love4u184

That’s probably why your group was able to be ambushed by a ragged gang of men intending to rob you blind. 

All men of various heights and builds. All with guns. 

Six men, four of you. 

Of course it didn’t work, but they still tried. 

They had circled around the four of you and demanded answers about where your camp was, how many of you were there, what kind of supplies did you have, all the usual bullshit to gauge how much of a threat there was. 

After Rick did some clever “negotiating” (manipulating) to get them to let their guard down, the four of you moved in sync like trained killers. 

It was pretty quick.

If it weren’t for your stupid gun, it would’ve taken less than 30 seconds. 

Rick took out the two men on him, shooting one and stabbing the other. Daryl fired off two arrows from his crossbow, dropping another two. Glenn took a few hits but was able to stab the other man. 

With the last man being the one you’re fighting, the three of them turn to look at you. 

Your gun clicks empty, so you swing it as hard as you can and crack him across the face. There’s a nasty crunch as blood starts pouring out of his nose.  

The guy lands a punch to your jaw, causing your head to whip to the side. 

Glenn moves to go help you, but Daryl holds out his arm to stop him.

“Jus’ wait.”

“But she’s-”

“She’s got it.”

Your hands bunch into the front of his shirt, dragging him forward as you knee him in the groin. He stumbles backwards and you follow with your arm drawn back to hit, oblivious to the watch party behind you.

“She’s gonna-”

“Let ‘er.”

Daryl watches you like you’re the one painting the clouds in the sky. 

You clock the guy in the side of the face and he crumples to the ground. You shake out your hand before stepping over him to straddle his chest and spit in his face.

“Asshole.”

You shake your hand to sling the blood off before brushing it on your pants. As you pick up the gun you dropped and brush the dirt off, you look up to everyone staring at you.

“What?”

Glenn is just standing there staring at you with his mouth hanging open. 

Rick stands with his hands on his hips, having watched the scene unfold as if it was the best entertainment he’d seen in a while.

He turns to look at Daryl and clears his throat, fighting not to smile.

“Daryl, you’ve got a little problem there.”

Glenn looks over and lets out a sort of strangled cough as he fails to swallow his laugh.

You flick your gaze over to Daryl and bite back a smirk.

He’s standing there looking at you with a lopsided grin, doing nothing to hide the obvious bulge in his pants.

He scoffs. 

There’s a certain silence that settles around you when you walk through the city. Not fear – not exactly. Just… space. As if people know not to stand too close. As if your perfume might bite.

You used to think it was strange how doors opened too quickly. How eyes dropped the second yours lifted. How people, grown, hardened people, stepped back when you stepped forward.

But then again, most people don’t have Loki Laufeyson’s name curled like smoke around their own.

Loki’s girl.

You hear it sometimes, behind you, in whispers under their breath, but never to your face.

And yet, they all listen.

Because the name alone is a threat, because you belong to the man who once burned down an entire club because someone made you uncomfortable on the dance floor, the man who shattered a man’s jaw with the base of a class, calm as you please, for touchnig your wrist when you passed him a message.

But to you?

To you, he’s just Loki.

The man who makes you tea when you can’t sleep. Who tugs your legs into his lap while reading through bloodstained contracts? The man who says, “go if you want to” instead of “stay”.

It never felt like a cage. It felt like home, until today.

~~~~~~~~~~

“You sure you don't want one of the guys to go with you?”

Your bodyguard, Emil, is parked against the doorframe like always, arms crossed. You’re standing in front of the mirror fixing the buttons on your coat. A deep green one, Loki’s favourite. Not that he ever said it. But you noticed the way his eyes lingered when you wore it. Like he was seeing something he wasn’t sure he deserved.

You glance at Emil’s reflection. “It’s a cash drop. Two streets over. You think I'm gonna get mugged in broad daylight?”

“No,” Emil confirmed. “I think someone might be stupid.”

He doesn't elaborate. He never does.

“I’ll be fine,” you say gently. “I'm just dropping the envelope and checking in. Ten minutes.”

Emil sighs but follows you out anyway.

~~~~~~~~~~

You’ve never understood the way fear follows you like a ghost. 

No one dares touch you. The underworld knows better. You’ve sat in rooms with gun runners, cartel heirs, exiled kings, all of them looked at you with the same flat expression.

Because you are not you. You are his. You are because of association. War, if necessary.

That's why the drop today is simple. Routine.

You walk into the club, still shut during daylight hours, with the brown envelope in hand. You nod to the man at the bar. You say the name you were told. He disappears to get someone. Emil stays just outside the front entrance, per usual, giving you privacy but close enough to act.

You wait. Then he walks in.

You’ve seen him before, part of the Cerdani crew. Mid-tier muscle. Young.  Cocky. His name escapes you, but you remember the arrogant smirk. The one that lingered too long last time. The one that made Emil put a hand to the back of your waist and push you behind him.

“Didn’t expect you,” he says, stepping close.

You maintain a flat but polite expression.

“Just dropping off. Where's Arlo?”

The man shrugs. “Late. Got time to talk?”

“No,” you say firmly, placing the envelope on the table. “Tell Arlo it’s been handled.”

He reaches out. His hand brushes your wrist, not a grab, not exactly. But not gently either.

“Don’t be rude now,” he insists. “You’re just as pretty in the daylight.”

Something sharp flickers through your chest. Something unwelcome.

You step back. “I’d suggest you reconsider that tone.”

A laugh. “Or what? You gonna pout and run back to your king?”

There it is. Loki. Always hanging in the air like static. You open your mouth, not to threaten but to end it, when the man grabs your elbow.

It's not hard, but his fingers close over your coat and pull until you’re on the floor.

And then it happens fast.

The sound of boots. The blur of Emil is behind you. The crack of bone. A grunt. The man hits the floor with a thud and a wet breath of pain.

Blood trickles from his mouth.

The second man in the room, one of his own, looks terrified.

“I told you not to touch her!” he shoots, backing away. “I told you, you idiot, do you know what you’ve done?”

He's not talking to you. He's not apologising to you. He’s afraid of what your presence represents. He’s scared of Loki.

~~~~~~~~~~

You sit in the back of the car, heart still thudding. Emil drives like a maniac. There’s a bruise forming on your elbow where you hit the edge of the table—a scrape on your knee from the floor. Your lip is bleeding from where you bit it.

“Don't tell him,” you say quietly. “Please. Don't–he’ll make a scene.”

Emil doesn’t answer. You look at him, and he continues to stare straight ahead. Your heart sinks.

“He already knows,” he says.

~~~~~

The house is quiet. Too quiet. You know what that means.

Loki’s estate is rarely loud, but there's always something going on. The rustle of tailored shoes over marble, the clink of crystal in the kitchen, the low rumble of a voice too carefree to laugh too loudly in his presence.

Now? Nothing.

Even Emil slows his steps as he opens the door and ushers you in.

You want to disappear into the walls, to make it to your room and wash the blood from your lip and pretend this never happened. You want to crawl under the silk duvet and lie to yourself.

But you don’t make it two steps before you feel him.

Not hear. Feel like ice flooding the air. The click of his shoes comes from the west corridor—the echo of unimaginable power.

You turn. He steps into view and stops.

His eyes move over you in silence. Once. Twice. You know what he sees. The tear in your coat, the smell of dried blood at your mouth, the way you hold your arm to ease the ache in your wrist.

His gaze lingers there. His face doesn’t change. But something shifts behind his eyes, like a wire snapping under pressure.

“Who,” Loki says, voice lethal. “Did this to you?”

You open your mouth, but no words come out for a breath.

“It wasn’t–”, you try, but the sentence dies.

Loki walks forward. Not fast, not dramatic, controlled.

That's what should scare you the most: he isn’t shouting, he isn’t flustered, he's composed.

He stops in front of you and lifts your chin with two careful fingers. Tilt your face into the light.

You swallow. His eyes track every scratch, every invisible pain.

He speaks with surprising softness,” Was it one of ours?”

You blink, “Loki–”

“Emil, answer me.”

“Verdani crew. One of the younger ones,” your bodyguard answered immediately.

“Emil stopped it before–before it got worse.”

A pause. Loki’s jaw ticks. “I want a name.”

“No,” you say quickly. “It's handled. He knows he crossed a line; it's not worth the blowback.”

“Not worth it?”

He steps back like he's been slapped. Like you've told him, you don't want to be his anymore.

“You walk into my home marked with another man’s hands, and you tell me it’s not worth it?”

His voice is rising now and not yelling, but unravelling—that quiet restraint fraying at the edges.

“I'm fine,” you insist. “It wasn't like that, he grabbed my arm, said some things–”

“He laid a hand on you.”

Loki looks away for the first time, trying to take a steadying breath, then turns to Emil.

“Find him.”

“He’s already being tracked,” Emil answers. “But indeed, your call before anything permanent.”

Loki's smile is thin. “Leave no doubt.”

You flinch, just slightly. Loki sees it.

And just like that, all the rage drains from him. His shoulders sag, jaw unclenches.

“I'm sorry,” he says, voice mellow. “I don't mean to frighten you.”

“You don't,” you say quickly, stepping forward, reaching for him.

He closes the distance, slower this time, being cautious of his actions.

“You think I'm angry at you?”

You don't answer. He exhales hard. Frustrated with himself.

“I'm furious, yes. But not at you. Never at you, darling.”

His hands reach for yours, gently. He lifts your wrist and runs his thumb lightly over the tender skin. His eyes close as if it physically pains him.

“I could burn this city to the ground,” he says with as much malice as possible. “And it still wouldn't be enough.”

You shake your head, throat tight. “Please don't do anything reckless. I'm okay. I'm just… shaken.”

He leans down and presses his forehead to yours. Breathes.

“Then let me be the one who shakes the world for you.”

You can feel the thunder beneath his skin. The tremble he’s trying to hide, not from rage but from fear. Because something dated to touch what he loves, and it shattered that safety blanket he’d created around you.

He kisses your cheek, the corner of your mouth, avoiding the cut.

And in a whisper that sounds more like a vow than a plea: “You're mine. And no one touches what’s mine.”

~~~~~~~~~~

You don't see him for the rest of the night. After he kissed your temple, after he whispered in like it was sacred, and a sentence, Loki disappeared without another word. No dramatic flurry of coats, no slamming doors.

Just gone.

You sit in his study, the one with the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and that ridiculous velvet chair he always insists matches the aesthetic. The fire crackles low behind you. Someone left a steaming cup of tea on the table nearby. You don't drink it.

You stare at your hands instead. They’re shaking.

~~~~~~~~~

It was only a bruise, just a scrape. You've had worse falls off your bike as a kid. But it's not the pain that lingers. It's the look on his face. 

The look of a man who had just been handed the first real crack in the fortress he had built around his empire. The first sign that someone believes he could be challenged.

That someone dared lay hands on what was his.

What if he never lets you outside again? What if he doesn’t trust you to continue helping the business? What if you're more trouble than you're worth?

The thoughts give you more anxiety as you sit there and repeatedly overthink and spiral.

You’re still curled on the velvet chair when Emil returns, silent as ever. His gloves are off, which you know means whatever needed to happen… happened.

He stands in the doorway like he doesn't want to interrupt a private moment. Eventually, he clears his throat.

“It’s done.”

You glance at him. “How bad?”

Emil’s eyes flicker. “He’s breathing. Loki made it a point to leave him conscious. Said he wants him to feel everything.”

You close your eyes. Guilt curls in your stomach. “It was just a warning,” you whisper. “He didn’t even hit me. Just grabbed me.”

Emil’s voice is steel. “He touched you. That’s not something people survive in this world.”

You open your mouth, but there’s nothing left to say. A few minutes pass in silence before you hear the door again.

And this time, it's him.

Loki enters with no entourage, his coat now gone. His shirt sleeves are rolled, forearms bare and marred with fresh red streaks where blood was hastily wiped away.

Not his blood. He looks calm, but in a quiet, eerie way, as if he’s settled into the violence.

“Leave us,” he says to Emil.

Without question, Emil goes.

The study door shuts with a quiet finality.

You stand. “Loki–”

“I told them what would happen if anyone ever put their hands on you.”

His voice is low, not angry but tired.

You walk toward him, arms crossed over your ribs. “He didn’t know–”

“He knew,” Loki snaps, eyes flashing. “They do all.”

You look away, but out of the corner of your eye, you can see his expression softening in an instant. “I'm not upset with you. I need you to believe that, love.”

“I know,” you whisper, still glaring into the fire. “But this doesn't feel right.”

He steps closer, tilting his head. “You feel guilty.”

You nod. “Because someone got hurt over me. Because I caused chaos. Again.”

Loki’s mouth twists into something bitter. “You didn’t cause this. You existing peacefully under my name does not warrant being handled.”

You look down at your sock-covered feet. “Still…”

Suddenly, his hands are on your arms, firm but grounding.

“You belong to me,” he says, low and dangerous. “That's not a metaphor. That's not a weakness. It's true. You're the only thing in this world I haven't lied about or twisted for gain. You are mine. And when someone dares to leave a mark on what’s mine, I do not let it slide.” 

You look up at him. “And what if I don't want blood in my name?”

He pauses. Something flickers through his expression. “I'm trying,” he says carefully. “To find a way to protect you without destroying everything around us. But I don't know how else to show the world what you are to me.” 

You bite your lip, refraining from tucking a stray black hair behind his ear that had fallen out of place. “Just… be you. Not the man they fear. Be the man I know.”

For a long second, neither of you moves. Then he exhales. “I’ll try,” he says finally. “But you have to promise me something in return.”

You arch a brow. He cups your cheek. “Don't ever hide pain from me again.”

Your throat tightens.

“Even if it's just a scrape,” he continues. “Even if you think it's nothing. Let me decide what matters. Because if I lose you–”

He stops himself. But you hear what he doesn't say. If I lose you, I won't survive it.

That night, he doesn't leave your side. He bathes you in silence, dressing your bruise himself with practised fingers. His touch is worshipful as if he's trying to erase what someone else left behind. 

He doesnt kiss you, he doesnt fuck you, just holds you, abnd it's just what you needed.

~~~~~~~~

The darkness doesn't come quietly. It crashes down in waves, sharp breaths that catch your throat, shadows that thin into shapes you wish you could forget. 

The feeling of his hand roughly grabbing you, his smirk ever imprinted into your brain.

You wake, choking, heart pounding, limbs tangled in cold sheets.

At first, the silence is almost worse than the nightmare, the echo of emptiness in the room where Loki’s presence should be.

You reach out instinctively, fingers grasping at the empty space beside you. There’s nothing but the faint scent of his cologne lingering in the air.

A shiver runs down your spine. You need him not just for the safety his name commands, but because without him, the world feels like it's collapsing.

Minutes later, you hear the soft click of the door, followed by the subtle weight of footsteps. Loki slips inside without a word, shedding the coldness of the outside world like a second skin.

His eyes find yours in the dark.

“No need to pretend you're alright,” he reassures, his voice a low rumble meant only for you.

You swallow past the lump in your throat and, with a shaky breath, say, “I'm scared.”

He moves closer, settling beside you, the heat from his body chasing away the chill. For a moment, he says nothing. Then, in that rare stillness where all the walls drop away, he admits, “I'm struggling, too.”

Struggling not to overwhelm you. Not to cage you. Not to lose himself in his desire to keep you safe. His hand finds yours beneath the sheets, fingers intertwining like a lifeline.

“Tell me,” he whispers, “how do you want to be protected? How can I make you feel safe without breaking you?”

The vulnerability in his voice makes your heart ache. You draw a shaky breath and grip his hand tighter, the steady pressure grounding you.

“I want to feel like I'm choosing this,” you say, voice hesitating. “Not trapped. Not silenced.”

He nods slowly, his eyes dark and fierce with a promise. “Then I’ll listen,” he agrees. “And I’ll follow your lead. Whatever you want. Whatever you need, consider it done.”

You lean into him, pressing your forehead against his chest, breathing in the steady beat of his heart.

For the first time since the attack, you feel a flicker of peace. Here, wrapped in his arms, you know you're not just his shielded girl. You're his partner. His queen. And together, you will face whatever storms come.

It took some time, but eventually you both seemed to sigh in relief, melting further into each other's arms until Loki stood and began to remove his nightrobe.

The room is dim, lit only by the flicker of candles casting dancing shadows on the wall. Silk sheets pool around your bare skin, cool against the heat simmering inside you.

Loki watches you from the edge of the bed, his head tilting to kiss your temple, savouring your warmth, scent and taste. You lean into the touch, tilting your face back to kiss the tip of his chin.

Loki’s darkening eyes dance across your face, memorising every pore before kissing you carefully, breathing you in completely.

You mewl at the touch of his lips, nose pressing to his cheek as you raise onto your knees to push your body closer to his, arms circling his shoulders. His hands cupped your jaw, holding you in place as he delved deeper.

Tongues clashing together in a dance of lust, you both release a moan, breathing as one. He tasted of whiskey. And Loki.

A hand of his lowered, over your spine and to your hip and with ease, pushed you back into the centre of the bed, his body covering yours. You wiggle beneath him, legs moving to tuck around his waist, needing him closer.

It was always like this with Loki, from vulnerability and emotions to devouring each other with lust. From the moment you met at a gala, the chemistry had been off the charts. Overwhelming to you both.

This is why you are always so willing to submit to him. He may treat you as the queen to his mafia kingdom, but the moment you’re both alone, you’re melting into a puddle with a “yes, sir,” feebly from your mouth.

“Tonight,” he says between kisses, “I'm going to remind you exactly who you belong to. Why, you are mine.”

His fingers find yours, locking together until you’re palm to palm, and he’s pushing your hands above your head. “Remember your safe words, love?” he asks as he moves his mouth to your throat, nipping and licking idle paths.

“Yes, sir. Red, yellow or green.”

“Good girl,” he praises sincerely, rocking his hips against yours so that you’re able to feel the hardness throbbing beneath his only item of clothing, his boxers.

You tip your head back as you feel a tickle against your inner wrist and watch in amazement as Loki uses a form of magic to create restraints made of green silk. The material attaches to the bed post and encircles your hands and wrists, tugging them until they’re spread out and pinned.

Loki’s fingers tug on your chin, forcing your eyes back to him, but you’re welcomed with the sight of not just one Loki, but two.

Two Lokis. One is still hovering over your body, and the other is smirking down over his shoulder. 

God, you loved his magic.

You’re a whimpering mess already. Hips rising off the bed to try and grind against him, but Loki is already lowering himself down onto his knees.

Green eyes are locked on yours with feral intensity, lips parting as your clothes suddenly vanish away in the blink of an eye.

Both Loki’s groan at the sight of you naked, your arousal already gleaming between your legs.

The other Loki finally lowers himself, kissing along your collarbones, your shoulders, your throat as your body trembles, aching with need.

“Beg for me,” one Loki drawled.

Your lips part, breath shaky. “Please… I need you.”

They share a knowing glance, a silent command.

The Loki between your spread legs lowers his mouth, his fingers spreading your labia as his lips seal around your clit, sucking harshly until you’re arching off the bed, trying to wiggle away from the quick burst of sensation.

But his arms hook around your thighs, keeping your lower half down on the bed.

The second, Loki’s hand then roam your body, pinching your nipples, massaging your breasts. That wicked tongue of his then followed with licks and bites, every touch designed to push you closer to the edge.

“Loki–Sir–Please–”

The Loki between your legs hums at your whimpers, always loving to hear you beg.

His tongue is skilled, hardening to apply firm massages to your clit, before licking softly up the length of your cunt, needing to drink all of your juices.

Your body clenches, spiralling toward release, and then breaks apart in the first of many shattering orgasms, moans spilling from your lips as Loki’s name falls in desperate pleas.

But they don’t stop. One Loki is devouring your upper body, from your mouth, to your throat, to your breasts and hips. The other Loki, your lower half, biting your inner thighs, tongue touching every inch between your legs.

Two thick fingers then push inside of you as he doesn’t relent with his target on your clit, even though it was throbbing. 

“Such a good girl,” one Loki whispers, voice thick with praise. “You take it so well, darling, my beautiful, perfect girl.”

“Please–more,” you beg, trembling, breathless and already delirious. “I need more… please don’t stop…”

Loki’s eyes darken with possessive fire as he answers, voice firm yet full of adoration, “You’re mine to break and heal. But be careful, love– too much and you’ll lose yourself.”

His hands never falter. Fingers curl deeper inside you as the other Loki’s tongue flicks teasingly over your most sensitive spots, driving you higher.

Your hips buck uncontrollably, your body shaking with the next orgasm. Your arms pulling relentlessly at the restaints as the waves of pleasure pulse through your cunt.

You sob through your second. Your third has you clawing at your restraints, your body arching off he bed, slick and shaking and undone.

“Please,” you continue to beg, voice hoarse. “I need–Ii need more, Loki, please fuck me…”

“Yeah? My sweet girl wants me to fuck her?” one of them growls, voice low. “Greedy little thing. You don't even know your limits, do you?”

You shake your head, delirious. You can't see anymore. Just feel, heat, hands, mouths, voices. Trust.

“Good girl,” the Loki between your legs purrs against your soaked pussy. “Take every bit of it. That’s it. Give yourself to me.”

When your fourth orgasm rips through you, you scream his name. The restraint magic tightens to keep you from hurting yourself. Your body is boneless, but your mind is gone, floating in subspace.

Everything is muffled. Your lips move but make no sound. Your thighs twitch with aftershocks, clenching around nothing. And still, you're begging. 

“Loki…” you whimper, barely aware of the words. “More, please, more!”

The Loki currently sucking on your nipple disappars, leaving just the Loki between your legs as he rises to his knees, looking down at your wrecked body.

“Begging when you’re barely conscious,” he grunts as he slowly crawls over your body, the weight of him making you feel anchored for the first time all night. “My poor, desperate darling. You’re gone, aren’t you? Floating away in that head of yours. But you can take more, can’t you?”

You whine, nodding your head desperately, wrists flexing against the restraints as he settled between your legs, cock pressing against your overstimulated entrance.

“Do you want my cock now,?” he teases. “After everything I've given you?”

You nod pathetically, tears now streaking down your cheeks, lips parted and shaking. “Please, sir…”

That does it. 

He thrusts into you hard, one deep, punishing stroke that knocks the air from your lungs. Your pussy clamps down around him, still pulsing from the orgasms you’ve already had. You scream his name again, broken and raw.

“Fuck, you’re always so tight. So perfect,” Loki growls, panting into your neck. “Your body doesn't know when to stop, does it? So wet for me.” 

He fucks you hard and merciless.

The wet slap of skin on skin fills the room. Your thighs tremble, clenching together, too tight, your body struggling to keep up, but you don't care.

“Hurts so good…” You whisper, though you don't want him to stop.

Loki curses under his breath, eyes dark with something feral.

“Oh darling, you’re ready gone, aren’t you?” he says softly, slowing just slightly, fingers bruising tears from your cheeks, “too deep in it to even think. All because of me.” 

You nod, choking on a breathless moan. Another orgasm builds, unwanted but unstoppable, your body clenching around him as you spiral into a place where nothing else exists: just heat and breath and him.

When you cum again, it rips the world away from you.

You go limp, boneless beneath him. Your arms twitch in their bindings but barely move. Your lips are parted, eyes glazed, murmuring half words through the high.

He stops instantly. The restraints fall away.

“Shh, darling,” Loki whispers, catching your head in his hands. “Come back to me,” you barely hear him.

He pulls out gently, magic already flicking warm towels and water into the air. He cradles you in his lap, rocking slightly, brushing your damp hair from your face.

“You did so well,” he praised, kissing your temple. “You took everything I gave you. So perfect. My good girl.”

You whimper, pressing your face into his chest. “I've got you now. You’re safe. Let go. Breath with me.”

Your body shudders again, this time from the come down, the fragility of it all. But Loki just holds you tighter. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You don't remember when the trembling stopped.

You're cradled in Loki’s lap now, wrapped in the warmth of one of his shirts, the scent of him soaking into your skin. His heartbeat thumps steadily beneath your ear, the only rhythm you can focus on.

He whispers against your hair. “You did so well for me.”

Your fingers curl against his chest, barely able to lift your head.

“I couldn’t stop,” you croak. “Even when it hurt, I just… needed you.”

He hushes you gently, cupping your cheek and kissing the corner of your mouth.

“That wasn’t weakness,” he says. “That was trust. You gave yourself to me, and I will never take that lightly.”

He shifts, reaching for a glass of water and holding it to your lips.

“Drink for me, love.”

You do, slow, small sips, and he whispers praise with each one. Then he lifts you again, carrying you to the bathroom with effortless strength for a god. You don't fight it. You can't. He sets you in a warm bath, magic already at work, softening the water with calming herbs.

Loki washes your body with quiet calm. No teasing or dominance remains.

Just love.

Once he’s dried you off and you're back in bed, curled into his side beneath a mountain of covers, you finally speak again. “I feel like I belong here.”

Loki turns to look at you, and like the beginning of the night, there's something guarded in his expression. 

“You always have.”

 🌊 🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊

PART 1

A cold drizzle had started. Still he stood unmoving outside on deck, trying to look beyond the darkness. Trying to make out the harbour that would surely come into view any time now.

“Captain why don’t you come back in? Where it’s warm?”

Lassen’s booming voice mocked, “Pretty sure he’s got his eyes fixed on something special, am I right?”

Gus turned, not nearly as amused as he’d normally be at their banter. “Shut up. Go back inside.”

“Uh oh, sore spot? You’d think you’ve fallen…” Lassen’s mouth closed, upon seeing the angry, stormy Blues fixed on his face. He immediately knew he’d gone too far, trying to lighten the mood this way had not been one of his best ideas apparently.

“Just go back inside.”

At last Freddy and Lassen went inside, letting him be.

Usually he could take quip after quip from his men, without so much as pulling a face, but today wasn’t just any day. It was a day he’d promised you, would come way earlier than it did.

He’d assured you, he would only be gone for eight month. However that wasn’t the case, as their mission had been more complicated than they originally thought.

Now it’s been nearly four years, since he’d made that promise.

Growing anxious as more and more time went by, without hearing back from you. Gus and you had written a lot of letters, back and forth, yearning for each other. Telling the other of your day, sometimes even going as far as describing what you’d do once he’d be back.

Though his letters had become quite apologetic after ten long month, when there still wasn’t an end in sight for the mission.

After the third year, not being able to return to you, your letters had stopped altogether.

Making him sick with worry. Had something happened to you? Where you discovered? Tortured for information on him?

Or something else entirely…Had you found someone else? Someone who’d stay by your side? Someone that wouldn’t leave you alone for four years? Someone that wasn’t him?

Every time, those thoughts surfaced (which were often), he’d felt like Freddy. Just a burning desire to blow something up. Or to shoot whoever was responsible for the sudden stop of your writing.

Though he didn’t cease writing letters. They even got rather poetic at the end, because he was trying to impress you, wanting to let you know how much you mean to him. He simply couldn’t lose the only woman, he had ever loved. He will ever love.

The last one he’d written, was the one where he poured in everything he felt. The frustration at your silence. The hope you’d wait for him. The desperation. The deep, honest love he held for you… even the despair he’d felt for being away for so long. But now he finally headed home, to you. After all, you were his home.

This last letter of his, read something along the lines of:

// Dearheart,

I know I’ve promised to be back a long time ago. And I haven’t.

Regretting every second I’m not by your side. Though my love for you continues to grow stronger every day. My love for you, is both as calming as a sunny day near shore and as wracking as being in the middle of a storm on the high sea. Wave after wave of regret washing over me, threatening to drown me, because I’ve left you behind.

The despair I feel for having been away for so long, is shattering my heart, like a hammer would glass. Every splinter feels like it’s painfully piercing through my chest. More so, since you’ve been silent, every letter not returned, is a shard of my heart crumbling even further.

Now that I finally return to you, everything that’s left of my heart, may be just a fine powder. And like the untamed sea, you decide where to take the leftovers of said heart.

Will you drown the fragments like they haven’t been anything of value? Or will you carefully carry the particles of my heart through the storm, until they reach safe harbour?

For now the hope I feel is still somewhat able to sustain me. I know expecting you to wait, is not fair. That’s why I’m hoping. Because hope is the one thing that’s left, keeping my naïve heart beating, longing for you.

It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you. Will you be waiting when we dock in three days’ time, my love? Because soon we’ll draw closer and my journey will be done.

Yours to command, yours to love…

Gus //

Never before had he written anything like that, it was very unlike him. But he’d also never felt for someone like that before either, so he’d sent the letter. Again getting no answer.

Gus thought he was the most anxious when your letters had stopped, but right now as their ship approached harbour, his mind was beyond restless. The unease and dread he’d pushed down for months, creeping up just then, though making him stay frozen to the spot as his gaze was fixed on the lights that slowly came into view. Just when he thought he couldn’t take not knowing anymore, a huge paw landed on his shoulder.

“Here,” Lassen held out a spyglass, nodding at him to take it. In fact not just he had come out, his whole crew stood behind him, as if they were cheering for him.

Appleyard smirked; “Go on then, you surely can’t see without that.”

Gus shook his head, smiling though, he knew his men had his back no matter what. He took one deep breath then lifted the monocular to his eye.

Darkness, then he moved it back and forth until one of the houses on shore came into focus. From there he moved it until he saw a few smaller boats and then further to the right where he knew they’d dock. Where he hoped you’d wait.

There was nothing there, just three men sitting by the sea, probably drunk if their swaying was anything to go by. Not wanting to give up just yet, Gus moved the spyglass up, up, up, over the rooftops of the small town. Even further up into the mountains, where he knew your house sat, a little above the treeline. It seemed just as deserted as the dock, no lights, no nothing that’d point to the fact that you were awake or that’d you’d been waiting.

After one last desperate and frantic search of the harbour, he lowered his arms. You were nowhere to be found.

When he turned, all his men stared at him expectantly, which was the last straw, making him more furious than he’d thought possible. With an unnecessary violent shove, he barrelled the spyglass into Lassen’s chest with the words, “Not here.”

Bumping into Hayes, on his way inside the cabin, slamming the door shut behind him. His crew remained outside, unsure how to proceed. Gus grimaced. What had he been thinking? Why would someone like you, wait for someone like him? He was no prince, hell he wasn’t even a catch, so to speak. Angrily pacing up and down.

When he couldn’t take it anymore, he flung the door open again, growling, “What are you waiting for?! We are leaving!”

Bewildered at his aggressive outburst, Freddy carefully phrased his next sentence, “But…it’s dark. Maybe…”, he didn’t get to finish, as Gus seethed nearly screaming, “We are leaving! Now!” And with another slam, he disappeared back inside the cabin.

Gus tried to calm down. Closing his burning eyes, concentrating on his breathing and the footfalls of his men, getting the ship ready to turn around. Heart thumbing unnaturally fast within his ribcage. Forehead leaned against the door, then he heard it.

“Fuck. No WAIT!!”

He straightened, it couldn’t be? He strained to listen again, certain his mind was playing tricks on him. But that sweet voice? He didn’t have to wait long, when a second much louder curse could be heard.

“Arrrg you fucking ASSHOLE!!! WAIT!!! OI don’t you DARE LEAVE!! FUCKING STOP!”

Gus couldn’t help but grin, as he threw the door open.

He was greeted by Lassen’s smirk, “I think there’s something you might wanna see captain.”

Everybody stood by the railing, looking down into the water. He quickly made his way over, as well.

And there you were, seated in a tiny rowing boat all by yourself, angrily screaming up at him, shaking your fist.

“There you are. You SON OF A…”

All the happiness within was suddenly trying to bubble to the surface, seeing you down there. Not only had you waited, you rowed out onto the sea, alone, at night, to get to him faster.

He swiftly interrupted your rant, “Is that a way to greet your captain? Hey there, love. I’ve missed you, too.”

For a second you were too stunned to continue screaming. Then his deep timbre sounded again, “Well what are you waiting for, hoist the boat up, boys!”

This time around they gladly followed their captain’s orders immediately. Throwing ropes down, that you knotted around your small boat, so they could pull you up and swing you on board.

As soon as your feet touched the wooden blanks of his ship, you whirled around to glare at Gus, leaning against the railing. Sure you were beyond happy that he was back, but you were also furious that he had you waiting, for four fucking years. So you stormed over to where he stood, clearly expecting a hug, because his sturdy arms were already reaching for you.

Though instead, you began attacking him with your firsts, repeatedly punching his chest. Getting out all the despair, pain and agony you’ve stored inside you, all these years. And he let you, not moving an inch, even though it hurt. A lot.

You didn’t even notice the tears streaming down your face, that just added to the cold drizzle still coming down. After a few minutes placing hit after hit, you suddenly felt so exhausted, you simply slumped against him.

Then he put his arms around your shaking body, at last.

Embracing you as if he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go. You buried your face deeper into his chest, arms around his midsection, drawing him even closer.

One of his hands reached for your chin, tipping it upwards, so he could look at your face. His calloused thumb swiped over the soft skin of your cheek, wiping away the stray tears.

You couldn’t look away, you’ve never seen so many emotions swim in his Sapphires. If you weren’t mistaken, they even glistened with unshed tears, when he murmured, “I’ve truly missed you, dearheart.”

“And I you, so much. Just promise to never leave again. I couldn’t take that…”

His loving gaze roamed your face, “Never, I promise.” Then he leaned down, sealing his promise with a kiss. Your lips felt like heaven. Sweet and soft, moving in perfect harmony with his.

Unconsciously you softly hummed, making him smile against your lips. This in turn made you giggle, because his beard had tickled you.

“I love you.”

You replied, slightly biting you lip, “I love you, too.”

You two had been so caught up in each other, you had completely forgotten the others, surrounding you, until, “Aaargh, get a room…disgusting display of affection…”

Your head whipped around, looking at the biggest smirk on Lassen’s face as his voice had held no real bite. Gus only laughed in turn.

“Let’s get you inside. You must be freezing. And we still have to dock, don’t we boy’s?”

There was shuffling again, as they prepared the ship to take harbour. You weren’t really paying attention, you only had eyes for the handsome man that still embraced you tightly.

PART 2

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Taglist:

You consider yourself to be a fairly level-headed person. You don’t have road rage episodes or get into petty arguments. Hell, you face down the worst human depravity has to offer without flinching.

Naturally, you find your breaking point in young smiley intern. An intern who happens to be a little too friendly with your boyfriend. Spencer of course, is none the wiser- or if he is, he’s painfully bad at doing anything about it.

As you walk back into the bull pen with your third coffee of the day, you see it immediately. That intern- Emma? Eva- No definitely Emma, with her chair rolled far away from her desk, now thoroughly in Spencer’s space.

You know his body language well. The stiffness in his posture and occasional rapid blinking read as clear discomfort. He’s always been easy to fluster, especially in the company of an attractive woman. You two have been dating for a year and he still gets adorably red in the face when you flirt with him. But there’s a difference between flirting it in the private of your own shared apartment versus in the middle of your workplace.

Your jaw clenches when you hear Emma laugh a little too loudly as she touches his knee, but you keep your cool as you walk through the bull pen. Spencer’s an adult, he’s in a relationship, he has the ability to set boundaries, to tell her-

You watch her reach forward and adjust his tie. He freezes with an awkward smile, one of his hands lifting and pausing in the air uselessly.

You don’t even realize that you’ve turned to march towards his his desk until his eyes widen as they meet yours. You can’t tell if they’re saying ‘please help me’ or ‘please don’t be mad’. Probably both.

He opens his mouth as if in a last ditch effort to alleviate the situation, but he’s too slow as you stop in front of the two of them, clearing your throat as you set your coffee mug on his desk.

“Excuse me.”

She turn and looks up at you, her smile fading slightly, but not quite enough for your liking.

“Oh, Agent uh… can I help you with something?“

“Did your desk move, miss…?” You question, your voice even.

“Uh Robbins- Emma Robbins.” She gestures to her desk, “and no, it’s just over there.” She smiles politely, clearly unaware of the danger she’s in.

You hum curtly, your voice dripping with condescension, “Wow, that’s so interesting. There must be something wrong with your chair, it’s drifted nearly ten feet away.”

Her smile drops more, a look of confusion starting to take its place.

Spencer is still frozen in his seat, glancing between the two of you.

“What?” She almost says with a laugh, as she looks at Spencer before turning back to you. “We’re just talking… is there a problem?”

You cross your arms and forward slightly, voice lowering, “My problem is your clear lack of physical boundaries in the work place. With a superior no less-”

Spencer says your name but you shoot him a look that shuts him up instantly.

Emma on the other hand is now slightly taken aback, saying, “Lack of-?” She huffs. “Dr. Reid and I are friends, it’s fine-“

“No, it’s not fine.” You snap quietly. “This is the FBI. Act like it. You barely work here and you’re already begging to get fired, so I suggest you take yourself down the hall to HR and ask for a refresher on the concept of personal space. If that’s too hard for you to wrap your head around, then I suggest you consider a different career path.”

She scoffs, “Too hard? I graduated at the top of my class!”

“Well it doesn’t show.”

Her face reddens and her eyes flicker to the floor at your beratement. Your words are cold, your gaze even colder.

“Did you not fucking hear me? Get up.”

She only spares Spencer a quick glance as she stands.

You step forward and bite out quietly, “and if I ever see you lay a fucking finger on my boyfriend again, I will make sure you never take a step in this building again. Got it?”

She stares at me tensely before turning away and fleeing the bullpen.

You take a breath and glance around. Only a couple people look up from their desks as she leaves. You weren’t too loud. She didn’t deserve that much humiliation… and you don’t like other people in your business.

You sit down in her abandoned chair next to Spencer, deflating with a sigh, as if the confrontation completely drained you.

“You didn’t have to do that.” Spencer speaks quietly, those puppy dog eyes softening your gaze instantly.

You huff, straightening back up, “I did. She was making you uncomfortable.” You look away and mumble, “and it’s not like you were doing anything about it…”

“I- I’ve tried.” He says weakly.

“Hey.” He says a little more firmly, putting his hand on your shoulder, getting you to look back at him.

He gives you a small tense smile. “I wasn’t sure… I didn’t want to say the wrong thing or- or misjudge…”

You look back over at him, “Spencer, it doesn’t matter what she meant by it. You’re allowed to say you’re uncomfortable.”

“I know… I’m sorry.” He swallows, fidgeting with his hands, “You’re mad at me.”

“I’m not mad at you… okay maybe a little bit, but I’m already getting over it. It’s not a big deal okay?”

He nods silently.

“Hey, I mean it.” You put Your hand over his as he drops it from your arm. “I might’ve been a little out of line there too.”

He squeezes your hand gingerly, just for a moment before letting it go. Neither of you are big on PDA. Especially at work.

“…I think you made her cry.” He bares his teeth awkwardly.

“What?! I did not.” You voice raises an octave in your protest.

“She turned right down the hallway instead of left. Left goes to HR, right is towards the restrooms. Based on her behavior-“

“Okay, okay. I went too far I get it.” You let out a huff. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what got into me.” You say, running a hand over your face.

“It’s okay.” He says softly, biting the inside of his cheek in hesitation.

“It was kinda…” he trails off with a slight blush.

“Kinda what?”

“Nothing, uh- I don’t know.” He says quickly, scrunching his nose like he’s trying to readjust his expression.

Your eyes narrow and you lean your elbow on his desk, “Well now I have to know.”

“Can I- can I just tell you later?” His expression is endearingly pleading.

You hum, considering the request.

“Fine. Later.” You sit back up and grab his arm so you can look at his watch.

2:57pm.

“How many more files do you have left to review?”

“Four. Why?”

“I only have a couple left. I bet we could get out of here early if we lock in.”

“My average time spent reviewing a file averages to about twenty-three minutes, your average is about fifty-five, so we’re likely to to both be done by five ‘o-clock.”

“Ugh, its so depressing that we consider that getting out early- wait you time how long I take on files?”

“I did when we first got together. Maybe before that.” He clears his throat before talking quickly with his hands, “I uh- I wanted to be able to estimate what time you would get finished so I could alter my work pace to get done at the same time as you.”

“Why?”

“So I could walk you to your car.”

Your heart melts at his little unsure smile and you have to hold yourself back from kissing him silly.

You smile back with a softness that’s only reserved for him, before saying, “Well then, I’m gonna get back to work so we can go home soon.”

He nods, “good… me too.”

You stand up, grabbing Your cup of coffee from his desk.

“But I still wanna know what you were going to say earlier.”

He gives another silent nod before ducking his head down, retreating into the file on his desk. You smile at the poor attempt to hide his blush as you walk back to your own desk.

-+*~.-+*~.-+*~.-+*~.-+*~.-

“It was kinda hot.”

“Hmm?” You turn around and look at him as you shut the door to your apartment.

He shrugs off his messenger bag, fiddling with the strap before setting it down.

“Uh, earlier, you wanted to know what I was going to say,” he wipes his hands on the front of his pants before adjusting his glasses. Words fall out of his mouth in quick succession, “It was kinda…hot, what you said to her- Emma- er I- I mean that intern girl… well not what you said technically, but what you did… uh actually why you did it.”

You take a step closer to him with your brows raised in interest. “Oh… really?”

Spencer smiles awkwardly and ducks his head, “Honestly I feel a little bad about it… I mean I’d rather not derive pleasure from others discomfort, but I-“

You reach down and loop your pointer fingers through the belt loops on the front of his pants and pull him closer, making him fumble over his words.

“I- I um…” he trails off.

“Hm?” You hum in question, glancing down at his lips.

“I uh,” he chuckles softly as your action scrambles his thoughts, his cheeks pink.

He clears his throat.

“Nothing… I- nothing.” He breaths out, glancing down at your lips and swallowing tensely.

You finally close the distance between your faces as you lean in. You lips move soft and slowly against his as you release his belt loops and slide you hands up to cradle his face.

Spencer’s hands automatically find their way to you hips for just a moment, before his arms wind their way around your body, pulling you closer. His lips are soft and eager, his shyness from a few seconds ago melting away.

When you part, he has that hazy blissful look in his eyes. It makes you want to eat him.

“You don’t have to feel bad. I promise I won’t tell anyone.” You run your thumbs over his flushed cheeks gently, your voice soft.

He smiles sweetly and whispers, “okay.”

“Besides… you’re a better person than me. I promise.”

He hums, still just looking at you dreamily.

Your brow furrows indignantly, “Hey you’re supposed say ‘What? No no! You’re such a good person!”

He laughs, snapping out of it slightly, “You are a good person. Just a bit intense sometimes... and a little intimidating… and smart… and really pretty… and-“

You cut him off with another kiss, more intense this time… apparently just like you.

And he eats it up.

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Click each individual Chapter to take you where you want to go.

CH 1) Swords and Sweethearts

CH 2) Unsheathed

CH 3) Mettle of a Man

CH 4) Ronin's Shadow

CH 5) Hunter's Inn

CH 6) In the Bamboo

CH 7) Nothing Like the Night

CH 8) Night Like Nothing

CH 9) Down the River

CH 10) Once a Hunter

Spencer Reid had solved murders faster than this.

He had identified offenders from a single blurry photograph and a handful of contradictory witness statements that should, by all reasonable standards, have led nowhere. He had built psychological profiles from fragments of behavior that other people dismissed as noise, from inconsistencies in tone, timing, geography, and motive that only made sense once his mind had already begun stitching them together. He had memorized entire textbooks after a single read and spent years accumulating knowledge so dense it might as well have been its own language. His mind was engineered, always moving forward toward understanding. It was what made him valuable at the FBI. It was what made him one of the best profilers in the bureau.

And yet, somehow, after two full days, he still had absolutely no idea how to fix his argument with you.

The realization was becoming increasingly frustrating.

Because unlike a case, there was no evidence board to organize. No witness interviews to conduct. No behavioral indicators he could neatly categorize and analyze until a solution presented itself. There was only silence. Two days of it.

Forty-eight hours.

Two thousand eight hundred and eighty minutes.

One hundred and seventy-two thousand, eight hundred seconds.

Not that he had been counting.

Not intentionally, at least.

The numbers just…appeared, uninvited, the way facts tended to do in his head when something refused to resolve itself.

The argument itself kept replaying in his head whenever he had a free moment, his mind returning to it with the same relentless persistence it reserved for unsolved cases. It happened during paperwork. During meetings. While standing in line for coffee. While brushing his teeth before bed. The memory would surface without warning, unfolding with such perfect clarity that it sometimes felt less like recollection and more like reliving it in real time. Every sentence was preserved in his memory exactly as it had happened. Every pause. Every look. Every slight hesitation between words.

He could remember the exact way your eyebrows had pulled together when he said something wrong. Just that small movement between your eyes that he had learned to recognize over time, the one that always appeared when you were hurt but trying not to show it. He remembered the way your arms had crossed over your chest afterward. He remembered the slight tension in your shoulders. The way your gaze had briefly dropped toward the floor before returning to him.

And he remembered your voice.

That was the part that haunted him most.

Not because you had been angry.

Because you hadn’t.

Spencer almost wished you had yelled.

He wished you had raised your voice, accused him of being an idiot, thrown every frustration directly at his face so he would have something concrete to work with. Anger was understandable. Anger was measurable. Anger had direction. He could have apologized for anger. He could have identified the source and addressed it.

But disappointment? it was infinitely worse.

That was the truly maddening part.

Spencer Reid’s entire career was built around understanding people.

Patterns made sense to him. Motives made sense to him. Human behavior, despite its complexity, usually made sense to him.

Yet somehow the further he examined the argument, the less certain he became. Every conclusion led to three more possibilities. Every explanation seemed incomplete. Maybe it had been something he said. Maybe it had been something he hadn’t said. Maybe it wasn’t about that specific conversation at all. Maybe it was something that had been bothering you for weeks and had finally reached a breaking point.

His mind chased possibilities endlessly, constructing theories only to discard them moments later, each one dissolving under the weight of another, quieter truth he didn’t want to examine too closely.

Which was unfortunate.

Because he missed you.

A lot more than he had initially allowed himself to quantify.

The absence was no longer just a shift in routine or a simple change in the office dynamic. It was everywhere now: seeping into the margins of his attention, slipping between case files, hiding in the pauses between conversations that used to include you so naturally he had never thought to appreciate them.

Cases felt longer, too.

Not because the work itself had changed, crime scenes still demanded the same precision, profiles still required the same mental architecture, but because he kept finding himself reaching for moments that weren’t there anymore. Small things. The insignificant things that should have been irrelevant in the grand structure of his day, and yet had somehow become essential without his permission.

He would turn slightly in his chair after spotting a pattern in a victimology report, already forming the sentence in his mind, already anticipating the way your voice, always quicker than people expected from someone who wasn’t even in the Bureau, would respond. You, Morgan’s younger sister, the civilian presence who had somehow become an unspoken part of their orbit at the work, drifting in and out of the bullpen with coffee runs, questions, or just the kind of energy that made the fluorescent lighting feel less oppressive.

And then the moment would collapse.

Because you weren’t there.

He’d look up from a report after discovering a strange historical correlation, something useless to most people, but exactly the kind of detail he knew would make you laugh and tell him he “needed a hobby that wasn’t trivia disguised as trauma” and his hand would already be halfway toward his phone before he remembered there was no message thread actively unfolding between you two at that moment. Only silence where there had recently been a rhythm.

Even coffee tasted worse, which he knew was irrational because, chemically speaking, the coffee was identical. Same beans, same machine, same burnt undertone that lingered too long on the tongue. And yet it felt different sitting alone in the break room, like the absence of your commentary had somehow altered the physics of it. Like taste, somehow, had become contextual.

Spencer sat at his desk, shoulders slightly hunched, a thin folder open in front of him that he had reread three times without absorbing a single line. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead with a mechanical patience that made the silence feel even louder. Around him, the bullpen continued its usual rhythm, papers shuffled, phones rang, the distant cadence of someone's laughter breaking briefly through the procedural monotony.

And still, none of it reached him properly.

Then, agent Morgan dropped into the chair across from him with the kind of familiarity that didn’t require permission, leaning back like he had already decided this conversation was happening whether Spencer was ready for it or not.

“Pretty boy.”

Spencer blinked, as if the word had taken a moment to travel through whatever fog had settled behind his eyes.

“What?” he replied, though it came out slightly delayed, like he had to retrieve himself from somewhere else before answering.

“You’ve been reading the same page for ten minutes,” he repeated, slower this time.

Spencer’s grip tightened slightly on the file before he corrected, almost automatically, “I have not.”

Morgan didn’t even bother arguing. He simply lifted a hand and pointed across the desk with an almost lazy precision.

“The paper is upside down.”

There was a beat of silence where Spencer didn’t move at all, as though his brain had to reassemble the last thirty seconds into something coherent. Then, slowly, he looked down.

The page was, in fact, upside down.

“…oh,” he said, softly. Not quite embarrassed, not quite resigned, just caught in the inconvenient reality of being observed too closely by someone who knew him too well.

Morgan let out a short snort, shaking his head like he’d just confirmed a suspicion rather than discovered anything new.

“What’s going on with you?”

Spencer didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he straightened the file, even though it didn’t need fixing, aligning the corners with unnecessary precision as if structure could substitute for composure. His eyes stayed on the desk, on the scattered papers that suddenly felt too loud in their stillness.

“I’m fine,” he said at last, a little too quickly, like the words had been waiting right at the surface and only needed the smallest excuse to spill out.

“Reid.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Reid.”

Spencer’s shoulders tensed almost imperceptibly at the repetition, the way Morgan’s voice had shifted from teasing to something sharper, more deliberate. There was no escape hatch in that tone. Only persistence.

He sighed, the sound quiet and tired in a way that didn’t belong to the report in front of him, and certainly not to the fluorescent-lit bullpen that usually kept everything neatly compartmentalized.

“What?”

Morgan leaned back again, studying him with a growing certainty that had nothing to do with profiling and everything to do with experience. The kind of certainty that came from knowing someone long enough to recognize when they were lying even before they opened their mouth.

“Girl?”

The single word hit the air like a thrown object.

Spencer froze.

Morgan’s grin widened, slow and unmistakably victorious.

“Oh my God,” he said, leaning forward now, elbows on his knees. “There is a girl.”

“No.”

It came out too fast.

Too practiced.

Morgan tilted his head. “That wasn’t a denial.”

“It was.”

“It was the worst denial I’ve ever heard in my life.”

Spencer dragged a hand down his face, pressing briefly at his eyes as if physical pressure might reset the conversation entirely. It didn’t. Of course it didn’t. Derek Morgan wasn’t the type to let something go once he had it between his teeth.

“It’s not—” Spencer started, then stopped, because even he didn’t know what direction that sentence was supposed to go in.

“You got a girlfriend?”

“No.”

Morgan’s eyebrows lifted so high they practically disappeared into his forehead. “Oh.”

A beat.

Then, softer, almost delighted: “Secret girlfriend?”

The silence that followed wasn’t loud, but it was definitive. It filled the space between them in a way no words could compete with, settling over Spencer like gravity finally deciding to stop being generous.

Morgan blinked once.

Then twice.

And then he leaned back so abruptly his chair creaked, one hand flying up to his chest like he needed to physically contain his reaction.

“Oh my God,” he said again, but this time it wasn’t teasing. It was disbelief wrapped around amusement. “Reid. No. No way.”

Spencer lowered his voice immediately, shoulders tightening as he glanced around the bullpen like the entire building had suddenly become invested in his personal collapse. “Please lower your voice.”

“You have a secret girlfriend?”

“Technically,” Spencer admitted, reluctantly, as if even the word came with conditions he hadn’t fully agreed to.

Morgan froze for half a second.

That was worse than any reaction so far.

“Since when?”

“Five months.”

The word landed.

Morgan made a sound somewhere between a cough and a laugh, choking slightly as he leaned forward again, eyes widening in genuine shock. “Five months?!”

Heads turned.

A few agents paused mid-step. Someone near the coffee station actually looked over their shoulder. Even the hum of the bullpen seemed to tilt toward them for a moment, like the entire room had decided this was more interesting than paperwork.

Spencer felt heat crawl up the back of his neck. He wished, with a kind of desperate clarity, that the floor would simply give up on him and solve the problem permanently.

Morgan, entirely unhelpful, looked delighted in the worst possible way.

“You’ve been dating someone for five months and nobody knows?” he asked, voice lower now but no less incredulous.

“It wasn’t intentional,” Spencer muttered.

Morgan gave him a look that said he did not believe in accidents of that magnitude.

“It absolutely was intentional.”

Spencer exhaled through his nose, a tired sound that carried the weight of someone who had stopped trying to win this particular argument.

“Can we not focus on that part?”

Morgan’s expression changed slightly at that, just enough to signal he’d caught something underneath the embarrassment. The teasing didn’t disappear, but it softened at the edges.

“Something happened,” he said instead.

Spencer hesitated.

It was subtle, but enough.

His eyes dropped to the desk. To the corner of the file he’d been straightening for no reason. To anything except his friend.

Morgan didn’t need more than that.

“You fought.”

“It was a disagreement,” Spencer corrected automatically, as if the phrasing might make it less real.

Morgan scoffed. “How long since you’ve talked?”

A pause.

Spencer hesitated just long enough to give himself away.

“…two days.”

Morgan let out a slow, low whistle, leaning back again like the situation had just upgraded itself from something interesting to an inevitable disaster.

“Damn,” he said simply.

Spencer rubbed a hand over his face, dragging it down like he could erase the entire conversation if he tried hard enough.

“I know,” he muttered.

“What happened?”

Spencer hesitated.

Normally, he would never have even come close to discussing his relationship with anyone at work. It wasn’t just a boundary, it was a principle. Something he kept carefully intact because once you started letting people in, even a little, they tended to see things you weren’t ready to explain. But Derek Morgan wasn’t just anyone at work. He was his friend. And worse, in this specific case, he was also your big brother, which meant there were layers of complication Spencer hadn’t fully accounted for when he started dating you in the first place.

So he spoke anyway.

Not your name. Never your name. Just fragments that still somehow felt too revealing.

He explained how he had missed a dinner he had promised would be just the two of you, no cases, no interruptions, no excuses waiting in the wings. He explained how it hadn’t been malicious, how time had slipped in the way it always did, like sand through fingers he didn’t realize were open until it was already gone. He explained how it wasn’t even the first time, and how that detail alone had changed the entire shape of the conversation when he finally walked through the door too late.

And then he admitted, less willingly, that when frustration came, when disappointment turned into something sharper, he had reacted instead of listening. That he had defended himself with logic, with context, with all the reasons that made sense in his head but apparently didn’t matter in the moment they were spoken. That somewhere between explaining and insisting, he had stopped hearing the part where it wasn’t about being right.

By the end of it, neither of them had apologized. Not properly. Not in a way that closed anything. Just a silence that stretched and hardened until it became its own kind of wall.

Derek listened the entire time without interrupting, which, in hindsight, should have been Spencer’s first warning.

When he finally finished, Morgan leaned back in his chair, exhaled through his nose, and looked at him with the kind of expression usually reserved for malfunctioning equipment or particularly disappointing case files.

“You were an idiot.”

Spencer blinked once. “What?”

“You were an idiot.”

“I don’t think that’s objectively—”

“You forgot dinner.”

“There was a case, and my mind was…occupied,” Spencer corrected quickly, almost reflexively, as if precision could soften the accusation.

Morgan pointed at him like that settled it. “Exactly. You don’t forget things. You remember license plates from twenty years ago, but you forgot a dinner you promised her?”

Spencer opened his mouth, then stopped. Closed it. Then tried again anyway, because not responding felt worse.

“I know,” he admitted quietly.

“And then instead of apologizing,” Morgan continued, “you gave her a lecture about why you forgot.”

“…yes.”

Morgan nodded once, like the case was already solved. “Yeah. Idiot.”

Spencer sank a little deeper into his chair, as if he could physically distance himself from the conclusion. “I wasn’t trying to upset her,” he said, quieter now. “Logically, if I explained the circumstances, she would understand why I missed it.”

Morgan let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Kid, women don’t always want logic.”

“That’s statistically impossible,” Spencer said automatically, because it was safer than sitting with the rest of it.

Morgan didn’t even acknowledge that.

He just leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, the humor in his expression thinning into something steadier, less teasing now, more grounded, like he was done playing with the situation and had decided to actually look at it.

“Sometimes they just want you to admit you hurt their feelings.”

Spencer considered that for a moment longer than most people would have. His mind, as usual, tried to systematize it, translate it into something measurable, something predictable. But it didn’t settle into a neat equation. It hovered instead, annoyingly unresolved.

“You know what she’s waiting for right now?” Morgan continued, like he was narrating something painfully obvious. “An apology. And flowers. Be classic about it.”

Spencer blinked. “…that’s it?”

“That’s it.”

The simplicity of it almost offended him on principle.

“But what if she’s still angry?” he asked, because of course he had to account for every possible variable. “Anger doesn’t resolve instantly just because an apology is issued. There’s usually a cooling period, sometimes followed by—”

“Reid.” Morgan cut in flatly.

Spencer tried again, more quietly. “What if she doesn’t forgive me?”

Morgan let out a short laugh, shaking his head like the question itself was exhausting.

“Trust me,” he said. “If she’s put up with you for five months, she’s not leaving that easily.”

That earned the smallest shift in Spencer’s expression. Not quite relief, but something close enough to soften the edges. A reluctant smile pulled at his mouth before he could stop it.

Morgan noticed immediately, of course.

And then, like he couldn’t help himself, he added casually, almost offhand, too casual to be innocent:

“What’s her name anyway?”

The shift was immediate and almost physical.

Spencer went still in a way that wasn’t simply silence, it was interruption at the level of thought. Like whatever careful, fragile structure he had been maintaining inside his head had just been tapped in the wrong place and was now threatening to collapse in on itself. His eyes lifted too quickly, then dropped just as fast, betraying him before he could even attempt to form something resembling composure.

“…What?” he said, but it came out too sharp, too reflexive, as if the question itself had accused him of something.

Morgan tilted his head, watching him with the slow, patient attention of someone who had just found something interesting and had no intention of letting it go. “Her name,” he repeated, softer now, almost conversational. “The mystery girlfriend you’ve been circling around for the last half hour.”

Spencer’s brain did something deeply unhelpful, like attempt to exit his skull.

“I—” he started.

Then stopped.

Then tried again, weaker this time. “I didn’t say she was— I mean, I didn’t specify—”

Morgan’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Reid.”

That single word cut straight through whatever remaining momentum Spencer had been clinging to.

He stopped.

The silence that followed felt too loud for a room that had only seconds ago contained casual conversation. Spencer’s gaze dropped, then flicked away again, as if eye contact had become structurally unsafe. He adjusted his grip on his bag strap with unnecessary force, like he could physically organize his thoughts if he held onto something hard enough.

“I should go,” he said quickly, already moving before the sentence had fully finished forming, chair scraping faintly behind him as he stood a fraction too fast.

Morgan leaned back in his seat, utterly at ease now, watching the whole thing unfold like it was entertainment he hadn’t expected to enjoy this much.

Spencer didn’t look at him. Didn’t dare.

He just grabbed his bag, too tight, too precise, like if he handled it correctly he could still salvage what was left of his dignity.

Behind him, Morgan called after him, voice edged with amusement that had fully settled in now, no longer restrained by sympathy or hesitation.

“Kid.”

Spencer froze, hand on the strap.

Morgan’s grin widened. “You’re worse at hiding things than you are at talking to women.”

Well, that wasn’t what his little sister could say.

***

Spencer Reid found you at your work just after midday, when the world inside your building was caught in that peculiar rhythm of motion without urgency. He stood outside for a moment longer than necessary, as if the threshold itself required preparation. The flowers in his hands were simple, chosen with intent rather than extravagance, but even that simplicity had been carefully overthought, the stems adjusted and readjusted until they were aligned in a way that made sense only to him. He shifted his grip once, then again, thumb brushing against the wrapping as though precision could somehow translate into reassurance.

When he finally stepped inside, the change was immediate. The hum of the place wrapped around him, warmer, more alive, and suddenly he was hyperaware of everything: his own footsteps, the faint rustle of paper in his hand, the way his presence seemed to interrupt a rhythm he hadn’t been part of a second ago. He saw you before you saw him.

That alone made his pulse jump.

You were mid-task, completely absorbed in whatever demanded your attention at that moment, posture angled slightly forward in a way that suggested focus so deep it made the rest of the room irrelevant. There was a pen in your hand, and your hair had fallen slightly out of place, soft strands escaping whatever attempt you had made earlier to control them. Your expression was set in concentration, the kind that made you look, for a fleeting second, unreachable. Not distant in an emotional sense, but sealed inside your own momentum, like the world would have to wait until you decided otherwise.

It hit him again then, that disorienting realization that never fully settled no matter how many times he experienced it: you were not an equation he could balance, not a pattern he could predict, not a hypothesis that yielded itself neatly to observation. You were real in a way his mind struggled to compress into something manageable. Not something to analyze. Not something to solve. Just you...existing in front of him with an immediacy that made everything else feel slightly out of focus.

He cleared his throat softly.

It was small, almost tentative, but it still felt too loud in his own ears.

Your eyes lifted.

There was a pause before you registered him fully.

It wasn’t immediate. First came confusion, like your mind briefly refusing to assign meaning to what you were seeing. Then recognition flickered through, softening that confusion just enough to make it real. And then something sharper settled in behind your gaze, like you were weighing the space between him showing up and him leaving again, and deciding which outcome you were prepared to tolerate.

Spencer swallowed.

“I—hi,” he started, and then immediately looked like he regretted choosing that particular arrangement of syllables. His shoulders shifted minutely, tension tightening and releasing in uneven pulses. “I brought…flowers.”

He lifted them slightly, like he was presenting something far more fragile than it already was. The bouquet tilted just a fraction in his grip, stems aligned with an almost anxious precision, as though even their angle might influence how this moment unfolded.

You blinked at them.

Then at him.

Then back at the flowers, as if your brain was taking a second longer than usual to reconcile intention with reality.

“…Okay,” you said slowly, the word drawn out with cautious neutrality, like you were waiting for the rest of the sentence to arrive and complete whatever meaning this was supposed to have.

Spencer nodded too quickly. “Yes. Right. They’re not— I mean, they’re not symbolic of anything negative.” He paused, corrected himself mid-thought, then continued with increasing urgency, “They’re actually meant to be apologetic.”

That made your brows lift slightly.

His grip on the flowers tightened a fraction before he forced it to relax.

“I missed our dinner,” he said suddenly, words spilling forward now that the threshold had been crossed. “And I know that wasn’t the first time, and I know I said it wouldn’t happen again, and I did try to come back but the case ran longer than expected and I should have called earlier, or at least sent a message, and I understand why you were upset because it’s not really about the dinner itself, it’s about—”

“Spencer.”

The interruption was quiet, but it landed cleanly.

He stopped instantly, like a switch had been flipped somewhere inside him. His mouth closed, the rest of the explanation collapsing unfinished behind his teeth. He looked at you properly then, as if realizing for the first time in the last thirty seconds that he hadn’t actually been speaking to resolve anything, you were supposed to be part of the conversation, not just the endpoint of it.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, simpler this time. “I shouldn’t have missed it. And I shouldn’t have made you feel like it didn’t matter.”

Spencer’s gaze stayed on you, careful now in a different way. Less defensive. More exposed.

Then, almost reluctantly, like the admission had to physically push its way out of him, he added, “And I…asked Morgan for advice, you should know it.”

There was a pause.

A very specific kind of pause, the kind that didn’t belong to silence so much as to realization. Like your brain had to double-check it had processed the sentence correctly before allowing any reaction to form.

Your expression changed first. Not immediately disbelief, but a slow recalibration, like the information had to be tested against reality before it was accepted. Then your brows lifted slightly. Then your mouth twitched, just barely, the smallest betrayal of something trying very hard not to become laughter too soon.

“Wait,” you said slowly. “You asked my brother for advice.”

Spencer nodded once, cautious now. “Yes.”

You laughed.

It started as something small, an exhale of disbelief that slipped out before you could catch it, but it didn’t stay small. It built quickly, breaking through whatever tension had been sitting between you a second ago. You pressed a hand briefly to your mouth, like you were trying to contain it, but it didn’t help. If anything, it made it worse. Your shoulders shook slightly as you looked at him, as if trying to reconcile the very serious man standing in front of you with the information he had just offered up so sincerely.

“You asked Derek,” you repeated between breaths, still laughing. “About us?”

Spencer looked mildly pained now, the way he always did when he realized a decision had aged badly in real time. “In retrospect,” he said carefully, “I recognize that may not have been optimal decision-making.”

That made you laugh harder.

“Oh my— Spencer,” you said, still smiling, still shaking your head like your body couldn’t decide whether to recover or continue. “That is the worst possible person you could’ve gone to.”

“I’m aware,” he said quietly. “He told me I was an idiot.”

That only made you laugh more, and something in his chest loosened at the sound, like a tension he hadn’t realized he’d been holding finally shifted, fraction by fraction, into something less suffocating.

When your laughter finally faded, you looked at him again.

Still hurt, maybe. Still not entirely okay.

But softer now.

“And?” you asked.

Spencer hesitated, then held the flowers out a little more properly this time, like he was committing to the moment instead of escaping it.

“And,” he finished carefully, still holding the flowers out a little too formally, “he was…unfortunately correct about several things.”

You tilted your head, considering him for a second, then scoffed lightly as if the idea itself offended you.

“Derek is never correct.”

That made Spencer pause.

You stepped closer, and before he could recalibrate whatever internal system was trying to predict the next outcome, you leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.

“You should just talk to me,” you said quietly, already pulling back slightly but keeping close enough that he could still feel you there. “We are adults.”

Spencer blinked once.

“I thought you were mad,” he admitted, voice thinner now, confused in that very specific way he got when reality didn’t match the model he had built in his head.

You exhaled through your nose, half amused, half exasperated, and lifted a hand to his face, fingertips brushing lightly along his cheek as if anchoring him back into something real.

“I was,” you said honestly. “Very much.”

That made his shoulders tense slightly, instinctively bracing.

“But I understand your work,” you continued, softer now, “and the shitty hours. I get it, Spencer. I really do.”

His eyes searched yours, still wary, still trying to calculate where the sharp edge was supposed to come in.

Instead, there was none.

Just you.

You thumbed gently along his cheekbone, steadying him in a way no explanation ever had.

“I believe in communication,” you added, like it was the simplest thing in the world.

Something in Spencer finally gave up resisting.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, but this time it didn’t sound like part of a defense. It sounded like the end of one.

You studied him for a second, still close enough that your hand remained on his cheek, thumb resting lightly as if you’d decided that was simply where it belonged now.

“Good,” you said simply.

Spencer blinked. “Good?”

“Yes,” you nodded once, like it was obvious. “Apology accepted.”

That seemed to short-circuit him for a second.

“Just like that?” he asked, cautiously, as if he was checking whether there was a second stage to this he hadn’t been briefed on.

You gave him a look. “Spencer. I already kissed your face. What more do you want from me.”

His ears went slightly pink at that, which only made you smile more.

“I—” he started, then stopped, recalculating. “That’s…fair.”

You finally took the flowers from his hands before he could overthink them into oblivion, your fingers brushing his in the exchange. He visibly tracked the movement like it mattered more than it should have.

“They’re pretty,” you added, glancing at them.

“I chose them based on color theory and—” he began automatically.

“I love that.”

That cut him off mid-explanation, and for a second he looked like he was about to defend himself out of habit. Then he saw your expression and the defense just didn’t arrive.

Instead, he exhaled a small breath that might have been a laugh if he was braver.

“I also panicked slightly,” he admitted.

You nodded seriously. “That I believe.”

A pause settled between you again, but this time it wasn’t heavy. It was comfortable in a way neither of you had quite figured out how to name yet.

Spencer glanced at you, then at the flowers, then back at you like he was still trying to confirm this wasn’t some alternate reality where he had successfully handled emotional confrontation without catastrophe.

You, on the other hand, looked entirely too pleased with yourself.

“You know,” you said, tilting your head slightly, “for someone who overthinks everything, you’re kind of cute when you’re trying not to implode.”

That made him freeze.

“…That is not a clinically recognized category of attractiveness,” he said automatically.

You smiled wider. “Didn’t say it was.”

He opened his mouth, closed it again, then seemed to settle on the only safe response available.

“I don’t know what to do with compliments,” he admitted.

“That’s okay,” you said, stepping a little closer again, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “I can help you.”

His gaze flickered to yours, softer now, less defensive and more present.

“That seems inefficient,” he murmured, but there was no real protest in it.

You lightly bumped your shoulder against his.

“I think you’ll survive.”

A beat.

Then, quieter, almost shy despite everything, he asked, “So…we’re okay?”

You didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, you reached up and gently fixed the collar of his shirt like it had been bothering you all day, smoothing it into place with casual care.

“Yeah,” you said finally. “We’re okay.”

***

When you got home, the apartment was quiet in that familiar, lived-in way: TV murmuring low in the background, something forgettable playing to an audience that wasn’t really watching. The kind of sound that filled space without demanding anything from it. Your brother was on the couch, stretched out like he belonged to it more than the furniture itself, one arm draped over the backrest, the other holding the remote in a loose grip that suggested he’d already stopped caring what was on.

He looked up the moment the door clicked shut.

At first it was automatic, half a greeting forming on his tongue, some casual comment ready to be thrown your way without much thought. But it never made it out. It stalled, visibly, the second his eyes actually focused.

The flowers came first.

Bright, unmistakable, slightly ridiculous in the way only something intentionally chosen could be. Then your expression, too alive, too soft around the edges, like you were still carrying whatever moment had just happened outside the apartment and hadn’t fully put it down yet. And then the smile. That was the real problem. Not just a smile, but one that kept threatening to turn into laughter every time you breathed, like it had gotten stuck halfway between contained and completely out of control.

Derek slowly sat up a little straighter.

Not alarmed exactly. More like recalibrating. Like his brain had just received new data that didn’t match any of the existing categories he had available.

“…Flowers, uh?” he said at last, drawing the words out carefully. He leaned back just slightly, like increasing physical distance might help him understand what he was looking at. “Should I be worried?”

You didn’t even hesitate.

The answer came too fast, too clean.

“Nope.”

A beat of silence followed that, heavy in its simplicity.

Derek stared at you for another second, then the flowers again, then your face, like he was checking for inconsistencies in a story he already didn’t trust. Slowly, very slowly, one corner of his mouth twitched.

“…Mm,” he hummed, leaning back into the couch with the long-suffering patience of a man who had clearly just missed a very important piece of information.

You didn’t stop.

You walked right past him like the conversation had already been filed away, resolved, and archived somewhere in your mind under done, the flowers cradled casually in your arms as you disappeared down the hallway. The door to your room was already half open before Derek could even find the next thought.

The apartment fell quiet again.

Not peaceful. Not normal.

Just…paused.

Derek stayed still for about three seconds, which, for him, was practically an eternity. Then he slowly turned his head toward the hallway like it might physically supply him with missing context if he stared at it hard enough. His brows pulled together, faintly at first, then deeper, like the situation was refusing to align itself into anything logical.

The smile on your face replayed in his head.

Then the flowers.

Then the timing.

Then the very specific, very suspicious absence of any emotional damage whatsoever.

Derek sat forward a fraction.

“…No way,” he muttered, almost to himself.

A pause stretched out, thin and sharp.

His gaze flicked toward the hallway again, then back, like he was assembling a puzzle he absolutely did not want to finish. Slowly, the realization stopped being theoretical. It settled. It clicked into place with the quiet horror of inevitability.

His eyes widened slightly.

Then he leaned back into the couch again, staring up at the ceiling like it had betrayed him personally and without warning.

There was a beat of silence.

Then, with absolute conviction—

The first time it happened, Daryl thought maybe he was sick.

You’d only joined the group a few days earlier.

Quiet thing.

Soft-spoken. Polite. Always trying to help with chores before anyone asked.

The kind of person who apologized when other people bumped into you.

Daryl noticed you mostly because you kept sneaking food to Sophia when the adults weren’t looking.

One evening near the campfire, he watched you split your last granola bar in half because Carl looked hungry.

You didn’t even hesitate.

Just handed it over with a tiny smile like it was nothing.

Something strange happened in Daryl’s chest then.

Not bad strange.

Just…

Warm.

Uncomfortable.

He ignored it immediately.

Then came the incident with the frog.

Daryl was cleaning a rabbit near the edge of camp when he heard your voice nearby.

Very serious.

Very soft.

“You are very handsome.”

Daryl frowned.

Who the hell were you talking to?

Then he glanced over.

You crouched in the grass staring solemnly at a tiny green frog perched on a rock.

The frog blinked.

You blinked back.

“I hope you know that,” you informed it gently.

Silence.

Then the frog jumped directly onto your shoe.

You gasped like you’d just been chosen by royalty.

“Oh my God.”

Daryl’s brain stopped functioning immediately.

Just—

Gone.

Entirely.

Because your whole face lit up so brightly it physically hurt to look at.

Pure excitement. Pure softness.

Cute.

Cute enough that Daryl forgot he was holding a knife.

The knife slipped.

“Shit.”

You startled violently and looked over.

“Oh no, are you okay?”

Daryl stared at you.

You stared back.

The frog remained on your shoe.

Then slowly, heat crawled up Daryl’s neck for absolutely no reason at all.

“…M’fine.”

You smiled in relief.

Daryl nearly dropped the knife again.

What the fuck was wrong with him?

After that, it kept happening.

Constantly.

In increasingly ridiculous ways.

You laughed at one of Glenn’s terrible jokes?

Daryl forgot what he was saying mid-sentence.

You tucked your knees to your chest while sitting by the fire looking sleepy?

His brain buffered like a broken computer.

You absentmindedly hummed while hanging laundry?

Death.

Immediate death.

The worst part?

Other people noticed.

Mostly because Daryl Dixon, renowned antisocial menace, had apparently developed the survival instincts of a concussed raccoon whenever you were nearby.

“Hey Daryl,” Glenn said one afternoon, visibly trying not to laugh, “you know you’ve been holding that empty water jug for like five minutes, right?”

Daryl looked down.

Shit.

You stood twenty feet away talking to Carol.

Smiling.

That explained nothing.

“Ain’t your business.”

Glenn grinned.

“Oh, it absolutely is.”

Daryl scowled harder.

Unfortunately, the scowling didn’t really work anymore because the second you glanced over and smiled at him—

His entire expression softened automatically.

Glenn looked delighted.

“Oh my God.”

Daryl looked horrified.

The thing was, you weren’t trying to be cute.

That would’ve been easier.

If you were flirting or showing off or acting intentionally charming, Daryl could’ve dealt with that.

Probably.

But no.

You just existed like that naturally.

Which meant Daryl got ambushed constantly.

Like the morning he woke up early and found you asleep beside the dying campfire wrapped in one of Carol’s blankets.

Your cheek squished against your folded arms. Hair a mess. Tiny sleepy frown on your face.

Daryl stopped walking entirely.

His chest did something deeply alarming.

Then you shifted in your sleep and made this tiny soft noise.

Daryl’s soul left his body.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered to himself.

“What?”

He jumped six fucking feet.

Rick stood nearby holding coffee and looking concerned.

Daryl pointed vaguely at you.

Rick blinked once.

“…She’s sleeping.”

“I got eyes.”

“Then what’s the issue?”

Daryl struggled violently to explain something he didn’t understand himself.

“She’s just…”

Rick waited.

Daryl gestured helplessly.

“…Like that.”

Rick stared at him for a long moment.

Then slowly:

“You have got to be kidding me.”

You liked Daryl immediately.

Not in a dramatic way at first.

Just quietly.

Because beneath the gruffness and the constant glaring, Daryl was kind in strange little ways.

He always walked closest to the walkers during runs. Always gave food to the kids first. Always noticed when somebody needed help before they asked.

And he never made you feel stupid for being shy.

Other people sometimes pushed.

“Speak up.” “You’re too quiet.” “You don’t gotta be nervous.”

Daryl never did.

If anything, he seemed to understand instinctively when you needed space.

You appreciated that more than he realized.

Though you did notice something odd eventually.

Daryl acted… weird around you.

Not bad weird.

Just—

Weird.

You’d catch him staring sometimes before he abruptly looked away.

Sometimes he’d walk directly into things while talking to you.

Once, you handed him a canteen and he dropped it immediately after your fingers brushed.

You honestly thought maybe he disliked you at first.

Until Carol nearly laughed herself unconscious after witnessing one interaction.

You’d offered Daryl part of your apple during lunch.

He stared at you for three full seconds before taking it like you’d handed him a live grenade.

Then you smiled.

And Daryl walked directly into a support beam afterward.

Carol had to physically leave the room.

The problem got significantly worse once Daryl started developing feelings.

Because suddenly every tiny thing you did became catastrophic.

You smiled at him across camp?

His stomach flipped.

You touched his arm while thanking him for something?

Cardiac arrest.

You laughed softly at one of his sarcastic comments?

Daryl immediately forgot how human conversation worked.

One afternoon, you sat beside him while he repaired arrows.

Quiet comfortable silence settled between you.

Then after a while, you leaned slightly against his shoulder absentmindedly while reading a book.

Daryl stopped breathing.

Actually stopped.

You noticed after a second.

“…Daryl?”

No response.

“Are you okay?”

He swallowed hard.

“…Yeah.”

You tilted your head slightly.

“You seem tense.”

Tense.

Right.

Because a pretty girl casually using him as a pillow was definitely a normal experience he handled well.

Daryl looked straight ahead rigidly.

“M’fine.”

You hummed softly and kept reading.

Then after a moment, you smiled to yourself.

Cute, you thought.

Daryl nearly died because of the smile he couldn’t even see properly.

Everyone else suffered alongside him.

Mostly because Daryl became incredibly stupid whenever you were involved.

“You volunteered for laundry duty?” Maggie asked suspiciously.

Daryl scowled.

“So?”

“You hate laundry.”

Daryl glanced toward where you stood hanging clothes nearby.

“…Ain’t that bad.”

Maggie looked at Glenn slowly.

“Wow. He’s gone.”

Or:

“Why are you helping organize the pantry?”

Daryl blinked.

You stood inside the pantry with Beth.

“Oh.”

Beth snorted.

“Hopeless.”

Even Carl noticed eventually.

“You act weird around her.”

Daryl looked offended.

“Do not.”

“You smiled.”

“…Shut up.”

The breaking point came because of a cat.

A tiny orange cat wandered into camp one afternoon during watch duty.

You spotted it first.

Your entire face transformed instantly.

“Oh my God.”

Daryl, who had been sharpening a knife nearby, looked over automatically.

Big mistake.

Because there you were kneeling in the dirt holding this scruffy little cat against your chest while it purred loudly.

Your smile was soft and delighted. Your eyes bright. The cat pressed its face against your chin.

Daryl’s brain completely shut down.

Blue screen.

System failure.

Gone.

“Daryl?”

He blinked slowly.

You looked up at him with the cat still in your arms.

“Look how cute she is.”

Daryl stared.

At you.

Not the cat.

You noticed eventually.

And slowly your cheeks pinked slightly.

“…What?”

Daryl opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

Because the truth was horrifying.

The truth was that you looked so cute holding that cat that something deep inside him genuinely malfunctioned.

“Yer…” he started.

Then stopped.

You waited.

Daryl rubbed aggressively at his face.

“Jesus.”

You blinked in confusion.

“Did I do something?”

“No.”

Too fast.

Too intense.

You startled slightly.

Daryl immediately looked horrified with himself.

“Not bad,” he muttered quickly. “Didn’t mean— shit.”

The cat meowed loudly.

Somewhere behind Daryl, Glenn quietly whispered:

“Oh, this is painful.”

Daryl ignored him.

Mostly because he was too busy staring at you.

Still holding the cat. Still looking confused and shy and unbearably cute.

Then, to make things infinitely worse, you smiled nervously.

Tiny little thing.

Soft.

And Daryl blurted:

“Yer too cute.”

Silence.

Complete silence.

Glenn made a choking sound behind him.

Your eyes widened hugely.

Daryl froze solid.

Oh no.

Oh no no no.

Because he had not meant to say that out loud.

You stared at him.

He stared back looking deeply alarmed.

Then your face went bright red.

“…What?”

Daryl wanted the earth to swallow him whole.

“You heard me.”

His voice sounded rough now.

Embarrassed.

Glenn looked one second away from exploding.

You still held the cat frozen against your chest.

“I’m cute?”

Daryl barked out one short disbelieving laugh.

“Sweetheart, ya got no idea.”

The endearment slipped out naturally.

And somehow that made your expression soften instead of embarrass harder.

Daryl swallowed hard.

Then admitted quietly:

“Think m’losin’ my damn mind over it actually.”

Your heart skipped violently.

Because Daryl looked genuinely distressed.

Like finding you adorable was a legitimate medical emergency.

You stepped closer slowly.

The cat jumped down and wandered away immediately ignored by both of you now.

“Daryl,” you said softly, “you know I like you too, right?”

His entire face went blank.

“…What?”

You smiled shyly.

“I thought maybe you knew.”

Daryl stared at you for a long moment.

Then looked genuinely offended.

“How the hell would I know that?”

“I stare at you constantly.”

“That ain’t evidence!”

You laughed softly.

Daryl’s brain short-circuited again immediately.

“There!” he pointed accusingly. “That! That thing ya do!”

“What thing?”

“Exist!”

You burst into startled laughter.

And Daryl—

God.

Daryl looked at you like you’d hung the moon.

Then suddenly he was laughing too.

Half embarrassed. Half relieved.

“You are deeply weird,” you informed him fondly.

“Yeah,” he muttered, stepping closer. “Probably yer fault.”

Then finally—

Finally—

He kissed you.