Confessions of an Overthinker

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

Your stomach flips. “Spence.”

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

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

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

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

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

Morgan snorts. “What weekend?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You perform.

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

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

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

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

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

Reid shuts his book and sets it on the table.

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

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

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

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

Rossi nods once. “You’ll have them.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t,” Prentiss says immediately.

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

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

Not the team. You.

Your stomach twists.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink hard. “What?”

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

You frown. “I’m not—”

He gives you a look.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He hums. “Sure.”

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

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

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

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

He nods. “Good.”

You frown.

“I’m attempting corrective behavioural conditioning.”

Your eyes narrow. “By being annoying?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You sigh. “Reid.”

“Hm?”

“Tell me if I’m overthinking this.”

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

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

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

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

Reid examines the highlighted timeline for another few seconds.

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

You frown slightly.

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

Your brows lift. “So, I’m right?”

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

“What’s she right about?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good girl,” he says absently.

Your entire nervous system short-circuits.

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

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

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

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

You finally blink. “What?”

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

You frown. “What are you—”

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

Your eyes go wide. “Spencer—”

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

“Reid.”

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

You freeze. “Reid, I swear to—”

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

He pauses, tilting his head.

“Very obviously your type.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your stomach flips.

God. That’s pathetic.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Twelve notifications.

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

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

But one of the messages catches your eye.

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

You snort, then type out a reply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ping! Ping! Two more messages pop up.

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

That answer comes a little too easily.

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

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

You shake your head, typing quickly.

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

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

TUESDAY 9:50AM

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

He’s wearing a grey suit today.

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

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

Hotch ignores him completely.

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

He glances once around the table.

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

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

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

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

“You should probably blink.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You lift a shoulder. “About ten.”

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

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

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

You blink. “Oh.”

His gaze holds yours for a second too long.

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

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

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

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

Your breath catches softly in your throat.

“Anytime, sir,” you manage.

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

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

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

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

Two new messages from DCRunner00.

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

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

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

“Hey, you busy?”

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

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

“I could be working.”

“Are you?”

“No.”

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

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

“I could use your help.”

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

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

“Where do you want to start?”

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

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

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

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

Reid hums quietly beside you. “Not necessarily.”

You stare at him. “Care to elaborate?”

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

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

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

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

“No, listen to me carefully.”

Both you and Reid glance up automatically.

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

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

He pauses briefly beside Reid’s desk, listening.

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

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

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

Your stomach flips.

This absolutely should not be as hot as it is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your face heats.

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

Oh my God.

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

He stops.

Then slowly turns toward you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You: Work, mostly. You: And sleep.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He straightens, brows drawing tighter.

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

You set the cup down in front of him.

“So,” you tilt your head, “coffee.”

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

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

Your face heats instantly.

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

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

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

Which is also when you finally check your messages again.

DCRunner00: Chaos how?

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

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

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

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

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

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

He replies almost immediately.

DCRunner00: Accurate, though? You: Unfortunately.

You drop your phone on the bed and start undressing.

Ping!

DCRunner00: What do you actually do?

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

You: Mostly admin. You: Governmental stuff.

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

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

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

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

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

He replies instantly again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You open your protein bar.

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

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

You type out a vague response.

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

His next reply takes almost two minutes to come through.

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

You almost choke on your tea.

That’s... weird.

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

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

You sit up straighter, suddenly a little nauseous.

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

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

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

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

DCRunner00: No promises.

WEDNESDAY 8:10AM

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

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

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

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

“Is Garcia in yet?”

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

You pull your laptop out of your bag.

“I just—I need her.”

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

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

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

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

His brows pull together slightly.

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

You nod slowly, already stepping around him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You grimace. “I don’t know.”

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

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

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

She nods.

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

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

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

You wince.

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

You hesitate.

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

She squints at the screen.

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

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

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

She starts scrolling back through the messages.

“Have you told Hotch?”

“Nope.”

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

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

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

You groan, dragging both hands over your face.

“You do mention Hotch kind of a lot.”

Your head snaps up. “He’s my boss.”

Garcia gives you a long look.

“Okay,” she says slowly. “Sure.”

“Garcia.”

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

You point at the screen. “Focus.”

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

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

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

You sigh. “I don’t love that idea.”

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

You frown. “In English?”

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

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

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

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

You: I thought I told you not to spiral.

He replies so fast that even Garcia flinches.

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

You nod.

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

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

“You’re the best, Pen.”

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

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

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

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

His brows pull together. “Everything alright?”

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

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

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

“Okay, now I’m concerned,” he says.

You glance at him. “Why?”

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

You roll your eyes. “Spence—”

“Something must be seriously wrong.”

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

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

His brows shoot up. “A guy—”

“Online,” you add quickly.

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

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

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

You glare at him. “Yes. That one.”

“Then yes, I remember it very clearly.”

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

His forehead creases. “Have you told—”

“No.”

“Maybe you should—”

“I said no.”

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

You narrow your eyes at him.

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

You lift a brow, waiting for the punchline.

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

You stare at him.

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

He pauses, frowning faintly.

“That was supposed to be reassuring.”

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

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

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

You: You’re weird.

He replies just as fast as usual.

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

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

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

You snort softly, typing out a quick reply.

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

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

It doesn’t work.

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

You: You went quiet. Should I be concerned?

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

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

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

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

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

Your stomach drops. “Oh my God.”

You immediately call Garcia back.

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

“You saw me this morning.”

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

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

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

“No.”

“Are you insane?”

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

Garcia goes quiet for a second.

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

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

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

You press your free hand against your forehead.

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

Garcia scoffs loudly.

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

The line goes quiet again—then she sighs.

“Why are you so against telling Hotch?”

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

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

Your shoulders sag. “Thank you.”

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

You nearly choke. “What?”

“Non-negotiable.”

“Penelope, that’s insane.”

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

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

“Mm-hm.”

“You’re overreacting.”

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

You frown. “…Morally complicit?”

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

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

She hums, satisfied.

“I need to reply to him again.”

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

You laugh despite yourself. “Thanks, Pen.”

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

“I was actually thinking psychological thriller marathon.”

“Absolutely not.”

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

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

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

You: Lucky guess.

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

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

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

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

At exactly six-fifteen, your desk phone rings.

“Hello?”

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

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

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

“See who soon?” Reid asks.

You glance at him. “Garcia.”

He tilts his head.

“She’s staying over tonight.”

His brows lift. “Because of your stalk—”

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

His gaze narrows. “Should I be worried?”

You scoff. “About me? Never.”

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

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

You pause mid-motion.

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

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

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

“Agent.”

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

You force a small smile. “Sir.”

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

You nod once. “Of course.”

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

Your breath catches.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shake your head. “Shit. Sorry.”

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

For a moment, neither of you says anything.

Then—

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

You shut your eyes. “Penelope.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your stomach twists. “Or escalate.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THURSDAY 6:45AM

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You scowl at him. “A drought issue?”

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

Morgan looks at him. “Man, just say she needs to get laid.”

“Oh my God,” you snap. “I do not need to get laid. I am having a completely normal amount of sex already, thank you very much—and frankly I think it’s deeply inappropriate that you’re all this invested in whether or not I’m orgasming regularly.”

Reid tilts his head. “You’re having sex?”

Morgan’s brows shoot up, Prentiss chokes on her coffee, and you open your mouth to fire back at him when—

Someone clears their throat behind you.

Heat crawls violently up your neck—but you don’t turn around. You can’t.

“Briefing room. Five minutes,” Hotch says, his voice dangerously even. “JJ’s got an update on the custodial interview with Wallace.”

Morgan presses a fist against his mouth, trying—and failing—to smother the strangled sound of laughter.

Very slowly, you turn in your chair.

Hotch is standing at the edge of the bullpen with a coffee in one hand and a file in the other. His expression is almost perfectly composed, but there’s something dangerous lurking beneath it—something suspiciously close to amusement in the tightness of his mouth.

“Be right there, sir,” you blurt, lifting two fingers to your forehead in the most ill-timed attempt at a salute the FBI has ever seen.

Hotch just looks at you, the muscle in his jaw jumping once before he turns away.

You want to die.

The second his office door clicks shut behind him, Morgan drops his fist and smacks his palm flat against the desk with a choked laugh.

“Oh, you are never recovering from that,” Prentiss mutters, smirking behind her coffee cup.

Morgan leans back in his chair, grinning. “Baby girl, that was painful to watch.”

You drop your head into your hands.

“You somehow escalated the situation at every possible opportunity,” Reid says thoughtfully.

“I hate you all,” you mumble into your palms.

You spend the next half hour with your nose buried in your notebook, avoiding eye contact with the entire team while JJ explains the month-long back-and-forth that it took to finally get approval for the Wallace interview.

Apparently, the prison is limiting the interview to a single hour and reserving the right to terminate it early if the inmate becomes uncooperative—which Rossi thinks is less about policy and more about Wallace trying to dictate the terms of the interaction.

It’s not ideal, especially considering you were the one who convinced Hotch to push for the interview before Wallace is transferred to death row. His case was one of the first you ever studied during the BAU training programme, and there isn’t much you wouldn’t give to pick the sociopath’s brains. One hour with him feels dangerously short—that is, assuming Hotch actually picks you to be in the interview with him.

“We don’t have enough time to waste managing personalities in the room,” Hotch says, gathering the files in front of him. “I’ll decide on a second agent and send out the interview schedule later today.”

Chairs start scraping back almost immediately, files and notebooks snapping shut as everyone gathers their things and starts filtering out of the room—but you don’t move. You stay firmly planted in your seat, chewing thoughtfully on the inside of your cheek while you debate whether to follow Hotch into his office and ask to be part of the interview. You don’t even have to be asking the questions, you just want to be there. You were the one pushing for it in the first place.

But then your brain very helpfully reminds you that Aaron Hotchner heard you say the word orgasming less than an hour ago and suddenly, being on death row yourself feels infinitely preferable to making eye contact with your unit chief.

“You alright?” Reid asks, lingering beside you.

You sigh heavily, finally closing your notebook. “Yep. Just thinking about how I’ll probably have to fake my own death and change my name after this morning.”

He shrugs. “Hotch probably isn’t even thinking about it anymore.”

You glance up at him hopefully.

“Morgan definitely is, though.”

You roll your eyes, letting out another resigned sigh as you stand up and follow him out of the briefing room.

The rest of the morning manages to pass without incident. You stay chained to your desk, reviewing reports and processing any files that come your way while very deliberately not glancing up any time Hotch steps out of his office. At around eleven, Morgan and JJ head out to the cafe down the street and come back with coffees for the whole team. Then there’s a printer jam that gives the rest of the office a rare glimpse at just how angry Emily Prentiss can get when frustrated.

It isn’t until just before midday that you finally get up to go to the bathroom, and when you return to your desk, there’s one new notification in your inbox.

From: Aaron Hotchner Subject: Wallace Interview You’re with me next Thursday. We leave at 0700.

Your stomach flips.

“Wow,” Reid says, suddenly standing right beside your desk. “He picked you pretty quickly.”

You shoot him a warning look. “Spence.”

“I’m just saying, he usually deliberates longer.”

You glance back at the screen, rereading the first five words that make your pulse skip a little faster.

“You and Hotch do work unusually well together in confined conversational environments,” Reid adds.

You turn back to him, frowning.

He tilts his head. “That sounded more suggestive than I intended.”

You open your mouth to tell him how deeply unhelpful he’s being when your phone buzzes twice against your desk—like it does several times a day, but something about it feels different this time. Wrong.

You reach for it slowly, your stomach twisting tighter as you turn it over.

Two new notifications from creepy internet man. The first since last night.

You open the message thread—and your stomach drops.

DCRunner00: [Image attachment] DCRunner00: Did you and your friend have fun last night?

The image is of your apartment building. It’s grainy, slightly crooked, clearly taken from somewhere across the street—but your living room windows are unmistakable. Warm light glowing through the glass. The blurred silhouette of someone inside.

Ice floods your bloodstream.

You stop breathing.

“Is that... your apartment?” Reid asks, leaning over your shoulder.

You don’t answer him. You can’t.

The bullpen dissolves into white noise around you.

Until—

“I’m done!” Garcia’s voice cuts through the static. “I can’t do this anymore!”

She’s marching right toward you, your laptop—that she’d still been monitoring—tucked under one arm.

Reid gasps. “Wait. Is that—”

Morgan straightens in his chair. “What’s happening?”

“Hotch’s office,” Garcia says, her expression dangerously stern as she stops beside your desk. “Now.”

You nod slowly, your shoes almost slipping against the carpet as you push your chair back. Reid steps aside just enough to let you stand, but before he can get too far, you reach out and wrap your fingers around his wrist, silently dragging him with you as you follow Garcia back through the bullpen.

Hotch glances up the second Garcia pushes open his office door.

“What’s going on?”

His tone is calm, automatic, already slipping into that low, calculated cadence he uses when he’s trying to talk someone down from the ledge. His gaze moves from her to you—and something in his expression shifts. Hardens. That muscle in his jaw ticking just once before he turns back to Garcia.

“What happened?” he asks, sharper now.

Garcia crosses the room quickly, opening your laptop and sitting it on his desk while you hover uselessly in the doorway with Reid still caught in your grip.

Hotch glances at the screen, his eyes flicking through the messages.

Then he looks back up—right at you—and something unreadable settles across his face. Something dangerous.

“Who sent this?”

Garcia spends the next five minutes explaining the entire situation at hyper speed while you just... stand there, leaning slightly against Reid like the whole world has tilted on its axis.

It’s funny how you can spend years building a career around finding bad people. Thinking like them. Predicting them. Profiling them. But the moment something happens to you—something real—that’s when all the theory suddenly stops feeling theoretical. And maybe it’s because you know exactly what people like this are capable of, or how quickly situations like this can escalate once someone decides they’re emotionally invested in you.

Or maybe it’s just the horrifying realisation that some part of you knew where this was heading all along. And you still didn’t do anything about it until now. Not until you put yourself—and your friend—in danger.

“Get everyone in the briefing room,” Hotch says the second Garcia finishes. “Now.”

Garcia nods once before slipping back out the door, and only then do you finally let go of Reid’s wrist—making a mental note to apologise later for the excessive physical contact.

Hotch’s eyes drop down briefly, following the movement almost automatically. Something tightens in his expression for half a second before his attention snaps back to the laptop still open in front of him.

“Reid,” he says. “Print the entire message history and document everything. Full timeline, screenshots, attachments—all of it. I want copies ready for the team in ten.”

You swallow hard. “The—the entire message history?”

“Yes,” Hotch says simply. “Every message.”

Could this day get any worse?

Fifteen minutes later, you’re back in the briefing room with the entire team flipping through printed copies of your dating profile and messages. It almost feels like an out-of-body experience. Like one of those mortifying dreams where you watch everything unfold from above without any real ability to stop it.

“Okay,” Prentiss says. “Where do we start?”

“Victimology,” Morgan answers immediately—then he glances at you. “Sorry, baby girl.”

You wave him off. “Reid’s been profiling me all week. Go for it.”

There’s a quiet ripple of laughter around the table, but Hotch barely blinks. He’s sitting on the opposite side, between Prentiss and JJ, with his arms folded tightly across his chest and gaze fixed on the copies spread out in front of him like he’s trying very hard not to look directly at you.

“We need to be careful building a victimology this early,” he says evenly. “Especially considering how well we know the victim. Personal familiarity creates bias.”

Reid tilts his head. “Normally, yes. But stalking crimes are often highly individualised.” He starts flipping through the printed messages as he talks. “Statistically speaking, stalking victims are usually targeted for a very specific reason. The motivation is generally rooted in either resentment, fixation, revenge, or romantic obsession.”

You grimace. “Fantastic.”

“Most victims also know their stalkers,” Reid continues. “Approximately seventy-five percent of stalking cases involve some form of prior relationship or perceived emotional connection.”

“Okay,” JJ says carefully, looking toward you. “Is there anyone you can think of who might hold a grudge against you? Someone you arrested, rejected, testified against—anything like that?”

You snort quietly. “Does every criminal I’ve ever interviewed count?”

The room goes still for half a second.

“Wait,” Prentiss says, sitting forward slightly. “Actually, that makes sense.”

Hotch’s eyes flick up as Prentiss pushes one of the printouts into the middle of the table, tapping the page.

“This escalation happened fast. Less than a week. That’s not somebody slowly building emotional trust from scratch—that’s somebody who already came into this interaction emotionally invested.”

“Or angry,” Morgan adds.

“Exactly,” Prentiss says. “He doesn’t lash out until she has Garcia over. That’s jealousy. Possessiveness.”

You sink lower in your chair.

“And he starts reacting every time she brings up her boss,” Rossi says, flipping through the printouts. “That’s territorial behaviour. He’s fixating on a prominent male figure in her life.”

“Not the only one fixating on him,” Reid murmurs beside you.

You elbow him immediately.

“Ow.”

Hotch glances up sharply. “Something to add, Reid?”

Reid straightens. “Uh—no. No, I think Rossi covered it.”

Hotch’s eyes narrow slightly, like he knows there’s something he’s missing, but he lets it go.

“Garcia,” he says instead, “tell me you found something useful.”

“Oh, I found things,” Garcia says immediately, the rapid clacking of her keyboard echoing loudly through the conference room speaker. “Deeply unsettling things. Our creepy little internet goblin has been very busy.”

Prentiss frowns slightly, mouthing ‘internet goblin’ across the table to JJ.

“Okay, so—profile was created nine days ago using a burner email and a VPN bouncing between three different states, which normally would make me want to set my computer on fire, but our boy got sloppy.”

Hotch leans forward slightly. “How sloppy?”

“Sloppy enough that one login pinged off a public Wi-Fi network less than six blocks from her apartment last night,” she says. “And before anybody asks, yes, I’m already pulling traffic cams.”

Hotch nods once, already shifting into command mode.

“Morgan, Prentiss—start canvassing within a ten-block radius of her apartment. Garcia will feed you anything useful from the traffic cams. JJ, coordinate with local PD and see if there’ve been any complaints of suspicious activity in the area. Peeping, prowlers, stalking complaints—anything that fits this escalation pattern. Rossi, start pulling names from old cases. Anybody with a history of fixation, stalking behaviour, or inappropriate attachment to investigators. Garcia, keep digging and keep me posted.”

Everyone starts moving immediately, papers shuffling and chairs scraping back as the room shifts into motion.

“I want to help,” you say suddenly. “This is my mess, let me fix it.”

“You can help,” he says evenly, “by going home, locking your doors, and staying there until we know exactly what we’re dealing with.”

You open your mouth to argue.

“I mean it,” he adds, voice low.

“I’ll take her,” Reid offers immediately.

“No,” Hotch says, gathering the printouts into one neat pile. “You go with Morgan and Prentiss.”

Then his eyes flick up, meeting yours.

“I’m taking her home.”

The next hour is one of the strangest of your life.

Hotch tells you to take your laptop back down to Garcia, who’s already in full FBI investigation mode—her screens covered in maps, metadata, CCTV stills, and enlarged screenshots of your own dating profile staring back at you in horrifying definition. When you finally make it back to your desk, Rossi spends twenty straight minutes walking you through every violent offender you’ve interviewed in the last three years, forcing you to revisit dozens of interactions you’d long since filed away as routine.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, Morgan drops a schematic of your apartment building onto your desk and starts questioning you about entrances, exits, blind spots, and security cameras while Reid quietly replaces the coffee you forgot existed an hour ago. It isn’t until Morgan leaves and JJ immediately takes his place beside you that you realise nobody has let you out of their sight for more than a few minutes at a time.

Then, finally, Hotch steps out of his office—files in one hand and his go-bag in the other, like he fully intends on staying the night if necessary.

“Ready?” he asks, stopping beside your desk.

You stare at the go-bag for one long, deeply horrified second.

“Yep,” you manage, voice tight as you slowly push out of your chair.

Hotch drives. You don’t even try to argue. You just sit in the passenger seat with your knees pressed together and your heart beating out of your chest. It’s not like you haven’t been in the car with him before. You have, plenty of times. This just feels... different.

Neither of you speak until he cuts the engine in the parking garage of your building, and you have to try very hard not to dwell on the fact that he hadn’t asked for directions the whole way here.

“Wait,” he mutters before climbing out of the car.

He grabs his bag from the back, then moves around the car and opens your door.

It takes an embarrassingly long time for you to unbuckle your seatbelt—your hands are shaking and your pulse is still pounding hard enough to make you dizzy—but once you finally do, you slip out of the car and lead him toward the fire stairs.

He never leaves more than a foot of distance between you. Never checks his phone. Never glances down. He stays glued to your side like a real protection detail. And thanks to your avid and wildly inappropriate imagination, you’ve already mentally written an entire bodyguard romance plot starring Aaron Hotchner and yours truly by the time you finally reach your apartment door.

“I—uh—wasn’t really expecting company,” you say as you push the door open. “Sorry.”

The second you step inside, Leia leaps off the couch with a loud, rumbling trill—probably wondering why you’re home before dark for the first time in years.

Hotch pauses, his brow furrowing slightly. “You have a cat.”

You glance back at him as you kick your shoes off and nudge them out of the way. “Is that really the most surprising thing you’ve learned about me today?”

He watches Leia for another second before glancing back at you. “It’s unexpected.”

You roll your eyes, trying to ignore the way your heart skips when he quietly toes off his shoes beside the door without even asking. Like he already expects to stay awhile.

Leia chirrups again as she pads through the living room toward you, no doubt about to demand an early dinner—until she catches sight of Hotch and abruptly stops short. Her ears flicker, her tail waving from side to side as she assesses the new man in her apartment.

Hotch crouches slightly, holding one hand out toward her.

“Oh, she doesn’t really like people,” you say quickly. “So don’t take it personally if she—”

Leia immediately walks straight up to him. She sniffs his hand once before pressing directly into his palm with a loud purr rumbling through her entire body.

Your eyes go wide.

Traitor.

Hotch’s mouth twitches faintly as Leia leans harder into his hand.

Oh my God. Are you jealous of your cat right now?

He gives Leia one final scratch behind the ears before straightening, the softness in his expression fading almost immediately as he slips back into work mode. He scans the apartment briefly before setting the files down on your tiny dining table and shrugging his jacket off, draping it over the back of a chair.

You stand there for a second longer than you probably should, watching him move through your apartment with the same calm focus he brings to crime scenes and briefing rooms and interrogation tables. He checks the windows, the balcony doors, glances briefly—thank God—into your bedroom, then double-checks the locks on the front door.

The whole thing feels weirdly surreal. You’ve imagined Aaron Hotchner inside your apartment a thousand times in a thousand different ways—just not like this. And nothing you imagined could have possibly prepared you for the reality of it. The way everything feels so much smaller. Warmer. More exposed.

Every object in every room suddenly feels mortifyingly personal.

If he lingers long enough in your kitchen, he’s going to notice the unusually empty trash can and realise you survive almost entirely on caffeine and convenience. If he looks too closely at your bookshelf, he’s going to find an unhealthy collection of romance novels with more trigger warnings than plot points. And if he looks into your bedroom again and turns his head just a little more to the right, he’s going to see your vibrator sitting on the nightstand—and then you’ll actually have to fake your own death.

Because you’ve spent years carefully curating a version of yourself that keeps people from looking too closely. Flirty. Casual. Detached enough to joke about bad dates and hookups and sex without anybody ever realising that none of it means anything. It’s easier that way. Easier to let everyone assume your attention is scattered in every direction instead of fixed very specifically on the one person you absolutely cannot have.

But this?

This feels dangerously close to being found out.

The next couple of hours pass in strange, uneven waves of normalcy and low-grade psychological torture.

Hotch sits at your tiny dining table without complaint, dwarfing it as he hunches over files and asks careful questions about your routines, your neighbours, and whether anyone in the building has seemed overly interested in you recently. His phone rings a lot, which isn’t unusual, and every time he answers it you spend almost the entire conversation staring unashamed at the way his shirt pulls tight across his back when he reaches for another printout.

Which is wildly inappropriate considering the circumstances, but you can’t really help it. You’re strung out, on edge, and, as Morgan so helpfully pointed out this morning, severely under-fucked.

And Leia, unfortunately—but not unsurprisingly—remains no help whatsoever.

By seven o’clock she’s fully abandoned you in favour of draping herself across Hotch’s lap while he reviews new data from Garcia, completely oblivious to the fact that you haven’t been able to breathe normally since he walked through the door.

“Are you hungry?” you ask eventually, moving back into the kitchen as if you have anything in there to offer.

Hotch glances up from his laptop, one hand resting absently against Leia’s back while she purrs in his lap.

“I’m fine.”

You lean a hip against the kitchen counter, folding your arms tightly across your chest. “Any updates?”

He glances back down at his screen. “Garcia narrowed the traffic footage down to three vehicles that stayed in the area longer than they should have—Morgan and Prentiss are running the plates now. And Rossi’s pulling relatives connected to your previous cases. Family members who attended trials, sentencing hearings, interviews. Anyone who might’ve had access to your name outside the official reports.”

You nod slowly, silence settling again for a moment before you exhale sharply.

“Are you sure sitting here doing absolutely nothing is really the best use of me right now?”

His eyes flick back up, that signature Hotchner scowl set between his brows.

“You think this is nothing?”

His voice stays calm, but there’s something firmer underneath it now.

“You’ve spent the last four days being threatened, surveilled, and followed by someone we still haven’t identified,” he says. “Morgan, Prentiss, and Reid are out chasing leads because somebody targeted you. Rossi’s pulling case files because somebody targeted you. Garcia’s been at her desk for six straight hours because somebody targeted you.”

His jaw tightens slightly.

“My job right now is making sure nothing happens to you,” he says quietly. “Let me do that.”

Your breath catches, something warm and uncomfortably familiar twisting in your chest as Aaron Hotchner just sits there watching you like he hasn’t said anything unusual at all.

Which, to him, maybe he hasn’t.

He’s just doing his job. Looking out for his team. He’s not here because he wants to be. He’s here because someone threatened one of his agents.

That’s all.

You clear your throat, pushing away from the counter before the silence stretches too long. “I’m—uh—I’m just going to shower quickly. If that’s alright.”

He nods once. “Want me to clear the—”

“No,” you say immediately. “God, no. No. It’s fine. Totally fine.”

His brows pull together slightly, confusion flickering briefly across his face before you turn and hurry into your bedroom, shutting the door a little harder than necessary behind you.

Then you take the longest shower known to mankind. You stand beneath the scalding spray for at least ten minutes before even touching anything. Then you scrub, exfoliate, shave, condition, rinse twice, and stand there for just a little longer before finally gathering the courage to step out. All the while trying desperately not to think about the fact that your unit chief is only two thin walls away while you’re dripping wet and completely naked.

You rummage through your dresser until you find an oversized sweater that isn’t totally threadbare and a clean pair of pyjama shorts. Technically, they’re just striped flannel pants you cut into shorts, but at least they’re not as short as the rest of your pyjama collection that definitely needs replacing.

If only you actually had time for things like shopping... and emotional stability.

“No, wait for Morgan before you approach,” Hotch says as you step quietly back into the living room, phone pressed against his ear while he paces slowly beside the dining table. “If the registration’s fake, I don’t want you making contact until we know exactly who’s inside.”

He pauses, expression sharpening slightly.

“Alright. Keep me updated.”

He lowers the phone slowly before looking over at you for the first time since you re-emerged—and for half a second, he visibly loses his train of thought. It’s only tiny. Barely there. Just a brief pause before his expression shutters back into place.

“Garcia tracked one of the vehicles from the traffic footage to a motel outside Arlington,” he says, glancing back down at the files scattered across the table. “The driver’s been masking his activity through multiple VPNs, so she couldn’t pull a clean trace from the motel Wi-Fi, but only one room in the motel was actively using the network.”

Your stomach tightens.

“The name on the reservation was fake,” he continues, “but the room was paid for using a credit card belonging to Daniel Mercer.”

The name hits you immediately.

“Ethan Mercer’s brother,” you say quietly.

Hotch nods. “Rossi confirmed it about twenty minutes ago. Morgan and Prentiss are waiting for local PD before they move in.”

You nod slowly, your pulse fluttering anxiously in your throat as you move toward the kitchen. Not because you actually need anything in there, but because standing still feels almost impossible right now.

“Ethan barely spoke during the trial,” you murmur, folding your arms as you lean back against the counter. “I don’t think I ever even met his brother.”

“You wouldn’t need to,” Hotch says, already gathering the files into a neat pile. “People build attachments to investigators without ever interacting directly. Especially when they’re looking for someone to blame.”

Your skin prickles. “You really think it’s him?”

“It fits,” Hotch replies evenly. “Established emotional investment, personal motive, no prior record. Which explains the inconsistency. The escalation without follow-through. The long gaps between contact attempts. He knows enough to be cautious, but not enough to stay controlled.”

He straightens, turning back toward you—and for the briefest second, his eyes drop to your bare legs before snapping back up to your face almost immediately.

He clears his throat. “This probably isn’t something he’s done before. But his brother has.”

The apartment falls quiet again after that. Hotch returns to collecting files while you stare absently toward the dark balcony doors, your pulse still refusing to settle beneath your skin.

“Well,” you mutter eventually, gripping the edge of the counter to hoist yourself up. “On the bright side, I still think I’ve dated worse.”

The joke leaves your lips lightly enough, the same way they always do—easy, detached, halfway between genuine and ironic so nobody ever pauses long enough to look too closely.

Except this time Hotch does pause.

“Why do you do that?”

You frown. “Do what?”

“Deflect.” He straightens again, one hand still holding a stack of printouts. “Every time something gets too serious, you make a joke. Or you flirt. Or you say something just inappropriate enough to throw people off balance.”

You lift a shoulder. “Maybe I’m just charming.”

“No.” His eyes narrow slightly, brows pulling together. “No, because it changes depending on the situation.”

Your pulse stutters.

“With Morgan it’s competitive,” he continues, setting the papers back on the table. “You tease him because he pushes back and it keeps conversations superficial. Garcia gets exaggerated stories because she responds emotionally instead of analytically. Half the things you say to Reid are specifically designed to make him flustered enough to stop examining what you actually mean.”

“Wow,” you murmur, shifting your weight against the countertop. “Starting to feel a little attacked here.”

But Hotch doesn’t seem to hear you.

“The dating profile doesn’t fit,” he says, almost to himself. “Neither does the apartment.”

Your stomach twists as his gaze moves briefly across the room. The bookshelves. The carefully organised clutter. Leia now curled up asleep on the couch.

“You project someone impulsive. Social. Sexually confident. But nothing in here supports that.” His eyes flick back toward you again. “You live like someone who protects their space carefully. Even the cat.”

“Leave Leia out of this.”

“She doesn’t like strangers.”

“She likes you.”

The words slip out too quickly, and something in his expression shifts.

“You keep people at a distance,” he continues slowly, close enough now that you can hear the quiet rasp beneath his voice. “Even the team. You let people think they know you because it keeps them from looking closer.” He hesitates, brow furrowing. “Except Reid.”

Your fingers tighten instinctively around the edge of the counter.

“You trust him,” Hotch says. “Not just socially. Behaviourally. You anchor yourself to him when you’re stressed. Physical proximity. Eye contact. Redirecting conversations through him.” He pauses, watching you carefully now. “And earlier you said he’d been profiling you all week.”

Oh God.

“Which means Reid already noticed the pattern.”

He goes quiet for a moment, his expression tightening almost imperceptibly as he looks back over the last few months—years—in real time. You can practically see it happening behind his eyes. Every interaction. Every joke. Every look you thought you’d hidden quickly enough.

“You track me.”

The words come quieter now. Less certain. Like he’s still realising them.

“You know my routines,” he continues slowly. “You anticipate questions before I ask them. You look up when you hear my office door open even when you can’t see me.” He steps closer again. “You know when I need coffee before I do. You watch my reactions before anyone else in the room.”

Your breath stutters.

And Hotch notices immediately.

His expression shifts slightly as his eyes flick across your face, your posture, your hands still locked around the edge of the counter hard enough that your knuckles have gone pale beneath the kitchen lights.

“Your breathing changes when I get too close to you,” he says quietly.

He takes another slow step forward, close enough now that you have to tilt your head back slightly to keep looking at him.

“You stop fidgeting,” he continues. “You go completely still.” His gaze drops briefly to your hands before lifting again. “Like you’re afraid movement alone is going to give you away.”

Your heart is beating so hard now you’re half-convinced he can hear it.

“You lose verbal fluency,” he says, voice lower now. “You trip over words you normally wouldn’t. Your pupils dilate. Your heart rate increases. And every single time I get close to noticing it—”

His eyes lock onto yours.

“You redirect.”

You can barely breathe now.

He’s standing right in front of you, close enough that the heat rolling off him sinks straight into your skin, close enough that one more step would put him between your knees where you’re perched on the counter.

And somehow the worst part is that he still sounds calm. Thoughtful. Like Aaron Hotchner is profiling you with the same careful focus he’d bring to an unsub—except this time the thing he’s slowly uncovering is the fact that you’ve been hopelessly in love with him this entire time.

You swallow hard, your gaze catching just briefly on his mouth before you drag it back up to his eyes, pulse hammering so hard you can barely think straight.

“Figured it out yet, Agent Hotchner?” you ask softly.

He goes still for half a second, something unreadable flickering across his face as his eyes drop to your mouth before lifting back to your eyes again.

The apartment suddenly feels oppressively quiet.

His throat shifts slightly.

And then—

His phone rings.

He steps back immediately, his expression shuttering back into something careful and unreadable.

“Hotchner,” he says, pressing his phone against his ear.

You don’t hear much after that. Not really. You recognise Morgan’s muffled voice, but you can’t quite hear what he’s saying. Not while Hotch slowly paces your living room. You catch fragments of the conversation. Questions. Short answers. The low, steady cadence of his voice slipping effortlessly back into work mode while your own nervous system continues actively collapsing in on itself.

Because holy fuck.

Holy fuck.

What the hell just happened?

“They got him.”

Your head snaps up. “They what?”

Hotch moves back to the dining table and starts gathering his things.

“It was him. Daniel Mercer,” he says. “Morgan and Prentiss found him in the motel room with multiple burner phones, printed screenshots from the dating profile, and enough surveillance material to establish intent.”

“Oh.”

“Local PD recovered notebooks too,” he continues. “Names, schedules, work addresses. Everyone connected to Ethan Mercer’s conviction. Judges, prosecutors, witnesses. You were first because you were the arresting agent.”

A cold shiver slips down your spine.

“Garcia also confirmed the motel Wi-Fi matched the same VPN chain used to access the dating profile,” Hotch adds. “Once Mercer realised the Bureau was involved, the direct contact stopped. After that he shifted to surveillance. Morgan said the room was covered in trial material. Photos. Notes. Newspaper clippings. He’d been building the grievance for months.”

He pauses, then looks at you.

“But they got him.”

“Good,” you say quietly.

Hotch nods once before turning back to the dining table, slipping his laptop into his bag with careful efficiency before gathering every file and printout into one neat pile.

“Local PD will hold Mercer overnight until federal transport clears,” he says, sliding the papers into his bag. “Garcia’s already started coordinating with the U.S. Attorney’s Office. You’ll need to give an additional statement tomorrow regarding the dating profile.”

You nod. “Okay.”

Hotch reaches for his jacket, draping it over one arm.

“There’ll still be additional officers patrolling the area tonight,” he says. “And if you don’t want to be alone, I can have Reid or Garcia stay here.”

“I’ll be fine,” you mutter, glancing down at the kitchen tiles. “You can stop babysitting me now.”

Hotch stills.

Then slowly, deliberately, sets his jacket on the table.

“Babysitting?” he repeats.

“You know what I mean.”

He steps toward you, brows drawn. “I don’t think I do.”

“You solved the case,” you mutter, heat crawling up the back of your neck. “You profiled me. Thoroughly. So congratulations, I guess. You figured out the whole sad little secret, the weird avoidance issues, the entire personality disorder cocktail—” You let out a short, humourless laugh. “You can go back to pretending none of this ever happened now.”

He closes the distance between you before you even fully realise he’s moving, stopping directly in front of the counter again. Exactly where he’d been when you asked him if he’d figured it out. Close enough that you can feel his warmth. Close enough that you can see the day-old shadow of stubble lining his jaw.

“You’re being deliberately provocative now because you’re embarrassed,” he says. “But embarrassment isn’t actually your primary response here.”

His gaze drops to your mouth again, and your pulse stumbles.

“If it was,” he adds quietly, “you wouldn’t still be looking at me like that.”

Your breath catches in your throat.

You want to say something. Anything. Another joke. Another deflection. Something sharp enough to cut through the tension in the air and stop him looking at you like this. Exposing you like this.

But you can’t.

All you can do is stare at him. At the steady intensity in his eyes. At the way his tie has loosened slightly over the course of the night. At the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath the white shirt you’ve spent an embarrassing number of years picturing on your bedroom floor.

You swallow hard, and he notices. Of course he does.

Something shifts in his expression then. Something softer. Less guarded.

His hand comes up beneath your jaw, his thumb pressing gently into your chin as he pulls you closer. You fall forward without hesitation, and he leans in, dark eyes still searching yours as if he isn’t entirely sure he has permission yet.

Then he kisses you.

It’s not rushed. Not messy. If anything, the first press of his mouth against yours feels almost unbearably controlled, like he’s still holding himself back even now.

But the restraint doesn’t last long.

Your hand catches his tie, tugging him closer, and something rough slips from the back of his throat as he steps in, his hips slotting between your thighs. His hand slides from your jaw into your hair, fingers tightening just enough to tilt your head back exactly as far as he wants it.

Your lips part against his with a broken sound, and he deepens it slowly, his tongue moving against yours like he has all the time in the world. Tasting you. Learning you. Mapping every small sound and ragged exhale with the same focused intensity he brings to everything—and somehow that’s what undoes you the most. Not urgency. Attention.

His breath mingles with yours, hot and uneven, and when his teeth catch your bottom lip it’s deliberate, measured—a sharp little spark shooting straight through your spine. Your hips roll toward him without permission, and his answering groan rumbles through his chest, vibrating beneath your palm and making you ache everywhere you’ve been starving for him.

Then he pulls back just enough to look at you properly again. His hand still tangled in your hair. Thumb dragging once across your jaw. His eyes move over your face with the same intensity he uses in every debrief, every case, every crisis, except right now you are the thing he’s making sure of.

Like he needs to be absolutely certain this is real.

“Aaron—”

“Bedroom,” he says immediately, voice low and rough enough to send heat crashing straight through you. “Now.”

FRIDAY 6:15AM

Your alarm blares somewhere beside the bed, startling you awake hard enough that your heart immediately starts pounding. You reach for it blindly, determined to silence it before it wakes—

Oh God.

The second your hand hits the snooze button, you freeze.

Your heart is beating faster now, your pulse thrumming in your throat as you turn slowly—so slowly—toward the other side of the bed, where Aaron fucking Hotchner stirs sleepily.

Your stomach swoops.

You slept with your boss last night.

With a shallow, shaky breath, you carefully start to move. His arm is heavy at your waist, but you manage to slip out from underneath it without fully waking him. You shove the covers off and shiver at the sudden exposure, leaning over the side of the bed to find your discarded sweater. You pull it over your head before quietly padding toward the ensuite, refusing to glance back at your very hot, very naked unit chief still tangled in your sheets.

You only just make it around the other side of the bed before something tugs at the back of your sweater. You stop, glancing back to find Hotch half-awake, eyes half-lidded with one hand caught at the hem of your sweater.

“Do you really get up this early?” he asks, voice rough with sleep.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Most days.”

His brows pull together slightly. “Why?”

You let out a small, breathless laugh. “Because my boss is kind of a hard ass about punctuality.”

Something that almost resembles amusement flickers across his face.

“Sounds like a terrible boss,” he murmurs.

Then he tugs on your sweater again—hard enough this time that you let out a startled laugh as you stumble backward onto the mattress and into him. He catches you easily, one arm wrapping around your waist before you can even fully recover, pulling you back against the warmth of his chest.

“Yeah,” you murmur, laughing softly as his mouth brushes beneath your ear. “He’s awful. Very demanding.”

He hums, breath warm against your skin.

“He’s really hot, though,” you add, smiling despite yourself. “So I like having time to put in a little effort, you know? Hope he notices.”

“Oh, he notices.”

Your stomach flips. “Really?”

“Mhm.”

His arm tightens around your waist. “He notices the skirts.”

Heat floods your face. “Aaron—”

“He notices the tights.” His mouth brushes against the nape of your neck. “The ones with the seam up the back.”

“Oh my God.”

You try to turn your face into the pillow, but he just holds you tighter, pressing his lips firm against your neck.

“And the red bra,” he murmurs.

Your breath catches.

“Noticed that so much I had to wait until everyone left the conference room before I could get up.”

You let out a strangled sound, squirming in his arms, but it’s no use. His chest vibrates against your back, something suspiciously close to laughter.

“My washing machine broke that week,” you whine. “It wasn’t my fault.”

“Mm, sure.”

You twist around immediately. “I’m not lying.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, like he doesn’t quite believe you, but before you can protest again—he kisses you. Warm, slow, sleep-soft. His mouth moves against yours almost lazily, his hand tightening slightly at your waist when a pathetic little whimper slips out before you can stop it.

“Careful,” you murmur, breathless against his mouth. “Don’t want to be late.”

You feel his lips curve.

“Good thing I’m the boss.”

10:35AM

You made it to work well on time. Even after three orgasms, a shower, and an awkward attempt at a ‘What Now?’ conversation—that ended in the aforementioned third orgasm. Because fortunately for your rapidly fraying nervous system, Hotch hadn’t even hesitated when you’d finally asked what happens next. In fact, he’d answered a little too quickly.

The first thing he’d asked was whether you’d be comfortable keeping things quiet for a while. Not because he’s worried about the team finding out—he trusts them. Trusts you. The concern is Strauss, and the Bureau, and keeping you in the BAU while he figures out exactly how much trouble the two of you have just created for yourselves. At some point he’d even started muttering about reporting structures and supervisory chains, half-thinking out loud while pulling on his tie. Something about possibly moving your reporting line over to Rossi. Something else about needing to review the Bureau’s fraternisation policies before making any moves.

That was when you kissed him—effectively, and very quickly, kicking off round three.

Because he’d clearly been thinking about this for a while, which means Aaron Hotchner has been noticing a lot more than just short skirts and inappropriately coloured underwear. It means that the second he decided to kiss you in your apartment last night, he’d already known exactly what he was getting himself into.

“Alright, gorgeous,” Morgan says, startling you as he raps a knuckle against your desk. “They’ll be ready for you downstairs in ten.”

You glance up at him, brows drawn—and it takes an embarrassingly long second for you to figure out what he’s talking about.

“Oh.” You blink. “Right. Yeah, I’ll head down soon. Thanks.”

Prentiss looks over from her desk. “You gonna be okay?”

You lift a shoulder. “Sure. What’s another case report?”

Morgan frowns, dropping into his chair. “It’s not exactly every day you’re the victim, baby girl.”

“Yeah, but nothing really happened.”

Morgan and Prentiss both stare at you.

“Because of the team,” you add quickly. “You guys caught him before he actually did anything. So... you know, nothing bad happened.” You plaster on a smile that feels reasonably convincing. “Thanks for that, by the way.”

Prentiss narrows her eyes, but before she can say anything else, Reid appears.

“You’re in a remarkably good mood for someone who was being actively cyberstalked twelve hours ago,” he says, stirring his second coffee of the day.

You turn back to your screen, trying to ignore the heat creeping into your cheeks. “Maybe I just have a newfound appreciation for life.”

Reid studies you for a moment, clearly unconvinced—but he doesn’t push. He just moves slowly back toward his desk, setting his coffee down with unnecessary care while the rest of the team turn away, finally deciding to mind their own business.

You force your attention back to the report in front of you, determined to at least look productive for the next ten minutes—when a familiar voice cuts through your concentration.

“Rossi’s taking Wallace with you next week,” Hotch says, setting the file down on your desk.

You blink up at him. “I thought you were leading the interview.”

“I was.”

Something in his expression tightens briefly before he lowers his voice.

“Wallace has a long history of using sex, intimidation, and emotional targeting to destabilise people during interviews,” he says. “Especially women.”

You frown. “Hotch, I—”

“And if he says something to you in that room,” he continues evenly, “or looks at you the wrong way, I need to know the agent sitting beside you is still capable of thinking objectively.”

Your stomach flips as his eyes meet yours—steady, intense, devastatingly honest.

“Right now,” he says quietly, “I’m not sure that’s me.”

Then he’s gone. Moving through the bullpen back toward his office like he hasn’t just set your pulse racing and your head spinning. You watch after him for a moment before shaking your head, glancing back at your computer screen as if you’d been focused on it at all in the first place.

“…Huh.”

You turn toward the sound and find Reid staring at you again. Not rudely. Just watching with the same focused curiosity he’d been wearing since your suspiciously cheerful comment about cyberstalking.

He tilts his head.

Then—

“Oh my God.”

You close your eyes. “Spencer… don’t.”

You took the phone back. “Why do you sound like you’re reviewing storm projections?”

“I’m trying to understand the interface.”

“You are not allowed to say interface while we’re trying for a baby.”

He looked offended. “It has an interface.”

“Jack.”

He set the phone down immediately. “Right. Sorry.”

You laughed and climbed into his lap, kissing the apology off his mouth before he could turn trying into a continuing medical education module.

There were also hard moments. The first time your period came, you thought you would be fine.

You had told yourself not to expect anything. You had been trying for one month. One. That was nothing. Rationally, you knew that.

Your body did not care about rationality. You found out at work, between a debrief and a meeting, in the staff bathroom with fluorescent lights buzzing overhead.

For a second, you just stared. Then you washed your hands, went back out, and ran a systems meeting so efficiently that Robby complimented your clarity.

Afterward, you went into the supply closet and cried silently behind a shelf of sterile gauze. Jack found you because he always found you now.

He opened the door, stepped inside, and closed it behind him.

You wiped your face quickly.“I’m fine.”

He gave you a look. You sighed. “I got my period.”

His expression softened. “Oh, sweetheart.”

“It’s stupid. It was the first month.”

“It’s not stupid.”

“It is. I knew it probably wouldn’t happen right away.”

“Knowing doesn’t stop disappointment.” He pulled you into his arms.

“I feel ridiculous.”

“You’re not.”

“I wasn’t even pregnant.”

“I know.”

“So why does it feel like losing something?”

Jack was quiet for a second. Then he said, “Because hope starts before proof.”

You cried harder.

He held you in the supply closet while people walked past outside, while your body grieved something that had only existed as a maybe.

That night, he ordered Thai food, put your heating pad in the bed, and did not say anything aggressively cheerful. He just climbed in beside you, pulled you close, and said, “We can be sad tonight and okay tomorrow.”

You pressed your face into his chest. “What if I’m sad tomorrow too?”

“Then we’ll be sad tomorrow.”

“What if this takes months?”

“Then it takes months.”

“What if it never happens?”

His arms tightened. “Then we grieve that. And we keep loving each other.”

You closed your eyes.

“Say the enough thing.”

His lips brushed your hair. “You and me are enough.”

You breathed.

“Again.”

“You and me are enough.” 

You fell asleep to the sound of his voice.

The second month was easier. Not because you cared less. Because you knew now that disappointment could come, and you would survive it.

Jack started leaving small things around the house that made you want to cry in a good way.

A new box of tea you liked. A note on the bathroom mirror that said Doctor’s appointment Thursday, not scary alone. A sticky note on the fertility app printout you had abandoned on the counter that said No folder. I listened.

You laughed so hard you had to sit down.

At work, he became even more ridiculous.

He did not hover, per se. But he began appearing at suspiciously convenient moments. With water. With snacks. With your jacket. With the headache medicine you had forgotten in your desk.

Dana noticed. “You two trying to populate my ED?” she asked one afternoon.

You nearly dropped your coffee.“Dana.”

Jack, standing beside you, went completely still.

Dana looked between you. “Oh, please. I am not asking for details. I’m saying if you get pregnant, I’m going to need a warning before he becomes medically unbearable.”

Jack frowned. “I would not.”

You and Dana both looked at him.

He sighed. “I would try not to.”

Dana pointed at you. “See?”

You covered your face.

Santos appeared out of nowhere. “Are we talking about a baby?”

“No,” you and Jack said together.

She gasped. “That was too synchronized. Now I know.”

Jack muttered, “I’m transferring.”

Dana said, “No one is transferring. Everyone is going back to work.”

Trinity whispered to you, “For what it’s worth, your hypothetical baby would have incredible cheekbones.”

You stared.

Jack said, “Santos.” She fled.

You started laughing.

Jack looked at you, exasperated and soft. “What?”

“You’re going to be so bad at keeping this quiet if it happens.”

He blinked. “When,” he said.

Your laughter faded. “What?”

He seemed to realize what he had said. Then, very carefully, “If. When. Whatever word doesn’t make you want to throw something.”

You reached for his hand briefly, hidden behind the counter. “When is okay today,” you whispered.

His face softened. “Okay.”

Dana yelled from the desk, “I can see you holding hands.”

You dropped his hand. Jack sighed. The Pitt kept noticing. You kept letting it.

The positive test happened on a rainy Sunday morning. Because apparently, all major emotional developments in your life required rain.

You woke up before Jack, which rarely happened. At first, you didn’t know why. Then you remembered.

You were late. Not very late. Late enough. You had told yourself you would wait another day. Then another. Maybe a week. Maybe until you could no longer deny it. Maybe until the universe personally mailed you confirmation.

You slipped out of bed at six-thirty and went to the bathroom with the test hidden in your sweatshirt pocket like contraband. Your hands shook. You took it.

Set it on the counter. Washed your hands. Did not look.

Looked.Looked away. Looked again.

Two lines.

For a second, your brain went silent.

Not happy. Not scared. Just Blank. Then your heart started pounding so hard you had to sit on the closed toilet seat.

Two lines. You covered your mouth. The bathroom door was cracked.

From the bedroom, Jack stirred. You heard the mattress shift.

Then his voice, rough with sleep. “Sweetheart?”

You couldn’t answer. He was up instantly. The door opened wider.

Jack stood there in sweatpants and a T-shirt, hair messy, eyes already alert.

“What’s wrong?”

You looked at him. Then at the counter. Jack followed your gaze.

“Is that…”

You nodded. He stepped into the bathroom slowly, like the floor might break beneath him.

He picked up the test.

You watched his face. Joy appeared first. Huge and unguarded. Then fear crashed into it. Then joy again. Then something so tender you started crying before he said a word.

Jack lowered himself to his knees in front of you.

“Hey,” he whispered.

You laughed through tears. “Hi.”

His hands found yours. “You’re pregnant?”

You nodded, crying harder. “I think so.”

His eyes filled.

“We’ll call the doctor.”

You laughed wetly.“Jack.”

“I know, I know. Not the first thing.”

“It can be the first thing.”

He squeezed your hands. “You’re pregnant,” he said again, like he needed to hear it in his own voice.

“I’m pregnant.”

His lip quivered as his nostrils flared, and the muscles around his eyes and forehead pinched together.

You touched his cheek.

He turned his face into your palm and kissed it.

“I’m happy,” you whispered. “And terrified.”

“Me too.”

“I don’t want to tell everyone.”

“We won’t.”

“I want to tell my mom.”

“Okay.”

“And my dad. He’ll be awful.”

“He will be unbearable.”

“He’s going to ask if he can be called Coach.”

“He already has a campaign.”

You laughed. Then sobbed.

Jack pulled you gently forward into his arms. You slid off the toilet seat and onto the bathroom floor with him, both of you laughing and crying like ridiculous people beside the sink.

He held you for a long time.

The test sat on the counter. Two lines. Tiny and enormous.

Eventually, Jack whispered, “Can I say something doctor-y?”

You sniffed. “One thing.”

“We confirm with your OB. and we take it one appointment at a time.”

You nodded against him. 

“Partner thing?” he asked.

You pulled back.

His eyes were wet and warm. “I love you,” he said.

“That was better than the doctor thing.”

“I thought so.”

You kissed him there on the bathroom floor, rain tapping against the window, the house quiet around you, the yellow room waiting down the hall.

Not fixed or safe from fear but full of possibility.

Your father cried.

You had not expected that.

You expected shouting. Jokes. A wildly inappropriate comment that would make your mother slap his arm. A declaration that the baby would call him Coach. Maybe a threat toward Jack, just for tradition.

Instead, when you told your parents that afternoon, your father stared at you.

Then at Jack.

Then back at you.

His eyes filled.

“Oh,” he said.

Just that.

Oh.

Your mother started crying immediately, which surprised no one.

You sat on the couch beside Jack, your hands clasped so tightly in your lap that he gently covered them with one of his.

Your father looked at his hand over yours.

Then at Jack.

His voice came out rough.

“You scared?”

Jack answered honestly.

“Yes.”

Your father nodded.

“Good.”

Your mother looked at him. “Ben.”

“What? Means he understands the assignment.”

You laughed through tears.

Your father stood slowly, still moving with care since the surgery, and came over to you.

You stood too.

He hugged you.

Hard.

For a second, you were a little girl again, face pressed into your father’s chest, his hand cupping the back of your head.

“My baby’s having a baby,” he whispered.

You cried then.

“Dad.”

“I know. I’m being sentimental. Don’t get used to it.”

You laughed, watery.

He pulled back and looked at you seriously.

“One day at a time.”

You nodded.

“I know.”

“No, I mean it. Don’t live six months ahead in fear. You’ll miss today.”

Your throat tightened.

Jack’s hand touched your back.

Your father looked at Jack.

“And you.”

Jack straightened slightly.

“Yes, sir?”

“You don’t get weird.”

You laughed.

Jack blinked. “Define weird.”

“Hovering. Fussing. Reading too much. Making charts.”

You slowly turned to Jack.

He avoided your gaze.

Your father pointed. “See? Guilty.”

Jack sighed. “There is one chart.”

“Jack.”

“It’s not a chart. It’s more of a document.”

Your mother covered her mouth.

You stared at him.

“When did you make a document?”

“This morning.”

“Jack.”

“It has appointment dates, questions, and emergency contacts.”

Your father groaned. “Kiddo, you picked a nerd.”

“You’re just figuring that out?” you asked.

Jack looked offended.

Your mother hugged him next.

He froze, then softened.

“We’re happy for you,” she whispered.

Jack closed his eyes briefly.

“Thank you.”

Your father clapped him on the shoulder.

“If the kid calls me Coach, I’ll start a college fund.”

You pointed at him.

“No.”

He shrugged. “Long game.”

That evening, after your parents left, you and Jack stood in the yellow room.

No one had said nursery.

Not yet.

But the word hovered.

You stood in the doorway, hand resting lightly over your stomach even though there was nothing to feel yet.

Jack stood behind you.

“Too soon?” he asked.

You shook your head.

“No.”

“Too much?”

“Yes.”

He kissed your temple.

“We can close the door.”

You looked at the rocking chair.

The rug.

The plant.

The soft lamp.

The room that had held grief long enough to become gentle around the edges.

“No,” you whispered. “Leave it open.”

Jack’s arms came around you from behind.

His hands rested over yours.

Together, you stood there.

The first appointment was two weeks later.

You almost threw up before leaving the house.

Not from pregnancy but from fear.

Jack found you sitting on the edge of the bed with your shoes untied.

He crouched in front of you.

“Talk to me.”

You stared at your sneakers.

“I don’t want to go.”

“Okay.”

“I want to go.”

“Okay.”

“I hate this.”

“I know.”

“I’m scared they’ll tell us there’s nothing there.”

Jack’s face tightened with pain.

He took your hands.

“I’m scared too.”

You looked at him.

His eyes were steady.

Not calm exactly.

Steady.

“But we’re going,” he said softly. “And whatever happens, we leave together.”

Your chin trembled.

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

At the doctor’s office, you gripped his hand so tightly he probably lost circulation.

He did not complain.

The ultrasound room was too familiar.

That was the worst part.

The dim lighting. The machine. The paper on the exam table. The soft professional voice of the tech.

Your breathing went shallow.

Jack leaned close.

“Look at me.”

You did.

“I’m here.”

You nodded.

The tech began.

Time slowed.

You stared at Jack instead of the screen.

He watched your face, not the monitor, because he had asked you in the car what you wanted and you had said, “Don’t look before I’m ready.”

So he didn’t.

The tech was quiet.

Too quiet?

Normal quiet?

Medical quiet?

Your panic spiked.

Jack’s hand tightened.

Then the tech smiled.

“There it is.”

You stopped breathing.

Jack turned his head slowly.

You looked too.

A tiny flicker.

So small.

So impossible.

The tech adjusted the volume.

And then you heard it.

Fast.

Steady.

A heartbeat.

You made a sound you did not recognize.

Jack’s hand flew to his mouth.

His eyes filled instantly.

The tech said something about measurements, about dates, about everything looking appropriate so far.

So far.

You heard that part.

You accepted it.

So far was not forever.

But it was today.

Jack leaned down and kissed your forehead, his tears falling into your hair.

You cried too.

Not because fear vanished.

It didn’t.

But because something else had arrived beside it.

Afterward, in the car, neither of you moved for a long time.

Jack held the ultrasound picture like it was made of glass.

You looked at him.

He looked completely undone.

“You okay?” you asked.

He laughed once, wet and disbelieving.

“No.”

You smiled through tears.

“Me neither.”

He touched the tiny image with one finger.

“Hi,” he whispered.

Your heart cracked open.

You leaned your head on his shoulder.

“Don’t make me cry again.”

“I can’t help it.”

“You’re going to be unbearable.”

“Yes.”

You laughed.

He kissed your hair.

When you got home, you put the ultrasound picture in the yellow room.

Just tucked gently into the notebook.

Besides the memories.

Besides the grief.

Besides the hope.

By the time The Pitt found out, Dana already knew. You suspected your father told her.

He denied it. Badly.

“I don’t even have Dana’s number,” he said over the phone.

“She texted you last week about low-sodium recipes.”

“That was professional.”

“You are not her patient.”

“I’m a community member.”

“Dad.”

“Fine. Maybe I implied.”

“You implied my pregnancy?”

“I said Jack looked like a man about to faint from happiness and fear. She connected dots.”

You closed your eyes.

“I cannot believe you.”

“Sure you can.”

At work, Dana cornered you in the medication room.

Not aggressively. She just appeared. “You okay?”

You smiled faintly. “Yeah.”

She looked at your face.

Then at your still-flat stomach. Then back at your face.

Her eyes softened. “You sure?”

Your throat tightened. “Today, yes.”

“Good answer.”

You exhaled.

“I’m scared.”

“I figured.”

“Happy too.”

“I figured that also.”

“Jack is being weird.”

Dana snorted.

“Jack was weird before.”

“He made a document.”

“Of course he did.”

“And he keeps pretending not to check if I’m nauseous.”

“Is he hovering?”

“A little.”

“Do you want me to scare him?”

You laughed. “Maybe later.”

Dana pulled you into a hug. “Happy for you, honey,” she murmured.

You closed your eyes. “Thank you.”

When you stepped out, Trinity was standing there. Crying.

You stared. “Trinity.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I just saw Dana hug you and I inferred.”

“You inferred tears?”

“I’m emotionally gifted.”

Dana pointed down the hall. “Move.”

She sniffed. “Congratulations, probably.”

You laughed.

“Thank you, probably.”

Jack found out that Dana knew when she walked up to him at the board and said, “Do not become insufferable.”

He froze.

You were across the station, watching.

Robby looked up from a chart.

Jack said carefully, “About what?”

Dana stared at him.

Jack sighed. “I’ll try.”

“No caffeine lectures. No food policing. No dramatic hovering. If she needs something, she’ll ask. If she doesn’t ask, you can offer like a normal person.”

Jack nodded seriously.

Robby looked between them.

Then at you.

Then back at Jack.

His face softened.

“Oh,” Robby said.

Jack closed his eyes.

Dana muttered, “This department is a sieve.”

Robby came over later, when you were pretending to organize files.

“Congratulations,” he said quietly.

You looked up. “Thank you.”

“How are you feeling?”

You considered lying.

Then didn’t.

“Terrified.”

He nodded. “That sounds right.”

“And happy.”

“That also sounds right.”

You looked down.

“Does it get easier? Waiting for the other shoe to drop?”

Robby was quiet for a moment.

Then he said, “Maybe not easier. But you get better at noticing there are shoes still on the ground.”

You looked at him.

He shrugged.

“It’s not all falling.”

Your eyes burned.

“Thank you.”

He nodded once and left before the emotion could get too large.

Very Robby.

Very kind.

At home, Jack became soft in ways that made you ache.

He talked to your stomach before there was anything to talk to.

Just small things.

“Your mother is pretending she’s not tired,” he murmured. “She is lying.”

You smiled. “Were you tattling on me to the embryo?”

“Yes.”

“Unbelievable.”

“They deserve to know.”

“They are the size of a blueberry.”

“And yet possibly more reasonable than you.”

You gasped.

He stood quickly, hands going to your waist. “Careful.”

“I gasped, Jack. I didn’t collapse.”

“I’m adjusting.”

“You’re hovering.”

“I’m improving at a glacial pace.”

You laughed and leaned into him.

He kissed your forehead. “How do you feel?”

You took inventory.

A little nauseous. A little tired. A little scared. Very loved.

“Okay,” you said. “Actually okay.”

Jack smiled. “Good.”

At night, you lay in bed with his hand resting lightly over your stomach.

Not possessive. Not protective in a suffocating way.

Sometimes you talked about names.

Your father had submitted several terrible suggestions.

“Ben Junior works regardless of gender,” he had texted.

You replied, Absolutely not.

He replied, Coach Junior?

Jack had laughed for a full minute.

Your mother suggested family names gently, then immediately said there was no pressure. Dana claimed the child should be named after her if they wanted “survival instincts.” Santos suggested “something iconic.” Whitaker suggested “Alex” and then looked confused when everyone stared at him because it was actually normal.

One night, you were curled against Jack’s side, his fingers tracing slow circles over your hip.

“What if it’s a girl?” you whispered.

His hand stilled.

You felt the grief enter. Just quietly, like it still had a key.

Jack kissed your hair. “Then she’s a girl.”

You nodded. “What if that’s hard?”

“It will be.”

You closed your eyes.

“But she won’t be her,” he said gently.

“I know.”

“And she won’t replace her.”

“I know.”

“But we can love both.”

Jack pulled you closer. “We can love both,” he whispered again.

You cried softly into his shirt. He held you until the fear passed.

The yellow room changed slowly.

At twelve weeks, after another appointment where the heartbeat was strong and you cried in the car afterward because relief had become its own kind of exhaustion, you and Jack stood in the doorway.

“I think we can move the boxes,” you said.

Jack looked at you. “The old crib boxes?”

You nodded.

“Where?”

“The attic, maybe.”

His expression softened. “Okay.”

You both carried the boxes together.

Halfway up the attic stairs, Jack said, “I am carrying one pillow.”

“It’s the principle.”

“You are one warning away from being reported to Dana.”

He shut up immediately.

Afterward, the room looked too empty. You sat on the rug and cried. 

Jack sat beside you.

“I thought empty would feel better,” you said.

He took your hand.

“Maybe it will later.”

“Maybe.”

You leaned into him.

He kissed your temple.

The next week, your mother brought over a tiny blanket.

“I know it’s early,” she said quickly. “You don’t have to keep it out.”

You touched the fabric.

Your eyes filled. “It’s beautiful.”

Jack walked into the room, saw both of you crying over a blanket, and immediately backed up.

“No,” you said. “Come here.”

He came.

Your mother handed him the blanket.

“Oh,” he whispered.

Your mother touched his arm. “You okay?”

He nodded.

Eventually, you put the blanket over the rocking chair.

At sixteen weeks, your father came over with a small wooden stool.

He had made it himself.

“It’s for the kid,” he said gruffly.

You stared at it. The legs were uneven. Jack crouched to inspect it.

Your father pointed at him. “Don’t say a word, porch boy.”

Jack stood. “It’s perfect.”

Your father narrowed his eyes. “You mocking me?”

“No, sir.”

You laughed and cried and hugged your dad so tightly he complained about his ribs.

The stool went beside the bookshelf.

At twenty weeks, you found out. A girl. You went quiet when the tech said it. Jack’s hand tightened around yours.

On the screen, she moved, small and stubborn and real.

A daughter. Not the daughter you lost. Another daughter. A new person. A new love. A new terror.

In the parking lot, Jack looked wrecked.

You wiped your face. “Say something.”

He laughed once, shaking his head. “She’s…”

“I know.”

“She’s real.”

“I know.”

“She’s a girl.”

“I know.”

He turned to you, eyes full. “Are you okay?”

You nodded. Then shook your head. Then laughed. “I don’t know.”

He smiled through tears. “Me neither.”

You leaned across the console and kissed him.

Later, you told your parents.

Your mother sobbed.

Your father sat down hard and said, “A girl?”

You nodded.

He wiped his eyes quickly. “Good,” he said.

“Good?”

“She’ll need someone to teach her how to properly inspect a porch railing.”

Jack groaned.

You laughed.

The yellow room became hers after that.

Not completely.

It still held the notebook. Still held the first grief. Still held the cream blanket and the uneven stool and all the love that had nowhere else to go.

But it also held new things.

A dresser Jack assembled while wearing reading glasses and an expression of intense hostility.

A stack of children’s books from Robby, who claimed they were “extras” but had clearly chosen them carefully.

A tiny Pitt onesie from Dana with a note that said, Don’t tell anyone I bought this.

A Steelers bib from your father that said Coach’s Favorite.

You tried to throw it away. Jack rescued it.

One night, late in the pregnancy, you found Jack in the yellow room.

He was sitting in the rocking chair, one hand resting on the arm, the other holding the notebook.

You stood in the doorway, one hand under your belly.

“She kicking?” he asked without looking up.

“Like she’s trying to escape.”

His mouth softened. “That’s your side.”

“My side?”

“Dramatic.”

“She has your sleep schedule.”

“Then we’re doomed.”

You walked in slowly.

Jack closed the notebook and looked up at you.

His eyes were soft but wet.

“You okay?” you asked.

He nodded.

“Fast nod.”

His mouth twitched.

You came closer.

He reached for your hand and pulled you gently down until you were sitting sideways in his lap, as much as your belly allowed.

The rocking chair creaked.

You both froze.

Jack frowned. “I can fix that.”

“No.”

“But—”

“No structural repairs while I’m pregnant. I need peace.”

He sighed.

You rested your head against his shoulder. “What were you reading?”

“The first page.”

You knew which one.

The page with her. The baby you lost.

“Does it hurt?”

“Yes,” Jack said.

You closed your eyes.

Then he added, “But less alone.”

You nodded.

His hand moved to your belly.

The baby kicked.

Jack’s breath caught.

Every time.

As if he had not felt it dozens of times. As if every movement was the first proof of a miracle.

“Hi,” he whispered.

You smiled. “She knows your voice.”

“She probably knows your father’s better. He yells.”

You laughed.

Jack’s hand stayed warm over your stomach.

“I’m scared,” he said.

You lifted your head.

Jack looked at your belly, not you.

“Still?” you asked.

“Yes.”

“About the birth?”

“Yes.”

“About after?”

“Yes.”

“About becoming my dad’s full-time victim?”

“Constantly.”

You smiled softly.

He looked up at you. “I’m also happy,” he said.

“I know.”

“I didn’t know it could be both this much.”

Your chest warmed.

“Me neither.”

His thumb moved slowly over your stomach.

“I keep thinking about when you moved back in,” he said. “How scared we were of the house.”

“We were right to be.”

“Yeah.”

“But look at it now.”

You both looked around.

The soft lamp. The books. The blanket. The crib, finally assembled. The uneven stool.

The room had not forgotten.

It had grown.

Jack’s voice was low.

“It’s a good room.”

Your eyes filled.

“It is.”

He kissed your shoulder.

“You made it good.”

You shook your head.

“We did.”

His eyes met yours.

The baby kicked again, harder.

You winced.

Jack immediately looked alarmed. “You okay?”

“She just assaulted me.”

He lowered his face closer to your belly. “Be nice to your mother.”

She kicked again.

You laughed.

Jack looked personally betrayed. “She’s already not listening.”

“Definitely your daughter.”

“Our daughter,” he whispered.

The words filled the room.

Our daughter.

You touched his cheek.

“Our daughter.”

Jack’s eyes glistened.

You kissed him softly.

For a while, you stayed there in the rocking chair, the three of you tucked inside the room that had once been too painful to enter.

Jack became completely insufferable around month seven.

Dana had predicted it.

She was furious to be right.

“You are not triaging her from across the department,” she snapped one afternoon after Jack looked over for the eighth time in ten minutes.

Jack frowned. “I’m not.”

“You checked her gait.”

“She shifted weird.”

“She is pregnant, not secretly hemorrhaging.”

You looked up from your desk. “I’m right here.”

Dana pointed at you. “And you. Sit down.”

“I am sitting.”

“Emotionally sit.”

Santos whispered, “This is the best season of this department.”

Robby passed by, glanced at Jack, and said, “You’re hovering.”

Jack looked betrayed. “You too?”

“Yes.”

You smiled down at your paperwork.

Jack came over later, chastened, holding a cup of water.

“I know,” he said before you could speak.

“You know what?”

“I’m hovering.”

“You are.”

“I’m trying not to.”

“You’re failing.”

“Yes.”

You took the water. He stood there, looking guilty and sweet and exhausted.

Your heart softened. “You can worry,” you said.

His eyes lifted.

“You just can’t make it my full-time job to reassure you.”

He nodded. “That’s fair.”

“And if I tell you I’m okay, you have to believe me unless there is actual evidence.”

“What counts as evidence?”

“Jack.”

“Right. Sorry.”

You took his hand under the desk.

His shoulders eased.

“I know this is scary for you too,” you said.

His thumb brushed yours. “Yeah.”

“I don’t forget that.”

His face softened. “Thank you.”

“But if you check my gait again, I’m telling my dad.”

Jack paled slightly. “You wouldn’t.”

“I absolutely would.”

“You fight dirty.”

“I learned from Dana.”

Across the department, Dana yelled, “Correct.”

You laughed. Jack looked helplessly, stupidly happy.

The whole ED saw. No one even pretended not to.

The night before your scheduled induction, your father came over for dinner.

So did your mother. So did Dana, somehow. And Robby. And Trinity. And McKay. And Whitaker, who brought a balloon that said Get Well Soon because he panicked at the store.

You stared at it.

Whitaker said, “Birth is kind of medical.”

Dana took the balloon from him. “Go sit down.”

The house was full.

Your father sat at the dining table wearing his Steelers cap, telling Trinity that no baby of his was calling him Grandpa.

Trinity said, “What if she wants to?”

“She can want better.”

Your mother was in the kitchen, crying into salad for no reason other than becoming a grandmother the next day.

Robby stood near the bookshelf, looking at the baby books he had given you and pretending not to be pleased that they were displayed.

Jack was in the doorway, watching the chaos.

You came up beside him. “You okay?”

He nodded.

“Fast nod.”

He smiled faintly. “I’m terrified.”

“Me too.”

“Happy?”

You leaned into his side. “So happy.”

He wrapped an arm around you carefully.

Your father looked up from the table.

“Hey, no getting emotional over there. Save it for tomorrow.”

You pointed at him. “You are going to cry the second you see her.”

“No, I’m not.”

Your mother called from the kitchen, “Yes, he is.”

Jack murmured, “He is.”

Your father pointed at Jack. “You stay out of this, Jackie.”

Everyone laughed.

Later, after everyone left, the house was quiet again.

You stood in the yellow room with Jack.

The hospital bag was by the door.

The crib was ready. “I can’t believe we’re here.”

Jack came behind you, arms around your waist, hands resting under your belly. “Yeah.”

“I’m scared something will still go wrong.”

His chin rested on your shoulder. “I know.”

“I wish I wasn’t.”

“You don’t have to be fearless.”

You smiled faintly.

“That sounds familiar.”

“Smart person told me that.”

You leaned back against him. “She’s going to be here tomorrow.”

Jack’s hands tightened gently.

“Our daughter.”

“Our daughter.”

The room was quiet. Then Jack said, “I’m going to marry you again.”

You froze.

Jack’s body went still behind yours.

“That was not supposed to come out like that.”

You slowly turned in his arms. “What?”

His face had gone red. “I had a plan.”

“You had a plan?”

“Yes.”

“Oh my God.”

“Not tonight. Obviously not tonight. You are being induced tomorrow. I’m not insane.”

“You just said, ‘I’m going to marry you again.’”

“I know.”

“Like a threat.”

“It wasn’t a threat.”

“It sounded a little like a medical diagnosis.”

Jack closed his eyes.“I wanted it to be romantic.”

You started laughing.

He opened his eyes, pained. “Please don’t laugh.”

“I can’t help it.”

“I was going to wait.”

“Until when?”

“After she was born. After things settled.”

You gave him a look.

He sighed. “I know. Things won’t settle.”

“No.”

“I was going to ask properly.”

Your eyes filled. “Jack.”

He looked down. “I don’t want to rush you.”

“You’re not.”

“I don’t want you to think I’m asking because of the baby.”

“I don’t.”

His eyes lifted.

You touched his face. “Ask me later,” you whispered.

His breath caught. “Yeah?”

“Not tonight.”

“No.”

“And not in front of Dana.”

“Never.”

“And not while I’m in labor.”

“I had ruled that out.”

“Good.”

You leaned up and kissed him. When you pulled back, you smiled. “But yes.”

His brows pulled together.

“Yes?”

“To later.”

His face softened so completely you almost cried. “To later,” he whispered.

The baby kicked between you.

Jack laughed, wet and stunned.

You looked down. “She approves.”

“She has excellent judgment.”

“She’s not even born and you’re already biased.”

“Completely.”

You stood there together in the yellow room on the last night before everything changed again.

This time, change did not feel like a threat.

It felt like a door opening.

In the morning, the Pitt was waiting. Not the ED this time. Labor and delivery.

Jack carried the bag. Your mother carried snacks.

Your father carried nothing because he had been banned from “helping” after attempting to repack the hospital bag with a flashlight and duct tape.

Dana texted at six-fifteen.

Dana: Don’t let him annoy the nurses. Dana: I mean Jack. Dana: Also your father. Dana: Actually all men.

Trinity texted:

Trinity: NO PRESSURE, BUT THIS IS THE MOST IMPORTANT BABY IN PITTSBURGH.

Robby texted:

Robby: Thinking of you both. One step at a time.

You showed Jack. He smiled at Robby’s text the longest.

During intake, Jack was calm. You reached for his hand. “Hey.”

He looked at you.

“You can be scared.”

His face softened. “I am.”

“Good.”

“But I’m here.”

You squeezed his hand. “I know.”

Labor was long, messy, and exhausting.

There were moments when you cried because you were scared. Moments when you snapped at Jack for breathing too loudly. Moments when he fed you ice chips with the solemnity of a man performing a sacred ritual. Moments when your mother cried in the corner, and your father was exiled to the waiting room because he kept asking too many questions.

Jack stayed.

Through every contraction.

Every fear.

Every time your eyes searched his for reassurance, he could not guarantee.

He did not tell you everything was fine.

He said, “I’m here.”

He said, “Breathe with me.”

He said, “You’re doing it.”

He said, “I love you.”

And when the baby finally cried, the sound cracked the world open.

You sobbed.

Jack sobbed.

The nurse placed her on your chest, tiny and furious and real, and for one second, you could not move.

Then your hands came around her. “Oh,” you whispered.

Jack’s face was beside yours, wet with tears, completely undone.

“She’s here,” he said.

Your daughter cried against you.

You looked at Jack. He looked at you.

Every grief in the room remained. But something new had arrived.

Jack touched one tiny foot with shaking fingers. “Hi,” he whispered.

You laughed through tears. “You’ve been waiting to say that.”

“All my life,” he said.

The baby quieted against your chest.

Jack kissed your forehead. Then yours. Then hers.

In the waiting room, your father was definitely crying.

You knew before anyone told you.

When your father met her, he did cry. Immediately.

He walked into the room with your mother, took one look at the baby in Jack’s arms, and stopped.

His face collapsed.

“Oh, come on,” you whispered from the bed, exhausted and amused.

Your father wiped his eyes. “I have allergies.”

Your mother sobbed openly.

Jack looked down at the baby.

“Do you want to hold her?” he asked.

Your father looked terrified.

Jack carefully placed the baby in his arms.

Your father looked down at her like she had personally rearranged the universe.

“Hi,” he whispered. His voice broke.

You cried again.

You were very tired of crying, but apparently that was your life now.

Your father touched one tiny hand.

“I’m Coach,” he whispered.

“Dad,” you warned weakly.

He looked at Jack. “She likes it.”

Jack, wisely, said nothing.

Your mother kissed your forehead. “You did so good.”

You looked at Jack. “We did.”

Jack’s eyes filled again.

Your father looked down at the baby.

Then at Jack. Then at you.

“She’s perfect,” he said.

A few hours later, after everyone left and the room was quiet, Jack sat beside your bed with the baby asleep against his chest.

He was wearing his glasses, hair messy, face exhausted, one large hand covering nearly her entire back.

You watched him.

He looked up.

“What?”

“You’re a dad.” 

His face softened. “Yeah.”

“How does it feel?”

He looked down at her.

Then back at you. “Like being terrified is worth it.”

Your eyes filled.

He stood carefully and came closer.

You shifted over slightly, and he sat beside you on the bed, baby between you.

Your daughter made a tiny sound in her sleep.

Jack kissed your temple. “You and me are enough,” he whispered.

You looked at your daughter.

Then at him.

“And now there’s more.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Now there’s more.”

The life that had grown out of grief without erasing it.

You rested your head against Jack’s shoulder.

He rested his cheek against your hair.

Your daughter slept between you.

And for once, the quiet did not feel like something waiting to break.

Jack makes eye contact across the bar. He watches as you wrap your tongue gently around the straw dancing in your drink. He's had one too many whiskeys, forgetting that he's your attending. He's supposed to be mentoring you, not fantasizing about being between your lips.

Worship me Make you believe I'm what you need So beg, darlin', please

He knows it's wrong, but he can't stop thinking about you. It started as innocent, simply smelling your perfume lingering, hearing your laughter carrying through the air, admiring the way your brows pushed together when you were focused.

Now, that's not enough. He needs more. He needs you.

Baby, don't lie It's okay that you crave me Your eyes on my body, you're shaking Get high on me for you're forsaken

He moves towards the bar, eyes focused on you. You're smiling at someone else, holding the straw gingerly between your fingers, and sucking mindlessly.

He stands behind you, his warmth immediate, and goosebumps rise on your skin. He turns towards you, his nose ghosting over your neck, his lips tickling the shell of your ear. He whispers your name.

Pretty when you say my name like that Feel your lips trace down my neck Darlin', don't say nothing, just breathe

He's got you pushed up against your door, finally in the privacy of your home, where he can worship you properly. He has your hands pinned above your head, barely grazing you as your noses touch, lips so close you can almost taste him.

He presses his lips to you, hungry, begging for access with his tongue. You break the kiss and place your forehead against his. He releases your hands, and you place them on his shoulders.

"Knees." There's no question from your lips. He groans as you watch him lower himself.

Pretty when you're looking up like that Pray but Heaven won't let you back Good on your knees

You undo your pants and slide them down your legs until they pool at your feet. His eyes turn dark, his tongue darts to wet his lips. He places soft kisses to your stomach, just above your underwear. He steadies himself by placing his hands on your hips and hooking his fingers under the hem of the only layer between him and what he really wants.

Slowly, he pulls down revealing his prize. He can see how aroused you are, dripping, puffy, and needy.

His tongue finds the spot where you need him most. You run your hands through his curls, gripping at the back, when he groans from the pressure.

"So good for me, Jack." You moan his name, head hitting the door, eyes rolling back. You've thought about this for so long. His lips, his mouth, his tongue.

Whisper, give me your life Yeah, we're both sinners Your body is close, your tongue lingers You feed me the taste of your fingers

He slips a strong finger into your heat. It's sinful the way he's making you feel, but there is no guilt. No, this feels right, good, necessary.

He coaxes an orgasm from you sooner than you would've liked. He's drowning in you, and there's nowhere else he'd rather be. He looks up at you through his lashes, begging for your praise.

"So pretty looking up like that." You're breathless. "Is this what you need?"

He groans into you. You tug on his hair and signal for him to stand back up.

"Beg, darling. Please." You place a hand on the back of his neck.

"Please, please. I crave you." He places wet kisses on your neck towards your collarbone.

There's no time to make it to your bedroom. The couch will have to do. Neither of you can wait.

You step out of your pants and undergarments. Pushing him towards the sofa. He takes the hint, as you start undoing his belt, pushing his pants and boxers down just enough to reveal his own arousal.

He's big and standing at attention. You pass your thumb over his leaking head and watch his head roll back. You lift his shirt off, exposing freckled skin over tight muscles. You've dreamed about those biceps holding you.

"Sit." You lightly push his shoulder. You remove your own shirt, causing him to growl at you.

You climb on top of him, using his shoulders to steady yourself over him. You run him over slick center before pushing him in. The sounds leaving your mouths are animalistic.

"Yeah," he breathes, "yeah."

You're gliding up and down on him, chasing another orgasm.

"You're going to finish inside me, okay, Jack?" You look him in his eyes. "You're going to fill me up like I know you've imagined."

His head rolls back to your sofa. He's groaning like you've never heard before. "Okay," he whimpers.

"I'm close, Jack." He doesn't respond. "Are you listening?" You pull his hair.

"Yes, yes." He places his hands on your hips.

"That's right. Cum for me, Jack." You pick up speed. "Right now." You whisper into his ear.

He's never seen stars like that before. His hearing goes. He can't see or hear, but he feels like he's reached ecstasy. He can feel you grip him like a vice and milk him for everything he has. It's been months of him imagining this, and he never would've have pictured the way you look right now.

You dismount and walk to your kitchen. He watches as your ass jiggles, swaying away from him. He hates that you've left, but god, if you don't look downright delicious right now.

You return with a glass of water.

"I knew you could worship me, Jack." You climb into his lap, placing the lip of the glass to his lips. He gulps the water down, missing the taste of you as it coats his mouth.

"I'm what you need."

You made eye contact with Juanito and motioned for him to come talk to you. Sammy watched as the boy made his way to you.

"Listen, I know Sammy is pretty corny and very white knight-ish," you paused, "but he's right."

Juanito rolls his eyes. Sammy sees the way you look at him though, like you know what he's feeling. He isn't sure how, but you do.

"Hey, we all have choices, good and bad. Positive and negative."

"Rich people have choices." He scoffed.

"We all have have choices. You are very smart, and it's important that you try to use that for good, not evil."

"So I should join the explorers?"

"Hell no. Who would want to hang out with those losers?" You smiled back at him. "But, you should try to go to school and keep reading. You have a lot of potential to be something. Something better than anyone could imagine."

"You know... I might need a mentor. Someone who gets me." He looked up at you through his lashes, giving you puppy dog eyes. "Maybe I could call you? If I need help."

You smirked. You reached into your jacket and pulled out a card. "Here. Don't abuse it, okay?"

Sammy couldn't hear your conversation, but he watched you smile warmly at the boy. You chuckled and then bent down, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

"You see that?" He beamed at Sammy.

"Yeah, yeah. Get in the car."

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sammy didn't know how the day was going to end, but he certainly did not foresee arresting the young boy he cared about, nor coming home to find Tammi had been robbed of her computer and camera.

He couldn't deal with everything all at once, so he left. He left and found his way to your door. Knocking gently, he heard your steps towards the door. Deadbolt undone and you before him.

"You okay, Sammy?" You looked him up and down to check for wounds. "Sammy?"

"Can I come in?" He didn't make eye contact.

You stepped aside and let him in. When you closed the door, he turned around suddenly. His eyes finally met yours, and he stepped closer. You backed up against the door.

"Sammy," your breath barely a whisper.

His nose brushed against yours and ghosted his lips over yours before making contact. At first, his lips are gentle, light. As you kiss him back, he begins to become more forceful, searching, needy, desperate.

Your mind comes back to you, and you realize the gravity of what you're doing.

You break the kiss. "Stop," your hands pressed to his chest. "Sammy." You press your forehead to his.

"I just... I need you." He holds your face in his hands, thumbs passing over your cheekbones. "I want you."

"Where does your wife think you are?" Your eyes search his.

He pulls away from you, frustrated.

"Sammy, I... I want you," you breathe, "but not like this. I don't want to be another cliche." He doesn't respond. "You can stay here tonight. I just... we have to keeps things..."

“You got a problem?” He stepped towards you.

“Yeah, I do.” You met his step. “That’s someone’s child!”

“Oh come on.”

That’s it. You’d had it. All day long, you’d been listening to Dewey. The man never shut the fuck up.

You lunged at him, fist clenching.

“Whoa, whoa.” Sammy got in front of you.

“Get out of my way, Sammy.” Your eyes fierce and focused on Dewey.

“No.” He held his hand up in front of you.

“Sammy. Move!” You lunged again and made contact with Dewey’s cheek over Sammy’s shoulder.

“Bitch!” He grabbed at his cheek.

“I’ll show you a bitch, bitch!” Sammy had picked you up and carried away from the scene. “Put me down!” You pushed at Sammy’s hands.

“Would you stop already?” He avoided your wild limbs.

“Get out of here! There’s cameras everywhere.” Sal yelled. “Go!”

“You know, it’s guys like him that give us all a bad name.” You pulled your shirt down. “I’m sick of it! His attitude and he never stops talking.”

“I know, I know.” Sammy tries to calm you.

“Better keep hold of your woman, Sammy.” Dewey yelled.

“You motherfucker!” You started towards him again, but Sammy wrapped you in a bear hug.

“Let it go.” He huffed. “He’s not worth it.” He pushed you to sit down and catch your breath. “Can you walk to the car?”

“Yes.” You swear your teeth were about to break.

He bent down and pushed a piece of your hair out of your face. “You clocked him good.” He laughed. “Gonna be a shiner tomorrow.”

“Hurt my fucking hand.” You clenched and unclenched your fist.

He ran his fingers over your bruised knuckles. “That was… kind of hot.”

You looked up at him. “Yeah? Wanna do something about it, Bryant?”

“Yes Dr. Abbot?” You ask, fake innocence as he pulls you to the stairwell next to the viewing room. His eyes are set- hard and frustrated and you can see that he’s been running his hand through his curls from agitation. 

“Why did you ask Walsh for a consult on Bed 9?” Oh. That’s what this is about? MVC, two restrained passengers- male and female. You had the male and he seemed like he needed a chest tube- Jack told you to send the patient to CT but after Jack got pulled away on the female patient, yours started to crash. You figured his ribs were shoved into his heart and lungs from the force of the airbag- which you were right and CT would’ve just proved it and prolonged the operation. The chest tube wouldn’t have matter when the patient needed emergency surgery to remove the fucking bones from his lungs and heart. Jack knew that. 

“Because surgery was needed.” Was all you said, shrugging and starting to walk off when he grabbed your upper arm. 

“Why didn't you take the patient to CT like I asked?” He was angry now, voice raised a bit and getting into your space. You wrenched your arm free, turning so you can meet his harsh gaze, eyes narrowed and hard. You don’t need his fucking approval to do shit. You put the patient first. Always.

“Because I decided that surgery was necessary.” You’re not arguing this. You’re not justifying patient care to him when the outcome would’ve been the same. CT or no CT.

“CT could have shown something that would make surgery dangerous if they go in blind up there. We need scans to make sure that when they fucking cut into the patient they have the entire picture and they aren’ fucking him up more.” He wasn’t wrong. A scan could have helped out but there was no time. Your patient was crashing and Walsh was ready and the OR was prepped. 

“You need to get your head out of your fucking ass long enough to realize that sometimes fancy surgical procedures are needed to save the patient.” You’re chest to chest now, breathing heavy and so fucking angry because he’s in your face and telling you how disrespectful it was to go over his head to Walsh that way- how he’d expect this from anyone else but you. 

“And I’m telling you that it needs to be cleared by me before any other fucking departments can claim patient care.” Why were you fighting him on this? You know how he works- known for years and it’s pissing him off even more now.

“I’m not your fucking resident anymore Jack-” voice raised that it echoes through the empty hall, “we’re supposed to be equals. Colleagues. I don’t need to wait for your fucking approval anymore.” He scoffs at that, a little laugh because he trained you, taught you throughout your entire residency and- it was hard to see you not need him anymore. He was fucking proud- yes. But it still pissed him off so much how you just decided patient care with Walsh and didn’t think to consult him or listen to his direction. 

“I’m still the supervising attending that is responsible for this ER,” why did you like pissing him off? Why did you go rogue and do things your own way like, like- well like him? “You still need to run your diagn-“

“Do you ask Shen to do that? Or Robby? No?” You cut him off. Pissed and shouting and-

“Lower your voice.” He growls out, his voice low- like he’s daring you to challenge him more. He’s so fucking infuriating and you can see the flash of realization behind his eyes when you speak and- 

“Oh I get it. You think because I’m not one of the boys that I fucking can’t-” you stop, well- you’re stopped by his hand on your mouth. Shoving you into the empty viewing room and he doesn’t bother to turn the light on or lock the door when he kicks it closed. 

“I said lower your fucking voice- see?” He spits out, pushing you back against the empty bed to where you’re just on the edge of it. “You just can’t fucking listen can you?” Jack has his hand flat on your mouth, keeping you from answering him and his other hand comes up to your thigh to widen them- allowing him to push between your thighs. “You need to be taught how to shut the fuck up don’t you? How to listen and understand that you’re not always right?” You’re so fucking mad and in the dark you can’t see him but you can feel him. You can feel the length of him- hard against your clothed center and you thank god he can’t feel how fucking wet you are now and the force of him grinding into you has pushed you up higher on the fucking hospital bed. 

“Jack-“ you whine as he loosens the force of his palm on your mouth, just so he can use both hands to unbuckle his belt and he laughs- something dark and playful because you’re helping him. You’re unzipping his pants and shoving them down his thighs with his boxers and whine at the sight of how hard he is- how he’s leaking at the tip now. He doesn’t let you admire long- no he has a plan of action now. His large hands grab at your waist- finding the waistband of your black scrubs to pull them down to your knees along with your underwear. He doesn’t waste time. He hitches your knees under his elbows so he can shove them back as far as they’ll go and to get impossibly closer and deep once he’s actually inside you. You know it’s going to hurt- but you’re so fucking wet and he’s thick and he’s mad and it stirs something deep inside you now as he replaces his palm back on your mouth- shoving into your tight pussy with little resistance. It was embarrassing that arguing with him made you this wet. That going toe to toe with Dr. Abbot made you so fucking wet and he can feel it and laughs a little when he slide into you. You’re glad he had the foresight to cover your mouth because you can’t stop groaning. You can’t stop the gasps and groans leaving you and he fucking wrecks you with each thrust. They’re hard. Fucking fast and devastating. 

“Fucking little girl- thinks she can decide all for herself what to do?” He groans, finding it harder to keep quiet because your pussy was so fucking tight- even with how wet he made you. He knew it would feel good. As many years as he’s spent mimicking it and fisting his cock in bed thinking about it- he knew you would take him so well right now. But he’s talking too much- fucking Jack Abbot always talks too fucking much and never knowing when to shut the fuck up and you hear someone open the stairwell door so you shove your hand over his mouth as you clamp down on his cock to suppress his loud groan. But he doesn’t stop- he’s fucking into you harder now. Almost even angrier that you’ve silenced his words- but that’s fine. If he can’t tell you how pissed off he is- he’ll make you feel it. 

He pushing through your tightening walls- he’s shoving himself up into your wet cunt and you can only fucking let him. You can let him fuck you but not without some fight because he still fucking pisses you off. You reach up with your hand- fingers threading themselves into those greying curls at the top of his head and you tug, hard. Hard enough that his face screws up into anger and maybe a bit of pleasure. But definitely anger because- how fucking dare you? He’s giving you the best dick of your life right now- and you’re being so ungrateful. And the tug of his hair pulls his head down closer- forehead against your own now and you look into his eyes and for a moment, they soften. They softened and in some sort of desperation, the back of your hands are flush together now in a weird makeshift kiss- because if any of you were to remove your hands then you absolutely could not keep silent anymore. But you’re still angry. Still pissed off at him for being such an asshole that you clamp down- clench around him hard while biting his finger and his eyebrows are knitted together in anger again. Fucking brat. You feel his hips spring forward more- pounding into your cunt and the meat of your ass the only thing that helps dull the force. It's good. It’s so good. It’s so blindingly good. So fucking indulgently good that you feel- embarrassed almost, on how well you’re taking his cock. You can’t cum yet- that would be too fast and it wouldn’t only drive his stupid fucking ego more. 

One hand needs to keep his mouth from giving you both away to the entire Pitt and the other is clawing at his bicep now- trying to keep yourself from being too loud. Because even from under the weight of his heavy hand- you’re whimpering, you’re sighing and trying to not scream because his cock feels so fucking good. It’s thick, You would try to mimic the feeling with your fingers- when it’s early in the morning after your shift and you need to sleep but you’re too busy riding your fingers and biting your shirt so you don’t moan his name too loud. No one would hear it- but you would know that it was the fantasy of your attending, your fucking mentor, that had you fingering yourself, grinding against your pillow and whining as the sun started to peek through your blinds. 

You can hear the slapping of his hips against yours and you have to bite his hand for him to stop- he can’t fuck you that hard, it’ll give it away and fuck- he can’t ever do anything quietly can he? And okay? Well- you want him to not fuck into you as fast? Fine. He tilts his palm a bit so your face can follow and he makes sure you’re looking directly into his eyes as he pulls out- painstakingly slow. You feel every vein, every ridge, every centimeter that his cock has to offer until just the tip is kissing the leaking entrance of your cunt. Fuck. Again- so. Fucking. Slow. He’s sliding into you, shoving himself back into you. The tip breeches your entrance that has only just started to relax from being forced open- the sting just right as it’s adjusting to his girth again. You whine. Whine and sigh into his hand because it’s so fucking good. It’s so deliciously good how you can feel him rub against that spot- having you clench and see stars. Every time you clench you feel his muffled groan- feel him sigh against your palm and he’s trying so fucking hard to not fuck you into the hospital bed right now. You make him so fucking mad and he can’t enjoy this like he’s been thinking of. But he can make you whine. He can make you beg. He can punish you. 

He was fucking biting your hand now, not hard- but enough that if he kept it up for too long then there would be marks. And you’re groaning behind his hand, eyes going cross because he’s hammering inside you harder now and- fuck. You hear the slapping again. It’s so loud and you’re glad someone locked the wheels in the bed or you’re sure you’d be on the other side of the room by the sheer force of his cock spearing into you. Fuck you’re going to cum. His other hand pushes your leg back even farther and the angle has him just an inch deeper and if his hand wasn’t on your mouth the entire ED would hear you yell the name of the exact person who was ramming into your fucking guts right now. 

You can’t open your legs any wider because your scrub pants are around your knees and you’re trying to focus on the impending orgasm that’s coursing through your veins and ready to take root. If he could just- fuck if you could reach your clit maybe- just maybe you can cum because it’s so good but it’s not enough. It’s not enough and Jack doesn’t care. You’re being punished. You don’t deserve to cum. He pulls out of you- forces himself to pull out of your hot, tight, pussy and you groan because you need the sensation at this point. You flutter around nothing and whimper because he’s left you open and exposed. But he’s manhandling you to turn over- forces you to lay with your chest flat on the bed with your ass at his hips. You have a moment to register that your hand isn’t covering his mouth anymore but his is still on yours. Good. Because he's teasing you now- chuckling when you whine behind his palm as he drags the head of his cock up and down your wet folds. Fucking asshole. You groan- scream and wiggle your hips as much as you can. All you can do to indicate to him to fuck you again, to keep fucking you and not to stop even if someone opens that fucking door. They can watch for all you care at this point. And when he finally slams back into your cunt- you scream. You fucking see stars and his pace is brutal again. It’s fast and hard and his mouth is free to fucking spew whatever filth you had been holding back with your hand over his mouth. 

“F-fucking- brat,” he growls out, keeping one hand on your mouth and the other in your hair to pull you back to him. “I’m gonna fill you up with my cum- maybe then you’ll understand who’s in charge? Okay?” He knows you can’t answer him, knows you can’t do more than take what he gives but he stops- pauses the ruthless hammering inside your walls and you clench, spasm and writhe underneath him because he’s not moving anymore and- “I said okay?” Fuck- he wants you to acknowledge him somehow. Nodding- you force yourself to shake your head and whine a barely audible “uh huh” from behind his hand. 

“That’s my girl,” he sounded so fucking condescending and smug and you couldn’t snark back at him. Your weren’t his fucking girl anymore. You weren’t the puppy intern following around her attending- you weren’t pining for your mentor anymore. You’re not his. But fuck- the way he’s pounding into your heat right now? Rearranging your insides to fit all the cock he can shove inside you to where you’re sure nothing will be able to compare anymore? Maybe you were his girl still. Because your body is giving up now. Your body is succumbing to the heat and pleasure and slight pain of him- your pussy has molded itself around his cock and- yes you’re his fucking girl still. You never stopped. 

“That’s my fucking girl. So sweet for me, taking my cock so fucking well. Like you were made for me. Were you baby?” God dammit- he doesn’t stop talking and it’s making you convulse and the palm on your mouth muffles the high pitched whine you’re making. You’re close. You’re so fucking close now. You feel that impending drop- feel your gut lurch up and your lungs sting because you always hold your breath before an orgasm. The same way you did with your hands shoved into your panties early in the afternoon- replaying the way Jack whispered praise in your ear for a job well done. He bites your shoulder when he cums- moaning into your scrub top and whimpering just a bit when you clench around him, milking his cock for every last drop while he keeps thrusting inside you, pushing his cum as far as it’ll go. And you can feel yourself start to spiral and- he pulls out. He fucking- pulls out. No. No. No no no no. You were so fucking close and this bastard is chuckling in your ear again with a soft slap to your ass and-

“Clean yourself up. Get back to the Pitt.” He’s panting, zipping his pants up and redoing his belt and- no? No he’s not- he is. You hear the door open and shut- you’re still bent over the fucking hospital bed panting and- no? You can feel his fucking cum leaking out of you and- you’re pissed. This. Fucking. Bastard. You were turned over but you can imagine the evil fucking smirk on his stupid fucking face and- oh that’s just fucking mean. On shaky legs you stand upright, pulling your scrub pants back over your hips and you sit on the bed for a second. There’s nothing worse than a denied orgasm- you almost want to fucking cry because it was right there. He was about to give it to you and- insufferable asshole. You take a second- redoing your hair because more than a few strands have come loose. You have to finish the rest of your shift with Jack Abbot’s cum leaking out of you. You have 6 more fucking hours to go- buzzing on the energy of a denied orgasm. 

“You good kid?” One of the nurses asks as you try to not fucking hobble to a computer, so you can sit at the hub for a second and will the ache of your throbbing cunt away. 

“She’s fine- Dr. Abbot just needs some caffeine.” Jack answers for you. Insufferable asshole. You’re not sure why you married him at this point. You can hear the shift in his voice- much less tense. At least someone is sated. Maybe he can go the rest of the day without being an asshole now. 

“I’ll get you so coffee love, I need a pick me up anyway.” Patting your shoulder she gets up and- bless Helen. The PM charge nurse who takes care of you too well and treats you like her child. You smile- leaning into her touch and immediately go back to glaring at Jack who can’t hide his expression to save his fucking life. He’s so smug. So fucking pleased with himself. 

“I hope you’re happy.” You grumbled, typing away at your computer to check on your patient’s labs that you ordered right before he jumped on you.. 

Ex Husband!Jack Abbot who didn’t fight back when you slid the papers over to him one evening. Who nodded and signed without question- he knew this was coming for a while already. The fights over being gone for too long, arguments over how he deals with his mental health, crying and silent screaming matches at 3 am so you don’t wake the kids up. It was too much to handle and after he signed the papers he stood, kissed your cheek- packed himself a bag and went to Robby’s for the night.

Ex Husband!Jack Abbot who insisted you keep the house- your dream house that he had built as a push present after having your second kid. Irish twins- ignoring your OB entirely when she warned you about how fertile you’d be after having your first. The same house where you brought your third son home another year later because somehow Jack just couldn’t keep his hands off of you. The same house where you call him when there’s an issue- no sense in spending money and hiring someone when Jack knows the ins and outs of his own place. The same house where Jack is sure he’s had you pressed against every wall and piece of furniture- christened with love that he thought would last forever.

Ex Husband!Jack Abbot who still comes to every game the boys have. Every Saturday morning- pulling up to the soccer field with sunglasses and a dimpled smile that still has your knees weak and heart race. Wrapping an arm around your waist with your youngest in his arms- so proud when your oldest scores a goal that when you press a kiss to the corner of his mouth he doesn’t give you one of his usual smirks. Who joins you for lunch with the boys at home- both of you moving around the kitchen in tandem to feed your kids.

Ex Husband!Jack Abbot who hasn’t dated since the divorce. Why would he? He still wears his fucking ring. Jack still calls you his fucking wife. In his mind that would be fucking cheating and he’s not that much of a shitty husband that he’d think about being with someone else. Why would he? He has the best thing in the world going on, a beautiful woman who gave him equally beautiful sons- he’s fucked it up enough the first time around. Why push his luck?

Ex Husband!Jack Abbot who comes over when the boys are on a camping trip with their uncle Robby. Maybe at Jack’s insistence. Either way- the house is empty and after a bottle of wine and Jack making you dinner he’s on his knees in front of you. Eyes rolling back in his head when you push the curls at the top of his forehead back a few times before gripping because he always knew exactly how to apologize. Flowers forgotten before you could put them in a vase- Jack’s thick fingers working your tight pussy open because it’s been months since you’ve let him fuck you and he’s just making sure you’re prepared before he fucks you into the couch. And the bed. And the floor. And the shower. And the kitchen counter.

Ex Husband!Jack Abbot who doesn’t forget your anniversary despite being divorced. Because he worked through so many birthdays and anniversary and holidays that- he needs to put you first this time. Who comes through the door of the house he had made for you, with the key he still has, with your favorite flowers and your favorite desserts and tells the boys that he’s taking their mom out for dinner because he loves her. Whose breath gets knocked out of him when he sees you walks down the stairs in some gorgeous dress that reminds him why he put three kids in you. Who sees a familiar glint on your ring finger- smirking when you tell him ‘for the boys-’ that’s the only reason you agreed to dinner. The only reason you’re putting up with his shenanigans. Not because there’s butterflies in your gut or because he looks so good dressed up for you tonight.

Ex Husband!Jack Abbot who takes their boys for a night so you can go out with some friends. A much needed break- to feel like a woman again and not a mom. Who picks you up from whatever bar or club your friends dragged you to because they wanted to party and you missed your sons- you missed Jack. Who’s mouth goes dry when you drop to your knees for him as soon as you’re through the door- letting you pull down his zipper and throwing his head back so hard with a moan that you can hear the thud when it hits the front door. Who has no idea what’s come over you but he won’t question it. Who has no idea that you rebuffed every man who came up to you that night- taking your wedding from your clutch and holding it up to them with a smug ‘no thanks’. Who has no idea one of your ‘friends’ made a comment on how you were actually divorced- if you’d mind giving her Jack’s number. Yes you fucking mind. That’s your fucking husband.

Ex Husband!Jack Abbot who silences you with slightly chapped lips against your own- hushed out praise with a soft ‘not too loud sweetheart, the boys are asleep- yeah?’ that night after he crawled into your old marriage bed with need after putting your youngest back to bed after a nightmare. It was hard seeing how fucking good a dad he was- how doting of a father he was to your sons and not remember exactly why you gave him those kids in the first place. ‘Such a good mom to my sons- another one honey? God- just one more fucking baby, you’ll look so good with another one of my babies inside you. I’ll even let this one look like you- yeah?’ Almost a joke- the boys look so much like him that people even questioned if you were in the room when they were born. But you couldn’t answer. Too fucked out to do little more that whimper, than to tighten your thighs around his waist and nod with soft tears sliding down your cheeks because you feel another orgasm rushing through your body when Jack asks to get you pregnant again.

Ex Husband!Jack Abbot who was always good at getting you pregnant. Who was overjoyed when a month later you hold up a sonogram with a little white blip on the radar. Who cried when you asked if he wanted to come back home. Who cried when nine months later your little girl came out looking like you this time around.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*: Chapter 1

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔* Chapter 2

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔* I'm Your Man

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*Si tu novio no te mama el culo, Pa eso que no mame

❀⋆.ೃ࿔ Mami, ¿qué tú quiere'? Aquí llegó tu tiburón

❀⋆.ೃ࿔foamy kisses @ sonny's

❀⋆.ೃ࿔¡devuélveme a mi chica!

❀⋆.ೃ࿔tú quiere' un viejo, ¿'tás segura?

❀⋆.ೃ࿔all i ever wanted, all i ever needed

❀⋆.ೃ࿔all i wanna hear (daddy's home!)

❀⋆.ೃ࿔homecoming

wips are done, but requests are always open.ᐟ.ᐟ