k.

Dean started the whole thing.

It happened on a normal Friday night. Everyone had chosen to hang out that night, with the idea of movies, dinner and a few drinks. Soft music came from the living room while Hannah and Garrett argued over the movie considering it was their turn to pick that night. The rest were out on a beer run, and dinner fell on you and Tucker, as it usually did.

Tucker stood beside you at the stove while you chopped vegetables.

Neither of you had actually planned on cooking together.

It just sort of... happened. It was Tucker’s turn that night, and when you got tired of waiting in the living room, you got up and headed to the kitchen.

“Hey.” You sat on one of the stools, leaning forward as you watches him prep. Tucker looked up, and smiled. “Hey. You got bored?”

“Yeah. Doomscrolling while Han and Garrett argued over whether to pick a romcom or a horror movie was amusing only for the first ten minutes.”

Tucker snorted. You watched him grab a pan. “Not surprised. So, you decided to head here?”

“I think I’d much rather be here than there at the moment.” You chuckle. Then you eye the vegetables on the table. “What are you preparing?”

“Mac and Cheese. Probably a lot of it. And—” He gestures over to the vegetables. “Something with those. I haven’t decided yet.”

You hum, tilting your head. “Need help?”

His head snaps up to you, brow raising. “You don’t have to. It’s my turn tonight.”

“Yeah, but I want to.” You shrug, sliding off the stool to take the knife from his hand. “Now scoot over, you work on the Mac and cheese and whatever thing you’ll do, I’ll handle the prep.”

Tucker grins, letting out a laugh before moving to the stove. “Yes ma’am.”

Sometime in the middle of it, you settled in a familiar, but also not familiar routine.

You handed him ingredients before he asked for them. He moved aside before you needed the space. You knew exactly where he kept everything, and he knew exactly how much seasoning you liked adding.

At one point, Tucker held out his hand behind him without looking.

You immediately placed the spatula into it.

And Dean happened to walk in at that exact moment, arms full with six packs.

Both your heads snap up, at the sound of someone entering, Tucker’s hand still holding the spatula, and your arm still outstretched in the middle of handing it over.

The silence lasted three seconds, before a shit-eating grin spread on Dean’s face. “Oh my god.”

You and Tucker blinked at him

"What?" Tucker asked.

Dean stared.

Then he puts the six packs down on the counter, and pointed between the two of you again, the grin on his face not at all wavering.

“You guys are literally like— Mom and Dad.”

You make a face. “Dean, what the hell are you—”

“No, like. I mean, I did comment on it to Allie-Cat about how you two seem to have this flow in the kitchen but seeing it happen just solidified the whole thing.”

“You’re being weird, Di Laurentis.” Tuckers laughs, turning his attention back to the sauce, stirring it with the spatula while you work on what you decided to be coleslaw. You nod along, but Dean shakes his head.

“I’m serious. Wait Allie-Cat,” He calls for Allie who pops her head up from the couch she flopped onto the moment they returned from the beer run. “Agree with me here.” Dean gestures to you and Tucker. “Mama y Papa.”

Allie blinks, then grins. “Yeah, I see it.”

Dean looks back at the two of you. “See!” He points at you. “Mama.” Then to Tucker. “Papa.”

“Dean.” You groaned.

“No, no, it works.” Hannah piped in from her place next to Garrett. “I mean, we already call you Mom as a joke. And Tucker is Dad here. It just works.”

“Oh my god.” You sigh, and turn to Tucker, who doesn’t seem like he has a problem with the whole thing, grinning in amusement when he met your gaze.

“So, we’re calling them Mama and Papa now?” Logan interrupts as he heads down from, looking between the kitchen and living room. He eyes you and Tucker, before nodding. “I can roll with it.”

The nickname stuck, and spread in the friend group like a highly contagious disease. And with the nickname came the teasing.

-

“Oh good, Mama brought snacks.” You looked up from unloading grocery bags onto the counter to find Hannah already reaching for the chips.

"Hannah."

"What?" she asked innocently.

"You are twenty-one years old."

"Yeah."

"You can buy your own snacks."

"Why would I do that when Mama always remembers?"

"Han-Han."

"Love you too, Mother."

Across the kitchen while unloading the other grocery bag, Tucker tried not to laugh as loud at the incredulous look on your face.

You kicked his shin.

He ended up laughing anyways.

-

Then there was the movie night incident.

Everyone had crammed themselves onto the couch, fighting over blankets and snacks.

You'd gotten up to grab more popcorn, and when you returned, your spot had disappeared, because Dean just moved slightly to your spot, and you stared at him.

Dean only grinned, patting the spot where he once sat, which is conveniently, next to Tucker.

You glowered. “Dean.”

He grinned wider. “Sit beside Dad, Mom.”

You froze, and you catch Tucker visibly stiffen, his eyes flickering to you, then to Dean.

Dean looked between the two of you.

"What?"

"Dean," you warned.

"What? Married couples sit together."

"We are not married."

"Yet."

Your friends just exchange grins and teases, your face immediately going hot. You glance at Tucker, and ignored the way your stomach flipped slightly when he met your gaze, before burying his face in his hands at another tease.

He groaned into his hands. "You people are unbelievable."

This time, it was your turn to smile in amusement at his reaction.

Things only escalated by the end of the month with the road trip, which was a six-hour drive to a neighboring city for a random weekend getaway.

You had volunteered to drive the car, and Tucker offered to sit at the front and switch with you when you were halfway.

It was reasonable, so you agreed, and when the day came, it was Dean (again) who made a huge deal about it.

"Oh look."

"Dean." Tucker was the first to give Dean a pointed look while you sigh in the driver’s seat.

"The family car."

You eye him. "Dean."

"Mama and Papa taking the kids—"

"DEAN."

Needless to say, by the time you reached the hotel, your patience was hanging by a thread.

Tucker, unfortunately, thought your annoyed face was hilarious.

"You know," he said as the group unloaded bags, "you get this wrinkle right here when you're mad."

You stared.

He poked between your eyebrows, his grin widening when you nearly slapped his hand away.

"You’re testing my patience.” You glowered.

His grin widened, and he nudged you. "I’m just pointing things out.”

“I hate you.”

He shut the trunk door, and grinned. “Nah. You love me.”

Something in your chest tightens. You choose to instead huff and ignore the feeling, turning on your heel just as Logan comes by to grab the other bags.

-

Months passed, and you thought the joke would have died down along with it.

It kind of did. Because the joke stopped being a joke.

People stopped questioning it. Everyone stopped laughing every time, instead treating it like it was normal.

And it did, because at some point, becoming the Mom and Dad of the group became normal.

It became a fact. An accepted thing.

Which somehow made it ten times worse, because somewhere along the way, the joke stopped feeling entirely like a joke.

At least to you.

And judging by the way Tucker sometimes looked at you when he thought you weren't paying attention—

Maybe not to him either.

You didn’t know when you started liking him. When it stopped being just a nickname to you. But you could pinpoint when things really started to change between you and Tucker.

It was another Friday night gathering.

Another Friday night where you find yourself in the kitchen with Tucker. Usually, you’d have the others clean up while you lounge in the living room after making dinner, but after another round of jests that Logan started this time:

“You both are disgustingly domestic. Just get together already.” He points out. Grace, new to the group but had already caught on and was definitely in on the whole thing, nodded along. “It’s cute. Like you’re married and all.” You didn’t shoot them your usual pointed glares, instead opting to look away, but Logan caught the flush in your cheeks and, like Dean, made a huge scene about it enough to get the attention of the others. “Oh my god you’re blushing.” Allie looked at Tucker, and grins. “Tucker’s blushing too!” “Oh my god this is new.” Dean cackles.

You sent them all out for snack and beer runs so that the house would be quiet from all their jests, but you didn’t think ahead far enough because now you’re alone with Tucker.

The silence between you in the kitchen is usually comfortable. Familiar. Easy.

But tonight, its different. Heavy and awkward, like the all of the teasing finally settled into something more real between you two.

You curse yourself for not thinking ahead, busying your hands with drying a plate. Tucker was putting the dishes away, and it was silent for a long time (a minute), until he finally broke it with by clearing his throat.

“So.”

At the same time, you also decided to break the silence, and looked up to face him. Both of your faces were flushed, embarrassment obvious on either of your faces.

“So.”

You both stare at each other for a brief moment, before you both burst into laughter.

The tension cracked immediately.

When the laughter dies down, Tucker nervously shrugs at you, shifting his weight. “So, like, you don’t mind?”

“Mind what?” You blink at him.

Tucker rubs the back of his neck, and gestures vaguely. “Well. The whole… Mama, Papa thing.”

You stare at him, before letting out a shy laugh. “No. Not really. I don’t mind…”

“You sure?” He eyes you for a moment, and the seriousness in his gaze makes your stomach flip. “I mean, I could always tell them to back off.”

You shake your head. “No.”

“No?” A brow raises.

“No.”

He meets your gaze, and you swallow. “I mean, I don’t mind.” You look down at the dishtowel in your hands, and mumbled quietly, “I think it’s cute.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

When you dared glance up again, Tucker was staring.

Not a hint of amusement or anything close to teasing in his gaze. Then he smiled.

It was soft, and dangerous, and you feel your heart stutter in your chest.

“Yeah?” He hums, his eyes never leaving yours. The intensity makes you want to hide, but instead, you try to cover up the way your heart is pounding by looking away and grumbling, “Don’t make me repeat it.”

His grin widened. "I wasn't gonna."

"Liar."

"Maybe I was."

You rolled your eyes.

He laughed, and you lightly swing the dishtowel at him, earning an offended gasp and a “Hey!” from him. Your grins don’t exactly fade as you went back into the routine of wiping and putting away the dishes again, but something new has settled between you.

Something warm. Something hopeful. A quiet understanding about something that has been brewing there for months.

Dean noticed first. Of course he did. But it was mostly because neither of you were very good at hiding things. Or that neither of you was exactly hiding anything.

Tucker started sitting beside you more often, and you always saved the seat next to you.

He'd bring you coffee, meeting your outside your classes to walk you to your next one.

Sometimes, you'd drop by to bring him food.

You'd steal his hoodies. He'd let you.

Dean pointed it out to Allie. Allie told him to let it happen.

That wouldn’t stop him from commenting on it when he recognized the hoodie you were wearing after Hockey practice and you tagged along with Hannah and Allie.

"You guys are disgusting."

"Don’t be such a hypocrite, Dean." You poke at him. He scoffs, but doesn’t deny it. I mean why would he deny it, when Allie herself is wearing his hoodie?

You grin, "Exactly."

The funny thing is that neither of you were explicitly going out. No confession, no formal talk. It was just an understanding that settled after that one night, though you did think about actually doing the whole confession thing.

But it seemed like Tucker thought the same thing.

Because just a few days later, sometime around the early afternoon. It was just you and Tucker. A simple invitation to hang out, making lunch and all that.

You were helping Tucker clean up. Again.

Because apparently that was your thing. He was drying dishes. You were washing them.

Routine. Something normal. Comfortable.

"You know," Tucker suddenly said.

"Hm?"

"I think Dean might actually pass out if we started dating."

You nearly dropped a plate, glancing at him with squinted eyes.

"Tucker."

"What?"

"Tucker."

His laugh was warm.

You shook your head, but despite yourself, you smiled. “He would. Definitely.”

The room went quiet.

You glanced over.

Tucker was already looking at you.

The smile slowly faded from his face. Not like in a bad way, just in a manner that was softer. Serious. 

Your breath hitches. “Tucker…” 

He steps closer, “I’m not saying this because of the whole nickname thing.” He murmurs. “I’m saying this because I like you, and I'd really like to date you. If you'd let me.” 

The plate nearly slipped from your hands, but he catches it, setting it down in the sink. His gaze doesn't stray from yours, and you can feel your face heat up. "Tuck."

"Yeah?"

Your heart felt like it was trying to escape your chest.

"You have really terrible timing."

His grin returned.

"You saying no?"

You stared, then tilted your head back and laughed. A beat, and you shake your head with a chuckle, "No."

His expression softened immediately.

"No?"

"No."

The smile that spread across his face was blinding.

“This confirmation that I get to call you my girlfriend now?” You grin. 

“Yeah.” And when he leans in, you tilt your head up in response. It's gentle. Careful, and you’re both smiling into it, and just as you pull away, you couldn't help thinking that maybe Dean had been onto something all along.

The next day, you walked into the hockey house holding Tucker's hand.

The silence lasted long enough for everyone's gaze to flicker from your joined hands, then back to you.

“Are you guys actually…” Hannah tentatively asks, pointing from you to Tucker. 

You nod. He just smiles, simply squeezing your hand tighter, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

"Mama and Papa finally got together," Dean announced dramatically.

You just laugh, finding a seat on the couch. Tucker instead pulls you onto his lap, smiling widely, and for the first time since the nickname started—

Neither of you minded it at all.

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

Your stomach flips. “Spence.”

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

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

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

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

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

Morgan snorts. “What weekend?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You perform.

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

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

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

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

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

Reid shuts his book and sets it on the table.

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

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

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

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

Rossi nods once. “You’ll have them.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t,” Prentiss says immediately.

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

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

Not the team. You.

Your stomach twists.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink hard. “What?”

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

You frown. “I’m not—”

He gives you a look.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He hums. “Sure.”

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

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

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

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

He nods. “Good.”

You frown.

“I’m attempting corrective behavioural conditioning.”

Your eyes narrow. “By being annoying?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You sigh. “Reid.”

“Hm?”

“Tell me if I’m overthinking this.”

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

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

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

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

Reid examines the highlighted timeline for another few seconds.

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

You frown slightly.

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

Your brows lift. “So, I’m right?”

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

“What’s she right about?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good girl,” he says absently.

Your entire nervous system short-circuits.

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

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

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

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

You finally blink. “What?”

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

You frown. “What are you—”

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

Your eyes go wide. “Spencer—”

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

“Reid.”

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

You freeze. “Reid, I swear to—”

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

He pauses, tilting his head.

“Very obviously your type.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your stomach flips.

God. That’s pathetic.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Twelve notifications.

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

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

But one of the messages catches your eye.

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

You snort, then type out a reply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ping! Ping! Two more messages pop up.

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

That answer comes a little too easily.

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

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

You shake your head, typing quickly.

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

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

TUESDAY 9:50AM

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

He’s wearing a grey suit today.

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

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

Hotch ignores him completely.

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

He glances once around the table.

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

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

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

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

“You should probably blink.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You lift a shoulder. “About ten.”

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

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

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

You blink. “Oh.”

His gaze holds yours for a second too long.

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

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

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

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

Your breath catches softly in your throat.

“Anytime, sir,” you manage.

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

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

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

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

Two new messages from DCRunner00.

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

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

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

“Hey, you busy?”

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

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

“I could be working.”

“Are you?”

“No.”

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

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

“I could use your help.”

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

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

“Where do you want to start?”

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

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

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

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

Reid hums quietly beside you. “Not necessarily.”

You stare at him. “Care to elaborate?”

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

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

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

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

“No, listen to me carefully.”

Both you and Reid glance up automatically.

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

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

He pauses briefly beside Reid’s desk, listening.

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

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

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

Your stomach flips.

This absolutely should not be as hot as it is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your face heats.

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

Oh my God.

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

He stops.

Then slowly turns toward you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You: Work, mostly. You: And sleep.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He straightens, brows drawing tighter.

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

You set the cup down in front of him.

“So,” you tilt your head, “coffee.”

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

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

Your face heats instantly.

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

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

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

Which is also when you finally check your messages again.

DCRunner00: Chaos how?

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

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

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

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

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

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

He replies almost immediately.

DCRunner00: Accurate, though? You: Unfortunately.

You drop your phone on the bed and start undressing.

Ping!

DCRunner00: What do you actually do?

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

You: Mostly admin. You: Governmental stuff.

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

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

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

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

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

He replies instantly again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You open your protein bar.

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

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

You type out a vague response.

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

His next reply takes almost two minutes to come through.

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

You almost choke on your tea.

That’s... weird.

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

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

You sit up straighter, suddenly a little nauseous.

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

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

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

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

DCRunner00: No promises.

WEDNESDAY 8:10AM

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

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

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

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

“Is Garcia in yet?”

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

You pull your laptop out of your bag.

“I just—I need her.”

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

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

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

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

His brows pull together slightly.

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

You nod slowly, already stepping around him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You grimace. “I don’t know.”

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

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

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

She nods.

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

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

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

You wince.

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

You hesitate.

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

She squints at the screen.

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

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

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

She starts scrolling back through the messages.

“Have you told Hotch?”

“Nope.”

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

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

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

You groan, dragging both hands over your face.

“You do mention Hotch kind of a lot.”

Your head snaps up. “He’s my boss.”

Garcia gives you a long look.

“Okay,” she says slowly. “Sure.”

“Garcia.”

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

You point at the screen. “Focus.”

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

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

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

You sigh. “I don’t love that idea.”

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

You frown. “In English?”

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

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

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

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

You: I thought I told you not to spiral.

He replies so fast that even Garcia flinches.

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

You nod.

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

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

“You’re the best, Pen.”

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

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

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

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

His brows pull together. “Everything alright?”

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

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

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

“Okay, now I’m concerned,” he says.

You glance at him. “Why?”

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

You roll your eyes. “Spence—”

“Something must be seriously wrong.”

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

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

His brows shoot up. “A guy—”

“Online,” you add quickly.

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

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

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

You glare at him. “Yes. That one.”

“Then yes, I remember it very clearly.”

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

His forehead creases. “Have you told—”

“No.”

“Maybe you should—”

“I said no.”

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

You narrow your eyes at him.

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

You lift a brow, waiting for the punchline.

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

You stare at him.

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

He pauses, frowning faintly.

“That was supposed to be reassuring.”

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

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

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

You: You’re weird.

He replies just as fast as usual.

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

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

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

You snort softly, typing out a quick reply.

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

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

It doesn’t work.

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

You: You went quiet. Should I be concerned?

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

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

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

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

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

Your stomach drops. “Oh my God.”

You immediately call Garcia back.

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

“You saw me this morning.”

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

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

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

“No.”

“Are you insane?”

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

Garcia goes quiet for a second.

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

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

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

You press your free hand against your forehead.

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

Garcia scoffs loudly.

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

The line goes quiet again—then she sighs.

“Why are you so against telling Hotch?”

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

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

Your shoulders sag. “Thank you.”

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

You nearly choke. “What?”

“Non-negotiable.”

“Penelope, that’s insane.”

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

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

“Mm-hm.”

“You’re overreacting.”

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

You frown. “…Morally complicit?”

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

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

She hums, satisfied.

“I need to reply to him again.”

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

You laugh despite yourself. “Thanks, Pen.”

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

“I was actually thinking psychological thriller marathon.”

“Absolutely not.”

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

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

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

You: Lucky guess.

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

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

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

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

At exactly six-fifteen, your desk phone rings.

“Hello?”

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

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

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

“See who soon?” Reid asks.

You glance at him. “Garcia.”

He tilts his head.

“She’s staying over tonight.”

His brows lift. “Because of your stalk—”

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

His gaze narrows. “Should I be worried?”

You scoff. “About me? Never.”

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

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

You pause mid-motion.

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

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

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

“Agent.”

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

You force a small smile. “Sir.”

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

You nod once. “Of course.”

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

Your breath catches.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shake your head. “Shit. Sorry.”

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

For a moment, neither of you says anything.

Then—

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

You shut your eyes. “Penelope.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your stomach twists. “Or escalate.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THURSDAY 6:45AM

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You scowl at him. “A drought issue?”

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

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

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

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

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

Someone clears their throat behind you.

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

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

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

Very slowly, you turn in your chair.

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

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

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

You want to die.

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

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

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

You drop your head into your hands.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You glance up at him hopefully.

“Morgan definitely is, though.”

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

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

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

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

Your stomach flips.

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

You shoot him a warning look. “Spence.”

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

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

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

You turn back to him, frowning.

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

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

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

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

You open the message thread—and your stomach drops.

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

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

Ice floods your bloodstream.

You stop breathing.

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

You don’t answer him. You can’t.

The bullpen dissolves into white noise around you.

Until—

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

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

Reid gasps. “Wait. Is that—”

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

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

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

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

“What’s going on?”

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

“What happened?” he asks, sharper now.

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

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

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

“Who sent this?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Could this day get any worse?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You grimace. “Fantastic.”

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

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

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

The room goes still for half a second.

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

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

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

“Or angry,” Morgan adds.

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

You sink lower in your chair.

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

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

You elbow him immediately.

“Ow.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hotch leans forward slightly. “How sloppy?”

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

Hotch nods once, already shifting into command mode.

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

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

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

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

You open your mouth to argue.

“I mean it,” he adds, voice low.

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

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

Then his eyes flick up, meeting yours.

“I’m taking her home.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hotch crouches slightly, holding one hand out toward her.

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

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

Your eyes go wide.

Traitor.

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

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

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

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

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

Every object in every room suddenly feels mortifyingly personal.

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

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

But this?

This feels dangerously close to being found out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m fine.”

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

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

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

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

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

“You think this is nothing?”

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

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

His jaw tightens slightly.

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

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

Which, to him, maybe he hasn’t.

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

That’s all.

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

He nods once. “Want me to clear the—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He pauses, expression sharpening slightly.

“Alright. Keep me updated.”

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

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

Your stomach tightens.

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

The name hits you immediately.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Except this time Hotch does pause.

“Why do you do that?”

You frown. “Do what?”

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

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

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

Your pulse stutters.

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

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

But Hotch doesn’t seem to hear you.

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

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

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

“Leave Leia out of this.”

“She doesn’t like strangers.”

“She likes you.”

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

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

Your fingers tighten instinctively around the edge of the counter.

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

Oh God.

“Which means Reid already noticed the pattern.”

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

“You track me.”

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

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

Your breath stutters.

And Hotch notices immediately.

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

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

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

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

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

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

His eyes lock onto yours.

“You redirect.”

You can barely breathe now.

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

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

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

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

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

The apartment suddenly feels oppressively quiet.

His throat shifts slightly.

And then—

His phone rings.

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

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

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

Because holy fuck.

Holy fuck.

What the hell just happened?

“They got him.”

Your head snaps up. “They what?”

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

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

“Oh.”

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

A cold shiver slips down your spine.

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

He pauses, then looks at you.

“But they got him.”

“Good,” you say quietly.

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

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

You nod. “Okay.”

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

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

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

Hotch stills.

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

“Babysitting?” he repeats.

“You know what I mean.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your breath catches in your throat.

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

But you can’t.

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

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

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

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

Then he kisses you.

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

But the restraint doesn’t last long.

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

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

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

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

Like he needs to be absolutely certain this is real.

“Aaron—”

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

FRIDAY 6:15AM

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

Oh God.

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

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

Your stomach swoops.

You slept with your boss last night.

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

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

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

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Most days.”

His brows pull together slightly. “Why?”

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

Something that almost resembles amusement flickers across his face.

“Sounds like a terrible boss,” he murmurs.

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

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

He hums, breath warm against your skin.

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

“Oh, he notices.”

Your stomach flips. “Really?”

“Mhm.”

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

Heat floods your face. “Aaron—”

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

“Oh my God.”

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

“And the red bra,” he murmurs.

Your breath catches.

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

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

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

“Mm, sure.”

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

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

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

You feel his lips curve.

“Good thing I’m the boss.”

10:35AM

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, but nothing really happened.”

Morgan and Prentiss both stare at you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I was.”

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

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

You frown. “Hotch, I—”

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

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

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

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

“…Huh.”

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

He tilts his head.

Then—

“Oh my God.”

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

“Did you wanna get started?” You ask, moving toward the kitchen counter and pulling a glass mixing bowl toward you.

“Woah, woah. What are you doing?” Jack comes up behind you, a hand on your lower back that sparks something deep within you.

“I’m gonna make pancakes…?” You there’s a level of confusion in your words. It was what you came here for after all, what did he expect?

“No, I am making you pancakes. You just have to sit and look pretty.” He moves you with ease, both hands on your waist gently pushing you to the side and away from the bowl.

“I want to help.” You mutter, eyes scanning the kitchen for something you can do. Jack scoffs affectionately, as if he was expecting this from you before you even stepped foot in the house.

“You're always doing things for other people. Can't you just let someone return the favor?”

"We are doctors Jack, it's our job to do things for other people." You reach for the bowl again, but Jack steps in front of you, blocking you from touching any kitchen appliances. Your hand, instead of meeting the glass bowl, has been caught in Jack's grasp. He has a light grip on your wrist, looking down at you with a lopsided smile. "Just let me make the pancakes." he gives your wrist a gentle squeeze, then lets go as if nothing happened at all. "You gonna make me beg?"

The way he says that has heat growing in your stomach, but you force yourself to act unbothered, taking a step back from him and moving your gaze toward the stove. "Fine, you can cook."

Jack tilts his head to the side, forcing you to look at him. He's got a smug look on his face, one you've seen a few times before when he wins arguments at work. "Thank you, sweetheart."

-

Jack is losing his goddamned mind. You are in his house, looking beautiful as ever, and straddling a chair you've dragged into the kitchen. You've got your forearms rested on the back of it, watching him as he works. And he just can't focus. He can feel your eyes sinking into him as he tries to make small talk, and he can't stop flirting no matter how hard he tries to stop himself. He's been over thinking that "don't make me beg" comment all morning, hoping he didn't cross a line that made you uncomfortable. Though you seemed to like it, at least by the way you looked at him. And what's worse is that you've sort of been flirting back. Here and there you will make a comment on how he looks, or the sound of his voice. Comments that border the line between innocent and not so.

He still hasn't confirmed or not whether you see this as a date. He's trying to tamp his hopes down, keep himself tame and steady. Because fuck, he can't be catching feelings if you aren't on the same page.

"Please let me help with something." You plead from your side of the kitchen. Jack looks over his shoulder, breath catching at the sight of you so comfortable in his place. He could get used to this, but he won't let himself sink into that habit.

Still, Jack finds himself itching to have you fill the space. The house has been so empty for so long. Surely it can't be so bad for some light to come in. Maybe that's why he changes his mind about the cooking. "Okay, fine. Get over here." he nods his head toward the bench where he stands and he hears the chair creak before you're at his side. "Jesus you're fast." he mumbles, suppressing a surprised laugh.

"I've been waiting for this all morning." You respond, and before Jack can compose himself after getting a whiff of your perfume, you duck underneath his arm. Your back grazes his chest as you try and take charge of the pan, not waiting for him to step aside.

"You've been doing it wrong." you say, trying to take the spatula from his hand. He doesn't think the close proximity has registered to you yet, your sole focus on apparently saving the pancake batter from his misdemeanor.

"Woah, when I said you could help I meant there's strawberries in the fridge that need chopping. Get the hell off my expo." Jack places a hand on your head, pushes you down and back under his arm the way you came. "You're controlling you know that?"

"I am not." you scoff, moving toward the fridge with newfound purpose. "And says the guy that manhandled me out of way just now."

It's Jack's turn to defend himself. "I did not manhandle you." he flips a pancake, the underside slightly burned thanks to your distraction. "You're the one that used me like a jungle gym to get to the pan."

You've retrieved the strawberries, making your way back over to him. He loves the way your hair moves when you walk, the way your eyes sparkle in the morning light that's just now starting to creep through his open curtains.

"Oh please, I'm sure many women have climbed their way over you more aggressively than I have."

Jack tries to ignore the thoughts that threaten to push at the edges of his mind. How he would love it if you climbed over him some more.

"Oh, you're sure?" he's heading into teasing territory. "So you've given it some thought?"

You turn away for a second, looking toward the floor, pretending you've dropped something just so you have time to work out a response. Jack can tell. He likes you flustered.

"Nope. Haven't thought about it." you mumble, placing the punnet of strawberries on the bench. You find his chopping board easily, propped up against the containers of spices he has. "Where do you keep your knives Doc? Or should I have brought a scalpel from work?"

He allows the subject change and pulls open the drawer by his hip. He lets you to pick your knife of choice before pushing it closed. It probably dulls them to keep them stored like this, but it doesn't bother him much at all.

-

You're organizing the strawberries in a neat row on the chopping board, contemplating whether or not to try and shape them into something. You don't know how you would do that, but you want to impress Jack somehow. Make him like you, despite the fact it seems he does already. You pick up the knife, deciding to forego the shapes and just be normal for once.

"Watch your fingers, alright? I don't want to take us to work early." Jack moves away, toward the fridge and you look over your shoulder at him, just long enough to stop paying attention to your task. Your attention is snapped back instantly though when you feel a sharp sting on your finger. You hiss in pain, focus drawn by the red on the your skin, sliding down toward the food. You move quickly, hand over the sink before you can bleed onto the fruit.

"Shit."

"You okay?" Jack speaks from somewhere behind you, and you can hear his footsteps pad closer.

"Yeah, just cut myself." you run your finger under the tap, watching the blood wash away and rise again on your skin. Jack's hands press down on your shoulders, a comforting weight.

"What did I just say, huh?" he turns you gently, "Let me see." It's not serious enough to warrant an inspection, but you indulge him anyway, holding out your finger for him to see.

"Be honest with me Doc, am I gonna lose the hand?" you look up at Jack with batting lashes, catching the way his mouth twitches, wanting to smile.

"Not today sweetheart." he wraps a paper towel around your cut finger, pressing gently. "Hold that."

You do as you’re told, eyes turning back to the strawberries half chopped on the board behind you. When Jack returns, he's got a band aid in hand, unwrapping it with with fumbling fingers. You want to laugh at the small struggle, the way his second attempt isn't any better than the first.

"You need help with that or..?"

Jack scoffs at you, ignoring the teasing as he attempts to open the band aid again, this time successful. "I got it," he moves closer, peeling back the packaging. You remove the paper towel on your finger and hold the cleaned wound out to him, allowing his now steady hands to wrap the band aid around your small cut.

"What would I do without you?" you joke as he smooths the band aid tight over your skin. "My white knight."

He shrugs, taking no time to consider. "Probably die...Princess."

He's still holding your hand gently, thumb stroking smooth circles over your palm. Instantly, your thoughts blur. You want to ask him questions, about what this is, what you are, if it's anything at all. You want to ask if you can kiss him, and damn him, you want to ask if he'll take you to bed. And not so you can rest.

As if he can read your mind, Jack's voice comes out low, rough and quiet, as if he doesn't want the walls to hear. "I think we should clarify a few things."

You swallow, just now noticing the buildup of saliva in your mouth. "Okay, I love clarification." What a dumb fucking thing to say.

"Yeah?" Jack clearly finds you humorous, a small chuckle hidden in the word, still quiet as if this is all a secret. You nod, gathering yourself as his thumb stills its movements on your hand.

"Clarify away." again, another stupid thing to say.

"I want to clarify," Jack starts, the emphasis on the word supposed to be funny, but you're so nervous that you don't even smile. "that I am romantically interested in you."

Your mouth falls open slightly, and you try your best to breathe.

"And before this progresses any further I want to know if you feel the same. If not, I will never bring this up again. I'm not gonna be a fucking asshole about it if you're not interested but, I'm viewing this as a date and I don't know if we're on the same page." Jack drops your hand, and the formalities all of a sudden. "If you're not interested we can still have pancakes, no hard feelings."

Your heart is pounding so hard in your chest that you think you might explode. Is this what you wanted to hear or is this your biggest fear? Yes, you have feelings for him, but he's also your attending and there's a fine line for misconduct there that could get you in a lot of trouble.

He's looking at you so intensely, and every thought that reaches its way to your throat gets stuck and won't come out.

-

Jack has fucked this up immensely. You are staring at him, mouth agape like a fish out of water. He's just ruined everything with this approach, all flirtatious chemistry gone in a second for the sake of a mature conversation.

"I guess that's a no." Jack says, trying to fill the silence that now suffocates the both of you. He can see the rise and fall of your chest as you breathe a little harder than before.

"It's okay," he says, a little concerned now with the way you stare at him. He takes a step back, giving you space. Space is good, space might help him feel less sick than he does right now. "If you want to go, I understand."

Time seems to slow as you reach out and grab him by the fabric of his shirt, pulling him back a little closer. "please stop talking."

And he does. He shuts the hell up, and lets you pull him into a kiss so tender he can feel himself melting. His hands find your biceps first, before trailing up your arms to your shoulders, and then the sides of your neck. His touch causes you to shiver, which he feels as his hands move. When he finally cups your face you pull back to look at him.

You're smiling. That beautiful, warm, sunshine smile. He moves forward for another kiss, one that's a little rougher than the last. He can feel the escalation in what you're doing, your hands gripping his shirt tighter, pulling him closer than what seems physically possible.

This kiss is messy, with a few breaks for heavy breaths, and as your hands begin to travel, moving up his chest and over his shoulders, Jack's do too. He dares to trail downward, hands on your waist as he lifts you with ease onto the kitchen counter.

You gasp into his mouth, a sound he devours. He moves away from your mouth, trailing his lips over your cheek and jaw, until he reaches your neck. You tilt your head back, allowing him access without so much as a second thought.

"I take it you are romantically interested in me as well?" he mumbles into your skin. As if it isn't obvious. As if he hasn't spent the last five minutes drinking you down like wine.

Your hand grips onto the back of his neck, "What do you think?"

Jack hums, kissing his way back up to your face. He pulls back, examining your expression. "I'm just trying to clarify some things." he teases. "If that's okay with you?" his hands daringly rest on your thighs as he stands between them.

You shuffle back on the counter, getting more comfortable as the wall presses into your back. He likes the way you tilt your head to the side, smile growing, like he's a new toy you're ready to play with. It sends heat coursing through his veins.

"Is this clarification enough for you?" You reach out nonchalantly, and hook your fingers through his belt loops, pulling him closer between your legs. Jack wants to fall to his knees.

You kiss him softly, just like the first time, but better. Because there's so much more want in it now. When you break away from the kiss, slowly opening your eyes, you make sure he's looking right at you. "I am very romantically interested in you Jack."

Jack brings a hand up to your hair, tucking a strand behind you ear. "Are you sure?" He leans forward, "because if you need to do some research, you know, just to make sure, that's okay with me."

He waits as you process the words, your hands escaping the belt loops as you lift one leg up into the counter. He tries not to analyze the position too much. Tries not to think about all the ways it could benefit the both of you.

"I do have one question," you say, the words enticing. "Something I would like cleared up."

Jack nods, "Shoot."

Your lips upturn some more, and a laugh so quiet he can barely hear it leaves your lips. "How fast can you take off your clothes?"

-

You watch as a blush rises up over Jack's neck, that mischievous smile growing. You can't quite believe this is happening, that you're doing this with him right now. "As fast as you want me to." Jack replies, and warmth spreads to the place between your legs.

You reach out for him, not realizing he'd taken a few steps away and he comes right back to you without a fight.

You can't stop smiling, and your cheeks hurt from it as you lace your arms around his neck, ready for more.

Unfortunately you don't get it. Jack's phone begins to ring. It's an agonizing sound for someone on the edge of a sexual breakthrough.

Jack is clearly as frustrated as you and as he picks it up off the kitchen counter you can tell he's thinking about pressing the decline button. But he catches sight of the name, as do you. Robby. Fuck.

He picks up, "Hey brother, I'm kind of in the middle of something, can I talk to you at changeover?"

Whatever Robby says on the other end of the line clearly isn't "sure, bye!" because Jack rolls his eyes, reaching out his free hand to you. You lace your fingers through his, as he continues to listen to Robby on the other end of the line.

"No, man I'm busy. Can't you find someone else?" He squeezes your hand, glancing over to you in a way that says, i'm sorry about this.

"What do you mean what am i doing? Enjoying my morning, that's what." You wonder if Jack will mention that's he's with you. You haven't discussed the work implications of this. In favour of kissing and touching of course. "And I'm not going to ruin that by coming in to cover your ass."

You flex your hand against Jack's to get his attention. When he looks over you mouth 'it's okay, go.'

"Can you give me a sec?" Jack says into the phone, before pulling it away from his ear and pressing the mute button so your conversation can't be heard by Robby's prying ears.

"It's not okay, I want to be here with you." He says as soon as he puts the phone down.

That makes your stomach flutter but you ignore it in favour of practicality. You let go of his hand, "I love that, but we have to be there in..." You check your watch, "twenty eight minutes anyway."

Jack's gaze flicks over to the half cooked batch of pancakes, and your never to be cut strawberries. Then he looks back to you, hopeful and a little horny. "A lot can happen in twenty eight minutes."

"Oh don't I know it." you say, "Now pick up the phone, and tell Robby you'll cover him."

Jack frowns, head tilting as you hop off the counter. You hate being responsible, but you'll do it. If only Robby knew how much you were sacrificing for him. You open a few cupboards below the counter until you find one with sealable containers inside.

You throw a few uncut strawberries in and haphazardly pile the few pancakes that were cooked on top. "Pick up the phone, Jack." you say when he doesn't move.

Despite the fact he's clearly against the idea, he does as he's told. He unmutes his side of the call. "I'm back, do you still need me?"

You can tell by the sound of Jack's voice that he's hoping the answer is no. You seal the container, and turn back to face him just as Jack says. "I'll be there in five."

a little bit of sunshine taglist /the pitt taglist

The semester ended in a blur of final exams and a desperate need to escape. With the first-place grant completely covering your research expenses for the upcoming semester, the savings you’d painstakingly scraped together were suddenly yours to spend. It probably wasn’t the most responsible choice, but you were reeling from a devastating friendship breakup, suffocating under the weight of the Briar campus. So, you booked a holiday with a friend from your major and left the country.

That entire winter break, you went completely off the grid. You didn't speak to Allie, Hannah, Dean, or Garrett. You didn't even speak to Tucker, though you made sure he knew you were grateful about him berating Logan on your behalf after being told by Allie that he’d done that.

They all understood without you having to say it—you needed a total detox from their entire world. And it worked. Away from them all, you actually had fun. You laughed until your stomach hurt, drank too much wine on sun-drenched balconies, and breathed in air that didn’t smell like ice rinks. For the first time in a long time, the relentless urge to check in on John Logan completely vanished.

By the time the new semester rolled around, you had officially decided your life was better without him. Frankly, you didn’t entirely believe it—at least not when it came to the version of Logan before he changed—but you repeated the words like a mantra until they started to feel like truth.

Over the next three months, you learned how to coexist with the rest of the group again. You’d catch Allie and Hannah on the quad and chat, grab a drink with the boys, or occasionally sit with all of them at Malone’s. But through some miracle of scheduling and hyper-vigilance, you managed to never see Logan. The guys tried to bring him up at first, telling you how completely wrecked he was, how he wasn't the same guy on or off the ice. You shut it down every time. You refused to make his misery your problem.

If he was hurting? Good. He earned every bit of it.

You narrowly avoided him for the majority of the spring. Sometimes you’d end up at the same massive rowdy party, and across a crowded, red-cup-littered room, your eyes would accidentally lock with his. A familiar ache would flare in your chest, and you’d immediately break the contact, turning your back even as you felt his gaze burning a hole straight through you.

You didn't miss him.

You didn't miss his stupid jokes. You didn't miss how absurdly observant he could be, or the terrifying comfort of being known so deeply by another human being. You didn't miss having someone who knew exactly what you needed before you even had to ask.

You didn't miss him at all.

Except, you couldn't convince yourself of that lie when it was three in the morning and the silence in your dorm room was too loud. In those rare, weak moments when the loneliness crept in, your thumb would hover over his contact card, considering unblocking his number just to hear the phone ring. But the night would always end the same way—you shutting your phone off completely, forcing yourself to sleep before you could do something stupid.

Minutes away, in the hockey house, John Logan was doing the exact same thing.

He took long, aimless walks across campus late at night, his boots slowing down instinctively every time he passed your residence hall. It was a muscle-memory habit; he used to walk you back here almost everyday, making sure you reached the doors safely. Now, every time something exciting happened in his life—a great game, a funny incident, a good grade—his first instinct was to text you, only for reality to hit him moments later. He’d sit on the edge of his bed, staring down at the friendship bracelet still tied tightly around his own wrist. He’d then glance at the one you’d left on the floor the night you left his life. He picked it up and kept it in his room, ending his night by staring at it. It was torturous, staring at the one piece of jewelry that reminded him that he was the sole architect of his own ruin. He couldn't believe he’d fucked up this royally.

And to make it worse, you looked happy. Happier without him. You were absolutely glowing.

The first time he’d caught sight of you after winter break, laughing with Allie near the campus cafe, Logan realized that maybe the best thing he could do for you was to just leave you alone. He would have to live with a permanent ache in his chest, knowing you were still hanging out at the house, still going to Malone's, still breathing the same air—just never when he was around. He had caused you so much pain that you had actively rewritten your life to exclude him. He had no right to fight against your peace.

But leaving you alone didn't stop him from cheering you on from the shadows.

When the end-of-year STEM banquet arrived—the prestigious ceremony where you were officially recognized for winning the showcase—Logan made sure he was there. He didn't sit with your friend group despite everyone telling him that he should come. He’d ruin your night. He allowed them to leave the house without him, instead showing up on his own so he wouldn’t be the plague that prevents you from walking up to everyone and thanking them for coming.

Instead, when he arrived, John stood all the way in the back of the auditorium, blending into the shadows by the exit doors.

When your name was called and you walked up to the podium, you scanned the crowd and found him. He looked visibly worn, a subtle pain etching his features, but his eyes were wide and filled with a profound gratitude just to watch you succeed. You didn't smile at him. You didn't offer a nod. But in the space that existed between you, he knew you saw him, and he knew you understood why he was there.

When it ended, you found your friends—Allie being the first to pull you into a hug and Tucker forcing you to take solo pictures. Dean and Garrett wore grim expressions, thinking you’d be disappointed that Logan hadn’t shown his face.

You chose not to tell them that he came.

He hadn't shown up hoping for forgiveness. He hadn't done it to beg. He’d done it because Tucker had been right all those months ago. He needed to bask in the wreckage of what he’d done. He needed to let the weight of his failure truly sink in, to think about you, and to feel exactly what he had forced you to feel on the night of your presentation: the agony of being completely alone in a crowded room.

John Logan had spent three long months doing exactly that.

And when he watched you walk off the stage with your award, the truth finally broke through his chest, clear and devastating. He realized it wasn't just a best friend he had lost.

He realized it was a soulmate.

Yeah, Logan realized that he might’ve been in love with you.

No, he was. Totally and completely in love with you, and perhaps too late.

It was a cruel, cosmic sort of joke, Logan realized. The universe had waited until the exact moment you erased him from your life to finally open his eyes. He was meant to discover he loved you only after he lost you—a lifetime of yearning as a penance for his stupidity.

Lately, he found himself utterly at a loss for words whenever you crossed his path. He’d catch sight of you in the campus hallways, effortlessly beautiful, and the breath would leave his lungs. He’d hear your laugh echoing in the distance at Malone's, a sharp pang hitting his chest because he knew he hadn't been the cause of that sound in months. And through it all, you paid him absolutely no mind. You looked right through him, paying him dust as if he were nothing more than a stranger occupying the same air.

It was fitting, he thought.

He wasn’t really okay with it—the hollowness in his ribs bled every single day—but he was content to accept it. He figured he was blessed just to be capable of loving someone like you, even if those feelings were a heavy cross he’d have to bear alone for the rest of his life.

Until St. Patrick’s Day.

Beau had thrown a massive party at his summer house. Nobody actually cared about the holiday itself, but the team had just clinched a brutal away game, and Briar students never turned down an excuse to drink.

You had dressed up for the occasion, looking striking in a white cropped tank with an oversized, unbuttoned green flannel draped over your shoulders and a light-wash denim skirt. You’d leaned into the theme, tying a green ribbon through one of your belt loops and layering two gold coin necklaces with a green clover one. You felt good, you looked incredible, and as the night wore on, you accidentally drank far too much.

The pounding bass from the speakers downstairs had eventually become too much, making your head throb with a vicious rhythm. Looking for an escape, you stumbled upstairs, pushed open the door to a random, dark bedroom, and collapsed onto the mattress. You told yourself you just needed a minute to let the room stop spinning.

A minute turned into two hours.

When your eyes finally flutter open, the heavy vibration of the music is gone. The house is dead silent. A quick check of your phone reveals a barrage of missed calls and frantic texts from Hannah, Allie, and your other friends. Your thumbs move sluggishly across the screen, typing out a quick “i’m fine, fell asleep upstairs” to let them know you hadn't vanished into the night. Since the boys were all staying at Beau's for the night, you figured Allie and Hannah were in their boyfriend’s rooms. You decide to just head down to the living room and crash on the couch so you don’t disturb anyone. You don’t know whose room this was meant to be and prefer not to wake up next to a stranger because of it.

You notice that your throat feels like sandpaper when you sit up. You’re thirsty.

Stepping out into the hallway, you quickly realize the alcohol hasn’t entirely left your system. Your balance sways, forcing you to grip the wooden railing tightly as you navigate the stairs. The house was is absolute wasteland of red plastic cups, crushed cans, and stray green beads. You can see the faint remnants of a cleanup effort that had clearly been abandoned halfway through when everyone succumbed to exhaustion.

The only illumination in the entire house was the low glow coming from the kitchen.

Holding your flannel shut against the chill of the house, your bare legs shivering slightly in your denim skirt, you pad quietly toward the light. You round the corner, your eyes blinking against the brightness, and freeze.

Standing by the sink, a glass of water halfway to his lips, is John Logan.

You suddenly grow intensely conscious of how insane you probably look. Your hair is a bird’s nest, your eyeliner is almost certainly smudged beneath your lower lashes, and stray green glitter clings stubbornly to your collarbones and cheeks.

Funny enough, you can’t be more beautiful to him right now. Logan stands entirely paralyzed, his eyes tracking the slight sway of your shoulders, the oversized green flannel slipping off one side of your white tank. You find yourself staring directly back into his brown eyes for longer than five seconds. A new record in months.

He stays still, unsure of whether he should speak first, or if he should grant you the right to decide your own boundaries—whether he is going to be an invisible ghost in this kitchen, or someone actually worth your breath.

He knows he isn’t the latter. But right now, with the fog of sleep and alcohol muddling your brain, he isn’t entirely the former either.

You clear your dry throat. "Hi."

Logan blinks, his chest heaving as he swallows hard. He looks utterly terrified and entirely shattered at the same time, like a man waiting for a blow he knows he deserves.

“Hi," he replies, his voice a reluctant whisper.

The sheer absurdity of the tension finally gets to you. You let out a soft, raspy giggle, making your way past him toward the upper cabinets. "You can breathe, Logan. I’m not armed."

A sudden, breathless laugh escapes him, his shoulders visibly relaxing at your surprisingly calm demeanor.

He watches you approach the cupboards, quickly realizing you’re searching for a cup, and clears his throat again. "Beau moved them," he mutters softly, pointing a finger toward the absolute highest shelf. "To keep people from smashing them tonight."

You stop, staring up at the ridiculously high shelf. For a fleeting second, you silently contemplate climbing straight onto the counter, but you’re wearing a denim skirt and you have absolutely no intention of flashing the guy you’re supposed to hate.

Logan shifts his weight, his brown hues searching your face. "Do you. . . do you want some help?"

You cut your eyes at him, letting out a defeated sigh. "Yeah."

He steps into your space, the scent of him—soap and cedar mixed with alcohol—wrapping around you instantly. He reaches up, his large hand grabbing a clean glass from the top shelf. As he brings it down, you make absolutely no effort to step back. You stay right there, your shoulder nearly brushing his chest.

Logan’s brow furrows in surprise at your proximity, but the second he tries to hand you the glass, your fingers tremble against the heavy glass. Your balance wavers, just a fraction.

The realization that you’re still drunk hits him at once. Of course you’re tolerating his presence; you aren’t thinking straight.

"Hey, I've got it," he murmurs, his fingers gently brushing yours as he takes the glass back, completely ignoring your quiet grunt of protest. He turns to the fridge, filling it with crisp, cold water before turning back and pressing the smooth glass into your palm.

Logan hooks his boot around the leg of a nearby stool, pulling it out for you. "Sit down. Drink all of it."

You glare at him over the rim of the glass, the alcohol making you bold. "Don't tell me what to do, John."

A faint, melancholic smile touches his stupidly kissable lips. "You already hate me. It's not like it can get any worse."

You take a long, desperate gulp of the water, the cold liquid soothing your burning throat. You set the glass down on the counter with a soft clink, looking up at him through smudged lashes. "I don't hate you."

Logan blinks, the words striking him right in the center of his chest. He doesn’t know how true that actually is, and as much as his heart flares with desperate, pathetic hope, he refuses to push you for answers in this state. It feels invasive. It feels wrong to take advantage of the liquor softening your edges.

"How much did you have tonight?" he asks quietly, trying to redirect the conversation.

A clumsy giggle bubbles out of your throat. You lift your hands, trying to recount the tally of green jello shots and mixed drinks on your fingers, stumbling over the mental math until you just shake your head. Logan can’t help the genuine laugh that rumbles in his chest at the sight of you, his eyes crinkling.

"Right," he smiles softly, checking his watch. "Do you need help getting back upstairs?"

"I'm just gonna crash on the couch," you mumble, gesturing vaguely to the trashed living room.

"The couch is covered in stale beer and God-knows-what bodily substances," Logan counters gently. "Go back upstairs. The room you were sleeping in is mine. I came down here because I didn't want to wake you up."

You let out a soft oh, a sleepy smirk pulling at the corner of your mouth. "Look at you. A gentleman."

"I try," he says, the old banter sending a bittersweet jolt throughout his body. He steps closer, his voice turning into something protective. "Come on. I’m gonna help you get back up there, and then I’m gonna help you get that makeup off. I know you hate waking up with your face feeling gross."

Your defense mechanisms flare, a sudden prickle of irritation cutting through the alcohol-ridden haze. "I don't need your help, Logan. I haven't needed it for the past three months."

The words cut deep, a sharp reminder of the reality he’d built for himself. The pain flits across his features, but he just nods, taking the blow without a fight.

"I know," he says softly, his voice thick with regret. "I know you don't. But just let me do this. Come on."

You grumble under your breath, throwing a half-hearted complaint into the air, but you don’t fight him when his large hand settles gently against the small of your back. He guides you back up the stairs, his palm a grounding anchor as you stumble on the top step.

He walks you into his room, gently guiding your shoulders until you sit down on the edge of the mattress. You don’t protest. You just watch him with sleepy eyes as he murmurs, "I'll be right back."

Logan slips down the hall to the bathroom Allie and Hannah had used to get ready, quickly rummaging through the counter until he finds what he’s looking for. A minute later, he walks back into the bedroom, carrying a bottle of Micellar Water and a handful of cotton pads.

He sits down on the mattress right in front of you, his knees nearly touching yours, and pours a few drops of the liquid onto the cotton. His hands, usually so rough and aggressive on the ice, are entirely weightless as he raises the pad to your face, gently wiping away the first layer of smudged makeup.

You watch him observantly as he works, your eyes tracking the pure focus in his expression. The alcohol has completely stripped away your internal filter, and before your muddled brain can stop them, the words stumble out of your mouth. “You're pretty, John."

Logan stops for a fraction of a second, a soft laugh huffing out of him as he keeps his eyes on your forehead. "So are you."

"Yeah, I know," you mutter, your attempt at displaying an attitude failing due to your slurring of words.

A genuine smile breaks across his face at your bluntness, his shoulders shaking with a soft chuckle. He shifts his hand, bringing a fresh cotton pad to your other cheek to wipe away the stray glitter and blush. As his arm moves, his sleeve pulls back, and your eyes lock onto his left wrist.

The blue and purple friendship bracelet is still there. It looks like it’s being held together by a prayer, but it’s still securely tied.

"Why are you still wearing that?" you ask, your voice dropping its playful edge.

Logan blinks, not entirely sure what you’re referring to at first. He follows your gaze down to his wrist. His expression softens into something melancholy, a look of guilt taking over his features. "It’s the least I could do.”

He doesn't expand on it, moving the cotton pad down to the makeup and glitter on your neck and collarbone. You internally curse your own biology because, despite everything, your body is still completely conditioned to his presence. Without meaning to, you find yourself leaning slightly into his touch, letting your head tilt back to give him access. At least tomorrow you can blame the pathetic display on the alcohol.

Your filterless brain jumps straight to the next burning question. "Do you still like Hannah?"

You had never told Logan that you knew about his crush. Even during your massive blowout three months ago, you had kept that specific detail to yourself, refusing to out his feelings in front of the entire living room. The pure surprise on his face is clear as day. He halts entirely, his hand hovering over your collarbone before he slowly pulls back.

He doesn't answer right away. He stands up in silence, tossing the used, makeup-stained cotton pads into the small trash can by the desk, buying himself time. When he comes back to sit on the mattress in front of you, his gaze is serious.

"I don't know what you mean," he lies.

You let out a dry laugh, shaking your head. "I'm not stupid, Logan. That’s what ruined us, anyway. Your feelings for her."

Logan stares at you, seeing the certainty in your muddled eyes, and decides there is absolutely no use in denying it anymore. The truth is, he had long gotten over whatever infatuation he’d harbored. It had actually been Hannah herself who helped him realize the reality of his feelings months ago—that he hadn't been pining for her, but rather envying the effortless, ironclad bond she shared with Garrett. He had been looking for what you two used to have.

"I don't like her anymore," Logan says, his voice level, entirely devoid of the old longing. You’re too drunk to observe that detail. "Honestly. . . I'm not sure if I ever really did."

You let out another sleepy, cynical chuckle, looking down at your lap. "It’s okay that if you do. I know you did. I saw the way you looked at her." You pause, swallowing the sudden lump in your throat as the alcohol forces the ultimate truth to the surface. "It was the way I wanted you to look at me."

Logan’s features change so violently you wonder if it’s possible to get facial whiplash. His chest heaves, eyes widening as the breath is completely knocked out of him.

"What do you mean by that?" he whispers, his voice trembling, practically begging you to elaborate.

But you don't reply. The sudden emotional confession, paired with the strength of the liquor, sends a massive wave of exhaustion crashing through your veins. Your eyelids flutter, growing impossibly heavy.

"I'm tired, Logan," you mumble, your head slumping slightly.

He stares at you, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird, but he forces himself to take a breath. He chooses not to pry. As desperately as he wants to get answers, he knows this is absolutely not a conversation to be had when you can barely keep your eyes open.

"You wanna change into something else?" he asks softly, glancing at your denim skirt. "I can get you some sweatpants."

"No," you groan tiredly, already shifting your body to crawl beneath the heavy duvet. "Too tired."

Knowing how stubborn you get when you're sleepy, he doesn't argue. He gently grabs the edge of the comforter, pulling it up over your shoulders and tucking you in against. Once your head securely hits the plush pillow, Logan crouches down to your eye level, lingering for a moment to ensure you're completely comfortable.

Your eyes are shut tight, your breathing slowing into a steady pattern. Thinking you’ve already drifted off, Logan places his palms on his knees, preparing to stand up and leave the room.

Before he can move, your hand shoots out from beneath the blankets, your fingers wrapping tightly around his wrist—right over the threads of his friendship bracelet.

"Thank you," you whisper into the dark room, your eyes still closed.

Logan’s throat tightens, a wave of affection and ache washing over him. "Don't thank me," he murmurs. He leans forward, his movement entirely natural and devoid of malice as he presses a soft, kiss to your forehead. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight," you mumble back, your grip on his wrist loosening as you sink deeper into the mattress. "This doesn't mean we're cool again, by the way."

An honest laugh escapes Logan, the familiar sharpness of your tongue bringing a bittersweet comfort to his heart. "I know," he whispers, his voice full of a quiet promise to earn every single inch of your trust back. "I know it doesn't."

He reaches over, gently clicking off the bedside lamp, plunging the room into warm, quiet shadows before slipping out to the living room, leaving you to finally sleep.

The morning sun slices through the blinds with a blinding brightness that makes your head immediately throb. You groan, rolling over, only to realize your skin doesn’t feel tight and clogged. Your face is clean.

Sitting on the dresser is a folded pile of oversized sweats and a sticky note from Hannah letting you know there’s a spare, unopened toothbrush in the bathroom. You let out a breath, extremely grateful for your friends. When you glance at the nightstand, you find a bottle of blue Gatorade and two ibuprofen tablets waiting for you. You assume those are from Hannah, too, and swallow the pills quickly, chasing it down with the blue liquid.

Once you’re changed, showered, and finally dragging your feet downstairs, you realize you are officially the last one awake.

Dean sees you step into the kitchen and immediately bellows, "There she is! The life of the party!"

You wince, pressing a hand to your temple. "Why are you yelling? Please don't yell."

Tucker lets out a low laugh from the kitchen counter and slides a foil-wrapped breakfast burrito toward you. “We ordered takeout. The bus leaves in thirty minutes so we’ve gotta head out in twenty.”

You take a bite, look over at Hannah and Allie, and offer a soft smile. "Hey, thanks for the clothes and the stuff on the nightstand."

They both nod, but Hannah frowns slightly. "No problem for the clothes, but what stuff on the nightstand?"

You pause, a sudden twist in your stomach cutting through the hangover. "The ibuprofen? The Gatorade?"

"Wasn't us," Allie says, popping a piece of toast into her mouth.

You quickly brush it off, and walk over to the kitchen island where Tucker is leaning. You figure it must have been his doing—the classic protective older brother move despite him being younger.

"Thanks, Tuck," you murmur.

Tucker just looks at you, a knowing, amused glint in his eyes as he takes a sip of his coffee. "Don't thank me. It was your lover boy."

Your heart does a violent flip-flop. Logan.

You glance around the room, but he’s nowhere to be found. Suddenly, the reality of last night crashes over you in a wave of mortification. Now that you’re sober, you don't even know how to approach it. You’re grateful he helped you, sure, but the baseline anger from the last three months is still burning in your chest. Worse, the unfiltered things you said start echoing in your mind.

It was the way I wanted you to look at me.

The memory makes you want to literally shrivel up and die on the kitchen tile. But since spontaneous combustion isn't an option, you clear your throat and look back at Tucker. "I'm, uh. . . I'm gonna go upstairs and finish packing my tote bag so I'm ready to walk out when you guys leave."

Tucker nods steadily, and you beat a hasty retreat back up the stairs. You figure Tucker would have warned you if Logan was up there, but you quickly realize your assumption is entirely incorrect.

The exact moment you pass the upstairs bathroom, the door swings open. You nearly collision-course right into a solid chest. You gasp, taking a sharp step back, and find yourself staring right into Logan’s eyes.

"Sorry," he says quickly, his hands instinctively twitching as if he wants to catch your elbows before he remembers he doesn't have the right to touch you anymore. "I'm sorry."

"It's fine," you say, your voice restrained.

An awkward silence stretches between you in the narrow hallway. He looks exhausted, dark circles bruising the skin under his eyes, his hair damp from his own shower.

You clear your throat, forcing the words out. "Thank you. For the ibuprofen. And for. . . everything else last night."

Logan’s expression softens. “I told you last night, you don't have to thank me."

You offer a quick nod, shifting your weight to walk right past him and end the interaction. You can practically feel the desperate urge radiating off him; he clearly wants to talk to you, but he doesn't think you want to speak to him. And truthfully, you don't.

But for some stupid, inexplicable reason, you still do.

You stop, your sandals gluing themselves to the ground. Slowly, you turn back around to face him. "I meant it, you know. When I said I don't hate you. I could never hate you, Logan." You look down at your shoes, your voice dropping. "I was just hurt. Honestly, I still am."

Logan takes a tentative step forward, closing a fraction of the distance between you. "I know," he says, "You have every single right to be."

He swallows hard, his gaze locking onto yours with such a focus that it makes you furrow your eyebrows.

"I'm not going to give you some pathetic excuse about the charity event," Logan says, his hands curling into loose fists at his sides. "The truth is, I was selfish. I got so caught up in trying to chase something new that I completely blinded myself to the person who actually mattered. I took years of your loyalty and I treated it like it was a given. Like no matter how careless I was, you’d just. . . always be there."

He takes another small step, and you can tell he’s been wanting to say this for some time.

"When Tucker told me what happened—how you kept looking for me at the back of that auditorium, thinking that I was hurt because you couldn't conceive of a world where I'd just let you down. . . it made me physically sick. I have never hated myself more than I did that night. I broke a sacred promise to my best friend because I wanted to play the hero for someone else, and I left you to stand on that stage alone. You don’t deserve that, you have never deserved that.”

A painful silence falls over over the narrow hallway, the sincerity in his voice cutting right through your caged heart.

"I'm so sorry," Logan whispers, his eyes glossy. "I'm sorry I made you feel invisible. I'm sorry I ruined what should have been the greatest night of your life. I don't expect you to just forget it, and I know I don't deserve it, but I need you to know that I am so deeply, truly sorry. Even if you choose to never speak to me again, it’s well within your rights.”

Hearing it now, spoken with the emotion of a guy who has spent three months drowning in his own regret, feels like the exact piece of closure you’ve been suffocating without. You can see it in his eyes—how utterly desperate he is for just a sliver of another chance.

He’d done what you’d wanted him to, he basked in the actions of what he’d done. He sat with them, made them about you instead of him, and suffered in it.

"It's exhausting," you admit, a weary sigh escaping your lips. "Trying to avoid you all the time. It takes so much energy."

"I know," Logan whispers, his eyes swimming with guilt. "I'm so sorry I made you feel like that was your only option. I miss you. God, I miss you in my life so much."

You lean your shoulder against the wall, crossing your arms over your chest. You aren't going to let him entirely off the hook. "It won't be that easy, Logan."

"I know it won't," he says instantly, a determined certainty lighting up his gaze. "I don't expect it to be. But I am willing to work for it. Seriously. Whatever it takes. Throw it at me."

A sudden, wicked spark of mischief makes you perk up. You look him up and down. "Okay. You have to do my laundry for the rest of the semester and the next school year.”

Logan doesn't even blink. His jaw sets, and he nods with absolute dedication. "Done. I'll pick it up every Monday."

The seriousness on his face pulls a laugh out of you before you can stop yourself, the sound echoing in the hallway. "I'm kidding, dude! Oh my gosh, your face."

A massive, relieved smile breaks across Logan's features, his own laugh mingling with yours. It’s the first time you’ve shared a real, sober laugh in months, and the warmth of it temporarily banishes the void in your chest.

As the laughter dies down, Logan steps just a bit closer, his expression turning serious again, though the panic is gone. "Look, I know we’ll probably never be exactly how we were before. I know things changed. But. . . I'm willing to try, if you'll let me."

You take a good look at him and realize that the fortress you built over the winter break has officially been breached. You swallow the lingering nerves, offering a small nod.

"Yeah," you say softly. "We can be friends again."

Friends.

The word echoes in Logan’s head. It feels like a lifeline thrown to a dying man. It isn't everything his newly realized, aching heart wants—not after what you drunkenly confessed last night—but as he looks at your relaxed shoulders and the slight smile on your face, he thinks to himself—Friends.

I can do friends.

John Logan can’t do friends.

He’s learned that the hard way over the last two months.

Honestly, he doesn’t even understand how he was able to do it before. He looks back at the last ten years and wonders how he was ever blind enough to categorize what he felt for you as just a friendship. Especially considering how casually touchy the two of you used to be when you were closer. It had been second nature for you to be leaning your entire weight against his side on the couch, or mindlessly picking at a stray thread on his shirt, or tangling your fingers in his hair while you talked about your classes.

He had taken every single touch for granted. Now, he’d do absolutely anything just to have a fraction of that effortless closeness back.

But he has your friendship again, and he forces himself to remember that a thin slice of you is a million times better than nothing at all.

So, he sucks it up. He swallows the bitter lump in his throat when you ask Tucker or Beau to help you hold your heavy research bag, knowing damn well he used to be your automatic go-to for things like that. He forces a tight smile when you ask Allie or Hannah to go on a late-night walk with you, sitting on the porch and watching you walk away, aware of the fact that he’s the one being replaced.

And he especially sucks it up when he sees you laughing with another guy at a party. Logan will stand across the room, gripping his red plastic cup so tight his knuckles turn white, pretending he isn't completely sizing the guy up from a distance. He’ll stare at the stranger, a dark, possessive pettiness roaring in his chest as he wonders if the guy even knows your middle name or what your favorite flavor of chips is.

But then, there are the fleeting moments that make the torture entirely worth it.

Like when you’re standing in the entryway of the boys’ house, losing your balance for a split second, and you mindlessly drop your hand onto his firm shoulder to steady yourself while you adjust the heel strap of your shoe. Or when he makes one of his classic yet stupid jokes and without thinking, you roll your eyes, press your bare palm directly against his face, and tell him to shut up—just like old times. In those brief, beautiful seconds, the warmth of your skin completely blinds him, making him forget the crushing reality that he’ll never actually have you in the way he truly wants.

What you don't know is that Logan fixed your broken friendship bracelet.

He did it the very night after you agreed to rekindle things at Beau's summer house. He’d arrived at the house, gathered the ruined heap of strings from his dresser, and spent hours knotting them back together. It took him a long time, and he had to constantly switch through a multitude of YouTube tutorials, but it was worth it.

He’ll never tell you about it; he’s too terrified of what your reaction would be, afraid you'll think he's crossing a line. But every single night before he goes to sleep, he pulls that restored bracelet out and looks at it, reminding himself of the new beginning he’s been granted.

Maybe you really did love him at some point. Maybe you loved him in the exact same consuming, terrifying way he loves you now, your filterless words from St. Patrick’s Day echoing in his mind like a beautiful haunting.

But as he watches you navigate your life with a bright, independent glow, it’s brutally clear to him that you’ve passed that chapter. You don't look at him with longing anymore. You don't feel that way about him.

John Logan missed his window, and he’s just going to have to find a way to live with the view.

It’s ironic that the next time the two of you are truly alone again is in a kitchen. Only this time, it’s his, not Beau’s. And you’re not downstairs, stumbling around and reeling from a muddled, drunken nap. You are wide awake, the house is relatively dark, save for the moonlight peeking through the windows, and you are currently remembering that Tucker always keeps a tub of cookies n' cream ice cream from your favorite brand tucked away in the back of the freezer. He used to pretend to get mad whenever you’d eat his stash, but lately, you have a strong suspicion he buys it solely for you.

Malone’s had hosted a karaoke night, and Hannah had placed her dorm keys into Allie’s purse—which Allie had unfortunately forgotten at the bar. You hadn't seen the point in making everyone take a massive detour to campus just to drop you off alone, so you’d decided it would be perfectly fine to sleep on the boys’ couch. Garrett had continuously asked if you were sure about it, over and over, until you finally told him that if he asked one more time, you’d shove a car tire down his throat. He’d complied instantly.

Which takes you to now. It's one in the morning, and you're awake because the living room is freezing, but you didn't want to wake anyone up just to beg for a blanket. Eating ice cream when you’re already shivering isn’t exactly the brightest choice, but it’s easily the tastiest.

You are sharply reminded of just how cold the house is when you hop up to sit on the kitchen counter, your bare thighs making direct contact with the freezing tile. You’d been lent an oversized spare t-shirt to sleep in, but your brown ruffled shorts were surprisingly comfortable, so you’d decided to keep them on.

A floorboard creaks on the staircase, making you pause. Seconds later, John Logan enters the kitchen.

He stops, surprised to see you sitting there in the dark with a spoon in your hand. But funny enough, there is no awkwardness this time. The thick, suffocating tension that used to define your interactions has completely melted away over the last few weeks—even if things still aren't exactly back to old times.

Logan rubs a hand over his face, his voice groggy. "What are you doing still up?"

"Making myself significantly colder by eating ice cream," you reply easily, lifting your spoon. "I couldn't sleep because I'm freezing."

Logan frowns slightly, leaning against the counter a few feet away. "Why didn’t you wake one of us up and ask for a blanket?"

"I was going to," you admit, digging the spoon back into the tub. "But it was late, and I swear I could hear the cookies n' cream in the freezer literally begging to be eaten."

He laughs, the sound warming the kitchen. You remember, suddenly, that he loves this exact flavor just as much as you do.

You’re sitting right above the drawer where the utensils are kept. Leaning down slightly, you pull the drawer open, grab a clean spoon, and hold it out toward him. It’s an offering. An olive branch, if you will.

Logan stares at the spoon in your hand for a full minute, blinking before he slowly reaches out and takes it. You hold the tub of ice cream out between you. He steps in closer, scooping a bite directly from the container, and mindlessly cleans off the spoon with his lips.

As he does, you realize just how close he’s standing. For some reason, watching the slow, casual movement of his jaw makes a traitorous heat bloom, starting from your neck and spreading to your face. He’s standing right between your parted knees as you sit on the counter, close enough that his body heat is radiating against your cold skin, completely overriding the chill of the room. You internally hate yourself for the way your pulse immediately kicks up.

To make matters worse, he tilts the tub back toward you so you can take another bite.

Because you’re elevated on the counter, Logan is forced to look slightly up at you, his glimmering eyes wide and dark in the shadows. He shifts his weight, and his other hand—completely absentmindedly, just out of old, deep-seated habit—rests lightly against the edge of the counter, his knuckles slightly brushing against the bare skin of your thigh.

You don’t think he’s thinking much of it. To him, it’s probably just the casual, comfortable contact that used to be the norm between you two. But to you, it is absolutely terrible. You had managed to successfully drown out all of those impulsive, agonizingly loving thoughts for months, burying them deep beneath your anger. But they only ever seem to come roaring back to life during quiet, hyper-intimate moments just like this.

And that is exactly why you spent the last few weeks avoiding being alone with him like this.

You pray he can’t hear the way your heart is slamming against your ribs. Desperate to break the suffocating spell of his proximity, you hop off the counter, your bare feet hitting the cold floorboards with a soft thud.

"We should go get that blanket," you say, your voice sounding a little too quick, a little too breathless.

Logan studies your face for a lingering moment, his doe eyes searching yours before he gives a quiet nod. "Yeah. It's upstairs in my room."

You follow him up the stairs, the quiet of the house wrapping around you. But when you step into his bedroom, Logan stops by his closet, a sheepish look crossing his face as he remembers. "Ah, actually, I forgot. I threw it in the wash earlier. It’s probably still in the dryer downstairs." He offers an apologetic grimace. "Sorry."

"It's fine," you say, leaning against his doorframe. "At least it'll be fresh out of the heat."

He lets out a soft laugh. "Wait in here, I'll go grab it."

Once his footsteps fade down the hallway, you step fully into his room. It hits you all at once that you haven't been in this space in months. It looks the same—the rumpled sheets, the hockey gear tucked into the corner—but it feels entirely different.

Your eyes drift over to his desk, and you freeze.

Resting right on top of a stack of textbooks is a colorful weave of embroidery string. Your breath hitches. You know it’s not the one Logan wears, because you just saw his on his wrist seconds ago. You take a step closer, your fingers trembling slightly as you reach out and pick it up.

It’s fixed. Every single thread that had snapped apart on the night of your presentation has been carefully knotted back together. You had assumed it was thrown in the garbage. He never brought it up, never mentioned keeping it.

You lean back against the edge of his desk, staring down at the neat knots, completely lost in thought.

The door clicks, and you jump slightly as Logan returns, a warm, fluffy blanket cradled in his arms. He has an easy, happy smile on his face—one that drops instantly the second his eyes land on what is dangling from your fingertips.

“You still have it,” you observe quietly.

Logan’s movements turn hesitant. He walks toward you like he's stepping onto thin ice, gently dropping the warm blanket onto the edge of his unmade bed. Over the last few weeks, you’ve gotten so good at masking your emotions that he genuinely can’t read you right now. The unreadable expression is making him visibly nervous.

"I'm sorry," he says, his voice dropping. "I didn't realize I left that out."

You ignore his apology, your eyes still locked on the tightly woven strings. "When did you fix it?"

"The day we rekindled things," he confesses softly.

Your chest tightens. "Why did you never show it to me?"

"I didn't think you’d want to see it." Logan swallows hard. "I didn't want to push you."

"Why did you fix it, Logan?"

There is a sudden, fragile falter in your voice—one you didn't even realize was coming until the words left your mouth.

Logan stares at you, completely at a loss. He doesn't know how to answer that honestly without entirely blowing his cover and confessing that he is desperately, entirely in love with you. So, he falls back on the safest truth he has. "Because it was important to me. You're important to me."

Silence stretches over the bedroom. You quickly avert your gaze, looking down at the floor, and Logan’s stomach drops through the floorboards. He thinks he’s done it. He thinks he’s finally fucked up for the last time. All those weeks of careful groveling, of trying to respect your boundaries, and he ruined it because he was an idiot who forgot to hide a fucking bracelet.

But then, a soft, ragged sniffle breaks the silence.

"Hey," Logan calls your name softly.

Instinctively, your head snaps up to meet his gaze. The moment he sees the watery sheen glossing over your eyes, any hesitation he had vanishes. He rushes across the small gap between you, his large hands immediately reaching out.

He gently takes the bracelet from your fingers, murmuring, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

Before you can blink, his thumb reaches up, tenderly wiping away the single tear you allowed to escape down your cheek. His large palm doesn't leave your face; instead, his hand settles gently against your jawline, his fingers anchoring you, prompting you to look directly into the depths of his honey eyes.

The sudden proximity sinks into you. You are completely trapped between the solid breadth of his chest and the hard edge of his desk. And looking up at him, you can tell he is thinking the exact same thing you are.

Your gaze helplessly drops to his lips. When you snap your eyes back up to his, you realize with a jolt that he had just been doing the exact same thing to you.

"Tell me to stop," Logan whispers, his breath warm against your lips, his voice raw and begging.

You want to. You know you should. You know you’re supposed to be just friends, that you’re supposed to be protecting your heart. But the logic completely dissolves, and the moment his lips finally touch yours, you don't pull away.

You kiss him back.

The kiss is slow and absolutely intoxicating. You have never felt more utterly vulnerable in your entire life. Logan lets out a low, ragged sound against your mouth, his hands sliding down to grip the back of your thighs, effortlessly lifting you up so you're sitting securely on the edge of the desk. He doesn't break the contact for a single second. His hands shift, his large palms wrapping firmly around your waist, holding onto you with a distinct desperation—like you’re a buoy in the middle of a crashing ocean and he’s a drowning man.

The familiar warmth of him fills you up, once again erasing the chill of the house. You almost entirely forget who you are, where you are, and what exactly you’re doing—until the kiss deepens, and a soft, involuntary moan of pure pleasure escapes your throat.

The sound shocks you right back to reality.

Panicking, you put your hands against his chest and break away from him immediately, sliding off the desk and backing up until your spine hits the wall. Your breathing is shallow and erratic, your lips tingling.

Logan stands there, his chest heaving, his eyes wide and completely dark with a mixture of shock and terror. "I'm sorry. I—“

"No, it's—it's fine," you stammer, your hands flying up to touch your face, your mind spinning into complete overdrive. "I just—can’t. I can’t, I’m sorry.”

Before he can even utter another word, you dart past him, tearing open the bedroom door and sprinting down the hallway, leaving him standing alone in the center of the room.

Logan closes his eyes, a frustrated huff escaping his lips as he rubs his hands over his face. He’s certain. He is absolutely, one hundred percent certain that he just blew everything. He just ruined the fragile friendship you’ve spent ages building.

Slowly, he reopens his eyes, his shoulders slumped in utter defeat as he looks over at his bed.

At least you took the blanket with you.

note: i may or may not do a part two, my motivation fluctuates! hope you enjoy because this was super sad to write.

He’s looking at her.

His arm rests along the back of the couch, the sensation of it familiar enough that you barely notice it anymore. Every few minutes, when someone says something particularly funny, his hand shifts and his fingers brush against the exposed skin of your shoulder blade. It’s casual, absent-minded contact. It means nothing to him and everything to you.

Around you, the boys’ house is lively. Tucker is arguing with Birdie about the game they’ve been at for hours on the TV. Every once in a while, someone tells them to shut up. They do that for a total of five minutes before someone inevitably raises their voice, leading the other to do the same.

You should be finishing up your story. It was a stupid tale, one about falling asleep during a lecture.

Instead, you’re watching him.

Or rather, you’re watching where he’s looking.

His gaze drifts across the room so often that you’ve begun anticipating it, finding yourself following the path before he’s even finished turning his head. It happens during conversations. During periods of silence. During moments when he’s supposed to be paying attention you.

His eyes always find the same person.

You wonder if anyone else notices.

Maybe they don’t. Maybe they haven’t spent nearly ten years studying every version of John Logan.

Ten years.

Long enough to remember the cracked sidewalks of your hometown and the suffocating certainty that neither of you belonged there. Long enough to remember sitting on the roof of his garage at thirteen years old, passing back and forth what was always bag of Hot Cheetos while making promises far too big for kids your age.

You had been determined to leave.

And somehow, against every odd stacked against two middle-schoolers with seemingly unattainable dreams and no real plan, you did.

You earned your place through a STEM scholarship that had consumed countless nights and enough caffeine to raise alerts towards your cardiovascular system. He earned his through hockey, through early mornings and bruises and a relentless dedication that you supported him all throughout.

Different roads, same destination.

For nearly a decade, the two of you had existed side by side.

And for six of those years, you’ve loved him.

You weren’t sure when you realized it, but once you did, it felt as though things finally clicked into place. There had always been that speculation from others that you two were something beyond a mere friendship—but there was no weight to it. Not while it wasn’t true, anyway.

You thought it may have been the puberty. John was no longer a scrawny kid who you hovered over. He’d grown into himself as the years passed—taller, stronger, more confident. It was a simple crush that came as a result of change, you told yourself.

But you had began to think it was more than that, that it always had been. Once the feeling arrived, it made no effort to fade—settling into the empty spaces between inside jokes and late-night phone calls, between shared victories and devastating failures. It lodged itself so deeply within your bond that you stopped looking for where friendship ended and something else began.

Maybe that was your mistake.

Across the room, Hannah laughs.

The sound is soft enough that most people would miss it beneath the chatter, but John hears it.

Of course he does.

Hannah Wells has a way of drawing attention effortlessly. Her smile comes easily, brightening her entire face like a Christmas tree. Honey-brown hair spills over one shoulder as she speaks. Her deep cerulean eyes crinkle when she laughs. Hearing her sing for the first time made it no better.

And she is so kind.

She remembers your birthday, she asks you questions on a subject you think had long been over. She makes you feel seen.

It’s impossible to blame him for looking.

The problem is that lately, he hasn’t seemed capable of looking anywhere else.

His fingers brush your shoulder again, mindlessly.

Across the room, Hannah says something to Allie that you can’t quite make out.

Logan smiles.

And suddenly, despite his arm around you and his knee pressed lightly against yours and nearly ten years of friendship sitting comfortably between the two of you, you’ve never felt further away from him.

Tucker notices your shift in mood before Logan does. You like Tuck the most out of all of Logan’s friends. He’s a year below the rest of you, though you like to say he’s the most mature out of all of them. He’s observant, you learned.

He tilts his head at you, silently asking if you’re okay. You send him a half-hearted thumbs up. Something clicks for him and he accepts your answer, redirecting his attention to the game.

You think Tucker knows about your crush on John. A part of you hopes he doesn’t, but another part of you knows that he does.

At some point, Logan notices you’ve stopped talking. By the time he has, you’re fiddling with your bracelet. He frowns, glancing at his own matching one on his left wrist. You were both surprised they had never broken. Logan enjoyed referring to it as a testament to your long-standing friendship. The blue and purple embroidery of both your bracelets have become a halo of fuzz, but they remain intact nonetheless.

Logan glances back at you, studying you once again—knit eyebrows, lip tucked between your teeth. You’re upset.

“What’s wrong?”

You meet his doe eyed gaze and hate yourself for thinking about drowning in them. He knows you as well as you know him. So much so that you can’t lie and pretend you’re okay. He’s read you and he’s decided that you’re not.

So you do the next best thing.

“It’s just stuffy in here,” you reply passively, maintaining a poker face when you push off the couch and his fingertips leave your shoulder blades. “I’m gonna get some air.”

The cool evening air hits you the second the front door clicks shut, but it does nothing to clear the sudden suffocating weight in your chest. You walk over to the edge of the porch, gripping the wooden railing just to have something solid to hold onto.

Behind you, the front door opens and shuts. Familiar footsteps thud against the wood. You don’t need to turn around to know it’s him, you’d know the specific cadence of his stride anywhere.

"Hey," Logan says softly, stepping up beside you, jacket in his hand. He leans his forearms against the railing, his large frame blocking out the slight breeze. "You left your jacket inside. It’s freezing out here."

You make no effort to retrieve the coat from his grasp. You don’t look even at him. Instead, your eyes fixate on a tiny, industrious spider crawling across the top of a plastic patio chair a few feet away. It is small, frantic, and entirely unaware of the shifting plates of your universe, completely consumed by the monumental task of weaving a web between two cheap slats of faux-wicker. You envy it. You want to be anything else—a spider, a piece of dust, a thread on your frayed bracelet—anything but the girl standing under the porch light, slowly unraveling.

"I'm fine," you tell him, the words slipping out easily, rehearsed from a decade of practice.

"You're not fine," he insists softly. It’s not an accusation. It’s a statement of fact.

"I am fine," you repeat, but your voice is uneven.

You always are, somehow. It’s a reflex by now. Burn the midnight oil until your vision blurs, crash through exams on three hours of sleep, watch the boy you’ve loved for six years slip through your fingers like water—the answer is always the same: I’m fine.

"Don't do that," Logan mutters, turning his head to look at you. His eyes are swimming with an earnest yet frustrating concern that always makes you want to spill your guts. "We don't do that. Talk to me. Did someone say something inside? Did I do something?"

You let out a breath that cuts like a laugh, though there’s no humor in it. You look out at the dark front yard, at the dead leaves scattering across the pavement.

You finally turn your head to look at him. You note the exact way the yellow porch light catches the bridge of his nose, the slight shadow of stubble along his jawline. You know every iteration of this face. You know the childhood version, the teenage version, and this current, devastatingly handsome collegiate version.

And yet, looking at him right now, he feels like a stranger wearing your best friend's skin.

"That's just it, Logan. You haven't done anything." Your voice drops, stripped of its usual warmth. "You haven't been doing anything. Not with me, anyway."

He blinks, a small, defensive crease forming between his eyebrows. "I don’t understand.”

“I know you don’t,” you murmur.

“Then explain it to me.”

"It means you’re pulling away," you say directly, the words tasting like copper in your mouth, but you force them out anyway. You don't mention Hannah. You don't have to bring up the way his eyes track her, or the way his laugh sounds higher when she’s in the room. This isn't about her. This is about him. This is about the space where your best friend used to be. "You’re always somewhere else. I talk to you, and it’s like I’m throwing words into an empty room. You look right through me lately. You’re right here, and it feels like there’s a thousand miles between us."

Logan stiffens. For a second, his mouth opens to deny it, the knee-jerk reaction of a guy who prides himself on being loyal. But as he looks at you—at the tight line of your jaw, at the way you're holding onto your own arm like you’re trying to keep yourself from falling apart—you can see the fight slowly leave him.

The silence stretches, punctuated only by the joyous yells of your friends inside.

"I didn't. . .” Logan starts, his voice dropping an octave. He rubs a hand over the back of his neck, looking down at his shoes. "I didn't realize I was making you feel like that. I swear to God, I didn't."

"Well, you are." Your voice trembles just a fraction, and you hate yourself for it, pulling your shoulders back to overcompensate. "I know that friends drift. But I don’t wanna be background noise in your life.”

Logan steps closer, closing the small physical gap between you. He reaches out, his large hand wrapping around your forearm—right over the frayed threads of your bracelet. You pray he doesn’t notice the hitching of your breath.

"You're not background noise," he says sincerely, his desperate eyes searching yours. "You could never be. I'm sorry. Seriously. I've had. . . I’ve just had a lot on my mind lately, and I’ve been distracted. I’ve been a shitty best friend, and there’s no excuse for it. I’m so sorry."

You look at his hand on your arm. You look at the genuine regret pulling at the corners of his eyes. He doesn't know that the distraction is killing you for an entirely different reason. He just knows he hurt his person, and he wants to fix it.

You swallow the ache in your throat, nodding slowly. You let the anger go, because holding onto it hurts worse than forgiving him does.

"It’s okay," you assure him. "Just don’t forget about me, dork.”

"Never," he promises, squeezing your arm before letting go. A small, relieved smile tugs at his lips, the tension leaving his shoulders. He makes no effort to back away from you. It’s all the more suffocating. "I promise. Hey, you still have that big winter showcase coming up in two weeks, right? For your department?"

"Yeah," you say, a genuine spark of nervousness lighting up your stomach. "It’s the Friday after this upcoming one."

"I'll be there," Logan says instantly, his voice full of the certainty that usually makes you feel safe. "Front row. I'll even wear a stupid button-down shirt so your professors think I'm respectable. Deal?"

You look at him, wanting so badly to trust the boy who used to share bags of Hot Cheetos on a garage roof.

"Deal," you agree.

The fluorescent lights of the auditorium are blinding. It is 5:30PM. The STEM showcase had officially kicked off at five, the culmination of sleepless semesters, data sheets that blurred into meaningless code by three in the morning, and enough stress to permanently alter your brain chemistry.

Your phone sits completely dark and powered down in the bottom of your tote bag. You hadn't sent Logan a reminder text today. You hadn’t wanted to seem needy, and besides, you figured he’d remember.

He knew what this meant to you. He’d been the one to hold you on the floor of your bedroom a week ago ago when the overthinking caught up to you, his large hands rubbing slow circles into your back while you sobbed into his chest, terrified that it wouldn’t be enough. He’d promised then, just like he’d promised on the porch, that he’d be here.

Last night, you had even swung by the hockey house, your presentation slides printed out and shaking in your hands, just looking for a final bit of reassurance to quiet the jitters. But Logan wasn't there. He’d been at Malone’s, helping Hannah setup tables and banners for the upcoming weekend showcase she offered to host for music majors.

It was fine, you told yourself. It really was. He was trying to be better, and you could see the effort. The crush was still a persistent ache in your ribs, but he hadn't let it bleed into your friendship the way he had before. You understood what it was like to be at someone’s beck and call—hell, you’d been at his for six years. You couldn't blame him for falling under Hannah’s gravitational pull.

Logan hadn't been there last night, but Tucker had.

Tucker had stopped chopping vegetables, wiped his hands on a dish towel, and sat you down at the kitchen island. He listened to you stumble through your abstract, giving you a supportive nod when you finished. When you told Tucker he didn't have to worry about coming tomorrow since it was so last minute and Logan would be there anyway, Tucker had just given you an easy smile.

“Then you’ll have two of us cheering you on," he’d promised.

Now, standing by your trifold and your laptop, the nerves are a sickening weight in your stomach. You’ve just finished presenting to the final round of judges. Your mouth is dry, your throat tight, but you’d gotten through it just fine.

Tucker had slipped into the back of the room right before your time slot, his broad shoulders cutting a reassuring silhouette against the crowded aisle. Seeing his familiar face had kept your knees from buckling.

But Logan’s seat in the front row—the one he’d promised to occupy in a stupid button-down shirt—remained completely empty.

It hurts. A sharp, localized sting right beneath your breastbone. You hadn't told anyone else in your life about the showcase because public speaking made you feel entirely naked, meaning Logan and Tucker were your only safety nets.

Everyone else would most likely be at Malone’s. You didn’t want them to choose between you and Hannah, because you knew they’d try to compromise, complicating things. You didn’t want a whole crowd, you were okay with just one person being there.

But you swallow the lump in your throat and smooth down the fabric of your slacks. It’s fine. Logan probably just got caught in campus traffic, or he had a handyman gig that kept him late. He missed the actual presentation, yeah, but there’s still time. The showcase goes until eight.

As long as he shows up before the winners are announced, it’ll be fine. He’ll still be there to celebrate with you. He has to be.

Two hours later, the auditorium is a blur of echoing applause and bright flashing cameras.

When the department head speaks your name into the microphone, announcing you as the first-place recipient of the showcase, the room erupts. Your peers are cheering, clapping you on the back as you walk up the stage, but the sound feels like it’s happening underwater.

Even the heavy glass they hang around your neck and the oversized novelty check—grant money that will entirely fund your next semester of research—do nothing to lift the leaden weight in your chest.

Tucker maneuvers through the crowd as soon as you’ve left the stage, a massive, proud smile lighting up his face as he pulls you into a bone-crushing hug. He hoists you slightly off your feet, laughing, telling you he always knew you had it in the bag.

But when he pulls back, his smile falters. He looks at your eyes, watery and strained, and the pride in his expression softens into a deep concern. He knows. He can tell exactly how badly you're hurting.

But even now, with a first-place medal heavy against your sternum, you find yourself building a fortress of excuses for John Logan.

You give him the benefit of the doubt, because the alternative is unendurable. He’d never do this intentionally. Not after last week. Not to you. Something had to have happened. A family emergency with his mom. Something with Jules. Maybe he’d taken a brutal hit at practice and was sitting in the training room with a concussion, his phone locked away. He had to be hurt. He had to be incapacitated.

"Let's get you out of here," Tucker says softly, his hand settling on the small of your back, shielding you from the lingering crowds as you pack up your laptop. "I can walk you back to your dorm."

"Actually," you say, your voice tight as you zip your tote bag, "can you take me back to the house? Honestly, after the day I’ve had, I’m dying for a home-cooked Tucker special. I need some real comfort food."

You try to make it sound like a casual request, but Tucker’s hand goes entirely still against your back. He doesn't laugh it off. Instead, an uncomfortable hesitation washes over his features. He looks away, his jaw tightening as he stares out at the emptying auditorium.

In that single beat of silence, a cold and sickening realization dawns on you.

Perhaps Logan isn't sick. Perhaps he isn't hurt. He isn't in a hospital or dealing with a family crisis. Tucker knows exactly where he is.

He forgot.

The thought devastates you, a physical blow that leaves you in theoretical agony, but right on the heels of the sadness comes a sharp, blistering wave of fury. You’re a winner. You just secured your future for the next semester. This should be one of the greatest nights of your life, and yet Logan has latched himself so deeply into the fabric of your existence that he can still ruin it without even being in the room. You hate yourself for letting him have that much power over you.

"You sure you want to go to the house right now?" Tucker asks, his voice uncharacteristically quiet, laced with a warning he isn't entirely voicing.

You stop, staring at him. Your chest heaves. "Why? Is he there?"

Tucker looks at you, his brown eyes full of a grim, reluctant pity. He stays silent. He doesn't say a word, but his silence tells you everything you need to know. He's there. He's perfectly fine, at the hockey house while you were standing on a stage alone.

A hot, dangerous spark ignites in your blood.

"Take me there," you say, your voice dropping all the compliance, hard as flint. He begins to say your name, but you don’t allow him to. "Tucker. Take me to the house."

The ride to the hockey house is quick, though you believe that’s a product of the heavy thrum of your own pulse. Tuck keeps one hand on the steering wheel, your grim mood proving itself to be contagious.

Every few minutes, his voice breaks through the quiet of the truck, telling you to take a breath, telling you to try to calm down. But you can hear the sharp undercurrent of his own anger fueling the engine. He’s pissed on your behalf, but you don't have the capacity to appreciate it right now. You just stare straight ahead.

When the truck comes to a stop in the driveway, you don't wait for Tucker to kill the ignition. You throw the door open and march up the steps, completely ignoring him as he calls your name.

You push the door open, not so much that it was disruptive, but it was noticeable nonetheless.

The warmth of the house hits you first, along with the loud, easy cacophony of a Friday night wind-down. The TV is on, and everyone is scattered across the living room. Allie, Garrett, Dean, and Hannah.

And Logan.

The sheer normalcy of the scene feels like a slap to the face. You stand in the entryway, the first-place medal swinging slightly against your chest, dressed in the gray slacks and blouse you’d picked out so carefully. For a fraction of a second, looking at their relaxed posture and happy faces, you feel entirely microscopic. Like an ant on the back of someone’s boot, completely insignificant to the world revolving around them.

Then, the room goes quiet.

Dean is the first one to look up from the couch. His eyes take in your sharp posture, the formal attire, and finally, the heavy piece hung around your neck catching the ambient light. A grin breaks across his face, completely ignorant of the storm cloud rolling off your shoulders.

"Look at that," Dean announces, raising his cup in a mock toast. "The prodigal daughter returns!"

He’s trying to be supportive. Under any other circumstance, you’d smile, you’d thank him through narrowed eyes. You know he doesn't know. He has no idea what Logan promised, or what it cost you to stand on that stage alone.

But you don't look at Dean. You don't look at Garrett or Allie or Hannah.

Your eyes lock onto Logan.

He’s sitting on the edge of the cushions, and the exact moment your gaze finds his, the color drains completely from his face. It’s like watching a man realize he’s stepped off a cliff. His eyes drop to the medal on your chest, then snap back up to your face, wide and absolutely crushed. The realization of what he’s done hits him in a ton of bricks.

Usually, that look on his face would undo you. Usually, seeing John Logan look that miserable would trigger every protective instinct you’ve harbored for him, making you want to soften the blow, to tell him it’s fine, to smooth it over.

But tonight, you feel absolutely nothing.

The reservoir of sympathy has completely dried up, replaced by a fury that has been bubbling beneath the surface for months.

He hadn't just missed a presentation. He had broken a promise. He had lied to your face on the porch, sworn he was back, and then willfully chose to be somewhere else.

You stare at him, the silence in the room turning suffocatingly loud as the others finally catch onto the tension, and the only thought roaring through your mind is how completely invisible you’ve been to him.

That look of shame is enough gratification for you. If he can feel only a fraction of the pain you’d allowed yourself to endure these past few years, that was good for you. You couldn’t stand staring into the eyes of the man you once thought you knew anymore.

You turn your heel against the floorboards, every instinct screaming at you to walk out that door, to erase John Logan from your life, and to leave him standing in the wreckage of a ten-year friendship.

"Wait," his voice cracks through the silence of the room as he calls your name. "Please wait. I’m sorry. Just—please, just wait!”

You halt entirely. Your flats glue themselves to the floor, the medallion thudding against your chest like a pendulum swinging into a dead stop.

Sorry?

The word tastes rancid just hearing it bounce off the walls of the hockey house. You hadn't known what you wanted him to say when you walked through that door.

You hadn't known if there was a combination of vowels and consonants in the English language that could possibly fix this. But hearing his apology serves as nothing other than gasoline thrown directly onto a grease fire.

Slowly, you turn back around.

Your friends look horrified. You almost feel bad that they’re forced to witness this. You almost want to turn around and leave, leaving this argument for when you’re less heated, less hurt.

But you can’t. He needs to hear you. If not last week or the week before that, now.

Logan takes a step toward you, his hands raised slightly as if approaching a wild animal. "I lost track of time. The showcase at Malone’s—"

"Shut up," you say quietly.

The words aren't screamed. They are quiet, sharp, and dripping with an edge that makes Logan freeze in his tracks.

"Just. . . shut the hell up, Logan." You take a step forward, your shoes clicking against the hardwood. "Don't you dare use that as an excuse for being a pathetic, spineless coward."

He glances at the group that has gone dead silent. You don’t know if what he says next is for your sake or his, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

“Let’s go outside,” he offers, his tone resembling something of a plea. “We can—“

“No!” you spat harshly. “You’re gonna listen to me.”

You’d never spoken to him this way. Not in such a venomous tone, stripped from all warmth. For once, Logan does exactly what you’ve asked of him—to listen. His lips part but no words escape them.

"You sat on the porch two weeks ago," you continue, your voice rising now, the heat finally breaking through the ice. "You held my arm, and you looked me in the eyes and promised me you’d change. Do you have any idea what today was?"

Logan swallows hard, his brown hues welling with a desperate, pathetic panic. "It was the department showcase."

"It was the biggest night of my academic career!" you explode, the anger tearing out of your throat. "I have spent months working on this! I broke down sobbing over this because of how tired I was, and you were the one who held me! You knew exactly how terrified I was. You knew I didn't invite anyone else! What would’ve happened if Tuck wasn’t there?"

You gesture wildly to the medal around your neck.

"I stood on that stage alone, John. I scanned that auditorium for two hours, giving you the benefit of the doubt. I thought something had happened. I thought you were lying in a ditch somewhere or bleeding out in a hospital, because that is the only reason the John Logan I grew up with would ever miss this!"

A tear escapes his eye, rolling down his tanned cheek. "I messed up. Fuck, I know I messed up. Let me make it up to you, please—"

"You didn't mess up, you chose!" you hiss, stepping right into his space, forcing him to look down at the fury burning in your eyes. "You’ve made it perfectly clear where I rank on your list of priorities."

"I am wearing a first-place medal," you continue, your voice trembling with a devastating mix of triumph and agony. "I just won enough grant money to pay for my entire next semester of research. This should be the happiest night of my life. But all I can think about is how my best friend couldn’t show up when I needed him.”

"Please," Logan chokes out, reaching a trembling hand toward your shoulder, his fingers twitching to make that familiar, absent-minded contact. "Just—“

You snap your shoulder back, avoiding his touch as if his hand were coated in acid.

But as you jerk away, the zipper of his jacket catches on the frayed, fuzzy threads of your embroidered bracelet. There is a sudden rip. The threads give out all at once, unraveling in a split second as the broken token of your childhood slips from your wrist and flutters uselessly to the floor.

Logan freezes, his eyes dropping to the colorful, ruined heap of strings resting on the hardwood between you two.

It’s symbolic, you think.

"Don't touch me," you say, your voice dropping into a flat, dead register. You stare at him, washing away every ounce of the six years of love, every ounce of the ten years of friendship, until there is absolutely nothing left between you but a void.

"Don't talk to me. Not now. Not tomorrow. Not ever. You’re dead to me, John."

You turn on your heel and march straight out the front door into the freezing night air.

Logan doesn’t even think before stepping forward to follow after you, but Tucker shuts the door, preventing him from doing so.

He doesn't yell. Instead, he steps into Logan’s space, grabs a fistful of his shirt right at the collar, and shoves him backward into the hallway leading toward the bedrooms. Logan doesn't even try to fight it—he stumbles back, his eyes wide and vacant, completely numb from the fallout.

Tucker slams the door of his room shut, but he doesn't bother locking it. He doesn't need to.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Tucker demands, his voice a growl that vibrates through the walls. He isn’t screaming, but he’s not exactly whispering. “Because right now, I’m having a hard time recognizing one of my best friends.”

“Tuck, I didn’t mean for any of this to happen—”

“You made her a promise, man!” Tucker cuts in sharply. “You told her you’d be there. You looked her dead in the eye and gave her your word. Do you have any idea what today was like for her?”

“I lost track of time. Hannah—”

“Don’t do that,” Tucker says, his eyes narrowing. “Don’t make this about Hannah. This is about you. You screwed up. You’ve been taking that girl for granted for long enough, and she’s been in your corner through every stupid decision you’ve made. Last night, I was the one sitting with her while she practiced that presentation because you were too busy being handyman.”

“She stood on that stage tonight. Every time those judges walked up to her, she checked those doors. Every damn time. She thought something happened to you, because that’s the only reason she could come up with for why you’d break your word to her. And the whole time, you’re moving tables at Malone’s? That’s your excuse?”

“I know I messed up,” Logan chokes out. “I know. I’ll fix it. I’ll talk to her—”

“No, you won’t,” Tucker says immediately. “Not today. Not anytime soon.”

He takes a step back, folding his arms across his chest.

“She told you to stay away. So for once, stop thinking about what you want and listen to what she asked for. You made this mess. If you actually want a shot at fixing it, give her some space and hope she decides you’re worth talking to when she’s ready.”

“Tuck—”

“I’m serious, Logan. Leave her alone. The last thing she needs right now is you showing up trying to make yourself feel better.“

So when your already balding tire pops in the middle of a country road, half a mile from the nearest military outpost and nearly three miles to the station, the only logical solution is to abandon your car and start walking.

You might not understand the extent of why the military has taken over Hawkins, but you’re not stupid enough to trust their good intentions.

 The sun beats down on your neck as you trudge through overgrown grass, annoyed and muttering and hitching your purse up higher on your shoulder, cursing everything that you can think of for this being your luck.

(After all, you’d only moved to Hawkins to attend the Ivy Tech campus since it was the closest one to your hometown. And now you’re stuck in a god damn lock down.)

It’s ridiculous, honestly. You’d just wanted cheap college credits before moving onto IUPUI or Ball State, knowing full well that you couldn’t afford rent in Bloomington or Lafayette. And now you’re stuck here with the rest of the town, roughing it with everyone else too stupid to not evacuate when you were given the chance. 

Which makes it all the more annoying when an overly familiar maroon sedan pulls up next to you, rolls a window down, and out comes Steve Harrington’s voice: “Is there a reason you’re taking a hike through town?”

As if your day couldn’t get any worse.

“I thought the exercise in the dead of winter would do me some good,” you say, continuing to plant one foot in front of another. The Beamer crawls alongside you. “Perfect weather for it, don’t you think?”

Your name slips from his lips flatly. “Are you serious?”

“Jesus, Steve, are you always this dense?” you snap. “No, clearly not. My car broke down a mile back and I didn’t feel like being harassed by some military goons to get some help.”

“What’s wrong with your car?”

You whip around to stare at him. “What?”

The BMW comes to a halt, and he gives you an unimpressed look. “Your car. What’s wrong with it?”

“Tire burst,” you say, “Why do you care?”

Steve frowns but doesn’t answer your question, only saying, “Get in.”

“What?”

“Are you always this dense?” he shoots back. “Get in the car, sweetheart, before we’re both late.”

The endearment does something funny to your chest, though you studiously ignore it, choosing to scowl instead.

It’s been a few weeks since your… entanglement with him in the closet, and since then things have been weird. As in: He’s been calling you sweetheart and honey and baby whenever Robin wasn’t listening. As in: The two of you have made out in the closet several times since. As in: Things have somehow turned more hostile than ever before, yet you’re left with the feeling that you got caught inside the world’s angriest version of foreplay.

(As in: You like the fact you’re caught inside the world’s angriest version of foreplay.)

(Not that you would admit this to anyone, much less Steve.)

“I think I’m fine walking,” you airily say, sticking your nose in the air and turning away. 

“Are you serious?” Steve asks, exasperated. “Seriously, just get in the damn car.”

You sniff imperiously. “Make me.”

You barely make it three steps before you hear the parking brake yanked up and the driver’s side door getting thrown open. Two more steps and one large hand grasps your forearm, spinning you around and forcing you to look at the barely restrained fury in his eyes. 

“Why can you not just listen for once?” he demands. 

“Why do you have to be such an asshole all the time?” you retort. “I can do whatever the hell I want, Steve, and—”

But he has no interest in listening to whatever it is you’re about to say, not when he splays a palm across your back and forcibly turns you around, pushing you towards the idling vehicle with the urgency only a man standing in ten degree weather without a coat could have.

(You pretend the warmth of his hand between all the layers you’re wearing doesn’t make you shiver, and you know he’s pretending not to notice how affected you are by just how easy it is for him to maneuver your body.)

“So fucking stubborn,” he mutters, clearly not caring that you can hear him loud and clear as he yanks open the passenger door. And despite how he’s manhandled you to where he wants you, he’s gentle when he helps you into the seat, his calloused palm holding onto your hand for balance as you get settled. 

Seconds later, he’s sliding back behind the wheel and shifting into second, peeling away.

You sink down into the leather, crossing your arms and looking out the window, refusing to acknowledge the fact that Steve sets the station to your favorite music.

The two of you go all of five minutes, passing nothing but trees and empty fields, before he finally bursts out, “You could at least say ‘thank you.’”

“For what?” you ask. “Kidnapping me off the side of the road?”

“I didn’t—” he starts before snapping his mouth shut with an audible click. “It’s not safe to be wandering around the middle of nowhere. You don’t know the shit that’s out there, and—”

“Steve.” His name comes out sharper than intended. “It’s not like I could drive to the station without a tire. What option did I have?” 

A muscle in his jaw twitches and several tense seconds pass before he reaches into the backseat, blindly reaching for something and dropping it into your lap.

You glance down, baffled to find a walkie talkie.

“What’s this for?”

“Uh, to contact me if there’s an emergency,” Steve says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

(It’s not.)

“Keep it on channel nine,” he continues. “And, like, I’m serious. Your car breaks down, you’re going to be late to work, there’s some weird guy at your apartment — just radio.”

A few beats of silence pass, Steve’s cheeks reddening as you gawk at him, before you finally burst out, “You know I can take care of myself, right?”

“Jesus fucking — yes! I do know!” He turns away from the road long enough to glare at you. “Trust me, sweetheart, I’ve never once doubted your ability to do that. My point is — if you need something, just call.”

You bite your tongue, refusing to answer.

“Do you understand?” he asks.

You cross your arms petulantly, staring out the window.

But Steve’s always been one to push your buttons, and in the next moment, the car comes to a screeching halt, your chin is in his hand, and he turns your face until you’re looking him dead in the eye.

Your breath hitches.

His gaze drops down to your lips, obviously and clearly, before sliding back up to meet your eyes. “I said…” he begins quietly, threateningly, and you feel dizzy with arousal. “Do you understand?”

“Fuck you,” you say, less steady than you’d like.

His eyes narrow and his thumb presses a little harder into your chin. “Sweetheart,” he says. “I asked you a question.”

His thumb slips up your chin, pushing its way past your lips until he’s pressing down on your tongue, forcing your mouth open. Drool pools as he tilts your head up and down, making you nod in agreement, and he releases you with a smile.

“Good,” he says, wiping his hand on his sweater. You swallow heavily. “Glad we could come to an agreement.”

The thing about working with Steve—

Well, there are several things about working at the station with Steve. 

He has abysmal taste in music, despite the fact that Robin has — from what you’ve heard — been trying to get him to listen to something other than The J. Geils Band and whatever is on the Top 40 list. When he drinks coffee, it’s always with a splash of milk and two sugars, and the one time you made him a cup, he grimaced with every sip because you added too much milk but didn’t correct you. 

And, no matter what, he insists on you playing at least one Kate Bush song every night.

(You don’t ask.)

(He doesn’t elaborate.)

It happens after the synth in Running Up That Hill fades out, right as you’re sliding the Madonna record you want to play next into the other turntable.

The lights flicker. 

Steve sucks in a breath as you slip the headphones from your ears, looking up at the bulb overhead that continues to go in and out. You barely get a chance to turn in your seat before he’s next to you, his fingers digging painfully into your shoulder.

There’s a hiss.

The next thing you know, the bulb goes out with a loud crack, the hum of electricity cuts out, and the two of you are shrouded in darkness.

“What the hell?” you ask.

You try to stand, but Steve keeps you in place, hissing, “Quiet.”

The entire station goes dead silent, and for a moment, neither of you move.

Anxiety crawls up your spine as your heart beats loudly in your ears. Steve’s hold on your shoulder loosens marginally, enough for you to reach up and tangle your fingers with his, squeezing tightly for something. 

(For comfort or relief, you’re not sure.)

He squeezes back once before pulling away. You want to protest — you open your mouth, ready to yell at him to come back — but he only shifts over far enough to grab a flashlight off of the nearby shelf, flicking it on and illuminating the room around you once more.

He glances towards you, concern written all over his face when he asks, “You alright?”

“Yeah, just…” You frown, trying and failing to keep apprehension from building a home in your chest. “I wasn’t expecting that. Did a fuse blow or something?”

“I don’t know,” he says. There’s something conflicted on his face when he turns between you and the door to the booth, like there’s a decision he needs to make but he’s not sure what the correct choice is. Whatever that choice is though, he ends up saying, “Come with me.”

You nod and, without a second thought, reach for him once more.

His hand is warm and sure in your own as he tugs you along with him, entirely at odds with how tense his shoulders are as the two of you make your way through the station. He’s silent, too, in a way that you’ve never once associated with him; His footsteps are inaudible against the tile floor and his breathing is practically nonexistent. Your nerves are practically fraying at the seams, and you do your best to imitate his motions but he clearly has much more practice with going unnoticed than you do.

(Though going unnoticed by what—)

(You’re not quite sure.)

It’s only once he’s made three entire rounds of the station that he relaxes, pulling you to a stop in the middle of a sitting area.

“Well, that was pointless,” you say with a huff. “Seriously, Steve, what the hell are you doing? Just go find the power box and see if a fuse blew or something, and then we can—”

The phone in the office rings, and Steve jumps. Jumps. He physically pushes you behind him, the light flashing across the room. You stare at the back of his head, entirely unimpressed before shoving past him, ignoring his hurried, “Wait, wait! Jesus Christ, could you just listen—”

You snatch up the phone, saying, “This is WSQK the Squawk. How can I help you!”

“Oh!” comes Robin’s voice. “Hey, sorry, I thought Steve would pick up. You two alright? The power went down all over Hawkins, but I couldn’t tell if the outage would’ve reached you guys all the way out there.”

“Yeah, yeah, we’re fine,” you say with a backwards glance towards Steve who, by all accounts, looks ready to throttle you. You give him a sweet smile. He glowers. “Any idea on when the power will be back on?”

“Ugh, I wish,” Robin sighs. “I’m at Nance’s house right now and Mr. Wheeler’s rattling off some conspiracy theory about the military being behind it. I think he’s just mad that his nightly news got cut off. Oh — I gotta run, Mrs. Wheeler is calling us all upstairs. Give Steve my love!”

“Will do,” you wryly say. “Bye, Robin.”

Barely three seconds pass after you place the phone back on the base before Steve crosses the threshold, dropping the flashlight on the desk and gripping your face between his two palms as he backs you into the desk. There’s a dangerous lilt to his voice when he demands, “Would it kill you to listen for once in your fucking life?”

“Hm,” you say, a thrill shooting straight to your core.”To you? Probably.”

He searches your face, barely restrained rage tugging at the edges of his frame, and in the next moment, his lips crash into yours. He’s demanding as he presses you further into the wood veneer, bruising when his hands slip down to hold you by the nape of your neck, holding you still and steady to be used for his every want and desire. You gasp, thrilled, and he wastes no time pressing his tongue in, hedonistic in his desire to be in control, his need to consume you whole.

Not that you make it easy for him.

You thrash against his hold, clawing your nails down his arms, biting down on his bottom lip just hard enough to hear him moan.

But the two of you know that it’s all for show — all for your pride.

You don’t want him to stop. Not when he’s this worked up.

(You have a feeling, an instinct in the back of your head, that tells you he’d know the second you did want him to stop, even if you never spoke it, and that he’d back away immediately.)

(Somehow, this only turns you on more.)

And all at once, he pulls away, his chest heaving as he asks, “Are you going to listen now?” 

“To you?” you spit back. “Never.”

In the dim light, he’s glowing. Hair messed up, cheeks flushed, sweater crooked. All masculine bravado and pride. The look of a man who is far too used to not being listened to, and one who has decided that this is where he draws the line.

This is his breaking point, his point of no return, his final stand.

His eyes are half-lidded, heavy with molten desire as he smirks. His hands drop down, and his calloused fingers are rough against the soft skin of your waist as he dips under the hem of your shirt.

A shiver runs down your spine.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, inching closer and closer to your center, right above the zipper of your jeans.

You tilt your chin up, pressing your lips together, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response.

“Yeah,” he says with a little laugh, tone dripping with condescension. “That’s what I thought, sweetheart.”

One second you’re upright, and in the next, you’re spread along the surface of the desk, bereft of your jeans and shoes. You prop yourself up on your elbows just as he drops to his knees, spreading your legs open and pressing a kiss into the fatty flesh of your thigh.

He wastes no time in peeling your panties down, shaking his head when he finds just how wet you are. “Is this all for me, baby? Really?”

“No,” you tell him smartly, despite the evidence otherwise. “It’s for some other schmuck.”

Steve’s entirely unamused when he says, “Oh, I’m sure.”

He presses a trail of kisses up to your core, and with the voracity of a starved man, dives into your cunt with reckless abandon.

He licks a long line up the seam of your pussy, and you can feel his grin as he sucks your clit into his mouth. Pleasure shoots through your body, and you’re aware in a vague, distant way that all of the weeks since you sucked him off in the closet — a moment that you’ve repeatedly replayed in your head, when it’s late at night with your hand sliding under the hem of your pajama pants — have been leading up to this. 

Here, this moment, with his head bracketed by your thighs. All of the escalating arguments and name calling and Robin begging off having to interact with either of you, the stolen moments in the closet with his fingers gripping your skin so hard it left bruises, his teeth nipping at your neck. The tension building and building and building until you finally pushed him enough for it to boil over.

And, god, does it feel good to have him flick his tongue against your clit, to have two thick fingers slip inside your dripping pussy and curl against that spongey spot you have such a hard time reaching yourself.

Your hips jerk up, but he’s quick to pin you back down, pulling back just enough to snap, “Don’t move.”

You open your mouth, ready to argue, to push him even more, but his teeth scrape against your clit and the only thing you can do is fall back against the desk as he continues to work at you, the pleasure building and growing and pressing at every corner of your mind until—

Until it stops completely.

You look down just as Steve pulls away with a shit eating grin, his chin glistening with evidence of your arousal, and he asks, “What’s wrong, baby? Did you need something?”

Everything positive thought you’d had about him is replaced with indignant rage. “You’re such an asshole, Steve.”

“Oh, am I?” he asks. “I guess you don’t want to come then, huh?”

You freeze. “Wait, what?”

But he doesn’t answer, only slips his fingers back inside, tortuously slow as he curls them up. Lazy and controlled, his brown eyes gleaming with unbridled lust in the flashlight. 

A moan escapes you.

He keeps the pace, grinning when your hips twitch up, searching for more: More stimulation, more pleasure, more anything.

But he refuses to give it to you.

Steve utterly delights in keeping you on the edge, keeping you wanting. He applies just enough pressure to have you squirming, but pulls away when you get too close. He continues the slow drag in and out of your pussy, bullying another finger inside until you’re shuddering and clenching down on his hands. He nips at your thighs, leaving marks all along your skin with a stern, “So you remember who fucked you this well tomorrow.”

You attempt to aim a kick at his arm, but he simply grasps your ankle and tugs you ever closer to his mouth, pressing a kiss into your mound.

“Isn’t this what you wanted?” he asks, twisting his fingers until you whimper. “You told me to return the favor when you were having a bad day. Or were you lying when you said that?”

You bite down on your lip, refusing to answer. 

And then, suddenly, he pulls his hands away, leaving you painfully empty before he slaps your cunt — light enough for it to not hurt, but hard enough for it to send a jolt through your body. You whimper, and he grins, eyes gleaming as he asks, "What happened to you being such a whiny bitch, huh?"

"Fuck you," you snap, winding your fingers through his hair and yanking until he's back to where you ache the most. “You’re the world’s biggest dick, Steve. So fucking rude, all the time. Always mouthing off, always trying to get under my skin. Why can’t you use your mouth for something more useful?”

He grins into your pussy, dipping his tongue inside your core and licking a stripe up to your clit, flicking the tip over the nerve until you’re squealing, holding your thighs open and forcing you to take it.

He brings you to the edge one more time, pulling back just as your orgasm is about to crash into you, and laughing when you lurch forward, trying and failing to pull him back towards you.

“Why?” you sob. “Why won’t you—?”

“Beg.”

His voice comes out so serious, so cold, that everything inside of you pauses.

“What?”

“Beg me to let you come,” he says, like this isn’t the most insane thing someone has ever told you during sex. “Since you can’t remember how to mind your manners and say ‘thank you,’ I think it’s only fair that I teach you some, right?”

“What the hell is your problem, Steve?” you demand.

But he ignores you, bringing the pad of his thumb back up to your clit, drawing harsh circles around it until he’s forced to pin your hips down, keeping you exactly where he wants you as the pleasure builds back up once more, teetering on the edge of something more, building and building and taking and— 

“Please.”

His thumb freezes.

There’s an indecipherable look in his eyes when he glances back up towards you, and you can’t even imagine what he sees. You can feel sweat beading along your temples, and your hair is uncomfortably plastered to your neck. You feel utterly wrecked and sensitive and at your utter limit, but you know it’s only going to get worse.

(Your pussy clenches at the thought.)

“Please what?” Steve asks, more gentle than he’d been just moments before as he slips two thick fingers back inside of you, stroking along your walls until he finds the spot that has you whimpering. “Use your words, sweetheart.”

Emotion wells up in your eyes as you reach down, your hand outstretched towards him, needing something to ground you.

He meets you halfway, intertwining your fingers together and squeezing.

“You can do it,” he says softly, encouraging. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want to come,” you whine. “Please, Steve, please, I just — I’m sorry for being mean, just please let me come.”

Steve gives you a smile, one that teeters between affectionate and condescending, and he places a kiss on your mound. He shifts upwards just as tears spill down your face, pressing kisses along your chin and tracing a path up until he’s captured your mouth with his own. His forehead meets yours as he asks, “That wasn’t so hard now, was it?”

You gasp his name as he curls his fingers inside of you with a renewed vigor, hitting the sweet spot that has you seeing stars as his thumb slips back up, drawing tight circles around your clit until you’re openly sobbing, tightening your hold on his hand as he brings you closer and closer to your orgasm.

“C’mon, baby,” he murmurs, licking a stripe up your cheek, gathering your tears on his tongue. “What do you want?”

“Don’t—” you gasp, arching into his hold. “Don’t — Steve, please—”

“Let go,” he says. “Let go for me, honey.”

Your orgasm doesn’t wash over you as much as it crashes into you. Your entire body shakes as you sob, grabbing at any part of him that you can reach — his shirt, his arms, his face — as waves of pleasure work through your system, only drawn out by the fact that he keeps working at your core until you’re pushing at his hand, panting, “Too much, too much—”

Slowly, he pulls his fingers away, and in the next moment, they’re nudging at your lips as he says, “Open up.”

You peek up at him through your lashes and catch the slight curl to his lips, the smirk threatening to appear, and as you open your mouth, it does. 

“There we go,” he says, condescension dripping from his tone. 

A shock of pleasure works its way through you as he feeds his fingers into your mouth, making you shudder as your tongue dips over his fingers. You taste yourself on him and moan quietly, even as he pulls his fingers out of your mouth, you close your lips around them, sucking as he withdraws them.

“Quick learner,” he comments, and you narrow your eyes at him as he pushes himself up and away from you.

You drop back down to the table, chest heaving. The sound of Steve shuffling a few feet away barely registers as you catch your breath, running your hands down your face. Honestly, Steve barely registers on your radar, not until you feel him sliding flimsy cotton up your ankles. 

“What are you—?” you begin to ask, hitching yourself up onto your elbows, but you answer your own question as he pulls your panties up your legs, tugging them into place. “Steve, honestly, you don’t have to do this. I’m a big girl, I can put myself back together.”

But he only rolls his eyes and starts the process again with your jeans.

You’re honestly speechless as he rights your clothes, smoothing your hair from your face as he helps you stand on unsteady feet. His hand is warm against your back as he guides you from the office, his voice quiet as he says, “Car’s unlocked. Go wait while I lock up, alright?”

“I can help,” you argue.

The only response you get is him nudging you towards the door, his keys pressed into the palm of your hand.

The last thing you’re expecting when Steve joins you in the car, already turned on and warmed up, is for him to unceremoniously drop a bottle of water in your lap.

He busies himself with buckling in and tuning the radio — still on your favorite station, just a little bit staticky from distance — as you pick up the water, asking, “Um, what’s this for?”

He gives you a flat look. “To drink?”

You barely restrain the urge to respond with something catty — a no shit, Sherlock sitting on the tip of your tongue — but his kindness gives you pause. Instead, you simply unscrew the bottle and take a sip as he peels from the parking lot, the brick facade of the station fading into the distance.

He keeps his eyes trained on the road as he turns on the radio, still on your favorite station from earlier, and the question slips from your lips before you can stop it.

“Why are you suddenly acting like you care?”

His jaw tightens for just a moment. 

“I’ve always cared,” he softly says. “You just haven’t noticed.”

His eyes slide over to you briefly. Meaningfully.

(They look like they’re glowing in the moonlight, and you don’t know how to process this.)

You turn away first.

His words settle across your chest, winding their way around your ribs until your heart begins to beat an erratic tune. Ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum. The car creeps closer to the edge of town, streetlights illuminating the old streets, and for the first time since your disastrous meeting with Steve, you let your guard lower.

“What do you mean by that?” you ask. “That I haven’t noticed?”

“Because you haven’t,” he replies. He says it so calmly, so non-accusatory, as though it were a facet of life he’d just learned to accept. It doesn’t sit well with you. “I’ve cared since we met, believe it or not.”

You whip around to gawk at him. “What the hell are you talking about? You’ve been an asshole since we met, Steve!”

“Only because you started it!” he shoots back. 

“Excuse me?” Your jaw drops. “I absolutely did not start this. I’m only like this because you were rude first!”

He turns to you, startled, and in the next moment pulls over onto the side of the road, yanking up the parking brake and facing you properly. “What are you talking about?”

“Our first shift together!” you say. “You were mad at, like, my entire existence! You asked Robin if you guys actually needed to hire me!”

“Excuse me?” His eyes narrow. “That’s not at all what happened. I walked into the station and you were, like, superhostile straight off the bat! And all I did was suggest playing Bruce Springsteen!”

Indignation burns brightly in your veins.

“That was our second shift together,” you correct. “But the day before that, I walked in, introduced myself, and you were just a dick for no reason? And you don’t even remember this? What the hell, Steve!”

“I—” His face twists with confusion. “No, hold on — the day before — I’d been up all night trying to find Henderson and I was running on fumes. Not that that excuses anything, but, like, that’s why I don’t remember. I hadn’t slept in over a day whenever we first met. And… I guess — everything with Dustin, and the mess that all of that has been — I guess it felt like you were doing the same thing to me that he’s been doing. Pushing me away for no reason, being an asshole. Again, not that that excuses my behavior, but…”

All of your anger comes to a crashing halt.

You don’t exactly know Dustin Henderson. You’ve met the kid, and the interactions you’ve had with him haven’t exactly given you the greatest impression of him, but Robin had assured you that Dustin was simply going through a hard time and to not take it personally. 

(But you’ve seen the way he talks to Steve. You’ve heard the tone used whenever Steve calls on those walkies to ask for help on the equipment. You’ve watched the strain in Steve’s posture when Dustin storms out of the station.)

(Even if you don’t know the full story, the undeniable truth is that you know enough.)

Slowly, conscious of the way his gaze is focused entirely on you, you reach out, sliding your hand up his calloused palm until your fingers are entangled with his. 

“What…” You lick your lips, throat suddenly dry. “Everything with Dustin. What’s going on with that?”

He lets out an aggrieved sigh, but you can tell that it’s not directed at you. It’s simply the culmination of months upon months of stress receiving the smallest of outlets. 

“It’s… complicated,” he says. “There was — well, there was the quakes. You were here for that, yeah?”

You nod.

“Like, pretty much everyone lost someone or something. It was awful. Obviously,” he continues. “But there was a moment — before — where I told Dustin and his friend to not play heroes, and the friend didn’t listen. He… he didn’t make it. He died in the quake, and Dustin… he’s just been pissed. And, like, I get it. Trust me, I do. It’s a lot for anyone to handle, and Henderson was only fourteen at the time. But he’s been shoving me away ever since, which is the long and short of it, I guess.”

You shake your head, amused. “Why does that make it sound like you knew about the quakes before they happened?”

The laugh Steve lets out sounds strained, but before you can question him further, a warm hand cups the side of your face, dragging you over the center console. 

You go willingly.

His lips are soft against yours, hesitant in a way they hadn’t been earlier. But the moment is different now; Charged, still, but not in the way it had been back in the station.

(You would be a fool to ignore whatever is happening between the two of you.)

And when he draws back, his forehead resting against yours, his fingers still holding onto your face as though he’d fall apart without touching you, you whisper, “What was that for?”

“I...” His eyes flit across your face. “An apology, I suppose.”

You sigh, pressing just the smallest bit closer. “It’s not okay, but I understand,” you say. “It’s not like I’ve been nice to you, either. Besides...” You lean forward, pressing a kiss along his jaw. “I can’t say I haven’t enjoyed the past few weeks.”

His lips curl up into a shy smile. “Yeah?”

You shrug, your heart beating erratically against your rib cage. “Yeah.”

“Good,” he says. “I’m glad.”

It’s with a pained look that he pulls away, his hand skimming down the length of your arm before settling back in his seat entirely, shifting into second and starting the drive once more.

Streetlights flit by quietly, barren cornfields give way to houses and subdivisions, and as he turns onto your street, his voice breaks the silence.

“I was wondering,” he begins softly. “Since it looks like the power’s still out over here — you could, if you want, come back to my place.”

You raise your eyebrows, amused.

“Not for anything, like, untoward,” he quickly clarifies, shooting you a glare when you laugh. (Seriously, who says ‘untoward’ still?) “But it’s cold, and I don’t know how the insulation is in your apartment, but worst case we have a generator at my place and my parents evacuated before lock down so it’ll just be us, and—”

“Steve,” you interject. He falls silent immediately. “You don’t need to beg. Sure, I’ll go. Besides, my apartment is freezing even with functioning electricity.”

Amusement dances in his eyes. “Well, if it’s so cold…”

“Then you’re really just doing me a favor,” you finish.

A grin threatens to split his face and he nods once, decisive, before shifting gears.

Your apartment building passes by without a glance backwards.

By the time he pulls into a long driveway of a big, unfamiliar house, you’re half asleep. Eyelids drooping, face pressed into the cool window, but the lights in the house are on which means there’s proper heating, and that’s enough to have you slipping from the car.

Steve meets you halfway up the path, his hand settling on your back as he unlocks the front door and guides you in. 

“The kitchen is that way,” he says, pointing down a hall past the foyer. “Feel free to eat any of the food.”

“Thanks,” you say. “But I’m not really hungry.”

He accepts this easily, and with a gentle press of his fingers, he nudges you towards the stairs.

His bedroom feels like a window into a version of Steve that you’ve heard of but never quite seen. An amalgamation of sentiments — pictures of his friends and parents and others you don’t recognize, trophies from his high school days, scribbled notes from Robin strewn across his desk — and the messiness of a boy who clearly doesn’t spend as much time at home as he should, clothes strewn across the floor.

Steve, however, is unphased by all of this. He kicks his dirty laundry into a pile as he makes his way over to the dresser, shuffling through it until he yanks out a big, worn shirt and hands it over, saying, “This should fit. The bathroom is right outside the door, extra toothbrushes are in the cabinet. Use whatever you want.”

You nod and venture from the room without another word. Your clothes fall to the floor and you leave them in a pile to be grabbed in the morning, slipping on the soft t-shirt that falls to mid thigh. A toothbrush is located and you grimace at the taste of Steve’s toothpaste, then amuse yourself by using a tad too much of his overly fancy face wash and moisturizer.

(You know for a fact that you certainly can’t afford this stuff. Might as well use it while you can.)

And when you make your way back to the bedroom — back to Steve — he’s already dressed in his own pajamas, under the blankets, and adjusting a laughably large wall of pillows in the dead center of his bed.

You lean against the doorframe, amused when you ask, “What are you doing?”

“I didn’t — you know, I wasn’t going to… I didn’t want to… assume,” he says sheepishly.

“Oh my god.” You shake your head, making your way over to the opposite side of the bed, sliding in under the thick comforter, and immediately getting to work on destroying the pillow wall. “You do know that you had your mouth on my pussy, like, less than two hours ago, right? I think we’ll survive sharing a bed.”

“I was trying to be polite!” he cries indignantly.

But you only shift closer, tucking yourself under his arm and throwing your leg over his knee. “Harrington,” you begin affectionately. “You haven’t been polite for as long as we’ve known each other. Don’t bother starting now.”

He lets out a sound close to amused and shyly, he leans down, planting a kiss on your temple.

You bury your face into his sleep shirt, hiding your smile.

Steve flicks the light off and settles deeper into bed, dragging you closer until his limbs are entirely entangled with yours.

“Sweet dreams,” he murmurs. 

The third thing you realized was that sharing a bed with Dean Di Laurentis was a terrible idea. Not because he did anything wrong — annoyingly enough, Dean had stayed exactly on his side of the bed all night. No touching, no flirting, no breaking any of the rules you’d very responsibly created to survive the weekend with your dignity intact.

So, unfortunately, the problem was you.

Because Dean was asleep.

Actually asleep. Peaceful and quiet and entirely unaware that he was ruining your morning by looking like that. His hair was messy against the pillow, his mouth slightly parted, one arm tucked under his head while the other lay loose over the blanket. The shirt you’d forced him to put on the night before had ridden up just enough to show a narrow strip of skin above his sweats. It felt deliberate, even though it absolutely wasn’t.

You hated him for that, just a little. You hated yourself even more for noticing.

You’d woken up facing him, which you were blaming on the mattress, gravity, and whatever ridiculously expensive hotel bedding Dean’s family had paid for. That seemed more reasonable than admitting your body had turned toward him in the night, like he was the safest place in the bed.

Dean’s face was close enough that if you shifted forward even a little, you’d feel his breath against your mouth.

That thought was horrifying.

It wasn’t your fault, obviously.

Probably.

You stared at him for another second before very carefully shifting away, but Dean’s hand found your wrist before you could get far. You went completely still.

For one terrifying second, you thought he was awake. You stopped breathing, eyes wide, already bracing yourself for whatever smug comment he was about to make about you staring at him. At the same time, he slept because Dean would absolutely turn being unconscious into a personal victory if given the chance.

But he only breathed, slow and even.

His brows drew together slightly, and he made a low, sleepy sound before tugging your wrist closer.

Your stomach dropped.

“Dean,” you whispered.

Nothing but another slow, even breath.

Still asleep, somehow.

Apparently, Dean Di Laurentis flirted in his sleep now. Unfortunately, that felt exactly like something he’d do.

You tried to pull your wrist free, but his fingers tightened again — not enough to hurt, just enough to make your whole body go stupidly still. His thumb brushed the inside of your wrist once, so soft it almost felt accidental, like he was comforting himself without realizing it.

You stared at his hand first, then at his face, and finally at the ceiling, like maybe God, or at least the hotel sprinkler system, could explain why this weekend was already becoming significantly more dangerous than you’d planned.

“Dean,” you said again, sharper this time.

His eyes barely opened.

For half a second, he looked sleepy and confused, soft enough to make your chest do something embarrassing.

His gaze dropped to his fingers around your wrist, then lifted back to your face.

Neither of you moved.

“Morning.” His voice came out rough from sleep.

You swallowed. “Your hand’s still on my wrist.”

Dean blinked like he was trying to load the rest of his brain. He looked down at his hand around your wrist. “That does appear to be true.”

“Dean.”

“Right.” He let go slowly, but not before his thumb brushed your skin one more time. Probably accidental. Definitely something you were going to think about later against your will. “Sorry.”

You pushed yourself upright immediately, putting space between you like the bed had caught fire. “Do you always grab people in your sleep?”

Dean rolled onto his back and dragged a hand over his face. “I don’t know. No one’s usually complained.”

“Consider this the first official complaint.”

“Noted,” he said.

“You’re weirdly clingy when you’re asleep.”

“I was literally unconscious.”

“That doesn’t make it better.”

Dean turned his head on the pillow, hair falling over his forehead as he looked at you. “Are you always this mean in the morning?”

“Yes.”

“Good to know.” His mouth curved slightly, as if that were information he planned to use later.

You narrowed your eyes. “Why?”

“Because my mom’s going to ask if we slept okay.”

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out, which was annoying, because he had a point.

Dean seemed to notice at the same time you did, because his mouth curved slowly.

“No.” You cut him off immediately.

“I didn’t even say anything.”

“You looked like you wanted to.”

“I’m allowed to think.”

“That’s worse.”

He sat up slowly, still looking far too good for someone who’d just woken up. “If my mom asks, we need to keep our story straight.”

“We need boundaries, Dean.”

“We have boundaries. You made a whole list.”

“You were holding my wrist in your sleep.”

“Again, I was unconscious.”

“You smiled when you realized.”

“I mean, that part I’ll take credit for.”

You grabbed the nearest pillow and threw it at his head.

Dean caught it against his chest and laughed quietly, the sound too warm for that early in the morning. Too easy, and too much like the night before, when he’d been lying beside you in the dark, looking at your mouth like kissing you might be the only honest thing he’d done all weekend.

The memory pulled tight in your stomach. Dean’s smile faded, just a little, and you knew he remembered it too.

The room went quiet in a way that wasn’t awkward, exactly.

It was worse.

Careful.

Irritating Dean was easier to deal with. Irritating him was familiar. Safe. It came with the added benefit of letting you insult him without your pulse doing anything weird.

Careful, I made you remember last night, when neither of you had moved away fast enough.

Dean was the first to clear his throat. “Bathroom’s yours.”

You nodded a little too fast. “Great.”

Then you climbed out of bed and walked straight into the bathroom without looking back, because if Dean was still watching you, you had a horrible feeling you’d remember it forever.

The bathroom was cold, too bright, and deeply judgmental.

You stared at yourself in the mirror for a long moment. Your hair was doing whatever it wanted, and your shirt looked like it’d given up sometime around three in the morning. Your face looked far too awake for someone who’d slept terribly, which felt unfair. If you were going to spend half the night replaying an almost-kiss with Dean Di Laurentis, the least your face could do was look tragic and mysterious.

Instead, you looked like a girl who’d made bad choices and was about to have breakfast with the consequences.

You brushed your teeth, washed your face, and gave yourself a look in the mirror like that might solve anything.

“This is fake,” you whispered.

The mirror looked unconvinced.

By the time you came out, Dean was already dressed.

He was standing near the window in dark pants and a white button-down, sleeves rolled up, phone in one hand. His hair was still a little damp from running his fingers through it. He looked like someone’s rich, responsible boyfriend, which was both offensive and inaccurate.

You stopped short in the doorway.

Dean looked up from his phone. His gaze moved over you once, quick enough to pretend it hadn’t happened but not fast enough to be innocent.

“You look good.”

You frowned at him. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you mean it.”

His eyebrows lifted slightly. “You’d rather I lie?”

“Yes.”

Dean’s mouth twitched. “You look terrible.”

“Thank you.”

“Awful, honestly.”

“Much better.”

“Hard to believe my family’s buying this.”

You rolled your eyes and brushed past him to grab your bag. “Your family seems optimistic.”

“My family’s obsessed with you,” Dean said. “My mom’s texted me three times already.”

Your head snapped up before you could pretend you didn’t care. “About me?”

Dean lifted his phone. “Mostly.”

“That feels ominous.”

“She says she hopes you slept well.”

Heat rushed to your face so quickly that it was actually humiliating.

“Why would she say it like that?”

Dean stared at you.

You stared back, already regretting the question.

Then he grinned.

You pointed at him before he could say anything. “Do not.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You had the face.”

“That’s just my face.”

“Exactly. That’s the problem.”

Dean leaned against the window, smiling like your panic was funny. “She just meant because of the hotel, sweetheart.”

Your stomach did that stupid little flip again at the nickname.

You hid it behind a glare. “Don’t sweetheart me when no one’s here.”

“Pretty sure rule four didn’t mention sweetheart.”

“It’s close enough to rule four.”

“Are we making amendments now?”

“I’ll make whatever amendments I need to survive this weekend.”

Dean’s smile softened, which somehow made it worse. “That bad already?”

You held his gaze for half a second too long.

His voice was teasing, mostly, but something sat underneath it — something careful, again, like he was asking without actually saying it, like he remembered how quiet the room had gotten last night and didn’t know what to do with it either.

You could’ve said yes.

You didn’t.

“You’re really annoying before breakfast,” you said instead.

Dean’s expression cleared, his smile slipping back into place. “Only before breakfast?”

“Don’t push it.”

Breakfast was in one of the hotel’s private rooms, because apparently, rich people couldn’t eat eggs around strangers like normal people.

Dean’s hand settled at your lower back the second the elevator doors opened, and your body stiffened before your brain could catch up.

Dean noticed immediately, his mouth dipping close to your ear. “Necessary?”

You glanced into the room ahead and immediately spotted his parents with a group of older couples. His mother turned toward you with a bright smile.

Necessary.

It hung between you like a dare.

You swallowed before nodding once.

Dean’s hand stayed exactly where it was.

Warm. Light. Respectful enough that you couldn’t complain, but present enough that your entire body noticed anyway.

“Relax,” he murmured near your ear.

“I’m perfectly relaxed.”

“You look like you’re preparing for war.”

“I haven’t ruled it out.”

“My mom’s obsessed with you, remember?”

“That only makes it worse.”

Dean let out a soft laugh. “How?”

“Because now I actually feel bad lying to her.”

His fingers flexed against your back once, quick enough that you almost missed it.

“Yeah,” he said, voice quieter now. “I know.”

You looked up at him before you could stop yourself.

For a second, the smile was gone. Then his mother started across the room toward you, and just like that, Dean’s performance was back in place — smooth enough that it should’ve scared you more than it did.

“There you are,” she said, pressing a kiss to Dean’s cheek before turning to you with a smile. “Good morning, sweetheart. Did you sleep okay?”

You were actually going to die.

This was how you were going to go — in a hotel breakfast room, taken out by Dean’s mother asking an extremely normal question.

Dean’s hand pressed a little more firmly against your back, and somehow, annoyingly, it helped.

You smiled, hoping it looked normal. “Really well, thank you. The room’s beautiful.”

Dean made a sound that was very clearly supposed to be a cough.

His mother glanced between the two of you with far too much interest. “I’m glad.”

Dean’s father appeared beside her, coffee in hand, and nodded at you. “Morning, [Y/N]. Dean.”

Dean nodded once. “Dad.”

His father glanced at Dean, then at the hand still resting against your back.

His mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile.

You suddenly understood exactly where Dean got that habit from.

Breakfast was somehow worse than dinner. Everyone was awake, sober, and paying attention.

You sat beside Dean at the round table as his mother introduced you to people whose names you forgot almost immediately. There was a couple who’d known Dean when he was younger, a woman from the charity board, and a man who apparently couldn’t make it two minutes without asking him about hockey.

Dean answered easily, charming when he wanted to be, making everyone laugh like it took no effort at all.

That was the problem.

Dean was good at this.

Not just the fake-boyfriend thing, although he was annoyingly good at that, too.

Dean was good with people. Good at reading a room. Good at knowing when to joke and when to listen. Good at making his mother smile, and his father shake his head like he was disappointed but amused.

He talked with one arm draped over the back of your chair, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Not touching you, not really. Just like it belonged there.

Which was ridiculous, because it absolutely didn’t.

Nothing about any of this was supposed to belong anywhere.

“Coffee?” Dean asked, cutting through your thoughts.

You blinked, dragged back into the room. “What?”

He was already reaching for the carafe in the middle of the table. “Coffee?”

“Oh. Yeah, please.”

“Cream, no sugar?”

You went still.

Dean didn’t even hesitate as he poured your coffee, like remembering your order was nothing and not something he’d any business doing so easily.

Across the table, his mother stopped mid-conversation.

If Allie had been there, she would’ve screamed.

You stared down at the cup Dean placed in front of you, then at him.

Dean looked at you like he’d no idea what he’d done. “What?”

“You remembered.”

His expression shifted for half a second, like he’d only just realized what he’d given away. “You order it like that every time.”

He said it like it should’ve been obvious, like paying attention to you was just something he did.

The woman from the charity board made a delighted little sound. “That’s sweet.”

Dean turned to her with an easy smile, recovering faster than you could. “I have my moments.”

“One moment,” you corrected, lifting your coffee to hide your face.

Dean’s smile widened as you’d just proved his point. “She keeps me humble.”

“Well, someone has to.”

His mother looked entirely too thrilled.

His father seemed quietly amused.

You wanted the floor to open up and swallow you, preferably in a tasteful, expensive way.

The questions started about halfway through breakfast.

They weren’t obvious at first, which somehow made them worse.

His mother asked where the two of you usually went together. His father asked how Dean managed with hockey taking up so much of his time. The woman from the charity board asked whether Dean had a romantic side.

That one nearly took you out.

Dean choked on his coffee.

You smiled sweetly because if you were going down, he was coming with you. “Dean?”

Dean turned to look at you, a warning already in his eyes.

You folded your hands neatly in your lap. “Romantic?”

“Careful,” he said quietly. But people were watching, which meant he couldn’t do anything about it, and that made you brave. Possibly stupid, but brave.

“Well,” you said, pretending to consider it, “he once walked me home in the rain and only complained a little.”

Dean blinked at you, because unfortunately for him, that had actually happened.

Not while you were dating, obviously, because you weren’t dating. But months ago, after Malone’s, you’d forgotten an umbrella, and Dean had insisted on walking you home anyway.

He’d given you his hoodie, complained dramatically the entire walk, and still texted you afterward to make sure you’d warmed up.

You’d pretended it hadn’t mattered, because that was easier than admitting it had.

Something in Dean’s expression softened before he could stop it, and you only caught it because you’d been looking.

“A little?” Dean repeated.

“Twelve minutes, Dean.”

“It was literally raining sideways.”

“You’re a hockey player.”

“That’s a different kind of cold.”

“You’re so ridiculous.”

“You kept my hoodie for three days after that.”

That was enough to shut you up.

Dean’s eyebrows lifted as he realized, too late, that he’d said that out loud.

His mother’s smile softened in a way that felt unbearable, while his father looked down at his plate like that would hide the laugh he was fighting.

You took a very slow sip of coffee and silently prayed for strength.

Dean leaned in, voice dropping low enough that only you could hear. “Did you?”

“I have no idea what you mean.”

Dean’s mouth curved slightly. “The hoodie.”

You kept your eyes on your coffee. “I don’t remember.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“I’m selectively remembering.”

Under the table, his knee brushed yours, as if it were an accident.

You glanced over at him, and Dean looked back. For a second, everything else seemed to fade again.

You were starting to hate how easily that kept happening.

His mother cleared her throat, very delicately, and both of you looked away at the same time.

You spent the rest of breakfast in a state of emotional self-defense.

Dean’s mother talked through the charity luncheon later that afternoon, the silent auction, the donor reception, and the formal dinner that night. Dean nodded along like he understood what any of that involved, but you could tell from the way his expression slowly went blank that he absolutely did not.

“So,” his mother said, looking between you and Dean with a smile that immediately made you nervous, “you two will come to the garden reception before the auction, won’t you? There’ll be a photographer.”

Dean’s hand paused near his coffee cup, just for a second.

“Of course,” Dean said, smooth as ever.

You kicked him lightly under the table. Dean didn’t even flinch, which only made you want to kick him harder, especially when his smile didn’t move.

The second breakfast ended, and you were safely out of earshot, you grabbed Dean’s sleeve and dragged him toward one of the quieter hallways off the lobby.

Dean let you drag him away without a fight, which was probably the first bad sign.

“A photographer?” you hissed.

Dean glanced down at your hand still wrapped around his sleeve. “Good morning to you, too.”

“You said there would be dinner and charity things.”

“It does involve those things.”

“You left out the photographer.”

“I didn’t know there’d be a photographer.”

“You are so bad at giving warnings.”

“And yet, here you are.”

“That’s not a warning. That’s tricking me.”

Dean smiled. “Worked, didn’t it?”

You let go of his sleeve when you realized you were still holding it. “We need to look normal.”

“We do look normal.”

“No, we look like two people who are always five seconds away from arguing.”

Dean tilted his head. “That’s normal for us.”

“For a fake relationship?”

“For us.”

The words landed somewhere they had no business landing, and Dean seemed to realize it at the same time you did, his smile fading just a little.

You cleared your throat. “We need picture rules.”

“We have rules.”

“You keep finding loopholes.”

“I lovingly challenge them,” he said, because apparently he remembered saying that and was choosing to make it worse.

“You’re going to stand beside me like a normal person.”

“I’m very normal.”

“You said our dating story was you flirting until I gave up.”

“And yet, everyone believed it.”

“Unfortunately for me.”

Dean stepped closer, not enough to crowd you, but close enough that you noticed.

You always noticed.

“You’re overthinking it,” he said.

“I’m thinking the correct amount.”

“You’re spiraling.”

“I’m being prepared.”

“You’re aggressively preparing.”

You glared at him, which only seemed to prove his point.

Dean smiled, but then something in his face softened. “Hey.”

Your glare weakened because, apparently, gentleness was allowed to be used against you now.

“You’re doing really well,” he said.

Your stomach did that stupid little thing again, which you hated with your entire being.

“Don’t be nice to me when I’m trying to be mad at you,” you said.

Dean blinked like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right. “What?”

“It’s confusing.”

Dean’s mouth curved slightly. “Confusing?”

“You’re usually annoying.”

“I’m a complicated guy.”

“You’re a complicated guy with terrible impulse control.”

“Also true.”

You shook your head and headed back toward the lobby before he could say anything else that made your chest feel weird.

Dean fell into step beside you. “For the record, pictures are the easy part.”

You glanced over at him. “The fact that you said that makes me think they won’t be.”

“We just have to stand close and look like we like each other.”

“We barely like each other.”

Dean looked at you.

You looked back.

For a second, neither of you tried to argue. Then Dean smiled, slow and far too knowing. “Right.”

You hated him. You hated him so much it was starting to feel like a problem.

The garden reception started at noon, which gave you exactly two hours to walk around with Dean and pretend to be the kind of couple who could survive a country club lawn without making a scene.

It was harder than it had any right to be, and not because lying was hard. You were alarmingly good at that, apparently. When Dean’s mother introduced you to donors and family friends, you smiled, answered questions, laughed when you were supposed to, and corrected Dean whenever he said something ridiculous.

The problem was Dean, because, of course, Dean kept being good at it. Whenever the crowd got too tight, his hand found your back and guided you through it. When people spoke softly, he leaned in and listened as it mattered. He remembered the name of an older woman’s dog from a conversation ten minutes earlier, which almost made you forgive him for being so annoying.

At one point, his father got pulled into a conversation with a donor who seemed very interested in Dean’s hockey future, and Dean’s expression shifted into that polished look you were starting to recognize.

The one that said he was listening, even though every other part of him wanted to be anywhere else.

You were standing beside him with your arm linked through his, because his mother had insisted it looked sweet, when the donor turned to you.

“And what do you think of all this?” the donor asked.

You smiled like you had any idea what the correct answer was. “All this?”

“Dean’s future in hockey,” he clarified. “Must be quite something, dating someone with that much focus.”

Dean’s arm went tense beneath your hand. His father glanced over like he’d felt the shift too.

Dean smiled, but it wasn’t the one he usually gave you.

This was one of those questions that was really just a test — a polite little trap dressed up as good manners, like Dean’s future was something people could casually assess over champagne.

You looked at Dean, but his eyes were still on the donor, so you answered for him.

“I think people assume Dean doesn’t take things seriously because he makes everything look easy,” you said, and Dean’s head turned sharply toward you. “But he works harder than most people give him credit for.”

The donor looked slightly surprised.

Dean’s father looked at you like he was seeing something he hadn’t expected.

You smiled politely, suddenly aware that you had everyone’s attention and absolutely no idea how to stop talking. So, naturally, you kept going.

“He’s annoying about plenty of things,” you added, because that felt necessary for balance, “but hockey isn’t one of them.”

Dean stared at you, and his father looked at you like he was seeing something he hadn’t expected.

The donor chuckled. “Well, that’s quite an endorsement.”

Dean’s mother appeared at your side like she’d been summoned by emotional honesty. “It is, isn’t it?”

You wanted to disappear, but then Dean’s hand covered yours where it rested against his arm, just for a second.

A quiet thank you.

You didn’t look at him because you had a feeling you’d see something you weren’t ready for.

Instead, you smiled at his mother, because that was safer than looking at him. “He’s still very irritating.”

Dean’s thumb brushed lightly over your knuckles.

“You know I’m standing right here, right?”

“I’m aware.”

“You enjoy reminding people.”

“They deserve to know what they’re getting into.”

Dean’s mother laughed, but Dean kept looking at you, long enough that you had no choice but to look back.

His expression was different again. Not smug, not teasing. Something warmer, which felt worse somehow.

“What?” you asked, quieter than you meant to.

Dean shook his head. “Nothing.”

“That didn’t seem like nothing.”

“It wasn’t.” Dean’s mouth curved, softer this time, and your stomach flipped. “I’ll tell you later.”

That was terrifying, because later, with Dean, it was starting to feel like a very dangerous concept.

The photographer found you fifteen minutes later, proving that God had abandoned you and sent a woman named Marissa, armed with a camera and a clipboard, in your place.

Dean saw her coming first; you knew because his posture changed.

“What?” you asked, following his gaze.

“The photographer.”

Your eyes went wide. “Already?”

“She looks determined.”

“I don’t like determined people.”

Dean laughed under his breath, but then Marissa stopped in front of you with a bright smile.

“Dean, right?” Marissa said with a bright smile. “Your mother sent me to get a few shots of you two before the reception gets too busy.”

“Of course she did,” Dean said, pleasant in a way that sounded deeply forced.

You pinched the inside of his arm, and Dean smiled wider as you’d just encouraged him.

Marissa led you toward one of the flowered arches at the edge of the garden. It was beautiful in a way that made everything feel even more staged, which felt unfair, considering your relationship was already fake.

“Closer,” Marissa instructed.

Dean stepped closer, but apparently not close enough.

“A little closer.”

You both moved closer, which was apparently still not close enough.

Dean glanced down at you, his mouth twitching. “We’re bad at this.”

“We’re doing great,” you muttered.

“We look like cousins who don’t like each other.”

You made a strangled sound. “Dean.”

Marissa lowered the camera slightly, like she’d found the problem. “Maybe his arm around your waist?”

Dean looked at you first. That was new. Or maybe it wasn’t, and you were only noticing now because every small act of consideration from Dean made the weekend feel a little less fake.

You nodded once.

Dean slipped his arm around your waist.

Your body reacted immediately because, apparently, your survival instincts had checked out of the hotel sometime between last night and breakfast.

His hand settled at your side, warm through the fabric of your dress, careful in a way that somehow made it worse.

“Relax,” he murmured, low enough that only you could hear.

“I’m extremely relaxed.”

“You’re standing like you’re being held hostage.”

“I might be.”

“You did agree to this.”

“Under duress.”

“You made five rules and still said yes.”

“The rules were the duress.”

Dean laughed, and Marissa immediately lifted the camera.

“Perfect,” Marissa said, already taking another picture. “That was perfect. Keep looking at each other.”

You stopped laughing first.

Dean didn’t.

He was still looking down at you, his smile lingering as he’d forgotten anyone else was there.

The camera clicked once.

Then again.

You became painfully aware of everything at once. His arm around your waist. Your hand against his chest because Marissa had put it there. His heart beating under your palm, steady and real and entirely too distracting.

“Beautiful,” Marissa said, lowering the camera just enough to smile at you. “Now maybe one where you’re a little more affectionate?”

Your fingers tightened against Dean’s shirt.

Dean’s smile froze.

Slowly, you both looked at her.

She smiled back, oblivious to the crisis she’d just created. “A kiss would be lovely.”

No. Absolutely not. That was your first thought. The second was worse. Necessary.

Dean’s hand tightened slightly at your waist.

Slowly, you looked up at him.

He was already looking at you, his expression carefully neutral in a way that told you it wasn’t neutral at all.

“We don’t have to do this,” he said quietly.

There was no teasing. No smirk. No challenge. Just Dean, giving you a way out in front of a photographer, his mother, several donors, and probably half of the Di Laurentis family’s social circle.

That should’ve made it easier to say no, but somehow it only made everything harder. Dean was trying, everyone was watching, and rule number one had always been the stupidest rule, really, because necessity could stretch around almost anything if you wanted it badly enough.

“It’s necessary,” you said, mostly to yourself.

Dean’s eyes searched your face. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” you said, before you could lose your nerve.