manage.

Hotch brushes the back of his hand over your cheek before getting up. “Sleep,” he whispers, turning the light off and leaving the door slightly ajar.

You drift off to sleep the instant he leaves the room.

Hotch sets up on your dining table like promised. His laptop and the current working case file are open in front of him.

The team is gathered in the conference room at the BAU. And Hotch is on a video call connected to them.

He briefs them on the case—victimology, geographic profile, escalation patterns—guiding the discussion to the best of his abilities from thirty minutes away.

The briefing almost feels normal despite the unfamiliar background of your half-decorated kitchen and the string lights you never took down from Christmas.

Garcia lasts all of twenty minutes before she can’t contain herself anymore. “Okay, I’m sorry, I can’t... I just... Sir, with all due respect, how is she?” The words tumble out in a rush. “Our sweet, sweet, lovely (Y/N). Hit by a car. We’ve all been sitting here pretending to focus, but we’re worried sick.”

The room goes quiet.

Hotch’s expression softens. He leans back slightly in your dining chair, glancing toward the hallway as if checking that your bedroom door is still closed.

“She’s sleeping,” he says quietly. “Finally. I’m giving her an hour, then waking her up to make sure her condition isn’t getting worse.”

Garcia exhales like she’s been holding her breath for hours—she probably has.

Morgan leans forward, elbows on the table. “How bad is it, Hotch?”

He considers for a moment, choosing his words with care, debating how much you’d want him to tell them.

“No fractures, no internal bleeding. Significant bruising... especially the left thigh where the car made contact... and a laceration over her eyebrow, didn’t need stitches or glue though, so should be fine, but will leave a scar. Road rash on her face and palm. The hip and lower back took the worst of the impact when she landed, so she’s in a lot of pain. They gave her a tetanus shot and sent her home with strict instructions to rest and keep movement minimal for the next few days.”

Prentiss frowns. “And the head?”

“They’re calling it a mild traumatic brain injury. She never lost consciousness. Officially, they don’t think it rises to concussion protocol.” He pauses, jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. “She disagrees. Says the light sensitivity and headache feel worse than they’re admitting. She’s had a concussion before, so I trust her judgment a little more on that. We’ll monitor it, though.”

“She must be terrified.” Garcia’s eyes are glassy now.

“She was in shock at first,” Hotch admits. “Very calm on the phone... too calm, honestly. But she’s taken everything really well so far.”

“You staying with her?” JJ asks.

“For tonight, yes.” Hotch’s tone leaves no room for discussion. “She shouldn’t be alone until we see how she responds the next twenty-four hours minimum. I’ll work remotely while you guys travel to L.A. for the case, unless the world burns and it’s life or death.”

“Tell her we’re all thinking about her. And that we’ve got the case covered.” Reid speaks up softly.

“I will,” Hotch says.

There’s a beat of silence.

Garcia sniffs once, then straightens. “Okay. Okay. We’ll be brilliant and catch this creep fast so you can focus on taking care of her. And tell her I’m sending cupcakes. The good kind. With sprinkles.”

“She’ll appreciate that.”

He glances toward your bedroom again, hearing nothing but soft, even breathing through the cracked door.

Satisfied, he turns back to the screen.

“All right. Let’s get back to the profile.”

The team nods, refocusing on the case.

Update Schedule: Once A Week✨

Part 1: Late for What?

Part 2: City of Love

Part 3: Reviews

Part 4: A Little Treat

Part 5: Mr. Popular

Part 6: Places of Peace

Part 7: Swoon Worthy

Part 8: Good Hands

Part 9: Civil extra: Harry’s convo with Niall here

Part 10: Smells Good

Part 11: Bad Energy

Part 12: It’s Just Cake

Part 13: Comes in Waves

Part 14: I’m Just a Librarian

Part 15: Don’t Ruin It

Part 16: Hand Flex

Part 17: If I Was A Worm?

Part 18: Disagreement

Part 19: Welcome Home

Part 20: Not Going Anywhere

Extras:

Fan, green juice and Patrick the Pillow

Father’s Day

ACT ONE

001. Seven's a Crowd when a new agent unexpectedly appears in the bullpen, spencer 'hates change' reid grows suspicious. can this mysterious woman be trusted, especially after he catches her in a lie on her first day?

002. Lucretius: Chaos and Order five months into the new agent's stay at the BAU, she earns herself a nickname — one that spencer believes to be wholly undeserved. as tensions continue to grow, so does spencer's suspicion.

003. The FBI Code of Conduct after an incident on the jet almost leads to a physical altercation. both spencer and angel are subjected to lectures regarding their recent conduct. spencer tries to repair a bridge that was never built, and angel receives a call from her past.

004. Rackensack the BAU are called out to the remote town of st paul, arkansas to investigate a series of murders that leave windpipes crushed and fingers broken. when residents don't want to point fingers, can the team solve the case before the unsub finds their next victim? to make things worse, angel and reid have to share a motel room.

005. Smoking Kills angel decides that the only way to get this case moving is to face their number one suspect one-on one. she quickly learns that such recklessness comes with a price.

006. Power the team drag angel out on one of their notorious end-of-week evenings at the bar. with tensions at an all time high, can spencer keep himself in check after one too many whiskeys? (NSFW)

007. Family Matters a case in alexandria hits a little too close to home for angel. despite their sour relationship, she is willing to risk her life, and her job, for spencer when a home visit go south.

008. City of Angels the BAU are summoned to los angeles to tackle another series of murders. maybe it's just the humidity, but things are beginning to heat up between spencer and his 'angel'. (NSFW)

009. Dreams, Nightmares a nightmare. a pain-in-the-ass case. an interrogation that ends with a flipped table. these long days in la seem to have softened the hard shells of two problem agents.

010. Emergency Stop a conduct review with strauss turns into an argument that should end her career, but angel returns to her desk without as much as a written warning. spencer finally snaps as she pushes him to his limit. (NSFW)

011. Control after the incident in the elevator, after getting spencer to admit that no, he doesn't hate her, angel decides it's about time she rewarded him. after all, it would be a shame to leave him in such a state of desperation again. (NSFW)

012. The 206 a glimpse behind the curtain reveals a side of angel that spencer had not known existed. but whatever flame was kindled that night is extinguished when angel must follow the team to the worst place on earth: home.

013. Respect when a case leaves her with nothing but a haunted heart and a terrible, bone-deep exhaustion, spencer offers angel a shoulder to lean on. she expresses her gratitude by humiliating him in front of the team, and pisses him off for the 'last' time.

014. Unforeseen Circumstances an unexpected phone call may ruin spencer's sunday plans, but it also provides him with the opportunity to go on a date with his 'enemy' whom he has definitely not caught feelings for. too preoccupied with his newfound optimism, he fails to notice the unease that trickles in through the cracks of this spur-of-the-moment meeting.

015. Work the Case, part one when it's revealed that angel is now missing, aaron hotchner has a choice to make. does he bring in the team and expose angel's criminal past, ruining their perception of her? or does he handle this alone and hope for the best? meanwhile, angel has a much needed catch-up with a certain ex-boyfriend.

016. Work the Case, part two the BAU are forced to reconcile with their coworker's criminal past. tensions rise as they realise the extent of her lies and begin questioning their faith in hotch. meanwhile, angel receives a call that completely derails her escape plan.

017. Back to New York spencer has been kidnapped, and the BAU are falling to pieces trying to find him. but whilst they're scouring cctv footage from the safety of the academy, a certain angel has taken matters, and a loaded gun, into her own hands.

018. "Angel" with angel having vanished once more, the team are left to pick up her pieces, and break even more rules, in the hopes of tracking her down. meanwhile, angel confronts the ghost of her past and things take an unexpected turn.

and more to come...

Status report: unfinished, more chapters coming soon!

Nicki became an agent the hard way—by earning it. Every requirement, every evaluation, every test meant to break candidates down only sharpened her resolve. She passed the psychological screening with guarded honesty, the written exams with ease, and even the physical qualification that had made more than one recruit drop out halfway through. Her obsessive need to overachieve pushed her further: martial arts classes before dawn, firearms training late into the night, gun qualifications drilled until muscle memory replaced doubt. Logan trained with her whenever schedules aligned, correcting her stance, timing her draw, pushing her limits.

By the time she received her credentials, there was no question left.

Dr. Nicole Hotchner was now Special Agent Hotchner—licensed, cleared, and officially assigned to the Joint Terrorism Task Force.

Fieldwork suited her. She was sharp under pressure, instinctively analytical, capable of reading a room the way others read maps. Most operations were long and unglamorous—overseas surveillance, encrypted communications, financial trails that took weeks to unravel. Desk work dominated her days, but when things went active, she was decisive and unflinching.

She was based out of Quantico now.

Closer to ghosts she hadn’t quite outrun.

Her father tried, in his own rigid way, to repair what had fractured between them. Small steps. Measured conversations. Neutral ground. But every time her phone rang with a case briefing, his worry bled through the stoicism. Every departure felt like another risk he couldn’t control.

The BAU had changed, too. Prentiss was in London. Agent Blake had joined the team, and Nicki found herself drawn to her—long conversations about linguistics, radical dialects, the subtle differences in rhetoric that signaled escalation. When time allowed, Nicki stopped by the BAU floor, familiar hallways stirring memories she never fully unpacked.

One afternoon she came by to remind her father about dinner with Logan. It wasn’t casual anymore. A year in, the relationship had settled into something solid, something public.

Outside the office, Garcia leaned toward JJ, whispering with conspiratorial delight.

“I looked him up,” Garcia said. “Is he as good-looking in person?”

“Yes,” JJ answered without hesitation. “Nicki definitely has good taste.”

“I’ll be honest,” Morgan added, folding his arms, “it bugs me that Mini Hotch and Pretty Boy hasn’t happened. I’m gonna lose that bet.”

“Oh c’mon, from what I know,” JJ replied, “Raymond was an outstanding soldier and now a solid agent.”

“And hot,” Garcia said, turning her tablet around to show a picture. “Hello, muscles.”

“They’ve been together for a year,” Alex chimed in, lifting her ring finger meaningfully. “You think this dinner is for…?”

“What dinner?” Reid asked as he walked up.

Garcia killed the screen instantly. “Nothing.”

“Mini Hotch’s here,” Morgan said, nodding toward Hotch’s office.

“Huh,” Reid said, adjusting his bag strap. “They must’ve stopped the L.A. threat she mentioned. The one involving a contagious virus. It was a mutation between a fever and hemorrhagic—”

JJ shot him a look.

He stopped.

Right on cue, Nicki stepped out of Hotch’s office, exchanging quick smiles and updates with the team. Her phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen.

“Gotta run,” she said, already turning away.

She disappeared down the hallway, boots clicking with purpose.

“Just yesterday she was grounded doing homework next to Reid,” Rossi said quietly, watching her go.

“That’s adorable,” Alex smiled.

“Now she hunts terrorists in heeled boots,” Morgan joked.

Everyone chuckled.

Everyone except Spencer Reid, who stayed silent, eyes fixed on the empty doorway—remembering when everything between them had been simpler, and far more complicated all at once.

-

One late night, with a rare stretch of free days ahead of her, Nicki chose to spend the evening at her father’s place with Jack. She could have stayed in her apartment downtown, could have slept in and avoided the quiet tension that still lingered between her and Hotch—but she wanted this. Normalcy, or at least the closest version of it they could manage.

Jack was already half-asleep on the couch, cartoons murmuring softly in the background. The kitchen light was dim, the air filled with the faint smell of coffee that had long gone cold. Nicki and her father talked about ordinary things—Jack’s school, paperwork, a case Hotch had wrapped earlier that week. Small, careful conversation, like walking across thin ice.

Then Nicki asked the question.

“Have you dated anyone after mom?”

Hotch stiffened almost imperceptibly. He cleared his throat, eyes dropping to the mug in his hands as if the answer might be waiting at the bottom.

“No, I really haven’t thought about it.”

Nicki nodded, accepting it without pushing, though something about his tone confirmed what she already suspected.

“Well that explains why you are all overprotective with Jackie and I.”

He finally looked up, giving her that familiar, warning stare—the one that used to silence rooms and suspects alike.

“Just try to do something fun,” she added gently. “You don’t have to be so serious.”

The words lingered between them.

Hotch didn’t respond right away. His gaze drifted past her, unfocused, pulled inward by a memory he never spoke about but never escaped either. Haley’s voice, steady and soft, echoing in his mind. Her last request. Her insistence that he live, that he show their children love instead of loss, warmth instead of fear.

He swallowed.

Across the room, Jack shifted in his sleep, murmuring something unintelligible, and the sound anchored him back to the present. Hotch looked at his daughter—grown now, hardened and brilliant, still carrying scars he knew he could never fully heal.

And so the day came when her father called with a careful tone that immediately gave him away.

He needed her to babysit, if she was available. He had a “previous engagement,” as he put it—measured, vague, and entirely unconvincing.

Nicki rolled her eyes, smiling despite herself. Progress, she supposed.

“Sure.”

Her plan was simple: movies for Jack, case files for her. A quiet night. Normal. She settled Jack on the couch with blankets and popcorn while she skimmed through old investigations, mentally dissecting motives and methods. Nothing urgent. Nothing gripping enough to anchor her thoughts.

That was when the idea struck.

Logan was busy that night, deep into a late operation briefing for the Attorney General. So she called the one person who had always been her constant.

“Hello?” Spencer answered.

“Lately I have a lot of things in my mind, but Jack and I think that board game could be great,” Nicki said casually. “Besides, he misses his uncle Spencer, right?”

“Yeah,” Jack chimed in with his high-pitched enthusiasm, leaning into the phone.

There was a pause on the line. Then, simply, “Sure. I’m on my way.”

“Prepare your loser face,” Nicki said, hanging up before he could protest.

An hour later, the three of them were seated around the table, a game of Clue spread out between them. It was deeply unfair—two FBI minds versus an eight-year-old—but neither Nicki nor Spencer had the heart to crush Jack’s enthusiasm.

The game ended with Jack “magically” winning. Both adults exchanged a silent agreement to let it happen rather than risk a flipped board and a very loud meltdown, from two geniuses.

Jack was ecstatic.

Nicki glanced at her phone. 11 p.m.

“Dad is going to kill me. Go get ready for bed.”

Jack groaned but complied, dragging his feet dramatically up the stairs. After multiple reminders, a toothpaste battle, and one last request for water, her brother was finally in bed.

She went back downstairs to find Spencer standing awkwardly near the kitchen counter, hands folded like he wasn’t sure where to put them.

“Coffee?” she offered.

“Please,” he said. Neither of them drank alcohol. Coffee had always been their neutral ground.

They talked easily at first—about the game, about Jack’s win, about recent cases. Familiar territory. Safe.

Then came the inevitable shift.

“How’s Logan?” Spencer asked.

“Good,” Nicki said. “We had dinner with my dad last week and everything went well.”

She paused, then added, “What about you—anything, anyone?” Her fingers began spinning the ring on her hand, to distract her from the future answer.

Spencer hesitated.

“Actually, for a few months I’ve been talking to someone.”

“Oh,” Nicki said softly.

“I really can’t say anything else, but yeah, it’s great,” he added.

Nicki kept her eyes on the ring, spinning faster now. Spencer noticed immediately.

“Now I feel like I shouldn’t have mentioned that…” he said.

“What do you mean?” she looked up at him. “I’m glad you found someone and you are happy.”

“You don’t seem comfortable,” he admitted. “Is it because—”

“No, it’s not. I’m just… medicated.”

“What?” His concern was instant, unfiltered.

“Yeah, it’s part of my PTSD treatment,” she said quickly, trying to move past it.

“Is the doctor licensed?” he asked, alarmed.

“Yes, don’t worry. She knows what she’s doing.”

“You sure?” he pressed. “SSRIs can be dangerous in experimental dosages.”

“I’m fine. They actually help me,” she said, firmer now. “Anyway, it’s kinda late and my dad will be here any minute.”

And just like that, Spencer was gone—coat on, concern lingering in his eyes, words left unsaid.

Nicki retreated to the bathroom, locking the door behind her. She leaned against the sink, breathing slowly, deliberately.

Then she looked up.

Her reflection stared back at her—composed, controlled, distant.

She didn’t recognize the girl in the mirror, again.

And that scared her more than she was willing to admit.

-

Suddenly, everything changed forever.

After months of letters passed like contraband secrets and phone calls made from public booths at carefully staggered times, Spencer and Maeve finally chose a date. A real date. Neutral ground. Public. Safe—at least as safe as it could be with a stalker lurking in the background of every thought.

When she didn’t arrive on time, he told himself not to panic. Trains ran late. Schedules shifted. Anxiety distorted minutes into hours. Still, he checked his watch—once, twice, then compulsively. He scanned faces, cataloged movements, listened for her voice in the static of the crowd.

Nothing.

The pit in his stomach grew heavier with every passing second.

His mind jumped immediately to the one variable neither of them could fully control.

The stalker.

Heart pounding, Spencer rushed to the nearest payphone. His hands shook as he dialed the number Maeve was supposed to use.

The phone rang.

Once. Twice.

Then a click.

“Hello. I have a collect call from Adam Worth,” the operator said.

Spencer froze.

The name hit him like a physical blow. Adam Worth—the alias. The specific reference.

“Yes,” Spencer said immediately, breathless. “I accept the charges.”

“Please deposit two dollars for the first two minutes.”

His hands fumbled through his pockets, through his bag, spilling coins onto the concrete floor. He scooped them up clumsily, fingers numb, and fed them into the slot one by one.

“Thank you,” the operator said.

The line clicked.

“Hello?” Spencer said quickly. “I’m still here.”

For a moment, there was only silence. Then—

“Zugzwang.”

The voice was distorted, filtered through electronics and intent. Calm. Deliberate.

Spencer swallowed.

“I’m sorry,” he said, forcing his voice to stay steady. “Can you please repeat that?”

“Zugzwang,” the voice said again, clearer this time. Savoring the word.

Spencer’s blood ran cold.

Zugzwang—a chess term. A position where every possible move only makes things worse. Where doing nothing is impossible, and doing anything leads to loss.

The stalker had chosen his word carefully.

And Spencer understood immediately.

Maeve was a piece on the board.

And so was he.

-

After hours of investigation —Maeve’s parents, her coworkers, her ex-fiancé—the pieces still refused to settle into anything coherent. No one could explain how the stalker had gotten so close.

The ex-fiancé had handed them the photographs. Dozens of them. Intimate, invasive, cruel. Each one felt like a violation.

As they walked down the hallway outside the interview room, JJ slowed, one photo still clutched in her hand.

She held the photo up between them. Maeve’s face had been violently blacked out—obliterated—but not smeared, not streaked.

“I don’t get it,” Spencer said, studying it. “The message is obvious. I’m obliterating you. We already knew that.”

“No,” JJ replied, tapping the photo with her finger. “It’s not about the message. It’s about the medium.”

Spencer frowned. “What do you mean?”

JJ met his eyes. “Spence… that’s black eyeliner.”

The realization hit him instantly, sharp and nauseating.

“The stalker is a woman,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

JJ nodded. “That’s why she disguised her voice on the phone. That’s why Maeve let her into her loft.”

JJ’s expression hardened. “She thought what we thought that her stalker was a man. But the question is, how can this UnSub have known about Maeve and you?”

~~

Seven years ago.

Spencer was sitting across from Nicki at a small table, a chessboard between them. She couldn’t have been more than fourteen, legs tucked under the chair, brows knit in concentration.

“You’ve never played before?” he asked, genuinely surprised.

“I know the rules,” she replied. “Just never played. People at my school prefer Uno.”

Spencer smiled, launching eagerly into an explanation about openings, middle games, endgames—about how chess was less about pieces and more about anticipating intent.

He set the board. “Let’s try a game.”

They played in silence for a while. Too much silence.

Then Nicki made her move.

Spencer struggled.

He stared at the board, at the position she’d forced him into, his options collapsing one by one.

“I thought you said you’d never played,” he said slowly.

“I haven’t,” she replied calmly. “But I did read about the Pillsbury Attack. It’s very efficient. Easy checkmate.”

He blinked. “You’re evil.”

She smirked.

Gideon passed by, drawn in by the tension. He glanced at the board.

“Pillsbury?” he asked.

Nicki grinned.

“Nice moves,” Gideon said, continuing on his way.

Nicki’s smile faded as she noticed something off.

“Hey,” she said, leaning closer. “One of your pieces moved.”

Spencer shrugged innocently. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You cheated,” she accused.

“As far as I remember, it was always like that.”

“I remember it differently,” she shot back.

“Maybe your photographic memory isn’t as accurate as you think.”

She gasped.

“He’s full of tricks Mini Hotch,” from across the room, Morgan looked up. “Never play cards with him. You’ll hate him.”

“Or board games,” Elle added.

“Don’t blame me for knowing how to play a game,” Spencer said defensively.

Nicki tilted her head. “What about Twister?”

Spencer opened his mouth—then stopped.

Morgan laughed. “Now that I’d pay to see. You didn’t even pass your physical training Pretty Boy.”

Spencer frowned. Nicki giggled.

~~

Spencer swallowed hard. Then last months encounter at Hotch’s apartment.

~~

“Lately I have a lot of things in my mind, but Jack and I think that board game could be great,” Nicki said casually. “Besides, he misses his uncle Spencer, right?”

-

“Actually, for a few months I’ve been talking to someone.”

“Oh,” Nicki said softly.

“I really can’t say anything else, but yeah, she’s great,” he added.

Nicki kept her eyes on the ring, spinning faster now. Spencer noticed immediately.

“Now I feel like I shouldn’t have mentioned that…” he said.

“What do you mean?” she looked up at him. “I’m glad you found someone and you are happy.”

“You don’t seem comfortable,” he admitted. “Is it because—”

“No, it’s not. I’m just… medicated.”

“What?” His concern was instant, unfiltered.

“Yeah, it’s part of my PTSD treatment,” she said quickly, trying to move past it.

“Is the doctor licensed?” he asked, alarmed.

“Yes, don’t worry. She knows what she’s doing.”

~~

Nicki sat across from Reid in an interrogation room that felt far too small for the history between them.

The metal table separated their knees by only a few inches. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead. A camera blinked red in the corner.

He had called her an hour earlier—his voice clipped, controlled, asking if she was in town, if she could help him think through something. She’d heard the strain beneath the words and agreed without hesitation.

Now she understood why he hadn’t explained over the phone.

He told her everything.

Maeve. The missed meeting. The payphone. The distorted voice. Zugzwang.

By the time he finished, Nicki’s hands were folded neatly in her lap, her spine straight, her face unreadable.

“Oh my God,” she said softly. “Spencer… I’m so sorry.”

The words were right. The tone was gentle.

But something was missing.

Spencer noticed.

No restless movements. No tapping fingers. No sharp inhale to hold back emotion.

“So far,” Spencer said carefully, “we’ve profiled the UnSub as—”

“A woman,” Nicki interrupted, trying to lighten the air. “Wow. Female stalkers are statistical unicorns. That narrows things down fast. Are you thinking coworker? Friend? Someone in her professional circle?”

“No,” he said sharply.

“Okay?”

“Because,” he continued, leaning forward, voice steady but cold, “the UnSub knows about my relationship with Maeve. Details I never shared publicly. Which means she knew me.”

The silence stretched.

Nicki’s breath slowed. Her eyes flickered—not with guilt, but with understanding.

“Oh,” she said quietly. “That’s why we’re alone.”

Spencer didn’t answer.

“You think I did this,” Nicki said, disbelief threading through her voice. “You think I kidnapped her.”

“You were the only person I talked to about Maeve,” he said. “And when I told you about her...”

“I already explained that—”

“I know,” he cut in, reaching into his bag and throwing a folder onto the table.

It slid to a stop in front of her.

Her name stared back at her in bold black letters.

Nicki’s jaw tightened as she opened it.

Psychiatric evaluations. Therapy notes. Redacted summaries. Diagnoses she had worked years to compartmentalize.

“Why do you have this?” she asked, voice sharp now.

“The last time we saw each other,” Spencer said, “you told me you were medicated for PTSD. But no approved PTSD treatment causes the physiological effects you described. The ring. The dissociation. Fidgeting, distracting your body from reacting to triggers.”

He held her gaze.

“And I noticed something else. You talk about your mother’s death without emotional distress. But when we talk about that night—you react.”

Nicki’s fingers curled around the edge of the table.

“You have no right—”

“Of course I do,” he said evenly. “Because according to Dr. Mendez, you developed an unhealthy fixation on me.”

The word fixation landed like a slap.

Nicki cracked her neck, a slow, controlled movement, then took a deep breath.

So this was it.

He’d found the thing she never wanted him to see.

“Fine,” she said quietly. “You’re right.”

Spencer blinked, caught off guard.

“I did,” she continued. “I developed harmful tendencies. I felt rejected, inferior, replaceable. So I compensated. I tried to become your equal—intellectually, professionally, emotionally.”

Her voice remained steady, but her eyes burned.

“Dr. Mendez noticed patterns. Impulsivity. Hyperfixation. Intrusive thoughts.”

“Sociopathy?” Spencer asked, a flicker of revulsion breaking through his composure.

“Yes,” she said plainly. “High-functioning. Managed. I would imagine violent scenarios—not because I wanted to hurt people, but because I needed to control the outcome. I needed to picture myself stopping the worst thing that could happen.”

Spencer stared at her, shaken.

“I hated myself for it,” she went on. “After George Foyet told me I’d turn out like him, I panicked. I begged for help. I stayed in treatment. I still am in weekly therapy.”

“How am I supposed to believe you?” he asked hoarsely, pulling out a single page from the folder. “Here—you admit you followed me. For weeks. After you ran out of my apartment.”

Shame finally cracked her armor.

“Yes,” she admitted. “It’s true.”

His jaw tightened.

“But it was to hurt my ego. I just… needed to know if you were okay without me. And when I saw that you were—I stopped. I moved on.”

“With Logan?” Spencer snapped. “A carbon copy of your father? The daddy issues are practically highlighted in your file.”

That did it.

Nicki stood, chair screeching backward, eyes blazing.

“You do not get to weaponize my past,” she said. “I did the work. I got better. I didn’t take this job for you—I took it for me.”

“You shouldn’t even be allowed in the FBI,” he shot back. “Whatever trick you pulled to pass your psych evals, it didn’t work on me.”

Her chest rose sharply.

“Then arrest me,” she said, stepping closer. “But you’re wasting time. She already has you were she wants.”

She turned toward the door.

“Where is she?” Spencer demanded, grabbing her arm.

Nicki spun back, fury breaking free.

“I. Don’t. Know!” she screamed. “And for the record, I’ve been in Washington until yesterday. Check my badge logs. My credit cards. My damn phone.”

The door flew open.

Hotch stormed in, Logan right behind him.

Logan immediately shoved Spencer. “That’s enough.”

“Reid,” Hotch said, voice lethal. “Step away. Now.”

Nicki wrenched her arm free, breathing hard.

As she passed Spencer, she stopped.

“One more thing,” she said quietly, her voice suddenly razor-sharp. “Your UnSub’s motive it’s revenge. That’s what you should look into.”

Spencer looked up.

“She doesn’t want you,” Nicki finished. “She wants everything Maeve’s ever had.”

Then she turned and left with Logan, the door slamming shut behind her—leaving Spencer alone with the realization that the game was far more personal, and far more dangerous, than he’d imagined.

-

Nicki was a storm of emotions she didn’t have time to process.

She was angry at Spencer. Angry at herself. Angry at the way old wounds kept ripping open no matter how carefully she stitched them shut.

Right now, though, there was no room for any of that.

A credible mass-shooting threat had been identified at a university in the Midwest. The JTTF had mobilized in under an hour. Tactical teams were already en route. Students were being evacuated in waves. Every second mattered.

Nicki adjusted the strap of her go-bag as the team moved across the tarmac toward the jet. Her mind was locked on maps, entry points, potential shooter profiles—

“Nicki.”

Francesca’s voice cut through the noise.

Nicki stopped. Francesca stood a few steps back, phone still in her hand, her expression unreadable in that way that always meant bad news.

“I just got off a call with-” Francesca said carefully. “Your father.”

Nicki’s stomach dropped.

“You should call him.”

She didn’t argue. She stepped away from the team, turning her back to the jet, and dialed.

It rang once.

Twice.

“Nicole,” Hotch answered.

“Are you okay?” Nicki asked immediately. “Is Jack okay?”

“Yes,” he said. “We’re both fine.”

She exhaled, relief fleeting.

Then he cleared his throat.

“This isn’t about us,” he said. “It’s about Spencer.”

Her jaw tightened.

“If this is about an apology, I don’t care,” she said, the words spilling out faster than she meant them to. “Whatever he’s dealing with, I’m not a punching bag. He crossed a line.”

“I know,” Hotch said quietly.

There was a pause on the line. Too long.

“Nicki,” he continued, his voice lower now, heavier. “This is about last night. Spencer confronted Maeve’s stalker.”

Her breath caught.

“We identified her as Diane Turner,” Hotch said. “She took Maeve hostage weeks ago. Spencer didn’t know until it was too late.”

Nicki closed her eyes.

“Maeve is dead,” Hotch said. “Diane killed her… in front of Spencer.”

The world seemed to tilt.

The roar of jet engines faded into a distant hum. The cold air burned her lungs as if she’d forgotten how to breathe properly.

Dead.

Maeve—who had only existed for Nicki as a name, a shadow, a source of quiet jealousy she never fully allowed herself to acknowledge.

Dead.

“I—” Nicki started, then stopped.

Her mind tried to do what it always did—analyze, compartmentalize, protect.

It failed.

“He’s not okay,” Hotch added softly. “I know you’re angry. And you have every right to be. But I wanted you to hear it from me.”

Nicki swallowed hard.

“Thank you for telling me,” she said, her voice barely steady.

They hung up.

She stood there for a moment, phone still pressed to her ear, staring at nothing.

Then she turned.

The jet loomed in front of her, engines ready, ramp lowered. Logan stood at the base of the stairs, watching her with concern etched across his face. He hadn’t heard the call, but he could read her body language—he always could.

This mission needed her.

So did someone else.

Nicki took one step toward the plane.

Then she stopped.

For years, she had trained herself to

She clenched her jaw.

For once, there was no clear protocol.

Only a choice.

And whichever path she took, something was going to break.

-

Nicki stood at the entrance of the building she had once fled from, soaked to the bone and convinced she would never return.

The night everything fractured.

Now she stepped inside by choice.

The hallway smelled the same—old carpet, disinfectant, burnt coffee. Time had passed, lives had shifted, but grief had a way of anchoring places in amber. She moved slowly, each step deliberate, until she reached the stairwell and climbed to the familiar floor.

Halfway down the corridor, she stopped.

Penelope stood outside one of the apartments, carefully arranging a small bouquet of sunflowers beside several others already wilting in quiet devotion.

“Oh—hi,” Garcia said, startled, eyes widening behind her glasses. “Wow. I was not expecting to see you.”

“Me neither,” Nicki replied softly. Her gaze flicked to the door. “Has he… come out at all?”

Garcia shook her head, lips pressed together. “No. I’ve been checking in, bringing food, movies, anything I can think of. He won’t answer.” Her voice cracked despite her effort to keep it light. “I just don’t know what to do”

Nicki nodded, professional instinct briefly surfacing. “That’s not unusual. Acute grief plus trauma—it can shut someone down completely.”

“Right,” Garcia said, latching onto the explanation. Then she hesitated, guilt surfacing. “Nicki, before I go… I need to say this. I was the one who pulled your medical file. It was wrong. I shouldn’t have. He was spiraling and I panicked.”

Nicki met her eyes. “It’s okay. Truly. You were trying to help him. I don’t blame you.”

Relief washed over Garcia’s face. “Thank you gorgeous. And… good luck.” She squeezed Nicki’s arm gently before walking away.

Nicki remained there, staring at the closed door.

For a moment, she wasn’t twenty-something, highly trained, armed with degrees and field experience. She was eighteen again—shaking, rain-soaked, abandoned by the world and desperate for one person to open a door.

She lifted her hand and knocked.

Nothing.

She knocked again.

Still nothing.

But this time, she heard movement inside—subtle, cautious. Proof of life.

“Hey,” she said quietly. “It’s me. Nix.”

Silence.

“I don’t really know how to start,” she continued, voice steady despite the knot in her chest. “The last time we met, we yelled in each other’s faces. I’m sorry for what you’re going through. I know none of it makes sense.”

No response.

She exhaled and slowly sat down against the wall beside the door, knees drawn up.

“I’m not here to explain grief,” she said after a moment. “You don’t need a lecture or a textbook breakdown of trauma. That would be cruel. And pointless.” A faint, humorless breath escaped her. “God, this is painfully Greek-tragic, isn’t it?”

She rested her head back against the wall.

“My dad called me. The team’s worried. He asked if I could help because—well—I know what it’s like to lose someone violently. To survive when someone else doesn’t.” Her voice softened. “And I also know what it’s like to grieve alone.”

Inside, she heard a shift. The unmistakable sound of someone sliding down until their back met the door on the other side.

“I won’t let you do that,” she said firmly. “So I’m staying. You don’t have to talk. You don’t have to open the door. I’ll just be here.”

Time passed.

Nicki talked—not at him, but into the quiet. She rambled about nonsense: obscure studies, ridiculous statistics, half-baked theories, things she knew he’d normally interrupt to correct. She smiled faintly at the irony.

“Am I boring you?” she asked gently. “You probably already know all of this. But just—are you alive in there?”

A thin piece of paper slid out from under the door.

Yes.

Her chest tightened.

She stared at the word for a long moment before speaking again.

“There’s something you might not know but I think you deserve to,” she said carefully. “And I hope it doesn’t come off as selfish.” She swallowed. “You were right about Logan. He gave me safety. Structure. Protection. And maybe that’s what I needed.”

A pause.

“But it wasn’t what I wanted,” she said, voice trembling now, “you’re still the most important person in my life. And even after a whole year, he couldn’t change that.”

She rested her head.

“I love you,” she said simply. “Not in a way that demands anything. Not now. Maybe not ever. But I love you enough to sit here and help you put yourself back together, one piece at a time.”

Silence.

The sky outside darkened, sunset bleeding through the hallway windows. Nicki finally stood, stretching stiff legs, slinging her bag over her shoulder.

“I’ll come back tomorrow,” she said quietly. “Or the next day. Or the next. You don’t get rid of me that easily.”

She took two steps away.

The door opened.

Nicki turned.

Spencer stood there—unshaven, hollow-eyed, grief carved deep into his features. He looked exactly how she expected him to look. Exactly how he shouldn’t have had to.

They didn’t speak.

They didn’t need to.

She crossed the distance in a heartbeat, and he folded into her, arms tightening like he might fall apart if he let go. Nicki held him just as fiercely, anchoring him.

She kept her promise.

She held every broken piece.

And she didn’t let go.

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