Flesh Of My Flesh

Spencer's alarm startles you awake.

The sound is gentle—some unobtrusive instrumental piece he swears improves cognitive transition from sleep to wakefulness—but it still slices through the quiet room.

You groan into the pillow.

Beside you, Spencer shifts immediately. Not startled. Just aware. His hand fumbles for his phone on the nightstand, silencing it before the second refrain.

The room settles again.

You’re halfway back under when the mattress dips.

Warmth presses into your back.

An arm slides carefully around your waist, palm spreading over the curve of your stomach like it belongs there. His nose nudges into the space between your shoulder and neck.

He exhales, deep and content.

You blink awake a little more.

“…Did I forget to set my alarm?” you mumble, voice thick with sleep.

“No,” he murmurs into your shoulder. You can feel his mouth move when he talks. “It’s not six-thirty yet.”

You squint at the faint light leaking through the curtains. “Then why are we conscious?”

You feel it before you see it—the way his cheek shifts against you.

He’s smiling.

“I set mine fifteen minutes early.”

You huff a soft laugh. “Why?”

His thumb traces a slow, absent line along your side. There’s the smallest hesitation, like he’s debating whether this is ridiculous to admit.

“So I could cuddle you,” he says finally, quieter now. “Before we have to get up.”

The room is dim and warm, the world outside still gray and far away. His arm tightens almost imperceptibly, like he’s bracing for you to tease him.

You smile.

“That’s disgustingly cute,” you murmur.

He makes a soft, offended noise into your shoulder. “It was a strategic allocation of time.”

“Oh, absolutely,” you agree. “Very tactical.”

His fingers spread over your stomach again, protective without thinking about it. His chin settles against your shoulder. He breathes you in like he’s memorizing something.

“You’re warm,” he adds, like this is supporting evidence.

You shift closer on purpose, pressing back into him. “You’re a menace.”

“I am not.”

“You set an early alarm to cuddle.”

“…I don’t see the issue.”

You laugh, low and sleepy, and slide your hand over his where it rests against you. His thumb hooks instinctively between your fingers.

Outside, somewhere down the street, a car door slams. The world is starting whether you’re ready or not.

Spencer’s phone screen lights up again in warning at 6:30.

You feel him press a small, absent kiss into your shoulder. Not performative. Not even fully awake.

You grab his arm as he starts to pull away.

“Five more minutes,” you whisper.

“Four.”

You squeeze his hand. “Spence.”

He exhales, conceding. “Five.”

Five minutes pass the way they always do when you actually want them.

Too fast. Slippery. Gone.

His third alarm is less forgiving.

Spencer groans this time, which feels like a small personal victory.

You roll onto your back as he pushes himself up on one elbow, hair rumpled beyond saving, eyes still soft with sleep. For a second he just looks at you, like he’s cataloguing something important.

Then reality crashes back in.

“We have to leave in forty-three minutes,” he mutters.

“You’re very romantic.”

He leans down and presses a quick kiss to your forehead before sitting up fully. “Punctuality reduces occupational stress.”

You throw a pillow at his back as he shuffles toward the bathroom.

The pillow hits him square between the shoulders. He barely flinches.

“Noted,” he says, voice muffled slightly as he disappears into the bathroom, like you’ve just added something to a running list instead of assaulted him with bedding.

The door clicks shut. You stare at it for a second. Then you flop back against your mattress, staring up at the ceiling, heart doing that stupid, quiet, steady thing it’s been doing all week.

Seven days of this strange, gentle shift where nothing exploded and everything changed anyway.

Seven days of lingering touches that don’t feel accidental anymore. Of him saying your name softer. Of you not pulling away. Of conversations that almost circle the word love again but don’t need to land on it every time because it’s already there, settled between you like something known.

And now, this.

Morning light. His toothbrush in your bathroom. His alarm set early just to hold you. 

You press your palm over your face, dragging it down slowly.

God.

The bathroom door opens. Steam curls out first, followed by Spencer, in a large tee shirt and his pajama pants. His hair is still a mess, his eyes still heavy-lidded.

You smile before you can stop yourself.

It’s soft. Unthinking. The kind that just… happens.

He pauses when he catches it—mid-step, one hand still half-lifted like he forgot what he was about to do next. There’s a flicker of something in his expression. Surprise, maybe. Or the quiet satisfaction he doesn’t always know how to hide.

“What?” he asks, automatically suspicious.

You shake your head, pushing yourself up onto your elbows. “Nothing.”

His eyes narrow just slightly. “That was not a nothing smile.”

You huff a quiet laugh. “You’re profiling me before coffee. That feels unfair.”

“I don’t need caffeine to observe patterns,” he says, but there’s no bite to it. Just warmth. Familiarity.

You tilt your head, studying him for a second longer.

“Okay,” you admit finally, voice quieter. “You just… look nice.”

“Oh,” he says.

There’s the faintest shift in his posture, like he doesn’t quite know where to put that. Compliments have always been… complicated terrain.

You watch the way his fingers flex once at his side. The way his gaze flicks away, then back to you.

“You look nice too,” he adds after a second, like he’s returning something carefully borrowed.

You snort softly. “I’ve been awake for maybe three minutes.”

“Yes,” he says, completely serious. “But you look… rested.”

You raise a brow. “That’s the nicest possible way you could’ve said that.”

“It’s also accurate.”

You laugh again, shaking your head as you push the blankets back and swing your legs over the side of the bed. The floor is cool against your feet.

Spencer watches you for a second—just a second—before he looks away, giving you that same careful space he always does, even now.

“You should eat something before we leave,” he says. “I can cook something while you shower.”

You smile, soft and easy. Something that doesn’t need thinking anymore.

“Sure,” you say.

Simple. Normal. Like agreeing to breakfast isn’t suddenly threaded through with something warmer.

You shift your weight forward, pushing yourself fully to your feet. The room tilts for half a second—just enough to remind you you’re still carrying more than just yourself—but it settles quickly.

You take a step toward the bathroom. Then—

His fingers catch your wrist. Gentle. Not enough to stop you so much as ask.

You pause, turning back to him. Spencer looks like he surprised himself.

There’s a flicker of uncertainty in his expression, like he didn’t think far enough ahead to what happens after he reaches for you—like this part, the what now, still feels new under his hands.

You tug him down. It’s not hesitant or careful in the way everything else has been.

It’s quiet, yes—but sure. Certain in a way that feels like it’s been building for far longer than either of you have been willing to say out loud.

Your lips meet his.

For a split second, he freezes—like his brain needs to catch up to what’s happening. And then he melts, soft and immediate.

His hand lifts, hovering for the briefest moment at your waist before settling there, fingers curling just slightly into the fabric of your shirt like he needs to anchor himself.

He exhales against your mouth. And then he smiles. You feel it.

A small, almost disbelieving curve of his lips, right there against yours, like he can’t quite help it.

It pulls a quiet warmth through your chest, something steady and bright.

You pull back slowly, just enough to breathe. 

“Why are you smiling?” you murmur.

His eyes flick between yours, like he’s searching for the most accurate answer instead of the safest one.

“That’s the first time we’ve kissed,” he says quietly.

“…We've kissed before,” you point out.

“Undercover,” he corrects immediately. “That was situational. Context-dependent. Not—” he hesitates, searching “—not representative of personal intent.”

You huff a soft laugh, your thumbs brushing lightly along his cheekbones. “So this is your official data point?”

“Yes,” he says, completely serious.

That pulls a smile out of you. You tilt your head slightly, studying him like he’s the one being examined now.

“And?” you ask, softer, teasing threading through it. “Was it everything you were waiting for?”

There’s no hesitation. No deflection. No overthinking.

“And more,” Spencer says, soft but certain.

Your breath catches, just for a second.

And then you smile—slow, soft, a little helpless around the edges.

“Good,” you whisper.

Your thumbs trace once more along his cheeks before your hands finally slide down, lingering for just a second at his jaw before you let them fall.

He watches you like you’ve just rewritten something fundamental. Like he’s memorizing this version of you—the one who kissed him first. The one who didn’t overthink it. The one who stayed.

“You should shower,” he says, voice quieter now, but still gently insistent. “We’re losing time.”

You laugh, breath still a little light, and take a step back.

“There he is,” you murmur. “I was wondering when you’d come back.”

“I never left,” he says.

And somehow, that doesn’t feel like a joke.

You shake your head, smiling, and turn toward the bathroom—but not before catching the way he’s still looking at you.

Soft. A little awed. Like he’s still standing in that moment.

And maybe… so are you.

You tap your fingers against your knee, then stop and start again, counting in your head, willing your pulse to slow. You’ve been trying to make yourself normal, reminding yourself of logic, of schedules, of the fact that Spencer is calm beside you—so calm it’s infuriating.

He sits with perfect posture, hands folded neatly in his lap, eyes forward. His presence is measured, composed—everything you’re not.

You decide to shift your focus, letting your pulse settle into something resembling a rhythm. You look around the waiting room.

A toddler is sitting across from you with his heavily pregnant mother, dropping a plastic giraffe on the floor with alarming determination, like he’s conducting durability tests for NASA. The toy bounces and rolls across the linoleum. The boy catches your eye and grins, waving enthusiastically. You smile back, and he beams, proud of his performance.

Spencer’s gaze flicks toward the commotion. He watches the boy quietly, lips twitching as though he wants to smile but is restraining himself with all the discipline of someone about to deliver a lecture. You notice the way his hand rests lightly on his own knee, fingers flexing slightly—subtle, careful, aware.

The boy drops the giraffe again, and this time, it bounces straight toward Spencer’s side. Reflexively, he reaches down, catches it, and hands it back to the toddler with a soft, almost embarrassed smile. The mother glances up, surprised and thankful.

You can’t help the warmth that blooms in your chest, a soft, disarming tug. Spencer, the brilliant, infallible Spencer, interacting with a child as if it’s second nature, his movements gentle and precise. You glance down at your own belly, imagining that same carefulness when it belongs to your own little one.

You shift slightly in your chair, hand brushing the curve of your stomach even though it’s still barely noticeable, more a promise than a presence. Your fingers linger there, tracing imaginary outlines, imagining what it will feel like when there’s something tangible to cradle. A small bump to hold, a tiny weight pressing gently against your palm, warm and insistently real.

The door beside the reception desk clicks open, and a nurse in soft blue scrubs steps out with a clipboard held against her chest. She calls your name gently.

Your breath stutters—just enough that you feel it. Spencer stands at the exact same moment you do, like you’re tethered. You don’t look at him. You don’t have to. He’s there, already smoothing down the front of his sweater as if preparing for a dissertation.

The nurse smiles warmly. “Come on back. We’ll get you settled in.”

You follow her down a short hallway, the walls lined with pastel illustrations of smiling cartoon vegetables meant to look reassuring and instead looking vaguely haunted. Spencer walks beside you, hands behind his back, trying to appear casual and failing spectacularly.

Inside the small exam room, the lighting is soft, the table covered in crinkly white paper that immediately feels too loud. The nurse gestures for you to sit. Spencer hovers until she gives him a pointed look that clearly means there’s a chair, genius, and he finally lowers himself into it.

“All right,” she says, glancing through your chart. “Before the doctor comes in, I’m just going to go through some quick questions. Nothing unusual.”

You nod. You’ve done this before. The nerves shouldn’t be this sharp, shouldn’t scrape at the inside of your ribs—but they do.

“Any bleeding or spotting since your last visit?”

“No.”

“Any abdominal pain? Cramping?”

“Just normal stretching stuff, I think,” you say. “Nothing sharp.”

“Headaches? Dizziness?”

“Some fatigue. But that’s normal too, right?”

The nurse smiles. “Very normal.”

Spencer’s hands shift slightly where they rest—subtle, but you see it. He’s listening to every word, cataloguing symptoms, cross-referencing data mentally, probably building a probabilistic model of perinatal complications because that is who he is.

The nurse turns a page. “And there’s a hospital report here from that incident at work—when you were held by the suspect?”

You nod. “He grabbed me around the waist and lifted me. No abdominal impact, but we went to the ER afterward.”

“And they monitored you overnight, correct?”

“Yes. Everything was fine.”

Spencer glances up at that—just a flick of his eyes—but there’s something softened at the edges now, something quietly relieved. You don’t comment on it. You don’t have to.

“Any pain since then?” the nurse asks. “Bruising? Pressure? Back pain?”

“No. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

She nods, writing quickly. “Good. I’ll note that everything stayed stable overnight. Thank you.”

The nurse closes the chart with a soft thwap, the sound strangely grounding. “Alright,” she says, her voice warm as chamomile. “Let’s get your vitals, and then we’ll move on to the ultrasound.”

You nod and take a slow breath—your first unforced one since you walked in.

Something in you settles, small and sure.

She starts with your blood pressure.

The cuff tightens around your arm in a familiar squeeze, and you let your shoulders ease downward, unclenching the places you didn’t know were tense. Spencer watches the monitor with a strange devotion, as though your systolic pressure has the power to personally offend him.

“It’s perfect,” the nurse announces.

Spencer’s exhale is quiet enough that anyone else would miss it.

You don’t.

The pulse-ox clip follows, cool against your fingertip. Then your weight, which she records without commentary—bless her—and your temperature, which earns a bright “All good.”

You feel… lighter. Like the room finally has oxygen in it.

The nurse scribbles a final note and smiles. “Everything looks healthy. The doctor will be happy.”

You look over at Spencer. He gives you a small nod—tight, controlled, but full of something warm and earnest. Approval. Relief. Something that tugs behind your ribs.

“I’ll let the doctor know you’re ready,” the nurse says, stepping out and closing the door gently behind her.

Silence settles over the room, soft and unthreatening. The kind of quiet that feels shared instead of empty.

You sit back against the raised exam-table cushion, fingers smoothing the edge of the crinkly paper. Spencer doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands, so he folds them in his lap again—like he’s been reset to factory settings.

“Better?” he asks softly.

You blink at him. The question is simple, but the tone—god, the tone—feels like it has hands, like it settles gently against your shoulders.

“Yes,” you say. “Actually. Yeah. I think so.”

He nods, gaze flicking over you with a carefulness that is very much him. “Good.”

There’s something else in the air now—stillness with a heartbeat. Not tension. Not nerves.

Expectation.

A faint knock interrupts it.

The door opens, and your OB steps inside with a practiced, reassuring smile.

“Good to see you both again,” she says. “Everything’s in order here, I see.”

Spencer sits up a fraction straighter, which would be comical if it weren’t so endearing.

“So,” the doctor starts, wheeling over the ultrasound cart, “let’s take a look at how baby’s doing today.”

Your pulse skips—once, then steadies.

Not fear this time.

Anticipation.

You lie back, lifting your shirt just enough to expose your lower belly. The doctor snaps a paper drape over your waistband with professional efficiency.

Spencer’s chair scoots closer—quiet, subtle, but definitely on purpose.

You don’t comment.

You don’t have to.

The machine hums to life, low and soothing.

“Gel might be a little cold,” the doctor warns, and the moment it touches your skin, you gasp, then laugh at yourself.

When you glance at Spencer—he’s already looking at the monitor. Eyes wide. Breath held. Hands still.

The wand touches your abdomen.

The picture flickers. Static. Shadows.

Then—

A shape. Small. Alive.

Your baby.

Your throat tightens. Not painfully. Just full.

“There we are,” the doctor murmurs. “Everything looks right on track.”

She adjusts the probe with small, practiced movements, the gel cool and slick against your skin. The image sharpens—grainy, yes, but unmistakably something. Someone.

“Okay,” she says gently, “right here—this little flicker? That’s the heartbeat.”

Spencer inhales like someone cracked open the universe. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just a soft, startled breath, the kind people take when they’re standing in front of something sacred and didn’t know they were about to be.

You look at the screen.

And there it is.

A pulse—rapid and bright—fluttering like a tiny, determined wing.

Your chest squeezes, a slow bloom of warmth that makes your eyes sting.

“That’s… fast,” you manage, because your voice is doing the opposite of cooperating.

The doctor smiles. “Completely normal at this stage. Around 160 to 170 beats per minute is typical for about ten weeks.”

Spencer whispers, just barely audible, “One-sixty-three point four.”

You blink at him. “You can… count that?”

He flushes, clearing his throat. “I can estimate. The pattern is… rhythmic.”

The doctor tries—and fails—not to smile.

She moves the wand again, angling it slightly. “And right here,” she narrates, her tone warm and steady, “this curved shape is the head. Very early development, of course—but you can see the beginnings of the cranial structure.”

You squint. “It looks like a lima bean.”

Spencer leans in a fraction. “Technically closer to a—”

“Don’t say embryo edamame,” you warn.

His mouth snaps shut, but the twitch in his cheek betrays him.

The doctor laughs softly under her breath, then continues. “And this,” she says, tracing another area on the screen with her cursor, “is where the limb buds are forming. You won’t see full arms and legs yet, but development is right on schedule.”

You stare at the tiny nubs, the faint curve of possibility. Your baby. Your future shaped into pixels and sound waves.

The doctor shifts again. “This is the crown–rump length. That’s what I’m measuring now.” She clicks the calipers on the screen, drawing a line from the top of the baby’s head to the lower curve of its body. “About 3.3 centimeters. Perfect for ten weeks, one day.”

Spencer’s breath catches again—subtle but unmistakable. He’s memorizing every number. You know him. You can practically feel him writing them on the insides of his ribs.

“And here,” the doctor adds, “this dark area is the gestational sac. Nice and round. Healthy.”

You nod, even though you’re not sure you’re absorbing half of it. Your attention is split—between the soft hum of the machine, the shape on the screen, the rhythm of your baby’s heartbeat…

…and Spencer.

Spencer, who is staring at the monitor with an expression so open you barely recognize it. Awe, quiet and unguarded. Something like joy, but too delicate to name.

You’ve seen him look at rare books like this. Nobel lectures. Once, a nebula through a high-powered telescope.

But never a person.

Never your person.

The doctor continues speaking, calm and steady. “Everything looks excellent. Strong heartbeat, good growth, consistent development. No concerns at this time.”

The words land in your chest like a warm weight, anchoring you, lifting you, unraveling every knot of fear you’ve been stitching into yourself since day one.

Relief floods you so suddenly you almost shiver.

Spencer finally looks at you.

It’s brief—a flick of his eyes from the screen to your face—but the expression is unmistakable.

He is relieved too.

He is relieved for you.

“Would you like to hear the heartbeat rather than just see it?” the doctor asks.

Your breath stutters. You nod.

She presses a button.

And suddenly the room is filled with sound—rapid, loud, echoing, impossibly alive.

Your baby’s heartbeat.

It fills every corner of the tiny exam room, a furious, steady gallop, stronger than anything so small should be.

Your eyes burn. Your throat closes. The world goes soft around the edges.

Spencer’s hand moves—just slightly—like he wants to reach for you.

He doesn’t.

But he thought about it.

“I’ll print a few photos for you,” the doctor says gently, dimming the monitor. “Let me step out and get those for you.”

She wipes the gel from your abdomen with a soft towel. Then she stands, gathering her clipboard.

“You’re both doing wonderfully,” she adds, warm and sure. “I’ll be right back.”

The door closes behind her.

Silence settles again—full this time, like the room is holding its breath right alongside you.

You lower your shirt slowly, fingers trembling just enough that you feel it.

Spencer is still staring at where the screen was, like the afterimage is burned there.

Then—quietly, reverently—he speaks.

“That was…” He stops. Swallows. Tries again. “That was them. That tiny little thing is our baby.”

You just smile.

“Will you marry me?”

The words hit the room like a pin dropped in a cathedral—soft, but impossibly loud.

You do your best to look shocked, to let the moment bloom across your face like a sunrise you never saw coming. Your eyes sting instantly, tears pricking with obedient urgency, and your breath catches in your throat like you rehearsed it in your sleep.

You gasp, a little too loud, a little too bright, and then launch yourself toward Spencer, all momentum and trembling joy. He rocks back under you, hands flailing for balance as you fling your arms around his neck. He steadies you instantly, hands slipping to your waist with a care that isn’t romantic—it’s reflexive, protective, the kind that remembers you’re carrying more than just adrenaline tonight. It makes you let out a real, breathless laugh as you smile wide at him. The corners of his lips quirk in response.

“Yes,” you breathe, letting your voice wobble, letting your whole body shake like emotion is pouring out of every seam.

He slips the ring onto your finger with careful precision, fingers warm and steady. And then—because the scene demands it, because the role calls for one last flourish—you lean in and kiss him.

The kiss is short, instinctive, a flicker of motion meant for the cover. Spencer responds softly, hesitating, then matching the impulse, and you feel a jolt that’s more about timing and tension than romance—but it’s real enough to convince anyone watching.

It’s nothing. It’s everything. It’s a split-second where performance and friendship blur at the edges.

Somewhere behind you, a crowd breaks into applause, chairs scraping, someone whooping like this is the best entertainment they’ve had all year. The sound blurs into the background, distant and bright, because all his attention is on you—and yours on the act you’re performing with him.

You pull apart just enough to breathe, forehead nearly brushing his. He’s flushed, eyes bright, still catching up with the suddenness of the scene. You can feel the shift, the way the shared instinct of the moment lingers between you.

Morgan cracks through your earpiece, smug as ever:

“Damn, girl, what are you doin’ workin’ with us when you could be winning Oscars?”

It hits you like a tickle in the ribs.

You snort. Spencer lets out a startled laugh — the kind that escapes before he can hide it — breathless, shaky, too real for undercover work.

For a heartbeat, it feels like the world is only the two of you, laughing too close, still holding onto each other like you haven’t told your bodies the performance is over.

Then Spencer lowers his voice, soft as a secret.

“Wanna get out of here?”

Your nod comes without thought — instinctive, gravitational — and you slip your hand into his as you straighten up. The contact jolts through him again; you feel it in the way his fingers tense, then settle around yours like he’s afraid to hold too tight.

He leads you through the restaurant, past clinking glasses and curious smiles, his hand warm and sure at your back. Outside, the night air greets you cool and crisp, a clean breath after the storm you just staged.

The valet stand glows under a wash of honeyed light, the kind that makes everything look softer, almost nostalgic—like a snapshot you’ll remember long after it fades. Spencer’s hand stays in yours as you approach, steady but warm, the kind of touch that blurs the line between acting and instinct.

He clears his throat—quiet, measured.

“For Reid. The Volvo Amazon,” he says, handing over the ticket. His voice sounds calmer than he looks. You can still see the pink high in his cheeks, the faint tremor where adrenaline hasn’t quite worn off.

The valet nods and turns to fetch the keys. You can feel Spencer shift beside you, his thumb brushing against your palm. Whether it’s on purpose or a nervous tic, you’re not sure—but you don’t pull away. The contact anchors both of you, a tether after the dizzy brightness of applause and flashing camera phones inside.

The valet reappears, keys in hand. Then his gaze drops to your joined hands. To the ring.

His eyebrows shoot up. “Whoa—did you guys just get engaged?”

You laugh—high and breathy, delighted enough to sell the cover. “Yeah,” you say, lifting your hand just enough for the ring to catch the light. “Tonight, actually.”

Spencer glances at you, startled, then softens. “Yeah… it’s been a special night.”

The valet beams, utterly charmed. “Congratulations! Seriously, that’s awesome.” He gives a little nod toward the curb. “I’ll pull her around.”

He jogs off, and the two of you are left in the amber quiet of the parking circle. For a moment, all you can hear is the hum of streetlights and the low murmur of city traffic. Then the deep purr of Spencer’s Volvo rounds the corner—sleek lines and old-world charm catching the glow like it’s stepped out of another decade.

The valet steps out, hands Spencer the keys with a grin. “She’s a beauty. You don’t see many of these anymore.”

“Thank you,” Spencer says, genuine pride threading through his voice. “I like to think she’s timeless.”

The valet steps around the Volvo and pulls your door open with an easy flourish, the kind meant for newly engaged couples and old Hollywood films. You offer him a grateful smile, shift forward—

—and freeze.

Something firm nudges against your spine. Not a hand. Not an accident. Cold, metallic certainty settles there, followed by the soft, unmistakable click of a hammer pulled back.

The world narrows. Your breath stops. Your pulse spikes so hard you feel it in your tongue.

“Spencer,” you say—quiet, thin, like you’re afraid to breathe the word too loudly.

He hears everything in that one syllable.

Spencer looks up from the driver’s side, meets your eyes across the car roof, and goes utterly still. There’s a flicker—fear, recognition, calculation—before he smooths it away like he’s afraid to let the wrong expression get you hurt.

The valet’s voice sheds its customer-service shine.

“Get in the car,” he orders Spencer. Calm in a way that makes your pulse spike.

Spencer obeys, sliding behind the wheel with careful, telegraphed movements. His hands stay visible. His jaw sets.

Then the valet steps back, opens the rear door directly behind your seat, and you feel the muzzle nudge you again—cold, insistent.

“Your seat,” he says.

Your body follows the instruction before your mind can catch up. You sink into the passenger seat slowly, deliberately, every muscle trembling with the effort to stay controlled.

The valet climbs into the back seat behind you, shutting the door with a soft snick. The gun never leaves you. You see him in the mirror now, gun still aimed at you–steady and unblinking, a presence you can feel in your bones.

Spencer’s eyes flick up to the rear-view too—fast, frantic beneath the surface. Once to check on you, once to gauge the angle of the weapon, once more like he's memorizing the exact distance between danger and your heartbeat.

The unsub leans forward in the backseat, breath skimming your neck. He smiles, sharp and predatory.

“Go on,” he says, almost cheerful. “Take your new fiancée home.”

Spencer starts the car. The Volvo shivers awake beneath you. He pulls away from the curb, smooth, careful, like he’s afraid a sudden move will set the whole moment shattering.

Hotch breaks in again, timed like he sensed the moment slipping.

“Stick to the plan, go to the safe house. Drive into the garage,” he says.

It's a 15 minute drive to the safe house, nestled past a quiet neighborhood, away from the city.

The unsub exhales happily behind you, like he’s been waiting all night for this.

“Little place tucked away from the world,” he muses. “Perfect spot for newlyweds.”

Spencer turns onto the final street. The house appears—a quiet silhouette with one porch light burning like a watchful eye.

Gravel crunches under the tires as Spencer pulls into the driveway. The garage door begins its slow, mechanical climb.

“Nice,” the unsub murmurs. “Private. No neighbors watching.”

The Volvo rolls into the garage’s shadowed mouth.

The door begins to close.

The unsub sighs, content.

“Welcome home,” he says.

And the door shuts you all into the dark.

Spencer’s apartment smells like garlic simmering in olive oil and… home. That elusive, warm scent that seems to wrap itself around you, settles into your bones, and refuses to leave. Somehow, it feels like the room itself knows your secret.

You kick off your shoes by the door, stomach fluttering in the same small, insistent way it has all week.

A week since the test.

A week of hiding something enormous in the tiny, quiet confines of your chest.

No one else knows yet. Not Hotch, not Morgan, not JJ, and definitely not Penelope—though she would have been the first to notice anyway.

Just you. And him.

Spencer stands at the stove, sleeves rolled, hair tousled from running his hands through it one too many times. He stirs the pan methodically, a wooden spoon tapping against the side with a rhythm almost like a heartbeat.

He glances up, catching your eye. That spark—so subtle you’d miss it if you weren’t looking for it—flickers again. The same spark that’s been there every time you catch him thinking baby, every time your mind wanders to the two of you quietly imagining this impossible, perfect thing.

“You made it,” he says, voice tight with that mixture of relief and awe that only Spencer Reid can carry.

“Traffic tried to kill me,” you sigh dramatically, hanging your jacket on the hook he cleared earlier this week—just in case you wanted to keep one here now. “I narrowly escaped a literal death by minivan.”

His eyes flicker down to the hook and back to you, a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Your near-demise has been duly noted. I’ll add it to the risk assessment spreadsheet for future reference.”

You laugh softly. “Do you… always make spreadsheets for every contingency?”

“I… sometimes,” he admits, cheeks pink. “It’s… comforting. And precise.”

“Of course. Comforting and precise,” you murmur, moving into the kitchen.

You watch as Spencer turns down the burner. “Dinner’s almost ready. You can sit, if you want. Or—uh—there’s tea.”

“Green tea?” you ask, arching a brow.

He winces. “Herbal. I checked the label twelve times.”

That warms you in a way nothing else today has.

You wander into his living room, lowering yourself onto his couch—worn at the edges, soft like something well-loved. A blanket you’ve never seen before is folded neatly on the armrest. Thick, fluffy, sky-blue.

You brush your fingers along the edge. “New blanket?”

“No,” he says too fast. Then, quieter: “Yes.”

He doesn’t look at you when he adds, “You said the old one was scratchy.”

Your throat goes a little tight.

You and Spencer settle into the ritual without words, the kind that only develops when two people exist in the same space long enough to know the unspoken patterns.

Dinner is simple—pasta with the garlic simmer sauce he’s been fussing over all evening—and impossibly comforting. The noodles are tender, the vegetables roasted to perfection. You twirl a forkful, letting the warm, garlicky aroma fill your senses, and the tension in your shoulders unwind.

“This is… really good,” you murmur between bites, finally meeting his eyes.

He shrugs, a tiny, awkward movement. “It’s… reasonably edible. For me, anyway.”

“Reasonably edible?” you tease, smiling. “I’d put it solidly in the delicious category.”

His cheeks tint pink, just a little. “Well… I… thank you.”

The quiet stretches comfortably between you. You notice the way the lamplight catches the highlights in his hair, how his fingers drape loosely over the table edge when he reaches for his water, the small smile that spreads across his lips each time you meet his eyes.

When the plates are cleared, you sink back into the couch, the sky-blue blanket draped over your legs. Spencer perches at the other end, a careful distance that feels just right. He pulls a book from the shelf, leans back in his seat, and starts reading. 

After a while, your eyelids grow heavy, the warmth of dinner settling deep in your limbs. The sky-blue blanket is soft against your skin, softer still where it’s tucked around your ankles. The room hums with the gentle peace only Spencer’s apartment ever seems to find—a cocoon of lamplight, quiet breathing, and the faint, lingering smell of garlic.

You start drifting, half-lulled by the familiar cadence of Spencer turning pages.

Except… it stops.

You notice it in that feather-light space between waking and sleep—the absence of sound, the silence shaped like a held breath. You blink slowly, vision hazy, and tilt your head just enough to look at him.

Spencer isn’t reading anymore.

His book is open but forgotten, resting slack in his hands. His eyes are on you instead—soft, intent, drinking you in with an expression so gentle it makes something inside you ache.

He looks… awed. Like he’s caught between wanting to memorize you and being afraid to wake you.

Your voice comes out quiet, groggy. “You okay?”

He startles, shoulders jerking the way they do when you catch him in a daydream. “Oh—I wasn’t— I mean, yes, I’m fine. You just… looked comfortable.”

You huff a sleepy laugh, burrowing a little deeper into the blanket. “Pretty sure you’re staring.”

His cheeks flush pink, unmistakable even in the warm lamplight. “I was… checking if you were asleep.”

“You’re really bad at lying,” you murmur, letting your eyes drift halfway shut again.

He swallows, fingers tightening around the spine of his book. “I know.”

The quiet returns, deep and honey-thick.

You watch him from beneath your lashes, barely awake but not ready to lose this moment. The way he sits now—half-turned toward you, elbow braced on the back of the couch, body angled in that instinctive way people do when they’re drawn by something they won’t name.

Then he moves.

Slowly. Carefully. Like he’s approaching a wild animal he doesn’t want to scare away.

He sets his book down on the coffee table. Then he shifts closer—just an inch or two—but enough that you can feel the subtle warmth radiating from him.

“Spencer,” you whisper, eyes now fully closed, “you’re hovering.”

“I’m not hovering,” he whispers back, flustered. “I’m… ensuring your comfort.”

You smile against the pillow. “That’s hovering.”

Another silence. A softer one.

Then something brushes your shoulder—light as a breath. You realize he’s lifting the blanket higher, tucking it gently around you, fussing with the edge until it’s snug.

His fingers hesitate when they reach the curve of your arm. They don’t touch you, not really—but they hover there, suspended in warmth and wanting.

You drift fully this time, slipping under the surface.

And in that drifting, you hear him—quiet, unguarded, thinking you’re long gone to sleep.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he murmurs. A confession to the dark. “More than I know how to say.”

Your heartbeat stutters.

Fabric rustles. The couch shifts. He settles beside you, close enough that his knee brushes the cushion near your hip, close enough that his presence becomes a quiet shield around your sleep.

You exhale, sinking deeper, letting the sound of him breathing become your anchor.

And the last thing you register before sleep finally claims you is the way he whispers your name—barely a sound, barely a thought—like he’s trying it out in the new shape your shared secret has carved into his world.

It isn't supposed to be a big conversation.

You just want to float the idea to Garcia–say it out loud once, make it real enough to exorcise it from your brain. You aren’t looking for a reaction, just a witness. Someone to hold the thought so it won’t hold you.

Garcia’s chair spins lazily as you hover in the doorway, arms crossed, rehearsing three different versions of how to start. She swivels toward you, eyes narrowing like she’s about to diagnose a crime.

“Okay,” she says, dragging the word out. “You’ve got the face. The one that says you’re about to either cry or start a pyramid scheme. Possibly both. What’s up?”

You step in, close the door, and immediately regret both actions. “I need to talk. Like… actually talk.”

“Ooh, serious voice.” She gestures to the chair beside her, still typing. “Go on, mortal.”

You perch on the edge of her desk, legs bouncing, voice barely steady. “I think I’m gonna do it.”

She doesn’t look up. “Do what? Don’t be cryptic, that’s my whole aesthetic.”

“The donor thing.” You pause. “The sperm donor.”

Garcia’s head snaps up so fast her ponytail smacks her shoulder. “I’m sorry–what?”

You wince. “Yeah. I’ve been thinking about it. For a while.”

Her bright expression softens into something real. “You’ve been serious about this?”

You nod. “I don’t want to keep waiting for someone who may or may not exist. The timing feels right. My lease renews soon, my savings look good, and–” You swallow. “I want this. I really do.”

Garcia leans forward, resting her chin on her hand. “You’d be a wonderful mom.”

You smile, small but sincere. “Thanks. I’ve been researching clinics. They have these wild donor filters–you can pick based on eye color, blood type, even favorite books.”

“Only you would pick a donor based on their Goodreads account,” she says with a smirk.

“I have standards.”

“Favorite books?”

“Yeah. You can literally pick someone because they also read Jane Eyre.”

Garcia smirks. “Only you would make literary compatibility a genetic priority.”

You laugh. “I have standards.”

She points. “So. You’re serious. Like serious-serious.”

You nod. “The clinic even has audio clips. You can hear them talk about their childhood pets and favorite philosophers. It’s weirdly… humanizing.”

“Wow. You're really doing this.”

You open your mouth to respond–

“Doing what?”

You both jump a foot.

Spencer is standing halfway inside the doorway, manila folder clutched to his chest like a shield, brows pinched in confusion. His voice is casual, but his eyes are scanning the room like he’s clearly walked in on something not meant for him.

“How long have you been standing there?” Garcia asks, her voice jumping up an octave.

Spencer glances between the two of you. “Uh… long enough to hear something about audio clips and childhood pets? Are we profiling someone, or…?”

Garcia waves her hands frantically. ““Nope! No. Nothing. Secret girl business. Abort mission, Doctor!”

“It’s fine,” you say quickly, before Garcia can make it weirder. “I was just talking about something personal.”

Spencer frowns slightly, clearly not convinced. “Something… medical?”

“Kind of,” you say, and that’s your first mistake.

His brows pinch together. “Wait, are you okay? Are you going to a clinic for something?” His voice softens, almost pleading. “Because if you’re sick, there are specialists I can recommend. There’s a great neurologist in Georgetown who focuses on chronic–”

“Spencer!” you interrupt, holding up a hand. “I’m not sick.”

“Oh.” He pauses, recalibrating. “Okay. Then… fertility?”

You blink. “…Actually, yes.”

He nods, earnest and relieved. “Good. Okay. That’s good. I mean, not good–but manageable! You know, reproductive endocrinology has made enormous strides, and if you’re freezing your eggs, that’s a very practical decision. Especially if you’re considering having children in the next five to ten years. Did you know fertility drops by almost–”

“Spencer,” you say, cutting him off again, though you’re smiling now. “I’m not freezing my eggs.”

“Oh.” He looks lost. “Then what are you–”

Garcia jumps in before he can dig himself deeper. “Our girl here was just saying she’s thinking about doing the donor thing.”

Spencer’s brow furrows. “Donor thing?”

“Yeah,” you say. “Like… sperm donor.”

The words land, and you can see the moment his brain processes them. His eyes flick up to you, then back down, then up again like maybe he misheard and reality will reset if he gives it a second.

“Oh,” he says finally. Then again, softer, like the syllable itself is fragile. “Oh.”

The silence stretches. Garcia’s wide eyes bounce between you both like she’s watching the best telenovela of her life.

Then, out of nowhere–

“I could do it.”

You blink. “I’m sorry?”

Garcia gasps, hand flying to her mouth. “I’m sorry, WHAT?”

“I could be the donor,” Spencer says, entirely serious.

You and Garcia freeze.

She leans toward you, whispering behind her hand like he can’t hear. “Did he just–”

“Yes.”

“–say he could–”

“Yes, Penelope.”

Garcia lets out a strangled squeak. “Oh my god.”

You stare at him, eyes wide. “Spencer, what?!”

He looks slightly alarmed at your reaction. “I just meant–if you’re looking for a donor, I’m qualified. I’m healthy, I have no genetic disorders, my IQ is statistically above average–”

“Spencer!”

Garcia is openly wheezing now, turning red from trying to contain her laughter. “He’s pitching himself! This is a sales presentation!”

“I’m not pitching–” Spencer starts, looking genuinely confused. “I’m just saying–biologically speaking–”

You groan, dragging your hands down your face. “Oh my god, I can’t believe this is happening.”

“It makes perfect sense,” he continues earnestly. “You’d know the donor personally, which eliminates risk factors, and the child would statistically inherit favorable cognitive traits–”

You point toward the door. “We are not doing this in front of Garcia.”

Garcia throws up her hands. “Excuse me! This is my office and my front-row seat to destiny!”

You grab Spencer’s sleeve and haul him into the hallway before she can get out another word.

Behind you, you hear her gleeful voice: “If you two name the baby after me, I want godmother rights!”

You slam the office door shut as you leave, pull him into the nearest empty office, shut the door, and exhale hard enough to rattle the blinds.

“Do you see how that’s a weird thing to offer?”

He blinks. “What part?”

“All of it! You’re my friend. You’re my coworker. You can’t just–just casually volunteer to father my child like you’re offering to spot me at the gym.”

He looks at you, sincere to a fault. “I didn’t mean it casually.”

You stop, thrown by the steadiness in his voice.

He fidgets, hands clasping and unclasping. “I meant it literally. I could be the donor. But also…” His voice drops, softer now. “I’d want to be the dad.”

The air changes.

“I don’t just want to help you start a family,” he says. “I want to be part of it. With you. If you’d want that.”

You blink at him, brain scrambling to keep up. “Oh.”

“I know this isn’t ideal timing. Or location. Or delivery.”

“You think?”

He winces. “Yeah. I panicked.”

You let out a disbelieving laugh. “This is… wow. I came in here to tell Garcia I might buy sperm off the internet, and somehow we landed on you volunteering yours in–” you gesture around the small room– “a supply closet.”

“It’s actually not a supply closet,” he says automatically. “Strauss used it for interviews once. The acoustics are–”

You cut in with a raised brow. “Spencer.”

“Right. Sorry.” He ducks his head a little, lips pressing together in that way he does when his brain catches up to his mouth too late.

You sigh, the sound coming out somewhere between exasperation and disbelief. You lean back against the desk, the cool edge biting through your slacks, grounding you. “So, you’d actually be okay with it? Like–really okay. Being a donor. Being involved.”

“I would,” he says immediately. No hesitation. His voice has that quiet steadiness that always sneaks up on you in interrogations–the kind that makes you believe him before you even decide to. “I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t sure.”

You study him for a beat. “But… why?”

He shifts his weight, one shoulder lifting in a small, nervous shrug. “Because I care about you.” His eyes flick up to meet yours, and it’s almost too much–too open. “Because you’re brilliant and kind and would make an incredible mom. And because–” he exhales, sheepish, “–statistically, it’s safer and more cost-effective than–”

“You don't have to pitch yourself again.”

His mouth twitches. “Are you sure? I can make a whole presentation if you need.”

You let out a startled laugh, the tension cracking just enough to breathe. “This is so weird.”

“I know,” he says softly, and there’s no defense in it. Just honesty. “But think about it. You’d know the donor. You’d know my medical history, my genetics. You wouldn’t have to worry about some stranger’s file in a database. And…” He hesitates, then adds, “you wouldn’t be doing it alone.”

Your arms uncross slowly, as if the words have weight to them. “You’re seriously okay with that level of involvement?”

He nods, firm now. “If you wanted it, yes. I wouldn’t just–contribute genetic material and disappear.” His lips twitch like he knows how clinical that sounded. “I’d be there. School drop-offs. Homework. First words. All of it.”

You stare at him, trying to process the quiet conviction in his tone. There’s no flustered rambling now, no statistics to hide behind–just Spencer, standing there and meaning every syllable.

It’s a lot to take in. But weirdly? It doesn’t feel wrong.

You press your lips together, pulse steadying as you find your footing. “I’m not saying yes.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to.” His voice is softer now, careful, like he’s afraid to push.

You glance down at your hands, then back up at him. His fingers aren’t fidgeting anymore. They’re still, relaxed at his sides–a small miracle for someone who lives in motion.

“But you’re making…” You huff out a quiet, disbelieving laugh. “An unnervingly good case.”

A smile ghosts across his face. “I do read a lot.”

You roll your eyes, but it doesn’t quite hide the way your chest warms. “I need to think about it.”

“Of course.” His tone is steady, but his eyes soften. “Take all the time you need. Really.”

Silence settles again–but this time it’s different. Not heavy, not awkward. Just a kind of fragile calm, like both of you are standing on the edge of something you didn’t mean to find.

You let out a long breath. “This is probably going to be the strangest conversation I have all year.”

He tilts his head, a half-smile playing at his mouth. “We work for the BAU. That’s a pretty high bar.”

You laugh–a real one this time–and watch him relax by degrees.

You turn toward the door, hand brushing the knob before you stop and glance back. “Hey, Spencer?”

He looks up, attentive as always.

“I know it probably wasn’t easy to say all that.”

His gaze holds yours, steady and unguarded. “It wasn’t.”

You nod once, a small smile tugging at your mouth. “Well… thanks for saying it anyway.”

His reply comes quiet, sure. “Anytime.”

“What do we have on our victims? Let's go through everything again.”

Hotch stands at the head of the table, arms crossed, expression unreadable as he looks over the team.

The conference room settles immediately. Files open. Pens lift. The familiar rhythm of a profile being rebuilt from the ground up.

Beside you, Reid reaches for his file. His sleeve brushes your arm. It's barely anything. A passing touch. Accidental. Meaningless.

Your entire nervous system reacts like someone fired a starter pistol. You keep your eyes firmly on your notes. You are absolutely not a grown adult getting flustered because Spencer Reid's elbow exists.

Across the table, Morgan flips open his folder. "Victim one, Franklin Harris. Forty-four. Janitor.”

Hotch nods. "Victim two?"

"Jason Blake," JJ answers. "Forty-one. High school guidance counselor."

Prentiss picks up the thread. “Victim three was Leonard Gibson. Thirty-four. Accountant. Lived alone.

"And victims four and five were the married couple. Rachel and Steven Beckett. Thirty-eight and forty. Married eleven years, Rachel was a realtor, Steven worked at a local farm.”

“Any theories on why he chose them? Why he labeled them as liars?” Hotch asks.

JJ looks up. “I have a theory. When we interviewed the victims' families, one of the relatives from the Beckett’s mentioned an accident."

You straighten slightly. "What kind of accident?"

"Car crash." JJ glances down again. "It happened about four months ago."

"Fatal?" Rossi asks.

JJ nods. "One person died."

"Who was driving?" Reid asks.

"Steven."

"And he survived."

"Minor injuries." JJ taps her pen lightly against the page. "The family member said there were rumors afterward."

"What kind of rumors?" Hotch asks.

JJ exhales. "That he ran a stop sign."

Morgan frowns. "But officially?"

"The investigation ruled him not at fault.”

“Okay,” Prentiss says. “So you think the unsub went after them for that?”

“It’s a good theory,” Morgan says.

“The man who died, does he have any immediate family?” Hotch asks.

JJ nods. “He left a wife and an adult son behind.”

“Bring them in, I want them interviewed.” Hotch turns toward the board. "What about the others? Any similar incidents?"

Prentiss straightens slightly in her chair. "I've been digging into Jason Blake." She opens the folder and slides a page onto the table. "He worked as a guidance counselor at a local high school."

Morgan nods. "We already knew that."

"Yeah," Prentiss says. "What we didn't know was that there was a complaint filed against him about eighteen months ago."

Your attention sharpens immediately. "What kind of complaint?"

Prentiss exhales. "A student committed suicide. The parents claimed their son had been experiencing severe bullying for months."

JJ winces slightly.

"The family repeatedly contacted the school." Prentiss  glances down at her notes. "Blake told them he investigated. Said there was no evidence of ongoing harassment."

A knot forms somewhere low in your stomach.

"And there was?" Reid asks.

Prentiss nods. "A lot of it."

The room falls silent again.

"He never investigated," JJ says quietly.

"The school eventually conducted an independent review after the student's death. Emails surfaced. Teacher reports surfaced. Statements from other students surfaced." Prentiss pauses. "Blake knew. He lied."

Across the room, Rossi slowly folds his arms. "The parents ever confront him?"

Prentiss nods. "Publicly."

"How publicly?"

"School board meetings. Local papers. Social media."

Morgan exhales through his nose. "So everybody knew."

"Pretty much.”

Hotch nods. “Alright. That gives us theories for why he was targeted. Prentiss and Rossi, talk to the parents who accused Jason Blake. Clear them and see if they had any supporters who may have been too supportive. What about Harris and Gibson? Any ideas on them?”

“Nothing yet,” Kessler says. “But Harris was an accountant, maybe he was scamming people?”

“It’s a possibility,” Hotch says. “Call Garcia, have her look into his records. In the meantime, I want Morgan and Kessler to go talk to Turner again. He knew about the unsub’s M.O., I want to know how.”

“Hotch, with all due respect, it is a relatively small town. Couldn’t he have just known from word-of-mouth?” you ask.

Hotch nods once. “He could. But I want to make sure he doesn’t know more than we think. While they’re gone, I want you and Reid to take Gibson. Dig into his past as well, and see if you can find a theory for why he was targeted.”

“Got it,” Reid says.

Hotch gives one last nod. “Let’s move.”

An hour later, the precinct is hectic. Everyone is doing something. Garcia tracked down a handful of people from Harris’s life to interview, ask if he ever hid anything serious. Morgan and Kessler are on their way to speak to Turner again. Prentiss and Rossi brought in the parents of the bullied student, as well as a few people Garcia found posting notable support.

And then there’s Reid, sitting at the desk next to you, staring at files and notes from Harris’s past. His brow is furrowed, his eyes trailing across the paper in front of him repeatedly, as if there’s possibly any more information he could gain from it. He keeps bouncing his knee, then catching himself and stopping the motion, only for it to start again a few moments later.

You’ve been skimming Harris’is life for any hints as to why the unsub chose him, but nothing has come up yet.

Suddenly, Reid pushes away from the desk and stands, his chair scraping across the floor. You look up at him, a brow raised in silent question. 

“I need a break,” he says. “Coffee?”

You glance back down at the files, then back up at him. “Yeah, I could use a break, too.”

So, the two of you walk together toward the break room.

It isn’t much, just a table and two chairs, a beat up fridge, a microwave that looks like it’s from the 50s, and a coffee maker that’s seen better days. You take a seat in one of the chairs, letting out a sigh as Reid starts the coffee.

“So,” he starts, facing away from you, “I, uh, saw you got a job offer the other day.”

“Oh, yeah, I was offered a research position at the lab I used to intern at,” you say.

The coffee maker spurts and drips loudly as the last bit of coffee fills the pot. 

“What was the research?” he asks as he pours the steaming liquid into two paper coffee cups. 

“Behavioral analysis,” you say, accepting one of the mugs from him. 

“Is that how you got into the BAU?”

“Sort of,” you say. He sits down in the empty chair across from you.

“Did you like it?”

“I loved it,” you admit. “Research like that is what I joined university for.”

Reid nods. At first, you think that's the end of it.

He wraps both hands around his coffee cup, staring down into it as steam curls between his fingers. The silence stretches.

You take another sip of coffee. Reid doesn't. His brow remains faintly furrowed.

“You'd be good at it,” he says finally.

“The research job?”

He nods. “You already think that way.”

You huff a quiet laugh. “Think what way?”

“Pattern-oriented.” His gaze lifts briefly. “Patient.”

“That's not usually the feedback I get.”

“It's accurate.”

The certainty in his voice lands somewhere uncomfortable. Not because it's unwelcome. Because it's Reid. And Reid doesn't hand out compliments casually. Everything he says tends to arrive after being examined from six different angles first.

You glance down at your coffee. “Thanks.”

He nods once. Then he goes quiet again. Long enough that you start wondering again if he's finished. He's not. You can see it happening. The way his fingers tighten slightly around the paper cup. The way his eyes drift away and back again. Like he's debating whether something is worth saying.

Finally:

“Are you going to take it?”

You blink. The question surprises you more than it should. “I—”

The word catches halfway out. You glance down into your coffee.

The answer should be simple. It isn't. Because the truth is, you don't know. Two days ago you would've said no immediately. Yesterday, maybe. 

Now?

Now there's a folder sitting in your hotel room and a voice in the back of your head asking questions you'd been perfectly happy not asking before you got that letter.

You open your mouth again, but your phone rings. The sound cuts through the room so abruptly both of you flinch slightly.

You glance down automatically. Morgan.

Seeing his contact name makes you anxious instantly. Morgan shouldn't be calling. Not while he's interviewing Turner. Not unless something went wrong.

Across the table, Reid's brow furrows.

You answer. “Hey, what's—”

“Where's Hotch?”

Morgan's voice is wrong. Too controlled. The kind of controlled that usually means something has already gone very, very bad. Your posture straightens instantly. Reid notices, raises a brow.

“What happened?” you ask.

“Turner's gone.”

“What the hell does you mean he's gone?” you ask.

Across from you, Reid is already standing. His chair scrapes loudly across the linoleum as he does.

Morgan exhales sharply through the phone. “He got transferred back to county holding about an hour ago. Transport van stopped for gas. Driver went inside. Deputy stayed with the vehicle.”

Your stomach sinks.

“He overpowered the deputy.”

“Shit,” you mutter. 

“He got the cuffs off somehow,” Morgan continues. “We're still trying to figure out how. Deputy's got a concussion and can't remember half of what happened.”

“We need to get Garcia on surveillance footage. See if she can track where Turner is running to,” Reid says.

“Kessler and I are working on getting the footage from the gas station. I’ll call Garcia next, but I couldn’t get ahold of Hotch.”

“He was talking to the chief, we’ll let him know,” you say.

By the time everyone gathers again, the energy is different. Not quite frantic, but it’s getting there.

Hotch stands at the head of the table, one hand braced on the back of a chair as Garcia’s voice fills the room through the speakerphone.

“Okay, so our favorite contractor is officially making horrible life choices,” she says, the rapid clicking of her keyboard filtering in behind her words. “I’ve got traffic cams, gas station footage, and one very grainy image that may just be a raccoon driving a pickup truck, but I am choosing optimism.”

Morgan pinches the bridge of his nose. “Babygirl.”

“Right. Serious. Sorry.” A few keys click. “Turner is definitely heading north. Confirmed by three separate traffic cams. Last visual was about forty minutes ago. He was driving a stolen 1994 Chevy Silverado, hasn’t been found yet but I put out a BOLO.”

“Any idea of his destination?” Hotch asks.

“Nothing solid yet, I’m pulling financials, cell activity, family members, former associates, ex-girlfriends, gym memberships, suspicious Yelp reviews. The usual.”

“Keep us updated.”

“You got it.”

Hotch turns toward the board. “Assume Turner is dangerous until located.”

“He already killed one victim. And took out a deputy,” Prentiss says.

“And now he’s running,” JJ adds.

The room settles into a brief silence. You feel it before anyone says it. The doubt. The question sitting in the center of the table.

Kessler is the one who finally says it. 

“If Turner fled immediately after being taken into custody,” she says carefully, “we need to consider the possibility that our original assessment was wrong.”

Nobody responds right away. It’s not a disagreement, just caution.

“He confessed to killing Lauren Powell,” Kessler continues.

“Eventually,” Morgan says.

“After significant pressure.”

Your jaw tightens. “Pressure doesn’t create confessions.”

“No,” Kessler agrees. “But it can shape them.”

Reid shifts in his chair. “The behavioral distinctions between Turner and the original unsub still stand.”

“They do,” Kessler agrees again. Always agreeable. Always measured. Never quite pushing hard enough to sound confrontational. “But behavioral distinctions aren’t always reliable evidence.”

Your eyes drop briefly to the table. You know where this is going. You know it before she looks at you. Before anyone does.

“Part of the determination came from the interview.”

There it is. Not quite an accusation, but somehow worse. An invitation. A request. Explain yourself.

You clear your throat. “He was lying about Lauren.”

“Yes.”

“And telling the truth about the others.”

Kessler’s expression remains neutral. “How do you know?”

The question nearly makes you flinch. How do you know? You don’t have a clean answer.

“I just… I know.”

Kessler waits. Patient. Reasonable. “Can you explain how?”

Your fingers tighten around your pen. 

You aren’t sure why her questioning feels like an attack. They’re reasonable questions. You haven’t built trust with Kessler. She doesn’t know how many times you’ve been right about these things, how long you studied behavioral tells. But it doesn’t feel simple.

“It’s different.”

Brilliant. Very convincing. You sound ridiculous.

“It’s just…” You struggle for something concrete. “When people lie, there’s usually tension behind it. Like they’re steering away from something.”

Kessler nods. “And Turner?”

“He lied about Lauren immediately.” You can hear yourself becoming less certain the longer she stares at you. “He reacted before he thought.”

The memory replays itself.  Turner shouting. Exploding. Panicking. Confessing. But now more thoughts slip in. Turner escaping. Running. Heading north.

“He never lied about the others.”

Kessler studies you for a moment. “Or he was simply better prepared for those questions.”

You don’t answer. Because you can’t immediately dismiss her concern. That’s the problem. You can’t prove any of this. You never could. You just know.

Except knowing sounds a lot less impressive when someone starts asking for receipts.

Kessler crosses her arms like she’s decided that’s enough. “I say we move forward with the theory that Turner lied.”

"The original unsub and Turner are different offenders."

This time the voice comes from beside you. Reid.

You glance up. His gaze is fixed on Kessler, calm and certain. "The crime scenes support that."

"They support the possibility."

"They support the probability."

Kessler tilts her head slightly.

Reid doesn't back down. "The carving patterns differ. Victim selection differs. Escalation differs.”

Kessler stays quiet for a minute. “And if it was his plan? To make us think Lauren Powell was different?”

“What's the difference between confessing to one murder versus five? If he wanted to throw us off, why would he confess at all?” Morgan asks.

“Pressure,” Kessler says again, “Maybe he confessed because he knew he was caught, but he assumed one murder was better than five. Maybe it was his plan the entire time, and he was just trying to make Lauren’s murder look different to throw us off..”

Reid's expression doesn't change.

"If Turner wanted us to believe Lauren Powell was a separate offense," he says evenly, "then carving the same word into her body would have been the worst possible way to accomplish that.”

Kessler doesn’t respond right away. She just looks at him, her brows slightly furrowed.

Reid continues. "He didn't create a new narrative. He borrowed an existing one."

Morgan nods once. "Exactly."

"The original unsub spent weeks establishing a ritual," Reid says. "Victim selection, post-mortem staging, geographic consistency. Turner copied the most visible element because it was the only part he understood."

Kessler leans back slightly in her chair. "That's an assumption."

"It's a conclusion supported by evidence."

Her gaze narrows just a fraction.

"The carving wasn't symmetrical," Reid says. "The depth varied. The placement differed. The scene organization differed. The victimology differed. The scene was outside of the established comfort zone. Every measurable component diverged from the established pattern."

You glance over at him. His voice remains calm. Almost detached. But there's a firmness underneath it now. It isn’t irritation, it’s conviction.

"The behavioral assessment didn't originate from the confession," he continues. "The confession supported conclusions we had already reached."

A brief silence settles across the room.

Kessler studies him for a moment. Then she nods once. “Fair enough."

But something about it doesn't feel finished.

You glance toward her. She's already studying the victims’ photos again. Already moved on.

Except she hasn't. You can tell. Because she asked. And asked. And asked. Not because she wanted the answer. Because she wanted to see what happened when you didn't have one.

Your eyes drift to the photos pinned to the board.

LIAR.

The word stares back. For the first time since this case started, a quiet, ugly thought slips into your head.

What if Kessler’s right? What if Turner isn't the only person you've ever been wrong about?

The room keeps talking around you. Routes. Search grids. Traffic cameras. Manhunts. But for a moment, all you can hear is your own uncertainty.

Hotch straightens from where he'd been leaning against the table. "Until evidence suggests otherwise, Turner remains responsible for Powell only."

And across the table, Reid glances at you once. Just once. A brief look, concerned and observant. Like he noticed exactly where your thoughts went. And doesn't particularly like it.

It takes another hour for Garcia to call. An hour of maps. An hour of traffic cameras. An hour of everyone pretending they aren't waiting for the phone to ring.

When it finally does, the entire room seems to shift toward it.

Garcia doesn't bother with a greeting. "I think I found him."

Every conversation stops.

Hotch reaches for the speaker. "Location?"

Keys clatter rapidly in the background. "Property about three hours north. Rural. Very rural. Like horror-movie-level trees. The land belongs to Turner's aunt, technically, but Turner helped renovate the cabin about four years ago after a storm damaged part of it."

A map appears on the screen. Dense forest. One access road. Nothing nearby.

Morgan leans forward. "Any activity?"

"Not confirmed," Garcia says. "No cameras out there, but the Silverado was picked up heading in that direction. After that? Radio silence."

"You think he's hiding there?" Prentiss asks.

"I think if I escaped police custody and wanted somewhere familiar, isolated, and free of witnesses, it'd be on my shortlist."

Hotch nods. "Local law enforcement?"

"Already notified."

"Good."

You study the map. The cabin sits alone in a sea of green. Hidden. Disconnected. A place someone could disappear.

"Could be coincidence," Kessler says.

Morgan looks at her. "You got a better idea?"

"No." Her gaze remains fixed on the map. "Just saying we shouldn't assume he's there until we confirm it."

Fair. Annoyingly fair.

Hotch is already moving. "Morgan, Prentiss, coordinate with local SWAT and clear the property."

Morgan nods once.

"JJ, I want you on a call to coordinate with Garcia. I want updates the second we get movement."

"Got it."

"Rossi, Kessler, finish interviews. Revisit everyone connected to the Beckett accident."

Neither of them argue. Then Hotch's gaze lands on you.

"You and Reid keep digging into Harris.”

You nod. "Got it."

Beside you, Reid is already gathering his files.

"Good," Hotch says. "Move.”

Once everyone leaves, the precinct feels quieter. 

Not actually quieter. Phones still ring. Officers still move through the precinct carrying stacks of paper and lukewarm coffee. Someone drops a file near the front desk and swears under their breath. But everything feels muted, like listening through glass.

You settle back into your chair beside Reid, pulling Harris's file toward you. 

Reid watches you for a second instead of working.

"You okay?" he asks after a moment.

You glance toward him. "What?”

Reid looks away first. Not because he's uncomfortable exactly. More like he's thinking. "You've been quieter."

You stare at him for a second.

“Since Kessler's questioning, I mean.”

You lean back slightly in your chair and force a laugh that doesn't quite sound convincing. "Wow. Profiling me now?"

"I wasn't profiling you,” he says. “Just observing.”

You shake your head. “What is profiling if not observing?”

The corner of his mouth twitches just slightly. Then his expression settles again. More serious this time.

"You know Kessler’s wrong.”

Your smile fades. Your eyes move back to the file in front of you. “Do I?”

"Yes."

The certainty comes so quickly it makes you look back up. Reid is already watching you, his gaze steady. Like he thinks this shouldn't even be a question.

You pick at the corner of a page. "She wasn't completely wrong."

"No," he agrees.

That surprises you even more. You furrow your brow.

Reid tilts his head slightly. "You can't prove it."

You huff a laugh. "Thank you, Spencer. That's extremely reassuring."

"I'm not finished."

You fall quiet.

He glances briefly toward the victim board before continuing. "You can't prove it because what you do isn't a measurable process." His fingers tap lightly against the file. "It's pattern recognition."

"That's a fancy way of saying instinct."

"No." The answer comes immediately. "Instinct is unconscious. What you do is different."

“Different?” you ask flatly. “Right.”

He shifts slightly in his chair. "You notice behavioral inconsistencies. Micro-expressions. Speech patterns. Emotional responses. Then your brain processes them faster than you can consciously explain."

You stare at him. "You make it sound scientific."

"It is scientific." Again, no hesitation in his voice. No doubt laced through his words. Just something he believes with certainty. "You've been right every time I've seen you do it."

The room suddenly feels much smaller. 

You glance away. "That's not true."

"It is.”

The immediate response makes you laugh despite yourself.

Reid frowns slightly. "I can think of at least three times you've noticed something everyone else missed in the last week.”

You shake your head. "That's different."

"Why?"

Because those times weren't important. Because those times didn't involve murder investigations. Because those times didn't involve people potentially going to prison. Because—

You don't actually have a good answer.

Reid waits. When none comes, he continues. "You know what Morgan says when you're interviewing someone?"

You blink. "What?"

"He says the fastest way to figure out who's lying is to watch who you're looking at."

Your mouth falls open slightly. "He says that?"

"Frequently.” A pause. "Usually right before he bets on whether you're about to make somebody cry."

You let out another surprised huff of laughter. Reid's expression brightens for a moment before sobering again.

"Kessler doesn't know you." The words are simple. Matter-of-fact. "She's known you for less than a week. I've worked with you."

Your chest tightens unexpectedly.

Reid shrugs one shoulder. "She's evaluating a skill she hasn't observed long enough to understand."

You look down at your coffee-stained notes. "What if she's right, though?"

The question comes out quieter than you intended. Reid doesn't answer immediately. For a moment, all you hear is the distant buzz of the precinct.

"What if she isn't?"

You glance up. His expression is calm. Gentle, almost. "If I stopped trusting every conclusion I reached the first time someone questioned it, I wouldn't be able to do this job."

The words settle somewhere deep. Because he means them. Not as encouragement, as the truth.

"You know what I think?" he asks.

You raise an eyebrow. "Dangerous question."

"I think you're one of the most observant people I've ever met."

Your heart promptly forgets how to function. Reid, thankfully, appears completely unaware of the damage he's just caused.

He keeps talking. "I think you notice things most people overlook." Another page turns beneath his fingers. "I think you've helped solve multiple cases because of it." He glances up. "And I think you're letting one person's skepticism outweigh years of evidence."

You stare at him. He stares back. Completely serious. No embarrassment or hesitation. Just Spencer Reid stating a conclusion he believes is objectively true.

Your throat feels strangely tight. "That's a very nice thing to say."

"It's not a nice thing." He frowns slightly. "It's an accurate thing."

The answer is so perfectly Spencer that a laugh escapes before you can stop it.

Next to you, his shoulders loosen slightly. Like that was the goal all along. Not convincing you, just getting you to smile again.

"Okay," you say quietly.

Reid nods once, satisfied. "Okay."

A moment passes. Then he slides the Harris file away. “I want to see your notes.”

“My notes?”

He nods. “You were taking notes earlier. I noticed you write something about his records being sealed.”

You blink. "Oh. Yeah."

Reid waits as you flip back through your notebook, finding the scribbled note wedged between timelines and victim interviews.

"There was a sealed record from about twenty years ago," you say. "Nothing detailed. Just enough to show something existed."

Reid leans slightly closer. "What kind of record?"

You shrug. "No idea. Juvenile maybe. The system flagged it and then immediately locked me out."

His brow furrows. "And you didn't mention this?"

"I was going to ask Garcia to unseal it.”

Reid nods immediately. "Let's do that.”

You pull out your phone. Garcia answers on the second ring.

"Tell me somebody found a body because I am running out of ways to entertain myself."

"Good afternoon to you too."

"Hello, my beloved government employees,” she says dramatically. “Now, what wizardry do you need me to perform?”

You explain the sealed file.

There's a pause. Then rapid keyboard clattering. Then more keyboard clattering. Then what sounds suspiciously like additional recreational keyboard clattering.

"Huh."

You straighten. "Huh good or huh bad?"

"Huh interesting."

Reid immediately leans forward. "What did you find?"

"Well first, whoever sealed this thing really wanted it buried." More typing. "And second..."

Silence.

Your stomach drops. "Garcia?"

"Franklin Harris wasn't the one with the record."

You exchange a glance with Reid. "What?"

"The file is attached to his name now, but twenty-three years ago it belonged to somebody else."

You sit up straighter.

"What do you mean somebody else?" Reid asks.

"It was amended after a legal name change."

Next to you, Reid freezes. The way he always does when a piece suddenly clicks into a larger puzzle.

"Garcia," he says carefully, "whose name?"

"Franklin Harris was born Daniel Mercer."

You look at Reid. Reid looks at you.

Garcia continues. "And Daniel Mercer was involved in a juvenile court case connected to a sixteen-year-old girl named Emily Warren.”

"What kind of juvenile case?" you ask.

Garcia exhales. "The official record is incomplete. A lot of the original documentation is missing.”

"Missing?"

"Missing missing," Garcia says. "Not redacted. Not sealed. Gone."

Beside you, Reid straightens. "That's unusual."

"That's what I thought." A few more keys click. "The surviving court summary says Emily Warren was sixteen years old when she reported Daniel Mercer for sexual assault. She was pregnant.”

For a second neither of you speak.

"Mercer was the alleged father?" Reid asks.

"According to the complaint, yes."

You feel a knot forming in your stomach. "What happened?"

Garcia lets out a humorless laugh. "What happened is somebody had money."

You glance at Reid. His jaw tightens.

"The case never went to trial," Garcia says. "Emily recanted part of her statement three months later."

"Part of it?"

"Enough of it."

The answer lands heavily.

"Family?" Reid asks.

"Oh, definitely family." More typing. "I found property records, campaign donations, legal invoices. Daniel Mercer's father owned half the county twenty years ago."

"Hyperbole?" you ask.

"Nope." A pause. "Actually less hyperbole than I'd like." You hear rustling on Garcia's end. "His father retained three separate attorneys within six weeks of the accusation."

Three. For a juvenile case.

You exchange another glance with Reid.

"The Warrens moved less than a year later."

"Moved where?" you ask.

"Three states away."

"And the child?" Reid asks.

"Looks like a boy." You hear more typing. "Born seven months after the complaint."

You sit up straighter. "Name?"

“Paul Warren.”

You and Reid are already on your feet before Garcia finishes speaking.

"Send everything you have on Warren," Reid says.

"Already doing it," Garcia replies.

The line disconnects a second later.

The two of you are halfway down the bullpen before either of you says another word. Hotch is still in the conference room when you arrive. Rossi, JJ, and Prentiss are there too, sorting through interview notes while they wait for updates on Turner.

Hotch looks up immediately. Something in your expression must give it away. "What is it?"

You set the file down on the table. "We found a connection to Harris."

That gets everyone's attention.

Reid moves toward the board. "Franklin Harris wasn't originally Franklin Harris," he says. "He legally changed his name twenty-three years ago."

Prentiss straightens. "Why?"

"Because Franklin Harris was originally Daniel Mercer. And when Mercer was seventeen, a sixteen-year-old girl named Emily Warren accused him of sexual assault."

Rossi's expression hardens immediately.

"The case disappeared," Reid says. "Records missing. Witness statements incomplete. Family retained multiple attorneys. The victim recanted part of her statement."

"Mercer's father had money," you add.

Hotch's jaw tightens.

"And the girl?" JJ asks quietly.

"Moved away less than a year later."

You glance down at your notes. "She gave birth to a son, Paul Warren.”

"Paul Warren?" Rossi repeats.

The name lands differently coming from him. You look up. Rossi is already reaching for a file.

"Paul Warren was one of the interviews."

Prentiss frowns. "What interview?"

"The Blake interview." Rossi flips open the folder. "He was one of the people we brought in this morning."

A cold feeling settles low in your stomach. Rossi finds the page and slides it across the table.

"Paul Warren was close friends with Tyler Evans, the high school student Blake lied about.”

“Is he still here?” Hotch asks.

Rossi shakes his head. “No, he left just before we found Turner's possible destination.”

Prentiss mutters a curse. “Let me guess—tall, dark hair, blue button up?”

Rossi raises a brow. “How did you know?”

“He was lingering before he left. Claimed he was lost,” Prentiss says. “But now, I think he was waiting to hear Turner's location.”

“We need to move,” Hotch says. “He could be on his way there now.”

The shift from conference room to jet always feels wrong in a way you can never fully explain. 

Like a sudden time skip before you understand the plot.

One second you’re under fluorescent lights with crime scene photos burned into the backs of your eyes, and the next you’re thirty thousand feet in the air with stale coffee and recycled oxygen humming through the cabin vents like none of it followed you onboard.

But it always does.

By the time you settle into your seat, the engines have already smoothed themselves into a steady vibration beneath your ribs. Files reopen. Pens resume their quiet scratching. Conversations pick back up mid-thought, seamless and strange, like the case never paused at all—it just changed rooms.

You tuck your bag beneath the seat with a practiced push of your foot and pull your tablet back out.

Across from you, Reid is already talking.

“—if the marking is post-mortem, then the act itself isn’t about silencing the victim,” he says, fingers tapping lightly against the edge of the file as the thought organizes itself in real time. “It’s symbolic. Which means ‘liar’ probably isn’t situational. It’s categorical.”

Morgan leans back slightly in his seat. “So not something they did. Something they are.”

“Or something he believes they are,” JJ adds.

Reid nods quickly. “Right. Exactly.”

Across the aisle, Kessler listens without interrupting.

There’s something unusually precise about the way she pays attention. Not passive. Not performative either. More like she’s sorting through the room in layers, deciding what deserves to stay.

“He’s not testing them,” she says after a moment. “He’s confirming something he already decided before he met them.”

Reid’s expression sharpens slightly, interested.

“So the interaction beforehand is probably structured around validation,” he says. “He’s not discovering deception. He’s looking for proof of it.”

Something in your chest catches faintly on that. It's not wrong.

More like a sentence missing its last word.

You glance back down at the photos.

LIAR.

Centered. Symmetrical. Controlled.

Your mouth opens slightly—

—and the phone rings.

The sound cuts through the cabin so sharply everyone stills for half a second before Morgan grabs it. “Talk to me, babygirl.”

“We’ve got another one.”

The air changes instantly.

Hotch leans forward slightly from his seat. “Location?”

“Just outside the original radius,” Garcia says. “About thirty miles out this time. Rural property. Local PD just called it in. Same markings.”

JJ’s pen stills. “Any information on the victim?”

“Female. Mid-thirties. Found inside the home. No signs of forced entry.”

Expansion of radius and shift in victim profile.

The geometry of the case rearranges itself immediately in your head, pieces shifting before you can consciously track them.

“Send us everything,” Hotch says.

“It’s already uploading.”

A soft chime cuts through the cabin a second later.

Morgan opens the file first.

The image loads.

It's a different house, different victim, but the same word.

LIAR.

Carved into skin in the same place as the others. But something catches at you immediately.

Your eyes narrow slightly as you scroll through the pictures. You stop when you come to a close-up of the carved word.

“Hold on,” you say softly. “It's different.”

Morgan glances up. “What?”

You lean forward a little, tapping lightly against your screen. “The placement’s different.”

Reid’s gaze drops immediately to where you’re pointing.

“The others were centered,” you say, thoughts gathering speed now that they’ve surfaced. “Symmetrical. Deliberate. Almost like the unsub actually measured before cutting. This one's off. More jagged, slightly crooked, a bit off centered.”

Morgan leans in slightly. “You think he rushed this one?”

You shake your head immediately. “No. It’s still controlled.” Your brow furrows. “Just… closer. Maybe less intentional, more personal?"

The words feel wrong. Like they aren't quite close enough.

Kessler tilts her head slightly, eyes flicking to the image, then back to you.

“I don’t think it’s less intentional,” she says, tone calm, measured.

You glance up.

Her expression stays composed. Certain in that quiet, polished way that somehow makes uncertainty feel embarrassing. “It’s actually more intentional.”

Reid nods as though he understands. You, meanwhile, raise a brow in confusion.

Kessler gestures lightly toward the image.

“I believe the placement suggests proximity, like you said,” she says to you  “But it's because it wasn't about her being found this time. This was just for the unsub. The act mattered more than the presentation this time.”

Reid studies the image again, eyes narrowing slightly.

And there it is again.

That quick alignment between them.

Easy. Immediate. Like stepping into rhythm without needing to search for it first.

“That would also explain the depth variation,” he says, leaning forward slightly. “The earlier incisions are consistent across all three victims. Same pressure. Same angle.” His gaze flicks lower. “This one changes.”

Emily nods. “The first stroke is deeper. The rest taper off slightly. That suggests emotional escalation during the act itself. He wasn’t just marking her—he was reacting.”

Morgan exhales through his nose. “So something she said set him off.”

“Or didn’t say,” JJ counters, leaning in. “If he’s expecting a confession and doesn’t get one…”

“He compensates,” Reid finishes. “Physically.”

“So we’re looking at a subject whose behavior is shifting from controlled presentation to emotionally driven action,” you say.

Prentiss nods once. “That’s escalation.”

“And proximity,” Reid adds again, almost to himself. “He’s getting closer during the interaction. Less detached.”

Kessler watches him as he speaks, something intent in her expression. Not surprise. Not quite approval either. Something more  measured.

“Which suggests the fantasy is destabilizing,” she says. “He’s no longer satisfied with the symbolic act alone.”

Hotch gives a short, decisive nod, the kind that closes a door without slamming it.

“We’ll continue this on the ground,” he says, voice even, already shifting the team forward. “For now, review what we have. I want initial impressions ready when we land.”

There’s a quiet shuffle of movement. Papers adjust. Screens dim slightly. The rhythm of the jet fills the spaces where conversation used to be.

Across from you, Reid drifts somewhere deeper into the case, gaze fixed just slightly past the screen like he’s reconstructing something invisible behind it. His fingers tap once against the file before stilling again.

You try to find the thread you had earlier.

The placement. The feeling of it. The sense that the word itself mattered differently here somehow.

But it keeps slipping sideways before you can fully grab it.

“You were right to notice the variation.”

You look up from your tablet.

Kessler has leaned slightly closer across the aisle, voice pitched just low enough not to travel. Up close, her expression is composed, thoughtful in that precise, practiced way you're already expecting.

Composed.

Intentional.

Like every expression passes through inspection before being released into the world.

“Most people would’ve dismissed that as inconsistency,” she continues, quiet, conversational. “But it’s not. It’s a meaningful deviation.”

There’s a small pause. Just enough space for the words to settle.

“You seem good at that,” she adds. “Catching details without overcomplicating them. A lot of people in this field miss obvious things because they’re too busy trying to sound intelligent.”

Your fingers curl slightly against the edge of your tablet.

Small. Subtle. Easy to miss if you weren’t looking for it.

A fractional delay before the compliment lands. Not in her words. In her body. The way her shoulders settle a beat too late. The way her gaze holds just a fraction longer than it needs to, like she’s making sure it takes.

Not exactly a lie. Just polished before release.

Like the truth got edited for audience appeal.

Your chest tightens faintly.

“Oh,” you say softly. “Thanks.”

You smile automatically.

It feels convincing.

Kessler nods once, satisfied, like the exchange has reached its natural conclusion. She leans back into her seat, attention already shifting forward again, back into the case like that moment never needed to linger.

You let your gaze drop back to your screen.

LIAR.

When you arrive at the precinct, the first thing you notice is the smell. Old coffee, dust, and whatever cleaner the janitor uses drift through the air.

Everything is a little too bright, a little too flat. The kind of place where voices carry even when people try to keep them contained.

Local officers move around with that particular blend of urgency and uncertainty that comes with handling a case with the BAU. Files shift hands. Someone’s explaining something too fast near the front desk. A printer hums constantly like it’s part of the investigation.

Hotch speaks briefly with the lead detective, voice low, efficient. JJ and Prentiss peel off toward the bullpen area, already asking for timelines, victim background, anything that fills in the edges. Morgan’s talking to uniforms by the door.

Kessler stands just slightly apart from it all, listening. Observing. Filing.

You hover for half a second, not quite sure where you’re meant to land—

“Interview room two,” Hotch’s voice cuts cleanly through the noise.

You look up. He’s already looking at you.

“The husband’s waiting,” he continues. “Lance Powell.” A small nod toward the hallway. Direct. Decided. “Take Reid with you.”

Your stomach does a small, unhelpful flip.

“Okay,” you say, because that’s the only answer that exists.

Beside you, Reid shifts slightly, like he was already half-moving before the instruction finished. His expression is focused, but there’s something quieter under it. Attention, maybe. Or just proximity.

“Right,” he says, glancing toward the hallway. “Yeah.”

You nod once and start walking.

The hallway narrows the world down to footsteps and breath.

The noise from the precinct dulls behind you, replaced by something more contained. Doors. Numbers. The faint echo of voices through walls that were never meant to keep things entirely private.

You reach room two. A simple grey door, wired window, and a metal handle that’s cold to the touch when you turn it.

Lance Powell is already inside.

He looks like someone who hasn’t fully caught up to what’s happened yet.

Mid-forties, maybe. Early fifties. Hard to tell. Grief does that—pulls years forward, collapses them inward. His hair is uncombed, shirt wrinkled like he slept in it or didn’t sleep at all. There’s a shadow along his jaw that wasn’t intentional.

A cup of coffee sits in front of him, untouched.

His hands are wrapped loosely around it anyway, like he needs something to anchor them.

He looks up when you enter. Hope flickers first, then confusion. Then something heavier settles in behind it when he realizes you’re not whoever he was waiting for.

You step in anyway, keeping your movements slow, deliberate. Not cautious—just… respectful of the space he’s in.

“Mr. Powell?” you say, voice soft but steady.

He nods, once. Quick. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s—yeah.”

His voice is rough. Like it hasn’t been used properly in a while.

You pull out the chair across from him, sitting down without scraping it too loudly against the floor. Reid takes the seat slightly to your right, not crowding, not distant either. A quiet presence. A second set of eyes.

“I’m with the Behavioral Analysis Unit,” you continue. “We’re here to help figure out what happened.”

His grip tightens just slightly on the coffee cup.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay. Good. Good, that’s—” He nods again, faster this time. “They said you’d be—” He stops. Swallows. “They said you’d be good at this.”

You nod once, like that’s something you can accept without questioning right now.

“We’re going to ask you a few questions,” you say gently. “Just to understand the timeline. Anything you can tell us helps.”

“Yeah. Yeah, of course.” He leans forward slightly, like he’s ready to give you everything at once. “Whatever you need.”

“Can you walk me through yesterday?” you ask. “From the morning, if you can.”

He exhales, long, shaky. His gaze drops to the table, like the answers might be written there if he looks hard enough.

“I—I left early,” he starts. “Around six. I’ve got a job out near the highway, so I—” He gestures vaguely. “I’m usually gone before Lauren’s even up.”

His thumb drags absently along the rim of the coffee cup.

“She was asleep when I left,” he continues. “Or—I think she was. Bedroom door was closed.”

“And when did you come back?” you ask.

“Uh—late,” Lance says. “Later than usual. Traffic was bad, and I—” He shakes his head slightly. “I stopped for gas. Picked up dinner. Just—normal stuff.”

You nod slowly, letting him know you’re still listening, even as he stops to take a shaky breath.

“I got home around… eight-thirty? Nine, maybe.” He winces slightly, like the exact number is just out of reach. “Somewhere in there.”

You tilt your head just slightly, not breaking eye contact. “What happened when you got home?”

He inhales another shaking breath.

The grief is real. Immediate. It cracks through Mr. Powell before he can shove it back down. Tears start to form along his lower lash line, and he looks away like he doesn’t want you to see.

“I—” His voice stumbles. “I knew something was wrong. The door—” He gestures vaguely again. “It was unlocked. Lauren wouldn’t—she always locks it.”

His eyes shine, unfocused, pulled somewhere else entirely.

“I called out. She didn’t answer. And then I—” He swallows hard. “I found her.”

Reid’s gaze flicks briefly toward you, not questioning. Just checking. Aligning. You nod slightly, then look back to Mr. Powell. 

“Mr. Powell… can you think of any reason someone would want to hurt Lauren?"

He shakes his head immediately. Too quickly for it to be anything but a defense for his wife.

“No,” he says. “No, nothing like that. She—she was good. She was—everyone liked her. She didn’t… have enemies. She didn’t—she wasn’t—” He cuts himself off, jaw tightening. “No. No reason.”

The word no lands too fast. Not just quick. Preloaded. Like they were waiting at the front of his mouth before you even finished asking.

Your gaze doesn’t leave his face.

There’s grief there. Real, sharp, still bleeding at the edges. You don’t question that part.

But it’s layered over something else.

His shoulders pulled just slightly inward. Not collapsing… bracing. His grip tightening around the cup, not for comfort, but for control. His eyes flicking down a fraction too soon, like they’re dodging something rather than searching for it.

He’s not just remembering. He’s managing.

You let a beat stretch. Not long enough to pressure. Just long enough to let the silence ask its own question.

“I understand,” you say gently.

He nods immediately, relief flickering across his face like he thinks you’re letting it go.

“I do,” you continue, voice still soft, still even. “You want to protect her.”

The relief stutters. His eyes lift back to yours.

“I’m not—” he starts.

You tilt your head, the smallest movement. “You’re trying to make sure she’s remembered the right way,” you say. “That the worst thing that ever happened to her doesn’t become the only thing people see.”

His throat works. Swallows.

“That makes sense,” you add quietly. “Anyone would want that.”

His grip loosens around the cup. Just slightly.

The truth always does that. It takes the tension out of the lie, even if it doesn’t replace it yet.

“But…” you say, and this time the word is careful. “If we don’t know what actually mattered in her life—what complicated things existed, what real things existed—” your fingers rest lightly against the table, grounding the words there instead of letting them float, “—then we’re working with a version of her that doesn’t exist.”

He looks at you like he wants to argue. Like he wants to say no again. But it doesn’t come out this time.

“Mr. Powell,” you say, quieter now, “who was she arguing with?”

“I—she wasn’t—” Lance tries again, but it’s weaker now. Less structure. The edges of it are already fraying.

You don’t let him build it back up.

“You paused,” you say gently. “When you said she didn’t have enemies.”

He freezes.

“You were going to say something else,” you continue. “And then you stopped.”

His jaw tightens.

“I didn’t—”

“You did,” you say, still soft. Still calm. “And it’s okay that you did.”

His eyes drop to the table again. This time, they stay there.

“She—” he starts, then stops. Shakes his head. “It wasn’t—” He exhales, sharp, frustrated. At himself. At you. At the situation. All of it tangled together. 

“It wasn’t like that,” he says finally, like he’s trying to convince the room more than you. “She just…” His thumb drags along the edge of the cup again, over and over, like he’s trying to wear the feeling down. “She talked. A lot.”

You nod once. Small. Neutral. Encouraging without pushing. “About what?”

He huffs a humorless breath.

“Everything,” he says. “Work. Friends. People she knew. People she didn’t know.” His mouth twists slightly. “Stuff she shouldn’t have known.”

Reid’s gaze sharpens just a fraction. “What kind of stuff?”

Lance glances at him, then back to you. Like you’re the one he’s answering to.

“Personal things,” he says. “Secrets. Gossip. Whatever you want to call it.” His grip tightens again. “She’d hear something and just—run with it.”

“Run with it how?” you ask.

“Like it was true,” he says, a little sharper now. Defensive again, but not hiding this time. “Didn’t matter where it came from. Didn’t matter if it made sense. If she thought it fit, she’d repeat it. She was a gossip for sure.”

“DId she ever get called out for it?” you ask.

A short, bitter laugh escapes him. “Yeah. Yeah, a few times.”

“By who?”

“Neighbors. Coworkers. One of her friends stopped talking to her over it.” He shakes his head. “Said she was twisting things. Making people look bad.”

Reid leans forward slightly. “Did Lauren believe what she was saying? Or did she know it wasn’t true?”

Lance hesitates. That hesitation is heavier than anything he’s said so far.

“I think…” he starts slowly, frowning like the answer doesn’t sit cleanly anywhere, “I think she believed it once she said it.”

“Did she confront people with it?” you ask, voice softer now.

Lance nods, once. “Sometimes.”

“How did that usually go?”

“Bad,” he says immediately. “People didn’t like being told things about themselves that weren’t—” He stops. Corrects himself. “—that weren’t right.”

“Did anyone ever get angry enough to threaten her?” you ask, voice still even, still patient. “Or scare her?”

Lance shifts in his chair, shoulders pulling in just a fraction.

“People got mad,” he says. “Yeah. Of course they did. But—” He shakes his head quickly. “Not like that. Not—this.”

“She ever mention someone specific?” you ask, softer now. “Someone who didn’t let it go?”

Lance exhales, long and thin, like he’s trying to flatten the question out before it can take shape.

“There was—” he starts, then stops.

“Mr. Powell,” you say gently, “whatever you remember—even if it feels small—it matters.”

His jaw shifts, working against itself.

“There was a guy,” he admits finally, quieter now. “A few weeks back.”

Reid leans forward slightly. You feel it more than you see it, the shift in his attention sharpening like a lens clicking into focus.

“What happened?” Reid asks.

Lance glances at him, then back to you again.

“She said something about him,” he says. “I don’t even remember what it was. Something about his business, I think. That he was—cheating people, or cutting corners, or—” He shakes his head. “It didn’t make sense to me. But she was convinced.”

“And he confronted her?” you ask.

Lance nods. “Yeah. Came by the house. I wasn’t there, but she told me about it after.” His mouth tightens. “Said he got real worked up. Told her to stop talking about him. That she didn’t know what she was saying.”

Your fingers tap once, lightly, against the table. “Did she stop?”

A humorless huff. “No,” he says. “She said if it wasn’t true, he wouldn’t be so mad about it.”

Reid’s gaze flicks briefly toward you again.

“Do you remember his name?”

Lance hesitates. Then nods, slow.

“Caleb,” he says. “Caleb Turner. I think. Runs some kind of contracting business out by the highway.”

“Did anything else happen after that?” you ask. “Any more contact?”

Lance shakes his head. “Not that I know of.”

Not that I know of.

You let that sit where it is.

“Okay,” you say gently. “That helps. It really does.”

Relief flickers again, softer this time. Less certain. Like he doesn’t fully trust it, but wants to.

Reid shifts beside you. “We may have a few more questions later,” he says, tone calm, measured. “But this gives us a place to start.”

Lance nods quickly. “Yeah. Yeah, of course. Whatever you need.”

You stand slowly, giving him space to stay where he is, to not have to follow you out of this moment any faster than he already is.

“Thank you,” you say, and you mean it.

He nods again, eyes already drifting somewhere else. Back to her. To the house. To the version of the day that still makes sense.

You and Reid step out into the hallway.

The next morning arrives gray. Not storming or cinematic. Dull around the edges, the sky washed into the color of old printer paper as the precinct slowly wakes around it.

You’re standing near the coffee machine when Hotch steps out of an office with a file already in hand.

“Turner’s here,” he says.

Morgan straightens immediately from where he’d been leaning against the counter. “Lawyer up yet?”

“Not yet,” Hotch replies. “Local PD picked him up early this morning on probable cause related to harassment complaints and brought him in for questioning.”

Not enough to hold him long.

The implication hangs there anyway.

Hotch’s gaze shifts to you. “You did well yesterday with Powell. You and Morgan can take lead.”

You nod once. “Okay.”

Morgan pushes off the counter beside you, rolling one shoulder loose. “C’mon, Santa. Let’s go ruin somebody’s morning.”

You huff a faint laugh despite yourself, already reaching for the file Hotch offers.

The name stares up at you from the front page.

Caleb Turner.

Forty-two. Owner of Turner Contracting Services. Two prior complaints for aggressive conduct. No charges. No violent offenses.

“He’s defensive,” he says. “Reactive. But not impulsive. Don’t corner him too fast.”

You nod again, fingers tightening slightly around the edge of the file. “Got it.”

The interrogation room sits at the end of the hall. Same heavy door. Same wired-glass window and metal handle. Same stale recycled air leaking faintly into the corridor.

Morgan reaches the handle first, then pauses and glances back at you. “You good?”

There’s always a moment before interrogations. A strange little stillness. Breath held. Like standing barefoot at the edge of dark water and preparing to jump in. You never know what could be below the surface, but you’re ready to find it.

“Yeah,” you say after a second. “I’m good.”

Morgan studies your face briefly like he’s checking the structural integrity of the answer. Apparently satisfied enough, he nods once and opens the door.

Caleb Turner looks up immediately.

Mid-forties. Broad shoulders gone stiff with tension. Heavy workman’s hands folded too tightly on the table. There’s irritation in him already, simmering close to the surface like a pot left unattended.

His gaze hits Morgan first, then slides to you. THere’s a look on his face you’ve seen before.

Dismissal. The quick recalculation people do when they decide you’re softer than they expected. Easier.

Morgan takes the seat across from him with easy confidence, sprawling just enough to fill the space without seeming aggressive.

You sit beside him, quieter.

Caleb watches you both carefully. “This some kind of good-cop-bad-cop thing?”

Morgan snorts. “Man, we haven’t even started talking yet.”

“I already told the other cops what happened.”

“Good news,” Morgan says. “You get to tell it again.”

Caleb leans back in his chair, jaw tightening. “I didn’t kill anybody.”

Morgan’s gaze flicks toward you briefly, questioning. Checking the read before he pushes.

You look at Caleb for one long second.

The irritation is real. The anger too. It sits close to the surface of him like heat rolling off asphalt.

But underneath it? No fear or unease.

You shake your head once, small. Not yet.

Morgan leans back a fraction in his chair, easy as anything, like this is just another conversation and not a room specifically designed to make people sweat.

You set the file down on the table and open it carefully. Paper shifts beneath your fingers.

Caleb watches the movement with the kind of rigid attention people get when they’re trying not to look nervous.

“You own Turner Contracting Services,” you say, glancing down briefly. “Been operating about eleven years.”

“Thirteen,” Caleb corrects automatically.

You nod once. “Okay. Thirteen.”

The correction settles something in him. Tiny. Instinctive. People like being accurate about themselves.

“You mostly take commercial jobs?” you ask.

“Commercial, residential, whatever pays.” His tone is clipped, defensive around the edges.

You hum softly like you’re just fitting pieces together. “You grew up here?”

Caleb’s brow furrows slightly. “Yeah.”

“Family still around?”

Morgan glances sideways at you for half a second. Not confusion. Curiosity. He’s waiting to see where you go with this, how you plan on getting Turner to open up.

Caleb shifts in his chair. “My brother’s in Daytona.”

You nod again, flipping one page in the file though you already know what’s on it.

“That’s a decent drive.”

“What does this have to do with anything?”

You look up then, meeting his eyes properly for the first time since sitting down.

It always changes the room a little when you do that. Makes people a bit uneasy, tense.

“We’re trying to get a sense of who you are,” you say simply.

Caleb scoffs softly, leaning back again. “You already got a sense. Otherwise I wouldn’t be sitting in here.”

Morgan watches him over steepled fingers. “You threatened Lauren Powell.”

“I told her to stop talking about me.”

“You showed up at her house.”

“Because she was spreading bullshit.”

The words come fast. Hot. Practiced, but not rehearsed. Visited, like he's snapped that line in his mind a thousand times.

You glance down at the file again. “She accused you of cheating clients,” you say. “Cutting corners on jobs.”

“I don’t.”

Immediate. Sharp. His jaw tightens so hard you can see the muscle jump.

“She said you used cheap materials and pocketed the difference,” you continue evenly. “That your permits weren’t legitimate.”

“They are legitimate!”

He nearly shouts it.

The sound cracks through the room hard enough to rattle the thin layer of calm you’d been building.

There.

The heat underneath the anger finally shows its shape.

Your gaze stays on Caleb’s face. The flush climbing too fast up his neck. The split-second delay before outrage turned performative. The way his eyes cut sideways first, not at Morgan, but at you.

Checking. Measuring whether you bought it.

You didn’t.

"You're lying."

The chair screeches violently backward as he lurches to his feet. The cuffed arm yanks hard against the restraint with a brutal metallic crack.

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

His finger points straight at you. Accusatory. Shaking with adrenaline.

Morgan stands immediately.

“Sit the fuck down,” he snaps.

Caleb flinches instinctively, but he doesn’t sit.

His breathing’s gone uneven now, chest rising too fast beneath his work jacket.

“You think you can just look at me and decide that?” he demands, voice louder now, fraying at the edges. “You people walk in here acting like you already know everything.”

Morgan steps forward once. Not enough to threaten. Enough to take control back. “I said sit down.”

Caleb’s eyes flash toward him, jaw clenched so tight it looks painful.

For a second, you genuinely think he might keep pushing.

Then the cuff tugs again when he shifts, reminding him exactly where he is. The fight drains out of his posture in ugly pieces. He drops back into the chair hard enough to make the table jump.

Silence crashes in after him. Heavy breathing. Metal creaking faintly.

Morgan stays standing another second, watching Caleb carefully before lowering himself back into his seat.

“You’re real interested in proving she was wrong,” he says evenly.

Caleb scoffs, but there’s no confidence in it now. Just heat. “Because she was.”

“You sure about that?” Morgan asks.

“Yes.”

You hold his gaze for a second longer.

Then you open the file.

“These are your permit records,” you say calmly.

Caleb’s posture shifts almost imperceptibly.

Tiny, but there.

You slide the copies across the table.

He doesn’t touch them. Doesn’t need to. He already knows what they are.

“We contacted the county office this morning,” you continue. “The permit numbers attached to three of your recent commercial jobs don’t exist.”

Silence.

“Two others belong to entirely different properties.”

Caleb’s jaw tightens.

“You forged them,” Morgan says flatly.

“I didn’t forge shit.”

You watch him carefully.

The anger’s still there, but something heavier has started bleeding through underneath it. Something frightened. Something exhausted. The kind of fear people carry when they’ve spent too long balancing their entire life on one unstable thing.

"So, she was spreading your secrets." You tilt your head slightly. “Is that why you killed Lauren?”

Caleb’s head jerks up so fast it almost looks painful. “I didn’t kill anybody.”

The words come hard this time. Immediate. Too immediate. Spit out before the thought fully forms.

“That was a lie the first time,” you say quietly. “And it’s still a lie now.”

Something in him jolts.

Not physically. Internally. Like the sentence hit someplace softer than anger expected.

“You don’t get to do that,” he snaps suddenly, leaning forward against the restraint with a sharp metallic rattle. “You don’t get to just say people are lying because you feel like it.”

“I’m not saying it because I feel like it.”

“Oh, really?” he shoots back. “Then what, huh?”

His laugh comes out ugly. Sharp around the edges.

“You psychic or something?”

Morgan stays silent beside you. You don’t answer either. And somehow that makes Caleb more agitated, not less.

His knee starts bouncing beneath the table. Fast. Violent little bursts of motion he doesn’t seem aware of.

“You people are unbelievable,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face. “Whole damn unit walks in acting like God; all-fucking-knowing.”

“No,” you say softly. “Just me.”

Morgan’s mouth twitches once beside you before flattening again.

Caleb stares at you, searching. Trying to decide if you’re joking.

“You think you're—what?” he says slowly, disbelief curling around the words, “a human lie detector?”

You shrug one shoulder slightly. “Basically.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“It’s usually more useful than fun.”

He scoffs hard enough to puff air through his nose, but there’s something unstable underneath it now. You can see it settling into him piece by piece.

Replaying. Every answer. Every hesitation. Every time you looked at him too long.

“You can’t know that,” he says, but there’s less force behind it now. “You can’t just look at somebody and know.”

“No,” you agree calmly. “Not everything.”

His eyes narrow.

“But I know when people are lying.”

Caleb shifts back in his chair, but there’s nowhere useful to go. His gaze flicks briefly toward Morgan like maybe he’ll interrupt this, shut it down, call it ridiculous.

Morgan just watches him evenly. “They're hell of a poker player, too,” he says casually.

Caleb looks back at you longer this time. And you watch the exact moment uncertainty starts eating through his certainty.

Because innocent people react differently. They get angry. Defensive. Confused. But eventually, somewhere underneath all of it, there’s solid ground.

Caleb doesn’t have any. Just a bottomless hole he’s dug himself deeper and deeper into

“You’re screwing with me,” he says finally, but quieter now. Less conviction. “This is some interrogation tactic.”

You shake your head once. “No.”

His jaw flexes.

“You killed Lauren Powell,” you say. "And we know why. Why did you kill the others?"

“I didn’t do that,” he says quickly, leaning forward as much as the cuffs allow. The metal snaps lightly against the table. “I didn’t kill anyone else. I didn’t—there weren’t any others.”

"But you killed Lauren," you say. Not really a question, but a confirmation.

“I didn’t mean to!"

The hallway outside the interrogation rooms is too bright again. Always too bright after something like that. Like now that the shadows have been revealed, the lights feel they need to work harder.

Morgan walks a step ahead of you, already loosening the tension in his shoulders as he heads toward the conference room.

The rest of the team is already there when you arrive. 

“Caleb Turner admitted to going to Lauren Powell’s home yesterday evening,” Morgan starts.

A few heads lift slightly.

“He says it was to confront her about accusations she’d been making,” you continue. "It escalated, and he strangled her."

Morgan’s voice carries the rest of it, steady as a closing door.

“He says he didn’t plan it,” he adds. “It escalated fast. Argument, physical struggle, loss of control.”

The room doesn’t react all at once. It never does.

It lands in layers.

JJ’s hand stills over her notepad. Prentiss’s eyes sharpen, already moving ahead of the words. Hotch doesn’t move at all, but something in his expression tightens by a fraction, like a lock clicking shut.

“Afterward,” you continue, “he panicked.”

You shift slightly in your chair, feeling the weight of the case settle into its next shape.

“He staged the scene,” Morgan says. “Carved the word. Tried to make it look consistent with the others.”

“He knew we were already looking at the earlier cases. He was trying to redirect the narrative. Make her look like another victim in a series instead of his temper getting the best of him.”

Prentiss exhales through her nose. “So he escalates once, realizes what he’s done, then tries to blend it into something bigger than him.”

“Exactly,” Morgan says.

Kessler’s gaze stays on the file a moment longer than anyone else’s. Then she leans forward slightly.

“Just to clarify,” she says, tone even, almost conversational, “how do we know he didn’t kill the others as well?”

A few eyes flick toward her.

Not in challenge. More like recalibration.

Morgan answers first, easy and immediate. “Because he said he didn’t.”

Kessler tilts her head a fraction. “And we believe him?”

Reid leans forward slightly, fingertips brushing the edge of the file.

“The original offender demonstrates ritual stabilization,” he explains. “Consistent post-mortem staging, controlled timing, organized victim selection, geographic discipline.” His gaze flicks briefly toward the crime scene photos. “Turner doesn’t.”

“He’s reactive,” Morgan adds.

“Disorganized under emotional pressure,” Reid agrees. “He escalated during confrontation, panicked afterward, and imitated an existing pattern poorly.”

Kessler’s gaze narrows slightly. Thinking. “You’re basing that distinction partially on the interrogation.”

“Partially,” Reid says immediately. "We already know the crime scenes were different. 'Liar' wasn't symmetrical."

“And partially on them,” Morgan adds again, jerking his chin lightly in your direction.

You feel heat creep faintly up your neck.

“And you trust that completely?” she asks.

“Yes.”

tags: @blacksnake13 @drmscomet @person-005 @moonbird1507 @mosseetreees

The room is too warm.

Sheets tangled low around your legs, twisted into something that feels more like restraint than comfort. The air smells faintly of him—soap and something sharper beneath it, something you’ve never quite been able to name but have always associated with this: these visits, these nights, this version of yourself.

He’s beside you, chest rising and falling, breath still uneven. Spent. Satisfied.

And you—

You’re not.

The difference sits heavy in the space between you, unspoken but obvious. Your body still caught somewhere in the middle of something that never quite reached its end. A tension with nowhere to go. A quiet, unfinished feeling you’ve learned not to look at too closely.

James shifts beside you with a quiet exhale, like the moment has already left him.

There’s no lingering touch, no absentminded brush of his hand against your skin—nothing that suggests he’s still here with you in any way that matters.

He stretches. It’s casual. Unbothered. Like this is routine. Like you are routine.

The mattress dips as he sits up, running a hand through his hair before swinging his legs over the side of the bed. The air moves with him, cool against your skin where the sheets have slipped too low.

“I’ve got an early day tomorrow,” he says, voice rough but detached, already halfway somewhere else.

You don’t answer. You don’t need to. Because then he glances toward the door. Just for a second. And that’s all it takes.

The rest of it settles into place like it always does—quiet, practiced, familiar in the worst way. He doesn’t tell you to leave. He never has. He doesn’t have to.

You know the pattern. You know your place in it.

You sit up slowly, the sheets dragging against your legs as if reluctant to let you go—or maybe that’s just you projecting something human onto something that isn’t. Wouldn’t be the first time tonight.

James stands, already reaching for his clothes. There’s no urgency in it, no embarrassment. Just efficiency. Like he’s completing a task.

Like you were one.

Your chest tightens—not sharp enough to hurt, just enough to remind you it’s there. That something is.

You gather your things from where they’ve been discarded, movements quieter than they need to be. Careful. Always careful. Like if you take up too much space, the illusion might break completely.

Like if you don’t, maybe it won’t.

A soft buzz breaks the silence. Not loud. Not intrusive. Just enough to fracture what little stillness is left.

James’s phone lights up on the nightstand.

You don’t mean to look. You really don’t.

But your eyes are already there, dragged by something instinctive, something tired and aching and quietly bracing for impact.

The screen glows in the dim light.

You don’t read the message. It's the wallpaper that gets your attention.

The girl in the picture is pretty. Effortlessly so. Long blonde hair spilling over her shoulders, bright blue eyes caught mid-laugh. There’s a softness to her expression, something open and certain. Happy.

James' arm is wrapped around her waist, pulled in close—familiar in a way that makes your stomach drop.

He’s kissing her cheek. And she’s smiling. Holding up her hand. A ring catching the light.

Your eyes close.

Fuck.

It’s quiet in your head for a second. Completely, unnaturally quiet. Like everything just… stops. No thoughts. No rationalizing. No soft excuses you’ve been feeding yourself for months—years, maybe. 

Just that image. Burned in.

You inhale slowly, but it catches halfway in your chest. Stutters. Doesn’t quite settle.

Of course.

Of course there’s someone else.

Of course there’s always been someone else.

Behind you, James exhales like nothing’s changed. Like the room hasn’t just tilted on its axis. Like you aren’t standing there, half-dressed and suddenly very aware of how little space you actually take up in his world.

He reaches for the phone. The screen goes dark. Just like that. Gone.

“You good?” he asks, glancing at you briefly as he pulls his shirt over his head.

Casual. Offhand. Like he’s asking if you remembered your keys.

Your throat tightens. You nod anyway. Because of course you do. Because that’s the part you know how to play.

“Yeah,” you say, and it comes out softer than you mean it to. Thinner.

He hums, distracted already, fingers moving over his phone now that it’s in his hand. Typing something out. Quick. Easy. Unbothered.

You wonder if it’s her.

You don’t ask. You won’t ask.

That would imply something you’ve never been allowed to be.

You finish gathering your things, movements slower now—not hesitant, just… heavier. Like each small action carries more weight than it should.

Like something has shifted, even if nothing outwardly has.

Your shoes. Your bag. Your jacket. You pause for half a second longer than necessary, fingers brushing over the fabric before you pull it on.

Waiting.

For what, you’re not entirely sure.

For him to say something, maybe. To stop you. To explain. To choose.

But nothing comes. It never does.

James doesn’t look up right away.

His attention stays on his phone, thumb moving in short, practiced motions. Whatever conversation he’s stepped back into seems to take priority over the one he hasn’t even bothered to finish with you.

Then, like he remembers you’re still there—

“I’m slammed this week,” he says, almost as an afterthought. His tone is easy, unaffected. “Meetings. Late nights. The usual.”

You nod once. Of course.

He glances up briefly, just enough to check that you’re listening. Not long enough to actually see you.

“I head out Saturday,” he adds, tugging his watch onto his wrist. Adjusting it with a small, precise movement. “But Friday’s open.”

There’s a beat.

Then, like it’s already decided—like it always is—

“Eight work for you? Just come here.”

Not do you want to. Not are you free. Not even your name.

Just an expectation. A slot in his schedule. A space you’re meant to fill.

You nod again. Because that’s what you do.

“Yeah,” you say, quieter this time. It barely lands in the room.

He hums in acknowledgment, already moving on. Conversation over. Box checked.

You stand there for a second longer than necessary, like your body hasn’t quite caught up to the fact that there’s nothing left to wait for.

There never is.

So you leave.

The hallway outside is cooler.

It hits your skin in a way that feels sharper than it should, like you’ve stepped out of something thicker than air. Something that clung.

The door clicks shut behind you with a soft, final sound.

And that’s it.

No footsteps following. No voice calling you back.

Just quiet.

Friday comes anyway.

It always does.

But it feels different this time—not in any loud, dramatic way. Nothing that announces itself. Just a subtle misalignment. Like something inside you shifted a fraction to the left and never quite settled back.

You go through the motions of your day. Work. Conversations. Background noise. The steady rhythm of everything that’s supposed to feel normal.

The cursor blinks.

Steady. Patient. Indifferent.

You haven’t typed in—what, minutes? Longer than that. The document on your screen sits untouched, words from earlier staring back at you like they belong to someone else. Like they were written by a version of you that knew what it was doing. A version that wasn’t… this.

Whatever this is.

The office has shifted around you without you noticing. The low hum of conversation has thinned out, chairs scraping less frequently, the rhythm of people packing up settling into something quieter. End of day.

Your fingers rest lightly against the keyboard, unmoving. Your eyes fixed somewhere just past the screen, unfocused. The kind of staring that isn’t really seeing anything at all.

Eight o’clock.

The thought drifts through, uninvited. Lands heavier than it should.

Just come here.

Your jaw tightens—barely, but enough that you feel it. A slot in his schedule. A space. Something to fill.

“Are you coming?”

The voice cuts clean through the fog. You jolt.

It’s small, but sharp—your shoulders tensing, breath catching just enough to betray how far gone you’d been. Your head turns too quickly, like your body is scrambling to catch up.

Reid is standing a few feet away from your desk.

There’s a flicker of something in his expression—not quite concern, not quite surprise. More like confirmation. Like he’d suspected you weren’t really there long before he said anything.

His bag hangs loosely from one shoulder, one hand hooked around the strap. He tilts his head slightly, studying you in that way he does—too observant, too precise. It’s never invasive, exactly.

Just… thorough.

“The team’s going out,” he says after a moment, voice gentle but clear enough to anchor you back into the room. “Luke found a place a few blocks over. Apparently they have—” he hesitates, searching for the phrasing, “—statistically above-average reviews for their bourbon selection.”

A beat. His gaze doesn’t leave your face.

“We’re heading there now.”

There’s a pause—not empty, not accidental. Intentional. He gives you space to respond, but not enough to disappear into.

“Are you coming?”

The question lands softer than it should. Or maybe you’re just more aware of it.

You open your mouth—“Um”—but it doesn’t go anywhere. Your eyes drop instead, almost instinctively, to your phone where it sits on your desk.

Dark screen. Still.

He doesn’t comment on it, but something shifts behind his eyes—some quiet recalibration, pieces sliding into place. He’s good at patterns. Better at people than he likes to admit.

He’s seen this before. Not the specifics. Not the details. But the shape of it. Waiting. Hesitation. Obligation dressed up as choice.

You look back up.

He hasn’t moved. Hasn’t filled the silence. Just stands there, steady, patient in a way that doesn’t feel like pressure—but doesn’t let you hide either.

“Yeah,” you say finally. “Sure.”

The bar is louder than the office.

Not overwhelmingly so, but enough that it fills the empty spaces in your head with something external—music threading through conversation, glasses clinking, laughter rising and falling in uneven bursts. Warm light spills across polished wood and crowded tables, the air carrying the sharp, sweet burn of alcohol.

Your phone glows dimly in your hand.

Thread open. Messages stacked one on top of the other, a timeline of something that always felt like more when you were in it than it ever looks like now.

Short texts. Late-night logistics. Half-finished conversations that never needed finishing because they always ended the same way.

You scroll.

Your thumb hesitates over one from a few weeks ago—You up?—and something in your chest tightens, small and familiar. Predictable.

It’s just after eight.

You glance at the time again like it might change if you look at it differently.

No new message.

No are you on the way, no where are you, no irritation at your absence. Nothing to acknowledge that you didn’t show. Nothing to suggest he cares that you didn't.

Your teeth catch the edge of your thumb before you realize you’re doing it.

Across the table, laughter breaks—Luke saying something you don’t quite catch, JJ swatting his arm, Rossi shaking his head with that low, amused huff. It’s easy, natural. Effortless in a way that feels… distant.

A glass taps down in front of you.

You blink, pulled back just enough to look up as Emily slides a shot onto the table with a small, decisive nod.

The glass catches the light—amber, sharp. You stare at it for a second like you’re deciding whether you’re allowed to have it.

Then you pick it up.

Everyone cheers.

It’s loud, overlapping—Luke’s easy grin, JJ’s bright laugh, Garcia already halfway to a dramatic “bottoms up!” before the rest of the table catches up. Even Rossi lifts his glass with a quiet sort of approval, something softer tucked beneath it.

Spencer raises his glass of water too.

His fingers curl loosely around it, the motion a fraction delayed—like he’s watching first, cataloging, before participating.

His gaze flicks briefly toward you, quick enough that no one else would notice. Long enough that he registers the way your grip on the shot glass is just a little too tight.

Then you drink.

It burns. Sharp and immediate, a clean line of heat down your throat that should anchor you, should pull you fully into the moment. For a second, it almost does—your eyes squeezing shut, your breath catching on the exhale.

But it doesn’t last.

It never does.

Soon, the group begins to scatter.

JJ and Garcia vanish first, drawn toward the dance floor like it’s a magnet, laughter trailing behind them—bright, unrestrained, a kind of joy that feels almost dissonant after the quiet heaviness of the week.

Emily and Tara drift toward the bar, conversation already picking up mid-thought, something low and conspiratorial threading between them.

Luke and Rossi stay, leaning in over the table—voices dropping into that familiar rhythm of debate, something about whiskey aging processes and whether it actually makes a measurable difference.

And just like that, the space shifts.

Your shoulders drop before you even realize you’ve been holding them tense.

The noise of the bar swells and dips around you, laughter rising somewhere to your left, the low hum of conversation weaving in and out beneath it—but it all feels… distant. Like you’re listening through a wall. Like you’re not entirely in the room so much as adjacent to it.

Your phone buzzes.

It’s subtle, barely noticeable over the music—but you feel it. Your gaze drops immediately, like it’s been waiting for the excuse.

James.

Your thumb hovers for half a second before you tap the screen. The message is a picture. You don’t open it. You don’t need to.

You already know what it is—his version of an invitation. A summons, really. A wordless where are you? wrapped in something that’s never actually been about you.

You turn the phone face down against the table, like that somehow dulls the weight of it. Like it isn’t still sitting there, waiting. Expecting.

Your fingers curl loosely around the edge of the table instead.

You could leave.

The thought slips in quietly, familiar as a well-worn path.

You could make an excuse—say you’re tired, say you forgot something, say anything at all. No one here would question it. They’d nod, tell you to text when you get home, maybe tease you lightly about being the first to bail. And then you’d go.

Back to the hotel. Back to him. Back to something predictable. Easy.

Your teeth catch your thumb again before you can stop yourself.

You don’t belong here.

The thought settles in, heavy and certain.

You grip the edge of the table, knuckles whitening, and for the first time tonight you notice how small the space feels around you. Everyone else is laughing, moving, drifting through their easy rhythms like they belong here. And you… you’re just a shadow at the edge of it, fresh out of the academy, six months in, surrounded by people who’ve been this team for a decade. You’ve been trying to fit. Trying to catch up. Trying not to be noticeable.

You’re just a shadow at the edge, watching everyone else move like they belong here.

“Hey… you okay?”

Your chest tightens, breath stuttering. You snap your head up, startled, and your eyes catch Reid’s. He’s standing there, calm, patient, his gaze scanning you like he always does.

“I’m fine,” you say, softer than you mean to.

He tilts his head, suspicion flickering in his eyes. You know he sees through you, and the thought makes your stomach twist. You need movement, something to anchor yourself. “I’m getting another drink,” you tell him. “Anyone want anything?”

Rossi shakes his head without looking. “No thanks, kid.”

You nod, forcing yourself to push away from the table. The chair scrapes the floor, the sound louder than it should feel, echoing in the hollow space of your chest. Step by step, you move toward the bar, each one deliberate, grounding yourself in the smallest act of choice you’ve taken all night.

The hum of conversation and clinking glasses feels distant, muffled by the tension crawling up your spine. You take a breath, shallow, careful, like the air itself might betray you.

A quiet shift to your left makes you glance over. Reid’s there. Close enough that the warmth of his presence nudges your awareness, but not so close that it feels like intrusion. His hands rest lightly on the bar, posture relaxed, shoulders squared. Calm. Steady. The way he always is.

“I thought you didn’t drink,” you say, voice half curiosity, half challenge, like it matters.

He shrugs. “I don’t.”

You just nod, not because it surprises you—because it doesn’t—but because you need the distraction. Something to ground yourself in the ordinary. You catch the bartender’s eye, raising a hand.

“Vodka cranberry,” you say, forcing your voice steady. “Double.”

The words feel heavier than usual, like the alcohol isn’t just going into the glass—it’s for you, to hold on to, to push the buzzing of your chest down just a little. You watch the bartender pour, the ruby-red liquid spilling over ice, the glass catching the warm bar lights.

Reid doesn’t comment. Doesn’t question. Just leans there beside you, quiet, presence solid and patient. You can feel him cataloging, observing, and it’s both comforting and infuriating. His gaze isn’t demanding, not interrogating—it’s just… aware.

You shift slightly, curling your fingers around the glass when it lands in front of you. Cold against your palms, weight real and grounding. You lift it to your lips, sip carefully, and let the burn of it anchor you to the moment.

You glance at Reid over the rim of your glass, letting the drink settle on your tongue for a beat before you speak. The words are sharp with a thread of sarcasm, more shield than truth.

“Did you… just follow me here to watch me drink?”

Reid blinks, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. It’s subtle, quiet, like he’s trying not to let the joke slip fully free, but it lands anyway. The kind of smile that reaches only his eyes and leaves the rest of him calm, unreadable.

“No,” he says, voice low, even, measured. But the smile lingers, a small curve of humor in the steady precision of him. “I—I thought you looked like something was bothering you.”

You don’t know why his words sting a little. It’s not exactly the concern you wanted, but it’s the first thread of recognition you’ve had all evening that someone—someone who actually sees—might notice you.

You set the glass down, careful, deliberate. Eyes meeting his, something in your expression half-asked, half-daring.

“You… you didn’t have to,” you mutter, voice low, and maybe it’s a statement. Maybe it’s a question. Maybe it’s both.

He tilts his head, that same patient tilt, as if weighing what to say, how much to share.

“I know,” he admits softly. “But I—” He pauses, eyes scanning you again, lingering on the tension you’ve carried in your posture, the way you brace yourself in space. “I just wanted to make sure you were… okay.”

You stare at him for a second. Normally, you’d nod, mumble, “Yeah, fine,” and push him away with a wall built out of routine, out of habit, out of every self-preserving instinct you’ve honed. But now… now something else is threading through you, quiet but insistent.

You let your mouth open before your brain can catch up. “My boyf—This guy I was seeing… It turns out he's engaged.”

“And of course he—he doesn’t care,” you blurt, voice catching on the last word. “I mean, not like it’s supposed to matter to me, right? We had this sort of unspoken agreement that this thing wasn't serious. But I was thinking about how if it was unspoken, was it really an agreement?”

Your hands gesture helplessly, tapping, twisting, grasping for purchase in the air. You hate how much of this is spilling out. You hate how much of this is just you, raw and unfiltered.

“And the worst part is that I couldn’t even… I couldn’t even hate him properly “ you continue. “James has always been like this, I've always known what this was. It's my own fault, really. I started thinking it was something more than what I deserve.”

Reid frowns. Opens his mouth, something on the tip of his tongue, but the words never leave his mouth.

They don't get the chance.

“What the hell?”

Your head snaps around. Heart stutters. There he is. Standing too close to the bar, shirt untucked, hair combed back, angry eyes locked on you.

“James?”

“You—” he starts, then cuts himself, eyes narrowing, voice low but tight. “You blew me off… for him?” His gaze flicks toward Reid, and you feel your chest tighten at the way he says it, the edge in his tone: him—like the word itself is a judgment.

You open your mouth, but your voice barely rises above a whisper. “I—James, it’s not—”

“Not what?” he yells, teeth clenched. “Not what? You’re supposed to care about me! I waited. I actually waited for you tonight!” His chest heaves.

You feel heat rush to your face, your chest tightening. Words stick in your throat. You try again, voice weak, small. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Of course you didn’t,” he spits, waving a hand at you, eyes blazing. “You never do. You just… just take. Always taking. And now you’re here, with some… some old nerd?”

You can’t stop it. The word nerd bouncing off James’ teeth makes you snort before you even realize it. Small, sharp, ridiculous.

His eyes flick toward you, narrowing. “What—what’s so funny?”

You tilt your head, letting the corner of your mouth twitch. “You. You actually said that. Nerd. That’s… kind of sad, actually.”

The laugh dies quickly in your throat when you notice how fast his expression hardens. His jaw clenches. Fingers curl, like he’s balancing between self-control and something darker.

His voice drops, low and dangerous. “You—you think this is funny?”

You glare, something snapping in your chest that’s been coiled too long. The last weeks, the tension, the weight of always being small in his world, the image of her burning itself into your mind.

“No, actually, it's not funny,” you spit, voice sharper than you intend. “Because unlike you, some of us actually care about other people. You know, like, your fiancée. Or does that not matter in your little world?”

James’ nostrils flare, the heat in his face rising. “That’s none of your business!” he hisses, stepping forward, closing the distance, chest nearly brushing yours. His hand lifts, threatening—like he thinks he can push you back with sheer weight.

You don’t even flinch. Not because you’re brave—there’s no room for fear, no time for hesitation—but because Reid is already there.

In one fluid motion, Spencer’s hand clamps around James’ wrist, yanking it behind his back. His other hand presses firmly to James’ shoulder, and suddenly the ex is face-down against the bar, pinned with a precision that leaves no room for argument.

“Don’t touch her,” he says, voice low, each word clipped and deliberate—the same tone he’d use when taking a violent suspect into custody.

James struggles, shoving lightly at first, trying to regain some semblance of control. “Hey—what the hell, man?—”

Then a flicker of rage crosses his face. His eyes narrow, jaw tightening, as he shoves and strains against Spencer with increasing force.

“Do you know who you’re dealing with? You have no idea—no—” James’s face reddens, frustration mounting. “Get—off—me! You little—!”

“Let him go, Reid,” you say. “It's not worth it.”

Reid’s grip doesn’t vanish all at once. It loosens in increments, controlled and deliberate. Like he doesn’t trust the space yet. Like he doesn’t trust him.

You can see it—tension coiled in Reid’s arm, the restraint it takes to let go at all. And then James wrenches himself free.

It’s messy and abrupt, a sharp pull that breaks whatever control Reid had just barely eased into. James stumbles a half-step forward before he catches himself, chest heaving, shoulders tight with anger that has nowhere left to go but outward.

He turns to you. And for a second, you see it. Not affection, nor regret. It’s not even the hallow imitation of either he’s always fed you

It’s pride, bruised and ugly.

“You know what?” he snaps, “I’m done.”

The words land harder than they should. They’re expected, sure, but they’re still his. They’re supposed to mean something, they’re supposed to matter. You’d feared hearing those words from him for months.

“I’m done waiting around for you,” he continues, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “Done dealing with your bullshit, your—your games.” He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “You want to throw yourself at—what, coworkers now? Fine. Have fun with that.”

Your throat tightens. You should feel something. You do feel something. Just not what you expected. You feel the sting you’d expect—the tinge of hurt. But beneath that, beneath the instinctive urge to apologize, smooth it over, shrink yourself into something easier to handle—

You feel relief.

James exhales sharply through his nose, shaking his head. “Whatever,” he mutters. “You’re not even worth it. This is pathetic.”

He turns sharply, shoulder clipping someone as he shoves his way through the crowd, muttering under his breath, anger radiating off him in waves that part people before he makes it to them.

It’s only then, in the space he leaves behind, that you realize just how many people were watching. 

The noise of the bar doesn’t stop, but it shifts. Warps around you. Conversations falter at the edges, eyes linger a second to long before pretending they weren’t looking at all.

There’s a circle. Not a full one, not obvious, but enough. Enough to make your stomach drop. Enough to draw your eye to the woman standing just a few feet away, brows drawn slightly together and a frown on her lips. 

Prentiss shifts forward when you make eye contact, and suddenly your chest caves in on itself.

She saw.

Every word, every crack in your voice. Your fingers curl in on themselves, nails biting into your palms. 

You want to disappear.

The thought hits hard and immediate. If you could just step back, just slip out, just vanish into the crowd and out the door—

You wouldn't have to see the way they’re looking at you. You wouldn’t have to feel it. The shame curling low in your stomach and sharp in your chest, worse than anything James said.

Your throat tightens, breath catching too high in your chest. You shouldn’t have come. You shouldn’t be here. You don’t belong here.

You take a small step back, then another. Your vision tunnels slightly, the edges of the room blurring as your focus narrows to one thing: out. You just need to get out.

“Hey, what ha—”

“I, uh—I just need some air,” you blurt, the words tripping over each other. You don’t wait for a response. 

You turn too quickly, nearly bumping into someone as you push past, murmuring a half-formed apology. The door is right there. You don’t think, you just move. Push.

The cool air hits you all at once. It cuts through the heat clinging to your skin. You inhale hard, too fast, like your lungs forgot how to do it properly and are scrambling to catch up. Cold air floods in. Again. And again.

Your hands come up instinctively, bracing against your ribs like you can physically hold yourself together.

It’s quieter out here—the traffic is slow, the music is muffled. Less noise, less pressure. 

You bend slightly at the waist, dragging in another breath, slower this time. Trying to make it stick. Trying to make it work.

Your breathing evens out first, but your heart doesn’t get the memo as quickly. 

It keeps racing, thudding hard and uneven. You take another deep breath and lean back against the brick wall, the rough texture pressing through your clothes. Solid. Grounding, in a way.

Your knees give out before you really decide to sit.

You slide down slowly, controlled at first and then not, until you’re on the sidewalk, the cold seeping through the fabric of your pants. It bites, but you don’t move. Your head tips back against the wall. Eyes close.

For a second, you wish you were a smoker.

The thought is absurd. But right now… right now feels like it would make sense. Something to do with your hands. Something to focus on.

The door creaks open behind you. Footsteps follow, measured and unrushed.

There’s a small, stubborn part of you that hopes that if you stay still enough, whoever it is might just leave. Give you a second longer to exist in the quiet, nothing expected of you.

The footsteps stop anyway, just to your left.

You crack one eye open, lashes sticking slightly where they’d pressed too tight together. Your vision takes a second to focus, the streetlight catching on something glassy, red—your drink.

You open your other eye, gaze tracking up to the person holding it out to you. Reid. 

He’s standing in front of you, one hand holding out your vodka cran, the other tucked loosely into his pocket. His poster is relaxed, but there’s something careful to it—like he’s making a conscious effort not to crowd you, not to overwhelm you.

His eyes flick over your face quickly, taking in more than you’d like him to. The slight flush still lingering on your cheeks, the uneven way your breath settles, the way your fingers curl loosely against your knees like you’re not entirely sure what to do with them.

Your gaze drops back to the glass in his hand.

“You—” your voice comes out a little rough, like you haven’t used it in a while. You clear your throat. “I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to leave the building with alcohol.”

“What are they going to do, arrest me?” he winces slightly, like he regrets his own joke before he’s even fully said the words.

“Well, then I guess you’re a repeat offender now, huh?” The words leave your mouth before your brain can veto them. You wince, exactly the way Reid just did.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

But Reid just lets out a quiet, low laugh. Sudden and surprised, like he wasn’t expecting you to say something like that. “Don’t be sorry. I joked first.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding and reach for the glass. Your fingers brush his as you take it, the warmth seeping through your skin. “Thanks,” you murmur.

He doesn’t speak, just tilts his head and slides down onto the curb beside you. You stiffen immediately. “Don’t,” you whisper, a little sharp. “You’re… you’re wearing a suit.”

He glances down at the neatly pressed fabric, then back at you, corners of his mouth twitching in that faint, crooked smile that somehow disarms all argument. “I can,” he says simply. And then, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, he does.

Reid shifts slightly, leaning back on his hands. “Are you… okay?” His voice is careful, gentle, like he’s handling something fragile.

You glance down at your knees, still gripping the glass a little too tightly. “I’m… embarrassed,” you mutter. Your throat tightens. “My boss… just saw me get berated by some guy in a bar.” The words taste bitter on your tongue. You imagine her eyes on you, all judgment and concern, and you want to crawl into yourself, disappear.

Reid lets out a quiet laugh, soft but impossible to ignore. “She actually saw me pin him to the table,” he says, voice teasing, but still calm, controlled. “Arguably, that’s a worse situation.”

A laugh escapes you, small, shaky, but genuine. You shake your head, a little of the tension leaving your shoulders. “Yeah… okay. I’ll give you that. Definitely worse.”

He tilts his head, gaze curious, unreadable. “Prentiss doesn’t care that it happened. She just wanted to know if you’re okay.”

You swallow, letting the words settle. Somehow, knowing that she’s not judging, not holding it over your head, makes the heat of humiliation fade a little. “I… I think I am,” you admit softly, letting your fingers relax around the glass. “Thanks… for defending me.”

“Any time,” he says. “You don’t deserve to be treated that way. Not by him. Not by anyone.”

Your breath hitches a little. The words settle in your chest, heavy and warm, threading through the lingering embarrassment. You glance up at him, half-expecting teasing, half-expecting judgment—but there’s none. Just… that steady presence that makes it feel like the world outside this curb has stopped.

“You deserve better,” he adds, more softly this time. “Not just protection from him, but someone who actually respects your time, your space, your… everything.”

"You really think that?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. The skepticism is instinctive, a reflex you've built up over years of being told you're too much, or not enough.

He doesn't flinch. He doesn't look away. "I know it.”

You take a sip of your drink to hide the way your mouth wants to twist, letting the vodka burn sharp and distracting on the way down. You stare out at the streetlights, watching the traffic pass, needing to look at anything but him.

"Well," you say, letting your head loll back against the brick to look at him, your voice dipping into that familiar, jagged sarcasm you wear like armor. "Let me know when you find someone who does that, will you?”

Reid doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t even smile. He just looks at you, eyes soft but intent, reading past the deflection like it’s written in a language he’s fluent in. The traffic rushes by, filling the silence between you, but he doesn’t look away.

"I know someone who’s willing to try," he says.

The air between you seems to still, the rush of traffic fading into a dull, distant roar. Your grip on the glass tightens automatically, a knee-jerk defense against something that feels dangerously like hope. You search his face for the punchline, the awkward hesitation that tells you he’s just being nice, but there isn’t any. Just that steady, calm regard, like he’s stating a fact as simple as gravity.

It’s terrifying. It’s the most genuine offer you’ve had in years, and it comes from the person you least expected to dissect the messy, jagged parts of you and still want to stick around. You force a short, skeptical breath of a laugh, trying to shove the moment back into the box labeled ' impossible' before it can crack you open. "You," you start, your voice rougher than you intended, "you realize I'm a disaster, right? That's—that’s what tonight was. That’s what I am."

Reid just shifts slightly, turning his body toward you so his knees bump yours, a deliberate, grounding point of contact. "I don't think you're a disaster," he says softly. "I think you’re a person who’s been treated like an option for too long by someone who didn't know what he had." He glances down at the drink in your hand, then back up, eyes catching the streetlight with a quiet intensity. "I know the statistics on recovery. I know it takes time to unlearn that kind of treatment. But I'm good at waiting. And I'm very patient.”

You nearly choke on your next swallow, the burn of the vodka suddenly nothing compared to the heat rushing up your neck. You pull away, shifting so you’re not pressed quite so close to his side, putting a fraction of distance between you on the concrete.

"Wow," you breathe out, shaking your head as you stare at the traffic passing on the street. "You really... you actually just cited statistics at me to try and get me to sleep with you." You turn back to him, arching a brow, letting your lip curl just enough to be sharp. "That is—that is impressively unsexy, Reid. I mean, truly.”

The words barely have time to hang in the cool night air before the regret hits you. It’s instant and sickening, washing away the cheap defense of sarcasm and leaving behind the raw ache underneath. You watch his face, expecting him to bristle, to get up, to mutter some logical comeback and leave you there on the curb to finish your drink in solitary humiliation.

But he doesn't flinch. He doesn't look away. He just looks at you.

He holds your gaze with that same steady, infuriating patience. He saw the twitch in your hand, the way you spiraled, and instead of calling you out on the cruelty, he just waited. Like he knows you're already punishing yourself enough for the both of you.

"I didn't mean that," you blurt out, the words rushing together in a desperate attempt to take it back. You set the glass down on the pavement beside you, your hands suddenly feeling useless and trembling. "I'm sorry. That was—that was mean. I was just... deflecting."

"I know," Reid says softly. The forgiveness is immediate, absolute, and devoid of the hesitation you’re used to receiving. “But I mean it. I know it’ll take time. I know it won’t be easy to believe. But I want to be the one who proves that you deserve more. Who actually gives it to you.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, words catching in your throat. Your voice is quieter now, softer. “And if I… if I push back? Or yell? Or—”

“You will,” he says, eyes locking on yours. “I know you will. And that’s okay. I’ll wait. I’ll listen. I’ll… handle it.” His gaze doesn’t falter, doesn’t waver. It’s steady. Enough to make the rest of the night, the bar, James, and everything else fade just a little.

Your laugh is small, shaky, like a bird testing the air for flight. “You’re… insane.”

“Maybe,” he admits, corners of his mouth twitching in that crooked, infuriating smile. “Or maybe I just think you’re worth it.”

You lift your gaze, meeting his steady eyes again. There’s a pull there—something magnetic, something dangerous in the way he looks at you—but it’s not reckless. Not threatening. Safe. The kind of safety that makes your chest ache with longing you’ve barely let yourself feel.

You shift slightly, closer, more instinct than conscious thought, just enough to brush against the warmth of him. Your hand hovers near his arm, and before you know it, it’s resting lightly against his sleeve. You almost pull it away, reminding yourself of restraint, of boundaries—but the warmth of him there, steady, grounding, feels… essential.

Reid’s gaze follows your movement, patient but intent. He tilts his head, a faint, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “You don’t have to be careful with me,” he murmurs, voice low, a rasp that makes the air shiver around it.

His hand shifts subtly, brushing against yours, fingers threading just slightly, testing.

“Do you…?” Your voice trembles, small and unsure, carrying the question you can’t quite form. “Do you… want this?”

“I want whatever you want,” he says simply. “I want you. But only if you want me too.”

That’s enough to tip the fragile line you’ve been teetering on. Impulsively, hesitantly, you reach up, tracing the edge of his jaw with your fingertips, memorizing the planes of his face, the way his skin is warm beneath your touch. He leans slightly into the gesture, breath hitching just enough to tell you he notices, that he feels it.

The world narrows. Just you. Just him. The faint buzz of the city, the distant headlights, the cold concrete pressing against your legs—they all fall away until there’s nothing but the hum of possibility between you.

Your lips hover near his, and you freeze, heart hammering. You’re not sure if you want this—if you want him, or just the safety, the closeness, the heat of someone who sees you and still wants you. But the thought of pulling back, of losing this chance, makes your chest ache.

He tilts his head, brushing a strand of hair from your face, thumb lingering against your cheek. “You can stop,” he murmurs. “Or you can try.”

Something in you unravels—the careful walls, the sarcasm, the self-protective reflexes. You close the last fraction of distance, lips brushing his. Soft. Gentle. A spark, a question, a yes whispered in the language of a kiss.

Reid doesn’t hesitate. He meets it, tilting his head to deepen the contact, hand moving to cradle your face, the other brushing along your arm. Safe. Warm. Patient, but insistent enough to let you know he wants this too.

His hand is warm where it cups your face. Steady. Intentional. Not demanding—never that—but there, present, like he’s giving you something solid to hold onto while everything else inside you threatens to tilt.

You expect it to feel overwhelming. It doesn’t. It feels… quiet.

Your lips move against his again, a little more certain this time, testing the shape of it, the reality of it. And he follows—carefully, like he’s reading you even now, adjusting in real time to every shift in your breath, every slight change in pressure. There’s no rush. No taking. Just… meeting you there.

Your fingers curl slightly where they rest against his jaw, and you feel the way his breath catches—not dramatically, not exaggerated, just enough to tell you it matters. That you matter.

It does something dangerous to your chest.

You lean in a fraction more, and this time the kiss deepens—still soft, still controlled, but warmer now. Real. His thumb brushes lightly along your cheek, a slow, grounding motion, like he’s reminding you that you’re here. That this is happening. That you can stop at any point and he’ll let you.

And somehow, that makes you not want to stop at all.

Your other hand shifts, sliding from his sleeve to his wrist, then up—hesitant at first, then more certain—until your fingers rest against the side of his neck. His skin is warm. Steady. You can feel his pulse there, quickening just slightly under your touch.

You like that.

The realization hits you quietly, but it lingers.

Reid exhales softly against your lips, and there’s something different in it now—something a little less restrained, a little more felt. 

“Hey…” you murmur, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. Your voice is soft, a little breathless. “Walk me home?”

He blinks, just the faintest flicker of surprise crossing his features before it smooths into that steady, calm look you know so well. “Of course,” he says, the words low, sure, certain.

You stand, brushing the chill off your pants, and he falls into step beside you without hesitation. The city night feels quieter now, the hum of traffic and distant sirens softened by the rhythm of your walking. Your hand brushes his at first accidentally, then deliberately, and he doesn’t pull away—doesn’t need to. The warmth seeps through your nerves, that quiet shock that says you’re alive, that you’re wanted.

There's that look in his eyes again: steady, observant, but carrying a promise that he’ll meet you where you are. That he’ll wait, if necessary, but that he wants this, too.

Your chest tightens. The city lights stretch shadows across the sidewalk, painting him in sharp angles and soft curves. You wonder how it’s possible for someone to feel so steady and so incendiary at once.

When you reach your building, the air seems thicker, heavier with unsaid words and barely restrained energy. The lobby is empty, quiet, the distant hum of the city muffled behind the glass doors. You pause, hand brushing against the wall for something to hold on to, grounding yourself.

“You can… come up,” you murmur before your brain has time to talk you out of it. The words are uneven, hesitant, carrying all your insecurities. “If you want.”

He tilts his head, watching you carefully, reading every microexpression like he always does. “I do,” he says softly. And he follows you inside without hesitation.

You’ve done this before. Let someone follow you upstairs. Let it mean something it wasn’t supposed to.

This feels different.

The hallway stretches a little longer than usual, your footsteps echoing softly against the floor. You don’t look back, but you can feel him there. Half a step behind you. Like he’s giving you the space to stop. To turn around. To change your mind.

The key slips once in your grip before you manage to steady it, the metal clicking against the lock louder than it should be. Your pulse jumps with it. You push the door open and step inside, the familiar quiet of your apartment settling around you like something held too tightly.

For a second, you just stand there. Then, he steps in after you. The door closes with a soft click.

“You can still—” he starts, voice low, careful.

But you close the distance before he can finish.

Your hands find him first—fisting lightly in the front of his shirt, pulling him in like you’re afraid he might disappear if you don’t anchor him there. His breath catches, just barely, and then your lips are on his again. It’s different this time. Less careful. Less questioning.

There’s urgency in it now—something that’s been building, coiling tight all night finally snapping loose. You press closer, rising onto your toes, and he meets you immediately, hands coming up to steady your waist, your back—everywhere all at once, like he’s trying to keep up without overwhelming you.

You tug at him, guiding, half-walking, half-pulling him down the short hallway toward your room. He follows without resistance, but there’s a shift in him—something grounding, something deliberate beneath the heat.

The bedroom door bumps open. You barely register it before you’re turning back to him, hands already moving again, lips finding his jaw, his neck—anything you can reach. It’s a little messy, a little rushed, your breath uneven as it tangles with his.

And then—His hands catch yours.

“Hey—” he murmurs, voice low, breath warm where it brushes your cheek. “Hey… it’s okay.”

You blink, the moment stuttering. Your chest rises and falls too fast, your pulse still racing ahead of you, like you haven’t quite caught up to your own body yet.

“I just—” you start, but the words don’t land. You’re not even sure what you were going to say.

He doesn’t make you finish. “I know,” he says softly.

His thumbs brush lightly over your wrists where he’s still holding them, grounding, steady. Not restraining—just there.

“We can slow down,” he adds. “We don’t have to rush anything.”

The certainty in his voice disarms you in a way you’re not prepared for.

Your shoulders drop a fraction. Your breath stutters, then steadies, just a little.

“…okay,” you whisper.

The word feels fragile. New. But he treats it like something solid.

Reid’s hands loosen, giving you the space to pull away if you want—but when you don’t, when you stay right there in front of him, he lets his fingers slide more gently along your arms instead. Up. Slow. Intentional.

Like he’s learning you. Like he wants to.

His hands find the edge of your shirt, fingertips brushing the fabric where it clings to your skin. He pauses, lifting his gaze to yours, as if asking permission without a word. You nod, breath trembling.

His lips brush along your collarbone, soft and feather-light, following a trail only he seems to know exists. One hand slides up your side, fingertips pressing gently against your ribs, mapping the curve beneath the thin fabric. The warmth of him, the deliberate patience, makes your knees weaken.

“Do you… want me to?” His voice is low, rougher than usual, carrying that quiet certainty you’ve come to rely on.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Yes, please.”

His fingers curl into the hem of your shirt, and then it’s gone—lifted slowly, deliberately, like he’s giving you time to change your mind even as it slides over your head.

He leans back in immediately, lips brushing yours, but your hands are fidgety, unsure, tangling in his shirt, pulling too hard, then too soft. Your fingers move to your pants, fumbling the button, and a tiny groan escapes you—half frustration, half embarrassment.

Reid chuckles against your lips, warm and low, the sound vibrating through you. It’s soft, not mocking, just amused, and somehow it makes you grin despite yourself. You can’t help it—a little laugh escapes between kisses, breathless and uneven.

You take a shaky breath and try again, dragging the fabric down with more determination, though you’re still clumsy, tugging at them too fast before pausing, then yanking them the rest of the way. They pool around your ankles, and you step free, kicking them aside—slightly off balance, but he catches you with a hand on your hip.

You tug him closer, heat building between you, and your hands find his, pressing them to the small of your back for a moment before slipping, guiding his fingers along the slope of your sides.

Your pulse hammers in your ears, and you can feel him stiffen slightly under your touch, a shiver running through him as you lead his hands upward to the clasp of your bra. The soft click of the hooks under your fingertips sends a jolt straight through your chest.

He pushes the straps off your shoulders, the soft fabric falling to the floor. 

The air feels cooler against your skin immediately. Sharper. You’re suddenly, acutely aware of it—of yourself.

Of him. 

You don’t give yourself time to think about it. Don’t let the hesitation creep in. Your hands are already reaching for him again, pulling him forward, chasing the warmth you just had—

“Wait,” Reid murmurs, voice low, threaded with something softer now. Something steadier.

Your breath catches, confusion flickering across your face as you look up at him.

“I—” you start, but the words falter when you see the way he’s looking at you.

Not rushed. Not hungry in that careless, consuming way you’re used to. Focused. Intent.

“I want to look at you,” he says quietly.

It lands heavier than anything else he’s said tonight.

Heat rushes up your neck instantly, blooming across your cheeks, your chest tightening as your instinct is to turn away, to fold in on yourself, to hide. You almost laugh it off—almost deflect, make a joke, cover the sudden vulnerability clawing up your throat.

But his hands are still there, resting lightly at your waist.

His gaze doesn’t waver. Doesn’t flick away to give you an out. But it’s not trapping, either. It’s patient. Open.

Like he’s asking. Like it matters.

Your fingers twitch at your sides before you force them to still. You draw in a slow breath that doesn’t quite steady you but helps enough. And then you nod.

Reid’s eyes move over you then—not in a way that feels like he’s taking something, not like he’s cataloging flaws or comparing or measuring. It’s slow. Careful. Like he’s trying to understand something he’s been given permission to see.

His thumb brushes lightly along your side, a small, absent motion that somehow keeps you grounded while his gaze lingers.

“You’re—” he starts, then stops, like he’s recalibrating, searching for the right word and discarding the wrong ones before they ever reach you.

His jaw shifts slightly.

“—you’re incredible,” he settles on, voice quieter now, like it’s something meant just for you.

Your heart skips a beat.

It shouldn’t hit as hard as it does. It’s a simple word. Easy. Overused.

But not like this. Not from him.

You swallow, gaze dropping for a second before you force yourself to look back at him, even as the heat in your cheeks refuses to fade.

Something shifts in your chest, a sudden, impatient flare that has nothing to do with words and everything to do with heat, want, the ache of waiting too long. You pull him toward you. Harder than planned. A startled breath escapes him, warm against your neck, and the sound alone makes your pulse spike again.

He stumbles slightly—both of you caught in the sudden motion—but instinctively, he catches himself. His hands land on either side of you, bracing against the bed, his chest hovering just above yours. You can feel the warmth radiating from him, the subtle tension in his arms, the deliberate strength that’s always been there but now feels dangerously immediate.

Your hands roam down his chest, fingers catching on each button as you work them open. The fabric parts beneath your touch, revealing warm skin, the steady rise and fall of his breathing just a little less even than before.

Your hands drag down his chest, fingertips tracing the subtle lines of muscle beneath warm skin, feeling the way his breath shifts under your touch—just a little deeper now, just a little less controlled.

Then back up.

Over his shoulders, pushing the fabric down his arms, your palms following the movement like you don’t want to lose contact for even a second. The shirt catches at his elbows before he shrugs it off completely, letting it fall somewhere behind him without looking.

Your palms trace the warmth of his chest one last time before they drift lower, brushing the waistband of his pants. A rush of heat floods your chest, anticipation curling in your stomach. You inch your hands forward, imagining the weight and warmth beneath the fabric.

He stops you with a gentle but firm grip on your wrists.

“This… isn’t about me,” he murmurs, voice low, rough with something deeper. “It’s about you. I want to make you feel good first.”

You swallow, heat pooling between your thighs at the deliberate weight of his words. Your hands drop, and for a moment, you let yourself just be held, just feel him.

Then his hands are moving—sliding along your ribs, over your hips, brushing over the swell of your breasts, ghosting over your nipples.

Your chest lifts instinctively under the pressure, the featherlight friction making your pulse stutter.

He leans back just slightly, eyes locking onto yours, searching, reading every flicker of reaction. “Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmurs, but the way he holds your gaze is unwavering—commanding but gentle. “Or not enough. I want to know.”

You arch, pressing into him without thinking, letting the heat of anticipation spill into something more tangible. “Not… not enough,” you whisper, voice low, trembling with want.

A small, satisfied sound escapes him—almost a growl, almost a purr—and his hands move with careful precision, cupping you fully now, thumbs brushing circles over your nipples, slow, deliberate, eliciting shivers that roll down your spine. You bite back a moan, but it escapes anyway, breathless, catching in the quiet of your bedroom.

His hands slide lower along your hips again, brushing teasingly over the swell of your thighs. 

“May I?” he murmurs, voice low, husky, as his fingers brush the waistband of your underwear. You nod, barely able to speak, breath hitching in uneven gasps.

He hooks his thumbs under the edges, letting his gaze lift to yours. No hurry, or shame. Just that commanding, attentive certainty that makes your knees weak.

He slides them down your legs, inch by careful inch, letting the fabric brush your skin, teasing, slow, patient, until he can discard them with the rest of your clothes. His hands drift back up your legs, tracing the curve of your inner thighs, stopping just shy of the place that’s already slick with need. You gasp, hips tilting instinctively toward him, heart hammering.

Finally, he lowers himself, his lips brushing the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, feather-light at first, tracing circles that leave sparks behind.

The sensation travels inward, unhurried and deliberate, nothing like the frantic, selfish encounters you’re used to. When his mouth finally reaches where you need him most, the shock of it steals the breath from your lungs. It isn't rushed or performative; it’s attentive, his tongue moving with a focused precision that feels almost academic. One hand rests firmly on your hip, anchoring you to the mattress, a grounding tether as he begins to unravel you, lick by slow, devastating lick.

Your free hand finds its way into his hair, fingers tangling in the soft waves to hold him close, your hips lifting off the bed in a silent, desperate plea. He hums against you, a low, vibrating sound of approval that only sends fresh waves of pleasure rolling through your nerves, encouraging you to let go. Every flick of his tongue is a question he already knows the answer to, reading the tremor in your thighs and the broken cadence of your breath like data points on a graph, adjusting the pressure and speed until the only thing you know is the heat of his mouth and the rapidly tightening coil in your belly.

The pressure builds to a breaking point, overwhelming and sharp, and when you fall over the edge, you do so with a cry that you try to stifle against your own arm, a lifetime of conditioning making you shy away from being too loud, too much. But Spencer doesn't let you hide; he carries you through it, slowing his movements to draw out every last aftershock until you’re a trembling, boneless mess against the sheets.

He doesn’t pull away immediately. Instead, his lips start a slow, deliberate ascent from your inner thigh, pressing open-mouthed kisses against the sensitive skin. It’s a reverence in motion, a silent worship that has your eyes fluttering closed.

The scrape of his teeth against the curve of your hip draws a sharp, hitching gasp from you, your hips bucking involuntarily. He just smiles against your skin—a dark, knowing thing—and soothes the sting with his tongue, his hands continuing their slow, grounding glide up your sides. He’s taking his time, mapping the topography of your body like he has all night, like he has a lifetime.

His mouth finds the dip of your navel, lingering there, his breath hot against your stomach. Your muscles jump and flutter under his attention, your breath coming in short, shallow bursts as the heat coils tighter, low and demanding. The sensations are overwhelming—every nerve ending feels raw, exposed, and terrifyingly alive.

He moves higher, tracing the line of your ribs with a devotion that feels almost holy. Your breath stutters, catching in your throat as the ghost of his breath feathers over your racing heart, the steady thump-thump-thump betraying just how undone you are. He presses a lingering kiss right over that frantic beat, as if trying to soothe the ache there with his own rhythm, his hands sliding up to bracket your waist, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin of your sides in a slow, hypnotic pattern.

He nips gently at the soft skin where your neck meets your shoulder, and your head falls back against the pillow, exposing more of yourself to him in a gesture of surrender that feels foreign yet terrifyingly right. You can feel the tension in his arms where they cage you in, the tremor of restraint running through him as he takes his time, leaving a trail of fire in his wake that burns away the lingering memory of every cold, careless touch before him.

Finally, his face hovers above yours, blocking out the dim light of the room until he’s the only thing you can see. His lips are red and swollen, his breathing ragged as it mingles with yours in the scant space between you. He doesn’t kiss you immediately; he pauses, searching your eyes with that piercing, analytical gaze that sees too much, stripping away every last defense. Then he lowers his mouth to yours, slow and deliberate, and the taste on his tongue is you—salt and musk and a sharp, intoxicating proof of exactly how much he wants you.

He breaks the kiss just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breath still coming in ragged, syncopated bursts. The air between your bodies feels charged, electric with the lingering static of what just happened and the mounting pressure of what’s coming next. His eyes search yours, dark and intent, stripping away any last defenses you might have thought you had.

"Tell me what you want," he murmurs, the words low and rough, vibrating against your lips. His hand drifts down, thumb tracing the curve of your jaw, tilting your chin up so you can't look away, can't hide from the weight of the question. "I need to hear you say it."

Your pulse hammers against your ribs, a frantic, uneven rhythm that matches the ache settling deep in your bones. There’s no room for hesitation here, no space for the deflective sarcasm or the practiced diffidence you usually hide behind. Not with him. Not like this. You force yourself to meet his gaze, to let the want show plainly on your face, raw and unvarnished.

"I want you to fuck me, Spencer. Please."

The words leave your lips in a rush, jagged and desperate, stripping away the last of your composure. You expect him to hesitate, to offer you another slow, sweet reassurance, but instead, his control snaps. A low, ragged sound tears from his throat—half-groan, half-growl—and his mouth crashes into yours, searing and demanding, swallowing the gasp that rises in your throat. There’s no patience left in him now, only a starving intensity that matches your own, his hands gripping your hips like he’s afraid you might vanish if he lets go.

He shifts above you, his weight pressing you into the mattress in a way that feels grounding rather than trapping. You can feel the hard, deliberate line of him against your thigh, the heat radiating through his clothes, a stark reminder of how much he’s been holding back. He makes quick work of his belt, the metal buckle clinking softly in the quiet room, followed by the hurried slide of fabric. Every movement is precise, efficient, but his hands are trembling just slightly, betraying the depth of his own need. When he finally settles back between your legs, skin against skin, the sensation is overwhelming—a perfect, frictional fit that makes your hips lift instinctively, seeking more.

He pauses for a second, tilting his head slightly as his hand drifts from your hips to brush along your lower stomach. “Do you… want me to use a condom?” His voice is low, careful, giving you the space to answer.

You let out a sharp curse, half-laugh, half-frustration. “I… I don’t have any. James always—I don’t have any.” The words stumble out, messy, just like your racing heart.

He opens his mouth, as if to say something, but you cut him off with a hurried shake of your head. “Just… pull out,” you murmur, voice a little breathless.

He blinks. “What?”

“Please,” you say quickly, looking up at him, heat in your cheeks, pulse hammering. “I‐if you’re okay with it.”

There’s a brief pause—a beat of hesitation—but you can feel it more than see it, that careful weighing of trust, of boundaries, of desire. Then his hands settle on your hips again, steady, grounding, as his lips brush yours in a soft, lingering kiss.

“Okay,” he murmurs, voice low and certain.

He pushes forward with a torturous slowness, letting you feel every inch as he stretches you, filling you so completely it steals the air from your lungs. It’s intense—a heavy, burning pressure that borders on too much—but it’s anchored by the way he’s watching you, his jaw tight with restraint, his focus entirely on the micro-expressions crossing your face. He’s waiting for you to adjust, treating your body with the same reverence he treats your mind, giving you time to catch up to the reality of him.

Your breath hitches, a sharp, uneven sound, and instinct overrides everything else. You surge up, crashing your lips against his, needing the distraction, needing the connection. Your hands clutch at his shoulders, nails digging into the skin as you pull him closer, deeper, and your legs wrap around his waist, locking him in.

The movement changes everything. It breaks the careful control he was holding onto by a thread. He groans low into your mouth, a sound you feel vibrate through your chest, and his hips snap forward the rest of the way, burying himself to the hilt. The sudden depth drags a cry from your throat, which he swallows instantly, his kiss turning hungrier, more demanding. He doesn't withdraw; he stays there, deep and pulsing inside you, letting you feel the weight of him, the sheer reality of being this close, before he finally begins to move—no longer slow, but deep and rolling, matching the desperate rhythm of your heart.

A sharp cry tears from your throat as he sets a rhythm that obliterates your ability to think, each stroke hitting deep and precise, dragging a desperate sound from your lungs that you can’t hold back. Your body reacts instinctively, legs tightening around his waist, arms locking around his shoulders to anchor yourself as the intensity builds, threatening to pull you under. It’s overwhelming in the best way, a tide rising higher and higher with every thrust.

"I've got you," he breathes, the words ragged against your mouth, punctuated by the sharp, uneven cadence of his breath. "You're incredible—god, look at you."

He doesn't stop moving, doesn't let up, his hips snapping into yours with a focused, driving rhythm that feels relentless and careful all at once. But even in the middle of it, he finds the air to speak, his voice a low, rough hum that vibrates against your lips.

"So good," he murmurs, his forehead pressing tight against yours, the words ghosting over your mouth in between the relentless, deep thrusts that make your vision blur. "You feel so good, taking me like this. You have no idea." His voice cracks on a groan, the restraint finally splintering as he buries himself impossibly deeper, grounding you with the weight of his body and the raw honesty in his tone. "You’re perfect. Absolutely perfect."

Your fingernails dig into the sweat-slicked planes of his shoulders, holding on for dear life as the coil in your belly winds tighter, threatening to snap. Every praise feels like a brand, searing away the old, jagged memories of being too much or not enough, replacing them with the undeniable reality of how much he wants you right now. "Spencer," you gasp, his name sounding broken on your tongue, and he captures the sound with a searing kiss, swallowing your cries like they're something precious.

"I know, I know," he soothes, though his hips are losing their rhythm, becoming erratic, urgent. He shifts slightly, changing the angle just enough to make you see stars, his hand sliding down to grip your hip, holding you steady for the force of his thrusts. "Let go for me. I've got you, always." He presses his lips to your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth, worshiping every inch of skin he can reach. "Come on, baby. I want to feel you."

Your body arches off the mattress, seeking more of him, more of this grounding, overwhelming connection, and when the release crashes over you, it blinds out everything else. It’s a blinding whiteout of sensation, your entire world narrowing down to the feel of him inside you, the weight of his body pressing yours into the mattress, and the sound of your own cry echoing in the quiet room. You clamp around him, your inner muscles fluttering and gripping as the pleasure rips through you, leaving you trembling and gasping in his arms, your fingers still digging desperately into his shoulders.

The way you tighten around him tears a ragged groan from his throat, his control finally shattering completely. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breathing turning harsh and uneven against your sweat-dampened skin. "That's it," he chokes out, the words strained and low, vibrating against your collarbone. "You're beautiful—so beautiful like this." He chases his own high then, his movements becoming jagged and desperate, thrusting deeper, harder, his grip on your hip almost bruising as he lets himself go.

You can feel the tension in every muscle of his back, the way his movements are becoming less calculated, more desperate, driven by pure instinct. He’s right there with you, hovering on that precipice, and for a second, you think he’s going to let go completely.

But then his rhythm stutters. He gasps sharply against your skin, and with a herculean effort that seems to cost him everything, he tears himself away.

The sudden loss of contact leaves you feeling empty, cold for a fleeting second, but he doesn't go far.

He moves his hand, but before his fingers can close around himself, your hand is there, brushing his aside.

He lets out a shattered gasp, his eyes flying open to find yours, dark and wide with surprise. The heat of him is heavy in your palm, slick and desperate, and you don't hesitate. You wrap your fingers around him, stroking firmly from base to tip, taking over the rhythm he had denied himself.

"God—" The word breaks apart on a groan, his head falling back, exposing the long, pale line of his throat. His jaw goes slack, his lips parting on a silent exhale that turns into a low, guttural sound of pure surrender. He’s powerless to stop it, the tension in his body snapping like a wire drawn too tight.

The pleasure overtakes him in a rush, and with a guttural moan that sounds almost like relief, he spills hot and wet across your stomach. You don't stop; your grip stays firm and sure, thumb brushing over the sensitive head as you stroke him through every pulse, intent on wringing every last bit of pleasure from him. He shudders violently above you, his whole body bowing under the intensity, his hands fisting in the sheets on either side of your head to keep from crushing you as he rides out the aftershocks.

As the tremors finally begin to subside, the frantic energy leaves him, replaced by a heavy, bone-deep exhaustion. His arms give out, and he lowers himself carefully, mostly collapsing onto you but catching his weight on his elbows to keep from smearing the mess between you any further. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breath coming in ragged, cooling gusts against your overheated skin, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs that gradually begins to slow.

You let your hand release him, fingers drifting instead to the hair at the nape of his neck, combing through the damp strands in a slow, soothing cadence. The room is quiet now, save for the shared sound of your breathing, the air thick with the scent of sex and sweat.

He presses a lazy, open-mouthed kiss to your shoulder, then another to the curve of your jaw, seemingly unwilling to break the connection just yet, content to simply exist in the warm, heavy aftermath of it all.

But eventually, he shifts, pressing one last lingering, soft kiss to your forehead, and pushes himself up. The mattress dips and lifts as he climbs out, the cool air of the room rushing in to fill the space he left behind.

You watch him, your body still thrumming, muscles heavy and liquid, but your mind instinctively bracing for the shift.

This is the part where the silence gets awkward. This is the part where he finds his shirt on the floor, pulls it on, and mutters something about an early morning or a meeting.

But he doesn’t even glance at his clothes. He turns, padding silently toward the bathroom in his bare feet, disappearing into the slice of light spilling from the open door.

The water runs for a moment—the sound jarringly domestic in the quiet apartment—before cutting off.

You blink, staring up at the ceiling, your heart rate settling into something resembling normalcy even as your brain struggles to catalog this deviation from the script. You’re still bracing for the sound of a zipper, for the click of a belt buckle, but instead, you hear the soft tread of his return.

Spencer comes back into the dim light of the bedroom, a damp washcloth in his hand. He isn’t dressing. He isn’t rushing. He sits on the edge of the mattress, the dip in the springs shifting you slightly toward him, and reaches out with a gentle hesitance, waiting for a flinch that doesn’t come.

When he touches the warm cloth to your stomach, the heat is shocking—not painful, but incredibly grounding, chasing away the chill of the drying air and the sudden, hollow fear that you were just a convenience.

He wipes the skin with meticulous care, his eyes focused on the task as if it’s a delicate procedure requiring his full attention. There’s nothing perfunctory about it; he cleans you up with the same steady reverence he explored you with, drying your skin with the corner of the cloth before tossing it onto the nightstand.

He leans in then, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, your collarbone, your lips—soft, unhurried things—and then he simply pulls the quilt up over you, his hand lingering on the sheet as he looks down at you, making it clear that for tonight, at least, he isn't going anywhere.

The silence stretches, comfortable but fragile, and suddenly the vulnerability of the moment feels heavier than the pleasure did. You feel a ridiculous lump forming in your throat, a shy, terrifying question sitting on the tip of your tongue. It’s just asking him to stay, but it feels like asking for everything.

"Will you..." You start, then stop to clear your throat, your voice barely above a whisper. "Will you lay with me?"

Spencer doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t look for an excuse or a clock. He just turns those soft, serious eyes on you, his expression softening into something so open it makes your chest ache.

"Of course," he answers immediately, as if it were the only logical conclusion, the only option worth considering. He shifts, sliding under the quilt with an easy grace, and the mattress dips under his weight as he settles in behind you. There’s no fumbling for space, no awkward negotiation of limbs; he fits against you like he was always meant to be there, his chest pressing flush against your back. The heat of him is immediate and grounding, seeping through your skin and chasing away the last of the lingering chill.

He reaches out, gathering you up with a gentle, insistent tug, pulling you back until you are completely cocooned in his embrace. One arm slides beneath your pillow, cradling your head, while the other drapes over your waist, his hand splaying wide across your stomach to hold you close. You can feel the steady, rhythmic thrum of his heartbeat against your spine, a slow, hypnotic cadence that anchors you in the present moment and makes it impossible to spiral into your usual doubts. 

You let your body relax into his, melting against the solid length of him, and for the first time in a long time, your mind goes quiet. The insecurities, the voice that whispers that you’re too much or not enough, the habitual shrinking you do to make room for others—it all fades into the background, silenced by the undeniable reality of him holding you.

Spencer presses a soft, lingering kiss to the back of your neck, his lips brushing the sensitive skin there with a reverence that feels like a seal, a promise that you don't have to be anything but exactly who you are right here. Safe, wanted, and held.

There's no panic in his voice. No sharpness. No demands. He knows. You can tell by the way he speaks to you—not like someone trying to pull you out, but like someone already halfway in, waiting for you in the dark. He doesn't chase your attention; he opens the door and waits for you to find your way back through it. Every syllable he speaks is weighted with patience, thick with love. He's not trying to fix you. He's holding space.

You blink. Or maybe you don't. You're not sure if your body has moved at all, but the warmth of his hands is unmistakable. Steady. Real. Anchoring. Each pass of his thumbs sends a ripple through your numbness, tiny waves pushing back against the fog that clouds your mind. Your chest aches. Your throat feels too tight. You're still floating somewhere in that hollow place behind your ribs, curled in on yourself without realizing it. Your muscles are locked, like you've turned to stone from the inside out. Your jaw clenches, your fingers twitch. Time bends around you.

The silence around you hums, low and vibrating in your teeth. The world feels just out of reach, like a soap bubble you're afraid to touch. Aaron's presence is the one thing that cuts through it—not sharply, but like the slow burn of a candle in a pitch-black room. A pulse of light in endless twilight. His steadiness is almost surreal—unshaken, unwavering.

You want to speak but the words are caught somewhere deep, tangled in memory and muscle. They don't come when you call for them. But he doesn't ask for them. He never does. His silence is not empty—it's filled with understanding, with acceptance. It doesn't demand or expect. It waits. He waits. And in that waiting, he gives you the most precious thing: space to return on your own terms.

Instead, he leans forward and presses a kiss to the back of your right hand. Then your left. Slow, careful kisses like prayers, like promises whispered against skin. You barely register the feeling, but something inside you shudders with the touch. It stirs you, a faint rustling beneath the surface of your dissociation, a soul calling out through waterlogged thoughts. Every kiss is a breadcrumb on the trail back to yourself.

"You're safe," he murmurs between kisses. "I've got you. You're here."

He stays crouched in front of you, patient and unwavering. The minutes stretch, elastic and strange, until time stops making sense. You could've been gone five seconds or five hours. But Aaron doesn't flinch. His presence remains like a lighthouse beam sweeping through the mist—constant, unwavering. If the house burned down around you, he'd still be here, whispering your name into the smoke.

He shifts his weight slightly, bringing himself closer without encroaching. His knees brush yours gently, a solid point of contact, a reassurance that he's here. That you're not alone in this. The warmth of that touch bleeds into your skin like dye into water.

You feel your fingers twitch, just slightly. Enough that he notices, and the corners of his mouth lift in a smile so soft it hurts to look at. But he doesn't comment on it, doesn't flood the moment with meaning. He just keeps going. Thumb circling. Lips pressing. Words threading their way into the cracks. His gaze flickers to your face every so often, watching not with urgency, but with reverence.

"That's it," he says, softer than before. "No rush. Take your time."

His voice is the only thing that makes sense in this strange, muffled world. It wraps around you like a blanket, rich and familiar, heavy with devotion. He shifts to sit more comfortably on the floor, one knee bent, the other folded beneath him. His fingers slide up slightly, resting now just above your knees. Not pushing, not holding. Just present. Like a heartbeat. Like a vow.

You start to notice the little things—his cologne, warm and woodsy, mingling with the subtle scent of laundry detergent on your clothes. The gentle creak of the floor beneath him. The softness in his eyes, so completely open, holding you without pressure. You hear his breathing, slow and measured, and find yourself unconsciously mirroring it. Inhale. Exhale. Again.

Your breathing starts to change. Less shallow. Still shaky, but fuller somehow. You can feel the rhythm of it now, the way your chest rises and falls, how the air tastes as it slips past your lips. Like cinnamon and warmth. Like home. You begin to count each breath, grounding yourself with every inhale, every exhale. His presence becomes a guidepost, a place to tether your drifting self. You press your feet more firmly against the floor. The room tilts back into place.

He presses another kiss to your knuckles, then leans in just enough to rest his forehead against your hands. His eyes are closed, lashes brushing your skin, and you feel the hum of his breath as he exhales slowly. His fingers splay slightly, cradling your legs with infinite gentleness. You feel the weight of his trust in that touch.

"I love you," he says, so quietly it almost gets lost in the hush of the room. "Every part of you. Even the ones that go away sometimes."

The words strike something deep. Like a match lit in the center of your chest, flickering against the cold. Your heart stutters. Something in you stretches, startled by the sudden presence of warmth. A tremor runs through you, too small to name but impossible to ignore. It feels like your body is thawing, sensation returning in painful bursts. Like blood rushing back into a limb that had gone numb.

You feel the tears before you understand they're yours—hot, silent, slipping down your cheeks in slow, steady streams. He doesn't wipe them away. He lets them fall. Lets you feel. You haven't moved much, but you're shifting inside, inching back toward yourself. The gravity of your own body starts to return, limbs heavy, chest aching. Your spine begins to straighten, your hands relax.

Your fingertips curl toward him, involuntary and slow, like flowers unfurling to sunlight. Your hands, once limp in his, begin to hold back. You feel the texture of his skin under your palms, the warmth of him. He's real. He's here. The clarity of that realization takes your breath away.

His breath catches, just a little, and he opens his eyes. His smile is immediate, soft and bright, and something behind it shatters gently—relief, maybe. Or gratitude. Or both. He shifts slightly, moving one hand to brush hair from your forehead, careful not to startle. He tucks it behind your ear with a tenderness that cracks something open in you.

"Hi," he says, eyes shining. This time it reaches all the way to the edges of his face, softening the hard lines with something tender and wide open. Like he's never seen anything more beautiful than you coming back to him.

You blink again. And this time, it sticks. The room comes into focus. The fog starts to lift, peeling back slowly like morning light through curtains. The walls stop pressing in. The ringing in your ears fades. The floor steadies beneath you.

You see him. Really see him.

Aaron.

Kneeling in front of you, eyes warm and steady. His hands never left you. His voice never stopped. He was your tether. Your light. Your proof that the world outside the fog is still there. The person who doesn't just witness your pain—he honors it. He stays.

"There you are," he breathes, voice low and full of something holy. He kisses your forehead, slow and sure, lingering just a second longer than he needs to. The warmth of it anchors you. You close your eyes, lean into it, allow yourself to melt just a little.

The door creaks open just a little, soft and slow. Barely a sound, but Aaron turns his head, already knowing who it is. Jack's voice follows a moment later, small and curious.

"Daddy?"

Aaron lifts his head from where he's still close to you, one hand resting protectively on your thigh. He doesn't shift too far away. His voice stays low, careful not to rupture the quiet you've all been holding together like breath in a cupped hand.

"Come in, buddy. Just be gentle, okay?"

Jack pads into the room on socked feet, clutching a coloring book under one arm and a handful of crayons in the other. His hair is a little mussed from his nap, cheeks still flushed with leftover warmth. There's a sleepiness still clinging to his movements, a looseness in his limbs as he surveys the room. He pauses only once to glance between the two of you, assessing the softness in Aaron's eyes, the watery calm in yours. He doesn't ask questions, doesn't seem confused. He just knows, in the instinctual way that children do when something is sacred and fragile. Without a word, he climbs up onto the couch beside you.

"You need quiet time?" he asks. His voice is solemn, careful, as if he's mimicking the way Aaron speaks when things are tender. It's soft enough to not startle, just loud enough to be heard. He's watching you with big, curious eyes, trying to help in the only way he knows how.

You nod slowly, your head still heavy, a little floaty around the edges. The dissociation hasn't fully left your system—there's still a hum in your bones, like your body is tuned to a different frequency—but Jack's presence feels like a gentle weight. Something grounding. Something warm and true. You don't need to pretend with him. You don't need to hide.

He leans against your side without hesitation, warm and solid and familiar. His small frame presses into yours, and his head fits just under your arm like he was always meant to be there. His body radiates comfort like a heated blanket, settling your nerves without trying. It isn't about words. It's just presence. The quiet of him is a gift.

"I can be quiet," he promises. And then, almost as if remembering it from a dream, he hums. Soft, tuneless, something only half-formed, a song made of comfort instead of melody. It vibrates gently against your side. It's not perfect, but it's real. It's so real. Each note is a soft thread weaving you back into the fabric of the moment. He hums like he's holding space for you, like it's the only job he has in the world.

Aaron shifts beside you, careful not to disturb the quiet bubble now forming around the three of you. He presses a kiss to your cheek, lips warm and lingering. His arm slides around your waist, pulling you close until your side is flush against his. He's solid at your back, grounding and ever-present, the calm center of this slowly rebuilding universe.

His hand comes to rest flat over your sternum, fingers splayed gently like he's holding your heart in place. You feel the warmth of his palm, the weight of it—protective, sure. The steady pressure steadies you. He's not holding you down, just holding you here, reminding you gently that you exist.

He doesn't speak. Doesn't need to.

His hand stays there, a silent promise. A weight you can lean into without falling. Every now and then, his thumb rubs slow, barely-there circles over your chest, syncing to the beat of your breathing. Like he's reminding you: You're here. You're real. You're not alone. Not now, not ever. His other hand squeezes your waist with quiet affection, grounding you further.

Jack hums, flipping open his coloring book and picking a page at random. He chooses a crayon, violet, and begins coloring a dragon with heavy strokes, tongue poking out from the corner of his mouth in concentration. But his shoulder never leaves yours. His humming never stops. His presence is a kind of balm, something pure and gentle in a world that often feels sharp. You glance down and see the page slowly come to life with color, and something inside you begins to uncoil.

You tilt your head slightly, letting it rest against the top of Jack's hair. He doesn't flinch. He just hums a little louder, shifting to make more space for you as though he's always known how to do this. His small fingers move with purpose across the page, scribbling in wide, confident arcs. He shows no fear, no hesitation. Just a quiet kind of devotion that knits itself into your ribs.

The room settles.

You do, too.

Aaron's other hand slips up your spine, not in search of attention but to ground you further. He traces a slow line between your shoulder blades, like he's reminding your body of itself. Like he's helping you remember how to be in it. Each stroke eases another piece of tension. He moves like he knows every part of you, even the parts that forget how to breathe sometimes.

Your breathing slows again. The panic has fully ebbed now, leaving only exhaustion in its wake. You're tired in a way that doesn't have language. Tired in your bones, in your skin, in the worn-out places no one ever sees. But you're not scared anymore. Not frozen. Not gone. You're still here. In pieces, maybe, but present. And loved.

Aaron rests his chin on your shoulder, his breath brushing your temple. His nose nuzzles gently into your hair, as if the closeness can say what words cannot. And in a voice so low it nearly disappears into the soft hum of the room, he whispers:

"You don't have to be okay yet. We've got you."

And he means it. You feel it in every point of contact—his arm around your waist, his hand on your heart, Jack's quiet humming pressed against your ribs. The rhythm of it becomes its own sort of lullaby. The three of you are tucked into a moment that doesn't need to be anything other than what it is.

Your hand moves without thinking, sliding across your lap to rest on top of Aaron's. You lace your fingers together, anchor yourself there. You're still tired. Still fragile. But in this moment, there is no pressure to be anything more than exactly as you are. Aaron gives your hand a gentle squeeze in return, his thumb brushing over your knuckles with infinite care.

You glance down at Jack's page. The dragon is half-colored, wings a bright, clumsy purple. He hums a little tune and says, without looking up, "Do you want to help me color?"

Your throat tightens, emotion swelling high and sudden. You nod, too full for words, and reach for a crayon—a soft blue. Jack smiles.

He shifts the book between you, makes space on his lap. Your arms move slowly, but you fill in a corner of the sky behind the dragon, and for a moment, that's all there is. The three of you, the warmth of connection, the comfort of simplicity. Jack leans a little closer, nudging his shoulder against yours like a punctuation mark.

Aaron watches you both quietly, his hand never leaving your chest, his body still curled protectively against yours. You can feel him watching the coloring page too, like it's the most sacred thing in the world. And maybe it is. Maybe this is the whole point. Not healing all at once, but building something beautiful in the in-between.

You glance up from the page, just for a second. Aaron's gaze meets yours, and there's so much in it—so much patience, so much quiet understanding. He gives you the smallest nod, like he knows what it means to simply survive a moment like this. Like he's proud of you for doing it. For staying. For returning.

Jack shifts again, holding out another crayon. "You can color the dragon's eyes," he says, as if bestowing a great honor. His tone is serious, like he's trusting you with something important.

You take the crayon from his hand. It's green. Bright. Alive. You color slowly, carefully, and Jack hums his approval. Aaron's thumb brushes across your ribs again, the gesture so instinctive it feels like part of your own breath now.

Time stretches and slows, no longer sharp and fragmented, but smooth and warm. The kind of time that feels like being wrapped in a quilt. Jack's humming shifts to quiet singing, a half-remembered lullaby from a movie he must've seen a hundred times.

Within moments, it grows louder. Your son has woken. Kwei opens his eyes immediately.

Years of hunting have taught him to wake at the smallest sound. Before becoming a father, that instinct meant danger.

Now… It meant a hungry baby.

He turns his head. You are still asleep beside him, curled under the heavy furs, your face is half hidden against the pillow, your breathing slow and wonderfully deep.

He watches you for a moment. Dark circles still rest underneath your eyes. Your body is healing, but not as quickly as either of you hoped.

Pregnancy had been difficult, the birth had been harder. Some days you smile and laugh as though nothing happened, but other days, he finds you asleep sitting upright because you tried so hard to stay awake with the baby that your body simply stopped listening. He hates those days. Not because you complain.

Because you never do, you always apologise instead.

“I’m sorry,” you tell him whenever he catches you struggling. “I’ll be alright.”

He wishes you would stop saying that. Because you do not need to apologise for bringing his son into the world. Another cry comes from the small cradle beside the fire.

Kwei glances back toward you.

You do not stir, not even a little.

He has learned the difference. Usually, even before the baby begins crying properly, you wake immediately.

Tonight… Nothing.

You are completely exhausted. His chest tightens. He slips carefully from the nest, making sure not to disturb you as he crosses the room.

The crying grows louder.

“I know.” His voice is low. Calm. “I hear you.”

The tiny bundle kicks impatiently underneath the blankets. Two bright eyes blink up at him, Kwei cannot help the small movement of his mandibles.

His son always looks so serious. Even while crying.

“You have your mother’s lungs,” he mutters quietly. The baby answers by crying louder. “I understand.”

He bends down carefully, one enormous hand sliding under the tiny body with a gentleness that still surprises him.

Months have passed, and he is no longer afraid of holding his son.

The first time, he had barely breathed, convinced he might somehow break him. Now the movements come naturally.

Strong arms. Gentle hands.

The baby settles against his chest, wrapped securely in one arm while Kwei reaches for the bottle you prepared before falling asleep.

“I know what you want.” The crying continues. “So impatient.”

He sits near the fire before offering the bottle. Immediately, the crying stops and Kwei lets out the quietest breath.

“There.”

The tiny hands wrap clumsily around the bottle, more interested in drinking than holding it.

For several moments, the only sound is the crackling fire. Kwei studies the small face before him.

Months old.

Growing, already stronger than he was when he first came home.

“You frightened us.” The words leave him quietly. “So small.”

His thumb brushes carefully across the baby’s soft skin.

“Your mother carried you through every season.”

His eyes drift toward the nest.

You have not moved. Still finally resting.

“I watched her become tired.” His voice grows softer. “I watched her smile anyway.”

The baby blinks sleepily, drinking without understanding a single word.

“She was sick in the mornings and sometimes at night. Sometimes all day. She said she was fine.” He huffs quietly. “She lied.”

The baby makes a tiny noise around the bottle.

“I know.” Kwei smiles to himself. “I told her the same.”

His gaze returns to you. Even asleep, you look tired. There are moments when he still remembers seeing you after the birth.

Pale. Shaking.

Barely able to keep your eyes open. Yet the first thing you asked…

“Is he alright?”

Not whether you were alright. Whether your son was.

Kwei has never forgotten it. He doubts he ever will.

“You have her heart.” He looks back down at the baby. “Kind.”

His thumb brushes gently across the baby’s tiny hand.

“You will learn from her. You will learn patience. You will need it.”

The baby finishes eating, blinking slowly as sleep begins pulling him away once more. Kwei lifts him carefully onto his shoulder. Large fingers begin rubbing slow circles across the baby’s back. The tiny body gives a quiet burp.

“There.”

He cannot help the quiet chuckle that follows.

“A mighty hunter.” Another tiny yawn. “So fierce.”

The baby’s eyes flutter closed. Within minutes, he is asleep again.

Kwei remains where he is.

Holding him, while watching the fire and watching you.

His home.

Years ago, he believed strength was measured by trophies hanging from walls. By scars. By victories.

Now…

Strength looks different. It looks like a woman who gave everything she had to bring new life into the world. It looks like a tiny child sleeping peacefully against his chest. It looks like choosing to stay awake so the person you love can finally rest.

He stands up slowly, walking back toward the cradle, he lays his son back onto the soft furs, adjusting the blanket until only his small face remains visible.

The baby sighs. Kwei watches him for another moment before returning to the nest. You are exactly where he left you.

One hand tucked under your cheek, hair falling across your face, he kneels beside you. Carefully brushing a few loose strands behind your ear. You make the smallest sound.

But you do not wake up. You only lean instinctively toward his touch. He slips back under the furs, wrapping one arm carefully around your sleeping body.

You move closer immediately, almost unconsciously, pressing against his warmth with a quiet sigh that sounds more content than anything he has heard all day. Still asleep, you whisper something he almost misses.

“…thank you…”

His eyes widen slightly. You never opened your eyes. You never woke up. Yet somehow… you knew.

He lowers his head, pressing the gentlest kiss against your forehead.

“So stubborn,” he murmurs. His hand rest over yours. “You carried him. Tonight…” His eyes close. “I will carry both of you.”

Your son sleeps peacefully. You sleep even deeper.

And Kwei stays awake for just a little while longer, listening to the steady breathing of the two people who have become the greatest purpose of his life.

Only when he is certain that both of you are resting peacefully does he finally allow himself to close his eyes, knowing that, for one night at least, you have been given the gift of uninterrupted sleep.

~Masterlist~

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

Your stomach flips. “Spence.”

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

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

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

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

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

Morgan snorts. “What weekend?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You perform.

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

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

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

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

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

Reid shuts his book and sets it on the table.

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

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

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

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

Rossi nods once. “You’ll have them.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t,” Prentiss says immediately.

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

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

Not the team. You.

Your stomach twists.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink hard. “What?”

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

You frown. “I’m not—”

He gives you a look.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He hums. “Sure.”

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

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

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

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

He nods. “Good.”

You frown.

“I’m attempting corrective behavioural conditioning.”

Your eyes narrow. “By being annoying?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You sigh. “Reid.”

“Hm?”

“Tell me if I’m overthinking this.”

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

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

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

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

Reid examines the highlighted timeline for another few seconds.

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

You frown slightly.

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

Your brows lift. “So, I’m right?”

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

“What’s she right about?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good girl,” he says absently.

Your entire nervous system short-circuits.

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

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

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

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

You finally blink. “What?”

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

You frown. “What are you—”

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

Your eyes go wide. “Spencer—”

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

“Reid.”

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

You freeze. “Reid, I swear to—”

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

He pauses, tilting his head.

“Very obviously your type.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your stomach flips.

God. That’s pathetic.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Twelve notifications.

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

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

But one of the messages catches your eye.

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

You snort, then type out a reply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ping! Ping! Two more messages pop up.

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

That answer comes a little too easily.

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

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

You shake your head, typing quickly.

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

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

TUESDAY 9:50AM

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

He’s wearing a grey suit today.

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

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

Hotch ignores him completely.

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

He glances once around the table.

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

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

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

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

“You should probably blink.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You lift a shoulder. “About ten.”

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

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

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

You blink. “Oh.”

His gaze holds yours for a second too long.

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

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

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

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

Your breath catches softly in your throat.

“Anytime, sir,” you manage.

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

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

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

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

Two new messages from DCRunner00.

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

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

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

“Hey, you busy?”

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

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

“I could be working.”

“Are you?”

“No.”

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

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

“I could use your help.”

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

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

“Where do you want to start?”

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

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

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

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

Reid hums quietly beside you. “Not necessarily.”

You stare at him. “Care to elaborate?”

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

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

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

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

“No, listen to me carefully.”

Both you and Reid glance up automatically.

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

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

He pauses briefly beside Reid’s desk, listening.

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

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

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

Your stomach flips.

This absolutely should not be as hot as it is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your face heats.

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

Oh my God.

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

He stops.

Then slowly turns toward you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You: Work, mostly. You: And sleep.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He straightens, brows drawing tighter.

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

You set the cup down in front of him.

“So,” you tilt your head, “coffee.”

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

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

Your face heats instantly.

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

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

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

Which is also when you finally check your messages again.

DCRunner00: Chaos how?

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

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

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

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

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

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

He replies almost immediately.

DCRunner00: Accurate, though? You: Unfortunately.

You drop your phone on the bed and start undressing.

Ping!

DCRunner00: What do you actually do?

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

You: Mostly admin. You: Governmental stuff.

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

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

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

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

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

He replies instantly again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You open your protein bar.

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

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

You type out a vague response.

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

His next reply takes almost two minutes to come through.

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

You almost choke on your tea.

That’s... weird.

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

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

You sit up straighter, suddenly a little nauseous.

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

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

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

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

DCRunner00: No promises.

WEDNESDAY 8:10AM

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

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

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

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

“Is Garcia in yet?”

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

You pull your laptop out of your bag.

“I just—I need her.”

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

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

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

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

His brows pull together slightly.

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

You nod slowly, already stepping around him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You grimace. “I don’t know.”

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

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

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

She nods.

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

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

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

You wince.

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

You hesitate.

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

She squints at the screen.

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

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

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

She starts scrolling back through the messages.

“Have you told Hotch?”

“Nope.”

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

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

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

You groan, dragging both hands over your face.

“You do mention Hotch kind of a lot.”

Your head snaps up. “He’s my boss.”

Garcia gives you a long look.

“Okay,” she says slowly. “Sure.”

“Garcia.”

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

You point at the screen. “Focus.”

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

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

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

You sigh. “I don’t love that idea.”

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

You frown. “In English?”

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

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

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

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

You: I thought I told you not to spiral.

He replies so fast that even Garcia flinches.

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

You nod.

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

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

“You’re the best, Pen.”

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

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

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

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

His brows pull together. “Everything alright?”

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

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

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

“Okay, now I’m concerned,” he says.

You glance at him. “Why?”

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

You roll your eyes. “Spence—”

“Something must be seriously wrong.”

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

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

His brows shoot up. “A guy—”

“Online,” you add quickly.

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

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

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

You glare at him. “Yes. That one.”

“Then yes, I remember it very clearly.”

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

His forehead creases. “Have you told—”

“No.”

“Maybe you should—”

“I said no.”

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

You narrow your eyes at him.

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

You lift a brow, waiting for the punchline.

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

You stare at him.

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

He pauses, frowning faintly.

“That was supposed to be reassuring.”

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

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

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

You: You’re weird.

He replies just as fast as usual.

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

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

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

You snort softly, typing out a quick reply.

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

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

It doesn’t work.

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

You: You went quiet. Should I be concerned?

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

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

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

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

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

Your stomach drops. “Oh my God.”

You immediately call Garcia back.

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

“You saw me this morning.”

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

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

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

“No.”

“Are you insane?”

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

Garcia goes quiet for a second.

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

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

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

You press your free hand against your forehead.

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

Garcia scoffs loudly.

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

The line goes quiet again—then she sighs.

“Why are you so against telling Hotch?”

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

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

Your shoulders sag. “Thank you.”

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

You nearly choke. “What?”

“Non-negotiable.”

“Penelope, that’s insane.”

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

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

“Mm-hm.”

“You’re overreacting.”

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

You frown. “…Morally complicit?”

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

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

She hums, satisfied.

“I need to reply to him again.”

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

You laugh despite yourself. “Thanks, Pen.”

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

“I was actually thinking psychological thriller marathon.”

“Absolutely not.”

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

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

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

You: Lucky guess.

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

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

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

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

At exactly six-fifteen, your desk phone rings.

“Hello?”

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

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

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

“See who soon?” Reid asks.

You glance at him. “Garcia.”

He tilts his head.

“She’s staying over tonight.”

His brows lift. “Because of your stalk—”

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

His gaze narrows. “Should I be worried?”

You scoff. “About me? Never.”

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

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

You pause mid-motion.

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

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

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

“Agent.”

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

You force a small smile. “Sir.”

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

You nod once. “Of course.”

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

Your breath catches.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shake your head. “Shit. Sorry.”

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

For a moment, neither of you says anything.

Then—

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

You shut your eyes. “Penelope.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your stomach twists. “Or escalate.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THURSDAY 6:45AM

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You scowl at him. “A drought issue?”

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

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

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

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

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

Someone clears their throat behind you.

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

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

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

Very slowly, you turn in your chair.

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

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

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

You want to die.

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

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

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

You drop your head into your hands.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You glance up at him hopefully.

“Morgan definitely is, though.”

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

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

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

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

Your stomach flips.

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

You shoot him a warning look. “Spence.”

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

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

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

You turn back to him, frowning.

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

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

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

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

You open the message thread—and your stomach drops.

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

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

Ice floods your bloodstream.

You stop breathing.

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

You don’t answer him. You can’t.

The bullpen dissolves into white noise around you.

Until—

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

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

Reid gasps. “Wait. Is that—”

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

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

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

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

“What’s going on?”

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

“What happened?” he asks, sharper now.

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

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

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

“Who sent this?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Could this day get any worse?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You grimace. “Fantastic.”

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

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

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

The room goes still for half a second.

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

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

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

“Or angry,” Morgan adds.

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

You sink lower in your chair.

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

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

You elbow him immediately.

“Ow.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hotch leans forward slightly. “How sloppy?”

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

Hotch nods once, already shifting into command mode.

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

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

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

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

You open your mouth to argue.

“I mean it,” he adds, voice low.

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

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

Then his eyes flick up, meeting yours.

“I’m taking her home.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hotch crouches slightly, holding one hand out toward her.

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

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

Your eyes go wide.

Traitor.

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

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

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

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

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

Every object in every room suddenly feels mortifyingly personal.

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

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

But this?

This feels dangerously close to being found out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m fine.”

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

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

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

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

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

“You think this is nothing?”

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

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

His jaw tightens slightly.

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

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

Which, to him, maybe he hasn’t.

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

That’s all.

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

He nods once. “Want me to clear the—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He pauses, expression sharpening slightly.

“Alright. Keep me updated.”

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

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

Your stomach tightens.

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

The name hits you immediately.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Except this time Hotch does pause.

“Why do you do that?”

You frown. “Do what?”

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

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

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

Your pulse stutters.

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

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

But Hotch doesn’t seem to hear you.

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

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

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

“Leave Leia out of this.”

“She doesn’t like strangers.”

“She likes you.”

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

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

Your fingers tighten instinctively around the edge of the counter.

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

Oh God.

“Which means Reid already noticed the pattern.”

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

“You track me.”

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

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

Your breath stutters.

And Hotch notices immediately.

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

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

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

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

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

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

His eyes lock onto yours.

“You redirect.”

You can barely breathe now.

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

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

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

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

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

The apartment suddenly feels oppressively quiet.

His throat shifts slightly.

And then—

His phone rings.

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

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

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

Because holy fuck.

Holy fuck.

What the hell just happened?

“They got him.”

Your head snaps up. “They what?”

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

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

“Oh.”

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

A cold shiver slips down your spine.

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

He pauses, then looks at you.

“But they got him.”

“Good,” you say quietly.

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

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

You nod. “Okay.”

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

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

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

Hotch stills.

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

“Babysitting?” he repeats.

“You know what I mean.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your breath catches in your throat.

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

But you can’t.

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

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

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

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

Then he kisses you.

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

But the restraint doesn’t last long.

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

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

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

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

Like he needs to be absolutely certain this is real.

“Aaron—”

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

FRIDAY 6:15AM

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

Oh God.

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

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

Your stomach swoops.

You slept with your boss last night.

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

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

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

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Most days.”

His brows pull together slightly. “Why?”

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

Something that almost resembles amusement flickers across his face.

“Sounds like a terrible boss,” he murmurs.

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

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

He hums, breath warm against your skin.

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

“Oh, he notices.”

Your stomach flips. “Really?”

“Mhm.”

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

Heat floods your face. “Aaron—”

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

“Oh my God.”

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

“And the red bra,” he murmurs.

Your breath catches.

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

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

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

“Mm, sure.”

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

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

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

You feel his lips curve.

“Good thing I’m the boss.”

10:35AM

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, but nothing really happened.”

Morgan and Prentiss both stare at you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I was.”

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

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

You frown. “Hotch, I—”

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

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

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

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

“…Huh.”

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

He tilts his head.

Then—

“Oh my God.”

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