Siren

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

Your stomach flips. “Spence.”

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

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

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

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

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

Morgan snorts. “What weekend?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You perform.

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

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

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

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

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

Reid shuts his book and sets it on the table.

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

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

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

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

Rossi nods once. “You’ll have them.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t,” Prentiss says immediately.

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

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

Not the team. You.

Your stomach twists.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink hard. “What?”

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

You frown. “I’m not—”

He gives you a look.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He hums. “Sure.”

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

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

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

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

He nods. “Good.”

You frown.

“I’m attempting corrective behavioural conditioning.”

Your eyes narrow. “By being annoying?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You sigh. “Reid.”

“Hm?”

“Tell me if I’m overthinking this.”

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

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

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

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

Reid examines the highlighted timeline for another few seconds.

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

You frown slightly.

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

Your brows lift. “So, I’m right?”

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

“What’s she right about?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good girl,” he says absently.

Your entire nervous system short-circuits.

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

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

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

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

You finally blink. “What?”

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

You frown. “What are you—”

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

Your eyes go wide. “Spencer—”

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

“Reid.”

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

You freeze. “Reid, I swear to—”

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

He pauses, tilting his head.

“Very obviously your type.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your stomach flips.

God. That’s pathetic.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Twelve notifications.

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

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

But one of the messages catches your eye.

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

You snort, then type out a reply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ping! Ping! Two more messages pop up.

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

That answer comes a little too easily.

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

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

You shake your head, typing quickly.

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

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

TUESDAY 9:50AM

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

He’s wearing a grey suit today.

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

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

Hotch ignores him completely.

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

He glances once around the table.

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

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

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

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

“You should probably blink.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You lift a shoulder. “About ten.”

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

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

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

You blink. “Oh.”

His gaze holds yours for a second too long.

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

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

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

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

Your breath catches softly in your throat.

“Anytime, sir,” you manage.

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

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

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

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

Two new messages from DCRunner00.

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

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

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

“Hey, you busy?”

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

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

“I could be working.”

“Are you?”

“No.”

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

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

“I could use your help.”

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

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

“Where do you want to start?”

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

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

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

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

Reid hums quietly beside you. “Not necessarily.”

You stare at him. “Care to elaborate?”

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

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

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

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

“No, listen to me carefully.”

Both you and Reid glance up automatically.

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

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

He pauses briefly beside Reid’s desk, listening.

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

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

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

Your stomach flips.

This absolutely should not be as hot as it is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your face heats.

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

Oh my God.

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

He stops.

Then slowly turns toward you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You: Work, mostly. You: And sleep.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He straightens, brows drawing tighter.

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

You set the cup down in front of him.

“So,” you tilt your head, “coffee.”

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

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

Your face heats instantly.

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

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

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

Which is also when you finally check your messages again.

DCRunner00: Chaos how?

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

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

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

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

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

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

He replies almost immediately.

DCRunner00: Accurate, though? You: Unfortunately.

You drop your phone on the bed and start undressing.

Ping!

DCRunner00: What do you actually do?

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

You: Mostly admin. You: Governmental stuff.

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

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

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

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

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

He replies instantly again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You open your protein bar.

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

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

You type out a vague response.

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

His next reply takes almost two minutes to come through.

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

You almost choke on your tea.

That’s... weird.

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

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

You sit up straighter, suddenly a little nauseous.

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

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

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

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

DCRunner00: No promises.

WEDNESDAY 8:10AM

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

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

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

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

“Is Garcia in yet?”

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

You pull your laptop out of your bag.

“I just—I need her.”

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

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

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

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

His brows pull together slightly.

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

You nod slowly, already stepping around him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You grimace. “I don’t know.”

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

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

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

She nods.

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

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

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

You wince.

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

You hesitate.

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

She squints at the screen.

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

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

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

She starts scrolling back through the messages.

“Have you told Hotch?”

“Nope.”

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

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

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

You groan, dragging both hands over your face.

“You do mention Hotch kind of a lot.”

Your head snaps up. “He’s my boss.”

Garcia gives you a long look.

“Okay,” she says slowly. “Sure.”

“Garcia.”

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

You point at the screen. “Focus.”

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

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

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

You sigh. “I don’t love that idea.”

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

You frown. “In English?”

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

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

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

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

You: I thought I told you not to spiral.

He replies so fast that even Garcia flinches.

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

You nod.

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

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

“You’re the best, Pen.”

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

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

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

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

His brows pull together. “Everything alright?”

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

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

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

“Okay, now I’m concerned,” he says.

You glance at him. “Why?”

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

You roll your eyes. “Spence—”

“Something must be seriously wrong.”

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

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

His brows shoot up. “A guy—”

“Online,” you add quickly.

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

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

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

You glare at him. “Yes. That one.”

“Then yes, I remember it very clearly.”

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

His forehead creases. “Have you told—”

“No.”

“Maybe you should—”

“I said no.”

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

You narrow your eyes at him.

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

You lift a brow, waiting for the punchline.

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

You stare at him.

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

He pauses, frowning faintly.

“That was supposed to be reassuring.”

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

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

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

You: You’re weird.

He replies just as fast as usual.

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

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

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

You snort softly, typing out a quick reply.

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

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

It doesn’t work.

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

You: You went quiet. Should I be concerned?

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

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

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

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

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

Your stomach drops. “Oh my God.”

You immediately call Garcia back.

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

“You saw me this morning.”

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

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

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

“No.”

“Are you insane?”

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

Garcia goes quiet for a second.

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

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

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

You press your free hand against your forehead.

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

Garcia scoffs loudly.

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

The line goes quiet again—then she sighs.

“Why are you so against telling Hotch?”

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

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

Your shoulders sag. “Thank you.”

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

You nearly choke. “What?”

“Non-negotiable.”

“Penelope, that’s insane.”

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

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

“Mm-hm.”

“You’re overreacting.”

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

You frown. “…Morally complicit?”

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

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

She hums, satisfied.

“I need to reply to him again.”

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

You laugh despite yourself. “Thanks, Pen.”

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

“I was actually thinking psychological thriller marathon.”

“Absolutely not.”

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

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

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

You: Lucky guess.

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

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

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

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

At exactly six-fifteen, your desk phone rings.

“Hello?”

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

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

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

“See who soon?” Reid asks.

You glance at him. “Garcia.”

He tilts his head.

“She’s staying over tonight.”

His brows lift. “Because of your stalk—”

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

His gaze narrows. “Should I be worried?”

You scoff. “About me? Never.”

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

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

You pause mid-motion.

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

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

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

“Agent.”

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

You force a small smile. “Sir.”

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

You nod once. “Of course.”

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

Your breath catches.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shake your head. “Shit. Sorry.”

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

For a moment, neither of you says anything.

Then—

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

You shut your eyes. “Penelope.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your stomach twists. “Or escalate.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THURSDAY 6:45AM

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You scowl at him. “A drought issue?”

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

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

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

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

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

Someone clears their throat behind you.

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

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

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

Very slowly, you turn in your chair.

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

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

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

You want to die.

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

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

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

You drop your head into your hands.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You glance up at him hopefully.

“Morgan definitely is, though.”

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

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

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

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

Your stomach flips.

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

You shoot him a warning look. “Spence.”

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

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

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

You turn back to him, frowning.

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

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

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

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

You open the message thread—and your stomach drops.

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

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

Ice floods your bloodstream.

You stop breathing.

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

You don’t answer him. You can’t.

The bullpen dissolves into white noise around you.

Until—

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

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

Reid gasps. “Wait. Is that—”

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

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

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

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

“What’s going on?”

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

“What happened?” he asks, sharper now.

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

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

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

“Who sent this?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Could this day get any worse?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You grimace. “Fantastic.”

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

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

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

The room goes still for half a second.

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

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

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

“Or angry,” Morgan adds.

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

You sink lower in your chair.

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

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

You elbow him immediately.

“Ow.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hotch leans forward slightly. “How sloppy?”

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

Hotch nods once, already shifting into command mode.

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

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

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

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

You open your mouth to argue.

“I mean it,” he adds, voice low.

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

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

Then his eyes flick up, meeting yours.

“I’m taking her home.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hotch crouches slightly, holding one hand out toward her.

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

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

Your eyes go wide.

Traitor.

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

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

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

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

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

Every object in every room suddenly feels mortifyingly personal.

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

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

But this?

This feels dangerously close to being found out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m fine.”

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

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

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

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

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

“You think this is nothing?”

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

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

His jaw tightens slightly.

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

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

Which, to him, maybe he hasn’t.

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

That’s all.

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

He nods once. “Want me to clear the—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He pauses, expression sharpening slightly.

“Alright. Keep me updated.”

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

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

Your stomach tightens.

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

The name hits you immediately.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Except this time Hotch does pause.

“Why do you do that?”

You frown. “Do what?”

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

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

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

Your pulse stutters.

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

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

But Hotch doesn’t seem to hear you.

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

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

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

“Leave Leia out of this.”

“She doesn’t like strangers.”

“She likes you.”

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

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

Your fingers tighten instinctively around the edge of the counter.

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

Oh God.

“Which means Reid already noticed the pattern.”

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

“You track me.”

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

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

Your breath stutters.

And Hotch notices immediately.

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

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

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

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

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

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

His eyes lock onto yours.

“You redirect.”

You can barely breathe now.

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

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

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

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

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

The apartment suddenly feels oppressively quiet.

His throat shifts slightly.

And then—

His phone rings.

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

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

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

Because holy fuck.

Holy fuck.

What the hell just happened?

“They got him.”

Your head snaps up. “They what?”

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

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

“Oh.”

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

A cold shiver slips down your spine.

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

He pauses, then looks at you.

“But they got him.”

“Good,” you say quietly.

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

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

You nod. “Okay.”

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

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

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

Hotch stills.

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

“Babysitting?” he repeats.

“You know what I mean.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your breath catches in your throat.

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

But you can’t.

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

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

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

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

Then he kisses you.

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

But the restraint doesn’t last long.

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

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

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

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

Like he needs to be absolutely certain this is real.

“Aaron—”

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

FRIDAY 6:15AM

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

Oh God.

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

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

Your stomach swoops.

You slept with your boss last night.

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

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

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

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Most days.”

His brows pull together slightly. “Why?”

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

Something that almost resembles amusement flickers across his face.

“Sounds like a terrible boss,” he murmurs.

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

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

He hums, breath warm against your skin.

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

“Oh, he notices.”

Your stomach flips. “Really?”

“Mhm.”

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

Heat floods your face. “Aaron—”

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

“Oh my God.”

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

“And the red bra,” he murmurs.

Your breath catches.

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

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

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

“Mm, sure.”

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

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

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

You feel his lips curve.

“Good thing I’m the boss.”

10:35AM

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, but nothing really happened.”

Morgan and Prentiss both stare at you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I was.”

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

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

You frown. “Hotch, I—”

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

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

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

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

“…Huh.”

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

He tilts his head.

Then—

“Oh my God.”

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

Just find Natasha. 

Electricity buzzes from the convenience store beyond the bathroom wall. The water bottle you grab from a cooler starts to sweat against your hand. You pay and smile politely, and make it outside. The city air reeks of sulphur, smoke, and something else you can’t quite place. The aroma is hot and heavy against your cheek. The trudge through the city begins, trying to find this stupid tower that news articles had fawned over.

Avengers Tower equals Avengers, Avengers equal Nat.

After navigating the city for an hour and a half, you suddenly find yourself in front of the glowing juggernaut of architecture. Stumbling through the door, the environment around you swallows up any air you had left in your system. A few curious gazes meet your black eye before you make the unconscious decision to move to the front desk.

“Hello there, can we assist you today?” The man behind the desk tilts his head‌, unable to find your gaze.

“Where can I find Agent Romanoff?” leaning against the wood, you realize your legs are starting to feel like jelly beneath your tired weight. It’s getting harder to speak, and your vision begins to swim.

Almost there, we’re almost done.

“Excuse me? I couldn’t hear you.”

An exasperated sob rips itself out of your throat, “Romanoff, please, where is Natasha Romanoff?!” The panicked gaze that meets the man takes him aback; his eyes go wide when he sees the state of your face.

“Kid?”

Turning to the right, your gaze finds Natasha just as your vision goes black around the edges. “I found you, Tash,” you sense your body crumpling under itself, Natasha’s arms catching you as your vision goes black.

You wake after a few hours, eyes protesting to the bright, sterile lights overhead. Your head is throbbing before you fully wake up, taking in the room. There are some IV drips in one arm, some monitors connected to your chest. Turning the other way, you find Natasha staring from the room's corner, seated in a small chair.

“Hi Tash,” a smile forms between your lips, tears welling at the corners of your eyes.

“You scared the hell out of me, walking in here and fainting like that.” Her eyebrows raise, smiling ‌back. “You okay, kid?” She stands and moves to the side of the bed.

“I got away,” mentally you start debating on telling her everything that had happened from the last time you had seen her until now. “For good.”

She nods, smoothing a hand over your hair, hand coming down to cup a cheek. “You’re pretty banged up, but you’re safe here. I can promise you that.”

“Can I get out of here?” sitting up slowly, you grunt as your muscles protest to the movement.

“Not yet, Doctor needs to come in to make sure they don’t need to do anything else for you, after that you should be good. Want me to grab him?”

You nod, catching her hand “Stay while they’re in here, please?”

“Of course, kid.”

The doctor comes in after a few minutes, giving you essentially a “good enough” bill of health, instructing to take it easy. You nod.

Natasha provides some clean clothes, sweatpants and a crewneck that is a size too large, before guiding you both up to the top of the tower. “Listen, you’re about to meet a lot of people, but I can tell you I trust each of them enough to know that you are safe. They won’t hurt you, okay kid?”

She slowly walks down a hall, at the end of which a few voices can be heard discussing something with each other, which you slowly realize to be you. Another nod, and Natasha continues to lead the way.

From behind her, you can safetly listen to the cacophony of voices slowly die down as Natasha appears in the doorway. She looks back over her shoulder, jerking her chin to say “come here”. A few small, careful steps, and you make your way to her side, staring down. There is a deep repressed pit in your stomach, aware of how horrible you feel, let alone look, especially in front of company. You press it down, shake your head.

None of that now, not anymore.

You lift your gaze to look up around the room, flitting from one set of eyes to the next, all of which are trained back on yours. Natasha whispers gently, “You ready?” A small, anxious smile graces your face as you whisper back, “Okay.”

Walking slightly behind her, you fix your gaze forward as Natasha introduces the group of people to you. Some are recognizable, notably Tony Stark and Steve Rogers, remembering the news clips you had seen of them on TV. Natasha nudges your side gently.

A quick “Hi,” spills out of your mouth before you can stop it, “Thank you, Mr. Stark, for having me. I’ve been looking for Natasha for a very long time.” Your gaze shifts up to his face, analyzing his reaction.

Natasha walks over to a couch amongst the group and you follow behind slowly, sitting silently beside her. The following conversation turns into background noise as your nervous system catches up to where your body physically is.

“She was also taken by the Red Room,” Natasha explains, “A sister program, technically, but it was all the same to us.” another absent nod.

“So,” a deeper voice cuts through, catching your attention, “are you also a deadly assassin like Romanoff over here, do you have some kind of hidden dagger?” looking up to meet Tony’s gaze, your eyes stop at his crossed arms for a second before meeting his eyes.

“Not exactly,” you furrow your brows, and then glance over to Steve. “They wanted us to be like you, actually.”

The room freezes. Steve’s entire demeanor changes, his jaw tightening. Tony’s smirk vanishes within a second.

“Pause,” your eyes go back to Tony. “Are you saying you have a shield shining business, or am I missing something?” Without looking over to Natasha, she rubs your shoulder, and you continue.

“The sister program that I was in was focused on replicating the super soldier serum. They couldn’t ever get it to work all the way, there was always something slightly off. So, a lot of us ended up stronger, faster… They were designing us for stealth. Tweaking the serum to make us leaner or even curvier..They thought a woman with Captain America’s strength would be unassuming.” A drop of sweat beads at your forehead as you shift in your seat.

“They wanted an army of pretty soldiers, Barbie dolls that could rip a car’s door off its hinges.”

The room still feels stagnant. Steve exhales slowly, the information that had just been revealed settling onto his shoulders as an invisible weight. His expression softens.

“But you got away,” Steve says quietly.

You hum, “I’m the only one.” and wipe a tear that has rolled down your cheek. “The other girls either went mad or didn’t survive the serum. There were few of us who weren’t severely affected. The ones that fought were…” you feel the need to stretch your neck, “disposed of.”

Natasha rubs your shoulder again, "That's enough for now, gentlemen.” She gently pulls you up, stating it had been a long day and you needed your rest. She brings you to a bedroom, hers, you realize.

“Are you okay with sleeping in my room, kid?” the air is colder in her room, just as you remembered. You follow along silently.

Your bag is already sitting in a corner of the room, shoes politely sitting next to it. “Do you have any water?” you ask, pulling at the hem of the crewneck as you walk back over to Natasha. She silently hands you a bottle.

“How’d you get away?” you don’t look at her as you contemplate her question, weighing if telling the truth is worth it.

“I ran.” She nods, and pulls back the covers for you to lay next to each other, staring at the ceiling. “Do you believe that?” You hear her shift around, before she answers.

“Not at all.”

The next morning you’re greeted by a bright light filtering in through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Natasha’s room. Her side of the bed is empty, and as you continue to look around, you spot a note with your name written on it. Natasha’s tight handwriting is found across the page as you unfold it.

Hey kid, you’re welcome to take a shower in here or wherever. I had Tony find some of Wanda’s old training clothes for you, they should fit you fine. If not, feel free to rifle through mine, we’ll get you some of your own eventually. Breakfast should be happening in the kitchen, come on down when you’re ready.

You spot the clothes Natasha had mentioned, some tight fit t-shirts and leggings folded nicely on a chair sat next to the dresser. The sound of a hot shower sounds great, and you decided to do exactly as Natasha had recommended before making your way down the hall, where you hear more jovial conversation occurring.

The moment you walk in the room, the conversation dampens. You swallow once. “What, the beat-up kid walks in and no one can laugh anymore?” Tony snorts before ushering you to come over to him.

“Alright Karate Kid, this is everyone,” Tony gestures around, “Everyone, this is Karate Kid.” A few smiles are on the faces around you and polite wave from the only other woman you’ve seen thus far. “So listen, if you’re going to crash with us, you’re gonna have to pull your own weight, capeesh?” You nod before looking around for Natasha, realizing she isn’t here.

“What do you need me to do first? Clean or cook or what?” A confused look crosses Tony’s face before he shakes his head.

“The first thing you can do is eat, and then go and meet up with Natasha for some training.” Now you’re the confused one. Tony smirks. “Natasha told me what you’re capable of. Don’t worry, she left out all the nitty-gritty, just get some fuel in you before training. Welcome to Avengers Tower, kid.”

Not the kind from the safehouse. Not intimate, not human. The Tower’s version of quiet was mechanical and curated, softened by excellent insulation and expensive engineering. A hum behind the walls. The faint whisper of cables and hidden systems. The elevator moving upward with impossible smoothness.

Steve watched the floor numbers tick by and, against his better judgment, his mind went back to the doorway in Brooklyn.

To your hands around his neck.

To the way your fingers had slipped into his hair with an ease that still unsettled him because it had felt so natural.

To the warmth of your mouth, deliberate this time, fully awake, no confusion in it at all.

And most of all to that tiny, involuntary sound he had made when your teeth caught his lower lip.

The memory hit so vividly that he had to look away from his own reflection in the mirrored panel, as if privacy still mattered from himself.

His mouth twitched before he could stop it.

By the time the elevator opened onto the residential level, he had schooled his expression back into something neutral enough to pass. Or so he hoped.

He did exactly what he had come back to do.

No detours.

No checking whether Bucky’s door was open.

No lingering in the common room to see who was watching him too closely.

He went straight to his quarters, shut the door behind him, and crossed to the bathroom with the blunt efficiency of a man trying not to think about how badly he wanted to turn around, skip all of this, and go straight back to you.

The shower ran hot enough to steam the mirror within minutes.

Steve stepped under it and braced both hands against the tile for a second, letting the water pound down over the back of his neck and shoulders. Mission grime loosened. The stale smell of travel, fuel, sweat, city air, safehouse dust. One layer of the last twenty-four hours stripped away after another. Usually the heat helped him reset. Returned his thoughts to a practical line.

It did not work today.

Because the moment his body stopped moving, your kiss returned with merciless clarity.

Not the first one this morning – quick and startled and interrupted.

The second.

The one by the door.

He closed his eyes and let the water run over his face.

It made no difference.

He still felt the press of your mouth with humiliating precision, as if his skin had memorized it. The hand that came up to scrub water back from his hair slowed halfway to his mouth without his really deciding it. His fingers touched his lower lip.

Just lightly.

The exact place where you had bitten him.

A ridiculous, private smile tugged at the corner of his mouth before he could stop it.

It stayed there a second too long.

If anyone had seen him then, they would have laughed. Or worse, understood. Steve Rogers, standing under scalding water with his fingertips at his lips like some half-struck idiot replaying a kiss instead of preparing for the day like a sane man.

He almost laughed at himself.

Almost.

Instead he exhaled slowly, tipped his head forward under the spray, and admitted one simple truth to himself because there was no point lying in an empty bathroom.

He had liked it.

Not merely in the broad, abstract sense that anyone liked being kissed by someone they cared for.

He had liked it in detail.

The warmth. The softness. The intention in it. The way you had smiled against his mouth like you knew exactly what you were doing to him.

That thought lingered.

He shut the water off before it could pull him any farther down that road.

Afterward he dressed quickly – clean jeans, a dark T-shirt, a fresh henley left unbuttoned at the throat because his hands seemed less interested in buttons than usual. He towel-dried his hair and looked at himself in the mirror just long enough to confirm that he no longer resembled a man who had slept in his clothes in a Brooklyn safehouse and then been kissed breathless in the doorway.

He was not sure he succeeded.

Still, Tony first.

Everything else second.

The Tower was more awake now. Somewhere down the corridor, somebody laughed too loudly at something on their phone. An elevator chimed. Music drifted faintly from the gym. It all felt disjointed to Steve, like the building had resumed its ordinary pulse while the people inside it had not agreed on the same reality.

Tony’s lab, however, was exactly as Tony’s lab always was: light, motion, noise, and controlled chaos masquerading as genius.

The doors slid open to a room full of holographic screens, suspended schematics, scattered tools, and at least three open projects in different stages of disassembly. Classical music played from somewhere overhead – something string-heavy and dramatic enough to announce either inspiration or impending violence. Dummy’s little mechanical arms twitched near a workbench covered in components Steve did not bother trying to identify. One corner of the lab had been taken over by what looked suspiciously like the exploded remains of a coffee machine.

Tony stood at the central station with his back partly turned, one hand moving through a cluster of blue-lit displays while the other held a screwdriver like a conductor’s baton.

He looked up the moment the doors opened.

The expression that crossed his face was brief but unmistakable.

Suspicion first.

A sharp, measuring sort of suspicion, as if he had already written Steve’s entrance into a script he deeply disliked and was waiting to see whether the next line would confirm it.

It irritated Steve because he understood it.

Tony, for all his noise, had always been fiercely protective in the strangest, most specific ways. And right now Steve looked very much like the oldest friend of the man who had blown up your life. If he had come in here to urge patience or fairness or any of the other words people used when they wanted consequences diluted, Tony would have cut him apart for sport.

Steve spared them both the trouble.

“She asked if you could get her a new phone.”

Tony’s entire face changed.

Not softened – Tony Stark rarely softened in ways anyone could trust at first glance – but the suspicion went out of him at once, replaced by brisk focus so immediate it almost looked like relief.

“Of course she did,” he muttered, already turning back to the nearest console. “Because naturally Barnes couldn’t just betray someone like a normal idiot, he had to do it in a way that ended with property damage.”

He flicked two fingers through a floating menu. “Color?”

Steve blinked. “What?”

“The phone. Color.” Tony glanced back over one shoulder, impatient now that he had shifted into task mode. “Did Quantico ask for black, silver, obnoxious floral, blood-red vengeance chic, what?”

Steve thought about it.

“She didn’t say.”

Tony made a face. “Useless. Fine. I’ll default to something she won’t throw across a room on sight.”

There was an entire rack of boxed devices in a glass-fronted cabinet near the rear wall – of course there was; Tony approached preparation the way kings approached fortifications. He walked over, keyed something in, and began pulling components down with the speed of a man who had long since optimized this exact kind of emergency.

Steve watched him for a second.

Tony talked while he worked, not because he needed help but because silence had never suited him when anger gave him momentum.

“She’ll have everything transferred.” Box open, seal gone, screen already booting under his hands. “All contacts except the one I blocked myself preemptively, because I prefer not to watch version two meet the wall, if I have to take a guess to what happened to version one. Music account still there. Passwords preserved. Photos too, assuming there’s anything on the old one recoverable enough for FRIDAY to scrape.”

His fingers moved over the setup screen fast enough that Steve could barely follow.

“And she’s got access to Deezer,” Tony went on. “And Tumblr, because apparently the internet insisted on inventing one site specifically for reading increasingly deranged text posts and emotionally unstable fiction at three in the morning. Fanfics, I think. Or occult manifestos. Hard to tell the difference sometimes.”

Despite everything, Steve nearly smiled.

There was something so profoundly Tony about the way he tried to make care sound like mockery, as if affection became safer when wrapped in sarcasm and technical competence.

“Thank you,” Steve said.

Tony did not look up.

“Don’t thank me.”

The words came flat, but not dismissive.

Tony finally set the phone down on the bench and turned fully toward Steve, arms braced on either side of the console behind him. The humor had burned off his face now, leaving something colder and more pointed.

“I’m currently combing through the Tower’s security footage,” he said, “to find out exactly who Terminator decided to torch his life with.”

Steve did not answer immediately.

The nickname might have drawn a tired snort from him on another day. Not this one. Not with the rest of the sentence attached to it. The room felt sharper all at once, the bright holographic light suddenly too clean around the edges.

Tony watched his face and added, “What? You think I’m kidding?”

“No,” Steve said.

Tony gave a short nod as if that was at least one thing not worth arguing about.

The classical music shifted overhead into something more aggressive.

Steve glanced at the suspended screens nearest Tony. Most held harmless project data – engineering diagrams, diagnostics, a rotating model of some suit component. One, half minimized, showed a grid of timestamps and camera angles.

He looked back at Tony.

“Is it someone from the Tower?”

Tony’s mouth tightened.

That was answer enough before he even spoke.

“If Natasha saw them once,” Tony said, “then my money says yes.”

He reached for the phone again, thumb dragging through the last stage of setup with rough efficiency. “And when she wants to know – and she will, because I know her and so do you – I’m not doing what Romanoff did.”

There was no real accusation in the name, but there was disagreement. Clean and hard.

Steve thought of Natasha downstairs the night before, perched in the armchair with that cut-glass stillness of hers, admitting she had seen enough once to know something was wrong and then holding it in until events outran her. He understood how it could happen. Understood hesitation. Understood the danger of naming what you could not yet prove.

Tony plainly did not care.

“When she asks,” he said, “I’ll tell her exactly who stabbed her in the back while knowing damn well what they were doing.”

The lab seemed to go quieter after that, though the music kept playing and mechanical arms still moved in the background. It was only the kind of silence that came when somebody finally said the ugliest thing in the room aloud.

Steve leaned one hand against the edge of the workbench nearest him and looked at the phone in Tony’s hand.

He found, unexpectedly, that he did not know what answer he wanted.

Not because he wished to protect the other woman. He didn’t.

Not because he thought you were too fragile for the truth. He had already seen enough to know the opposite. You might break, but you would want facts in your hands when it happened.

No– what stopped him was the shape of the next wound. The way betrayal widened when it acquired a face. A specific one. Somebody you had passed in hallways. Shared meals with. Maybe laughed with. Somebody who had looked at you and known exactly what they were doing anyway.

He thought of you in the safehouse saying it was not revenge, or you would have done it in front of Bucky.

He thought of the way you had kissed him in the doorway after that, with gratitude and dangerous honesty and no idea yet, perhaps, of how much sharper the hurt might still become once the nameless part of it became named.

Tony seemed to read some version of that on his face because he sighed and leaned back against the console.

“I know,” he said, a little more quietly. “It’s ugly.”

Steve met his eyes.

Tony lifted one shoulder. “But ugly doesn’t get less ugly because everybody tiptoes around it.”

No. It didn’t.

That was part of the problem.

Steve thought of Bucky in the ruined bedroom, saying he had ended it the day before as if chronology had any power to clean morality. Thought of the blood on his knuckles. Thought of Sam refusing to give up your location. Thought of the shattered phone in the safehouse and the toast plate in the sink and your hand in his hair.

“I’m going back to her,” he said.

The sentence left his mouth before he had fully decided whether to say it.

Tony’s brows went up just slightly.

Not mocking. Not shocked. Only registering.

“Good,” Tony said after half a beat. “You should.”

Steve almost asked whether Tony thought that wise. Whether he saw complications Steve was trying very hard not to stare at directly. But Tony, for once, seemed uninterested in teasing him toward that edge.

Maybe he understood too well what kind of morning this was.

Instead he held the phone out.

“It’s set. Charger’s in the box. I threw in noise-canceling earbuds because if she’s staying in one of my depressing little witness apartments, she deserves at least one luxury. And before you ask, no, Barnes does not have the number, and won’t get it from me.”

Steve took the box.

It was lighter than it should have felt.

“Thanks,” he said again.

Tony clicked his tongue. “You thanked me already.”

“I meant it again.”

That won him the faintest narrowing of Tony’s eyes, as if a second thank-you carried implications he had not expected. Then Tony huffed out something almost like a laugh and waved him off with the screwdriver.

“Get out of my lab, Rogers. I’m busy being vindictive and useful.”

Steve turned to go.

At the doors, Tony’s voice stopped him once more.

“Hey.”

Steve looked back.

Tony had already turned partly toward the security screens again, but his expression when he glanced over was serious in the rare, unvarnished way he usually reserved for moments after catastrophe, when all the jokes had burned off and left only the clean metal underneath.

“If she asks before I finish,” he said, “don’t lie to her.”

Steve held his gaze for a second, then nodded once.

“I won’t.”

Tony looked satisfied with that, or at least satisfied enough.

The doors slid shut behind Steve as he left the lab.

The corridor outside felt almost dim after all that bright machinery and sharp-edged certainty. He stood there for one second with the phone box in one hand and the whole conversation still moving around in his head.

Tony’s anger. Natasha’s silence. Sam’s protectiveness. Bucky’s collapse. Your face in the morning light.

It struck him then, not for the first time but with new force, how completely the Tower had rearranged itself around your absence. Everyone was reacting to the shape you had left behind. Some with rage, some with guilt, some with efficiency, some with watchfulness. Nobody untouched. Nobody neutral.

Least of all him.

He looked down at the box again and thought, absurdly, of Tony making sure your Deezer and Tumblr still worked, muttering about fanfiction while plotting digital vengeance. The detail was so oddly tender it nearly caught him off guard.

Then he thought of the safehouse, of you waiting there perhaps with your headache mostly dulled by now, maybe sitting by the window, maybe pacing, maybe trying not to think too hard about the kiss before he got back.

He had promised.

That mattered more than reports. More than the rest of the Tower’s tense orbit. More than the ugly knowledge Tony was dragging out of camera feeds one timestamp at a time.

So Steve headed for the elevator again with clean clothes, a new phone, and the sharp certainty that whatever else the day became, he was going back to you exactly as he said he would.

The second ride to Brooklyn felt different from the first.

The urgency was still there, but it had changed shape.

Earlier, Steve had ridden through the city with anger sitting under his skin like a live wire, every red light another insult, every mile between the Tower and the safehouse another chance for his mind to build worse versions of how he might find you. Now he rode with cleaner clothes, damp hair drying in the wind, Tony’s carefully packed replacement phone tucked under one arm at stops, and the memory of your kiss returning often enough to make the whole world seem strangely sharpened around the edges.

He hated how easy it was, now, for his thoughts to split in two.

One path led to you in the morning light, tired and honest and wounded, asking if you were taking advantage of him.

The other led to your mouth on his in the doorway, your hands in his hair, the bite at his lower lip, the small smile that had followed.

And beneath both ran the same steady current: you were still hurting. None of that had changed. Whatever passed between you now existed inside that fact, not outside it. Steve held onto that with both hands. He had to.

By the time he parked outside the safehouse again, the day had advanced into that thin pale brightness New York sometimes wore before afternoon fully settled. The building looked no less anonymous than before. But this time, when he climbed the stairs, the knot in his chest was not made of dread.

He knocked once.

The door opened almost immediately.

You did not hesitate.

That, more than anything else, struck him first.

No cautious “Who is it?” muffled through the wood. No wary pause. No dragging footsteps that told him you had to decide whether to trust whoever stood outside.

You just opened the door.

You had showered.

The evidence of the night before had not vanished – no miracle had touched your face and turned grief into grace – but the water had restored some basic human shape to you. Your hair was still slightly damp, brushed back from your face in a way that made your features look clearer, less wrecked by sleep. You had changed clothes too. Clean ones this time, softer, simpler, nothing dramatic. You looked more awake. More alert. Less like someone surviving minute to minute and more like someone bracing for the next hour on purpose.

Still fragile.

Still sad.

Still carrying hurt in the slight guardedness around your mouth and the faint shadows beneath your eyes.

But steadier.

Steve felt something in him loosen at the sight.

He held out the box. “Tony.”

You took it and stepped back to let him in. He followed you into the apartment, closing the door behind him while you opened the package right there in the middle of the living room with an impatience that had less to do with excitement than with wanting one practical thing in your life restored.

You slid the phone out first.

Then the charger.

Then your fingers caught on something else in the box and paused.

Steve saw the expression on your face change before he saw what you were holding. You pulled out a credit card with one brow lifting slowly, and attached to it by a bright yellow Post-it was Tony’s handwriting, all aggressive slant and careless confidence.

For self-care.

For one second, you only stared.

Then a sound escaped you – small, startled, not quite a laugh and not quite the beginning of tears. Something in between. Something that made Steve’s chest tighten unexpectedly, because he recognized that expression now: the particular shock of being cared for when you had not asked for that exact shape of care.

“Tony,” you said under your breath.

There was so much in the single word that Steve did not bother translating it. Exasperation. Affection. Grief. Gratitude. The absurdity of receiving a revenge-proofed phone and an emergency spending line from a billionaire who coped with emotion by pretending it was logistics.

“He set everything up,” Steve said. “Your contacts, your accounts. Blocked one number.”

Your mouth thinned briefly. You did not ask which number. You did not need to.

You slipped the card and the note back into the box for a second, then reconsidered and slid the card into your bag instead, as if even in your current state you understood Tony well enough to know refusing that particular gesture would somehow be ruder than taking it.

Steve watched you for a moment longer than necessary.

The apartment felt different than it had that morning. Not lighter, exactly. But less airless. The shower had washed the smell of stale liquor from the room. The broken phone still lay by the wall for now, but it no longer felt like the center of the place. The bottle from last night had disappeared into the sink, rinsed but not yet thrown away. The curtains were open a little wider. Somewhere along the way, between his leaving and returning, you had done the small ordinary things people did when they were trying to reclaim control one gesture at a time.

He found himself absurdly proud of you for it.

Not because showering was heroic. Because getting upright at all after a day like yesterday could be.

“What do you want to do?” he asked.

You looked up from the box.

For a second he thought you might say nothing. Or sleep. Or ask him to stay inside where the world could not touch either of you for a few more hours.

Instead your gaze dropped to his hand.

More specifically, to the Harley keys hanging from his fingers.

When you answered, your voice held an odd kind of caution, as if you were asking for something half impulse and half necessity. “Would it bother you if we went somewhere?”

His answer came without pause. “Where?”

You shrugged, but it was the shrug of someone naming a need too shapeless to explain fully. “Forest. Out of the city. Doesn’t matter where.”

Steve did not hesitate.

He had expected something like this, maybe. Not the specific destination, but the impulse itself. The need to move. To put distance between yourself and every wall that remembered yesterday. Between yourself and the Tower skyline even from afar. Between yourself and asphalt and glass and all the human density of a city that would keep existing while you fell apart in it.

“Okay,” he said.

Nothing more elaborate than that.

He reached for your hand.

You let him take it.

The contact came as naturally as if he had been doing it for years, and that nearly undid him for a second. Your fingers fit into his palm with tired trust, and he held on while you grabbed the safehouse key, slung your bag over one shoulder, and stuffed the phone inside with the rough practicality of someone who did not have energy left for tidiness.

Then, just like that, you left.

The city swallowed you both again for a while.

Steve got you onto the bike carefully, waited until you were settled, and felt the exact instant your arms went around his waist. He closed his eyes briefly behind the visor when your head came to rest against the center of his back. Not because the contact was unexpected. Because it was too easy to like.

Then he started the Harley, and Brooklyn fell away behind you.

He did not ask you to talk on the ride.

Did not shout over the wind to fill the space with plans or false brightness. He only drove north and west, out through the long thinning seams of the city, toward the first place his mind supplied that would give you trees enough to disappear into and road enough to breathe on. The Palisades made the most sense – close enough to reach without turning the ride into an ordeal, far enough that the skyline would finally loosen its grip. If he kept going, he could find you river views, cliffs, dense wooded trails, the smell of wet leaves instead of concrete.

So that was where he went.

The farther you got from Manhattan, the more the world seemed to unclench by degrees. Buildings gave way to stretches of road. The air changed. Traffic thinned. The river flashed silver now and then through gaps in the guardrails. The wind cooled as the city heat dropped behind you.

Still, grief did not loosen just because scenery improved.

Steve felt that too.

At first it was only in the way your hold on him changed. Most of the time your arms stayed steady, your body leaning into his back with a quiet, almost exhausted dependence that made him hyperaware of every inch of contact. But sometimes, without warning, your grip would tighten in a different way. Not for balance. Not because he had braked or turned. A small convulsive pressure, as if something had gone through you all at once.

The first time it happened, he knew immediately.

You were crying.

Not loudly. Not even enough that he could hear it over the engine and the wind. But he felt it. In the tiny tremor of your hands where they clasped over his middle. In the sudden damp warmth that seemed to exist even through layers of clothing where your face pressed against his back. In the way your whole body curled inward around him for a few seconds as if you had tried to make the hurt smaller and failed.

Steve’s throat tightened.

He did the only thing he could do without pulling over and forcing words into the moment.

He lifted one hand from the handlebar at the next straight stretch and laid it over your hands where they locked against him.

Just rested it there.

A weight. A promise. A quiet acknowledgment: I know. I’m here. I’m not making you explain it.

He felt your grip tighten under his hand in answer.

Not dramatically.

Just enough.

And when the next wave came twenty minutes later, or maybe forty – time had gone strange inside the motion of the ride – he did it again. Hand over yours. Warm pressure. Nothing spoken. The same answer every time.

Eventually the road narrowed into greener country.

Trees gathered closer. The smell through the visor shifted from traffic and hot pavement to damp earth, leaves, river air, the clean mineral scent of a place less built over. Steve turned onto a quieter road, then another, following signs he barely needed to read. He knew enough of the area to find a stretch where the woods came right up near a small trailhead and the traffic fell away into almost nothing.

When he finally parked and cut the engine, the silence that rushed in was immense.

Not total. Never total. The forest had its own sounds. Wind moving high through branches. A bird calling once and then again farther off. Tires hissing faintly on a distant road. The ticking of the cooling engine beneath you both.

But compared to the city, it felt like stepping into another language.

You did not move right away.

Steve waited.

Then your arms loosened from around him, and he climbed off first before turning back to help you down. Your hand landed in his automatically the second your boots touched the ground. Not out of ceremony. Out of instinct. He closed his fingers around yours and together you started walking.

The forest was not deep wilderness, not truly. This close to the city, everything had a trace of human reach on it – worn footpaths, signs half-hidden among the trees, a rail fence in the distance. But it was enough. Enough space for the branches to knit overhead in places. Enough shade. Enough leaf litter underfoot. Enough living green to muffle the rest of the world.

You walked without speaking for a while.

Steve let you set the pace.

The path dipped gently, carrying you a little farther from the road, and the air beneath the trees felt cooler. Sunlight broke through in long, thin bands that shifted with the leaves above. Somewhere nearby water moved – faint, maybe just runoff or a stream he could not yet see. The ground smelled rich and damp beneath the sharper scent of pine.

You still held his hand.

He kept thinking about that, against his will.

Not because it was the first time. It wasn’t anymore. Because in daylight, in motion, under the open sky, it looked less like crisis and more like choice.

That thought was dangerous.

He kept it to himself.

When you finally spoke, you did not look at him.

Your eyes stayed ahead on the path, or maybe not even on the path, maybe on nothing at all. Your voice came low, almost too low for the words to survive intact.

“Do you think she’s prettier than me?”

Steve stopped.

You did not. Not immediately. You took one more step before the rest of the sentence cracked open inside you.

“Do you think that’s why–”

Your voice broke.

Not delicately. Not in some cinematic catch. It simply failed you halfway through, the words collapsing under the weight they had carried too long. The question itself remained hanging there, unfinished but complete in meaning.

Steve’s heart clenched so hard it felt almost physical.

He understood at once what this was.

Not vanity.

Not pettiness.

Not really even curiosity, though it wore that shape.

This was the oldest wound betrayal knew how to make. The one that hollowed people out from the inside and then whispered that maybe the damage had always been there, waiting to be noticed. Maybe you were not enough. Not beautiful enough, not soft enough, not easy enough, not whatever enough the other person had required to keep choosing you.

He had heard some version of that question in different forms before, from different people, though rarely spoken aloud. Most were too proud. Too ashamed. Too aware of how exposing it sounded.

You asked it anyway.

That alone told him how badly this had gotten under your skin.

He moved before he thought better of it.

He stepped in behind you and wrapped both arms around your shoulders, drawing you gently but firmly back against him.

Your body yielded at once, as if the effort of staying upright inside that question had already used too much of what you had left.

Your hands came up to his forearms where they crossed you, holding on there instinctively. He felt them trembling the second they touched him.

That almost broke him.

You were not sobbing this time. Not yet. It was worse in some ways, the quiet of it. The way your whole body seemed to vibrate on the edge of collapse while you stood there staring straight ahead into the trees, trying to survive your own thoughts with his arms around you.

Steve lowered his mouth near your temple, not quite touching.

“No,” he said.

The word came immediate and certain.

Then, because he knew certainty alone would not be enough against the poison already working through you, he tightened his hold slightly and went on.

“No. That’s not why.”

Your fingers clenched harder on his arms.

He could feel how hard you were fighting to keep your breathing even. One inhale. One exhale. Then another that shook halfway through.

Steve closed his eyes for a second.

He wished, with a depth that startled him, that he could take the whole question out of you. Physically remove it. Drag it away from wherever it had lodged in your chest and grind it into the dirt under his boots. But people were not machines, and hurt was not a foreign object you could extract once it became belief.

So he did the only thing possible.

He told the truth.

“This isn’t about you being less,” he said softly.

He felt your head dip, just slightly, as if the words hurt as much as they helped.

Steve kept speaking anyway, slow and careful, giving each sentence room to land.

“It’s not because she’s more beautiful. Not because she’s better. Not because there was something missing in you that he went looking for somewhere else.”

He swallowed once.

In another life, in another cleaner story, perhaps he would not have presumed to speak for Bucky at all. Perhaps he would have refused to interpret another man’s betrayal. But this was not about defending Bucky. It was about stopping the lie before it rooted deeper in you.

“He did it because he failed you,” Steve said. “Because he made selfish, cowardly choices. Because whatever was wrong was in him, not in you.”

A long silence followed.

The forest moved around you both. Leaves whispered overhead. Somewhere, farther down the trail, a branch cracked under some small animal’s weight. Steve felt the warmth of your body through your clothes, the fine shaking still in your hands, the slow unsteady rise and fall of your breathing against the cage of his arms.

Then, very quietly, you said, “That sounds nice.”

The words were not cruel.

They were tired. Raw. Honest.

Steve understood at once what you meant: that it sounded like comfort, like the right thing to say, like something decent and clean in the face of humiliation. But sounding right and feeling true were different things, and you were not yet able to make the leap between them.

He nodded once against your hair, though you could not see it.

“I know.”

His hand shifted from your shoulder down one arm until he could cover your trembling fingers with his.

“I also know it probably doesn’t feel true right now.”

That made you let out one strangled breath that might have been relief or grief or both.

Steve rested his cheek briefly against your temple then, no more than a second. Grounding. Human. There.

“If you want the truth from me,” he said, “I’ll give you that, not the easy version.”

You stayed very still.

So he gave it.

“The truth is, being cheated on makes almost anyone ask that question. It gets into your head and starts tearing at whatever was already tender. Makes you compare things you shouldn’t have to compare. Makes you look at yourself through his betrayal instead of your own eyes.” His fingers tightened carefully over yours. “That doesn’t make the question true. It just makes it cruel.”

Your head lowered another inch.

Steve could not see your face from where he stood behind you, and in some ways that made this easier. It let you hide. It let him hold you without asking you to perform composure for him.

He looked out over the trail instead, over the green dimness and the moving light, and let his voice drop lower.

“You want to know what I think?”

You nodded once.

He hesitated.

Not because he lacked an answer.

Because he had too many.

Because all the true ones were dangerous.

Because what he thought about your beauty had long ago moved far beyond anything neutral, and he had spent months – longer, probably – teaching himself not to let that show except in those looks you now claimed you had always known how to read.

Still, there were truths he could say safely enough.

“I think he was an idiot,” Steve said.

That pulled the smallest, wettest almost-laugh out of you.

Good.

He held onto that tiny break in the pain and kept going.

“I think anyone who made you feel like you had to ask me that doesn’t deserve the power he still has over your reflection.” He let out a slow breath. “And I think you’ve been hurt badly enough already without helping him do the rest of the job from inside your own head.”

That hit.

He felt it in the way your hands moved on his arms – not looser, not yet, but less desperate. The trembling eased a fraction. Your shoulders sagged back into him with a weariness that finally admitted how exhausted you were.

After another long moment, you turned your head slightly, enough that your voice reached him more clearly.

“He really never told you?”

The question came so small he almost wished he had not heard it.

He answered anyway.

“No.”

That, at least, was simple truth.

You nodded once more. Steve was not sure whether that comforted you or not.

Then you whispered, “I don’t think I even want to know who she is for the moment.”

Steve believed that too.

Not forever, maybe. Tony had been right about your appetite for answers. Eventually the namelessness of it might become unbearable in its own way. But right now? Right now the faceless hurt was enough. A name would only sharpen the blade while the wound was still open.

“Then you don’t have to know today,” he said.

Today.

Not ever.

He chose the distinction on purpose, and he suspected you noticed.

You did not comment on it.

Instead you covered his hand with both of yours and leaned back harder against his chest, closing your eyes at last.

Steve held you there beneath the trees and let the forest keep breathing around you both.

He could have stayed like that for an hour.

Could have rooted himself into the path and become one more unmoving thing in the landscape if it meant giving you one place where you did not have to carry your own weight completely.

Eventually you spoke again, so quietly he had to bend his head to hear it.

“I hate that I care.”

That, more than anything else, sounded like the truth at the core of your pain.

Not only that Bucky had done this. Not only that it hurt.

That some part of you still cared enough for the answer to matter.

Steve closed his eyes once more.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I know.”

He did not tell you not to. Did not rush to say you would stop soon, or that caring was weakness, or that feeling conflicted meant you were not healing correctly. None of that would have helped. Some wounds came with loyalty still tangled in them, and cutting the loyalty free all at once was rarely possible.

So he only held you.

Your hands remained on his arms.

His chin rested lightly near your temple.

And when the first tear slipped silently down your cheek – not the violent grief of last night, just one quiet surrendering tear he could not see but somehow knew had come – Steve tightened his embrace by the smallest fraction and stayed exactly where he was until you were ready to move again.

You kept walking after that.

Not with any destination in mind. Not toward a marked trail or scenic overlook or anything that would have justified the drive in practical terms. You just moved beneath the trees because motion felt easier than stillness for a while, and because the forest offered a kind of privacy no room ever truly could. Here, there were no walls to throw voices back at them, no city glass, no elevators humming up and down beside other people’s grief. Only earth underfoot, roots breaking the path in rough dark ridges, and the endless layered sound of leaves shifting against one another overhead.

Steve did not let go of your hand.

Sometimes your grip loosened when your thoughts drifted too far inward. Then a branch would snap somewhere or the path would dip, and your fingers would tighten around his again, as if your body remembered before your mind did that he was there. He learned the rhythm of it quickly. The ebb and return. The way sorrow moved through you in waves instead of lines.

The day remained cool beneath the canopy. The air smelled of wet bark and moss and river stone somewhere in the distance. Sunlight reached the ground only in fragments, pale strips sliding over trunks and fern and the backs of Steve’s hands when they passed through the brighter patches. The woods were not silent, not truly. They clicked and sighed and whispered with small life. Somewhere above, a bird called twice in a sharp descending note. Somewhere farther off, water moved over rock.

Steve understood, now, why you had asked for this.

It was not only escape.

It was scale.

The city made grief feel trapped inside architecture, reflected back from windows and steel and the faces of strangers. Here, pain had room to thin out at the edges. Not disappear. Never that. But spread. Become part of something larger than the four walls of a safehouse and the memory of a kitchen and a ruined room in a tower.

After a while, when the silence between you had settled into something companionable again, Steve asked, “Why the forest?”

He kept his voice low, not because he feared to startle you, but because the place itself seemed to ask for quiet. It absorbed noise and returned it gentler.

You did not answer at once.

You stepped over a root, ducked beneath a low branch, and only then said, “Do you remember I grew up in Acadia?”

Steve nodded. “Yeah.”

He did remember.

Not because you talked about it often. You didn’t. But because Steve remembered details people offered once when they mattered, especially when they came wrapped in the tone you had used the handful of times you mentioned childhood. Not nostalgic. Not exactly bitter either. Just factual, with the kind of restraint that usually meant a story had sharp edges under it.

You looked ahead as you spoke, not at him.

“When my stepmother started in on me – my weight, my clothes, whatever she felt like criticizing that day – and my father never once told her to stop, I used to disappear into the woods.”

Steve’s jaw tightened.

The words were simple enough, but he heard the childhood inside them all the same. A girl being picked apart in her own home while the one person who should have intervened stayed silent. Not dramatic on paper, maybe. No bruises someone else could point to. Just the slow intimate violence of being watched and found wanting over and over until the walls themselves started to feel hostile.

He pictured you younger without meaning to. Smaller. Angry in the way children got angry when they still half expected fairness to exist if only someone older would finally choose it. Pulling on boots, maybe, or not bothering with boots. Walking out before dinner or after. Head down. Jaw set. Heading for trees because the trees at least did not speak.

“Given the number of psychos in the world,” he said, “you got lucky.”

It came out drier than the tenderness he felt under it, which was probably for the best. If he let too much softness show every time you revealed another broken place in your history, he would never stop.

You gave a little shrug. “I know.”

Then, after a beat, quieter, “But the forest never scared me. It was a refuge.”

That lodged somewhere deep in him.

Steve looked around with new attention then – not at the trail itself, but at the way you moved through it. The almost unconscious certainty in your steps now that you had had time to settle into the place. The way your shoulders sat a little lower than they had in the city. The way you lifted your face slightly every so often, as if checking the air for something familiar.

A refuge.

Not because it was safe in the practical sense. It wasn’t, not entirely. He had already said as much. But because it was honest. Trees did not ask you to explain yourself. Did not tell you what to be. Did not watch your pain and turn it into commentary. They simply were. You could bring any amount of ugliness to them and they would not flinch.

Steve understood the appeal of that more than he liked to admit.

You walked on until the trail widened around a massive old trunk that rose from the earth like part of the land deciding to stand upright. It was enormous – easily wider than Bruce in the Hulk form, which was saying something. Its bark had gone dark with age and weather, deeply ridged and furrowed, roots like thick ropes disappearing into the ground in all directions. Moss climbed one side. The crown vanished so high above them that the branches seemed almost to join the sky.

You stopped in front of it.

Steve stopped too.

For a second neither of you spoke. The tree seemed to create its own silence. Something about its age, maybe. Its mass. The sheer indifferent fact of its existence.

Then you said, “Steve?”

He looked at you. “Yeah?”

You still were not looking at him.

Your gaze stayed on the bark, one hand trailing lightly over its surface as though touching it grounded you. When you finally spoke, your voice had changed. Softer. More careful. As if each word had to be chosen and released separately.

“Can I kiss you?”

For one startled second, Steve could only stare.

The question itself hit him almost harder than the morning kiss had.

Not because he had not imagined kissing you again. That would have been a lie too obvious to survive even inside his own head. He had imagined it often enough in the hours since the safehouse doorway that he had stopped letting the thought complete itself. But because you asked.

Permission.

After everything that had been taken from you without honesty. After all the blurred lines of the last day. After waking in his arms and kissing him and hearing him stop you because he would not let something true get tangled with revenge. Now, here, in the forest of your childhood refuge, you asked.

The care of it went through him like a blade wrapped in velvet.

So, because deflection arrived before thought sometimes, and because if he answered too directly right away he was not sure what his own voice would do, Steve said, “You’re asking permission now?”

You turned your head enough to give him a look. Tired. Slightly offended. Entirely yourself.

“It’s not exactly charming to answer a question with another question.”

Despite everything, something in him almost smiled.

“Why?” he asked.

Your brows drew together. “Why what?”

“Why do you want to kiss me?”

There.

The real question beneath the easier one.

Steve watched your face closely as he asked it, watched the answers move behind your eyes before they became language. He was not challenging you. Not trying to trap you into proving something. He only needed the truth spoken plainly between you. Needed to hear that this was not self-destruction wearing a different face. Not the same ache reaching for a different body because the first one had become unbearable.

You looked away again, toward the tree.

When you answered, your voice came quieter than before, but steadier too. As if saying it aloud cost something, and you had decided it was worth paying.

“Because…” You stopped, swallowed once, started again. “Because when you kiss me, I don’t think about anything else.”

Steve’s breath caught.

You kept going.

“Because it feels good. Because I like it.” Your mouth tightened slightly at the honesty of that, but you did not take it back. “And because right now I need something that feels good.”

The words hung between them in the cool green air.

Steve understood the risk in them instantly.

Not manipulation. Not cruelty.

Need.

Plain, exhausted, aching need.

And that was exactly what made his next breath so difficult.

Because the answer he could have given as a man – simply a man, selfish and hungry and already too aware of how your mouth felt – would have been easy. He could have stepped into you then, cupped your face, kissed you under that tree until the rest of the world blurred at the edges, and some part of him would have loved the simplicity of it.

But Steve was not only a man with a pulse and a mouth that still remembered yours.

He was also the person standing nearest your hurt.

That mattered.

He looked at you for a long moment, and because he had already asked for truth, he gave you the same in return.

“That’s not a small reason,” he said.

You folded your arms loosely over yourself, not defensive exactly, but bracing. “I know.”

“No,” Steve said gently. “I mean it.”

He took a step closer, not enough to touch you. Only enough that the space between you felt intentional instead of accidental.

“If you want me to kiss you because you like it, I understand that.” His voice lowered. “If you want me to kiss you because it gives you five minutes where your head shuts up and stops hurting you, I understand that too.”

Your eyes lifted to his then.

There was vulnerability there again, naked and sharp-edged. But there was also stubbornness. And the beginnings of shame, maybe, because now that the reason had been spoken, perhaps it sounded ugly to you. Too selfish. Too needy. Too much like using comfort without being able to promise what it meant.

Steve reached out before he thought too hard and touched two fingers lightly beneath your chin, not lifting, only anchoring.

“There’s nothing wrong with wanting comfort,” he said.

Your throat moved once.

“But,” he added, and felt your whole body listen, “I need to know you’re not asking for it because you think you owe me something. Or because Bucky made you feel empty and you want to fill the space with the first thing that works.”

Something in your expression changed at that. Not offense. More like relief that he understood the exact ugliness you were trying not to become.

“I don’t owe you anything,” you said immediately.

He believed you.

“And this isn’t about filling a space with the first thing that works,” you said, quieter now. “If it were, I wouldn’t have asked you why you looked at me like that. I wouldn’t have cared if it hurt you.” Your eyes stayed on his. “I asked because it’s you.”

That nearly undid him.

Steve let his hand fall.

The forest seemed suddenly too vivid around them. The bark texture of the tree at your side. The cool air in his lungs. The weight of his own body in his boots. The way your hair still held the faint damp memory of your shower when the breeze moved it. Every detail sharpened because the thing between you had crossed another threshold and there was no going entirely backward now.

He took one more step in.

Close enough to see the pulse flutter in your throat. Close enough to notice the way your breath changed when he entered your space. Close enough that if either of you leaned a fraction, the answer to your question would no longer be verbal.

“You don’t need my permission,” he said softly.

Your brows lifted a little. “No?”

A faint, helpless smile touched his mouth then, gone almost before it existed. “You asked whether you could kiss me. I’m telling you I’m not stopping you.”

That made your lips part slightly.

You looked at his mouth again.

This time he felt it everywhere.

Still, he did not move first.

Not because he didn’t want to.

Because he had asked for honesty, and now he wanted you to be the one to cross the last inch if this was what you truly meant.

You stared at him another second, then another. Steve had enough time to notice your hands trembling still from what the day had done to you, enough time to see you inhale as though bracing yourself for impact, enough time to think, absurdly, that the entire forest seemed to be holding its breath.

Then you rose onto your toes and kissed him.

This kiss was nothing like the morning one.

Nothing like the one in the safehouse doorway, either.

Those had carried urgency, gratitude, relief, the immediacy of the moment. This one began slower, almost reverent in its caution, as if you were confirming to yourself that you were allowed. Your mouth brushed his once, then again with more certainty. Steve answered gently at first, one hand coming to your waist, the other lifting to the back of your neck, and the second he felt you soften into it, the restraint he had been holding like a shield shifted into something warmer and deeper.

You sighed against his mouth.

The sound melted straight through him.

He kissed you more fully then, still not hurried, but no longer holding himself at such a punishing distance either. He could feel the truth of what you had said – that kissing him made you stop thinking for a while. He felt it in the way your body gave up some part of its rigid vigilance. In the way your hands, which had hovered uncertainly at first, came up and settled against his chest as if they had finally found somewhere to rest.

Steve let his thumb move slowly at the base of your skull.

You made another small sound. Not hurt. Not sadness. Pure feeling, stripped simple.

He almost lost himself there.

Because he liked it too. God, he liked it too much. The softness of your mouth. The way you opened to him by degrees, careful and then not so careful. The subtle change in your breathing as the kiss deepened and with it the strange new knowledge that this was no longer only comfort borrowed from catastrophe. Something real lived in it now. Fragile, badly timed, dangerous – but real.

When you finally drew back, it was only enough to breathe.

Your forehead came to rest lightly against his chest instead of his own because you had let yourself slump closer while kissing him, and Steve tightened his arm around you automatically to keep you steady.

Neither of you spoke for a few seconds.

The silence afterward felt different than before. Less haunted. Not healed – nothing so simple – but quieter inside the bones.

Steve looked down at the top of your head and said, very quietly, “Anything else in there besides pain?”

Your answer came muffled against him.

“For a few seconds? No.”

He closed his eyes briefly.

Maybe that should have made him sad. Maybe it did, a little. That even now the best he could offer you was a pause in the storm rather than a way out of it.

But a pause mattered.

A pause could be mercy.

Steve rested his cheek lightly against your hair and said, “Then we’ll start there.”

He did not know whether he meant the kiss, or the day, or whatever impossible thing stretched ahead of them both.

Maybe all of it.

You nodded once against him and stayed where you were, beneath the enormous old tree, with the forest holding your grief at the edges and Steve’s arms around you while the world, for one brief and honest moment, asked nothing more.

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