nightclocklibrary

Back then, he thought you were the prettiest girl he’d ever seen — not in the obvious way, but in the way that made something stir in his chest before he could name it. Your glasses framed your face in a way that made your eyes look even sharper, and your hair was pulled back into a sleek ponytail that swayed with every purposeful step. And those trousers? God help him. They clung to you like a second skin, and even though he hadn’t meant to stare, you didn’t give him much choice when you practically jogged down the street like a woman with a world to fix.

Jake was embarrassed to admit he came back to that same coffee shop every single day that week, hoping to see you again — always ordering the same thing, always pretending it was a coincidence. He didn’t.

Just when he was about to give up and chalk you up as one of life’s fleeting moments, there you were. Standing in line on a Thursday morning, hair down this time and wearing another pair of slacks that sent his brain short-circuiting all over again. You were scrolling through your phone, not paying him any mind — not until he stepped into your line of sight with that easy, practiced grin and said, “Hey, I think fate’s trying to give me a second chance.”

You raised a brow at him. “To do what?”

He shrugged. “To ask for your number before you outrun me again.”

And for the first time that week, you smiled.

He tried to impress you with everything he had — the full Seresin charm, that devilish grin, and of course, his shiny, high-flying Navy career. Fighter jets, call signs, a few well-placed smirks. He figured he had you hooked by the time the drinks hit the table. But you? You were the one who blew his damn socks off. Cool as anything, you mentioned — almost shyly — that you were an FBI agent. Supervisory Special Agent for the Behavioral Analysis Unit. Twenty-six years old and finishing your third doctorate. He almost choked on his beer. You said it like it was no big deal, as if anyone could waltz into Quantico at twenty-two years old and profile serial killers for a living. And you blushed when he stared at you like you hung the damn moon.

You talked for hours. About books you loved. About cases you couldn’t talk about, but still carried weight in your voice. About what it felt like to walk into a room and know things no one else could. And Jake, in return, told you about flying — the terrifying beauty of it, the stillness above the clouds, the kind of silence that lets you hear your own heartbeat. He’d never opened up like that with anyone before, but somehow with you, it wasn’t difficult. It felt natural. Easy.

You asked smart questions. He made you laugh. And when the sun dipped low behind the trees and drinks turned to dinner, he walked you to your car and told you he really hoped you’d let him see you again.

You did.

And after that, everything shifted. The dates kept coming — restaurants, long drives, lazy evenings in your apartment with Chinese takeout and documentaries playing in the background while you rattled off facts that he pretended not to be wildly impressed by. You never made him feel like less — not for not being academic, not for only having one degree, not for the way he sometimes couldn’t find the words for how he felt. You just… saw him. All of him. And he fell fast.

He liked how you pushed your glasses up when you were concentrating. How you kept stacks of books everywhere — bedside, kitchen counter, even the bathroom. He liked that you blushed when he complimented you, even though you could walk into the BAU and face monsters without flinching.

Jake never meant to fall in love. Especially not while he was stationed in a place that wasn’t meant to be permanent. But then again, he never expected someone like you — someone whose heart was as terrifyingly big as your brain.

It got serious fast. Not because either of you pushed it, but because the connection was undeniable. Solid. You were the calm to his storm, the reason he didn’t feel like he had to constantly prove himself. And he became your safe place, the one person who didn’t look at you like you were a machine made to solve puzzles — he saw the person behind the profile. The soft girl who lit up when he made her pancakes, who fell asleep with a book on her chest, who told him she trusted him before she even realized she had.

And when the bad days came — the cases that left you quieter than usual, the nights when your hands trembled after the phone rang — he didn’t ask for details. He just held you, steady and silent, until you came back to him.

Because Jake Seresin, the man who’d flown through combat zones and trained for worst-case scenarios, had never been more sure of anything than he was of you.

Things were good. So good.

The kind of good Jake hadn’t believed in before you — quiet mornings with your legs tangled in his, the warmth of your laughter echoing through the kitchen, your voice humming from the shower while he shaved. He used to think permanence was a trap, a thing you tolerated. But with you, it was a gift. Something sacred. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been that happy. Maybe he never had been.

You still worked cases, still left on sudden flights, still called him from hotel rooms at 2 a.m. with sleepy murmurs and updates about how close your team was to catching another monster. He hated the danger, hated the way you shouldered the worst of humanity and still came home with softness in your eyes. But he never said a word. You were brilliant. Brave. Made of steel and light. And he wasn’t going to be the reason you dimmed.

Until the day the phone rang, and everything changed.

It was a Tuesday. He remembered because he had just come back from base and had stopped by the market to pick up your favorite tea — the one with the ridiculous packaging and citrusy notes you claimed helped you sleep after a hard case. His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he answered without checking. The voice on the other end froze the blood in his veins.

“Jake. It’s JJ. Something’s happened.”

His chest tightened. “What do you mean?”

“Things went sideways on a case. Local police compromised the perimeter. The unsub — he took her.”

The world tilted.

He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak. He barely remembered the rest of the call, only the sound of JJ’s voice — controlled, but heavy with guilt and urgency. The rest was a blur. The market aisles faded, the colors dimmed, his legs moved on instinct. He didn’t remember getting in the car. Didn’t remember driving. Just the rage, the helplessness burning under his skin. The awful weight of knowing the woman he loved — his person — had been taken, and there was nothing he could do.

Hours passed in slow motion. The team worked the case. He wasn’t allowed to be part of it. He wasn’t FBI, wasn’t trained for this kind of war. He was trained to fight, to act — not to wait by a phone, useless.

And then, finally — movement. They found the unsub. A cabin in the woods, middle of nowhere. The team breached, and Jake was already in the car before anyone gave him permission.

He got there right as they were pulling you out.

You stumbled down the front steps of the cabin, leaning heavily on Hotch, your face pale, blood smeared down your arm. Your shirt was torn. There were bruises blooming across your neck, cuts along your hands and collarbone, and your eyes — God, your eyes. Distant. Frightened. Not you.

Jake didn’t breathe. Couldn’t. He froze there in the clearing, heart clawing at his ribs as you blinked at the sunlight like you didn’t even know what day it was. You were barely standing.

When you finally looked up and saw him, your knees buckled.

He caught you before you hit the ground, dropping with you into the dirt as your arms trembled around his neck. You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to. He could feel it — the pain, the fear, the way you clung to him like he was the only real thing left in the world.

And in that moment, Jake Seresin — the man who never broke under pressure, never flinched in a cockpit — cracked straight down the middle.

He didn’t cry. He couldn’t. But something inside him fractured, and it never quite healed the same.

The weeks that followed were slow and brutal.

You didn’t go back to work. Not right away. Not at all, eventually.

The Bureau offered you time, space, therapy, support — but even stepping into the field office again made your skin crawl. The air felt heavier. The walls too close. And the faces — all so kind, all so understanding — reminded you of how it felt to be on the other side of the case. To be the victim. The file.

Jake never once rushed you. Not when you couldn’t sleep, not when the night terrors made you bolt upright gasping for air. He would just sit with you, arms wrapped around your trembling shoulders, whispering soft reassurances into your hair while your fingers clutched the fabric of his shirt like a lifeline.

You stopped wearing your badge. Stopped carrying your gun. Jake didn’t say anything when you quietly tucked it into the drawer one night and never looked at it again. He just kissed your temple and pulled you closer.

The decision to leave the FBI wasn’t sudden — it was slow, like mourning something you once loved. A part of you that had always felt unshakable suddenly… didn’t fit anymore. The BAU was home once. Now it felt like a cage.

Jake never tried to talk you out of it.

He listened — really listened — when you told him you couldn’t keep doing it. That something in you had changed. That you couldn’t stomach another crime scene, another case that mirrored your own trauma. That you didn’t want to spend the rest of your life surviving your own job.

“I’m done,” you whispered one night, curled into his chest on the couch, the television flickering softly in the background. “I can’t go back, Jake. Not even if I wanted to.”

He didn’t hesitate. “Then don’t.”

You blinked up at him. “It’s not that simple.”

“It is,” he said, brushing his fingers through your hair. “You gave enough. You don’t owe that job your soul.”

And he meant it.

Within a month, he’d put in a transfer request. Florida. A clean slate. Somewhere warm, somewhere far from Quantico, somewhere you could finally breathe again. He didn't even ask if you wanted to come — he knew you wouldn't want him to leave without you. Just like you knew he'd never go if you stayed.

You found a small apartment near the beach. Quiet. Sunlight through the windows in the morning. Jake would make coffee while you read the paper with your feet in his lap. It wasn’t flashy, but it was yours. And for the first time in a long time, peace didn’t feel like a distant memory — it felt possible.

Eventually, you started doing research again — privately contracted, flexible hours, all on your terms. It wasn’t field work, but it let you keep your mind sharp. It gave you purpose without reopening old wounds. You let your team — Spencer, Derek, Penelope, the rest of them — stay close. They still called, still checked in. And you still loved them. But the life you’d built with Jake… this was something new. Something whole.

You’d survived the worst. And somehow, when the dust finally settled, he was still right there — steady, gentle, and endlessly proud of you.

Three years.

It had been three years since the worst day of your lives, and tonight — watching you laugh across a bar table in San Diego, lit by string lights and nursing a cherry soda with lime — it felt like the storm had finally passed.

The Hard Deck was buzzing. Music low, the crash of the waves just outside the open doors, and the unmistakable sound of pilots trying to out-charm one another over pool and beer. You were tucked neatly between Natasha and Bob, both hanging on to a story you were telling with shy amusement. Something about the physics of a sonic boom. Or maybe how memory consolidation works during REM sleep. Jake couldn’t quite hear — he was too distracted watching the way your nose scrunched when you got excited.

He leaned against the bar beside Coyote and grinned into his beer.

“You’re staring again,” Javy muttered, nudging him with an elbow.

Jake didn’t even try to deny it. “Can you blame me?”

Across the bar, Fanboy burst into laughter. “Wait, wait — Doc,” he said, catching his breath and pointing at you, “are you seriously telling me you taught yourself Latin for fun?”

You blushed instantly, ducking your head. “I didn’t teach myself. I… dabbled.”

“Dabbled,” Phoenix repeated, shooting Jake a deadpan look. “Okay, Casanova, so when exactly did you trap a shy little genius in your pilot net, and how much bribery was involved?”

Jake chuckled, sliding his beer down on the counter. “Hey, I didn’t trap her. She saw the dimples, and that was it.”

“Must’ve been the dimples,” Bob said seriously, adjusting his glasses. “Or the blinding humility.”

They all laughed, and you rolled your eyes affectionately before giving Jake a smile — one of those soft, private ones that still made his chest ache a little. No one at the table knew the weight behind that look. No one knew what it meant to be here, whole and laughing, after everything you’d been through.

To them, you were you — Jake’s brilliant, bookish partner with the shy smile and the scarily fast brain. They knew you worked in research now. They knew you freelanced for universities, occasionally gave talks at conferences. They knew you could solve a crossword in two minutes flat and had a secret obsession with crime podcasts.

But they didn’t know the other things.

They didn’t know about the badge in the drawer. The gun you hadn’t touched in years. The BAU, the cases, the nightmares. They didn’t know what Jake had seen when he carried you out of that forest cabin — or how hard you’d fought to reclaim the light in your voice again.

And you liked it that way. You liked that, to them, you were just you.

Not a profile. Not a headline. Not a survivor.

Just you.

And Jake? He liked it too. He liked seeing you safe, happy, leaning into a life that didn’t ask you to bleed for it.

Still, every now and then — like tonight — he would catch you watching the room a second longer than necessary. Clocking exits. Reading posture. Tracking movement the way only someone trained to do so would. And he’d know the past wasn’t gone. Just quieter now. Sleeping beneath the surface.

Later that night, the world was quieter.

The bar’s laughter and music had been traded for the soft hum of your apartment’s old ceiling fan, the rhythmic whisper of waves in the distance, and the occasional creak of wood beneath Jake’s bare feet as he padded into the kitchen.

You were curled up on the couch, knees tucked beneath you, one of your oversized sweatshirts slipping off your shoulder. A half-read book rested on your stomach, your glasses tilted slightly as you blinked sleepily toward him. Jake returned with two mugs — tea for you, decaf for him — and handed yours over with that lopsided smile you’d never been able to resist.

“You’re officially two yawns away from drooling on that chapter,” he said, settling in beside you and slinging an arm around your shoulder.

“I was just resting my eyes,” you mumbled.

He snorted. “Sure you were, Doc.”

You leaned into him, the scent of clean cotton and faint sandalwood grounding you instantly. His thumb traced slow circles on your arm. For a while, neither of you spoke.

Then Jake said it, casually but carefully, “Hey. Don’t forget your session next week.”

You nodded against him, voice quiet. “I won’t.”

“You’ve been doing good,” he added softly. “Even with everything.”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, your fingers toyed with the hem of his shirt, grounding yourself in the fabric — in him.

“I still have those dreams,” you admitted.

Jake nodded. “I know.”

“But they don’t control me anymore.”

He kissed your temple. “Because you’re the strongest person I’ve ever met.”

You smiled faintly, eyes fluttering shut as his hand found yours and threaded your fingers together.

You didn’t know what tomorrow would bring. But tonight, you were home.

The morning was still.

The kind of still that only settled in when Jake was on base — when the apartment sighed in his absence and sunlight stretched through the windows without interruption. You had a mug of tea cooling on the counter and your laptop open in front of you, filled with half-written notes for a research proposal you were supposed to finish by the end of the week.

You were wearing one of Jake’s old Navy shirts, sleeves pushed up, hair still damp from your shower, glasses sliding down your nose. You felt normal. Safe. Steady.

And then your phone rang.

Not your work line. Not a research contact.

Jennifer Jareau.

Your blood ran cold.

You didn’t answer at first. Just stared at the name until the call went to voicemail.

It rang again, five seconds later.

You picked up on the third ring. “JJ?”

“Hey,” she said softly. “I’m sorry to call like this. I know it’s been a long time.”

You swallowed, already bracing. “What’s going on?”

There was a pause, weighted and heavy.

“We’ve got a case. San Diego. And the unsub’s MO… it’s almost identical to him.”

Your hand tightened around the edge of the counter. “JJ—”

“I know. I know you’re not active anymore. I wouldn’t ask unless we were sure. But we pulled old files, reviewed your case. This guy’s escalation pattern, the signatures—” she exhaled. “It’s too close. We don’t know if it’s him or a copycat, but—”

“No.” You said it before you could think. Before fear could disguise itself as bravery. “I can’t, JJ.”

“Sweetheart—”

“I can’t,” you repeated, firmer this time. “I haven’t stepped back into that world in three years. I’m not that person anymore. I’m not… I can’t go back.”

There was silence on the other end. And then, quietly, “I understand. I really do. Just… if you change your mind, we’ll be here.”

You ended the call without saying goodbye.

For a long while, you just stood there. Staring at the mug. At your notes. At the sunlight.

Then you closed your laptop, set the tea aside, and waited for Jake.

He came home just after five.

You were on the couch, legs curled under you, blanket tugged tight around your shoulders even though it wasn’t cold. The second he walked in, you looked up, and something in your face made him pause.

He crossed the room in three long strides, crouched in front of you, hands gentle on your knees. “Hey. What happened?”

You handed him your phone. The screen still showed JJ’s missed call.

“She wants me to consult on a case,” you said, voice quiet. “It’s here. In San Diego.”

Jake didn’t ask who the case was about. He knew. He saw it in your eyes — that far-off flicker of something old and sharp you tried so hard to bury.

“She said the unsub’s MO is almost identical.”

Jake’s jaw tensed. “You told her no, right?”

You nodded. “Yeah. I did.”

Relief sagged his shoulders, but not completely. “Good. You don’t owe them that, baby. You survived once. That should’ve been enough.”

“I know.” You reached for his hand and threaded your fingers through his. “It just… shook me.”

Jake lifted your joined hands to his lips and kissed your knuckles. “I’ve got you,” he murmured. “You’re not going back there. Not unless you decide to. No guilt. No pressure.”

You nodded again, leaning forward to rest your forehead against his. “Thank you.”

“Always.”

The Hard Deck was buzzing in the late afternoon haze — pool balls cracking, old rock humming through the speakers, and the smell of sea air drifting in from the open doors. The Daggers were in their usual spot near the windows, spread out around a table littered with fries, drinks, and the kind of stories that kept getting taller with every telling.

You sat beside Jake, half-listening to Fanboy retell another story about how he "heroically" saved Payback from a malfunctioning landing gear. Jake, as always, muttered corrections under his breath just for you, and you bit back a smile as you leaned into his shoulder.

The front door opened with a soft chime.

Jake glanced toward the entrance — and stilled.

He knew them instantly.

Emily Prentiss and Derek Morgan. Not in suits, but unmistakably federal. There was a certain tension in their posture, a focus in the way they scanned the bar. The last time Jake had seen either of them, it had been in a hospital hallway. He hadn’t forgotten.

He felt your body react a split second later — a stillness in your limbs, like prey hearing a branch crack in the woods. Your hand tensed where it rested on your thigh. Your breath hitched just slightly. Jake reached under the table, brushing his fingers against yours. You didn’t look at him, but your fingers curled around his.

“They’re not here for me,” you whispered, barely audible.

“You sure?”

“No.”

The two agents didn’t head toward you. They didn’t even seem to notice you — not yet. They moved like they were used to this, splitting up without a word, blending in with the crowd.

Jake watched carefully as Derek veered toward the pool tables and Emily headed for the regulars near the bar, both of them asking quiet questions with easy smiles and notepads tucked discreetly in their back pockets.

“Uh…” Coyote squinted after them. “Are those feds?”

“Definitely,” Jake murmured.

“Why are feds here?” Phoenix asked, brows lifted.

Fanboy leaned back in his chair. “Maybe someone finally reported how much you cheat at darts.”

Jake didn’t laugh. He was still watching them. Derek made his way over, casual as ever, flashing his badge just briefly to the group.

“Sorry to bother you all — Derek Morgan, FBI. We’re working a case in the area. Just trying to get a sense of the neighborhood.”

“Did we do something?” Bob asked, half-joking, half-worried.

Derek chuckled. “Nah, nothing like that. Just asking around. We’ve had a string of abductions not far from here — young women, mid-twenties, approached late at night. Pattern’s tight enough we think it might be the same guy.”

“Jesus,” Payback muttered.

Derek’s eyes scanned the group. “You all stationed nearby?”

“North Island,” Coyote said. “We’re pilots.”

“Got it. Any of you regulars here?”

“Three times a week, minimum,” Fanboy said proudly.

“Good. Just keep an eye out. Someone acting out of place, someone who gives you a bad feeling — it might be something.” Derek gave a faint, reassuring smile. “If you remember anything, let the bartender know. She's got our contact info.”

Phoenix leaned forward. “Wait — what department did you say you were from?”

“BAU,” Derek said. “Behavioral Analysis Unit.”

“Is that like… psych stuff?”

“Kind of,” Emily added as she joined them. “We analyze crime scenes and build profiles based on behavior. Try to predict who we’re looking for before they hurt anyone else.”

Fanboy blinked. “So you’re… like crime psychics.”

Jake sighed. “No, Mickey. They’re profilers.”

You didn’t speak.

Emily’s eyes swept over the table then — calm, unreadable — and landed briefly on you.

She didn’t react. Just gave the smallest nod. Barely perceptible.

Jake felt you tense again.

The agents thanked the group and moved on to the next table, just as quickly as they’d arrived.

Silence settled for a beat.

Phoenix looked around. “Okay, but real talk — Doc, you okay?”

You managed a tiny smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Yeah. Just didn’t expect to see the FBI during happy hour.”

Jake was still watching the agents. Still holding your hand.

Still wondering exactly how long it would be before they came back — and what they’d ask when they did.

The apartment was quiet.

It was late — later than you meant to be awake — but sleep hadn’t come easy since the agents showed up at the Hard Deck. You’d curled up on the couch with a blanket, the TV murmuring in the background while the muted glow from the screen flickered across the living room.

You weren’t really watching.

Not until the news anchor said the words.

“The body of a young woman was discovered early this morning in a wooded area east of San Diego. Authorities have not confirmed whether this case is linked to a string of similar attacks, but sources suggest the victim shares key physical characteristics with those in previous cases…”

You sat up straight, blood draining from your face.

The screen changed to a stock image of a taped-off forest scene. Dim, impersonal. Detached.

But it wasn’t impersonal to you.

Your hair color. Mid-twenties. Slender. Last seen leaving a bar alone.

She could’ve been you.

She was you — in every way that mattered.

Your hands started to shake. You pressed them into your thighs to stop it. A slow, sick heat crept up your spine, curling behind your ribs. Not fear. Not exactly. Something heavier. Older.

Guilt.

She didn’t get out.

You did.

You stood up, moved through the apartment like a ghost. Jake’s jacket was slung over the back of the kitchen chair, his boots still by the door. He wasn’t home yet — still on base, running late from whatever flight debrief got dragged out past midnight.

Your phone was already in your hand.

You didn’t even remember picking it up.

You pulled up JJ’s contact. Your finger hovered above call.

The key turned in the door.

You froze.

Jake stepped in, looking exhausted but warm. His eyes landed on you immediately — the glow from the TV casting you in soft, pale light.

“Hey, baby,” he said gently, tugging off his boots. “Why’re you up? It’s late.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just looked at him.

He noticed the tension in your shoulders instantly. “What happened?”

You turned the TV down, not off. The news replayed silently behind you. Same words. Same picture of a girl who could’ve been you.

“They found another body,” you said softly. “In the woods.”

Jake’s expression shifted. Eyes sharp. Back straight.

“She looked like me,” you added.

He crossed the room, slow but firm, his hands cupping your elbows as he looked you over. “You okay?”

You nodded. But it wasn’t true. “I need to help.”

Jake stilled. “No.”

“Jake—”

“No.” He let go of your arms, stepping back, jaw clenched. “You don’t need to. You said no. You said you were done.”

“I didn’t know how close it was,” you snapped, louder than you meant. “She could’ve been me.”

“And that’s exactly why you shouldn’t go anywhere near it.”

You stared at him. “I can’t just sit here and do nothing.”

“You didn’t sit here. You built a new life. You survived.”

“And what if the next girl doesn’t?”

That stopped him.

You stepped closer, voice trembling now. “I can help them, Jake. I know how this guy thinks. I lived it. If they’re asking for me, it’s because they’re running out of time.”

Jake ran a hand down his face. “You think I don’t know that?”

His voice cracked.

“You think I don’t wake up every damn day and remember what it was like when I thought I’d lost you? You want to walk back into that world? What if you don’t come out this time?”

You were quiet for a moment.

Then: “I already didn’t come out the same.”

Jake flinched.

You swallowed hard. “But this is who I am, Jake. It always was. And if I don’t do something — if I stay silent while more girls die — I don’t know if I can live with that.”

He looked at you like he wanted to argue. Like he needed to.

But he didn’t.

He just stepped back and turned away.

The space between you stretched with silence.

The bedroom was quiet.

No music. No podcast humming from the bathroom. Just the steady sounds of two people moving through a silence too big to fill with small talk. The tension hadn’t boiled over into anger — not really — but it lingered like steam on the mirror. Heavy. Unresolved.

You brushed your teeth. Jake stripped off his clothes until he was only in his underwear. Neither of you spoke.

He pulled back the sheets while you tied your hair up, eyes flicking toward you once, then away. You both slid into bed like you always did — his side, your side, the familiarity of it muscle memory by now — but the usual warmth was slower to settle.

You lay on your back. Eyes on the ceiling. The cool fabric of the pillowcase beneath your cheek.

Then Jake shifted beside you, just enough to reach for you. His arm curled around your waist, tugging you gently toward him until your cheek rested against his naked chest and your hand settled over his heart.

It was the sound of it — steady, alive — that finally let your body ease.

He sighed, long and quiet. His voice was rough around the edges when he finally spoke.

“I just got you back.”

You didn’t answer. Not yet.

Jake’s fingers moved in slow circles on your lower back. “I watched them carry you out of that cabin, and I didn’t think I’d ever see you breathe again. You were half-conscious and bleeding, and I remember thinking, God, please — I’ll give anything if she just comes back to me.”

You closed your eyes, curling into him tighter.

“I know you’re strong. I know you’re more capable than anyone I’ve ever met,” he continued, voice low. “And I know your old team wouldn’t be asking unless they really thought you could make a difference.”

He paused.

“But I also know how much it broke you. How long it took to feel safe again. How many nights I held you while you couldn’t even speak.”

Your throat ached.

He tilted his head just slightly, pressing his lips to the top of yours.

“I’m not trying to hold you back,” he said quietly. “I’m just… terrified. That the second you walk into that case, you’ll forget how far you’ve come. That you’ll carry it all again. Alone.”

“I won’t,” you whispered.

Jake nodded. “I believe you. I do.”

His hand found yours under the blanket and squeezed it gently.

“If you do this, I’ll support you,” he said. “Completely. But I need you to promise me one thing.”

You looked up at him, eyes soft in the dark.

“Keep me in the loop,” he said. “Not just on the case. On you. Don’t shut me out. Don’t pretend to be okay if you’re not. I can’t lose you again. Not in any way.”

“I promise.”

The words came out hoarse, but real.

You rested your head back on his chest, listening to the rhythm of his heartbeat, steady beneath your ear. And when his arms wrapped around you again, tighter this time, you knew he meant every word.

The police station smelled like old coffee and fluorescent lights.

It was early, the morning fog still clinging to the coastline as you pushed through the front doors, the weight of a world you hadn’t touched in three years settling instantly onto your shoulders.

You didn’t wear your old badge. No holster. No Kevlar vest or Bureau ID clipped to your waistband. Just slacks, a blouse, your favorite trench coat, and a plain manila folder clutched tightly in your hand — full of notes you’d stayed up rereading until two a.m.

The moment you walked in, you spotted them.

The BAU.

Hotch stood near the whiteboard, arms crossed, jaw tight as ever — the same unreadable expression you remembered so well. JJ was flipping through a file at the table. Emily leaned against the back wall, sipping her coffee, and Spencer sat half-curled in a desk chair, mumbling something to himself about wound trajectories while tapping a pen against his knee. Rossi and Derek were mid-discussion over the case board, which was already cluttered with photographs, maps, and victim profiles.

No one noticed you at first.

And then JJ looked up.

Her face softened instantly. “You came.”

Everyone turned.

There was no dramatic rush, no gasps or tears — just a long, heavy moment where everyone looked at you like you were both the past and the answer to a question they hadn’t been able to solve on their own.

Spencer stood up first. “You look—”

“Different?” you offered, half smiling.

He shook his head. “Just… stronger.”

You crossed the room slowly, letting yourself breathe a little as you exchanged hugs — tight ones from JJ and Emily, a warm one-armed clasp from Hotch that still somehow said more than words. Rossi didn’t hug you, just rested a hand on your shoulder, his eyes full of something like pride. Derek waited last, pulling you into a long, quiet embrace.

“You sure about this?” he asked against your temple.

“No,” you said honestly.

He pulled back, smiled. “Good. Means you’re smart.”

Hotch nodded toward the board. “We’ll get right to it. You remember the original details?”

“Yeah. Five victims. All local. All grabbed within a few blocks of where they were last seen, usually alone. Strangled. Some bruising consistent with being restrained. Age range: 23 to 27. All the same hair color.”

Spencer blinked. “You already read the files?”

“Skimmed. Jake printed them out for me last night.”

JJ looked a little surprised. “Jake’s okay with you helping?”

“No,” you said softly. “But he’s supporting me anyway.”

That quieted the room a beat.

Rossi gestured toward a chair. “We’ve already established behavioral patterns — consistent escalation, no clear stressor event. But the most recent victim was dumped. Which is a first.”

You nodded. “He didn’t take pride in his disposal before. That could mean he’s getting sloppy, or he wants her found.”

“Or he’s trying to send a message,” Emily added.

“Could be,” you said. “Or… he’s copying someone.”

The air stilled.

JJ exhaled slowly. “You think it’s him.”

“I don’t know what I think,” you admitted. “But the similarities are close. Closer than coincidence.” “He took me after I went out for coffee,” you said, voice quiet but controlled. “I don’t know how he got so close without me noticing, but… I blacked out almost instantly. Probably chloroform.”

Emily folded her arms. “You were gone for two days.” JJ looked down.

Spencer hesitated. “Do you… remember anything else? From when he had you?”

Your voice was steady, but something in your chest clenched tight. “Some things.”

No one rushed you. The room went still, waiting.

You drew in a breath. “He kept me blindfolded. The entire time. I couldn’t see him, not even once. But I remember other things. His voice. His hands. The way he moved. He always walked in from the left. He hummed sometimes — “Danny Boy,” I think. He smelled like cigarettes and cheap aftershave.”

Emily leaned forward slightly. “Did he ever say why he took you?”

“Not directly.” You swallowed hard. “But he said I was the first one who made him wait. That I was smart. He sounded impressed.”

Hotch’s brow furrowed. “And then he let you go.”

You shook your head, a chill brushing over your skin. “No. He didn’t let me go. He ran. He heard you coming — I don’t know how, maybe your sirens — but he bolted. Left me tied to a beam in the corner of that cabin and vanished. I could hear Rossi shouting my name outside, and I started screaming.”

Spencer sat forward, pen still in his hand but forgotten. “He had time. More than enough to kill you.”

You nodded slowly. “I’ve thought about that every day since.”

Derek folded his arms. “He’s never done that before. Every other victim…”

“—Was found dead,” you finished for him.

JJ’s eyes met yours. “You were the only one he let live.”

“No,” you said softly. “I was the only one he chose not to kill.”

There was a long silence.

Rossi finally spoke. “You think you were the start of something different. A new phase.”

“I think… I was the unfinished chapter.”

That shifted the air in the room.

Hotch straightened near the board. “We need to consider that this is the same unsub, returned to finish what he started. Or a disciple. Someone replicating his crimes, but deviating from the original. Either way, your insight — your memory — is our best shot at stopping him.”

You exhaled slowly, nodding. “Then let’s stop him.”

JJ stepped forward and gently rested a hand on your shoulder. “It’s good to have you back.”

You didn’t say it out loud — but it was good to be back.

Even if it was terrifying.

Even if it meant facing everything you'd fought so hard to forget.

The case board was dense with detail now — pinned photographs, strings of mapped movements, a timeline of abductions that had started to tighten like a noose.

You stood near the window, arms crossed, watching the late-morning sun start to burn through the marine layer. The room was heavy with tension and quiet calculation — the kind that comes when everyone’s already running worst-case scenarios in their heads.

“Maybe it wasn’t personal,” you said aloud, your voice cutting through the stillness. “He said I made him wait, but… it wasn’t months. It couldn’t have been. I wasn’t living in that part of town more than a couple of weeks when it happened. There was nothing special about me — it was random. Just bad luck.”

Spencer nodded from where he sat, one leg tucked beneath him. “That tracks. If he’d been watching you for months, we’d have found some record of it — footage, sightings, something. But there was nothing.”

Emily added quietly, “Which means it’s about access. Opportunity.”

Rossi leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled. “That makes him more dangerous. Less predictable.”

Everyone was gathered tightly around the table now — two laptops open, printouts spread between coffee cups and scribbled notes, the case board slowly growing heavier with faces.

Spencer had pulled up a detailed map of the victim’s last known location: San Diego State. A red marker blinked against the cluster of student buildings.

You stared at it a long moment.

JJ glanced up from her file. “That’s where you do some of your consulting, isn’t it?”

You blinked, then nodded slowly. “Yeah. I have a research partnership with their psychology department. I’m there once, maybe twice a week.”

Hotch’s jaw ticked. “Were you there this week?”

“I was. Yesterday.”

Rossi looked up sharply. “So you were at the same location less than twenty-four hours before the abduction?”

You swallowed hard. “Yes.”

"First victim was taken outside the bar you say you frequent, The Hard Deck." Spencer pointed out.

No one said anything for a moment. The implications hung heavy.

Emily broke the silence. “Okay, let’s take a step back. If we assume this is the same unsub as before — that he took you, chose not to kill you, and now he’s resumed — then we need to figure out what changed. What made him pick up again now. Something had to trigger it.”

You stood a little straighter. “Nothing’s changed.”

Derek gave you a look. “Come on, doc. Think. Any media? Interviews? Public lectures?”

You shook your head. “No press. I’ve been low profile. Completely.”

Spencer hesitated, then turned his laptop around slowly. “What about Jake?”

Your breath caught when you saw the image on the screen.

A local news clipping — North Island Naval Officer Promoted to Commander — with a photo of Jake in uniform, standing proud at the front of a hangar during the ceremony. You were just over his shoulder, half-turned, smiling up at him.

The caption read: Commander Jake Seresin with wife, Dr. [Your Name], after the ceremony.

The air in the room shifted again. Tighter. Sharper.

JJ’s voice was quiet. “That ran two weeks ago.”

You closed your eyes.

Emily leaned forward. “And if he saw it…”

“Then he knows where I am,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

Hotch didn’t look surprised. “He let you live, but he never forgot you. Maybe you were the exception — the one who got away. But if he’s resurfaced now, and he’s abducting from locations connected to you, it changes everything.”

“He’s not just continuing his old pattern,” Derek said, voice tight. “He’s starting a new one. And you’re the center.”

The realization hit you like a punch to the gut.

You weren’t collateral anymore.

You were the target.

Not for revenge.

For obsession.

Rossi rubbed a hand over his mouth. “We’re not looking at a traditional spree. We’re looking at a fixation. Controlled. Personal. He let you live because he didn’t want it to end.”

“And now he’s picked up the story again,” Spencer said. “From his perspective, the last chapter was unfinished.”

JJ looked across the table. “He saw that photo. It put you back in his orbit.”

And this girl — the one from San Diego State — she wasn’t random. She was a message.

You stepped back from the table, breath shallow, head spinning.

The only thing you could think of was: Jake.

You were still staring at the photo on Spencer’s screen when Derek leaned forward, voice gentle.

“Hey,” he said, getting your attention. “I know it’s a big ask, and I know you’ve already done more than enough just by showing up—but if you’re okay with it, I think we should try a cognitive interview.”

You blinked. “Right now?”

“Soon,” he said. “Only if you’re up for it. I’ll walk you through the process slow—we won’t push. But sometimes going back into the sensory details can surface things you didn’t know you remembered.”

You hesitated, your hands curling tightly around the back of the chair. “He had me blindfolded,” you whispered. “All I had were sounds. Smells. Vibes. But… yeah. Okay. We can try.”

Derek gave a small, reassuring nod. “You set the pace.”

You nodded, then reached for your phone.

If what the team suspected was true—if this man had somehow found you again, after all these years—it wasn’t just you at risk anymore.

Jake had to know.

Jake stood at the wing of a parked F/A-18, sweat clinging to the back of his neck under his flight suit as he looked over a checklist with a tech. His mind wasn’t in it. Hadn’t been all day. Not since you'd left that morning with that look in your eyes—something resolved and haunted at the same time.

His phone buzzed against his hip.

He barely registered the name before answering. “Hey, sweetheart. You okay?”

Your voice came fast, tight, rushed. “Jake. We got confirmation. Another girl’s missing. She was taken from the SDSU campus.”

Jake stiffened. “That’s where you—”

“I know. The team thinks this might be about me. They think he might’ve seen that article from your promotion ceremony. They think he might be here because of that.”

The breath caught in his lungs.

No.

He started walking without realizing. Past the jet, across the tarmac.

“I’m on my way,” he said. “Stay in the building. Stay with Hotch or Morgan. I’ll be there in twenty.”

“Jake—”

But he was already hanging up.

Rooster looked up from his toolbox as Jake rushed across the hangar floor, moving fast—too fast. There was no post-flight sarcasm, no teasing, not even a wave.

“Where the hell’s he going?” Payback asked.

Phoenix narrowed her eyes. “That didn’t look like a lunch break.”

“He looked pale,” Fanboy muttered. “Did something happen?”

Bob tilted his head. “Maybe family emergency?”

Rooster was already setting down his wrench. “I’m gonna find Mav.”

Maverick barely glanced up as Rooster, Phoenix, and Bob stepped into the doorway.

“Mav,” Bradley said, arms crossed. “Something’s wrong with Hangman. He just ran off base like the damn world was ending.”

Maverick exhaled, slow and quiet, then turned to fully face them.

He looked at each of them for a long moment before speaking.

“He’s fine,” Mav said.

“Doesn’t look fine,” Phoenix shot back. “What’s going on?”

Maverick rubbed a hand over his jaw. He didn’t want to be the one to say it—but he also knew secrets like this had a shelf life. And if Jake was racing to the PD, they’d find out soon enough.

“She used to be FBI,” he said finally.

That stopped all three of them in their tracks.

“What?” Phoenix asked.

“She was with the Behavioral Analysis Unit,” Mav continued, voice even. “Profiling serial offenders. Got recruited young. Bright. Gifted.” He paused. “And three years ago, she was kidnapped by a subject they were tracking. Held for two days. Barely made it out.”

Silence fell like a brick.

“They think he might be back,” Maverick finished quietly. “And that he’s in San Diego.”

Phoenix’s eyes widened. “That’s what this is about.”

The room was dimmer now. The blinds were half-closed to block the afternoon sun, casting soft shadows across the case board. Derek was prepping the small adjacent interview room — chairs facing each other, lights low, a bottle of water set on the table. You sat on the edge of your chair, elbows on your knees, trying to slow your breathing.

You could do this.

You had to.

But your fingers trembled slightly as you picked at the cap of the pen in your hand, mind skipping in and out of memory. That smell. That song. That freezing cold air from the cabin floorboards. It all crawled back up when you least expected it.

The door burst open down the hallway.

Heavy boots. Fast steps. A sharp voice at the front desk — not angry, just worried.

“Commander Seresin,” Hotch said without looking up. “Right on time.”

You turned just as Jake appeared at the threshold of the room, still in uniform, the top half of his flight suit tied around his waist, white undershirt damp at the collar.

His eyes landed on you instantly.

He crossed the room in three long strides.

“Hi,” you said, voice soft.

Jake cupped your face with both hands and kissed your forehead, breathing you in like he was checking to make sure you were still solid, still here. “Are you okay?”

“I’m okay.”

He glanced toward the board — the faces, the photos, the growing map of chaos. His jaw clenched. “You called me. You said it might be about you.”

“I didn’t want to wait until I was home.”

Jake shook his head, pulling a chair closer to yours and sitting so your knees touched. “You made the right call.”

Behind you, Derek stepped into the room again.

“You must be Jake,” he said.

“Yeah. Thanks for taking care of her.”

“She’s about to do a cognitive interview. You’re welcome to stay, long as it’s helpful to her.”

Jake looked to you.

You nodded.

“I want you there.”

Derek gave you a small smile. “All right. We’ll take it slow. Nothing heavy. Just a conversation.”

You and Jake followed him into the smaller room — cold walls, no windows, one camera quietly rolling behind glass. You sat across from Derek, Jake beside you, one arm draped protectively along the back of your chair.

Derek spoke gently.

“You remember the basics of how this works, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you said. “Sensory details. Emotion over fact. Let memory take the lead.”

“Exactly. So just close your eyes when you’re ready, and start from somewhere that feels safe. Doesn’t have to be the beginning.”

Jake gave your hand a light squeeze.

You took a breath.

And let yourself fall backward into the dark.

The walls felt closer with your eyes closed.

Derek’s voice was soft, grounded. “You’re doing great. Just take us back to the morning before it happened. Start anywhere that feels clear.”

You nodded slowly, fingers curling against the armrest.

“I was leaving my apartment,” you said, quietly. “It was a Friday. Cold for spring. I remember I forgot my gloves and thought about going back for them, but I didn’t. I had a coffee order in already and I was late.”

Jake stayed silent beside you, unmoving. Just a steady presence. Solid. Safe.

“I walked the same route as always. Past the little bookstore on 9th. The woman inside always had a candle burning — vanilla and sandalwood. I could smell it as I passed.”

Derek’s voice came again. “Do you remember seeing anyone? Or feeling like you were being followed?”

You hesitated. “No. It was normal. People walking dogs, cars driving by. There was a guy smoking outside the bodega. He asked for spare change, and I told him sorry, not today. That’s the last person I remember talking to.”

You paused, heartbeat starting to pick up.

“I got my coffee. Black. I took the lid off — it was too hot to drink, and I remember the smell hit me really strong. Burnt roast. Like it had been sitting too long. I almost didn’t drink it.”

You breathed out shakily, the air in your lungs starting to constrict. “I think… I think that’s when it happened.”

Derek leaned forward slightly. “What do you remember next?”

“I was walking back toward my car. It was parked behind the café, in that little lot next to the alley. It was quiet.”

Your pulse quickened. You could hear it in your ears.

Jake shifted beside you. “You okay?”

You nodded tightly, but your voice faltered. “I remember… someone said my name. But I don’t think I recognized the voice. It was like… like I had just enough time to turn.”

The silence buzzed.

“And then I couldn’t breathe.”

You opened your eyes, chest rising faster.

Derek’s voice was lower now. “Was there anything about that voice? Accent? Tone? Did he sound young?”

Your hands started to tremble. “Deep voice. Calm. Like… calm in a way that felt wrong. It didn’t match the situation.”

Jake reached for your arm. “That’s enough—”

But you shook your head. “No—wait. Wait. I remember something.”

The room froze.

Your breathing was shallow but even, eyes wide now. You were back in the memory but fighting to stay afloat.

“I heard a sound before I passed out,” you said slowly. “It was… soft. Mechanical. Like a click. No—like a button being pushed. Over and over. I didn’t remember it before because it felt unimportant, but—”

You looked at Derek. “He was clicking a pen.”

“A pen?”

You nodded quickly. “Not a nervous tic. Rhythmic. Like… tap, tap, tap. And he kept doing it. I remember it in the dark. When I was tied up. He’d pace and click it. He wanted me to hear it.”

Spencer’s voice crackled through the speaker in the room. “That’s a behavioral trigger. A dominance cue. Like a metronome — asserting control through rhythm.”

Derek looked at you seriously. “That’s huge. Most of his behavior’s been postmortem. But this—this gives us a pre-attack ritual.”

Jake leaned closer, his voice barely audible. “You sure you’re okay?”

You nodded again, this time more firmly. “I’m okay.”

The cognitive interview had ended fifteen minutes ago, but your body still felt wired — like adrenaline was buzzing just beneath your skin. Jake hadn't left your side. He stood just behind your chair now, one hand on your shoulder, the other flexing and unflexing at his side like he was barely holding something back.

The rest of the team was gathered around the long table, and Penelope Garcia’s voice filled the room over speakerphone.

“Okay, sunshine squad,” she chirped, the only person in the world who could sound cheery in a serial murder case. “So I pulled every known offender, vagrant, or suspicious person with priors within a five-mile radius of the café our Doc was taken from. I cross-referenced that with clicky-pen sales in the immediate area and—just kidding, I’m good, but not that good.”

A few chuckles lightened the tension — even yours.

“Garcia,” Hotch said calmly. “Stick to profiles matching age, behavioral cues, and any psychiatric holds post-incident.”

“Already on it, Captain No-Fun,” Garcia replied. “Based on the pen-clicking, the blindfolds, the lack of sexual assault but intense need for control, we’re likely looking at a male, late 30s to mid-40s, antisocial tendencies, possibly diagnosed or undiagnosed OCPD. And guess what? I got three possible matches within driving distance of San Diego State. All were either arrested or flagged for mental health-related complaints in the past five years.”

On the big screen, three DMV photos popped up.

Your stomach lurched at the sight of them.

Jake stiffened behind you, feeling the shift in your body even before you spoke.

Derek glanced over. “You recognize anyone?”

You leaned forward slightly, eyes scanning each face. The first man—no. The second—no.

But the third.

The third made your skin crawl.

Thinning brown hair. Soft jaw. Unremarkable features. But something behind his eyes flickered—like he knew something you didn’t.

You reached out slowly and tapped the screen with a trembling finger.

“That’s him,” you said quietly. “That’s the guy who asked me for change. Outside the bodega. The day I was taken.”

Silence fell like a hammer.

Spencer looked up, voice suddenly sharp. “That’s not just a match. That’s confirmation. He was at the scene minutes before the abduction.”

“His name’s Albert Kane,” Garcia said, voice now taut and serious. “Lived off the grid for a few years after a psych evaluation flagged him as a potential risk. He dropped off my radar… but if he resurfaced in San Diego…”

Hotch was already reaching for his phone. “Then he’s our unsub. And we don’t have time.”

You sat back, heart pounding. Jake’s hand slid from your shoulder to your back, warm and grounding.

“You did good, darlin’,” he murmured softly near your ear. “Really good.”

But all you could think about now was the girl. The one still missing. Somewhere in the city. Maybe already trapped in a cabin just like the one you barely escaped.

The room had transformed into a war room — coffee refills forgotten, printouts slapped onto the board, and maps laid flat on the table like battle plans.

Spencer tapped a red marker against the screen, zooming in on a cluster of pins outside the city. “Albert Kane was born in Idaho, but he’s moved constantly — Colorado, Nevada, Oregon, and now California. The only stable pattern is the terrain. He favors isolated wooded areas, usually within two hours of a major freeway.”

JJ spoke next, flipping through Kane’s file. “Three years ago, he was flagged after being forcibly removed from a wellness retreat. Paranoia, manipulation, and clear signs of obsessive control behavior. The facility didn’t press charges, just wanted him gone.”

“And now he’s escalated,” Hotch added, arms crossed. “Likely triggered when he saw her face in the paper. The woman who got away. He’s trying to recreate the original event — only this time, he’s in control from the start.”

Rossi gestured to a map of the outer San Diego County area. “We’re assuming he’s repeating the cabin setup. Garcia, do we have eyes on isolated structures he could be using?”

Penelope’s voice buzzed over speaker. “Sending three viable options now — all rented in the last six weeks under aliases I’ve connected to Kane in the past. One of them was booked with a prepaid debit card used in San Diego two days ago.”

“Got it.” Derek grabbed the printout as it came through. “Cabin off Route 94. About forty-five minutes from here. No neighbors. No cell reception.”

“That’s our target,” Hotch said. “We move now.”

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a faint hum over the now-quiet station. The tension that had built over the past few hours had finally snapped — the girl was alive. Bruised, scared, but alive.

You’d cried when Emily called it in.

She’d said the words gently, like she knew you’d been holding your breath all day: “We got her. She’s safe. And we’ve got him in cuffs.”

Jake had just sat down beside you in the waiting room, hand tightly holding yours. He pressed a kiss to your temple and hadn’t let go since.

Now, the hum of engine brakes echoed outside as one of the SUVs pulled up out front.

You looked up just in time to see them dragging him in.

Albert Kane — cuffed, wild-eyed, struggling like an animal. Blood on his cheek, likely from the takedown. Dirt under his nails. Disheveled. Unhinged.

You didn’t mean to stand. You just… did.

And that’s when he saw you.

For a split second, everything stopped.

Then he lunged.

“It was for you!” he screamed, spittle flying, veins straining in his neck. “All of it! They were nothing—nothing compared to you! You were supposed to see it! You were supposed to understand—”

Jake moved like a loaded gun — explosive, furious, ready to tear him apart.

“Don’t you dare talk to her!”

His voice boomed across the station, eyes burning with a rage you had never seen in him before. He lunged forward, but—

Derek caught him mid-step, slamming a hand against his chest and pushing him back, muscle against muscle.

“Jake.” Derek’s voice was steel. “Not worth it. Not here. Not now.”

Jake struggled against the restraint for a breathless second — then collapsed back a half-step, shoulders rising and falling with shallow, furious breaths.

Kane was screaming, being dragged out of the hallway. “I saved you! You were supposed to save me!”

And then he was gone.

The door slammed behind him.

The room was silent.

You were shaking.

Jake turned toward you slowly, his fury replaced by something else — horror, helplessness, grief. He reached you in two long strides and pulled you into his chest.

You crumbled.

Arms around his waist, face buried in the soft fabric of his undershirt, you broke down. Your shoulders shook with quiet sobs you didn’t even realize you were holding in.

Jake’s hand cupped the back of your head, his lips pressing to your temple.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered. “I’ve got you. He’s done. It’s over. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

You clung to him tightly.

“I didn’t think I’d ever have to see him again,” you choked out.

Jake leaned his forehead to yours. “I’d kill him with my bare hands if I could. You know that, right?”

“I know,” you whispered. You nodded, forehead resting on his chest.

Derek watched from a short distance, his jaw tight but his eyes warm.

“We’ll take it from here,” he said gently. “Go home. You both need rest.”

Jake didn’t answer. He just gathered you against his side, nodding once as if to say thank you, and walked you out the front door into the night.

[...]

The sun was slipping below the horizon, casting long golden streaks across the water and painting the sky in soft pastels. The Hard Deck buzzed with life — laughter, clinking glasses, music humming low in the background. But in the back corner, where the picnic tables sat half in shadow, a very unusual group was taking over.

“Okay, but seriously,” Derek said, nursing a beer and looking across the table at Phoenix. “You’re telling me they call him Hangman because of his ego?”

“Because of his everything,” she said with a grin, nudging Jake across the table. “He earned that callsign the minute he opened his mouth.”

“Y’all are just jealous,” Jake said, reclining like a man who finally had something worth relaxing into. “I have style. Presence. Charisma.”

“You have tantrums,” Rooster chimed in, tipping his drink toward Spencer, who blinked slowly like he’d just watched an exotic bird speak. “This guy once argued with an entire vending machine.”

“He kicked it,” Bob added helpfully.

Emily leaned forward, “I love him.”

You sat sandwiched between JJ and Natasha, both women gently teasing you about how long you’d kept two entire identities hidden — genius profiler and Navy pilot’s wife.

“I knew you were smart,” JJ said, bumping your shoulder. “But this is some next-level secret agent business.”

“I’m telling you,” Natasha laughed, “I feel like I’ve been living in an episode of a spy drama.”

“You were,” Rossi added dryly from behind his wine glass.

Even Hotch looked amused, the faintest tug at the corner of his mouth.

“I still can’t believe you guys didn’t know,” Emily said, sipping a beer. “I mean, come on. ‘Doc’?”

“She told us she had a PhD,” Fanboy shrugged. “Didn’t think it came with a federal badge and a body count.”

Everyone laughed.

Across the table, Jake looked at you — relaxed, glowing in the amber light, your eyes crinkled from smiling. He reached under the table and found your hand, lacing your fingers with his.

You looked at him and smiled, and he mouthed a quiet, “You okay?”

You nodded. “I am now.”

It wasn’t loud, wasn’t dramatic. But it was true.

You were whole. And you were home.

As the sun finally slipped beneath the waterline, the Daggers and the BAU raised their glasses in a mismatched toast — to friendship, to healing, to the weird little twist of fate that brought them all together.

And for the first time in years, the past didn’t feel quite so heavy.

You’d carried it. You’d survived it.

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You loved your job, you really did, But as you made your way across the mile long movie set, a huge costume rail filled with suits and dresses and accessories, voices shouting in your earpiece that you’re needed halfway across the other side of the set, an actor doesn’t have the right jacket for the scene and your arms are aching from the weight of the costume rail, you really have to tell yourself over and over again, that yes, you do love your job. Your earpiece buzzes again with the voice of the wardrobe supervisor requesting that you bring a tie back to trailer three when you have a minute, and you reply in the calmest voice you can muster that yes when you’ve dealt with the stupidly heavy rail and the jacket and the props team who want to ask you a question and the assistant costume supervisor and… oh shit, and the stunt guy that’s now making a beeline for you as you struggle trying to get the rail up the stairs. Just what you need, the inevitably dumb questions of a stunt guy when you’re already bothered and in a rush.

“Hey, need a hand with that? Looks heavy, not that I’m saying you couldn’t carry something heavy I’m just…” he rambles as he reaches you. You cut him off before he can keep going

“No, thank you I’m fine.” You reply, to be honest you’re not sure why you said that, you’re not fine really, the stupid rail keeps getting stuck on the stairs and it is really really heavy. Heavier than you’d like to be dealing with right now but if you said that you’d seem weak and you can’t have a man thinking you’re weak. Ok, sure you’re stubborn, you’ll admit it.

“Alright then, I’ll just be here for emotional support” he comments, standing just a few feet away from you with a small smile on his face as you wrestle with the back end of the rail, trying to shove it up the first step.

“I’m Colt by the way.” He states, flashing you a bigger smile that you have to look away from almost immediately before you accidentally stare at his perfect face and his perfect blue eyes, drop your rail of costumes and embarrass yourself beyond belief. How had you not realised how gorgeous Colt Seavers was until today?

“I know, I was given a huge sheet of measurements with your name on, I made a few of your stunt jackets.” You respond, finding it funny that he thinks you wouldn’t know who he was just because you’d never spoken. You know almost all of the on screen crew, having done something towards their all of their costumes at some point. And the fact that you’ve seen him around set many times, and most of those times he’s been glancing over at you and clearly trying to make eye contact but failing when someone else tries to talk to him and directs his attention away from you, which is where he wants to be looking. If he was going to be honest with himself, he’d say he’s had a bit of a schoolboy crush on you since filming started and he saw you leaving the wardrobe trailer, chatting with the director with your arms filled with various items of clothing and sheets of paper. He’d thought you were the most gorgeous woman he’d ever seen then, and he still thinks that now, he’d just never got round to making a move and asking you out. (Ok that’s a lie, he was just too scared to ask you incase you didn’t even know who he was and you said no.)

“Ah, did you make the red leather one? Because I was really thinking about keeping that one.” He continues with a slight smirk, knowing that whatever you say about the jacket, he’s going to take it from set when the movie wraps anyway.

“I actually didn’t make that one, so I’ll pretend I know nothing so I don’t get in trouble when you steal it” you reply with a smile, quickly turning back to the rail which is starting to slip back down one of the steps. You lift it up again and find that this time it’s almost as light as when it’s empty, maybe you’d been carrying it wrong the whole time, you think. But then you look back and see that it’s new light weight has nothing to do with you, and everything to do with the fact that Colt has subtly held onto the bottom of the rail and is lifting it up like it weighs nothing. You glare at him, narrowing your eyes teasingly, you said you didn’t need help but here he is, being annoyingly gentlemanly and helping you without making a huge deal out of it.

“Thank you” you say as the two of you make your way, now much easier, up the small flight of stairs, you pulling the rail from the front, Colt lifting it from behind. All while smiling at you like you’d just hung the stars. Maybe this time he’d finally grow a pair and actually ask you out rather than getting scared and telling himself he’d do it another time, he thought to himself.

“Hey do you not have anything better to be doing than lifting a costume rail for me?” You ask him, suddenly wanting an excuse to talk to Colt Seavers more.

“No, not really. I don’t do that much to be honest.” He says jokingly, shrugging and attempting to act all cool and nonchalant, but soon discovers that nonchalant doesn’t suit him and soon there’s a smile on his face again.

“Oh yeah, you’ve definitely got the easiest job on set. You know, you just waltz around in your shades and your cool jackets, bothering the costume department.” You tease, looking back at him as the rail makes it back onto flat ground. You’re not going to pretend you haven’t seen him hanging around the costume trailers, you just didn’t know he was there because he was hoping to bump into you, your busy schedule always seeming to make it so that this is the first time the two of you have crossed paths properly.

“Yeah definitely the easiest job.” He agrees sarcastically, a smile making its way across his face as he speaks to you. “It’s all I ever do, drink coffee, wander around aimlessly, drive off of a bridge, throw myself out the window, you know, all the easy stuff.” He continues, his smile growing bigger as he sees you laugh at his ridiculously casual description of his actually quite dangerous job. He’d love to make you laugh like that again, it’s a pretty sound. ‘Oh my god Colt you’re being pathetic if you wanna make her laugh again just get over yourself and ask her out!’ He tells himself and works on momentarily gathering his usual confidence in order to ask you out.

“Hey after this, do you wanna go get coffee or something?” He asks, hoping it sounds like he hasn’t been preparing himself for this moment for almost two weeks. He hangs around beside you as you dump the costume rail outside the trailer you were heading to and waits nervously for your response.

“Well, ‘after this’ would be after I’ve completed my very long list of things to do for other people that can’t seem to do it themselves, after they’ve filmed scene five again because continuity was apparently wrong the last time, and after I’ve got my hands on another white shirt because they’ve decided they want one to cover in fake blood and gunshot wounds” you list off all the things you have to do today before you can even consider going home, and give him an exasperated smile before continuing, Colt just watching you with a mix of awe and admiration on his face. “So I think by the time I’ve done all of that, the coffee shops might be closed for the night.” You say, finishing your little monologue with a subtle hint of disappointment in your eyes. You actually would have liked to have gone for coffee with Colt, which surprises you, but alas here you are.

“Well… I’m sure a nice restaurant would still be open, or, a not quite so nice restaurant, I’m not sure how great it would look if we turned up at a fancy restaurant with me covered in all this dust and crap” he rambled, gesturing to his perfectly tight t-shirt (you definitely weren’t focusing on how good the shirt made his arms look) that was coated in a layer of dust from his last stunt that was only going to get thicker after the rest of his stunts today. It was a strange but wonderful thing that Colt was doing right now, he was simultaneously the smoothest guy you’d ever met, while also being a total awkward dork and you’d never expected it. It was really something being on the receiving end of one of his half flirty half clumsy rambles.

“Anyway, we could go for dinner? If you want?” He concludes, looking at you proudly as if he’d just used the most perfect pick up line and not the sentence most likely to be heard coming from a nervous teenager asking a pretty girl to prom. You have to fight the urge to giggle, but in the end one escapes you anyway and you nod at him fondly.

“Yeah, dinner sounds great.” You say with a smile. “We could go to that diner down the road, I’m sure they wouldn’t bat an eye at your dusty shirt.” You tease.

“Perfect!” He responded, sounding too excited for his liking and he was about to correct himself with a ‘I mean, yeah, cool’ when you started speaking again.

“You’ve gotta go, I’ve just had someone ask the whole crew comms line if anyone has seen Colt Seavers and I think I might be a key witness” you state teasingly, relaying the message that came to you through your crew earpiece and trying not to laugh at the fact that he is now late for a scene because he was too busy asking you out to dinner.

“Shit!” He exclaimed, now remembering the scene he was supposed to be filming right now. “If they could find anyone else dumb enough to do a canon roll through flames then I think they’d have fired me by now” he jokes, he is late to scenes quite often so you do agree that they would likely have fired him by now if the stunt team could find anyone else as good to replace him. He’s annoyed that he’s finally managed to ask you out, and he didn’t even get a moment to revel in the glory of you saying yes, but he really did need to go, and your laugh at the whole situation made it worth it.

“Gotta go, I’ll meet you in the parking lot at Seven?” He called over his shoulder as he started to walk away.

"I had to talk to people."

"You like people."

“Missed you.” He sighs, wanting nothing more than to spend the rest of the evening in silence with you. His arms have found their way around you, finding rest in the curve of your back. 

Ryland holds the world in his arms. Though, even ‘world’ doesn’t seem the right word to use. It doesn’t go far enough.

You laugh. You’d come to the ceremony with him, and you’d only really been separated a few hours as you’d decided to come home during the reception to tend to unexpected work, but to him it certainly felt like forever.

“Honey, I was only gone for four hours.”

"Longest ten hours of my life."

"That's not even the right number."

"Time is relative."

"Now you’re just being dramatic."

Ryland just hums. At least he's self-aware.

For a moment, the pair of you just stand there—by the door of your shared apartment, quiet, unassuming. You let him process the weight of the night, fingers idly playing with the open collar of his shirt. There is no pressure. It is far too big of a thing for someone you’ve known almost your whole life to get married. 

You drift into daydream, and he stays anchored at the sight of you. Tired or not, grumpy or not, he wouldn’t want to be anywhere else at this moment. The air starts to fade into something softer, something sweeter. You tilt your head against his chest, and Ryland just… stares.

And maybe it’s just the beauty of the evening, the lingering sentimentality of watching his best friend promise forever to someone, but suddenly, Ryland can see it. His own future. 

With you.

Most things in Ryland's life follow a pattern. Cause and effect. Actions and outcomes. Things happen for reasons. But you have always felt like the exception. The wonderful, impossible exception. Because no matter how many times he thinks about it, he still can't quite believe that out of everyone in the world, he found you. 

And that you chose him too.

And he can see you standing at the end of an aisle, bathed in the glow of something golden and endless, looking at him the way you’re looking at him now—like he’s your favorite thing to come home to, like you are his. 

He sees a lifetime of moments just like this one—soft, quiet, easy. And God, he thinks, if this is what it feels like now, just standing here and holding you, how much more will he love you in a year? In five? In forever?

The thought settles deep in his chest, something tender, something terrifyingly real. Before he can stop himself, the words slip out, soft and certain. 

“I’m glad I met you.”

You blink up at him, momentarily surprised by the quiet confession, and then—you smile. And Ryland? He swears, right then and there, he’d fallen in love with you all over again.

“Me too.” You whisper, and he exhales. 

Ryland thinks about saying more, but his consciousness fails him. Instead, he quietly hands over his heart to you in the way he holds you, in the way he lets himself fall unrestrained, in the way he bares himself his most vulnerable only with you. And there is truthfully no one else he would ever trust with his entirety. 

Nobody but you.

PLANNING WRAP PARTIES WAS NOT YOUR FORTE.

But you were saddled with the task since the producer you worked under (David was a great guy, but could be a little spacey when it came to planning, hence why he had you as his associate producer) was stressing about the budget and was pulled into a meeting with the director and an executive from the studio about the money and what post-production would look like.

And with a week until principal was done, you had to plan a wrap party by yourself on top of other tasks, which was so great (it wasn't, but you had to remind yourself that you were getting paid overtime to throw a party).

"Ah! Look who escaped her hidey hole!" Dan teased as you walked up to the crafty table, Colt standing right next to him, making a cup of coffee. "What brings you down to set?"

You rolled your eyes, but there was a hint of a smile on your face. "I'm here to yell at you guys about your time sheets." You joked before shaking your head. "No, I just needed to get out of the office."

You grabbed a granola bar and went to make yourself a cup of coffee, but then an already-made cup came into view. You grabbed it from the person's hand and looked to your right to see Colt smiling at you.

"Thanks, Colt." You said, with a slight furrow in your brow. You took a sip of it, and your eyebrows jumped in surprise. It was exactly how you liked it. You took a glance at Colt and saw he was smiling to himself, making your heart beat a little faster.

You had worked with Colt a few times before on a few movies, but had rarely interacted with him or the stunt team (outside of hiring them and managing their paychecks) on those sets because you were practically never on set and stuck in the production offices. The rare times you would escape the office were when you needed to grab a producer from set if they weren't answering their radio or their phones.

The only reason you started to interact with the stunt team on this film was that in the early days of filming, you had accidentally collided with Colt while walking back to the office from set. You hadn't seen him in your sleep-deprived state (you had pulled an all-nighter the night before, looking at spreadsheets, and it felt like they were burnt into your retinas), and he had caught you from falling straight on your ass from the sudden collision.

You had apologized profusely after righting yourself, but he had waved you off.

"Don't worry about it, it's my job to take a hit." Colt joked as he brushed his hair from his forehead. His eyes raked over your disheveled figure and noted the bags under your eyes. "You alright there?"

"Yeah, just a little all over the place." You breathed out, trying to tamp down the heat that had bloomed in your cheeks.

Colt nodded. "I don't think we've met. I'm Colt." He introduced himself, sticking out his hand.

You shook his hand. "Ah, so you're the Colt that I'm sending emails to reminding you to turn in your time sheet ." You said before telling him your name.

You saw the tips of his ears slowly turn red as he chuckled sheepishly. "Yeah, sorry about that. I promise to turn it in on time." Now that I know who's flooding my inbox with those reminders. Colt thought to himself as he shoved his hands into the pockets of his costume.

"It's fine. You're not the only one who's forgetting about their time sheets. I mainly have to bother G&E for theirs." You sent him a tired smile.

Colt went to respond, but then the walkie clipped on his belt crackled to life. "Seavers, we need you on set in two minutes."

Colt sighed and grabbed his radio. "Copy that." He had sent you a smile, clipping the radio back on his belt. "The work of a stuntman is never over." You laughed a little and nodded, which made Colt's heart flip at the sound of your laugh.

"I should probably head back too. It was nice meeting you." You sent him another smile before the two of you parted ways.

Since then, you seemed to run into him (not literally) whenever you had left the production office and made your way to set if they were filming on a studio lot and not on location. It seemed like Colt had a sixth sense for when you were on set and managed to find you, and never failed to strike up a conversation.

You were a little confused at first since you never really interacted with anyone from any department outside of emailing and set/work-related conversations. Still, Colt would ask about your day, then pivot the conversation away from work to what your favorite book in recent years was. He had even come into the production office once and invited you down to set to see him in action, which you did (despite the mountain of paperwork and email you had to sift through, but you realized you couldn't resist the puppy dog eyes Colt had sent you when he asked).

"So, a little birdie told me that you're planning the wrap party now." Dan said before taking a sip of his own coffee, grabbing your attention away from Colt.

"Mhm," You took another sip of your drink. "Trying to find a venue that's in budget is a pain in the ass." You grumbled before opening your granola bar and taking a bite out of it. Colt and Dan chuckled at your grumpy expression.

Dan leaned back on the edge of the table. "It can't be that hard. Just find a bar that you can set us up at."

Colt winced at his words. "You shouldn't have said that." Colt saw how your spine straightened up, and you had leveled your stare at Dan.

Colt had said something similar to his friend to you and found himself on the receiving end of an impassioned tirade about the logistical nightmares you had to deal with daily. Let's say Colt has never been more grateful that his job was just getting thrown around like a rag doll.

Colt had a small smile as he watched you start talking about technicalities you were dealing with, as the expression on Dan's face slowly twisted into one of regret and slight horror (it was mainly because you had thrown so much information at him in just one breath).

"Remind me to never ask about your job again or get on your bad side." Dan breathed out as he looked at you with awe.

"That would be wise of you because I love to complain to anyone who has ears, but for some reason, Colt loves to hear about how I want to rip out my hair over the crafty budget." You took another bite of your granola bar, smiling sarcastically as you chewed.

Then you felt your phone buzz in your back pocket and saw that David was calling you. "Sorry, guys, I have to take this. I'll see you later!" You answered your phone and shoved it in between your shoulder and ear, walking away from the crafty table with a coffee in one hand and your half-eaten granola bar in the other.

Dan looked at Colt and saw an almost lovesick smile on his face as he watched you walk away, and Dan shook his head. "So, when are you going to tell her that you like her?" Dan asked Colt.

Colt snapped out of his daze and looked at Dan with wide eyes before shaking his head and going to make his own cup of coffee. "Pftt. I don't like her." Colt denied.

Dan nodded his head in a way that meant he didn't believe his friend for a second. "Right, so I'm supposed to pretend that I didn't see you rush to use the cup of coffee that you made for yourself and give it to her just how she likes it once you saw her coming?"

"I changed my mind on wanting coffee, I didn't want to waste it."

Dan just sent Colt a look that read 'You cannot be serious right now.'

Colt groaned. "Okay, fine I do like her."

"What a shock." Dan drawled sarcastically, making Colt roll his eyes at his friend.

"But I'm not telling her."

"Why not?" Dan asked with a raised brow.

"First off, she probably doesn't like me back, and second of all, I don't want to her to feel even more stressed by dealing with my feelings." Colt muttered as he looked down at the coffee maker.

"Then tell her at the wrap party, after we're all done with shooting," Dan suggested. Colt opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off.

"Do we have eyes on Seavers? We need him right now for this shot." The director's voice came through both of their walkies.

Dan answered. "I'm with him. We'll be there in three minutes." He shot Colt a pointed look. "We're not done talking about this."

"We are, and you heard the boss, I'm needed on set." Colt sent Dan a sarcastic smile, making him roll his eyes at the blonde.

The DJ's music was loud and energetic, and you watched from your spot at the bar as everyone enjoyed themselves, which made you smile.

Somehow, you managed to put together the wrap party in record time, and it was going well. You booked a rooftop venue with an open bar and catering, and managed to stay within the budget, which David was ecstatic about. You were just glad that the venue didn't cancel at the last minute and turn this entire thing into a disaster right before it happened (it's happened to David before, and seeing his meltdowns is never fun).

Now, you finally felt like you could take a breath since your job was technically finished, and you sipped on your drink as you watched your coworkers let loose after the months of work they had put into the movie.

"You did an amazing job putting all of this together." A praising voice to your left pulled your attention away from people watching, and you saw Colt approaching you.

Colt was dressed in a pair of fitted slacks and a deep red dress shirt, with a few top buttons undone. The color seemed to emphasize his broad frame, and his sleeves were cuffed at his elbows, exposing his tanned forearms. His hair was messily styled but in a tasteful way that made you want to mess it up even more. God, what I wouldn't give to find out what was underneath all of that.

You felt your cheeks heat up, taking a sip of your drink to tame your wandering thoughts. "Thank you, Colt. You having fun?" You asked as you placed your drink on the bar top and twisted in the stool you were sitting on to face him.

"Yeah, its one of the better wrap parties I've been to in a while. What about you? Having fun?" Colt asked while smiling at you.

You hesitated for a split second before nodding your head.

Colt narrowed his eyes at you. "I saw that. Why aren't you having fun? It's a party you planned!"

You couldn't help but laugh at Colt's slight pout on his lips. " I know but I'm thinking about the how bad the clean up is going to be." You admitted.

"You hired people to set up and break this down, right?" At your nod, Colt continued. "Then don't worry your pretty little head about it, okay? Your job tonight is to have fun, not work, okay?"

"But—"

Colt cut you off. "Nope. Not hearing it. Now, you're getting another drink and then we're dancing."

"I don't dance." You said weakly as Colt flagged down the bartender.

Colt looked back at you with a grin. "Neither do I but we're doing it anyway."

You huffed but smiled despite yourself. If anyone were this forward with you, you would have just walked away, but Colt had gotten underneath your skin, and the thought of dancing with him was both nerve-wracking and thrilling.

Colt had ordered both of you shots of tequila, which arrived quickly with some salt and limes. Colt passed you a lime and a shot. You guys made eye contact as you licked the salt off the back of your hands before knocking back the tequila, but you couldn't bear to re-meet his eyes as you put the lime in your mouth, letting the bitter and sour juice coat your tongue and distract you from Colt's heavy gaze that had settled on your figure.

Colt held out a hand to you. "You ready to dance?"

"Not at all." You admitted, but took Colt's hand anyway. A smile bloomed on his face at your response, making your heart beat a little faster, and he started to walk towards the dance floor filled with people. But you couldn't help but notice how gently he held your hand as he guided you through the crowd; his hand felt like it engulfed yours, and it was calloused and a little rougher than yours.

The previous upbeat song had faded out and turned into a low but bass-filled one, and it felt like everyone was on the dance floor with how crowded it was. You suppressed the surprised gasp that almost escaped your lips when Colt pulled you in close, his hands landing on your waist as your hands landed on his chest. You could feel the warmth of his hands through the fabric of the dress you were wearing.

You looked up at him and saw a smirk on his face, making you roll your eyes at him. "You did that on purpose."

"You were about to get elbowed, I did what I had to do." The smirk hadn't faded in the slightest from his lips as he looked down at you with mirth dancing in his blue gaze.

The corner of your lips had quirked up. "Sure you did." Your hands slid up from his chest to wind around his neck, pressing you closer to Colt. You were never this bold, but with the tequila running through your system, it had kicked your confidence up a notch.

You saw his smirk falter marginally, which made the smile playing on your lips widen as you saw him swallow thickly. "So, are we going to dance?" You asked him playfully as you batted your eyelashes at him.

You saw his eyes darken even in the dim rooftop lighting. "Yeah." His eyes flickered to your mouth, lingering for a moment before meeting your gaze. Then the two of you started to move to the rhythm of the music, letting your bodies sway and do most of the talking for a moment.

"I didn't get to say this earlier, but you look beautiful tonight." You heard Colt say over the music, making you look back up at him.

You were wearing a satin dress with an open back that fell to the top of your knees; the color popped against your skin tone, and it was a little more formal than you wanted, but it was the only thing you could find at the last minute.

"You're just filled with compliments tonight aren't you, Colt?" You said with a crooked smile.

Colt mirrored your smile. "Oh, I have a lot more if you want to hear them."

You shook your head. You didn't know if your heart could survive a barrage of compliments from Colt. "Please don't." You let your gaze wander down Colt's figure, blatantly checking him out. "You look pretty good tonight." You met his eyes as you bit down on your bottom lip.

Colt had to bite back a groan. "Please don't look at me like that." His voice took on a strained quality.

"Like what?" You blinked at him innocently.

Colt huffed. "Like you want me to kiss you."

You couldn't help but smile at him. "Maybe I do want you to kiss me, Colt." You purred.

Colt leaned in so close to where your noses were brushing against one another. "God, sweetheart you're killing me." He murmured. "Can I kiss you?"

Instead of responding, you closed the gap between the two of you and pressed your lips against his. You didn't care that you had stopped dancing and were surrounded by your coworkers. You just cared about how Colt's lips felt against yours, and it felt like you were on cloud nine. His lips moved against yours with an intensity you hadn't experienced before. One of Colt's hands had left your waist to cup your cheek to deepen the kiss, his tongue swiping at the seam of your lips before diving into your mouth.

Colt tasted like the tequila the two of you just had, some fruity cocktail that he had drunk earlier that still lingered, and spearmint. You could feel the desire start to pool in your lower abdomen, and your knees felt weak just from this kiss with Colt. Your hands found their place in the hair at the back of his head, scratching at his scalp and tugging at the short strands, making him groan against your lips.

But it seemed like it snapped him out of his lust-addled brain, and Colt pulled away from you, though he didn't stray far. "For the record—" He sounded slightly out of breath, making you smile. "—I really like you."

You let out a small, but giddy laugh. "I like you too Colt."

Colt nodded eagerly. "Good, good, m'glad we're on the same page." Colt leaned back in and kissed you softly, which somehow made your head spin with how much it contrasted the last kiss the two of you shared. But you couldn't help but smile through the kiss, which in turn made Colt smile against your lips.

Maybe you'll plan more wrap parties if they end with you wrapped up in Colt's arms like this.

Leaving Colt in the morning came hand in hand with a little tug of sadness in your chest; he always looked so soft and peaceful, so warm and safe with his mussed sunkissed hair, dumb sleepy smile, muttered words from somewhere deep within his dream, and strong arms wrapped tight around you, that there was a small part of you longing to ignore responsibility and stay put. 

Logically, you knew that in another ten minutes or so, Colt would wake up and need to face reality too, and so your daydream of lounging in bed, whispering sweet nothings between chaste kisses that became heated make outs became just that; a dream.

Today, you had too much work to do. So much so, you hadn’t been able to sleep soundly for the thought of it, even with Colt’s steady breath as a soundtrack and the soothing rise and fall of his chest against your back lulling you. So you didn’t look back at him when you slipped out of his embrace and into the cold of day.

A prickle of disappointment at not kissing him good morning and basking in his arms stung at your gut as you pulled on your jeans and splashed your face with lukewarm water, but you persisted with a small mental note – the promise of snuggling Colt tonight, when today had turned into nothing but a memory.

∘₊✧─────────────────────✧₊∘

Colt wasn’t there when you returned home. There were little signs of him everywhere; the empty coffee cup in the sink, the sprinkling of crumbs on the counter, his sunglasses forgotten on the sofa, the unmade bed that you longed to crawl back into.

Kicking off your sneakers and shedding today’s clothes had never felt so refreshing when you collapsed into the mess of sheets, nestled into his pillow and began drifting comfortably, feeling the day’s responsibilities lift from your body one by one until you were weightless.

∘₊✧─────────────────────✧₊∘

The clock on your nightstand must have malfunctioned. When your eyes opened the display clearly showed 21:00. Drowsy with sleep, you pushed your body back against his, threaded your fingers through the much thicker ones resting by your heart.

‘There you are,’ Colt smiled, leaning up as you turned, so he could still hold you while you talked. ‘M’sorry if I woke you, I just wanted to cuddle.’

‘No, you didn’t wake me,’ you smiled back, breaking for a yawn. ‘I’m glad you’re here. Is it really only nine?’

‘Yeah, but an early night never hurt anyone. Especially not when it feels as nice as this,’ he said softly, leaning down to ghost his lips over yours. ‘What time do you have to be out in the morning?’

‘Seven,’ you groaned, not wanting to think about how you’d wasted an entire evening of your own free time asleep, and would now have to go back to sleep in an attempt not to fuck up your schedule too much.

‘Ok, so if you go back to sleep at ten, that means you’ll get… at least a solid eight hours,’ Colt said proudly, having quickly flicked eight individual fingers against your arm as a counting aid.

‘But it’s nine-’

‘So we have an hour free,’ he drawled, his words dripping into your ears like warm honey.

‘An hour free for what?’

‘This-’

Colt leant down to kiss you again, but with heat this time, his tongue slipping between your lips, soft and wet and warm until he pulled back again. Colt always found something else to say, regardless of whether the moment called for it.

Pros being you got to ride cool-ass cars, trucks, motorcycles, and motorized couches, you had an overall aura of daring and bravery, and you got to make friends with a lot of really nice people.

Cons being you could lose a limb or your life while doing the stunts, and could be pressured into doing things you didn’t want to do, but that was part of the job, and besides, it rarely ever happened.

Today’s schedule for had you involved with the filmBright Days dir. by Charles Levine.

He sounded like quite the gentleman, but dear god, his sexist ideals and extra tight schedules were hard to work with.

You were supposed to do a scene where the lead crashed into the goon’s car because of a slippery road in the middle of the night during her escape mission.

The goon was Colt Seavers, a skilled co-stuntie, and someone you’d had a crush on for over 2 years.

It was super confusing, and so was he, because you could never tell if he was just being friendly or aiming a bit higher. 

“We really need to go now,” Colt said to you, taking your half-eaten spinach corn sandwich from your hand and keeping it on its paper plate, before nudging you. “Levine’s heading for us.”

You made a sound like a deflating balloon, with Colt appropriately responding by encouragingly rubbing your back. You couldn’t help but ease into his touch, something you were certainly embarrassed by, cheeks heating up.

“You’re gonna be great, alright?” he said, and his tone made you blush and smile, which was not an appropriate reaction at all.

“And I promise not to crush you.” 

“Shut up,” you quipped at the grinning man, slapping his shoulder.

When Levine came and stood by the break table, he looked quite unhappy.

“We’re on a schedule, stunties. Get moving.”

You glanced at Colt, giving him a ‘who gave him permission to say stuntie?’ look to which Colt just responded with an exasperated nod, making you sigh.

“Coming,” you muttered, before heading to the set with Colt. He had an arm around your shoulder, a fact you actively tried to ignore.

Five minutes later, you were in the stunt car, strapped down, helmet clipped on, mouthguard on, neck restraints snug, gloved hands tight on the steering wheel.

The helmet was unusually loose, but with the way Levine was rushing the shot, you knew nothing would be done about it. Colt was on the other end of the road, speaking to you through the walkie talkie.

“Good luck,” his voice said, and you smiled to yourself. 

“You too.”

“Alright, no wasting time, c’mon, I want to see action!” Levine yelled into the talkie and to everyone else.

The cameramen and crew moved away, the stunt coordinator got in his buggy, and you double checked everything before taking a deep breath. 

This was going to be great. You were going to be great. You were a stunt driver! You’d done this millions of times.

No, the helmet wasn’t an issue. It was probably fine.

“…And action, action!”

You slammed the accelerator and the car zoomed forward, racing through the road.

Colt’s car was heading towards you, on the other lane — In another 5 seconds, you were supposed to skid and crash into him, successfully taking the brunt. 

Alright.

You swerved the car, hard, and it turned 180 degrees, when your helmet fell off your head.

What the f-

“NOW!”

Instinct took over and you sped backwards, crashing into the other car with a boom, the bonnet almost floating for a split second. The vehicle shook thunderously. Your ears began to ring. 

Glass shattered and all you could do was brace your head with your arms, helplessly watching the helmet roll around the groaning car, eyes tightly shut to protect them from the splintering metal and nails and screws and shards.

You sat there in the same position for what felt like ages, until the walkie talkie came to life with the coordinator's voice.

“Are you both alright?”

You heaved deep breaths, a tad shocked to realize that your face was bleeding into your sleeves. You shakily pulled your sleeves away and were a bit taken aback at all the blood staining it.

Your shaky hand grabbed the walkie talkie and you gasped an” alright” into it. 

After a few moments, you put the helmet on and stepped out of the car— two stuntmen helped you to your unsteady feet, and behind them was…

“Colt.”

He rushed past them, tripping on the pebbles, before scooping you up in his arms, almost lifting you off the ground.

“You okay?” he asked. You could only nod, which was already hard with the flimsy helmet, never mind with the cuts on your face. 

“You?” you returned the question.

“I’m good,” he said, grinning through his visor.

The right thing to do now was to tell someone about the accident and see the set’s medic, but last time a stuntie got hurt, Levine got extremely upset about the wasted time and resources and lectured the crew for a solid twenty minutes. Ironic.

So you decided to stay silent instead.

Colt seemed to notice your silence and stumbling steps.

“Are you alright?” he asked again, tone laced with concern this time, his hands coming to rest on your shoulders. He tried to take the helmet off your head but you pushed his hand away, shaking your head.

“I’m fine, I’m just-“

Colt took off your helmet before you could react, but you smacked his head, taking advantage of his shock and quickly sliding it back on.

Colt had a ghastly expression on his face at the momentary sight of your cuts, some deep, some faint, and it made you feel warm that he cared, yet upset, that you had upset him.

“You need to get that taken care of,” he whispered. “Now.”

“Levine wouldn’t like that,” you said, but he ignored you and grabbed you by the arm, taking you to one of the tents, hurriedly sitting you down and taking a first aid kit under the table.

“Take it off,” he instructed seriously, and you almost giggled. Colt caught on and gave you a serious glare that made you shut up, stifling your laughs.

You did as he said, and when his eyes landed on you once more, he seemed to be genuinely shaken. 

“I’m fine,” you said, trying to make him relax, but his expression didn’t falter.

“What happened?”

“The helmet clasp was loose - came off when I did the 180 swerve.”

“Motherfucker,” he grumbled to himself, and you knew he was talking about Levine. You nodded in agreement.

“Indeed.”

Colt knelt on the sandy floor and took your face in his hands, his hold gentle and cautious. He turned your head to see how bad the injuries were, eyebrows arched and eyes perturbed.

“This might sting a little,” he said softly.

“I’ll manage,” giving him a smile.

Colt let his gaze linger on you for a second, before reaching for the first aid and taking out bandages, tincture— everything he needed to tend to you.

There was a cut on your forehead, under your eye (Colt looked visibly distressed by this), a deeper one on your left cheekbone, a slit on your lower lip, and a few shallow scratches everywhere else.

He soaked a cotton pad in tincture and brought it to your face, first gently dabbing at the cut on your forehead. The stench of alcohol was strong, but to you, it was mellow in comparison to Colt’s cologne.

His deep concern gave you time to observe every bit of his beautiful face in much detail, and it brought you great joy.

He had a pretty nose, you observed, and pretty, pretty, deep, warm blue eyes that looked even prettier when he was worried. That word seemed to be the only one capable of perfectly describing him. 

“Does it hurt?” he asked. 

“No. Not at all.”

You didn’t even feel the stinging of the disinfectant, too busy appreciating him, too giddy with the feeling of his calloused fingers on your skin. You couldn’t tell if he knew.

Your attention drifted lower to his mouth, his lips barely parted in focus, not too far from your own. 

So pretty.

The cotton pad came down, and Colt started to clean your split lip. His fingertips brushed over it as he did, causing goosebumps to rise on your arm.

Whether it was on purpose, you weren’t sure. There were so many things you could never clearly interpret when it came to this man.

“My eyes are up here, hey.”

Your heart skipped a beat as you looked up, gaze connecting to Colt’s. He had the smallest, teasing smile.

“I’m aware of that,” you replied, blushing a little.

“Hey?”

“Yeah?”

“If I kissed you right now, would you taste like disinfectant?”

At that precise moment, it dawned on you that this man knew what he was doing after all, and you only flushed harder, blinking rapidly, heart speeding up.

“Probably,” you managed to say. You could barely speak.

Colt picked up very quickly on how flustered you were, and it seemed to give him so much joy, much to your annoyance. 

He was definitely much less worried, now that you’d been tended to. That was good, but at the cost of your dignity? Not at all.

But then, he whispered, “I wanna find out,” with so many emotions packed in those four words, and you gave in entirely.

“Please do.”

He looked like a deer caught in the headlights for a second, as if he didn’t expect you to agree, but you pleaded again, and that was all he needed to bring your face close and press his lips to yours.

He kissed you like he hadn’t consumed anything for weeks. He kissed desperately, lovingly, his fingers stroking your skin and scalp, pulling you in closer so he could taste you better.

You were lost in the feeling, and you were willing to get lost in it for the rest of your life. You let your hands rest on his neck, thumbs grazing over his skin. He seemed to love it with the way he sharply inhaled.

You had to pull away to catch your breath, and when you saw Colt’s dreamy, amused gaze, you questioned, “What?”

“You do taste like disinfectant.”

You laughed, sincerely, and he did too.

“Idiot,” you mumbled, giggling. “Of course I do.”

“But it, like— it tastes pretty alright, you know?”

And you started laughing even harder.

It's bullshit. Makes you want to punch the daylights out of him — and Ryder, too. Oh, that absolute fucker, taking credit for and leeching off of Colt's talents, skills, injuries with the whole "I do my own stunts" nonsense while he can barely sit in a car in front of a blue screen setup.

It's as if Colt thinks himself invincible. That he's Tom Ryder's best stuntman, that he's the best stuntman there is — which he probably is, to be honest, but he's not immortal. And he acts like you're slapping the unavoidable truth of it in his face whenever you dare to show concern, or God forbid, get upset when he gets injured.

You try to make it work, somehow. It's not like you don't understand not wanting to show vulnerability, changing your approach accordingly so he doesn't take offense to you doing things for him. That it's just because you want to do things for him, and not because you think he's an incapable, worthless piece of shit, or whatever other atrocious thoughts that he's brewing up in his head.

So imagine your surprise when Colt "I-can-walk-off-anything" Seavers fusses over you like no tomorrow whenever you get injured.

The first time it happens, it's a mere papercut.

Yes, a stupid papercut.

The reason why you yelp and then hiss in annoyance is solely because it's unexpected, and while it stings a little for now, you know it'll sting for at least for the rest of the week before it fully heals rather than the actual pain levels it causes.

While you're no Colt (nobody is), you're not that fragile.

"You a'ight?" Colt's head peeks in from the doorway, and upon seeing you clutching your finger with barely a drop of blood pooling at your fingertip, disappears momentarily. The sound of heavy footsteps running echoes in the corridor before he re-emerges with the first aid kit.

The whole kit. You bark out a short laugh at the sight.

"Let me see," Colt gingerly takes your hand in his, gently wrapping a bandaid over your finger, crossing the ends over so it doesn't slide right off, then briefly brushes his lips over your finger, "All good."

Your boyfriend who used to shut you out when you tried fussing over him is unironically kissing a papercut better. With his whole chest — lips, whatever, — even.

Another time it happens, it's more subtle.

You had a persistent ache in your wrist that made it hard to bend your wrist or squeeze things for a few weeks, and the orthopaedist has diagnosed it as a Ganglion cyst — nothing to worry, pretty common really. Here's your pills and spray, don't force it. It's nothing you can't manage, though it flared up occasionally during some menial tasks like chopping ingredients to cook.

Which is an odd time for fully chopped — sliced, diced, julienned and minced, also — ingredients to spawn in your freezer, filling it to the brim.

In Colt's defense, he did wait a few days after he saw you taking small breaks while prepping ingredients, squeezing the physical therapy ball to relax your muscles in between, to execute his nefarious plan.

You don't point it out directly.

"Aww, you might as well roll a red carpet for me to walk on next time," you press a loud, exaggerated smooch on his cheek, and he preens.

"Uh oh, careful what you wish for!" he hums, catching your lips in a soft kiss before you can fully pull away, "You know I would."

This time, you see Colt all but jerk forward as he lunges in your direction when you lose your balance.

He manages to catch your upper arm in a firm grip, though your knee is already grinding against the pavement. You grit your teeth as you scramble to get up through the stinging pain.

Fuck, please don't be a wardrobe malfunction. It's not like you planned on falling on gritty pavement when putting on the thin, breezy pants to combat the heat, but please, please, please, don't be a wardrobe malfunction.

"Thank you," you mutter to whoever is helping you up from the side. As soft of a fall as it was, you can't bring yourself to look at them, and with Colt ushering them away with a surprisingly assertive "I've got her, man," you don't have to face them after all.

"I've got you, baby," This time, it's directed towards you, voice considerably softer, though before you can utilize the hand you have on his shoulder to finally stand upright and thank him, your feet are swept off the ground.

A small noise of surprise rips from your throat as you wrap your arms around his neck on instinct.

Eyes flicking down momentarily, Colt clicks his tongue, yelling to no one in particular as he picks up his pace, "Can we get a medkit in my trailer?"

"On it, buddy!" You hear Dan call from a distance.

Looking down also, there is more than just a wardrobe malfunction in this situation.

Ignoring the giant hole in the knee of your pants, the flimsy fabric flapping down pathetically at the sides of a wound, there is a trail of blood that is quickly travelling down to your ankle, the red a stark contrast to the light cloth that absorbs it.

Colt pushes the door handle down with his elbow and shoulders the door to throw it open, promptly seating you on his bed, ushering the guy who brought the first aid kit to hand it over before shooing him away, slamming the door shut right after.

"Oof," he kneels in front of you, carefully lifting the fabric to get a closer look at the wound, brows furrowed with concern, opening the first aid kit with practised ease. "That looks like it hurts."

"It probably looks worse than it is," you murmur, "It was quite a soft fall, really."

Colt doesn't seem satisfied with the answer, the crease between his brows deepening as he gives your pants a light tug. "Need these off so I can clean it off before the bandages."

"Mister Seavers," you gasp, clutching your pearls in mock horror, "What scandalous requests are you making..!"

Colt fixes you with a look. Despite not wanting to play along, it seems like he doesn't have it in him to scold you, either.

Tapping your knee, "Can you lift yourself up a little?" he asks, fingers already at your waistline, undoing the button and zipper before sliding your pants off your legs, letting the fabric pool around your ankles before dabbing antiseptic on some cotton, lightly pressing it to the wound, mumbling "Sorry," the moment it touches your skin.

It's odd, seeing him this fussy over a bit of blood. It's not like you're playing hero or whatever; it really was a soft fall, and while there is arguably a lot of blood, you can tell it's merely a nasty scrape.

"You're fussing," you offer lightly, running your fingers through his hair.

That seems to help, seeing as his shoulders sag when some of the tension leaves his body.

"Obviously," he huffs, "I don't like seein' you hurt."

"Knee scrapes are nothing compared to what you go through every day when shooting."

He looks up at you through his lashes, gaze a mix between exasperated and fond. Mostly exasperated, because how dare you compare the two.

"You look pretty," you speak up before he can, trying to diffuse the situation. You've made your point, he knows.

"You're so full of shit," he cackles, throwing his head back, "I know for a fact you're not concussed. Bit late, but I caught you, remember?"

"Yeees," you drawl, "All the more reason for you to believe I'm speaking with my whole chest, pretty boy."

"Uh-huh," he nods, sporting a wide grin as he finishes bandaging up the wound.

"Looking for Tom Ryder's stunt double for scene 43."

"Ugh," both of you groan, glaring at the walkie-talkie on the counter as if it personally offended you.

A moment of silence passes before Colt speaks up.

"I'll be right back after my scene," he nudges your bare thigh, just above the bandages with his nose, "Don't you go anywhere."

"Doubt I'm gonna walk around the set without pants on, babe."

"Fair point." He nods, pointing to the door with his chin, head hanging low since he has to leave you. "I'll bring the actual medics along to take a look just in case, okay? ... And a pair of sweatpants, or whatever I can find for you to wear."

Falling back on the bed, you reach your hand out dramatically towards him as he turns around, wheezing out a sickly; "You must continue your journey without me..."

"Easy," He laughs as he opens the door, "Kung Fu Panda."

"Try not to use skadoosh on Ryder, handsome."

He climbed into the dingy motel bed, slow and groaning. You could see the exhaustion in the darkness under his eyes, and in the dull green of his irises. You saw the evidence of his lack of sleep pulling at his limbs, because he hadn’t truly rested since he got “topside.”

Since he showed up at your apartment with Bobby in tow, scaring the shit out of you with his half-cocked smile before he proved he wasn’t a shapeshifter or a demon.

The way Dean held you then had been so strong and fragile at the same time; you felt the shake in his arms, the tension embedded in his frame, even while he was burying his face in your hair. You’d blinked hot tears that clung to your lashes, cupped his face between your hands and kissed him just as hard and desperate.

He was alive, so you were alive. That was what that day felt like for you: coming back to life.

But this was a different kind of living.

When you slid into bed beside him, he didn’t reach for you. He didn’t welcome you against his side or wrap his arm around you. He didn’t even pretend to meet your eyes, let alone kiss you goodnight. He just mumbled the empty word, like he already knew it wouldn’t be one.

Sam was still out by himself. He was doing that more often lately, ducking out and taking the car or walking into town by himself. His excuses were always valid on the surface, like getting breakfast at the diner early, or doing some research at a café, or getting an early morning run in before you or Dean rolled out of bed. Still, you had half a mind to call bullshit.

Dean had stopped trying, even though he’d noticed too, sometimes with lips pursing, jaw clenching.

Tonight, he didn’t seem to care about his brother’s nighttime habits or your soft frown as he turned onto his side, away from you.

“You okay?” you asked, despite knowing what it would get you.

“‘M fine,” he said. “Just tired.”

You nodded, even though he couldn’t see it. You wished he wouldn’t bury it all so deep. You wished he would let you help him. But Dean had always carried layers behind that stupid devil-may-care attitude, behind that cocky grin on just the right side of charming, and the old leather that draped his shoulders like a second skin of bravado.

You’d noticed that his father’s jacket was still folded up somewhere in the trunk of the Impala. Dean hadn’t been wearing it since he got back.

You couldn’t help but think that mattered, even as you laid a hand on his shoulder and pressed a soft kiss near his neck.

“’Kay, goodnight,” you said.

You felt slightly raised flesh under the thin fabric of his shirt, and you realized then that you were accidentally touching the handprint burned into his skin—the mark of Castiel, the angel who rescued him.

You quickly let your hand slip away, feeling the tension in Dean’s body.

Your heart clenched, and you had to blink the sting out of your eyes when you turned onto your side and tried to get comfortable.

The first jolt stirred the mattress, then tugged at your subconscious.

The second one, and his painful groan, made your lashes flutter. Your eyes slid open as you fought through the dregs of sleep, but his fingers clawing against your arm finally yanked you out of it. 

You sucked in a confused, pained hiss, looking over at Dean. You realized that he hadn’t meant to hurt you. He had a desperate grip twisting in the sheets, his brows tightly knitted, jaw clenching so hard you could almost hear his teeth grinding. But the sounds that were escaping his barely parted lips were too heartbreaking, like a wounded animal unwilling to let their whimpers escape, afraid for something worse to follow.

“Dean,” you rasped, reaching for his shoulder cautiously. You were wary of him trying to knock your hand away, or worse, but he just flinched harder.

It did manage to wake him up though.

His eyes flew open with a sharp intake of breath, following by more labored ones as he struggled to take you in, to realize where he was.

He rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. He dragged a hand over his face, rubbing his eyes.

“Dean?” you prompted gently. You were slow in the way you slid closer, smoothing a comforting hand up his arm.

He looked over at you, tired of lying, but still unwilling to answer you.

But in that moment, you knew the truth. You knew what he was hiding, deep and dark behind his eyes when they met yours.

He couldn’t hold it for long though. His own self-loathing won out. Even just having you beside him with love and concern in your eyes was too much for him to handle.

He sat up in bed and swung his legs over the edge, but that was where he hesitated. He either lacked the strength to get up and leave you, or he was just that shaken. His eyes closed and an uneasy sigh fell from his lips, making his shoulders sag.

You crawled over to his side of the bed and bent a knee underneath you as you sat just behind him, just barely keeping yourself from touching him. You didn’t want to smother him, but you wouldn’t leave him alone either.

“You do remember everything, don’t you,” you said. The heartbreak was in your throat, but you thought it might help him to say it out loud.

Dean shook his head slowly, but this time, it wasn’t a denial. His tongue was heavy in his mouth, but he still forced himself to speak, his voice thick and rasping.

“Not just…what happened to me,” he said, his voice coarse with fatigue and pain. “What I did.”

Your brows furrowed in confusion. You didn’t understand, but he couldn’t bring himself to explain it to you—why he hadn’t been able to let you in. Why he couldn’t allow himself to touch you with his hands. Every time he looked at them, they were drenched in blood.

And when he tried to look at you, the words died in his throat. It felt selfish to try.

His lips trembled. His shoulders heaved. He covered his face as his eyes burned, and the first sob shuddered through him.

You didn’t understand, but it didn’t matter. Not tonight. Once the first tear drew down your cheek, you couldn’t let yourself do anything else but hold him from behind. Your lips pressed to his shoulder, and you held onto him as tightly as you dared.

He held you back, his hand clasping over your arm to keep you there. It gave you the encouragement you needed to slide closer, your hand cupping his cheek and stroking your thumb across his chin. His glassy eyes met yours.

“I love you,” you reminded him. “That doesn’t change.”

Again, Dean shook his head. “You don’t know. You don’t know what I…”

“Right now, I don’t need to know,” you said.

Just then, he was desperate to believe you.

He bowed into your kiss, desperate for your warmth too.

One touch couldn’t make him forget. It wouldn’t heal him either.

All you could do was stay.

AN: My heart gets ripped out every time I watch that ep where he tells Sam about his experience in Hell. 🥲💔 But let me know what you thought of this hurt/comfort snack!

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You let out a hum, “Normally? You’re real sweet.” You hand him a thermos, “Thought you could use this,” you murmur, taking off your gloves and tossing them in the trash.

Colt unscrews the top and is immediately met with the smell of coffee. He lets out a slight groan, “Have I told you I loved you today?” he asks before taking a sip. 

You shake your head and turn away, not wanting him to see the amused look on your face. “I saw that!” he says, excitedly. “I don't know what you’re talking about,” you murmur, putting away your supplies. 

“C’mon, don’t do that to me, Sunshine…depriving me of your smile is just cruel.” You roll your eyes at him and plop down next to him, “Laying it on thick today, huh?” Colt has a dopey smile on his face as he wraps an arm around your shoulder, “How long are we going to do this dance?” 

You allow him to pull you close, “What dance?” 

“You pretending that you don’t have feelings for me and me pretending that I can’t see right through your little act,” Colt answers. “Sounds like you’ve taken too many blows to the head. Didn’t check for a concussion this time, probably should have.” You muse, as Colt’s hand falls from your shoulder to your hip, rubbing circles against the fabric of your pants. 

“Don’t act like you don’t like me,” he tells you. 

“I tolerate you at best,” you quip. 

“That’s a lie, and you know it. The only person you tolerate is Tom, and you barely do that as is. You like me, you like like me,” he replies. 

“Like like? What are we in? The third grade?” 

Colt grins, “You’re not denying it.” 

You pause for a moment, “Okay, I’ll bite. Suppose I did like you. Then what? What happens next?” You question. “All hypothetical, of course,” you add. 

His smile widens, and he pulls you in a little closer, happy that you were entertaining him instead of shutting it down. “Hypothetically speaking…if you did like me, romantically, then I’d ask why you haven’t let me take you out yet?” 

“Well, that’s simple, you never asked,” you reply. 

Colt takes a sip of coffee and then speaks, “So if I were to ask, you would say yes?” You rest your head on his chest, “There's only one way to find out.”

He opens his mouth to say something, but he stops when Dan’s voice blares through the walkie-talkie. “Colt! Ryder left the set for lunch and never came back. The director wants you to stand in as a body double for the shot.” 

You take a deep breath and exhale, patting his shoulder as you get up, “Sounds like duty calls.” He catches your hand before you walk away, “You get off at seven today, right?” 

“Keeping tabs on me, Seavers?” you tease. 

Colt smirks, “Just observant…is it alright if I drop by your place later?” 

“It is,” you tell him, “Got something planned?” He hums, “Something like that, I gotta make a quick stop or two and then I’ll be over at yours by nine?”

“Works for me, Honey,” you say softly, caressing his cheek. 

“Wrap it up, lovebirds,” Dan’s voice tears Colt’s focus from you. “You can put the moves on your girl later, but for right now, you're needed on set.” You try to ignore the way your cheeks heat up at being referred to as Colt’s girl. 

Dan claps Colt on the back as they walk back to set. Colt glances back, shooting you a wink and the same smile you’ve grown all too familiar with, before putting his sunglasses on. You smile back and watch them go. 

—

A set of rhythmic knocks hit the door to your apartment at nine o'clock on the dot. 

You open up the door after glancing through the peephole. “Hi, Colt.” 

“Hi,” he says with a sweet smile. “I come bearing gifts,” he adds, holding up the two bags, one of which was a plain green reusable shopping bag and the other was a white plastic bag with the logo of your favorite takeout spot. You step aside and open the door wider for him, “Come in, Hon.” 

Colt walks in and he sets both bags down on your coffee table. “I got your favorite, and,” he takes a box out of the green bag, “Flowers.” 

A smile graces my face, “Legos.” Colt nods, “I wanted to get you flowers, but then I thought about that saying about how flowers given out of love last longer, so I figured why not give you ones that do last forever.” His words make your heart melt. 

You walk over to him, wrapping your arms around him, “You’re really living up to your nickname.” His arms snake around your waist and hold you close, “Wanna put on a movie? We can eat and watch while we build the flowers, and talk about going on a date.” 

“I think this counts as a date,” you state. Colt pulls away slightly to look down at you, “Yeah? You’re happy with this being our first date and not being wined and dined at a fancy restaurant?”

You hum contently, “Sounds like a perfect first date to me…we can wine and dine another time.” 

So there you two were, seated on the floor of your living room, building the legos and taking bites of food every so often while Meet the Robinsons plays absentmindedly in the background. 

“Would you really have said yes if I asked you out earlier?” he asks. 

You nod your head, chewing and swallowing the food in your mouth before answering, “Yeah, I would have said something, but I wasn’t sure if you actually liked me or it was just friendly flirting.” 

He attaches the head of the last rose to the stem, “Just friendly flirting over the past three years? Sweetheart, I think I was one kiss on the cheek away from losing my mind.” You hold an egg roll up to his mouth and he takes a bite, “And here I thought you liked it when I kissed you better,” you tease.

“That was the problem,” he says with his mouth full. You grin and bite into the other half of the eggroll. 

The night carries on, and the two of you end up snuggling on the couch watching reruns of The Nanny. You lay on his chest, his heart was thumping under your ear. You tilt your head up to look at him, only to find him already looking at you. “I’d say this is a pretty good first date," he mumbles.

“Almost perfect,” you affirm. 

Colt raises an eyebrow, “Almost? What can I do to make it perfect?” His fingers run up and down your back, tracing your spine. You shift up and lean down, “Everyone knows any good date ends with a kiss.” A smirk spreads across his face, he puts his hand on the back of your neck, “Can I?” 

“Please,” you whisper, leaning in further. He meets you halfway and presses a tender kiss to his lips.

Colt was singing along softly to music playing in the background of the waiting room. "Goin' to the chapel and we're gonna get married. Goin' to the chapel and we're gonna get married,” his hand snakes around your waist, pulling you back against his chest. His chin rests on your shoulder as he starts swaying the two of you side to side. “Gee, I really love you and we're gonna get married."

“You guys are so sweet it’s disgusting,” Dan jokes as he records you and Colt with his camcorder. 

You don’t even bother fighting the grin stretching across your face when Colt plops a kiss on your cheek. Marriage was something that you and Colt had discussed early on in your relationship. You were enamored by each other. The question was never if you want to get married, but rather when do you want to get married. The idea of eloping had crossed your mind a handful of times, but after finding out that the two of you would be jetting off to the “Marriage Capital of the World” for Colt’s next project, it was all you could think about. And you’d been trying to figure out a way to bring it up without revealing that you knew about his shiny little secret tucked away in the closet.

Finding the ring was an accident. You were borrowing one of his jackets after deducing that an oversized jacket would truly make your outfit for grabbing dinner with your friends when you found the box in the pocket. Seeing the ring was an even bigger accident. You didn’t want to see it, but panic set in when you thought you heard the front door open, and you dropped the box in your scramble to take off the jacket. The ring was perfect, and the attention to detail showcased how well Colt knew you.

–

“What if we got married in Vegas?” You asked half jokingly as the two of you sorted through the clothes you wanted to pack. 

“Who says I want to marry you?” He’s sporting a serious expression when he asks, but it crumbles and is replaced with a smile the second you attempt to push his face away. 

“The ring you’ve been hiding in your Miami Vice Stunt jacket told me so.” You hadn’t processed your own words until Colt’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head. “You know about that?!” 

You covered your mouth immediately, “Oh shit! You weren’t supposed to find out.” 

He looks at you like you’re nuts, “I wasn’t supposed to find out?! Baby, you weren’t supposed to find out!” You stare at each other for a few seconds, and you’re almost convinced he’s upset until he breaks and lets out a hearty chuckle, causing you to laugh as well. 

“How long have you known?” Colt questions once the laughter dies down. 

“Three months. It was the night I went out to dinner with the girls, and they called you to come get me after I had a few too many.” 

He lets out an ‘ah’ and nods his head, “So that’s why you kept calling me your husband.” 

You step forward and wrap your arms around his neck. “It’s called manifesting, honey.” 

Colt snickers at you and draws you in by the waist, “Do you actually want to get married in Vegas?” 

“I’d marry you anywhere.”

– 

Your confirmation was exactly why, almost a week later, the two of you had just spent the morning obtaining a marriage license, then the afternoon shopping for proper wedding attire and picking out a wedding band for Colt. You knew the ceremony would be operating on a time crunch, the website made that very clear when you made your appointment but the realization of just how fast things were going didn’t hit you until you were walking down the aisle, passing Dan sitting in the pew, to meet a teary-eyed Colt at the altar. He had the sweetest smile on his face as he watched you move towards him. “Don’t cry, you’ll make me cry,” you tell him as you blink back happy tears.

“You’re as beautiful as always,” he tells you before the officiant starts reading her speech. She kept what she had to say to a minimum, only sharing a few words about love and what a beautiful union marriage was. Once she concluded, she left the floor open for the exchanging of vows. You and Colt had been advised to keep it short, sweet, and sentimental. 

There’s a sense of giddy-nervousness as Colt reaches into his inner jacket pocket. His hand trembled as he unfolded the piece of paper. His voice is shaky as he starts, “You. You captured my heart before you even spoke a word to me. Everything–God–everything about you was so captivating. Your smile, your laugh, the way you carried yourself, and then you talked to me and I just knew.” He takes a deep breath before continuing, “You make my head spin, sweetheart. I didn’t think it was possible to love someone even a fraction of how much I love you. You and your love have taken my heart and soul to new heights. You mean everything to me; you are everything to me. I am the best and happiest version of myself when I’m with you, and I vow to never do anything to make you think otherwise. In sickness and health, through all the highs and lows, in this life and the next, I’ll be right there loving you all the same.” 

Your eyes gloss over as his words sink in. This man loved you. It wasn’t news by any means. Colt’s love for you was no secret; he loved you and he loved you loudly. His hand cups your cheek and wipes a stray tear, “Don’t cry, baby.” 

“You’re so sweet,” you whisper. You lean into his hand, turning your head just enough to kiss his inner palm before he lets go of your face. 

Your palms felt sweaty as you retrieved your vows from your bra. Colt’s unable to bite back his giggle, “That’s where you kept it?” 

“This dress doesn’t have pockets!”  

You take a second to compose yourself before you start reading, “The moment we met was so strange because there was nothing strange about it. You just had this sense of familiarity that I couldn’t place until you kissed me for the first time, and then I knew. You felt like home, you are home, you’re everything I’ve ever dreamt of and more. You’re an anomaly in the way you calm my nerves, yet are the reason my heart races. You’re a man of wonder, and I cannot thank you enough for being my person and for making everything better. I love you. I love you a million times over. I’ll love you through everything that life throws our way. I’ll love you forever.” 

Colt beams at you, his arms circling around your waist and pulling you close. He leans in for a kiss before the officiant wedges her hand between your faces, “We’re not at that part yet, loverboy.” A light pink hue dusts over Colt’s face as he mumbles an apology and opts to hold your hands in his instead. 

The officiant glances at her watch and clears her throat. She clears her throat, turning her attention towards Colt, and starts to recite the words from her notebook, “Do you Colt Seavers, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife, to live together in matrimony, to love her, comfort her, honor and keep her, in sickness and health, in sorrow and joy, to have and to hold, from this day forward, as long as you both shall live?” 

“I do,” he affirms. There’s a glimmer in his eyes as he drinks in the set of you. His thumbs run over your knuckles as the officiant sets her sights on you. 

“And do you, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband to live together in matrimony, to love him, comfort him, honor and keep him, in sickness and in health, in sorrow and in joy, to have and to hold from this day forward, as long as you both shall live?” 

“I do,” you beam. 

The officiant motions for Dan to bring the rings to her. She holds them in the palm of her hand. She instructs you both, one after the other, to take the respective ring for the other and repeat after her, “With this ring, I thee wed, and pledge my love to you, now and forever.” 

A smile graces her face as she closes her book, “And with the authority vested in me by the State of Nevada, I pronounce you to each other, husband and wife. You may now kiss–” Colt doesn’t give her a chance to finish before his hands are around your waist and you’re being dipped into a kiss, “-the bride.” 

You can hear the sound of Dan cheering and the officiant as you stand up straight. She offers a few more words before heading out of the room, “Congratulations, you two. You guys have a few minutes to take photos if you’d like. We’ll file your paperwork with the Clark County clerk and have the copies of your marriage certification mailed to your residence. You two love birds have a wonderful honeymoon and a blissful rest of your lives together.” 

– 

The familiar weight of Colt’s arm draped across your stomach was the first thing you noted as you were pulled from your sleep. You squeeze your eyes shut the second you open them, the sudden brightness courtesy of the sunlight peeking through thin curtains and blinding you momentarily.  Once adjusted to the light, you sit up and survey the room in search of what could have possibly woken you, only to be met with the sight of your husband sprawled across the bed with his face squished against the pillow and last night’s wedding attire scattered across the floor. 

A tender smile sweeps across your face as you drink in the sight of him, as soft snores escape his lips. His hair was a mess, sticking up in various places, but the sun rays shining through and illuminating his back enhanced one of your favorite views. You reach out and carefully trace the freckles that decorate his skin, avoiding the red remnants of the scratch marks from the night before, charting your very own constellation across his back. 

“Don’t you know it’s rude to stare?” The raspiness of Colt’s morning voice slices through the silent room and captures your attention. 

“Staring? I’m merely admiring.” 

A wave of satisfaction washes over you when the corner of his mouth twitches up. He gives your waist a squeeze before rolling over, taking the top sheet with him in the process. You watch as he stretches out his limbs, letting out a groan and relaxing back against the mattress. “Is that what we’re calling it now?” 

You hum in acknowledgment, combing your fingers through his hair and gently massaging his scalp. He nuzzles his head into your hands, the dopey smile you’ve grown accustomed to spreading across his face. “Sleep well?” 

“Mhm…” he mumbles, “My wife tired me out real nice...makes for good sleep.”

“Is that so?” You shuffle closer and straddle him. He lets out a groan as you settle on his lap,  hands clutching your hips on instinct, his nails digging into the flesh. “Think you’re rested enough for another joyride, Mr. Seavers?” You knew you were getting a rise out of him; you could feel the rise you were getting out of him. 

“Whatever you want, Mrs. Seavers…I’m all yours.” 

You put your hands on the square of his chest, using the surface as support to rock your hips against his. “Are you now–” Your movement is halted by the sudden buzzing of your phone on the nightstand. 

Colt’s thumb rubs a circle against your hip, “Gonna get that? It was going off earlier.”

“It was?” 

He nods and slides his hands from your hips down to your thighs, squeezing them. “Thought that’s what woke you up, woke me up.” 

“Oh,” you say as everything clicks, “I think it did.” You move off his lap and reach for your phone, barely catching a glimpse of your publicist's name flashing across the screen as you grab it. You slide your finger across the screen and hold the phone up to your ear, “Hello?”

“Finally! Thought you’d never answer,” she exclaims. 

“Is everything okay?” The concern in your voice was apparent, she never called you this urgently unless it was something big. 

“Good news or bad news first?”

A sense of dread washes over you as you process her question, “Bad news.” You could hear her take a deep breath. “Firstly, did you and Colt actually get married?” 

“We did,” you confirm, looking over at him as he mouths ‘What’s she saying?’

“I don’t know whether or not I should congratulate you or yell at you.” 

You sit up, “Yell at me?” 

“Yes, yell. You know how many publications have been reaching out to me for a statement? I was being bombarded with emails and phone calls. There’s a video of the two of you leaving the chapel.” 

“Is that the bad news?”

“Not quite,” she says. 

Colt pokes at your sides and you swat his hands away. “So nosy,” you mumble as you put the phone on speaker and wait for her to continue, “Bad news is some sites are reporting that you married Tom.” 

“You’re joking, right? Please tell me you're joking.” 

“I like you far too much to make a joke that cruel.” You could hear her kettle whistle, the sound ringing in your ear while you digest everything she was saying. It had been a while since your name had been in the headlines with Tom, so long that you actually began to believe that the very rumor that had followed you around like a rain cloud had finally ceased.

It was a harmless rumor about you and Tom dating, or at the very least hooking up, that originated at the wrap party for the Bonnie and Clyde-esque movie you’d done together, The Two Most Wanted. Your mind reels as you think back to that night. 

You couldn’t quite remember what song was playing throughout the bar, but you could remember Colt coming up to you as you sat at the bar,  “Hey there, pretty girl.” You remembered how hot your face felt when he called you that and how your heart fluttered in your chest when he cupped your face and kissed you. 

Maybe it was the liquor, maybe it was the fact that you were with Colt, and you no longer felt the need to be as hypervigilant as you usually were because you knew you were safe, or maybe it was both. You still hadn’t made up your mind, even now, years removed from it. All you knew for certain was that you, much like everyone else at the party, were enamored by whatever was in front of them, and for that was Colt. It was for that reason alone that you didn’t notice the sweet moment between the two of you being captured in the background of a video one of your costars was taking of her friends dancing. 

The video didn’t make its way into your realm of knowledge until the following afternoon when your publicist broke the news to you about the video circulating online because eagled eyed fans claimed to have recognized the back of “Tom’s” head. Your team was quick to deny, deny, deny, that seemed like all you’d been doing during the promotion of the film and every film after. It had become irritating to be tied to a man you weren’t with and had stated such on multiple occasions, even disclosing on a talk show that you were in a serious relationship with someone around the time you and Colt hit the one year mark. You had explained that you were protecting your peace, choosing to keep your relationship private, not only because your man was a private person, but also because it was nice to finally have something that was just yours in an industry that requires you to divulge so much of yourself to the public. 

You hoped that by finally addressing it head on and stating firmly that you were in a relationship and it wasn’t with Tom would finally put those rumors to rest, but with Colt being Tom’s stuntman and changing his hair to match the actors and you visiting him onset, the rumor mill always started back up again. With every “bigfoot shot,” as your husband called it, came a new article about the nonexistent romance. 

“What’s the good news?” You ask into the line while watching Colt move around, trying to get comfortable before ultimately deciding to lay on top of you. 

“The good news is…” You could hear her stirring her tea, the spoon clanking against the mug, “They think it’s for the movie that they’re filming. Another video got posted, it’s pretty grainy, but some people were able to make out Dan leaving with you guys, so it’s now being reported that you were shooting something there.”   

“Okay, okay, that’s not the worst thing in the world.” 

She hums in agreement, “Ryder’s publicist reached out to me about it before the other video came out. Asking if you’d be willing to lean in to give Tom some good PR after he tried to start that cult.” 

You can’t help but roll your eyes at the mention, threading your fingers through Colt’s hair. “Ryder’s angels, how could I forget?” 

“Obviously, I told her no. But I do think we should revisit you and Colt making a debut, just to get ahead of everything—and before you shut me down,  just think about it and talk to him about it. It doesn’t have to be big, just something that will really solidify that you’re taken.” 

“I’ll talk to him about it and let you know,” you affirm. 

"Alright, I’ll keep you updated if anything happens,” she tells you before hanging up. 

Colt lifts his head, his eyes scanning your face to gauge how you were feeling. He could see the gears turning in your head; the topic at hand always made you anxious. This wasn’t the first time the suggestion of going public had been made, but based on the fact you didn’t immediately dismiss the idea, this was the first time you were actually thinking about doing it. “I know it’s a cause for concern, but I wouldn’t mind going public.”

“You wouldn’t?”

He sits up properly to look at you, his hands stretching out to hold your face, “I love you–” “I love you too.” 

“And I love being your partner. I have no issue with people knowing that. It’s scary, yes. People are so invasive, and I know you're concerned about my privacy, but I can handle whatever comes my way. I’m a tough guy.”

He picks up on the shift in your demeanor right away. “What if it becomes too much? That kind of stuff is really overwhelming…you see what it does to me sometimes. I–I just don’t want to put you in that kind of position.”

“You’re not putting me in any position. I’m choosing to be with you, and I knew what I signed up for when we got together. I can handle it, sweetheart. I’m a big boy.” His thumbs caress your cheeks as he speaks to you. 

You search his eyes for a glimpse of doubt, but you’re only met with certainty. “You’re really okay with it?” 

“Only if you are.” 

You take a deep breath, taking a moment to assess your feelings and approach it logically. “Okay.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah…I think we can go public in a way that doesn't turn our relationship into some sort of spectacle.” He hums in agreement, “Exactly! You don’t gotta worry your pretty little head about it. We’ll be okay.” 

Your features soften at his reassurance; he always knew how to ease your mind. “Maybe we can do it at the premiere of my movie next month? I know you’ll still be working, but maybe we can walk the carpet in LA? It’s only an hour and some change.” 

“I’d like that a lot.”

—

Your plans to go public are halted a little over a week later when an article is published by a more than reputable entertainment news outlet with a copy of your marriage certificate attached. Marriage records in the state of Nevada were public information; you knew that. It just didn’t occur to you that anyone would actively be searching your name in the Clark County Clerk’s office. 

The length of the article initially intimidated you, knowing the outlet was beyond invasive. But your worry slowly ceased as you read through the piece, only to realize they knew a lot less than it appeared. Sure, they published proof of your marriage, but they had nothing to say about either of you beyond your careers. The few paragraphs dedicated solely to Colt only pertained to his stunt career, the writer highlighting his work from being a part of the Miami Vice stunt team to his more recent work, like Bad Cop Good Dog and Annihilation. 

In addition to detailing Colt’s career, the journalist pointed out that Colt was Tom’s go-to stuntman and how the rumors regarding you and the actor were nothing more than a case of mistaken identity. An attempt was also made to map out a rough timeline of your relationship, piecing together sightings of the two of you sourced from fan pages. 

The internet was buzzing with the news, and your team was scrambling to figure out what your next move should be. You and Colt sat shoulder to shoulder as various members of your teams debated on the best course of action for you to take over a virtual meeting. It was split, one half suggesting that you confirm it by responding to one of the publications that reached out, and the other encouraging you to stick with the original plan to walk the carpet with. 

Your head was starting to hurt from the back and forth, “What if I just posted something? Like a photo of us?” 

“Are you sure?” 

‘Yes,” you respond, just wanting it to end, “Colt and I will pick a photo and I’ll post it.” There’s a moment of silence before your publicist speaks up, “Alright then, if that’s what you want.” 

The meeting ends, leaving you and Colt alone. “Do you have a picture in mind?” 

“Maybe the one Dan took when we were showing our rings?” You offer, turning your phone towards him. The photo was taken by Dan on your digital camera; your faces weren’t visible, but your dress and his suit were as you both extended your left hands to showcase your wedding rings. 

You don’t even know where Colt is right now. Probably taking a nap in his trailer, or grabbing a bite to eat off-set. You can’t think about that now, because you need to focus on talking over Ryder. “That’s insane,” you counter. “It’s too expensive to reshoot the stunt, and it’s already perfect as-is. It doesn’t take a whole lot of work to recreate the scene you just did.” It’s really not. All he has to do is wave his stupid prop-gun around and run his mouth.

“Pain in the fuckin’ ass,” Ryder mutters indiscreetly. You can only scribble away on your script, unamused. The makeup artist that comes to touch up the highlighter on his cheeks looks half-scared to death. You can tell that she’s in a quick rush to dab the brush at his face and scurry away as fast as possible.

“Tom, bear with us for a minute. We’ve got this scene left, and then it’s press time. You love the press,” the director exclaims, all too sporadically. “We’ll redo the scene really quick, bud. Just go with the flow.”

—

You’ve been keeping your eye on Colt for the last week and a half of production. It’s not that you can control it. Whenever he’s substituting in for Ryder for the fight scenes or the pyro or the vehicular stunts, he’s always front and center. You’ve got to keep your eye on the script and Colt simultaneously; it’s your job—tracking the consistency. In any case, you’d have to do just the same for Ryder. Except, when Colt’s not needed for the shot, you, on occasion, still keep your eye on him.

So, you might have an inkling of a crush on the senior stunt double on your set. The reason, you’ve tried to deduce, is that he’s relatively much nicer than Ryder, which means you’re so much more likely to like him. And you’d be lying if you said you weren’t attracted to him, with his blonde highlights and all the movie quotes he spews out between takes.

Usually, you’ll find him at the catering table, on his third cup of your shared fourteen-hour day. It’s under these usual circumstances that he comes to thank you. You feel a tap on your shoulder—and Colt’s there, right beside you, mug in hand. You give him a nod and a smile, trying not to come off too jumpy. He still has his costume on, grayish blue suit and a slightly darker tie to match—topped with a brimmed cowboy hat. It’s the same as Ryder’s. You drop your thermos down on the folding table, trying to figure out what pastry might tie you over for the rest of the day.

“So, I heard you did me a big favor,” Colt murmurs. Word travels fast on-set, clearly. He takes the white little espresso mug up to his lips, taking a sip of the hot brew as he leans back against the catering table. He lowers it just a little to say, “You should’ve just let him make us reshoot.”

You shake your head, picking a scone off one of the trays and placing it onto your flimsy styrofoam tray. “It’s good to get him worked up early during production, so he might ease off the bitching later. It’s like an advanced payment.”

Colt snorts. “Nice,” he says, “I’m pretty sure he’s trying to get Gail to get you fired. Obviously, you didn’t hear it from me.” It barely fazes you. Ryder’s always dying to get somebody fired, and it alternates based on his particular moods. His targeting you is no different than usual.

“She can’t fire me,” you chuckle. After four blockbuster films of you on script with the bigwigs, you’re convinced that you’re invincible. It’s naive, maybe, but you’re good at what you do. You’re credible. And, on this particular contemporary Western at least—with crunch time now, in the middle of spring—you’re safe. You digress, “I know the film inside out, and it’d be a killer to replace me at this point in production.” 

“Right,” Colt nods. He doesn’t seem to believe you too much, but it is what it is. He seems to lower his voice as crew, largely lighting and sound in all-black, whizz past you to set up for the next scene. Intently, he tells you, “I wouldn’t mind reshooting if it means Ryder won’t give you as hard of a time.”

Your eyebrows crease. It’s not that you don’t appreciate his efforts to make your life easier. It’s just so simple the way Colt thinks he can be tossed around; you wish he’d be more careful with himself. “Kind offer. Thanks.” You’re brushing him off; he can tell.

“Even if you won’t take me up on it,” Colt tilts his head, “I’m around whenever you need me. What is this, our third film together?” He’s flashing you a grin, back to the table. He must think he’s real cool; you hate that it’s working on you.

“Fourth,” you correct. You’re not sure if it comes out short or timid; regrettably, it feels more like the latter. Colt lowers his mug down onto the table, faltering just slightly.

Briskly, he repeats, “Fourth.” Colt makes an extended effort to turn around and pick your thermos up off the table. You have to suppress a yelped “hey.” Despite your protests, thermos his hand, Colt practically bodyguards the whole setup—the Keurig and the metal basket of espresso pods adjacent to it. Your hip bumps against his as he puts his forearm to fend you off. You’d try to grab for it if you weren’t at work, PAs and DPs flitting around you both. “You don’t have to—”

And, like a flash, Colt tosses your thermos onto the bottom plate, whips the pod into the canister, punches the lid down, and clicks double-shot. “My first installment for you screwing over Ryder on my behalf.” While you’re both waiting for the machine to pour down coffee, he’s humming something like ABBA. “How pissed was he to reshoot?”

“Practically frothing at the mouth,” you tell him, “I’m surprised they didn’t prep a bib.” Colt’s perfectly satisfied with this answer, nodding curtly. Respect. Not many people are capable of talking down on Ryder so openly.

The thermos gets filled halfway, and Colt offers it back up to you, “Here.” You take the thermos back, in steady avoidance of his callused fingertips. He admits, “I don’t know how you like your coffee yet.” Yet? You narrow your eyes. You’re not sure that Colt has ever been so attentive talking to you, and you’re trying not to feel the way your breath hitches in your chest in response.

If there’s anything you’re able to bond about with Colt, it’s the damn on-set coffee. He’s practically running on the stuff, probably ten times worse than you are. His little mug finds its way back into his hands again. Colt fails to speak for a moment, too occupied by… something on your face. You’re trying not to crumple beneath his observation, but Colt’s smiling and he’s searching over your features for something.

Finally, after a few seconds, he lets up. “I’ll get your order down sometime this week. I’m, uh, quick to learn,” he tells you. Then, he raises up his little cup toward you. “Cheers. To you disturbing the peace.” You raise your thermos, and Colt’s ceramic clinks against your metal. A little victory.

—

You could care less about Ryder’s peace, really; but, you’re partially grateful in the fact that it’s allowed you to catch Colt’s attention. Colt sticks to his word about the coffee, because he seems to keep his attention fixed whenever you’re at that catering table with him. And when you’re not at the catering table, he’s still somehow around, holding open doors for you and keeping spare pencils tucked on his person for you to use to mark scripts. You don’t want to mistake it for anything that it’s not, but it feels almost vaguely like Colt Seavers is trying to court you.

All the fuss that he’s been making to please you culminates into a really unnecessary scene on-set. You’re right off camera, next to the director, camera op, Gail, and… Colt. It’s one of those classic getaway car scenes, set in a downtown street; they’ve got Ryder in the motions of hopping into a great Oldsmobile Toronado, while two security guards are trying to hop and skip after him in the facade of a nameless bank. All the action—Ryder yelling “Really, it ain’t personal,” in a vaguely East Coast accent—culminates into him jumping down a set of stairs and whipping the door open. He clambers in, slams the door shut, and throws a big duffel into the backseat. The open zipper of the bag makes for a great effect of bills being scattered all in the closed containment of the car.

The director yells cut and the crew runs round to reset. Ryder runs his nails into his scalp, pushing back his curls; it all comes very easily to him, these things. As terrible as he is a person, he still can’t help but be great at his craft. It’s insufferable. One of the PAs guides him out of the car and off-camera to a tall chair with a glass of water and a tray of fruit. He pops a green grape into his mouth, before staring off in your direction, bored. “Can somebody tell Colt to stop eye-fucking the scripty?”

The notes that you’re taking down in red ink have to wait. You slap your script down onto your lap. “He’s not,” you spit out, gawking most of all at the choice of words. In front of the entire set—oh, you want to kill Ryder; there’s nothing in the world you’d want more.

“I’m not—” Colt scoffs. “I’m trying to gauge if the camera needs to get pulled back. It’s gonna be a killer if I crack the lens.” You look over your shoulder to check Colt’s conviction. There’s zero of it. He’s looking down at you and back at Ryder, hands propped on his hips. You can see his chest rise and fall. Colt wants to look tough, and his composure is doing absolutely to help you.

Ryder laughs, really guffaws. He makes sure to crunch down another green grape, before he shoos the whole arrangement away with a “Thanks, honey.” The PA by Ryder’s side makes sure to make themselves sparse, taking away the fruit and leaving him with the water. Ryder keeps his eye locked on Colt, already quite entertained. “You’re a shitty liar, dude.”

“There’s a reason why one’s the lead and the other’s the double,” Gail says heartily, smacking her gum with a shrug. When she finds that you haven’t agreed with her, or at least laughed alongside the two of them, she gives you an eyeroll under her wide glasses. It’s all wide and clear: Gail thinks you’re no fun. She should really adjust her priorities.

The director groans, “Jesus, Colt, just go get in the car.” The talk is getting you all further behind schedule. Colt’s meant to crash into a storefront window. Amidst the arguing, everything’s all in place—an Oldsmobile replica driven up in place of the real deal, door open for Colt to jump in. You can feel him hand tap the back of your chair as he straightens out his costume and grabs for his crash helmet. A wordless sorry. You try not to jump at the feeling of Colt’s suit brushing against your shoulder as he passes by you.

“You got it, boss,” Colt calls out, exclamation muffled. He throws out a big thumbs up as he makes it over to the car. You have a feeling that Colt is going to grovel later about Ryder making a scene of the two of you, but really, it isn’t the worst thing in the world—at least, until Colt slams the car door shut and Ryder decides to speak up again.

Leaned over in his tall chair, he asks slovenly, “Seriously, are you sleeping with Seavers? If it’s because he’s my stuntman and it’s a power thing—” 

“No! No, I’m not sleeping with Colt and even if I was, you would have absolutely nothing to do with you,” you hiss. The ego on Ryder makes your head thrum. You try to keep to your script—taking up the clipboard in your lap to write notes down on your log on the last couple of shots.

“It would make sense ‘cause he looks like me, you hate my guts. It’s like that psychosexual shit that Freud talks about… uh…” Ryder taps his fingers on the armrest of his chair, then clicks his fingers: “Displacement.” Smartass. He probably only knows the term having prepped it for an interview on one of his psychological thrillers. Ryder is about to continue harping on about how flattered he is, but the 1st AD calls quiet on set; he shuts it.

—

You’re stationed at your new spot on the opposite side of the backlot, five feet behind the secondary camera setup—where Colt is meant to swing the car through a large glass window. Luckily, Ryder and Gail have decided amongst themselves to depart elsewhere to talk about the next big film. This way, you’ll be able to worry about this stunt in peace.

At action, the Oldsmobile revs. Colt is making sure to kick up some smoke. You can tell now that this is going to be a good take—just from the way he’s handling the car. If you’re not mistaken, you think that he might even be driving with a bit of extra force. The car starts barreling down the set raucously. You’re trying not to grip your script too hard at the sight of him speeding down the road. As Colt’s car approaches, you’re unable to see his expression past the tinted helmet. The flash that you do catch is of his gloved hands gripping the wheel—and the most that you can do is cross your fingers.

The collision is hard. You can’t help but flinch at the sight of him tearing the car through the pane. It shatters loudly, and you can see the motion of the Oldsmobile hitting the crash pad. The director makes sure to hold, so SFX can machine-pump a bit of fog out of the fictitious storefront and make the scene look a little prettier. Then, they call “Cut.” There’s a whole lot of movement towards the car—first, with brooms to sweep away the stray glass, and second, to check on Colt.

The door of the Oldsmobile whips open, and Colt shoots out a thumbs up. You sigh. He’s fine. As soon as he gets out of the car, though, you can’t help but notice that he’s gripping his shoulder and trying to stretch it back. He takes a moment to tug off his helmet and mess with his hair just a bit. The nearest on-set medic tries to approach him with a “If it hurts, I can take a look at it,” but you hear him deny it with an insistent “All good. Don’t worry about it.” The director runs up to give Colt praises—“The shot was perfect, man. Good job.”—calls a thirty-minute break to the crew, and then rushes away.

By the time Colt gets over to you, you’re still locked into your seat trying to look busy. Your fingers are clasping around your script and logs, trying to straighten out the stack as you tap it atop your knee a few times. He comes up and leans one hand on your armrest. As casual as he tries to make it look, Colt’s trying to keep himself steady. You suck in a breath and look straight up at him. “You screwed your shoulder up, didn’t you?”

His brows furrow. “No. I stepped on the gas harder than I should’ve so it’s just a residual, you know, body reaction,” Colt says, coming off your armrest. For once, Ryder’s right: Colt is a shitty liar. “I would know if I screwed my shoulder up,” he says dismissively.

“You,” you say, index fingers pointed up and towards Colt’s chest, “are going to let me take a look at it, and if it’s bad, I’m going to tell them to send you home early.”

He scoffs. “I still have two more stunts tonight.” But somehow, he’s still bending to your whim—because as soon as you hop off your chair and begin to walk off in the opposite direction, Colt’s right on your tail. “It’s my job to get dinged up,” he says, eyes still tracking your expression. He’s trying to tell whether or not you’re mad at him. You aren’t mad, per say—but you’re not very pleased, either.

His trailer is in sight pretty quickly, tucked away in a corner of the exterior set. It’s really just a giant metal box, identical to the rest. “Okay, yes, you’re supposed to get dinged up, but not recklessly,” you tell him, approaching the front door of the trailer. “Or more than you have to. Quality over quantity, Colt.” When you look over, Colt is trying not to wince. You can’t help but frown at him.

“I’m used to it,” he tells you, shaking his head, “I have Extra Strength Advil in there. It’ll work like a miracle—just watch.”

—

You already know that Colt screwed up his shoulder, because he can’t even take the suit jacket off himself. You have to come up behind him and help him shrug it off, trying to pay no mind to the shaky breaths and heavy groans that come with the movement. The pale blue dress shirt he has on is tight around the arms; it’s not your first time seeing how much muscle Colt has on him, but it’s still just as jarring. So, you’ve got to ignore that, too. The tie is easy for Colt to pull off and toss away. Though, he’s having trouble with the buttons on the shirt—too much pull on his shoulder. You swat his hand aside and begin the motions of unbuttoning it for him.

“Okay. I shouldn’t have driven as fast as I did,” Colt admits to you, “It’s on me, obviously—but it’s also on Ryder.” You get to the bottom button slowly but surely, trying to pay close attention to his words. This feels… close. Considering you’d offered the check-up purely out of worry, this is all more intimate than you’d expected.

You tilt your head. “Because he was saying all that stuff about the…”

“Eyefucking, yeah. And I’m sure it was uncomfortable for both of us to get a load of that in front of all of our coworkers. I didn’t wanna make it a thing, so I just… I was driving angry, which is never a good thing,” Colt says, “He has no class.”

“It’s Ryder, you know? It’s not like his words really ever carry any weight,” you say. Your priority still is to make sure Colt’s shoulder isn’t too screwed up, but it also doesn’t hurt to test the waters. You pop the last button off and try to help him shrug off his dress shirt. It’s difficult not to feel a little shifty in your abdomen when your fingertips slide down against Colt’s bicep; you make sure to fold up the shirt semi-nicely before tossing it down with the tie.

When you turn, Colt in his undershirt and the dress pants looks almost boyishly guilty. You narrow your eyes, “Okay, turn around. Lemme see it.” And Colt does as you say, spinning around to show you his back. His shoulder is splotched purple and green, pigmented all across his shoulder blade. “Fuck, Colt.”

“It always looks worse than it actually is. Stunts 101.” He’s trying to make you laugh, but you’re much too focused on the bruising. He steps away as soon as you ghost your fingers over his skin. Colt’s grabbing an ice pack from his mini fridge and bringing it over his shoulder. “And I should probably use right now as an opportunity to reassure you that I wasn’t trying to eye-fuck you,” Colt says. It’s a contradiction: you can see his eyes flashing down and back up.  “Unless, obviously, you wanted me to. Then, it’d be a whole different story. But—”

You kiss Colt, crashing your lips against his, and he practically hurls the ice pack away to hug his arms around your waist. Given the chance, he would’ve gone through a whole spiel of telling you that he respects maintaining a professional relationship. But, now, you’re really laying it all out on the table. Your hands are coming up greedily to cup his face, and he’s sliding his hands up and down your lower back. He tastes like spearmint gum, and his face is burning up the longer you’re close to him.

Colt pulls back only for a moment to look at you; his pupils are dilated beyond repair. “Okay,” he murmurs, “Ryder caught me staring. Good on him for calling me on it.”

“I figured. You’re so easy to read,” you laugh, unable to stifle your amusement. Colt’s not offended at all—only leaning in closer to you. Everything about him seems a little bit lighter after you’ve kissed; he’s standing up straighter, and his hands are coming up to your head. Colt has his nimble, calloused fingers brushing through your hair. It’s a soothing, gentle motion—possibly a distraction—but it’s also romantic enough to placate you. You have to shuffle away a little bit, still locked into Colt’s grasp. “So, can I put in a word with somebody to see if you can get tonight off?”

He drops his hands back down to your waist—the workaholic he is. “If it pleases you, yes. And if it works out, I’ll nap here while you close out, ice my shoulder, and then I can take you out to dinner very, very far away from set. You choose, I pay,” Colt decides, “And we can make out a bit more after dessert. Does that sound good?” He really doesn’t waste any time.

You hum in agreement, hand flattening against Colt’s abs, just under the white wifebeater he’s got on. You can feel his stomach tighten just slightly. Sensitive. “You have me for ten more minutes, and then I’ve gotta go find an AD.”

And cockily, Colt replies, “I’m pretty sure you and I can get a lot done in ten. Don’t you?”

     Ryland looked at your hand as you lifted the mug away from him. Then he looked at your face, then back at the mug; as if hoping you had only temporarily displaced it and would return it to its rightful owner if he stared with enough scientific disappointment.

     “You’re stealing,” he mumbled, eyes narrowing. “I’m saving your life,” you shook your head, eyeing the half empty cup you had confiscated. “That’s very dramatic, you know.” You frowned at him, raising a brow at his comment. “You tried to stir it with a pen.” Ryland blinked slowly, before glancing down at the pen still in his hand. “It was intentional.” 

     “No, it wasn’t.” You scoffed softly. Ryland shrugged his shoulders. “It could have been.” Unbelievable, really. “You also called Stratt ‘Mom’ twenty minutes ago,” you added, a small smirk now tugging at your lips. Ryland’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. For one beautiful second, you thought you had won. Then Ryland lifted a finger. “In my defense-” “No.” “-there are psychological implications to authority figures in high-stress environments-” “Ryland,” you sighed. “-and i think, given the circumstances, it was a very normal mistake.” You stared at him for a few moments, half expecting him to continue. He didn’t.

     “You’re going to bed.”

     Ryland waved a hand, dismissive and alarmingly uncoordinated. “Sleep is a construct.” You snorted in disbelief. “Sleep is a biological requirement,” you reminded him, as if the middle school science teacher would ever forget that little fact. “Time is also a construct,” he retorted. He was definitely out of it. “You teach science.” “I teach science beautifully.” He gave you a lopsided grin, as if he just said the most brilliant thing in the world. Whatever that was.

     He made a face at you like you had suggested launching him directly into the sun. “I am absolutely not going to bed. I’m making progress.” You leaned closer, peeking at the papers he was supposedly working on. “You wrote ‘bees?’ in the margin of this heat transfer equation.” Ryland raised his hands in defense. “That might be relevant later.” You blinked at him. In what world would bees be relevant to the atsrophage situation? “It won't be,” you grumbled instead, shaking your head slightly. Ryland scoffed in response. “You don’t know that.”

     “I know you haven't slept in almost two days.”

     “You put your glasses in the fridge twenty minutes ago,” you smirked, crossing your arms as you watched him. His hand slowly moved up to his face, feeling the absence of his glasses. You watched the realization slowly crawl across his expression. It was almost impressive how many emotions he managed in three seconds; confusion, horror, betrayal, and then a strange, scholarly acceptance, as though this was not the worst thing that had happened to him today.

     “They needed to cool off,” he said, shrugging. You stared at him, unsure how to truly respond to such a…wild claim. "Wouldn't they be better warm? Wouldn’t the metal parts hurt the skin if too cold?” you asked, genuinely trying to figure out his train of thought. He stared at you, the gears practically visible as they turned in his head. He chose to shake his head, muttering something under his breath as he walked to the mini fridge to grab the now strikingly cold glasses. He set them on the table as he slowly sat down again.

     You pinched the bridge of your nose. Somewhere behind you, the fluorescent lights hummed with a sound you were beginning to associate with madness. The base had never felt smaller than it did in recent times. There were too many people, too many calculations, too many monitors, too many voices bouncing off the walls and narrow corridors. Everyone was tired. Everyone was tense, carrying the weight of an extinction even like it was something that could be managed with enough whiteboards. 

     But Ryland carried it differently.

     He made jokes, rambled, overexplained things. He filled silence with facts no one had asked for and moved from station to station like he could outrun the fear if he just kept his brain busy enough. At first, you admired it. Then you worried about it. Now he was staring at the empty space where his coffee had once been with the betrayed expression of a man abandoned by his closest friend.

     You softened despite yourself.

     “Ryland,” you sighed. “You need to sleep.” He shook his head. “I need to finish this.” Finish what, exactly? Burning a hole into the table with his eyes? “No, you need to sleep before you start seeing things,” you said softly, not sure if he was perhaps seeing little astrophage dancing in front of him. Hopefully not.

     He scoffed. “I am not going to start seeing things.” You glanced at the spot on the table, then back to him. “You’re staring a hole through the metal right now.” He blinked, turning to look up at you. “I was deep in thought.” It was your turn to scoff now. “You forgot the word for ‘chair’ earlier.” You pointed out. It was comical when it happened, but it was clearly just the tip of the iceberg now. “I said ‘sitting platform.’ That’s not wrong.” Maybe in any other situation. “Normal people still call it a chair,” you groaned.

     He huffed, turning back to the many papers in front of him. “Twenty more minutes.”

     “No.”

     “Ten.”

     “No.”

     “Five?”

     You let out a loud sigh. “You’re bargaining with bedtime.” “I’m negotiating with an unreasonable party.” You ran a hand over your face, feeling your brain cells melting away with his. “You’re going to your quarters.”

     “I’m in the middle of something.” He sounded like a stubborn child now, refusing to go to bed when they had school in the morning. “You’re always in the middle of something,” you retorted, your hands finding their place at your hips. Ryland scoffed as he shrugged his shoulders, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. “Yeah, that’s called having a job.” “That’s called avoiding basic human maintenance.”

     He turned in his chair, clearly prepared to argue further, but the notion was a mistake. His eyes unfocused halfway through and his hand shot out to catch the edge of the table. You were already moving before he could pretend it hadn’t happened. “Okay,” you said, setting the mug down far out of his reach. “That’s it.” Ryland waved you off. “I’m fine.”

     “You almost fell out of the chair,” you huffed. “Chairs are unstable,” he said almost pitifully. “Ryland.” “Fine.” He looked wounded. “But only because you said my name like that.” You frowned. “Like what?”

     “That’s hurtful.” He stood with the dignity of a man who was trying very hard not to sway. Then he swayed anyway. You quickly caught his arm. Ryland looked down at your hand; for a second all the fight went out of him. His expression softened into something dazed and unguarded. “Oh,” he said quietly. “You’re warm.” Your grip tightened a little. “And you’re exhausted.” He shook his head slightly. “I’m observant.” You sighed in despair. “You’re barely upright.”

     “Like you were about to start using small words.”

     “I was.”

     “That too.”

     You guided him into the corridor before he could change his mind. He walked beside you with his shoulder brushing yours every few steps, mumbling half-formed thoughts about astrophage, heat tolerance, and whether it was possible to make a coffee that counted as a meal if it had enough additives. “It’s called soup,” you sighed. “What?” He turned his gaze toward you as you walked. “Coffee with enough additives to count as a meal. That’s soup.” Ryland frowned. “That is the worst thing you’ve ever said to me.” You frowned, thinking for a moment. “I could say something worse, if you’d like.” 

     That made him smile.

     It was small and crooked and far too pleased at the threat.

     You were almost to his quarters when Ryland stopped; he didn’t even slow down beforehand. Just a full stop. You nearly walked into him. “Ryland?” He was staring upward. You followed his gaze to the ceiling, half expecting an alarm light or a damaged ceiling or, with your luck, some new impossible crisis that would keep everyone awake for another thirty hours. There was nothing; just the long strip of ceiling lights buzzing above you. Ryland lifted one hand and pointed.

     “Oh,” he breathed. “Look at the stars.”

     You stared at him, then at the lights, then back at him. He looked genuinely awed. “Ursa Major,” he said, voice soft with wonder. “So beautiful.” For a moment, you were speechless. There were many things you could have said; responsible things, concerned things, deeply sarcastic things. Instead, all that came out was a soft “Ryland.” “Mm?” He didn’t look at you; eyes fixed on the lights as they buzzed overhead. “We’re inside.” He didn’t lower his hand. “Those are ceiling lights,” you added. There was a long pause as his eyes narrowed.

     You watched him study the lights with the intense focus of a man trying to determine whether the universe was lying to him personally. Then he whispered, “Are you sure?” You pressed your lips together; you couldn’t laugh. If you laughed, he would never survive it, and neither would you. “Yes,” you said carefully. “I’m sure.”

     “Huh.”

     His hand fell back to his side as he stood in silence. Then, with complete sincerity, he said, “Still pretty.” Your heart did something deeply inconvenient and you shook your head in response. “Oh my god,” you muttered. “You are so tired.” “I’m appreciating my surroundings,” he corrected you. “You just thought indoor lighting was a constellation,” you frowned, glancing back up at the ceiling. “It was a poetic interpretation.”

     You sighed. “Come on, Galileo.”

     “It was almost a medical emergency.”

     “You’re being dramatic again.”

     He let you guide him the rest of the way, though he kept glancing up as if the lights might change their mind and become stars if he caught them at the right angle. By the time you got him to his quarters, Ryland was fading fast. His room looked exactly how you expected it to look: papers stacked in places they shouldn’t be stacked, a half-finished cup of something on a shelf, two books open facedown, and a blanket shoved toward the foot of the bed like he had personally offended it.

     You crouched in front of him and tapped the toe of one shoe. “Shoes off.” Ryland looked down at his feet, then at you, then at his feet again. “Wow,” you said softly. “You really are gone.” “I know how shoes work.” “Prove it.” He bent forward, grabbed at his laces, and somehow made the knot tighter. You gave him ten seconds, then you sighed and gently pushed his hands away. “I had that,” he protested. “You absolutely did not,” you muttered, working at the laces in hopes that you could undo his mishap. “I was close,” he sighed. Your gaze flicked up to him quickly, raising a brow. “You were creating a new kind of knot.”

     “Sit,” you demanded, gesturing to his bed. “I can sit without instructions.” He sat too close to the edge of the bed and immediately tipped sideways. You caught him by the shoulder. “Clearly.” He scoffed at your words. “I was testing gravity.”

     “Gravity clearly passed.”

     “With flying colors.”

     “It might have had applications.”

     You got his shoes off, then convinced him to stand just long enough to pull the blanket back. He was half asleep by the time you guided him under it, still mumbling something about fluorescent constellations and the emotional limitations of ceiling architecture. “There,” you sighed, tucking the blanket around him. “Sleep.” Ryland’s eyes were already closed. “Twenty minutes.” Not again.

     “In what field?”

     He looked at you very seriously. “Shoes.” You had to turn your face away for a second. “Don’t laugh,” he scoffed. “I’m not.” The look on his face gave you the idea that he didn’t believe you, but he didn’t voice it.

     “Eight hours.”

     “No.”

     “Thirty.” 

     “That’s excessive.”

     You groaned, pinching the bridge of your nose. He eventually stopped fighting back, thank God. You watched him for a moment, making sure he was actually settled. His face had gone soft in the low light, all the sharp worry and restless intelligence finally blurred by exhaustion. Without the constant motion, without the frantic talking, he looked younger. Gentle. Too easy to care about.

     That was the problem with Ryland Grace; he was funny until he was endearing, endearing until he was dangerous. Dangerous until you found yourself standing in his quarters at some unreasonable hour, wondering how long you could get away with looking at him before it became pathetic. You cleared your throat and stepped back.

     “Okay,” you whispered. “Goodnight, Ryland.” 

     You made it exactly one step when fingers closed around your sleeve. Not tightly, but enough to stop you in your tracks. You looked down. Ryland’s eyes were still closed. “Stay,” he mumbled. Your breath caught. “Ryland.” “Mm?” “I have my own room.”

“And you need to sleep.”

     “You are.”

     His fingers curled a little more into the fabric as he spoke. Using your own words against you; it should be illegal. But the words were quiet and sleepy, hitting you with unfair force. You stared at him, helpless. “I can stay in my own room.” His brow furrowed, as if even half-conscious he was trying to solve the problem of your leaving and found it unacceptable. “Can’t sleep,” he murmured. You sighed. “You’re already asleep.”

     “No.”

     “No.”

     You hung your head in defeat. “Why can’t you sleep?” A long silence followed, then he spoke, very softly. “You’re leaving.” That wasn’t fair in the slightest. You looked up at the ceiling. The lights were still lights. Unfortunately, no constellation appeared to offer guidance. “Ryland,” you said, weaker this time. He gave your sleeve one small tug. That was all; one tiny, tired request. And because you were apparently much less rational than you liked to believe, you sat down on the edge of the bed.

     “Fine,” you whispered. “Until you fall asleep.” Ryland hummed, content. “You’re already asleep,” you added. “No.” More arguing. “You’re impossible,” you sighed, watching him. “Warm,” was all he mumbled in response. “That’s not an answer.” “Good answer.”

     His hand slipped from your sleeve only to find your wrist instead. Then, with the slow determination of someone following instinct more than thought, he pulled you down gently. “Ryland?” you huffed, allowing him to drag you down. He didn’t respond. Instead, he pulled you until you laid next to him, then rested his forehead against your shoulder. Every thought in your head stopped. You sat completely still, afraid that if you moved, he would realize what he was doing and pull away. But he only exhaled, long and deep, like the whole universe had finally gone quiet for him.

     Your chest ached. “This is ridiculous,” you whispered, trying to kick your shoes off. Ryland made a small sound of agreement and leaned more of his weight against you. “You’re using me as a pillow.” “Mm.” “I’m not a pillow,” you added. “Better.” You shut your eyes, this shouldn’t have affected you as much as it did. “Ryland.” He shifted again. Somehow, impossibly, he ended up with one arm around your waist, his face turned into your shoulder, his breathing evening out almost immediately. He held onto you like you were the last stable object in a universe determined to spin itself apart. 

     You were trapped. Completely and hopelessly. 

     You should have moved, should have woken him up. You should have reminded him, and yourself, that this was not what you had come here for. Instead, you carefully adjusted the blanket higher over his shoulder. Ryland sighed; it was the softest sound you had ever heard from him. You looked down at him and felt your resolve collapse into something warm and useless. “Who could say no to you?” you murmured. He didn’t answer, of course. He had finally fallen asleep. For a while, you listened to him breathe. The constant hum of the low lights buzzing overhead faded into the background, cold and artificial and nothing like stars. But after enough time passed, you thought maybe Ryland had been right about one thing.

     They were still pretty.

     Not because they were stars. Because he had looked at them like they were. Because for one exhausted second, in the middle of fear and science and the end of the world, he had found something beautiful where no one else would have thought to look.

     Your eyes grew heavy. You told yourself you would only stay another minute; just one, then you would go. 

Back then, he thought you were the prettiest girl he’d ever seen — not in the obvious way, but in the way that made something stir in his chest before he could name it. Your glasses framed your face in a way that made your eyes look even sharper, and your hair was pulled back into a sleek ponytail that swayed with every purposeful step. And those trousers? God help him. They clung to you like a second skin, and even though he hadn’t meant to stare, you didn’t give him much choice when you practically jogged down the street like a woman with a world to fix.

Jake was embarrassed to admit he came back to that same coffee shop every single day that week, hoping to see you again — always ordering the same thing, always pretending it was a coincidence. He didn’t.

Just when he was about to give up and chalk you up as one of life’s fleeting moments, there you were. Standing in line on a Thursday morning, hair down this time and wearing another pair of slacks that sent his brain short-circuiting all over again. You were scrolling through your phone, not paying him any mind — not until he stepped into your line of sight with that easy, practiced grin and said, “Hey, I think fate’s trying to give me a second chance.”

You raised a brow at him. “To do what?”

He shrugged. “To ask for your number before you outrun me again.”

And for the first time that week, you smiled.

He tried to impress you with everything he had — the full Seresin charm, that devilish grin, and of course, his shiny, high-flying Navy career. Fighter jets, call signs, a few well-placed smirks. He figured he had you hooked by the time the drinks hit the table. But you? You were the one who blew his damn socks off. Cool as anything, you mentioned — almost shyly — that you were an FBI agent. Supervisory Special Agent for the Behavioral Analysis Unit. Twenty-six years old and finishing your third doctorate. He almost choked on his beer. You said it like it was no big deal, as if anyone could waltz into Quantico at twenty-two years old and profile serial killers for a living. And you blushed when he stared at you like you hung the damn moon.

You talked for hours. About books you loved. About cases you couldn’t talk about, but still carried weight in your voice. About what it felt like to walk into a room and know things no one else could. And Jake, in return, told you about flying — the terrifying beauty of it, the stillness above the clouds, the kind of silence that lets you hear your own heartbeat. He’d never opened up like that with anyone before, but somehow with you, it wasn’t difficult. It felt natural. Easy.

You asked smart questions. He made you laugh. And when the sun dipped low behind the trees and drinks turned to dinner, he walked you to your car and told you he really hoped you’d let him see you again.

You did.

And after that, everything shifted. The dates kept coming — restaurants, long drives, lazy evenings in your apartment with Chinese takeout and documentaries playing in the background while you rattled off facts that he pretended not to be wildly impressed by. You never made him feel like less — not for not being academic, not for only having one degree, not for the way he sometimes couldn’t find the words for how he felt. You just… saw him. All of him. And he fell fast.

He liked how you pushed your glasses up when you were concentrating. How you kept stacks of books everywhere — bedside, kitchen counter, even the bathroom. He liked that you blushed when he complimented you, even though you could walk into the BAU and face monsters without flinching.

Jake never meant to fall in love. Especially not while he was stationed in a place that wasn’t meant to be permanent. But then again, he never expected someone like you — someone whose heart was as terrifyingly big as your brain.

It got serious fast. Not because either of you pushed it, but because the connection was undeniable. Solid. You were the calm to his storm, the reason he didn’t feel like he had to constantly prove himself. And he became your safe place, the one person who didn’t look at you like you were a machine made to solve puzzles — he saw the person behind the profile. The soft girl who lit up when he made her pancakes, who fell asleep with a book on her chest, who told him she trusted him before she even realized she had.

And when the bad days came — the cases that left you quieter than usual, the nights when your hands trembled after the phone rang — he didn’t ask for details. He just held you, steady and silent, until you came back to him.

Because Jake Seresin, the man who’d flown through combat zones and trained for worst-case scenarios, had never been more sure of anything than he was of you.

Things were good. So good.

The kind of good Jake hadn’t believed in before you — quiet mornings with your legs tangled in his, the warmth of your laughter echoing through the kitchen, your voice humming from the shower while he shaved. He used to think permanence was a trap, a thing you tolerated. But with you, it was a gift. Something sacred. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been that happy. Maybe he never had been.

You still worked cases, still left on sudden flights, still called him from hotel rooms at 2 a.m. with sleepy murmurs and updates about how close your team was to catching another monster. He hated the danger, hated the way you shouldered the worst of humanity and still came home with softness in your eyes. But he never said a word. You were brilliant. Brave. Made of steel and light. And he wasn’t going to be the reason you dimmed.

Until the day the phone rang, and everything changed.

It was a Tuesday. He remembered because he had just come back from base and had stopped by the market to pick up your favorite tea — the one with the ridiculous packaging and citrusy notes you claimed helped you sleep after a hard case. His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he answered without checking. The voice on the other end froze the blood in his veins.

“Jake. It’s JJ. Something’s happened.”

His chest tightened. “What do you mean?”

“Things went sideways on a case. Local police compromised the perimeter. The unsub — he took her.”

The world tilted.

He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak. He barely remembered the rest of the call, only the sound of JJ’s voice — controlled, but heavy with guilt and urgency. The rest was a blur. The market aisles faded, the colors dimmed, his legs moved on instinct. He didn’t remember getting in the car. Didn’t remember driving. Just the rage, the helplessness burning under his skin. The awful weight of knowing the woman he loved — his person — had been taken, and there was nothing he could do.

Hours passed in slow motion. The team worked the case. He wasn’t allowed to be part of it. He wasn’t FBI, wasn’t trained for this kind of war. He was trained to fight, to act — not to wait by a phone, useless.

And then, finally — movement. They found the unsub. A cabin in the woods, middle of nowhere. The team breached, and Jake was already in the car before anyone gave him permission.

He got there right as they were pulling you out.

You stumbled down the front steps of the cabin, leaning heavily on Hotch, your face pale, blood smeared down your arm. Your shirt was torn. There were bruises blooming across your neck, cuts along your hands and collarbone, and your eyes — God, your eyes. Distant. Frightened. Not you.

Jake didn’t breathe. Couldn’t. He froze there in the clearing, heart clawing at his ribs as you blinked at the sunlight like you didn’t even know what day it was. You were barely standing.

When you finally looked up and saw him, your knees buckled.

He caught you before you hit the ground, dropping with you into the dirt as your arms trembled around his neck. You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to. He could feel it — the pain, the fear, the way you clung to him like he was the only real thing left in the world.

And in that moment, Jake Seresin — the man who never broke under pressure, never flinched in a cockpit — cracked straight down the middle.

He didn’t cry. He couldn’t. But something inside him fractured, and it never quite healed the same.

The weeks that followed were slow and brutal.

You didn’t go back to work. Not right away. Not at all, eventually.

The Bureau offered you time, space, therapy, support — but even stepping into the field office again made your skin crawl. The air felt heavier. The walls too close. And the faces — all so kind, all so understanding — reminded you of how it felt to be on the other side of the case. To be the victim. The file.

Jake never once rushed you. Not when you couldn’t sleep, not when the night terrors made you bolt upright gasping for air. He would just sit with you, arms wrapped around your trembling shoulders, whispering soft reassurances into your hair while your fingers clutched the fabric of his shirt like a lifeline.

You stopped wearing your badge. Stopped carrying your gun. Jake didn’t say anything when you quietly tucked it into the drawer one night and never looked at it again. He just kissed your temple and pulled you closer.

The decision to leave the FBI wasn’t sudden — it was slow, like mourning something you once loved. A part of you that had always felt unshakable suddenly… didn’t fit anymore. The BAU was home once. Now it felt like a cage.

Jake never tried to talk you out of it.

He listened — really listened — when you told him you couldn’t keep doing it. That something in you had changed. That you couldn’t stomach another crime scene, another case that mirrored your own trauma. That you didn’t want to spend the rest of your life surviving your own job.

“I’m done,” you whispered one night, curled into his chest on the couch, the television flickering softly in the background. “I can’t go back, Jake. Not even if I wanted to.”

He didn’t hesitate. “Then don’t.”

You blinked up at him. “It’s not that simple.”

“It is,” he said, brushing his fingers through your hair. “You gave enough. You don’t owe that job your soul.”

And he meant it.

Within a month, he’d put in a transfer request. Florida. A clean slate. Somewhere warm, somewhere far from Quantico, somewhere you could finally breathe again. He didn't even ask if you wanted to come — he knew you wouldn't want him to leave without you. Just like you knew he'd never go if you stayed.

You found a small apartment near the beach. Quiet. Sunlight through the windows in the morning. Jake would make coffee while you read the paper with your feet in his lap. It wasn’t flashy, but it was yours. And for the first time in a long time, peace didn’t feel like a distant memory — it felt possible.

Eventually, you started doing research again — privately contracted, flexible hours, all on your terms. It wasn’t field work, but it let you keep your mind sharp. It gave you purpose without reopening old wounds. You let your team — Spencer, Derek, Penelope, the rest of them — stay close. They still called, still checked in. And you still loved them. But the life you’d built with Jake… this was something new. Something whole.

You’d survived the worst. And somehow, when the dust finally settled, he was still right there — steady, gentle, and endlessly proud of you.

Three years.

It had been three years since the worst day of your lives, and tonight — watching you laugh across a bar table in San Diego, lit by string lights and nursing a cherry soda with lime — it felt like the storm had finally passed.

The Hard Deck was buzzing. Music low, the crash of the waves just outside the open doors, and the unmistakable sound of pilots trying to out-charm one another over pool and beer. You were tucked neatly between Natasha and Bob, both hanging on to a story you were telling with shy amusement. Something about the physics of a sonic boom. Or maybe how memory consolidation works during REM sleep. Jake couldn’t quite hear — he was too distracted watching the way your nose scrunched when you got excited.

He leaned against the bar beside Coyote and grinned into his beer.

“You’re staring again,” Javy muttered, nudging him with an elbow.

Jake didn’t even try to deny it. “Can you blame me?”

Across the bar, Fanboy burst into laughter. “Wait, wait — Doc,” he said, catching his breath and pointing at you, “are you seriously telling me you taught yourself Latin for fun?”

You blushed instantly, ducking your head. “I didn’t teach myself. I… dabbled.”

“Dabbled,” Phoenix repeated, shooting Jake a deadpan look. “Okay, Casanova, so when exactly did you trap a shy little genius in your pilot net, and how much bribery was involved?”

Jake chuckled, sliding his beer down on the counter. “Hey, I didn’t trap her. She saw the dimples, and that was it.”

“Must’ve been the dimples,” Bob said seriously, adjusting his glasses. “Or the blinding humility.”

They all laughed, and you rolled your eyes affectionately before giving Jake a smile — one of those soft, private ones that still made his chest ache a little. No one at the table knew the weight behind that look. No one knew what it meant to be here, whole and laughing, after everything you’d been through.

To them, you were you — Jake’s brilliant, bookish partner with the shy smile and the scarily fast brain. They knew you worked in research now. They knew you freelanced for universities, occasionally gave talks at conferences. They knew you could solve a crossword in two minutes flat and had a secret obsession with crime podcasts.

But they didn’t know the other things.

They didn’t know about the badge in the drawer. The gun you hadn’t touched in years. The BAU, the cases, the nightmares. They didn’t know what Jake had seen when he carried you out of that forest cabin — or how hard you’d fought to reclaim the light in your voice again.

And you liked it that way. You liked that, to them, you were just you.

Not a profile. Not a headline. Not a survivor.

Just you.

And Jake? He liked it too. He liked seeing you safe, happy, leaning into a life that didn’t ask you to bleed for it.

Still, every now and then — like tonight — he would catch you watching the room a second longer than necessary. Clocking exits. Reading posture. Tracking movement the way only someone trained to do so would. And he’d know the past wasn’t gone. Just quieter now. Sleeping beneath the surface.

Later that night, the world was quieter.

The bar’s laughter and music had been traded for the soft hum of your apartment’s old ceiling fan, the rhythmic whisper of waves in the distance, and the occasional creak of wood beneath Jake’s bare feet as he padded into the kitchen.

You were curled up on the couch, knees tucked beneath you, one of your oversized sweatshirts slipping off your shoulder. A half-read book rested on your stomach, your glasses tilted slightly as you blinked sleepily toward him. Jake returned with two mugs — tea for you, decaf for him — and handed yours over with that lopsided smile you’d never been able to resist.

“You’re officially two yawns away from drooling on that chapter,” he said, settling in beside you and slinging an arm around your shoulder.

“I was just resting my eyes,” you mumbled.

He snorted. “Sure you were, Doc.”

You leaned into him, the scent of clean cotton and faint sandalwood grounding you instantly. His thumb traced slow circles on your arm. For a while, neither of you spoke.

Then Jake said it, casually but carefully, “Hey. Don’t forget your session next week.”

You nodded against him, voice quiet. “I won’t.”

“You’ve been doing good,” he added softly. “Even with everything.”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, your fingers toyed with the hem of his shirt, grounding yourself in the fabric — in him.

“I still have those dreams,” you admitted.

Jake nodded. “I know.”

“But they don’t control me anymore.”

He kissed your temple. “Because you’re the strongest person I’ve ever met.”

You smiled faintly, eyes fluttering shut as his hand found yours and threaded your fingers together.

You didn’t know what tomorrow would bring. But tonight, you were home.

The morning was still.

The kind of still that only settled in when Jake was on base — when the apartment sighed in his absence and sunlight stretched through the windows without interruption. You had a mug of tea cooling on the counter and your laptop open in front of you, filled with half-written notes for a research proposal you were supposed to finish by the end of the week.

You were wearing one of Jake’s old Navy shirts, sleeves pushed up, hair still damp from your shower, glasses sliding down your nose. You felt normal. Safe. Steady.

And then your phone rang.

Not your work line. Not a research contact.

Jennifer Jareau.

Your blood ran cold.

You didn’t answer at first. Just stared at the name until the call went to voicemail.

It rang again, five seconds later.

You picked up on the third ring. “JJ?”

“Hey,” she said softly. “I’m sorry to call like this. I know it’s been a long time.”

You swallowed, already bracing. “What’s going on?”

There was a pause, weighted and heavy.

“We’ve got a case. San Diego. And the unsub’s MO… it’s almost identical to him.”

Your hand tightened around the edge of the counter. “JJ—”

“I know. I know you’re not active anymore. I wouldn’t ask unless we were sure. But we pulled old files, reviewed your case. This guy’s escalation pattern, the signatures—” she exhaled. “It’s too close. We don’t know if it’s him or a copycat, but—”

“No.” You said it before you could think. Before fear could disguise itself as bravery. “I can’t, JJ.”

“Sweetheart—”

“I can’t,” you repeated, firmer this time. “I haven’t stepped back into that world in three years. I’m not that person anymore. I’m not… I can’t go back.”

There was silence on the other end. And then, quietly, “I understand. I really do. Just… if you change your mind, we’ll be here.”

You ended the call without saying goodbye.

For a long while, you just stood there. Staring at the mug. At your notes. At the sunlight.

Then you closed your laptop, set the tea aside, and waited for Jake.

He came home just after five.

You were on the couch, legs curled under you, blanket tugged tight around your shoulders even though it wasn’t cold. The second he walked in, you looked up, and something in your face made him pause.

He crossed the room in three long strides, crouched in front of you, hands gentle on your knees. “Hey. What happened?”

You handed him your phone. The screen still showed JJ’s missed call.

“She wants me to consult on a case,” you said, voice quiet. “It’s here. In San Diego.”

Jake didn’t ask who the case was about. He knew. He saw it in your eyes — that far-off flicker of something old and sharp you tried so hard to bury.

“She said the unsub’s MO is almost identical.”

Jake’s jaw tensed. “You told her no, right?”

You nodded. “Yeah. I did.”

Relief sagged his shoulders, but not completely. “Good. You don’t owe them that, baby. You survived once. That should’ve been enough.”

“I know.” You reached for his hand and threaded your fingers through his. “It just… shook me.”

Jake lifted your joined hands to his lips and kissed your knuckles. “I’ve got you,” he murmured. “You’re not going back there. Not unless you decide to. No guilt. No pressure.”

You nodded again, leaning forward to rest your forehead against his. “Thank you.”

“Always.”

The Hard Deck was buzzing in the late afternoon haze — pool balls cracking, old rock humming through the speakers, and the smell of sea air drifting in from the open doors. The Daggers were in their usual spot near the windows, spread out around a table littered with fries, drinks, and the kind of stories that kept getting taller with every telling.

You sat beside Jake, half-listening to Fanboy retell another story about how he "heroically" saved Payback from a malfunctioning landing gear. Jake, as always, muttered corrections under his breath just for you, and you bit back a smile as you leaned into his shoulder.

The front door opened with a soft chime.

Jake glanced toward the entrance — and stilled.

He knew them instantly.

Emily Prentiss and Derek Morgan. Not in suits, but unmistakably federal. There was a certain tension in their posture, a focus in the way they scanned the bar. The last time Jake had seen either of them, it had been in a hospital hallway. He hadn’t forgotten.

He felt your body react a split second later — a stillness in your limbs, like prey hearing a branch crack in the woods. Your hand tensed where it rested on your thigh. Your breath hitched just slightly. Jake reached under the table, brushing his fingers against yours. You didn’t look at him, but your fingers curled around his.

“They’re not here for me,” you whispered, barely audible.

“You sure?”

“No.”

The two agents didn’t head toward you. They didn’t even seem to notice you — not yet. They moved like they were used to this, splitting up without a word, blending in with the crowd.

Jake watched carefully as Derek veered toward the pool tables and Emily headed for the regulars near the bar, both of them asking quiet questions with easy smiles and notepads tucked discreetly in their back pockets.

“Uh…” Coyote squinted after them. “Are those feds?”

“Definitely,” Jake murmured.

“Why are feds here?” Phoenix asked, brows lifted.

Fanboy leaned back in his chair. “Maybe someone finally reported how much you cheat at darts.”

Jake didn’t laugh. He was still watching them. Derek made his way over, casual as ever, flashing his badge just briefly to the group.

“Sorry to bother you all — Derek Morgan, FBI. We’re working a case in the area. Just trying to get a sense of the neighborhood.”

“Did we do something?” Bob asked, half-joking, half-worried.

Derek chuckled. “Nah, nothing like that. Just asking around. We’ve had a string of abductions not far from here — young women, mid-twenties, approached late at night. Pattern’s tight enough we think it might be the same guy.”

“Jesus,” Payback muttered.

Derek’s eyes scanned the group. “You all stationed nearby?”

“North Island,” Coyote said. “We’re pilots.”

“Got it. Any of you regulars here?”

“Three times a week, minimum,” Fanboy said proudly.

“Good. Just keep an eye out. Someone acting out of place, someone who gives you a bad feeling — it might be something.” Derek gave a faint, reassuring smile. “If you remember anything, let the bartender know. She's got our contact info.”

Phoenix leaned forward. “Wait — what department did you say you were from?”

“BAU,” Derek said. “Behavioral Analysis Unit.”

“Is that like… psych stuff?”

“Kind of,” Emily added as she joined them. “We analyze crime scenes and build profiles based on behavior. Try to predict who we’re looking for before they hurt anyone else.”

Fanboy blinked. “So you’re… like crime psychics.”

Jake sighed. “No, Mickey. They’re profilers.”

You didn’t speak.

Emily’s eyes swept over the table then — calm, unreadable — and landed briefly on you.

She didn’t react. Just gave the smallest nod. Barely perceptible.

Jake felt you tense again.

The agents thanked the group and moved on to the next table, just as quickly as they’d arrived.

Silence settled for a beat.

Phoenix looked around. “Okay, but real talk — Doc, you okay?”

You managed a tiny smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Yeah. Just didn’t expect to see the FBI during happy hour.”

Jake was still watching the agents. Still holding your hand.

Still wondering exactly how long it would be before they came back — and what they’d ask when they did.

The apartment was quiet.

It was late — later than you meant to be awake — but sleep hadn’t come easy since the agents showed up at the Hard Deck. You’d curled up on the couch with a blanket, the TV murmuring in the background while the muted glow from the screen flickered across the living room.

You weren’t really watching.

Not until the news anchor said the words.

“The body of a young woman was discovered early this morning in a wooded area east of San Diego. Authorities have not confirmed whether this case is linked to a string of similar attacks, but sources suggest the victim shares key physical characteristics with those in previous cases…”

You sat up straight, blood draining from your face.

The screen changed to a stock image of a taped-off forest scene. Dim, impersonal. Detached.

But it wasn’t impersonal to you.

Your hair color. Mid-twenties. Slender. Last seen leaving a bar alone.

She could’ve been you.

She was you — in every way that mattered.

Your hands started to shake. You pressed them into your thighs to stop it. A slow, sick heat crept up your spine, curling behind your ribs. Not fear. Not exactly. Something heavier. Older.

Guilt.

She didn’t get out.

You did.

You stood up, moved through the apartment like a ghost. Jake’s jacket was slung over the back of the kitchen chair, his boots still by the door. He wasn’t home yet — still on base, running late from whatever flight debrief got dragged out past midnight.

Your phone was already in your hand.

You didn’t even remember picking it up.

You pulled up JJ’s contact. Your finger hovered above call.

The key turned in the door.

You froze.

Jake stepped in, looking exhausted but warm. His eyes landed on you immediately — the glow from the TV casting you in soft, pale light.

“Hey, baby,” he said gently, tugging off his boots. “Why’re you up? It’s late.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just looked at him.

He noticed the tension in your shoulders instantly. “What happened?”

You turned the TV down, not off. The news replayed silently behind you. Same words. Same picture of a girl who could’ve been you.

“They found another body,” you said softly. “In the woods.”

Jake’s expression shifted. Eyes sharp. Back straight.

“She looked like me,” you added.

He crossed the room, slow but firm, his hands cupping your elbows as he looked you over. “You okay?”

You nodded. But it wasn’t true. “I need to help.”

Jake stilled. “No.”

“Jake—”

“No.” He let go of your arms, stepping back, jaw clenched. “You don’t need to. You said no. You said you were done.”

“I didn’t know how close it was,” you snapped, louder than you meant. “She could’ve been me.”

“And that’s exactly why you shouldn’t go anywhere near it.”

You stared at him. “I can’t just sit here and do nothing.”

“You didn’t sit here. You built a new life. You survived.”

“And what if the next girl doesn’t?”

That stopped him.

You stepped closer, voice trembling now. “I can help them, Jake. I know how this guy thinks. I lived it. If they’re asking for me, it’s because they’re running out of time.”

Jake ran a hand down his face. “You think I don’t know that?”

His voice cracked.

“You think I don’t wake up every damn day and remember what it was like when I thought I’d lost you? You want to walk back into that world? What if you don’t come out this time?”

You were quiet for a moment.

Then: “I already didn’t come out the same.”

Jake flinched.

You swallowed hard. “But this is who I am, Jake. It always was. And if I don’t do something — if I stay silent while more girls die — I don’t know if I can live with that.”

He looked at you like he wanted to argue. Like he needed to.

But he didn’t.

He just stepped back and turned away.

The space between you stretched with silence.

The bedroom was quiet.

No music. No podcast humming from the bathroom. Just the steady sounds of two people moving through a silence too big to fill with small talk. The tension hadn’t boiled over into anger — not really — but it lingered like steam on the mirror. Heavy. Unresolved.

You brushed your teeth. Jake stripped off his clothes until he was only in his underwear. Neither of you spoke.

He pulled back the sheets while you tied your hair up, eyes flicking toward you once, then away. You both slid into bed like you always did — his side, your side, the familiarity of it muscle memory by now — but the usual warmth was slower to settle.

You lay on your back. Eyes on the ceiling. The cool fabric of the pillowcase beneath your cheek.

Then Jake shifted beside you, just enough to reach for you. His arm curled around your waist, tugging you gently toward him until your cheek rested against his naked chest and your hand settled over his heart.

It was the sound of it — steady, alive — that finally let your body ease.

He sighed, long and quiet. His voice was rough around the edges when he finally spoke.

“I just got you back.”

You didn’t answer. Not yet.

Jake’s fingers moved in slow circles on your lower back. “I watched them carry you out of that cabin, and I didn’t think I’d ever see you breathe again. You were half-conscious and bleeding, and I remember thinking, God, please — I’ll give anything if she just comes back to me.”

You closed your eyes, curling into him tighter.

“I know you’re strong. I know you’re more capable than anyone I’ve ever met,” he continued, voice low. “And I know your old team wouldn’t be asking unless they really thought you could make a difference.”

He paused.

“But I also know how much it broke you. How long it took to feel safe again. How many nights I held you while you couldn’t even speak.”

Your throat ached.

He tilted his head just slightly, pressing his lips to the top of yours.

“I’m not trying to hold you back,” he said quietly. “I’m just… terrified. That the second you walk into that case, you’ll forget how far you’ve come. That you’ll carry it all again. Alone.”

“I won’t,” you whispered.

Jake nodded. “I believe you. I do.”

His hand found yours under the blanket and squeezed it gently.

“If you do this, I’ll support you,” he said. “Completely. But I need you to promise me one thing.”

You looked up at him, eyes soft in the dark.

“Keep me in the loop,” he said. “Not just on the case. On you. Don’t shut me out. Don’t pretend to be okay if you’re not. I can’t lose you again. Not in any way.”

“I promise.”

The words came out hoarse, but real.

You rested your head back on his chest, listening to the rhythm of his heartbeat, steady beneath your ear. And when his arms wrapped around you again, tighter this time, you knew he meant every word.

The police station smelled like old coffee and fluorescent lights.

It was early, the morning fog still clinging to the coastline as you pushed through the front doors, the weight of a world you hadn’t touched in three years settling instantly onto your shoulders.

You didn’t wear your old badge. No holster. No Kevlar vest or Bureau ID clipped to your waistband. Just slacks, a blouse, your favorite trench coat, and a plain manila folder clutched tightly in your hand — full of notes you’d stayed up rereading until two a.m.

The moment you walked in, you spotted them.

The BAU.

Hotch stood near the whiteboard, arms crossed, jaw tight as ever — the same unreadable expression you remembered so well. JJ was flipping through a file at the table. Emily leaned against the back wall, sipping her coffee, and Spencer sat half-curled in a desk chair, mumbling something to himself about wound trajectories while tapping a pen against his knee. Rossi and Derek were mid-discussion over the case board, which was already cluttered with photographs, maps, and victim profiles.

No one noticed you at first.

And then JJ looked up.

Her face softened instantly. “You came.”

Everyone turned.

There was no dramatic rush, no gasps or tears — just a long, heavy moment where everyone looked at you like you were both the past and the answer to a question they hadn’t been able to solve on their own.

Spencer stood up first. “You look—”

“Different?” you offered, half smiling.

He shook his head. “Just… stronger.”

You crossed the room slowly, letting yourself breathe a little as you exchanged hugs — tight ones from JJ and Emily, a warm one-armed clasp from Hotch that still somehow said more than words. Rossi didn’t hug you, just rested a hand on your shoulder, his eyes full of something like pride. Derek waited last, pulling you into a long, quiet embrace.

“You sure about this?” he asked against your temple.

“No,” you said honestly.

He pulled back, smiled. “Good. Means you’re smart.”

Hotch nodded toward the board. “We’ll get right to it. You remember the original details?”

“Yeah. Five victims. All local. All grabbed within a few blocks of where they were last seen, usually alone. Strangled. Some bruising consistent with being restrained. Age range: 23 to 27. All the same hair color.”

Spencer blinked. “You already read the files?”

“Skimmed. Jake printed them out for me last night.”

JJ looked a little surprised. “Jake’s okay with you helping?”

“No,” you said softly. “But he’s supporting me anyway.”

That quieted the room a beat.

Rossi gestured toward a chair. “We’ve already established behavioral patterns — consistent escalation, no clear stressor event. But the most recent victim was dumped. Which is a first.”

You nodded. “He didn’t take pride in his disposal before. That could mean he’s getting sloppy, or he wants her found.”

“Or he’s trying to send a message,” Emily added.

“Could be,” you said. “Or… he’s copying someone.”

The air stilled.

JJ exhaled slowly. “You think it’s him.”

“I don’t know what I think,” you admitted. “But the similarities are close. Closer than coincidence.” “He took me after I went out for coffee,” you said, voice quiet but controlled. “I don’t know how he got so close without me noticing, but… I blacked out almost instantly. Probably chloroform.”

Emily folded her arms. “You were gone for two days.” JJ looked down.

Spencer hesitated. “Do you… remember anything else? From when he had you?”

Your voice was steady, but something in your chest clenched tight. “Some things.”

No one rushed you. The room went still, waiting.

You drew in a breath. “He kept me blindfolded. The entire time. I couldn’t see him, not even once. But I remember other things. His voice. His hands. The way he moved. He always walked in from the left. He hummed sometimes — “Danny Boy,” I think. He smelled like cigarettes and cheap aftershave.”

Emily leaned forward slightly. “Did he ever say why he took you?”

“Not directly.” You swallowed hard. “But he said I was the first one who made him wait. That I was smart. He sounded impressed.”

Hotch’s brow furrowed. “And then he let you go.”

You shook your head, a chill brushing over your skin. “No. He didn’t let me go. He ran. He heard you coming — I don’t know how, maybe your sirens — but he bolted. Left me tied to a beam in the corner of that cabin and vanished. I could hear Rossi shouting my name outside, and I started screaming.”

Spencer sat forward, pen still in his hand but forgotten. “He had time. More than enough to kill you.”

You nodded slowly. “I’ve thought about that every day since.”

Derek folded his arms. “He’s never done that before. Every other victim…”

“—Was found dead,” you finished for him.

JJ’s eyes met yours. “You were the only one he let live.”

“No,” you said softly. “I was the only one he chose not to kill.”

There was a long silence.

Rossi finally spoke. “You think you were the start of something different. A new phase.”

“I think… I was the unfinished chapter.”

That shifted the air in the room.

Hotch straightened near the board. “We need to consider that this is the same unsub, returned to finish what he started. Or a disciple. Someone replicating his crimes, but deviating from the original. Either way, your insight — your memory — is our best shot at stopping him.”

You exhaled slowly, nodding. “Then let’s stop him.”

JJ stepped forward and gently rested a hand on your shoulder. “It’s good to have you back.”

You didn’t say it out loud — but it was good to be back.

Even if it was terrifying.

Even if it meant facing everything you'd fought so hard to forget.

The case board was dense with detail now — pinned photographs, strings of mapped movements, a timeline of abductions that had started to tighten like a noose.

You stood near the window, arms crossed, watching the late-morning sun start to burn through the marine layer. The room was heavy with tension and quiet calculation — the kind that comes when everyone’s already running worst-case scenarios in their heads.

“Maybe it wasn’t personal,” you said aloud, your voice cutting through the stillness. “He said I made him wait, but… it wasn’t months. It couldn’t have been. I wasn’t living in that part of town more than a couple of weeks when it happened. There was nothing special about me — it was random. Just bad luck.”

Spencer nodded from where he sat, one leg tucked beneath him. “That tracks. If he’d been watching you for months, we’d have found some record of it — footage, sightings, something. But there was nothing.”

Emily added quietly, “Which means it’s about access. Opportunity.”

Rossi leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled. “That makes him more dangerous. Less predictable.”

Everyone was gathered tightly around the table now — two laptops open, printouts spread between coffee cups and scribbled notes, the case board slowly growing heavier with faces.

Spencer had pulled up a detailed map of the victim’s last known location: San Diego State. A red marker blinked against the cluster of student buildings.

You stared at it a long moment.

JJ glanced up from her file. “That’s where you do some of your consulting, isn’t it?”

You blinked, then nodded slowly. “Yeah. I have a research partnership with their psychology department. I’m there once, maybe twice a week.”

Hotch’s jaw ticked. “Were you there this week?”

“I was. Yesterday.”

Rossi looked up sharply. “So you were at the same location less than twenty-four hours before the abduction?”

You swallowed hard. “Yes.”

"First victim was taken outside the bar you say you frequent, The Hard Deck." Spencer pointed out.

No one said anything for a moment. The implications hung heavy.

Emily broke the silence. “Okay, let’s take a step back. If we assume this is the same unsub as before — that he took you, chose not to kill you, and now he’s resumed — then we need to figure out what changed. What made him pick up again now. Something had to trigger it.”

You stood a little straighter. “Nothing’s changed.”

Derek gave you a look. “Come on, doc. Think. Any media? Interviews? Public lectures?”

You shook your head. “No press. I’ve been low profile. Completely.”

Spencer hesitated, then turned his laptop around slowly. “What about Jake?”

Your breath caught when you saw the image on the screen.

A local news clipping — North Island Naval Officer Promoted to Commander — with a photo of Jake in uniform, standing proud at the front of a hangar during the ceremony. You were just over his shoulder, half-turned, smiling up at him.

The caption read: Commander Jake Seresin with wife, Dr. [Your Name], after the ceremony.

The air in the room shifted again. Tighter. Sharper.

JJ’s voice was quiet. “That ran two weeks ago.”

You closed your eyes.

Emily leaned forward. “And if he saw it…”

“Then he knows where I am,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

Hotch didn’t look surprised. “He let you live, but he never forgot you. Maybe you were the exception — the one who got away. But if he’s resurfaced now, and he’s abducting from locations connected to you, it changes everything.”

“He’s not just continuing his old pattern,” Derek said, voice tight. “He’s starting a new one. And you’re the center.”

The realization hit you like a punch to the gut.

You weren’t collateral anymore.

You were the target.

Not for revenge.

For obsession.

Rossi rubbed a hand over his mouth. “We’re not looking at a traditional spree. We’re looking at a fixation. Controlled. Personal. He let you live because he didn’t want it to end.”

“And now he’s picked up the story again,” Spencer said. “From his perspective, the last chapter was unfinished.”

JJ looked across the table. “He saw that photo. It put you back in his orbit.”

And this girl — the one from San Diego State — she wasn’t random. She was a message.

You stepped back from the table, breath shallow, head spinning.

The only thing you could think of was: Jake.

You were still staring at the photo on Spencer’s screen when Derek leaned forward, voice gentle.

“Hey,” he said, getting your attention. “I know it’s a big ask, and I know you’ve already done more than enough just by showing up—but if you’re okay with it, I think we should try a cognitive interview.”

You blinked. “Right now?”

“Soon,” he said. “Only if you’re up for it. I’ll walk you through the process slow—we won’t push. But sometimes going back into the sensory details can surface things you didn’t know you remembered.”

You hesitated, your hands curling tightly around the back of the chair. “He had me blindfolded,” you whispered. “All I had were sounds. Smells. Vibes. But… yeah. Okay. We can try.”

Derek gave a small, reassuring nod. “You set the pace.”

You nodded, then reached for your phone.

If what the team suspected was true—if this man had somehow found you again, after all these years—it wasn’t just you at risk anymore.

Jake had to know.

Jake stood at the wing of a parked F/A-18, sweat clinging to the back of his neck under his flight suit as he looked over a checklist with a tech. His mind wasn’t in it. Hadn’t been all day. Not since you'd left that morning with that look in your eyes—something resolved and haunted at the same time.

His phone buzzed against his hip.

He barely registered the name before answering. “Hey, sweetheart. You okay?”

Your voice came fast, tight, rushed. “Jake. We got confirmation. Another girl’s missing. She was taken from the SDSU campus.”

Jake stiffened. “That’s where you—”

“I know. The team thinks this might be about me. They think he might’ve seen that article from your promotion ceremony. They think he might be here because of that.”

The breath caught in his lungs.

No.

He started walking without realizing. Past the jet, across the tarmac.

“I’m on my way,” he said. “Stay in the building. Stay with Hotch or Morgan. I’ll be there in twenty.”

“Jake—”

But he was already hanging up.

Rooster looked up from his toolbox as Jake rushed across the hangar floor, moving fast—too fast. There was no post-flight sarcasm, no teasing, not even a wave.

“Where the hell’s he going?” Payback asked.

Phoenix narrowed her eyes. “That didn’t look like a lunch break.”

“He looked pale,” Fanboy muttered. “Did something happen?”

Bob tilted his head. “Maybe family emergency?”

Rooster was already setting down his wrench. “I’m gonna find Mav.”

Maverick barely glanced up as Rooster, Phoenix, and Bob stepped into the doorway.

“Mav,” Bradley said, arms crossed. “Something’s wrong with Hangman. He just ran off base like the damn world was ending.”

Maverick exhaled, slow and quiet, then turned to fully face them.

He looked at each of them for a long moment before speaking.

“He’s fine,” Mav said.

“Doesn’t look fine,” Phoenix shot back. “What’s going on?”

Maverick rubbed a hand over his jaw. He didn’t want to be the one to say it—but he also knew secrets like this had a shelf life. And if Jake was racing to the PD, they’d find out soon enough.

“She used to be FBI,” he said finally.

That stopped all three of them in their tracks.

“What?” Phoenix asked.

“She was with the Behavioral Analysis Unit,” Mav continued, voice even. “Profiling serial offenders. Got recruited young. Bright. Gifted.” He paused. “And three years ago, she was kidnapped by a subject they were tracking. Held for two days. Barely made it out.”

Silence fell like a brick.

“They think he might be back,” Maverick finished quietly. “And that he’s in San Diego.”

Phoenix’s eyes widened. “That’s what this is about.”

The room was dimmer now. The blinds were half-closed to block the afternoon sun, casting soft shadows across the case board. Derek was prepping the small adjacent interview room — chairs facing each other, lights low, a bottle of water set on the table. You sat on the edge of your chair, elbows on your knees, trying to slow your breathing.

You could do this.

You had to.

But your fingers trembled slightly as you picked at the cap of the pen in your hand, mind skipping in and out of memory. That smell. That song. That freezing cold air from the cabin floorboards. It all crawled back up when you least expected it.

The door burst open down the hallway.

Heavy boots. Fast steps. A sharp voice at the front desk — not angry, just worried.

“Commander Seresin,” Hotch said without looking up. “Right on time.”

You turned just as Jake appeared at the threshold of the room, still in uniform, the top half of his flight suit tied around his waist, white undershirt damp at the collar.

His eyes landed on you instantly.

He crossed the room in three long strides.

“Hi,” you said, voice soft.

Jake cupped your face with both hands and kissed your forehead, breathing you in like he was checking to make sure you were still solid, still here. “Are you okay?”

“I’m okay.”

He glanced toward the board — the faces, the photos, the growing map of chaos. His jaw clenched. “You called me. You said it might be about you.”

“I didn’t want to wait until I was home.”

Jake shook his head, pulling a chair closer to yours and sitting so your knees touched. “You made the right call.”

Behind you, Derek stepped into the room again.

“You must be Jake,” he said.

“Yeah. Thanks for taking care of her.”

“She’s about to do a cognitive interview. You’re welcome to stay, long as it’s helpful to her.”

Jake looked to you.

You nodded.

“I want you there.”

Derek gave you a small smile. “All right. We’ll take it slow. Nothing heavy. Just a conversation.”

You and Jake followed him into the smaller room — cold walls, no windows, one camera quietly rolling behind glass. You sat across from Derek, Jake beside you, one arm draped protectively along the back of your chair.

Derek spoke gently.

“You remember the basics of how this works, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you said. “Sensory details. Emotion over fact. Let memory take the lead.”

“Exactly. So just close your eyes when you’re ready, and start from somewhere that feels safe. Doesn’t have to be the beginning.”

Jake gave your hand a light squeeze.

You took a breath.

And let yourself fall backward into the dark.

The walls felt closer with your eyes closed.

Derek’s voice was soft, grounded. “You’re doing great. Just take us back to the morning before it happened. Start anywhere that feels clear.”

You nodded slowly, fingers curling against the armrest.

“I was leaving my apartment,” you said, quietly. “It was a Friday. Cold for spring. I remember I forgot my gloves and thought about going back for them, but I didn’t. I had a coffee order in already and I was late.”

Jake stayed silent beside you, unmoving. Just a steady presence. Solid. Safe.

“I walked the same route as always. Past the little bookstore on 9th. The woman inside always had a candle burning — vanilla and sandalwood. I could smell it as I passed.”

Derek’s voice came again. “Do you remember seeing anyone? Or feeling like you were being followed?”

You hesitated. “No. It was normal. People walking dogs, cars driving by. There was a guy smoking outside the bodega. He asked for spare change, and I told him sorry, not today. That’s the last person I remember talking to.”

You paused, heartbeat starting to pick up.

“I got my coffee. Black. I took the lid off — it was too hot to drink, and I remember the smell hit me really strong. Burnt roast. Like it had been sitting too long. I almost didn’t drink it.”

You breathed out shakily, the air in your lungs starting to constrict. “I think… I think that’s when it happened.”

Derek leaned forward slightly. “What do you remember next?”

“I was walking back toward my car. It was parked behind the café, in that little lot next to the alley. It was quiet.”

Your pulse quickened. You could hear it in your ears.

Jake shifted beside you. “You okay?”

You nodded tightly, but your voice faltered. “I remember… someone said my name. But I don’t think I recognized the voice. It was like… like I had just enough time to turn.”

The silence buzzed.

“And then I couldn’t breathe.”

You opened your eyes, chest rising faster.

Derek’s voice was lower now. “Was there anything about that voice? Accent? Tone? Did he sound young?”

Your hands started to tremble. “Deep voice. Calm. Like… calm in a way that felt wrong. It didn’t match the situation.”

Jake reached for your arm. “That’s enough—”

But you shook your head. “No—wait. Wait. I remember something.”

The room froze.

Your breathing was shallow but even, eyes wide now. You were back in the memory but fighting to stay afloat.

“I heard a sound before I passed out,” you said slowly. “It was… soft. Mechanical. Like a click. No—like a button being pushed. Over and over. I didn’t remember it before because it felt unimportant, but—”

You looked at Derek. “He was clicking a pen.”

“A pen?”

You nodded quickly. “Not a nervous tic. Rhythmic. Like… tap, tap, tap. And he kept doing it. I remember it in the dark. When I was tied up. He’d pace and click it. He wanted me to hear it.”

Spencer’s voice crackled through the speaker in the room. “That’s a behavioral trigger. A dominance cue. Like a metronome — asserting control through rhythm.”

Derek looked at you seriously. “That’s huge. Most of his behavior’s been postmortem. But this—this gives us a pre-attack ritual.”

Jake leaned closer, his voice barely audible. “You sure you’re okay?”

You nodded again, this time more firmly. “I’m okay.”

The cognitive interview had ended fifteen minutes ago, but your body still felt wired — like adrenaline was buzzing just beneath your skin. Jake hadn't left your side. He stood just behind your chair now, one hand on your shoulder, the other flexing and unflexing at his side like he was barely holding something back.

The rest of the team was gathered around the long table, and Penelope Garcia’s voice filled the room over speakerphone.

“Okay, sunshine squad,” she chirped, the only person in the world who could sound cheery in a serial murder case. “So I pulled every known offender, vagrant, or suspicious person with priors within a five-mile radius of the café our Doc was taken from. I cross-referenced that with clicky-pen sales in the immediate area and—just kidding, I’m good, but not that good.”

A few chuckles lightened the tension — even yours.

“Garcia,” Hotch said calmly. “Stick to profiles matching age, behavioral cues, and any psychiatric holds post-incident.”

“Already on it, Captain No-Fun,” Garcia replied. “Based on the pen-clicking, the blindfolds, the lack of sexual assault but intense need for control, we’re likely looking at a male, late 30s to mid-40s, antisocial tendencies, possibly diagnosed or undiagnosed OCPD. And guess what? I got three possible matches within driving distance of San Diego State. All were either arrested or flagged for mental health-related complaints in the past five years.”

On the big screen, three DMV photos popped up.

Your stomach lurched at the sight of them.

Jake stiffened behind you, feeling the shift in your body even before you spoke.

Derek glanced over. “You recognize anyone?”

You leaned forward slightly, eyes scanning each face. The first man—no. The second—no.

But the third.

The third made your skin crawl.

Thinning brown hair. Soft jaw. Unremarkable features. But something behind his eyes flickered—like he knew something you didn’t.

You reached out slowly and tapped the screen with a trembling finger.

“That’s him,” you said quietly. “That’s the guy who asked me for change. Outside the bodega. The day I was taken.”

Silence fell like a hammer.

Spencer looked up, voice suddenly sharp. “That’s not just a match. That’s confirmation. He was at the scene minutes before the abduction.”

“His name’s Albert Kane,” Garcia said, voice now taut and serious. “Lived off the grid for a few years after a psych evaluation flagged him as a potential risk. He dropped off my radar… but if he resurfaced in San Diego…”

Hotch was already reaching for his phone. “Then he’s our unsub. And we don’t have time.”

You sat back, heart pounding. Jake’s hand slid from your shoulder to your back, warm and grounding.

“You did good, darlin’,” he murmured softly near your ear. “Really good.”

But all you could think about now was the girl. The one still missing. Somewhere in the city. Maybe already trapped in a cabin just like the one you barely escaped.

The room had transformed into a war room — coffee refills forgotten, printouts slapped onto the board, and maps laid flat on the table like battle plans.

Spencer tapped a red marker against the screen, zooming in on a cluster of pins outside the city. “Albert Kane was born in Idaho, but he’s moved constantly — Colorado, Nevada, Oregon, and now California. The only stable pattern is the terrain. He favors isolated wooded areas, usually within two hours of a major freeway.”

JJ spoke next, flipping through Kane’s file. “Three years ago, he was flagged after being forcibly removed from a wellness retreat. Paranoia, manipulation, and clear signs of obsessive control behavior. The facility didn’t press charges, just wanted him gone.”

“And now he’s escalated,” Hotch added, arms crossed. “Likely triggered when he saw her face in the paper. The woman who got away. He’s trying to recreate the original event — only this time, he’s in control from the start.”

Rossi gestured to a map of the outer San Diego County area. “We’re assuming he’s repeating the cabin setup. Garcia, do we have eyes on isolated structures he could be using?”

Penelope’s voice buzzed over speaker. “Sending three viable options now — all rented in the last six weeks under aliases I’ve connected to Kane in the past. One of them was booked with a prepaid debit card used in San Diego two days ago.”

“Got it.” Derek grabbed the printout as it came through. “Cabin off Route 94. About forty-five minutes from here. No neighbors. No cell reception.”

“That’s our target,” Hotch said. “We move now.”

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a faint hum over the now-quiet station. The tension that had built over the past few hours had finally snapped — the girl was alive. Bruised, scared, but alive.

You’d cried when Emily called it in.

She’d said the words gently, like she knew you’d been holding your breath all day: “We got her. She’s safe. And we’ve got him in cuffs.”

Jake had just sat down beside you in the waiting room, hand tightly holding yours. He pressed a kiss to your temple and hadn’t let go since.

Now, the hum of engine brakes echoed outside as one of the SUVs pulled up out front.

You looked up just in time to see them dragging him in.

Albert Kane — cuffed, wild-eyed, struggling like an animal. Blood on his cheek, likely from the takedown. Dirt under his nails. Disheveled. Unhinged.

You didn’t mean to stand. You just… did.

And that’s when he saw you.

For a split second, everything stopped.

Then he lunged.

“It was for you!” he screamed, spittle flying, veins straining in his neck. “All of it! They were nothing—nothing compared to you! You were supposed to see it! You were supposed to understand—”

Jake moved like a loaded gun — explosive, furious, ready to tear him apart.

“Don’t you dare talk to her!”

His voice boomed across the station, eyes burning with a rage you had never seen in him before. He lunged forward, but—

Derek caught him mid-step, slamming a hand against his chest and pushing him back, muscle against muscle.

“Jake.” Derek’s voice was steel. “Not worth it. Not here. Not now.”

Jake struggled against the restraint for a breathless second — then collapsed back a half-step, shoulders rising and falling with shallow, furious breaths.

Kane was screaming, being dragged out of the hallway. “I saved you! You were supposed to save me!”

And then he was gone.

The door slammed behind him.

The room was silent.

You were shaking.

Jake turned toward you slowly, his fury replaced by something else — horror, helplessness, grief. He reached you in two long strides and pulled you into his chest.

You crumbled.

Arms around his waist, face buried in the soft fabric of his undershirt, you broke down. Your shoulders shook with quiet sobs you didn’t even realize you were holding in.

Jake’s hand cupped the back of your head, his lips pressing to your temple.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered. “I’ve got you. He’s done. It’s over. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

You clung to him tightly.

“I didn’t think I’d ever have to see him again,” you choked out.

Jake leaned his forehead to yours. “I’d kill him with my bare hands if I could. You know that, right?”

“I know,” you whispered. You nodded, forehead resting on his chest.

Derek watched from a short distance, his jaw tight but his eyes warm.

“We’ll take it from here,” he said gently. “Go home. You both need rest.”

Jake didn’t answer. He just gathered you against his side, nodding once as if to say thank you, and walked you out the front door into the night.

[...]

The sun was slipping below the horizon, casting long golden streaks across the water and painting the sky in soft pastels. The Hard Deck buzzed with life — laughter, clinking glasses, music humming low in the background. But in the back corner, where the picnic tables sat half in shadow, a very unusual group was taking over.

“Okay, but seriously,” Derek said, nursing a beer and looking across the table at Phoenix. “You’re telling me they call him Hangman because of his ego?”

“Because of his everything,” she said with a grin, nudging Jake across the table. “He earned that callsign the minute he opened his mouth.”

“Y’all are just jealous,” Jake said, reclining like a man who finally had something worth relaxing into. “I have style. Presence. Charisma.”

“You have tantrums,” Rooster chimed in, tipping his drink toward Spencer, who blinked slowly like he’d just watched an exotic bird speak. “This guy once argued with an entire vending machine.”

“He kicked it,” Bob added helpfully.

Emily leaned forward, “I love him.”

You sat sandwiched between JJ and Natasha, both women gently teasing you about how long you’d kept two entire identities hidden — genius profiler and Navy pilot’s wife.

“I knew you were smart,” JJ said, bumping your shoulder. “But this is some next-level secret agent business.”

“I’m telling you,” Natasha laughed, “I feel like I’ve been living in an episode of a spy drama.”

“You were,” Rossi added dryly from behind his wine glass.

Even Hotch looked amused, the faintest tug at the corner of his mouth.

“I still can’t believe you guys didn’t know,” Emily said, sipping a beer. “I mean, come on. ‘Doc’?”

“She told us she had a PhD,” Fanboy shrugged. “Didn’t think it came with a federal badge and a body count.”

Everyone laughed.

Across the table, Jake looked at you — relaxed, glowing in the amber light, your eyes crinkled from smiling. He reached under the table and found your hand, lacing your fingers with his.

You looked at him and smiled, and he mouthed a quiet, “You okay?”

You nodded. “I am now.”

It wasn’t loud, wasn’t dramatic. But it was true.

You were whole. And you were home.

As the sun finally slipped beneath the waterline, the Daggers and the BAU raised their glasses in a mismatched toast — to friendship, to healing, to the weird little twist of fate that brought them all together.

And for the first time in years, the past didn’t feel quite so heavy.

You’d carried it. You’d survived it.

“And, I will hel-” you began, before getting cut off, a bit rudely in your opinion, by Ryland’s voice, his words making you raise an eyebrow at him in question. 

“You're doing that again,” he commented, his arms moving to cross in front of his chest, from the position on his hips that they had assumed before.  

“Doing what?” 

“Playing with your hand, and pressing the back of your right one to try to alleviate the jittery pain you get when your lacking sleep and fighting back exhaustion," he replied with his very accurate analysis of your habits, his eyes scanning down to your hands, that were in the middle of the exact said motion. 

As your brain registered his words, slightly delayed, because in fact you were truly exhausted, your movements halted mid movement, slowly sneaking your hands out of his sight, setting them behind your back. 

“No-, no, no! That's not true, I am perfectly fine!” you exclaimed, your voice slightly cracking near the end, your lips pressing into a line out of embarrassment, as you looked everywhere but his eyes. 

“I- I just hit my hand, just a tiny bit too hard against one of the fixtures when I was doing maintenance checks in the EVA room,” you told him accompanied by the motion of your hands putting an emphasis on the ‘tiny’, coming up with the excuse on the spot, your voice rising in pitch as you relayed it to him. 

You could already tell by the way he looked at you through a point above his glasses, that sat lower on his nose bridge, and the way his head tilted to the side, almost as if asking you ‘really?’ that you knew he wasn’t buying what you were throwing at him. However, you had also made up your mind, and weren’t planning to back out now, out of whatever this was. 

“It was an accident. I just was a little clumsy, probably cause I feel a little excited since we might have potentially found a way to save earth and Erid, you know,” you said, falling deeper into the web of your own lie, despite knowing that the web already had a big hole in the middle. 

“Oh, I see. But you do seem to have these tiny accidents often in your excited clumsiness, and in the same area too…” he trailed off his words, pretending to be in thought about the peculiar situation you had described. Oh, he wasn’t cutting you any slack, why would he when his very stubborn and only human crew members refused to take the call of rest that their body required. Yes, that is what he told himself  was the reason for why he was pressing on this matter so hard, and there definitely weren’t any personal feelings involved. Well, maybe there were, but he wasn’t ready to confront those just yet. 

Ryland’s gaze softened as he took the time to look at you, while you were busy scanning the lab in an effort to find some way to escape from his conversation. He noticed the way the exhaustion was clear on your face, evident by the dark circles surrounding the rims of your under eyes, your eyelids a little puffy and red. He had noticed the way your eyes would squint when working on a task in order to fight the urge of your eyelids to close. The way you squeeze your thumb against your palm with your fingers to calm the little shakes of your hands. The way you would go to sleep later than him, but be already up before him, working on maintenance tasks around the ship as the engineer on board. He noticed it all. 

When he had once gone to retrieve a pain killer from the medical kit, he found the melatonin gummies half empty. He noticed how over weeks you had shifted to using more powerful sleep medication that was on board, but even that now was starting to lose effectiveness to allow you enough sleep to last through the next awake cycle. 

He had once asked Rocky about it, to which he found his suspicions to be confirmed, when Rocky said your sleep patterns had been quite irregular compared to his own. And how the amount of time you slept for had continued to decrease. He mentioned you would often just end up leaving the room when you would find your frustration with your lack of ability to fall asleep increase, as the hours passed of you just laying on your bed, just with your thoughts and the ambience of the ship's environment. Just quietly roaming the ship, with your headphones on, so as to not disturb him during his sleep. Or more often than not, you would end up in the observation room, looking out into the void that was painted with streaks of stars. 

Ryland had once asked you about it, asking if you were doing okay, and if you were getting enough sleep, politely citing your prolonged grogginess he had noticed on some days. You just waved him off, making some random excuse that you came up with at the moment. He tried to ask you about it a few more times, he didn’t want to pry, but he also wanted to make sure you were okay, and that you knew he was here, if you needed someone to confide in. 

“Honestly, I think I just might need a hug,” he recalls you stating, when he had asked you about it the third time amidst a casual conversation. He recalls the way your lips formed into a little pout, looking at him with awaiting eyes to see how he would react. Ready to jump into his arms if he would let you, but also ready to play it off as a joke if you had sensed any signs of discomfort from his side. But he hugged you, he did feel a little shy at first, but he thought maybe it might actually help you, maybe that was what you needed – the touch and comfort of another human. And just maybe, that was what he was needing all along as well. 

However, it did end up becoming the perfect excuse for you to use, because whenever he questioned you about your lack of sleep that was reflected in a shift in your routinely habits, or the way your body seemed to be falling into a deeper state of exhaustion, you would just ask him for a hug. Assuring him that was all you needed. Though he would never admit it, his selfish self was starting to look forward to those hugs as well, and at times of his own frustration, wanting to walk up to you and ask for one himself. 

Ryland still recalls the first time he met you, well at least the first time he met you on the ship. “Eye movement detected” he had heard the ship's automated voice ring through the ship. He recalls the excitement that had bubbled up inside of him. The only other human being on board with him had finally decided to break free of their slumber. Even though it was quite a bit after him, nevertheless he was just happy that you were awake and that he had someone by his side. He had left what he was doing in the lab, and literally sprinted, tumbling and all on the way to where you were in the ship. 

By the time he made it inside the room, rubbing his head that he had bumped against the wall on his way, you were already crouched up against the wall, trying to stay away from the robotics arms that were trying to reach you. You looked up at him, squinting your eyes trying to get a clear image of him before you, trying to adjust to the lights after being in a coma for so long, before you called his name. “Dr. Grace.” 

It was clear that you remembered, a lot more than him. When he shared that his own memories weren’t as intact as yours, you seemed to have fallen silent, receding yourself into your own bubble. You didn’t talk to him much during those initial few days, and frankly he was a little disappointed, but he also understood that you need the time to adjust and make sense of the situation that you both were in. But when you finally emerged from your little bubble, your attitude and personality was contrasting to what he had observed and his very own. 

You had the personality of what they would call bubbly. Very energetic and determined. You were always doing something around the ship, revising on all the manuals, taking the initiative to make sure the ship was working correctly at all times as the engineer, always motivating him when he himself would be feeling down, providing solutions and a ‘can do’ attitude to whatever came your way. 

In all honesty, Ryland really enjoyed your company, always supporting him in whatever idea he came up with, but also sounding a voice of reason when he might be going down a slippery slope, and most of all, playing into his own sense of humor. Often making him wonder about your dynamic back on earth. You frankly didn’t share much with him, because you were worried that it would put unnecessary strain on his brain if you shared all with him at once, at least that's what you told him was the reason. So instead, whenever he would recall some of his memories, he would share it with you, and you would provide insight here and there, where you thought it was necessary. He did find it quite frustrating at times, leading to an argument between you both at one point, but he eventually understood that you had your own reason for not being fully open with him. 

He also found himself pondering on the thought about how you were always so enthusiastic on the thought of saving earth whenever you guys would get closer to the goals. He had once asked you the question about what if they didn’t succeed in the goal that they were sent here for, but you just said there would be nothing but success. He attributed your response to your derminted nature. He had also attributed your indifference to the part where this was a suicide mission as part of your nature. But he realizes now that he had been wrong, that maybe your energetic and almost playful persona might have been your way to cope with the situation you had found yourself to be in. You were struggling. Struggling in your own way, struggling with your own stresses, anxiety and thoughts, that was manifesting through insomnia. 

Where he was struggling with the thoughts of not knowing, you were struggling with the thoughts of knowing too much. 

“You know what Dr. Grace, I just think I need a hug,” he heard, your voice breaking him out of his train of thought. He focused on you again, seeing your lips forming a pout, your eyes shining like that of a pleading puppy, arms extended outwards. You started to step towards him, expecting this interaction to follow the routine procedure, but you halted as soon as you saw the soft shake of his head. 

“Nope, not working this time,” he declared, determined to not fall for it this time, fighting the urge to hold you in his arms using the hug you were requesting as an excuse. 

Ryland called out your name, very gentle and soft, the way you would call out to a kid you're trying to console them after they got refused their favourite treat. Your pout now turned into a small frown, almost feeling a little uneasy, because you knew that if he started to act like this, you won’t be able to fight back. 

“Whattt,” you groaned.

“I swear I did sleep. In fact, I slept like a baby, right Rocky?” you call out, turning to the Eridian that sat in his little bubble enclosure, working on the chain needed to fish samples from the exoplanet in Tau Ceti’s orbit. You give him a small wink of the eyes, like he could see it and would understand what it meant. Honestly, you were just hoping to find some way out of this conversation with Grace. 

“Rocky don’t know how human baby sleep,” Rocky stated, earning him a little snicker from Grace, causing you to look back at him with a glare, before turning back to Rocky as he began to speak again. 

“(Last Name), move move move, only sleep for 7728 seconds of the 28800” 

You let out a long exasperated groan, “Rock, we talked about this.” You had in fact asked him to keep you sleeping pattern he observed when watching over you and Ryland slept a secret, but you knew that Rocky clearly hadn’t received the memo.

“Grumpy. Angry. Lack of sleep affecting (last name),”

You threw your hands, giving up the conversation and using rocky as a means to escape, mumbling a ‘nevermind’. You took a deep breath, before turning to look at Ryland again, seeing him leaning against the lab table, hands at his side, a light hold on the edge of the surface. 

“Dr. Grace, I am perfectly fine, I swear, and you know what will make me feel even better? If you let me help you with the experiments, so shall we continue,” you said walking over to the side, where you had been, going to grab at the control of the console. 

But before you could, Ryland slid his body to the side, right in time to block your access. Maybe it was a bit of a miscalculation on his end, because now you were right in front of him, barely an inch between your bodies. You looked up at him with an intensity behind your eyes, your brows furrowed in frustration, as you crossed your arms in front of your body, your forearms now pushing against his hard and toned torso. Clearly signaling to him that you weren’t going to listen to him, so he better back off. 

“(Last name) look mad, mad mad mad, Grace in trouble, question?”

Grace swallowed the dryness away from his throat, for a moment he was going to back off, and let you have this win, and try to talk to you about this again, later, but seeing from this close, the tiredness was even more evident, so he couldn’t let this go now. 

“You do really need to sleep, you can’t keep going on like this,” he says, very softly, and pleading to you with his eyes, just for your sake. Maybe you were a little angry, or maybe the lack of sleep was truly starting to fuck with you brain, beacuse the softenness in his voice didn’t seem to reach your ears, instead you pushed further. 

“Stop going all teacher mode on me, Mr. Grace” you voiced though gritted teeth. 

“Then stop acting as a stubborn middle schooler,” he shot back, his voice raising a little. 

At that, you finally decided to back off and just listen cause you didn’t want to be a nuance when everyone was just looking out for you. You sighed, mumbling a little ‘sorry’, taking a step back, and in that motion Grace decided to take the initiative to turn you around, his hands pressed against your back, gently pushing you towards the door. 

“Dr. Grace,” you whined, but let him push you towards the door, without much physical resistance, cause maybe the exhaustion was starting to catch up with your body now as well. 

“Ryland!”

“Ry-Ry!”

“Rocky!” You called out to the alien who had continued to watch this whole fiasco from his enclosure, your elevated voice caused the alien to get up from his spot in a worry, thinking you and grace were seriously fighting. “Rocky, help, I'm being kidnapped,” you called. You think your brain is seriously starting to become mush from the lack of sleep. 

“What is kid-nap, question?” the computerized voice rang through the lab, rocky skittering in place, unsure what to do. 

“Rocky, don’t worry, I am just going to put (your name) to sleep, I will be back in 10 minutes,” Ryland called out, closing the lab door behind him, as your bodies exited the space. At this point, you had fully given up, now walking yourself to the sleeping quarters, Ryland trailing behind you. 

You propped yourself up on the narrower side of the bed, letting yourself fall to the soft bedding, your back hitting the surface with a light plop sound, resting your forearm on top of your eyes, shielding them from the artificial light of the space, letting your eyes close. 

It was quiet. And for you that was suffocating, because that was what had been playing a part in your struggles with sleep. The near silence felt as the darkness of the void that surrounded you  had broken through some crack in the ship, surrounding you in endless emptiness, left only with the never ending pit of your thoughts that brought up unwanted emotions. You wanted to sleep, you were extremely tired, tired from all the thoughts that played into your minds, thoughts from your life on earth, all the achievements and regrets, the moments of happiness and sadness, thoughts of all the people you love, and even the ones not so much, refusing to let your brain be quiet. 

And you felt so stupid, this stuff didn’t matter anymore, you had to save not just earth now, but also Erid, you didn’t have the time to delve into these useless thoughts. These thoughts kept your brain occupied, stripping you of the privilege of a proper sleep. And this lack of sleep was truly getting in the way of things now. You have been doing extra tasks around the ships, just occupying yourself with whatever you can in order to tire yourself out so that your brain would listen to the pleas of its body and let it rest, all while preparing to go fishing. You will be piloting the spacecraft when on the mission to receive the samples of life from the planet’s atmosphere, and you are afraid that your body's exhaustion will cost you, at a time you can not afford to make any mistakes, because so much depends on it. The lives of those on Erid, Earth, and even the lives of those now most dear to you, Rocky and … Ryland. 

Ryland’s sweet voice, laced with evident concern for your well being, broke through the darkness that was starting to consume you once more. It was a call of your name, helping pull you out of your own void, forcing you to open your eyes. You just laid there for a moment, taking a few deep breaths, trying to regulate your breathing that had started to become staggering without you even realizing. 

You could hear the sounds of Ryland’s breathing, feel the warmth radiating from his body against your legs. He was standing much closer now, just a few steps back from the bed. You forced yourself to get up, your legs dangling off the bed, as you looked up to meet Ryland’s eyes, which expressed everything he wanted to say through his words. None of you spoke for a few moments, letting the silence linger in the space between  you. A silence that was usually daunting to you, wasn’t as much so today, because right now, there was a comforting pair of blue eyes present to look after you

“Is everything okay?”

He was the first to break the spell of silence. His voice was gentle, as if honey to the ears, but also cautious as to not cross any boundary that you might not allow him past. He watched as a frown appeared to set on your features, making him feel a little panicked. 

“No, no- I,” Ryland pauses for a moment, taking a deep breath to collect himself. 

“Hey, I know you have been struggling with falling a sleep, something has been bothering you deep down, and I understand you might not want to share it with me, but,” he pauses, seeing the tearings starting roll over the bay of your eyes, rolling down your cheeks as they fall to your lap, as the corners of your mouth twitch a little, as you fight the urge to break out into a proper sob. It aches his heart to see you like this, but he continues, stepping a little closer, his thighs slightly brushing against your knees, bending a little to be eye level with you, putting his hands on his knees. 

“I’m here. I’m here for you, whatever you might need, or even if you want someone to talk to, I am here,” he finished, giving you a soft smile. At this point you were already sobbing, his words, his smile and his warm eyes were just so comforting that you just couldn’t help but cry. 

Ryland stepped even closer, his arm reaching out to you, pulling your head to rest against his torso, rubbing one hand on your head in a soothing motion, while holding on to your hand that now gripped his shirt in effort to ground yourself. You wanted to let yourself get lost in his warmth and comfort he was providing you, but the guilt stopped you from letting yourself fully indulge. The guilt of knowing what happened to him on Earth. The guilt of knowing that he was likely sent on this mission against his will. The guilt that you knew, but didn’t have it in you to tell him the truth. Would he still comfort you like this if he knew? If he knew what you had kept from him? You weren’t fully sure. 

He called out to you again, his voice breaking through the clouded thoughts. You didn’t reply to him, but he knew you were listening by the way your grip on his shirt tightened. “I know how much this all means to you, this whole mission. And I know you have been working extra hard these past couple of days, pushing yourself over your limit,” he acknowledged, continuing to rub soothingly on your head, while his other hand squeezed yours more tightly. “But, I need you to rest, sleep when your body allows you to. Yea?”

You shook your head to let him know that you understood what he was trying to say, snuggling a little closer into his chest, both of your arms warping around his waist, because you weren't ready to let go, just yet. He waited for you to fully calm down, letting you embrace him to seek your own comfort, which he found his happiness in. 

Once your crying had finally stopped, the dry tears staining your cheeks, feeling calmed down enough you pulled away from Ryland. However, you refused to look him in the eyes, instead focusing your attention to your hands in your palms instead, because you were feeling a little embarrassed for this whole situation and for making a mess of his shirt with your tears. 

“Sorry, I made a mess of your shirt, you can give it to me and I'll clean it for you,” you said, apologizing for what you had done. He shook his head, which you couldn’t fully see because you still refused to look at him. “Are you feeling better now?” he questioned, to which you replied with a small yes. 

“Well, that's good. Then you can make a mess of my shirt whenever you like if it helps you calm down,”  he assured, but wait that didn't sound right, it came out way worse than he had meant it to. Oh, he needed to quickly clarify what he had meant. As his brain was thinking of the right way to rectify, your laugh made its way to his ears, and that instantly made his brian to stop working for a moment. It had been a while since he had last heard you laugh, hearing it now instantly made a smile to appear on his lips. 

“Okay, get some rest now,” he said, ruffling your hair a little in an affectionate manner. As he was about to turn around to leave the space, you grabbed his wrist, making him halt mid movement. He turned to you to see that you were finally looking at him again, eyes still a little glossy from your little cry session earlier. 

“Can’t you sleep with me?”

His body froze. Okay, maybe his own state of exhaustion was starting to catch up to him as well cause he was starting to hear things now. But the expression that he saw on your face, matching his with your wide eyes and arched brows, confirmed that he in fact heard you correctly. A shade of red crept up his face, a very loud visual of his fluster state. 

You instantly let go of his wrist, when your own brain processed what had come out of your mouth. You were starting to think that your brain had become soup at this point from the lack of sleep, and left your body with the flow of your tears. What the fudge did just say to him!   

“Wait, Wait! That's not what I meant,” you started frantically shaking your hands in front of you. “What I meant to ask was, if you would keep me company,” you tried to clarify, regretting even thinking of asking in the first place. 

“Um-”

“I’m so sorry, please just forget what I said,” you requested, the embarrassment wanting you to eject yourself out of the air lock. You erratically shifted to pull your legs onto the bed, laying yourself down, and fully hiding yourself under your blanket, trying to avoid Ryland’s eyes. “I’ll try to get some sleep, now” you exclaimed from under the piece of fabric you had hid yourself under. 

You heard nothing in response, not even the sound of him leaving the room. He was still there, unbeknownst to you that he was fighting his inner self on what to do, because the selfish side of him wanted to jump to your side and embrace you in his arms, but the rational side of him thought the best option would be for him to leave and let you rest.

It was perfectly still for a moment before you heard the shuffling of Ryland's feet, which seemed to be moving closer rather than heading for the door, before they came to a standstill as you felt his presence near the bed. You peek your head out of the blanket to see him standing near the bedside. 

“Okay,” he says. 

“Okay?” You ask, a little confused. 

“i’ll keep you company, until you fall asleep. I mean, I need a little break as well anyway?” he replied, finding a reason to stay, a lazy smile tugging at his lips, causing a little grin to break onto your lips, as you adjusted to give him space on this already small twin bed. 

Ryland found himself  laying next to you, his arms folded under his head, to put as much physical space between your bodies as possible, to be courteous of your personal space and again, to not cross any boundaries you may not want him crossing. He looked at the ceiling, as did you, only the sounds of your breathing intermingling, the buzzing of the Hail Mary filling the space between you. 

Ryland felt you turn to your side, facing him, feeling your gaze on him, as you just admired his beautiful side profile for a few moments. He felt your arm drape around his torso, causing his body to go stiff. You waited. Waited for him to push your hand away, but he didn’t. Instead, he  unfolded one of his arms, and laid it out straight in the space on the bed, right above where your head was. And you took this as an invitation to shift closer, to bury yourself to the side of his toned body, resting your head on his bicep. 

You could feel his heartbeat, drumming through your ear. It was a little elevated at first, due to your sudden proximity, but as you both settled in, finding comfort in each other's warmth, your heart beats started to slow, your breathing finding a common rhythm as the spell of sleep started to wash over. 

“Ry” you called out to him in a gentle whisper, as to not wake him up had he already fallen under the spell, looking up at him. You heard a little ‘hmm’ from him, as his droopy eyes looked down at you, a sleepy smile resting on his lips. 

“Thank you”

He just gave you a loving smile in response to your words, before he whispered a ‘go to sleep’, shifting his eyes back to look at the metal ceiling. At that, you snuggled yourself closer, if that was even even possible, before finally closing your eyes. It was quiet, but it wasn’t so suffocating when you were in his arms, by his side. Your brain at last let itself shut off, allowing your body the much needed sleep. But that wasn’t before you felt Grace’s hand gently playing with your hair, helping your body lull itself to sleep. . 

At some point, your body awoke for a few moments, and you realized that Grace had joined you in much needed slumber. His hand that was under his head, now wrapped around you causing you to smile against his chest before your body fell back to sleep.