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â Beau Taplin, The Lesson
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âItâs sad isnât it? I once thought worlds of you and now youâre just another lesson.â
â Beau Taplin, The Lesson

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and out of the darkness - you you you you you
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âThe thing is: If youâre cold, you hurt people. If youâre sensitive, they hurt you.â
â Unknown
ââ profiled ; aaron hotchner
summary: you've spent years convincing the bau that your love life is chaotic, casual, and completely detachedâwhile quietly dying every time aaron hotchner looks at you. but when your dating profile attracts the wrong kind of attention and your unit chief is forced to look a little closer, it turns out there are very few things more dangerous than being profiled by the man you're hopelessly in love with.
notes: i've been a little conflicted about posting lately, but... it's my birthday, and i want aaron hotchnerâso here you go! i've been working on this for a while and had a very very smart friend help me with the "profiling" parts (especially reid) so i hope y'all enjoy! i also really wanted to actually write the smut, but this fic hit the block limit so hard and fast it actually hurt. as always, please please let me know what you think!
warnings: swearing / cursing, blushing, italics, reader wears a skirt (and heels), reader has a cat, implied age gap, best friend!reid, some pretentious ranting, horny thoughts, likely incorrect behavioural and psychoanalytical information, likely incorrect technical information (sorry garcia), canon-typical themes (homicide, etc. referred to off page), stalker / stalking behaviour, ambiguous use of "online dating" (because i tried to keep it vaguely around s6/s7 era), kind of rushed ending? and... fade to black / implied sex (iâm so sorry) 18+ only still, mdni.
word count: 19001
MONDAY 9:25AM
Working for the FBI means having secrets is difficult. Working with the BAU makes it downright impossible.
Not because your colleagues are nosyâno, theyâre just⌠perceptive. Which means if you want to keep something to yourself, you need to know how to manipulate their perception. Even if it doesnât work on all of themâyou glance at Reid, already seated at the round table with his nose buried in a bookâat least it works on most of them.
At least, it works on Aaron Hotchner.
Your boss. Your unit chief. The man who absolutely cannot find out about your big, fat, massively inconvenient, deeply inappropriate crush on him.
Reid glances up from his book as you drop into the seat beside him. âYouâre wearing a skirt.â
You cross your legs and lean back. âExcellent observation, Reid.â
âItâs impractical,â he says simply. âEspecially with heels. Your centre of gravity shifts forward by almost fifteen degrees, which shortens your stride length and reduces balance recovery time. Youâre significantly more likely to trip while running.â
You roll your eyes. âGood thing Iâm not planning on fleeing the scene of a crime today.â
âIgnore boy genius, baby girl,â Morgan says as he steps into the room, heading straight for the espresso machine. âYou look good.â
You flash him a grin. âSee? Somebody appreciates me.â
Reid hums as he glances back down at his book. âInteresting how your clothing choices become statistically less practical in direct correlation to Hotchâs proximity.â
Your stomach flips. âSpence.â
He lifts one shoulder. âWhat? Heâs not listening.â
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.
âThatâs not the point, Spencer,â you mutter, turning back to him. âYou need toââ
The conference room door swings open again and Hotch walks inâfiles tucked under one arm, the rest of the team trailing behind him.
âMorning,â he says, dropping the files on the table. âHope everyone had a good weekend.â
Morgan snorts. âWhat weekend?â
âYeah,â Prentiss mutters, dropping into the seat beside Reid. âI was here until five on Saturday finishing geographical profiles.â
âThatâs because you alphabetise your paperwork,â you point out.
She gives you a look. âI enjoy being proficient.â
âWell,â you say lightly, leaning back in your chair âsome of us managed to finish our paperwork on Friday and still have a very enjoyable weekend.â
Garcia gasps dramatically as she falls into the last empty chair, coffee in hand. âOoh, look at you. Was there a man involved?â
You shrug one shoulder, biting back a smile. âIâm choosing to plead the fifth.â
Morgan points across the table. âThat means yes.â
âOr,â Reid says without looking up from his book, âit means she enjoys making people speculate.â
âAw, Spence,â you tease. âDonât sound so bitter.â
He finally looks up from his book and fixes you with a look so flat it borders on threateningâbecause he knows what youâre doing. Itâs what you always do. Itâs how you manipulate their perception. How you keep your secret.
You perform.
You swipe through dating apps, talk about men, brag about your weekends without ever being too specific. You flirt with almost everyone on the teamâReid more than the rest, because heâs your scapegoat... and your best friend.
Heâs the only one who can see through the charade. Not because heâs 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 youâre trying so hard to hide.
Because if you give a team of profilers an easy explanationâharmless flirting with a messy dating life and a weakness for attentionâthey wonât notice the way your entire body betrays you whenever your infuriatingly gorgeous boss gets too close.
Hotch clears his throat. âWell, lucky for all of you, itâs a quiet week.â
Reid shuts his book and sets it on the table.
âNo active cases as of this morning,â Hotch continues. âWhich means weâll be catching up on consults, court reports, and the mountain of paperwork everyoneâs apparently been neglecting.â
His eyes meet yours for the briefest second, and your pulse skitters.
âIâm bored already,â Morgan sighs, leaning back in his chair.
Hotch ignores him. âWeâve got two local consult requests from Fairfax County and a follow-up review from the Richardson case. Dave, Iâll need your notes finalised by this afternoon.â
Rossi nods once. âYouâll have them.â
âGarcia,â Hotch continues, âthe Milwaukee office wants that digital forensic review by Wednesday.â
Garcia gasps softly, pressing a hand to her chest. âBut I already colour-coded my entire week. That review wasnât supposed to be due for another fortnight.â
Morgan blinks. âYou colour-code your schedule?â
âObviously,â Garcia says. âHow else would I maintain my sparkling personality under crushing institutional pressure?â
Reid straightens. âTechnically, organising information activates the same reward pathways asââ
âDonât,â Prentiss says immediately.
Reid frowns slightly. âI was just going to say gambling.â
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 shouldnât 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. Youâre on the receiving end of it often enoughâwhenever you crack a poorly timed joke or flirt a little too hard with Morgan.
Yet somehow, you still feel like you canât breathe until his gaze finally shifts.
âMoving on,â he says evenly, âJJ will forward the consult details after the meeting.â
He spends the next thirty minutes briefing the team on consults and court appearances while you do your best to stay focusedâbut itâs hard. Itâs 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 canât 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 heâs actually saying. All you can do is think about how that voice might sound, wrecked and rough, telling you how pretty you look when youâ
âThe briefing ended three minutes ago,â Reid says.
You blink hard. âWhat?â
He closes his notebook with a sigh. âThe meetingâs over. You can stop internally monologuing now.â
You frown. âIâm notââ
He gives you a look.
âUgh,â you groan. âYouâre so annoying.â
You push up from your chair and walk out of the conference room without waiting for him, but youâre not surprised that heâs 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 desksâkeyboards clicking, pens scribblingâand thereâs a fresh stack of files next to your computer with a sticky note on top that reads: Fairfax files. Prioritize pages 12â18. â 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. âYou know most people throw those away, right?â
You glance sideways at him. âI donât want to forget the page numbers.â
He hums. âSure.â
âYou know,â you say, turning your chair to properly face him, âyouâre being particularly judgemental today. Whatâs your problem?â
He stares at you for a moment, then glances back at the sticky note still attached to your monitor.
âIâm experiencing prolonged second-hand embarrassment,â he says plainly. âAnd repeated exposure tends to increase irritability.â
You roll your eyes. âYeah, wellâyouâre increasing my irritability.â
He nods. âGood.â
You frown.
âIâm attempting corrective behavioural conditioning.â
Your eyes narrow. âBy being annoying?â
âExactly,â he says, already turning back to his computer.
You glare at the side of his head for a long moment, searching for a comebackâbut 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 whatâs 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 behaviourâuntil forty-eight hours before her death.
In just two days, she withdrew a large amount of money, missed work without explanation, visited several bars sheâd never been to before, and bought herself thousands of dollarsâ worth of expensive jewellery and lingerie.
To anyone else, it might look like some sort of breakdownâan impulsive spiral that led to the kind of recklessness you canât come back from. But to you, the behaviour feels too... artificial. As if someone is trying to construct the narrative of a troubled womanâchecking all the right boxes to give investigators an easy explanation for a tragic overdose.
Only there isnât 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. âReid.â
âHm?â
âTell me if Iâm overthinking this.â
Reid pushes back from his desk and scoots across the narrow stretch of carpet between your workstations. He doesnât stop until his chair bumps the side of your desk, causing your pen cup to topple over and spill across the files youâve got carefully laid out.
âOops,â he says absently, pushing the pens aside.
You roll your eyes and start gathering them while he scans the files.
âThe behavioural shift feels manufactured,â you say, dropping the pens back into their cup. âBut thereâs enough legitimate stressors here that I canât tell if Iâm forcing a pattern because itâs too clean.â
Reid examines the highlighted timeline for another few seconds.
âYouâre focusing too much on the existence of the stressors,â he says. âStress explains escalation. It doesnât explain inconsistency.â
You frown slightly.
âShe suddenly becomes impulsive socially, financially, and sexually, but her organisational habits never change.â He taps the timeline. âShe still pays bills early. Still meal preps. Still attends a dentist appointment two days before her death. Real behavioural deterioration isnât usually selective.â
Your brows lift. âSo, Iâm right?â
Reid nods, leaning back in his chair. âYouâre right.â
âWhatâs she right about?â
You nearly jump at the sound of Hotchâs voiceâlow and even, a little rough around the edges in that way that always makes your stomach tighten.
âShe thinks the behavioural shift is staged,â Reid says. âAnd I agree.â
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 thighâand suddenly, you canât breathe.
Heâs 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.
âItâs too compartmentalised,â Reid says, his voice more distant than it was just a second ago. âReal behavioural spirals usually bleed into every aspect of a personâs routine. Sleep disruption, missed payments, changes in grooming habits, social withdrawalâsomething.â
Hotch lifts his hand off the desk and presses his thumb to the tip of his tongueâthen 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 smallâbut you canât move. Not with Hotchâs hand still on the back of your chair.
âBut this is curated,â Reid goes on, tapping the timeline with the end of his pen. âThe impulsive behaviour escalates while the foundational routines stay completely intact, which suggests intentional narrative construction.â
Hotch turns his head just slightly, dark eyes finding yours. âYou caught that?â
You clear your throat. âI just... thought the escalation pattern felt off.â
âHer behavioural analysis is spot on, actually,â Reid says. âI canât find a flaw in it.â
Hotch hums quietly as his eyes move back over the file.
âGood girl,â he says absently.
Your entire nervous system short-circuits.
âKeep it up,â he adds, smoothing his tie as he straightens.
You donât say anything as he turns and walks away. You couldnât 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.
âYou know,â he says thoughtfully, âthe age-gap preference is actually more interesting than the authority fixation.â
You finally blink. âWhat?â
âBecause the authority thing makes perfect sense. High-pressure careers tend to reinforce attraction to competence, decisiveness, emotional restraintâespecially in workplace environments where leadership qualities become psychologically linked with safety and stability over long periods of exposure.â
You frown. âWhat are youââ
âBut the older man preference is statistically more complicated because you donât actually display the attachment markers usually associated with paternal absence or instability.â
Your eyes go wide. âSpencerââ
âYou 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.â
âReid.â
âFor example,â he goes on, ignoring you completely, âyou spent your formative professional years surrounded almost exclusively by older men in positions of intellectual and behavioural authority. Gideon, Rossi, Hotchâwhich likely created a reinforcement pattern where emotional competence became unconsciously associated with attraction, arousal, and sexual interest.â
You freeze. âReid, I swear toââ
âYou donât react this strongly to older men generally,â he continues. âYou react strongly to Hotch because heâs emotionally controlled, professionally authoritative, intellectually intimidating, andââ
He pauses, tilting his head.
âVery obviously your type.â
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 heâs typing. JJâs desk is empty, as usualâsheâs 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. âYou are so lucky no one heard that, Spencer.â
He shrugs. âWouldnât matter if they did.â
Your brows pull together. âWhatâs that mean?â
âYouâre good at redirecting attention,â he says, slowly pushing his chair back toward his desk. âYouâre less good at hiding physiological responses.â
Your hand flies up to your cheek, palm pressing flat against the burning skin.
âWhatever,â you mutter. âItâs warm in here.â
Reid glances around the bullpen. âItâs sixty-eight degrees.â
âI hate you.â
âNo you donât.â
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, thereâs a brand-new stack of files on your deskâonly this time, with a tall takeaway cup of coffee set on top.
âHotch got dragged into some last-minute Section Chief meeting across town,â Morgan says, pushing his headphones down. âSaid he needs those cross-referenced before tomorrow morning.â
âGreat,â 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 itâwritten quickly but still in his unmistakable handwriting: I owe you one. â Hotch.
Your stomach flips.
God. Thatâs 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. JJâs the first to head outânot long after fiveâtaking advantage of the slow week to spend a little extra time with Henry. Rossi leaves about an hour later, announcing to the bullpen that heâs 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, whoâs been firmly stuck in hyperfocus mode despite the rest of the world quietly slowing down around him.
âYou coming?â 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.
âNot yet,â you reply, blinking tiredly. âHotch needs these by morning.â
Reid tilts his head. âWant me to wait?â
You wave a hand. âNah, go ahead. Iâll get security to walk me to my car.â
âAlright,â he says, already turning away. âJust remember that positive reinforcement loses effectiveness when the subject becomes emotionally dependent on it.â
You glare at his back. âIâm reporting you to HR.â
âYouâd have to explain the context,â 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 didnât miss anything glaringly obvious in your tired stateâbut youâre 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 Hotchâs 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 cologneâenough 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.
Thereâs still half a mug of cold coffee abandoned beside some paperwork, and the cashmere sweater heâd been wearing beneath his jacket this morning is draped haphazardly over the back of his chair. Quiet evidence of just how suddenly heâd been called away.
It makes you feel a little better knowing you really have helped him out.
You adjust the files until theyâre 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 youâthe way itâd been before you stepped inside.
It doesnât 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 youâre safely inside your car with the engine running before he takes the elevator back up.
Once home, you quickly feed the yowling Leiaâyour cat, whoâs very unimpressed by your late arrivalâtake 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 youâve been ignoring a few personal messages and emails for a couple days now, and you know that if you donât get to them soon, youâll 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 couldnât have set up your own profile if youâd really wanted to.
Noâthis profile is just the unintentional byproduct of your ongoing attempt to redirect attention.
One slow Thursday evening in the bullpen, while youâd 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 hadnât contributed to the conversation, but youâd 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 âmessagesâ tab and start scrolling. There are a few old conversations that fizzled out and youâve 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 messagesâones youâd seen pop up on your phone but couldnât be bothered to engage with over the weekend.
After all, youâre not actually looking to date anyone.
But one of the messages catches your eye.
DCRunner00: You seem like the kind of person whoâs either very funny or very mean. Iâm willing to risk it.
You snort, then type out a reply.
You: Unfortunately for you, those traits arenât mutually exclusive.
Just as you hit enter, Leia leaps up onto the bed.
âHey, sassy girl,â 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. âAlright. Sorry for loving you.â
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: Thatâs probably the best possible answer you couldâve given. DCRunner00: So whatâs your worst personality trait? I feel like thatâs 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. Itâs 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
âMorgan, youâre with me at district court this afternoon,â Hotch says, closing the file in front of him. âThe defence attorneyâs pushing back on the Richardson testimony, so weâll need to review our timeline before the hearing.â
Heâs wearing a grey suit today.
You can never think straight when heâs wearing a grey suit.
Morgan sighs dramatically. âNothing says excitement like four hours in a courthouse basement.â
Hotch ignores him completely.
âJJ, I want the media requests filtered through Straussâs office before lunch. Reid, finish the geographic overlays from the Fairfax case and send them to Rossi when youâre done.â
He glances once around the table.
âIf anything urgent comes in, youâll be notified. Otherwise, continue using this downtime to catch up on reports.â
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 donât quite catch, and Garcia is already explaining something on her laptop to Rossi, whoâs watching the screen with quiet concentration.
Which leaves you to shamelessly stare at your bossâ ass as he walks out of the room.
âYou should probably blink.â
Your head snaps toward Reid, frown already forming. âIâll blink when I want to blink.â
He presses his lips together to keep from laughing, and you know heâs fighting the urge to launch into some deeply unwanted psychoanalysis of your behaviourâbut 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 theyâre both obsessed with.
Youâre just about to pass Hotchâs office door whenâyou 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 Hotchâs office.
You clear your throat, stopping a few feet from the desk. âSir?â
âHow late were you here last night?â he asks.
You lift a shoulder. âAbout ten.â
His jaw shifts as he leans back in his chair. âThatâs late.â
âMorgan said you needed them done by the morning.â
âI didnât mean first thing,â he says, smoothing the end of his tie. âYou couldâve finished the rest before lunch.â
You blink. âOh.â
His gaze holds yours for a second too long.
âYou donât need to stay late to impress me.â
Your eyes widen slightly before you force out a small, awkward laugh. âOhâuhâgood to know.â
He glances briefly at the navy-blue cashmere sweater still folded neatly on the chest of drawers.
âStill,â he says, lower this time. âI appreciated it. The files, and⌠everything else.â
Your breath catches softly in your throat.
âAnytime, sir,â you manage.
He nods once, then drops his gaze back to the paperwork on his desk.
You donât 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 wonât admit it because he doesnât want the team to think heâs shutting them out. Heâs just more comfortable in privateâit 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 canât help yourself, so you type out a quick reply.
You: Better than âWorkaholicâ. You: You read Stephen King?
âHey, you busy?â
You glance over at Reid. âArenât we all?â
He tilts his head. âYouâre on your phone.â
âI could be working.â
âAre you?â
âNo.â
âGood,â he says, shuffling the files on his desk. âHotch wants us to prep the full geographic and timeline package for the Fairfax files in case it turns into an active investigation.â
You sigh, already pushing back from your desk. âAnd by âusâ you mean...?â
âI could use your help.â
âFine,â 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 Rossiâs few annotations. There are crime scene reports, autopsy summaries, witness statements, geographic overlays, and mapsâeverything needed to justify escalating the case into a full BAU investigation.
âWhere do you want to start?â
âIâm trying to rebuild the geographic timeline digitally,â he says, âbut half the field reports were logged out of sequence and now the movement patterns donât align.â
You nod. âOkay, walk me through where it stops making sense.â
Three hours later, you feel like your eyeballs are bleeding. Youâve 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?
âItâs physically impossible,â you mutter, rubbing your eyes.
Reid hums quietly beside you. âNot necessarily.â
You stare at him. âCare to elaborate?â
âWell, 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.â
You sigh, leaning back in your chair and staring up at the ceiling. âIf you know so much, then why canât you figure this out?â
He still doesnât turn away from his screen. âI will. Eventually.â
You groan softly, dragging both hands down your face just as a familiar voice cuts through the quiet bullpen.
âNo, listen to me carefully.â
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.
âYou donât need to explain the problem again,â he says evenly. âYou need to tell me how youâre fixing it.â
He pauses briefly beside Reidâs desk, listening.
âThen prioritise the transfer first,â he says. âIf the paperwork isnât filed before opposing counsel reviews discovery, the timeline becomes vulnerable and the entire testimony gets picked apart.â
He rests a hand on the partition between the desks, gaze fixed somewhere distant as he listens to the person on the other end.
âNo,â he says after a moment, voice lower now. âIâm not asking you to stay late. Iâm telling you this needs to be finished tonight.â
Your stomach flips.
This absolutely should not be as hot as it is.
âGood,â he says calmly into the phone, straightening again. âCall me when itâs done.â
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. âDo you think he talks you through it?â
âProbably,â Reid says, turning back to his screen. âHigh-control personalities usually prefer maintaining verbal direction in intimate situations because it reinforces predictability and compliance dynamics.â
You go still. You hadnât actually expected an answer.
âSomeone like Hotch would probably place a pretty high psychological value on responsiveness,â Reid continues. âThe immediate compliance aspect reinforces authority, which means verbal direction would likely become part of the overall intimacy dynamic rather than just communication.â
Your face heats.
âEspecially because heâs not impulsive enough to rely on unpredictability. Heâd 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.â
Oh my God.
âAnd honestly,â Reid goes on, âpeople with highly structured leadership personalities usually develop pretty strong positive associations with obedience because it confirms stability, attentiveness, emotional investmentââ He pauses briefly. âWhich means heâd 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 heâdââ
He stops.
Then slowly turns toward you.
â...I crossed a social boundary somewhere in there, didnât I?â
You nod slowly, your voice coming out unnaturally high. âJust a couple.â
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 youâre 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 throatâ
Fortunately, it doesnât take Reid long to start rambling about geographic overlays again. You do your best to focus on what heâs 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. Itâs 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. Youâre 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: Iâve 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 messagesâbut you canât reply to them until you set the tray down at your desk.
âThanks, pretty girl,â Morgan says as he takes one, flashing you a grin.
You smile back. âAnything for you, gorgeous.â
Then you pull your phone out of your pocket and bring up the message thread.
DCRunner00: Whatâs your schedule even like? DCRunner00: You strike me as an âanswers emails at midnightâ type of person. You: Nah. Thatâs my boss. You: My schedule is chaos, though.
âThanks,â 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 Hotchâs office. You can see through the window that heâs not on the phoneâfor onceâso you knock twice on the slightly ajar door before stepping inside.
He glances up, his brows pulling together slightly. âI didnât ask for coffee.â
âI know,â you say quickly. âBut itâs almost three, and you always need another coffee around three, and I figured you probably didnât answer the team message because you still feel bad about me staying so late last night, which you shouldnât, by the way.â
He straightens, brows drawing tighter.
âAnd I know youâve got court with Morgan this afternoon, and youâre going to try to leave early, but someoneâs definitely going to call at the last second and derail that plan, so youâll only have enough time to get to the courthouseânot enough time to stop for coffee.â
You set the cup down in front of him.
âSo,â you tilt your head, âcoffee.â
He leans back in his chair, studying you for a second.
âThatâs some pretty solid profiling, Agent.â
Your face heats instantly.
âWell,â you say, backing slowly toward the door, âmaybe now you owe me two.â
The corner of his mouth lifts, just slightly, but itâs enough for the butterflies in your stomach to explode. You canât 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 Reidâs 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 wonât be back. JJ is the first to head home again around five, followed by Prentiss, then Rossiâthen 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 carâs 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. Sheâs always hungry, even though she has an automatic feeder for dry foodâbut apparently that isnât 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 youâre 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. Itâs not like you can just say youâre in the FBI. Contrary to what some people might think, real FBI agents canât just go around bragging about their highly classified work status. Itâs 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.
Youâre 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: Iâm starting to think you secretly enjoy being overworked. You: I think Iâd 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. Thereâs nothing youâre really interested in watchingâsince you donât usually have the time to keep up with any showsâso you turn on the nightly news before grabbing your laptop and pulling up a new browser.
Heâs 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 dogsâwhatever makes them seem interestingâbut 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: Heâd only call if it mattered.
His next reply takes almost two minutes to come through.
DCRunner00: Hm. DCRunner00: Iâm starting to think your boss gets more attention than I do.
You almost choke on your tea.
Thatâs... weird.
Maybe you have mentioned your boss a little more than strictly necessary, but heâs the one asking all the questions about your job. Itâs a little hard not to mention your boss when your life practically revolves around himâin 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 youâre spending too much time talking to strangers online. DCRunner00: Maybe. DCRunner00: You still replied, though.
âOkay,â you say, startling Leia who was half-asleep on the other end of the couch. âThatâs enough.â
You: Iâm going to sleep. You: Try not to spiral while Iâm gone.
His last message pops up just before you shut your laptop.
DCRunner00: No promises.
WEDNESDAY 8:10AM
âCome on,â you mutter, mashing the elevator button for the doors to close.
Youâre a whole thirty minutes earlier than usual this morning. You didnât even make a coffee in your travel mug before running out the door. You just woke up, brushed your teeth, checked your messagesâand decided you needed to talk to Garcia immediately.
âHeyâwoah.â Reid steps out of your way as you rush into the bullpen. âYouâre early.â
You drop your bag on your desk and quickly shrug off your jacket.
âIs Garcia in yet?â
He frowns slightly. âI think so. Why?â
You pull your laptop out of your bag.
âI justâI need her.â
Youâre already walking away before he can press any further, moving back through the bullpen with your laptop hugged against your chest. Youâre just about to round the corner toward the elevators whenâ
âHeyââ Hotch stops short just as you nearly run into him. âSlow down. You alright?â
His hand is hovering near your waistânot quite touching, but close enough for you to feel its warmth.
You blink up at him. âSorry. Yeah. Uhâtotally fine. Just going to see Garcia about... a case.â
His brows pull together slightly.
âAlright, well, Garciaâs not going anywhere,â he says evenly. âTake a breath.â
You nod slowly, already stepping around him.
âRight,â you mutter. âBreathing. Got it. Sorry, sir.â
You can almost swear you see the corner of his mouth liftâbut 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 Garciaâs lair and burst through the door without warning.
She startles so hard she nearly drops her coffee. âSweet mother of encryption, knock first!â
âSorry,â you say, breathless. âI need you.â
âWell, obviously,â she mutters, checking her shirt for any spills. âIâm the backbone of this entire operation.â
You drop down into the spare chair and open your laptop, setting it on her desk.
âYou cannot judge me for what Iâm about to show you.â
She glances up, brows lifting. âOh. So this is serious?â
You grimace. âI donât know.â
âOkay,â she says slowly. âSlightly less reassuring than I was hoping for. Tell me whatâs happened.â
You take a deep breath, then let it out in a rush.
âYou remember the dating profile you set up for me?â
She nods.
âAlright, so, I wonât lie, I havenât really met anyone on there yet, but I check the messages occasionally. When Iâve got time, you know? And I donât 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 couldnât reply all that quickly, but he didnât seem to mind.â
You shift awkwardly, scooting your chair closer to her desk.
âNothing really felt out of place untilâwell, he wouldnât 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, orâI guessâlack of schedule.â
You wince.
âSo 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 donât know.â
You hesitate.
âBut then he sent me this message at like... two a.m.â
She squints at the screen.
DCRunner00: Bet you answer your boss faster than you answer anyone else.
âMmm. Nope. Donât love that,â she says, shaking her head. âThat is not a normal amount of emotional investment for a stranger.â
You sink back in your chair. âThatâs what I thought.â
She starts scrolling back through the messages.
âHave you told Hotch?â
âNope.â
She glances at you from the corner of her eye. âYou answered way too fast for that to be a normal response.â
âBecause the answer is no,â you say firmly, leaning forward again.
âMm-hm.â She keeps scrolling. âOkay, well... technically this could still be nothing. He could just be some lonely basement cryptid with Wi-Fi and poor social skills.â
You groan, dragging both hands over your face.
âYou do mention Hotch kind of a lot.â
Your head snaps up. âHeâs my boss.â
Garcia gives you a long look.
âOkay,â she says slowly. âSure.â
âGarcia.â
âIâm just saying, if a man talked about a woman this much online, weâd all be making faces.â
You point at the screen. âFocus.â
âRight. Yes. Creepy internet man. Sorry.â
Her expression settles into something more focused as she turns back toward her array of monitors.
âOkay. Hereâs what weâre going to do. Donât block him yet.â
You sigh. âI donât love that idea.â
âNeither do I, babycakes, but if heâs routing through the website normally, I might be able to pull connection data if we keep him talking long enough.â
You frown. âIn English?â
She gives you another look. âTimestamps, login patterns, regional pings, possible VPN usage, device signatures if he slips upâbasic digital stalking fun.â
âOh, of course,â you say sarcastically. âNormal stuff.â
âFor me, it is normal.â She points toward the laptop. âNow reply to him. Something casual. I want to see if he responds immediately again.â
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. âOkay, I officially donât like him.â
You lean back in your chair again, nausea twisting low in your gut. âI feel sick.â
Garciaâs expression softens slightly. âMaybe you should tellââ
âNo.â
She sighs quietly. âOkay. Fine. Can you keep replying from your phone?â
You nod.
âGood. Donât overdo it, just enough to keep him engaged.â Her fingers start flying across the keyboard. âIâll work my magic down here and call you if I find anything.â
You push yourself out of the chair, clutching your phone a little tighter.
âYouâre the best, Pen.â
âI know.â She waves a hand without looking away from her screens. âNow go pretend to be emotionally stable upstairs.â
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 keyboardâtoo anxious to have it with you during the meetingâthen 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.
âHey,â you mutter as you drop down next to him.
His brows pull together. âEverything alright?â
You nod. âYeah. Fine. Iâll explain later.â
Hotch keeps the morning briefing quick. He goes over yesterdayâs 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. Youâre pretty sure itâs the first briefing in years where you havenât spent at least part of it staring at Hotch instead of your notesâand when the room finally relaxes and everyone starts to filter out, Reid turns to you.
âOkay, now Iâm concerned,â he says.
You glance at him. âWhy?â
âYou didnât look at Hotch once during that entire meeting.â
You roll your eyes. âSpenceââ
âSomething must be seriously wrong.â
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.
âOkay,â you say quietly, turning back to Reid. âIâm having some... trouble, I guess, with a guy.â
His brows shoot up. âA guyââ
âOnline,â you add quickly.
He tilts his head. âIâm confused again.â
You sigh. âRemember that dating profile Garcia set up for me?â
âYou mean the profile you allowed Garcia to create as part of your increasingly unsustainable performative dating strategy?â
You glare at him. âYes. That one.â
âThen yes, I remember it very clearly.â
âWell,â you mutter, pinching the bridge of your nose, âI had this guy message me a couple days ago. It was normal at first but now itâs gotten... weird. So, Iâm getting Garcia to look into it.â
His forehead creases. âHave you toldââ
âNo.â
âMaybe you shouldââ
âI said no.â
âAlright.â He raises both hands in surrender. âOkay. Iâm dropping it. Itâs justâŚâ
You narrow your eyes at him.
âWell, statistically speaking, the majority of uncomfortable online interactions donât escalate into actual stalking behaviour. Most people displaying premature emotional fixation online are socially isolated rather than violent.â
You lift a brow, waiting for the punchline.
âHowever,â he adds, âcyberstalking 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.â
You stare at him.
âIn 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.â
He pauses, frowning faintly.
âThat was supposed to be reassuring.â
ââŚThanks, Reid,â you mutter, turning away from him slowly. âNow I feel so much better.â
When you get back to your desk, you decide itâs time to reply again. You grab your phone and bring up the messages, taking a minute to think about what to typeâknowing Garcia will be seeing the conversation too.
You type out the only mildly casual response you can think of.
You: Youâre weird.
He replies just as fast as usual.
DCRunner00: You disappear a lot. You: Workaholic, remember. You: I told you my schedule was chaos.
Youâre about to turn your phone over on your desk when a different notification pops upâfrom Garcia.
Garcia: If this is your version of flirting, baby girl, I think I just figured out why youâre still single.
You snort softly, typing out a quick reply.
You: Trust me, thatâs not the reason. Garcia: So there IS a reason? You: Shh. Iâm 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 doesnât work.
Barely half an hour later, you lift your phone to check for another notificationâbut thereâs nothing there. You pull up the message thread again and scroll up, checking the timestamps to see if heâs ever gone quiet on you beforeâbut he hasnât. Not really. So you type another message.
You: You went quiet. Should I be concerned?
Itâs a calculated move. If heâs paying attention to response patternsâand at this point youâre pretty sure he isâthen following up first helps maintain the illusion that nothing has changed. No sudden distance. No obvious discomfort. No reason for him to think youâre 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 doesnât feel rightâwhich 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, youâve 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. âOh my God.â
You immediately call Garcia back.
She answers on half a ring. âAre you wearing blue?â
âYou saw me this morning.â
âI canât remember,â she says. âAre you?â
You drag a hand through your hair. âYes.â
âHoly shit,â she whispers. âYouâve got to tellââ
âNo.â
âAre you insane?â
âMaybe, butââ You squeeze your eyes shut for a second. âOkay, justâhear me out. Blue is a statistically safe guess. Itâs a neutral professional colour with high frequency in workplace attire, especially in government buildings.â
Garcia goes quiet for a second.
âAnd does this unsub know you work in a government building?â
âDonât call him that,â you snap. âAndâwell, kind of. I didnât tell him exactly, but I said... government adjacent.â
âI swear to God,â she mutters, âif I have to identify your body next week, Iâm going to kill you.â
You press your free hand against your forehead.
âYou wonât,â you say firmly. âAlright? Weâre getting ahead of ourselves.â
Garcia scoffs loudly.
âSeriously,â you insist. âIt 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.â
The line goes quiet againâthen she sighs.
âWhy are you so against telling Hotch?â
âBecause I donât want to bother him,â you say quickly. âWeâve got a quiet week, he finally seems slightly less stressed, and I donât want to cause a whole fuss over something that might turn out to be nothing.â
She sighs again, louder this time. âFine. I wonât go to Hotch.â
Your shoulders sag. âThank you.â
âOn one condition,â she adds. âIâm sleeping over tonight.â
You nearly choke. âWhat?â
âNon-negotiable.â
âPenelope, thatâs insane.â
âNo,â Garcia says firmly, âwhatâs insane is you trying to casually explain away potential stalking behaviour while actively refusing to inform your unit chief.â
âHe is not stalking me,â you protest, keeping your voice low.
âMm-hm.â
âYouâre overreacting.â
âAnd yet,â Garcia says, âif you die, I become morally complicit because I knew about creepy internet man and failed to intervene.â
You frown. ââŚMorally complicit?â
âAccessory to murder-adjacent,â she corrects. âAnd my guilty conscience requires eight hours of sleep minimum, so congratulations. Weâre having a slumber party.â
You let out a long sigh. âOkay. Fine.â
She hums, satisfied.
âI need to reply to him again.â
âWell, donât ask me,â she mutters. âYouâre the one whoâs apparently fluent in creepy internet freak.â
You laugh despite yourself. âThanks, Pen.â
âMm-hm. And just so weâre clear, tonight we are watching wholesome romantic comedies and eating enough sugar to kill a Victorian child.â
âI was actually thinking psychological thriller marathon.â
âAbsolutely not.â
You smile faintly, leaning back in your chair. âFine. Romantic comedies it is.â
âGood,â Garcia says firmly. âNow hang up before I change my mind and march upstairs to Hotchâs office myself.â
You roll your eyes as you hang up, then open the message thread again. You donât have to think too hard about what to type. You donât 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 oâclock, Prentiss drops a file on your desk and asks if you can double-check a victim timeline while sheâs stuck on the phone with Chicago. Then Rossi calls you into his office to sanity-check a profile theory heâs working through out loudâwhich means fifteen minutes of listening to him argue with himself while you sit there trying not to focus on Hotchâs 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 offâand for the first time in God knows how long, you donât 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.
âHello?â
âPack your things, baby girl. Your government-issued sleepover is about to begin.â
You snort softly. âAlright. Iâll see you soon.â
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.
âSee who soon?â Reid asks.
You glance at him. âGarcia.â
He tilts his head.
âSheâs staying over tonight.â
His brows lift. âBecause of your stalkââ
âGirlâs night,â you interrupt, eyes widening. âThatâs all.â
His gaze narrows. âShould I be worried?â
You scoff. âAbout me? Never.â
You slide your arms into your jacket then finally pick up your phone, finding two new notifications from creepy internet man waiting for you.
âReally?â Reid asks, turning his chair to face you. âBecause youâve spent most of the day staring at your phone like itâs a bomb, you spent most of Rossiâs profile discussion peeling the label off your water bottle instead of contributing, and you reorganised the same stack of paperwork three separate times.â
You pause mid-motion.
âAlso,â he continues, âyou usually correct Morgan when he misquotes case statistics and today you let him do it twice, which honestly might be the most concerningââ
âOkay!â you cut in quickly, slinging your bag over your shoulder. âGood talk. Love the observational skills. Bye.â
He doesnât say anything else as you walk away, murmuring goodbyes to Morgan and Prentiss as you pass, but you can still feel him watching you. Youâre just about to press the button for the elevator whenâ
âAgent.â
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 isnât frustrated or disapprovingâitâs curious.
You force a small smile. âSir.â
His eyes move over your face briefly. âYou alright?â
You nod once. âOf course.â
He takes a step forward, his voice dropping lower. âYou sure?â
Your breath catches.
Heâs 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.
âYouâve seemed distracted today,â he says.
You swallow hard. âUhâno. No. Sorry, I justâI didnât get much sleep last night.â
His brows draw a little tighter, and he opens his mouth as if heâs about to say something elseâpress harder, maybeâbut then seems to think better of it.
âAlright,â he murmurs. âGet some rest tonight.â
Then he nods once and steps back, his jaw tightening for just a second before he turns away.
You donât move immediately. You canât. 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.
âHello?â Garcia calls from behind you. âI cannot hold these doors forever, babycakes.â
You shake your head. âShit. Sorry.â
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.
Thenâ
âSo, that thing you said earlier about there being a reason youâre still singleâŚâ
You shut your eyes. âPenelope.â
âIâm just saying,â she continues lightly, âunless I hallucinated whatever just happened in that hallway, Iâm starting to develop theories.â
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 itâs 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 theyâve 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 sheâs ever met that doesnât like her.
âLeia hates everyone,â you tell her, kicking your shoes off by the door. âEven me.â
Garcia just rolls her eyes, continuing from room to room to check the window locks and balcony doors.
Once sheâs 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.
âHave you seen his latest messages?â she asks.
You shake your head, setting your phone on the counter. âNo.â
She opens your laptop and logs into the dating siteâbecause apparently she knows your password now.
DCRunner00: Maybe. DCRunner00: Or maybe youâre just easier to read than you think.
You type out the first response you can think of, not wanting to seem like youâre overanalysing this.
You: Or maybe Iâm 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 sheâs managed to narrow him down to a general region through login patterns and routing behaviour, but she still canât lock onto a direct IP address. Not because she canâtâapparently that part would actually be pretty easyâbut because doing it properly would mean running requests through systems that leave a trail. And right now, this definitely isnât an official investigation.
âThe second I start pulling the fun federal strings,â Garcia says, typing furiously, âthereâs paperwork, access logs, oversight, and approximately twelve thousand ways for this to become a whole thing.â
You lean against the counter. âWe donât want that.â
âNot yet.â Her expression sharpens slightly. âAlso, if creepy internet man is more sophisticated than he seems, thereâs always a chance heâs monitoring for targeted tracing attempts. If he realises someoneâs looking too closely at him before we know who he is, he could disappear completely.â
Your stomach twists. âOr escalate.â
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 theyâre trying to hide. DCRunner00: What are you trying to hide? You: Besides the fact that Iâm 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.
âNight, Pen,â you murmur, rubbing your eyes. âThanks again... for everything.â
âNight, gorgeous,â she calls, peering over the back of the couch. âWake me up if you hear literally anything suspicious. Or if Leia finally decides itâs my time.â
You laugh softly, blinking slowly as you turn back into your room and fall face first into bed.
THURSDAY 6:45AM
Youâre not sure whether to be relieved or concerned when you wake up to no new messages from creepy internet man. He hasnât gone quiet for this long beforeâbut if he is just a normal, slightly awkward guy with boundary issues and an internet connection, well... itâs 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 nightâwhich is normal, right? That means he was out doing normal human things, not just lurking in his motherâs basement, stalking women online.
Garcia isnât entirely convinced that him moving locations is enough to get him off the hook as the BAUâs next unsub, but it at least shuts her up until youâre both back at the office.
âHey,â Reid says as soon as you walk into the bullpen. âYou havenât been murdered.â
You frown slightly. âGood morning to you too, Spence.â
Morgan glances up from the file on his desk. âUhâwhy are we getting murdered?â
Reid gestures vaguely in your direction. âBecause sheâs potentially being cyberstalked by aââ
âOh, wow, look at the time,â you interrupt, glaring at Reid. âWouldnât it be such a shame if we all started minding our own business right about now.â
Prentiss turns in her chair, brows raised. âCyberstalked?â
âNobody is cyberstalking anybody,â you say as you drop into your chair. âAnd nobodyâs getting murderedâbut great start to the morning, everyone. Love the energy. Now leave me alone.â
Morgan chuckles quietly. âDamn. Thought you said you got laid last weekend.â
Your hands slip off the desk as you try to pull yourself closer.
âTechnically,â Reid says, âshe only implied it by refusing to answer Garciaâs question during Monday morningâs briefing.â
âAh.â Morgan leans back in his chair. âI knew this was a drought issue.â
You scowl at him. âA drought issue?â
âStatistically speaking,â Reid adds, âpeople experiencing prolonged romantic or sexual dissatisfaction often display lower frustration tolerance and increased agitation in familiar social environments.â
Morgan looks at him. âMan, just say she needs to get laid.â
âOh my God,â you snap. âI do not need to get laid. I am having a completely normal amount of sex already, thank you very muchâand frankly I think itâs deeply inappropriate that youâre all this invested in whether or not Iâm orgasming regularly.â
Reid tilts his head. âYouâre having sex?â
Morganâs brows shoot up, Prentiss chokes on her coffee, and you open your mouth to fire back at him whenâ
Someone clears their throat behind you.
Heat crawls violently up your neckâbut you donât turn around. You canât.
âBriefing room. Five minutes,â Hotch says, his voice dangerously even. âJJâs got an update on the custodial interview with Wallace.â
Morgan presses a fist against his mouth, tryingâand failingâto 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 thereâs something dangerous lurking beneath itâsomething suspiciously close to amusement in the tightness of his mouth.
âBe right there, sir,â 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.
âOh, you are never recovering from that,â Prentiss mutters, smirking behind her coffee cup.
Morgan leans back in his chair, grinning. âBaby girl, that was painful to watch.â
You drop your head into your hands.
âYou somehow escalated the situation at every possible opportunity,â Reid says thoughtfully.
âI hate you all,â 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 uncooperativeâwhich Rossi thinks is less about policy and more about Wallace trying to dictate the terms of the interaction.
Itâs 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 isnât much you wouldnât give to pick the sociopathâs brains. One hour with him feels dangerously shortâthat is, assuming Hotch actually picks you to be in the interview with him.
âWe donât have enough time to waste managing personalities in the room,â Hotch says, gathering the files in front of him. âIâll decide on a second agent and send out the interview schedule later today.â
Chairs start scraping back almost immediately, files and notebooks snapping shut as everyone gathers their things and starts filtering out of the roomâbut you donât 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 donât 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.
âYou alright?â Reid asks, lingering beside you.
You sigh heavily, finally closing your notebook. âYep. Just thinking about how Iâll probably have to fake my own death and change my name after this morning.â
He shrugs. âHotch probably isnât even thinking about it anymore.â
You glance up at him hopefully.
âMorgan definitely is, though.â
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 thereâs a printer jam that gives the rest of the office a rare glimpse at just how angry Emily Prentiss can get when frustrated.
It isnât until just before midday that you finally get up to go to the bathroom, and when you return to your desk, thereâs one new notification in your inbox.
From: Aaron Hotchner Subject: Wallace Interview Youâre with me next Thursday. We leave at 0700.
Your stomach flips.
âWow,â Reid says, suddenly standing right beside your desk. âHe picked you pretty quickly.â
You shoot him a warning look. âSpence.â
âIâm just saying, he usually deliberates longer.â
You glance back at the screen, rereading the first five words that make your pulse skip a little faster.
âYou and Hotch do work unusually well together in confined conversational environments,â Reid adds.
You turn back to him, frowning.
He tilts his head. âThat sounded more suggestive than I intended.â
You open your mouth to tell him how deeply unhelpful heâs being when your phone buzzes twice against your deskâlike 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 threadâand your stomach drops.
DCRunner00: [Image attachment] DCRunner00: Did you and your friend have fun last night?
The image is of your apartment building. Itâs grainy, slightly crooked, clearly taken from somewhere across the streetâbut 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.
âIs that... your apartment?â Reid asks, leaning over your shoulder.
You donât answer him. You canât.
The bullpen dissolves into white noise around you.
Untilâ
âIâm done!â Garciaâs voice cuts through the static. âI canât do this anymore!â
Sheâs marching right toward you, your laptopâthat sheâd still been monitoringâtucked under one arm.
Reid gasps. âWait. Is thatââ
Morgan straightens in his chair. âWhatâs happening?â
âHotchâs office,â Garcia says, her expression dangerously stern as she stops beside your desk. âNow.â
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.
âWhatâs going on?â
His tone is calm, automatic, already slipping into that low, calculated cadence he uses when heâs trying to talk someone down from the ledge. His gaze moves from her to youâand something in his expression shifts. Hardens. That muscle in his jaw ticking just once before he turns back to Garcia.
âWhat happened?â 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 upâright at youâand something unreadable settles across his face. Something dangerous.
âWho sent this?â
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.
Itâs 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 youâsomething realâthatâs when all the theory suddenly stops feeling theoretical. And maybe itâs because you know exactly what people like this are capable of, or how quickly situations like this can escalate once someone decides theyâre emotionally invested in you.
Or maybe itâs just the horrifying realisation that some part of you knew where this was heading all along. And you still didnât do anything about it until now. Not until you put yourselfâand your friendâin danger.
âGet everyone in the briefing room,â Hotch says the second Garcia finishes. âNow.â
Garcia nods once before slipping back out the door, and only then do you finally let go of Reidâs wristâmaking a mental note to apologise later for the excessive physical contact.
Hotchâs 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.
âReid,â he says. âPrint the entire message history and document everything. Full timeline, screenshots, attachmentsâall of it. I want copies ready for the team in ten.â
You swallow hard. âTheâthe entire message history?â
âYes,â Hotch says simply. âEvery message.â
Could this day get any worse?
Fifteen minutes later, youâre 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.
âOkay,â Prentiss says. âWhere do we start?â
âVictimology,â Morgan answers immediatelyâthen he glances at you. âSorry, baby girl.â
You wave him off. âReidâs been profiling me all week. Go for it.â
Thereâs a quiet ripple of laughter around the table, but Hotch barely blinks. Heâs 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 heâs trying very hard not to look directly at you.
âWe need to be careful building a victimology this early,â he says evenly. âEspecially considering how well we know the victim. Personal familiarity creates bias.â
Reid tilts his head. âNormally, yes. But stalking crimes are often highly individualised.â He starts flipping through the printed messages as he talks. âStatistically speaking, stalking victims are usually targeted for a very specific reason. The motivation is generally rooted in either resentment, fixation, revenge, or romantic obsession.â
You grimace. âFantastic.â
âMost victims also know their stalkers,â Reid continues. âApproximately seventy-five percent of stalking cases involve some form of prior relationship or perceived emotional connection.â
âOkay,â JJ says carefully, looking toward you. âIs there anyone you can think of who might hold a grudge against you? Someone you arrested, rejected, testified againstâanything like that?â
You snort quietly. âDoes every criminal Iâve ever interviewed count?â
The room goes still for half a second.
âWait,â Prentiss says, sitting forward slightly. âActually, that makes sense.â
Hotchâs eyes flick up as Prentiss pushes one of the printouts into the middle of the table, tapping the page.
âThis escalation happened fast. Less than a week. Thatâs not somebody slowly building emotional trust from scratchâthatâs somebody who already came into this interaction emotionally invested.â
âOr angry,â Morgan adds.
âExactly,â Prentiss says. âHe doesnât lash out until she has Garcia over. Thatâs jealousy. Possessiveness.â
You sink lower in your chair.
âAnd he starts reacting every time she brings up her boss,â Rossi says, flipping through the printouts. âThatâs territorial behaviour. Heâs fixating on a prominent male figure in her life.â
âNot the only one fixating on him,â Reid murmurs beside you.
You elbow him immediately.
âOw.â
Hotch glances up sharply. âSomething to add, Reid?â
Reid straightens. âUhâno. No, I think Rossi covered it.â
Hotchâs eyes narrow slightly, like he knows thereâs something heâs missing, but he lets it go.
âGarcia,â he says instead, âtell me you found something useful.â
âOh, I found things,â Garcia says immediately, the rapid clacking of her keyboard echoing loudly through the conference room speaker. âDeeply unsettling things. Our creepy little internet goblin has been very busy.â
Prentiss frowns slightly, mouthing âinternet goblinâ across the table to JJ.
âOkay, soâprofile 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.â
Hotch leans forward slightly. âHow sloppy?â
âSloppy enough that one login pinged off a public Wi-Fi network less than six blocks from her apartment last night,â she says. âAnd before anybody asks, yes, Iâm already pulling traffic cams.â
Hotch nods once, already shifting into command mode.
âMorgan, Prentissâstart 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 thereâve been any complaints of suspicious activity in the area. Peeping, prowlers, stalking complaintsâanything 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.â
Everyone starts moving immediately, papers shuffling and chairs scraping back as the room shifts into motion.
âI want to help,â you say suddenly. âThis is my mess, let me fix it.â
âYou can help,â he says evenly, âby going home, locking your doors, and staying there until we know exactly what weâre dealing with.â
You open your mouth to argue.
âI mean it,â he adds, voice low.
âIâll take her,â Reid offers immediately.
âNo,â Hotch says, gathering the printouts into one neat pile. âYou go with Morgan and Prentiss.â
Then his eyes flick up, meeting yours.
âIâm taking her home.â
The next hour is one of the strangest of your life.
Hotch tells you to take your laptop back down to Garcia, whoâs already in full FBI investigation modeâher 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 youâve interviewed in the last three years, forcing you to revisit dozens of interactions youâd 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 isnât 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 officeâfiles in one hand and his go-bag in the other, like he fully intends on staying the night if necessary.
âReady?â he asks, stopping beside your desk.
You stare at the go-bag for one long, deeply horrified second.
âYep,â you manage, voice tight as you slowly push out of your chair.
Hotch drives. You donât even try to argue. You just sit in the passenger seat with your knees pressed together and your heart beating out of your chest. Itâs not like you havenât 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 hadnât asked for directions the whole way here.
âWait,â 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 seatbeltâyour hands are shaking and your pulse is still pounding hard enough to make you dizzyâbut 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, youâve already mentally written an entire bodyguard romance plot starring Aaron Hotchner and yours truly by the time you finally reach your apartment door.
âIâuhâwasnât really expecting company,â you say as you push the door open. âSorry.â
The second you step inside, Leia leaps off the couch with a loud, rumbling trillâprobably wondering why youâre home before dark for the first time in years.
Hotch pauses, his brow furrowing slightly. âYou have a cat.â
You glance back at him as you kick your shoes off and nudge them out of the way. âIs that really the most surprising thing youâve learned about me today?â
He watches Leia for another second before glancing back at you. âItâs unexpected.â
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 dinnerâuntil 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.
âOh, she doesnât really like people,â you say quickly. âSo donât take it personally if sheââ
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.
Hotchâs 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 brieflyâthank Godâinto your bedroom, then double-checks the locks on the front door.
The whole thing feels weirdly surreal. Youâve imagined Aaron Hotchner inside your apartment a thousand times in a thousand different waysâjust 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, heâs 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, heâs 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, heâs going to see your vibrator sitting on the nightstandâand then youâll actually have to fake your own death.
Because youâve 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. Itâs 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 isnât 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 canât really help it. Youâre strung out, on edge, and, as Morgan so helpfully pointed out this morning, severely under-fucked.
And Leia, unfortunatelyâbut not unsurprisinglyâremains no help whatsoever.
By seven oâclock sheâs fully abandoned you in favour of draping herself across Hotchâs lap while he reviews new data from Garcia, completely oblivious to the fact that you havenât been able to breathe normally since he walked through the door.
âAre you hungry?â 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 Leiaâs back while she purrs in his lap.
âIâm fine.â
You lean a hip against the kitchen counter, folding your arms tightly across your chest. âAny updates?â
He glances back down at his screen. âGarcia narrowed the traffic footage down to three vehicles that stayed in the area longer than they should haveâMorgan and Prentiss are running the plates now. And Rossiâs pulling relatives connected to your previous cases. Family members who attended trials, sentencing hearings, interviews. Anyone who mightâve had access to your name outside the official reports.â
You nod slowly, silence settling again for a moment before you exhale sharply.
âAre you sure sitting here doing absolutely nothing is really the best use of me right now?â
His eyes flick back up, that signature Hotchner scowl set between his brows.
âYou think this is nothing?â
His voice stays calm, but thereâs something firmer underneath it now.
âYouâve spent the last four days being threatened, surveilled, and followed by someone we still havenât identified,â he says. âMorgan, Prentiss, and Reid are out chasing leads because somebody targeted you. Rossiâs pulling case files because somebody targeted you. Garciaâs been at her desk for six straight hours because somebody targeted you.â
His jaw tightens slightly.
âMy job right now is making sure nothing happens to you,â he says quietly. âLet me do that.â
Your breath catches, something warm and uncomfortably familiar twisting in your chest as Aaron Hotchner just sits there watching you like he hasnât said anything unusual at all.
Which, to him, maybe he hasnât.
Heâs just doing his job. Looking out for his team. Heâs not here because he wants to be. Heâs here because someone threatened one of his agents.
Thatâs all.
You clear your throat, pushing away from the counter before the silence stretches too long. âIâmâuhâIâm just going to shower quickly. If thatâs alright.â
He nods once. âWant me to clear theââ
âNo,â you say immediately. âGod, no. No. Itâs fine. Totally fine.â
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 youâre dripping wet and completely naked.
You rummage through your dresser until you find an oversized sweater that isnât totally threadbare and a clean pair of pyjama shorts. Technically, theyâre just striped flannel pants you cut into shorts, but at least theyâre 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.
âNo, wait for Morgan before you approach,â Hotch says as you step quietly back into the living room, phone pressed against his ear while he paces slowly beside the dining table. âIf the registrationâs fake, I donât want you making contact until we know exactly whoâs inside.â
He pauses, expression sharpening slightly.
âAlright. Keep me updated.â
He lowers the phone slowly before looking over at you for the first time since you re-emergedâand for half a second, he visibly loses his train of thought. Itâs only tiny. Barely there. Just a brief pause before his expression shutters back into place.
âGarcia tracked one of the vehicles from the traffic footage to a motel outside Arlington,â he says, glancing back down at the files scattered across the table. âThe driverâs been masking his activity through multiple VPNs, so she couldnât pull a clean trace from the motel Wi-Fi, but only one room in the motel was actively using the network.â
Your stomach tightens.
âThe name on the reservation was fake,â he continues, âbut the room was paid for using a credit card belonging to Daniel Mercer.â
The name hits you immediately.
âEthan Mercerâs brother,â you say quietly.
Hotch nods. âRossi confirmed it about twenty minutes ago. Morgan and Prentiss are waiting for local PD before they move in.â
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.
âEthan barely spoke during the trial,â you murmur, folding your arms as you lean back against the counter. âI donât think I ever even met his brother.â
âYou wouldnât need to,â Hotch says, already gathering the files into a neat pile. âPeople build attachments to investigators without ever interacting directly. Especially when theyâre looking for someone to blame.â
Your skin prickles. âYou really think itâs him?â
âIt fits,â Hotch replies evenly. âEstablished 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.â
He straightens, turning back toward youâand for the briefest second, his eyes drop to your bare legs before snapping back up to your face almost immediately.
He clears his throat. âThis probably isnât something heâs done before. But his brother has.â
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.
âWell,â you mutter eventually, gripping the edge of the counter to hoist yourself up. âOn the bright side, I still think Iâve dated worse.â
The joke leaves your lips lightly enough, the same way they always doâeasy, detached, halfway between genuine and ironic so nobody ever pauses long enough to look too closely.
Except this time Hotch does pause.
âWhy do you do that?â
You frown. âDo what?â
âDeflect.â He straightens again, one hand still holding a stack of printouts. âEvery time something gets too serious, you make a joke. Or you flirt. Or you say something just inappropriate enough to throw people off balance.â
You lift a shoulder. âMaybe Iâm just charming.â
âNo.â His eyes narrow slightly, brows pulling together. âNo, because it changes depending on the situation.â
Your pulse stutters.
âWith Morgan itâs competitive,â he continues, setting the papers back on the table. âYou 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.â
âWow,â you murmur, shifting your weight against the countertop. âStarting to feel a little attacked here.â
But Hotch doesnât seem to hear you.
âThe dating profile doesnât fit,â he says, almost to himself. âNeither does the apartment.â
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.
âYou project someone impulsive. Social. Sexually confident. But nothing in here supports that.â His eyes flick back toward you again. âYou live like someone who protects their space carefully. Even the cat.â
âLeave Leia out of this.â
âShe doesnât like strangers.â
âShe likes you.â
The words slip out too quickly, and something in his expression shifts.
âYou keep people at a distance,â he continues slowly, close enough now that you can hear the quiet rasp beneath his voice. âEven the team. You let people think they know you because it keeps them from looking closer.â He hesitates, brow furrowing. âExcept Reid.â
Your fingers tighten instinctively around the edge of the counter.
âYou trust him,â Hotch says. âNot just socially. Behaviourally. You anchor yourself to him when youâre stressed. Physical proximity. Eye contact. Redirecting conversations through him.â He pauses, watching you carefully now. âAnd earlier you said heâd been profiling you all week.â
Oh God.
âWhich means Reid already noticed the pattern.â
He goes quiet for a moment, his expression tightening almost imperceptibly as he looks back over the last few monthsâyearsâin real time. You can practically see it happening behind his eyes. Every interaction. Every joke. Every look you thought youâd hidden quickly enough.
âYou track me.â
The words come quieter now. Less certain. Like heâs still realising them.
âYou know my routines,â he continues slowly. âYou anticipate questions before I ask them. You look up when you hear my office door open even when you canât see me.â He steps closer again. âYou know when I need coffee before I do. You watch my reactions before anyone else in the room.â
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.
âYour breathing changes when I get too close to you,â 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.
âYou stop fidgeting,â he continues. âYou go completely still.â His gaze drops briefly to your hands before lifting again. âLike youâre afraid movement alone is going to give you away.â
Your heart is beating so hard now youâre half-convinced he can hear it.
âYou lose verbal fluency,â he says, voice lower now. âYou trip over words you normally wouldnât. Your pupils dilate. Your heart rate increases. And every single time I get close to noticing itââ
His eyes lock onto yours.
âYou redirect.â
You can barely breathe now.
Heâs 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 youâre 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 heâd bring to an unsubâexcept this time the thing heâs slowly uncovering is the fact that youâve 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.
âFigured it out yet, Agent Hotchner?â 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 thenâ
His phone rings.
He steps back immediately, his expression shuttering back into something careful and unreadable.
âHotchner,â he says, pressing his phone against his ear.
You donât hear much after that. Not really. You recognise Morganâs muffled voice, but you canât quite hear what heâs 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?
âThey got him.â
Your head snaps up. âThey what?â
Hotch moves back to the dining table and starts gathering his things.
âIt was him. Daniel Mercer,â he says. âMorgan 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.â
âOh.â
âLocal PD recovered notebooks too,â he continues. âNames, schedules, work addresses. Everyone connected to Ethan Mercerâs conviction. Judges, prosecutors, witnesses. You were first because you were the arresting agent.â
A cold shiver slips down your spine.
âGarcia also confirmed the motel Wi-Fi matched the same VPN chain used to access the dating profile,â Hotch adds. âOnce 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. Heâd been building the grievance for months.â
He pauses, then looks at you.
âBut they got him.â
âGood,â 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.
âLocal PD will hold Mercer overnight until federal transport clears,â he says, sliding the papers into his bag. âGarciaâs already started coordinating with the U.S. Attorneyâs Office. Youâll need to give an additional statement tomorrow regarding the dating profile.â
You nod. âOkay.â
Hotch reaches for his jacket, draping it over one arm.
âThereâll still be additional officers patrolling the area tonight,â he says. âAnd if you donât want to be alone, I can have Reid or Garcia stay here.â
âIâll be fine,â you mutter, glancing down at the kitchen tiles. âYou can stop babysitting me now.â
Hotch stills.
Then slowly, deliberately, sets his jacket on the table.
âBabysitting?â he repeats.
âYou know what I mean.â
He steps toward you, brows drawn. âI donât think I do.â
âYou solved the case,â you mutter, heat crawling up the back of your neck. âYou profiled me. Thoroughly. So congratulations, I guess. You figured out the whole sad little secret, the weird avoidance issues, the entire personality disorder cocktailââ You let out a short, humourless laugh. âYou can go back to pretending none of this ever happened now.â
He closes the distance between you before you even fully realise heâs moving, stopping directly in front of the counter again. Exactly where heâd been when you asked him if heâd 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.
âYouâre being deliberately provocative now because youâre embarrassed,â he says. âBut embarrassment isnât actually your primary response here.â
His gaze drops to your mouth again, and your pulse stumbles.
âIf it was,â he adds quietly, âyou wouldnât still be looking at me like that.â
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 canât.
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 youâve 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 isnât entirely sure he has permission yet.
Then he kisses you.
Itâs not rushed. Not messy. If anything, the first press of his mouth against yours feels almost unbearably controlled, like heâs still holding himself back even now.
But the restraint doesnât 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 everythingâand somehow thatâs what undoes you the most. Not urgency. Attention.
His breath mingles with yours, hot and uneven, and when his teeth catch your bottom lip itâs deliberate, measuredâa 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 youâve 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 heâs making sure of.
Like he needs to be absolutely certain this is real.
âAaronââ
âBedroom,â he says immediately, voice low and rough enough to send heat crashing straight through you. âNow.â
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 wakesâ
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 slowlyâso slowlyâtoward 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.
âDo you really get up this early?â he asks, voice rough with sleep.
âYeah,â you murmur. âMost days.â
His brows pull together slightly. âWhy?â
You let out a small, breathless laugh. âBecause my boss is kind of a hard ass about punctuality.â
Something that almost resembles amusement flickers across his face.
âSounds like a terrible boss,â he murmurs.
Then he tugs on your sweater againâhard 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.
âYeah,â you murmur, laughing softly as his mouth brushes beneath your ear. âHeâs awful. Very demanding.â
He hums, breath warm against your skin.
âHeâs really hot, though,â you add, smiling despite yourself. âSo I like having time to put in a little effort, you know? Hope he notices.â
âOh, he notices.â
Your stomach flips. âReally?â
âMhm.â
His arm tightens around your waist. âHe notices the skirts.â
Heat floods your face. âAaronââ
âHe notices the tights.â His mouth brushes against the nape of your neck. âThe ones with the seam up the back.â
âOh my God.â
You try to turn your face into the pillow, but he just holds you tighter, pressing his lips firm against your neck.
âAnd the red bra,â he murmurs.
Your breath catches.
âNoticed that so much I had to wait until everyone left the conference room before I could get up.â
You let out a strangled sound, squirming in his arms, but itâs no use. His chest vibrates against your back, something suspiciously close to laughter.
âMy washing machine broke that week,â you whine. âIt wasnât my fault.â
âMm, sure.â
You twist around immediately. âIâm not lying.â
The corner of his mouth twitches, like he doesnât quite believe you, but before you can protest againâhe 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.
âCareful,â you murmur, breathless against his mouth. âDonât want to be late.â
You feel his lips curve.
âGood thing Iâm the boss.â
10:35AM
You made it to work well on time. Even after three orgasms, a shower, and an awkward attempt at a âWhat Now?â conversationâthat ended in the aforementioned third orgasm. Because fortunately for your rapidly fraying nervous system, Hotch hadnât even hesitated when youâd finally asked what happens next. In fact, heâd answered a little too quickly.
The first thing heâd asked was whether youâd be comfortable keeping things quiet for a while. Not because heâs worried about the team finding outâhe 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 heâd 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 Bureauâs fraternisation policies before making any moves.
That was when you kissed himâeffectively, and very quickly, kicking off round three.
Because heâd 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, heâd already known exactly what he was getting himself into.
âAlright, gorgeous,â Morgan says, startling you as he raps a knuckle against your desk. âTheyâll be ready for you downstairs in ten.â
You glance up at him, brows drawnâand it takes an embarrassingly long second for you to figure out what heâs talking about.
âOh.â You blink. âRight. Yeah, Iâll head down soon. Thanks.â
Prentiss looks over from her desk. âYou gonna be okay?â
You lift a shoulder. âSure. Whatâs another case report?â
Morgan frowns, dropping into his chair. âItâs not exactly every day youâre the victim, baby girl.â
âYeah, but nothing really happened.â
Morgan and Prentiss both stare at you.
âBecause of the team,â you add quickly. âYou guys caught him before he actually did anything. So... you know, nothing bad happened.â You plaster on a smile that feels reasonably convincing. âThanks for that, by the way.â
Prentiss narrows her eyes, but before she can say anything else, Reid appears.
âYouâre in a remarkably good mood for someone who was being actively cyberstalked twelve hours ago,â he says, stirring his second coffee of the day.
You turn back to your screen, trying to ignore the heat creeping into your cheeks. âMaybe I just have a newfound appreciation for life.â
Reid studies you for a moment, clearly unconvincedâbut he doesnât 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 minutesâwhen a familiar voice cuts through your concentration.
âRossiâs taking Wallace with you next week,â Hotch says, setting the file down on your desk.
You blink up at him. âI thought you were leading the interview.â
âI was.â
Something in his expression tightens briefly before he lowers his voice.
âWallace has a long history of using sex, intimidation, and emotional targeting to destabilise people during interviews,â he says. âEspecially women.â
You frown. âHotch, Iââ
âAnd if he says something to you in that room,â he continues evenly, âor looks at you the wrong way, I need to know the agent sitting beside you is still capable of thinking objectively.â
Your stomach flips as his eyes meet yoursâsteady, intense, devastatingly honest.
âRight now,â he says quietly, âIâm not sure thatâs me.â
Then heâs gone. Moving through the bullpen back toward his office like he hasnât 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 youâd been focused on it at all in the first place.
ââŚHuh.â
You turn toward the sound and find Reid staring at you again. Not rudely. Just watching with the same focused curiosity heâd been wearing since your suspiciously cheerful comment about cyberstalking.
He tilts his head.
Thenâ
âOh my God.â
You close your eyes. âSpencer⌠donât.â
Š 2026 geminiwritten
Canon AU
Arthur never died and Merlin had all the time in the world to show him that magic isnât necessarily evil.
âAs punishment for lying to me, you have to muck out the stables for two weeks though, Merlin.â
âButââ
âYou can use your magic now.â
âOh.â
Say all you want but Arthurâs ass was infact NOT listening to whatever Merlin is saying in this scene. He is hungry and itâs not for food.
starting a collection

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It's end of May, yall know what that means
the hands?? the shirt?? the belt???
Oh the equestrian population is grateful for me




