I Think I’m Adorable

The Georgia sun was unforgiving that afternoon, beating down on the quarry like it had something personal against the living, turning the pale rock into a griddle and the air into something thick enough to chew, and you were right in the middle of it with a coil of rope in your hands and a stubborn crease between your brows as you tried to help Glenn reinforce the line they’d strung between two trucks for drying laundry, your swollen belly stretching the faded cotton of Daryl’s old sleeveless shirt so tight it barely fluttered when the breeze rolled off the water.

You’d insisted on coming down from the shade near the RV despite Lori’s soft concern and Dale’s hovering glances over his binoculars, because you were tired of sitting, tired of feeling like glass and of watching everyone else move while your own body felt like it belonged to someone else entirely, heavy, round and perpetually off-balance, and you were perfectly capable of tying a knot, thank you very much.

Across camp, Daryl had realized you weren’t where you were supposed to be.

He’d gone looking for you by the tents first, crossbow slung over his shoulder, sweat darkening the collar of his shirt, already keyed up from a morning run that hadn’t yielded much more than a bruised squirrel and a bad feeling about the highway getting too quiet. When he didn’t see you sitting in your usual patch of shade with your canteen and that dog-eared baby book you’d salvaged from a gas station rack, his chest tightened in a way that had nothing to do with walkers.

He didn’t call your name at first but he stalked past Carol’s tent first, then past the laundry line. Around the edge of the quarry where the drop was steep, uneven and absolutely not somewhere you should be walking alone.

When he finally spotted you standing in full sun, one hand braced on your lower back while you demonstrated to Glenn how to double the rope back through the hitch so it wouldn’t slip, he felt a spike of heat that had nothing to do with the weather.

He was halfway across the camp before he even realized he was moving.

“Ya gotta be kiddin’ me,” he muttered under his breath, boots crunching over gravel, jaw set tight enough to ache.

You didn’t see him until his shadow cut across you.

“Ya need to get outta the sun,” he said immediately, no greeting or preamble, eyes sweeping over you from head to toe like he was taking inventory. “Have ya drank water? When’s the last time ya did?”

Glenn, traitor that he was, mumbled something about checking on the generator and slipped away.

You straightened slowly, one hand still on your hip and gave Daryl a look that could’ve stripped paint. “Hello to you too, my lovely husband.”

“Dun’ ‘lovely husband’ me,” he shot back, already unscrewing the cap of the canteen hanging from his belt and pressing it into your hand. “Drink.”

“I had water.”

“When.” He grunted.

You squinted at him. “Recently.”

“That ain’t answer enough.”

You took a long sip just to shut him up, water spilling slightly at the corner of your mouth because your lips were too dry and he wiped it away with his thumb without even thinking, his touch rough but careful, like you were something both durable and breakable at the same time.

“I don’t need a babysitter, Daryl,” you said, lowering the canteen and handing it back to him. “I can tie a rope without fainting dramatically.”

His eyes dropped immediately to your stomach, round and impossibly full, the fabric stretched taut over the life you’d both felt kick just that morning.

“We’ll need one eventually,” he muttered, adjusting the strap of his crossbow and stepping closer so his body blocked some of the sun from you. “Just not for ya. ’M glad we won’t have t’ pay nobody though.”

You barked out a laugh despite yourself. “Good to know romance is alive and well.”

He shrugged but there was a flicker of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I ain’t wrong.”

You shifted your weight, wincing slightly when the baby rolled low and heavy, pressing against your spine. Daryl saw it immediately.

“See?” he said, pointing vaguely at you like that proved his entire argument. “Ya need t’ sit down.”

“I do not.”

“Yer sweatin’.”

“It’s August, Daryl. Everyone’s sweating.”

“Not like tha’.” He muttered.

You crossed your arms, which was less intimidating than you wanted it to be with your belly very obviously in the way. “I don’t want to be the needy pregnant woman who just sits around while everyone else works.”

He stared at you like you’d just suggested wrestling a walker barehanded. “Ya are pregnant though…in case ya forgot.”

You blinked at him. “No shit, Daryl. I was there when it happened.”

A few people nearby snorted, quickly pretending not to listen.

His jaw flexed but there was no real irritation in it, just worry stretched thin over exhaustion. He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Ain’t about bein’ needy. It’s about bein’ smart. Doc ain’t exactly on standby, and we’re–” he gestured vaguely around at the tents, the cars, the quarry walls baking in the heat, “–out here.”

You softened just a fraction, because you knew that tone. That was the one he used when he was scared and trying like hell not to show it.

“I’m fine,” you said more gently. “I just wanted to help.”

“Yer helpin’ by growin’ a whole damn person,” he muttered, reaching out to adjust the strap slipping off your shoulder. “That’s more than enough.”

You rolled your eyes but leaned into his touch for half a second longer than necessary.

“I can’t just sit around all day,” you said. “I feel useless.”

He huffed quietly, shaking his head. “Ain’t useless, just…busy.”

“With what? Being round?”

“With not goin’ into labor in the middle of a heatstroke,” he shot back. “C’mon. Go lay down in the shade. I’ll bring ya somethin’ to eat.”

“I can walk myself, Dixon.”

“I know ya can walk, just makin’ sure ya go where I want ya to,” he said, already guiding you gently by the elbow anyway. “Don’t mean ya should be out here bakin’ either.”

You stopped him before he could fully steer you away, catching his vest and tugging him back toward you. “I swear, you hover more than Dale,” you said, smiling faintly.

“Dale don’t gotta reason,” he replied gruffly. “I do.”

You studied him for a second, from the furrow between his brows to the way his eyes kept flicking to your stomach like he was half-expecting it to disappear if he looked away too long and your chest tightened with something warm and fierce.

“I love you, you know,” you said quietly.

He looked caught off guard for half a heartbeat before recovering, shrugging like it was no big thing. “Yeah. I know.”

You laughed softly and rose onto your toes as much as you could manage, cupping his face and kissing him slow and firm despite the heat, the sweat and the faint smell of squirrel still clinging to him. He froze for a second, then melted into it, one hand splaying wide over your lower back, the other settling protectively over your belly like it belonged there.

When you pulled away, he chased your mouth briefly before catching himself.

“Go rest, ‘fore you give me a heart attack.” he muttered against your forehead. “Please.”

You smirked. “You’re really hot when you’re bossy, and it has nothing to do with the sun.”

“Yeah, well.”

You started back toward the tents, hips swaying slightly with the extra weight and he watched you the entire way, arms crossed now, expression hardening the farther you got.

“Hey!” he suddenly barked at T-Dog and Shane, who were half-heartedly reorganizing supplies near the RV. “Maybe y’all could do more than stand around jawin’ while she’s out here in the damn sun.”

Shane glanced over, amused. “She chose to be out there. Your wife, not mine.”

“Damn right she is and it don’t matter,” Daryl snapped. “Ain’t her job.”

You shook your head, unable to hide your smile as you reached the shade, lowering yourself carefully onto a chair and propping your feet up like he’d shown you a dozen times already. From across camp, you could still hear him grumbling.

“Shouldn’t even have to tell grown-ass people,” he muttered. “Sun’s brutal. Somebody else can tie a damn knot.”

You rested your hand over your stomach as the baby shifted, feeling the steady thump of movement beneath your palm and watched your husband pace the edge of camp like a guard dog who’d finally found what he was looking for but still wasn’t convinced the world wouldn’t try to take it.

Even from a distance, when his eyes lifted and found you again just to make sure you were actually sitting down you blew him a kiss only for him to roll his eyes but he didn’t look away.

You arrived late after your shift at the garage, exhausted and starving, only to discover there wasn’t a single empty seat left in the room.

“Aw, sweetheart,” Tig called immediately when he saw you scanning the room. “You snooze, you lose.”

“You’re in my seat,” you shot back.

“There are no assigned seats.”

“You say that every time somebody steals your chair.”

“That’s different.”

You rolled your eyes and moved farther into the room, trying to ignore how everyone suddenly looked entirely too interested in where you were going to sit.

The problem with SAMCRO was that once they noticed something, they became vultures about it.

“Sit on the floor,” Happy offered.

“You sit on the floor.”

“I am on the floor.”

You looked down.

He was.

Cross-legged.

Like some terrifying tattooed monk.

Before you could respond, Jax Teller looked up from where he sat in the armchair near the bar, beer bottle balanced against his thigh.

“C’mere.”

Simple as that.

You blinked. “Where?”

A faint smirk tugged at his mouth.

“Use your context clues, sweetheart.”

Several heads immediately turned.

“Oh, shit,” Juice muttered under his breath.

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Little bit.”

There really wasn’t anywhere else to sit.

And honestly, you and Jax had always existed in each other’s space naturally anyway. You’d known him for years. He stole your fries. You stole his hoodies. You patched up his knuckles when he got reckless. Somewhere along the line, affection had become second nature.

Still—

His lap?

In front of everyone?

Your hesitation must’ve shown because his expression softened slightly.

“Ain’t a big deal.”

That somehow made it worse.

Because suddenly you were very aware that it could become a big deal.

You tried to act casual as you crossed the room.

“You’re all assholes,” you muttered to the others.

“Correct,” Chibs answered cheerfully.

Jax shifted slightly, one hand bracing against the arm of the chair to give you space.

The second you lowered yourself carefully onto his thigh, the entire room went silent for one dramatic beat.

Then:

“OHHHHH, SHIT!”

You closed your eyes immediately.

“Jesus Christ,” you groaned.

Tig nearly fell off the couch laughing.

“Look at his FACE,” Juice wheezed.

“What?” Jax snapped automatically.

“That’s the softest expression I’ve ever seen on a human being,” Opie muttered into his beer.

Jax flipped him off without looking away from you.

And unfortunately?

They were right.

Because the moment you settled against him, instinct kicked in.

His arm slid automatically around your waist to steady you.

Firm.

Warm.

Protective.

Like it belonged there.

Your stomach did a weird little flip.

You were suddenly hyperaware of everything.

How broad he was beneath you.

The heat of him through denim.

The way his fingers rested against your hip absentmindedly.

“You good?” he murmured quietly near your ear.

“Yeah.”

Your voice came out embarrassingly soft.

He smiled slightly.

And somehow that made it easier.

Conversation resumed around you after that, though the occasional smirk still got thrown your way. But after ten minutes, the awkwardness started fading.

After twenty, you stopped sitting so rigidly.

After forty-five, you leaned back against his chest without thinking about it.

Jax’s fingers tapped lazily against your side while he talked business with Chibs.

At some point you stole his beer.

He didn’t complain.

At another point his chin briefly brushed your shoulder when he leaned closer to hear you over the music.

Neither of you moved away.

By the end of the night, you’d forgotten entirely that you were sitting on his lap.

Unfortunately, everyone else remembered.

“Jesus,” Tig said as you finally stood to leave. “They nested.”

“Like fucking lovebirds,” Juice agreed.

“More like a stray dog that followed Jax home,” Happy added.

Jax snorted.

You pointed at all of them accusingly. “You’re the reason women avoid bikers.”

“We’re charming.”

“You’re emotionally illiterate.”

“Also true.”

Jax watched you the whole time you argued with them, smiling into his beer like he couldn’t help it.

It happened again three days later.

Then the next week.

Then constantly.

At first it was always circumstantial.

No room at the bar.

No free chair during church prep.

Packed booth at the diner.

But eventually?

You stopped pretending.

Sometimes there were three empty seats available and you still walked straight toward Jax automatically.

And every single time, without fail, he spread his knees slightly to make room for you before you even reached him.

Like muscle memory.

Like instinct.

The club noticed.

God, did they notice.

“You know chairs exist, right?” Chibs asked one afternoon while you sat sideways across Jax’s lap eating fries off his plate.

“They do,” you answered.

“So why are ye sittin’ there?”

You shrugged. “Comfort.”

Jax’s hand rubbed slowly up and down your thigh absentmindedly while he read paperwork.

Nobody missed it.

Tig looked physically pained by how disgustingly domestic the two of you had become.

“You guys are revolting.”

“You cry during Disney movies,” you reminded him.

“That is unrelated.”

“You cried during Finding Nemo.”

“He LOST HIS SON.”

Jax laughed against your shoulder.

The sound vibrated through you warm and low.

And maybe that was part of the problem.

Because sitting with Jax became easy in a way nothing else was.

You fit together strangely well.

His hands always found you naturally.

Your body relaxed around him automatically.

There was never hesitation anymore.

You’d curl into him during long nights at the clubhouse while he talked business.

Sometimes his chin rested on your shoulder.

Sometimes your fingers played with the rings on his hand absentmindedly.

Sometimes he’d arrive late, exhausted from a run, and the first thing he’d do was sit down and tug you into his lap like he needed the contact.

Nobody said anything during those moments.

Not even the guys.

Because underneath all the teasing, everyone could see it.

You made Jax softer.

And Jax made you feel safe.

The girl appeared six months after the first lap incident.

Blonde.

Tiny shorts.

Too much perfume.

The type that walked into the clubhouse already looking for attention.

She spotted Jax almost immediately.

Which wasn’t unusual.

Women flirted with him constantly.

You normally ignored it.

But tonight was different.

Because she didn’t just flirt.

She touched.

Hands on his shoulders.

Fingers trailing down his arm.

Leaning into him while she laughed too loudly at things that weren’t funny.

You were sitting beside him on the couch at first.

Not on him.

Just close.

But suddenly you felt weirdly out of place.

Which was stupid.

You and Jax weren’t together.

Not officially.

Even if everyone treated you like you were.

Still—

Something ugly twisted in your chest watching her smile at him like that.

So before the feeling could get worse, you stood quietly.

Jax glanced up immediately.

“Where you goin’?”

“Nowhere,” you answered lightly. “Need another drink.”

But instead of coming back to him, you crossed the room and dropped into the empty seat beside Chibs.

The table went weirdly silent.

Because everybody noticed.

Especially Jax.

The blonde blinked at the sudden shift in his attention.

“You were saying?” she purred.

He barely looked at her.

His eyes stayed on you across the room.

You were laughing at something Chibs said now, but it sounded forced even to your own ears.

Jax frowned slightly.

Then the girl touched his chest.

“You wanna get outta here later?”

“No.”

She blinked. “No?”

“No,” he repeated distractedly.

Then he stood up entirely.

Actually stood up.

And walked away from her mid-conversation.

The entire clubhouse erupted instantly.

“OH MY GOD,” Juice screamed.

“She got dumped in real time!”

Tig was choking laughing.

The blonde looked furious.

Meanwhile Jax crossed the room directly toward you like he was being physically pulled there.

You looked up as he stopped beside your chair.

“What’re you doing over here?”

You blinked innocently. “Sitting.”

“Yeah, no shit.”

Chibs immediately got up. “Actually, I need another drink.”

“You just got one.”

“Aye. Tragic.”

He disappeared before either of you could stop him.

Leaving only one chair.

Yours.

Jax looked at it.

Then at you.

Then finally said, quieter this time:

“C’mere.”

Your heart stumbled.

“You have a seat.”

“Don’t want it.”

The room had gone suspiciously attentive again.

You narrowed your eyes slightly. “Jax—”

“Baby,” he interrupted softly, “get over here.”

The endearment hit like a gunshot.

Dead silence filled the clubhouse.

Happy actually looked up from his knife.

Your face burned instantly.

Jax seemed to realize what he’d said about half a second too late.

But instead of taking it back—

His expression just softened.

You stood slowly.

Walked toward him slowly.

And the second you settled onto his lap again, his arms wrapped around your waist so tightly it almost felt desperate.

Like he’d been off-balance the entire three minutes you were gone.

The boys lost their minds.

“There they are!”

“Nature is healing!”

“Took Romeo long enough!”

“Somebody kiss somebody already,” Tig shouted.

You buried your burning face against Jax’s shoulder immediately while he laughed quietly into your hair.

But his grip on you never loosened.

Not once.

And later that night, long after the music died down and most of the clubhouse stumbled home drunk, you were still curled in Jax’s lap when he finally tilted your chin upward gently.

“You jealous?”

You opened your mouth immediately. “No.”

His grin widened.

“Liar.”

“She was hanging all over you.”

“She was,” he agreed.

Your stomach twisted again.

Then he brushed his thumb softly along your jaw.

“But I spent the whole time waitin’ for you to come back.”

The air disappeared from your lungs.

Jax’s eyes searched yours carefully.

“You know why?”

You shook your head slightly.

“Because every place else feels wrong now.”

Your heart nearly stopped.

And judging by the way he looked at you after saying it?

His might’ve too.

When he kissed you, finally, the entire world seemed to settle into place around it.

Soft at first.

Careful.

Like both of you were realizing this had been inevitable for a very long time.

Then your fingers slid into his hair and he made this low sound against your mouth that nearly melted you alive.

Somewhere across the clubhouse, Tig yelled:

“FUCKIN’ FINALLY!”

Neither of you even looked up.

Then your breathing changed.

Then your face crumpled.

And suddenly you were crying so hard you had to brace yourself against the counter.

The room went silent.

Happy stopped mid-sentence. Chibs lowered his beer. Even Gemma paused, eyes narrowing in sharp assessment.

And Jax Teller looked at you like someone had punched him in the chest.

Because people didn’t cry like that over eggs.

Not unless the hurt started long before that moment.

You kept apologizing.

“Oh my god, I’m sorry, I’ll clean it up, I dunno why I’m—”

“Hey,” Jax said immediately, crossing the room. “Hey, stop.”

You tried wiping your face with the heel of your hand, embarrassed beyond belief. “I’m okay.”

He crouched beside the mess before you could touch a single shard.

“You ain’t cleanin’ this.”

“I made the mess—”

“And I said you ain’t cleanin’ it.”

His voice wasn’t harsh. Just firm.

Careful.

Like he already knew something fragile was cracking apart in front of him.

Gemma quietly handed you a towel. “Go wash your face, sweetheart.”

You nodded too fast and disappeared into the bathroom before anyone could see you completely fall apart.

Jax watched the door shut behind you, eyes catching on something before it closed.

A bruise.

Faint yellow-green fingerprints wrapped around your wrist where your sleeve had ridden up.

His entire expression changed.

Slowly.

Dangerously.

“You see that?” he asked quietly.

Chibs sighed. “Aye.”

Happy only grunted.

Gemma looked toward the bathroom door with something grim settling into her face.

Jax stood.

“Who is he?”

Your boyfriend’s name was Kyle Mercer.

Nobody liked him.

That should’ve told you something months ago.

He was controlling in ways that sounded reasonable if you explained them too fast.

He hated when you wore makeup because “guys stare.”

He hated when you stayed late at work because “you obviously care more about strangers.”

He hated when you came to SAMCRO gatherings because “those biker assholes fill your head with nonsense.”

And he especially hated Jax Teller.

Which, honestly, should’ve been another warning sign.

Jax had known you for years. You worked part-time at TM when they were overloaded, and you’d become woven into the edges of the club naturally after that.

You laughed loudly.

You brought coffee orders nobody remembered asking for.

You patched cuts without flinching.

And you looked at people like they were worth listening to.

Jax had been halfway in love with you long before Kyle showed up.

He just never said it.

Then you started dating Mercer.

And over time, you got quieter.

Smaller somehow.

Like you were folding yourself inward bit by bit.

Jax noticed.

Of course he noticed.

He noticed every damn thing about you.

You tried to leave Kyle three days later.

That was the thing that finally got you hurt badly.

You’d packed a bag while he was out.

You almost made it to the door.

Then he came home early.

The shouting started immediately.

“You think you’re too good for me now?”

“No,” you whispered. “Kyle, please—”

“You been fucking him?”

Your stomach dropped. “What?”

“That biker piece of shit. Jax.”

“No!”

The slap hit hard enough to send you sideways into the wall.

Your ears rang.

You tasted blood instantly.

Kyle grabbed your jaw before you could recover.

“You embarrass me again,” he hissed, “I’ll make sure nobody wants what’s left of you.”

A knock thundered at the door.

Kyle froze.

Another knock.

Harder.

Then:

“Open the fuckin’ door.”

Jax.

You’d never heard his voice sound like that before.

Not loud.

Not angry.

Worse.

Controlled.

Kyle sneered. “Perfect timing.”

He dragged you toward the door by your arm despite your protest.

When he yanked it open, Jax took one look at your face and went utterly still.

The split lip.

The swelling already forming near your cheek.

The fear you couldn’t hide fast enough.

Something lethal entered his eyes.

“Kyle,” he said quietly, “take your hand off her.”

“You don’t tell me what to do in my own—”

Jax hit him before he finished the sentence.

Not a punch.

A fucking explosion.

Kyle crashed backward into the entry table.

You screamed his name instinctively — not because you wanted to protect him, but because violence that sudden was terrifying no matter who it was aimed at.

Jax barely seemed to hear you.

Years of rage detonated all at once.

Every bruise he’d noticed.

Every flinch.

Every fake smile.

Every time you insisted you were “just tired.”

Kyle swung back once.

Jax put him through the drywall for it.

The neighbors would later say the sounds coming from the apartment were horrifying.

Furniture breaking.

Bodies hitting walls.

A man begging.

And another man answering with silence.

By the time Chibs and Opie dragged Jax off him, Kyle Mercer’s face barely looked human anymore.

Blood soaked the floor.

Jax was breathing like an animal.

“You touch her again,” he snarled, trying to lunge forward again, “I will fucking bury you.”

Kyle spit blood onto the carpet.

Jax kicked him in the ribs hard enough to crack something.

“Jax!” you cried.

That stopped him.

Immediately.

He turned toward you.

And the fury vanished so fast it was almost frightening.

“Baby,” he said softly.

Not possessive.

Not intentional.

Just instinct.

You started crying again.

Jax looked wrecked at the sight of it.

He crossed the room slowly this time, like he thought moving too fast might scare you.

“You okay if I touch you?”

Nobody had asked you that in a very long time.

You nodded once.

The second his arms wrapped around you, the adrenaline keeping you upright disappeared entirely.

You collapsed against his chest shaking.

“I got you,” he murmured, one hand cradling the back of your head carefully. “I got you now.”

Behind him, Chibs looked down at Kyle and muttered, “He’s still breathin’. Barely.”

He sounded disappointed.

Kyle Mercer died two nights later in hospital.

Internal bleeding.

Too much damage.

SAMCRO made sure nobody looked too closely at why witnesses suddenly changed parts of their stories.

Officially, it was a drunken fight.

Unofficially?

Nobody in Charming was particularly interested in justice for a man who beat women.

You, meanwhile, sat on the roof of Jax’s house wrapped in one of his hoodies while the town buzzed below you.

You hadn’t spoken much since the news broke.

Jax found you there after dark.

For a minute he just stood beside you silently.

Then he held out a beer.

You accepted it with a quiet thanks.

“You scared of me now?” he asked eventually.

Your head snapped toward him immediately. “No.”

But he didn’t look convinced.

“He’s dead because of me.”

“He’s dead because of what he did.”

Jax leaned against the railing beside you.

Moonlight caught the bruises healing across your face.

His jaw tightened at the sight.

“I would do it again,” he admitted. “That’s the part that probably should bother you.”

You stared at him for a long moment.

Then asked softly, “Did you love me before this?”

The question hit him hard enough that you saw it physically.

His eyes closed briefly.

“Yeah,” he said.

No hesitation.

No escape route.

“Long before this.”

Emotion climbed into your throat sharp and painful.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“You were with somebody.”

“He hurt me.”

“I know.”

“No,” you whispered, tears returning. “I mean before that. He hurt me before he ever hit me.”

Jax went still.

Because he understood exactly what you meant.

The isolation.

The fear.

The shrinking.

The way abuse started quietly enough you almost didn’t notice yourself disappearing.

His hand reached for yours carefully.

“You ain’t disappearin’ anymore.”

You looked down at your joined hands.

At the cuts across his knuckles.

At the man who’d burned half the world down the second he realized someone hurt you.

Then you leaned into him.

And Jax exhaled like he’d been holding that breath for years.

His forehead rested against your temple.

Protective.

Reverent.

Certain.

Bellamy knew something was wrong before anyone said it.

The camp was too quiet.

Not the normal, tired quiet that followed a long day. This was the kind that pressed in on your ears. The kind that made people avoid eye contact.

He saw Clarke first.

That was enough.

“Where is she?” he asked.

No greeting. No explanation. Just that.

Clarke’s jaw tightened. “Bellamy—”

“Where is she.”

Kane stepped forward. “She made a decision.”

His blood went cold.

“What decision.”

Silence.

Raven finally snapped, “She traded herself.”

The world tilted.

“She what.”

“They approached the perimeter,” Clarke said carefully. “They wanted a meeting. They wanted leverage. She went to buy us time.”

Bellamy laughed once.

It wasn’t humor.

“You let her go?”

“She didn’t ask permission,” Raven shot back. “She knew you’d say no.”

Of course she did.

His chest felt hollow.

“She left instructions,” Clarke continued. “Supply redistribution. Watch rotations. Contingency plans.”

He couldn’t breathe.

“She trusted us to hold camp,” Kane said gently.

Bellamy’s eyes darkened.

“She trusted me to bring her back.”

And then he was moving.

“Bellamy—” Clarke grabbed his arm.

He pulled free.

“You go out there alone, you die,” Kane warned.

Bellamy didn’t slow down.

“Then I die.”

And the way he said it — calm, certain — made everyone freeze.

⸻

The Grounder camp wasn’t hidden.

It didn’t need to be.

It stood like a challenge in the clearing, fires burning low, guards posted like statues.

They were waiting for him.

Of course they were.

He didn’t raise his weapon.

Didn’t shout.

He walked forward like a king entering hostile territory.

They surrounded him immediately.

Spears. Blades. Silent judgment.

“Take me to her,” he said.

No tremor in his voice.

No hesitation.

They led him through rows of tents until he saw you.

Bound.

Not bruised. Not broken.

Just furious.

The second your eyes met his, something inside him cracked.

You were sitting upright despite the restraints, chin lifted like they hadn’t taken anything from you.

But he saw it.

The tightness in your shoulders.

The way your hands flexed against the rope.

You had done this on purpose.

For him.

For camp.

Idiot.

Brave, selfless idiot.

A tall Grounder stepped forward — clearly the leader.

“She gave herself willingly,” he said in accented English. “For her people.”

Bellamy didn’t look away from you.

“She doesn’t belong to you.”

A spear pressed lightly against his back.

“Careful,” the leader warned.

Bellamy finally turned his gaze to him.

“I didn’t come here to be careful.”

Murmurs rippled through the circle.

The leader studied him. “You are their war chief.”

“I’m their shield.”

“And she?” He gestured toward you.

Bellamy’s jaw clenched. “She’s not leverage.”

The leader circled him slowly. “She believes in sacrifice.”

“She believes in survival.”

“And you?”

Bellamy’s voice dropped lower.

“I believe you made a mistake.”

The leader stopped in front of him.

“You will kneel.”

The word hung in the air.

Around them, the Grounders tightened their circle.

You shook your head almost imperceptibly.

Don’t.

Bellamy met your eyes.

And then he dropped to his knees.

Gasps murmured around the clearing.

Your heart stopped.

Bellamy Blake did not kneel.

Not to anyone.

The leader stepped closer. “You kneel for her?”

Bellamy’s hands rested loosely on his thighs. Calm.

Too calm.

“I kneel,” he said evenly, “because you think it means something.”

Your breath caught.

The leader crouched in front of him.

“Would you trade your camp for her?”

Bellamy didn’t blink.

“Yes.”

Your head snapped toward him.

“Bellamy—”

“Silence,” a guard barked.

You ignored him. “Don’t you dare.”

The leader’s eyes gleamed. “You would abandon your people.”

“They can survive without me.”

“And without her?”

His gaze flickered to you briefly.

Then back.

“No.”

The leader leaned closer. “Love is weakness.”

Bellamy’s lips twitched.

“If you want to see how far I’ll go for her,” he said softly, dangerously, “try me.”

The words sent a chill through the circle.

You felt it.

The shift.

The leader stood slowly.

“You would burn for her.”

Bellamy tilted his head.

“I would burn the world.”

Your chest tightened painfully.

You locked eyes with him.

And in that look was everything.

Don’t.

Trust me.

The leader signaled.

A blade was pressed to your throat.

Bellamy didn’t flinch.

Didn’t lunge.

Didn’t react.

But you saw it.

His hands.

They trembled once.

Just once.

“Final test,” the leader said. “Swear loyalty. Swear your army bows to us. Or she dies.”

You shook your head violently. “No. Bellamy, don’t you—”

“Enough,” he snapped — not at them.

At you.

And the sharpness in his voice was deliberate.

Your anger faltered.

You saw it then.

The calculation.

He wasn’t surrendering.

He was positioning.

Bellamy lowered his head.

“I swear,” he said quietly.

Your heart shattered.

Then his hand moved.

Too fast.

From his boot — the gun they hadn’t found.

One shot.

The guard holding you dropped.

Chaos exploded.

Bellamy surged to his feet, firing twice more, grabbing you as the circle broke into shouts.

“Run!” he barked.

You didn’t hesitate.

He cut your bindings mid-sprint, dragging you through smoke and confusion.

An arrow whizzed past his shoulder.

He turned, fired again.

Then you were in the trees.

Branches whipping against your skin. Boots pounding against dirt.

He didn’t let go of you.

Not once.

Not until the Grounder shouts faded behind you.

⸻

He didn’t slow down until you were far beyond their border.

Only then did he turn to you.

“You’re okay?”

You stared at him.

“You KNEELED.”

“You turned yourself in!”

“I had a plan!”

“So did I!”

“You said you’d trade the camp!”

“I lied!”

“You don’t get to lie about that!”

“You don’t get to disappear!”

The shouting echoed between you.

Then stopped.

Because suddenly he was shaking.

Not from anger.

From adrenaline.

From fear.

“You could’ve died,” he said hoarsely.

“So could you.”

His hands grabbed your shoulders like he needed proof you were solid.

“You don’t get to make that call alone.”

“I did it to protect them!”

“And I would’ve destroyed them to protect you!”

The words slipped out.

Raw.

Ugly.

True.

You stared at him.

His breath hitched.

“I meant it,” he whispered. “Every word. I would’ve burned everything down.”

Your anger dissolved.

He looked wrecked.

Not powerful. Not commanding.

Terrified.

You stepped forward slowly.

He didn’t resist when you pulled him into you.

His forehead dropped against your shoulder.

And then–

He broke.

No sobs.

No loud gasps.

Just silent tears sliding down his face as his hands clutched at the back of your jacket like he was afraid you’d disappear again.

You wrapped your arms around him, one hand cradling the back of his head.

“I’m here,” you whispered.

His shoulders shook once.

“You scared me,” he breathed.

“I know.”

“I thought—” His voice cracked. “When I saw you tied up—”

“I’m here.”

His grip tightened.

“I can’t lose you,” he whispered into your chest.

“You won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

You pressed a kiss into his hair.

“You’re not alone in this. Not in leadership. Not in sacrifice. Not in fear.”

His tears dampened your shirt.

“I would’ve let them think I surrendered,” he murmured. “I would’ve knelt a thousand times if it meant getting close enough to get you out.”

You smiled softly through your own tears.

"For the record, I liked seeing you on your knees for me.”

He let out a broken laugh against you.

“Don’t ever do that again.”

“Only if you promise not to burn the world without me.”

He lifted his head then.

Eyes red.

Guard completely down.

“You’re worth it.”

Your hands framed his face.

“And so are they.

He swallowed hard.

The weight of that settling back onto his shoulders.

But this time, he wasn’t carrying it alone.

He leaned into your touch, breathing slowly until the shaking stopped.

The world hadn’t burned.

The camp still stood.

But if anyone ever doubted how far Bellamy Blake would go for you—

They would’ve seen it in the dirt on his knees.

And the tears he didn’t let anyone else witness.

Except you.

You shake your head, still not even bothering to give them your attention. You continue writing your report, feeling multiple sets of eyes boring into you. Another sneeze can be heard from the office upstairs, you have to fight the urge to look up at his window. 

It didn’t take a genius to know that Hotch was sick, it was apparent the second he walked in this morning. Coat buttoned up to his chin on a warm April morning. Red nose and a faint rasp in his voice. 

“He’s pale.” JJ comments, “Like hospital pale.”

That has your attention. Your head snaps up to look up at the windows where your boss is sat at his desk working. They’re right, he does not look good. 

“So, who’s feeling brave?” Rossi asks, walking out of his office and gesturing to Hotch. “I already tried earlier this morning.” 

Rossi’s eyes fall to you. 

“No.”

“Bella!” He praises, walking down the steps to come closer to your desk, “Kid, you’ve got the right way with people.”

“And you’re his favorite.” Morgan adds, you flip him off over your shoulder. 

From behind you, Reid mutters, “Statistically speaking, the likelihood of him allowing any of us to question his well-being without consequences is extremely low. Y/n, however is-”

“Enough.” You roll your eyes and get up from your desk. You hate that this worked. 

Everyone was quick to celebrate their success until you look over at them after climbing up the stairs, the bullpen going silent. You knock on the doorframe as gently as possible. 

“Sir?”

He waits for a second or two before looking up from his computer, his eyes still sharp but glossier than normal. His cheeks look flushed, and now that you’re this close you can see that he’s sweating. He’s too warm, and it looks like he’s holding himself up with sheer will. 

“You’re sick.”

“I’m functional.” His fingers still hover over the keys. 

“That is not the same thing.” You lean against the frame now, you can feel the focus of everyone coming from behind you. 

The corner of his mouth twitches, “What are they saying out there?”

“That you’re stubborn. And a workaholic. And that you’re going to pass out dramatically if we don’t get you home.” 

“That last part sounds like Morgan.” 

You cut him a look that shows you aren’t going to let him change the subject. 

“I’m fine-” A sneeze cuts him off before he can finish whatever reason he was about to sell you for why he’s fine to stay. 

“You were saying?” You raise your brows with an unimpressed look. 

“You need rest.” You add quietly, taking a step into his office. Your fingers hover over the edge of his desk. 

“We have a briefing and new case loads-”

“You need rest.” You repeat, “You have an entire team to delegate this to. Go home for the day.” 

“Are you telling me what to do?” You can tell he’s using his energy to show you an entertained face. 

“Highly suggesting.” You quip. 

Your eyes hold on each other, something unspoken passing between you two. It feels warm and familiar. Every time you two are alone it turns to this eventually. The tension burns past all forms of professionalism. 

He exhales eventually, “Fine. One day.”

Your smile was immediate. 

“I’ll walk you out.” 

Hotch pushes back his chair and stands, instantly swaying. 

“Hotch-” you reach out. He stabilizes himself on the desk, bracing himself. 

“I-uh-I’m fine.” He says it more like a reflex rather than actually expecting you to believe him. 

“You’re really not.” 

His knees buckle for a half second, “Morgan!” 

You reach out a hand to help Hotch stay up, Morgan was quick to get to you. 

“Can you help him down to my car?” You ask, looking directly at Morgan, “I’m gonna pack up his stuff and then I’ll drive him home.” 

“Yeah, yeah, of course.” Morgan reaches out an arm under Hotch’s. He hesitantly takes it and they slowly walk out of the office together. You close his laptop and grab all of his current and upcoming case files. 

Rossi tilted his head toward Hotch and Morgan “You driving?”

You answer while walking out of his office before Hotch could, “No.”

“He almost passed out while standing up, he’s not driving.” You go over to your own desk and grab your things. “I’ll keep my phone on.”

JJ smiles softly at you, “Text us when you get there.”

You nod and walk ahead of Hotch and Morgan to hit the button for the elevator. Your car was thankfully not too far away in the garage. Morgan managed to get a sneaky ‘favorite’ in before you pulled out of the garage, him waving at you both. 

The drive was quiet at first. Hotch was leaning back in the passenger seat, one hand bracing his temples and blocking his face. He can’t even keep his eyes open at this point. 

“You should’ve told someone sooner.” Your voice soft, breaking the silence.

“I didn’t want to disrupt the team.” His voice still full of gravel. 

You look over at him, “Hotch, you are the team.” 

He didn’t even bother trying to fight you on that one. The car went back to the silence until you were nearly halfway to the Hotchner residence. His phone ringing loudly from the pocket of his briefcase. 

“It’s school.” He straightens immediately in his chair and answers, “Hotchner.” 

“Mr. Hotchner? This is the school nurse, Jack is running a fever and isn’t feeling well. We need someone to come pick him up. I know his Aunt Jessica is out of town for the next three days.” 

His face fell instantly, “I can be there in twenty minutes.”

You turn around hearing all of this, you know you already passed the school. 

“Y/n, you don’t have to do this.” 

“You’re sick.” You smile, “He’s sick.”

“I can take care of my son.” His voice is tight, but it isn’t defensive.

“Hotch, I know you can. But what are you going to do?” You ask, raising your brows with genuine concern. You don’t want to outright tell him he can barely take care of himself, how does he expect to take care of an eight year old. 

He studies your face, looking for signs of pity or judgement. All he can find is care and concern. 

He nods, “Thank you.” 

You don’t say anything back, you don’t need to. You simply smile and keep on driving. 

-

Hotch looked steadier walking down the hall than he did back at the office. If you had to guess, it would be purely parental adrenaline fueling him. In the nurses office Jack is sitting on a cot, his cheeks are flushed to match his dad. 

“Hey, buddy.” Hotch’s voice is softer than you typically hear. 

“Hi, Dad.”

Jack sat up a little straighter, looking over his dad’s shoulder to spot you. His expression froze still before a surprised grin graces his face.

“Y/n!” 

You smile and take a few more steps into the nurses office to crouch down to his level. 

“Hey, Jack. I heard you aren’t feeling too well.” 

He shrugs you off, trying to play it cool. “I’m okay.” 

You reach a hand out to brush his hair off his forehead, “You’re pretty warm, bud.”

Jack closes his eyes and leans into the touch. Hotch notices, of course he did. 

“You came with Dad?”

“Yeah, I drove him.” 

You vaguely hear the nurse telling Hotch about how his fever was still rising. She insists on taking his temp one more time before leaving.

“Any chance you can do him next?” You ask, nodding your head to where Hotch stands with his arms crossed.

Hotch cuts you a glance that reminds you he’s your boss. 

“Kidding.” 

“Are you feeling sick as well?” The nurse turns her focus back on Hotch. 

“Yeah, it would seem the family is coming down with it.” He sighs, reaching out his arm to check the time on his watch. 

“Well, hopefully you aren't the next one, honey!” She winks at you and turns back to the paperwork on the counter behind her. Hotch doesn’t bother to correct her, not the time. He’s lacking enough energy to explain the dynamic and who you actually are to them. 

“Dad, you’re sick too?” A worried expression takes over Jack’s face. His eyes are wide with concern. You beat Hotch to the punch.

“Just a little bit.” You answer, “Don’t worry, we’re gonna take care of him and you. Teams take care of each other.”

He nods and mutters a quiet ‘that’s good’. You can see how tired the little guy is, his eyes are watery. 

“Ready to go home, buddy?” Hotch asks.

He nods again, getting up and slowly walking out. You follow both of the sick boys, as they lazily walk out to the car. The drive is quiet, you have the radio playing softly. Jack is curled up in his seat in the backseat, you can see him fighting to stay awake. He watches you in the mirror, and pretends he isn’t. Hotch catches him a few times too. 

“Are you staying?” he asks at one point. 

You glance over at Hotch before answering him, “If that’s okay with your dad.” 

Jack looks at his dad. He looks back at him, his expression turns sweet when looking at his son. 

“Yeah, she’s helping us today.”

Jack visibly relaxed back into his chair. 

“Cool.”

You bite back a chuckle, focusing on the road ahead of you. By the time you’re pulling into the driveway, it’s not even noon. The neighborhood is quiet. It’s the middle of the day during the work week, most people aren’t home right now. Hotch is never at home right now. 

“Alright,” You turn around to face Hotch from your seat still, “Operation Get Better starts now.” 

Jack perks up, “Is there soup involved?”

Hotch huffs out a quiet laugh that turns into a cough. You turn back to look at him, cutting him a concerned face. 

“I’m fine.” He mutters. 

“Mhm.” 

You all moved into the house together, Jack close to your side. Hotch was grateful the house was actually in a fairly clean state. Jack kicks off his shoes at the door and plants himself on the couch with a groan. 

“We just need fluids, rest, and probably cartoons.” You continue walking past the living room to the kitchen. 

Jack nods, “Doctors say cartoons help?”

“Of course! Ask Spencer the next time you see him.” 

Hotch is sure you’re banking on Jack forgetting by the time he sees Spencer next, unless he actually has unleashed some cartoon fact on you already. He tries to ignore a wave of dizziness that rolls through him. You clock it instantly. 

“Sit.” You insist. 

“Y/n-”

“You don’t get to argue today.”

Jack looks between you two, “Dad, you should listen.” 

He looks defeated as he stares back at his son. You would be concerned for how you’re ordering your boss around if it weren’t for his cute rosy cheeks. He is far from your boss right now and you both know it. Defeated, he sits down. 

You let out a satisfied ‘hmph’ before turning back toward the kitchen to see if Hotch actually has what you need to make soup. Thankfully, he’s well stocked and you’re able to navigate yourself around the kitchen as if you had done it a hundred times. Every once and a while you catch Hotch looking over the back of the couch and watching you work. 

“She’s pretty cool.” Jack whispers loud enough for only his dad to hear. 

You continue stirring obliviously at the stove, your sleeves pushed up while humming along to something that he’s sure played in the car earlier. 

“Yes.” He quietly agrees, “Yes, she is.”

-

The smell of chicken noodle soup has completely taken over the house. Hotch and Jack were sitting at the counter now that you were nearly finished. 

“Do you cook like this often?” Hotch asks. 

You don’t look up from the pot, “Always, I love to cook.” 

After pulling down two bowls, you bring one over to Jack first. 

“Careful, it’s hot.” You warn. 

Jack pulls it closer with both hands. You grab the other bowl and put it in front of Hotch and then just lean against the edge of the counter facing them. Jack takes the first cautious bite after blowing on his spoon. 

“This is… really good!”

You gasp dramatically, “Is it?”

“Mhm!” He nods eagerly. 

You turn to Hotch who is watching both you and Jack, so you raise an unimpressed brow. 

“Eat.” 

“I am not eight years old.” He reminds. 

“Correct.” You smile, “Which means I shouldn’t have to tell you.” 

He raises a brow to match yours. You can barely see it, but the corner of his mouth that is typically in a frown wavers which tells you he’s hiding his amusement. It’s moments like these, looking into his warm brown eyes, that you get confused on what you mean to each other. It’s clear to see the care, and warmth right on each other's face. 

He pauses, before taking a sip of his own. 

“... This is very good.” 

You beam, “Did you hear that Jack?”

He nods, but it doesn’t take long for his cough to pick up. You rub soothing circles on his back that do nothing. 

“Alright,” You huff and begin walking down the hallway toward the stairs, “Where would I find medicine?” 

“Bathroom cabinet.” He calls after you.

You make your way to the guest bathroom and find a thermometer, fever reducer, and kids medicine. No adult medicine. You peek your head outside to the hallway, as if Hotch was going to catch you. You know he’s in no state to be running upstairs, so it’s safe to check his bathroom. Which means going into his bedroom. 

You’ve never been in his room before, even with all the times you’ve been here. There’s never been a reason. Unsurprisingly everything is in perfect order, including adult cold medicine. You also grab a couple wash cloths before bounding back down the stairs. 

“I hate medicine.” Jack whines dramatically. 

“Everybody hates medicine, but we can make your dad go first.” 

You snort at Jack’s grin, pointing at his dad with his own laugh. Hotch does a good job going first, taking the small cup from your hand after you measured it out. You do the same for Jack after. 

“Temp check.” 

You take Jack’s temperature, the same as it was at the nurses office. You move onto Hotch, who huffs before complying. 

“Higher?” 

“Managable.” 

You all make your way back to the living room, Jack was visibly fading away with exhaustion. You and Jack take the couch and Hotch takes the armchair. Jack’s eyelids droop between the cartoons, he slowly shifts closer to you. 

“You okay, Jack?” You reach out a hand to press his hair back off his forehead.

Half-gone, “Just sleepy.”

“Come here.” 

You help him pull his blanket up over his shoulders while he settles his head in your lap. You freeze for a second, your hand hovering over him before it feels natural. You run your hand over his hair, after a few minutes his breathing evens out. Hotch is watching you both from the armchair, unable to look away. 

“You’re very good with him.” His voice is low enough for Jack to sleep through. 

You look down at him, “He makes it easy.” 

“Jack doesn’t trust people easily.” He reminds. 

“I know.” 

It gets quiet in the room again, the house faintly humming with life. The refrigerator cycling, TV cartoons, wind brushing against the windows, and Jack’s deep sleep breaths. You finally look up at Hotch, his eyes already on you. 

“You should really rest too.” 

“I’m fine.” 

“You have a fever and you’re sitting upright.” 

He doesn’t deny it. 

He looks around the room, his eyes falling on Jack. You absentmindedly trace circles over Jack’s back, everything feels so calm. 

“The house feels..” He pauses, looking for the words. 

You wait. 

“..warm. It feels right.”

Your chest tightens immediately. You’re sure if Jack’s head wasn’t in your lap right now, your body would force you to stand up. 

“I don’t want to sleep away a minute of it.” He continues. 

“You won’t.” 

You keep your voice as soft as possible. He meets your eyes. 

“I’ll still be here when you wake up.” 

Something in his face shifts, you think it's a relief. Maybe something deeper. Maybe something too dangerous for either of you to admit or put a name to. 

“You don’t have to stay.”

“I know.” You reply. 

Jack stirs slightly before burrowing in closer to your lap. You smile and pull the blanket up a little closer. Hotch watches for another long moment, then he decides to recline the chair. He closes his eyes, but doesn’t fall asleep right away. He just rests, letting the sound of Jack breathing and your quiet presence anchor him.

The house stays warm. 

-

Jack stirred first. It started with a cough that became restless and ended up with him looking at you with a disoriented look while he rubbed his eyes. 

“Hey, buddy.” 

His voice comes out gravely like Hotch’s did this morning, “I’m hot.” 

“I know,” You gently guide him upright, “Let’s cool you down a bit.” 

You look over at Hotch and are thankful to see that he’s still out cold. The tension in his shoulders finally dropped, replaced instead with the kind of exhaustion that is built up on days of no sleep. Maybe even years of it.

“Come on, let’s get you upstairs.” 

Jack nods, and he takes your hand as you both walk upstairs together. You get him a cool wash cloth and place it on his forehead after tucking him in. You negotiated another round of medicine as it’s been hours and it’s wearing off. 

“Cold!” he mumbles the second it makes contact

“Sorry, it’s a necessary evil.” you whisper. 

“Are you staying?” He’s already drifting back again. 

“I’m just gonna be right downstairs.” You promise, “I’ll check in on you, and you just call my name if you need anything.” 

“Okay.” He murmurs, eyelids fluttering closed. 

Within minutes, he was asleep again. 

-

When Hotch wakes up, it’s darker out now. Evening is settling around them, the TV is off and a new scent takes over the house. 

You move quietly around the kitchen, cooking some fresh vegetables and rice to add to leftovers and make them stretch a little longer. Something comforting and warm enough to fill the house with the smell of home. 

Currently you have Garcia on speaker while working through a sinkful of dishes. 

“- yet you’re still there?” She practically shrieks, you immediately dry your hands to turn your volume down. 

“I’m making sure that two people I care about don’t starve or pass out.” 

Garcia hums knowingly, “Mhm, that’s what you’re calling it now.” 

“I actually called to ask you about the cases, but you’re the one that keeps circling back.” You huff, rinsing another dish. 

“Yes, yes, crime fighting and moral obligations,” You can hear her typing away, “I gave Rossi the stuff you sent over earlier and he said it was good. The team is very curious-”

“Garcia.” You warn. 

“Morgan is starting a pool-”

“I’m hanging up.” You groan. 

“Wait!” She yells loudly, “How is he?”

You dry your hands with the kitchen towel, “He’s resting. He’ll be okay.” 

“And Jack?” 

“The same. His fever is going down.” 

A pause. 

Garcia awes, “You’re good for them, you know.” 

You don’t answer. 

“Okay.” Garcia’s voice is gentle, “I’ll let you go, call if you need anything.”

“Will do.” 

“Night, Mama Bear.” 

You sigh, “Goodnight, Garcia.”

You shake your head and turn around to lean against the sink, nearly jumping out of your skin when you see Hotch leaning against the doorway. He looks way too charming in a casual hoodie and sweatpants, a small smirk on his face. Sleep is still lingering in his eyes, but he looks better. 

“How long have you been standing there?” 

“Long enough to hear Garcia call you mama bear.” 

“Yeah, she’s been pretty insufferable since she found out I was still here.”

He steps into the kitchen slowly, still a little disoriented from sleep. 

“I just checked on Jack.” Your voice is soft, “He’s asleep upstairs. The fever is still there, but it’s lower.” 

He nods, relief flashing across his face, “Thank you.” 

Hotch says it in a way that carries weight. Gratitude layered with something deeper. Something warmer. He leans across the counter from you, studying your face in the kitchen light. 

“You didn’t have to stay all day.” 

He heard you going over your case notes with Garcia and making sure the team was still pushing through all their work without him there. 

“I know.” 

“You had paperwork. Your own life. Your own-”

“Aaron.” You cut him off sweetly. 

The use of his first name hung between them. Rare. Careful. Intentional. 

“I stayed because I wanted to.” 

Silence takes over the kitchen, but it isn’t uncomfortable. It was charged in that simmering way you both had ignored for months. 

“You step into chaos like it’s second nature.” He finally breaks the silence, “At work. Here. With Jack. With me.” 

You smile, “It feels right.” 

“You make me feel safe.” 

Your hands still, no longer twisting the kitchen towel you’ve been holding since you were doing the dishes. His eyes are looking over you while he searches for the words. 

“I try to keep a distance. It’s part of leading the team. It’s part of protecting the team.” 

“I know.” 

“But with you-” He exhales slowly, “It’s harder.” 

Your heart went from skipping to beating erratically. 

“This thing between us?” You ask quietly. 

He nods, his eyes refusing to leave yours. 

“It’s not one sided.” You admit. 

The air in the house shifts. Neither of you move closer together. Neither of you move away.

“I worry about what it means,” He says honestly, “For the team. For Jack. For you.” 

“All valid concerns.” You agree. 

“And yet, today felt…”

“...right.” You finish for him. 

He nods, and takes a half step closer to you. He reaches out his hand for yours and you take it, letting him pull you into his side. You melt into him while he wraps his arm around you. 

“What would this look like?” You ask after a moment. 

“I would say slow, but you already fit in so well.” He confesses, “I’m already going to have a hard time letting you leave.” 

“Then maybe we just… start dating.” You reply.

The simplicity of it made something in Aaron’s chest lighten. He hadn’t felt like this in years. 

“Casually.” he agrees. 

“Casually.” You echo.

You sway together in the kitchen, some of his weight on you as the time passes and his strength weakens.

“You need more cold medicine.” You mumble into his chest.

He exhales a laugh, “You got it.” 

You step away to grab the bottle and pour some for him.

The corners of his mouth lift, “Are you staying?”

You meet his gaze, steady and calm. 

“For a little while longer, if that’s okay.”

His answer is immediate, “It is.” 

-

Jack was groggy when you went upstairs, his sheets tangled around his legs in bed. 

“Dinner time, bud.” 

He blinks up at you, “Soup?”

“Not this time.” 

You help him out of bed and together walk downstairs and join Aaron at the table. 

“How’re you feeling, buddy?” He asks right away. 

“M’okay.” He looks between you two, “Did something happen?”

“What do you mean?” You ask, while passing out food onto their plates. 

“Daddy won’t stop looking at you.” 

Aaron’s face immediately goes into his hands, his elbows resting on the table. You can see the red peeking through his fingers. You clear your throat to let him take this one. 

“Uh-” Aaron coughs, something tells you it has nothing to do with his cold, “Y/n and I are seeing each other. Like really good friends. She’s gonna hang out with us more.” 

“Cool.” 

Jack picks up his fork and begins shoveling in the food in front of him. You and Aaron both exchange surprised looks. 

“How do you feel about that, Jack?” You ask. 

He shrugs, “You both take care of people, and you both save people from the bad guys.” 

“That’s true.” Aaron nods. 

“And,” Jack continues, “You both worry about each other a lot.”

Your chest tightens, and you smile fondly at him. This kid is smart. 

“You wouldn’t be upset?” Aaron asks, caution still in his voice. 

He shook his head instantly, “I think we’d be a good team!”

His words land heavier than an eight year old could have ever intended. You reach over to brush his hair off his forehead again. 

“That’s a pretty great way to think about it.” 

Dinner was lighter even with the heavy eyes and exhausted bodies. Jack managed to clean his plate before his blinks started to slow. You barely touched your food, a headache setting in. You wince after grabbing all the plates. Aaron notices. Of course. 

“You okay?” He asks.

“Fine.” Your answer is automatic, “Just tired.” 

Jack squinty, getting his second wind, “You sound like dad did this morning.”

You sneeze before anyone else can say anything else. You whip around after to look at them at the table.

“Oh no.”

“Y/n is sick!” Jack shouts. 

“Yeah, I should probably head out.” You clear your throat which is starting to feel scratchy. Aaron gets up from the table to walk you to the door. 

“No.” Jack’s voice firm, still at the table, “Y/n, you said that teams take care of each other.”

You turn to Aaron, quietly muttering ‘this kid is good’. 

“He’s so going to the BAU.”

“God, I hope not.”

You both turn back to Jack who is looking at you with wide concerned eyes. 

“You don’t have to-”

“We do have the guest room. Extra blankets and medicine. Amazing soup leftovers.” Aaron grins. 

“You make a very good point.” You sigh. 

Jack pumps a sleepy fist in the air to celebrate, followed by a yawn and a coughing fit. You immediately crouch down and rub his back, Aaron places a hand on your shoulder in silent thanks. 

It didn’t take much to get Jack to go to bed for the night after that. One cartoon and snuggle with you were negotiated, and the promise that you would be here in the morning. After that, both you and Aaron followed him up the stairs to tuck him in. One last round of meds before bed, slowly pulling his door shut. 

You lean against the door, Aaron leans against the wall opposite you. A shiver runs down your spine, you rub the goosebumps on your arms. 

“You’re getting worse.” he comments. 

“I’m fine.” You can’t even ignore how bad your voice sounds when you speak. 

“C’mon,” He takes your hand in his and leads you through his room to the bathroom, “You need medicine.” 

“Yes, sir.” You tease weakly. 

He hands you a fever reducer and some cold medicine without comment. 

“You know,” You hold the pills in your hand, “this feels a little like karma.” 

“For?”

“Bossing you around all afternoon.” You smirk. 

A wide smile stretches across his face, “You’re still taking them.” 

You eye him for a moment, before rolling your eyes and throwing them back and chasing it with some water. He doesn’t step away, instead boxing you in against the bathroom counter, making sure you stay upright. 

You aren’t that sick, yet. Instead his care charges the moment with the close contact. Neither of you back away, still just drinking each other in. 

“You know,” Your voice hushed, “I can’t get you sick back yet since you’re still sick.”

His mouth twitches. He knows what you’re doing. 

“You’re sick.” 

“So are you.” You counter. 

“That isn’t responsible-”

“But what’s the harm?” You innocently raise your brow, but the way you bite down on your bottom lip is far from fair. 

He exhales, he’s close enough that it fans across your face. Months of almost moments that have bounced between you two. Lingering glances and quiet conversations. 

His voice is low and strained when he finally speaks, “I’ve thought about this,”

“Me too.” You interrupt.

“More than I probably should.”

You nod, “Same.” 

You chuckle and he reaches a hand forward to brush his thumb across your cheekbone. 

“This is a terrible idea.” He continues. 

“Yet, you’re still pressing me into this counter.” 

He hadn’t even realized he was doing it, but he is pressed against you now. Your ass meeting the edge of the counter. 

“And even if this is a terrible idea, I’m willing to risk it.” 

His breath caught at that. For a moment he studied your face like he was memorizing every inch. His touch is warm, careful in a way that makes you ache. You lean into his hand. 

“You’re sure?” 

You know this is him trying to give you an out. A safe exit away from a future relationship with your boss and his son that you already care too much for. 

“I’ve been sure for months.”

That is all he needed to hear. 

The kiss was soft at first, almost hesitant from both of you. As if you were both desperately afraid of breaking the other, but when his hand shifted to cradle the back of your neck you took the opportunity to card your fingers through his hair. All the months of restraint breaking while the kiss deepens. Warm and searching each other in a way that is long overdue. 

You exhale softly against him, he pulls you closer by wrapping his arm around your waist to hold you both steady. When you both can’t catch your breath, you pull away and rest your forehead against his. 

Bitter cherry flavored cold medicine has never tasted so good. 

“So worth the risk.” 

He let out a rare loud surprised laugh, the sound erupts butterflies within you at how warm and unguarded he is right now. 

“Definitely.” He agrees, “We’re going to have to be very careful at work.”

“Absolutely,” You nod, “I plan to be extremely professional while secretly thinking such naughty things about you.” 

“That sounds distracting.” 

You slide your hands around his torso, “You’ll survive.” 

You tilt your head up to capture his lips in another quick kiss. And another. And another. You only pull away to turn to the side and sneeze loudly, shaking you both in your spot. 

“I’m so sorry we got you sick.” 

“It was worth it.”

The unsub - clearly harboring a death wish - sneered and attempted to fight the restraint anyway, but Aaron didn’t budge. In fact, he only pressed in harder, forcing him flat against the wall with controlled, unrelenting pressure.

"I said. Back off." He snapped, his jaw tightening and his eyes full of fury. "If you dare lay another hand on her, I’ll make sure you answer for it.”

He only broke his stare-down to glance toward you, then the others, tilting his head slightly to the left. A silent, authoritative: Get her out of here. Now.

You were still standing there, frozen, your gaze locked on Aaron. You couldn’t move - you didn’t want to - even though you knew you should put distance between yourself and the unsub. Every instinct pulled you toward him, toward the safety and protection you knew he would give.

Then hands were on you, guiding you back. As you were exiting, more officers rushed past and into the interrogation room, ready to assist in subduing the unsub.

That was then you began to notice the throb. You reached back instinctively, fingers brushing the tender spot, and even the slightest touch sent a sting coursing through you, making you wince and suck in a tight breath.

Aaron emerged shortly after, slamming the door behind him with a thud that echoed through the room. Despite vibrating with rage, his voice was measured as he asked, "are you alright?"

"I think so." Your eyes squeezed shut, slightly scared to ask your follow-up question. "He didn't manage to rip any hair out, did he?"

"Nah," Morgan interjected, waving his hand. "You're gonna need some Advil or somethin' though. That's gonna hurt like a bitch in the morning."

You nodded, keeping your eyes shut for a moment longer, before opening them and finding Aaron's immediately. The anger was still there, held tight in the tension of his body. His jaw remained set, shoulders rigid, as if he were braced for the unsub to make another move - ready to protect you again if needed.

"Thank you," you said softly, your hand finding his arm, fingers curling around it.

Your words seemed to pull him out of it, breaking through the anger that had hardened his expression. His features softened, tension easing from his face as he exhaled. "I’m sorry I didn’t stop him in time.”

"Aaron, honey," the endearment slipped past your lips before you could stop it. "You've done more than enough. Thank you."

His lips fell into a line and gave a small nod, not entirely convinced he had, but relieved you were out of harm's way. With him.