im glad u liked my angsty hotch x teacher reader request so im coming in with a new request but for luke this time🎀 luke x lets say police officer reader meeting for the first time at a crime scene where both of them think the other is the unsub and its love at first sight ( and first bullet ) 🫣 maybe with a tinge of enemies to lovers. ty🙂‍↕️
Love at First Bullet
Pairing: Luke Alvez x NYPD!Reader
Summary:You're clearing a building on a tip about a fleeing suspect when someone corners you—tall, armed, intense, and very, very wrong. He thinks you're the unsub. You think he's the idiot who just got lucky. Neither of you expects the way it ends… or how you can’t stop thinking about it afterward.
Tone: Banter-heavy | Enemies to attraction | Sharp tension with soft undercurrents
Warnings: Canon-typical action (guns drawn), tense misidentification, physical takedown (you elbow Luke!), mutual thirst denial
Word Count:~896
A/N: Welcome back Anon! Here's your request, Happy Reading <3
You hear him before you see him — steady boots across the floor above, careful and fast. Not running. Not panicked. Whoever’s still in this building knows what they’re doing.
You round the corner with your weapon raised and immediately meet a mirror: tall man, tactical stance, eyes hard, gun trained straight at you.
“Don’t move,” he barks, like he hasn’t already made a mistake.
You narrow your eyes. “You first.”
There’s a beat of silence, thick and tense. His gaze flicks over you — your weapon, your stance, the lack of a visible badge — and you can see it: the math he’s doing, the profile forming in his head.
You can also see how badly he’s getting it wrong.
He moves first.
Quick. Trained. He presses you back against the wall in a blur, forearm braced against your shoulder, gun still raised. Too close. You can feel the heat of him, the tension thrumming in every muscle like a live wire.
But he hesitates. Just for a breath.
Because he’s looking at you now.
And something changes.
Maybe it's the way your expression doesn’t shift. Maybe it’s the way you don’t flinch. Or maybe he’s just realizing he’s got you wrong — and still can’t quite bring himself to let go.
You don’t give him the chance.
Your elbow lands hard against his side, just under the ribs. He stumbles back, off balance but still standing. By the time he blinks, your badge is in your hand and your gun is holstered.
“Detective,” you say, flat. “NYPD.”
He’s staring at you from the floor, eyes wide like he’s seeing you for the first time.
“...Not the unsub,” he mutters.
You lift an eyebrow. “Glad you figured that out before the handcuffs came out.”
“Yeah,” he breathes, almost dazed. “Me too.”
You don’t plan on working with him again. Honestly, you don’t plan on seeing him again. But after the team regroups outside and he radios the suspect’s escape, you're stuck in the same debrief tent, standing a few feet apart like awkward coworkers who once tried to kill each other.
Well, he tried. You simply won.
“Alvez,” he says after a minute. “FBI.”
You glance over. “Y/N. Still NYPD.”
He rubs at his side. “You kick like a mule.”
“You pin like a rookie.”
He huffs a laugh — soft, but real.
The second you walk away, he’s swarmed by his team.
You don’t hear most of it, but one of them — the tall blonde woman — tilts her head toward you and whispers, “Is that her?”
He groans. You smile to yourself.
You don’t expect to see him again.
So when you walk into the next case briefing two days later and see him standing there — arms crossed, leaning casually, but with his eyes pinned right to you — you stop just short of the doorway.
“Really?” you say.
Luke straightens. “Surprised?”
“I figured you’d be benched after that tackle attempt.”
He grins. “You’re not that scary.”
“You’re not that smooth.”
You get paired together. Of course.
This time it’s a safehouse sweep. No unsubs hiding in closets, just the two of you moving through tight spaces and trading quiet comments.
He’s quieter now. More careful. He gives you the lead. You hate how much you notice that. Hate even more that it earns him points.
“Nice and quiet,” you say, sweeping the last hallway.
“You sound disappointed,” he answers.
“I was hoping you’d try something dumb again. I brought extra paperwork.”
Luke glances over at you with a full smile, the kind that’s way too easy to look at.
“You want me to be reckless just so you can write me up?”
“Something like that.”
“Dangerous.”
“You have no idea.”
Afterward, you’re standing by your car, flipping through your notes, and you hear his footsteps again.
Different this time. Slower. Like he’s unsure. You turn before he can start the small talk.
“You’re following me.”
“I’m walking to my car,” he says. “Yours just happens to be in the way.”
“Right.”
He shifts his weight, mouth pulling sideways. “So… listen. This might be a bad idea.”
“Great opener.”
“But would it be totally out of line to ask you to dinner sometime?”
You blink. Once. Slowly.
“Seriously?”
He shrugs. “You already knocked me down once. What’s the worst that happens?”
You cross your arms, pretending to consider it. “You usually ask people out after misidentifying them as murderers?”
“Only when they’re as good as you.”
You roll your eyes — but it’s not really annoyance.
“Fine. Dinner. But somewhere public.”
Luke straightens. “Of course.”
“And I’m picking the place.”
“Obviously.”
“And if you try to tackle me again, I’m pressing charges.”
He smiles. “Fair enough.”
When he rejoins his team, he’s doing a poor job of looking casual.
JJ doesn’t even wait for him to sit down.
“Well?”
Luke drops into his chair, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Thursday,” he says. “Dinner.”
Emily lets out a low whistle. “And that’s how you flirt, huh? Full takedown, then charm.”
“Worked, didn’t it?”
Reid tilts his head. “Technically, she disarmed and threatened you first.”
Luke grins. “Exactly.”
And back in the parking lot, alone again, you check your phone.
Thursday, 7pm. Dress code: “Please don’t wear that FBI jacket.”
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Summary: In the cold light of an interrogation room, two strangers find a fragile connection neither expected — a pull so quiet it almost goes unnoticed, but powerful enough to change everything.
Tone: Soft, poetic, quietly possessive, romantic with an undercurrent of tension and vulnerability.
Word count: ~694 words
Hotch’s POV:
I never knew love could find me again — I never let it find my address on purpose. It certainly wasn’t supposed to find me in an interrogation room. The cold light against your warm features made the scene feel almost indecent, like beauty had wandered into a place built for fear and sweat. Vanilla and rose. That’s what you smelled like. Out of place, uninvited, but so present I couldn’t ignore it.
I told myself to focus on the case. I was supposed to catalog your answers, your tics, every betraying shift in your posture. Not your freshly done roots. Not the way your off-shoulder sweater made you look like you didn’t belong to the world that had hurt you. Not the way your scent made me feel something feral and shameful.
Jack would like you, an errant thought intruded — and I hated myself for it. This wasn’t the place for thoughts like that. Not the time, not the person.
I tried to look away, to reestablish the steel in my spine. But it didn’t come. Instead, I wondered who else had noticed that scent, if it clung to you when you walked by, if anyone else had been close enough to breathe it in. The idea made something inside me bristle — a quiet, unfamiliar anger that you could be witnessed like this by anyone but me.
It was absurd. Irrational. I knew that.
But suddenly, the questions I’d been sent here to ask didn’t matter half as much as the answers I wanted for myself: Who are you when you’re not sitting across from me? What does your life look like when it isn’t bent under the weight of the world?
And why does it feel like I’ve known you longer than the handful of minutes you’ve been mine in this room?
Your POV:
The room was too bright, too cold, and yet I couldn’t stop feeling the heat of his gaze. I’d been in rooms like this before — the kind built to strip you down, make you small, pull the truth out of you — but never like this.
He didn’t speak right away. Just watched me. It should’ve felt invasive, but it didn’t. It felt… deliberate. Like I wasn’t just another name in a file or another witness to wring dry. Like I was something to be studied, understood, maybe even protected.
I told myself to keep my voice steady. To keep my answers clean, rehearsed. But every time his eyes caught mine, the words tangled on my tongue. I wanted to tell him more than I should — things that had nothing to do with why I was here. My favorite coffee order. How I can’t fall asleep without the sound of rain. How much I hated the way my life had been reduced to this room, this table, these questions.
And then there was the way he looked at me — as if I was more than my worst day. I shouldn’t have noticed that. I shouldn’t have noticed the quiet sadness behind his eyes, the kind that made me want to stay just to see if I could ease it.
I shouldn’t have wondered what his laugh sounded like, or whether it came easily or only after years of coaxing. I shouldn’t have wanted to know what his life looked like outside of these walls, in a world where people weren’t interrogated but cared for.
And I definitely shouldn’t have been thinking about how safe I felt with him — even here, even now, under his scrutiny.
But I was.
—
But neither spoke the words hanging quietly in the air.
The room remained still, bathed in the soft glow of the overhead light, as if holding its breath alongside them. In that silence, a fragile understanding blossomed—an unspoken connection weaving itself between two souls who hadn’t yet dared to name it.
He told himself it was nothing. She told herself the same.
Yet deep down, both felt the undeniable truth settling softly between them: something had begun, delicate and unexpected, in the stillness of that room.
