Rav

He was an excellent boss. Understanding and protective, quick to defend anyone on the team like they were his own family. Except, he was so much more than just your boss.

Now, you’d call him your closest friend, someone who’s number you’d call if you were in trouble. He’s your closest friend and yet you feel so much more for him.

It started slow, a friendship blooming the way a plant does with just enough sunlight. It was a shared smile here, a nudge of the shoulder there. It grew to be a seat next to him reserved for you on every plane ride.

Today, it’s eating lunch with him in his office.

Aaron usually works through lunch, more eager to get things done than he is to worry about skipping a meal. Somehow, with two tupperware containers in your hand and a sweet smile, you’d managed to get him to take a break.

“Whatcha doing?” You’d asked.

Hotch looked up from his paperwork then, dropping his pen because you were in his doorway. “You know, Unit Chief business. Reports.”

“Sounds like you have time for lunch, then.” You set the containers down on his desk, making sure to avoid the papers he’d just been working on.

“I should really get this done-”

“Hotch,” you stopped him, “you and I both know that you’re always ahead on this stuff because you stay here so late. Lunch won’t set you back.”

With a shake of his head and the biting back of a smile, a simple twitch at the corners of his mouth, Aaron agreed and stacked his paperwork off to the side.

That’s how you’ve ended up in the chair that’s usually on the opposite side of his desk, only now it’s tugged to be next to his. Your knees touch every so often when one of you shifts, and the warmth stays with you even when the contact is gone.

“Sorry it’s nothing fancy,” you say as he opens the container you brought for him.

“Don’t apologize. It’s great.” Hotch has a way of saying things that make them sound true, no matter how few words he uses, so you accept it.

“Okay, good!” There’s a small silence, a lull as you both take your first bites. “Can I help with anything?”

Aaron looks from the paperwork to your face, your eyes already on his. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to,” you reassure him. “I think sometimes you forget that you aren’t the only one who can do this stuff.”

He knocks his knee against yours. Purposeful this time. A silent ‘thank you.’

“Like you said, I’m ahead anyways. I’ve got it.”

“Come on, Hotch. I’m already done with my report from our last case. I’ve got time. Let me help.”

He’s always been reluctant to accept help, to ask for it, but when you’re asking so sweetly, when it’ll give him an excuse to spend more time with you, it’s hard for Aaron to say no.

“Alright. You help for an hour, that’s it.”

You grin at him, like his acceptance of your offer was some kind of gift he’d given you. Your nose crinkles a little with it, and his hand flexes in his lap, like he’s fighting not to reach out to you.

“Okay, put me to work, boss.”

“We just started lunch,” he says, a little chuckle puffing out.

“Have you ever heard of multitasking, Agent Hotchner?”

Aaron laughs, shaking his head as he reaches for one of the files in the stack he’d made and hands it to you. He’d call everyone at the BAU a friend, but there’s something different, something more about how he’d describe you.

He’s grown closer to you than he usually lets himself get to people, like you’re the only one with the right tools to break through walls he’s put up. You see each other outside of work (on the rare days you aren’t working), and still, he feels like it’s never long enough.

Hotch briefly wonders if he could just move your desk into his office. He shakes off the thought and what it might mean.

Head bent, you’re now focused on the work he gave you, and Aaron takes the chance to admire you. His eyes flick over your profile, the light hitting your cheeks, the flutter of your eyelashes every time you blink.

As if you could feel his gaze on you, you turn towards him and smile—a small, closed-mouth smile, but a smile all the same—before turning your attention back to the page.

When you take a pause and take another bite of your lunch, a small drop of sauce lands on your thigh. “Oh, shit.”

Aaron grabs a tissue from the box on his desk, wrapping it over his fingertip before wiping the small spot from your leg, his finger a spark against you even through your pants.

“Good thing you wore black,” he says, tossing the tissue in the garbage. His hand, however, stays on your leg, and though the touch is light the weight of it feels the opposite. Heavy, huge.

“Good thing you’re here to clean up after me, more like.”

Your eyes meet, and you share a smile with Hotch the way you often do. Mid-conversation, across a room, it’s a smile you sort of reserve for each other.

In the main office below, Derek, Spencer, and JJ stand together, watching the interaction through the window into Hotch’s office. You and Aaron seem to be in your own bubble, completely unaware of your small audience.

“They’ve gotta be together,” Derek is the first to speak, waving a hand towards the office where you and Hotch are talking. “I mean, come on.”

“I don’t know,” JJ shrugs, “they both seem kinda clueless.”

“We probably shouldn’t speculate about them,” Spencer, always the sweetheart, says. “But, statistically, Hotch never eats lunch. Just saying.”

JJ pats Reid on the shoulder, huffing out a laugh before she heads back to her desk.

You stay in Aaron’s office much longer than an hour that day.

-

Punctuality is important in the BAU. Really, if you’re not early, you’re late. You’ve always got to be ready, wheels up in ten, or five.

You suppose that doesn’t really apply to outside-of-the-office parties at Garcia’s.

It’s rare that you’re all available at the same time, from late nights at the bureau to families, it’s tough to make your schedules line up when you aren’t working, which is why whenever she can, Penelope likes to host drinks for the team.

You’re on your way there now, or, you should be. Instead, you’re getting ready in your bedroom while Aaron waits in your living room.

Hotch has offered to drive you to these things every time, and with every offer, comes your easy answer of ‘yes.’ He’d been outside in his car for five minutes before he decided to call, because you’re usually in his passenger seat within seconds of him pulling over by your building.

The ringing of your phone had your eyes blinking open, squinted against the sudden brightness of your TV. You’d accidentally fallen asleep, and, still disoriented, picked up the phone. “Hello?”

“Hey, everything okay?” It’s Aaron’s voice on the other line, and you pull your phone away for a second to check the time before sitting up quickly.

“Shit, Hotch, I must’ve fallen asleep. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s alright, I can wait for you.” He’d wait as long as you need, he thinks. The thought passes through like a leaf blown in the wind, freely, randomly.

“Have you been waiting long?” You ask, fingers tugging at a loose thread in your pants.

“No, don’t worry. Barely five minutes.”

And he still wanted to check on you.

“Why don’t you come in? My couch is probably more comfortable than your car, right?”

“You sure?” He checks, like he hasn’t been to your place before, like you’d ever not want him there.

“Get in here, Hotchner.”

You hung up before he could reply, and he laughed to himself in his car before shutting it off and doing exactly what you’d told him.

So, now, you’re rushing to find an outfit while Aaron sits on your couch by himself.

Even though he’s in the next room, you can feel his presence around you, the steady security he gives you, the warmth that seeps out of him even when he tries to hide it.

You settle on a knitted sweater, a skirt, and some tights, which you realize as you tug them on aren't the speediest of options, but it’s too late to change your mind now. With your hair figured out and the mascara that had smudged during your nap fixed, you step back out into the living room.

Aaron made himself at home while you were gone (he often feels that way with you, at home), sitting on your couch with his arms spread across the back. He looks better than he should there, suit stretched across his shoulders, and you have to clear your throat to snap yourself out of it.

“Okay, sorry again for the delay. I’m ready to go.”

He looks up as soon as you walk in, eyes skimming over your legs and the tights wrapped around them, your waist, up your neck. His gaze lands on your eyes the way it often does, like magnets.

He shakes his head, “don’t be sorry. We’ll be what they call ‘fashionably late.’”

You laugh, because who would’ve thought that the words ‘fashionably late’ would ever come out of Aaron Hotchner’s mouth.

“Who taught you that one, huh?”

“I like to keep my sources anonymous.”

“Well okay, then. Let’s go be fashionably late, Hotch.”

He lets you lead the way to the car, only jogging up ahead to open your door before you can reach it yourself.

During the drive to Penelope’s, you take control of the music with little objection from Aaron, and when it gets to a song you know he likes, you sing along, encouraging him to do the same.

“Let’s hear it, Agent Hotchner.” You hold your fist out like there’s a microphone in it, looking at him with a grin on your face.

“I can't sing.” Aaron’s fighting off a smile, because you’re sitting beside him, not too shy to sing along, being all cute and, briefly, he thinks about reaching out and grabbing your hand and holding on.

“Sure you can! Everyone can sing, come on.” You unfurl your faux microphone-holding fist and tug on the knot of his tie, “loosen up a little.”

And, because you have some way of convincing him of things—first lunch, now this—he humors you by joining in for one chorus of the song. When your eyes light up a little, and your grin only widens, he can’t bring himself to be too concerned of how bad he probably sounds.

By the time you’re at Garcia’s door you’re a solid hour late, yet you and Aaron walk up to the door with matching smiles all the same.

“I’m getting you to do that every time I hear that song now, I hope you know.”

“That was a one time special,” he says. He reaches over your shoulder to knock on the door. His hand brushes against you, featherlight and quick, a crackle over your skin.

On the other side, Morgan says, “must be the lovebirds” when he hears the sound.

You and Aaron don’t hear him, only broken out of your little shared bubble when Penelope opens the door. “There you guys are! I made your drinks but the ice might be melted by now. You know, ‘cause you’re late.”

You know this is directed towards you more than it is Hotch, because Garcia’s a little intimidated by him still. You also know she’s only joking, and greet her with a hug before stepping in.

Aaron isn’t far behind you, though at these things, he never is.

You’re met with warm greetings from the team when you walk in, and you chat for a bit, but it isn’t long before things split off into smaller conversations. They all know that Aaron drives you to these things, and, as profilers, they’re also all able to see the way you look at each other, the way the knot of his tie sits lower than usual.

In the corner, Emily leans over to Derek, saying, “usually it takes at least two drinks for Hotch’s tie to look like that.”

“I told you, they’re together,” Derek shrugs.

“I don’t think they know that,” Emily replies.

This time, Aaron hears them, and he can’t help but look towards you in the room the rest of the night, thinking and thinking and thinking.

He ends up deciding that they might have a point. That maybe, that shift in his heartbeat when you’re around isn’t nothing, isn’t just friends.

-

The flight home from a case always feels the longest.

On the way there, you’re packing every hour with information about what’s going on, talking to Garcia, reading police reports. You’re all on edge, eager to get out there and help and do your jobs,

Then, on the way home, with another case solved, all you’re thinking about is going home, sleeping in your own bed, and time seems to go slower.

If your name happens to be Aaron Hotchner, you’d spend the plane ride home doing paperwork that actually can wait.

You and Aaron sit next to each other on pretty much every flight, though the seats have never been assigned. It’s an unspoken thing, like your names are written on the fabric of the same two seats on the jet and that’s just the way it is.

The first time was early on in your time on the team. It was a tough case for you, and Hotch seemed to know it without you having to say anything, so, when you got on the jet to come home, he smiled that small, twitch of his lips smile at you and nodded at the seat next to him. You’ve been sitting there ever since.

Today, your flight is on the shorter side, but feels long the way it always does. Trying to keep yourself occupied, you pull out your earbuds and shuffle your playlist, hoping that the songs will speed things up.

“Sick of me already?” Hotch speaks up when he notices your headphones.

You tilt your head to look at him. He looks tired, the way you’re sure you do, too, but never any less handsome. His eyes are soft where they meet yours, paired with a hint of a smile that you’re always able to catch.

“Sick of you, Hotch? Never.” You nod at the file he has open on the small table, “just didn’t want to distract you.”

“I thought you enjoyed distracting me. Always telling me I work too much.”

“‘Cause it’s true,” you say. “That doesn’t mean you listen.”

“I listen to you more than I listen to most people.” Aaron’s voice is gentle when he says it, the words sinking in and melting you just a little, sugary sweet. It could mean absolutely nothing, but with the way he keeps his eyes steady on yours, you don’t think it does.

“Listen to this, then,” you hand him one of your earbuds, and his fingers brush yours when he takes it from you. “But you can’t make fun of me if a musical soundtrack comes on, okay?”

“Okay,” he huffs a small laugh, and you feel a little brighter. “I promise.”

You’re aware of the team having their own conversations in the rows in front of you and Hotch, but you can’t bring yourself to join in, because you and Aaron are sharing your earbuds and his head is bent just a little closer to yours. It’s delicate, and you’ll do your best not to break it.

You talk a little longer, until it naturally fizzles out and Hotch is back to working on his files and you’re bobbing your head along to your songs. Only now, Aaron sits closer to you, his arm against yours.

He’s not sure what to do with his newfound realization that his feelings for you run far deeper than friendship. All Aaron knows is that he likes the feeling of you beside him, and that he’s planning on keeping you there as long as you’ll let him.

It’s quiet between the two of you aside from your occasional ‘this is a good one,’ and his hum of acknowledgement.

Eventually, you’re relaxed enough that your eyes grow heavy, the sleep you’ve been lacking suddenly catching up to you, and when you hit a patch of slower songs you’re fighting to stay awake.

When your head lulls onto Hotch’s shoulder, you jerk your head up, “sorry, Aaron.”

His chest does something funny. A jump. It’s not often you call him Aaron, and he’d listen to the sound of his name on your lips on a loop if he could. Because he can’t help himself, he scooches himself even closer to you.

He decides to call you something different, too, saying, “it’s alright, honey.”

You’re too sleepy to really read into that one, all you feel is the flutter in your stomach and Aaron’s hand on your head, gently guiding it to his shoulder.

When he’s sure you’re asleep, Hotch looks away from his files and over to you. Your cheek is squished against his shoulder, your lashes fanned shut. He thinks you’re the prettiest girl he’s ever seen.

Aaron doesn’t even feel the smile that spreads over his face as he reaches up and pushes your hair away from your face. He’s completely unaware of the eyes that catch him, far too focused on you.

Emily turned around when she realized she hadn’t heard your voice in a bit, and she did it just in time to catch Hotch’s movement. Instead of saying something, she turns back around and shakes her head to herself.

Hopeless, she thinks.

Sleep doesn’t come so easily with this job, with the things you see, so Aaron can’t help but try and stay steady for you, and if that leads to him letting his eyes close and resting his head on yours, then so be it.

It’s not until the end of the flight that the team checks on the two of you. As everyone stands and grabs their go bags, they notice the two of you, asleep next to each other, earbud wires hanging between you.

“Should we wake them up?” JJ asks.

“Hotch doesn’t get enough sleep as it is,” Spencer chimes in. “Neither does she, actually.”

Of course, Derek finishes with, “let’s leave the lovebirds to it,” before the team gets off the plane.

It’s only about twenty minutes later that Aaron does wake up, but he feels more well-rested than he has in a while, even with the kink in his neck.

Blinking his eyes open, he’s met with an empty jet and the comforting weight of your head on his shoulder. “Shit,” he sighs.

He debates waking you, ultimately deciding that you’d probably rather sleep in your bed rather than the seat of the BAU’s jet. Reaching up, he pulls your earbuds away, setting them on the table. With a brush of his fingertips to your cheek, he coaxed you awake.

“Hey, honey,” Aaron’s nearly whispering, like he’s afraid to scare you. Or, maybe, he’s convinced that if he moves too quickly, too loudly, this whole thing will fade away as if he’d been dreaming. “Wake up, we’re home.”

“Hm?” You grumble, scrunching your nose when he brushes your cheek again.

“We fell asleep, but we landed.”

“Oh, god.” You sit up properly, lifting your head. “I’m sorry, Aaron. Hotch.”

“Aaron is good,” he eases you. “Come on, I’ll drive you.”

Sleep-hazed, or maybe just happy that he can be Aaron to you, you agree easily and take his hand when he offers it, letting him lead you to his car.

-

You’ve been spending more time at Aaron’s ever since that flight. In the car, he’d convinced you to stay over at his place in the guest room, since it was closer. With your go bag already in his car and heavy, sleepy eyes, it was hard for you to do anything but agree.

It’s another slice of his life that he’s let you see, and you can’t help but feel like it means something, like you’re stepping further and further away from being coworkers who are friends and towards something different. Something more.

That flight feels like the catalyst, the thing that caused things to shift into what they are now.

Aaron’s couch is much more comfortable than yours, and though you’ve yet to spend the night again, you’re sitting there with him at almost every chance. The time off you get is rare, and Aaron wanting to spend it with you sends flutters to your stomach whenever you think about it.

You feel like you know him better, getting to see his space, how he chose to decorate, what colors he likes, which ones he doesn’t. You also know what temperature he likes to set his thermostat.

“Do you enjoy living in a refrigerator?” You ask, hands tucked into your sleeves. “Just wondering.”

Aaron laughs, a small huff, “I think you just run cold, honey.”

He’s been calling you that a lot, too. Honey.

“No way, Hotchner. Your house is what runs cold. Or maybe you’re cold-blooded.”

Not with you, he thinks. Years and years of doing what he does, Hotch might even call himself cold when he’s thinking a little too hard. But never cold with you. He thinks that might be impossible for him.

“Shhh, don’t tell anyone my secret,” he says, his arm brushing against yours from where he sits next to you on his couch. “Where are you cold?”

“Can’t feel my toes, Aaron. I might be out of commission for the next case.”

“Well we can’t lose our best girl, can we?” Best girl, he says. Like he means it, like it’s simple. “I’ve got some thick socks you can grab. Bottom drawer.”

Just like that, he’s cracked another wall of his down even further, giving you permission to go into his bedroom as if you’ve been in there a thousand times.

“Really?”

“Unless you’d rather not feel your toes-“

“Okay, okay,” you stop him, unable to fight your smile. “Thanks, Aaron.”

When you stand and head towards his room, Aaron can’t stop himself from thinking that you belong there, in his home, his room, his life. You fit in so seamlessly he wishes you’d never leave.

He stands up too, because the couch suddenly feels sort of empty without you beside him, without your warmth. He walks over to his thermostat on the wall and turns it up for you.

You’ve always thought that you can tell a lot about a person from where they live, and seeing Aaron’s bedroom now solidifies it. His place does too, but there’s something about his bedroom that feels much more personal.

Here, there’s more of him, little bits of his life scattered around. A picture of him as a kid with his parents on the dresser, the newspaper’s crossword sitting completely finished on his nightstand, his bed neatly made.

You smile at the framed photo before slipping the top drawer open and finding the pair of socks he’d been talking about. As much as you’d love to snoop, you don’t want to invade his privacy in any way. Besides, from Aaron, even a glimpse of his space feels special.

You slip on the socks before you leave his room, letting them bunch at your ankles.

As soon as you walk back into the living room, Aaron’s phone rings. Glancing at you softly, almost apologetically though he’s got nothing to be sorry about—you work with him, you know how important a call can be—he picks it up.

“Hotchner,” he says, holding it to his ear. His voice is different this way, more professional, controlled. Never any less pleasing to hear.

He’d wanted to say something about how good you look in his clothes when his phone rang, Garcia’s name flashing on the screen. Aaron wishes it was someone else, only to spend more time with you this way.

“Sorry to call late, sir,” Penelope says. “We’ve got a case. Missing kid; it’s urgent.”

“Don’t be sorry, Garcia. We’re on our way.”

“Wait, we?” She asks, curious as always.

“What’s going on?” You ask Aaron.

“Got a case. I’ll drive, honey.” He lets the pet name slip, like it’s a habit.

On the other line, Garcia’s grinning to herself in her office. She’d had a suspicion of who on the team Hotch would be with outside of work, and hearing your voice, and his use of the word ‘honey’ all sticky sweet, she knows she’s onto something.

“Oh, that’s ‘we,’” Penelope’s voice teases. “Tell her I’ll see you guys soon!”

Aaron shakes his head, fighting his smile. “Bye, Garcia.”

He hangs up and looks from his phone to you, your eyes already on him, corners of your mouth tugged up just a little like you’d heard what Garcia said, heard the lilt in her voice. Like you liked the idea of you and Aaron being a unit. We.

He likes that idea, too.

Back at the BAU, Garcia calls Derek next, who picks up with his classic, “hey, babygirl.”

First, she tells him that he needs to come into the office, that they’ve got a case, then, “you’re never going to believe this.”

Penelope loves to talk, and Derek’s happy to listen, so she tells him about how you’d been with Aaron when she called, and that you were on your way together.

“I give them another week, max, before they’re holding hands when they come in.” Derek laughs, because he can see yours and Hotch’s feelings so easily, plain as day, and he loves to be right about things.

“How mad will Hotch be when he finds out that we talk about his relationship?” Penelope’s mostly joking, only a fraction concerned.

“If the boss didn’t want us talking about it, he shouldn’t be so obvious, sweetheart.”

Once you arrive at the office, you don’t catch Penelope and Derek’s shared looks behind yours and Aaron’s—who happens to be carrying both his and your go bag—backs.

And if anyone notices the loose socks around your ankles, they don’t say anything about it.

-

You’re not supposed to go off on your own unless it’s absolutely necessary. You know that, the team knows that. Aaron, who is always trying to keep you as safe as possible, enforces it.

You guess that this time might be up for debate.

When it comes to what you do, you have to trust your instincts most of the time. And today, your gut told you to make a decision that might not have been safe, but to you, it felt like what you had to do.

Aaron had been on the phone with you, trying to figure out a way to make the car drive any faster to get to you. He’d heard it in your voice, in the tone of it, that he couldn’t convince you to wait for someone else to show up.

“I have to do this, Aaron,” you’d said. While the team would normally probably tease him about you calling him Aaron, as if it isn’t his name, they’d known not to interrupt this time. “You know I do.”

“You don’t have to.” His hands tightened on the steering wheel as he spoke. “We’ll be there soon, alright? Just-”

“I’m sorry.” And then, you hung up.

In the end, going in when you did had been the right move. A life had been saved, and you’d slowed the guy down enough that the police were able to arrest him when they arrived. All it cost you was a cut and a bruise on your cheek.

So, your instincts weren’t so bad.

Aaron, however, disagrees. Logically, he knows that he would’ve done the exact same thing you did, knows the rest of the team would’ve, too. But when it comes to you, he has a hard time thinking logically.

After you hung up on him, all he could do was breathe and breathe and breathe over the heavy thumping of his heartbeat and the worry spinning in his head. He drove the quickest he could manage, the car silent inside. A static.

It’s not that he doubts your abilities—he’s always thought you were incredible, even before the friendship, even before now—only that the idea of you being alone with such a bad man makes him feel sick.

He’d take your place in a heartbeat, if he could, just to make sure you’d be safe.

By the time he and the rest of the team get to the scene, you’re walking out of the building with a hand pressed to your cheek and a paramedic leading you to a nearby ambulance.

Aaron spots you right away, his eyes scanning the small crowd through red and blue lights and conversations surrounding him. When he spots you, everything goes quiet.

His first thought is, thank god she’s alive, then, it’s fuck, she’s hurt.

Without a word to anyone, he heads over in your direction right away. He meets you at the ambulance, where you sit on the small bench inside while the paramedic presses your cheek with gauze.

“Honey.” It comes out in a breath. Relief and pain all at once.

You look over to him, his hair a little messy, his eyes wide and roaming all over you like he’s checking for any other injuries. He cares about you, and it’s written all over him.

“Aaron. I’m okay.” You hold a hand out, and he grabs it, sitting beside you on the bench in the ambulance. “Promise.”

For now, he nods, letting the paramedic do their job bandaging up your cheek. When they’re finished, they hand you a spare bandage saying, “it’s gonna bruise, and it might feel sore for a bit, but you’re all patched up.”

The paramedic leaves after that, probably going to check on other people. The lights inside the ambulance seem to cocoon you, a bright difference to the darkness outside.

The first thing Aaron says is, “let me see.”

His hands reach for your face, rough fingertips gently holding your jaw, tilting you so that he can look at your cheek. It’s a little swollen, discolored where you must’ve been hit. There’s a furrow in his brow, something that looks like a pout on none other than Aaron Hotchner.

“Hey,” you grab his wrists, but his hands stay on your face. “I’m fine.”

Aaron’s always worried, he’s always cared about you and about everyone on the team, but this is different. He was usually able to hide things much better than this. Much better than with you.

Now, all he sees is the tiny bloodstain on your shirt and the bandage on your cheek. All he feels is your hands squeezing his wrists and your eyes locked on his.

“You should have waited,” he says. “I could have been there.”

“Hotchner,” your deadpan tone is intact, which he’ll take as a win, even if it’s directed towards him. “You and I both know you would have done the same. I had to.”

One of his hands shifts to cup your non-injured cheek. Normally, he’d be much more composed while working, but he can’t bring himself to care about how he must look right now.

“I know you did,” he tells you, because he does. “I just wish that you didn’t. I don’t like seeing you hurt.”

Your stomach is tumbling, rolling, your heart doing silly things in your chest. You can hardly feel the pain of your cheek anymore when his hand is on the other, his palm warm against your skin, his gaze even warmer.

“I’m hardly hurt, Aaron. Just a scratch.”

“Right. One that required medical attention. That’s more than just a scratch, honey.”

“If you say so, Hotchner.”

He shifts his hands so that they fall into your lap, palms up and fingers instantly finding yours, tangling together perfectly. Like puzzle pieces.

“Good job, by the way.” Hotch rubs his thumb over your skin once, back and forth. “You did the right thing.”

“Learned from the best,” you say.

You’re both oblivious to the fact that the team is watching from a distance, and that the two of you look so lovesick it’s ridiculous that you haven’t spilled your feelings yet. You’re both absolutely fucked.

Where she stands with the team, Emily shakes her head, “I haven’t seen Hotch like this since… ever.”

Beside her, JJ merely shrugs, like it’s obvious, “yeah, they’re in love.”

Spencer looks at you and Aaron in that ambulance with a smile. “The odds of you guys being right are very, very high.”

-

+1

Aaron Hotchner was never the biggest fan of birthdays. Was never big into the cakes and making wishes, the song and the presents and the fuss of it all.

When he started at the bureau, it stayed that way. Days off were rare enough as it was, so he’d always work on his birthday. And while he kept the signed cards from the team, he treated it as any other day. Nothing special.

This year, you’re on a mission to change that.

While it isn’t the first of Aaron’s birthdays you’ve spent with him, it’s the first one since the two of you have grown as close as you have, since you’ve felt the way you do. You’re just hoping to make it a good birthday for him.

You’ve roped the whole team into it. Decorating the conference room with streamers and balloons and a sign that hangs crooked on the wall, bringing in a cake that reads ‘Happy Birthday Hotch’ in frosting, and keeping it all a secret.

Of course, you’ve all already said happy birthday to him, and you’ve got a present stashed under your desk for later, but you’ve been doing your best to act natural even when the anticipation of your surprise for him eats at your stomach a little.

Surprises are a tricky thing, and there’s no way of knowing whether he’ll like it or not. You’ll just have to wait and see.

While in his office, the team had made it seem like they’d all left for the day, saying their goodbyes to Hotch. Instead of leaving, though, they’ve been hidden in the conference room waiting for you to bring him in.

“Aaron,” you say, knocking on his office door. “I think I lost an earring. Do you think you could help me look for it?”

Because you’re the one asking, Aaron says, “‘course, honey. Where do you think it is?”

You smile, because he’s fallen into your trap easily, because you know that he probably would search for an earring with you if you’d actually lost one.

“I remember having it on in the conference room, so maybe there.”

He stands from his desk, gesturing for you to lead the way with his hand held out. You grab onto it before he can drop it, tangling your fingers and leading him behind you.

Aaron lets you guide him, and when you open the door to the conference room and flick on the lights, he’s met with the team’s grinning faces and a chorus of, “surprise!”

For a moment, he’s speechless, frozen in his spot in the doorway with your hand in his.

No, Aaron’s never been the biggest fan of birthdays, but maybe that’s because nobody’s ever done something like this for him. You came into his life all sweet smiles and now you’re throwing him a surprise party? He’s never ever liked someone the way he likes you.

So much that like is spilling into a four letter word and he’s happy to let it.

You know him well enough to know that he doesn’t like being the center of attention too much, so the only people in the room are those of the BAU. His closest friends. And you, his favorite person.

Before he can say anything he’s being spoken to by the team, getting a ‘happy birthday, boss,’ from Derek, a spill about how hard it was to keep this a secret from Penelope, a grin from Spencer, a tip about how you’d organized all of this from Emily, a squeeze to the shoulder from JJ.

When he finally gets the chance, the others split into their own conversations, Aaron tugs you aside to the corner of the room.

“You did all of this for me?” He asks, head bent to catch your eye.

Although you’d caught the signature Hotchner smile—closed-mouthed and quick—when he saw the surprise, you’re nervous about what he might say. You worry that you’ve done too much, that he’d been pretending to like it for your sake.

“I’m sorry if it’s a bit much,” you start, anxiously tugging at your sleeves. “I wasn’t sure if you liked surprises, I know not everyone does, but I wanted to do something for you because I care about you. A lot. And birthdays are meant to be celebrated, you know?”

Aaron can’t help but let a smile spread over his face as you speak; a real smile. His heart is light, his feelings for you melting through him like the soft pink of cotton candy. He doesn’t think you could ever do anything that he wouldn’t like.

“I’ll clean it all up, too, I prom-”

Your rambling is cut off with his lips on yours. He’s kissing you.

It’s soft, the press of his mouth against yours, and it takes you a second to push back. It stays delicate, a dance between the two of you like you’d practiced a million times before.

His hands skate down your arms to hold your hands, weaving his fingers with yours, squeezing like he’s making sure you know this is real.

You feel it all over, your stomach tumbling, your heart beating in a rhythm that thumps his name. Aaron, Aaron, Aaron, over and over.

It’s a kiss worth a thousand words that you haven’t said yet, a kiss full of feelings and meaning and you know it, just by the way he does it, because you know him and he knows you. It’s you and Aaron, and it feels like the beginning of something huge. Of the rest of your life, maybe.

When he pulls back, Hotch rests his forehead against yours, giving your head a gentle nudge, locking his brown eyes on yours.

“It’s perfect,” he says.

The next thing you hear is Derek Morgan cheering, “I knew it!”

Similar words come from the rest of the team.

“Finally,” from Emily.

“About time,” from JJ.

“This isn’t surprising,” from Spencer, who smiles while saying it.

A sweet, “yay,” from Penelope.

Distracted by Aaron kissing you, you’d sort of forgotten they were there. Bashful, you tuck your head beneath Aaron’s chin, forehead against his collar. He simply tightens his hands around yours.

And when it’s time for cake, this year, Aaron Hotchner makes a wish on his birthday candles. He wishes to spend every other birthday just like this. With you.

༄

You find yourself rolling your eyes yet again. "It's that way so you can build a connection; you get to know the person based on personality and not looks."

Andy tilts his head to the side still confused as to why you'd pick such an app. "But.. you're beautiful, any man would be stupid not to see that, y/n."

Your cheeks flushed red and suddenly, the room felt as if it was closing in on you and it was 100 degrees hotter in there. "Shut up, you're such a sweet talker," you rolled your eyes.

He laughs at your statement, shrugging as he sets your phone down. Andy gets off your desk, his arms resting over your shoulders and his chin poking into the top of your head. He watches as you click through the various pictures, storing through the good and the bad, fixing minor blemishes as you went.

"You should try it, you know." You tell him quietly and Andy hums, waiting for you to keep talking. "Bantr, you should try it. You're a funny guy, you might have luck."

"Maybe," he shrugs it off, his hand lifting to squish your face. You swat his hand away.

"Aren't you supposed to be in the gym or something?"

"Yeah," he huffs, "but Mo and Trent are trying to do some sort of crunches competition and you know-" "You hate crunches, I know, Andy."

He laughs, "why would I go on Bantr when I have you, y/n?"

Your heart skips a beat, but you figured he's just joking - he's always just joking.

"Whatever, Andy. Unlike you, some of us actually have work to do."

He gets the hint; you were politely shooing him out of your office. "Yeah, okay," he nods, kissing the top of your head before squeezing your face once more. "Send me my pictures please."

"I'll edit them last."

"Saving the best for last?" He asks, turning towards the door.

"Trying to spare myself from seeing your face, I've had my fill for now." You joke, earning a laugh from the left back as he walks out of the office.

The day rolls by and you did in fact send Andy his pictures. His phone buzzes in the cup holder as he heads home, glancing at it as he pulls up to a stoplight.

To Andy: *12 Image Attachments* Stop bothering me now, Andrew.

He smiles to himself, making a mental note to text you back when he arrive home. In typical Andy fashion, he becomes distracted by the million little tasks he does when he gets home.

It wasn't until he got into bed that he remembered your message, shooting you a thank you with a little kissy face emoji and saving the photos.

Your words from earlier ring in his head as well; bantr, you should try it. You're a funny guy, you might have luck.

Andy searches it up, his finger hovering over the button for a moment before pressing it, watching as the little circle spins and it begins downloading. He follows the steps; putting in his birthday, picking his location, adding a user name.

That took him a moment - he couldn't exactly put his name, could he?

There couldn't be that many Andy Robertsons in Liverpool.

He'd feel wrong for lying and putting a fake name so instead, after a few minutes of thinking, he comes up with a user that is still him without being him.

Andy sits up, contemplating if he should delete the profile. He's a footballer, is this even okay that he's doing this? Would he get in trouble for this?

He ignores the thoughts and his thumb presses the matches tab. He swipes through a few, reading their cheesy bios before he comes across a profile that catches his eye.

The user sounded familiar but he couldn't place it, unsure where he saw it. He decides to message them while he still has the courage.

lfc26: Hey! How are you? 

The reply came but a few seconds later.

photographer_10: Hi! I’m good, how are you? 

lfc26: Good as well, exhausted from work. 

photographer_10: I hope you get some rest. 

lfc26: I just hopped into bed. 

photographer_10: Me too, it’s been a long day. 

lfc26: Tell me about it, and the weather’s been shit.

lfc26: That’s if you’re local. You in Liverpool? 

photographer_10: Yeah, have been for a few years :) 

photographer_10: Are you a fan of Liverpool? 

The message stares at Andy, he feels like he’s been caught. 

lfc26: I am, why do you ask ? 

photographer_10: Your user lol - must be a Robertson fan, he wears 26. 

lfc26: Yeah lol, a proper lad.

photographer_10: I think so too, quite funny as well.

lfc26: So I’ve heard. 

He finds himself smiling, he would have never guessed he’d meet someone who was a fan of him. It warmed his heart in a weird way; not self centred but content. 

lfc26: I think I’m going to head to bed, I have to be up early for work. 

photographer_10: No worries at all, you take care of yourself.

lfc26: You too :) 

--

It goes like that on and off for a week, the two of them exchanging little details about their days, flirting playfully back and forth. Andy glances at his phone every few minutes, expecting a text from the mystery woman.

It's starting to become an issue.

Everyone notices that the man who is usually on their asses about being on their phones is glued to his.

He's cycling, rather lazily to be fair - awaiting a response to his scandalous question about her workplace attire.

Mo glances over at his teammate, his brows furrow as he wonders what's on his friend's mind. "Robbo," he calls for the Scotsman. "You okay?"

Andy glances up from the phone that was now in his hand. He nods, "fine, why?"

"Because you've been glued to your phone, that's why." Virgil butts in, snatching the phone from Andy's hand which caused a protest from him. "Give it back!" He groans, hand stretched out to the captain.

Virgil shakes his head, his back to Andy as he looks down to see what's been keeping Andy so busy. "What's Bantr?" He asks, turning to Andy and Mo again.

Mo shrugs, clueless before looking to Andy for an answer. "A dating app," Andy mumbles.

Virgil and Mo exchange a glance, so many things said between the two players without actually saying it. "So that's why you've been smiling at your phone, checking it all day?" Mo asks.

Trent was passing by, per usual, butting himself into the conversation between the three players. He grabs Virgil's arms swinging himself in between the defender and the cycle Andy was on. "What's that? Andy's got a crush?"

Andy rolls his eyes, his cheeks give away his stance; curse his pale Scottish skin for giving him away. "I don't."

"You're blushing!" Trent laughs, pointing a finger at Andy's flushed face.

Virgil chuckles to himself, reading the messages between his friend and his supposed crush. "Didn't think you had it in you, man; some spicy stuff." He raises his eyebrows at him.

Andy's face only flushes further red. Trent tries to get the phone from Virgil but the man lifts his arm, even with Trent's jumping, he can't get the phone from Virgil's hand.

"Shut up," he groans, wanting the world to swallow him whole right about now.

"If you like her, why don't you just ask her out?" Trent asks, scowling at Virg as he hands the phone back to Andy and not to him. Virgil flicks Trent's ear in response.

Andy makes a face, "I can't! That's.. are you insane, man?"

Trent goes to speak but stops himself when he sees you walking over. The camera hung over your neck by its strap. "What's going on over here? Any hot gossip?"

"Who says we're gossiping?" Andy asks, smiling at you sweetly.

You shrug, glancing between the four of them. "Players all huddled together, it goes silent as I walk over; I'd say that's gossip."

"We don't gossip, we're grown men." Virgil points out, causing you to laugh. You lift the camera, taking a picture of him and Trent.

"Yeah, of course not, so does that make Macca and Darwin.. little boys?" You point behind you with your thumb, the two Spanish speaking players giggling about something as they stretch.

Virgil presses his lips together, making a dopey looking face. You laughed at him, walking off to take a few more photos of the boys on the other side of the room.

--

It's Saturday, match day.

Liverpool played Wolves, 4-1 and the boys were going into the next week on a good note.

Andy, per usual, finds you and offers up his company and dinner. You take him up on it, you were finished with your editing and could use the friend time.

You sat across from the man, the two of you tucked away in the back of a little Italian restaurant Jordan used to rave about. "I feel like I haven't seen you in forever," you tell him, taking a sip of your cocktail.

Andy hums, glancing at his phone that was face up on the table. Your brows furrow, studying his face as his finger swipes over the screen.

"Waiting for something?" You asked, raised brows when he finally looked up.

"Oh, just a message from someone."

"Someone as in.. a woman friend? Like, a hot date?" You pried, you and Andy didn't have boundaries when it came to conversation; you poked around in each others' business all the time. You both liked things messy and loud and complicated - it's who you were.

Andy shook his head, his face flushed red like when Trent accused him of having a crush. "No," he huffs, washing the butterflies down with a sip of beer.

Your face lit up, grinning at your friend. "No way! You like her!" The words come out in a sing-song tone and Andy rolls his eyes playfully annoyed with you.

"Shut up," he chuckles, taking a bite of his chicken.

You mirrored his actions, chewing your food quietly. You look at him for a moment, smiling at him. "So tell me about her."

"She's kind, and funny. She likes Liverpool so it's a perfect match."

"The bar is so low, Andy." You teased and he shrugged, smiling. "But I'm glad you found someone, I hope things work out between you two."

"Me too," he nods. "What about you? Any luck?"

"Yeah," you took another sip of your drink, "he's a nice guy, but we're taking it slow. We'll see where it goes."

"Good, let me know if he gives you a hard time and you need me to beat him up." Andy says flatly, 100% serious.

You laughed, "as if you could beat up someone."

"I'll pay Virgil to rough him up."

You two chat for a bit more, finishing up dinner and Andy talked you into splitting a massive piece of cake with him - can't have dinner without dessert, just ain't right.

Finally, after what felt like forever, you made it home. You sent Andy a quick text, thanking him for dinner and telling him you got home. You received a thumbs up in response, which meant he was about to fall asleep and was too tired to answer properly - at least he knew you were fine.

You sat on your bed, opening the app you had been ignoring for the last few hours. Clicking on the profile, you send a message.

photographer_10: Hey you.

Andy, who was about to fall asleep, feels the phone buzz in his hand. He opens his eyes, blinking to get himself to focus when he sees who has messaged him.

Suddenly, he was wide awake.

lfc26: Hi, how are you? 

photographer_10: I'm good, sorry I disappeared. Had some work stuff to take care of. 

lfc26: I thought you forgot about me lol.

photographer_10: Never, you’re hard to forget.

Andy smiled at the message, the butterflies fluttering around his stomach like a 16 year old boy with a crush. 

lfc26: That’s sweet, you’ve got me blushing.

photographer_10: I'm sure you look very handsome.

lfc26: Hush you, I'm as red as a tomato right now.

The next message catches him off guard. 

photographer_10: Now are you ever gonna ask me on a date or shall I ask you? 

lfc26: Oh you beat me to it. 

photographer_10: By all means, please. 

lfc26: Would you like to go on a date with me?

Andy stares at the message, he isn’t even sure how long his thumb hovered over the send button. He finally worked up enough courage to hit it, but automatically locked his phone, tossing it on the bed as he rushed off to get a glass of water from the kitchen. 

It was a few minutes later that he came back and saw the response. 

photographer_10: I’d love to. Let me know when you’re free. 

lfc26: Next week? I’m free on Tuesday. 

photographer_10: Perfect, shall we meet somewhere? 

lfc26: Let me be a gentleman and pick you up? 

photographer_10: Sure, I’d love that :) 

--

The arms around you cause you to jump in your seat, heart stopping momentarily. It wasn't until you saw the pale skin that you connected the dots.

"Scared me half to death, Andrew." You huffed, your attention back on the emails you were answering.

He laughs, his chin poking into the top of your head again, watching as you typed nine knots an hour on your keyboard. "Soooo," he starts and your type comes to a halt. Anytime he says that, something either extremely important or stupid follows.

"So?"

"So I sorta have a date soon, like this week. I.. it's been a while." He admits and you spin in your chair, Andy now leaning on the desk as he looks at you. "You nervous?" You asked.

He nods, "a little, yeah."

"You want my advice?"

"Is there something I should do? What's proper date etiquette ?"

"I don't think there's such a thing," you smiled. "But, if it were me, I'd like flowers. It's not a must but it's a nice touch - shows that you thought about more than just meeting the person, you wanted to make a good first impression."

"Okay," he nods, as if he's making a mental note. "Anything else?"

"Smell good, don't go straight from training. Go home and shower, do your hair, wear some cologne but not too much, you don't wanna make the poor girl sneeze." You laughed, Andy smiled.

"I always smell good."

"Do you?" You raised an eyebrow, looking at him.

Andy pulls you by your chair, sitting himself on your lap so you could smell him. "Ew!" You groaned, "Andy, get off!" He had just come up from training, and it was safe to say he did not smell good right now.

"What?" He asks, making a face at you. "Not good?" He tries not to laugh at your face, nose wrinkled in disgust.

"So gross," you huffed. "Go away before you stink up my office."

"You smell like me now," he cackled, pressing his sweaty self against you. You groaned, pushing him off of you. "I hate you."

"Love you too, y/n!"

--

Your music played quietly, you hummed along as you finished up your makeup. Your wine glass sat on the vanity and as you were about to reach for it, your phone buzzed.

lfc26: on my way :)

photographer_10: okay!

You sped up a bit, pulling the rollers out of your hair and shaking it out. Just a last second check in the mirror before you head down. Perfectly on time, the doorbell rings when you get to the bottom of the stairs.

"Coming!" You shouted, walking over to open the door.

Imagine your surprise when you see Andy at your front door, all dressed up, smelling good while holding a bouquet of flowers.

"Andy?" You looked at him, confused.

He blinks, looking just as confused as you. "Y/n?"

You take a moment to connect the dots and it seems Andy's doing the same. "26," you point at him and he nods. "Photographer," he mirrors your action, the two of you bust out laughing at the front door.

"I cannot believe this," you shook your head, laughing as you stepped aside for him to come in.

"I swear I didn't know it was you. I've never come to your house!" He chuckles and to be fair, it was true. You had gone to his place and you've gone out quite a few times but he's never been over to yours.

"I brought flowers, like you suggested." He passes the bouquet over to you; 26 roses all perfectly arranged and wrapped up in Liverpool red paper with a bow.

"My favourite," you smiled, smelling them. "Thank you, Andy."

He smiles, nodding. "Do you still.. you know, wanna go out?"

"Yeah," you smiled, setting the flowers on the counter. "If you want to."

Andy nods, waiting for you to put your flowers into a vase before he opens the front door.

You two ended up going to your usual spot, the Italian place on Water Street. The conversation was flowing, the two of you laughing about how you ended up there and chatted about the upcoming games. It felt normal, it felt meant to be.

You couldn't help but wonder how you missed all the signs.

It seemed that you two were meant to be.

Andy drives you home, walking up to the front door like a gentleman.

"Thank you for tonight," you smiled at him, your hand in his. Andy smiles, nodding. "No need to thank me, my pleasure."

He watches as you unlock the front door and step in. Your hand is still in his, as you look back at him. The look on your face says it before you do. "You know.. the night doesn't have to end here."

Andy hums, smiling at you. He seems to have gotten the hint.

"Yeah?" He raises his eyebrows as you pull him into the house.

The door slams shut, your lips on his as you answer him. "Yeah."

--

add yourself to the taglist!

For years, you were just his annoying little brother’s annoying little friend. And when you grew up, he was so focused on hockey that your paths rarely crossed, even with the countless amount of time you spent under the Hughes’ roof. You reached high school, he was already off to college. And when you and Luke got into Michigan, Quinn was already settled in Vancouver and playing in the big leagues like he always dreamed of. 

He was by no means an asshole or a dick to you, your relationship with the oldest Hughes brother was just…non-existent. He was just there in your life. He was Luke’s oldest brother than you sometimes saw around, and nothing more. 

You didn’t think that would ever change over time, let alone in the span of one summer.

There was no question that you would join the Hughes family at their lakehouse in the summer the second you finished up with finals. You had decided to spend some time back home with your parents before you joined the boys at the lakehouse, just as the friends started to fly in and it felt like it would be the same as every other summer. 

You were painfully wrong. 

Despite only just arriving, you should have known better than thinking the Hughes brothers were capable of a lazy day. The second your bags were dropped in your designated room (just beside Luke’s at the end of the hallway), they had dragged you out onto the boat and demanded to make up for lost time. 

You laughed until tears were streaming down your cheeks. You ate until you swore you’d explode if you had another bite. You drank until the beers started to make you feel a little buzzed and settled and content. You sat around the dinner table sharing jokes and stories and random thoughts until, one by one, everyone tapped in for the night.

But not you. 

Despite the travelling and the tiring day you had, the exhaustion in your bones wasn’t enough to settle you. You felt restless. You felt wide awake. You didn’t have the heart to lie in your bed and aimlessly stare at the ceiling. So, with the knowledge that Luke was already out like a light with no hope of waking up until the sun rises, you found yourself sitting on one of the chairs outside by the fire pit, the dying embers your only company as you enjoyed the serene silence of the lakehouse. 

At least, they were your only company until he followed you outside. 

“Couldn’t sleep?”

You turned your head to look away from the slowing fire and towards the lakehouse, where you found the eldest Hughes brother walking towards you. He had changed from the clothes he was wearing earlier, the shirt and shorts now replaced with sweatpants and a hoodie. Your lips twitched upwards when you noticed it was a Devils jersey he probably stole from his brothers, and one he probably wouldn’t dare to wear outside the privacy of the lakehouse.

You shook your head before nodding back towards the house. “What about you? Luke’s snores too much to deal with?”

Quinn breathed out a laugh. “We both got the short end of the stick sharing a wall with him.” 

“You can say that again,” you murmured with a snort before you turned to face the fire pit again. “At least it’s peaceful out here.”

“And cold,” Quinn noted. 

“I think that hoodie is keeping you warm enough,” you mused as he closed the distance to the firepit, now standing behind your seat. You almost jumped when you felt him place the blanket over your shoulders, not having even noticed he was holding it when he came out here. 

“I meant for you,” Quinn stated simply before he took the spot next to you, his shoulders brushing against yours as you both sat there, staring at the dying fire. “You’re not even wearing a jacket.”

“Sorry, dad,” you joked, and maybe it was a trick of the light, but you could have sworn you saw his lips twitch upwards. “It’s fine, I was heading back inside anyways.”

His brows furrowed together as you moved to stand up. “You looked quite settled though.”

“Well yeah,” you started, your cheeks burning as you noticed him nodding for you to continue. “I don’t know, I just thought you wanted to sit out here.”

He blinked. “So you were gonna leave?”

“I’ve had my time. I’m not gonna get in the way of your…silent brooding,” you said with a shrug of your shoulders.

He tilted his head to the side before he spoke. “You don’t have to leave. We can…silently brood together.”

This time it was your brows that furrowed together.

“Unless you don’t want to stay out here with me…” Quinn trailed off, a little awkwardly. 

“It’s not that, it’s just—” you started, pausing for a moment before you shrugged again. “We don’t really talk.”

Quinn frowned. “We talk.”

“Quinn, this is the longest conversation we’ve had in six years,” you pointed out to him. He opened his mouth like he was about to counter your statement, but after a few moments it seemed like he realised you were telling the truth. 

“Okay, maybe that’s true, but…it doesn’t have to be anymore,” he said as he patted the spot next to him, the spot you were sitting in a few minutes ago. “I mean, you’re like family”

You hesitated for a short moment before you settled in the spot next to him. It took a few more seconds before you finally had the guts to lift the end of the blanket, offering it to him with a sheepish smile. It took every single part of you burning with hope that it was too dark to notice the way your cheeks burned a little as he happily accepted the blanket and wrapped it around himself too.

“Up until junior year in high school, I thought you hated me,” you confessed, blurting the words out before you had a chance to stop yourself.

“What? Really?” He questioned, somewhat incredulously before he frowned. “What changed?”

“I realised you were just like that with everyone,” you admitted. “You all have your roles. Jack is the hyper-active golden retriever brother. Luke is, like, a black cat. Kinda keeps to himself, but he’s clingy when he trusts you.”

Quinn hummed, his eyes focused on the side of your face. “And me?”

“The grumpy cat,” you said as you turned to look at him, your voice a little breathless as you continued. “You look like you hate everyone, but you probably love the hardest. I’ve seen it with Luke. You act like he annoys you but…you probably love him more than anyone else in the world.”

“Other than you,” he noted.

You grinned a little. “Oh please, we aren’t on the same level. I mean, you can try to compete but you’ll lose.”

Quinn snorted, and it took you by surprise. “Yeah, you and my brother have your weird…psychic thing. I don’t think anyone could compare.” He paused for a few moments before he spoke up again. “You know, he threatened me about you once.”

You let out a noise of disbelief. “What?”

“The bond between you,” Quinn laughed.

Your eyes narrowed in suspicion. “When?”

“It was when you broke your arm when you were like seven years old,” Quinn said. “You were bummed that whole summer.”

“It was meant to be the first year me and Luke could go tubing alone,” you murmured as the memories flashed through your mind. You hated every second a camera was pointed at you and the massive cast on your arm.

“I won this massive bag of sour patch kids at that carnival game and I knew they were your favourites,” he continued. “But Luke threw a tantrum. He cried to Dad that I was trying to steal his best friend, that I was bribing you. He said that if I gave you the bag, he would push me off the boat when Dad was going full speed.”

Your lips parted as you let out a surprised laugh. “Oh wow,” you murmured with a shake of your head. “That bastard robbed me out of a huge bag of sour patch kids.”

Quinn laughed, shaking his head. “That’s all you took from that story? Not the fact that he almost killed me?” 

“Eh,” you shrugged. “You’re here now, aren’t you? But you know what’s not here? The bag of sour patch kids.”

“It was really good,” Quinn mused playfully as you lightly dug an elbow into his ribs. “Ouch. Kidding.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I’m really not,” he confessed before smiling softly. “I’ll get you another to make up for it.”

You sighed dramatically. “It’s not the same.”

“What? You want me to win it again?” Quinn questioned, though you could hear the amusement in his voice.

You wiggled your eyebrows. “Scared you’ll fail?”

“Absolutely not,” Quinn announced before offering his hand. “Fine. Deal.”

“Deal,” you repeated as you shook his hand.

But neither one of you pulled away. You sat there, huddled under the tartan blanket he had taken from the linen closet on the second floor, staring as you held onto each other’s hand. You could have pulled away. You should have pulled away. But some part of you kind of liked the feeling of his large, warm hand engulfing yours. 

“You sure I won’t steal you away from Luke?” Quinn murmured, his eyes watching your face closely.

You smiled softly. “Depends how big the bag is.”

And he laughed, finally pulling his hand away as he turned his attention back to the firepit, and you were left wondering what the fuck just happened between you and Quinn Hughes.

…

You shared many moments with Quinn Hughes after that night, but the second time it really hit you again, you had no doubt that whatever was happening between you both was definitely a mutual feeling.

It was one of the hottest days of the summer, so it only made sense to take the boat out on the lake. With a backpack full of snacks and suncream, along with a cooler packed to the brim with water and beer bottles, you were set to have a good day. 

Despite the heat, you had been wearing one of Luke’s old UMICH shirts as an overdress as you sat on the boat, pressed against him as Quinn took charge of driving. For reasons that were beyond your own understanding, you hadn’t opened up to your best friend about the growing friendship between you and his brother. You didn’t know why. You knew it wasn’t really a big deal.

But some part of you wanted to keep the bond bubbling between you and Quinn just for yourself, a secret shared between you two.

“Twenty bucks says Trevor tries to do a backflip before Jack,” Luke murmured to you as you both watched the other two boys, already playfully shoving each other. 

“An extra says his heels hit the back of his head when he does it,” you murmured back, your lips twitching when Luke let out a loud, sudden laugh that caught the attention of the other boys.

“Quinn, they are doing it again!” Jack called out.

Luke frowned. “Doing what?”

“Being you,” Jack retorted, causing the youngest Hughes to roll his eyes.

“Stop being jealous, Rowdy,” you teased, flashing him a mocking pout. “Just cause you and Trevor wish you had what we have.” 

“What we have is better,” Trevor insisted. 

You and Luke shared a look before you both replied, “sure, Jan.” 

“God, that is weird,” Cole murmured, sitting on the other side of you and Luke with an oddly curious expression. 

“Wait until you see them move in sync,” Alex grumbled, his nose scrunched up. “It’s creepy.”

“I can’t believe we are on a boat with a bunch of jealous bitches,” you mused to your best friend, who only snorted in response. 

By the time the boat had been anchored and settled, it took less than three seconds before most of the boys were jumping into the lake. Luke had tried to drag you in with him, but you batted his hands away. You should’ve known better than to think he would give up. 

You only had enough time to shriek when Luke lifted you in his arms, not thinking twice before he threw you off the edge before following. By the time you broke through the surface, he was already laughing his ass off with the majority of the other boys. 

“Dick!” You laughed at him. 

“You still love me!” He called back. 

“Unfortunately.” 

You made your way towards the boat, kicking your legs to get you away from Luke as quickly as you could. You reached for the small ladder, your hands gripping the metal as you tried to pull yourself back up onto the boat. 

“Here, let me help.” 

You didn’t get a chance to respond before Quinn’s hands were wrapped around your waist, practically hauling you back onto the boat with ease. Your cheeks burned as you stumbled into him, your hands on his bare chest as you found your footing. 

“Sorry,” you flashed him a sheepish smile. 

But he didn’t look that bothered. “No worries at all.” 

You glanced down at Luke’s shirt you were still wearing when he had thrown you in. It was absolutely soaked, and now laid heavy against your skin as you gently picked at the hem. 

“Asshole,” you muttered under your breath. “I didn’t bring anything else.” 

“I have a hoodie you can borrow,” Quinn muttered out, far too quickly and, for a moment, you wondered if the pink on his cheeks was a blush or sunburn. “If you want.” 

“I—yeah,” you eventually stuttered out. “That would be great.” 

It hasn’t even been purposeful. It just made sense to peel the wet shirt over your head, hoping to wring it out and let it dry in the sun while you swim around for another hour or so. You didn’t even think twice when you wiggled out of it. You didn’t think it was a big deal until you lifted your head and found Quinn staring at you, lips parted and hoodie held aimlessly in his hand as he gaped at you. 

“You good?” You questioned as though your heart wasn’t racing in your chest at his eyes on you. 

“Yeah, no,” Quinn cleared his throat, blinking a few times. “Just…yeah.”

You raised your brows. “Never seen a girl in a bikini before, Hughes?” 

“Never seen you in one,” he corrected, and something about his response caught you off guard. Maybe because you weren’t expecting him to admit it. “You’re gorgeous.” 

You tilted your head to the side. “You sound surprised by that.” 

“What?” His eyes widened slightly. “No! No, I didn’t mean like that—” 

“STOP BEING A CHICKEN AND GET BACK IN HERE!” 

You glanced over your shoulder, your eyes narrowing down at your best friend. “I’m not a chicken!” 

“Prove it then!” Luke called out. 

You turned back around to look at Quinn who hadn’t torn his eyes away from you. He looked like he wanted to say something, maybe even finish what he started a few moments ago before he was interrupted. But in the end, he couldn’t find himself able to say a single word. 

You didn’t turn to look back at him as you raced back into the water, your stomach churning. Maybe it was the curiosity of wanting to know what he was going to say. Maybe it was the surprise that Quinn of all people couldn’t get his words out. Maybe you were still trying to navigate the weird shift in dynamic between you. 

Or maybe it was because Quinn Hughes called you gorgeous and you couldn’t stop thinking about it. 

But, for what it was worth, you still slid his hoodie over your head when you got out of the water. Even if the shirt was dried by that point. 

And you could’ve sworn you saw him smile when you did. 

…

The third time was undeniable. You felt something for Quinn Hughes, and it was reciprocated. 

It was another sleepless night. Something in the air felt different, like it had shifted. And now you were left alone in the quietness of the lakehouse somewhere in the early hours of the morning.

The days had started to blur into each other, passing in a happy daze as you basked in a summer spent with some of your closest friends. Today had been no different with made-up tournaments of pool and darts, tanning by the lake and drinks shared that put a hefty dent in the supply from the fridge. 

You were buzzed and happy by the time you made your way to the room, finding yourself in Luke’s room before the boy eventually dozed off somewhere between your rambles of who could actively fight a horse-sized duck and the latest season of your favourite show you had been convincing him to watch. You had slid out of his room, heading towards your own room to settle down for the night. 

But that restless feeling returned. 

Instead, your steps lead you down the stairs and into the kitchen. You had propped yourself on the island, a glass of water sat beside you and your eyes focused on the window above the sink. It was quiet. So quiet. And some part of you resented it, that you were the only one awake right now. 

But just like last time, you were quickly disproven of your assumption.

Your head turned when you heard footsteps approaching and, for a second, you thought maybe it was Luke. But the steps didn’t sound heavy enough to be his, and there was nothing in this world that could wake that boy from his slumber. 

You shouldn’t have been surprised to find Quinn standing in the doorway instead. 

He was dressed like he had just crawled out of bed. With grey sweatpants that laid low on his hips and a white shirt that clung onto every crevice and curve of his torso, he stood in the kitchen doorway with bleary eyes and a small frown on his face. 

“Why are you still awake?”

You shrugged. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“I’m starting to think you have insomnia or something,” he murmured, running a hand through the messy curls on his head, but it did little to tame them. Your lips twitched at the sight. “Or maybe I’ve just never noticed how shitty your sleep schedule was before.”

“Kick a girl when she’s down,” you mused playfully as you watched him lean against the frame. “Why are you awake right now? You look like you’re seconds from falling asleep.” 

Quinn hummed in agreement. “I’m a light sleeper.”

Your brows furrowed together. “So?”

“So, I heard you thumping down the stairs and into the kitchen,” Quinn said, the corners of his lips lifting when he heard the noise that left your lips.

“Thumping?” You repeated with a scoff.

“Thumping,” he nodded in confirmation before pushing himself off the frame, closing the distance between the kitchen entrance and the kitchen counter you were currently sitting on. “You’re very heavy-footed.”

“I’ll be sure to remember that the next time we skate together,” you grumbled, your eyes glued on the oldest Hughes as he sleepily shuffled towards you. Your legs parted almost instantly as he settled between them, his hands on either side of you as he looked up at you with a slight hazed look on his face. 

“You’d never catch me,” he murmured softly.

“Is that a challenge?” You retorted.

Quinn shook his head as he breathed out his nose. “Do you have to turn everything into a competition?”

“It makes things more fun,” you told him, painfully aware of how close you were. It wasn’t like the boat, there was no one else in the kitchen. Just you, Quinn and the accompanying silence of the lakehouse. You wondered if you should have felt guilty for enjoying it so much. 

“I can think of a million other things that are more fun,” he countered, his head tilting to the side as he lifted his head to look at you.

A beat passed before you replied, “want to show me some?”

You didn’t miss the way his eyes instantly dropped to your lips. You felt something deep in your stomach twist in delight, in satisfaction even. His eyes lingered there for one, two, three seconds before his eyes met yours again. They were darker, a little more awake than they were minutes ago when he shuffled into the kitchen. They made your chest feel tight. 

“I can’t,” he murmured, his voice a little breathless and strained. “You’re Luke’s best friend.”

“And you’re Luke’s brother,” you countered. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“I shouldn’t,” he insisted. 

You leaned forward a little, your nose brushing against his. “But do you want to?”

There was a pause. It was brief and barely lasted a few seconds, but it felt like a lifetime passed between you both. You sat on the counter, Quinn standing in front of you, and the deafening silence that surrounded you both. It didn’t feel like you were in the kitchen, let alone the lakehouse. You were in your own little bubble, weighing up the consequences of what was about to happen. 

And in that little bubble, every single one of them seemed worth it.

A small noise of surprise left you as Quinn leaned forward, his hands moving to cup the back of your head as he pressed his lips against yours. You melted into his embrace embarrassingly quick, your hands resting on his chest as you found your lips moving against his. It was hesitant and a little off-pace, like both of you were trying to figure out what you were doing.

And then he pulled away, just enough to catch a glimpse of your face but it was short-lasting before your hands were fisting his shirt and pulling him in for another kiss. 

The kisses became more confident, more sure. His hands dropped from the back of your head, gliding down your back and resting on your hips before he was pulling you towards the edge of the counter. You wrapped your legs around his torso, your arms following suit around his neck and, fuck, who knew kissing Quinn Hughes could be so addictive?

“Shit,” you breathed out, your head falling back as his lips trailed along your jaw and down the column of your neck. His beard scratched against your skin, tickling and teasing and your legs tightened around him. “Quinn.”

“Sound pretty when you say my name,” his words vibrated against your skin, his hands tightening their grip. 

“That feels good,” you whined, your body arching into him as his teeth grazed along a sensitive spot on the base of your neck. Your heart was beating against your ribs, the coil in your stomach was tightening as his hands teased the hem of your shirt and the painful realisation that it had been far too long since a guy had touched you made you eager to keep him close.

“Yeah?” You could hear the cockiness in his voice. “I make you feel good, sweetheart?”

“Quinn,” you murmured, your cheeks flushing in embarrassment when he pulled away to look at you.

“Say it,” he said, his fingers squeezing your cheeks together when you tried to turn your head away. 

“You make me feel good,” you whispered, a little breathless.

His chest moved with soft pants, his hooded eyes dropping down to your red, swollen lips. “Do you want me to stop?”

You shook your head.

“Words, baby,” he murmured, his fingers squeezing your cheeks again as you stared at him with wide eyes. “I want you to be sure of what you’re doing.”

You rolled your eyes. “I know I wanna fuck you, Quinn, I’m not some stupid little kid anymore.”

“I never once thought you were,” he said simply, and before you even got the chance to reply, his lips were pressed against your again.

You didn’t remember much about the journey to Quinn’s room. All you knew was that he was strong—really fucking strong—which shouldn’t have surprised you for a professional athlete. But when he had the strength and control to pick you up with ease and walk up to his room on nothing but muscle memory as he made you whine and squirm in his grasp, you had to find it more than a little impressive. 

Your back bounced against the mattress as you pulled him down, eager to feel the weight of him on top of you. You weren’t exactly what you felt for the oldest Hughes brother. You weren’t even sure if you wanted to know.

But in that moment you wanted him. You wanted him on top of you. You wanted him inside of you. You wanted him in a way you had never wanted Quinn Hughes in your life, and maybe if you weren’t so lost in your own desperation to feel his skin against yours, it would have freaked you out. 

But right now, your focus was on him. 

Your clothes laid abandoned in a pile on his bedroom floor, right beside his sweatpants and shirt. His hands were all over you, touching you and stroking you and holding you. His lips trailed over your bare skin, desperate to kiss every fucking inch like his life depended on it. 

And when you felt his curls tickling your skin, his beard scratching against your inner thighs and his nose nudging against your sensitive clit, your need to feel him inside you was almost unbearable. 

“Please,” you cried out, your fists clenching the navy bed sheets beneath you as you squirmed under his grasp. “Quinn, I need—”

“I know what you need, honey,” he murmured, his lips and chin still wet with your arousal as he trailed kisses up your stomach and between your tits before his lips claimed yours. “Gonna give you what you want.” 

The noises you let out were muffled by his lips against yours, his tongue teasing along your bottom lip before sliding into your mouth. Whispered pants and soft praises were shared between heavy kisses as Quinn ripped open the foil, his forehead pressed against yours as he whispered how good you were doing before he finally bottomed out inside of you. 

Your experience with men in bed wasn’t large or extensive, but no one had ever treated you the way Quinn Hughes did. He was generous and caring. He was attentive and passionate. He was bigger than anyone you had ever slept with before. And even in the quiet hours of the lakehouse and the slow roll of his hips, he had you pressing your face into the pillows to muffle the noises you were making. 

And much to your surprise, he held you against his chest when it was all over, rather than letting you slide out of bed and awkwardly scramble to leave the room. 

“Quinn,” you started, your head tucked under his chin as his fingers trailed along your bare back.

“Yeah?” 

“What are we doing?” 

Quinn didn’t say anything for a few moments. “We’re just having fun,” he said eventually as his arms tightened around you. “Let’s just enjoy it, yeah? Don’t think about it too much.”

So, you didn’t. You just kept the million and one questions you had to yourself and enjoyed the feeling of falling asleep in the arms of Quinn Hughes.

…

The fourth time wasn’t even purposeful, it was more like chance—like fate.

The storm had taken you all by surprise. It was by no means a large storm, or particularly concerning. But it left the lake unassailable and most of the roads to the nearest town at risk of being flooded. 

The weather warnings had been going off for the last twenty four hours. You could feel the storm approaching, you could feel it in the sticky, humid air that clung onto your skin like a second layer. The little sundress you had been wearing was doing little to combat the heat, especially with the additional fact that you were pretty sure the AC stopped working a few hours ago and the fans the boys had set up around the house were doing nothing but blowing hot air at you.

What wasn’t surprising was the lack of concern for the storm. It would pass in a few days, and none of the boys seemed particularly on edge at the fact the roads would be closed and they would essentially be trapped in the lakehouse for the next week or so.

Nobody but Quinn.

“I’m heading out to the store to stock up for the storm,” he announced as he entered the living room where the rest of the group had been sprawled over the couches, their attention focused on the tv screen displaying the video game they were currently playing. “Any of your assholes wanna help?”

Silence.

Quinn sighed loudly. “Should have seen that one coming.”

“I’ll join,” you said, not thinking twice as you stood up from your spot on the loveseat you were sharing with Luke. 

The boy’s attention perked up the second you stood up, his brows furrowed together as he watched you saunter towards his brother. “You’re willingly going to the store with Quinn?”

You paused, your brows furrowed together. “Yeah?”

“It’s over an hour away,” Luke said as you continued to stare blankly at you. “He’s going to bore you to death! He doesn't talk!”

Quinn scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Geez, thanks.”

“I’ll survive,” you assured him, ruffling his hair as you walked past him and towards the front door. “Plus, I’ll talk enough for the both of us.” 

You felt like your heart was in your throat as you slipped your shoes on, waiting to hear the sound of Luke following you to the door. You expected to see him running towards you and Quinn, a frown on his lips as he muttered about coming to help because he would feel bad otherwise. 

You tried not to think about how badly you didn’t want him to do that.

“We are leaving now!” 

“Bye!” Jack called out from the living room. 

“You sure you don’t wanna come?”

“Not a chance!” Luke called out this time. 

You could barely bite back your grin as you quickly rushed out the house, making your way to the passenger side of Quinn’s truck. He didn’t say a word as he settled into the driver’s seat, key in the ignition and engine roaring to life as he reversed out the driveway and started the hour commute to the nearest grocery store. 

“Okay, spill.” 

You turned your head to face the boy, your eyebrows furrowing slightly in confusion. “Spill what?”

“What twin telepathy, voodoo magic you pulled back there,” Quinn said with a small snort of laughter. “The dude has been attached to your hip since you both were five. There was no way he just chose to stay back.”

“Maybe he’s finally getting sick of me after all these years,” you teased.

“Yeah, and I heard pigs were flying too,” he deadpanned. 

You grinned. “Is there a reason you want to get me alone, Mr Hughes?” 

His lips twitched upwards as he cast you a look. “I think it’s the same reason you were begging me to not stop last night in the—”

“Shut up!” Your cheeks burned, though you couldn’t help but laugh a little when he did too. 

The journey to the store went smoothly. Despite Quinn’s insistence that he didn’t speed, you reached the grocery store in the next town over less than forty minutes after you left. You each took a trolley before ransacking the aisles, filling both carts up to the brim until you had enough to supply you through the zombie apocalypse. 

Quinn swiped his card and you packed the groceries into the back of the truck. 

And then, the rain started. 

“Shit,” Quinn murmured, a frown on his face as he ducked his head down to watch the rain heavily pour down. “They said it wasn’t gonna start up until tonight.” 

“Do you think we’ll be able to get back fine?” You asked, listening to the rain patter against the roof of the truck. “Maybe it will ease up.” 

Quinn raised his brows. “It’s the start of the storm. It’s only gonna get worse.” 

“You scared of a little rain?” You teased, gently nudging your elbow against his. 

“It’s just stupid,” Quinn said with a shrug. “It’s a nuisance.” 

“It’s fun if you let it be,” you retorted. 

Quinn turned to face you in his seat, a look of amusement on his face as he leaned against the console. “Sweetheart, I think you’ve been around Luke too long. The brain cells are starting diminish as we speak—”

“Fuck off,” you laughed with a shake of your head. “See, this is what I mean. You’re the grumpy cat.” 

“And what about me is so grumpy cat right now?” Quinn questioned. 

“You’re a rain buzzkiller,” you stated simply.

Quinn tried to fight the grin growing on his face. “And what would someone who’s not a rain buzzkiller be like?” 

He waited for your reply. He waited for you to come back with some witty retort that would piss him off and thrill him all at once. He waited for you to say something that made him want to roll his eyes and kiss you all at once. 

He waited, but instead he saw your hand reaching for the door handle and his eyes widened in realisation. 

“Baby—” 

But you were already jumping out of the car. 

It was just instinctive for him to jump out and follow. He was soaked in seconds, the rain still heavy and unforgiving and it almost made it difficult to see you, despite only being a few feet in front of him. He opened his mouth, ready to yell at you for being so reckless and to get back into the car, only to stop short when he heard you laugh. 

“Come on, Huggy!” You called out to the boy, your arms extended out to the side as you tilted your head back up to the rain. “Don’t be a buzzkill!”

“You’re insane!” He called back.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” you laughed as you reached out for him. “Come on, don’t leave me hanging!”

“We are going to get sick!” 

“Oh well!” You laughed, palm facing the sky as you grinned at him through the heavy rain. 

Quinn stared at you, a noise of disbelief leaving his own mouth as he took your hand and let you tug him towards you. Your arms seamlessly wrapped around his neck, just as his hands fell to your waist. And as much as he tried, he couldn’t fight the smile that grew on his face as you both began to sway back and forth in the rain.

“Isn’t this fun?” 

Quinn shook his head, not bothering to answer as he dipped his head down to press his lips against yours. Your arms tightened around him, a small moan leaving your lips as he pressed your body against his own. You were both soaked to the bone, clothes clinging onto you but that was the least of your concerns. 

“I’m taking that as a yes,” you murmured against his lips.

“You take it as whatever you want, baby,” he murmured back before he leaned down for another kiss. 

The upcoming storm and truck full of groceries were the last thing on your mind when you were kissing Quinn Hughes in the rain. 

…

The fifth time hurt like a bitch.

There was no sugar-coating. There was no exaggerations. There were no molehills made into mountains. 

It just fucking hurt and there was no way for you to get around that. 

After the storm had gone and passed, the group were eager to get back out into the world they were cut off from for the week. It had been Trevor’s idea to have a night out in the next town over. To have an excuse to dress up and head to one of the bars, enjoy the vibe of live music and chatty bartenders and friendly locals. 

And that was exactly what you all had done.

You dressed up. You booked the taxis to the bar. You did a round of shots. You made friends with strangers. You danced and laughed and sang along with the band playing on the small, makeshift stage. You ordered fruity cocktails that you missed during your stay at the lakehouse. You were having fun.

And then you saw it.

Logically, you knew you didn’t have any reason to really be pissed. He wasn’t your boyfriend. You weren’t his girlfriend. There had never really been a talk of exclusivity, but you thought that much had been obvious since you had spent most of your time at the lakehouse. There were no labels, no promises, no rules. You knew that. Of course you fucking knew that.

But it didn’t make the sight hurt any less. 

Quinn was leaning against the bar, a wide smile painted on his face as he chatted away to some blonde girl who was all but saddled up next to his side. He was laughing and talking animatedly and just…it hurt. 

It hurt because it reminded you that you were in no place to feel hurt. It hurt because you realised nobody else would understand the bitter feelings bubbling in the pit of your stomach. It hurt because the summer had shown you a new side of Quinn Hughes, and now you had lost him before you had even really had him. 

“Hey, you good?” Trevor questioned as he threw his arm over you, bringing you close to his side. 

“Hm? Yeah, just…think I drank too much,” you said as you dismissively waved your hand. You tore your eyes away from where Quinn stood at the bar and smiled softly up at the blond. “I think I might head back. I’m not feeling it anymore.”

“You sure?” Trevor frowned. “We can get you some water or—”

“I think I just need my bed,” you smiled sheepishly. “It’s fine. I can go by myself.”

“Absolutely not,” Trevor scoffed before his head darted up, his eyes narrowing as he tried to glance around the bar for someone in particular. “Where the fuck is Baby Hughes?” 

“Trevor—” You started, but the boy wasn’t having it.

“Huggy! Have you seen your little brother anywhere?” Trevor called out to the oldest Hughes, and you wanted the world to swallow you whole right there and then.

Quinn looked at you and then Trevor. His eyes glanced at the arm still comfortably wrapped around your shoulder, the way you were tucked into his side. For a moment, you thought he was jealous. 

“No, why?” He asked, his face remaining mostly blank. “Is something wrong?”

“Lady Hughes wants to head back to the lakehouse,” Trevor informed him.

Your nose scrunched up. “Lady Hughes?” 

“You’re a lady and basically a Hughes,” he said with a casual shrug of his shoulders. “It works.”

You snorted.

“Are you okay?” Quinn asked, stepping away from the blonde at the bar as his eyes glanced over you.

“Peachy,” you replied with a strained smile that only made his concern grow. “Look, it’s fine. I’m gonna order an uber and head back to the house. I’ll be fine.”

It should have been fine. You messaged Luke that you were heading back early. You had ordered an uber and Trevor insisted that he would wait outside with you until it arrived. It should have been fine. 

Except the boy had the bladder of a squirrel when he was drunk and was running back inside to go to the bathroom, promising he would be quick, and giving the oldest Hughes brother an opening to step outside the bar with you. 

Alone.

“What’s really wrong? You hardly drank anything,” Quinn said, his arms crossed over his chest and his worry evident in his voice. And something about it just pissed you off more. Something about his concern for you just made the sight of the blonde under his arm sting a little more, like salt in the wound.

“I’m just not feeling it, okay?” Your response was snappy, and maybe if you weren’t two shots and a cocktail down, you would have felt bad. 

“Woah,” Quinn scoffed and shook his head. “Sorry for caring.” 

And then the word vomit really started. “Do you really care?” 

The defenceman frowned. “What?” 

“Do you really care, Quinn? Because it didn’t look like you cared about much inside there other than the blonde you have been chatting up all night,” you commented coldly.

Quinn stared at you in disbelief. “Is this what this is about? You’re going back to the house because you’re jealous I’m not paying attention to you all night?”

You scoffed. “Oh wow.” 

“Am I wrong?” He snapped back at you.

“Yes! Deeply so,” you gritted through clenched teeth, and you hated the way your eyes watered with tears of frustration. You didn’t want to cry, and certainly not in front of him. “I just thought—”

“You thought what?” Quinn questioned, his hands now resting on his hips.

“I thought what we had was worth a little more,” you eventually spat out, with every ounce of self-control working to keep your voice from sounding too shaky. “That maybe you’d have a little more decency than to just flirt with some girl right in front of me.”

“We aren’t dating,” was his only response. 

“Yeah, I know,” you replied bitterly as the car you ordered pulled up beside you. You reached for the handle, already hating yourself a little more when you felt a tear run down your cheek. “I just made the mistake of thinking you were a decent fucking human though.”

He called out your name but you didn’t give him a chance to respond as you slid into the backseat of the uber car, slamming the car door shut and letting the tears fall as the driver pulled away from the sidewalk where Quinn still stood.

…

The one time you two acknowledged the mess between you was the start of a new chapter in your life, the start of Quinn Hughes playing a predominant and recurring role for the first time ever.

It was the following day after the night at the bar. The boys had returned somewhere after three in the morning, after the bar had presumably closed and they had been kicked out. You heard them coming in, heard their drunken giggles and horribly loud hushed voices. But you didn’t have the energy to do anything but lay in bed and listen as they all scrambled off to their own rooms.

Your sleep had been shit. Your thoughts had been running wild. And by the time the first rays of light were starting to peek through your curtains, you dragged yourself out of bed and downstairs to the kitchen. You found the biggest mug you could find, filled it to the brim with coffee and made your way to the pier outside. 

It had been quiet, serene even. The sun was beginning to peak over the horizon, painting the sky in different shades of orange, pink and blue. The birds were chirping, the wind was breezing in the early morning chill and it should have been perfect. 

But it wasn’t. 

It shouldn’t have surprised you that he followed you out to the pier. Quinn Hughes seemed to have a nab for knowing when you wanted to break the serenity and silence of a moment. 

You didn’t say a word to him, you didn’t even turn to look at him as he settled in the spot next to you and stared at calm water in front of you. You stayed locked in the silence, letting the sounds of branches rustling and distant boat motors accompany the quietness between you. 

It made you want to scream.

And then, he spoke. 

“Nothing happened between me and the blonde.” 

You didn’t say anything, but it seemed like Quinn wasn’t waiting to hear your response. Instead, he continued talking. He sounded frazzled, like the words were pouring out of his mouth and he couldn’t stop them.

“It wasn’t—” he paused, shaking his head. “It couldn’t even be like that even if I wanted it to. You asked if I cared yesterday, but do you wanna know the truth?” 

You remained silent. 

“The truth is that ever since the night at the fire pit, you’ve been stuck in my head. You’ve been stuck in my head and no matter what I do, I can’t fucking seem to make it stop.” He let out a dry, humourless laugh. “You’re my baby brother’s best friend. I shouldn’t be fucking thinking about you like that.”

Quinn shook his head. “But I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t stop watching you. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. And then I kissed you, and I knew I was fucked. Absolutely fucked because now I wanted the one thing I shouldn’t be allowed to have, so I fucking panicked and told you it was nothing because if I told you, then maybe I could trick myself too.” 

You finally turned your head to look at the boy, the conflict and doubts clear in your eyes but Quinn seemed to have a knack at reading you better than most people. 

“Baby, I couldn’t stop caring about you even if I tried,” he whispered, his voice cracking a little as he flashed you a sad smile. “We aren’t dating. We never were. But maybe it just scared me how much I…wouldn’t mind if we were, or we had, or—” He shook his head. “I was a dickhead yesterday and I’m sorry.”

“You were,” you said and something in his chest eased from just hearing your voice. “But I was a bit of a brat too. I should have—”

“We were both idiots,” Quinn murmured before laughing softly. “Like, really fucking dumb. But I know I care about you. And not just in a ‘we are sleeping together’ kind of way. I care about you more than that.” 

You wanted to say you felt the same way. You wanted to tell him the way your stomach flipped whenever he touched you. You wanted to tell him the way your heart stuttered when he smiled at you. You wanted to tell him you were addicted to his touch and obsessed with his kisses. 

But all that came out was, “what about Luke?”

Quinn’s brows furrowed together slightly in thought. “We don’t have to tell him. Not yet, at least.” He said, hesitating for a short moment before he extended his hand out to you, palm facing the sky. “How about we just try us for a little bit?”

Your lips twitched upwards. “And what is us?” 

“Whatever you want it to be,” he assured you. “Call me whatever you want, baby. Your boyfriend, your boy toy, your sugar daddy—” He laughed when you playfully shoved him. “I mean it.” 

“Boyfriend has a nice ring to it,” you admitted in a shy voice, your eyes on the water below your feet.

Quinn grinned. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you grinned back as you finally turned to look at him. You glanced down at his hand before taking it, intertwining your fingers together and squeezing softly. “I want to try us.”

“Then we’ll try us,” he murmured before leaning forward to capture your lips against his. 

And somewhere, deep down inside you, you knew it was wrong to keep it hidden from Luke. He was your best friend. He was your person. He was Quinn’s brother. He deserved to know. 

But maybe you also deserved to keep a secret or two from Luke. Maybe he didn’t have to know every single detail about your life. Maybe you deserved to have some fun.

Maybe you deserved to give Quinn Hughes a standing chance, just you and him and whatever the fuck ‘us’ would lead to.

after going back and forth with it in your mind, you've come to the conclusion that you have a secret admirer. it was odd, and a little hard to believe, but it was the only option that made any sense to you. in all honesty, it was probably just your hopeless-romantic heart clouding your mind with optimism, but one can dream.

the first incident was harmless enough, a small inconspicuous gesture that was so subtle, in fact, that you barely paid it any notice at first.

it was the dead of night, and you’d just returned from a particularly gruelling solo mission, uninjured but bone tired and desperate to collapse into your bed and finally sleep. before you could fall into the blankets, however, you noticed through the darkness of your room something strange.

resting neatly on your pillow, illuminated by the dim light of your phone screen, was a single bar of your favourite chocolate. you didn’t remember buying it, and certainly didn’t remember leaving it there, but it was exactly the kind of pick-me-up you needed after the day you’d had. at the time, you’d chalked it up to you simply being forgetful, devoured the chocolate in record time, and promptly knocked out.

over breakfast the next morning, you'd recounted to the others the mysterious appearing chocolate as a funny anecdote; the five of you had laughed about your terrible memory, and you'd moved on. but now you weren’t on the verge of blacking out, you couldn’t help but think of it as weird.

for the life of you, you couldn’t remember buying the chocolate bar, and it didn’t make sense that you would leave it on your pillow like that. what did make sense, however bizarre it may seem, was someone else leaving it for you – but you had no idea who would do that for you, or why. either way, you didn't imagine that anything else would come from it.

the next incident happened three days later.

during training that afternoon, you were in the middle of running laps around base, when you’d – stupidly – tripped over a ditch in the ground and rolled your ankle pretty badly. it hurt too much to put any weight on it, so you’d sat there in shame with no choice but to wait for a few minutes until gaz and soap caught up to you.

as they rounded the corner, you'd reluctantly waved them over with a grimace at how your ankle was throbbing in your boot. johnny was immediately crouching by your side, abandoning the idea of training to focus completely on you.

"christ, what happened?" he fussed, worry creasing his face and making your own heat up under the attention.

"i tripped…" you mumbled, dragging a hand over your embarrassed expression. it was bad enough that you'd made such a simple mistake, but now the man you were crushing on, hard, was lifting your leg so gently and untying your laces and you were certain you were moments away from cardiac arrest.

he'd ushered gaz away to continue his run, telling him he'd accompany you to the infirmary with a tone that left no room for argument. not that gaz would've, the knowing look he sent you as he jogged away told you he knew exactly what you were thinking.

after making sure nothing was broken, soap had pulled you to stand with an arm around your waist, supporting you with his solid frame when you stumbled. 

"sure y'don't want me to carry you?" he'd teased, earning a laugh from you as you wobbled in his arms. as you chuckled though, you noticed a hint of what seemed like sincerity in his eyes. you'd felt your face burning again at the implication that he really would carry you, if that's what you'd wanted, and quickly started dragging him along with you in an attempt to hide your flustered state. 

he'd kept his arm around your waist the entire way to the medical wing, only releasing you when you were sat in front of the doctor, which did absolutely nothing to calm your racing heart. to your dismay, he couldn't stay with you – you were still in the middle of training, after all. 

"you sure you'll be alright by yourself?" he'd asked as he left, and the concern in his eyes almost finished you off. you were almost glad he didn't stick around to see the effect he had on you.

luckily, after a quick inspection, the doctor concluded that you only had a minor sprain, and you'd be good as new in a couple of weeks. she'd sent you on your way with an ice pack, a crutch, and strict instructions to stay off your feet.

you would've gone back outside to watch the boys (mainly soap) finish the rest of their exercises, but honestly, the embarrassment of what happened had you wanting to curl up with a pillow over your face for the rest of the day; so that's exactly what you found yourself doing.

you must've drifted off to sleep at some point, because once you finally sat up again, the sun had painted the horizon a bright orange, and your stomach had begun to rumble.

as you went to walk out into the hall, you heard the crinkle of plastic under your boot, pausing you mid‐step. when you looked down, you were stunned to find a bundle of three beautiful white flowers – gardenias, you'd found out after googling them later. an incredibly warm feeling blossomed in your chest, and despite your best efforts, your eyes had welled up with tears. you couldn't even think of the last time someone bought you flowers. there was no note attached, meaning you had no way of knowing who had left them for you, which sent your mind back to the chocolate bar from a few days ago.

so i'm not going crazy, you'd thought to yourself, someone really did leave it for me. but still, you had no clue who this mystery gift-giver could be.

you'd carefully picked them up, being mindful of your ankle, and turned back around to put them in your room. there wasn't really anywhere to put them, so you just set them on the ledge of your windowsill and made a mental note to find a vase for them at some point.

when you eventually made it to the mess hall, there were very few people left, leaving the room unusually calm. ghost was sat by himself at one of the far tables, so you hobbled over on your crutch to sit with him while you ate.

you sat down opposite him, and he'd looked up, gave you a subtle nod, and gone back to eating with his eyes fixed on the table in front of him. the two of you ate like that for a while, sitting quietly in each others presence.

ghost had been the first to break the silence, asking you, "how's the ankle?" as he pulled his balaclava back down to cover his mouth.

"just sprained," you'd replied, looking up to meet his eyes. another beat of silence fell over you, before you continued, "did you see who left me those flowers?" you'd asked him; it was worth a shot, you figured not much gets past ghost. to your dismay, he simply shook his head, standing and mumbling a goodbye as he left.

you were only more confused now. if ghost didn't know who it was – and, granted, you wouldn't actually be able to tell if he was lying, but you trusted him – then who would know? the next day, you'd asked the other boys, but they'd all said the same thing, even the captain. so you were left with nothing to do but wonder who on earth could be leaving you these gifts.

after that, it was another four days until your secret admirer struck again.

you'd been in and out of briefings and debriefings and meetings all day, your mind was beginning to numb with all the information that had been unloaded. you were tired; not quite the same exhaustion you'd felt coming back from your mission earlier in the week, though, this time you were at the end of your rope mentally. there hadn't been a moments peace since you got out of bed, and once that excruciatingly long day was over and you were relaxing in the common room, you'd had no energy to actually engage with your friends.

you were nestled into one end of the sofa with gaz next to you, ghost on his other side, and soap in the armchair with a small book in his hands. they were all chatting, with you occasionally saying a thing or two, but you were mostly just zoned out with their conversation serving as white noise in the background.

occasionally, you'd look up and catch soap already watching you, but he'd quickly turn his gaze back down to his book. his attention caused you to be equal parts flustered and confused. if you'd been any more awake, you probably would've asked him if something was wrong, but you were already having trouble keeping your head up as it was.

once you felt your eyes slip closed one too many times, you'd decided it was time to turn in for the night. with a quick 'goodnight' to the others, you'd made a beeline straight for your room – but it was more of a hobble, since your ankle still required you to walk with a crutch.

that night you'd slept like a baby, waking up early the next morning feeling well rested, and thankfully your ankle had even started to feel better. though you still couldn't join the team's training sessions, you had other responsibilities to fulfil, so unfortinately you did have to get up at some point.

you'd just finished lacing up your boots when you noticed it; a single sheet of paper on the ground by your door, folded once in half so you can't see what's written on it. from where it lays, you conclude that whoever left it must've slipped it through the gap under your door while you slept. you'd picked it up and sat back on the edge of your bed to unfold it, your curiosity certainly piqued. it make you wonder, though, what reason someone could have for leaving you a note.

except, when you'd lifted the page it wasn't a note at all. on the slightly wrinkled paper were a number of beautiful pencil drawings – drawings of you. the surprise of seeing your own face staring back at you nearly stopped your poor heart.

the jagged edge on one side of the page indicated that it must have been torn out of a sketchbook, which had interested you even more. you couldn't think of anyone you knew who could draw, let alone who would have a sketchbook dedicated to it.

whoever made this, it was clear that art was a passion of theirs – these drawings were really good. your hair, your eyes, the subtle expression on your features, every line was expertly crafted. it was incredibly flattering, and admittedly boosted your ego a little with how good those sketches made you look.

as you sat there smiling to yourself, you'd glanced up to the three flowers blooming on your nightstand. like the gardenias, the drawings were from your secret admirer, there was no other explanation; and an admirer they were, it was abundantly clear from these sketches that this person had an appreciation for you, if only from afar.

the drawings had been your favourite so far, but unfortunately, it was almost a week until your admirer made another move.

it had been long enough for you to start walking properly on your ankle again, and so you'd been slowly easing back into your workout routine, starting with your morning run. you'd taken it slow with lots of breaks to rest your muscles, but still decided to call it early, which had you back at your locker earlier than usual. as you were rounding the corner to the locker room, you'd heard the door slam closed and a set of heavy footsteps racing down the corridor. you'd only caught a glimpse of whoever it was as they dashed around the other corner, quick enough that you weren't able to see who it was.

you'd been concerned at first, whoever it was had been in a terrible rush, but you'd quickly shaken it off – it wasn't uncommon for people to be rushing around base, especially first thing in the morning. with your own meeting to get to, you'd decided not to dwell on the strange almost-encounter, and carried on with grabbing your towel from the bench and showering.

as you opened the door to your locker to fetch your clean clothes, sitting front and centre on top of them was something you definitely hadn't left there; a bag of your favourite hard candy, unopened, in the space that had been empty not half an hour before. how did these get here? you'd asked yourself, and you stood there confused for a moment or two before the answer came to you.

of course, your secret admirer. you'd felt the familiar giddy excitement bubble up in your chest at the revelation. it had been a while since the page of drawings had been slipped under your door, and it pained you how the gardenias had begun to wilt already. honestly, you'd been slightly worried that they'd given up, or something had happened to them. thankfully though, they seemed to be doing just fine, and you were too with such a pleasant start to your day.

it wasn't until you were sat in the meeting room, munching on your sweets and waiting for the others to arrive, that you realised.

the person, the one who'd been in a hurry as you got back from your run, it was them; that person was your secret admirer. they had to be, you'd concluded, the sweets weren't in your locker when you'd been in there earlier, and you did cut your run short, so they probably hadn't expected you to return so soon – that's why they'd been in such a rush to get away.

the revelation had butterflies swarming in your stomach, the idea of being so close to finding out who it was that held such fond affection for you sparking giddy excitement in you; but at the same time, it filled you with a sickly apprehension.

the problem was that you already knew who you wanted it to be – you had from the beginning – and you worried that uncovering their identity would only lead to disappointment; because there was no possible way john mactavish could feel the same way you felt about him.

soap had always been nothing short of kind and respectful of you, never stepping over the unspoken line if being your closest friend. sometimes, you can fool yourself into thinking he treats you differently – when he checks in on you after missions, when he always saves you a seat next to him in meetings, when he'd practically carried you to the infirmary, all of it ignited a warm feeling in your chest. but then you think about it a little more, and remember that all those nice gestures, that's just who he is. he wormed his way into the heart of ghost, for fucks sake, it was almost impossible not to like him.

you'd been so lost in thought, that gaz sitting in the seat next to you had startled you back to reality.

"gonna share with the class?" he'd asked with a teasing smirk, gesturing to the sweets sitting on the table in front of you. he'd reached out to grab one, but you'd pushed his hand away and snatched the bag to your chest.

"no way," you'd said with a playful glare, sending a quick smile to soap who'd taken the seat on your other side, "these are from my secret admirer, get your own."

gaz paused. "...your fucking what?" he had an incredulous look on his face, and you'd forgotten that you never actually told the others about it. "soap, you hearin' this?"

soap looked almost panicked when you'd turned to him, but he didn't have time to respond, as that was the moment price had walked through the door and announced the start of the meeting.

"i'll explain after," you whispered to gaz, who gave you a pointed look that said 'you better' and turned his attention back to price. you'd stifled a chuckle and looked back at soap, expecting him to have a similar expression, but he was already facing forward. you'd frowned at this; you and johnny would always whisper back and forth during meetings – a way to keep eachother entertained, as well as an excuse for you to sit close to him – but today his face had an odd air of seriousness to it. oh well, you'd thought somewhat downtrodden, just have to talk to him after.

and that's what led you to the present, where you'd been explaining to the boys everything that has happened over the last two weeks. well, you were mostly telling soap and gaz, ghost honestly didn't seem that interested, though the captain did have a rather amused expression as he listened.

"so you have no idea who it could be?" gaz had turned sideways in his chair, leaning forward slightly with his eyebrows raised. he looked to be in disbelief, and you were almost inclined to feel the same.

"nope, not a clue." you sighed, turning from gaz to look at the others around the table. price was standing with his arms crossed, giving you a similar disbelieving look, and ghost had that familiar unreadable look in his eyes.

"someone went in your room while you were gone?" ghost's low voice caught your attention, "bit creepy, innit," he grumbled, his gaze darting between you and somewhere next to you. he did have a point, you supposed, it was a bit weird.

"well… maybe a little, yeah…" you trailed off. perhaps he had a point, but you found yourself not wanting to believe it; all of the mystery person's gestures had been so sweet, thoughtful, it was hard to think they had any ill intentions.

that, and your heart has already made up its mind about who it should be.

"don't be like that, lt., whoever it is meant well, didn't they?" gaz chuckled, the grin evident in his voice.

"christ…" ghost mutters, shaking his head in exasperation.

"it may be a slight invasion of privacy…" you begin; and it's true, but after the first incident, it didn't appear that anyone had been inside your room again. "but it was only once. and it was just a chocolate bar, it's harmless. besides, are you really telling me you've never been in anyone's room when they're not there?" you continued, earning only an eye roll from ghost.

"and you haven't tried to figure out who it is?" price asks from his position standing opposite you, across the table.

"no, i wouldn't even know where to start, it could be anyone…" you try to think of anyone to suspect, but your optimistic mind only draws one name; the object of your affection, who happened to be sitting directly next to you. unfortunately, the two of you were strictly friends – no matter how much you longed for something more.

"i think you should investigate," gaz's smile makes you think for a moment that he knows something that you don't, but you brush it off. he didn't even know about your admirer until you told him, how could he? it wasn't like they were leaving any hints. "whoever it is obviously really likes you."

"you think?" you unwrap another sweet and pop it into your mouth as you consider his words.

"yeah! and, we could even help you investigate," gaz gives the others a hopeful, if slightly suspicious, smirk.

"speak for yourself…" ghost leans back in his chair and folds his arms over his chest, the picture of uninterested, but there was a hint of amusement in his eyes.

"could be a good bonding exercise," price had the same entertained tone in his voice as he looked between the four of you, "any thoughts, soap?"

you hadn't realised until the captain brought attention to him, but soap had been uncharacteristically quiet during all this; since before the meeting, actually. he hadn't said a word to you yet today, which had you a little worried. usually the two of you couldn't shut up when you were together. you turn to look at him, and find him looking wide-eyed back at price.

"i don't– ah, maybe…" he stuttered, looking between price and the table rather than meeting your concerned eyes, "...they're just shy? don't want to be known yet?"

"oh, y'think, mate?" gaz fully laughed at that, sharing a look with both ghost and price that held something you couldn't understand. now you're thoroughly confused.

"well, maybe he's right," uncertainty laced your voice, their reactions throwing you for a loop. "if they wanted to be known, they probably would've shown themselves by now, right?" you turn to soap, who looks like he'd rather be anywhere else – but he meets your gaze with a tiny smile.

"so you're not going to investigate?" you look back at gaz, who has that incredulous look back on his face, and from the corner of your eye you see price and ghost both shake their heads.

"they can show themselves when they're ready, i don't want to push them." your mind was made up; if your secret admirer wanted to reveal their identity, then they would, it's as simple as that.

"but–" gaz tries to argue, but price quickly interrupts him.

"right, enough, you lot, clear out, you've all got work to be getting on with." he gestures for you all to stand, and after grabbing your sweets, you follow the others out of the room.

for the rest of the day, you endured endless amounts of teasing from gaz, and he even got some of the people from other units in on it. it had your face burning when they cooed over how romantic your 'mystery lover' was. you could only pray that they got over it soon, in the back of your mind you were slightly worried the attention might scare off your admirer, and you certainly didn't want that. but although you told the others you'd wait for them to reveal themselves in their own time, you'd be lying if you said you weren't practically dying to know who it was.

✹✹✹

"hey sarge," a voice sounds from beside you, drowning out the din of the mess hall around you. turning your head, you see it's a private; one you don't really know, but you give her a polite smile anyway. "i've got a message for you." she continues, producing a folded piece of paper from behind her back.

"a message? who from?" you ask, taking the paper from her when she holds it out to you.

she giggles, giving you a sly smile, "a secret someone," and with a suspicious wink, she turned around and left.

with the note in your hand, you look to gaz and soap, a baffled expression on your face. "does she mean my… admirer?" they both shrug at you, sharing an equally perplexed look between themselves.

"go on then," gaz says, "what does it say?"

you unfold it, and scan the neat handwriting of the message. soap and gaz watch as you read it, their curiosity overwhelmingly present in the way they leaned forward to try and see.

your face falls, and you frown. the note was signed – 'your secret admirer' – but you couldn't ignore the sinking feeling in your heart.

"what's up? what does it say?" gaz notices the change in your expression, standing up from his chair and leaning fully over the table to read the note himself. you hand it to him, your good mood from this morning completely soured.

"apparently it is from my admirer," you begin, not bothering to hide the dejection in your voice, "telling me to meet them outside in five minutes."

the pair don't say anything, too stunned to form words as they continue to frown at the words in front of them. this can't be right, it just can't be, your mind laments, if johnny is sitting here, that that means he's not–

"seriously? just like that?" gaz interrupts your thoughts. he sounded annoyed underneath his shock, and you find yourself feeling the same way. "sorry, but i find that hard to believe – they didn't even leave a card with the flowers, did they? it just doesn't feel right to me."

you look to soap, who has yet to say anything on the matter. he doesn't meet your eyes, boring holes into the table with the anger in his gaze. your frown only deepens at his expression, the look on his face so unlike him it almost has you forgetting all about the cause.

"who knows," you sigh, plucking the note back out of gaz's hand. "this probably won't take long, i'll–"

"wait, you're going?" soap interjects, the frown on his face set much deeper than your own. his sudden question caught you off guard, paired with his irritated expression, and you almost thought he was angry with you.

"yeah, i mean, what's the harm, right? might as well just get it over with." you stand as you respond, folding the note back up. even if you were setting yourself up for disappointment, you still wanted to at least hear this person out; even if it wasn't him.

"what's the harm?" johnny scoffs – at you or at very idea of all this you aren't sure – and joins you in standing up, throwing his arms out with such annoyance, it catches you off guard. he gestures sharply at the paper in your hand, "this– whoever that is, it's pure shite! you can't see that?"

now it's you who scoffs at him; where is this hostility coming from? yesterday he seemed as though he couldn't care less when you were telling everyone about it, and now all of a sudden, he thinks he has all the answers?

"how would you know?" you shove the note into your pocket, your earlier sadness quickly morphing into annoyance.

as you move to walk away, johnny looks like he wants to say something more, to stop you, and you hesitate. you want him to; whoever your admirer was, whoever that note was from, none of it meant a thing if it wasn't him. all you wanted was for him to look at you the same way you look at him. gaz is looking at him too, subtly gesturing for him to do something, but he doesn't speak, doesn't meet your eyes as your face drops again.

"exactly, you don't. i'll be back in a minute." you huff, and without another word from either of them, you turn on your heel and make your way out of the mess hall.

it's safe to say your mood had swiftly and effectively been ruined. the disillusionment of realising that your secret admirer was someone other than johnny was one thing, but his sudden attitude towards you was the final straw. your face was decidedly sour as you trudge through the corridors, still with a slight limp which was only fuelling your annoyance for how your day was going. 

the cool air of the courtyard makes your skin bristle as you push the door open, taking a moment to survey the area as you stand in the entryway. to the left stands a lone figure, and you recognise his face, but – like the private from earlier, who you assume is his friend – you can't remember ever having spoken to him. with a deep sigh, you blink away bitterness in your expression and make your way over to him.

his grin is wide as he shamelessly checks you out while you approach, and you instinctually cross your arms over your chest. you come to a stop in front of him, frowning in a look that you hope screams uninterested.

"hey, sarge." he has an overly confident air to him as he speaks, shuffling closer under your scrutinising stare. of course he wouldn't take the hint.

"so it's you, then?" you ask, your voice flat and void of any emotion. you just wanted this to be over with, but it seemed luck just wasn't on your side today.

"it's me," he confirms, the blinding grin still plastered to his face as he inches even closer, "you surprised?"

"yeah, actually. i didn't know you were an artist." you reply, voice flat, and you watch him blink once in surprise. you raise a brow at his bewilderment, your patience already wearing painfully thin. he chuckles awkwardly in an attempt to hide how you so obviously caught him off guard.

"ah, yeah i uh–" he stutters, but you cut him off before he can make too much of a fool of himself.

"in fact, i don't actually know you at all. i couldn't recall your name even if you held a gun to my head." the hiss in your voice reveals just how over this whole situation you are. he opens his mouth to spout something else you have no interest in hearing, the sleazy grin falling from his face, but you hold a hand up to silence him. "so i'd really appreciate it if you left me alone."

"but–"

"and stay out of my room, and my locker, too. if it happens again, you're getting reported." you spit the final words at him, and turn on your heel to leave. before you can take another step, he grabs your elbow and spins you back around to face him, causing your ankle to twist awkwardly, which sends a fresh jolt of pain up your leg. you hold back a groan and fix him with a deadly glare instead.

"hey, c'mon, don't be like that!" you wince as he practically demands, getting much closer to you than was necessary, even with you arching backwards to put some space between you. "at least gimme a chance,"

"just leave me alone." you hiss, pulling your arm out of his grip and before he has the chance to do or say anything else, you hurry back the way you came, your limp noticeably more pronounced than earlier. thankfully, the private – jackson, you’d just about been able to read on his jacket – didn’t follow you back to the mess hall, which proves that he has at least half a brain. you hoped that he’d take the hint to stay away from you, but somewhere in the back of your mind you were preparing yourself to be hassled by him in the coming days; he certainly seemed the type.

you were gone less than ten minutes, but in that time most of the lunch crowd had cleared out, leaving the room a lot quieter than it had been. as you shuffle towards soap and gaz, still sitting at the same table, they both turn to look at you, and you can tell by the way both their expressions drop that they sense something is off.

"what happened?" gaz asks as you take your seat across from them, trying to hold back a wince when you put too much strain on your ankle, "your face says it didn't go well."

you sigh, looking between both of them, lingering on soap who’s already watching you with an intensity that has your face heating up. "it didn’t. it was just some private who can’t take no for an answer." you grumble, resting your cheek in the palm of your hand.

"your ankle okay?" soap asks, holding your gaze until you relent and look away first. you want to tell him not to worry, but you find it's impossible to lie to him, not when he's looking at you like you're the only person in the room. "what happened?" he presses, his voice taking on a dangerous tone.

"its nothing, he just– i just twisted it a little." you trip over your words under his stare, looking to gaz for help, but you find that he has a similar – albeit less intense – look of concern on his face. the silence hangs between you for a moment as you wordlessly try to convince them, but they see through you. "alright, fine. when i was leaving, he grabbed my arm and pulled me back, and i pulled my ankle."

if johnny had been pissed before, he was furious now; his eyes were dark underneath his furrowed brow, his lips turned down in a frown that looked more like a snarl. to see someone usually so easygoing with such a threatening look on his face was almost worrying, the only reassurance being that you know it's not directed at you.

"that prick… who was it?" gaz isn't nearly as affected as soap, but he's clearly annoyed by the audacity of the private. you shake your head, urging them to just let it go; he wasn't worth the trouble, after all.

when johnny says your name in that deep, gravelly tone, your heart skips a beat and your eyes snap to meet his. "who was it." he asks, but it's not a question anymore, and every fibre of your being is telling you to just give in to him.

"jackson. i don't know his first name…" you mutter, slightly flustered by the way he's acting. the tension in the silence that follows is nearly suffocating. from where his arms rest on the table, you notice johnny repeatedly clenching his fists, seemingly having some sort of internal battle with himself.

"what a bellend…" gaz grumbles, pausing for a moment to shake the disgust from his face. "so, what about the whole 'secret admirer' thing then?" he leans back in his chair, eyes darting to soap's profile then back to you.

"i don't know…" you sigh, "didn't really seem like something he was capable of, but i guess i don't really know him, so–"

"yeah, he doesn't seem the type, does he?" gaz interjects, with a newfound energy at your words. you narrow you eyes, sensing an ulterior motive, but let him continue. "i mean, buying you flowers, sweets– seems a bit too thoughtful for such a twat."

his jab coaxed a laugh from you, "maybe; i guess i was pretty disappointed when i saw it was him, though."

"oh yeah? expecting someone else, were you?" gaz has a grin on his face, one that has you worried that he's clocked on to your true feelings.

"something like that…" you clear your throat, suddenly feeling a little too seen for your liking. "anyway, i'd better get going, desk duty is no joke," you slowly stand up, making sure to be careful of your newly irritated ankle, and adamantly avoiding eye contact with either of them.

"yeah, me too, cap said he needs my help with something." gaz stands as well, giving soap a pat on the back and a suspicious wink as he walks off, which you willfully choose to ignore.

"you gonna be okay?" johnny comes to your side as you shuffle around the table, his hand brushing over your back to support you. butterflies begin to flutter at the feeling, and you scold yourself for being so easily affected. he seems to have calmed down a lot, the anger from earlier overtaken by his concern.

"yeah, i'll be fine, i think i'll just have to grab my crutch," you smile at him and take a step forward, wincing as you shift your weight from one foot to the other.

"c'mon, lemme help you," he tilts his head to meet your eyes, his worry evident within them. his hand is warm on your back, you have to hold yourself back from leaning into him. "cannae have you hurtin' yourself any more."

"you sure? don't you have work to do too?" you have every intention of taking him up on his offer, but you couldn't help feeling guilty for needing his help like this.

"i'm sure lt. can survive a few extra minutes," johnny gives you a reassuring smile, already ushering you out of the mess hall.

"well, don't blame me when has your head," you grin back at him, relishing in the comfortable feeling of being so close to him. distracted by his proximity, you momentarily forget about your injury and without thinking, you put too much weight on it as you take a step. with a pained gasp, you wobble on your good foot and pause to give your ankle a break.

johnny moves his arm to sit securely around your waist, gently pulling you to lean fully against him. "you sure you don't want me to take you to the infirmary?" he asks, lifting your arm to wrap around his shoulders.

"no, no– they're just gonna tell me to rest, and i'll be sitting down all day anyway," you move to continue on your way to your room, but he stays put. 

"you should still get it looked at, might be–"

"johnny." you stop him with a hand on his chest, "i'm okay."

you watch his adams apple bob as he gulps, his eyes flickering to where your hand is touching him and back up to your own, almost too fast to notice.

"right, right. sorry." he dips his head, breaking eye contact. you pull him gently, and the two of you start walking again. "you know jackson well?"

you scoff, frowning as you recall the events of earlier. "what? no, before today i didn't even know his name. he seems like kind of an arsehole, to be honest."

"really? made that bad of an impression, eh?" his lopsided smile feels oddly smug, but you decide not to overthink it.

"like i said, can't take a no." you grumble, pinching the bridge of your nose with your free hand, "i doubt this is the last time i'll have to deal with him…"

"he's not gonna bother you." johnny states, with a finality that is as stunning as it is comforting.

"...if you say so." you don't press any further, wanting to simply move on and forget about the whole thing. you'd gladly never think about that arrogant private again.

before you know it, the two of you are standing in the hall outside your room. his grip around your waist loosens as you push open the door, and you're all too aware of the cold feeling left behind as he lets go.

"thank you, for helping me." you shoot him a grateful smile, grabbing your crutch from where it leant against the wall, propping it under your arm.

"course," johnny pauses, looking past you to something in your room. "you… kept the gardenias?" he asks, his voice quiet, almost disbelieving. you tilt your head, a silent question, but he's still staring at the flowers.

"yeah, they're…" you begin, but his words have you pausing too; he didn't seem like the kind of person to be interested in floristry, you'd certainly never heard him say anything about it before. but somehow, he'd identified the flowers on your end table with no problem. "...they're nice. i like them, even if they do look a little sad now."

when he finally meets your eyes again, there's a distinct redness to his face that wasn't there before, and you feel your heart beginning to race with renewed hope. it could be that he just likes flowers, but if he already knew they were gardenias, maybe he…

"right, i, uh– i should get going, or ghost might actually kill me." johnny's voice had a dazed quality to it when he spoke.

"alright, i'll see you later then," you give him a small smile as you step back into the hall next to him. the two of you look at each other for a moment before you speak again, holding back a laugh, "you gonna go, or just stand there all day?"

your words seem to snap him out of the trance he’d been in, and he shakes his head in an almost comical manner, "right! right, sorry, bye!" he sputters, waving over his shoulder as he jogs away. you chuckle to yourself as he goes, and start walking the opposite direction to get started with your own work.

✹✹✹

you didn't see soap again until the next day, considering that he was strangely absent from mealtimes both last night and today. thankfully the incident from the day before hadn't done any further damage to your ankle, so you were up and about without the need for your crutch after a good night's rest.

you'd just dropped off a folder of paperwork in price's office – which you'd completed in fairly good time, thanks to being stuck behind a desk for nearly two weeks – but as you descend the staircase, you're almost knocked over by someone flying around the corner. you caught yourself with a hand on the railing, blinking away your surprise and glaring at whoever had carelessly bumped into you.

much to your chagrin, it was jackson, and you feel your face naturally falling into a frown at the realisation. you’d been expecting him to try and change your mind about yesterday, but true to johnny’s words, he had yet to bother you about it; actually, you hadn’t seen him at all since then, not even at breakfast or lunch, but it's not as if you were complaining. 

though, as you stare down at him from the step above, you notice a deep purple bruise decorating his cheekbone that definitely wasn’t there yesterday. your frown turns from malice to confusion as you wonder how he could have gotten it in the span of less than a day, it looked like he’d taken a serious punch. you couldn’t say you felt bad for him, but it did look painful.

"listen, about yesterday… i- i lied,." jackson mutters, eyes glued to the floor to avoid your own. he was shuffling in place, as if he was preparing to bolt at any second. your eyes narrow as you process his words.

"what?"

he clears his throat. "i lied. it wasn’t me, i just said it was because one of the guys bet me i couldn’t get you to go out with me." he admits. the way he keeps avoiding your eyes, glancing around like he was waiting for someone to jump out at him has you a little suspicious, but your heart still soars when you realise what he means.

jackson wasn't your secret admirer, so your hopeless romantic heart could still dream that it was johnny. the flutter of butterflies even distracts you from the insulting notion that he only wanted to go out with you for a bet.

"seriously?" you ask, your shock evident in your voice as you stare him down. finally his eyes land on your own, an embarrassed grimace overtaking his nervous expression. it's a stark, satisfying difference to his arrogant overconfidence from before.

"yeah. i’m sorry, okay? i don’t want any trouble, it was just–" he cuts himself off, but when you give him a questioning look, he can't tear his eyes from the space behind you, and only mumbles what sounds like a ‘sorry’ before scurrying off back the way he came. you watch him go, thoroughly confused by the whole interaction, but not a moment later a voice from where he was staring brings you out of your thoughts.

"y’alright? little shit wasn’t botherin’ you, was he?" soap's voice cuts through the quiet, and you turn to see him descending the stairs to stand next to you.

you shake your head, "no, no, he just–" you hesitate, your mind going back to yesterday and the gardenias. "he lied, it wasn't him."

"really?" he asks, but his voice doesn't sound surprised at all. you're not sure if you imagined it, but for a moment his expression changes into something like satisfaction.

"yeah, he was about to say something else too, but he just ran off," you sigh, walking down the last few steps. soap follows close behind, a hand hovering near your back. "did you see that bruise on his face? wonder how he got it…"

"looked nasty, eh?" a laugh escapes him, and you admire the way his lips curve, the creases around his eyes as his smile reaches them. "maybe he finally got what was comin' to him."

his face was close to yours, a lot closer than you could reasonably handle without losing your nerve and making a fool of yourself. realising you had yet to respond, you clear your throat and start walking down the corridor, your eyes to the floor and a burning in your cheeks.

"if he never speaks to me again, it'll still be too soon…" you grumble, willing your heart to calm down as he comes up next to you in a few long strides. "anyway, what have you been up to? i haven't seen you all day." with a quick glance, you see the easy smile he has falter slightly.

"i was, ah–" he avoids your eye as he stops himself, a beat of silence passes before he continues "nevermind, i– i was… looking for you." your heart skips a beat, but you scold it for being so eager; the two of you were teammates, friends, he could be looking for you for any number of reasons.

"looking for me? what's up?" you turn your head to face him as you walk, a curious tilt to your brow.

johnny comes to a stop, and so do you a moment after. he looks at you, fidgety and shifting on his feet, with his hands stuffed in his pockets. the look on his face is unsure, uncomfortable, like he was debating running off like jackson had done a minute ago.

he's nervous, that much you can tell. but despite the slightly awkward tension, you you wait for whatever it is he's struggling to say.

"i… uh– y'know what, i actually forgot." johnny hangs his head, pulling his hands from his pockets and scratching the back of his neck.

at his words your heart sinks, and you can't help the disappointed look that takes over your expression. "oh? are you–"

before you can finish, he drops a hand on your shoulder and steps ahead of you, turning around so you're face to face. "listen, ghost is waiting for me, so i gotta run," he smiles again, but it's weaker this time, almost forced as it doesn't quite meet his eyes.

"right… better not keep him waiting."

"right," his reply is short, and the tension between you only grows every moment he avoids your eyes. "i'll see you later though, promise." he flashes you another false smile, gently patting your shoulder, before turning on his heel and swiftly escaping down the corridor.

"bye, johnny." you release a sigh, from longing or exasperation you're not sure, watching his form disappear through the doors.

✹✹✹

despite his promise, once again you don't see soap for the rest of the day. at dinner you'd questioned ghost on his whereabouts, but he only told you that he had no idea either. this time however, you got the strong feeling he was lying to you.

still though, you couldn't find it within yourself to be annoyed with him. you could see clear as day that something was going on with johnny, and if he didn't want to confide in you about whatever it is, then you certainly won't be the one to push him.

having finished today's obligations, you decided to head straight to your room once you'd finished eating. you open your door, a sigh escaping you as you prepare to collapse for the night, and stop dead in your tracks.

a folded sheet of paper lays in front of you, standing out against the emptiness of your floor, crumpled like it had been screwed up and flattened out again. a sense of déjà vù overcomes you, for last week, when you'd received the sketches of yourself in the same way. for a moment all you can do is stand there, staring at the paper, processing.

eventually, you do step into your room, shutting the door quietly behind you and picking the paper up from the floor. you keep it folded until you're sitting on the edge of your mattress, hands shaking ever so slightly with the anticipation.

you're not sure what to think, as you sit burning holes in the paper with your stare. after yesterday, you thought you were done with the idea of your secret admirer; but then again, jackson had admitted to you earlier that he'd lied when he met you yesterday, and the whole reason you weren't as interested after that was because your pipe dream of the mystery person being johnny had been shattered. but now that the identity of your admirer was once again a mystery, you couldn't help but want to dream like that again. 

with a defeated groan, you decide to just rip off the bandaid and read the note. you unfold it, immediately noticing the scratchy handwriting – the opposite of the note jackson gave you, so thankfully it couldn't be from him.

you hear your heartbeat in your ears as your eyes scan the words in front of you.

i stayed up all night trying to write this note, but nothing i came up with felt good enough, so i'm just going to say it. i'm your secret admirer. i know you probably won't believe me after that bastard yesterday, but i need you to know anyway. i used to think that love just wasn't my thing, that i'd never find someone i wanted to spend my life with, but that changed when i met you. i didn’t realise it at first, but it's always been you. you're my person, and i can't hide it anymore. i love you. maybe i'm a coward for giving you a note instead of telling you face to face. but if you don't feel the same, you can throw it away, or burn it or something, and i'll never bring it up again. your heart, johnny

the silence in your room borders on deafening as you sit completely still, reeling from what you'd just read. you didn't realise you'd stopped breathing until you release a shaky breath.

all this time, it was johnny.

every longing glance, every touch that lingered just a little too long, the racing pulse every time he says your name; it was all reciprocated.

every time you thought you could never have him as anything more than your best friend, you were wrong.

he cared enough to leave you a pick-me-up after a hard mission, buy you flowers when you got injured, draw you the way he saw you, gift you things he took the time to notice you like.

all this time… he'd felt the exact same way you do.

you set the note down next to you, bringing a shaky hand up to cover your mouth that had fallen open in shock. there was only one thing to do, in your mind, and that was to run into johnny's arms and make up for all the lost time you've spent pining over him.

in seemingly no time at all, you find yourself standing at johnny's door, your fist poised to knock. theres a moment of hesitation, but before your apprehension can cloud your mind, you let your knuckles rap on the wood once, twice, three times, and take a step back as you wait for a response. after a second or two – which felt a lot longer than it actually was – you hear the sounds of footsteps from inside.

another moment passes, and you assume johnny is standing on the other side with his heart in his throat just like you, short-lived before he finally swings the door open.

he looks at you, eyes wide and like a deer caught in headlights, the way he holds himself uncharacteristically shy as you stare each other down.

"the note," you finally murmur, and johnny almost flinches, clearly fighting the urge to look away from you. "tell me you meant it." you continue, taking a miniscule step closer to him. you hear his breath catch in his chest.

"every word." he whispers, gaze flickering down to your lips and back up to your eyes again, and your heart misses a beat.

with no hesitation this time, you hook your arms around his neck and pull him towards you, crushing his mouth against yours in a desperate kiss that's as much teeth as it is lips.

johnny groans into your mouth, his hands flying to your waist as he turns and walks you backwards into his room. the door gets kicked shut behind him once he's got you inside, neither of you breaking apart more than enough to draw a single ragged breath before meeting in the middle again. with another needy whine into you he pushes you up against the wall, caging you in with his broad shoulders and his arms around your waist.

the weight of his arms around you, the feeling of his stubble prickly against your face, the softness of his lips against yours; it's everything you've been waiting for, and now you finally have him, he tastes sweeter than you could've ever imagined.

the two of you stay like that for moments that feel like hours in each other's embrace, only pulling away when your lungs are burning and your lips are swollen. leaning your head back against the wall, his eyes meet yours with such adoration it sends your heart fluttering all over again.

"i'll take that as a good sign," he mumbles, a lopsided grin lifting his features. his joy is so infectious you can't help but mirror his expression as you drop your head to rest on his shoulder.

his chest rumbles with an airy, disbelieving laugh and he tugs you impossibly closer, resting his cheek against the side of your head. standing chest to chest now, you can feel the hammering of his heart against yours and the way his skin burns under your touch.

"you’re my person too," you murmur into him, one of your hands moving up to tangle in the strands of his mohawk, "always have been."

johnny's arms wind tighter around you as he releases a deep, content sigh. he's hugged you countless times before but somehow, this feels different while still staying exactly the same. the heat radiating from him is soothing like it always has been, the knowledge that your feelings are reciprocated only making it that much sweeter.

"why'd it take us so long, eh?" he utters, tender and loving in the way he runs his hands over your back and sides.

"we're just idiots…" you reply, "gaz is gonna have a field day with this."

johnny laughs again, pressing his lips to the side of your head so you can feel his smile. "oh, he clocked us a long time ago, bonnie."

you can't help but groan as you imagine how gaz will tease the both of you for how oblivious you've both been.

he lifts you up by his grip around your waist, carrying you over to his bed and flopping down onto his back with you on his chest. a satisfied groan escapes him as he settles, burying his face into your hair and inhaling a deep breath.

you're enveloped by the scent of him – gunpowder, and the faint smell of something burnt, but it's pleasant and familiar nonetheless.

"yer stayin' with me tonight, non negotiable." he murmurs, running a hand up and down the length of your spine.

"fine by me." you tilt your head up to meet his eyes, and find them already locked on you. "so, about jackson…"

johnny scoffs, lightheartedly frowning in response. "yer gonna bring his name up while yer in my bed?"

"he looked really spooked when he saw you earlier," you begin, smoothing your hand over his chest. his eyes widen at your words, his hand freezing as he looks away from you with a distinctly guilty expression on his face. you narrow your eyes, holding back the amused smirk pulling at your lips. "johnny… did you…"

he clears his throat, and by the way he can't hold your gaze for more than a second you can tell he knows he's been caught. there's no stopping the laugh that bubbles up from your chest at his reaction.

"...i may have, uh– potentially put some fear o'god into the little bawbag…"

"soap!"

Even his attempts of burying it have been futile. He's attempted to recall songs from home. Ones where there’s a scotch or beer in hand, swishing from side to side as his voice cracks as he screams the words—arms around a friend or two. The words which he knows are embedded into his soul—into the very fibre of his being—and yet, you’re making it hard for him to finish a verse, never mind a song. 

He’s tried to focus on the quieter noises. The ones he wouldn't usually pay any fucking attention to—like Gaz tapping the keys of the laptop in the kitchen and the hot breeze trying to brush through the open window. The background noise, never loud enough to cause any impact—but he needs them to. He clings to hope that they will. He practically claws out for them, grabbing them with metaphorical hands—anything to drive the much louder noises away. 

The ones coming from the door he’s forbidden from entering all because of stern words from even sterner eyes behind a balaclava. 

On some level, he understands. 

The whole place is small. Privacy is not something any of you are granted. But, he knows Ghost is trying to provide that for you in this case. Because you, little Squid, rarely ever ask for help—especially from him. 

Gaz, yes. Price, maybe. Even him, occasionally. 

Ghost—never.

But, he’s softened. He has jokes with you, purposefully having chosen to spend time with you on watch. Something rare, and very out of character for a man who initially didn't even show any of them his bloody face.

Soap knows you've done it again. Seeped under his layers, like you did with all of them, weaving your way, making it hard not to instantly take a shine to you.

He doesn't blame Ghost, he understands why. He can see that time was taken making you, carving each element of your personality, creating someone that is both good, clever and funny. You're strong-willed, giving-a-shit attitude is most likely the reason Ghost is helping you—training with you, offering guidance and support.

Handing you fucking praise.

Because he too has caught on to what they’ve all seen. He’s taken notice of how fucking splendid you are, how you’re capable and fucking gorgeous all rolled into one. 

That’s it, Squidlet. Use your—perfect, that’s it, you got it. Atta girl. 

He’s sure he’ll need bleach to burn Ghost’s words from his brain. 

Even if it’s his fault—because he knows he shouldn’t be listening. 

Having created his own personal torture chamber that he’s taken the time to design, construct, and build. Because there wasn’t a table and chairs here before—he moved them here. Choosing this spot so he could be close, just in case. Of what? He's not sure. But he needs to be here, something within him compelling him to be.

Under his jealousy, he doesn’t blame you, and he doesn’t blame Lt either. He knows the two of you can hardly be expected to spar outside, where every pair of eyes could be the enemy. Out there, the air isn't just thick with heat, but tension too.

Apprehension simmers as they come closer and closer to completing the very thing they are here for. 

So, he's sat outside the room. Pretending to be interested in the latest report. Not wanting to move. Twisting and turning his emotions like playing cards, wondering why didn’t you ask him? 

He bristles, chewing the inside of his mouth, breathing heavy, hating it—hating it all. His cheeks burning, coated in sweat as he stares at the words on the page, unsure why none of them are soaking in.

Why wouldn't you choose your lieutenant? That's the thought that gnaws, that sinks its pointy teeth into him. And it makes his bones ache. 

Because he's so close, and yet so far. He almost has you, but not entirely. And it pecks at him, weaves into his insecurities, his need to prove himself—so much so he can’t rid the image of his lieutenant looming his big fucking frame over you. You under him, eyes staring up, lips parted, shredding your clothing for the man who rarely shows his face—

Your groan punches the air. 

A sound he knows is from you being knocked on your arse, but it makes his fingers turn white. The sound so painted with frustration, and tiredness. He can tell—christ, he can even imagine the look on your face that accompanies it. Yet his brain twists it, morphs it, transforms it into something so ugly it almost breaks his heart.

It makes him want to claw at his brain, scratch out the images the tortured parts of himself keeps creating.

Because he knows you’re both sparring, that Lt is likely knocking you down, over and over again—not knowing that you’re stubborn, not knowing he should stop, that you’re running on nothing. 

He’s your lieutenant, yes, but he doesn’t know you. Doesn’t know that you push yourself until you snap and shatter, leaving fragments of yourself in your hands. Pieces he’s tried to help guide back into place when he’s found you, lost and broken in such a way he’s not sure how to glue you back.

But, you didn’t choose him. 

You chose Ghost. 

Asked, practically pleaded with him. 

So, he had to listen—even if he really fucking didn’t want to. He had to take the few sightings of you through the cracked door—the proof that you’re not on the floor, broken, breathing hard with sweat blending with tears. 

Which means he also sees your body sheened with sweat, hair sticking to your face, neck and shoulders, and your tiny, tight shorts. It means he's seeing you looking ethereal, almost too good for this goddamn place.

And it nips at him—fueling his jealousy. It peels at his skin that Ghost is seeing you like this without a filter, without anything getting in the way.

All of it whisking against the vexation of the heat, the fear of failure and the growing tiredness. It makes his knuckles almost crack, his skin almost translucent as his wrists ache from the way he continually clenches his fist. 

He’s down bad. He knows that. 

Soap has been aware of it for longer than he’d like to admit. Each time his eyes land on your mid-smile, each sound of your laughter—all he thinks is, I want this, I want it all with you. 

Not that he says those words. He just thinks them. Lets them swirl around his godforsaken mind until they try to drag him under. 

Sometimes, he can’t even think because of it. The depths of his own thoughts like water, drowning him from the inside, made so much worse by the simple fact—he’s not the one pinning you to the floorboards. That he has barely seen you, spoken to you, been around you since they all landed here.

But Ghost has. His lieutenant has. The same Lt who is funny, witty, and even has his own nickname for you. The one who has height even on him, who is broader, and who your eyes land on immediately when briefs are given out. 

Not his. 

Each time he almost wants to exit the room, his teeth cutting the inside of his cheeks. Instead, he sits and silently stews. Bubbling away like a broth his mum used to make—hoping, waiting to get back to base where things feel easier.

And then, your squeal pinches the air, Soap unaware he's even standing until he blinks.

Then he hears the unmistakable gruff, Manchester twang of “Y’alright, Squidie?”

His heart pounds, attempting to crack his ribs and fly out of his chest. More so as each millisecond ticks on, as they add up into seconds and your voice hasn’t cut through the air—

“Not broken. Winded. But—“ 

You cough. Heavy. Chesty. 

Soap’s mind fighting, urging him to push the door open more and visibly check you over himself. But, he hears movements, feet—boots. 

“And. Stop callin’ me, Squidie.”

“Prefer Squidlet?"

"Fuck no."

"Get up.” 

“Alright, alright,” you hiss, and the floorboard creaks again as you do. “Anyone tell you that you're the worst sometimes, Ghostling.”

Each night, he hopes the air will be easier to swallow. But, each night he wishes, it brings a new fresh hell he feels ill-prepared for.

Tonight, it’s sticky—the air clogged with thick, stubborn heat. There’s moisture, but it’s wrong. It smothers, makes his clothes chafe against his muscles. 

All of it is made worse by you being difficult. You're kind, warm-hearted, and beautiful—but fucking difficult too. Especially on low sleep. Especially when you're woven so tightly, you're going to snap.

He’s heard Price order you to get some fuckin’ sleep—your back against the dingy wall, his palm flat against the wall, eyes close to yours. Soap watched as you lifted your chin defiantly, muttering back, I’ll sleep when you do, Captain. 

Anyone else, he suspects they’d have their neck wrung. Sharing a look with Ghost—one he wasn’t able to translate—as you spit that you'll do the next watch, climbing the stone staircase and the ladder at the top before anyone can argue.  

It reminds him of months ago, when you’d driven yourself to near exhaustion then. Your stubborn, difficultness being the backbone for you not to sleep, something always needing to be done—as if you’re the sole person who can stop all of this and put the world to rights. 

You’ve always taken on so much.

The fire in your chest is both a blessing and a curse. He’s heard Price chew you out for the same reason. You try to do it all, not because you don’t rely on them or because you don’t trust them, but because:

“I care about you, all of you.” 

Soap had been lingering, hanging outside the door of Price’s office when he heard his response. 

“What makes you think you’re alone in that, hmm? You’re one of us, Squid. So, be one of us.” 

When you’d emerged—tail between your legs—it didn’t take a genius to see you’d taken it hard. Not the berating, but the statement; the fact you fit in, that you were cared for.

And, even then you’d tried to shift the emotions dancing in your eyes from him. The mask not slipping down quickly enough, and the smile was not being presented fast. 

“Y’alright?”

He always wondered if you’d have lied if he’d found you one minute later. If you’d have done so because you’d have known he hadn’t seen you undone, exposed—walls at your feet. 

“No. Not… not really.”  “C’mon, lass.” 

It wasn’t the first time, but it was one of his favourites.

He’d held you against him, his sheets over both of your bodies, comfortable silence surrounding the two of you, clothes a welcomed barrier to anything else—as you held him like he was your rock in a storm.

Just like the two of them did on that first mission together. 

I trust you. You know that, don’t you? Course, lass. Be bit awkward if y’didn’t? I mean, I don't do this with anyone else. Sleep with them... like this. I hope fuckin' not. You're special, Johnny. That's all I mean.

Sleep took you seconds later. Gently stealing you from him, breaths turning heavier and body relaxing and moulding around him. 

Soap had found, in that space between reality and sleep, that’s when you were the most free. When your tongue is loosened and your heart is without chains. A side of you he sees in fleeting moments when he’s alone with you, but in a greater capacity like this—when you’re about to leave him for your dreams. 

Now, though, it’s different.

You're weighed down by more than stress and pride, but rocks and fucking anchors. Whether because of the growing casualties or because you missed your bed, because it brought up memories you only ever half told him about.

He knows this because he's overheard Gaz ask you if you’re okay—Soap watching from the sidelines as you lie through your teeth. Something you’re getting better at, somewhat able to control your features, almost a poker face. 

He knows you hate lying, to them at least. Each lie you spit opens a sore inside of you. It’s why he’s not asked himself. Not wanting to give you something else to churn and worry over, knowing it knots your insides and makes you spiral. 

It’s not his turn to keep watch, but he follows you up the ladder all the same. He leans, the air coating his skin, making him already dream about the dribble they call a shower. Because even the rooftop wall is boiling, almost cooking him through his vest and clothes. 

“Talk to me, lass. What’s keepin’ y’up?” 

You don’t look at him, continuing your pacing, eyes trained in the distance. But your breath audibly catches, clearly startled, clearly rattled by his question—his presence. 

“I hate losing.” 

“We ain’t gonna lose, Mari.” 

Your chin lifts, tongue swiping across dry, cracked lips. “I know… we’re the best of the fucking best. But…” 

He knows. 

He’s been feeling it too. 

That thing. Unexplainable. The shadow in the corner, the one which has been haunting and hunting them since the wheels touched down. Sometimes, it’s easy, and sometimes it’s methodical—it’s torturous observing until the perfect moment. And when it’s the latter, it has a way of scratching at sensibility. 

They all have a past. A failed mission that stands out from the rest—one that reminds each of them not to relax, to not let their guard down—what a single mistake can cause. 

Your head turns, the moon casting a shadow across your features, and the hold you have on his heart tightens—nails digging in deep as the muscle tries to thump. 

“Johnny, I’m just so t—“

But it’s stolen, your explanation. 

Heavy boots and a masked face cut off whatever you were about to say. Eyes sitting around darkness, staring from him to you, bouncing, before frowning. 

“It's not your watch, Johnny—"

"—I know—"

"You should get some sleep."

He wants to argue. Almost bloody does, too. 

Wants to dig his heels in, and get you to continue, but he’s tired—his shoulders aching, his eyes stinging.

But, it's your words from another mission that come to mind. The ones from when you’d emerged like a phoenix—fire and smoke behind you as you stumbled into his arms— 

Dunna do that, lass. Scare me. Need to stop worrying, Soapie. I always find my way back. I promise.

So he nods. He leaves. His palms descend down the ladder, half-stopping when he realises he left the window opening pausing.

He's not sure what he’s expecting—if anything at all. A confirmation, maybe? That the girl who drives him mad, has feelings for the more obvious choice. The brooding, big lieutenant who spits army jokes like he has an arsenal of them; the one you spend more time under, even if it’s sparring, than any of the others.

He’s about to move, shaking his nonsensical thoughts when he hears Ghost.

“Y’gotta stop fighting us all, Squidlet.”

“I’m not.”

“You fuckin’ are, and you know it.” 

Silence. Horrid, fucking silence. So much so, his mind begins to fill with images of your bodies moving together, arms pulling the other close, ripping, shredding—

“You’ll be a piss poor shot if y’don’t sleep. Plus, you’re wearing Johnny out.” 

His face flushes, bloody burns in the space between the second floor and the roof.

He doesn't miss you mumble that you’re not. All dismissive. Making his hands grip the spindle of the ladder, releasing a puff of air. 

“If I sleep—“

“The world will keep turnin', trust me.” 

“You almost sound like you care.” 

His heart sinks, drops—and fucking plummets. Because you’re right. It does. It sounds exactly like that. The nickname. The way he’s come up when it’s not even his watch. All of it screaming that it’s something—all flashing lights and loud music accompanying it. 

“Go to sleep, Squidie.” 

“It’s my—“

“Go.” 

He has to move. 

He needs to move. 

Even if he wants to pull you close to him. Even if it feels like you’re slipping through his fingers.

Just like he had done when he first realised how he felt, how he’d been feeling. When he’d almost told you. Rain hammering down, drowning you both to the bone. The two of you sent east, the rest west. Splitting a building each, finding his empty, and telling you as much. Your radio silence still haunted him. His blood thumping in his ears, ripping through each room, doing what he does best—cleaning fucking house. Finding you, bruised, bleeding, your knife in hand trembling under a dead body. The sound of boots drawing nearer to the opening they’d made—

“Thanks, Simon.” 

He blinks in the present. The memory faded into nothing, vanishing like smoke—like it was never even there. Whatever held the last parts of him, snapped. His eyes staring up, pricking with the heat and the moment—stinging, aching. 

You called him his name.

It left your tongue wrapped in intimacy, in care.

He’s unsure how he reaches the bottom of the ladder, his palms closed, fists clenched, nothing else in his head except getting to his room. Crossing the landing, passing the room with the others, only focusing on reaching his own room. The small thing—the cupboard with a single bed he’d managed to cop. 

Everything he's squashed down, rises. They all begin to angrily fuse, mixing with the heat and his pent up frustration that he’s still here—so much so he almost slams the door. Almost.  

His fingers instead press the thin wood into its frame. The click blessing the air like the first strum of a guitar, his heart beating like a drum—and then a knock, one belonging to a smaller hand, calloused, but still soft, the bass that sets the mood. All of it blending, creating a song he's not sure if he'll love or hate.

He knows it’s you. Knows it as he opens the door, watching you stare up at him, sliding your vest from your body, all defeated and knackered beyond belief. 

Deep down, no matter what his brain says—what he hears, what he sees—he at least knows it’s him you choose to curl up to. That when you really need comfort, it’s him you look for. It’s him you pull close until your bodies almost merge into one. 

“Hi.”

“Lass...” 

You look troubled, more weighed down than he really noticed. Not even bothering to hide it, to plaster a smile over the cracks. 

“Can I… Soap, I can’t…” you chew the inside of your cheek, avoiding his eyes as you sigh. 

He tugs on your wrist, pulling you to him. Your body falling into him like it’s weightless, like you’re all attitude and feathers. Bringing you close, holding your head to his chest—almost swaying with you. 

It always starts like this. 

One, long hug. Rooted to the spot. Nothing—not a single thing able to penetrate the two of you. Frozen in a moment no one can ever take. And then, he’ll turn, finding shorts and a different t-shirt, hearing you undress before finding something more comfortable. Sometimes it’s your own, sometimes it’s his. 

And fuck, when it’s his. 

Your wicked, but sleepy smile is a picture for sore eyes and one he wishes he could take a photo of when you wait for his invite, as if you ever need one to climb into his bed.

Your bodies slide against the mattress. Usually, the springs protest, but the cot you’re sharing just groans in frustration as both of your sets of limbs find their place. 

It should feel awkward, but it never does. He shouldn’t crave this, should be able to sleep solidly without a person on his chest. But, he finds he sleeps better with you. Finds that dreams are easier, that there’s more sunshine, more hope and fucking rainbows in the world when you’re on top of him, softly breathing. 

“Night, Mari.” 

He waits. 

Your usual sleepy ‘Soapie’ or ‘Johnny’ blessing his ears. But none come, none. And he almost tenses, almost moves you to see your face. 

“You… you don’t mind that we do this, do you?” 

His hand tilts your chin up, staring into those eyes, begging them to give him a reason—either to close the gap or begin the process of getting over you. Something. Anything. 

Because how could he mind this, when he wants something more? 

He’d ask for it too. If he weren’t afraid. The big demolition man scared of losing you, of losing this, by being greedy and wanting more. 

“Neve’, lass. I like being the person y’come t’when you need somethin’.”

He doesn’t miss the smile. The soft one. The one which you rarely show, but is bloody beaming for him now. 

“It’s only you, Soapie,” you say, curling tighter into him, leaving no space. 

And it takes all of his control. 

Thoughts of his great-aunt with her harsh accent and wiry moustache to be able to pull you closer. Your head on his chest, fingers dancing up and down your arm as he feels you relax, muscle by muscle. 

“Only me, y’say?” 

You let out a soft breath, one that dances warmth over his t-shirt—almost over the hair on his chest. “You’re an idiot, Johnny. Course it is, who else?” 

And he smiles. 

Not at his name, not at the insult, but the fact you’re falling asleep—something you’ve not done for two full days. And it’s on him. 

Only him. 

He buries the rest of your words. The ‘who else’ and the instant answer that appeared on the tip of his tongue. He can unpack it another time. 

There’s something about waking on top of him. Clothes are a horrid, but necessary barrier between the two of you. 

You don’t want things to change, for them to spoil, to wilt and fade from grasp. So, you’ll put up with only having this, having him in this way. At least then, you'll always have arms around you that you know won’t hurt you. You’ll accept the hugs, and long for the cuddles; you’ll settle for sleeping alongside him, rather than with him. 

And, you won't tell MacTavish that you think he’s handsome, no matter how much he dares you to drink. That even asleep he is beautiful, even minus the evidence of his smile, and the dimples you wish to trace with your fingers. He’s still everything, without being anything. 

He’s your best friend, your safety, your person. 

He feels like home, a soul that grounds you and keeps you rooted. He makes you better, helps you grow and—

Your fingers draw a circle on his chest. Watching his lashes flutter, his eyes slowly opening, and your throat going dry—like it does each time he looks at you with so much softness. 

I think I’m in love with you, Johnny. 

That’s what you should say. 

Instead, you say, “Morning, Soapie.” 

You’d brought the popcorn, feeling extremely nostalgic and so ready to relive the golden years of your friendship with these two dumbasses; before they’d scarpered, leaving town -and you- for the army.

You’d rekindled your friendship with them since, and in some ways it felt like no time had passed at all, but you undeniably looked back on your time with them in high school as some of your happiest days (at least, so far).

You weren’t sure exactly what footage was on here (you really hoped that it hadn’t been taped over with Frankie’s parents getting frisky or some shit), but you had been so ready for the trip down memory lane - and so far it was not disappointing.

“Look!” you had exclaimed, pointing at the screen with your arm at full extension, vibrating with laughter as young Frankie had appeared on screen, flipping the handheld back towards his face. “Look at that haircut.” Then, you had batted Santi frantically in the chest with the back of your hand. “Is he wearing eyeliner?! Look at you, Frankie!”

Santi had joined you in the good-natured teasing, until the two of you had become a crumpled, giggling heap in the corner of the couch -surprise and delight responsible, more than anything, for your mirth.

“Alright, alright,” Frankie grumbles now as he rides out your mockery, even as a bright, misty smile of his own takes over his sharp features - as he contemplates his (increasingly far off) youth.

Video Frankie is gangly - his legs had seemingly grown in before the rest of him- and with his more delicate frame, his cheekbones are especially prominent. Even so, with that sharpness - all angles - he looks softer somehow. Still a little baby-faced.

“Welcome to our show!” he announces, in a pre-pubescent voice.

It’s so strange to hear him speak without the now characteristic deep rumble, and your eyes fill with sentimental tears, your hand clasping against your chest. “Frankie, you’re just a baby. So fucking adorable. I want to pinch your little cheeks.”

“We are…” -Video Frankie continues, leaving a dramatic pause for effect- “…Master of Muppets.”

Okay. Yes. In hindsight it’s not the coolest band name, but you remain defensive about the name to this day, and you personally won’t hear a bad word said about it.

From off screen, you hear Santi’s unmistakable voice - a little more gruff and deep than Frankie’s already, but definitely still possessing an adolescent timbre. Not as rich and confident as it is now. A little more goofy. “We’re not doing that today, pendejo.”

The sound of him - voice echoing in the vacant space of Frankie’s dad’s garage - makes memories of your childhood come flooding back. Things you’d long forgotten. Feelings and sights and smells and sounds.

Video Frankie swings the video camera around with little skill, the rest of his announcement pointing upward to his nostrils. “Oh yeah. Shit.” You can imagine the look he’s getting from Santi right about now - that kid took the whole band thing just a little too seriously. “Formerly of Master of Puppets, tonight we have our breakaway solo act. Santiago Garcia.” Frankie delivers his best rock face to the camera, waving his rock fist around chaotically and sticking out his tongue.

In the real world, the three of you exchange fond, face-splitting smiles.

“This is fucking beautiful. Though, I guess I’m not in this one, boys.” You pout in disappointment and Frankie pats your back in commiseration, reassuring you there’s a whole case of tapes somewhere- he’ll try and dig it out next time he visits home.

“How are you feeling in the crowd tonight, Carolina?” Video Frankie yells, before feigning distant crowd noise, and you can’t help but laugh with delight all over again. You turn towards him in the here and now, and you ruffle the pilot’s hair affectionately as he watches through his hands out of sheer embarrassment.

“I thought I was so cool.”

“It’s okay. Wait ‘til you see baby Santi,” you rib gently, earning a hey of protest from your left.

“Look. We all know I was the only cool one,” you snigger.

After a scuffle and a lot of footage of Video Frankie’s worn sneakers, the camera flips.

There Young Santi is, hopped up onto a tall bar stool, his acoustic guitar slung around his neck. The body of it is settled atop of one bent knee, his foot kicked up on the stool, and the other leg stretched out in front to steady him.

You squeal in delight when you see him, even as you hear him cringe and laugh and curse beside you.

Now, it is Frankie’s turn to revel in the throwback, a throaty, chaotic chuckle sounding to your right.

“Look at you! Both you boys are too precious for words.” Feeling emotional, you reach out and smooth your hand back and forth over Santi’s thigh as you continue to survey the screen. 90’s Santi, too, is more slight in frame compared to his older counterpart. Aside from a questionably shiny red leather jacket, he’s dressed in all black - a very era appropriate button down with a long, pointed collar and raw stitching, various beads and chains and possibly a cross or a shark’s tooth or something slung around his neck. His hair is long and lustrous, raven black and middle-parted, cascading curls framing that sharp, angled face. As ever, his strong brows and nose and jaw give him a striking, slightly surly appearance, balanced by those big brown eyes which are full of light and warmth and innocence.

It makes you tear up, honestly, and you weren’t all the way ready for it.

That kid on screen got you through a lot during your teen years. Frankie too, but Santi especially. More than you think you’ve ever had a chance to thank him properly for.

“Those eyebrows!” Frankie exclaims as Young Santi sits pensively on the stool, apparently full of teenage angst and knitting said full brows together.

“Eyebrow, more like,” Santi chuckles lightly - a little self-consciously. “Still a handsome fucker though. Kid’s got potential. Gonna really hit his stride around 40, I reckon.” He pats his own gut - a little fuller these days. He’s not wrong though - he does only seem to get more attractive with age.

You laugh warmly at here and now Santi’s commentary as you watch Young Santi strum and tune up.

“Oh, honey,” you say with a rush of deep affection, reaching out and scooping his hand up into your own and giving it a squeeze.

Meanwhile, Frankie laughs chaotically, as he studies the footage. “Why so fucking serious, hermano?” he mocks, given the kid’s sheer intensity.

“Fuck me. I don’t remember, do I? Maybe you were getting on my last nerve, huh?”

You hastily shush them both, waving your hands wildly as the Video versions of them pipe up again.

“Do you think she’ll like it?” Young Santi asks tentatively, ducking his head to let his hair flow from where it is tucked behind his ears, allowing it to obscure a good portion of his face as he grows ever more bashful.

You crinkle your nose in confusion, shovelling popcorn into your mouth. “She? Who’s she?”

You turn to real-life Santi, and you catch him looking mildly horrified all of a sudden, his expression just as serious as his counterpart from the past. You flick your gaze to the right to see if you’re missing something, but you find Frankie obliviously shovelling popcorn into his mouth, a hapless grin still plastered on his sweet face.

“Dude, I’ll give you fifty fuckin’ bucks if this works,” Video Frankie offers.

Here and now Santi’s voice cuts in, urgently, confusing you even more. “Turn it off, Frank,”

“Oh sure. Now that you’re done teasing me? You can dish it but can’t take it?”

“Frank,” Santi emphasises through his teeth, and when that plea is to no avail, he reaches (almost dives) across your lap to make a play for the remote - Frankie managing to scoop it up first and keep it just out of reach.

“What is going on?” you puzzle. “Jeez. Don’t tell me you had a crush on my mom or something. Gross.”

“Frankie,” Santi emphasises again, pointedly, and with no clues at all from the present, you try to tune back into the past for clues.

“You actually press record this time? If we get this done we can mail it to her tomorrow,” Young Santi says, clearing his throat and preparing to play as Frankie plays with camera angles - zooming and panning in a way which suggests he’s taking this approximately 20% as seriously as Santi is.

“Sing songs, get bitches,” Frankie yells enthusiastically.

Here and now Frankie, however, sucks air through his teeth at that. “Christ. That’s no way to talk about a lady, young man. You clearly still have some lessons to learn,” he scolds, and the contrast between the two versions of him amuses you greatly.

Still, you sense there’s something you’re missing here. With nothing forthcoming from your buddies, however, you opt to continue watching, captivated as Young Santi starts singing. You expect a chaotic heavy metal thrash -as that’s what he usually favoured- but this is something else altogether.

This? This is a schmaltzy ass love song.

You watch as Young Santi strums and picks his guitar gently, his voice sounding out, pure and innocent and smoother than it is now as he works through the delicate notes and falsetto of the song; clumsily, but with feeling.

With so much feeling.

“I’m serious. That’s enough now, Frank,” Santi pleads to your side, with an intensity that doesn’t quite match with what you’re seeing. It’s not that embarrassing. You’ve seen Santi do worse. Recently. At karaoke. In front of people.

You ignore him for now though, concentrating on how damn earnestly Young Santi is singing. His eyes -you can see when Frankie zooms in for an ill-timed close-up- are positively shimmering with emotion. His mouth is curling up into a gentle smile around the words as though he means each and every one so fully.

God. It’s a relief you weren’t there for this at the time, as you know this performance would have ended the 15-year-old version of you. He’s looking at the camera how you wished he would have looked at you, way back then. When your carefully buried crush on him was most out-of-control.

And now, remembering all of this, you just have to know who he was feeling this way about, while your were feeling this exact way about him. You have to know the reason you and he never-

“-For real. Who was she?”

Who is he singing about? Singing to? In all the years you’ve known him and all the relationships he’s had, you’ve never seen him look quite so smitten.

“Alright. I’m not doing this,” Santi grumbles, standing and marching out of the room in a strop. You call after him but he bundles through the house, out towards Frankie’s rear porch. And he doesn’t come back.

You turn immediately to Frankie for some explanation, completely lost off now - especially as Frankie seems so damn casual about the whole affair.

“Errr,” Frankie moves some pieces around in his head. “That’s the summer you went away with your dad, I think?” he says breezily. “Yeah. Explains why you’re not in the video. God. Santi had reached peak pining levels by then. He was so smitten with you, remember? He was fucking insufferable the whole break.”

Wait, what?

“Frankie?” you say, aghast, shaking your head and not quite understanding. Wondering if you’ve misheard him.

When Frankie looks at you and reads your expression, the ball finally drops and his expression drops in turn, to match your own. “Shit. You didn’t know,” he realises.

You swallow. You need to be very sure about this. “Didn’t know what, Francisco?”

Frankie’s mouth drops open and closes wordlessly. He looks at you helplessly, leaving Video Him and Young Santi to answer the question for you.

“It’s never gonna work man. She’s just not into you.” Video Frankie states from behind the lens.

Young Santi is still captured in the frame, the camera zoomed in almost comically close, yet somehow it isn’t funny any more. It is zoomed in close enough that you are able to capture every nuance and micro-expression fleet over his face. Every shred of fear and hope and insecurity and adoration becomes wildly apparent to you. “It has to, man. It has to. I love her, so much.” Then, as if only just realising he’s still being recorded, he looks right down the lens, a nervous, giddy, pure smile taking over his face. “Fuck. Turn that off, dipshit.”

Meanwhile, your eyes flit around the room and you feel suddenly adrift, a million and one emotions swimming in your stomach. Even all these years later, this confession -the one you had always hoped for back then- is like a punch in the gut.

Some things -looking back- suddenly make a hell of a lot more sense. Many more pieces drop into place, and so, with a rush of nerves and adrenalin, your gaze flits between Frankie, the screen, and the door. “I didn’t know,” you confirm flatly.

Frankie runs a hand through his scruff, all of a sudden looking sheepish. “Well, shit. I probably should have turned this off.”

You simply give him a look.

***

When you make your way out to the back porch the air is balmy and still, no sound but crickets lightly chirping in the yard, and now, the sound of Santi’s deep sigh as he hears you approach, the wind chimes tinkling as you swing the door.

Santi is folded over the wooden porch rail. His forearms are leaning on the bar and his hands are laced together, his head dipped down so it almost meets them - as if he wants to hide from something.

Maybe from you.

You approach him tentatively, folding your arms around your middle for comfort and keeping your footsteps light so as to be less intrusive. As if that will make up for the question you’re about to ask. A question that feels Earth-shattering, but which comes out in little above a whisper.

“You were in love with me?”

You weren’t expecting the break in your voice, but maybe that’s the thing which finally gets Santi to stand up straight and turn towards you, his eyes turbulent and mouth pinched small with some kind of emotion.

He scoops a hand over his jaw in a self-comforting gesture, before sniffing once and nodding his head almost imperceptibly - in barely there confirmation.

Okay.

Your brow furrows as you adjust to this new information. As you reconfigure just about every memory you share with him -around that time- in your head. Your eyes grow busy with a multitude of questions; but the order doesn’t seem to matter so much, and you land quickly on your first. “Since when?”

Santi swallows. Tugs in a deep breath. His expression becomes apologetic and a little more boyish, as though you’re taking him right back to those days. Making him feel awkward and lost, when he’s usually so confident. You know he won’t enjoy that. In fact, he rubs the nape of his neck nervously. Shuffles from foot-to-foot a little. “Pretty much since that first time you sat next to me in home room and passed me a stick of gum,” he confesses. “Orbit. Peppermint flavour.”

Emotion tightens in your chest at the fact that he would remember that. You don’t remember that. Your face crinkles. “I thought we met for the first time at Frankie’s house party?”

“No,” he corrects gently, with a soft and wistful smile. “That was just the first time I actually managed to speak to you.” You smile fondly. Who knew Santi was ever shy? Around you? “I spent about four months before that learning guitar to impress you; then I was finally ready to choke out a respectable hello.”

You smile softly at this new information.

“You sucked at guitar,” you tease fondly, and he finally looks up at you instead of at his boots. Against the odds, you manage to stoke a small smile at one corner of his mouth.

“Yeah. Well,” he shrugs, tilting his head to the side in concession.

You think for a moment, processing. Landing on your next question. You can’t place why, but you feel increasingly nervous, like you’re 15 again too. Like you’re barrelling towards something inevitable. Something that will shake the foundations of everything you thought you knew. “Why didn’t you send the tape?”

Santi pauses again, as if every small confession is an effort. “None of the takes were good enough.” He frowns. Always was a perfectionist. “Besides. You came back from summer break on Brandon Cheng’s arm, remember?”

You stifle an amused smile. Santi should be over this by now, right? All these years later? But his voice still contains a hostility for Brandon which sounds every bit current. Damn. You guess the man really does hold a grudge.

Still, despite his bitterness, he looks so vulnerable in this moment. So vulnerable that you are desperate to reach out to him - and yet you can’t make your feet move from the spot.

“Oh yeah,” you nod in understanding, clasping your hands in front of yourself. “Right. I forgot about Brandon.”

Your friend pumps his eyebrows indignantly, like he really didn’t. No wonder Santi had always been so snitty with the poor kid.

God. You see it now. You see it still lingering there. The same emotions and micro expressions from the video flitting over his face in turn. You really must have hurt him. He really must have loved you, for it still to linger.

“Santi,” you breathe, finally taking a couple of gentle steps closer to him, trying to capture his gaze with your own and lift it from the floor.

“Alright,” he breezes - a clear attempt to seem non-chalant. To hastily put an end to this. “That’s about enough nostalgia for me for one day. Shall we head inside and watch Predator now?”

You watch him push everything back down.

And, now that you’re looking for it, you suddenly realise how many times you’ve watched him push everything down, even if you wouldn’t have recognised it at the time. You guess he got real good at doing that. You guess he started early. Practised hiding it from you until it became second nature.

It’s all beginning to make sense.

Santi turns to go then with a whole lot of bluster, and yet you feel like something isn’t quite done here. You feel like there’s a little more of this thread to unravel, and so you capture his arm with the gentlest of touches, looping your grip around his wrist. Apparently that’s the barest encouragement he needed to stay, and you halt him in his steps.

“Santi,” you repeat, searching his eyes and finding old pain hiding there. “Why? Why did you never say anything?

“It doesn’t matter,” he says flatly, a break in his voice now too. Cracks beginning to form. “It was a long time ago, right?”

It does matter though. You can see plainly that it still matters. This clearly hurt him - and you have never wanted to hurt him.

Maybe that’s why you ask your next question. You feel like if you can map this all out, maybe you can do something to fix it. Tell him how you were pining for him too. Do something to heal the same old wounds that you carried too in secret.

But, if that’s the reason, it doesn’t explain why your heart is beating in your neck as the words slip past your lips. It doesn’t explain why you’re so nervous to hear the answer. “How long, Santi? How long did you feel that way?” The words catch on hooks in your throat, and you’re inexplicably tearing up. “W-When? When did you… stop?”

When did he stop?

Santi’s eyes snap suddenly back to yours then, his eyes wide with nerves and fear and confession. His jaw writhing and mouth pinching together with tension. His head shaking imperceptibly like he’s begging you not to go there. Begging you not to push this. Not now. Not any further.

And then, it hits you.

Hits you like a ton of bricks.

He never did stop.

He tries to turn his face away from the knowledge in your eyes, but urgently, your palm captures his cheek, feeling the rough grain of stubble beneath your fingers, and your eyes searching his with one -and only one- remaining question.

Is it true - is he in love with you, still?

Santi, for his part, reaches up gingerly upon seeing that his game is finally up, placing his warm, rough hand on top of yours where it rests on his cheek. A gulp trails down his throat and he sniffs again, his eyes shimmering with apprehension and apology, but at the same time glowing with something deeper too. He begins to nod ever so slowly, tiny movements of his head which silently answer your question as he looks up at you from beneath his lashes, his eyes big and beautiful and earnest. “I… I didn’t stop.”

It is only when he finally says it out loud that you are able to gasp in a breath, your palms coming to clamp over your mouth, your eyes brimming with tears as you reconfigure… everything.

You take two steps back from him. From your friend. From your best friend. Who all this time…. All this time has been…. Who you’ve….

Fuck.

All this time.

Your hands trembling, you lower them from your mouth and you search Santi’s face again. That handsome, oh so familiar face.

For a moment, you have absolutely no idea what to say.

“Fuuuuck,” he says hoarsely, his voice small and thin. “Please say something.” And then: “Actually, you know what,” he shuffles from foot to foot. “Don’t say anything. I… Fuck. Just forget I said that.”

But it’s too late for that, isn’t it? You see it now.

How he’s looking at you.

How he’s always looked at you.

And suddenly, even though you feel like the porch is spinning a little from these spiking nerves, like you need to reach one arm out to hold on to the rail so your trembling legs do not give out from under you, it becomes eminently clear to you.

You know exactly what it is you want to say.

“Tell Morales he owes you fifty bucks, idiota.”Santi looks at you blankly for a moment, blinking rapidly in confusion and trying to catch up. “Your song worked, Santi,” you explain softly. “You got the girl.”

Then it’s happening.

With a gasp of air all his own, Santi wastes no more time. He reaches his palm out to your cheek, and as soon as his touch is on you everything ignites. You close the remaining distance, then with a surge and a crush his lips are slanting against yours, his tongue leading and slipped into your mouth in a way that makes your toes curl and your legs weak. His broad, gentle hands are clutching at your back and he’s kissing you urgently yet tenderly. He’s kissing you like he’s already loved you -and longed for you- for a lifetime.

In truth, he has, and it turns out that’s just how long you’ve loved him back.

With his practised tongue, Santi opens you up, his plush lips working diligently against yours and sending an insistent warmth blooming through your whole body.

His song worked. A few decades too late on delivery, but still. Maybe back then would have been too soon for you both. Maybe you had some lessons to learn first; but either way, it could not feel more right that it is finally happening.

So, when Santi pulls back to look at you, spent from that toe-curling kiss, tears of pure joy are smattering his cheeks. You swipe them away tenderly with the pad of your thumb, awed that you get to finally do this with him. To show him how you feel. Awed that it means so much to him too.

You worry it’s still hurting him somehow - that maybe he’s thinking about all that time wasted. However, just as you begin to grow concerned, and before anything sad can creep in, Santi’s face splits in a joyous, self-satisfied grin. “Who’s laughing now, Brandon Cheng?”

You laugh brightly, his comment entirely unexpected, and you loop your arms around his sturdy middle. “Seriously? That’s what you’re thinking of right now?”

Santi’s eyes glow gently with awe as you hold him in the way he’s always dreamed of, and as your happiness envelops him. “No,” he admits, his hand moving to cup your cheek with an unprecedented tenderness - one which makes you ache. “I’m thinking how you were so worth the wait.”

Happy tears shimmer in your eyes but before they can fall, Santi kisses you again. And again. And again.

You have so much lost time to make up for, and you’ll be happy if he never stops.

"Absolutely not, John! Have you paid attention to the details, to the facts?"

John's eyebrows shot to the top of his head. "Have you?"

Scoffing, Sherlock put his hands in the coat's pockets. "Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side. No, we're dealing with a cold murderer this time, not some love sick puppy. If he were in love, his eyes pupils would have dilated when we asked about her, but they did not. And I-'' he trailed off when he saw a familiar mop of hair appearing behind John and talking to Lestrade, a notebook in her arms.

John turned around, eyebrows still raised and he crossed his arms, a smirk finding its way on his lips. His eyes met Sherlock's again. "You were saying?"

Sherlock licked his suddenly dry lips and blinked. "I, uh-"

"Cat got your tongue, Sherlock?"

It was as if Sherlock's brain short circuited, cutting all the ties to reality. He blinked and gulped thickly. ''When in love and looking at the object of all your desires and affection, your pupils get dilated. The pulse gets increased and you feel your breath leaving you. But that's not true, that's just an illusion, it's your body reacting to hormones. It's just pure science, really.'' he said, whispering the last part and never taking his eyes off of Y/N.

She was laughing now, touching Lestrade's arm and shaking her head in amusement. And Sherlock felt his stomach twisting into something he couldn't name. He tilted his head. ''I'm right, aren't I, John?''

''I don't know, Sherlock, but it doesn't seem so to me.''

Sherlock's gaze slowly left Y/N's figure and met John's eyes. His eyebrows pinched together. ''Why do you say that?''

John's smirk never left his lips. ''Your pupils dilated.''

Sherlock nodded, a realization dawning on him. And his eyes were again on her, just drinking her in. ''They did, didn't they?''

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Y/N L/N was a woman of soft love and indulging daydreams. A pure romantic at heart, she could find meaning in every glance and smile (she did learn best from Jane Austen). But when her best friend and co-worker, Greg Lestrade, inquired about her new crush, she mumbled an excuse, blushing furiously and averting his gaze.

"Oh come on! I know you, Y/N! Been knowing you for years now. So, who is it?"

Shaking her head, Y/N replied. "No one."

Lestrade furrowed. "Then why are you blushing?"

''Why are we talking about this now? We're at a crime scene.'' she almost snapped.

Lestrade pursed lips, nodding and putting his hands in his pockets, his gaze looking in the distance at nothing particularly. And for awhile, neither of them said anything, the bustling of the forensic pathologists filling the air. Y/N fumbled with the notebook in her arms, her gaze sliding towards a certain curly haired man. They rarely talked about anything other than work, but she always found herself enticed by what he was saying. His mind worked in mysterious and interesting ways and she only wished to understand it more, to be the one overtaking his thoughts. Just like he did hers.

He met her eyes across the room and she felt her face flush. He acknowledged her with a nod of his head and she smiled his way.

''It's Sherlock, isn't it?'' voiced Lestrade besides her.

She snapped her head towards him, almost getting a whiplash. ''What?''

He just laughed. ''I'll be sending you over to him with work more often, then.''

Her laugh matched his and she smacked his arm, while shaking her head. ''You're impossible.''

''But the best!''

''At annoying me, maybe.''

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Sherlock kept coming to crime scenes with John as he usually did. And things just went as they usually did. Anderson and Donovan were insufferable as ever, making wrong assumptions and awful comments. Graham (or was it Greg?) was useless as ever and John muttered praises under his breath, as always (''That's brilliant, Sherlock!'').

Except this time he was suddenly hyperaware of her presence. She always seemed to be there, in the corner of the room silently watching him work through the mystery and fog. It clouded his mind. He blinked, trying to get rid of the incorrigible thoughts and the tightness in his chest. He cleared his throat and risked a glance at John, who had his eyebrows raised. ''Right, well, uh, I have to think about this one, really mull it over.''

He straightened his back, popping the collar of his coat. But then, he looked at her and paused in his tracks. ''Unless, Y/N has anything to add to the case.''

She seemed lost in thought because once her name was spoken, by Sherlock no less, she snapped out of it, a blush adorning her cheeks. She visibly gulped and took a step forward, hugging her notebook closer to her chest. Her eyes met his and she had to inhale just so she could breath again. He was looking at her so intensely that she felt like she was being analyzed under the microscope, as if he could read through her. As if he could take her apart, soul by soul, layer by layer.

Y/N tore her eyes away from his and flipped through her notebook, only stopping when the date of today caught her attention. ''Well, uh, I believe the victim's wedding ring is missing.''

''There wasn't any wedding ring.'' interrupted Lestrade, frowning.

She nodded. ''Exactly. If you look at her left hand, you'd find the shadow of a wedding ring. She's very tanned, she must've returned from a vacation. Somewhere warm, as there isn't any sun in London. But she never did take off her wedding ring, the white line around her finger is the proof of that.''

''She could've just lost it.'' added John thoughtfully.

Sherlock remained quiet, his gaze pinned on Y/N, attention undivided by anything else but her. He was listening in, his mind screaming at the possibilities.

Y/N shook her head. ''No. The pictures of her husband in her wallet tell me otherwise. She cared. She wouldn't just let her ring get lost. There's something else there. Someone must've taken it. Maybe our killer.''

Sherlock's eyebrow arched and his eyes lit up. ''Impressive observation, darling.'' He started smiling and he grabbed her shoulders, leaning in to kiss her on both of her cheeks. ''Thank you!'' he said in a very excited voice, much like a kid would exclaim on a the Christmas morning at the sight of presents.

And he was off, the coat fluttering behind him in waves and leaving her flustered and red in the face. His kisses on her cheeks burned her like fireworks in the sky. She touched with shaking fingertips where his lips met her skin and she slightly smiled.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

221B was quiet, John gone God knew where. The rain was splattering against the windows in loud and almost thundering drops. Sherlock was sitting in his armchair, deep in thought, his hands lanced in a prayer position. He sighed and closed his eyes, his mind going off the rails.

The squeak of the front door pulled him to the reality. His eyes snapped open and his ears perked up. Light footsteps. Not John, as he walked harshly, his feet dragging behind him (he never actually left the war behind). Probably a woman, then. But not mrs. Hudson, as she always wore heels.

Sherlock slowly got up, his eyes never wavering from the door. The creeks of the stairs. Not a client, as the footsteps didn't sound urgent.

He was now in front of the door, touching the door knob and opening it like a storm cleaning everything in its path and he was met with the surprised eyes of Y/N L/N. She was drenching and panting, the rain really wearing her down. Her hair was soaking, raindrops falling from it and down onto the carpet with splashing sounds and the clothes were sticking to her skin and hugging her curves. Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek to not glance down her figure out of respect and dignity.

She sneezed, eyes closing and eyelashes shining with raindrops.

''Looks like you're catching a cold.'' Sherlock said in greeting.

She nodded before sneezing again.

''Bless you.''

She shivered and her arms hugged her waist in an attempt to find some warmth. Sherlock's eyes softened, but his voice remained impassible. ''Do come in, you're soaking my carpet.''

Flustered, the words came out of her mouth in a mess, closing in on each other and flying from the tip of her tongue. ''Uh, I'm sorry, didn't mean to- I just-''

''Save your energy and stop explaining yourself, you're obviously shivering and in dire need of a hot bath. Go do that, you're my guest. I'll prepare tea and get you some clothes to change in. Then we can talk.''

He gestured her towards the bathroom, before turning his back and leaving her with a red nose and a freezing face.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

He was stirring the tea when he heard her small footsteps padding on the floor. ''Do you take your tea with milk?'' he asked without looking up. ''I usually do and-'' Sherlock lifted his head and his words died in his throat. He finally understood the concept of your breath leaving you at the sight of something beautiful. Because Y/N was beautiful, a rare landscape. An oil portrait that deserved to be admired in a museum. Almost Mona Lisa like. She was wearing one of his old sweaters, back from his university days, and some worn out pants he found in the back of the wardrobe. She was wearing his clothes. Alas they were a bit too big on her, the sleeves of the sweater falling down her hands and swallowing them whole.

''No milk for me.'' she replied in a meek and already raspy voice. The cold was catching up to her.

He blinked the awe from his eyes and handed her a cup of tea. ''Careful, it's hot. And you should take some meds.''

She thanked him by nodding her head. ''Where's John?''

''With his new girlfriend, I presume.'' Sherlock scoffed, turning around and searching through the kitchen drawers. ''He's never out his late usually. He always goes to sleep early.''

''And you don't?''

''I don't sleep when I'm on a case.''

''But you need the sleep.''

Sherlock met her gaze and flipped towards her a bottle of medicine. ''And you need to take these.'' he replied with a sarcastic smile etched on his face. But his eyes betrayed his whole cold demeanor. They were soft, almost warm. And Y/N was afraid to maintain the eye contact for too long. His eyes haunted her. She felt vulnerable under his gaze. Exposed.

She thickly gulped. "Can you start the fire? I'm still a little bit cold."

"If you take the meds."

"I will."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I mean now."

She huffed, but complied anyways. The tea burned her throat, the aroma bursting in colors on her tongue and the sweet smell tickling her nostrils.

Sherlock nodded and then entered the living room, crouching down near the fireplace. "Why are you here?"

"Do you want me to leave?" she asked once she was seated in an armchair.

Sherlock glanced towards her. Y/N was sitting in his armchair, slowly sipping her tea and looking around curiously. No one actually sat on it, besides him. He never let anyone. He inhaled and tore his gaze from her and onto the split firewood in front of him. "Do you want to?"

"No." she replied, watching him.

He got up, the fire coming alive in reds and oranges, the wood cracking. "Then stay." His eyes didn't stray from her as he took a seat in John's chair. "Why are you really here, though? We're not actually friends, so you can't say you came to visit. You were panting, so you must have run all the way here. Unless, you missed the bus. But that can't be as you live on the other side of London. And you weren't planning it, either. If you did, you would have known they announced rain later today and you would have carried an umbrella. But you didn't, so I assume this was a spur of the moment idea. Am I correct so far?"

She blinked. "Yes, but-"

"And you didn't come on behalf of work, either. You would have carried some files and you would have been all business, no play, as you usually are." He leant forward on the seat, his arms coming to rest on his knees. "So, tell me, why are you here, Y/N?"

Her cheeks reddened and she shifted in her seat, her hands gripping the tea cup. "Did you just deduce me, mister Holmes?"

His eyebrow arched, hiding under a stray curl. "Why, was I wrong?"

Y/N shook her head. "Not a bit."

A smirk bloomed on his lips. "Of course I wasn't, darling. I never am."

"You're quite narcissistic." she replied, her eyes watching him over the rim of the cup.

"I believe the correct word would be modest."

She hummed, the corner of her eyes crickling in amusement. She gently put down her cup and looked him in the eye. The fire sprayed shadows on his face, the room in a low glow. "Did you solve the case, Sherlock?"

Confusion overtook his features. "Is this why you came all the way here?"

She shrugged inocently. "I was curious. Did you?"

He nodded, the fire reflecting in his eyes and ebony hair. "Yes. You helped me. When you told me about the wedding ring, a light went off in my head. I searched through her wallet. You were right, she cared too much to lose a wedding ring, it meant a lot to her. And I think someone got jealous."

Y/N arched an eyebrow. "An affair?"

"But not on her part, though. Love is a strong motive. It makes you do crazy things." Sherlock whispered.

His gaze burned her. He searched her eyes, as if he was hoping to find something in them, and then his gaze drifted off to her lips. "I know the signs." he said.

"What signs?" Y/N replied breathless.

"Your cheeks redden every time you look at me, your pupils dilate. You think I don't notice, but I do. Every time."

She swallowed. "Is that- Is that a bad thing?"

He got up to his feet and took slow steps, only stopping when he was close enough to take her wrist. A gentle touch. Her heart almost beat out of her chest and a lump formed in her throat when Sherlock leaned in to whisper into her ear, his breath warming her skin. "I took your pulse."

Y/N fluttered her eyes shut when she felt his lips skim over her jaw before he lightly kissed her cheek. "The feeling's mutual, by the way." he said in a low whisper, his lips caressing her afire skin.

And then he was up and away, smiling genuinely at her, a sparkle in his eyes. "You should get some rest. I'll be sleeping on the couch, you take the bed."

She opened her mouth to protest, but he beat her to it. "Please, you're my guest tonight. It would be my pleasure."

Y/N nodded, getting on her feet, her eyes meeting his chest. He was wearing the purple shirt he wore last week. His figure towered over her and he gently took her hand. "My room's that way. If you need anything, tell me. Good night, darling."

And he pressed a gentle kiss on her forehead.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

John found the atmosphere weird that morning. His eyebrows were scrunching and he looked at Sherlock. "You're awfully quiet." he said while he spread butter on toast.

"Am I, really?" replied Sherlock, not taking his eyes off of the newspaper he was reading.

"Yes, you are. Don't you, usually, ramble about some newfound case?"

"Usually."

"Then, what's different this time?" replied John before he bit into the toast.

The clicking of a door and the sight of a just waken up Y/N made him choke on the food. "Careful, John, you'll die if you do that again. Good morning, darling. Tea?" said Sherlock in a sweet voice.

Y/N simply smiled at him, averting her gaze from John.

"I'm sorry, I feel like I'm missing something." laughed John.

"No, John, you're just delusional." said Sherlock, while he poured tea in a cup for Y/N, who was blushing furiously under all the attention.

"Wait 'till Greg hears about this!" replied John, still smiling in awe.

Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "Who?"

"Lestrade." said Y/N from besides him.

"I thought his name was Gavin."

"It's Greg."

"When did this happen?" interrupted John, all sparkling eyes.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, picking up the newspaper once again. "Nothing happened, John."

"I'm not believing a word! This is too good-"

"Stick to blogging, John, gossiping doesn't suit you."

Offended, John gasped, turning to look at Y/N. She avoided his gaze, drinking her tea and looking at the walls around them. "Right... My bad, then." he said, sighing.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Sherlock Holmes started smiling at crime scenes. It was almost off putting, the way a genuine smile would break through at any moment. In front of a corpse, no less.

Lestrade noticed it. He also noticed the oh-so-not-subtle glances. Sherlock's eyes would slip over to Y/N and she would meet his gaze, almost shyly but smiling.

Then, the detective started asking her opinion on the cases more often and Lestrade knew. How could he not when it was all so obvious?

"You know, Sherlock, one day you're gonna steal my co-worker." he said as he approached him.

Sherlock's face remained impassible like stone. "That won't ever happen. She'll come willingly if you keep boring her. Send her on real cases, she's smart enough to solve them on her own."

Lestrade opened his mouth to reply but he was left in the dust after Sherlock spotted Y/N. "Yeah, okay..." he trailed off as he watched Y/N greet Sherlock with a blush and a shy smile.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

"Let's have lunch." said Sherlock to Y/N, meeting her eyes and standing straight. He wore his blue navy coat and a white shirt this time.

"To talk about the case? I think I found a lead and-"

"No."

Her eyebrows furrowed. "No?"

He took a step closer to her. "No. Let's have lunch to talk about ourselves."

She felt her face flush. "Oh."

Sherlock's eyes held a look of amusement and adoration and he smiled. "I believe the correct word would be yes." He lightly took her hand, his thumb caressing her skin in slow circles. "Please, do me this honour and let me take you out on a date."

Y/N smiled up at him, before standing on her tip toes to kiss his cheek. "I'd love to."

Bonus:

"I kind of set them up." said Lestrade as he and John watched the interaction between Sherlock and Y/N from afar.

"How so?"

"I stole Y/N's umbrella and then set her off home, asking her to stop by 221B in order to ask Sherlock what progress he was making in solving that case."

"Oh, Greg! That was brilliant! She spent the night there."

"Did she?"

"Yeah."

"Interesting."

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

A/N: oh wow this somehow turned to be a long one. It was supposed to be around 2k words, more or less but I kinda got carried away.

I hope you enjoyed it! Every feedback is appreciated! If you'd like to be added to the tag list, just comment under this post or send me an ask!

Have a great day xx

The vibroblade that had caused the wound had made a perfect gash—deep, bloody, and very infected.

Usually, you had a weak stomach and weren’t able to tend to wounds, especially of this magnitude. But the more injuries your Mandalorian had acquired, the more you were put in a position to take care of him. And so, here were the two of you, hunched over each other in concentration.

You pull out said bacta spray from the medical kit along with a pair of scissors. Placing your hand along the rip in his shirt, you run your fingers gently around the fraying ends and look at your friend. “I’m going to have to cut the rest of the fabric around the wound so that way the bacta can reach the surrounding areas—“

“No, I—that’s enough—“

“Mando…” you warn lowly, attracting his attention to you. “It’s okay. It’s just me.”

He lets go of a shaky breath and allows himself to lean back against the metal wall. You take that as your go ahead and begin to cut the shirt. You know about his Creed, how strictly he follows it and what he allows himself to feel comfortable with. You respect him greatly, and so you make sure to only cut away the parts of the fabric that is needed.

Splaying your hand on the curve of his armor-ridden shoulder (you had somehow managed to convince him to remove it in order for you actually heal him properly) you take the bacta and spray along the jagged edges of the now clean wound. It’s a nasty cut, but far more manageable when it’s not covered in blood and scabs.

He flinched again at the cool contact but quickly settled into you. “You need to even out your breathing. You're gonna make yourself light-headed.” You say nonchalantly, making sure you are focused on getting bacta to every exposed area possible.

He doesn’t respond, but you do hear him pause, then inhale and exhale deeply through his modulator. You’re grateful for the way it calms you down—hands cease shaking, allowing you to start wrapping his arm in bandages. “You gotta keep this on. You can take it off in a couple days, but until then…” you tuck the open end into itself and stand up wiping at your knees and the dirt that accumulated on them from the ship's floor. “Until then don’t do anything to aggravate it.”

He huffs, but you can tell he tries to hide it as a cough when you shoot him a sour look. “I’m serious, Mando. I see that thing come off before it’s supposed to and you’re a dead man. You hear me? I’ll beat your ass so hard even the New Republic officers won’t be able to find you.”

He groans as he sits up slowly. “They already can’t find me.”

His quip elicits a harsh look from you. He raises his non-injured arm up in defense. “Alright, I get it. I won’t take it off.”

You keep the glare on him until you’re sure he got the message, then slowly allow the hint of a smile to breakthrough.

Then, you hear a coo and feel two tiny hands grab at your ankle. You look down with an even bigger smile and pick up the baby. “Hi, little guy!” You sit him in the curve of your inner elbow and bounce around on your heels, waiting for him to burst into a fit of giggles. Although it doesn’t take much for your tiny green child to laugh, he is almost always overjoyed when you bounce him around or spin with him in the air.

“You wanna see your dad?” His mouth falls open in a silent laugh when you reposition him against your chest. “Yeah, he’s alright. A little stupid, but he’s okay.”

You look up to Mando mid-laugh only to see that he’s already looking at you and the kid.

Typically, it’s unnerving when he stares. After all, intimidation is his strong suit. When he wants to be scary, he is, and with a type of ease only he possesses, he parts crowds like the Geyser Sea. But right now, he isn’t like that. It’s…different, somehow.

Instead of the sharp lines of his visor being pointed down, they’re slightly titled upward—an air of softness to the minuscule movements he makes. A strange, yet familiar feeling bubbles in your stomach, but you do what you know best and push it down. You clear your throat before sitting down beside your friend and place the baby in the middle of you two.

“Tell me again why you waited almost two days to treat that?”

He shrugs, head lolling to the side as the kid plays with his gloved fingers. “You’re better at patching me up, I guess.”

You feel your face quirk up. “Well, you’re not wrong. I am an amazing medic.”

He lets out a soft laugh, picking the green child up and sitting him in his lap. “An amazing medic who passed out after seeing a blaster burn for the first time.”

“Oh, c’mon, that was one time. I didn’t have any experience yet!” You lean into him unconsciously as you both play with your adopted child. “Besides…you don’t seem to be complaining. I mean who else is gonna patch you up? Certainly, not him,” a pair of big brown eyes meets yours. “The kids smart, but he’d definitely try eating at least half of what’s in that med kit.”

He laughs harder this time. The sound reverberates off the walls of the Razor Crest and rattles your ribs.

He’s lovely.

The two of you fall into another bout of comfortable silence. The only sounds are the occasional creaks of an old ship and the baby’s soft humming.

“Y/N…?” You turn your head enough so that way your eyes catch his through his helmet. He breathes deeply, chest rising and falling until yours fall into the same rhythm. He takes one particular shaky breath and then… “thank you.”

"Anytime."

ii.

“Y/N, this is Cobb Vanth. A frien—“

“The Marshal,” you say in awe. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

The man in question shoots you a friendly smile: wide and toothy. He’s an attractive man, with dark silver hair swept to the one side of his face and bright hazel eyes that lift up at the corners. He softly takes your hand in his, cradling it like you do your child. “All good things I hope.”

You snicker, earning a wink from the stranger. He lets your hand fall at that, but never leaves your side, opting to face Mando and bump shoulders with you.

“Mando,” he muses. “You didn’t tell me how pretty your uh, friend here was. Would’ve liked to freshen up a bit, ya know.”

“No need.” Mando’s voice is low and dark and sends chills down your spine. “We’re just visiting. But we should go, it’s getting dark.” He practically stomps towards the two of you, shoulders squared out and head held up high. You quickly notice how his arms are held to his sides, fists clenched as though he’s restraining himself. It makes you nervous.

What he's restraining himself for? You don’t know. But the sight makes you gulp and want to hide in the safety of your bunk on the ship. Even the child, whose head pokes out of the brown satchel that rests on your hip, cowers back into the safety of the bag at the sight of the angry Mandalorian.

“Now wait just a second.” Cobb places a friendly hand on the man’s shoulder and points to the closest—and quite frankly, the only—cantina in Mos Pelgo. “You two just arrived. Take a break for once Mando, yeah? You’re all work and no play, it’s not healthy. Lemme buy you and the lady a drink.”

Somehow, your Mandalorian bristles even more at that notion, and before anything can escalate, you choose to interject.

“That sounds wonderful, Cobb, thank you.” Out of the corner of your eye, you see the familiar beskar helmet snap in your direction. He backs up a bit, adding distance between the three of you, and somehow that one act shows you just how tense the air had gotten.

You watch your friend as he shifts. It’s subtle, hardly noticeable if you’re a stranger—but all too familiar to you. He’s retreating. “You, you want to stay?” His voice is softer than usual and you swear you catch a hint of sadness.

It’s like a punch in the gut.

“Well, we’re just visiting, right? Might as well get a drink. I could go for some spotchka, and uh, I think you could use a break too.” You try to keep your tone as even as possible as you send Mando a comforting smile. One that you hope he accepts as an olive branch.

Instead, he just stands there for a couple seconds as your pulse pounds. Then, he bows his head. “…As you wish.”

“Great!” Cobb says as he leads the three of you up the steps of the cantina. He walks in ahead, calling to the bartender with a loud laugh.

Mando goes to follow him to the bar until you stop him in the middle of the room. You’re both extremely exposed, but that thought doesn’t concern you right now. As a matter of fact, not much does. The only thing that concerns you is him.

It’s always been him.

You open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. The air is thick and heavy but it’s not from the Tatooine heat, rather, the sudden coldness between two friends. You don’t know what to say to him, but you can’t leave it like this. You can’t pretend that something didn’t just happen, regardless of the fact that you don’t know what that something is. But he waits. He patiently stands there, but he never looks at you. You realize you can’t look at him either.

It can’t just be you…

The kid pushes himself further out of the bag to greet his father, probably picking up on the weird silence. That action alone gives you strength. “Are you okay?” You whisper. You meant to sound stern, but your throat is dry and scratched. You chalk it up as a side effect of being surrounded by sand, but you can’t rule out fear either.

“I don’t know what you mean,” is his response.

Your heart drops…maybe it is just you.

He’s far more composed than you: with his hands on his hips and visor trained on the baby gurgling at your hip. You take a quick once-over of him to make sure you’re not hallucinating, but he remains relaxed. There’s still something wrong. Something feels off with his words, and it hurts to analyze. To worry. To hope that everything’s okay when it definitely feels like it isn’t. “Look,” he sighs and goes to reach for your arm in a way he’s done countless times before. But he stops. He stops mid-air, and you wait for something to happen, but it never does. Simply, you watch him retreat for the second time in ten minutes. “You’re right. We need a break and Cobb’s good company. Seems to like you a lot. Let’s just enjoy ourselves.”

You step closer to him and wish more than anything that you could actually see his eyes. You want to see the colours that flicker in his iris’; the way you imagine they soften at the sight of his son, and how they glow when he laughs. You want to pinpoint the different emotions he feels through eyes alone, but he doesn’t give you that. He just nods politely and walks inside the cantina leaving you and the little green guy to fear the worst.

iii.

He feels stupid.

Like, really kriffing stupid.

Cobb had picked the table furthest from the bar, smack dab in the corner, providing an ample view of the entire cantina. Though there weren’t that many patrons, Din still liked to be in the corner. He was an observer after all. It was where he had the most control because he didn’t have to worry about anyone sneaking up on him. It also allowed him to see everyone in a more subtle way; one where he wasn’t blatantly staring and would likely rile up a drunk who wanted to pick a fight.

He could monitor things and still be able to enjoy what little amount he allowed himself to partake in.

But he feels stupid. Because that’s not the case right now.

He could have a group of raiders walk right up to him and he would never notice. Not when he’s staring at you. It isn’t that this is a rare thing he does because it happens more often than he’d care to admit—when his attention drifts to the one thing, the one person, that somehow constantly invades his mind.

He tells himself that it’s for safety. He’s keeping an eye on you, making sure you’re alright and that no one’s bothering you (although he’s the first one to say anything whenever anyone does). But even he knows that’s a lie.

It’s not uncommon for him to steal subtle (or what he hopes are subtle) glances at you, but it is uncommon for him to be this angry when looking at you.

Usually, he’s at peace when it comes to you. But he wasn’t anticipating Cobb to invite the two of you for a drink. He wasn’t anticipating Cobb to take such a liking to you, nor, to offer to go with you to the bar to get said drinks even though you’re more than capable. But out of all the surprises he’s had today, the one that shakes him the most is you taking such a liking to Cobb.

The two of you are talking wildly to each other as the barkeep prepares your drinks. You’re smiling at him and he’s smiling right back, and you’re doing that thing where when you get excited you talk with your hands.

Din finds it endearing, but right now it’s different. Because he’s just watching. He’s not the one you’re excited about. So, he can’t bring himself to join you two. He knows that he wouldn’t be able to handle seeing you look at him like he’s a burden, a buzzkill who only knows how to follow you like a lost pet. But he wants to. Maker does he ever. Because maybe at the end of it all he’d get to keep you. You’d choose him after realizing that he’s always chosen you.

He forces himself to look away at that. Why would you choose someone who you can’t even see return your smile?

He’d never disobey his Creed. It’s a part of him, it’s what he stands for. And yet, he can’t count the number of times he’s second-guessed himself just to show you that he does in fact smile, that he’s alive, that he needs you more than anything. He’s a breathing man with a bleeding heart that wasn’t made for you but can’t live without you. And he hates it.

“Here we go,” Cobb sits down gently on the chair and places the drinks in the middle of the table.

Din keeps his arms crossed over his chest as he watches you take the seat beside him. The kid notices your back and immediately grasps for your attention. Which you give to him every single time because you love him.

Din would give anything to be him.

You sit the child down in your lap and grab at your glass of spotchka when a look of realization hits you. “Oh, we forgot his broth.”

Cobb, in what Din sees as a chance to impress you, is already up before you can ask. “I got it. You sit tight little guy.”

The man saunters off and when he’s out of earshot, you turn to look at him. Din feels himself start to sweat. “So, I know you said everything’s okay, but I call bullshit.”

Din’s eyes widen at the blunt statement. Not that she can see, but he’s very aware of his reactions to her (maybe the fact that she can't see is for the best). “Mando, what’s going on?” She lifts the baby up so that he can see him clearer. “We’re both worried.”

He sighs and shifts in his seat. Quickly, he weighs his options.

He could ignore her, wait until Cobb gets back, and then interrupt their little date. Cobb would get the hint and she’d be back with him and their kid on the Razor Crest. But he realizes that’s selfish of him and she’d be even angrier with him…possibly even hate him, which is the last thing he wants. Ever. So he scraps that thought. He thinks that he could bluff his way out of the situation: tell her his mind is once again on his abandoned covert and that he’s just having an off-day. It wouldn’t be the first time, and if he was convincing enough she’d probably believe him. But then he thinks of something different. He considers, for a very brief moment, what it’d be like if he just told her. He could tell her everything. How she’s all he can think about most days and nights, how he imagines what it’d be like to actually hold her hand without reason, and most importantly, how his biggest fantasy involves him taking off his helmet and kissing her. Actually kissing her like he’s longed to do since the first week of having her stay with them.

She doesn’t long for you, though.

He realizes she’s still looking at him and so he makes his decision. “It’s just an off-day for me, cyar’ika. I’ll be alright. I’m sorry if I worried you and the little one.”

She pauses, her face turned downward in sadness. His heart twists painfully. But soon she smiles. It’s faint and fake and nothing like her usual self, but it’s something.

“Okay.”

Cobb comes back to the table with a small bowl of broth and places it before the kid. The conversation returns to normal and Din is thankful that the noise is just loud enough to drown his thoughts. Even if for a short while.

iv.

“Oh, Mando look at this!”

You show him a large green and blue textile with intricate designs along its edges. It was knitted with care and looked impossibly comfortable, as far as Din could tell. “It’s beautiful.”

You smile widely and lift it up to properly look it over. “It reminds me of him.” You look down to the child that this time Din was now holding. He lifts him out of the bag in order to show him the blanket, which he immediately grabs onto. The baby coos at you, which elicits a giggle and smooth knuckles to run over his cheek. “He likes it,” you say. “We should get it for him. It can be his new blanket.”

“He has lots of blankets, cyar’ika.” He knows you know this. You're both a sucker for the little guy, but at some point Din reasons, he will have to stop spending so many credits on blankets. Though, if it keeps his cyar’ika and his ad’ika happy, he figures it can’t be all that bad.

It seems though you’ve already beat him to that realization. “Yeah, and who gets him all those blankets? Us. ‘Cause, we’re the best parents in this kriffing galaxy.”

His parents. Din preens at your words. “I’ll buy it. You go look around some more, we’re gonna have to leave soon.”

You frown playfully at him but take his advice and skip off to another booth filled with hand-made items.

Din smiles at you beneath his mask then looks down to see his child already looking up at him. The baby, who knows far more than he lets on, looks at him and then looks at you, only to look back at Din. It’s then his turn to follow the kid’s line of sight before it clicks. “No. Not happening,” Din mutters, pulling a couple of credits out of his pocket and passing them to the vendor who gives him the folded blanket.

He tucks the blanket under his arm then walks in your direction. You had moved on to a new vendor, touching anything you could get your hands on. This particular display though seemed to have you preoccupied as you proved to be too distracted to notice him come up beside you. “Find anything you like?”

You don't respond, but Din sees how your eyes were fixated on one particular piece of jewelry. The necklace was strung up on the stand closest to the woman who he assumed made them: a beautiful, long silver chain with a small moonstone attached to it. You admire it, but eventually back away from the display. You take a quick glance at all the pieces one last time before smiling at the lady then looking up to Din.

“No, it’s alright. Let’s go home.” Home. Our home.

He looks at the table and then at you. He’s not really good at the whole surprise thing (in all fairness he’s never had anyone to surprise) but, he thinks, as Cara always tells him ‘there’s a first for everything', he might as well start now.

“You go ahead, cyar’ika. I’ll catch up. I just need to finalize some things with the bounty.” Din passes you the child and the blanket and he pretends he doesn’t notice his pulse quicken when you look at him like he’s the kindest person in the galaxy.

He’s not. But he hopes he’s enough for you.

You touch his shoulder, the same shoulder you healed only weeks ago, then walk away to the loading dock with your child in tow as Din heads back to the market.

v.

You don’t think you will ever get used to hyperspace.

Colours, the kind you imagine even the queen of Naboo is envious of, rush past you in a mosaic of light. Your heart drops to your stomach as you lurch forward into what always seems like another dimension. It’s a visceral experience. It’s addictive.

The Razor Crest is a big ship, but in hyperspace, it’s weightless. And maybe that’s why you love it so much because you can’t get that kind of weightlessness anywhere else.

You’re invigorated by it at all.

Unfortunately, not everyone on the ship is having as good of a time as you are.

Below the cockpit, down the stairs, and to the right is where Din paces back and forth. The child watches from the corner, eyes going back and forth, stopping, then going back and forth again as he tracks his dad's nervous movement.

Din then stops and sits beside the kid with his back against the wall. “I don’t think I’ve ever given a gift before.”

Mandalorians don’t get nervous; they’re not supposed to. They’re supposed to be composed warriors, the soldier everyone relies on. But right now, Din can’t even rely on himself.

It’s really nothing special, simply a necklace. A piece of jewelry that you eyed, but eventually dismiss—

Wait. Did you even want the necklace?

Maybe Din read the situation wrong and you had actually decided you didn’t like it. Maybe you were simply looking at it because it was ugly, like how you study something you don’t understand.

Great. Now he’s going to give you an ugly necklace that you don’t want.

Maybe he’s not as observant as everyone says he is. As he likes to think he is.

“Dank farrik.” Din slams the back of his beskar covered head into the metal wall. This wasn’t exactly how he planned this to go.

In hindsight, he wasn’t exactly sure of how it would play out anyway, but he liked to believe giving you the necklace would lead to you giving him some amount of attention. No matter how little or how much, as long as it came from you he’d do anything for it.

Maybe he’d give it to you and you’d smile in the warm way only you can. The kind of smile that even the most beautiful of moons cry over because they’re nothing compared to you. Maybe you’d touch his face through his helmet and he’d soak into your embrace the way he’s done thousands of times before. Or maybe you’d laugh, take the gift and never think about it again.

Yeah. That sounds more probable.

“I don’t know, buddy… Do you think she’ll like it?” He goes to reach for the necklace in his pocket but it’s not there. And quite frankly neither is his kid.

He’s frantic in his search for the child and the jewelry until his eyes catch him on the ladder.

Since when did he—

Damn it.

He jumps up, as quickly as his body will allow, but the baby’s already at the top with the necklace in hand.

Your little green child coos. Your turn your head to see him shuffling over to you, a huge grin on his face with something stuck in his mouth.

“Ugh,” pushing yourself off the captain's chair, you nab the kid and sit back down with him. “How do you find this stuff, I swear to Maker, kid.”

His teeth clamp harder on the object as you try to pry it out of his mouth until you finally get your fingers around it and pull it out. It’s wet from his saliva and he laughs at you as you wipe it on your shirt in disgust. Lifting him up so he’s above eye level you give him a stern look. “Stop trying to eat everything. Especially when you don’t know where that thing's been.”

Your scolding just makes him giggle harder, forcing you to roll your eyes. You swear you’re going to roll your eyes right out of their sockets one day.

You both then turn your heads to the sound of shoes pounding up the ladder, and then the door opens to the cockpit.

Mando stands there breathing heavily, as his helmet scans the entire room before landing on you two.

“Are you…are you doing okay?”

Even under his helmet, you can tell he’s flustered, and then as quickly as he came up the steps, he focuses on you. “Sorry, I just…he had a thing in his mouth and I didn’t want him to swallow it.”

“Oh yeah trust me, I already fought with him over it.” You laugh while picking up the object you set to the side.

You swear you actually hear Mando’s breath stutter as you finally take a look at the object. At first, you don’t recognize it, concern flooding your mind at the thought of your little baby choking on something as dangerous as this.

But then you realize what it is.

Din’s shifted his weight to his other leg and he can feel his hands flex nervously—compression gloves not enough to stop him from wanting to grab the object right out of your grasp.

But he knows you. He knows you well. And he can see you’ve already figured out what you’re holding.

Your eyes meet his through his helmet. “This is…this is the necklace.” It dangles from your fingertips, and the child swats at it—the jewelry becoming his newfound obsession. “The one from the market I was looking at…”

“Yes.” He cringes at how he sounds. So quick and robotic and awkward, and so very unprepared. He’s never felt this nervous before, and yet he can’t back away. He has to deal with it. “You didn’t buy it, but, I thought maybe you still wanted it. So I got it for you. As…as a gift.”

You look down at the pendant and smile softly, running your thumb over the cool, smooth stone. “If you don’t want it, I can trade it for something else when we land. Something more desirable—“

“What’s that word…?” You both speak at the same time.

“Sorry,” you chuckle out. You’ve caught his attention though, caught him off guard on his needless apology, so you clear your throat. “How do you say beautiful in Mando’a?”

He’s stunned beyond words. Beyond thoughts. And yes, he’s acutely aware of the fact that he knows he probably looks like an idiot—a man who doesn’t even know how to talk to the woman he loves, much less surprise her with something so heartfelt. But the way you look at him, sincerity in your eyes as you await a response, his brain short circuits and he somehow gives you one.

“The word is mesh’la.”

“Mesh’la,” you repeat softly. He feels his knees buckle at your voice speaking in his mother tongue and he curses every deity for putting him in such a foreign situation.

But then you’re putting the necklace on without a second thought. As though it’s routine and the necklace is already part of your being. And then his nervousness melts away. It de-escalates into something different. Something that propels him further, closer to you.

You’re a magnet and he’s the piece of metal flying through the air, willed by a force he cannot control. “Do you…like it?”

“I wouldn’t be putting it on if I didn’t like it, now would I be, Mando?”

“Din.”

“…what?”

He hadn’t even noticed that it slipped out. And he’s surprised his covert haven’t already started to beat down the walls of his ship. A confession of a gift is one thing, but Din telling you his name is just purely reckless. He should stop while he’s ahead, but the dam has been cracking beneath the weight of his feelings for a long time. So it seems that it’s time he gives them a chance.

“My name,” his voice shakes, wavers with each syllable. “My name, cyar’ika, is Din Djarin.”

You stare out, eyes wide with shock and disbelief. But then there’s a calmness that shines through. You look down at the kid, who has been watching the two of you closely for a while now.

He hears his heart pounding in his ears so loudly he’s positive he's going to pass out. “Din…” You repeat the name slowly, unsure of it as you test out the way it feels as it rolls off your tongue. “Din. I like that name. It suits you.”

“I like your name, too.” You laugh loudly. If it were out of context, he would’ve panicked at your laughter, but after realizing how ridiculous he sounded, he finds it easy to laugh right along with you.

You hold the kid in the crook of your elbow as you stand in front of the man with a permanent smile on your face. “And uh, cyar’ika…” Din’s heart drops to his stomach and his blood runs cold. “What does that mean? I figured it meant friend or something like that but…” you’re hesitant to voice your thoughts, worried that maybe you’re overthinking it; anticipating and expecting something only for it not to be there. Wishful thinking. “I’m just curious.”

Of course, you are. Why wouldn’t you be? It was only a matter of time before you were going to ask him. Only a matter of time before you put all the signs together. Before you realized you didn’t want him that way.

Cara once told him he wasn’t subtle. At first, he had no clue what she meant, but he knows now. And he wishes he didn’t.

He takes a deep breath and tries to ignore the welling up in the corner of his eyes, but understands that it’s pointless. His time is up.

“Cyar’ika…” his tongue swells up his mouth. He’s never felt this breathless before. “It means sweetheart.”

Even from behind his helmet he feels exposed. Everything is out in the open and nothing he can do, or say, can fix it. And the fact that this is the first time since he met you that he can’t read you? It truly terrifies him.

He tenses up, waiting for the moment in which you say goodbye. When you kiss the forehead of your child, pack up your things, and give your awkward thanks to Din for allowing you to stay with them.

He waits, and waits, and waits. But it never comes. Instead, you slowly bring your hands up to his. He holds his breath, or rather, his breath holds him. Your hands gently glide on his arms until they reach the broad expanse of his shoulders, and then the edges of his helmet.

He hesitates, but you don’t stop there. Eventually, your hands stop on the sides of his helmet, where you assume the sides of his face would be if you were to hold him without his armor. He can’t help but lean into the contact you provide him. Even through the impenetrable beskar, he can still feel the warmth of your hands on his skin, imagines how it would feel to place his skin on yours. It may be temporary, but if this is all he’ll get for the rest of his life, he’d die happy. “What should I call you then?”

He…wasn’t expecting that. Actually, it was the last thing he expected you to say. You take his silence as a good sign to keep going. “Well, if you call me sweetheart…what should I call you?”

“I…” Din almost cries. He’s tired, stressed, and feels like he’s on a tightrope. But the more he thinks about it, the more he realizes you aren’t running away. You’re staying here. Touching him through his helmet and looking at him the way he’s wanted you to for what feels like forever. You're looking at him the same way he looks at you. “Din. I just want you to call me Din.”

You smile at that. At him. “Din…” he melts underneath you, relishing in the way his name sounds in your voice. And then you're reaching up to him, hands still holding his helmet firmly as you ever-so-gently pull him to meet you. And then…

Then you kiss him. You plant a feather-light kiss to his helmet, one that lingers and permanently takes ownership of his breath. You pull away from him before pressing your foreheads together and Din swears he just died.

The two of you stay like that for…you aren’t too sure how long. It feels like it’s been both seconds and minutes. Although you really aren’t keeping track, the dizzying feeling rattling around in your skull makes your brain feel like mush.

You can feel Din’s breastplates move slowly, letting you know that he’s calmed down, coming down from the shared high of two friends who’ve finally collided. He inhales deeply and his hands rest over yours. Your fingers intertwine on the sides of his helmet, but then he’s lifting up the beskar, and you panic.

“Din, stop.” You don’t realize how breathless you’ve become and you’re shocked that even with the lack of oxygen to your brain, you’re still aware of his creed.

But he cuts you off and presses his forehead to yours again. “It’s okay, just…just close your eyes. Please.” It's almost a whimper, and the sound ruins you (you take mental note of that sound for later). So you close your eyes.

You’re eager to feel him. To touch skin rather than just beskar. You don’t know what he looks like, might not know for a long time, but you’ll know what he'll feel like. And right now that’s the only thing keeping you going.

Your hands feel him first. Smooth and warm and a hint of stubble. You begin to map out his face with your hands, all while he holds you. It’s the most intimate you’ve ever been with someone…the most intimate you think you’ll ever be. Then, he’s kissing you. It’s firm, yet gentle. Soft, yet hard. It’s everything you both imagined it to be, and more.

“excuse me!” you shout after being shoved by some passerby on the sidewalk and earning a combat boot to your foot where a bruise is now undoubtedly forming already, nearly dropping your tray of coffees in the process. baker street was busy as usual: people running late for work, gray suits blurring past you; children skipping along with their colorful backpacks bouncing with each step; potential clients lining up just outside 221b and wrapping around the side of the building.

you squeeze past an arguing couple, both spewing nasty remarks that you wouldn’t dare repeat, and sneak inside. you lean against the closed door and huff out a relieved sigh, thankful to be tucked away from all the chaos.

“good morning, mrs. hudson!” you greet cheerfully, hearing an equally pleasant ‘good morning, dear!’ before climbing up the stairs with a slight limp.

221b is messy as usual—you spot a half-eaten apple, crinkled newspapers with coffee stains, a used tea bag, and old receipts that cover the main table’s surface. you shuffle inside the room, kicking aside a skull sat in the middle of the floor. the fact that it looks eerily realistic does not go unnoticed by you, and you suppress a shiver at the thought of where sherlock must have acquired one. sometimes ignorance is bliss when it comes to him.

“good morning, boys,” you announce to the room, setting down the cardboard tray of coffees—one for you, one for john, and one for sherlock, each carefully marked with their specific orders—and a small paper bag of pastries that you couldn’t pass up as you often allowed yourself a treat from time to time to assuage your sweet tooth.

john greets you from his usual armchair, chin resting in his fist as he stares at the television screen, scanning the channels for updated news stories and potential cases that your little team could get involved in.

“where’s sherlock?” you ask carefully, forcing indifference into your tone in the hopes that you don’t sound too curious or enthusiastic to see the consulting detective.

you had been harboring a crush on the consulting detective for a couple of months now, but you haven’t dared bring it up in case he doesn’t return your feelings. you highly doubt he would, or could, for that matter. he doesn’t ‘do’ relationships or sentiment, as he repeatedly claimed to you and john. he was always too focused on his work and stayed overly busy so that something so tedious as a romantic relationship had no room in his life. well, there was nothing wrong with falling in love, you thought. you had admired it ever since you were young, but now clearly wasn’t your time for love and sherlock holmes clearly wasn’t the one for you. you were destined to keep this little school girl crush of yours a secret until it extinguished like a candle snuffed out, with only a faint whisper of smoke lingering behind to indicate any sort of flame burned in the first place.

just then, sherlock appears from his bedroom, slamming the door behind him, and waltzing into the main room until he stops short when he sees you. “you’re favoring your left foot.”

“pardon?”

he steps closer, peering down at the foot in question. “there’s an outline of an outsole on the upper half of your shoe and you’re currently putting more weight on your right side than your left when normally it’s the other way around.”

“oh, right,” you say, feeling a bit flushed at being on the receiving end of sherlock’s deduction process. “just some idiot outside who wasn’t watching where he was going and stepped on my foot. it’s probably just bruised or something.”

blue eyes meet yours and you almost miss the flash of concern that cross over his features. “john,” sherlock says without turning away from you, “you’re a doctor—”

“excellent observation, mr. holmes! you know, you should look into detective work, you have a real knack for it,” john shouts from the living room.

“—take a look at her foot, won’t you?”

you unconsciously step back. “oh, no. really, i’m all right. it’s nothing,” you insist but sherlock interrupts you.

“honestly, y/n. let him take a quick look, just to make sure nothing’s broken.”

nodding, you limp into the living room, sherlock’s hand hovering behind your back for support, as you take a seat in his assigned chair. john inspects your foot, as requested, gently removing your shoe and calling for some bandages and ointment from sherlock, and soon enough, your foot is stabilized, wrapped, and returned to your shoe as if nothing ever happened.

“not to worry, y/n,” john says. “looks like it’s just a slight sprain, nothing to be too concerned about. just be sure to keep it bandaged and try not to walk on it too much. you should be fine in a week or so.” he offers you a comforting smile and pats your knee gently before standing. “i’m just going to run out real quick. mary rang,” he says, pointing to his cell phone. “be back in a bit.”

you and sherlock watch as he exits the flat, just the two of you alone now.

“does it hurt?”

your gaze drifts over to where sherlock is standing near the door. “just a little, but i’ll be fine. thank you,” you offer a genuine smile at his concern.

he nods. “all right. let me know if you need anything.” he grabs his coffee from the tray and picks up yours as well, setting it carefully on the side table next to you along with the bag of pastries.

“oh.” you remember that you’re sitting in sherlock’s armchair and begin to rise from the cushions. “you probably want to sit here—”

sherlock swiftly returns to your side, gently pushing down on your shoulders until you’re sitting comfortably back in the chair. “no, no. you need to rest, stay here as long as you like. i’ll just be over there,” he says, indicating the couch alongside the wall. “stay,” he repeats in a firm tone, leaving no room for argument.

“okay.”

he stays next to you long enough to ensure that you won’t try getting back up again, and walks over to the couch, flipping through a stack of cases lestrade had offered him the other day, but you notice out of the corner of your eye that his gaze is still on you.

two weeks later and your foot is completely healed. you’re back to feeling normal, running through london and tagging along behind john and sherlock to help with pending investigations. you’re thankful to be up and moving again as you were starting to feel a bit stir-crazy not being able to get around on your own.

john had insisted that a minor sprain wasn’t anything to be overly concerned about, but sherlock had stayed glued to your side over the past two weeks, barely letting you lift a finger so as not to disturb your foot’s healing process. why the world-famous sherlock holmes thought you changing the television channel via remote—still seated in his armchair, no less—would cause any harm to your lower extremities was beyond you. you were just pleased to be out of the flat, enjoying the fresh air and getting yourself a cup of tea down the street, an extra thermos of tea tucked under your arm to bring back to sherlock.

as you make your way up the stairs, mrs. hudson pops her head out from around the corner and stops you.

“oh, y/n! i thought i heard you come in.”

“hi, mrs. hudson,” you greet kindly when she suddenly tugs on your wrist and ushers you back down the stairs and into her small kitchen, surprisingly strong for someone her age and size. you’re pushed into one of the wooden chairs, worn cushion cast astray from the abrupt motion, before she seats herself across from you.

“now, dear,” she begins. “there’s something i’ve been meaning to tell you and i think now is the perfect time.”

“tell me what?” you question.

“i’ve noticed you’ve been spending more time around here than usual—” she holds up a hand as you start to interject. “not that i mind, of course! it’s always lovely to see your smiling face around here, but i must say that you’ve done a great deal of good for sherlock.”

“i have?”

“very much so. i think you’d be the perfect match for him, dear,” mrs. hudson says warmly. “you always keep him in check more than any of us ever could. and he seems a lot happier whenever you’re around,” she adds with a wink.

“r-really? i mean, we’re not, like, together or anything—” much to your dismay, you think to yourself.

“oh yes! it’s so rare to see that man smile, but he does it an awful lot when you stop by. makes your visits here all the more worthwhile. and if you must know…” she leans in close to you in a conspiratorial whisper, “he often talks about you.”

“sherlock talks about me?”

she pats your hand and smiles. “he sure does,” and with that, she gets up from the table and continues preparing dinner, the monotonous rhythm of chopping vegetables echoing throughout the small room.

you shakily rise to your feet, confused and overwhelmed by mrs. hudson’s admission, and numbly walk back up the stairs to sherlock’s flat. although, now you’re wondering if you should even continue your original plan of meeting him today. you’re reminded of the tea you’d picked up for him, tucked snuggly beneath your arm, exuding warmth as the familiar scent of earl grey reaches your nose.

sighing to yourself, you decide to just drop off the tea so it doesn’t go to waste, and then return to your own flat… just long enough to process this new information.

you make it halfway up the stairs when you hear sherlock’s voice inside his flat, discussing some murder case or another with john, when you lose every ounce of courage left in your body and fly back down the staircase, tea be damned.

now is not the time for you to confront sherlock about what mrs. hudson said, or even to be in the same room as him or look at him… it’s all too much. the possibility that sherlock may return your sentiment is something you don’t know how to handle. sherlock… sentiment…? there’s no way, you chide yourself. mrs. hudson must have been mistaken or maybe she was simply giving herself a laugh, seeing your reaction to hearing that your crush may like you back. how ridiculous, you think to yourself.

you decide right then and there that you most certainly will not be visiting sherlock anytime soon. maybe you’ll tell him that you’re sick and that you don’t want to risk infecting anyone—the common cold has been spreading about recently, so it wouldn’t be too unbelievable. he probably wouldn’t even notice your missing presence since he’s been so busy lately. yes, that’s what you’ll do.confident in your decision, you continue on your path before you can change your mind. shoving the front door open, you practically tumble out onto the sidewalk in your haste, when you hear a familiar voice call out your name from deep inside the apartment building. you almost allow yourself to stop and turn back, but resolutely close the door behind you and make your way down baker street.

“there’s something you’re not telling me.”

you’re shaken out of your train of thought by sherlock’s sudden question. “what are you talking about?” you ask.

mrs. hudson had asked you to stop by the market to pick up a few things for her, stating that ‘dinner would be ruined’ if she didn’t get her hands on some special ingredient or another. although, now that you’re here, standing in the middle of sherlock’s living room, you finally realize that this was just her sly attempt at getting you to fess up to sherlock. sneaky woman…

“i take pride in my skills of deduction and they haven’t failed me yet,” sherlock begins thoughtfully, “but there’s something about you that i can’t quite figure out, and frankly, it’s driving me out of my mind.” he pauses as if steeling himself for his next words. “i know i’m not the best at understanding human emotions, but i was under the impression that you have feelings for me.”

the room feels like it’s spinning as the air closes in around you. your stomach plunges to your feet and you wish you could sink right into the floor. “w-what?”

“am i wrong, y/n?”

he’s watching you closely, blue eyes swimming with questions that you’re not sure how to answer.

“i don’t know what you’re talking abo—”

“you’ve been acting different lately,” he interrupts. “you barely speak to me, i only see you occasionally in passing and you haven’t joined john and i on cases in well over a week. what’s going on?”

you feel the color drain from your face. you were hoping that your attempts at gradually distancing yourself from him—all efforts to hide the fact that you’re desperately in love with him—would go unnoticed. he’s a busy man, what with being the only consulting detective in the nation and all, certainly being in high demand at scotland yard or with individual clients sprinkled throughout the city, and you thought he would have gotten caught up in cases and other concerns that he would’ve brushed your suspicious behaviors aside. well, clearly your plans of pulling away were an utter failure and now he was expecting you to explain yourself.

you didn’t know where to look, anxious eyes flitting across the room and landing on the stupid skull sitting atop the shelf above the fireplace, recently moved from its previous spot on the floor. you had told him a million times that it gave you the creeps, but he insisted on keeping it around, if only to see you jump in shock each time he held it out to you, using it as his own form of ventriloquy.

your thoughts are interrupted as sherlock enters your peripheral, taking your hands in his and running his thumbs soothingly over your knuckles. you realize you’d been fidgeting with your fingers—a nervous habit that popped up from time to time.

sherlock pulls you toward him, actions slow and careful so as not to frighten you enough that you bolt out the door and his questions remain unanswered. “it’s all right,” he says, voice deep and warm like honey, all traces of his detective mode long gone, replaced now by concern for you. “you’ve been ignoring me,” he states gently, almost sad. “i’d like you to tell me why.”

“what? no,” you say too quickly, all attempts at nonchalance failing to the point where not even you believe the words coming out of your mouth.

he takes a step closer, eyes searching your features. “the response time of your answer indicates that you’re lying. furthermore, your blinking patterns are abnormally rapid and it appears that you can’t meet my eyes.” he leans down so that you’re at eye level with him and your heart thuds loudly in your chest at his close proximity. “i’d like to know why you’re lying to me, y/n,” he says quietly.

you swallow. “i’m not—i’m not lying.” but his gaze is so intense, so precise, that you feel trapped, like he sees you—all of you, everything you’ve been keeping hidden beneath the surface. you should’ve known better than to think that the legendary sherlock holmes would never find out about your crush on him.

his grasp on your hands tightens ever so slightly and his eyes plead with you, begging you to tell the truth… the truth that he undoubtedly knows without you having to say anything. no, it seems as though your actions over the past couple of weeks have spoken enough for you.

“please stop deluding yourself, y/n. i know that you have feelings for me,” he admits. your face feels hot and you’re suddenly wishing you could melt straight into the earth’s core. he continues as if your world wasn’t crumbling down around you, “and if you would have paid any attention over the past few months, you would have realized that your feelings did not go unreciprocated. in fact, i’m growing tired of you ignoring my advances when it’s so clear that—”

everything comes to a screeching halt. “wait a minute… what advances?”

“what do you mean ‘what advances’? i thought it was obvious that i’m trying to… what do they refer to it nowadays…” he snaps his fingers, trying to think of the word, “courting, is it? no, that’s too old-fashioned. flirting? oh, how juvenile…” sherlock continues his train of thought while you stand completely still, barely breathing as realization washes over you.

“i’ve been trying, however terribly, to court you, y/n.” he looks off to the side, deep in thought. “maybe i’ve lost my touch,” he mutters to himself.

“i-i didn’t… i had no idea. i mean, i do—i do have feelings for you. i just thought that…” you’re fumbling over your words like an idiot, face burning in embarrassment.

“thought that what?”

“huh?” you say stupidly.

“you just thought that… what?” he repeats.

“i didn’t think that you… did sentiment… and certainly not for someone like me.”

“it seems that i’ve warmed up to the idea of sentiment, thanks to a certain someone,” he says with a wink. “and by ‘someone like you,’ are you implying that i couldn’t possibly fall for you, beautiful creature that you are?”

you nod, blush rising up your cheeks.

“do you honestly believe i think so little of you?”

“well… i mean, you’re—you’re the sherlock holmes.”

“what’s that supposed to mean?”

“it means that you’re you and i’m me.”

“how preposterous,” he admonishes you. “you are undoubtedly the best thing that has ever happened to me, and i do mean that in every sense of the word. ever since you knocked on my door, offering your case to us and barging into my world—thank god for that, by the way—i have been taken by you completely. so please, darling, i am pleading with you that you do not depreciate yourself like this. i am honored to have met you and i would consider it a privilege to be loved by you… if you’ll have me,” he adds timidly.

you offer him a watery smile, utterly touched at such kind words, especially coming from him. never in a million years would you have imagined this outcome, instead having thought up countless horror stories should your secret ever come out, but you certainly weren’t complaining now.

the aftershocks of his confession begin to settle and your heart clenches painfully as you become aware of something.

“i’m sorry,” you whisper.

sherlock’s eyes widen in shock. “what? what could you possibly be sorry for?”

“you liked me this whole time,” you say quietly. “and i had no idea.”

“that’s quite all right, my dear.” he smiles at you. “i think we were both a little slow to catch on,” he says, amusement lacing his tone.

“but—” your words are muffled as sherlock’s lips meet yours, warm hands sliding under your jaw and holding you carefully, reverently, as if he’s afraid he might break you. he tilts your head back to deepen the kiss, desire coating his tongue as it brushes across yours in gentle strokes.

a shaky exhale passes your swollen lips as he draws back marginally, eyes crinkling at the corners upon seeing you so affected. he brings your hands up to rest on his chest and you feel his heartbeat racing beneath his shirt, not unlike how yours is hammering wildly against your ribcage. “do you understand now?” he asks you, voice like rich velvet. “i love you, y/n.”

you feel a grin pull at your cheeks and you feel happy—happier than you’ve felt in a long time. “i love you, too,” you say, relief rushing over you at finally admitting the words that had been caged inside you for far too long. “i love you so much, sherlock.” his mouth descends on yours again and you can feel the smile in his kiss.

the two of you continue for who knows how long, far too wrapped up in each other to realize that john and mrs. hudson are standing just outside the door, both donning equally smug smiles at the events unfolding inside 221b.

"you owe me twenty quid," mrs. hudson whispers to john, holding out her open palm.