we'll be alright

Curtis. That was the alpha’s name, and you were allowed to use it. You were allowed to do so many things. You could go anywhere in his house that you wanted. You could eat any of his food, whenever you wanted. You could choose what to do with your days. And when you cleaned or helped him cook, he said thank you. And he’d never punished you. Not once in two weeks. He was the best alpha you’d ever met. This was the best place you’d ever been.

So, of course, you’d spent the last week trying to figure out how to stay here. No one had less power than an unbonded omega. Not that you’d ever had much power in Franco’s house, but at least he’d bitten you. At least he’d claimed you as his. That’s what you needed from Curtis to truly become comfortable in his home. 

You’d expected it a thousand different times during your first week with him. And when nothing had happened, you started to worry. You didn’t have any frame of reference for an alpha who didn’t take his omega (or really, any omega) immediately. But when you’d finally asked him (after you’d attacked Claude and somehow, someway, you hadn’t been punished), Curtis’s answer had floored you.

He’d told you that he saw you as a person, and that you should get to decide what happened with your body. He wanted it to be your decision, when you were ready, to give yourself to him. You’d never even imagined anything like that. You wondered if this was what respect felt like.

But that begged the question, were you ready? It was all you’d been able to think about for the past week. You weren’t sure. You’d never had to know that about yourself before. But you could make yourself ready, couldn’t you, if it meant you got to stay here with this kind alpha? 

Your thoughts were interrupted by the sound of David flipping the cover shut on his little notebook. “Alright,” he said softly, with a gentle smile you wouldn’t fall for. “That’s our time for today. I understand that it’s going to take some time to build up enough trust for you to feel comfortable sharing your thoughts and feelings with me. There’s no rush on that. But I hope you believe me when I say that I genuinely want to help you through what must be a very difficult transition. I’m sure you have a lot to process, but you don’t have to do it alone. I want this to be a safe space to work through these things together.”  

You had no idea what to say to that, barely knew what it meant, so you just stood up when he did and let him guide you out to the hall where Yona was waiting for you. She led you back to the waiting room, where you’d left Curtis. He stood up as soon as he saw you, greeted you with a smile. You couldn’t help but smile back. You were so lucky.

“How’d it go?” Curtis asked once Yona had left the two of you alone, his hand ghosting your back, but never touching, as he guided you back to his truck.

“Good, Curtis,” you said, not exactly sure what he wanted to hear.

But you must have answered right, because he responded with a bright smile. “That’s great. I really hope it’ll be helpful.”

You nodded absently, ready to be back at his house.

That evening found you quietly humming to yourself as you helped Curtis make dinner. It would never stop being strange to you that this alpha really seemed to enjoy his time in the kitchen and preferred to be responsible for mealtime, but you wouldn’t complain. One of your failures as an omega was that you’d always hated cooking. You’d gotten your hand slapped by your mother, and then Martha and Emmy, numerous times for complaining about it. It was just another thing that made being with Curtis so wonderful.

“What are you humming?” he asked as he set down several freshly rinsed tomatoes on the chopping board in front of you.

You hadn’t realized you were doing it loudly enough for him to hear. You ducked your head in embarrassment. “Nothing,” you said quietly. “I’m sorry, Curtis.”

“Hey, nothing to apologize for,” he said gently, going back to check on the pan he had sizzling on the stove. He said that a lot. “You just–” he cleared his throat. “Seems like you’ve been in a pretty good mood the last few days. It’s really nice. I’m so glad you’re starting to feel better.”

You didn’t lift your head or look at him, but you beamed down at the counter as you started chopping the tomatoes. It made him happy when you were happy! You couldn’t wait any longer. You would make yourself ready. It was time to give yourself to him. You’d do it tonight.

The house was quiet. You were standing in the little bedroom he’d given you, frozen. Curtis had gone to bed a few hours before. You should have done it then; you knew that. But the prospect of seeing him face-to-face when you did this was too terrifying. It’d be better, easier, this way. But you’d still spent the last few hours trying to hype yourself up, muster up some bravery.

Not that you had anything to be afraid of. You knew that. If he was kind to you out of bed, then he’d be kind to you in bed. Right? Wouldn’t he? And even if he wasn’t, even if he used you like every alpha you’d ever known used omegas, then it would be worth it for everything else. It had to be. This was the best place you’d ever been. You needed to stay here, and this was how you’d do that. This was what he wanted you to do.

With a deep breath, you lifted your T-shirt over your head. You pushed down your leggings and underwear and stepped out of them. With shaking hands, you folded your clothes neatly and placed them in the hamper. Then you just stood there, staring at your cracked-open door. Do it do it do it. This would be good. This is what omegas were for.

The walk across the hall to his room felt never-ending, even though you knew it was only a few feet. You froze again when your hand clasped his doorknob. But just for a moment. Then you forced yourself to quietly open his door and step into his room. 

It was dark, and you couldn’t see much. But there was an overwhelming warmth, and you were immediately engulfed by his scent, which had seeped into every fiber of the room. It didn’t choke you like Franco’s or Wilford’s scent used to. You’d almost say it was comforting. Another sign that this was the right thing to do. Another sign that you shouldn’t be so terrified.

You waited a moment for your eyes to adjust and then carefully made your way to his bed. He slept in the center of the large mattress, on his side, facing the door. You paused at the edge of the bed to look at him. His face was completely relaxed in sleep, peaceful. He seemed smaller, maybe, than when he was awake and filling this house. There was no hint of cruelty here, like Franco had always seemed to have, even in sleep. It would be alright. You could do this.

With one last fortifying breath, you pulled back the covers and crawled onto the bed, very careful not to disturb him. When he didn’t stir, you let yourself go closer, turning around so that your back was to him, on your side just like he was. You were close enough now that you could feel his breath on the back of your neck, slow and steady, still asleep. After a few long moments, one of his arms fell over your hip, and his head dropped to lightly nuzzle into your neck. His beard was rough against your skin. The arm over you moved so that his hand gripped your hip, and he let out a sleepy little hum. You didn’t breathe. It was starting. You braced yourself to be flipped over and taken however he wanted. You were ready. You could do this.

But then– You felt his whole body go stiff behind you. He let out another sleepy noise, but this one sounded confused. And then, suddenly, the warmth of his body was gone, and he was scrambling wildly off the foot of the bed, one of the sheets caught on his leg until he shook it off. He flipped on a lamp and turned to stare at you, eyes blinking in shock. “What the fuck?” he breathed out.

You sat up, forcing yourself to let the covers drop, exposing yourself to him. “Alpha,” you whispered, your eyes deferentially glued to his blue and gray striped comforter. 

“What– What the fuck?” he mumbled to himself and then, to you, “What are you doing in here?” 

“I’m ready, Alpha,” you said, your head still bowed, trying to force as much confidence as you could into your voice.

“Ready for what?” and it was the panic in his tone that finally had you looking up. He was backed up against his dresser on the opposite side of the room. Both of his hands were on his head, and while his eyes were wide, they weren’t focused on you, seemingly trying to look anywhere else.

You rose up into a kneel, the sheets now pooled around your knees. You wanted to grab for them, to cover yourself as much as you could, but you didn’t. Even as he wouldn’t look at you. “You–” You started, stumbled, and tried again, your voice coming out small, pleading. “You didn’t want to claim me, mate me, until I was ready. I’m ready now, Alpha.”

“Oh my god!” Curtis’s hands moved to cover his face, and he shook his head. “What? I– When di– No, this– This–” He inhaled deeply and turned toward the digital clock on his dresser. It read 2:32. “Oh my god. I can’t deal with this right now. I can’t think–” He finally looked at you, but only your eyes. His gaze wouldn’t move any lower. “Please go back to your room. We’ll talk about this in the morning.”

Panic rose up in your throat. It squeezed your chest. What did he mean? What was there to talk about? Why wouldn’t he take you? You crawled forward to the edge of the bed. “No, no, Alpha. It’s okay. It’s okay. I’ll be so good for you. I’ll make it good! I will!” 

He held up one hand to stop you, shaking his head and looking away again. “No, stop. I– I need you to go to your room. Please.”

Tears started to gather in your eyes. How was this all falling apart? You needed him to take you so you could be safe here. “Alpha, Alpha, please. I– I want it– I–”

His head whipped back to you and his voice dropped terrifyingly low. “Omega, go to your room. Now.”

And as hard as you tried to resist it, you were powerless against the alpha command. Your legs moved without your permission, taking you off the bed and out of the room. A broken sob escaped your throat. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Curtis drop his head into his hands. You didn’t understand what had just happened. Why didn’t he want you?

The moment you were across the hall and in the room he’d called yours, the door to his room slammed shut, and you heard through the wall a loud, frustrated “Fuck!” It made you shrink into yourself even more.

You stared at his door and then the way yours hung open. You lifted your hand slowly and, after a long beat, hesitantly closed it. Nothing happened. The alpha didn’t come pound on it. He didn’t do anything. He wouldn’t. He didn’t want you. So you reached out again and flipped the lock. You let out another sob as you did it. 

You pulled the top blanket off the bed and dragged it behind you, moving to the corner of the room. You stopped at the desk and grabbed the friendship bracelet that you’d delicately placed there when you’d first come to this house, the only thing you had in the whole world that was yours. The only thing you had that Grace had given you. You collapsed onto the floor in the corner and wrapped the blanket around you as tightly as you could. Your fingers carefully traced the little ballerina charm on the bracelet. You missed your sister so much. Now more than ever. You’d never felt so alone. What was going to happen to you?

Your head was resting against the wall, eyelids dropped low but not quite closed. You hadn’t slept at all. You’d spent the last however many hours in a strange liminal space, not awake, not asleep. Just there. It was still dark out, but you could tell through the windows that the sky was becoming a little more gray, a little less black. The birds were starting to wake, their calls coming from the trees outside the window. You didn’t want the new day to come.

But it did. A quiet knock startled you out of your stupor. “Hey,” Curtis’s gruff voice carried through the door. “I know it's early, but I'm pretty sure we're both awake. I'm gonna make breakfast, and I'd appreciate it if you came out so we can talk.” 

There was a long pause in which neither of you said anything. You didn’t know what to do. You didn’t want to face him. Would he force you out of the room if you didn’t respond? Would he command you again? Franco had thrown out alpha commands left and right without much thought. You shouldn’t be so surprised that Curtis might do the same. Letting your guard down was your own fault. You shouldn’t be so upset. 

You waited for Curtis to react to your silence, assert his dominance in some way, but after a moment that seemed to stretch on forever, you heard him slowly move down the hall. You wanted to breathe a sigh of relief, but you knew it would be hollow. As much as you wanted to burrow back inside the blanket, stay there forever, you couldn’t. The blanket wouldn’t protect you, nor would this room. Hiding couldn’t change whatever was about to happen to you. So, slowly but surely, you got up. You placed the blanket back on the bed. You put on a pair of leggings and your comfiest sweater. You gave Grace’s ballerina charm one final squeeze, for luck, then gently placed it back on the desk. There was no sense in delaying the inevitable, so you unlocked the door and forced yourself out of the room and down the hall, trying so hard not to drag your feet as you went.

When you got to the kitchen, you expected Curtis to be halfway through making breakfast, but nothing was cooking. There was no food out, or pots and pans or anything. Just Curtis, standing in the middle of the room, his hands braced on the island, his eyes staring down at nothing. He was in rumpled pajamas, his shoulders slumped. You’d never seen him look like this.

You paused several feet away from him, unsure of what to do. His gaze flicked to you, then back to the counter immediately. He sighed with his whole body. “I’m not actually hungry,” he said, his voice low, rough. Tired. “How about you?”

You silently shook your head. You were too nauseous to be hungry. Too afraid. Too sad.

Even though he still wouldn’t look at you, he must have sensed your movement. He raised his head just enough to nod. “Yeah,” he sighed. “Let’s– Let’s sit down.”

He waited for you to move to the table first and take a seat in the chair by the wall. Then once you’d sat, he sat himself in a chair opposite from you, scooted away from the table. Keeping his distance. You curled in on yourself. “I’m sorry,” you whispered, still unsure of what you’d done wrong. Aside from just not being what he wanted. You supposed that was enough.

He cleared his throat roughly. “Uh, yeah. Thank you. We’ll– We’ll talk about that in a minute. But first, I really need to apologize too.” Your head whipped up at that, finally making eye contact with him. His eyes were so sad. “I’m so sorry,” he continued, every word dripping with sincerity, “for using an alpha command on you. I never should have done that. I– It was the middle of the night, and I was very surprised, but that’s no excuse. It wasn’t okay, and I’m very, very sorry that I did it.”

All you could do was stare at him. You didn’t think you’d ever been apologized to before. Definitely not by an alpha. Alphas never apologized. For anything. Certainly not to omegas. And for something as commonplace as an alpha command! If alphas weren’t supposed to use commands, then it wouldn’t be a thing they were able to do. And omegas wouldn’t be weak enough to be susceptible to it. It was just another biological sign that alphas were superior. Once again, Curtis wasn’t making any sense.

He was clearly waiting for a response, but you didn’t know what to do. So you just nodded once, as his words repeated on a loop in your head.

He waited a long beat and when you didn’t say anything, he just nodded to himself. “Alright,” he began slowly, “let's–” He frowned and shook his head, then let out another sigh. “I really need you to explain to me what you were doing last night.” 

You shrank back in your chair. You really didn't want to detail your humiliation, your rejection. You just wanted to find out what was going to happen to you now.

But he was staring, his eyes pleading. “Please,” he said. “I just need to understand.”

You took a deep breath and looked away. The only way you could do this was if you didn’t have to look at him. “I–” You tried to start, but the words got caught in your throat. “I thought–” You shook your head. Why was he making you do this? Your eyes started to burn, the telltale sign that tears were on their way. Deep breath. “I– I was showing you I was ready to be claimed, like you wanted. Like you said.”

“Like I said?!” The incredulity in his voice had you looking back at him. His eyebrows were at his hairline, his mouth pursed. “When did I say that?” The question was rushed, urgent.

You let your own confusion show. How could he not remember? “At the center. After Claude.” When that didn’t seem to jog anything, you continued. “You said that you hadn’t touched me yet because it was my body and you wanted it to be my choice. You wanted me to come to you. When I was ready.”

For a very long moment, he just sat there and blinked at you. And then, his eyes got very, very wide. “Oh my god,” he whispered. Then, a little louder, “Oh my god. Holy shit.” He dragged his hands down his face and just sat there for another moment. Then, with a deep breath, he scooted closer to the table. Putting his forearms across the table top, he leaned forward. “Okay,” he said. “I think there are some things that we need to clear up, that, uh, seem to have gotten lost in translation.” He locked eyes with you, and his face softened dramatically. In the gentlest voice you’d ever heard, he said, “Honey, I’m not going to claim you.”

You had no excuse for the way your heart split in two at those words. You already knew that. He’d made it clear that night. But still, hearing it said so definitively… The tears were no longer just a threat. They had begun spilling over your eyelashes onto your cheeks. With a broken little cry, you asked, “Why not?”

Curtis gave you a pained look, his fingers twitching on the table. “Because,” he started, but then stopped. Another sigh. “I will explain it as best as I can,” he said slowly, “but first, can I ask why you want me to claim you?”

 You just looked at him, confused. What did he mean? You wanted him to claim you because you were an omega, and omegas needed to be claimed. That– That was just how it worked. And as an alpha, he should know that. Was this another test? Was he asking you to prove that you knew an omega’s place? If it were any other alpha, you’d be sure that that’s what this was. But Curtis… Curtis was kind to you. You’d yet to walk into any of the traps you’d expected from him. Maybe– Maybe, the traps just weren’t there. You took a deep breath, wiped the tears from your eyes, and said, as sure as you could manage, “So I can stay here.”

“Honey, I promise, you can stay here as long as you need. I don’t need to claim you to make that happen.”

That didn’t make sense. This conversation was just leaving you more confused. “Yes, you do. I’m an omega. I need an alpha.” You didn’t understand why he needed you to explain this to him.

You watched some sort of understanding dawn on his face. “Have you ever known an omega without an alpha?” he asked gently.

“No,” you said firmly, shaking your head. It was a ridiculous thought.

He hummed quietly to himself. Then, “You have, though. Yona, at the center. You’ve seen her neck. You know she’s unclaimed. She doesn’t have an alpha.”

“Well, then her father’s her alpha,” you growled out, getting frustrated at having to state the obvious. Why was he being so obtuse?

But Curtis just shook his head. “Yona’s an adult. Her alpha parent hasn’t had any legal claim on her since she was eighteen.” 

“No–why–” You stuttered. You could feel something crashing down inside your mind that you couldn’t put into words. A panic was rising in your chest that you didn’t understand.

Curtis just continued on, speaking softly. “I’ve spoken to her enough to know that she isn’t looking for an alpha. She prefers being on her own. And that’s just fine. Just because she’s an omega doesn’t automatically mean that she needs an alpha.” Then he caught your eye, making sure he had your attention. “Just because you’re an omega doesn’t mean you need an alpha.”

“What?” you breathed out. That didn’t make sense. That wasn’t how things were. You closed your eyes tightly as the panic spread through your body. “I'm not going to have an alpha?!”

“No,” he said, with a calmness you couldn’t wrap your head around, “not in the way you mean. Not right now. When you mate with someone, if you ever do again, it should be because they make you happy. Not just safe or secure, but happy. It should be a decision that you both make together. That’s why I didn’t claim you last night.

“But just because I’m not your alpha, doesn’t mean I’m not here for you. I want to help you in any way I can. I’m very serious about that. And I promise you that you can stay here as long as you want. No one is going to make you leave until you’re ready.” When he paused, you opened your eyes to find him looking at you with such sadness. “The way you’ve been treated, that’s not how it’s supposed to be. That’s not how it is in most of the world. It’s– You deserve so much better than that.”

It was the sincerity and conviction in his words that finally did it, that finally broke you. You’d spent your whole awful life knowing that there was no use in being sad or hoping for something different, because this was just how things were for omegas. But if that hadn’t been true? If that wasn’t just how things were for omegas? If there was a different, better life out there that you just hadn’t gotten to have because you were so unlucky? You didn’t think that you could even begin to understand what you’d lost. But you felt it. You felt it right in your chest. It was your heart being torn into pieces.

A sob wracked through your body as you let your head fall to your knees. Your whole body shook as you cried. You heard the scrape of Curtis’s chair being pushed back from the table and then felt the warmth of his body as he crouched in front of you. 

“Can I–” he started hesitantly. You could barely hear him over the sound of your sobs. “Can I touch you? Can I hold you?”

The “No,” tumbled out of your mouth before you’d even really had a chance to think it. But you didn’t regret it. You were sure that if he touched you now, you’d completely shatter. But you also weren’t afraid of saying no. If everything he’d said was true, then you wouldn’t be punished for this. If he really wanted to help you, then he would let you say no. It felt like the first real choice you’d ever made.

“Yeah, okay,” he said, his voice startlingly small. “That’s fine. But I’m– I’m right here. I’m right here. You aren’t alone.”

Tag List is open!

Between yours and robby’s legs a felt rat was tossed half haphazardly on the matress, soon after tiny hands joined; lacey gripped unknowingly onto robby’s ankle. Using all of her might, lacey scrambled up towards you both.

Lacey looked at you both and turned her head, looking as robby snored, then back at you where you laid quietly. She wiggled herself some space before laying down between you both.

You felt her head lay down, on top of where you and robby held each others hand.

As you went to open your eyes, robby squeezed your hand slowly, counting down.

One…

Two..

Three.

“Happy birthday!”

“You’re six!”

“AHH!” Lacey screamed.

You bursted out in giggles, watching as robby held lacey in his arms. You leaned over and planted kisses on her cheeks. 

“It’s your birthday!” You cheered, smiling as lacey was released from robby’s grasp. She crawled away and panted, her hand over her heart. 

“You scared me.” She sighed, shaking her head before smiling widely at you both. “It’s my birthday!” She cheered. You and robby laughed.

“How does six years old feel?” Robby asked, smiling at lacey; she pondered. “Hungry.” She answered, nodding her head to affirm her words.

“Are you excited for your party?” You asked, smiling as lacey nodded eagerly. 

“And mackenzie said she’d be there and so did ruby!” Lacey spoke up about her guests, rubbing her eye before turning to robby.

“Can i get cereal?” She asked, knowing her favorite kind was stashed up on the highest shelf in the cabinet.

“Go brush up for me while i make your cereal.” Robby nodded, brushing back lacey’s stray baby hairs. “OKAY!” She used the blanket as a rope before running to the bathroom.

Robby sat up and put on his glasses.

Turning around he saw you nodding to yourself as you pulled on a loose thread from your pajamas. “What’s the matter?” He asked, noticing the tears built up in your eyes.

“I have a six year old now…We have a six year old..” You sighed, wiping away the stray tears.”Feels like just yesterday i was juggling med school and her late night need for snuggles.” You chuckled, looking up to see robby smiling softly, his hand gently rubbing circles on your leg.

“Late night snuggles turned into early morning cuddle sessions.” He chuckled, reaching out and wiping away your tears, you scoffed at yourself and rubbed your eyes. “I’m sorry, i can’t handle all these emotions and then the baby doesn’t help!” You apologized.

“Don’t be, it’s natural, don’t be surprised if i start tearing up during cake.” Robby smiled, you chuckled shaking your head laughing. “You’re most likely gonna tear up..” You kissed robby’s palm.

Lacey had chosen to hide her party theme as a surprise for her dad. With the help of your family and friends. One night while robby had ran a bit over at work; You and lacey had got to work planning everything out.

- - - - - - - -

Upon entering the rental house for the party, robby had been rushed away with lacey to the main bedroom, as the hours drew closer to the party’s official start time, you had rushed in and out of the bedroom, just touching up before leaving the pair.

“Higher daddy!” Lacey giggled as robby failed the height approval of the birthday girl.

“More?!” He asked dramatically, earning more of her light giggles.

There was a knock on the door before it opened, mohan stepped in, collins not far behind her. “There’s the birthday girl!” Mohan smiled as lacey straighten out, smiling widely at the women in the mirror. “How old are you?” Collins asked, smiling at the child.

“SIX!” She held up her hands.

“That’s so cool!” Mohan smiled, high fiving lacey.

Robby sighed at his failed attempt of her hair, her pigtails both lopsided and uneven. “You do countless intubations almost daily, and yet you're failing at pigtails?” Collins laughed, brushing robby out the way before undoing the attempt.

Mohan helped, shuffling through your bag of hair things, lacey watched the three in the big mirror, the two women fixed her pigtails before adding dainty bows to her head.

Looking at herself, lacey bobbed her head before grinning widely.

“I’m ready..” She grinned, motioning to be place back down on the ground. Robby quickly did so and watched as she ran to grab her tablet before taking a photo of herself and half of the bottom of robby’s jeans.

“Where’s your things lacey?” Samira asked, looking around for lacey’s finishing touch for her party’s theme.

“My bag but daddy had to leave.” Lacey pointed out, making robby chuckle, raising his hands in mock surrender. “I’m going, i’ll be with your mom.” He nodded before walking downstairs, hearing lacey’s giggles as she shut the door before changing.

- - - - - - - -

Robby sat on the couch, his drink in hand as he spoke with your brothers and jack about upcoming pirates game.

“Ahem, the birthday girl has a surprise for her dad.” You smiled, blocking the staircase, robby sat up and smiled as you moved away.

“Ready for you buggy!” You called out.

Your guests stopped and watched as lacey came down the steps wearing a small lab coat and a small badge hanging from her chest pocket.

“This is dr. lacey, the stuff animal specialist.” You announced, watching as lacey walked down the steps, a confident smile on her face. Robby watched with a small smile, taking in his daughter.

“I’m like you and mommy!” Lacey cheered throwing her hands up, robby laughed as he hugged the six year old. “Are you gonna be a good doctor to your stuffies?” Jack asked, a smile on his face as he watched the pair.

Lacey nodded, “The best, oh i forgot!” She fiddled with the coat’s pocket before pulling out a play stethoscope. Robby snorted out a laugh, gently looking over the details of her costume.

“You like it daddy?” She asked, her eyes wide, hoping for his approval.

“I love it, you look so beautiful.” He smiled, holding her smaller hands. “Now go on, i think you have some friends who are waiting for you dr. lacey.” He nodded towards outside where her classmates played.

She perked up, running outside to greet her friends. 

Robby shook his head, his smile not leaving.

- - - - - - - -

You sat outside with your friends, watching the kids run around. You gently patted your bump, your youngest was due anytime, your bump had dropped slightly but nothing else.

You peaceful sat, occasionally sipping on your drink, laughing with friends, watching lacey run around playing doctor. You leaned forward to look at the fruit tray to see it a bit bare.

Standing up, you waddled to the kitchen for the fruit you had bought to fill the trays. Lacey walking in behind you, heading to her bag of toys upstairs to bring down to her friends.

You stood at the counter, gently slicing up fruits into bite size pieces for everyone. A warm hand on your bump made a soft smile grow, robby leaned over your hand rubbed your bump with one hand while the other snuck a piece of pineapple.

“How you doing gorgeous?” He asked, wiping his hand on the nearby towel before cupping your bumps with his other hand. “Tired, baby’s sleeping away in there.” You sighed, sneaking a piece yourself before resuming your task.

“No cramps? No soreness in your belly?” Robby asked, his doctor mode turning on as he checked you over himself. 

“Nope, we’re fine.” You reassured, placing to knife down to soft pat his cheek, feeding him a piece.

“My dad kick you away from the grill?” You asked, smirking at him.

“No, wife watch, make sure you don’t hurt yourself.” He grinned, you shook your head, placing the fruit in a bowl before either of you could speak the doorbell rung.

You glanced up, ready to go answer the door but stopped as lacey stopped in the archway of the kitchen, dolls in hand.

“I’ll get it!” She grinned, you nodded, allowing her to do so thankful for the screendoor.

“I’m gonna go put this outside, stay here and drink some water.” Robby told you as he picked up the bowl and walked to the backyard. You chuckled and walked to the fridge to grab a bottle but frowned as the fridge was empty.

You shut the door before turning to walk to the garage, knowing you had your brothers stuff extra drinks in there.

As you got closer to the garage door, you stopped.

Lacey stood in the doorway, her hands clutching her dolls as she stared at the visitor with unreadable eyes.

“Let me in bug.” Nick tried to coaxed lacey, she stood froze as she stared at the man, she shook her head. “No..” She began to back away, you walked over.

Your heart fell as she jumped when she accidentally bumped into your leg, You turned to nick with a scoff. “What the hell are you doing here?” You asked, running a hand over lacey’s head, she hid her face into your pants.

“I’m here for my daughter’s birthday what else?!” Nick scoffed, acting as if you had asked him to dumbest question.

“The court gave me full custody, remember.” You stood your ground, your eyes darting to make sure the screen door was locked, gently guiding lacey behind you.

Nicholas scoffed, pounding his fist on the door, you jumped back slightly, “That’s still my daughter, i just happen to have her with a bitchy mother.” He scoffed at you, hitting the door.

Lacey clutched onto you, her body stiffening up.

“Hey, don't you ever speak of her like that!” Robby yelled, storming over to the door. Copying nick’s actions; Robby hit his fist against the door, making nick jump back in shock.

“Y’know you’re practically begging for a restraining order.” Robby scoffed, glaring at the man outside.

Nick avoided robby’s gaze and attempted to catch yours or lacey’s.

“You don’t look at them, you look at me!” Robby snapped, closing the door enough to hid you both out of sight. You took in a breath and guided lacey to the stairs, as you passed through the living room, jack walked out of the bathroom, his gaze shifted as he noticed how tense you both were.

“What happened?” He asked, walking over to you both, you motion for lacey to go upstairs, she does so with no hesitation.

“Her father is at the door, he kept hitting the door trying to make me open it for him.” You explained, being heartbroken over lacey’s panic. Jack’s face fell at the news, he turned to see robby still in the doorway arguing.

“Go be with her.” Jack motioned with his head to upstairs, you nodded and walked to the main bedroom.

Lacey sat on the bed, her hands holding the stuff rat robby had bought her. “It’s alright buggy..” You sighed, taking her figure in your arms, holding her tightly as she let out a shaky breath, you let your own tears fall.

“I don’t want daddy to be hurt.” She muttered, pushing her face into your shoulder for comfort.

You tried to pull yourself together, rubbing her back you sighed. “Are you hurt?” You asked, searching through the teary gaze for any injuries. Lacey shook her head. “Where’s daddy?” She asked. 

“He’s downstairs with uncle jack, he’ll be up soon to check on you..” You sighed, wiping away your tears.

You both sat in silence before she spoke up. 

“When can we do cake?” 

- - - - - - - -

Walking up the stairs robby had prepared to see any sight but was surprised as he entered to see you both on the bed, eating cupcakes, doc mcstuffins on the tv.

“How are my girls doing?” He asked, sitting down beside lacey who giggled at a joke on the show.

“Hungry.” Lacey popped up, the cupcake wrapper in hand. You shrugged at robby, “She wanted cake but said we needed to wait for uncle jack and daddy.” You spoke up, wiping away a stray crumb off your bump.

“If she wants cake, then she’s getting a big slice!” He picked up the six year old who happily kicked her legs. 

You and robby quickly gather your guests around for cake.

Lacey had refused to leave robby’s hold, clinging onto him as everyone began to sing.

Lacey glanced around the room and let out a shaky breath, looking over where you stood by robby, hand on your bump, then to jake who held the cake up to her, then to jack who watched with a small smile.

Finally she turned to see robby watching her, a hint of a smile.

“Make a wish sweetie!” You cooed, robby nodded in agreement at the lit candles.

Lacey looked at you then back to robby before nodding; she gently blew out the candles, smiling as everyone cheered.

She giggled.

You helped jake in handing out slices of cake. Lacey happily took her slice.

Robby shook his head as jake offered one to him. “Take a bite, is it good?” Robby asked lacey who dipped her finger in the frosting.

She licked it off and made a sour face.

“Burnt.” She cringed.

Robby furrowed his brows, taking the plate. “Shouldn’t be.” He went to cut it half, lacey grabbed a small scoop of frosting and smeared it on his face.

You gasped, laughing at your daughter’s mischievous side. Robby stayed silent, looking at lacey who laughed hard.

“Alright birthday girl!” He laughed, quickly holding her up as he placed frosting kisses on her cheeks, she squealed in laughter.

Both stopped, you smile dropped as the pair turned to you. 

“I think your mom needs some love.” Robby told lacey who nodded. You laughed as the pair quickly rushed over, lacey giving you a kiss on one cheek while robby did the same on the other.

Dana quickly pulled out her phone to take a photo of the family, quickly sending to the ED’s group chat.

A photo of robby with a frosting beard, yourself with the plate of cake and little frosting smooches on your cheeks and a little girl with frosting on her face made rounds at the hospital each time with the same caption.

“The pitts toughest attending with his weaknesses!”

Michael Robinavich never had kids of his own. the closest he got was his favorite resident.

so when she comes in barely coherent after passing out. her needing to stay on an IV fluids to boost everything after fainting from skipping meals made his stomach drop. his already hectic shift is worsened just seeing you in that hospital bed. you feel awful.

Robby is already agitated and a mess because of his ptsd flashbacks from Doc Adamson and losing multiple patients on one shift. this is the cherry on top.

she notices Robby sprinting over with a mumbled “jesus fucking christ” and just knows she’s in for him freaking out over her.

Robby runs a hand down his face, visibly struggling to keep his professional mask on as he looms over the bed like an angry thundercloud.

"Christ on a cracker, kid. You want to explain why I just got paged about my best resident being wheeled in looking like death reheated?" He aggressively flips through the chart with jerky movements before slamming it shut.

"You collapsed because your blood sugar was 52? 52?! Did you forget you're a damn doctor who knows better? Or were you too busy playing martyr to remember basic human functions?" His voice cracks slightly despite the biting tone as he adjusts her IV too roughly, betraying how shaken he really is.

she sighs, “l told them not to take me here- Presby is like 5 minutes extra but they insist because i live in our capture..”

he pulls up a chair with enough force to make the wheels screech, sitting so close his knees bump the bed frame.

"Damn right they insisted! You think I’d let some Presby intern poke at you with their salad-fingers?" He drags a hand down his face again, beard bristling. "You— you — are walking malpractice today. Skipping meals between shifts? What’s next, forgetting to breathe during a code?!"

His voice drops suddenly, gruff but quieter as he nudges her water cup closer. "...Was it the twins case? The DIC mom?" Eyes flick to her face searching for tells— he knows which losses gut her most.

“good thing i’m not on shift tonight or this week.” she mumbles and sips the water.

he leans forward with his elbows on his knees, voice dropping to a gravelly mutter, "Oh no, absolutely not— you think I’m letting you near this hellhole for the next 72 hours? You’re officially banned until your labs look less like a dumpster fire." Snatches her chart back and scribbles aggressively.

"Nutrition consult. Psych eval— don’t give me that look, you’d order it for any other resident who collapsed from neglect. And since we both know you won’t rest unless chained to the bed…" Yanks the side rails up with excessive drama. "Congrats. You just became my most annoying inpatient."

Robby pauses mid-rant to jab a finger at her half-empty cup. “Drink. Or I start an NG tube purely out of spite."

she pouts, “Robby…”

he glares at her pout but slides the cup back closer pointedly. He looks away to mask the concern in his eyes.

"Don’t Robby me, you’ve lost all cute-resident privileges." he adjusts her blanket unnecessarily, checking the IV drip “Just… tell me you’ll take your vacation days and relax, would you? Somewhere without IVs, crash carts, or death."

Robby sighs as he pats her hand awkwardly, hiding his own need for contact behind gruff caregiving. "You’ve got to live, kid. Not just survive."

“your bedside manner is horrible. I would’ve asked for jack if you were gonna be mean to me about my eating disorder-”

He freezes mid-IV check, grip tightening on the tubing before he deliberately forces his fingers to relax. When he speaks, it's quieter but razor-edged.

"You want Jack? Jack Abbot, who missed signing off on your charts last month because he was too busy flirting with Samira Mohan?" Robby pulls up her blanket with sharp tugs. "Fine. But first—" he jabs the call button violently. " but first let’s get psych down here since we’re suddenly admitting to new diagnoses at midnight."

Robby leans in close, voice dropping to a growl— but his hand hovers near her shoulder like he wants to shake her or hug her and can’t decide. "...You scared me half to death. Cut me some slack for being an asshole about it."

“Robby c’mere.. I was kidding I don’t want Abbot” she mumbles.

He rolls his eyes but gives in to the unspoken plea, scooting the chair even closer. Doesn’t miss a beat as he keeps adjusting her blanket and IV tubing while talking. robby and nervously adjusting blankets and tubing is just his way of trying to make sure everything is under control.

"I know you don’t want Sargent Douche. I’m the only one who knows you well enough that you won’t lie to me — perks of being your favorite pain in the ass mentor."

He leans in like he’s going to lecture or tease, but just quietly says— "You took 10 years off my life tonight, Kid. Don’t do it again." He squeezes her hand, brief and fierce.

she nods, “is the psych evaluation necessary?”

Robby scoffs but keeps his voice low as he finally sits back from his fussing, still holding her hand.

"Necessary? For anyone else, no. For a resident who skipped three meals while on her way to clinical collapse? Hell yes." Raps her knuckles with his chart pen when she scowls, before his expression softens.

"Look, I know psych evals are a pain, but it's the only way to keep you out of ICU and here with me instead. Plus—" His eyes narrow, tone dropping stern. "You need help, not just a IV of vitamins and an empty promise to eat better. Now, promise me you’ll actually talk to the psych team, or I’ll tell them to keep you on for a 48 minimum while I personally spoonfeed you Ensure shakes."

A tiny smile tugs his mouth when she rolls her eyes, but his gaze is serious. "Deal?"

she nods, “it’s just embarrassing.”

Robby raises an eyebrow slightly, tone softening, "Because doctors aren't supposed to need help? Bullshit. And you're not fooling me— you're smarter than that."

he squeezes her hand, voice dropping lower so it's just for her. "The real reason is 'cause it hurts. Admitting it out loud, letting people see you're not alright..." He trails off, eyes distant before he looks back to her.

"But that's what mentors are for. To catch you before you fall. So use me, kid."

she nods and looks away with tears, “I’m sorry if I disappointed you or made your night worse. most days I have it under control. I eat granola when I’m not that hungry and eat when I am hungry…”

He holds her hand tighter when tears threaten, voice gruff but gentle, "First off, you've never disappointed me and I never want to hear you say it again— understood?" His expression softens at her nod, some walls of his own cracking as he sighs.

"You always make my night better, Kid. I don't care if it's 3am and you need to cry over a patient— call me. Wake me up. Hell, break down my door if you have to."

“I’m not Derek Morgan” she laughs softly for the first time all night.

he chuckles softly, nudging her shoulder with mock exasperation, "Yeah, yeah— you're not kicking down doors or running with the BAU either. But you are keeping me on my toes."

Robby leans back and folds his arms with a scowl to hide his smile. "Don't get used to all this sentimentality. Once you're up and eating solids again, it's back to me yelling every time you screw up a basic suture pattern."

she nods, “how lovely.”

He snort laughs, relaxing back in his chair as he flicks his chart pen at her, "Oh, shut up and get some rest. I’ll put on the Food Network if you're gonna pout. Maybe Ina Garten will inspire you to actually eat a full meal by the time you're discharged."

she smiles, “that’s totally insensitive.”

he pauses mid-flick, brow furrowing, "The Food Network comment? Yeah, it was a bit of a reach..."

Takes another beat, suddenly catching the subtle dig at his insensitivity. "Hey— I am trying to be insensitive. I am a goddamn delight. Don't you have a pillow you need to go pout into?"

Despite the teasing tone, there's a flicker of hurt in his otherwise dry exasperation, and he ducks his head, fidgeting with his chart like he's suddenly self-conscious.

she smiles and grabs Robby’s arm and pulls him to the side of her gurney and rests on his arm.

Stiffens briefly in surprise at her sudden proximity, then huffs an exasperated laugh as she leans on him.

"You're impossible, you know that?" he murmurs, wrapping an arm around her shoulders to let her rest more comfortably.

After a quiet moment, he murmurs softly, looking away as he admits. "I'm sorry if I come off as insensitive sometimes. It's-- just easier."

“I was kidding” she mumbles and closes her eyes and snuggles into his arm.

Blows out a long breath, shaking his head slightly as he adjusts to let her settle in more comfortably— grip still tight but gentler now. His tone shifts into something softer, laced with a quiet exhaustion.

"Figures you’d punk me now, when I can’t even yell without looking like the bad guy." Flicks off the overhead light so just the monitors glow, voice dropping to almost paternal gruffness. "Sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up."

And for once— no sarcasm, no deflection— just a promise kept in the hum of machines and his steady presence beside her.

he sits vigil by her side most of the night while she sleeps, finally dozing in the chair.

He blinks awake to her stirring, stretching stiffly but keeping a steadying hand on her, voice rough with fatigue but relieved. "Mmm. Easy there, kid. You finally rejoined the land of the living?"

His eyes are shadowed but attentive, scanning her for any signs of distress despite his half-asleep state. The steady beeps of the heart monitor anchor them both.

Jack walks in, checking her chart. he saw her name on the board and immediately took it when he finally set his stuff down after clocking in. his hazel eyes full of worry as the night shift attending searches over his and Robby’s favorite resident.

Stirred by Jack’s presence, Robby straightens a little in his chair but doesn’t let go of her hand, still half-asleep but keeping watch over her fiercely.

"Morning, jackass." Robby nods at Jack, who he’s known long enough for the teasing to be familiar. He stifles a yawn, squinting at her as his eyes adjust to the light.

"How’s our most stubborn coworker? You look a little less corpse-like than last night."

Jack’s brows furrow at your mumbles of your condition but he nods, noting the diagnosis before looking to Robby for confirmation.

Robby grimaces, squeezes her hand briefly before muttering into his coffee mug. "Yeah, we’ll talk about that with psych later. I’m just relieved she’s still alive after playing hero and skipping meals.”

He nudges her lightly, eyes betraying his relief. "You scared me, Kid. Thought I was going to lose another one of my favorite residents on day shift. No more close calls for the next decade, yeah?"

she nods, “never fainted before.. don’t plan on making it a thing.”

Jack chuckles softly, flipping the chart shut. "Good to hear."

Robby exhales sharply, rubbing his tired eyes before reaching for the water glass— refilling it without asking and pressing it into her hands. "Damn right you won’t. Next time you even think about skipping meals, I swear I’ll personally shove a protein bar down your throat during rounds."

Robby’s words are gruff but threaded with an unmistakable warmth as he glares at both of them now. "...You're stuck with me worrying over you now. So deal with it."

Jack smirks at Robby’s typical grumbling, rolling his eyes as he leans against the counter. "Relax, old man. I already paged again for psych consult because they’re busy— and made sure dietary sent up a tray that doesn’t look like hospital gruel."

Robby scowls but doesn’t argue, just mutters into his coffee, "...Better be actual food and not that sad Jell-O they keep pushing."

Robby rushes to the room as soon as he hears about the situation, his face etched with concern. He finds her- trembling and disoriented, your roommate anxiously pacing nearby. “Hey, sweetheart,” he calls out softly, crouching down beside your bed.

she blink and try to focus, “im here again? no-”

He nods gently, his brow furrowed with worry. “Yeah, you’re here again. And you’re not in good shape, kiddo.” He carefully lifts your hand, checking her pulse and examining your pupils. “back-to-back episodes is not good, sweetheart. Not good at all.”

she sighs, “shit-”

He squeezes her hand gently "Language..." He says with a tired grin "When was the last time you slept more than a few hours?" His professional demeanor slightly cracks, revealing his quasi-fatherly concern "And don't tell me you were studying."

“it’s midterms robby…”

He runs a frustrated hand through his hair, his eyes filled with exasperation and worry. “Midterms or not, you can’t keep pushing yourself like this. Your body is telling you to slow down, and you need to listen.” He stands up, turning to her roommate.

“it’s not from lack of sleep”

He turns back to her, his expression serious. “Then what is it? Stress? Overworking? You know your condition requires stability.” His voice softens, “Sweetheart, I’ve seen you through plenty of episodes. This isn’t just fatigue talking.” He sits back down beside her bed.

“i missed a dose.” she winces like waiting for robby to freak out on her.

His expression immediately turns stern, but there's no anger - just deep concern. "Fucking hell." He takes a deep breath to compose himself. "How many doses did you miss?" he moves to her eyeline making her look at him seriously. "Answer me honestly."

“just one. i missed my alarms because i stayed up and then fell asleep through them.”

He relaxes slightly, unclenching his jaw. "One missed dose shouldn't cause full-blown absence seizures..." He mutters softly, thinking. Then he looks back at her, "You sure it's just one?" He knows she might downplay things to avoid his lecture.

“i mean sometimes i forget but i take it when i remember” her primary made the stupid mistake of telling her that if she misses a dose she just needs to take it when she remembers without 24 hours of missing the alarm. which isn’t exactly how you should treat it.

His face hardens again. "That's not how this works, sweetheart." He gently takes her chin in his hand, forcing her to maintain eye contact. "You can't just take it whenever you remember. It needs to be consistent, every day at the same time. That's why we have alarms." His thumb brushes her cheek softly.

“i know. and Riley wasn’t home she had early work and classes and came back to my second seizure and drove me here.” she mumbles.

He nods understandingly, releasing her chin. “I’ll talk to Riley later.” He checks her vitals again before continuing, “For now, we need to get you stabilized. I’ll order some blood tests and an EEG.” He pulls out his pocket phone to make the necessary calls.

she sighs, robby’s upset with her. she hates when he is. even if he’s just her doctor.

Notices her sigh and the way she avoids his gaze. He knows this side of her - vulnerable and sensitive to his moods even though they're just doctor-patient. "Hey..." Softens his tone immediately, sitting back down next to her bed "Look at me."

He sighs softly, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "Dammit, don't do that." He leans in closer, his voice gentle but firm. "I'm not upset with you for having seizures. I'm upset because you're not taking care of yourself properly."

“i try to”

Cutting her off with a wave of his hand. "You 'try' to take your meds. You 'try' to remember your alarms. You 'try' to live like a normal person with epilepsy." He sees her expression darken. He knows he needs to choose his words carefully.

"And you get defensive when people call you out on not taking care of yourself properly." He watches her carefully. He knows she's sensitive, that she hates being fussed over. He softens his voice. "Like when you don't eat enough. Or forget your meds."

“i just want to be a normal college student.”

He nods, understanding her desire for normalcy. "I get that. You want to go out with friends, stay up late studying, have fun without worrying about seizures." He pauses, his expression softening even more. "But here's the thing—you're not a normal college student."

“i know that”

He sees the frustration and acceptance in her eyes. He decides to push a little further, hoping she'll listen. "Then act like it. Be responsible with your medication and lifestyle choices. Because if you have a seizure alone in your dorm room at 2 AM..." He trails off dramatically.

“i’m aware.”

He sighs, running a hand through his hair. He knows she's aware, but awareness doesn't always equate to action. He tries a different tactic. "What if you have a seizure in class? Or while you're out with friends? What happens then?"

“you’re saying they all need to be trained to know what to do?”

He nods seriously. "Ideally, yes. That would be best. Have you trained your roommate? Your closest friends?" He watches your expression, concerned. "Because while you're aware of your condition, not everyone else is. And that could mean potentially dangerous situations..." his voice trails off.

“my roommate yes. my friends no.. i don’t wanna be a burden.”

He looks at her with a mix of understanding and concern. "You think you're being a burden by asking them to know what to do if you have a seizure? That's not how it works." He leans in slightly, trying to make her see his point. "They care about you."

“it’ll just freak em out”

He sighs, realizing the depth of her insecurity. He speaks gently but firmly. "Maybe it will freak them out initially, yes. But would you rather have them freaked out and prepared, or completely unprepared and potentially causing more harm?" He pauses, letting his words sink in.

she sighs, “right. i hate it when you’re right”

He chuckles softly, seeing a small smile tug at the corners of her mouth. He knows he's getting through to her. "I know you do. But someone has to be the voice of reason here." He leans back in his chair, his expression serious again.

“i’m guessing that cute guy nurse isn’t still on shift.” she jokes, she had a thing for matteo.

He laughs, understanding her attempt to lighten the mood. He knows she has a crush on Matteo, the cute nurse with long curly hair. "No, unfortunately not. He's off today." He grins mischievously. "Why? Missing him already?" He teases gently.

“no it would just sound better if he was the voice of reason” it’s a playful dig at Robby, like a father daughter back and forth.

He chuckles heartily at her playful comment, a warmth spreading across his face. "Well, that's typical - always wanting the pretty boy to tell you what you need to hear." He maintains the father-daughter dynamic, gently nudging her shoulder.

He smiles at her laughter, pleased to see some color returning to her cheeks. He knows their banter helps distract her from the seriousness of the situation. "Alright, smart mouth. Let's get these tests ordered and maybe we can get you out of here soon, hmm?" He stands up, starting to make notes in her chart.

“don’t lie i know you want me on a 48 hour hold and reintroducing a meds dose”she starts, she knows Robby is just being friendly like most times with his bedside manner he doesn’t always say what he will do.

He turns back to her, a mixture of surprise and amusement on his face. He knows she's right - he had been considering a 48-hour hold and adjusting her medication. "Well, would you look at that - a patient who actually knows what I'm thinking." He leans against the foot of her bed, folding his arms.

she nods, “i’m not a child Robby. i see you more than i’d care to.”

He nods, acknowledging her words. "I know you're not a child. And I know you see me more than you'd like." He pauses, choosing his words carefully. "But I also know that you're not always going to like what's best for you."

“it’s like that everytime i’m in here. it’s not gonna change after repeat tests and just go home unless everything is fine within a couple hours since it was just a cluster due to missed dosage..” she starts to explain.

He raises an eyebrow, impressed by her insight and the calm way she's stating her case. "You know what? You're right." He concedes, running a hand through his hair. "But you also know I have to cover all my bases."

He watches her for a moment, noticing the quiet acceptance in her eyes. He sighs internally, knowing that she's right - she doesn't need to be here, but he still has to go through the motions. "Okay, listen up."

He points his pen at her like a pointer. "I'm ordering those tests. I'm keeping you for at least 4 hours just to monitor you. And I'm increasing your meds dose temporarily." He ticks off each point on his fingers. "we will get it handled kid."

You noticed it before anyone else did.

It started in the briefing room, somewhere between the sheriff’s second pot of bitter coffee and the Kentucky summer pressing against the windows like a second skin. The heat clung to everything, thick and sour, like grief. The blinds were half-drawn, but the sunlight still poured in, harsh and gold, catching dust in the air like static.

And your boss was off.

Not in the obvious ways, not in the ways that anyone else would register and understand the way you did. He did not bark orders. He wasn't irritable or cold. He was just...quieter and more withdrawn than usual. More unreachable. Something in him was turned inward, like a lightbulb flickering out behind his eyes.

You could feel it immediately. Because you had learned to read him in all the ways no one else had to, even though you were all profilers. Through posture. Through the silence. From the way his fingers curled slightly when he was overwhelmed but tried not to show it. You'd spent enough nights next to him in empty police stations, exchanging glances over tired files, garbled words, and bad machine coffee, to know when something inside him had gone still.

He hadn’t touched his coffee.

He hadn’t opened his casebook.

He hadn’t spoken unless directly addressed, and even then, his voice was quiet, almost too careful, like he was trying not to crack something open.

It wasn’t fatigue. You’d seen him tired. This was something else. Something heavier.

When the team broke off into pairs, you volunteered to take the victim interviews. You needed the distraction; your own pulse had been too loud in your ears since you noticed the shift in him. You also knew that Derek usually had a better read on things when you couldn’t make sense of them yourself.

The two of you headed out in a black SUV, the air conditioning fighting the summer heat with a weak, wheezing breath. The windows were rolled up, and the sun glared through them, bleaching the world beyond into shades of white and yellow.

The silence inside the car stretched like an elastic band. You toyed with the hem of your sleeve, glanced out the window, then said it:

“Hotch is being weird.”

Morgan’s eyebrows went up slightly as he flicked his gaze toward you. “Define weird.”

You turned to face the windshield, watching the road smear past. “He didn’t say anything when I stayed up half the night drinking coffee and obsessing over case notes. Normally, he’d at least scold me for not sleeping or tell me I’m irresponsible.”

Morgan raised a brow.

You continued, your voice quieter now. “He left his badge at the precinct. And when I said I’d ride with you today, he didn’t even blink. No reassignment. No reminder that I was supposed to stick with Reid because we protect each other. He didn’t even look at me.”

He let out a low whistle. “Damn. That’s three signs of the apocalypse right there.”

You gave him a weak smile, but your eyes didn’t follow it. “I thought maybe something happened with Haley.”

Morgan shook his head, shifting gears. “Nah. Nothing I heard. He was fine Friday. Better than fine, actually. Had Jack’s photo out on his desk. Made me look at it like five times. He had that same ‘proud dad’ glow he gets sometimes, you know?”

You did. You knew that look intimately. That strange softness that came over Hotch when he spoke about his child. Like for just a second, all the armor dropped, and he let himself be human again.

You’d seen that same look before. The first time had been in Quantico, in the break room. You were a probationary agent then: young, even more stubborn, hiding all your doubts behind sarcasm and caffeine. Hotch had barely known you, but he caught the panic in your eyes after a hard case and handed you his untouched tea. He didn’t say much. He never did. But he’d sat with you for ten quiet minutes, and that had meant more than anything.

Over time, it shifted. You weren’t just one of his agents anymore. He looked out for you in ways that went beyond tactical oversight. Called you out when you pushed yourself too hard. He brought you tea and cookies when he knew you hadn’t eaten. And when you screwed up? He held you accountable.

You were quiet for a moment. The hum of the tires against the sunbaked asphalt filled the space between you, and then—

The realization dropped in your chest like a stone.

You turned your head back toward the window, your fingers curling loosely in your lap, nails brushing over the soft fabric of your pants. “It’s Father’s Day.”

Morgan didn’t say anything at first. He just pressed his lips together, then slowly shook his head. His hands tightened on the steering wheel. “Shit.”

“Yeah.”

You didn’t look at him. Your voice had gone quiet, like something inside you had curled in on itself. “It’s his first one since Jack was born.”

Morgan finally glanced over at you, his brows drawn. “You think he forgot?”

You gave him a humorless smile. “Hotch? He’s not the kind of man who forgets anything. He remembers how I take my coffee, even after I changed it once. He remembers my mom’s name and the city she lives in, even though I only mentioned her once in passing. He doesn’t forget. This isn’t that.”

Morgan nodded slowly, eyes returning to the road. “So…what is it?”

You stared out at the blur of green fields and gas stations passing by, your throat tight. “It’s avoidance,” you said finally. “It’s guilt, maybe. Or grief. Or…fear.” You hesitated, your voice softer now. “That he’s not doing enough. That he’s missing things.”

Your voice faltered. You blinked fast, hoping the burn behind your eyes would pass.

“But he’s burying it,” you finished, more quietly this time. “And I don’t think anyone else even noticed.”

The car was quiet again for a few beats. Then Morgan, his voice low but full of a kind of warmth only earned through shared history, said, “You noticed.”

You didn’t answer.

Because of course you did.

Of course it was you.

You’d always had that strange attunement to Hotch, that subtle understanding that ran beneath the surface of protocol and title. You knew when he needed space, when he needed backup, and when he was two seconds from exploding but wouldn’t let it show. He never said much, but you learned to listen to what he didn’t say, to read the silence like language.

And sometimes, like now, it was screaming.

Morgan looked over at you again, eyes narrowing slightly, like he was lining up something just right.

“You should do something,” he said.

You blinked, frowning at him. “Me? Why me?”

He gave you a look that was part amusement, part exasperation, and part something softer. “You’re like his other baby here.”

You let out a sharp, scandalized laugh. “Oh, shut up.”

Morgan grinned. “It’s true. You and Reid, you’re the babies.”

You narrowed your eyes. “So what, I’m in the BAU daycare now?”

He shrugged, clearly enjoying himself. “Reid’s Gideon’s. You’re Hotch’s. The dynamic duo of adopted genius children.”

You scoffed. “I forgot you were ancient. The wise caretaker of the kindergarten.”

You reached out and gave his shoulder a mock-pitying pat, and he laughed, really laughed. It was warm and open, and for a moment it cleared the heavy air in the car like a breeze.

“I’m serious,” he said between chuckles. “You’ve got Hotch wrapped around that little badge of yours. You smile at him, and suddenly he’s pretending you didn’t break five Bureau rules last month.”

Your voice was flat. “It was not five.”

“Oh, right. Six. My bad.”

You rolled your eyes, but the smile tugging at your lips betrayed you. Still, the warmth that had started to bloom quickly turned back to a quiet ache.

Because he wasn’t wrong. And both of you knew it.

The police station was unusually quiet.

Not the kind of quiet that came with calm, but the kind that felt suspended, like the breath before a scream. Outside, the Kentucky summer boiled against the windows, turning them into panes of soft light and distant sirens. Inside, the air was heavy with the mingled smells of old coffee, printer toner, and institutional fatigue.

Most of the team had gone out again, following separate leads. You should’ve been with them. Technically, you were supposed to be reviewing files with Reid and cross-referencing Garcia’s latest data set. But when you walked past one of the smaller briefing rooms and saw him, alone, silent, back turned to the door, something tugged at you and wouldn’t let go.

Hotch sat at a desk that looked too small for his presence, elbows tucked in, spine perfectly straight, the file in his hands open but untouched. His fingers curled around the pages like he was reading, but you knew better. You knew the signs. You’d learned him like some people learned weather, by pressure shifts and subtle silences.

His coffee was cold.

The pen beside him hadn’t moved in over an hour.

He wasn’t working. He was trying to work.

And trying harder not to feel.

You lingered in the doorway, your fingers tightening slightly around the object in your hand. It was a small package, almost weightless, and yet it anchored you to the spot.

You cleared your throat gently. “Hotch.”

He looked up. Not startled, exactly—Aaron Hotchner was not the kind of man who startled—but there was something in his expression, a flicker of recognition that softened the line between his brows.

You stepped in slowly, the sound of your boots muffled by the low hum of ceiling lights. “I, um…” You stopped, nerves prickling your skin. “I have something.”

His eyes searched your face. “News about the case?”

You shook your head. “No. Not that.”

You walked over, deliberately measured, and placed the package on the desk in front of him. Wrapped in simple brown paper, tied with thin twine. It looked like something from another decade, something unassuming, careful, and personal.

He raised an eyebrow. “What is it?”

“Just…something from the team,” you said, quickly, like you didn’t want to dwell on it.

Hotch’s hands moved with practiced precision as he untied the string, folding the paper back in neat creases. You watched his expression subtly shift the moment the cover of the CD was revealed: the black-and-white photo of John Lennon and Yoko Ono pressed in an almost-kiss. Double Fantasy.

You forced yourself not to shift under his gaze. “There’s a track on there. ‘Beautiful Boy.’ Thought it might be…nice for Jack.”

You didn’t say for you. You didn’t say for tonight. You didn’t say because no one else noticed, and I couldn’t stand it.

Instead, you fiddled with the edge of the desk, your fingertips grazing a nick in the wood. “Just thought you might want to play it for him. At some point.”

His gaze stayed steady on you, unreadable. But you saw the almost imperceptible tightening of his jaw, the way his thumb brushed the edge of the CD case like it meant more than he could put into words. Which, with Hotch, it probably did.

He didn’t smile. Not really. But something eased in him, just for a moment.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. His voice was calm, even, but lacking the hard edges it usually carried. There was something in it, something softer, closer to vulnerable.

You nodded, unable to meet his eyes now that the moment had landed. “It’s from the team,” you repeated, too fast, too flat. “Not just me.”

And before he could say anything more, before the silence between you could turn into something warm and dangerous, you turned toward the door.

You reached it, one hand on the frame, and paused just long enough to say, almost too low to hear, “Happy Father’s Day.”

You didn’t look back.

But he did. He watched you until you disappeared from the hallway, his thumb still resting on the corner of the case.

When he finally tucked the CD into his bag, he did it with care, not as if it were fragile, but as if it mattered. Which, for him, was rarer still.

And though he turned back to the files, posture straightening, focus returning, something had shifted.

The sadness hadn’t gone.

But now…it wasn’t all his to carry alone.

After a few minutes of moving through the narrow corridors of the local precinct, past officers hunched over phones, and whiteboards cluttered with scrawled names and pinned evidence photos, Hotch finally found the rest of the team gathered in the squad room.

Morgan was leaning over a map on the central table, lips pressed together in focus as he traced routes and known locations. JJ stood a few feet away, phone to her ear, nodding along to a quiet voice on the other end, likely a local detective. Reid sat with one leg folded under him on the edge of a desk, flipping through a legal pad filled with dense notes, midway through explaining something to no one in particular. Something about proximity patterns and variable behavior probabilities.

Gideon, Elle, and you were still out, following up on witness interviews or canvassing the neighborhood around the latest crime scene. Hotch felt that absence in the room like a missing piece of a puzzle. Familiar chaos surrounded him, the kind that usually grounded him, but tonight, it all felt strangely distant. Dimmer. Or maybe it was just him. Maybe he was the one too far away.

He stepped further into the room, the CD still tucked under his arm. It felt oddly heavy now, like something he wasn’t sure how to carry.

Morgan looked up first, lifting his chin. “Hey. Any news from the sheriff?”

Hotch shook his head. “Not yet. He’s still coordinating with the dive team.”

He could’ve stopped there. Should have, maybe.

But instead, after a beat, he let his fingers slide along the edge of the jewel case and, almost offhandedly, too offhandedly, said, “Thanks…for the gift.”

There was a pause. A small, still beat that seemed to stretch a little too long.

JJ blinked, lowering her phone. “What gift?”

Spencer looked up from his notes, eyebrows drawn in confusion. “Did someone send something? I haven’t seen a delivery.”

Morgan narrowed his eyes. “What are you talking about?”

Hotch looked between them, reading their faces instinctively, a skill honed over years in the field. But what he found wasn’t the guilt of a surprise ruined or the giddy discomfort of a shared secret. It was just confusion. Honest and complete.

He slowly lifted the CD just slightly, so the glossy cover caught the harsh fluorescent light.

“The Lennon album. Double Fantasy.” He tapped the front of the case with his thumb.

Silence fell again. Subtle, but complete.

Derek straightened slowly from the map, his expression shifting, something thoughtful settling behind his eyes.

“I didn’t even know you liked Lennon,” he said, carefully.

Reid blinked, head tilting. “He was murdered in 1980 outside The Dakota in New York. Double Fantasy was the last album he released during his lifetime. It was produced by—”

“Reid,” JJ cut in gently.

Hotch, still holding the CD lightly between his fingers, looked at each of them again, as if trying to catch a tell. But there was nothing. No flicker of recognition. No grin of acknowledgment.

“No one got me this?” he asked, his voice quieter now. Less curious, more precise.

They shook their heads one by one. Morgan’s lips parted as if to say something, then closed again.

JJ glanced toward the door, her eyes narrowing slightly in thought. Then her gaze returned to Hotch, and a slow smile began to curl at the corners of her mouth.

“No,” she said softly. “But I think I know who did.”

Hotch didn’t respond at first. He just stood there, silent and still, thumb brushing the edge of the jewel case like he might wear the plastic down if he did it long enough. He thought back to the way you’d handed it to him: direct, like you were giving him a report. No soft words, no sentimentality. Just…intent. Camouflaged as routine.

He should have known.

He did know.

Morgan exhaled a soft laugh, folding his arms. “She told you it was from all of us, huh?”

Hotch gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.

Jennifer smiled again, this time warmer. “That’s her. Can’t say what she means. But she makes sure you feel it anyway.”

Aaron’s fingers tightened on the CD.

He could picture it now, you lingering in a record shop, maybe, debating whether to do it at all. Or maybe digging it out from your own collection. You hadn’t lingered in the room long after giving it to him. You’d left him the gift like a file dropped on his desk, no fuss, no eye contact. But it wasn’t thoughtless.

Not even close.

Later, back in the temporary office the sheriff’s department had given him—the one with the flickering desk lamp and a broken file drawer—Hotch closed the door behind him. The lock clicked softly in the stillness. He set down his files, loosened his tie just slightly, and opened the side compartment of his bag.

He pulled out his old portable CD player, the same one he used to carry on long flights before digital libraries and Bluetooth speakers became the norm. Worn, dependable. It still worked.

He slipped the disc in, clicked the lid shut, and placed the headphones over his ears.

The opening chords of the song filled the room: soft, earnest, and full of something that felt like forgiveness.

He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

And let himself feel it.

Just for a minute.

Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.

You didn’t notice when he started coming home from school later.

You didn’t notice when he stopped telling you about the new theories he was reading, or when he started apologizing for rambling – as if your words were a nuisance.

When Spencer finally gathered the courage to tell you what was going on, his voice was so low that you thought he was just joking.

“I… didn’t tell you before because I thought it would be better to ignore it,” he mumbled, playing with the hem of his shirt. “But that didn’t work.”

You frowned, placing your dinner plate in front of you. “What are you trying to say, Spence?”

He looked at you, hesitant, before looking back down at his food. “They say I talk too much. That it’s annoying, that my books are stupid, my clothes are funny. And that’s why Dad left… because we’re all weird.” You felt your floor crumble.

For a second, you thought — wished — you’d heard him wrong. How could someone treat your most precious thing so carelessly? How could someone have the nerve to try to shame you for one of your brightest traits? Or worse, how could someone have the nerve to blame a stupid, cowardly adult on a child?

He interpreted your silence negatively, quickly correcting himself, “Sorry, I shouldn’t be dumping these silly things on you, I’ll figure it out myself.” Your eyes softened, “No Spence, you don’t need to apologize for this, I’ll always have time for you dear”, you put your hand on his shoulder, giving him a caress, “I’ll figure this out.”

To say you were furious would be an understatement. You’d threatened teenagers, yelled at some parents and threatened to set the school on fire if the principal didn’t do something about it – things you weren’t proud of, but certainly didn’t regret.

The prejudice the neighborhood had towards your family was horrible – the stares, the whispers and the teasing. But you learned to use it to your advantage, after your little outburst no one dared to provoke Spencer again. You took care of him as if he were your own son – even though they were only seven years apart.

A few years later he left home and with your mother in a mental institution, you found yourself alone for the first time in years. It was strange at first, the silence was uncomfortable, the house felt colder – eerily lifeless. It took a few weeks to get used to the idea of ​​living alone.

After a few months, you started to enjoy your life, the house seemed more cozy, and you now had the freedom to decorate it the way you wanted – which meant you could move the furniture around as much as you wanted and there would be no one to complain, saying that things had a “life of their own”.

You learned to love your profession and, over time, you discovered that sharing knowledge was your true purpose.

You replaced the old blanket with designer clothes, shiny things with some discreet jewelry and the blackberries in the garden with a makeup collection.

You had time to take care of yourself now.

-

Despite the age difference, you have a lot in common with your brother. A passion for books, languages ​​and the human psyche are some of them. But there are two things that are the complete opposite.

Style and personality.

You followed a ritual every morning.

First, you would take a shower – hot enough to almost make you pass out. Then you would apply your favorite moisturizer, a perfect blend of lychee, berries and lily.

You would apply moisturizer and sunscreen to your face with your fingertips – making sure to use circular motions and lightly dragging your fingers upwards over the eye area, concealer only on the dark circles, a little liquid blush on the apples of your cheeks and compact powder to set the skin. Nothing too extravagant on your eyes, just a well-blended eyeshadow, thin eyeliner and mascara.

This was your therapy, your way of connecting with your child self.

And honestly? You loved it. It was by far one of the best moments of your day.

You were putting the finishing touches on your makeup when your phone vibrated on the vanity.

Spence: Hey, are you going to be at school today? Can I come over during my break? I'd like to borrow your Neuropsychology textbook, the one with the black cover and the blue brain, the one with the notes in the margins. I think it's on the second shelf of your bookshelf.

You rolled your eyes, an incredulous laugh escaping your lips. If it were anyone else remembering such a specific detail, it would probably be creepy. But this is Spencer we're talking about.

Checking your watch, it was still an hour before you'd be at school. Perfect.

You: Can I bring it to you, is it in the office yet? Spence: Really? Like, right now? You don't have to do that, I can stop by the school later. You: It's okay Spence, just make sure they let me in (preferably without pointing a gun at me). Spence: You know that's not how it works, right?

You, apparently, got all the good humor in the family.

You put your phone in your bag and head to the office to get the book – which, of course, was exactly where he said: second shelf.

-

Your heels echo on the cold marble as you walk to the reception desk, attracting the attention of the agents who pass by you – all of them looking as friendly as the grinch on Christmas Eve.

Before you can introduce yourself, the woman behind the counter looks up from her computer, smiling as she looks you over from head to toe.

“You have to be Miss Reid.”

You blink, surprised – and slightly scared. How could she know that? Telepathy? Is that some kind of mandatory course for anyone working at the FBI?

“How did you…?”

She smiles, holding out a badge in your direction. “Dr. Reid called earlier. He said: You’ll smell the perfume before she arrives, you’ll probably be the only one smiling.”

You take the badge with a half smile, and carefully pin it to the lapel of your overcoat, mumbling a “thank you.”

“Elevator on the left, sixth floor. You’ll see a sign: Behavioral Analysis Unit. Just go straight.”

You nodded, thanking her once more before walking away towards the elevator.

Honestly? The place is creepy. Some dark oak details on the wall, portraits of important people in expensive clothes hanging in a row. The white light makes the mood even worse.

As if the people who work here weren’t intimidating enough already.

If the Batcave had a bureaucratic version, it would definitely be here. Where are the interior designers?

You followed the path the woman at the reception indicated, spotting Spencer a little further ahead of the sign. He was leaning against a table near the entrance, looking like he’d just been punched by a hurricane and a cyclone (spoiler, he lost).

Wrinkled shirt, slightly disheveled at the shoulders, having been at odds with the iron for years. His tie was to the side and his curls were a mess.

You frown, pressing your lips into a straight line as you look Spencer up and down. “Let me ask you, did you get ready while running away from a shooting?”

Spencer turns toward the voice, his brain taking a moment to process what you said. He opens his mouth in disbelief. “What? No!”

“Really? Because it’s not what it looks like.” You move closer to him, fixing the collar of his shirt and straightening his tie.

“You always do that,” he sighed, pouting the same way he did when you showed up to tell him it was time for bed.

“Spence, you’re practically begging me to do this.” You correct him with a half smile, brushing the thread that insisted on falling into his eyes.

“Okay,” he murmured, waiting as you finished trying to straighten the fabric of his shirt.

You take a step back, watching approvingly. “Much better. Now no one will think you were raised by wolves.”

Spence snorted lightly, but the corners of his lips betrayed him in a half smile. “You know… I can do this myself now, right?”

“I know you can,” you agree, picking up the book and holding it out to him. “But apparently you’re not willing.”

You’re brothers, after all. No matter the age difference, the teasing never ends.

He takes the book, his eyes wandering over the title before returning to your face. “Are you going to be busy this weekend?” he asked, his tone hesitant, avoiding your eyes.

You tilted your head, studying his reaction. The way he holds the book and avoids your eyes is familiar – exactly how he used to be before he asked to sleep in your room after a nightmare.

“You don’t have to ask to sleep over for the weekend Spence. We can always binge-watch Doctor Who,” you finally say, reading between the lines of what he meant to ask.

He blinks a few times, genuinely surprised. “It’s bizarre and extremely creepy how you still know these things before I even tell you.”

“A mother knows her children,” you joke, poking him under the ribs before pulling him into a hug. “Eat something decent. Get at least six hours of sleep a day, and… fix your hair, it looks like you got a shock.”

He hugs you back, tucking his head between your hair and shoulder. “Yes ma’am,” his voice is muffled.

There’s a brief comfortable silence before he clears his throat. “Um… can you let me go now? Your perfume is intoxicating me.”

You laugh, pulling away from him, “Okay, I need to go or I’ll be late,” you point to the book in your hand, “take care of my son.”

“Yes ma’am.” He repeats in an ironic tone, just to tease you.

–

Across the bullpen, Emily was the first to notice — actually, feel — your presence. Your scent spread silently, sweet and citrusy. Filling the usual smell of paper and reheated coffee.

Without taking her eyes off you, she fumbled around on the table, searching for anything she could throw on Morgan’s desk.

The sound of the pen hitting the keyboard was enough to take his focus off the report, and he looked up, irritated. “What the-”

Emily just pointed her chin discreetly in your direction. He frowned, following her gaze before freezing. “Okay… who’s that?”

“Who’s that?” JJ approached, looking away from the pile of reports she was carrying, looking for what they were both staring at.

Emily pointed discreetly to the entrance. “The woman in the structured coat, probably tailored. Expensive perfume. Heels. Impeccable makeup at eight in the morning.”

“It’s not just any shoe, it’s a Louboutin.” JJ looks more closely, before looking back at the two of them. “Do you know anyone who has a thousand dollars to spare for a shoe?”

They both shake their heads. Morgan turns to the two of them, slightly confused. “She doesn’t look lost… Who is she here to see? Rossi?”

JJ shook her head. “I don’t think so, he hasn’t even arrived yet. Besides, if this was a formal meeting Garcia and Hotch would be here too and– Wait, is Spencer going to her?”

The three of them leaned over the table, side by side, like children watching a very interesting episode.

“Did… Did she just grab his tie?” JJ asked, her eyes slightly wide.

“And he let her.” Emily nodded, astonished. “She touched his hair. His hair. And he didn’t flinch.”

Emily blinked slowly. “She must be a witch.”

“Maybe a girlfriend?” JJ suggested, still unable to take her eyes off the scene.

Morgan laughed, straightening up to lean back in his chair, incredulous. “Girlfriend? If prettyboy managed to do that I need to reevaluate everything I know about him and seduction techniques.”

In front of them, Spencer was waving goodbye to you with a smile. You grimaced and gestured at his shirt before turning and walking away – which he responded with an eye roll. Then he returned to the table as if nothing had happened. He sat down, opened his book and turned a page. Completely oblivious to the commotion.

“Pretty boy,” Morgan crossed his arms, his expression falsely serious – his eyes sparkling with amusement. “We need to talk.”

He frowned, looking up at him. “About what?”

“The James Bond meets Audrey Hepburn thing.”

“Who?”

Emily rested her face on her hand. “The woman who literally just hugged you.”

He cleared his throat uncomfortably, averting his eyes back to the book. “Oh yeah. She just came to hand me a book.”

Morgan leaned forward with a wide smirk. “Tell me the name of this library, because I want to sign up. Maybe I can get a kiss.”

Spencer groaned, hiding his face in his hands. “First of all: ew. Second, shut up, she’s my sister.”

The room was silent for a moment. Morgan, Emily and JJ, frozen – almost comically like in a cartoon, exchanged a look before turning back to Spencer.

“Your what?” The three asked in unison.

“And you didn’t think it was necessary to tell us that this being… I don’t even have adjectives to describe it. Why didn’t you tell us that this was your sister?” Emily asked, incredulous.

Spencer cringed, already expecting this reaction. “I talk about her all the time,” he muttered, defending himself. “I don’t know why you’re surprised.”

“We thought she’d be more like you.” JJ muttered, glancing at the entrance where you had been standing for a few minutes. “Now I wonder how you didn’t become a fashion expert growing up with her. Because I’ve never seen anyone so flawless at eight in the morning.”

Spencer clicked his tongue with a shrug, returning his gaze to the book. “I have a different style and she respects that. But whenever she sees me she still says that self-esteem is a shield against institutionalized mediocrity.”

Morgan laughed, shaking his head. “Oh, Penelope will love her.”

◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇

You hate renovations.

Construction, leaks in general. In fact, anything that involves noise and dust, even if it has the classic promise of “It’ll be worth it in the end”. They are inconvenient – ​​the constant sound of hammering in the background, furniture being dragged from one side to the other. The smell of cement and fresh paint – your nose burns just thinking about it. And all this without mentioning the layer of dust it leaves on the furniture – even after it’s been cleaned. Your eyes itch, you sneeze as much as you breathe and the visual chaos leaves your head throbbing at the end of the day.

With each step inside the apartment, you can feel the fine grains of sand on the soles of your shoes. You love this place, you really do. This is where you spent the first years in the city with Spencer, after leaving Vegas; every corner of this apartment carries a memory.

You ignored the first signs of degradation. When the heater broke, you spent the entire winter wrapped in blankets, telling yourself that it was a time to test your resilience. Then you forgot about the cracked tiles in the bathroom and the strange noise of the shower. But when the plumbing in the wall burst, turning your apartment into an unlicensed water park, it became clear that living there was no longer a viable option, you needed to move.

The elevator door opened with a soft creak, Spencer stepping out first, balancing one of your boxes with clumsy care.

“I still think you should have stayed at my apartment for a few days to look around more calmly,” said, your voice quick but low, as walked down the slightly dusty hallway of the new building. “You know I hardly ever stop at home, there would be space, and… well, at least I would know you would be in a safe place.”

“Spence, I really appreciate your concern but I wouldn’t ruin my clothes by leaving them in suitcases or boxes,” you said, putting the box you were holding on the floor to grab the set of keys and unlock the door to your new apartment. “Besides, where would I leave my furniture?”

Spencer let out a grunt of agreement, as if he had forgotten that detail. “Not that this building is bad, of course. In fact… yeah, it’s a good building,” he said, as if trying to convince himself, his eyes wandering over the door hinges and the reinforced lock. “I asked Penelope for a list. Of the safest buildings in the area. I mean, nothing too invasive, just the basics: police incident rate, presence of a doorman, security cameras, distance from police stations.”

You laughed, placing the box on the counter. “Spencer, I’ll be fine.”

“I know you’ll be fine,” he agreed, mimicking your gesture, “but with my job you can never be too careful. This one was number five on the list, which is good… good enough. But the one on the corner with Laurel was number two, and it had those bulletproof glass doors, remember? Not that you need bulletproof glass… but, well, it’s always better to be safe than sorry.”

“Spencer.” You hummed in warning.

“Okay.”

“Thanks. But now help me find the coffee before I throw this box out the window or decide to jump.”

–

All in all, it took a week to finish tidying up the apartment. And you certainly owe a – huge – apology to all your neighbors. You could almost feel them peering through the peephole, hoping that this would be the last piece of furniture, the last noise, the last night someone would wake up in shock to the sound of something heavy being dragged across the floor.

By the seventh day, you were exhausted. Sitting on the living room floor, knees bent, surrounded by duct tape, trash bags with burst bubble wrap, and tools lying around. The apartment had finally started to feel like a home, and not like the set of a failed home improvement show.

You were leaving the house when your cell phone vibrated in your coat pocket. You grabbed it, sliding your fingers across the screen as you read the first few lines of what looked like an urgent email. Turning the corner, you didn't see the body in front of you until it was too late.

The impact was strong. Your heel slid across the floor, making you lose your balance. At the same moment, two arms reached out towards you, a pair of strong hands gripping your shoulders with precision, preventing you from falling.

"Are you okay?" His tone was low, slightly alarmed.

You blinked a few times, trying to shake off the shock. Your heart was still racing inside your chest – surprise and embarrassment competing to see which would push you over the edge first.

The man in front of you remains still, his hands still close together, suspicious that you won’t be able to keep your balance if he lets go of you completely. His serious face, etched in firm lines, adds an air of authority – or maybe it was just the absence of expression.

“Hmm… yes. Considering other realities that could be worse.” You murmur automatically, still a little bewildered.

“Worse…?” He repeats, confused, as he slowly pulls his hand back.

“I could have fallen, hit my head, broken my heel, torn my tights, hurt my back…”, you started to list.

Did you think about all of this now or do you have a list of tragedies saved in your mind? The question echoed in your mind, but he remained silent. Aaron watched with a frown, his dark eyes following every feature of your face, trying to remember if he had seen you in the building before. Coming to the conclusion that no, this was the first time he had met you, he would certainly remember if he had crossed paths with you before.

You notice his expression, staying quiet immediately, biting the inside of your cheek to try to prevent the blush on the top of your cheeks from intensifying. “And I digress. Great.” You sigh, before smiling. “Anyway, I’m sorry. And thank you for preventing a fall that would have been incredibly embarrassing.”

“You don’t need to thank me, it was my fault, I wasn’t looking where I was going,” he waved, tilting his head slightly to the side. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

You nodded, giving a small smile as you walked back towards the exit. As soon as you entered the elevator, you leaned against the wall and discreetly pulled out your cell phone.

You: Spencer, as if the noise I made this week wasn’t enough, I just bumped into my neighbor in the hallway. And to top off Murphy’s Law, he’s also a DILF.

The answer came almost immediately. What most people don’t know is that Spencer Reid is a huge gossip.

Spence: What’s a DILF?

Oh dear, it’s better if you don’t know.

You: Well, that’s irrelevant. Anyway, I think I’m in love.

Three dots appeared. Then disappeared. Appeared again. Gone.

You could almost see Spencer at his desk, frowning, the gears in his brain turning, mentally reviewing everything he had ever seen about love at first sight.

Spence: Is it smart to date someone on the same floor as you? What if it doesn't work out? What about mental health?

He was right about that.

You: Mental health is a thing of the past, Spence. Something cavemen looked for, now what brings a couple together is shared trauma. Spence: I really hope this is a metaphor. Please tell me it is a metaphor. You: No, this is me saying I need your help to find out who he is, because I'm going to marry him. Spence: You need (psychiatric) help.

Spence put his phone down on the table, trying to get back to work, but the nagging feeling was still there, in the back of his mind. He read and reread the message again, as if the meaning would magically appear on the screen.

“DILF,” he mumbled, trying to remember if he had ever heard or read that word before, “maybe a character name…” Emily walked past him, returning from the kitchen with a steaming cup of coffee.

“Emily,” he called, whispering, trying not to attract the attention of the people around him.

“What?” he whispered back, bringing the cup to his lips. Spencer leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table.

“I’m having doubts about the semantics of a word, do you know what a… DILF is?”

Emily choked on her coffee, coughing slightly. “What?” she repeated, surprised.

“A DILF, do you know what it means?” he analyzed her reaction for a second, before continuing, “I don’t know what it means but it seemed important to understand the context.”

Her lips opened in a wry smile. “Oh Spencer, who is corrupting your beautiful brain?”

Spencer ignored the provocation, curiosity overcoming embarrassment – ​​big mistake. “Is it some kind of acronym?”

“Yes,” she replied, smirking, “it stands for ‘Dad I’d Like to…’” She paused, waiting patiently for his brain to fill in the rest.

“Oh,” he blinked, remaining completely still. Despite the lack of words, his face was turning different shades of red. “I-I, um, thanks.”

Emily walked away shaking her head, an amused smile on her lips.

Spencer: I figured out what DILF stands for, and I have two things to say. First, Freud must be turning in his grave right now (and he would love to meet you). Second, you owe me a lobotomy.

You couldn’t help but laugh out loud in the elevator when you read Spencer’s last message. Putting your phone in your pocket, you took a deep breath, trying to get your thoughts in order. You could still feel the touch of his hands on your shoulders, the way his dark eyes had examined you for a second longer than necessary, as if he wanted to make sure you were really okay.

Now that the adrenaline was wearing off, another realization dawned on you: the man lived right next door. He was there all the time. And you had spent a week making a hell of a lot of noise.

Great. Perfect first impression.

You continued on your way to college, but your mind was on your new apartment, mentally rehearsing what the next time you bumped into him would be like. Maybe a formal apology? A cake? An anonymous note slipped under the door?

Fate seemed particularly generous, because when you were returning home at the end of the day, a woman and a little boy were walking towards your neighbor’s door.

Instinctively, you slowed your pace, watching the interaction. The woman – who you assumed was a close relative, or probably the boy’s mother – glanced briefly in your direction, offering a polite smile.

You smiled back, adjusting the strap of your bag on your shoulder, taking a deep breath before taking the last few steps that separated you from their door.

Oh, he’s married, God isn’t in all things.

“Hi, I live right across the street,” you pointed to the door, smiling at the little boy before turning your gaze back to the woman. “I think I owe you an apology.”

“Apology? Why?” she asked, her tone gentle, despite the clear confusion on her face.

“For the moving noises,” you smiled, a little embarrassed, “and also for almost knocking over what I assume was your husband in the hallway.”

She laughed, shaking her head as if that was the funniest thing she’d heard all day. “Oh, you mean Aaron? Oh my God! Husband? No, I’m just Jack’s aunt.” She bent down a little to adjust the backpack on the boy’s shoulders, casting a mischievous look over him. “And he’s single, by the way.”

Well, maybe he is.

You felt your cheeks burning at the insinuation, smiling as you turned your gaze back to the little boy. “Well, anyway, I thought I’d make up for it with a proper apology.” You crouched down a little to be closer to Jack’s height. “Do you like cookies? Cake?”

The boy’s smile widened now, his eyes lighting up. Before he could answer, the woman laughed softly. “Oh, he loves chocolate chip cookies.”

“Really?”

Jack nodded. “Chocolate chip cookies,” he said, whispering as if it were an important secret.

You placed your hand on your chest, leaning closer to whisper, as if this were a secret mission. “Understood, Mr. Jack. Chocolate chip cookies. I’ll make the best cookies, with double the chocolate.”

The woman smiled amiably, unlocking the door. “I’m sure he’ll love it. And don’t worry about the noise, moving is chaotic. Welcome to the building, by the way.”

“Thank you. See you soon, Jack. See you soon…”

“Jessica,” she added, with an amused smile. “See you around.”

–

Saturday morning started like any other in the Hotchner household: Jack – still in his pajamas, with his hair messy – dragged his feet to the kitchen, rubbing his sleepy eyes. Aaron was already preparing his son’s breakfast when he heard a soft noise coming from the door – a sound almost imperceptible.

He frowned curiously. Gesturing for Jack to wait in the kitchen, he walked to the front door and opened it slowly, alert.

On the floor, there was a glass jar filled with cookies that looked homemade, golden brown, with generous chunks of chocolate. Tied to the jar was a note tied with a simple bow, written in beautiful, slanted handwriting:

“Mission accomplished, Mr. Jack. Hope you like them. Note: If they’re good, I made them. If they’re bad, oh what an evil bakery, selling bad food.”

Aaron raised an eyebrow, a laugh escaping before he could contain it. For a second, he stood in the doorway, scanning the silent hallway, hoping to find some clue. Who would leave food on the doorstep of someone they barely knew? He glanced at Jack, who now seemed fully awake, his eyes shining with satisfaction at the sight of the gift.

“Is there something you want to tell me?” he asked in an amused voice, shaking the jar of cookies slightly.

Jack nodded excitedly. “When Aunt Jess came to pick me up yesterday, we ran into our neighbor from across the hall. She apologized for the noise and for almost knocking you over the other day.” Aaron raised an eyebrow, listening intently to the explanation. “She asked me what I liked, and I told her I liked chocolate chip cookies. So she said she’d give me some along with her apology.”

He inhaled slowly, carefully opening the jar, taking out a cookie, and taking in the smell and texture—and the bounty of melted chocolate chips. “Oh, so now we have a neighbor who makes secret deals with you?”

Jack laughed, shrugging. “Aunt Jess said she’s nice.”

Aaron stared at the jar for a few more seconds, his mind torn between the tempting smell of chocolate and the invisible weight of caution. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate the gesture. It was the kind of gift his younger self would have accepted without a second thought. But after years of seeing the worst in people, it was hard to believe that someone would take the time to bake cookies just to apologize.

“Yeah…” he said finally, reaching for another cookie a little hesitantly. “She seems really nice too.”

He broke the cookie in half, offering it to Jack before taking a bite. As the smell had already given away, they were very good, crispy on the outside and soft on the inside, just the right amount of sweet. You clearly knew what you were doing.

Jack finished the cookie, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his pajamas before reaching for another. “Can we get her a present too?”

“How about a card? You could draw something. I’m sure she’d like it.”

–

You were heading to the kitchen to make some coffee, still a little sleepy. You needed a generous amount of caffeine to grade your tests – if you received another email asking about your grade, Spencer would have to come and get you with his work friends. Something caught your eye on the floor, a small colorful envelope was resting under your door.

You bent down and carefully pulled out the card: A piece of cardboard folded in half, covered in colorful stars and a rosy-cheeked sun with a big smile in the center. When you opened it, the message written in the adorable handwriting of a child:

“Apology fully accepted. The cookies were very good, thank you! I just realized I forgot to ask, what’s your name? Your new friend, Jack.”

You stood there, still for a moment, smiling at the card as you felt your chest immediately warm. Maybe you could reframe your thoughts on construction work, because now, maybe deep down, you’re glad the pipe burst.

◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇

I've been writing this since April *biting fist emoji*, and to be honest, I've changed the script so much that I don't even know how to continue. I'm only posting this because I know myself and I know I'm one step away from freaking out and deleting everything :) When this is over I'll probably write a sequel.

Frowning at your thoughts, you watched as Andy leaned in and pressed a kiss to Ari’s lips, gently caressing his arm before stepping past him and toward you.

You could see it in Andy’s gaze–the way he wanted to say goodbye to you, too. Kiss you on the cheek maybe, get a whiff of your scent before leaving, and leave you with the faintest hint of his own.

It could have been a sweet moment between the two of you–just like he had with Ari–but when Andy paused before you, you shrank away from him, pretending like the flicker of hurt in his eyes didn’t feel like a punch to the gut.

He even smiled at you in understanding of your reaction to him. Ducking his head and meeting your wary gaze with a warm one of his own, Andy told you, “Have a good day today, honey. I’ll see you later, okay?”

You just stared at him without responding, hating yourself just a little bit more than you already did when the yearning you felt every day–deep, deep down–was mirrored to you in Andy’s sad gaze.

There was a moment of awkward silence between the two of you as he waited to see if you’d respond. When you didn’t, he continued on his way, the distant click of the front door closing signaling his departure. 

The silence stretched on between you and Ari. You watched as he stood at the marble isle, prepping sandwiches for the two of you to have for lunch later, looking unbothered and happy even, as he went about it. 

You weren’t sure why you said your thoughts aloud, but you did. “You both must be so disappointed in choosing me.”

Ari’s head snapped up, his features furrowed as he immediately shook his head to refute your statement. “What?! Not at all.” He stopped what he was doing and rounded the counter so he could stand before you, his eyes unwavering as he said, “Sweetheart, we’re thrilled with all the progress we’ve been making. You’re doing so well!”

Your features twisted in disbelief, and you looked away, tightly crossing your arms over your chest as you shifted your weight and remained silent.

“Our priority is making sure you feel safe and comfortable, everything else can wait.”

You snorted so hard, it kind of hurt, your fiery gaze reconnecting with Ari’s as you sassed, “So you don’t want to fuck me?”

He just grinned at your attitude, a teasing kind of warmth sparking in his gaze as his eyes flickered over you, almost like he couldn’t help it before realigning with yours. “I didn’t say that, but we want you to want it too.”

From that brief onceover alone, you couldn’t stop squirming, your face feeling too hot and your stomach fluttering wildly. You hated it, the way your body responded to him, to such a dumb, random exchange. 

It made you even more waspish as you very firmly told him, “Not. Gonna. Happen.” 

There was something so knowing in Ari’s gaze as he watched you–as he tried to hide his smile–that you felt the immediate urge to run and hide. 

Which only made you more angry and defensive. 

“I’m not a project for you to fix,” you hissed. 

His face softened at that, and Ari’s voice was so genuine as he replied, “Sweetheart, we don’t want to fix you, we want to love you.” 

Your breath caught in your throat, but you ignored it, shoving down the stupid yearning inside of you. It was likely a result of your pathetic inner omega, of all the hopes and dreams that you had had over the years that effectively got snuffed out one by one as time went on and you experienced what it really meant to be an omega.

Andy and Ari could say all their nice, pretty words, and pretend to be as patient and understanding as could be, but at the end of the day, they would never understand you. 

They would never get what they wanted either, and it was all your fault. 

That realization had a lump forming in your throat and caused a weird burning sensation at the back of your eyes that you needed to blink away as the urge to flee became even stronger than before.

So without another word, you turned on your heel and stomped away, overly aware of Ari staring after you–quiet and patient as always–the entire time. 

A little while later, once you had cooled off a bit, Ari managed to cajole you back into the kitchen to try a new baking recipe with him. 

You could only roll your eyes at how shamelessly he extorted the way you seemed to enjoy being in the kitchen with him–especially to bake–but you followed him nonetheless.

You only half listened as he told you about the recipe and what he had already started to prep, meandering around the kitchen to keep some space between the two of you because you were still annoyed from this morning. 

Gaze catching on what appeared to be an entire bowl of melted chocolate on the stove, you beelined for it, already reaching for the metal bowl that sat atop a pot so that you could steal some chocolatey goodness to “taste test.”

Your fingers were just inches away from the bowl, your mind so intent on experiencing the low key euphoria that accompanied eating chocolate, that you didn’t register the heat coming from the set up at all. Before you could touch the bowl though, you were suddenly grabbed from behind and yanked away from the stove.

“Sweetheart, no!” Ari’s voice was pitched with alarm, his hands still firm on your hips as he held you against him for a beat before turning you in his grip to explain, “That bowl’s as hot as the pot, you’ll burn yourself pretty badly. Are you okay? Did you get hurt?” he fretted, grabbing your hand and holding it up to inspect your skin.

“Get off!” you snarled at him, yanking your hand from his gentle grip and shoving him away from you.

You cradled your perfectly fine hand to your chest, visibly shaking over the whole ordeal as you stared at each other. 

The concern written all over Ari’s face only made you feel more embarrassed about your mistake, at how fucking stupid you were, especially when it came to the most basic things. 

Not to mention that you hated being touched–especially without warning–and your body was going haywire in a bad way because of it. Your heart hammered so hard that you were sure it was going to explode from your chest any second, and you felt like you couldn’t quite catch your breath.

And you could only stand there helplessly as Ari observed all of this–how fucking weak and stupid you were–over something as dumb as a bowl of chocolate.

“I’m so sorry,” he started, looking positively gutted at the idea of upsetting you so much, but you didn’t let him finish.

You just did what you were becoming best at–turned and scurried from the kitchen and back to your bedroom to hide.

As the day began to turn to evening, you were curled up on the soft, cushy sofa in the sunroom. 

Maybe you were becoming spoiled by the spaciousness of Andy and Ari’s house, but you could only endure hiding away in your room for so long before it started to feel like another cage.

So you had waited a while with your ear pressed to your closed bedroom door, ensuring that Ari wasn’t in the vicinity so you could sneak out of your room and hide away in the sunroom instead.

It was probably your favorite room in the house. It overlooked the large back yard, and you liked that you felt surrounded by nature but in a safe way. 

As you sat out there now, you closed your eyes for a moment as you listened to the plentiful birdsong that was being sung just outside. You couldn’t help but imagine what it would be like to be that free–and so easily able to express yourself.

“You can go sit outside if you want.”

You startled at the sound of Andy’s voice, your eyes snapping open and narrowing as you watched him hesitantly loom at the other end of the sofa before gingerly sitting down.

“I don’t want to,” you said flatly. 

He watched you for a beat before understanding flickered in his gaze, and you felt so irritated at the fact that he could obviously tell you felt safer in the house than you did outside of it. 

You felt safer being locked up like a prisoner than reclaiming your freedom like every omega deserved. 

You were a coward, and now Andy knew that truth about you.

“Ari told me what happened earlier today, are you doing okay?” Andy asked.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” you sniffed, unable to meet his gaze any longer and instead turning to stare out the closest window.

“He’s really sorry that he grabbed you without warning. He feels pretty terrible about it.”

That dumb lump was back in your throat at the thought of Ari feeling so terrible, especially because of you. Clenching your jaw, you remained silent, annoyed as your vision started to blur with the hint of tears that you stubbornly blinked back. 

“He also mentioned that you think we’re disappointed that we chose you—“ Andy started, but you cut him off.

“Wow, you two really love to gossip about me, huh?”

“It’s not gossip, honey,” the patience bled from his words as he told you, “It’s sharing with each other; that’s what it means to be in partnership. That’s what we want with you, too.”

You rolled your eyes with a quiet scoff, but didn’t respond more than that, hoping Andy would get the hint and just leave you alone. 

But after a long moment of silence, he did no such thing, speaking again instead. 

“We aren’t, you know. Disappointed. I know this hasn’t been easy for you, it’s such a big change, and your experience at the breeder facility was awful. You have every right to be cautious with us. We understand and we’re not disappointed in you. The only thing we want from you is for you to try to give us a chance. That’s it. We don’t have any other expectations.”

Ignoring the more insistent burn of tears caused by his words, you shook your head, refusing to accept them. Your eyes blazed as you turned to Andy and said, “God, you’re so fucking full of it, and I’m so sick of this picture of perfection that you and Ari have crafted. We all know that the whole reason why you adopted me in the first place was because you wanted the perfect little omega. To fuck, to knot, to bond, to own.”

You had to give Andy credit–he didn’t shy away from your venom in the least. If anything, his gaze grew gentler, even more sympathetic as he leaned closer. 

“You’re right in a sense,” he started. “We’ve definitely dreamt over the years of completing our pack, but—“

“I don’t want to be owned!” you nearly shouted, feeling a small sense of victory at the way Andy flinched at your outburst. “I don’t want all that I am and my whole life to boil down to being yours, like I don’t even matter at all!”

For some reason, your words seemed to hit Andy hard. You watched as his eyes grew misty with unshed tears and his fingers clenched into a fist atop his thigh, like he was resisting the urge to reach out to you. 

“That’s so understandable, sweetheart,” his voice was soft but so firm as he spoke–and you both struggled to meet his gaze and found yourself unable to look away as he continued. “I’d hate to be boiled down to a possession, too. But something you need to realize about me and Ari is that we don’t view you—or omegas in general—in that way. We don’t buy into the propaganda, and we don’t want to own you like you’re a thing to be possessed. We want you to be ours, and we want to be yours, but from a place of love and belonging, not ownership.”

Andy’s words made you want to cry and rage in equal measure. His honesty was so evident–so impossible to ignore–that it was almost a visceral thing. You could feel your inner omega bloom and want at the picture he was painting, because once upon a time, you had yearned for this very thing.

But that had been a long, long time ago, and your life had been the furthest thing from the fairytale your naive younger self had always dreamed of.

So as Andy’s truth caused an emotional uprising within you, you spoke your own truth aloud, too, your voice a harsh whisper as your lower lip trembled. “I don’t believe you.”

Andy’s resulting smile was so soft and sad that it had your eyes burning all over again, as did his reply. “I hope that one day you will. Maybe we just need to work a little harder to help you get there, and we’re happy to do that, omega, because we both know you’re worth it, even if you don’t believe that either. Yet.”

Your inner omega whined at how spot on Andy was, and also at the fact that he rose to his feet, giving you one final sad smile, before he departed. 

Leaving you to stare after him with tears brimming and your mind spinning out as you unconsciously took a deep breath, inhaling his lingering scent, and closing your eyes at the way it soothed you, just a tiny bit. 

After the emotionally charged–and exhausting–day you had had, it shouldn’t have been a surprise that your dreams were so vivid and active as a result.

But that didn’t mean you were any less shaken when you awoke with a start in the middle of the night, sweating and trembling hard as you remembered the disturbing details of your nightmare.

Being back at the breeder’s and in that god awful glass cell. 

Naked and so vulnerable as the breeder advanced on you with violence and a carnal kind of possession glinting in his eyes.

You whined at the recollection, feeling sick to your stomach and so scared as you curled into a ball and wiped at the tears streaming from your eyes. You swore as you laid there, that all the scars that had long since healed on your back throbbed in phantom pain at the sheer memory of the breeder and all that you had endured at his hands.

You tried to breathe in slow and deep, tried so hard to soothe yourself, but your efforts just seemed to make your body more hypervigilant, and you felt even worse than before.

You were so shaken that you didn’t push back against your inner omega as she rose up, urging you to seek out what actually soothed you and made you feel safe.

In the moment, you couldn’t even be angry that you knew she meant Andy and Ari, even after everything that had happened today.

Maybe even more so because of it. 

Because they had done and said all the right things, and despite your constant stubbornness and resistance to them and what they were trying to accomplish with you, deep down, you believed them and everything they told you, even if you didn’t want to.

Even if in doing so, you made yourself vulnerable in a new and scary way.

But none of that mattered right now. The only thing that mattered in this moment was feeling safe and shaking off the dregs of your upsetting dream.

So you slid from your bed, your knees nearly buckling because you were shaking so hard. Sniffing back more tears, you crossed the room and opened the door, slipping out into the dark hallway and making the trek to the bedroom where your alphas slept together.

The combination of their scents enveloped you as soon as you stood in the open doorway, and you wavered there for a moment. Through the darkness, you could just make out the large shape of the bed across the room, and the two figures curled close and asleep within it.

Gripping the doorjamb, you breathed in slow and deep, nearly whining again as Andy and Ari’s scents washed over you. You swore it felt like a warm blanket being draped over your shoulders, the comfort you felt just being in their space, surrounded by them and their scents.

It was such a sharp dose of relief to your distress that you didn’t think twice before silently padding across the room. You rounded the foot of the bed before curling up in the armchair that was just a few feet away from Andy’s sleeping form.

In no time at all, you were fast asleep yourself, your dreams devoid of the horrors from before as you sank deeper and deeper into the blissful–peaceful–depths of rest.

Waking the next morning was a slower than usual process. 

For some reason, it took your conscious mind longer than usual to surface from the depths of sleep, but not in a bad way. If anything, you languished in the unhurried rush, wishing each morning could start as peaceful as this. 

When you did finally blink your sleepy eyes open, it was to find both Andy and Ari sitting on the edge of their bed a few feet away, watching you in a soft and hopeful sort of concern. 

“Morning, sweetheart,” Ari spoke first, keeping his voice intentionally quiet so as not to startle you.

“Are you alright?” Andy asked, his brows furrowed in worry as he watched you. 

For a moment, you just watched him right back. Ari too. 

Maybe it was because you were still half asleep, or that you had slept so well once you had moved in here after your nightmare, but whatever it was, for some reason, you just didn’t want to shatter the content with your usual snark and anger.

So you sighed and rolled your eyes instead as you eased up into a sit, half-heartedly glaring at the alphas as they watched you, clearly in fret mode. 

So very worried, for you.

“I’m fine,” you grumped.

When that didn’t seem to alleviate their concern at all, you rolled your eyes again.

“I had a nightmare, okay?” you huffed. 

“And you came in here?” Ari asked hopefully, as Andy asked at the same time, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Obviously,” you answered Ari first before telling Andy, “No.”

“Okay,” Andy backed off immediately, giving you a tentative smile. “Whatever you want.”

From beside him, Ari was watching you, too, with this stupid dopey smile on his lips that brightened up his entire stupidly handsome face.

There was this quiet kind of…adoration shining from both their gazes–the glow of happiness, too–and it was making you want to hide and snap at them, even as your inner omega was full on preening under their attention.

The urge to flee eventually won out, and you slid to your feet, avoiding both alpha’s gazes as you went to move away from them with a muttered, “I’m going to shower.”

“What do you want for breakfast?” Ari asked. “Anything you want.”

You paused, unable to resist the offer as you grumped, “Waffles,” because you couldn’t help but love that stupid waffle press thing. It was fun to use and turn and open, and Ari knew it, too.

So you sent him a half-hearted stink eye for his non-sneaky bribery before hurrying on your way, leaving Andy and Ari to stare after you for a long moment before they turned to each other in elation. 

“She sought us out in a moment of distress!” Ari breathed, his voice trembling as he pressed a hand to his chest. 

“She’s starting to feel safe with us,” Andy realized, his eyes just as hopeful and brimming with tears as Ari’s. “She needed to be soothed, and she came to us.”

“This is huge, right?” Ari asked. “It feels huge.”

“It is,” Andy confirmed with a quiet, joyful laugh. He reached for Ari as the other alpha sniffed back his tears, reeling him close and pressing their foreheads together. “It’s amazing.”

“So amazing,” Ari echoed with his own happy laugh before framing Andy’s bearded face between his hands and giving him a soft kiss of celebration that his alpha counterpart happily, ardently returned.  

🥹🥹🥹

Shoutout and lots of thanks to my sweet bestie @whoknowsanymore124 for the almost getting burned in the kitchen scene idea! I hope I did it justice.

---

Please take a moment to drop a comment or reblog. Engagement is the fuel that keeps writers writing and sharing their work for your enjoyment, so do your part to keep our fandom alive. Serial likers will be blocked.

I no longer do tag lists, but if you'd like to be notified when I post new writing, follow my side blog @‌sirisshamelesshoelibrary​ and turn on notifications to get pinged when I drop some new hoe fuel 😘

His head shot to the side as your eyes fluttered shut, his own filled with hardened urgency. "Reid."

"Ambulance is on the way."

"You hear that?" Aaron turned back to you, speaking calmly, but beneath it ran a current of barely restrained fear. You were caged in his arms, allowing him to hold you upright. His arm wrapped around the crook of your neck, safely keeping you against him, your cheek against his chest. "Help's on the way. I just need you to stay awake for me."

Forcing your eyes open, you nodded drowsily as you gripped onto his forearm, your fingernails digging into his skin as you fought to remain alert. Only, it weakened, the sting dwindling as the seconds passed.

Blinking up at him, your sorrowful, dazed eyes ached his heart in a way he never knew possible, "I'm sorry Aaron."

"Don't be, you didn't do anything wrong," he reassured, his tone insistent yet matching your soft whisper. Your referring to him as 'Aaron' instead of 'Hotch' only served to make him feel exponentially worse. You've called him by some form of his last name since the day you’d met him. And considering what he kept hidden, he would've welcomed the more personal feeling that his first name brought.

But tonight, it hit too close. Hearing his given name reminded him this was his fault. He should never have let you go undercover, should never have allowed your assurances that everything would be okay to sway him into agreeing.

But it had just been too perfect. You were the unsub’s ideal victim. Given the opportunity, he would have no choice but to pursue you. Whether Aaron liked it or not, you were the key in catching him.

He’d had a gut feeling this was a bad idea before you even got dressed to go to the bar, or when Dave suggested it, or before Dave suggested it. Aaron knew that telltale look on his face - the one that held a perfectly arranged ploy despite the dangers it consisted of.

And while strictly strategic, it still didn't deny the jealousy that caused his jaw to clench as the unsub flirted with you. To ensure you'd gotten the correct guy, you had to flirt back; flash him your beautiful smile, lay a hand on his arm.

Acting or not, Aaron hadn't wanted to sit there and watch it play out. He ardently longed for you and you didn't even know it.

"We got him. We know who he is. You did your job well."

"But I..." you protested, your nose scrunching in disapproval in the silent certainty you'd let him down. It was getting harder to form thoughts now - everything felt distant, slower, as if your brain lagged behind reality.

"The only thing you need to worry about is keeping your eyes open." At that, your eyes lifted back to his, softening at the sight of his sweet, sweet brown eyes.

You tried to focus on his gaze, but it swam in and out of clarity. When you could, it wasn't panicked, there was no pressure, just need. A soft kind of desperation.

"It's okay. I'm going to take care of you," he consoled. "Jus' stay awake for me baby."

You wanted to, for him, but your breathing grew deeper regardless. Your eyes - along with your limbs - felt detrimentally heavier than before. Despite trying your hardest, you couldn’t keep them from closing. Letting all your worries slip away along with the surrounding noise.

Besides, you were safe - tucked in Aaron's arms. Nothing bad could happen to you now, and he'd be right there when you awoke later. You knew he would be, he always was.

Aaron pressed his lips to the top of your head. The last thing you heard before succumbing to the darkness:

The sound of sirens still echoed in the distance, muffled by the persistent ringing in SN's ear. Dust hung in the air, particles suspended in a slow, silent ballet, contrasting with the adrenaline still pulsing through her bloodstream. She leaned against the side of the van, feeling the stubborn throb in her rib, as if each breath were a knife pushing deeper. But she was standing. She was alive. And that was enough.

— “I’m fine.”

The words came out before she even registered his presence. Like an automatic defense. Like a shield.

She didn’t need to look to know who it was. She already knew. She could feel him.

— “No.”

Aaron’s voice came firm, laced with that dangerous calm. The kind that always came before a storm.

— “You’re not.”

She turned her head slowly, meeting his gaze — dark, tense, devastated inside. His hands were stained with blood that wasn’t his, and his eyes… his eyes gave him away. He had seen her fall. Saw the moment the suspect shoved her against the wall, the dull sound of impact, her body giving in for a second that had felt eternal.

— “It was just a hit, Hotch. I’ve taken worse in training.”

He stepped closer.

— “Training doesn’t have concrete walls.”

She raised an eyebrow, forcing half a smile, even as the pain pulsed sharper.

— “You’re overreacting.”

And then she winced, betrayed by the pain.

— “And you’re bleeding.”

The worry was written all over his face. But it was more than that. It wasn’t just a boss looking after an agent. It was something intimate. Or maybe she was hallucinating… the pain in her back and head was unbearable.

She tried to hide her arm instinctively, but he had already seen — the gash on her side, just below the rib. Deep enough to cause concern. Deep enough to awaken something in him she hadn’t seen in a long time: fear.

She hadn’t even known that was possible. That the Chief of the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit — Aaron Hotchner — could feel fear.

— “Give me five minutes. I can drive…”

Her vision blurred. She felt weak.

— “Not a chance,” he cut in, already pulling out his phone. “You’re going to the hospital now.”

She tried to take a step, maybe to stop him, but her body gave out. The world spun. Aaron was there before she could fall. He held her by the waist — firm, tense — and she groaned in pain. His face was inches from hers.

— “I’m sorry…”

The words came out slow, dragged.

— “Why, SN? Why the hell do you always think you have to carry everything alone?”

She took a deep breath, trying to hold back the dizziness, trying not to pass out.

— “Because I can.”

His eyes burned.

— “Not when you’re hurt. Not when I’m here.”

For a moment, the silence between them was louder than all the noise around. She could feel his breath. The warmth of his hands on her cold skin. And something inside her — something she had buried beneath layers of pain and professionalism — wanted to give in.

What if someone could finally take care of me?

But would I let myself be taken care of… after everything I’ve been through?

— “I’m fine,” she insisted, but her voice no longer had strength. It was weak.

She could give in right now… but she was still too stubborn for that.

Aaron looked at her for a long moment, as if trying to see beyond skin, beyond pain, beyond armor.

— “You can lie to the whole world, SN. But not to me.”

She didn’t answer. Because he was right. Because deep down, she was far from fine. Because the physical pain was just the surface. And because, in that moment, more than hiding the wound… what truly hurt was the way he looked at her.

Like he still cared.

— “Come on,” he said, his voice softer now. Almost a whisper. “Before you pass out again.”

She scoffed, exhausted.

— “I didn’t pass out. I just… lost balance.”

A slight smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, barely there.

— “Right. Tell that to the doctor when we get there… if you’re still awake, that is.”

Aaron picked her up as if carrying a bride. As if it were the most natural thing in the world. And no matter how hard she tried to fight the wave of warmth it brought, SN allowed herself.

She rested her head on his shoulder. Just for a moment. Just until the pain eased. Just until the fear gave way to something she no longer had a name for.

"I'm outside of your building but I'm too afraid to come in. I'm not sure they'll let me. I need a badge, right?" 

"You're outside." 

You pick at the hem of your sweater, a loose thread marring your otherwise pretty outfit. You'll admit to dressing up unnecessarily to see him. Nice clothes, your most subtle perfume. 

"I found something confidential this morning, a piece of paper. I didn't read it, I promise."

"You really shouldn't be here," he says. 

Your smile abruptly drops. You press the phone closer to your face and wait, hoping he's not talking to you. When it's clear that he is you cringe, the silence pervasive and the most awkward it's ever been with him. 

"Sorry." Your apology is quick, quiet. "I thought it would be easier for you. I didn't mean to… overstep." 

"It's not that. It's busy. Would you hang on to it for me? Maybe I can come and get it tonight, bring dinner." 

You love how he says it. It's not a question, not an assumption. And it's a relief. If he wants to see you on a night where you hadn't planned to get together, he can't be mad at you for being here. 

"Yeah, please. If you want to." 

"I want to. Okay?"

Not for confirmation, it's shorthand. You okay? 

"Yeah. Okay. Have a good rest of your day, handsome." 

"Bye." 

You like to think you can hear the sound of his phone clicking shut, imagining him at his desk in one of his neat suits with a case file open in front of him. You're not sure on the specifics of his job but you know he looks good doing it, and you also know he's very, very busy. You don't take his clipped goodbye as anything but efficiency. 

Maybe you should. 

—

The next time Aaron inadvertently hurts your feelings is in person. 

Compared to him, you wouldn't say you're an incredibly exciting character. Your day job is tame, your hobbies are invaried. You like to watch TV, see movies, you enjoy people-watching. When you hold that stuff up to his job, his profiling, and his hobbies (seriously, who likes triathlon?) you feel rather immature. 

You know deep down that hobbies are hobbies and that your job doesn't define how special you are, but when you're with someone like Aaron who lives and breathes his profession it can play with your head. 

"Is there something interesting about my shirt?" he asks, a murmur under the sound of the TV. 

You look up from the hem of his nice button down and smile, a half-smile. You want it to be more genuine than it is. "Don't you already know?" 

"What do you mean?" 

"You can tell I'm…" You frown, dropping the starched material of his shirt from between your fingers. "I've given myself up, haven't I?" 

"A little," he concedes sympathetically. 

You huff your defeat and let your cheek fall into his chest. Nice to seek comfort from him, nicer for him to give it to you, his arm rising from behind your shoulders to hook around your neck. 

"I'm not profiling you," he says, voice close to the top of your head, "I'm wondering what you're thinking."

You relax under his touch, his big hand settling in the curve of your neck. A semi-hug. It doesn't take long for you to melt into his front completely, your unhappy thoughts dissolving with any tension and leaving only a want to kiss his stupidly nice neck.

"It doesn't matter," you say. 

"You sure?" 

You lift your head from his chest. He has to lean back to meet your eyes and he does it unflinchingly, a bemused smile playing on his lips. 

"I'm good. Better, if you would…" 

"Yeah?" he asks quietly, leaning down, down. 

You can't withstand his charms. He knows exactly how to get you, his smile and his eyes, his lashes kissing in the corners as they close. 

He's imposing in the best way, a heavy presence that overwhelms you. All you can think about is the way he nudges his nose with yours to encourage your head back and the heat of his lips as they touch your own. His arm tightens behind your head.

You try to rise onto your knees, hands vying for his neck and his pitch dark hair. You're doubly pleased when you feel his mouth turning up into a smile, a mirror of your own. 

"Slow down," he chides gently. 

You're about to say something unlike yourself, something loud and brash. Speed up, Hotchner. You're hopped up on the giddiness that comes with being close to him. You're just about to say it when his phone rings. 

He gives you a short, hard kiss. 

"Hotchner." 

You sit back in his lap, his hand sliding to the small of your back to keep you close as his face clouds with confusion. You attempt to climb off of him because you're not a sack of sugar — you're probably giving him numb thighs — but he won't let you.

"Garcia," he says eventually, "is this an emergency?" His tone makes it clear to you that whatever it is Garcia is saying, it's far from an emergency. 

His hand climbs up, over your shoulder. You shudder as he tugs your earlobe, a mild and thoughtless gesture. You're so busy shivering you almost miss his playful eye roll. 

"I haven't changed my mind. Yeah. Thanks for the invitation, but I'm perfectly happy where I am tonight." 

Whatever Garcia says makes him laugh. If you weren't sitting as close to him as you are you wouldn't have heard it. 

"Have fun. Bye," he says succinctly. He snaps his phone closed in one hand, the other dropping from your ear to your shoulder. It's heavy with a remorse you can't allow. "Sorry."

"Doesn't matter," you assure, tilting your head toward his hand and pretending to size him up. You don't know how to profile, but you're a good guess. 

"You're not telling me something." 

"No?" He blinks in surprise.

"No. You've been invited somewhere with your work friends, and you usually go. Why not tonight?" 

"I think that's obvious." 

"You don't have to flake on your friends for me, Aaron." 

He smiles as you say his name. "Like I told Garcia, I am perfectly happy where I am." 

You hide your face in his neck lest he see your doped up smile. "You have nice friends," you murmur, working your hands under the hem of his shirt. 

"I think you'd love Garcia after the infinitial terror." 

"I think I would too. She's good to you, after all. Makes me like her… Maybe one day we can all go out for drinks." 

You don't have to be a profiler to feel the way he tenses. 

"Yeah," he says. It sounds very much like Probably not. 

That's a strumming hurt. Aaron is so nice, so so nice, and he treats you like you're gold dust. He does all the movie boyfriend stuff like flowers, silver earrings on your birthday (with tiny diamonds!), dinner reservations at dauntingly fancy restaurants. And he does stuff you didn't know men did, like calling you near every night to make sure you had a good day, and praising even your smallest achievements, and leaving notes in places he knows you'll find them on hard days. You don't know how he knows when days are hard, he just does. 

You'd figured all of this stuff meant he must really like you, might even love you though he's yet to say it, and that's why his lack of enthusiasm stings. 

Why doesn't he want you to meet his friends? He's obviously very proud of what they do at the BAU. They're not the issue. 

It's you. 

You cuddle him as a pit forms in your chest. 

"You're tired?" he asks.

Funny how it's his comfort you crave when he's the one who's hurt your feelings. You're a little lopsided being upset with him, and you know if you tell him how you feel he'll try to make it up to you, but you're too afraid of the other alternative — a fight. Right now his arms are a sanctity you wouldn't trade for anything. You hope he feels the same. 

You're not sure anymore. 

"Yeah," you say roughly. 

Your eyes burn as he pats your back. "Let's go to bed, honey." 

You'll just… have to prove you're someone worth showing off. 

—

Your plan, loosely titled 'Get Aaron Hotchner to Show Me Off,' is going about as well as you'd thought it would. 

If Aaron doesn't want me to meet his friends there must be a reason. You've been thinking about it and it can't be a coincidence that he hadn't wanted you to return his paperwork a few weeks ago. That must've been something significant. 

But what? 

You start with your hair. Aaron has expressed a lovely and heaping handful of times that he thinks you have pretty hair. He plays with it often, usually when he's limp and tired from a long day. You've always taken care of it. Now you're going to the extreme — hair masks, hair appointments you can't afford, anything to make it look perfect. 

It doesn't work toward the plan, though your boyfriend certainly notices. 

"Your hair," is the very first thing he says when he sees you, stopping only in his smiling assessment to kiss your cheek in greeting. 

"Is it okay?" you ask, turning your face to one side. 

"More than okay. Do you want to go in?" 

So it's kind of a bust. But that's okay, you weren't expecting to get a haircut and magically be invited to team dinners. You persevere, and eventually you forget the plan for the night when Aaron promises to show you how much he likes your new look with a hand at the small of your back. 

Phase two, your clothes. 

You dress as nicely as you can but you're no fashion guru and you can't afford an entirely new wardrobe. You get a bunch of magazines and look for fall staples. What's in this year, and how do you style it? You buy a couple of pieces that fit your budget and try to work around them. 

Aaron's favourite are the new corduroy pants. They aren't a great fit. 

"They're too tight," you lament, pulling the fabric from your thighs where they hug snugly. They're a desaturated sort of burgundy, not bright by any means but a good 'pop of colour'. 

"I know," he says. 

You gawp at him, and when he gets his fingers on the buttons afterward, you break. 

"You like them?" you ask worriedly. 

"What makes you think I don't?" 

"Besides how eager you are to get them off of me?" 

He hooks two fingers in your belt loops and holds your gaze as he tugs them down. "I like them." 

A good time, but still no dice. You suppose a new look, besides looking smarter, doesn't actually prove your merit as a girlfriend. Maybe he wants something a little more concrete before he introduces you to people. Maybe things aren't as good for him as they are for you, and he doesn't see the point. 

That particular thought sparks a wave of panicked tears. 

The next time you see him, it's like he can tell. You wonder if he has x-ray vision, some sixth sense for tear stains that he has yet to tell you about. He's been gone for a few days in St. Louis, and when he'd come back he'd spent the weekend with Jack, so it's a whole seven days since the last time you saw him and your worries have festered. Not even his doting phone calls had kept the thought at bay. 

Maybe I'm not a good girlfriend. 

You open your door and there he is in a quarter zip with an overnight bag, matte suit cover draped over one arm. 

"Hi," you say, unsure. 

"Did I get uglier while I was away?" he asks seriously. 

You startle. "No, of course not." 

He smiles and meets you in the doorway, your head dipping back to accommodate. "I think I've had it too good," he says lightly, bringing a tentative hand to your cheek. "Are you okay?" 

You're trying to work out what he means, and when you do your heart skips. "Handsome!" you say urgently. "Hi, handsome. No, you didn't get uglier, I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking, and-" 

He kisses you. It's malaligned because of your parted lips, but it's good. You'd really missed him. 

"You're definitely still handsome," you murmur. 

"Doesn't count. I begged for it-" 

"No!" you deny, lifting on tiptoes to give him another kiss and stop his slander. "It does count because you're always handsome, I promise. I think I slept too much and miswired my brain when I woke up." 

"I don't mind that you didn't call me handsome," he says firmly, "now let me in. We have dinner to make." 

"Right, sorry."

Aaron frowns at you, then. It's weird. He frowns at his phone, at the TV, at nothing, but he doesn't frown at you. 

"Is something wrong?" he asks as you traverse down the hall. You hold your hands out for his suit and bag to take to your room and hang up, ignoring his question. He doesn't give them to you. "Is there?" 

"No." You smile as you say it. 

You're an awful liar, especially with him. He makes you more nervous than anyone because he's your boyfriend and because he's a literal human lie detector. 

"You didn't even try." 

You cover your face with both hands and groan dramatically, spinning around and away from him. You don't want him to see how flustered you are. 

"Don't make fun," you beg. 

"You're embarrassed." 

"Teach you that at the Bureau, do they?"  

You stop in the doorway of the kitchen, distracted by your own racing thoughts when suddenly there are two long arms needling around your waist and pulling you backward. You gasp a laugh and squirm uselessly to escape. 

"I'm sorry," he says quietly. 

You tip your head back, hands falling from your face in surprise. "What for, handsome?" 

His laugh fans out over your face but when he speaks again there's no humour there, only sincerity, "For being gone so long." 

"Well don't be. You can't exactly help it, Agent Hotchner," you hum. 

"Oh, don't." 

"Going out and saving the world takes time. I knew that when I met you, 'n I know it now. You don't have to say sorry." 

"I'm not apologising for my work. I'm apologising that we've," — his nose presses into the highest point of your cheek — "been apart." 

"I did miss you," you relent. 

He presses his lips to your cheek. "I missed you too." 

It's a nice distraction. You'd missed one another, and now you're together. You forget for a while what you'd worried, and only when he leaves again do you remember. 

Maybe I'm not a good girlfriend. 

You're not stupid enough to think Hotch is using you for anything, or that he's insincere. You're level-headed, though. His affection for you isn't necessarily permanent no matter how genuine. 

You don't want to be overbearing. The offers start slow. 

I can wash that for you. Of course I'm sure, I'm great with whites. 

Maybe I could make you lunch tomorrow. You can take it in, spare yourself the federal cafeteria. 

Yeah, I got them shined for you. They were looking a little dull at the toes. 

"Do you want me to press these?" you ask. 

Aaron looks up from where he's sitting in bed. You'd been out on a foray to the bathroom and have come to a stop by his bedroom door where a pair of black slacks hang in wait for the morning. 

He pushes a darling pair of reading glasses up the bridge of his nose. "No." 

"Are you sure? It won't take five minutes." 

"I'll do it in the morning." 

"I can do it for you, then. Just wake me up," you say, pushing back the sheets on the empty side of his bed. Your socked foot bumps his thigh as you pull up your legs. "What are you reading?" 

He puts his book on the nightstand, takes off his glasses. It's too bad. He really suits them.

"I want to talk to you about something." 

You laugh and slide down onto the flat of your back. 

"What?" he asks, confused, the tiniest hint of amusement in his eyes. 

"It's unlike you to start that way. You always cut around the fat." You bring his bed sheets up to your nose and squint at him. "'M I in trouble?" 

"Depends." 

"On what?" 

"You know I care about you." 

Your heart somersaults. That feels very much like a break-up opener, and he must see your anxiety on your face. He wrangles your hand from under the sheets and leans over you, his face in your eyeline, his fingers massaging yours until they ache in the good way. 

"Do you know how much?" he asks. 

"Is that a trick?" 

"No." 

You wait in case there's something he's going to add. When there's nothing, you pull the sheets to your chin and tamp down your perplexed pouting. 

"Yeah, I know how much." 

"I'd like to tell you how much." He pulls your joined hands toward his jaw. "I know I'm not always here, but I'm always thinking of you. In roundabout ways." 

"What ways?" you ask. Self-indulgence.

Aaron Hotchner indulges you. 

"I see," — he kisses your hand — "trees. I've seen a thousand trees, but when I see the bigger ones I wish you could see them too." 

It's a dropping sensation, near uncomfortable, that's how gutted his confession makes you feel. "You do?" 

"Sometimes women walk past me and I swear that it's you because they smell like your perfume. Flowers growing through cracks in the sidewalk. Lights through the jet window." It's the kind of stuff you like to point out to him when you're together. 

He stares at you, a long, reassuring look. 

He deserves a better reply, but all you can say is, "I think of you all the time, too." 

"I love that you want to take care of me, but you don't need to wear yourself out." 

You bite the inside of your bottom lip. So that's what this is about. Aaron has profiled you, and now he's being the gentleman that he is and assuaging your fears. 

"I'm not," you say quickly. 

He understands that you're saying I'm not wearing myself out rather than I'm not taking care of you. You are taking care of him, the best that you can, the best that he'll allow. 

"I can press my own pants," he says, leaning down for a kiss. "I can shine my own shoes." He kisses you again. You screw your eyes closed as the warmth of his breath heats your cupid's bow. "I can do my own laundry." He pulls back, dropping your hand in favour of your neck. His thumb pushes against your windpipe gently, palm hot over your skin. "I'll accept the lunches, if you're sure you don't mind making them." 

You feel as excited as you did the very first time he touched you, chest full of a dizzying pleasure, heart bump-bump-bumping a racing rhythm. His thumb strokes a lazy quarter circle into your neck. He can probably feel your pulse, see the way your eyes have blown. 

"I love making them," you say, breathless in earnest.

"The team think I'm spoiled." 

"You aren't spoiled." You're adored, you want to say. You cup his cheek instead. "You'd be spoiled if I brought them by everyday." 

Aaron doesn't stay with you and you don't stay with him enough to make him lunch everyday. He might get one or two a week, and that's when he's home. 

"Wouldn't that be nice," he mutters, his fingers pushing between your neck and the pillow underneath. 

You hike up on to your elbows slowly to avoid headbutting him. "Well, I could." 

His easy, loving smile flattens. "No." 

"I wouldn't mind. My lunch break is super long and it only takes me ten minutes to get there. We could have lunch together." 

"That's not going to work." 

"Okay." You wish you could take it as calmly as he says it. You sound choked up. You are choked up. 

"Sweetheart, the office is a war zone. Half the time I'm not there." 

"I get it," you say, dropping flat onto your back again. 

"Sweetheart." 

"Handsome," you mirror, putting on your best unaffected smile. 

You can't hold it very long, his concerned brows too much to deal with. You turn your head to the left and turn off the lamp on the nightstand, throwing at least half of your expression into darkness. 

Aaron doesn't give up. Does he ever? He cups your cheek and pulls you back to face him. 

"I can't promise any lunch dates. But I was thinking we'd go out for dinner next week, Friday," he begins hopefully, "somewhere nice." 

It feels like an apology and you're desperate to take it. 

"I don't need somewhere nice, s'long as you're there 'n not in Kansas, or Colorado, or Idaho, or New Jersey-" 

He hums and drops his head until his nose lies against your own. "Gonna go through all fifty?" 

"You'd like that, wouldn't you, Hotchner?" 

"I love your voice," he says agreeably. 

Disarmed, you let him charm you, and you let him push it all out of your mind. Plan foiled, your fears fall on the backburner for a third time. 

—

His fourth rejection is the first that feels entirely intentional, though you won't know until later. 

Mostly because Aaron pushes you. 

Far from cruel, the two of you are actually out walking in the city when he forces you into an alleyway, your fancy drink sloshing down the front of your sweater. 

You laugh in surprise and almost roll your ankle, hands clinging to his coat to stop an unfortunate fall. 

"Holy shit, Hotchner, learn to be a gentleman," you say as he presses up against you. "What are you doing? I'm soaked, you're gonna ruin your sleeves." 

He kisses you hard. It's a surprise, your head jumping back against the wall to find his hand already there to protect it. 

It's worth noting that Aaron is a sweetheart in practically every aspect of life. He once apologised after having walked in on you changing, which is ridiculous because most of the nights where you're together he insists on getting you some sort of undressed (even if it's just to help you into your pyjamas).

Needless to say, he's never kissed you like this. Your emotions spike so suddenly you laugh into his mouth, a girlish peel of giggles that you'll regret afterward but can't stop for the life of you. 

He shushes you. "Sorry," he whispers, as ill-composed as you've ever heard him. "Sorry, just-" He cuts you both off with another bruising kiss. 

Your laughter fades into sighs and little gasps for air. Somewhere near the alleyway opening a group of people pass by, a jovial series of cheers and friendly laughter trailing behind them. Aaron presses you further into the wall behind, and slowly, slowly winds down. Weirdly, you think his last couple of pecks feel sorry, softer and sweeter. 

Your lips buzz. 

"Why'd you buy me that fancy drink if you were gonna tip it all over me?" you ask good-naturedly when he finally pulls back. 

"You looked too nice today." His deadpan voice wars with the smile on his face. "I'm sorry. We'll go find you something to change into." 

"Was it really that important that you kiss me right then?" you ask, feigning disdain. 

He looks out toward the main street again. "Yes. Where do you want to go? There's a Nordstrom." 

You take a sip of your drink, unsurprised when he takes your hand and starts to lead you toward the department stores. "Have you ever been inside of a Nordstrom?" 

"I'm sure I'll figure it out."

— 

The fifth time is the straw that breaks the camel's back. Or the brick. It feels heavier than a strand of straw. It's technically already come to pass, so it's an invisible brick. 

You're out for coffee by yourself which really means you're out for something sweet, bundled up in a coat and scarf to fight the night-time chill. 

"Thank you," you tell the barista, accepting your drink and receipt with a smile. 

You turn around and almost walk straight into a pretty dark-haired woman with really nice hair. You make a note to tell Aaron about it when you see him next, not because he'll care but because he likes to hear what you've been thinking about. And right now, all you can think about is her feathered bangs. 

I want nice bangs, you think offhandedly. 

"I'm sorry," you say, trying to move around her. 

She steps into your path. 

"Sorry," you say again. 

She's squinting at you, thin eyebrows peeking out from behind her hair. "Sorry, have we met?" she asks. 

You try not to be too hasty, but you're not sure you've ever seen her. You stare at her as she stares at you, and you get a tiny inkling of familiarity, but it's gone as quick as it comes. 

"I'm really sorry, I don't think so," you murmur, tilting your head to one side. 

She bites her lip, let's it go. "Oh!" she says excitedly, voice bright with triumph. "Oh oh oh! I know who you are, you're Hotch's mysterious girlfriend!" 

Your smile turns quizzical. You know nearly everybody calls Aaron 'Hotch'. Whenever you try it he either gives you the silent treatment or covers your mouth with his hand. 

"I'm Emily Prentiss, I work in the BAU," she explains rapidly, shoving her purse under her hand to offer it for a handshake. 

You do the same and shake her hand. Introducing yourself feels awkward. She knows you. You don't have a clue who she is. Only- 

"Oh, I know who you are now, I'm sorry I didn't recognise you before!" you say contritely. "I've seen photos of you and the team together. It's really nice to meet you." 

She nods. "It's nice to meet you too. I have to say, we've been dying to meet you. We even have a betting pool on what you're like, because Hotch barely says a thing about you." 

You try not to look as devastated as you feel, re-wrapping your fingers around your cup. "No?" 

"We didn't even know what you looked like until we saw you the other day. We came looking to say hi and you'd disappeared." 

You lick your dry lips. "The other day?" 

"Yeah, last Friday. We were out for impromptu drinks, celebrating a case. You know, you should come with sometime. It would be fun." 

Emily talks each word with an undertone of good humour. She's stunning, bubbly, and her hair flows around her face with every movement. 

"He really doesn't talk about me?" 

Emily drops into girl code niceties, backtracking. "I mean, not too often. We catch him smiling at his phone and hear your voice sometimes when you call. He seems happy. Well, happy as Hotch can seem." She swallows. "He's a private creature."

He doesn't talk about me. 

You pretend to check your watch. 

"It was really good to meet you," you say, voice airy with a feigned nonchalance. 

"Yeah, of course. Super nice," Emily says. 

You smile at her. It's more like a grimace. By the time you're outside of the coffee shop you're too upset to care, a humiliated shock of tears brewing behind your achy eyes. 

You hold your cup to your chest and unzip your purse to tuck the receipt inside, trying to maintain some control. There's a folded note inside, thick cardstock quartered. 

You take it out. Your fingers tremble with offended adrenaline. 

You're beautiful. 

Short, sweet, extremely Aaron Hotchner. Too bad you can't believe it. 

Emily Prentiss being out and about means the BAU are done for the night, though whether your workaholic boyfriend got the memo is anyone's best guess. You're not sure if it's better or worse if he's in work when you call. You're so upset that you can't help yourself. 

"Hi, honey." 

"Do you really think I'm beautiful?" you ask, staving off tears with all your willpower. 

"I wouldn't write it if I didn't mean it. That one took you a while to find, I was-" 

"Are you sure?" 

"...Are you okay?" 

You glare up at the dark sky rather than answer, blinking hard to force down your tears. You really don't wanna cry, but it's been a bad day and meeting Emily has made it worse. No matter how hard you try to think otherwise, all signs point to Aaron being ashamed of you. Embarrassed to be with you. He's hiding your relationship from everybody. 

"Am I- Is it my clothes? My job?" 

"What's wrong with your clothes?" 

"You tell me, detective." 

You're getting angry. He's- he's lying, or he's messing with you. He's making fun of you. At least that's how it feels. 

"Where are you right now?" he asks. You can picture him shrugging on his suit jacket, putting his files in order to come and meet you. 

You don't want to see him. "I'm at the coffee shop by your apartment. I actually ran into somebody, and I'm feeling very well-informed." A first tear bumps down your cheek. You ignore it. 

"I don't understand." 

"I don't understand! What am I doing wrong?" You bite your tongue in last ditch efforts to remain intact, but the tears won't hold off any longer. You swallow a sob. "What's wrong with me?" 

"Nothing. Nothing, honey, nothing is wrong with you." 

You wipe your wet face with mean hands. 

"Stay where you are. I'll come and meet you." 

"No. I don't wanna see you." 

"Honey-" 

"Leave me alone, Aaron." 

You hang up. You walk for a while, feeling as though steam is rising off of your flushed skin with every clumsy step. It had been a short phone call and already you can't remember what you said, all you can feel is angry, and then that runs out and all you can do is cry. 

You've never felt incredibly attractive. Aaron makes you feel better than that — he has the uncanny ability to inspire self-confidence with a loaded look alone. He can smile at you and your skin feels like it's glowing. 

So why doesn't that translate? If he thinks you're so pretty, why does he insist on hiding you away?

Because that day, he'd seen his friends. He could've introduced you but he took you down the alley and kissed you so you wouldn't be seen. That's not too busy: That's secretive. 

That kiss. You fooled yourself into thinking you must've looked irresistible. Fuck. You went home that night thinking you were the best thing since sliced bread. 

"I'm so stupid," you mutter, sniffling. 

Your self deprecation is muffled by the sound of a slowing car. You don't look up. There are two possibilities for who it is, and you don't want to deal with either. 

The car parks and then you do look up. Despite how mad you are you're not suicidal, and Aaron's given you extensive coaching on sex trafficking. 

It's him. Shocker. 

You're half-expecting him to reprimand you. You didn't look up until I parked. You know it takes five seconds to snatch and incapacitate someone? 

He looks haphazardly put together. Suit jacket on but tie loosened, he rounds the hood of his car and joins you on the sidewalk. You don't want to play games with him. He really doesn't need it, he didn't sign up for it, and drama isn't your style, but you're sick of this. 

"You want to tell me what you're thinking?" he asks, standing an amicable two feet away, hands at his hips.

"I'm really mad." 

"What else?" 

"I'm thinking," you say, looking down at your cold hands, "that you… That you're…" You rub your cheek into your shoulder to hide a fresh tear. "I don't know, Aaron. I'm thinking lots of things." 

"Do you want to think about them in the car?" he asks. 

Do you want to talk about it?

You don't want to talk about it. You don't like crying in front of him on a good day. 

You're pretty sure he'll combust on the spot if he knows you're walking home alone in the dark and distracted. 

You get in the car. He has the good sense not to touch your shoulders like he normally would. 

You buckle as soon as you've closed the passenger side door. "I'm sorry," you mumble, looking down at your knees. 

"Let's forget that, for now." He turns the key but doesn't pull out. "Tell me what's upset you and I'll explain." 

"I met Emily Prentiss." 

He looks at you out of the corner of his eye.

"She told me that you don't talk about me. Ever. That they didn't even know what I looked like." 

You know he's listening but he keeps his eyes on the road, and you chance a look at the side of his face. He doesn't seem mad. 

"I don't talk about you often," he says. "But that doesn't mean never… It's true that they didn't know what you look like." 

"Until last week, when they saw us together and you pulled me into an alley so they couldn't see me." 

"Yes." 

Your lower lip trembles. "Do you see why that would upset me?" You're asking genuinely. 

"Yeah, honey." 

Your head jolts up. He's diverting his gaze from the road to you intermittently, offering up a regretful grimace. The oncoming headlights splash over his work worn face. 

"Then why are you doing this? What's so wrong with me that you won't even admit we're together?" 

"Nothing is wrong with you. I'm not ashamed of you," he says firmly, volume rising. 

"Then why?" 

His eyebrows pull together. "You're the best person I've ever met that isn't my son, and I selfishly don't want to share you yet. I also don't want to scare you off." 

You pull your sleeves over your hands and turn in your seat, wiping your damp cheeks as he continues. 

"My job is hard, and it's dangerous. It has jeopardised the safety and wellbeing of people I love before. So no, I'm not eager to introduce you to my world. The more intertwined with my life that you become, the more danger I put you in, and…" The car slows down again. He turns to look at you. "And I like that I'm the only one who knows you like this.

"I have been hiding you. I have. But it was a," — his tone turns wry — "misguided attempt at keeping you all to myself. Safe, and to myself." 

You're finding it difficult to be mad with him. 

He's finding it difficult to maintain his poker face. A fat tear rolls down your cheek and you're not sure what it's made of, fatigue or relief or plain hurt, whatever it is he doesn't like it. He pulls over. 

You hold still as he pinches the tear off of your chin. 

"How long have you felt like this?" 

"Like what?" you ask wetly. 

"Like this." He opens his hand against your cheek. It encompasses your face; you lean in, hungry for reassurance. 

"I don't know." 

"This is why you changed your hair. Your clothes. And started making my lunch." 

You cover his hand with your own. "I actually really like making your lunches." 

You stare at each other until suddenly you're laughing, sniffly, short of breath. Aaron joins in soon after. He always sounds so surprised to be laughing.

"I'm glad," he says when your laughter has abated, pinky and ring finger caressing down the slope of your cheek. "I really like having them. Rossi can't hide how jealous he is." 

"They know about the lunches?" 

His mindless petting pauses. "They know about the lunches. You're not a secret. I'm… selfish with the details. I'm selfish." Aaron takes back his hand. "I'm sorry." 

You take as deep a breath as you can. "Okay." 

"Yeah?" 

"Mm. Can we go home?" 

His eyebrows jump and swiftly smooth again. "Yeah, we can go home." He chucks your chin and gets the car moving again. 

You watch him drive. 

When you get home, he doesn't mind reassuring you some more. Actually, it's like he needs to do it. You'd love to say that it's overkill and that his low murmurings of praise are unnecessary, but you can't. 

"You're lovely," he says seriously across two plates of pasta. Again through the mirror when you're brushing your teeth, and again when you've curled into his chest for the night. You're lovely. Nothing that needs hiding. 

You hear him on the phone early in the morning, half asleep. 

"Hey, Dave. Yeah. Okay. Uh… No, that's fine." He laughs under his breath. "Yeah, if she was awake I'd ask her to make you one. I think she would… Okay. See you in forty." 

You bury your tired face into his pillows and beam. 

—

+1 

Aaron's office is terrifyingly hectic. You can see already that the bullpen is full to bursting with agents, including but not limited to his special team of profilers. There's the distinct smell of coffee, sharp and burning, and then the underlay of printer ink, new paper. 

You can't believe you're here. 

You're not brave enough to introduce yourself to his team, and half aren't at their desks anyways. You hover in the doorway until somebody needs to get past you, taking a reluctant step inside.

You shouldn't wait for Aaron. You should be brave. You're a grown up, and you're bringing your grown up partner his very grown up lunch. You'd wanted desperately to do this. The least that you can do is do it by yourself. 

You've scrapped most of the fall staples but kept the burgundy pants Aaron likes so much at his request. They feel insanely tight on your thighs, as does your collar. In fact, the room has definitely shrunk since you got here. 

Like an idiot, Aaron says your name loud and clear, standing with a hand on the railings at the top of the instep. You hadn't even noticed him emerging from his office.

His voice demands — commands — attention. People turn in their seats, first toward him, and then toward you. 

All eyes on me. 

You don't run but you don't walk either, weaving through desk chairs and people looking a mix of busy and curious.

"You're being cruel," you say as you approach him, a brown paper bag held close to your abdomen. 

"Hi, honey," he says. He wears a knowing smile, all dark and tall and handsome as he starts down the stairs to meet you. 

"Don't punish me." 

"Is that what you'd call this?" he asks, hand quick to clasp your shoulder, glueing you in place so he can kiss your forehead.

And yes, this is what you'd wanted. The doting boyfriend not just at home but at work, too.

That doesn't mean it isn't really, really embarrassing. 

"Is everyone looking at me?" you murmur. 

He slips his arm behind your shoulders to walk you up the stairs. "Yes." His voice drops lower. "At one place specifically, I imagine." 

"What part is that, Agent?" 

He laughs and opens his office door to beckon you inside. "Don't start." 

༺༻