The weather being sunny is a surprise in itself.

It's only been a few weeks since Emily met Oliver, though looking from the outside, it seems like he's known her since birth.

Every weekend, without fail, he asks when you'll see Emily again. With her crazy work schedule, sometimes she comes over while he's at daycare, and they miss each other by a few hours. You know she loves it when he's there, her eyes light up and her face breaks into a grin whenever you mention he'll be home by the time she visits.

Oliver likes spending time at the park, usually kicking a ball with skills he learns in his under-3 little league team. On this unusual Saturday that Emily isn't buried under paperwork and meetings, or away on a case, she joins you for an afternoon walk there. Ollie holds both of your hands all the way, swinging them above him and skipping happily over the pavement.

As you and Emily sit nearby on a bench, Ollie makes friends with a few kids. One is taller, seems older, and the other two are siblings, you're pretty sure, or at least from the same family. You can see the moms spread out all over the grass, some with picnic blankets and others taking the time to stretch out under the sun. Oliver's new friends are two boys and a little girl — she's the little sister of one of them, still smaller than all the others, but excited to kick the ball with them.

Sitting together, you have an arm on the back of the bench, resting your head on your hand. Emily's eyes are laser focused on Oliver, like she's afraid he might disappear.

“You don't have to stare so hard, you know?”

“Hm?” She hums, but her eyes don't stray.

“He won't run away, he never goes far.” You explain. Considering the kids’ ages, you're pretty sure you’re the parent closest to them, you could reach Oliver in three large steps.

“It's not him I worry about,” Emily says, in that tone that denounces she's seen more than she'll divulge. You don't mind.

“I'll try not to take it to heart that my girlfriend won't even look at me,” you sigh mockingly, as if deeply put out by her actions.

She glances at you briefly, taking the opportunity as Oliver is laughing and she can make sure he's nearby due to the sound of his voice. “You know anything can happen in a second.”

You smile softly at her, “yes, I do.” Nodding, she turns back to look at him. “But I also know that sometimes I just have to trust the universe, I can't keep my eyes on him at all times, even though I try.”

“Well, I can pick up the slack,” she murmurs with a smirk.

Laughing, you shake your head. “Please, don't let me get in your way.”

After a beat, her smile fades. “I care about him so much,” she starts. “I can't bear the thought of something happening because I took my eyes off of him.”

“Welcome to the world of parenting, honey.”

Emily looks at you, “I'm not trying to-”

You interrupt her, “I know. But I know you care about him like a parent would.” Smiling, you touch her shoulder, “he loves you, he tells me so every day.”

She purses her lips to contain a smile. “Mhm, he's a very lovable kid.”

You leave a kiss on her cheek, then you both turn back to watch Oliver running around with his new friends.

When the little girl flails her arms for the ball, he softly kicks it in her direction, making sure it doesn't go too fast. She, excitedly, crouches down to try and kick it back, then promptly falls on her butt on the grass. After a beat, they all start laughing.

“He’s good with her,” Emily says.

“He's always loved making friends.” And that’s true. Oliver has always been the social butterfly to rival your own mostly introverted nature. “When he was very small and I brought him with me to the grocery store, he'd just keep greeting people from his spot in the cart. God, it used to make me so embarrassed.”

Emily laughs, “why?”

“Sometimes I was in my least presentable clothes, hair up, just wanting to get in and out, and the kid kept starting conversations for me. He could barely talk!” You smile at the way she laughs loudly, “but I'd never want him to change, so I sucked it up and talked to people. I've never made as many friends as I do at the grocery store... I don't know if it's because he's an only child.”

“That's just him, I guess. I was an only child and I never wanted to talk to adults,” she explains. “Why? Do you think he gets lonely? It doesn't seem like it.”

You shrug, “I don't know. I think I just always wanted at least two kids, but things didn't work out that way.”

Emily turns to look at you, “you still have time.”

You both watch as the little girl runs towards Oliver and hugs him, then runs away laughing to her brother, who attempts to lift her up and fails, the both of them falling on the grass, thankfully unharmed.

“Yeah, he used to ask for a baby brother or sister a little bit ago, I think one of his friends at daycare said something about it.”

“And how did that go?”

“I told him a baby would take time and, eventually, he forgot about it and started asking for a cat.”

Emily chuckles, “one of mine, then.”

You hum agreeingly, “although, I think he'd have a pet snake if he could.”

“Oh,” she playfully shudders. “You'd have to tell him it's me or the snake.”

Laughing, you squeeze her hand, “don't worry, he'd definitely pick you.”

Emily grins, then whatever she's about to say gets interrupted by Oliver running back to you.

“Mama!” He calls, used to asking you whenever he wants something, but placing his hands on Emily's thighs. “Ice cream?”

Ollie points to an older guy with an ice cream cart, a familiar view at this park, where two of his friends are already getting cones with their mothers. He turns back, smile wide and expectant.

“Emily will go with you,” you say, handing her your wallet from where both of your bags were carelessly thrown on the bench you've claimed.

She turns to you, but doesn't say anything. As they go, you watch them with a warmth in your chest.

Emily lowers her face so she can hear Oliver better. Ollie swings the hands clasped together above him. He laughs at something the ice cream vendor says and she smiles widely.

It's a lovely sight.

It brings butterflies to your stomach at the thought of what your future could look like.

The little girl from before almost trips on a rock as her mom is paying for her ice cream. Emily swiftly holds her hand to keep her from falling, earning a grin for her troubles. She beams back, letting the girl balance herself before letting go of her.

Emily gets a thanks from the girl's mom, then tells her not to worry. Oliver, face already smeared with chocolate ice cream, pulls on her sleeve, earning back her attention.

She says something, and he giggles.

After Oliver's been cleaned up and is burning some sugar energy by running around on the grass, you and Emily are back to watching him.

“You're so good with him,” you say near her shoulder, leaving a kiss there.

Emily shrugs, “I told you, he's the sweetest.”

You hum. Of course, you can't help but agree.

“Any kids you may have are gonna be that cute,” she points at him, smiling.

Huffing out a laugh, “everyone says the second kid is always the crazy one.”

“Well,” she holds one of your hands, looking at you, “you should give it a try, anyway.”

You shake your head, “I used to have other plans. I never wanted to do it alone.”

Emily stays silent for a beat, then turns back to Oliver, “you won't be.”

Yeah, the butterflies come back.

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

Your stomach flips. “Spence.”

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

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

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

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

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

Morgan snorts. “What weekend?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You perform.

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

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

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

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

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

Reid shuts his book and sets it on the table.

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

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

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

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

Rossi nods once. “You’ll have them.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t,” Prentiss says immediately.

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

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

Not the team. You.

Your stomach twists.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink hard. “What?”

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

You frown. “I’m not—”

He gives you a look.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He hums. “Sure.”

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

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

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

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

He nods. “Good.”

You frown.

“I’m attempting corrective behavioural conditioning.”

Your eyes narrow. “By being annoying?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You sigh. “Reid.”

“Hm?”

“Tell me if I’m overthinking this.”

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

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

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

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

Reid examines the highlighted timeline for another few seconds.

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

You frown slightly.

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

Your brows lift. “So, I’m right?”

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

“What’s she right about?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good girl,” he says absently.

Your entire nervous system short-circuits.

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

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

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

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

You finally blink. “What?”

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

You frown. “What are you—”

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

Your eyes go wide. “Spencer—”

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

“Reid.”

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

You freeze. “Reid, I swear to—”

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

He pauses, tilting his head.

“Very obviously your type.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your stomach flips.

God. That’s pathetic.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Twelve notifications.

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

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

But one of the messages catches your eye.

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

You snort, then type out a reply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ping! Ping! Two more messages pop up.

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

That answer comes a little too easily.

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

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

You shake your head, typing quickly.

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

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

TUESDAY 9:50AM

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

He’s wearing a grey suit today.

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

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

Hotch ignores him completely.

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

He glances once around the table.

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

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

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

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

“You should probably blink.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You lift a shoulder. “About ten.”

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

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

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

You blink. “Oh.”

His gaze holds yours for a second too long.

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

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

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

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

Your breath catches softly in your throat.

“Anytime, sir,” you manage.

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

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

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

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

Two new messages from DCRunner00.

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

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

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

“Hey, you busy?”

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

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

“I could be working.”

“Are you?”

“No.”

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

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

“I could use your help.”

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

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

“Where do you want to start?”

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

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

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

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

Reid hums quietly beside you. “Not necessarily.”

You stare at him. “Care to elaborate?”

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

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

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

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

“No, listen to me carefully.”

Both you and Reid glance up automatically.

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

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

He pauses briefly beside Reid’s desk, listening.

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

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

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

Your stomach flips.

This absolutely should not be as hot as it is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your face heats.

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

Oh my God.

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

He stops.

Then slowly turns toward you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You: Work, mostly. You: And sleep.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He straightens, brows drawing tighter.

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

You set the cup down in front of him.

“So,” you tilt your head, “coffee.”

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

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

Your face heats instantly.

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

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

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

Which is also when you finally check your messages again.

DCRunner00: Chaos how?

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

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

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

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

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

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

He replies almost immediately.

DCRunner00: Accurate, though? You: Unfortunately.

You drop your phone on the bed and start undressing.

Ping!

DCRunner00: What do you actually do?

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

You: Mostly admin. You: Governmental stuff.

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

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

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

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

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

He replies instantly again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You open your protein bar.

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

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

You type out a vague response.

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

His next reply takes almost two minutes to come through.

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

You almost choke on your tea.

That’s... weird.

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

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

You sit up straighter, suddenly a little nauseous.

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

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

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

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

DCRunner00: No promises.

WEDNESDAY 8:10AM

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

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

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

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

“Is Garcia in yet?”

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

You pull your laptop out of your bag.

“I just—I need her.”

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

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

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

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

His brows pull together slightly.

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

You nod slowly, already stepping around him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You grimace. “I don’t know.”

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

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

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

She nods.

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

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

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

You wince.

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

You hesitate.

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

She squints at the screen.

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

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

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

She starts scrolling back through the messages.

“Have you told Hotch?”

“Nope.”

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

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

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

You groan, dragging both hands over your face.

“You do mention Hotch kind of a lot.”

Your head snaps up. “He’s my boss.”

Garcia gives you a long look.

“Okay,” she says slowly. “Sure.”

“Garcia.”

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

You point at the screen. “Focus.”

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

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

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

You sigh. “I don’t love that idea.”

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

You frown. “In English?”

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

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

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

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

You: I thought I told you not to spiral.

He replies so fast that even Garcia flinches.

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

You nod.

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

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

“You’re the best, Pen.”

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

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

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

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

His brows pull together. “Everything alright?”

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

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

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

“Okay, now I’m concerned,” he says.

You glance at him. “Why?”

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

You roll your eyes. “Spence—”

“Something must be seriously wrong.”

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

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

His brows shoot up. “A guy—”

“Online,” you add quickly.

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

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

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

You glare at him. “Yes. That one.”

“Then yes, I remember it very clearly.”

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

His forehead creases. “Have you told—”

“No.”

“Maybe you should—”

“I said no.”

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

You narrow your eyes at him.

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

You lift a brow, waiting for the punchline.

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

You stare at him.

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

He pauses, frowning faintly.

“That was supposed to be reassuring.”

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

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

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

You: You’re weird.

He replies just as fast as usual.

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

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

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

You snort softly, typing out a quick reply.

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

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

It doesn’t work.

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

You: You went quiet. Should I be concerned?

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

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

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

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

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

Your stomach drops. “Oh my God.”

You immediately call Garcia back.

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

“You saw me this morning.”

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

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

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

“No.”

“Are you insane?”

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

Garcia goes quiet for a second.

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

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

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

You press your free hand against your forehead.

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

Garcia scoffs loudly.

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

The line goes quiet again—then she sighs.

“Why are you so against telling Hotch?”

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

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

Your shoulders sag. “Thank you.”

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

You nearly choke. “What?”

“Non-negotiable.”

“Penelope, that’s insane.”

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

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

“Mm-hm.”

“You’re overreacting.”

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

You frown. “…Morally complicit?”

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

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

She hums, satisfied.

“I need to reply to him again.”

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

You laugh despite yourself. “Thanks, Pen.”

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

“I was actually thinking psychological thriller marathon.”

“Absolutely not.”

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

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

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

You: Lucky guess.

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

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

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

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

At exactly six-fifteen, your desk phone rings.

“Hello?”

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

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

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

“See who soon?” Reid asks.

You glance at him. “Garcia.”

He tilts his head.

“She’s staying over tonight.”

His brows lift. “Because of your stalk—”

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

His gaze narrows. “Should I be worried?”

You scoff. “About me? Never.”

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

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

You pause mid-motion.

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

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

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

“Agent.”

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

You force a small smile. “Sir.”

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

You nod once. “Of course.”

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

Your breath catches.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shake your head. “Shit. Sorry.”

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

For a moment, neither of you says anything.

Then—

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

You shut your eyes. “Penelope.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your stomach twists. “Or escalate.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THURSDAY 6:45AM

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You scowl at him. “A drought issue?”

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

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

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

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

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

Someone clears their throat behind you.

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

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

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

Very slowly, you turn in your chair.

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

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

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

You want to die.

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

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

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

You drop your head into your hands.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You glance up at him hopefully.

“Morgan definitely is, though.”

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

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

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

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

Your stomach flips.

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

You shoot him a warning look. “Spence.”

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

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

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

You turn back to him, frowning.

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

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

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

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

You open the message thread—and your stomach drops.

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

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

Ice floods your bloodstream.

You stop breathing.

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

You don’t answer him. You can’t.

The bullpen dissolves into white noise around you.

Until—

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

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

Reid gasps. “Wait. Is that—”

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

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

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

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

“What’s going on?”

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

“What happened?” he asks, sharper now.

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

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

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

“Who sent this?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Could this day get any worse?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You grimace. “Fantastic.”

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

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

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

The room goes still for half a second.

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

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

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

“Or angry,” Morgan adds.

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

You sink lower in your chair.

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

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

You elbow him immediately.

“Ow.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hotch leans forward slightly. “How sloppy?”

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

Hotch nods once, already shifting into command mode.

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

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

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

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

You open your mouth to argue.

“I mean it,” he adds, voice low.

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

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

Then his eyes flick up, meeting yours.

“I’m taking her home.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hotch crouches slightly, holding one hand out toward her.

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

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

Your eyes go wide.

Traitor.

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

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

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

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

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

Every object in every room suddenly feels mortifyingly personal.

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

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

But this?

This feels dangerously close to being found out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m fine.”

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

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

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

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

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

“You think this is nothing?”

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

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

His jaw tightens slightly.

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

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

Which, to him, maybe he hasn’t.

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

That’s all.

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

He nods once. “Want me to clear the—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He pauses, expression sharpening slightly.

“Alright. Keep me updated.”

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

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

Your stomach tightens.

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

The name hits you immediately.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Except this time Hotch does pause.

“Why do you do that?”

You frown. “Do what?”

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

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

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

Your pulse stutters.

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

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

But Hotch doesn’t seem to hear you.

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

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

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

“Leave Leia out of this.”

“She doesn’t like strangers.”

“She likes you.”

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

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

Your fingers tighten instinctively around the edge of the counter.

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

Oh God.

“Which means Reid already noticed the pattern.”

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

“You track me.”

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

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

Your breath stutters.

And Hotch notices immediately.

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

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

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

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

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

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

His eyes lock onto yours.

“You redirect.”

You can barely breathe now.

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

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

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

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

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

The apartment suddenly feels oppressively quiet.

His throat shifts slightly.

And then—

His phone rings.

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

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

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

Because holy fuck.

Holy fuck.

What the hell just happened?

“They got him.”

Your head snaps up. “They what?”

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

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

“Oh.”

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

A cold shiver slips down your spine.

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

He pauses, then looks at you.

“But they got him.”

“Good,” you say quietly.

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

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

You nod. “Okay.”

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

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

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

Hotch stills.

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

“Babysitting?” he repeats.

“You know what I mean.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your breath catches in your throat.

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

But you can’t.

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

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

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

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

Then he kisses you.

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

But the restraint doesn’t last long.

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

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

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

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

Like he needs to be absolutely certain this is real.

“Aaron—”

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

FRIDAY 6:15AM

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

Oh God.

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

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

Your stomach swoops.

You slept with your boss last night.

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

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

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

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Most days.”

His brows pull together slightly. “Why?”

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

Something that almost resembles amusement flickers across his face.

“Sounds like a terrible boss,” he murmurs.

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

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

He hums, breath warm against your skin.

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

“Oh, he notices.”

Your stomach flips. “Really?”

“Mhm.”

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

Heat floods your face. “Aaron—”

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

“Oh my God.”

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

“And the red bra,” he murmurs.

Your breath catches.

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

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

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

“Mm, sure.”

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

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

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

You feel his lips curve.

“Good thing I’m the boss.”

10:35AM

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, but nothing really happened.”

Morgan and Prentiss both stare at you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I was.”

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

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

You frown. “Hotch, I—”

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

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

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

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

“…Huh.”

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

He tilts his head.

Then—

“Oh my God.”

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

It was self-defense, the way you kept people at arms length. Never letting them in close enough to see the broken parts. You had spent so many years acting as a sanctuary for others, the healer with the steady voice and gentle hands, being the shoulder to cry on at 1am when their worlds came crashing down. Supporting them through break-ups and heart aches and job changes and almost every major life event. 

But when you needed that? A hand to hold or even just a supportive word, there was silence. Deafening silence. Which you suppose was better than being called a burden, but the pain was the same. So it became easier to just keep everyone at a distance. It was the only way to end the toxic cycle of lighting yourself on fire to keep others warm. 

But then there was Parker. 

Beautiful, incredible Parker. A smart-ass with a heart of gold in scuffed up combat boots. She didn’t bulldoze your walls, didn’t throw bricks to shatter them down. That would have terrified you, sent you running for the hills and begging to be transferred to day shift. No, she dismantled them. Quietly and slowly, almost intimately in the way she moved around you. 

She noticed things. Always. It had started a few weeks after you started the night shift, a change to allow you to study and attend classes during the afternoons for your Advanced Nurse Practitioner Licence. It started small, a protein bar placed beside you while you charted, a fresh cup of coffee shoved into your hand when she walked passed, a calming cup of tea freshly brewed waiting in the break room after a tough patient. 

As time went on she noticed more, because of course she did, her hand falling to rub between your shoulder blades to ease tension there like it was the most natural thing in the world. Her eyebrow quirking up and a ‘whats up sweets?’ slipping through her lips when she notices the furrow in your brows. It was strange at first, you had never had someone see you quite like she did, and it made something settle in the corner of your ribs. It was an unfamiliar feeling, though not unpleasant, it was warm and light and buzzed with the energy of a new dawn every time she checked in on you. 

“You’re doing it again”

You startle slightly at her voice, hushed against the night air filled with monitors and patient voices, and you’re surprised to see her leaning over the nurses station so close that your foreheads are almost touching when you look up. You roll your eyes at the concern and bite down the smile forming on your lips, she could always see past the defensiveness to the hollow exhaustion of a medical worker. 

“What thing?”

You whisper back, leaning forward just slightly so you can look her in the eye with a raised eyebrow. For some reason, this moment felt sacred, like it was meant for just the two of you and not the prying eyes of staff and patients (though you’re sure you can see Shen watching with an amused smile on his face).

“That thing where you pretend you’re okay.”

It’s gentle when she says it, no judgment or pity. Just an acknowledgement of how you’re feeling and that it’s okay to feel that way. You take a deep breath and lean back again, hands crossing over your chest as if to hide your heart from her.

“I am okay, it’s nearly end of shift anyway.”

She lets out a small hum, pushes a protein bar over the top of the desk and gives you a wink and smile. 

“If you say so, but I’m calling you on the way home so I can make sure you don’t drive into oncoming traffic.”

That gets a laugh out of you and you ignore the way your heart hammers against your chest when she looks at you again before heading to her next patient. Somehow, she always knew how to make the bad days better, a silly comment slipping past her lips or a quiet conversation shared just between the two of you as you charted where she tells you ridiculous stories of her youth (and you would regularly call her out on how most of them couldn’t be true). 

She also knew how to make the good days a little bit easier, sitting beside you and joking like it was only you in the room, her shoulder pressing against yours as you talk about a patient (you’re not sure if it’s for you or her at this point), and food haphazardly shoved in front of you.

“What this for?”

Your voice is confused, questioning as she shoves a portion of a steaming hot pasta bake in front of you, and she just raises and eyebrow.

“Because I know you haven’t eaten all shift and with your schedule outside of here, you probably haven’t eaten since noon yesterday.”

An incredulous laugh passes your lips and you huff slightly at the insinuation, its true, but still she doesn’t need to know that,

“I’ve eaten.”

She smirks, lips tipping up at the edge and you have to steady your breathing because it makes her look absolutely devastating. 

“Stale protein bars and the leftover doughnuts from the day shift doesn’t count.”

Another huff and you roll your eyes before digging into the pasta with a glare, “I hate you,” there’s absolutely no malice in your voice and Parker just laughs at you

“No you don’t”

Then there were the phone calls. Parker kept good on her promise after that first time, your phone lighting up with her name the second you pulled out of the car park. It had been quiet for a bit, the two of you just letting the day wash over you before she started the conversation.

“Well,” her voice is soft against the hum of the engine and the click of an indicator, but it warmed you all the same, melted away some of the stress from the day, “that shift was personally offensive to my mental health”

You laughed at her and the conversation flowed from there. It became a habit after that, every shift shared and even ones you didn’t share ended with a phone call. A moment of decompression where you would pick apart the ugly parts of the day until it became a lighter to carry. Parker called it a mutually beneficial arrangement, you called it looking after each other but you wouldn’t say that out loud to her. 

Somewhere down the line, it strayed from being mutual. Because Parker remembered things, things you wouldn’t have expected her to. Like you’re elaborate coffee order from that one indie coffee shop that you adored but barely had time to go through, you think you rambled about it for all of 30 seconds to Shen one day when he asked you about your Dunkin’ order and then a week later it showed up on the nurses desk for you. You hadn't even realised she was in earshot or that she was listening. 

A cookie, something seemingly ordinary and boring, had shown up in your locker and you vaguely remembered asking Parker the next time her mom made them she had to save you one. What you did remember was her smile and the heat of her skin against yours as she made a pinky promise to hide one in your locker. 

Then there was the movie, one you adored. Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, you knew it was old but it was a favourite and filled with childhood nostalgia of cuddling up with your mother with popcorn and chocolate and singing along to the songs. She watched it for you.

“I tortured myself for you.”

A laugh bubbled out of you at that, your hands falling down to either side of hers where she leaned on the hub.

“You loved it.”

She kissed her teeth but still smiled at you, despite the playful glare in her eyes.

“I tolerated it.” 

She laughed as she said it, your brow furrowing into a small glare as you stuck your tongue out. That feeling that had burrowed under your ribs growing like vines as it spread through your chest and wrapped around your heart. 

Days off, which were rare between working and studying, were sacred things you shared. Quiet afternoons filled with artisanal coffees and indie bookstores and walks in the park while you talked about everything and anything (other than work), when you think back on it you think your favourite was the quiet 6am walk you had in the summer after your classes had ended.  You had cursed her for getting you up so early but as you walked through the park, morning dew hanging to the grass like crystal and the sky painted in pinks and orange like a canvas, her hand brushing against yours every few seconds until you felt brave enough to finally curl your fingers around hers you realised how grateful you were she had. 

She showed up, she listened. Quiet conversation in break rooms where you rambled on about something or someone who had pissed you off where Parker would tilt her head with a smile and a teasing lilt, “You want solutions or just to talk?”

“Just to talk” 

Yet somehow she always had a solution, usually her place the next night you had off with wine and cheesy reality tv where you would complain and she would nod supportively. 

You showed up for her too. The quiet conversations in the car continued on as you both got ready for bed because you didn’t want them to end. Long drives without a destination in mind, just loud music and the two of you screaming your feelings into the lyrics. Sitting beside her, shoulders pressed together, when she was in her own head or had a bad case at work, her head resting on your shoulder or her fingers trailing through the ends of your hair.  

Then one day you didn’t text her back. It was the first day off four for both of you after working for two weeks solid, wintertime sickness taking out multiple nurses and Henderson at the same time that meant you were practically living at the hospital. She had sent the text in the early afternoon, just a check in to see if you were up for going to see the new movie, but when she didn’t receive a reply by 8pm she knew something was up. 

By 8: 30, she was knocking on your door with your favourite from the Thai place you liked and a bottle of your favourite wine. 

“You’re alive!” Sarcasm dripped from her lips the moment you opened the door, dressed in cozy pyjamas and absolutely adorable bunny slippers that she tried not to coo at as she gave a soft glare and rubbed at your eyes. 

They were red rimmed and dry and she couldn’t quite tell if it was from tears or tiredness. When you move back to allow her in, she offers a smile.

“You didn’t answer my text, so I assumed kidnapping or murder.”

You huff out a quiet laugh as you help her unpack the takeaway with a small eyeroll, “You’re so dramatic.” 

Her shoulder bumps against yours as she passes you too pull out plates and glasses, like she was always meant to exist in your space.

“You love it.” 

It settles in you then, that yeah, maybe you did. The vines that had twisted across your rips and heart, travelled over your bones and brought light and warmth and joy, started to tear down every single wall you had built until there was nothing but rubble and ruin in their wake. The steel fortress you had built was replaced with a garden of irises and roses and sun. Somewhere along the way, Parker had become home. 

The kiss that comes later that night is soft, gentle. Her hands tangling into the ends of your hair as she pulls you closer on the sofa as you tangle yours behind her neck. It’s not rushed or unexpected, just the final piece of a puzzle slotting into place. The rest of the night is spent curled around each other, hands reaching and tracing against skin with soft kisses pressed to cheeks and necks and lips, like this was the way it was always meant to happen. 

A few weeks later, after a brutal early January shift that hollowed out your bones from the inside, Parker finds you. Car keys in hands and tears in your eyes that you are desperately trying to fight back. Her hand is warm against your back when she pressed into you, lips falling in a comforting kiss against the skin there.

“Do you trust me?”

It’s light, whispered against the skin of your neck as she presses a kiss to your pulse point, hand reaching up to undo your hair because she’s sure it's causing a major tension headache. You turn your head to meet her eyes and your breath stutters for a moment. 

Because here is this incredible woman. Who remembers your coffee order. Who showed up without being asked. Who listened and stayed and loved you in both the quiet and loud ways so consistently.

“Yes”

The answer falls so quickly from your lips that it almost startles you, it had been a long time since you had let someone in like this. Let someone see you so wholly and trust them not to run when they see the cracks. Yet, it was the only right answer. 

Parker gives a smile, one so bright that it rivaled the sun that was just beginning to rise over the horizon, and a wink as she playfully wrestles your car keys from you and forces you into the passenger seat. The engine roared to life when she started it and her hand reached for yours as she pulled out, her thumb rubbing soft circles against the skin as she drove out of the city. 

She stops 30 minutes later, a track of road of the beaten track with a marked hiking trail you hadn’t heard off before. The car park doubled as an outlook, the sun finally reaching over the horizon line and painting the city below in a kaleidoscope of soft colours that almost made it look tender. 

You take a deep breath, hands coming up to wrap around yourself to protect from the wind chill. The air is sharp and clean but it feels so good in your lungs. Reminds you you’re alive. You take a step closer to the outlook, hands now falling to the railings as goosebumps raise against your flesh. The tears rise again now, slowly starting to fall and leave tracks of salt against your skin. A jacket is placed over your shoulders, one of Parkers that she keeps in the back seat, and her arms wrap around your waist and pull you against her chest. 

Your eyes move over the city, watching as the clouds above open and snow starts to fall around you. It clings to your lashes and against the fabric of the coat and your scrubs. But it’s nice. Peaceful. A moment you would commit to memory for the rest of your life. 

You’re still crying, quiet little sniffles leaving you as Parker places a kiss to your cheek and then again to your pulse point. You reach a hand up to wrap around the back of her neck and hold her, she’s cold to the touch but you can feel her pulse jumping underneath her skin.

Baran had loved this museum since she was roughly fourteen years old and miserable on her middle school trip to D.C. She had gone to a nice enough school that they could afford to do an afternoon stop in Pittsburgh on the way home, and Baran had wandered into the museum half-asleep and walked back out feeling rearranged. There were many things about Pittsburgh that, now 40, she tolerated rather than loved. But this place had stayed in her bones.

Kaveh, unfortunately, was seven. He was usually a fantastic sport, but there were only so many oil paintings a child could stare at before he felt he'd seen them all.

Still, every Saturday Baran asked, “Do you want to come with me today, joonam?”

And every Saturday her sweet boy said yes.

She always let Kaveh lead when they visited the museum because there wan’t a single exhibit she didn’t enjoy and she had learned really quickly that if he felt he had control over what they were seeing, the longer he was able to last. 

Usually, this meant they ended up in the sculpture hall. Kaveh adored the tall, skinny statues there with his entire little heart.

“They look silly,” he would whisper loudly, staring up at the long bronze limbs and dramatic poses with complete delight.

And every single visit, without fail, he would eventually turn to Baran with barely-contained excitement and say, “Māmān, take a picture.”

Then he’d plant himself beside the statues and imitate them as seriously as possible, long face, arms thrown awkwardly into the air, knees bent at impossible angles as Baran gleefully snapped his photo.

Kaveh was bounding back to her side and standing up on his tip-toes to see the fruit of his photo shoot. She was showing him the latest one, his nose wrinkling with pleasure at his own performance, when his head snapped to the side with the speed of a small animal catching a scent.

Baran had about half a second of confusion before he pulled in a breath and used every bit of it:

“DOCTOR Y/N!!!”

Baran jolted so hard she nearly dropped her phone.

“Kaveh—”

Too late.

Across the gallery, you turned around and Baran’s heart sunk through every floor of the museum. It seemed like an awful collision of her two worlds that she very carefully kept separate.

She knew you in fragments that didn’t belong in a place like this, your scrubs and tired eyes after a long shift that always softened when you saw her, you padding through her kitchen at night, stealing water from the fridge like you lived there too, you half-asleep against her shoulder, breath warm.

She also knew how your voice sounded when it went all high-pitched and breathy, whimpering pleas of her name in her ear as your hands scraped down her back, her kissing your neck—

And now there you were. Dark jeans, a soft cream sweater with the sleeves pushed up to your elbows, a tote bag from a college Baran had never heard you mention, rings stacked on your fingers that caught the gallery light. Your hair was different than she'd ever seen it. You looked soft.

She watched your expression move through confusion and arrive at something warm and surprised and delighted.

"Hi, Kaveh," you called across the gallery.

Kaveh was already moving. He crossed the room at a pace that was technically not running because his feet were not fully leaving the floor at the same time, but was in every other sense running. You crouched down to meet him and he wrapped his arms around your neck without preamble, without hesitation, the way children do when they've decided about a person.

"You're here!” he beamed.

"I am here," you laughed, settling back on your heels with your arms resting on your knees, completely unbothered by the contact with the museum floor. "What are you doing here, little dude? Are you an art guy?"

Kaveh pulled back and shrugged. "Sometimes," he said. "Māmān likes it a lot more than me though. But she says it's good for my brain."

"Smart woman, your mama."

Baran had crossed the gallery at a more appropriate pace and arrived to find you already looking up at her, easy and warm, not making anything of it.

"Dr. Al-Hashimi."

"Dr. Y/L/N." She heard how formal it sounded and internally winced. She cleared her throat and softened her tone. "Small world. I'm sorry about the ambush."

"Please don't be," you beamed, standing. "This is the best thing that's happened to me all morning."

You had met Kaveh twice before and Baran had kind of freaked out both times (you knew good and well she didn’t really want you two interacting, didn’t want to blend whatever fuck-buddy situation you had going on with the version of her life she was presenting to her son) but both interactions had been really, really lovely. You’re not sure what you did to earn Kaveh’s adoration, but you were glad you had it as the adorable little boy beamed up at you, staring at you like you hung the stars.

Baran, standing slightly to the side, was also looking at your face. For completely different reasons. She took in the different style of your hair, the jewelry she hadn’t seen because it was kind of a pain to wear rings at work, the tote bag with your college insignia — a school Baran had not known you attended, had never heard you talk about, another piece of the woman she hadn’t had yet.

There were so many pieces.

“Are you here alone?” Baran heard herself ask.

You smiled. “I am, embarrassingly enough. I just like it here.” You paused. “Mom-son date?”

“We come most Saturdays,” Baran said. “When Kaveh is persuadable.”

“It’s an awesome hangout spot,” you nodded warmly, trying to will your heart to stop fluttering. Baran looked so… touchable? Something about her was calmer, more settled, and you wanted to soak it in like a sapling begging for just a drop of water to sustain it, but she was here with her son. And you were just a friend. Barely even that.

“Well, it was lovely to see you both,” you started to turn, “I hope you—”

Kaveh latched onto your arm, eyes going big with sudden sadness. “Wait, are you going?”

You froze, mouth falling open a bit, and your eyes shot to Baran. Sure, you liked her company and loved her son, but you knew this woman had boundaries and you never took that personally. 

“Um, well, Kaveh—”

"Don’t go yet because we are looking at statues and you can join us," Kaveh said excitedly. "Do you want to see?"

You blinked. Your eyes still searching Baran's face. 

It was sweet, Baran realized. She allowed her head to tilt, a warm smile to come across her face.

"Yes," she said warmly. "Join us. We could use the company."

Huh. You shook of your shock and replaced it with an eager nod of your head.

"I'd love to," you replied, a similar smile pulling at your lips. "Show me."

—

You fell into step beside her at an easy distance, and Baran noticed that too — the careful inch of space you maintained, not crowding her nor presuming that the invite meant she, all of the sudden, wanted you on top of her.

You talked to Kaveh mostly, crouching when he pointed at things, asking him questions that took his opinions seriously, which made him stand a little taller each time.

"That one is super sad," Kaveh pointed at a bronze figure with its head bowed.

"Hm," you studied it. "What do you think he's sad about?"

Kaveh thought about this. "Maybe he lost something."

“Lost something?” Baran prompted.

“‘Cause his head is down, Māmān,” Kaveh replied. “He’s lookin’ for it.”

It surprised a laugh out of you — real and unguarded, bubbling up from your chest and floating out into the high-ceilinged room — and Baran's eyes went straight to your face.

She'd heard you laugh before. But not like that. Not with nothing behind it but the simple fact that something delighted you.

She looked away before you could catch her looking.

She was noticing things she had no particular right to notice. The way you paused longest in front of the landscapes. The small private smile when something caught you, unannounced and unperformed. The fact that you knew which paintings were which without looking at the placards.

Initially she had been bracing herself for some level of awkwardness bred from the reminder that you existed in a different compartment of her life, one that didn't belong here under the high windows with her son. But you hadn't made it awkward. You just looked very content not to be alone on a Saturday, and it made her heart twist.

She felt herself begin to unknot.

"You come here often?" she nudged you with her hip as you walked again, and didn’t miss the way your eyes twinkled at the contact.

"Most weekends I'm not working," you tilted your head at the room around you. "There's a painting in the next gallery I've been coming back to for about a year."

"Which one?"

You smiled a little. "I'll show you when we get there."

In the decorative arts wing Kaveh grabbed your hand to drag you toward a suit of armor, and you let him, and Baran watched your face when he pressed his small nose against the visor to peer inside. The expression you wore was so soft, so unself-conscious, that it caught her off guard.

She had long wondered what you were like when you weren't managing anything at all, be it your poise at work or your manners in her apartment or your ecstasy in her bed. Maybe this was it. Maybe this was exactly what you looked like laid bare. 

—

They reached the end of the last gallery with the slow inevitability of a good afternoon running out. Kaveh had gone boneless against Baran's side around the second hour mark, dragging his feet and clinging to her arm, suddenly non-verbal.

You crouched down to him. "It was very good to see you, Kaveh. Thank you for the statue tour."

"You can come next Saturday," Kaveh offered, hand reaching out to fiddle with the neckline of your shirt.

Baran watched your face. She saw you almost smile  and then she watched you catch it and smooth it over.

"That's a very kind invitation," you said carefully, to Kaveh, but you were still looking at her.

The restraint of it was so practiced and so deliberate that it nearly hurt. She had put you here  in this careful, curtailed space  and you had stayed in it without a word of complaint, because she'd asked you to a few months ago. Please don’t ask about my ex-husband, please don’t ask about my son. You had nodded and respected it ever since, because that was the kind of person you were.

She had an empty afternoon ahead of her, but you were full of so many little pieces that had started to crack away from your skin and fall into her palm just over the course of an hour. She wanted more. She wanted every shard until she could build your full mosaic.

"We were going to get lunch," Baran said. "There's a place around the corner Kaveh likes."

She paused, small and deliberate.

"I would like it if you came."

Baran watched the surprise dance across your eyes even though you tried to remain nonchalant. You were a very smart girl and she knew you understood exactly what she was actually saying. This was very different from when you would brush shoulders in the hospital, or when your phone would buzz with a "Are you free tonight?"

"Are you sure?" you asked softly.

"Very sure," she said, then raised her brow with a smirk. “Do I have to say please?”

You looked at her for a beat longer, something soft and open moving through your expression, and then you smiled so large it changed your whole face.

"Okay," you said. "I'd like that."

Kaveh grabbed both your hands at once, one each, and lurched forward without ceremony.

Baran let him pull her out into the light.

—

The first thing you notice is the beeping.

Steady. Rhythmic. Insistent.

It drags you up from the dark like a hook in your chest, pulling you toward consciousness whether you want it or not.

You don't want it.

The dark was easier. Quieter. Painless.

But the beeping won't stop, and neither will the voices murmuring somewhere beyond the fog in your head. Your eyelids feel like they've been glued shut. It takes three tries before you manage to crack them open, and when you do, the light is immediate and brutal.

You flinch.

"Hey, hey, easy."

Parker's voice.

Close.

You turn your head, or try to. Everything feels sluggish, like you're moving underwater. Your mouth tastes like copper and something chemical. Your throat is raw.

"Don't try to talk yet," Parker says, and now you can see her.

She's sitting in a chair pulled up beside your bed, still in her scrubs. Her hair is pulled back in a messy bun that's half-collapsed on one side. There are shadows under her eyes so dark they look like bruises.

She looks like she hasn't slept in days.

Maybe she hasn't.

You blink at her, trying to make sense of where you are.

Hospital room. ICU, probably, based on the equipment crowding the space around your bed. Monitors stacked on a rolling cart. IV pole with multiple bags hanging. A ventilator in the corner, mercifully unused. The walls are that particular shade of pale green that only exists in hospitals, and the fluorescent lights overhead hum faintly.

Your left arm has an IV line taped down. Your right has a pulse ox clipped to your finger.

There's something in your nose.

Oxygen, you realize distantly. Nasal cannula.

You try to take stock of your body, but everything below your chest feels... distant. Muffled. Like it's wrapped in layers of cotton.

"You're okay," Parker says, and her voice cracks just slightly on the second word. She catches it, clears her throat. "You're okay. You're out of surgery. You're in the ICU."

Surgery.

The word lands like a stone in your chest.

You remember the gunshot. The sidewalk. Ms. Gunder's hands pressing down on your leg. The ambulance. The trauma bay.

Parker's face when she saw you.

You try to speak, but what comes out is a rasp that doesn't sound like your voice at all.

Parker reaches for the cup of water on the bedside table, angles the straw toward your mouth.

"Small sips," she says.

You obey.

The water is lukewarm and tastes faintly of plastic, but it soothes the rawness in your throat enough that when you try again, actual words come out.

"How long?"

"Eighteen hours since you went into the OR," Parker says. She sets the cup down carefully, like she's afraid her hands might shake if she's not deliberate about it. "You've been in recovery for about six hours. They brought you up here around four this morning."

You blink at her.

Eighteen hours.

"What time is it now?"

"Just past ten."

Morning, then.

You try to do the math, but your brain feels like it's been stuffed with gauze.

"The surgery," you manage. "Did it?"

"It went well," Parker says quickly. Too quickly. "You're stable. Your vitals are good. You're..." She stops. Swallows. "You're okay."

There's something in her voice that doesn't match the words.

Something careful.

Something scared.

You look at her more closely.

Her eyes are red-rimmed. Her hands are folded tightly in her lap, knuckles white.

"Parker," you say slowly. "What happened?"

"You were shot," she says, like you might have forgotten. "The bullet went through your femoral region. It missed the artery, which is the only reason you didn't bleed out on the street, but it damaged a lot of surrounding tissue. Veins, muscles, nerves. When they got you into the OR, they tried to repair what they could, but."

She stops again.

You wait.

The beeping continues, steady and indifferent.

"There were complications," Parker says finally. "Vascular damage was more extensive than they initially thought. They did everything they could to restore blood flow, but some of the tissue had already started to necrose. And there was a high risk of infection spreading if they didn't."

She cuts herself off, jaw tightening.

You stare at her.

Something cold is starting to creep up your spine.

"Didn't what?" you ask.

Parker closes her eyes.

When she opens them again, they're wet.

"They had to amputate," she says, and her voice breaks on the last word. "Above the knee. Your left leg. I'm so sorry."

The words don't make sense at first.

They're just sounds. Syllables strung together in an order that your brain refuses to process.

Amputate.

Above the knee.

Your left leg.

You look down.

The blanket is pulled up to your waist, but even through the thin fabric, you can see the shape of your body beneath it.

Two legs.

Except.

Except the left one is shorter.

Stops where it shouldn't.

Ends halfway down the bed in a bulk of bandages that your mind can't reconcile with the concept of your own body.

"No," you hear yourself say.

Parker leans forward, reaching for your hand.

You pull it away.

"No," you say again, louder this time. "No, that's not."

You try to sit up.

Pain explodes through your left side so violently that you cry out, and Parker is on her feet immediately, hands hovering over you like she wants to touch you but doesn't know where.

"Don't move," she says urgently. "You can't. You just had major surgery; you need to stay still."

"Let me see it."

"You need to."

"Let me see it!"

Your voice cracks, raw and desperate.

Parker stares at you for a long moment, and then, slowly, she reaches for the edge of the blanket.

"Are you sure?" she asks quietly.

You're not.

You're not sure of anything.

But you nod anyway.

Parker pulls the blanket back.

Your right leg is there, whole and familiar, an IV line taped into the top of your foot.

Your left leg is there too.

Until it isn't.

It ends just above where your knee should be, wrapped in layers of white gauze and surgical dressing. There's a drain tube snaking out from beneath the bandages, connected to a small bulb half-filled with dark red fluid.

You stare at it.

At the place where your leg should be and isn't.

At the empty space beneath the blanket where your calf, ankle, and foot are supposed to exist.

Your leg.

Your leg is gone.

The room tilts.

You can't breathe.

You're trying, but the air won't go in, won't fill your lungs, and the beeping is getting faster, louder, and Parker is saying your name, but you can't hear her over the rushing in your ears.

"I can't," you gasp. "I can't."

"Yes, you can," Parker says, and suddenly her hands are on your face, forcing you to look at her. "Yes, you can. Breathe with me. In through your nose."

She demonstrates, exaggerating the breath.

You try to follow.

Fail.

Try again.

This time, a thin stream of air makes it past the tightness in your chest.

"Good," Parker says. "Again. In through your nose, out through your mouth."

You do it.

And again.

And again.

Slowly, the rushing in your ears fades.

The room stops spinning.

You're left staring at Parker, whose face is so close to yours you can see the gold flecks in her eyes, the freckle just below her left eyebrow, the way her bottom lip trembles before she presses it flat.

"I'm sorry," she whispers. "I'm so sorry."

You don't know what to say to that.

What is there to say?

Your leg is gone.

Your leg is gone.

Parker pulls the blanket back up gently, covering the bandages, and you're grateful for it even though you know it doesn't change anything.

Out of sight doesn't mean it didn't happen.

"The surgeons said you'll be able to get a prosthetic," Parker says, and she's slipping into doctor mode now, you can hear it in her voice. Clinical. Informative. Controlled. "Once the residual limb heals, you'll work with a prosthetist to get fitted. Physical therapy will help you regain mobility. People live full, active lives with above-knee amputations. You'll..."

"Stop."

Parker stops.

You close your eyes.

"I don't want to hear about prosthetics," you say quietly. "I don't want to hear about physical therapy or full, active lives. I just..."

Your voice breaks.

You don't finish the sentence.

You don't know how.

Parker sinks back into the chair beside your bed, and for a long time, neither of you speaks.

The monitors beep.

Somewhere down the hall, someone pages a doctor overhead.

A nurse walks past your room, shoes squeaking on the linoleum.

You keep your eyes closed and try not to think about the fact that your leg is gone.

You fail.

The first two days blur together.

Nurses come and go, checking your vitals, adjusting your medications, changing your dressings. You don't look when they do it. You turn your head away and stare at the wall until they're finished.

Parker is there almost constantly.

She leaves for her shifts. She has to, you know that. But every time you wake up, she's back. Sometimes she's in the chair beside your bed, laptop balanced on her knees as she catches up on charting. Sometimes she's curled up on the narrow couch beneath the window, asleep in her scrubs.

Once, you wake to find her standing at the window, forehead pressed against the glass, shoulders shaking.

You close your eyes and pretend you're still asleep.

You don't know what to say to her.

You don't know what to say to anyone.

Dr. Shen stops by on the second day. He's not your attending. That's Dr. Varma, a soft-spoken surgeon with steady hands and a calm demeanor, but he checks in anyway.

"You're looking better," he says, which is a lie, but you appreciate the effort.

"Thanks for not letting me die," you say.

"Thanks for not dying," he replies.

It's meant to be light, but it lands heavy.

He glances at Parker, who's standing near the foot of your bed with her arms crossed, and something passes between them that you don't understand.

Then he leaves, and you're alone with her again.

"You should go home," you tell her.

"I'm fine."

"You look like hell."

"So do you."

You almost laugh.

Almost.

"Parker," you say quietly. "You can't stay here forever."

"Watch me."

And she does.

On the third day, the pain gets worse.

Not the surgical site, that's manageable, controlled by the IV pain meds they're pumping into you every few hours.

No, this is different.

This is your foot.

Except you don't have a foot anymore.

You wake up in the middle of the night with a scream caught in your throat, because your left foot is on fire. The pain is so vivid, so specific, that you can feel exactly where it is: your toes are cramping, curling inward so tightly you're sure the bones will snap. Your arch is seizing. Your ankle is twisted at an angle that makes your stomach turn.

You reach down instinctively to grab it, to straighten it out, to make it stop,

Your hand meets bandages.

And nothing else.

The pain doesn't stop.

You sob.

You can't help it.

The pain is so real, so present, and your foot isn't there, and you don't understand how that's possible, how you can feel something so intensely when it doesn't exist anymore.

"Hey, hey, what's wrong?"

Parker is awake immediately, on her feet, and at your side.

"My foot," you gasp. "My foot, it's."

"Phantom pain," Parker says, and her voice is tight with something that might be guilt. "It's phantom limb pain. Your brain is still sending signals like your leg is there. It's normal. I should have fuck, I should have warned you this might happen."

"Make it stop," you beg.

"I can't," she says, and she sounds wrecked. "I can't—I'm sorry, I can't just—"

She reaches for the call button and jabs it twice.

A nurse appears within a minute.

"Phantom limb pain," Parker says before the nurse can ask. "Can we get her something? Gabapentin? Amitriptyline? Anything?"

The nurse nods, already moving toward the computer to put in the order.

Parker sits on the edge of your bed, careful not to jostle you, and takes your hand.

"I know it hurts," she says quietly. "I know it doesn't make sense. But it will get better. I promise it will get better."

You want to believe her.

You can't.

The pain continues for another twenty minutes before the medication finally kicks in, dulling the sensation to a distant ache.

By then, you're exhausted.

Parker is still holding your hand.

"I'm sorry," you whisper.

"For what?"

"For this. For being a burden."

"Don't," Parker says sharply. "Don't you dare apologize for getting shot."

"I'm a burden."

"You're not."

"I am," you insist, and the words are spilling out now, too fast to stop. "You're a doctor, Parker. You save lives. You don't—you shouldn't have to deal with this. With me. I can't even—I don't even have a fucking leg anymore, and you're sitting here holding my hand like I'm not completely broken, and I don't understand why you're still here."

Parker stares at you.

For a moment, you think she's going to cry.

Instead, she stands up.

"I need to go," she says, voice flat.

Your heart drops.

"Parker,"

"I'll be back," she says, already moving toward the door. "I just—I need a minute."

She leaves.

The door clicks shut behind her.

You're alone.

And you're sure—absolutely sure—that you've just ruined everything.

Parker comes back twenty minutes later.

Her eyes are red.

She sits down in the chair beside your bed, and for a long time, she doesn't say anything.

Then:

"I watched you almost die."

Her voice is quiet. Controlled.

You don't interrupt.

"I watched you come into my ER with a gunshot wound, bleeding out, and I couldn't do anything. Shen wouldn't let me treat you, which was the right call, but it didn't matter because I was useless anyway. I'm a doctor, and I couldn't save you."

"Parker,"

"Let me finish," she says, and there's an edge to her voice now. "You went into surgery, and I didn't know if you were going to come out. And then you did, but you were missing a leg, and I thought—I thought you were going to hate me for it. For not being able to stop it. For not being good enough."

"That's not."

"And now you're lying here telling me you're a burden," Parker continues, and her voice is shaking now. "You're telling me I shouldn't have to deal with you. Like I'm doing you some kind of favor by staying. Like I'm here out of obligation."

She leans forward, and her eyes are blazing.

"I'm not here because I'm a doctor," she says. "I'm not here because I feel sorry for you. I'm here because I love you, you idiot. I'm here because the thought of losing you made me feel like I couldn't breathe. I'm here because when I close my eyes, I still see you on that stretcher covered in blood, and I need to see you alive to make it stop."

You stare at her.

"I don't care that you lost your leg," Parker says, and her voice breaks. "I care that you almost died. I care that you're in pain. I care that you're scared. But I don't care that your body is different now, because you're still you, and I still love you, and if you ever—ever—tell me again that you're a burden, I will lose my mind."

She's crying now.

Actually crying.

You've never seen her cry before.

"I'm sorry," you whisper.

"Stop apologizing."

"I don't know what else to say."

Parker wipes at her eyes roughly, smearing tears across her cheeks.

"Say you'll stop trying to push me away," she says. "Say you'll let me be here."

You swallow hard.

"I'm scared," you admit.

"I know."

"I don't know how to do this."

"Neither do I," Parker says. "But we'll figure it out."

She reaches for your hand again.

This time, you hold on.

They move you out of the ICU on day five.

You're stable enough now for a regular room, which is both a relief and a new kind of torture. The ICU was isolating, but it was also controlled. Quiet. Private.

The regular floor is louder.

You can hear other patients through the walls. Hear the nurses chatting at their station. Hear the meal carts rattling down the hallway three times a day.

It makes it harder to pretend this isn't real.

Dr. Varma comes by every morning to check your incision site. She's kind but matter-of-fact, which you appreciate. She doesn't talk to you like you're fragile.

"Healing well," she says on day seven, peeling back the dressing to inspect the sutures. "No signs of infection. We'll keep you on antibiotics for another week, but I'm pleased with how this looks."

You don't look.

You still can't.

"When can I go home?" you ask.

"When you're cleared by PT," Dr. Varma says. "You need to be able to transfer safely and manage basic mobility. Another week, maybe two."

Two weeks.

It feels like a lifetime.

After she leaves, Parker helps you sit up,a process that's more complicated than it should be, now that your balance is completely off.

"Physical therapy starts today," she says.

You knew this was coming.

You're still not ready.

The physical therapist's name is Alex.

He's in his forties, built like he used to play football, with an easy smile and a no-nonsense attitude that reminds you of a coach.

"Alright," he says, rolling a wheelchair up beside your bed. "Let's see what we're working with."

You stare at the wheelchair.

"I don't need that," you say.

"You do if you want to leave this bed," Alex replies. "Come on. Let's get you up."

It takes three tries.

Your right leg is weak from days of disuse. Your left side is a mess of pain and absence and confusion, because your brain keeps trying to use a leg that isn't there anymore.

When you finally manage to pivot and drop into the wheelchair, you're sweating and shaking.

"Good," Alex says, like you've just accomplished something impressive. "That's good. Now let's go for a ride."

He wheels you out of your room and down the hallway.

You hate it.

You hate the way people glance at you as you pass. Hate the way the wheelchair feels too big and too small at the same time. Hate the way your left leg (the residual limb, Alex calls it, which is somehow worse than stump) throbs with every bump in the floor.

Alex takes you to the PT gym, a large room filled with parallel bars, exercise mats, and unfamiliar equipment.

"We're going to start simple," he says. "Today's goal is just to get you comfortable with transferring. Bed to chair, chair to bed. We'll work on upper body strength and core stability. The more stable you are, the easier everything else will be."

He makes it sound straightforward.

It's not.

Every movement is a negotiation with a body that doesn't work the way it used to. Your balance is gone. Your center of gravity is wrong. You reach for things that aren't there and nearly fall twice.

By the end of the session, you're exhausted and humiliated.

"You did great," Alex says.

You don't believe him.

Parker is waiting in your room when Alex wheels you back.

She takes one look at your face and doesn't ask how it went.

She just helps you back into bed and sits beside you in silence.

The nightmares start on day nine.

You're back on the sidewalk.

Keys in your hand. Bag over your shoulder.

The shouting starts across the street.

You turn.

The gunshot cracks through the air.

But this time, you see it.

You see the bullet leave the gun. See it cross the distance between you in slow motion. See it punch through your leg, tearing skin, muscle, and bone.

You see the blood.

So much blood.

You try to run, but your leg won't hold you.

You look down.

It's gone.

Just gone, severed clean at the thigh, and you're standing on a stump that's gushing blood onto the pavement, and you can't stop it, can't make it stop,

You wake up screaming.

Parker is there immediately, hands on your shoulders, voice cutting through the panic.

"You're okay, you're safe, you're in the hospital, you're okay,"

But you're not okay.

You're trying to move, trying to get away from the blood that isn't there, and your left leg won't respond because it's gone, and the realization hits you all over again like a physical blow.

You sob.

Parker climbs into the bed beside you, awkward and careful, mindful of your IV lines and the surgical site, and wraps her arms around you.

"I've got you," she whispers. "I've got you."

You bury your face in her shoulder and cry until you can't anymore.

When you finally pull back, Parker's scrubs are soaked with your tears.

"I'm sorry," you say automatically.

"Stop," Parker says, but there's no heat in it. Just exhaustion.

She looks as wrecked as you feel.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asks.

You shake your head.

What is there to say?

You're traumatized. You're disabled. You're terrified.

Talking won't change any of that.

Parker doesn't push.

She just stays in the bed beside you, one arm around your shoulders, until you fall back asleep.

The nightmares don't stop.

They come every night, sometimes multiple times a night.

The shooting. The blood. The moment you realize your leg is gone.

Sometimes you're in the trauma bay, watching yourself bleed out while Parker stands frozen across the room.

Sometimes you're in the OR, awake and aware as they cut through your leg.

Sometimes you're home, trying to walk, and you look down to find both legs missing.

You start dreading sleep.

Parker starts sleeping in your hospital bed every night, cramped and uncomfortable, because you can't stand to be alone when the nightmares come.

On day twelve, Dr. Varma suggests a psychiatric consult.

"PTSD is common after traumatic injuries," she says gently. "There's no shame in getting help."

You agree because you don't know what else to do.

The psychiatrist is a woman named Dr. Kimani. She's younger than you expected, with box braids pulled back in a low ponytail and a calm, steady presence.

She doesn't make you talk about the shooting right away.

Instead, she asks about your life before. Your job. Your relationship with Parker. What you like to do in your free time.

It's only after thirty minutes that she says, "Tell me about the nightmares."

You do.

You tell her about the blood and the fear and the moment you realize your leg is gone.

You tell her about the phantom pain, the way your brain insists your foot is still there even though you know it's not.

You tell her about the panic that hits you sometimes out of nowhere, the feeling that you're back on that sidewalk and the bullet is coming, and you can't move fast enough to get away.

Dr. Kimani listens without interrupting.

When you're finished, she says, "What you're experiencing is a normal response to an abnormal event. Your brain is trying to process something traumatic, and it's going to take time."

"How much time?" you ask.

"That's different for everyone," she says. "But we can work on strategies to help. Grounding techniques for when you're feeling panicked. Cognitive behavioral therapy to address the intrusive thoughts. Medication if you want it."

You're not sure you want medication.

You're already on so many pills you've lost count.

But you agree to try the therapy.

It's something.

By day fourteen, you're strong enough to start working with the parallel bars.

Alex wheels you into the PT gym and positions the wheelchair at one end of the bars.

"Alright," he says. "Today we're going to work on standing."

You stare at him.

"Standing," you repeat.

"Standing," he confirms. "You've got one good leg. We're going to teach you how to use it."

It sounds impossible.

It is impossible.

But Alex is patient.

He shows you how to position your right foot, how to grip the bars, and how to push up using your upper body strength.

The first time you try, you don't even make it halfway up before your arms give out.

The second time, you get upright for about three seconds before your balance fails and you drop back into the chair.

The third time, you stay up for ten seconds.

It's the hardest thing you've ever done.

When the session is over, your entire body is shaking.

But you stood.

On one leg, for ten seconds, you stood.

Alex grins at you.

"Told you," he says.

Parker's breaking point comes on day sixteen.

You don't see it coming.

She's been holding it together so well, too well, maybe, and you've been so focused on your own pain that you haven't noticed the cracks forming.

It's late.

Visiting hours are technically over, but no one enforces that rule anymore for Parker. She's sitting in the chair beside your bed, scrolling through her phone, when you say it.

"You should go home tonight."

She looks up.

"I'm fine here."

"Parker, you haven't slept in your own bed in over two weeks," you say. "You need a break."

"I don't need a break."

"You look exhausted."

"So do you."

You sigh.

"I'm serious," you say. "You can't keep doing this. You're going to burn out."

"I'm not going to burn out."

"You're a doctor," you say. "You know what happens when people don't take care of themselves."

Parker sets her phone down, jaw tight.

"I'm fine," she says again.

"You're not," you say quietly. "And that's okay. You don't have to be fine. But you can't keep pretending,"

"Pretending what?" Parker snaps, and there's an edge to her voice now. "Pretending I'm not terrified every time I leave this room that something's going to happen and I won't be here? Pretending I don't feel guilty every single day for not being able to stop this? Pretending I'm not fucking furious that some asshole's domestic dispute cost you your leg?"

You stare at her.

She's on her feet now, pacing.

"You want me to go home?" she continues, voice rising. "Fine. I'll go home. I'll go home to our apartment, where your shoes are still by the door, and your jacket is still on the couch, and I'll sit there alone and think about how you almost died. How you should have died, statistically speaking. How if that bullet had been two inches to the right, I'd be planning your funeral instead of helping you with physical therapy."

"Parker,"

"Do you know what it was like?" she asks, and her voice cracks. "Watching you come into my ER? Seeing you on that table, covered in blood, and knowing I couldn't do anything? Shen wouldn't let me touch you, which was the right call, but it didn't matter because I was useless. I'm a doctor, and I couldn't save you."

"You didn't need to save me," you say. "The surgeons—"

"The surgeons cut off your leg," Parker says, and she's crying now. "They cut off your leg, and I couldn't stop it, and now you're having nightmares every night, and phantom pain and PTSD, and I can't fix any of it. I can't make it better. I can't give you your leg back. I can't take away the trauma. I can't do anything except sit here and watch you suffer."

She sinks back into the chair, head in her hands.

"I'm supposed to help people," she says, voice muffled. "That's my job. That's what I do. But I can't help you, and it's killing me."

You reach for her hand.

She lets you take it.

"You are helping me," you say quietly.

"I'm not."

"You are," you insist. "You're here. Every single day, you're here. You hold my hand when I have nightmares. You help me get back into bed when PT wears me out. You tell me I'm not a burden even when I feel like one. That's helping."

Parker looks up at you, eyes red and wet.

"I don't know how to do this," she whispers.

"Neither do I," you say. "But we're doing it anyway."

She laughs, but it sounds more like a sob.

"I love you," she says.

"I love you too."

She climbs into the bed beside you, careful as always, and you hold each other in the dark.

On day nineteen, Dr. Varma clears you for discharge.

"You're healing well," she says. "The incision site looks good. You're managing pain appropriately. PT says you're making excellent progress. I see no reason to keep you here any longer."

You should be relieved.

You're terrified.

"What if something goes wrong?" you ask.

"Then you come back," Dr. Varma says simply. "But I don't think it will. You're doing everything right."

After she leaves, Parker starts making lists.

Medications. Follow-up appointments. PT schedule. Home modifications.

"We need to move some furniture," she says, chewing on the end of her pen. "Make sure there are clear paths for the wheelchair. The bathroom's going to be tricky—we might need a shower chair."

"Parker."

"And we should probably get a bed rail, just in case. I can pick one up on my way home tonight—"

"Parker."

She looks up.

"I'm scared," you admit.

Her expression softens.

"I know," she says. "Me too."

"What if I can't do this?"

"You can."

"What if I fall? What if I can't manage on my own? What if,"

Parker sets down her pen and takes your hand.

"You're not going to be on your own," she says. "I'm going to be there. And yeah, it's going to be hard. It's going to be really fucking hard. But we'll figure it out."

You want to believe her.

You're trying.

They discharge you on a Tuesday morning.

A nurse brings a wheelchair,your wheelchair now, apparently, at least until you're fitted for a prosthetic,and helps you transfer into it.

Parker has already loaded your belongings into her car. There's not much. Some clothes. Your phone. The flowers Ms. Gunder sent that have long since wilted.

The ride down to the lobby feels surreal.

You've been in this hospital for nearly three weeks, and now you're just... leaving.

Parker pulls the car up to the entrance, and the nurse helps you transfer into the passenger seat.

It's awkward.

Your balance is still off, and you nearly fall before Parker catches you.

"I've got you," she says.

You believe her.

The drive home is quiet.

You watch the city pass by through the window, the same streets you walked down three weeks ago, back when you had two legs and no idea how quickly everything could change.

When Parker pulls up in front of your building, you stare at the steps leading to the entrance.

"We're on the third floor," you say.

"There's an elevator."

"I know, but,"

"One step at a time," Parker says. "Literally."

She's right.

You can do this.

You have to.

Parker gets the wheelchair out of the trunk and helps you into it, and together, you make your way inside.

The elevator is small and smells faintly of cleaning solution. The ride up feels like it takes forever.

When the doors open on the third floor, you half-expect everything to look different.

It doesn't.

Same ugly carpet. Same flickering light at the end of the hallway. Same scuff marks on the wall outside your door.

Parker unlocks the apartment and pushes the door open.

You wheel yourself inside.

And stop.

Because everything is different.

The coffee table has been moved. The armchair repositioned. There's a clear path from the door to the couch to the kitchen.

The bathroom door is propped open, and you can see a shower chair inside.

Your shoes are gone from beside the door.

"I moved some things around," Parker says quietly. "I hope that's okay."

You nod, not trusting your voice.

Parker closes the door behind you and locks it.

"Welcome home," she says.

You burst into tears.

The first week home is brutal.

Everything is harder than it should be.

Getting from the bed to the wheelchair. From the wheelchair to the couch. From the couch to the bathroom.

You're exhausted all the time.

The phantom pain is worse at home, maybe because you're not distracted by nurses and doctors and PT sessions. Your foot cramps. Your toes curl. Your ankle twists.

None of it exists.

All of it hurts.

Parker does her best.

She takes a week off work, uses up all her saved PTO, and then some to help you adjust.

She cooks. She cleans. She helps you shower, which is humiliating and necessary in equal measure.

She doesn't complain.

Not once.

But you can see the strain in her face. The exhaustion. The worry.

On day four, you have a panic attack in the bathroom.

You're trying to transfer from the wheelchair to the toilet, and your balance fails, and suddenly you're falling, and you can't catch yourself because your leg isn't there, and you hit the floor hard.

Parker is there in seconds, but the damage is done.

You're on the floor, sobbing, because you can't even go to the bathroom by yourself anymore.

"I can't do this," you gasp. "I can't, I can't,"

"Yes, you can," Parker says, and her voice is steady even though her hands are shaking. "You can. You just need practice."

"I don't want to practice," you say. "I want my leg back."

Parker's face crumples.

"I know," she whispers. "I know."

She helps you up, a process that takes far too long and leaves you both sweating,and gets you back into the wheelchair.

That night, you have the worst nightmare yet.

You're in the OR, awake and strapped down, and you can feel them cutting through your leg. You scream and scream, but no one stops.

Parker wakes you, and you cling to her like a lifeline.

"I'm here," she says. "I'm here, you're safe, I'm here."

You don't feel safe.

You don't think you ever will again.

On day eight, Parker goes back to work.

She doesn't want to.

You can see it in the way she hesitates at the door, keys in hand, looking back at you like she's not sure she should leave.

"I'll be fine," you tell her.

"Call me if you need anything," she says. "I mean it. Anything."

"I will."

She leaves.

The apartment is too quiet.

You try to distract yourself. Turn on the TV. Scroll through your phone. Do the exercises Alex gave you.

But the silence is oppressive.

You're alone with your thoughts, and your thoughts are not kind.

By the time Parker gets home that evening, you're exhausted from doing nothing.

"How was it?" she asks.

"Fine," you lie.

She doesn't believe you, but she doesn't push.

The nightmares continue.

Some nights, Parker wakes you before they get too bad.

Other nights, you wake up screaming, disoriented, and convinced you're back on that sidewalk.

You start dreading sleep again.

Parker starts looking more and more exhausted.

On week three, Dr. Kimani suggests medication.

"An SSRI might help with the intrusive thoughts," she says during your telehealth appointment. "And we can add something for sleep if the nightmares are interfering with your rest."

You agree.

You're desperate enough to try anything.

The medication helps.

Not immediately, but gradually.

The nightmares don't stop, but they become less frequent. Less vivid.

You start sleeping in two- or three-hour stretches instead of waking up every forty-five minutes.

It's not much.

But it's something.

Physical therapy becomes the structure of your days.

Three times a week, Parker drives you to the outpatient clinic, and you work with Alex on building strength and learning to navigate the world with one leg.

It's slow.

Frustratingly slow.

But you're making progress.

By week four, you can transfer from the wheelchair to the bed without help.

By week five, you can stand at the parallel bars for a full minute.

By week six, Alex introduces you to crutches.

"Eventually, you'll get a prosthetic," he says. "But in the meantime, crutches will give you more mobility."

Learning to use them is harder than you expected.

Your upper body strength is better now, but your balance is still a mess.

You fall.

A lot.

But you get back up.

Because what else can you do?

On week seven, you look in the mirror for the first time.

Really look.

You're in the bathroom, getting ready for a shower, and Parker is at work, and you're alone.

You peel off your clothes slowly.

Your right leg is thinner than it used to be, muscles wasted from weeks of limited use.

Your left leg ends just above where your knee should be, the incision site now a thick, angry scar.

The residual limb is swollen. Discolored.

It doesn't look like part of your body.

It looks like something foreign. Something wrong.

You stare at it for a long time.

Then you cry.

Not the panicked, gasping sobs of the nightmares.

Just quiet, exhausted tears.

You're mourning.

Not just your leg, but everything that came with it.

Your independence. Your sense of safety. Your belief that your body was something you could trust.

All of it, gone.

When Parker gets home that evening, she finds you on the couch, staring at nothing.

"Hey," she says softly, sitting down beside you. "You okay?"

"I looked in the mirror today," you say.

Parker goes still.

"And?"

"I don't recognize myself."

Parker takes your hand.

"You're still you," she says.

"I don't feel like me."

"I know," Parker says. "But you are. You're still the person who makes terrible jokes when you're nervous. Who cries at dog videos. Who leaves coffee mugs all over the apartment. You're still you."

You want to believe her.

You're trying.

On week nine, you have your first appointment with the prosthetist.

Her name is Dr. Lim, and her office is bright and cheerful in a way that feels almost aggressive.

She measures your residual limb, takes notes, and asks questions about your activity level and goals.

"We'll start with a preparatory prosthetic," she says. "Something basic to help you learn to walk again. Once your limb is fully healed and the swelling goes down, we'll fit you for a definitive prosthetic."

"How long will that take?" you ask.

"A few months," Dr. Lim says. "Maybe longer. Everyone's different."

A few months.

You've already been living like this for two months.

The idea of several more feels impossible.

But you nod.

What choice do you have?

The preparatory prosthetic arrives on week eleven.

It's strange.

A socket that fits over your residual limb, attached to a metal pylon and a basic foot.

Dr. Lim helps you put it on for the first time, adjusting the fit, making sure it's secure.

"How does it feel?" she asks.

"Weird," you say honestly.

It's not painful, exactly, but it's not comfortable either.

It's foreign.

"That's normal," Dr. Lim says. "It'll take time to get used to. We'll start with just wearing it for short periods. An hour or two at a time. Let your skin adjust."

You nod.

She helps you stand.

The prosthetic holds your weight, but it doesn't feel like a leg.

It feels like a tool.

Something you're using, not something that's part of you.

"Try taking a step," Dr. Lim says.

You do.

It's clumsy and awkward, and you nearly fall before she catches you.

"Good," she says, like you've just done something impressive. "That's good. Try again."

You do.

And again.

And again.

By the end of the session, you've taken maybe ten steps.

It's the hardest thing you've ever done.

But you did it.

Learning to walk again is humbling.

You're an adult, and you're learning something you mastered as a toddler.

Every step is a negotiation.

Shift your weight. Swing the prosthetic forward. Plant it. Transfer your weight. Repeat.

It's exhausting.

Your residual limb aches from the pressure of the socket.

Your right leg is doing twice the work it's supposed to.

Your back hurts from compensating.

But you keep going.

Because what else can you do?

Alex is relentless.

Three times a week, he puts you through your paces.

Parallel bars. Crutches. The prosthetic.

Over and over and over.

"You're doing great," he says.

You don't feel great.

But you're doing it.

On week fourteen, you walk from the bedroom to the kitchen without the wheelchair.

It's only about twenty feet.

It takes you five minutes.

But you do it.

Parker is there, watching from the couch, and when you reach the kitchen counter, she bursts into tears.

"I'm so proud of you," she says.

You're proud of you too.

On week sixteen, you have a good day.

Not a perfect day.

But a good one.

You wake up without a nightmare.

The phantom pain is manageable.

You get dressed by yourself, including putting on the prosthetic.

You make coffee.

You sit on the couch and watch the morning news, and for a few minutes, you feel almost normal.

Parker comes out of the bedroom, still in her pajamas, and stops when she sees you.

"You're up," she says.

"I'm up," you confirm.

She sits down beside you, and you lean into her.

"Good day?" she asks.

"Good day," you say.

She kisses the top of your head.

"I'm glad."

That afternoon, Parker pulls out a folder.

"I need you to update some paperwork," she says.

You look up from your phone.

"What kind of paperwork?"

"Emergency contact information," Parker says. "For your insurance, your bank, your employer. You still don't have anyone listed."

You stare at her.

"I thought, after everything, you should probably have someone," Parker continues. "And I was thinking... if you want... I could be your emergency contact."

It's such a small thing.

A name on a form.

But it feels enormous.

"You want to be my emergency contact?" you ask.

"I want to be your emergency contact," Parker confirms. "I want to be the person they call. I want to be the person who shows up. I want," She stops. Swallows. "I want to be your person."

You reach for her hand.

"You already are," you say.

Parker smiles, and it's the first real smile you've seen from her in weeks.

"So is that a yes?" she asks.

"That's a yes."

She pulls out the forms, and together, you fill them out.

Name: Parker Ellis.

Relationship: Partner.

Phone number.

Address.

It takes less than ten minutes.

But when you're done, something feels different.

Settled.

Right.

"Thank you," you say quietly.

"For what?"

"For staying," you say. "For not giving up on me. For being here even when it's hard."

Parker sets the folder aside and takes both your hands in hers.

"I'm not going anywhere," she says. "I know the last few months have been hell. I know it's going to keep being hard. But I'm not going anywhere."

You believe her.

For the first time since the shooting, you actually believe her.

"I love you," you say.

"I love you too," Parker says.

She leans in and kisses you, soft and careful, and for a moment, everything else falls away.

The trauma. The pain. The fear.

All of it fades, and it's just the two of you.

Together.

That night, you have a nightmare.

But this time, when you wake up, Parker is already there.

"I've got you," she says, and you believe her.

You're not okay yet.

Maybe you won't be for a long time.

But you're here.

You're alive.

And you're not alone.

That's enough.