summary: in which you and alfie welcome your baby girl into the world
content: dad!ab , swearing , crying , child birth , social media at the end
notes: this is a re-upload from my old account! thank you so much to @loveheart-123 for finding this for me // technically the timing of this is wrong because ab & reader had arabella around 20 so they wouldn’t have been so close with the yters but … whatever 😋😋
wc: 2,631
YOU WOKE UP with an energetic buzz to you.
There was a dull ache that settled in your lower stomach but you chose to ignore it, becoming rather immune to any pain less than a full punch to the face due to braxton-hicks and headaches. You were into your ninth month now, just early on.
Your ankles were consistently swollen, your back faced no relief ever, and your breasts had ached to the point where you could no longer brave a bra.
Alfie had tried his hardest to make you more comfortable. This included sitting behind you in bed at night sometimes, putting his hands under your bump and lifting it, holding the weight of your baby himself, allowing your spine some form of relief.
You'd let out a deep sigh, sinking back into him and nearly crying from the satisfaction. But when he let go and gently handed the weight back to you, it felt ten times worse, like the baby had doubled in size.
You decided that the momentary relief was no longer worth the horrific pressure afterwards.
When you walked into the living room, Alfie was on the sofa, editing a video together with his feet up on the coffee table.
You kissed him on the head, making him turn to look up at you.
"Y'alright? Thought I'd let you lie in for a bit." Alfie hummed, kissing your lips softly.
"Lie in? Alf, it's 12:30." You laughed.
"And? You're exhausted all the time. It's alright if you fall out of schedule y'know, girl."
"I know, I know." You mumbled, making yourself a lazy bowl of cereal.
You sat beside him, resting the bowl on your enlarged tummy.
"I'm gonna eat this and then go on a little walk around the field."
"Want me to come with?"
"No, it's okay, you need to get that vlog up before the fans hound you." You joked, wiping your mouth as milk dribbled out of the corner of your lip.
"You sure? You're about to burst any day, Reader." He said, turning his full attention to you.
"I'm not just going to magically combust into labour without any warnings, Alf." You giggled. "There'll be signs beforehand, and if I feel like something's going to happen, I'll come straight back."
"Alright." He nodded, resting a hand on your thigh while you consumed the rest of your breakfast.
The little walk you went on was super peaceful and you felt really good for going on it. The sun was high in sky, beating down on you but not to the point of being unbearable. The trees rustled and whispered with the light breeze that fluttered through the air, and the birds chirped from within them, conversing in their own little harmonic language.
One thing pregnancy had done was make you hyper aware of everything. Even the little things. You assumed it was down to the fact that you were literally bringing a life into the world, and that was a big step and moment in your own life, so you started noting everything around you.
Your feet dragged along the gravel path that wound through the field. As you wandered, you spotted a little trail of ants, following a bigger ant. It was funny how everything was life.
Everything had a purpose.
This little army of ants were probably out scavenging for food, maybe to bring back to an even bigger group, or maybe this was all there was to their colony, and they were just enjoying a day out.
There was a mama bird twittering around, carrying insects in her beak and dropping them into a perfectly crafted nest, letting her young ones feast.
You'd be doing that soon.
Maybe not in that manner, but you'd be providing and feeding your baby in a way that you hadn't already been. Right now? It was automated. Your body naturally gave its nutrients to the little being growing inside of you. But when she was out and into the world? It would be down to your own instincts. You would have to take the initiative to feed her — and Alfie, of course.
You felt a sharp dig in your abdomen after a certain step. You winced, leaning a hand onto a tree and breathing in and out.
"You're killing me today, hon." You mumbled to your stomach, placing a hand on it.
There was no kicking, so it wasn't like she was being active.
But something hurt. You had an inkling as to why.
Early labour.
You'd done your research, known what to expect for the day you go into labour. Early labour was the first stage.
Contractions, like annoying period cramps that won't go away.
Your hand clenched against the tree bark, the other reaching to your back pocket to grab your phone.
You sent a quick text to Alfie.
you: coming home sooner xx
alfie: everything alright? XX
you: early labour i think xx
Then, you phoned your doctor, not because you were worried, but just to keep them updated. As expected, she told you to keep calling throughout the day, especially if things started to ramp up, but to also just act normal, pretend as if it isn't happening because there isn't anything you can do in this stage.
Alfie was waiting outside for you when you got back. It was obvious he was about to go looking for you, but his body visibly sagged when he saw you ambling towards him like a little penguin.
"Fuckin' hell, had me shittin' myself in there waiting for you." He groaned, supporting your weight as you got back into the grotto.
"It's fine, really." You told him, and then relayed to him all the information the doctor had told you over the phone. "Just gotta... troop through it."
"Okay then ... wanna get a subway?" He smirked.
Before you knew it, you were in his Defender having just gotten your food, and were chowing down on a meatball marinara with extra cheese. You moaned at the taste as he munched on whatever he was eating.
"Fuck, this is so good."
He laughed as you spoke through mouthfuls, finding your enthusiasm towards food endearing instead of mannerless and disgusting. His thumb reached up, swiping away at some of the tomato sauce on the corner of your mouth and taking it for himself.
"Oi, I was saving that for later!" You joked, "For when the hospital starts starving me when I'm in active labour."
Speaking of, active labour was no joke. Like, none at all. You had no idea how any woman could ever stay silent through this process, and you weren't even halfway there yet.
Barely a quarter.
You were hunched over, hands braced on the dining room table as you breathed deeply through your nose and out of your mouth, trying not to vomit at the pain in your abdomen.
Alfie was on the phone with your doctor, trying to figure out the best thing to do, with his hand on the back of your neck, thumb rubbing light circles.
"Alright, yeah, okay." He said before hanging up, "Right, doctor said they're gonna have a room ready by the time we get to the hospital. You need help walking?"
"Alfie, shut up. Please, for one moment." You huffed, eyes squeezed shut as you tried to focus on anything but the searing pain inside of you.
"Okay, your pace darlin'. You tell me what you need."
You held a shaky hand out for him, and he took it, hooking his other around your waist to support your weak steps out the grotto and into his car. It was just hitting sunset, 6pm.
You wished you could've focused on the beautiful orange dissipating into a deep shade of blue, but you were far too concerned with the fact that you were going to be popping a baby out of your vagina within the next twenty-four hours if you were lucky.
The country roads were nice and quiet, as expected, but things took a turn for the worst once he got into the centre of town, where the hospital was.
It was rush hour. Some people were leaving their office jobs, driving around to go home, whereas some people were driving in to clock in for the night shift. It was fucking chaos.
You were crying at this point, frustrated and in unrelenting, agonising pain.
"It's alright, baby, it's okay." He tried to reassure you, keeping one hand in yours as you squeezed him to death. "Let's call the doctors, let them know what's wrong."
The cars around you were stationery, so you unbuckled your belt and moved to your knees, resting your elbows on the centre console and resting your head against his arm.
"It really hurts." You whined, stating the obvious, but you didn't know what else to tell him.
"I know, angel. I know." He sighed, running his thumb back and forth over your knuckles while connecting the phone line to the hospital.
Alfie ran the doctors through the predicament that you were faced with — constant traffic congestion that appeared to be going nowhere. You didn't have the time.
"I would suggest — if you can — to turn around and head back home. We'll send an ambulance out to you and you'll do what we call a home birth. I know this isn't what was on your birthing plan, but sometimes things change. Do you think that would be possible?" The doctor gave a solution.
Alfie agreed and then hung up, quickly spinning around (popping a completely illegal u-turn) and zooming back to the grotto. He helped you back into the house, stripping the bed so it was down to just the mattress and the cover, and helping you onto it.
You were sobbing, more so now from fear than pain. This was not how your birthing plan was set out to be. You were supposed to be giving birth in a hospital, with professionals.
Not in your own bed at home, waiting for the professionals.
Tears weren't the only liquid leaving your body. Besides from the water breakage between your legs, your entire body was sweating. Your shirt clung to every slip of skin it could, your hair laminated itself to your forehead, and your palms were slippery against Alfie's.
What if it went wrong? What if something wrong happened and you couldn't get to the hospital in time? What if you lost the baby? What if Alfie lost you? There was so much running through your head that you didn't even register that he had let the paramedics in and they were here. In your room. Helping you.
"It's good that you didn't start pushing, Reader. Really good. You're just about dilated now." She told you with a light smile, trying to make you feel better as her eyes were glued to your vagina. "Now, you're gonna time this with your body, okay? When you feel a contraction, you push. Got it?"
"Okay." You sobbed, heels digging into the mattress.
Alfie knelt on the floor beside the bed, keeping your hand clutched in his for the emotional benefit of you both.
A loud scream tore from your throat as you pushed, followed by a wail of overwhelming energy.
"Good! That's good. Keep them coming like that." The paramedic guided you through the birth.
There wasn't a single push that didn't have a terrified, guttural scream paired with it, as you clenched your teeth and bared through it.
Alfie kissed your knuckles, muttering words of affection and encouragement. As much as he wanted to look, he knew better. The last thing he needed to do right now was projectile vomit everywhere.
It took too long. Far too long. By the end of it, you were exhausted, panting, and desperate to give up, but they had told you that she was crowning, and you only had to push a few more times.
You powered through it, nearly breaking Alfie's hand in the process.
It was worth it.
It was all worth it when you heard that loud cry shoot through the air.
The world fell quiet for a moment, the only notable sound being that of your baby girl. She was tiny. You expected her to be small considering she was just a baby, but she was tiny.
Adorable. The most perfect decision you'd ever made.
While they cleaned her up and sorted you out down there, you and Alfie basked in the moment together. Your chest racked with relieved and overwhelmed sobs, his forehead pressed to your sweaty one as he gently stroked the crown of your head with his thumb.
"Holy shit, I'm so fuckin' proud of you, Reader. You were amazing. I cant believe you just fuckin' did that." Alfie exhaled through tears, kissing your skin delicately.
"I'm so tired." You whimpered, weakly clutching his wrist with your hand.
"I know, angel. You did so well."
"Here she is! Are you ready to hold her? Or would you like a moment?" The paramedic asked.
You two pulled away from your intimate space, looking up at the lady who held your baby. Alfie helped you sit up against the headboard as you held your arms out.
The warmth that filled your chest, both physically and emotional as your little girl settled against it, caused another flush of emotions to wash over you.
Alfie adjusted himself so he was lying in bed on his side next to you, an arm around your shoulders and the other across your midsection as the three of you huddled together.
She let out a weak cry and you frowned.
The paramedic noticed your concern, "Don't worry, she's just recognising that you're mum. It's quite weird, they can actually tell it's you just from your body and presence."
"I'd hope so." Alfie scoffed funnily, "She carried her around for nine months."
You giggled softly as his humorous retort and reached out a finger to gently caress her cheek. She let out a babbling type of noise and you grinned.
"Do you have a name for her?" The paramedic asked.
"Arabella." You answered, holding her tighter as you three settled together, "Arabella Buttle."
Alfie kissed your temple and then settled his head on top of yours, Arabella tucked between the two of you, her head nestled between your collarbones as you sniffled and let your body relax after the labour.
yourusername & alfiebuttle
liked by alfiebuttle georgeclarkeey bambinobecky and 500k more
arabella buttle — 25.08.25 🫶
welcome to the world baby girl (i cant believe i actually just did all that)
tagged: alfiebuttle
comments:
alfiebuttle chat childbirth is no joke ts was so scary
— yoursername no? really? i had no idea!
alfiebuttle gonna have bells repping a pink nike tech trust
— yourusername no such thing will be happening
alfiebuttle ❤️❤️❤️
theburntchip does this make me unc unc because my neph had a kid? or how does this work
— arthurtv unc unc is crazy
— yourusername no it makes you grandpa
— theburntchip nah no way
theburntchip congratulations niece and neph
— yourusername ❤️
— alfiebuttle cheers unc
arthurtv aw, congrats you guys!❤️
sabinablair_ stop it rn! i'm so happy for you! cant wait to meet her she's adorable! xx
italianbach baby buttle low-key fire name
— alfiebuttle 🔥🔥🔥
chrismd10 congratulations!❤️
bambinobecky oh my god my baby had her baby i'm so so so happy for you two! she's perfect (arabella too) xx
— yourusername love you becky xx
livvydimartino don't make me get emotional rn! congrats you two, so well deserved! sending love xx
taliamar oo girl been there done that! so proud of you! have to go on little baby dates soon xx
summary: you and arabella join alfie and the boys for their trip to portugal
content: established relationship , dad!ab , sexual jokes & references , swearing , crying toddler , tantrums , kissing & allusions to sex
notes: this is so long … like actually freaking me out i think this might be the longest fic ive ever written and it took me an entire week jesus
wc: 11,539
MUGGY. THAT WAS one word you’d use to describe the temperature in Portugal. It was slightly warm, but the air felt thick around you.
The group had started the trip on a negative note already, as Chip had accidentally claimed someone else’s bag and then spent an hour trying to find a decent car rental service.
There was a very amusing statue of Cristiano Ronaldo’s head outside the airport that the boys spent a brief while taking the mick out of before walking across the road to the main car park where the rental car was to be collected from.
Arabella was perched on Alfie’s forearm as he carried her around to stop her from whining about her feet aching.
Chip spoke in the lift, “The journey begins boys, who’s ready to get fucking—“
“I actually am pretty hyped about this one chat.” Alfie put on a funky voice.
“Yuck.” You muttered, causing Greg to laugh.
“For anyone wondering why AB’s mrs is here, it’s because she’s a controlling leech who won’t leave her boyfriend alone. Psycho.” Chip joked, “No, I’m messing. It’s because she wanted to come and they couldn’t leave Arab at home.”
“Buttle family outing.” Greg hummed.
“I’m not even part of the Buttle family.” You scoffed, holding your ring-less finger up to the camera, “Never have kids out of wedlock guys. They take the piss.”
Alfie gave you a dirty look, eyebrows furrowed and head reared back, “Excuse me?”
“You’re excused.” You shrugged before wheeling your suitcase out of the lift behind you once it had come to a stop.
“Top ten coldest Reader moments.” Chip narrated, “Anyway, I’m excited for the vibes. AB’s gonna get his beautiful body out.”
“You’ve been saying this all day on the plane.” Alfie said, sliding his sunglasses on.
“God forbid a white boy try and hype up his boys.”
“You’re not even white.” You chimed in.
“I’ve never had a mate that’s been more attracted to me than you.” Your boyfriend adjusted the backpack slung over his shoulders before jogging lightly to catch up to you.
“Mummy.” Arabella whined, trying to reach out to you.
“What?”
“Hold.”
“No.”
You wouldn’t have been opposed had she not been in your arms five minutes prior and begging to go back to her dad’s.
“Please!”
“Bella, can I hold you?” Greg tried.
The two year old seemed to think about it for a split second before nodding, letting her dad pass her over to his mate.
Alfie began explaining some previous events while taking Arabella’s suitcase from you, “We were getting off the plane and this— the flight attendant goes ‘Can I ask you a question, are you single?’ to Greg, and then he was like ‘I am’ and she went ‘You’re hot’.”
Greg pulled out proof in the form of a brown napkin with a number written down and the words ‘I think you’re really cute, never done this before lol’.
“How cute.” You smiled, raising your shoulders before dropping them.
“Oh, yeah, Reader’s fuming ‘coz the other one tried it on with AB even though he was carrying Bella’s bag and she was carrying her.” Greg laughed.
“That was ballsy.” Alfie nodded before holding his hands up, “Wasn’t a fan. Don’t appreciate the attention. I’m a taken man.”
“I’m not fuming.” You said, “I’m slightly annoyed.”
“I’m fuming for you.” Chip said, “I want his sexy body all to myself.”
“… What?”
“What sessy?” Arabella asked, face screwed up to block the sun from getting into her eyes.
“Alright, that’s enough of that.” Alfie grunted as he slung his backpack forwards to retrieve her little white sunglasses with flowers on the side from the front pocket. “What do we say?”
“Thank you, Daddy.” She grinned as he put them on her face.
“Very stylish.” Greg hummed in approval.
“Sylis.” She tried to replicate the word.
“Yep.”
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“I reckon I can touch this.” Alfie announced once you were under some shade.
The roof was quite high up, and as tall as he was already, you highly doubted he could touch the surface. He’d be lucky if his fingers grazed it at all.
“No, no jumping.” Greg spoke like a wound up parent, “Let’s do something proper.”
Alfie swung his arms back before leaping upwards and managing to touch the ceiling.
Once he’d done it, you ordered for him to lift you up so you could do it too. You grinned as you flattened your palm to it before he lowered you back down, patting your bottom lightly.
You looked straight at the camera, “Editors, make it so I did that all on my own.”
The boys then began discussing the plans of the day, going through the details of their gym session that would inevitably be happening because they made sure to rent a house with a gym inside of it.
“I can do arms. I can do arms.” Chip said when Alfie denied his ability to work out due to his ‘boob job’. “Speaking of my boob job, I need help tying it up.”
“I’m not tying up your corset, bro.” Alfie shook his head, “That’s where I draw the line with friendship.”
Chip suddenly lifted his shirt, showing off the strange, corset-like binder he was wearing underneath to support him after the surgery.
The spontaneous rapidity of his movement caused you to burst into laughter, leaning on the handle of your suitcase.
“You laughing at my boob job? Fine, but let me laugh at yours.” Chip said.
“What? I didn’t get a boob job.”
“He’s saying ‘coz your boobs got bigger.” Alfie chuckled.
“Yeah, Chip, breast feeding will do that to you.” You kissed your teeth.
It was an undeniable fact that your boobs had grown in size since having Arabella, and though they’d shrunk down a little since you’d stopped breastfeeding, they were still a cup or two bigger than before.
“This might be a, uh, personal question, feel free not to answer on cam, have you made love with that corset on?” Alfie asked.
“Yep— Errr, to who? My hand?”
“To someone excluding you.” Greg added.
“Yes.”
“Wow. That’s true love.” You hummed.
“You wouldn’t have sex with Alfie if he got his boobs removed?” Chip turned it on you.
“Me and Alfie have never had sex.” You shrugged, “And never will.”
Everyone went quiet as the camera panned towards Greg, who was still holding Arabella, the living proof that your declaration was a lie.
“I’m joking. I actually like his boobs.” You reached out, squeezing at his pecs, “Honk honk.”
“Bro!” Chip laughed loudly.
Alfie slung his arms around you, jolting you to the side aggressively and cupping your tits before squeezing at them and making the same sound.
“Alfie!” You screeched.
“You two are so strange.” Greg stared in bewilderment.
“Mummy boobs.” Arabella giggled, stretching an arm out herself.
It caused a wave of cacophonous laughter from everyone, including Frampton as the camera began shaking from it.
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Chip was doing a car reveal for the video when an elderly couple walked past, the woman taking a second to wave and coo at Arabella. The toddler beamed, waving back.
“You have a very beautiful baby.” She spoke to you and Greg.
It caught you off guard for a split second before you realised how this looked to any outsiders. With you being the only girl with a group of boys, and Greg being the one holding Arabella, any strangers didn’t have a much better conclusion to come to.
“Oh, no she’s not mine.” Greg laughed before turning to Alfie, “She’s his and hers.”
“Oh, right! Sorry.” The lady laughed, “It’s just because you were holding her.”
You snorted, looking towards Alfie, who was standing there awkwardly.
“Either way, she’s very beautiful.”
“Say thank you, baby.” You whispered.
“‘Hank you.” Arabella smiled, squishing her eyes shut.
Once the couple had walked off, she prodded at Greg.
“Down now.”
“Yeah? You walking?” He hummed, lowering her so her feet were on the concrete and she was making her way towards Alfie.
“Y’alright?” He blinked at her.
“Hi daddy.” She grinned.
“Hi.” He chuckled, “What you doin’?”
“Walk.”
“I can see that.” He nodded.
“Big legs.”
“… What?”
“Make big.”
Alfie grinned at the sight of his daughter trying to explain what she was doing, “Stretching your legs?”
“Yes.”
“Good, you should.” He hummed before pointing to you, “Go walk to mummy and back.”
Arabella did as he said, toddling over to you, losing a bit of balance but clutched onto your leggings for stability.
You let your hand drop down and rest on top of her head.
“You okay?”
“Mhm.” She muttered, focusing on her feet as she manoeuvred the other way around and stomped back over to her dad.
“In you go!” He grunted as he picked her up and moved to put her in the booster seat.
She let out a loud scream, clutching onto the outside of the car, “No!”
“What the fuck was that?” Chip mumbled.
You peered your head around the back of the car.
“Why you screaming?” Alfie frowned.
Arabella started crying out of nowhere, clutching her dad’s shirt for dear life, “No alone!”
You huffed, walking around and crouching in front of her.
“You’re not sitting alone. We’re all getting in the car. Stop screaming and stop crying.” You gritted out, wiping his cheeks with your hand, “You’re being silly.”
She nodded, sniffling, “Silly.”
“She alright?” Greg asked.
“She’s being dramatic. It’s because she’s hot. She’ll cry at anything.” Alfie explained.
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In the car, thankfully, Greg managed to have her in a laughing fit as he spewed off random words that sounded German. You weren’t sure if they were actual German words, or he was just putting the phonetics of the German language together, but it had Arabella cackling like a witch in her booster seat.
Cameras had been stuck to the front window so that Frampton didn’t have to film in the car journeys, and he could just sit in the back row chilling. You and Alfie were on either side of Arabella, while Chip was driving and Greg was in the front.
It took Chip far too long to figure out how to get out of the car park, but once he had, the drive was smooth, which you were overly thankful for because you didn't want to deal with Arabella vomiting.
“Look at this plane tryin’ to land.” He pointed out.
She craned her neck forward, looking through the skylight “Plane.”
“That thing looks like it’s about to go down.”
“Chip!”
“Sorry.” He paused, “Did you guys ever used to lips up your own hand before you’d ever kissed a girl back in the day?”
“Yeah …” Alfie seemed unconvinced, “It’d be good if you didn’t swerve when you did that and wipe out my whole family.”
“Yeah, sorry, bro.”
You placed your hands over Arabella’s ears for your next sentence, “I never made out with my own hand but I used to practice giving head when I ate a banana.”
“What the fuck?”
“Did you know about this?” Greg turned to Alfie.
He nodded with pursed lips, “Told her to drop the banana and come give some real slops.”
Thankfully the conversation came to an end just as Arabella began whining about having her ears covered, pushing your hands away.
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Upon entry, the house was lovely. The floors were a chilling cold which felt amazing considering the heat outside, and there was so much space in every room.
The gym had to be one of the largest rooms there, and was undoubtedly going to be the one the boys spent the most amount of time in. You couldn’t say the same. You wouldn’t say your ideal habitat was in a gym room with four men while your daughter did god knows what halfway across the house.
“Look at the basketball chair. This is the only reason I wanted this gaff.” Alfie grinned, sitting down in the chair that was indeed shaped and styled like a basketball. “Bells, come.”
Arabella waddled toward her dad, “Ball.”
“Yeah, big basketball chair.” He hummed, picking her up and setting her in his lap, “Reader.”
You lifted your head out of your phone, looking at the sight and then awing before getting a picture that would undoubtedly be used in an Instagram dump on one of your accounts.
“Yeah, you’ve been messing with basketball chairs the whole time I’ve known you.” Greg played along, “And now you’re getting your offspring on it. I rate it.”
Alfie pulled a face, “Offspring?”
“Yeah, Arabella’s your offspring.”
Alfie adjusted, swapping places so Arabella was sat alone on the basketball chair and he was free to test out the gym equipment and darts board.
He wasn’t very accurate with his throwing, but he towed you into a bet of giving him head tonight if he got a bullseye.
He didn’t, in fact he missed one of the shots and the dart clattered to the ground, but he still glanced at you expectantly.
“You missed.”
“I won’t miss tonight.” He jeered.
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After a game of crocodile dentist, which was won by your boyfriend, he got to pick the biggest room to stay in, and that had you feeling like a smug winner by association as you unzipped your suitcase.
“Reader making herself right at home.” Chip commented.
“My fella won, I get to reap the benefits of that. Cry about it.” You gave him a fake smile.
The boys all cuddled together on the bed, Alfie uncomfortably sandwiched between the two of them, to which you stared blankly while Arabella stood at your feet.
He saw them out so the three of you could get well settled in the room, waving them off.
“I’ve got a rule for this room; no dirty piggies allowed.”
Greg burst out laughing while Arabella giggled from the bed, snacking on her fingers.
“Ah!” You snapped at her.
Sheepishly, she pulled them away, knowing she’d been caught doing something she wasn’t allowed to do.
You and Alfie had been trying to get her to stop gnawing on her hand whenever she got bored or fidgety, because quite frankly, it was gross and no one in public wanted to see a toddler’s slobber everywhere.
“I might as well just fucking wait for everyone to pick and you lot let me know which one I’m in.” Greg huffed as you all made your way down the stairs, “You fuckin’ muscly, stupid football playing charity match prick.” He aimed at Alfie as he followed right behind him, “Get here, I’m gonna fuck ya!”
“That’s my job, Greg.” You sighed, shaking your head.
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On the way to the restaurant you were having dinner at, Greg grabbed a ‘traditional Madeiran hat’ from a shop and refused to take it off throughout the whole meal.
The American diner was great, it was well decorated and the seats were comfy. The boys seemed to be umming and arring over the quality of the food, but you didn’t think it was too bad, and neither did Arabella.
She was back on Alfie’s lap as he tore up little pieces of the chicken tenders and blew on them so they were an appropriate temperature for her to eat.
She took the torn off piece and leaned forwards, stretching across the table to dunk it into the pot of sauce that Chip had acquired.
“Bella!” You gasped at her audacity to just take from someone else, “You have to ask, baby.”
She blinked from you to Chip and then down to her chicken covered in sauce, “Have please, Uncle ‘Ip?”
The boys weren’t half as bothered as you were, finding the situation rather funny instead.
“Yeah, ‘course you can.” He nodded, nudging the pot further in her direction.
“‘Hank you.” She beamed, continuing to eat.
You shook your head at her as she waved lightly at you.
“You have … sauce all over your hand.” Alfie grimaced, grabbing a napkin and wiping his daughter's hand over, twisting at her fingers to make sure they were properly clean.
“It’s literally just chicken in cornflakes.” Greg shrugged.
“Yummy.” Arabella spoke with her mouth full.
You gave her a stern, disappointed look, and she glanced up to her dad, expecting him to say something in her defence. Alfie shrugged and then held his finger to his lips, shushing her, to which she copied.
“I might’ve had a slight fumble here.” Chip admitted.
“Definitely.” You agreed.
“Nuh uh!” Arabella, once again, spoke with her mouth full.
“Bella.”
She stared directly at you and began purposefully babbling loud, disruptive noises while smacking her lips excessively.
You shrugged, “Alright.” and then turned your body fully away from her, having your plate in your lap instead.
“Uh oh, Bella’s in trouble.” Chip sang teasingly.
“No, mummy!” Arabella hit your back.
“Oi!” Alfie lifted his daughter, manoeuvring her to face away from you, “What you doin’?”
“Mummy—“
“No. You don’t hit people.”
“Y’know, it’s mad weird watching AB be a proper dad.” Greg spoke to the camera, while Alfie continued to scold Arabella gently, “Like, not ‘coz I expect him to be bad at it, it’s just … I dunno.”
“Mummy.” Arabella patted your back softly.
You turned back to face her.
“Mummy, hug?”
“Are you sorry?”
She nodded and you opened your arms for her. She beamed brightly, wrapping her tiny, pudgy arms around your midsection.
“That was good, bro.” Chip said to Alfie, slightly shocked by the way he handled the situation so maturely.
Alfie shrugged, “Dad life, ennit?”
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The evening was beautifully chilled. You and Alfie were lounging in your bedroom while Arabella sat on the floor (by choice) in her pyjamas, while watching a childish YouTube video on her dad’s phone, something about surprise toy eggs covered in Play-Doh.
Somewhere between talking casually and doing nothing, your lips had found his and had begun moving the rhythmic dance that was to blame for starting the very activity that was the reason you were parents at such young ages.
You couldn’t help but grin into the kiss, your hands coming up to cup his cheeks while his fell to your waist, slowly but surely turning his body until he was hovering on top of you.
It was when his fingers snuck round your front to slide beneath the waistband of your leggings that the both of you had to pull away and stop yourselves.
“Not while Bella’s in the room, Alf.”
He closed his eyes, groaning in annoyance before spontaneously standing up.
Downstairs, Chip was still filming for the video, talking mindlessly to the camera beside Greg while the football played on the large TV.
It was a very amusing clip to see Alfie come jogging down the stairs carrying his two year old, rambling off the title of some YouTube video for her to watch, dumping her on the couch and then legging it back upstairs.
Chip got a shot of him and Bella in the frame together, staring at each other through the camera, though he knew it wouldn’t be half as funny in the video because his editors were going to have to blur her face, so the viewers weren’t able to see the humorous blankness of her expression.
“Well, now we’re watching a … I don’t know, actually.” Chip hummed, panning the camera to the TV, which was now displaying a video for Arabella.
She was watching it very intently, despite having barely a clue as to what was happening in it. He supposed she was just very enticed by the bright colour of the Play-Doh and the cute toys that came out of the plastic egg.
He then turned the shot to include Greg, who was sitting on the other side of Arabella, phone face down and also very attentively watching the YouTube video.
“Doggy.” She giggled as a plastic doggy was opened up from a blind bag.
“Do you know what sound a doggy makes?” Greg asked her, “Sound, AB?”
“Woof woof!” She mimicked what she knew.
“Yeah, high five!”
Her palm smacked against his, and he pretended that she was far too strong for him, clutching his hand to his chest and making her cackle heartily.
“Just me and Window Kid entertaining little AB while big AB and his mrs have a shag up there— They’re definitely doing that by the way.”
“What, shagging?” Greg tilted his head up.
“Yeah.”
“Hundred percent, bro.”
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After yours and Alfie’s … strenuous activities, you hopped in the shower together, in which he handed you his razor and encouraged you to help him shave as neatly as possible. Once that was done, he then offered to do yours, and in response you blinked and told him you didn’t need help with that, but he insisted (“Nah, girl, I can get all up in there, trust. Spread ‘em.”).
You threw on one of his shirts and a pair of his boxers to head downstairs and join everyone else while he settled on a simple towel.
Chip already had the camera on and recording as you descended, the pair of you looking like you were doing the infamous walk of shame.
“First of all, bro, I just did, like, a half an hour shave of my whole shit.” Alfie laughed breathily, “Gave Reader the razor and told her to give me a low taper ‘coz I was bored.”
“Nah, your boy does a full shave for a Chippo vid.” Chip mocked.
“Your boy has an everything shower.”
“Your fella begs to shave your bush.” You added, startling them both.
“What?! AB, what the fuck!”
“Nah, nah, I don’t support deforestation ‘n’ that—“
Chip wheezed, “—Deforestation—“
“—But she did mine, thought I’d be gentlemanly and offer to do hers.”
“Right, well, enough of that. Go in there. Go in there,” He pointed to the bathroom, “It stinks so bad.”
You stood far back, picking Arabella up off the sofa and holding her in your arms while Alfie walked towards the downstairs bathroom, going over Greg’s ‘overflowing/ flooding shit’ story.
“Mummy.” Arabella said quietly through a yawn.
“I know, baby. Bedtime, okay?”
She whined in protest, but still buried her face in your neck.
Just as Alfie poked his head into the bathroom, he gagged, coughed and immediately walked away, ignoring any of Chip’s pleas for him to come back and do it again.
“Reader, smell it! Smell it!” He said excitably.
“Shh!” You shushed the man while walking back and forth with your daughter, hoping that soothing movement would lull her to sleep, “Also, no. I’m not smelling Greg’s literal shit.”
On the way up the stairs, Alfie paused to talk to Greg, who was fully naked in his bathroom with just his head poking out of the door frame. While they were talking, Chip zoomed in on Alfie’s chest, the camera picking up all the little hairs growing across his pecs.
“Did an everything shower but couldn’t sort your chest out?”
“What are you doing?” Alfie giggled.
“Couldn’t sort the chest out?”
“Bro, trust the process with the chest.”
“Oh, you tryna grow something new?”
“Reader likes it, so I keep it.” He gave an unbothered shrug.
“Alfie.” You hummed, looking down at where Arabella was drooling excessively while gnawing on her fingers.
“Alright, another one of those nights.” He sighed heavily, “Let’s just get her down and see if she sleeps through it.”
“What’s this?” Chip asked.
“She’s got her last baby teeth coming in and they really hurt at night. I apologise in advance if she wakes you up by screaming and crying.”
“Shit, it’s one of those?” He winced.
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Thankfully, she had gone down without much of a fight, and you both tucked her in to the little cot in the corner with a kiss on the forehead and making sure that her cow plushy was hugged tight to her chest.
Back downstairs, Chip thought it was funny to walk around, fully bent in half with his hands clutching his ankles. He looked like something out of a horror movie, especially in the low light of the living room only being illuminated by the football back on the TV.
“Eugh!” Alfie groaned, pointing at him.
He’d put on a pair of adidas shorts for now, which you knew would be coming off when you went to bed.
“Imagine he starts running like that.”
You gasped, sitting up.
Alfie looked at you, “No, no, no.”
“I can run in a back bend.”
“No way!” Chip cackled, standing up straight now, “Do it, do it.”
You stood, tucking the shirt into the boxers so you didn’t flash anyone, and arched backwards until your hands were on the floor whilst your head was upside down. You then began moving at an extremely fast pace around the living room.
Greg screamed, tucking his knees to his chest on the sofa while Chip writhed uncomfortably and bounced from foot to foot.
“Stop, man.” Alfie chuckled as you came right up to him, “Bare weird, girl.”
“That’s fucking disgusting.” Greg cackled, “Please teach Arabella to do the same and then both freak AB out at the same time.”
“Bro, no!”
It was like perfect timing, because the moment you stood back to full height, Arabella began shrieking upstairs.
“There we go, that’s the teeth.” You huffed, already making the move to go upstairs.
“Does she get nightmares?” Greg asked, scratching at his beard.
“Uhhh … not really?” Alfie replied, “Only sometimes but a quick cuddle and she’s alright.”
“Bella.” You cooed, flipping the light switch on and crouching in front of her bed.
“Mummy daddy!” She sobbed loudly, crawling towards you while suckling on the ear of her stuffed cow.
“I know, I know.” You whispered, lifting her up, “Alf!” You called out.
“Comin’!”
By the time he’d wrapped up downstairs with the boys and scaled the stairs, you’d gotten comfy against the headboard of your own bed, Arabella pressed up against your chest while still wailing.
You were trying to lull her back to sleep, shushing down her ear while stroking at her back and head.
She kept rubbing her jaw against your collarbone, seemingly trying to soothe the pressuring ache inside of her mouth.
“Hey.” Alfie spoke softly, closing the door behind him and crawling into bed beside you.
Her harsh waterworks restarted at the sight of her dad, craving comfort from the both of you.
He snuggled closer, resting his cheek on your bicep while stroking his thumb over her cheek, wiping her tears as they fell.
“Daddy, hurt.” She cried.
“I know it hurts, Bells.” He frowned in defeat, “I know.”
She reached out for his finger, trying to put it in her mouth.
“No, we’re not allowed to do that, remember? No fingers and hands in mouths.”
The rejection only hit her harder as her face screwed up in distress.
You sighed heavily, pressing a kiss to the top of her head and adjusting so that you were sat better up straight.
A knock came from the door, and Alfie let the person know they were okay to enter.
It was Chip, and he was holding one of Arabella’s dummy’s.
“This was downstairs, I dunno if it’s gonna help.”
“Cheers, bro.” Alfie took it from him with a nod.
“We’re all coming bed now though— No pressure, don’t rush her to stop crying, just thought I’d let you know we’re shutting off.”
“Alright, see you in the morning.”
“Night Chip.” You smiled tiredly before whispering to Bella, “Wanna say night night to Uncle Chip?”
Instead of speaking, she raised an arm and waved as much as she could through the concentrated pain in her jaw.
“Night, Arab.”
And then the door was closed again.
Alfie tried to slide the rubber end of the dummy between Arabella’s lip, but she was having none of it, instead deciding to rear her head back with a sobbing whine.
“Bella, please, baby.” You muttered, “It’ll help, okay?”
She clung to you tighter, squeezing your shirt in her fist.
You gave Alfie a nod, signalling for him to try again.
This time, he was successful, and Arabella’s wails were dulled to a light sniffling and the occasional dribble of tears.
“There we go, darlin’.” He smiled, taking her off of you and proceeding to pace the floor to help her doze off.
She’d worn herself out with all her crying, so it didn’t take long for her eyes to shut and her soft snores to fill the room.
Once she’d been put back down in her cot, Alfie clambered back into bed in his boxers, wrapping you up in his arms tightly and dotting kisses along your hairline.
“G’Night.”
“Night.”
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In the morning, Alfie had been the one to bathe Arabella while you stood in front of the large bathroom mirror, doing your makeup and occasionally pulling faces at your daughter through the reflective glass.
She giggled loudly at you before swiping a hand out and covering Alfie’s cheek in soap suds.
“Bella!” He groaned, wiping them off using his shoulder.
“‘Oap!”
“Yeah, I know, girl. But, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t get it all over my face.” He muttered, tilting her head back and pouring water in little splashes over her hair to rinse it free of shampoo.
Once she was done and bored of splashing about, he heaved her out of the bath and wrapped her in her dressing down.
“Cold, daddy.” Her lips trembled as she hugged her hands to her chest.
“I know, let’s go get dressed.”
When you finished your makeup, you returned to the bedroom, finding your daughter in a pair of denim dungarees that had little butterflies stitched on, and a baby yellow t-shirt on underneath.
“Good fit?” Alfie asked while tugging a t-shirt on.
You hummed and nodded, pleased by his choice before rummaging around through your own clothes to find something to wear.
You decided on a pair of tiny shorts and a retro Adidas shirt that was striped with green and cream. The fabric was relatively thick too so it wouldn’t leave you too cold.
“Socks and shoes, baby.” You crouched in front of Arabella, shoving some socks onto her feet.
“No!” She whined, throwing herself backwards and trying to kick them off.
“Bella.” You said, tone firm but trying to be patient, “Stop kicking please.”
“Off! Off!” She screamed, fighting back as you pushed her foot into her shoe.
“What the fuck is going on?” Greg poked his head in whilst shrugging a plaid shirt on.
“She doesn’t wanna put shoes on.” Alfie huffed, sitting on the bed and pulling Arabella into his lap to hold her in place while you wrestled with her feet to cover them up.
She wasn’t just screaming anymore, she was bawling.
You pursed your lips, keeping quiet and ignoring her protests as you did the velcro strap and put her feet down.
“No!” She cried, tears streaming, “Don’t want!”
“You’re not walking around the streets barefoot, Bella.”
Alfie lowered her back down to the floor, and she dramatically threw herself onto it, rolling around and wailing.
Instead of giving her any form of attention, you walked around her and unplugged your phone from its place on charge at your bedside. Alfie sat on the edge of the bed, staring at her with a blank expression along with Greg.
“Daddy, off!” She tried, kicking her feet into his shin.
“Oi!” He snapped, reaching down and taking a hold of her ankles, “Do not kick me. Understand?”
“I want off!”
“You can’t. We’re going out. I’ll say it again, do not kick me. It hurts, it’s not nice.”
It didn’t hurt. She was only two. But he had to find some way to acknowledge her bad behaviour.
“Alfie, don’t shout at her.” You whispered while putting earrings in, “It won’t help.”
“I know, I know.”
She thrashed her legs again, and this time, Greg crouched down to her level.
“AB, look, mate.” He pointed to his shoes, “Look at my shoes. Aren’t they cool? We can both have our shoes on.”
“I don’t like it!”
“Yeah, I don’t like wearing shoes either, but we can do it together, yeah?”
She thought for a moment, and then began shuffling toward Greg, and then curled herself up in his arms.
“Aw, this is nice.” He grinned, “Thank you, AB.”
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In the car, Arabella was still in a mood with Alfie for shouting at her, and demanded that Greg sit in the back with her. She held his hand the whole time, babbling his ear off in short bursts all while he nodded along.
“Let’s go back to parrots, has anyone deeped how they can actually speak English?” Chip asked from the driver’s seat.
Alfie sighed, “They can’t, though.”
“Yes they can.” He mocked the sound of a parrot, making Arabella laugh.
“No, they can’t. They just mimic, like, the pitch— I can’t remember how it works but they can’t actively speak English, they can just mimic noises and how words sound. That’s why they only say words they hear a lot.” You explained, peering your head around the seat to talk to Chip.
“Didn’t realise we had David Attenborough in the car, fuckin’ hell.”
“I remember— ah, have I said this before? I don’t even wanna say it.” Alfie shook his head.
“Nah, just say it now. You can’t start and then not finish at all.”
“We watched the Romeo and Juliet film in English, um, like Leonardo DiCaprio one, and um, like, in lesson, I think there was a bit of boob on show at one point, and the second I got home, I bought that film on YouTube and I paused on that and just went nuts on it.”
“Alfie!” You groaned, your expression one of utter disgust as you shook your head.
“And I told my mates ‘coz I thought they’d find it funny and I’m pretty sure next time we were with a group of girls they went like ‘Oi, y’know AB fuckin’ wanked over Romeo and Juliet’ and they were all like ‘Ewwww’.”
“Good. That’s what you get for being with other girls before me.” You sneered jokingly.
“Me wanking to Shakespeare or my mrs being mad I spoke to gal before her?”
“I mean,” He scoffed out laughter, “Both. I rate you for the wank, and I rate her for the possessiveness.”
“10/10 couple.” Chip added on.
“Yeah, 10/10 but they can’t get their daughter to wear shoes.” Greg joked, making Arabella give him a high five. “Wait, you know how girls, like, uh, read erotic books and toss themselves off—“
“A Court of Thorns and Roses.”
“Ball knowledge.” You smirked at Chip’s mention.
“Do you think some lads read books and wank?”
His question caused a wave of laughter and a light debate started before Frampton added in his own thoughts.
“My mrs is obsessed with Draco Malfoy and Hermione fan fiction.”
“Oh God!” Alfie groaned and laughed.
“That’s actually crazy, bro.”
“That’s like … that’s peak teenage girl fan fiction.” You giggled, starting to reminisce yourself “Like, pulling all nighters during summer just to read— Wow, what a time.”
“You used to read that?!” Greg exclaimed.
“Okay, personally I never indulged in a Dramione fanfic—“
“—Dramione—!”
“— But the first fanfic I ever read was a Ron Weasley one and I still remember it to this day.”
“What did you read it on?”
“Wattpad.” You shrugged.
“Aren’t there shit about me on there?” Alfie turned to you.
“I dunno, probably. There’s loads of Sidemen fanfics on there.”
“Really?!”
“Yeah.”
“Probably all for Wroetoshaw, mate.” Chip guffawed.
“Harry.” Arabella cooed from the back.
It went silent for a little until everyone began laughing again.
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Out of the car, there was a long trek down to the restaurant you were going to for brunch, and on the way you discovered that there was a car park further down, which would’ve saved you the entire journey.
Arabella whined at the sloping concrete, tugging on the bottom of Alfie’s shorts.
“What, Bella?”
“Up.”
“Oh, what, now you like me?” He sassed.
“Daddy, up.” She whined, burying her face in his leg.
“What do you say?”
“Please.”
After she used her manners, Alfie caved, lifting her up and settling her in his arms to carry her the rest of the way.
In the restaurant, one of the men that worked there recognised Chip through his collaborations with the Sidemen and then saw you all to a table. They pulled up a special highchair for Arabella so she didn’t have to perch on yours or Alfie’s lap the whole time.
The food you’d ordered was good, and you were relatively surprised when Alfie actually ate most of what he’d ordered, though you’d spent half of your meal trying to encourage Arabella to eat and your own food had gone cold.
“Reader, swap.” Alfie motioned, moving to take your seat so that he had the responsibility of feeding your daughter and not you.
“Are you sure—“
“Sit down and eat, please.”
There was an entire fish on the table that everyone was taking the mick out of, including Chip, who decided it would be funny to mimic a Jamaican accent while toying with it just as the waiter approached again.
“Sorry about my mate using it as a Jamaican puppet.” Alfie said, causing you to bark out laughter.
Towards the end of the meal, Frampton ended up losing the drone to a ridiculously tall tree. You all ventured down to the tree line and Alfie tried numerous different tactics to get the drone down, including shaking the tree, throwing more sticks up at it, and even attempting to scale the entire thing at one point.
“Alfie, get down!” You exclaimed.
“Why?!”
“Because I need you alive?!” You scoffed, “Seriously, come down before you fall down.”
Unfortunately, Frampton didn’t get his drone back, but the restaurant did give you all the meal for free, which was very lovely of them to do. So you returned to the car with full bellies and more cash in your wallets than you’d expected.
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The next adventure for the day was a cable car journey up a section of Madeira, and then to get back down you’d be put in little wooden sleds and pushed down sloping roads with two residents guiding you.
Chip upgraded you all to glass floors, which meant the entire cable car was made of glass and gave you a completely unfiltered view of the city around you.
Arabella kicked up a fuss about it, freaked out about being able to see the drop beneath her, so she sat on your lap and kept her gaze on the window looking outwards rather than down.
“AB, look, it’s fine.” Greg said, stranding on the glass floor and walking back and forth.
Of course it caused the cable car to shake a little, and Arabella screamed in terror, diving back into your neck and sobbing.
“Fuck, I thought it would help.” Greg put a hand to his mouth and sat back down.
“Bro.” Alfie laughed, shaking his head.
“Arab, it’s okay, I don’t like it neither.” Chip muttered, stroking her cheek.
“Want out!”
“I know, I’m sorry. It is my fault. I upgraded without thinking about it.”
“Should I lay my jacket out on the floor?” Alfie asked.
“No, just pass it over here.” You motioned.
He chucked it over, and you spread it out, covering the top of Arabella’s head so her view is restricted to you only. Her cheek rested against your chest, feeling for your heartbeat to soothe herself.
“This is the bread and butter of Madeira.” Chip commented, gazing out of the window once he was a little more comfortable, “Ronaldo would’ve just been living up in a house like this, then he probably went to that football pitch to kick ball.”
“Apparently he used to do keepie-uppies inside his … when he was a kid, on his way up to the mountain.” Greg gestured to the outside.
“Used to play crossbar challenge in that diner as well.” Alfie added with a little smirk, making you chuckle under your breath and shake your head.
“Do you reckon Ronaldo’s been to that diner?” Chip asked seriously.
“I … I think it’s a slim chance.”
Halfway up the mountain, Greg and Chip began farting continuously, being amusing to only them as you and Alfie sat shoulder-to-shoulder, jokingly covering Arabella like she was about to be attacked.
“Why we doing that? Why we all farting?” Alfie scratched his ear.
It was then that a little ‘poot’ came from your lap.
The boys went quiet as you lifted Alfie’s jacket from Arabella’s head, only to find her giggling to herself.
“Whoopsy mummy.” She whispered with her hand over her mouth.
Your head reared back in hysterical laughter while Alfie chuckled and pinched his nosebridge.
Greg was leaning forwards on his knees, tears pricking in his eyes as Chip clutched at his stomach.
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At the top of the mountain, Greg paid for a print out of the photo you’d all taken, and then got a round of drinks that he thought was going to be alcoholic based on the presentation of them.
They’d carved out a pineapple and filled the inside with a drink. Chip and Greg were sharing while you and Alfie did too.
Once you’d all finished your drinks, and taken a load of pictures together (mainly of you and Alfie, sometimes with Arabella) you ended up walking through a little museum that was surrounded by rainforest-like trees.
Arabella insisted on walking by herself, so you put her down and she waddled her way through the museum, stopping to look at only the most intricate of paintings.
The contemporary, modern pieces didn’t interest her in the slightest, but all the large ones with numerous colours had her looking at them in awe.
You stayed close to her while the boys lingered behind, doing a few bits for the video before continuing on outside.
“It’s butt plug man.” Alfie sniggered while pointing his camera at a statue of a man with a tear-drop shaped head.
“Where’s your one, Alf?” You hummed.
“I don’t have one.” He scoffed.
You looked at him sceptically, as if you knew otherwise.
“Where’s yours?” He retorted.
“In your boxers.”
“That was cold.” Chip chuckled, nodding in approval, “That was fucking cold— Y’know what?” He gave you a high five and you shrugged nonchalantly.
“I’m here all day. It’s just what I do.”
“We could be in Thailand. This looks like the places those monkeys, like, steal your shoelaces and shit.” Alfie explained, filming the area for his own vlog, “D’you agree, girl?”
You hummed and nodded, “I know what you mean, it does.”
“Yes.” He hissed, pumping his fist, “Mrs approval, that’s all I want.”
You all walked around outside for a little while longer, and you grabbed a few photos of Arabella staring out at nothing, along with a few of her next to her dad, before venturing into the next part of the museum which was designated to crystals.
You had to remind Arabella that she had to hold Alfie’s hand throughout the entire time, and if she let go then she’d have to be carried for the rest of the day. You didn’t want to risk her touching things and damaging them, so instilling this rule was your safest bet.
The boys weren’t too arsed, except for Chip, whereas you were mesmerised by all the beautiful colours and intricate designs.
“Isn’t it mad that nature can just do this.” You whispered, looking at the camera Frampton was holding, “Bella’s dossing about with her dad ‘coz he doesn’t give a shit but this is so cool to me.”
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Unfortunately, the queue for the sledding down the hill was ridiculously long, so you all made the unanimous decision to come back in the morning before it got popular.
There was a little convenience store around, so you all grabbed some snacks and drinks.
The monsters they had were tiny, just about the size of Alfie’s head and he could hold one between his thumb and first finger.
You would be lying if you said the size comparison didn’t have your tummy doing little flips, but you were also in public, so that was a thought you were going to have to keep to yourself.
Until Alfie looked at you, noticing the look in your eye and laughing, throwing an arm around your shoulders.
“You little fuckin’ freak.”
“Did I miss something?” Chip frowned.
“Nah, nah.”
You giggled, unfurling yourself from his arms and going to get some stuff for yourself.
When you returned with a bottle of Dr. Pepper and a small tub of Texas BBQ Pringles, you found Alfie holding the tiny can to his mouth and uttering about wanting to ‘fuck it’.
You blinked, expression blank.
“Your mrs caught you, bro.” Chip cackled.
“Nah,” Alfie whispered, turning to you, “Nah, you too, girl. C’mere.”
“No. I see how it is.” You shrugged, “You’d rather make love to a can of white monster than the mother of your child. Fine.”
“I made love you last night, is that not enough?”
“I knew it!” Chip gasped, “I fucking knew it.”
“Mummy?” Arabella came waddling over to you holding a KitKat, “TeeTat please?”
“No, you’re already having Magic Stars.”
“Please!” She begged.
“No.” You repeated.
“I love the way you talk to her like she’s 20.” Chip chuckled, “Just straight up ‘no’.”
You shrugged, “If I baby talk her, it makes her think she’s close to getting her way.”
“Daddy.” She pouted, “TeeTat.”
“I know.” He hummed, “KitKat or Magic Stars?”
She huffed at being given an ultimatum, before shuffling off.
“AB.” Greg whispered to her at the counter.
She perked her head up, watching as he gestured for her to hand it over. A triumphant grin took over her face as she passed it to him, observing as he paid and then slid it into his pocket.
“I’ll give it to you later, don’t tell mummy or daddy.” He winked, ruffling her hair.
She giggled, stomping her feet excitable and nodding before running back to you, only to stack it right at your feet.
“For God sake.” You huffed as her lower lip trembled and tears brewed in her water line.
Alfie took your snacks from you so he could pay and give you the room to pick her up.
You were lucky to make it outside before she started properly wailing.
Finding a bench, you sat down with her on your lap and checked over her body, making sure she hadn’t cut herself anywhere or hit her head off the shelf.
“Oh, Bells.” You frowned as she cried, “You’re okay, chick. Big fall, hm?”
She nodded, coughing and leaning into your chest.
“Mummy’s here, you’re alright.”
“Hurted.”
“I know.” You cooed, wrapping your arms around her tighter.
She managed to calm herself down after you placed a soothing hand on her back and rubbed back and forth.
Alfie came out the shop with a white plastic bag, carrying everything for the three of you.
“Bells, we’re going hat shop. Wanna go get a hat?” He cooed, tickling under her chin.
“Daddy.” She sniffled, reaching for him.
“Oh, I know, darlin’.” He sighed, handing you the bag so he could carry your daughter around.
In the hat store, Greg got another hat and Alfie got a red bucket hat. Arabella ended up picking out a purple cap with little yellow flowers dotted all over it.
“That’s pretty, baby.” You grinned as they walked out in their new hats.
She grinned at the compliment, giggling shyly.
The walk back to the car was leisurely, the journey even more so as you pulled into the car park of where you were headed next.
“Ask me about my fit!” Alfie said to Chip.
“Oi, tell me about your fit.”
“Pwwwww … what?!” Alfie blew out air dramatically, causing a lot of chuckles and head shakes.
“I thought you were gonna run through it!”
“Ah, yeah yeah yeah,” Alfie nodded, “Head—“
“If you’re offering.” You smirked.
He pointed to you, “Behave. Head, CR7 bucket hat, priceless—“
“Boring!”
“Reader, shut up, man!”
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The water was fucking freezing. You had no doubts that it probably would’ve been lovely had the weather been above mediocre, however it wasn’t. The sky was grey and cloudy, and the water you were standing in shot goosebumps up your skin.
Arabella stood on the side in a little one piece that had a frilly skirt around the edge. She stared at the water like it might reach out and bite her.
“You coming?” You hummed, reaching out for her.
Alfie sat down entirely, submerging his full body apart from his head in the water, deciding to just soak himself to get over the constant shivers.
“Scared, mummy.” Arabella sniffled.
There was a little red mark on her knees from where they’d made contact with the floor of the convenience store earlier, and the physical evidence of her hurt made your heart weep, but you knew this was just what came with being a toddler. You were sure there were numerous times where you would’ve injured yourself in public and won’t remember it anymore.
“I know, it’s a little scary, huh?” You spoke with a light tone, trying to encourage her to get in, “But look, me and daddy did it. Do you wanna join us?”
“Bells, come join me, darlin’.” Alfie beckoned her closer.
“Bella, Bella, Bella.” Greg chanted for her.
She also had inflatables wrapped around her biceps, making her arms stick out a whole lot more than usual. It made her look kinda silly, but you were okay with her looking slightly ridiculous if it meant she’d be alive.
“Otay, I come.” She finally agreed, stepping one foot into the water before screaming at how cold it was.
You all laughed heartily at her reaction.
“Daddy’s coming to get you.” Alfie stood up to his full height, water dripping from his swimming trunks.
“Daddy, too cold!”
“Nah, you just gotta get used to it, Bells.” He said, picking her up under her armpits and holding her to his chest before sitting back down in the water.
Her cheeks puffed out immediately, and she flapped for a while before finding her dads shoulders and latching onto them.
“Good girl, baby!” You cheered, clapping.
“Fuckin’ell, she’s braver than me!” Chip guffawed, finally finding it within himself to submerge below his stomach.
“Let’s go swim, yeah?” Alfie kicked out into the deeper end, treading water and holding Arabella out by her hands, “Kick, okay? I wanna see big splashes from your feet.”
She grunted while trying to hold her head above water, but kicked as she’d been taught in her swimming lessons, creating a splash that would’ve been considered dramatic and big for anyone her size.
“If I let go, will you swim to mummy?”
Arabella nodded.
Alfie slowly let go of his daughter's fingers, however he kept his arms outstretched in case it all went wrong and he needed to intervene as soon as possible.
“Look at that!” Greg exclaimed as Arabella basically doggy-paddled toward you.
“Yay, Bella!” You beamed at her, lifting her into your arms once she reached you.
She coughed and wiped her face, squeezing her eyes shut before opening them again.
“Too cold, mummy.” She whimpered, lips chattering.
“Okay, we’ll get out.” You kissed her cheek, rising from the shallow end and stepping out, “I’m proud of you, though.”
You found her pink and orange towel poncho amongst the other items you’d brought out and left near the sun loungers, putting it over her head until she was wrapped and warming up again.
“Where’s she gone?” Chip threw his hands up.
“It’ll be too cold for her.” Alfie tutted before flipping off of a surface into the deep end.
Once she’d warmed up again, she wanted to go back in.
“Why doesn’t Uncle Chip hold you, yeah? Because he can’t go in properly?” You proposed the idea.
“Sounds good.” Chip nodded, taking Arabella from you.
He remained on his knees in the shallow bit, holding onto your daughter like his life depended on it, occasionally bringing her up and down out of the water to make little splashes.
You and Alfie had ventured far off into the deep end at this point, swimming around each other with teasing grins. The sensual looks were merely because you’d noticed his eyes giving your body a whole lot of attention, and he could say the same about you.
“You look so fit right now.” Alfie sighed, wrapping his arms around your waist.
“Mmm, careful. We’re in public.” You tutted, your hands clasping at the back of his neck.
“I would literally fuck you right now if it was sanitary and you didn’t care.”
“In front of our daughter and your friends? Very classy, Alf.”
“Okay, maybe if they all fucked off, yeah.”
It caused you to laugh audibly and lean further into his touch, resting your cheek on his shoulder.
“Maybe you’ll get lucky tonight.” You murmured.
“Really? Two nights in a row?”
Teasingly, you shrugged, “I said maybe.”
“Fuck … you’re actually a nightmare.”
You scoffed, reeling back and slapping him playfully.
“Nah, a good nightmare. My favourite nightmare.”
“Okay, ew, cringe.”
“Bro!” He huffed, “Can’t a guy compliment his mrs anymore?”
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After another battle with another car park and struggling to get out, you managed to make it home safely. The boys gave a quick scan of the shitty bathroom that had been contaminated before getting changed to go out.
You sighed, shaking your head as you held Arabella on your chest on the sofa.
“Bro, just leave her here and come with us.” Chip suggested jokingly, “She’ll be fine.”
“Chip, I’m not leaving my two-year-old at home by herself so I can go out drinking. Besides, even if I did, I would be shitting it the entire time I was out. It’s okay. Have fun, me and Bella will have a little girls night at home.”
Alfie came jogging down the stairs in his new outfit, fitting a cap over his head and adjusting the belt that was holding up his black denim jeans.
“I’ll see you in a bit. Call me if you need me, I love you.” He rambled, pressing a kiss to your forehead and lips twice.
He felt guilty about you not being able to come out and drink with them on the strip, and he really did want you to come along with them. However there was a two-year-old that needed managing and Alfie was there for an actual video shoot with Chip, meanwhile you were technically only there because of him and his inability to leave you and your daughter alone for longer than three days at a time.
“Bye, love you too.” You grinned, kissing him once more before they left.
Indeed, you and Arabella had a lovely girls night in.
You put on some random cartoon for her to enjoy while you ordered some food.
You went through the photos you’d taken throughout the day, favouriting the ones you were going to use in your Instagram before looking back and finding your daughter passed out, drooling onto a pillow.
You smiled softly at the sight of her asleep, and reached over, caressing her cheek and dotting kisses along her face.
She truly was your peace on Earth and the reason you woke up in the morning.
Her being unconscious only encouraged you to wrap up downstairs and go up to bed. You switched off the lights, although you knew the boys were likely to return in the early hours of the morning and cause some sort of ruckus, and took yourself and your daughter upstairs for bed.
When Alfie came home that night, he immediately made his way toward your shared bedroom.
He knocked at first, just to give you a warning of another presence, before walking in. He half expected to find you awake and doomscrolling, but what he did find was even better.
You had completely passed out, sprawled across the mattress next to your two-year-old (despite her having her own bed in the room). And to make things better, you were in nothing but one of his shirts.
It was moments like these that really reminded Alfie of why he kept going, of why he did the things that he does.
It was all for you.
He shifted Arabella out of your bed and into her own before stripping down into his boxers and sliding into bed beside you.
With a whine, you ended up snuggling right up to him, latching onto his bare torso.
“Alright, girl?”
Your response was a muffled nothing, something you gave him whilst being in the space between half-asleep and full unconsciousness.
He snorted, letting you curl yourself fully around him before returning the favour, making sure everything was perfect in the little space of his family before letting his eyes shut for the night.
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As promised, in the morning of your last day, you got in the car and went straight to the basket ride down the mountain.
On the way there, you, Alfie and Arabella made sure to call his mum to wish her a happy birthday. She was elated to see her son and the family he’d created, uttering an emotional ‘thank you’ before letting you go to queue up and resume filming for Chip’s channel.
You were a massive fan of Alfie’s outfit today. It was just something about your man in a crew neck jumper that really did it for you.
He had Arabella in his arms again, being cramped into a little basket next to Chip with her in his lap was rather humorous to you as you giggled before being shoved next to Greg.
“Well, this is cozy.” You commented mindlessly.
“Reader, don’t say that. You’ll make me feel like your mistress.” Greg joked as the men on the back of your basket began pushing you down it.
“Mistress?!” You guffawed, cheeks beginning to hurt from how much you’d smiled already this morning.
“I don’t know what it’s called! What’s the male version of mistress?”
“Greg.”
“Ooo, yeah, true.”
Halfway down the road, you managed to pick up quite a bit of speed, which spooked you a little and you couldn’t help but wonder how Arabella was doing ahead of you.
You couldn’t hear her crying, which was a good start.
In fact, she was having a whale of a time. She was clinging tight to her dad while giggling down his ear, enjoying the feeling of the wind in her hair.
At the bottom of the hill, you all got out and reunited.
Arabella was beaming.
Her eyes were half shut and there were tears streaming down her cheeks from the wind hitting them, but she was grinning like the Cheshire Cat nonetheless.
“Fun?” You gasped at her.
“So fun!” She giggled, dancing around your feet.
There were some pictures to collect that had been grabbed on the way down, so once those were paid for and in your possession, you moved on to finding somewhere to grab a drink.
There was a vending machine nearby, to which Chip grabbed an original, and a white Monster, whereas you grabbed a diet coke for yourself and water for Arabella.
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You ended up going for brunch in a little cafe where all the boys ended up ordering far too much for themselves, especially Chip, who was already groaning despite there being half a plate of food left for him to devour.
Arabella was shovelling porridge into her mouth, rather strategically flicking the banana slices to the side and ignoring them.
“Eat them, please.” You said, picking up on her habit.
She whined but slid it onto her spoon with her fingers anyway.
“Thank you.”
“Here.” Alfie coughed, sliding one of his sausages onto your plate.
You gave him a bamboozled look, but the way he was leaning back into his chair and groaning told you that his eyes had been bigger than his belly once more. You rolled your eyes at him but indulged in the food he’d given to you anyway, cutting it up beforehand.
It was then that you noticed Arabella shifting uncomfortably in her seat and tugging at the hem of her skirt.
“Alfie, can you take her to the toilet please?”
He sighed and stood from the table.
“Don’t huff at me.” You retorted.
“Wh— I didn’t!”
“Daddy.” Bella slid off the chair, trotting from foot to foot excessively.
“Alright, I know. Let’s go.” He guided her towards the restroom after taking the bag you’d packed in case of any emergencies or accidents.
“He listens to you so well.” Greg cackled, “Honestly, I’ve never seen a man be more obedient.”
“Good.” You shrugged, “I didn’t carry our child for nine months and tear my vagina for him to sit around and do nothing.”
“Fairs. I hear it.” Chip nodded, reluctantly taking a bite of toast as to not waste so much food.
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The CR7 was not your first choice of afternoon activity, and it wasn’t entertaining to you or Arabella in the slightest, however, you did have a very amusing time taking the piss out of all the statues for looking nothing like Ronaldo in the slightest.
It was funny how an entire building dedicated to one person could get so many things about his facial symmetry and harmony wrong.
The only thing that did seem to catch your daughter's attention, was the massive statue of Ronaldo made from chocolate.
“Look at that Bells, all chocolate.” Alfie hummed.
“Yummy.”
“Yeah, but you can’t eat it.”
“Otay. No hungry.” She turned her back on both Alfie and the statue.
“Okay, you’re not hungry anyway, that’s good.” He chuckled as Greg keeled over, watching the two year old walk away from her dad like he meant nothing to her.
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Going back to the house and mucking about by the pool might’ve been the highlight of your trip. Just you, your daughter, your boyfriend, and his mates splashing about and cracking jokes left right and centre.
“Alfie!” You screamed as he jumped in right next to you, sending a tidal wave your way.
Greg, for some reason, had brought all the hats he’d acquired down, and was swapping between wearing them all in the pool.
Arabella was sitting on the side, her little legs dangling into the water, feet swaying back and forth as she watched you with a smile.
Chip was reclined back on a sun bed, still wearing his entire outfit (shoes included) and blowing into the air holes of her armbands, filling them up so she could put them on and go for a swim.
“Arab, here!” He exclaimed once they were done.
She toddled over to him, cautious of the wet decking around her and let him slide the rings onto her arm.
And then she was in; swimming around her dad, clambering up his torso and splashing you.
“Under!” She begged.
“No, you can’t. It’s not safe.” Alfie shook his head.
With a huff, she turned her back on her dad in the water, but still let him hold onto her.
“Hold onto my arm, here.” He patted his forearm.
Once she was latched on, he held his arm out and spun around, making her squeal in joy at the water coating her face.
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The time spent by the pool was brief, because Chip had other plans of going to see a statue designated to Jesus.
The skies had cleared up by the time you reached the monument, and a few jokes about God being the reason why were passed between your group.
You’d wrapped your hand around the meat of Alfie’s bicep, vlogging for him as he held Arabella in his other arm. Her legs were far too tired from all the kicking and swimming, and she was adamant about being carried for the rest of the day.
If anything, this trip had taught you that maybe paying the extra fee on a plane for a pushchair is worth it, and you’ll definitely be doing so next time you go away, because although Alfie had no issues hauling his daughter around all day, it did feel a little unfair to you that he didn’t have full mobility.
Unfortunately, all the boys were still super gassy, and Chip began chuckling loudly after an audible fart.
“You can’t fart on Jesus, bro.” Greg groaned.
“Wait, did you just emote on him?” Alfie chuckled, “Ah, so much of this is gonna be a toss up of who—“ He waved his hands up and down in a motion that had Arabella giggling, “Oh yeah, six sevennn.”
She cackled loudly, repeating the action.
“Your baby’s brainrotted, bro. Two years old and doing 67. Cooked.” Chip tutted, shaking his head.
You spent a few minutes taking photos, laughing as Chip did some rather questionable poses while Greg held his phone.
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The wind was mental, and you weren’t even properly on the coast.
You were stood on a hilly section as Chip and Frampton went back and forth about which Star Wars scene was filmed here, and whether it was actually here, or on a separate island just off the coast.
“Mummy, cold.” Arabella tugged on the sleeve of your shirt.
“I know, it is chilly, isn’t it?”
One look at Alfie and he was making a trip to the car and back, returning with a little blue GAP hoodie, zipping it up at her front so she was warm enough to still stand there as Chip got some content for his video.
You did end up making your way further to the edge of the hill, so much so that you could taste the salt in the air from the ocean.
Greg had snuck Arabella the KitKat he’d bought her yesterday, and she was currently sitting amongst the grass, breaking it up herself and making her way through it.
“Bella, wanna get a picture with mummy?” You cooed, sitting next to her and pulling out your phone.
She grinned at the camera as you snapped a few photos before putting it away and staying in your position on the grass, enjoying the view from the floor. It was also good to rest your feet for a little while.
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For dinner, everyone had relied on Alfie finding a good spot, and judging by the looks of things on the menus, he hadn’t done too bad. There were some good pasta options for Arabella and yourself, and the boys were most definitely eyeing up all the meaty options.
Frampton ordered a pizza, Chip a chicken parm, Greg some bolognese (matching with Arabella) and Alfie was sharing a large pizza with you.
The food was very good, and you were very pleased with Alfie’s decision.
Despite having a good meal, once you were all back at the house, your boyfriend was stuffing his face with dry cereal on a sun lounger hole while Greg splashed about in the pool again.
“Despite not doing much stuff, and it’s all been a little bit weird, I’ve had the best time of my life.” He said, leaning on the decking to talk.
“Well, ladies and gentlemen, on that note, we say goodbye to Madeira, and we say goodbye to you.” Chip spoke to the camera.
“Bye!” Arabella yelled obnoxiously while throwing one of her barbie dolls in pool.
“Yeah, she’s far too hyper, I’m not happy.” Alfie shook his head, watching his daughter mess about.
“It’s gonna be awful putting her to bed.” You commented.
“Oh, don’t even!” He groaned, throwing his head back, “Bells, do you wanna just go to bed now?” He tried, despite knowing it wouldn’t even remotely work.
“No!”
“Okay, over and out!” Chip exclaimed, smothering the camera with his mouth.
omg have u seen that trend where the girlfriend/wife starts recording in the bathroom being like “i was thinking of putting a photo here” and stuff like that while the boyfriend/husband is like taking a shit. it’s the funniest thing ever and i need a drabble of ab and his mrs doing it 😭
-🪩
🪩, this is so funny!
he’s defo caught so off guard and immediately puts his phone down and covers his dick
‘what you doin’, girl?’
‘… filming for sabina? i was showing her my plans for the bathroom!’
‘it couldn’t wait ‘til i’ve finished my shit, or what?’
‘stop being dramatic, she doesn’t care.’
‘i do! i wanna shit and doomscroll in peace, get the fuck out you weirdo.’
she’s just cackling as she leaves, finding his reaction absolutely hilarious
summary: alfie helps you throughout pregnancy, no matter the obstacle
content: dad!ab , angst w/ comfort , contemplations of abortion , poor mental health , pregnancy , physical insecurities
notes: another dad!ab repost !!! this one talks about the difficulties within pregnancy, and i feel like in fiction its always pretty smooth so i wanted to delve into the negative effects pregnancy can have on women within this
wc: 1,817
GOING TO THE doctors and having them confirm the pregnancy was one less weight off of your shoulders. You no longer had to worry about whether or not you were actually pregnant, you no longer had to worry about whether or not the tests were faulty, and you no longer had to worry about being unhealthy. The doctor had cleared everything over, telling you you were in good shape and everything was progressing as it should. The first few months were easy, besides the morning sickness and constant mood swings.
But that was then, and now you were in your second trimester.
You now looked pregnant, and most definitely felt it. You swore you'd never had such an appetite before. You were waking up in the middle of the night, sweating from being so warm, and begging Alfie to go and buy you whatever you were craving.
And he did. Now without complaint. At first he was hesitant, asking you if you genuinely needed a microwaveable mac n cheese at two in the morning, but then he saw the tears blossoming in your eyes and he got up, kissed your forehead and then returned within thirty minutes with your requested meal in his hands.
Some days were really good, where the only downside was the back pain, and you would even feel the baby kick when it wanted. The first time that happened, you were on the toilet and you screamed. Alfie came rushing into the bathroom, pure panic written on his face. When you told him you felt the baby kick with watering eyes, he let out the deepest sigh of relief known to man and dropped to his knees before you, putting his hand where you gestured to.
the bad days ༊*·˚
However, with good days, came bad days, and they really seemed to be getting the best of you. Sometimes, you'd just lie in bed for hours on end, only getting up to go to the toilet.
Other times, you'd break down in his arms first thing in the morning, stressing over every little possibility that could happen.
"What if this was a mistake?" You croaked into the darkness of your shared bedroom one night.
You were on one side of the bed, Alfie on the other, giving you the space you needed and wanted. You heard the bedsheets shuffling as he rolled over, barely making out your features through the thin slip of moonlight peaking through the curtains.
"Do you regret keeping it?" He asked.
"... I don't know." You sniffled, feeling like a horrible person for even contemplating the possibility of if you hadn't agreed to keep it.
"C'mere." He sighed, opening his arms.
You shuffled into them, burying your face into his chest and letting your tears roll down your screwed up face and soak into his skin.
He held you every time without hesitation, cradling you to his chest and not saying anything. Just letting you get it out of your system. He knew these weren't mood swings anymore.
Those passed along with the first trimester. These were your genuine emotions shining through and breaking you down.
You would cover your head and face with your arms, as if you were trying to block out the rest of the world and hide within yourself, but he pulled you out each time.
"I don't wanna die!" You'd wail loudly, and he'd double his strength around you while being wary of the baby.
"You won't, angel. You'll be okay. I promise you. It'll all be okay." Alfie would reassure you.
Every. Single. Time.
"I feel ugly."
"You're beautiful."
"I've put on so much weight."
"You're bringing life into this world. I don't care. You're carrying our baby. Your body is doing mental things right now."
"What if something bad happens?"
"Then we'll deal with it, if it happens."
"Please don't leave me."
"Reader, I will never, ever leave you. Not right now, not when our baby's born, not when our baby's a snotty little toddler that cries every night because they can't have cuddles. I will be here every step of the way."
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Alfie had put off a lot of things for you. But he didn't blame you for them, not one bit. He'd been invited to two brand trips with YoungLA, and had turned them both down. He was fully willing to go, but when he saw your crushed expression when he'd told you, he knew he couldn't leave you at home on your own.
He'd also had a lot of phone calls with his mum, mainly asking what the fuck he's supposed to do in certain situations and how to deal with this, that and the other. On the days when your back was killing and you couldn't be bothered to cook, you two would go and have dinner with his mum.
She was incredibly supportive, always greeting you with a great big smile and a hug. She knew what it was like, after all.
"You ever need a day away from him, you let me know." She would say at dinner, patting your knee.
Alfie didn't vlog much during your pregnancy, too afraid that he would start on a good day which would traipse into a bad day. He didn't want to subject you to any unwanted media attention while you were so vulnerable, so if he did vlog, it was only the parts where he was out on his own (not very much) or where you were actually playing an active roll in the clip and not being some sort of ghost figure in the background, walking around the grotto in one of his shirts.
The good days were the best days. You would prance around the kitchen, blasting music on the Alexa, looking simultaneously cute and sexy in just his shirt and some plain knickers. He would have some tv show that you were rewatching on in the background while you baked whatever you felt like doing.
the gender reveal ༊*·˚
You even baked your own gender reveal cupcakes, but had his mum fill them with the colour icing corresponding to the gender of the baby. The gender reveal was quiet and small, including a handful of your friends from college, a handful of his friends from sixth form, and family members you felt particularly comforted by and close to.
You'd always wanted a big, extravagant gender reveal party, but considering the emotional state you'd been in so far, you didn't want to risk embarrassing yourself in front of a group of people.
Thankfully the day went smoothly, and you burst into tears at the sight of pink sprinkles on the middle of the vanilla cupcake.
He hugged you tightly, lifting you into his arms as you latched your legs around his waist.
night time ༊*·˚
Going to bed had become increasingly more difficult. You would weak up in hot sweats in the middle of the night, your body overheating and overworking to maintain the healthiness of your baby.
Alfie would try to cuddle you in an attempt to provide comfort and a sense of homeliness, but you would always end up pushing him off, hating the feeling of being touched in your warm state. But sometimes all you needed was his embrace.
There were times when you would lay on his chest, letting him doodle with his finger along the expanse of your back, having you guess whatever he was drawing. Other times you would lie on your back, trying to relieve your spine of any pressure, and he would rest a hand on your bump, gently caressing it.
He kept the windows open, bought a fan and even changed the bedsheets into thinner ones for you.
If you needed anything in the middle of the night, he wouldn't hesitate to grab it for you. Whether it was food, a drink or if the fan needed the settings increased. He did it all.
preparing for the baby ༊*·˚
He'd bought all the furniture needed. A crib, a changing station, a new wardrobe and chest of draws, and even a plush rocking chair for you to sit in in the case of late-night feeds. He turned that day into a vlog as you'd walked into the living room with a pep in your step and declared that nothing would ruin your mood.
You'd sat with him whilst he built it all, complaining to the camera about how complicated this all was for no reason. You laughed at him, handing him certain nuts and bolts when he asked for them or the parts of the furniture.
The clothes were all down to you. He took you out, card at the ready while you went through the aisles of the store, getting borderline emotional at the thought of your baby girl in all these dainty little clothes.
"Get her a nike tech. Have her rocking up to the function like one of the mandem." Alfie suggested jokingly, camera on you
as your eyes scanned the articles.
You glared at him over your shoulder, "No, Alfie. She's gonna be a dainty little princess, not 'one of the mandem'."'
"Ey, you never know, girl. She might grow up and think 'fuck the pink, I wanna rock black and grey’!"
"Then she can do that when she's old enough, but for now—“
Oh my God, look at these little shoes!" You exclaimed, picking them up.
Alfie gave a deadpanned look to the camera before switching it back to you, filming your awed expression as you held the shoes up, showing the viewers.
The toys you started buying after the baby shower, not wanting to buy doubles of anything. You refused to buy anything that she might accidentally swallow or consume. He once held up a dainty kitchen set with miniature wooden food.
You snatched it off of him and put it back.
"It's literally got a choking hazard sticker on it." You shook your head, tutting.
"I'll show you a choking hazard in a minute, girl." Alfie smirked, grabbing your waist.
You slapped his stomach lightly, "Don't be dirty in public."
He moved his streaming set up to the dining room so the office could be the nursery. He let you decorate the room however you wanted, standing around in case you needed help. You adjusted everything so it was perfect, laying a heart shaped rug in the middle of the room and tucked the drawer and changing table under the slanted roof. The crib went where Alfie's desk was previously, slotting in perfectly.
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Your good days majorly outweighed the bad, giving you a nice boost in morale. Without Alfie, you really wouldn't have been able to do it. You would've given up and ended up rotting in your bed and not looking after yourself.
hi i was wondering if you could maybe write a fic of reader and arabella surprising dad!ab in the us having not seen him since he left xx
hi angel! tysm for the request! i did it as a drabble below xx
content: established relationship , dad!ab , swearing , one sexual innuendo , pda , kissing
you’d been having a little girls trip away in greece with arabella for a week now, and you were running out of photos to send alfie, pretending like you were still there.
what he was completely oblivious to, was the fact you’d gotten a flight for italy, over to miami to join him and the fellas in time for chip and lewis’ birthday celebrations, followed by the remaining world cup games.
you could see the fellas filming on the yacht. alfie’s back stood out most to you, his moles on show that you knew belonged to him from a mile off.
as much as you wanted to be super nonchalant and go up to him and start talking to him like you hadn’t been apart for coming up to four weeks, you knew that was virtually impossible to do with arabella. the girl was anything but nonchalant when it came to her dad.
you would give it your best shot anyway.
approaching the docking station, you called out to him.
“alfie?! hold bella for me so i can get on, please.”
casually, he did it. like there was nothing astray. but once his daughter was in his arms, clinging to him, it clocked.
“what the fuck?!” he exclaimed, holding her even tighter as you laughed heartily.
he helped you onto the boat before adding you to the embrace, having your daughter sandwiched between the two of you.
“when did you get here?!”
“this morning.” you grinned, “dropped our stuff off at the hotel, got ready,” you gestured to your baby blue triangle bikini and arabella’s rainbow swimming costume, “and then came here.”
“arghhh what the fuckkk.” he groaned, squeezing your shoulder before turning to arabella, “y’alright, bells?”
“missed you daddy.” she sniffled, trying to stretch her arms around his neck.
“oh, i missed you too, darlin’.” he pressed a handful of kisses to her cheek over and over again until she was squealing and squirming.
the tears on her cheeks were ones of joy at finally being in her dads presence after all that time.
“bella, tell daddy about how brave you were on holiday!” you whispered.
“and you pet some cats? very nice. at the hotel? or in the streets?”
“both.” you explained, “one of the ones at the hotel loved her, like constantly meowing and walking around her.”
alfie watched you talk with nothing but admiration in his eyes.
he didn’t think he’d have been so affected by being away from his family for a period that wasn’t that long, but clearly he was.
“thank fuck you’re here, genuinely, i’ve been missing you like crazy. those nightly calls weren’t enough.”
“no need for nightly calls now. we’re here for the rest of the trip.”
he squealed like a giddy little girl, thrusting you up into his other arm and spinning you both around on the spot.
you shrieked, fearful that his arm around the bottom of your ass was going to slip and he was going to drop you. you should’ve known better, your man was strong enough to hold up both you and arabella. especially considering he did it while you were heavily pregnant multiple times.
“did you lot know about this?” alfie asked the boys.
“nah, production did but we didn’t.” cal shook his head, giving you a hug in greeting before waving to arabella.
“knew my birthday was missing someone!” chip took arabella off of alfie very enthusiastically, “nice to see you reader. come, arab, let’s get you on the bevs.”
“cheers chip, nice to see you too.” you scoffed at the way he addressed you so casually.
“hap birday, ip.”
“thank you so much!” he gasped at her, taking her to the front of the boat.
“at least she’s out of my hands for a bit.” you sighed, turning to alfie.
his hands came around your waist, resting on your bottom as he pecked your lips, once, twice, and then a final third time.
“missed you so much, angel.” he muttered against your mouth.
“missed you more. you’re not allowed to go away for that long ever again.”
it was a partial joke. you weren’t about to control every little thing of alfie’s life, but having to look after arabella on your own and in a different country had been considerably more difficult than it would’ve been had alfie been by your side.
“don’t want to. you have no idea how much i thought about you.”
“all day every day, i hope.” you chimed.
“all night.” he added with a smirk.
you scoffed, slapping his bicep before leaning into his touch completely.
those were the types of moments and comments you’d missed this past month.
content: social media au , secret relationship becomes revealed , fluff
notes: this is a repost from my old account !!! i really miss writing for clarkey :(
wc: 940
taliamar posted a story !
‘ loving these from nailaccount 🖤thank you doll xx ‘
twitter💬.
userone omg talias nails were gorg
usertwo all the uk yters follow nailaccount on her personal account too🤔🤔
userthree HELP WHY DOES GEORGE FOLLOW HER☠️
— userfour and arthur too
— userfive they wanna feel girly pop
usersix her second post has a mirror pic w a guy on the third slide and it looks like the back of george’s head lol
livvydimartino posted a story !
‘ beauties ready for greece😍 nailaccount love you xx ‘
twitter💬.
userone omg liv too
usertwo that account is so talented wtf
userthree does she only do influencers?
— userfour no she does everyone! my sister went a couple weeks ago, really affordable too xx
userfive she’ll go famous now lol
nailaccount
liked by georgeclarkeey nellarose glambyflo and 43k more
new set up!! you guys have been keeping me so booked, love you all xx
comments:
glambyflo UGH the heart dish🥹🥹
— nailaccount i know!!!
nellarose can’t wait to see you gorg xx
— nailaccount you always challenge me, love ya x
georgeclarkeey benjamin i see you in the back x
— nailaccount the salon is my second home, i see him more here than i would at the apartment x
userone how do i book😫😫
— nailaccount link in my bio or u can dm me bby x
usertwo is it safe to have candles by your set up? also hygiene with the food?
— nailaccount i clean my surfaces before every slot & the candles are only for those who ask in case of allergies etc.
userthree george’s comment??? benjamin is the teddy bear???
livvydimartino always my fav visit x
— nailaccount love you liv! xx
userfour stop she’s so aesthetic im jel
— nailaccount 💞💞
userfive her designs r the cutest wtf
nellarose posted a story !
‘nobody does it like my baby girl nailaccount😫😫💞💞 ‘
nailaccount
liked by max_balegde faithlouisak arthurtv and 145k more
some recent nails!! i cant even begin to express my gratitude recently, you guys are so lovely and fantastic for keeping me fully booked all the time! i’m so sorry to those who try and get booked but can’t find any free slots, i’m so busy at the moment xx
sabinablair_ the cutest nails ever! thank you reader🤍
— nailaccount ❤️❤️❤️
faithlouisak gurlll i’m booking me in asap these are insane xx
— nailaccount don’t forget olive when she’s old enough xx
— behzingagram sorry, who’s paying for this?
— faithlouisak you x
georgeclarkeey never met a girl that apologises for her success
— nailaccount you LOVE this girl that apologises for her success
— georgeclarkeey just a smidge x
userone GUYS??? THEYRE DATING???
usertwo HIS COMMENT?? LOVE?? HOW LONG HAS THIS BEEN A THING
userthree guys they’ve been dating for years, look at her personal account she posted a pic with him two years ago
yourusername
liked by georgeclarkeey theburntchip livvydimartino and 96k more
life recently x
tagged: georgeclarkeey
comments:
georgeclarkeey god that guy on the first slide has gorgeous eyes😍😍😍
— yourusername what about the girl :((
— georgeclarkeey meh
— yourusername this is why liv is better than you
— livvydimartino 😘😘😘
theburntchip give me back my man!!!!
— yourusername no stinkurrr
— calfreezy ???
alfiebuttle nature gyal and that
— yourusername ofc twin
userone STOP THEYRE ADORABLE
usertwo idk who i’m more jealous of
userthree the hardest soft launch ever
— userfour not really cuz they’ve been together for years we just never knew lmfao
— userfive i fear that’s exactly what a soft/hard launch is
usersix she’s gorgeous🥹🥹
userseven not him making us think he’s some weirdo loser with no rizz
— yourusername don’t be fooled. he is a weirdo loser with no rizz
— georgeclarkeey 😐😐
glambyflo the prettiest !!!
georgeclarkeey
liked by yourusername italianbach chridmd10 and 101k more
call me a soccer mom the way i’m so proud rn
i am genuinely so proud of you, reader, you’ve come so far especially these past six months it’s unbelievable. you’ve gone from working a couple of hours a few days a week to being fully booked 24/7, i don’t know how you do it. watching you grow these past four years has been amazing, keep being you, you’re doing it well. love you darling x
tagged: yourusername
comments:
yourusername i love you georgie🥲❤️
— georgeclarkeey ❤️❤️
yourusername ‘no george, you and max can’t bring evie to the salon’ then you get slide three when they shows up randomly.
— max_balegde you loved it xx
— yourusername cheap entertainment x
italianbach she’s doing my nails next xxx
— livvydimartino what is this
— yourusername only if you pay double
— italianbach why :(
— yourusername man x
chrismd10 i visibly recoiled at the caption
— georgeclarkeey fuck off then
— chrismd10 ‘call me a soccer mom the way i’m so proud rn’ she’s not your child you freak
— georgeclarkeey god forbid a man is supportive of his girlfriend
— arthurnfhill oh my god you’re using her phrases now too.
— yourusername call me a soccer mom the way i’m so proud rn xx
arthurtv cat mom and dog dad!!
— italianbach eugh…
— chrismd10 cheers pal
— theburntchip cringe
— calfreezy what a stinker
— arthurtv k i’ll die then
— yourusername we love u arthur!!
userone the hard launch we’ve all been waiting for
usertwo why r they low-key the cutest
userthree i want what they have
userfour TWO YEARS???
— userfive tbf george has always been a private guy
When you arrive at the police station to defend a client's innocence, you don't expect the man accusing her to be the same man you've been dating for months.
୨ৎ ──── fluff. 1,6k. lawyer!reader. secret relationship. english isn't my first language. main masterlist.
It wasn't that you were annoying, particularly aggressive, or obsessed with being right, you just did your job to the best of your ability. Even if that meant being the villain of other people's stories and mentally going over every law to make sure it was obeyed.
The issue was that not everyone saw it the same way. In the workplace, where you managed, your exact memorization of the rules wasn't always appreciated if you were the one carrying the defense and doing everything to overthrow the other side's theories. For the same reason, you usually had to argue with cops, prosecutors, judges, and, on this occasion, even an FBI agent who wasn't happy with your presence.
You had in your hands an alleged confession of several murders delivered by your client under the coercion of the man who was interrogating her, without your presence there and with some pretty questionable methods to put her in an empty room without concrete evidence or an order from the judge. Unbelievably, it was a fairly common occurrence in your day-to-day work.
At least it was until the boss of the agent you were arguing with showed up and everything started to get complicated.
“What's going on here?”
The cross words and your intensity in emphasizing the injustice of the manipulation of the confession did not allow you to realize that there was someone else in the room. Much less that it was someone who looked exclusively at you until one of the police officers present cleared his throat.
“There has been a violation of the law.” You slowly turned to look behind you, and that's when you saw him.
Aaron stood stiffly, trying to look professional and serious, wearing a tie that matched your dress.
“There wasn't one, Hotch. We just got the confession.” Agent Morgan interjected into the silence provoked by the exchange of glances between you and his supervisor.
For the first time in the half hour you'd been there, you were completely silent. Even when two more agents showed up to try to defuse the situation, you didn't stop repeating the same arguments and insisting on your point. Now, however, you seemed to have lost the ability to speak.
There was a long pause before Aaron spoke carefully. “I'll take care of clarifying the situation.”
Trying to remain serious and stoic, he led you to one of the station's offices with the excuse that he wanted to talk about the case quietly so as not to attract the attention of his team. The strange thing was that he called you by name in front of everyone, without anyone having introduced you before. Maybe one of you two would have noticed if you had been a little less attentive to the other and more attentive to how the situation looked in the other's eyes.
“What are you doing here?” He asked as soon as he closed the door behind you, loosening the tension in his jaw a little, at least now it was just the two of you.
“Where's my 'Good to see you, sweetie. Please don't sue us' or anything like that?”
He raised an eyebrow at your comment, hoping you would take it seriously. Automatically and unconsciously, he had begun to move away from you and sat down on the other side of the desk, marking a distance between the two of you. Aaron had brought out his work side and you had hidden it at the mere sight of him.
“The woman your team pressured into confessing to a crime is my client.” You finally spoke in a serious tone, staring at him with some surprise. This wasn't the usual dynamic with him, you usually had a more relaxed side to him.
“Since when do you take cases like this?”
“Since it's been assigned to me.” You said, raising your shoulders. “One of the buffet partners is on vacation and left me to his clients, as I mentioned the other night.”
The other night when you were in his car, when he had his hand on your thigh as he drove home, when he smiled at you every chance he got to turn around and look at you. When the two of you weren't on completely different sidewalks and weren't supposed to act like strangers.
“This is pretty weird.” You said after watching him for a few seconds and noticing that he seemed lost in his memories. “I hope the agent I was arguing with isn't your friend. That would be awkward.”
Aaron looked at you, trying to figure out what could have happened before he showed up. He already knew you were a good lawyer, very capable and, above all, a good striker. It was too weird for him to think that you had been using your skills against his own team, against the friends he once wanted to introduce you to and that you had now met for the first time in the most unimaginable way.
“What?” You asked.
“Nothing.”
“You look at me like I'm a ghost.”
His brow furrowed again.
He didn't want to say out loud that everything related to his work had ended badly and was completely destroyed, just like his ex-marriage and any attempt to fix it. He had always felt comfortable with you because your work was just as demanding but less dangerous than his. You usually handled family cases, divorces, estates, and coordinating child care. You were away from the blood, the killers, and all the atrocities he lived with.
“I'm worried about you being in the middle of this. It can be dangerous.” He showed his concern for you and had to hold back from holding your hand.
“You should worry more about the lawsuit.” You pointed out in a tone somewhere between teasing and serious. You didn't like him worrying too much. “I'm very good.”
“This is serious.” He finally let his guard down and placed his hand on your knee from under the table, giving it a gentle touch.
That was the man you know and love.
“Me too, it's my job.”
“And you're making my job harder.” He pointed out with a small smile in response to yours.
What were the chances of your love life and work life crossing paths like this? You thought they were pretty slim, which is why you steered clear of talking about work when you were together.
You were just about to answer when you heard a tap on the door and one of the agents who had been watching you during your discussion came over to give Aaron some information about the profile. You couldn't understand him very well because he seemed to be speaking in code because of your presence.
“I'll be there in a moment, Rossi. Get the team together and we'll talk.” Hotchner finished earnestly. You could still feel the warmth of his touch on your knee. “I'm just finishing up here.”
As soon as he left the office, you looked at Aaron with surprise.
“Is he who you always mention?” You asked, and he nodded. “I thought it was 'Rosie,' not 'Rossi,' and that he was a woman.”
“Now I understand why you grimace when I mention his name.” He replied with some amusement. “You were jealous.”
Yes, especially when you found out that they'd shared a room once.
“Don't mock me, I'm about to sue you.” You advertiste in a fake threatening tone, pointing a finger at him. “And I don't care how handsome you look right now, I'll do my job.”
“Me too.” He replied, trying to ignore your compliment to keep a serious expression on his face. “And you look pretty too, I like that dress.”
The love between you seemed to be bubbling anyway, and it was impossible to hide it when you had breakfast together just a few hours ago. You went from making him coffee to offering him a lawsuit if he didn't agree with you.
“I know, I'll use this dress while I debunk your profile theory.” You got up from your seat suddenly after taking your phone out of your bag. It was then that you looked him in the eye. “Are you going to release my client now or should I call the judge?”
“You're not going to take a suspect in five murders. I'm not going to let her off the hook.” He copied your action.
“Give me the evidence then, love.”
Oh, to call him that at that point was a cheap shot, especially when you were the one who won because he had no concrete evidence, only theories and his complex profile.
“But stay away from her anyway, she can be dangerous. My agents will keep an eye on her.” He snorted after a few seconds, trying to find an argument, but failing.
At that moment, you gave him a little smile, proud of yourself and what you had accomplished. “See you at dinner?”
“Sure.” He replied without being able to help but give you a small smile in return. “But I'll pick the place.”
“Well, that's an argument I'll let you win.” You put your phone back in your bag and took a couple of steps towards the door, stopping when you saw him coming after you. “Can I kiss my opponent?”
“This is pretty unprofessional.” He said, putting a hand on your waist and leaning you against the door. Without hesitation, he kissed you firmly on the lips.
After a few minutes, the two of you walked out of the office as if nothing had happened, and the professional scene continued. Your heels clicked towards the exit with your client at your side, while Aaron met with his team, trying to find new ways to solve the case and refine the profile. The only problem was that he happened to be working with people who were very detail-oriented.
And, gosh, it was impossible not to notice the traces of your lipstick on his lips.
Tension eased as you finally saw Spencer safe and sound, but the weight of everything left unsaid still hung heavily between you, there was so much more to discuss.
୨ৎ ──── angst. 1,7k. pregnant!reader. s4 e24 ("amplification"). english isn't my first language. main masterlist. part one.
The hospital was far too bright for this time of night.
You stepped inside, and the fluorescent lights overhead felt like an assault on your already overwhelmed senses. The antiseptic scent of disinfectant, too sterile and sharp, burned the inside of your nose. Your fingers gripped your belly as though you could steady your heart through it, feel her little fluttering kicks, and ground yourself in the fact that she was still safe, still here. Unlike him.
Penelope’s voice still echoed in your ears.
“He collapsed. In the lab. He—he was exposed to anthrax, but…but they found him in time, sweetheart. He’s stable. They got to him, don’t worry.”
You wanted to scream. Or cry. Or both. Instead, you ran.
Your name had barely finished leaving your lips at the front desk before you were directed to the ICU. Room 507. You repeated it under your breath like a mantra, one hand clutched over your heart.
Please be okay. Please be okay. Please—
When you reached the door, your fingers trembled on the handle. For one wild second, you didn’t want to open it. You weren’t ready to see what might be inside. But you owed it to him. You owed it to the man who had called you just to say goodbye and left behind a box full of his love in carefully written letters.
You pushed open the door.
And there he was.
Spencer. Your Spencer.
Pale as paper, sunken into starched white sheets, surrounded by beeping monitors and softly glowing machines. His curls were damp, stuck to his forehead. A clear nasal cannula looped gently over his ears, and his chest rose and fell—slowly, but steadily—under the pale blue hospital blanket.
You barely made it two steps before your knees weakened, and you grabbed the side of the bed as though anchoring yourself to him could stop the flood in your chest.
He’s here. He’s breathing. He came back to us.
You sank into the chair beside his hospital bed and gently brushed your fingertips along the back of his hand. His skin was cool, not cold, but not warm the way it usually was when he held you. You cupped his hand in both of yours, rubbing slow, soothing circles with your thumb, as if you could will your warmth into him, coax him back to you with touch alone. That’s when you noticed it, still wrapped snug around his wrist, just beneath the IV tape. The bracelet you had made for him at the baby shower. The one with the soft gray thread and the three little star charms, one smaller than the others. Your breath caught. He’d worn it every day since, without fail. A quiet promise in silver: you, him, and the tiny star still growing inside you.
“I told you not to scare me,” you whispered, brushing your fingertips over his.
No answer.
So you sat down.
And you waited.
You held his hand the way he liked it, your thumb tracing slow, familiar circles into his knuckles like a lullaby only the two of you knew. You rested your head near his hip, your cheek barely touching the edge of the blanket, and whispered soft, silly things to the quiet rise and fall of his chest. You told him how she’d kicked all day, as if she knew something was wrong, and how you tried to read one of his letters out loud, but your voice kept breaking every few lines. You told him how Garcia had cried when she called, her voice trembling through the phone, and how she stuffed your bag with so much of your favorite candy that the zipper nearly broke. How JJ had hugged you the second you walked through the doors, her arms strong and steady as she whispered again and again that everything would be okay. How Morgan had paced the hallway like a storm about to break, so restless the nurses nearly kicked him out twice. You told him everything—because if he could hear you, if his heart could feel even a fraction of your words—you wanted it filled with love, with family, with every reason to stay.
And then, just before dawn—
He stirred.
It started as the tiniest twitch of his fingers beneath yours. Then a slow furrow of his brows. A groggy sound escaped his throat.
You sat up so quickly that the water cup teetered dangerously on the bedside table, nearly spilling.
“Spencer?” Your voice trembled, caught between hope and fear, fragile as glass.
His lashes fluttered like a fragile curtain stirring in a soft breeze. Then his eyes slowly opened—brown, glassy, and confused—but unmistakably there.
He blinked once. Then again.
Your breath hitched, your chest tightening until he met your gaze.
A shaky smile lifted your lips, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. “Hey.”
For a long, fragile moment, he stared at you as if trying to convince himself you were real. Then his cracked lips parted, and he rasped,
“…you’re here.”
It was the first and only thing that mattered to him.
“Of course I’m here.” Your thumb gently traced soft circles over the back of his hand. “You really thought I’d leave you alone? You’ve still got daddy duties to attend to.”
He let out a weak, rasping laugh that quickly caught in his throat and turned into a coughing fit. You reached for the water, your touch light and tender as you helped him sip slowly, careful not to overwhelm him.
“You scared the hell out of me, Spencer Reid.”
His lips parted in a faint, apologetic smile, the corners trembling. “I scared myself,” he admitted, voice rough and quiet. “But…you sounded so calm. On the phone.”
“I wasn’t.” You gently guided his hand back to your belly, settling it just where she liked to press her heels. Your voice softened. “I just didn’t want her to feel how terrified I was.”
As if on cue, she kicked.
Right under his palm.
His breath caught audibly, the sharp inhale almost too big for his still-recovering lungs. His fingers twitched instinctively, curling with wonder. His eyes dropped to your bump, wide and glassy, like he’d just felt proof of a miracle.
“She kicked…”
“She heard your voice,” you whispered, watching the awe bloom across his face. “And she’s been kicking all night. I think she missed you more than I did.”
“That’s not possible,” he murmured, his lips curving faintly despite how bone-tired he looked. “No one could miss me more than you do.”
You leaned in, brushing your lips across his forehead in a featherlight kiss, letting it linger there longer than usual.
“She read your letters,” you whispered against his skin.
His eyes fluttered closed like your touch was the only thing anchoring him. “You found the box?”
You nodded, tears catching in your lashes. “Oh, my love…they’re perfect. She’s going to grow up knowing exactly how much you love her. How much you love us.”
A tear traced a slow path down his temple and into the pillow, unnoticed by him, but not by you.
You reached up and wiped it away with the softest part of your thumb, your breath catching as he looked at you like he had something else to say, something more, but couldn’t quite find the strength.
“I wanted her to have them…just in case I—” His voice cracked mid-sentence, and he stopped, swallowing hard. His eyes drifted toward the ceiling like he could will the emotion back into place. “I wrote one for her first birthday. And one for when she learns to read. There’s even one for her first heartbreak.” A soft breath trembled from his chest. “I didn’t want her to go through anything without hearing from me.”
The ache that bloomed in your chest was sharp, deep, and so full of love it nearly knocked the air out of you. You looked at him, not just as the man you loved, but as someone who had poured every fiber of his soul into being the kind of father he never had.
“You’re going to read those to her yourself, Spencer,” you said, your voice quiet but steady, threading your fingers through his.
He gave you a small, crooked smile, the kind he used when he didn’t quite believe something but desperately wanted to.
“You think I’ll make it to the first heartbreak?”
You shook your head, eyes shimmering. “You’re going to make it to every heartbreak. And every ballet recital. And graduation. And…and tea parties. If she’s into that.” You smiled, pressing his hand gently back to your stomach. “And I’ll be right there with you. Watching you cry when she wears a little cardigan for the first time.”
He laughed, a hoarse, broken sound that somehow still managed to be the most beautiful thing you’d heard in days. The sound cracked open something soft between you both.
“You think she’ll wear cardigans?”
“She will wear cardigans,” you said with certainty. “You wore sweater vests. It’s genetically inevitable.”
He shook his head with a soft chuckle, then looked at you again, really looked at you, like he was trying to memorize your face for the thousandth time. His gaze was glassy, lashes damp with exhaustion and emotion, but the love behind it was steady and real.
“I want to marry you.”
The words weren’t loud. They didn’t come with fanfare or flourish. Just a whisper, full of quiet conviction. A secret handed to you like something sacred.
Your breath hitched, heart fluttering in your chest. “You’re not allowed to propose with an IV in your arm,” you whispered, smiling through the emotion caught in your throat.
“It’s not a proposal,” he said, shaking his head slowly, carefully. “Just a fact.”
You leaned in and kissed his cheek, warm and lingering, right where a tear had left its trail. “Well…fact or not…” You guided his hand back to your belly, where your daughter gave the softest kick beneath his palm. “Your girls are waiting for you to come home.”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.
The tears in his eyes said enough. So did the way he held your gaze. And the way his fingers instinctively curled around the shape of your bump, as if anchoring himself there: in love, in family, in hope.
And in the hush of that hospital room, surrounded by machines and fatigue and every ounce of unspoken fear, you held the man you loved. The father of your child. The one who had written her letters for a lifetime, just in case.
The situation is complicated when Spencer is trapped in a lab with anthrax and worried about communicating with you and his future child one last time.
୨ৎ ──── angst. 2,4k. pregnant!reader. s4 e24 ("amplification"). english isn't my first language. main masterlist. part two.
Your phone rang somewhere in the room, but you had no idea where. In the distance, you could hear the classical symphony by Johannes Brahms that your boyfriend had chosen especially for you, with the excuse that it would calm you and the baby every time it played.
Unfortunately, this time it wasn't helping to calm you down.
After tossing and turning around the room several times, you sat up in bed, completely exhausted and hopeless. That's when you felt the noise nearby and realized that the phone under your pillow was vibrating nonstop. You were about to snort with stress from being so distracted lately, but an automatic smile appeared on your face when you saw that it was a call from Spencer. You hadn't heard from him in several hours, the last being his usual call to wish you a good morning every time he was away on a case.
“I think I'd lose my head if I didn't have it attached to my neck.” Was the first thing you said as you tried to tuck your pillow behind your neck to make yourself more comfortable.
“You've lost your phone again.” You heard him let out a small, weak laugh, followed by a cough that caught your attention and made you frown. “Sorry, I got stuck.” He quickly excused himself.
“Are you okay?”
In response to your question, he looked around the lab where he was confined, focusing on the broken vial of anthrax on the floor that had caused all his problems so far. Reid didn't know how to explain that an ordinary case had turned into a national problem that was taking over his life and future moments with you with every passing second.
And he certainly knew even less how to tell you that this would probably be the last time you would hear from him if the team didn't find a cure soon.
“I'm fine.” He lied immediately, feeling his breathing getting harder and harder. “Really, love.” He tried to reassure you, but he lost his balance and leaned heavily on the counter, his free hand gripping it hard enough to turn his knuckles white.
All you had to do was hear him call you that and your whole world would light up, you could even feel the baby in your belly kicking at the sound of his voice. You smiled as you realized that you were both happy to hear from Spencer after not seeing him for most of the day due to the demands of his job.
Although you've never said it out loud for fear of making him feel guilty, you miss him excessively, and you're always trying to multitask and be productive, so you don't think as much about how much you need him by your side. Especially when dinner time comes and his seat next to you is empty, or when night comes and his side of the bed is cold.
Perhaps it was the pregnancy hormones, but you seemed to have a stronger need for him than ever.
“And how did you feel today? How are my girls? Did she kick a lot today?” The usual questions he asked you every time he was on a long case began to appear. “I need to hear everything.”
“She just kicks a lot when she listens to you and you know it.” You replied, stroking your belly out of laziness. “She’s definitely a daddy's little princess.”
The lump in his throat and all of his fears became more intense and uncontrollable. The tears he had tried to keep from escaping to stay strong and focused began to flow unchecked down his cheeks. Hearing you talk like that, knowing it might be the last time, was killing him much faster than the anthrax itself.
“And what are you doing? All your agent stuff?” You spoke again at his silence, trying to ignore the bad feeling something was giving you. “Are you coming home soon?”
“I don't think that's possible, love.” He replied quickly, his voice hoarse and raspy, the lie slipping from his lips almost too easily. “I'm doing some paperwork, it'll take some time.”
It was the second time he had called you by that nickname in just a few minutes. Something seemed a little off, as he only used it when he wanted to calm you down. You knew him too well to miss it.
“Oh, okay.” You said it in a way that showed you were a little disappointed.
Spencer was about to try to comfort you when he suddenly felt the cough return to his throat and he put a hand over his mouth to stop it. It was no use, the cough shook his whole body, spinning him around and making him pant in between. He tried to cover the phone with his hand so that the sounds coming out of his mouth would not be heard, but it was useless. The hacking cough seemed to tear at his lungs, leaving him breathless, tears stinging at the corners of his eyes, and he could only hope you didn't hear it, because the last thing he wanted to do was worry you. He knew it would hurt you and the baby.
“Are you sure you're okay? Maybe you should drink some water. It sounds pretty bad.”
He tried to answer you right away, but the cough took over and prevented him from speaking. He gripped the phone tightly, struggling to breathe, trying to force his lungs to stop spasming. And when he finally stopped coughing, he managed to speak, his voice cracking and rather hoarse.
“Yes, I'm fine. It's probably just a cold.” He lied again, breathing shakily. “But it’s nothing so bad.”
“Take care of yourself, don't let it get worse.”
If only you knew that there was no way to make it worse, that it was already at its worst point and unlikely to improve.
“I will, don't worry.” He tries to sound convincing, but his voice comes out rough and raw, and he has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from coughing again. “Just focus on you and the baby, okay? I'll be fine.”
He spoke again so quickly that it was difficult to think of an appropriate response.
“Could you do something for me, love?”
“Of course, I'll do whatever you need.” You reply, feeling a little perplexed by the urgency in his voice.
There was a long, awkward silence after you answered, and you could feel your mind racing with worst-case scenarios. You had a feeling that Spencer was holding something back from you, and the thought of what it could be made your left leg start to twitch nervously. You didn't even bother trying to make yourself more comfortable in bed.
“Go to my part of the closet, to the top drawer. Open it and take out a box next to the socks.” Finally he spoke and began to give you instructions, which you followed as best you could. “Let me know when you have it, carefully. Don't rush or-”
“I've already got it.” You interjected.
“That was quick.” You heard the surprise in his voice as you looked at the box, curious to know what was inside, after having seen it several times and thinking it was just more socks.
You smiled before speaking again. “What should I do with this, love?”
The mere word coming out of your mouth made him tremble.
Love. Love. Love.
He was your love and you were his. He refused to accept that this would be completely shattered in a matter of minutes if he could not find a way to keep his eyes open and his heart still pumping blood.
“I need you to open it, but be careful. Take your time and don't rush. Don't make any sudden movements.” He said, trying to relax so that when he spoke again his voice would be calmer, softer. “And once you open it, I want you to imagine that I'm there with you, okay?”
You couldn't help but open the box quickly, even though you were careful. You were surprised to find a bunch of envelopes and papers inside. You left them on the bed, wondering what they were about. It had been five months since you knew you were pregnant, and all the envelopes and papers were the same age according to the dates in the top corner.
“Have you seen it yet?” Spencer asked.
“I'm sorry, I don't understand, could you explain what this is?” You asked, carefully running your hand through the neatly organized papers on the bed.
“Could you close your eyes and imagine I'm with you, like I told you before?” He asked, trying to keep a neutral tone as you complied with his request.
He needed you to see him there with you, he needed to say goodbye and at least touch you one last time.
“That's what I'm doing. I'm holding your hand right now.” You said with a small smile, feeling the warmth.
It was like feeling an automatic medicine with your name on it flow through his system and relieve a few aches and pains. His hands stopped shaking automatically as he imagined himself holding yours again.
“Okay…they are notes and letters.” His voice was soft, the intensity of his heartbeat gradually increasing as he remembered each time he wrote those words to you. “I started writing them when we found out you were pregnant. They're for our baby.”
He still remembered the day he found out you were expecting a baby, his baby. He recalled how he felt his whole world stop and turn a different color, his hand sliding down to your stomach, and his breath hitching in his chest as he held your face in his hands and kissed you lovingly, overwhelmed with joy and so in love that he hadn't known what to do with his own feelings.
He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “I...I found myself writing frequently and my therapist said it was fine…I was inspired to write about my feelings for you and our baby."
From the moment he revealed to you that he had resumed therapy with the goal of healing the wounds of childhood and becoming the father he never had, it was clear that his dedication surpassed any commitment. Now you just added to the list of reasons why he was already an exemplary father, one that any child would be lucky to have.
“Spencer, this is so sweet.” You said, completely moved and on the verge of tears, as you noticed all the dedication I had put into each and every piece of paper. “Why didn't you tell me this before?”
He felt like a bucket of cold water had been thrown on him at that moment. It was so hard to explain, to tell you that every thought and every dream he'd ever had included you and the baby now growing in your belly, and his great fear of not being able to be there for you someday.
“I-” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, feeling a bit overwhelmed. “I just wanted you to know now how much you mean to me and how blessed I am that you gave this to me. I've spent the last few months trying to even talk to some kind of God, and I don't even know if exist...” He swallowed hard and closed his eyes, the words lost somewhere in his throat, making it burn and hurt. “I just...I need the baby to know what you and her mean to me, how I see you, how I feel when I wake up next to you. What I want, what I dream for her, what...”
I want to marry you.
The thought almost escaped his lips, his aching heart pounding hard against his aching chest. He felt as if a pair of strong hands were strangling him.
“I don't understand...Tell me what's going on.” You interrupted him with a shaking voice, knowing that there was definitely something more to all of this.
Oh, how you know him and his big, messy, troubled brain.
He closed his eyes and shook his head, though you couldn't see it, knowing that you already read him like an open book.
“Nothing...Nothing's wrong, love, just...” He tried to breathe deeply through the phone, his heart pounding in his chest and his mind racing too fast. “I love you so much. Don't forget that, okay?”
“Spencer—”
He always loved your voice calling his name, and now, in his weak, tired, fearful state, he couldn't stop the words from pouring out of his mouth.
“I want you to know that you'll be okay, that she'll be okay, that everything will be okay, and that I love you. I love you both very much. Please, please...” He kept going. He knew he was babbling, but he couldn't stop. His mind was racing, and his words came out like a confession.
He was an expert profiler, a genius with an eidetic memory and a sharp mind, but at that moment, with his body weakened and his head spinning, he found himself unable to contain himself. He was exposed, open, and experiencing discomfort. All of the things he wanted to tell you, all of the questions he wanted to ask, and all of the concerns, worries, and thoughts in his mind came pouring out, like a dam breaking. He sensed that you could feel it through the line, and he realized that he could no longer deny it any longer.
“I love you. I have to go now.”
“Wait.”
You had a feeling something wasn't quite right, and those letters seemed to confirm your suspicions. They were a precautionary measure, a way of ensuring that everything would be taken care of in case something happened to him.
“I have to go, I'm...I'm busy, love.” He tried to sound convincing, and he knew he was failing miserably, but if he stayed a moment longer, he would continue to talk and confess more. “I love you both.”
“We love you too.”
If he wasn't already weak and trembling, hearing your voice telling him that you loved him, in that soft tone, would have made him fall to the floor again. He closed his eyes again and leaned against the wall, his own trembling hand going to cover his mouth so he wouldn't say more, because he would tell you everything if you kept talking in that sweet tone.
He wasn't ready to say goodbye.
So it was that he thought of you and your kind way of loving him before he felt his head hit the floor and his eyes close.
Being in process to have your first child is already difficult enough, but having Spencer nervously ramble facts and statistics about childbirth through every contraction somehow makes it even worse.
୨ৎ ──── fluff & chaos. 2,9k. pregnant!reader. english isn't my first language. main masterlist.
Spencer Reid had always driven you completely mad.
Normally, it was the kind of madness that warmed your entire chest, the soft, ridiculous, and so lovesick kind. The kind that made you hum love songs while fixing your hair in the mirror or sigh dreamily when his name lit up your phone. He made you feel like you were walking through life wrapped in sunlight and soft blankets. Like you were the princess in a fairytale.
Normally, even the thought of having a baby with him filled you with that sweet anticipation, imagining tiny socks folded in drawers, his gentle hands supporting a newborn head, his voice lowering into that reverent hush he only used when he talked about the stars or something sacred. Oh, it was always perfect.
But today?
Today there was nothing normal or perfect about anything.
Today Spencer Reid was driving you mad in the worst possible way, the kind of way that made you want to grab him by his cardigan and shake him until his genius brain rebooted.
The hospital room was an assault on every sense you had.
The fluorescent lights hummed overhead like they were powered by bees, an endless, vibrating drone that made your skull throb. Their cold glow washed everything in a pale, stark brightness that felt too sharp, too clinical, too unforgiving. It made the sweat on your skin shine, made every shadow too deep, made the room look like a set from a medical documentary you never asked to star in.
The air was over-filtered and dry, carrying a sterile chill that clung to your skin and scraped at your throat every time you sucked in a shaky breath. You tasted the faint tang of disinfectant at the back of your tongue, that metallic-clean smell that had no business mixing with the salt of your tears.
The bed beneath you was unforgiving, stiff in all the wrong places and too soft in the ones you needed firm. Each movement sent a jolt of pain radiating through your abdomen, wrapping around your spine like a tightening fist.
And the beeping—
God, the beeping.
The monitor to your right beeped in perfect, relentless rhythm, recording every contraction as a little mountain of agony on the screen. Every spike in the green line was another wave you had to ride, another breath you had to fight for, another reminder that labor was both miraculous and borderline sadistic.
Time had stopped behaving like time.
It stretched and warped, folding in on itself, disappearing and reappearing in uneven chunks. Minutes felt like hours. Hours felt like centuries. You had the overwhelming sensation that you’d been here forever and might never leave.
But, apparently, that wasn’t accurate.
Because Spencer—your sweet and brilliant lover with a big brain—had informed you, with the calm and earnest seriousness of a man announcing the results of a peer-reviewed study, that you had been in labor for precisely two hours, forty-two minutes, and seventeen seconds.
He knew because he had told you.
Three times.
And counting.
He was hovering beside your bed like a nervous hummingbird, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, twisting his fingers together, a crease deepening and widening between his brows every time your face tightened in pain. His curls were a mess, falling into his eyes. His shirt sleeves were rolled too high and unevenly. His glasses had fogged twice already from his frantic pacing.
Normally, his anxiety made you want to soothe him.
But right now?
You were two seconds away from biting him.
Your hand was clamped around his so tightly that you could feel the bones beneath his skin, each slender metacarpal digging into your palm. He didn’t complain, of course. He wouldn’t have, even if you fractured something. But his breath did catch every time you squeezed during a contraction, and you could tell he was internally calculating the statistical probability of losing circulation.
Damn.
Another contraction began to coil low in your belly, a slow gathering of pressure that promised to become a full‑body tidal wave. You braced, sucking in a sharp breath through your teeth, and your hand tightened automatically around Spencer’s.
He immediately leaned closer.
“Okay, okay, that’s another one. Uh, based on the timing, that’s about four minutes apart again, which is well within the expected interval for active labor but not quite transition yet…well, unless you’re progressing unusually fast, which is possible given your—”
Your jaw locked.
Your nails dug deeper into his skin.
Spencer didn’t stop.
He never stopped.
“I mean, statistically speaking, first-time labor tends to be slower, but there are always outliers. Like in 2011, there was a documented case where a primiparous woman progressed from three to ten centimeters in under sixty minutes, which is incredibly rare but fascinating in terms of cervical elasticity—”
Your eyes burned, not with tears, but with the kind of primal fury only a woman in labor can feel toward the man who helped put her in this situation.
He didn’t notice.
He was too busy adjusting the edge of your blanket by exactly two centimeters, then pushing his glasses up his nose, then wiping his palms on his pants, then talking again because if Spencer Reid wasn’t speaking, he would spontaneously combust.
“The pain you’re feeling right now—uh, which is obviously significant—is actually due to both visceral and somatic components,” he said, voice trembling with sympathy and panic all at once. “Visceral pain comes from the uterine contractions and cervical dilation, but somatic pain—”
Your silence was not reassuring him.
It was making him talk more.
“—is transmitted through the pudendal nerve during the later stages of labor, which means the pressure you’re experiencing radiating to your lower back is completely expected and—ow—okay, I felt that squeeze. Yep, that’s strong…very strong—”
You squeezed harder.
He swallowed.
“Some women report feeling like their pelvis is being crushed,” he added quickly, “which is technically inaccurate because the pelvis actually expands at the joints, specifically the sacroiliac and pubic symphysis, thanks to the hormone relaxin, so it’s not—uh—crushing so much as…rearranging?”
You shot him a look.
The kind that could kill a lesser man.
He blanched.
Another contraction hit like a steel band tightening around your middle, dragging a cry out of your throat that you barely managed to swallow. Your eyes squeezed shut, sweat beading on your forehead. Every muscle from your ribs to your thighs locked in place.
Your fingers clenched around Spencer’s hand so fiercely that you felt the tendons shift.
He gasped so quietly and politely, because even in agony, he would rather die than upset you.
“Right, okay, this one looks…intense. Statistically peak intensity…did you know that during labor, the uterus exerts up to 397 Newtons of force? That’s equivalent to…okay, that doesn’t help, sorry, sorry—”
His voice went thin and frantic.
“Just keep breathing, sweetheart, you’re doing so well, so unbelievably well—honestly, based on your pain tolerance you could probably walk across a bed of hot coals without flinching—your resilience is astonishing, and—ah—yes, that’s my hand again, okay, yes—”
You still said nothing.
You couldn’t.
Your whole world had shrunk to the burning, tightening, stretching pain tearing through you in waves, building and peaking and crashing in a rhythm older than civilization. Every sound blurred except for the monitor’s relentless beeping and Spencer’s desperate whispering.
“Some cultures have rituals to help distract women during labor,” he said, breath speeding up. “For example, in parts of Japan, mothers grip a wooden rod called an ubushigatana—oh, but you’re using my hand instead, which is totally fine…just, yep, keep going—”
Your breath caught. Your entire spine arched. Your nails dug into his palm in a way that would leave marks tomorrow.
Spencer inhaled sharply but didn’t pull away.
“And…and elephants!” he blurted. “Elephants form protective circles around laboring females, did you know that? They stand guard and touch her with their trunks to comfort her—humans don’t do that enough, I think—though I guess I’m technically doing the human equivalent of an elephant trunk—”
You cracked one eye open. Barely.
Just enough to glare.
He gulped.
You lifted your head off the pillow an inch and whispered, voice ragged:
“Spencer?”
He leaned in instantly, eyes wide, eager, relieved.
“Yes? What do you need? Anything. Anything at all.”
You took one shallow breath, another, and then slowly—
“How many women in labor kill their partners?”
His face went utterly, perfectly blank.
And for the first time in two hours and forty-two minutes—
Spencer Reid stopped talking.
But your next contraction didn’t arrive so much as consume you.
It rose from somewhere deep inside your pelvis like a living force, a pressure so immense it felt like the air itself bent around it. The muscles in your abdomen tightened in a brutal, involuntary vise; your spine arched; your breath left you in a hoarse, guttural cry you barely recognized as your own.
The pain wasn’t sharp, it was massive. Continental. The kind that felt older than your body. Primal.
You crushed Spencer’s hand like it was a lifeline, knuckles grinding against bone, fingers trembling with effort. You felt him shudder with the force of your grip, but he didn’t complain, didn’t flinch, didn’t breathe too loudly. If you had shattered every bone in his hand in that moment, he would have thanked you for giving him something useful to do.
The nurse leaned forward, steady and focused.
“That’s exactly it,” she encouraged, voice honey-warm despite the intensity. “You’re right there. One more push.”
“One more push” sounded like a joke. A cruel one.
But before you could form a very clear opinion on that, Spencer spoke again.
“Well, technically speaking,” he started, voice pitched high with nerves, “the phrasing ‘one more’ is almost always inaccurate, because the mean number of pushes—”
You whipped your head toward him, sweat running down your temple.
“Spencer.”
Your voice was the warning bell of a collapsing dam.
“If you say one more number, I will—”
You didn’t even get to finish the threat.
The next contraction tore you away.
Your vision went white at the edges. Heat flared through your limbs. You felt pressure so intense it blurred the boundary between body and mind. Nurses murmured instructions, hands anchored you, Spencer whispered your name as a prayer.
And then—
Something shifted.
The pain peaked and abruptly, impossibly…released.
A sensation unlike anything you had ever known, indescribable in both relief and vulnerability.
And then the world broke open with sound.
A cry.
A perfect, furious scream that filled the sterile room like a flare of life.
Your head jerked up instinctively.
Spencer went utterly still. Not quiet. Still.
His whole body froze in place, shoulders rigid, chest barely rising. His rambling stopped mid-thought, mid-syllable, like someone had taken scissors to the thread of his brain. His mouth parted in a tiny, trembling O. His eyes widened behind fogged glasses, pupils blown huge, reflecting the shape of the child he hadn’t dared to picture too vividly until this second.
He stared at the doctor lifting your newborn with a look that didn’t belong to a genius or a profiler or even a man.
It belonged to a believer.
The nurses worked quickly—checking vitals, washing, wrapping—but Spencer couldn’t look away for even a half-second. His shoulders shook with each shaky breath he remembered to take. A tear clung to his lower lashes, trembling but refusing to fall.
You’d seen Spencer Reid outrun serial killers. You’d seen him solve impossible equations in seconds. You’d seen him cry, break, rebuild. But you had never seen his mind fall completely silent. Not until now.
“Dad?” a nurse said gently, turning with a small, swaddled bundle in her arms.
He startled like he’d been yanked from another world.
“Me?” His voice cracked. “I—I’m—yes. Yes.”
He stepped forward on unsteady legs. His hands hovered uncertainly, shaking so badly he had to clench them once before opening them again. The nurse placed the baby into his arms with practiced ease.
And Spencer—
He stopped breathing altogether.
The baby was impossibly small against his chest, wrapped in soft hospital cloth, face red and scrunched with leftover indignation. A tiny fist peeked out of the blanket, curled tight, trembling in the cool air.
Spencer looked down at that fist.
Then the tiny nose.
The miniature existence he had helped create.
His lips parted, trembling violently and he made a sound, barely audible.
A breath. A laugh. A sob.
A mix of all three. It didn’t matter which.
It felt like the universe cracked open.
His glasses slid even further down his nose, fogging again. He didn’t push them back up. Didn’t move. Didn’t try to speak.
He just stared.
You watched him—your genius, your love, your very complicated, very soft man—holding your baby like someone had handed him a star that could shatter if he exhaled too hard.
His voice, when he finally found it, wasn’t even a whisper.
It was smaller.
“Oh,” he breathed.
That was all.
Just oh.
Because Spencer Reid had no words.
Not a single one. Not for this. Not for the moment his world changed shape. Not for the miracle in his arms.
Only awe. Only trembling, staggering, bone-deep love. Only the impossible truth that the two of you had made something small and squalling and beautiful. Your family. Right there. In his shaking hands.
The nurse touched your shoulder gently.
“Do you want to hold your baby?”
Your chest tightened at the question.
Of course you did. Your arms ached for it.
But your body was still trembling, still trying to remember how to exist after being ripped open and remade.
“Spencer,” you whispered, voice ragged. “Bring them here.”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t speak at all.
Just blinked, slow and reverent, like he had just woken from a dream so delicate he was afraid to move in case it shattered.
But he did walk toward you.
Very carefully.
He moved like the air was water and he was scared the currents around him might disturb the sleeping universe in his arms. His hands stayed curled protectively around the baby’s tiny body, elbows tucked, shoulders hunched instinctively like a shield.
When he reached your bedside, he hesitated.
Not because he didn’t want to give you the baby.
But because you could see him trying to memorize this moment—the first moment—before it passed. His eyes flicked between the baby’s face and your own, chest heaving.
Finally, with a breath that shook all the way down his spine, he leaned forward.
And placed your child into your arms.
Your world stopped and you exhaled in a trembling sigh you didn’t know you’d been holding.
Spencer watched your face like he was witnessing a celestial event. Something sacred. His hand hovered near your shoulder, unsure if he was allowed to touch you while you held something so infinitely precious.
Then, without deciding, he sank onto the chair beside your bed.
More like collapsed, really.
And that was when the silence broke.
“You—um—you should know that newborns have a natural instinct called the ‘rooting reflex.’ They…they’ll turn their head toward anything that brushes their cheek.” His voice quivered. “It…it’s a survival mechanism.”
You looked at him.
His hair was stuck to his forehead in sweaty curls. His glasses were crooked and fogged. His cheeks were streaked with tears he hadn’t even noticed shedding. His cardigan was wrinkled, one sleeve rolled higher than the other, and he looked like a man whose entire concept of reality had been rewritten in front of him.
And still he kept going, barely able to stop himself.
“They…they can also recognize your voice almost immediately. They’ve been listening to it for months, so the sound activates the same regions of their brain associated with comfort and—and—and—safety.” His lip wobbled. “You’re already their safest place.”
Your heart cracked open and reassembled itself in a new shape.
You reached out with your free hand.
Touched his cheek, then felt the dampness there.
Warm. Honest. Real.
His eyes fluttered closed like your touch reset him.
But then he opened them again, blinking rapidly, words bubbling up too fast for his throat to keep up.
“And…did you know—did you—” He swallowed hard, voice hitching. “Babies—babies can only see about eight to twelve inches clearly, and that’s—well—that’s basically the exact distance between your face and theirs when you hold them like that so they…they can imprint on you. Right now. In this exact moment.”
You smiled softly.
“Are you imprinting too, Spencer?”
His breath stuttered.
Then he nodded.
“Yeah,” he whispered. “I think so.”
The baby made a tiny sound—a soft huff, a complaint about the cold air—and he immediately leaned forward, hands hovering, panic flickering in his eyes.
“Is that okay? Are they supposed to do that? Should we call a nurse? Should I—”
“Spencer,” you said gently. “They’re just…being a baby.”
He nodded, but it was the nervous nod of a man who had read eighteen books on newborn behavior and suddenly couldn’t remember a single word.
His eyes drifted back to the baby, gaze softening into something molten.
“I love them,” he said suddenly, voice so thin it nearly wasn’t sound. “I love them so much my ribs hurt. Is that…is that normal? Is that supposed to happen? I feel like my heart is—my heart is—”
He placed a shaky hand over his chest.
“Is pounding irregularly,” he finished, immediately slipping into medical panic mode. “It—it could be a cardiac arrhythmia caused by emotional overload or—”
You squeezed his hand. Very gently.
“My love,” you whispered. “You’re just overwhelmed. Not dying.”
He let out a breath that collapsed his whole body. Then he leaned his forehead against the edge of your pillow, eyes drifting to the baby again.
Hiding your pregnancy is getting harder and harder, especially when you agree to go to a dinner party and Spencer has to drink every glass of your wine to keep the secret.
୨ৎ ──── fluff. 5,4k. fem!reader. drunk reid. english isn't my first language. main masterlist.
David Rossi loved hosting dinners.
Not because he particularly enjoyed cooking—though he’d spend the entire evening pretending he did, shooing away anyone who wandered too close to the stove with the indignation of a Michelin-star chef—but because dinner was one of the rare occasions when the people he cared about gathered for reasons that had nothing to do with bloodstained crime scenes or the worst humanity had to offer. Around his dining table, they weren’t profilers or agents or supervisors carrying the weight of impossible decisions. They were simply friends. They laughed a little louder, lingered a little longer over dessert, argued about books instead of behavioral patterns, and, for a few precious hours, remembered what life looked like outside the Bureau.
At least for the first twenty minutes.
After that, someone inevitably mentioned a case.
“You realize,” Morgan announced as he reached across the kitchen island and shamelessly stole a piece of warm bread straight from the basket, “this is exactly how horror movies start.”
Rossi didn’t even bother looking over his shoulder. He merely stirred the sauce with practiced ease, entirely unfazed by the theft.
“The difference,” he replied smoothly, “is that my guests survive dessert.”
Morgan laughed, surrendering with an exaggerated nod before tearing into the bread anyway.
The house was already alive with familiar voices.
Soft jazz drifted through hidden speakers, blending with the rhythmic clatter of pots and the comforting aroma of garlic, rosemary, simmering tomatoes, and freshly baked bread. Warm light spilled from antique lamps, reflecting against framed photographs and shelves lined with decades of books and souvenirs collected from places Rossi rarely spoke about. Every room carried that unmistakable feeling of having been lived in, a home that had witnessed countless celebrations, quiet conversations over late-night whiskey, and the occasional impromptu team meeting when cases refused to stay at Quantico.
Emily wandered into the kitchen, accepting a glass of wine from Rossi before immediately rolling her eyes at something Morgan said.
Garcia was already circling the living room in complete admiration, pausing every few steps to gush over a painting, a sculpture, or an antique clock.
“Oh my God, Rossi,” she gasped dramatically, “this lamp is gorgeous. It’s giving wealthy Italian novelist who solves crimes in his free time.”
“It was just a lamp until you said that.”
JJ slipped toward the patio with Henry balanced comfortably on her hip, the little boy already fascinated by the garden lights beginning to glow outside. Will followed behind carrying an impressive collection of toys that looked capable of entertaining an entire daycare, smiling patiently as Henry reached for everything except the toys he’d brought.
Hotch, unsurprisingly, had arrived exactly on time.
Not a minute early. Not a minute late.
His jacket was already neatly folded over the back of a chair, a glass of sparkling water in one hand as he quietly observed the controlled chaos with the smallest hint of amusement softening his usually unreadable expression.
And, of course, Spencer’s attention had been on you from the moment the two of you stepped through Rossi’s front door.
Before anyone could greet you, Spencer was already helping you out of your coat with the quiet attentiveness that had become second nature over the past several weeks. His hands were careful as he eased the fabric from your shoulders, lingering for just a heartbeat as if making sure you were steady before draping both your coat and his neatly over the rack by the entrance. It was such a small gesture that no one else would have noticed it.
“You okay?” he asked quietly, leaning close enough that only you could hear him beneath the lively chatter filling the room.
You offered him a reassuring smile, hoping it looked more convincing than it felt.
“Perfect.”
The word came automatically, polished by repetition until it sounded almost believable. You’d said it to your mother over the phone earlier that week. To your coworkers when they’d commented on how pale you’d been looking lately. To the cashier who had apologized after you’d abruptly abandoned a shopping cart halfway through the supermarket because someone nearby had opened a container of tuna. You were becoming remarkably good at pretending everything was normal.
Spencer, however, had never been particularly easy to fool.
His honey-colored eyes lingered on your face for another moment, quietly studying you with the same careful concentration he reserved for unsolved cases and impossible puzzles. He noticed everything: the faint shadows beneath your eyes despite the makeup you’d carefully applied that afternoon, the way your smile didn’t quite reach them, the almost invisible hesitation before you shifted your weight from one foot to the other. For a second, you watched concern flicker across his expression, followed by the unmistakable impulse to suggest going home instead. You knew him well enough to see the thought forming before he gently pushed it aside. You had insisted you wanted to come. You’d been looking forward to seeing everyone. If he asked again, you’d only reassure him again.
So instead, he simply intertwined his fingers with yours for the briefest moment and gave your hand a gentle squeeze before releasing it, silently reminding you that if you needed to leave, even five minutes after arriving, you only had to say the word.
Because the truth was…you hadn’t exactly been perfect lately.
For nearly eleven weeks, your body had seemed determined to reinvent itself overnight, transforming familiar routines into unpredictable obstacles and ordinary sensations into impossible challenges. Pregnancy wasn’t anything like the books had described. It wasn’t the glowing skin and sentimental smiles people loved talking about. At least, not yet. Right now, it was exhaustion so profound it settled into your bones no matter how much you slept. It was waking up starving only to burst into tears because the toast you’d been craving suddenly smelled unbearable. It was dizziness when you stood too quickly, headaches that appeared without warning, and emotions that shifted so rapidly they often left you laughing one moment and crying the next.
And the smells were by far the worst.
It was as though someone had turned every scent in the world up to an impossible volume.
Coffee, the rich aroma you’d once relied on every morning, now seemed so overwhelmingly bitter it made your stomach twist before you even entered the kitchen.
Garlic lingered in the air like smoke.
Perfume clung to strangers in grocery stores so intensely that you found yourself instinctively holding your breath as they walked past.
Gasoline from passing cars seeped through open windows with startling force.
Fresh paint, cleaning products, scented candles, everything had become an enemy.
Even the earthy fragrance of Spencer’s favorite loose-leaf tea, a scent that had always reminded you of rainy afternoons spent reading together on the couch, had betrayed you. One quiet Saturday morning, he’d barely begun pouring the boiling water over the tea leaves before your stomach lurched violently. You hadn’t even managed to explain what was wrong. You’d simply clamped a hand over your mouth and hurried toward the bathroom, leaving Spencer frozen in confusion beside the kettle.
When he’d found you a few minutes later, you were sitting on the cool tile floor with your knees pulled to your chest, wrapped in one of his oversized cardigans because you hadn’t had the energy to put on your own sweater after climbing out of bed. Your eyes were watery, your face pale with exhaustion, and the half-steeped tea sat forgotten in the kitchen.
He’d knelt beside you immediately, rubbing slow circles against your back until your breathing steadied.
“I think,” he’d said carefully, as though presenting a well-researched hypothesis, “we should buy different tea.”
The absurd sincerity of the suggestion had broken something inside you.
You’d laughed, the kind that left tears streaming down your face and your stomach aching until Spencer began smiling too, still entirely unsure what had been so funny.
An hour later, you’d taken the pregnancy test.
You remembered sitting together on the edge of the bathtub, your shoulders pressed together so tightly they might as well have been one person, both pretending not to stare at the little plastic stick resting on the counter. Spencer’s knee bounced nervously the entire time, though he’d deny it if anyone ever asked. When the result finally appeared, neither of you moved.
Positive.
You’d looked at him, and he’d looked at you.
For a long moment, there had simply been silence, stunned, breathless silence, as though neither of you trusted your own eyes enough to speak first.
Then Spencer had whispered, almost reverently,
“We’re having a baby.”
The memory still settled warmly inside your chest every time you thought about it.
Only the two of you knew.
No one else.
Not the team, your parents, or his mother.
No one.
It wasn’t because you weren’t excited.
God, you had never loved someone you’d never met quite so fiercely. And you had never been so afraid.
At night, when the apartment had gone quiet and Quantico seemed impossibly far away, the two of you often found yourselves lying awake long after the lights were off, talking in hushed voices about a future that suddenly felt both unimaginably distant and frighteningly close. Spencer wondered aloud whether babies recognized music before they were born and whether reading aloud during pregnancy had any measurable effect on language development. You debated names neither of you was ready to admit you genuinely liked. You imagined tiny knitted sweaters, impossibly small socks, sleepy mornings, first birthdays, scraped knees, school concerts, and the possibility—one that made you laugh every single time—that Spencer might accidentally teach your future toddler quantum mechanics before the alphabet.
Other nights, words simply weren’t necessary.
You would lie tangled together beneath the blankets, your head resting against his shoulder while he absentmindedly traced slow circles over your arm. Eventually, almost without thinking, his hand would drift lower, settling with extraordinary care against your abdomen. There was hardly anything to feel yet. At eleven weeks, your stomach remained almost perfectly flat, your dresses fitting exactly as they always had. If someone didn’t know, they would never have guessed. But Spencer touched you as though the slightest movement might disturb the tiny life growing there, his palm resting so gently against you that it sometimes made your chest ache. He would smile into the darkness with an expression so impossibly soft it stole your breath every single time, as though he could already sense the little heartbeat hidden beneath his fingertips. Sometimes he whispered things you weren’t sure he realized he was saying: little observations about fetal development he’d memorized from medical journals, promises about museums he’d one day visit with your child, absentminded thoughts about buying children’s editions of classic literature. Other times, he simply stayed there, smiling quietly, overwhelmed by the astonishing reality that someone already existed. Someone who belonged entirely to the two of you.
Every ultrasound photograph had become a treasure.
The first one lived inside an ivory envelope that had already begun to soften at the edges because neither of you could stop taking it out to look at it. Realistically, there wasn’t very much to see. To anyone else, it was little more than a grainy black-and-white blur surrounded by indecipherable shadows and medical measurements. Yet the two of you had spent embarrassing amounts of time staring at it as though it were the most extraordinary piece of art ever created. Spencer, naturally, had analyzed it with the same enthusiasm he brought to everything else.
Of course, once the initial excitement had settled, he had immediately begun worrying about where to keep the photographs.
Not because he thought someone was going to steal them.
Because he wanted them safe.
You still remembered finding him standing in front of his bookshelf one afternoon, head tilted thoughtfully as though he were solving one of the Bureau’s most complicated cases. He had scanned hundreds of titles before finally pulling out one of the thickest mathematics textbooks you had ever seen.
“They’re going inside my copy of Differential Geometry,” he’d declared with complete confidence while carefully sliding the envelope between two chapters.
You had stared at him, blinking in complete confusion.
“…Why that one?”
Without so much as lifting his eyes from the pages, he’d answered with absolute certainty.
“Statistically speaking, no one voluntarily opens my copy of Differential Geometry.”
You had laughed so hard your stomach hurt.
Weeks later, the ultrasound photographs remained exactly where he’d hidden them, tucked safely between chapters discussing curved manifolds and tensor fields, untouched by anyone except the two of you. Every now and then, usually late at night, Spencer would quietly retrieve the envelope before climbing into bed beside you, and together you’d study the tiny image all over again, smiling as though seeing it for the very first time.
You weren’t keeping the pregnancy a secret because you were ashamed.
If anything, the secret had become almost impossible to contain.
You loved this baby already with a depth that surprised you daily. Sometimes you caught yourself resting your hand absentmindedly against your stomach while reading on the couch or waiting in line for coffee you could no longer stomach. Sometimes Spencer would catch your eye from across the apartment, and without either of you saying a single word, you’d both smile, remembering the extraordinary little secret that existed only between you. It felt like carrying a universe inside your chest, one that threatened to spill into every conversation, every laugh, every quiet glance exchanged across a room.
But eleven weeks still felt fragile.
Delicate.
As though happiness itself had become something you were afraid to hold too tightly.
You knew the statistics.
So did Spencer...perhaps better than anyone.
The first trimester carried uncertainties neither of you could ignore, no matter how desperately you wanted to celebrate. So you had made a quiet promise together. Just a little longer. One more week. Maybe two. Long enough for the fear to loosen its grip. Long enough for the joy to feel louder than the anxiety. Then you’d tell everyone. Properly. Surrounded by the people who loved you most.
Which was exactly why tonight needed to remain wonderfully, blissfully ordinary.
Smile.
Compliment Rossi’s cooking.
Laugh at Morgan’s increasingly terrible jokes.
Listen to Garcia declare herself emotionally attached to another one of Rossi’s antique decorations.
Eat dinner.
Go home.
And above all else, pretend that beneath the soft fabric of your dress, your entire world wasn’t quietly growing one tiny heartbeat at a time.
***
For the first few minutes, everything went exactly according to plan.
The conversation flowed effortlessly around the table, moving from travel stories to teasing remarks about Rossi’s inability to let anyone else near his kitchen. The warm glow of candlelight reflected against crystal glasses, silverware clinked softly against porcelain plates, and the rich aroma of roasted vegetables, fresh herbs, garlic, and homemade pasta drifted through the dining room. It was warm. Comfortable. Familiar. Exactly the kind of evening you’d hoped for.
Then Rossi appeared beside the table carrying a bottle of red wine.
With practiced ease, he moved from place to place, pouring generous servings into each waiting glass until he eventually reached yours. Deep ruby liquid swirled elegantly into the crystal, catching the candlelight before he continued around the table without another thought.
Your smile froze.
Your stomach dropped so suddenly it almost felt like missing the last step on a staircase.
Of course. Wine.
You hadn’t thought about the wine.
For one long second, you simply stared at the glass sitting innocently beside your plate, your thoughts racing far faster than they should have. Refusing it outright would be strange. Claiming you weren’t in the mood might invite questions. Pretending to sip it was risky, especially with Rossi proudly watching everyone’s reactions to the bottle he’d undoubtedly spent far too much money on.
Across the table, Spencer had arrived at the exact same realization.
His eyes drifted from his own glass to yours.
Then to you.
You watched the understanding settle across his face almost instantly.
Without either of you exchanging so much as a glance, he quietly reached across the table toward your place setting, his movements so natural they might have gone completely unnoticed.
“I’ll take yours,” he said casually, lifting the untouched glass before anyone could question it.
Morgan blinked. “You stealing her wine already?”
The question earned a few amused smiles around the table.
Spencer answered so quickly it almost sounded rehearsed.
“She’s driving.”
For a single heartbeat, the entire table fell into that peculiar silence that followed an answer no one had expected. You turned your head slowly to look at him, your expression carefully composed despite the disbelief bubbling beneath it.
Driving? You hated driving.
Everyone at the table knew you hated driving. Morgan had teased you about it for years after you’d once admitted that parallel parking made you feel like you were diffusing a bomb. Garcia had jokingly offered to create a color-coded GPS system “for emotionally distressed drivers.” Even Rossi had learned long ago that inviting the two of you over automatically meant Spencer would be behind the wheel on the way home. If given the choice between navigating rush-hour traffic yourself or spending an hour on public transportation with three transfers, you’d choose the train without a second thought. Spencer knew that better than anyone. Which was precisely why, judging by the fleeting look of horror that crossed his face, he realized what he’d said the exact moment the words left his mouth.
Your eyes met across the table for the briefest instant.
He knew. You knew.
Neither of you dared acknowledge it.
Fortunately, Morgan simply shrugged, entirely unbothered.
“Fair enough.”
The conversation drifted elsewhere almost immediately, someone making a comment about Rossi’s pasta sauce before Garcia launched into a dramatic story about accidentally adopting another stray cat she absolutely insisted she hadn’t meant to bring home. Around the table, laughter resumed, forks scraped softly against porcelain plates, and the comfortable rhythm of dinner settled back into place. You released a slow breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding, allowing yourself to believe, if only for a moment, that perhaps the obstacle had been overcome more easily than you’d feared.
Or so you thought.
Barely ten minutes later, Rossi reappeared beside your chair carrying the bottle of red wine in one hand, his attention immediately falling to the untouched glass still sitting exactly where he’d left it. His thick brows drew together in mild confusion before his expression softened into concern.
“Oh, bambina,” he said, tilting his head slightly as he gestured toward the glass. “You haven’t touched your wine.”
Your heart lurched.
For a fraction of a second, your mind raced desperately through possible explanations. You weren’t feeling like drinking. You were waiting until dinner. You had a headache. None of them felt convincing enough, particularly not with Rossi watching you so expectantly.
Before you could utter a single word, Spencer calmly reached across the table, lifted your untouched glass as though it had belonged to him all along, and took a generous sip.
“I did.”
Rossi looked between both of you.
“You finished two glasses already?”
“I was thirsty,” Spencer replied with complete sincerity, sounding as though that single sentence explained everything.
Rossi stared at him.
“You were thirsty.”
“Yes.”
“For wine.”
“Correct.”
For another beat, Rossi simply looked at him, clearly debating whether there was any point continuing the conversation. Eventually, with the resigned expression of a man deciding that Spencer Reid’s brain operated on principles beyond ordinary comprehension, he shrugged lightly and reached for the bottle once more.
“There.”
Deep red wine flowed smoothly back into your crystal glass until it sat nearly full again.
“There we go.”
“Thank you,” you offered with what you hoped was a perfectly natural smile.
Rossi nodded once before wandering toward the other end of the table to refill Morgan’s glass, already distracted by an entirely new discussion about baseball statistics.
The instant his back was turned, Spencer moved.
Without saying a word, without drawing attention to himself, he rested one hand casually beneath the edge of the tablecloth and, in one fluid movement, exchanged your freshly filled glass with his own half-empty one. The motion was so smooth it could have passed for absentmindedness, his fingers never fumbling despite the growing amount of alcohol already in his system. By the time Rossi looked back toward the two of you, Spencer was quietly lifting the newly acquired glass toward his lips while your place setting once again held one that appeared partially consumed.
No one noticed.
Well…almost no one.
Across the table, Emily’s conversation with JJ faltered for just a fraction of a second.
She didn’t say anything.
She simply took another sip of wine while her gaze lingered thoughtfully between the two of you before returning to her plate.
Another half hour slipped by beneath easy conversation and frequent bursts of laughter. Stories gave way to teasing, teasing turned into old Bureau memories, and before long the first bottle stood empty in the center of the table. Rossi noticed almost immediately.
“Well,” he announced proudly as he disappeared toward the kitchen, “that means it’s time for the good one.”
He returned carrying another bottle with the reverence of someone transporting a priceless family heirloom.
“This one’s from Tuscany,” he declared, carefully peeling away the foil. “I bought it during my last trip. You have to try it.”
The cork eased free with a satisfying pop.
You felt your stomach sink all over again.
One by one, Rossi circled the table, refilling each glass with generous enthusiasm.
Including yours.
Again.
You forced another smile.
“Thank you.”
Your glass remained untouched.
Again.
Spencer noticed before anyone else did.
Again.
Without hesitation, he reached over sometime during the next conversation, lifted your glass as naturally as though the two of you shared everything—which, technically, you did—and quietly added yet another serving to the growing collection he’d already consumed.
By now he’d finished one glass.
Then two.
Then three.
Now…four.
Under ordinary circumstances, four glasses of wine spread across an entire dinner might not have seemed particularly remarkable.
For Spencer Reid, it was becoming increasingly obvious.
A warm flush had spread across his cheeks, dusting the bridge of his nose with soft pink that somehow made him look several years younger. His posture remained perfectly straight, and his words retained the precise articulation that years of lecturing and endless reading had ingrained into him. If anything, he enunciated even more carefully than usual, each syllable pronounced with meticulous clarity. Spencer Reid, it seemed, was physically incapable of slurring his words.
Instead, he simply became significantly more talkative.
“Do you know,” he announced to absolutely no one in particular while thoughtfully examining his wineglass as though it were a fascinating scientific specimen, “that the average adult liver metabolizes approximately one standard alcoholic beverage per hour? Assuming average enzymatic activity and normal hepatic function, I’m currently operating at a significant biochemical disadvantage.”
Morgan leaned back in his chair, grinning so broadly it bordered on smug satisfaction.
“You drunk, pretty boy?”
Spencer looked genuinely offended by the suggestion.
“No.”
He paused.
Thought about it.
Then nodded once with complete seriousness.
“Probably.”
The table erupted into laughter.
Even Hotch lowered his gaze toward his plate to disguise the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
You couldn’t help laughing too, though yours carried a distinct note of affection.
Spencer looked utterly adorable.
Hopelessly, undeniably adorable.
Across the table, however, Emily wasn’t laughing nearly as much.
She watched Spencer lift your glass instead of his own.
Again.
She watched you politely thank Rossi for every refill without drinking a single sip.
Again.
She watched Spencer volunteer to finish both glasses with increasingly enthusiastic determination.
Again.
Something about the evening refused to fit together.
Emily wasn’t quite sure what the answer was yet.
But she knew, with absolute certainty, that something wasn’t adding up.
***
By the time coffee replaced the wine, the evening had settled into that wonderfully unhurried stage that always followed one of Rossi’s dinners. Dessert plates had been pushed aside, empty bottles stood abandoned along the center of the table like evidence of a celebration well enjoyed, and the rich scent of freshly brewed espresso drifted through the dining room, mercifully replacing the overwhelming aroma of alcohol. Conversations had fractured into smaller ones, overlapping comfortably without anyone needing to follow every thread. Garcia and JJ were animatedly debating vacation destinations, Garcia insisting that every itinerary should be based entirely around bookstores and bakeries while JJ attempted, unsuccessfully, to convince her that beaches had their own merits. At the other end of the table, Morgan and Rossi had somehow wandered into a passionate disagreement over baseball statistics, each one accusing the other of remembering history incorrectly despite both sounding equally confident. Hotch sat quietly between them, one hand wrapped around his coffee cup, saying very little but wearing the faintest trace of amusement at the corners of his mouth as he watched the familiar chaos unfold around him.
Beside you, however, sat the true consequence of the evening.
Spencer Reid was undeniably drunk.
Not the loud, reckless kind of drunk that knocked over glasses or forgot people’s names. Spencer remained perfectly articulate. Every sentence emerged with the same impeccable diction he used while lecturing, every word carefully pronounced as though he were still delivering an academic presentation. If anything, the alcohol had only made him even more determined to enunciate correctly. His tie had been loosened somewhere between the second and third bottle, though neither of you remembered who had done it. His curls had escaped in every direction until they framed his flushed face in complete disarray. A warm blush stretched across his cheeks and over the bridge of his nose, his eyes had taken on a dreamy softness you rarely saw, and he had developed the oddly adorable habit of pausing before every answer, nodding solemnly to himself as though consulting an invisible committee inside his own mind before reaching a unanimous decision.
Watching him was almost painfully endearing.
You couldn’t help smiling as your fingers found the middle of his back, rubbing slow, comforting circles through the fabric of his shirt.
“You okay?”
He turned toward you immediately, his entire face lighting up with such overwhelming affection that your heart threatened to melt on the spot.
“I love you.”
The words came so easily, so honestly, that several people around the table instinctively smiled.
You laughed quietly.
“I love you too.”
“No…” He shook his head with exaggerated seriousness, lifting one finger as though correcting an important scientific misconception. “I don’t think you understand the statistical magnitude of how much I love you.”
Morgan snorted into his coffee.
“Oh, this is priceless.”
Spencer didn’t even acknowledge him.
His complete attention remained fixed on you, his expression one of absolute sincerity as he searched painstakingly for the perfect description.
“You are…” He frowned thoughtfully, eyes drifting toward the ceiling for several long seconds before returning to you with visible satisfaction. “…my favorite person.”
Warmth spread through your chest so quickly it almost hurt.
God, he was going to destroy you.
“You’ve had enough wine,” you said gently, brushing one of his unruly curls away from his forehead.
“I have had…” He stopped speaking to count carefully on his fingers, restarting twice after apparently losing track somewhere around three. “…more wine than you.”
“Yes.”
He nodded proudly, pleased that you’d confirmed his calculation.
“Because you couldn’t.”
Every muscle in your body went rigid.
The smile disappeared from your face almost instantly.
“Spencer.”
He looked delighted with himself.
“I helped.”
Across the table, Emily glanced up from her coffee.
“So noble.”
“It was.” Spencer nodded once, completely accepting the compliment. “Because it’s a secret.”
Your stomach dropped so violently you were certain everyone could hear it.
Without thinking, you reached for his hand beneath the table, gently squeezing his fingers.
“Sweetheart—”
He leaned closer immediately, lowering his voice in what he clearly believed was an incredibly discreet whisper.
It wasn’t.
“We’re very good at secrets,” he confided with unmistakable pride.
The entire table continued talking.
No one seemed to notice.
Relief washed over you so suddenly you nearly laughed.
Then Spencer smiled thoughtfully, as though another important realization had just occurred to him.
“Although…”
Every instinct in your body screamed.
“Oh no.”
He looked around the entire table before announcing, in a voice loud enough for everyone in the dining room to hear with perfect clarity, “keeping a baby secret is significantly harder than I expected.”
Silence.
Morgan blinked once.
“A what?”
Garcia’s mouth slowly fell open.
JJ lowered her coffee cup so carefully it barely made a sound against the saucer.
At the far end of the table, Hotch’s eyes shifted from Spencer to you with the calm expression of a profiler mentally reorganizing every unusual observation he’d made over the previous several weeks: your sudden avoidance of coffee during morning meetings, Spencer’s increasingly protective behavior, the mysterious disappearances during cases to “find crackers,” the exhaustion, the nausea, the untouched wine.
Pieces quietly clicked into place.
Rossi simply stared.
His mouth opened slightly before closing again.
For perhaps the first time in anyone’s memory, David Rossi seemed completely incapable of finding words.
Emily, meanwhile, merely closed her eyes and a slow smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.
“Oh,” she sighed, sounding more relieved than surprised. “I knew it.”
You buried your face in both hands.
“Spencer…”
He looked around the table with complete confusion, blinking at everyone’s expressions as though he genuinely couldn’t understand why the conversation had stopped.
“What?”
“You…” you whispered through your hands, shaking your head helplessly. “You just told them about our baby.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“I did?”
“Yes.”
A long pause.
He frowned thoughtfully.
“I wasn’t supposed to.”
“No.”
“Oh.”
He considered that information with remarkable seriousness, nodding slowly as though accepting constructive criticism.
For one suspended heartbeat, nobody moved.
Then Garcia exploded.
The delighted shriek that escaped her was so loud it probably startled every bird within a three-block radius. She launched herself out of her chair before anyone else had even processed what was happening, one hand already covering her mouth as tears filled her eyes.
“I can't believe it!” she squealed. “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!”
JJ was crying before she’d even reached you.
She wrapped her arms tightly around your shoulders, laughing and wiping away tears simultaneously.
“I am so happy for you,” she whispered.
Morgan shot to his feet with a bark of laughter, pointing triumphantly between the two of you.
“I knew something was going on!”
Emily looked at him flatly.
“You absolutely did not.”
“I suspected!”
She folded her arms.
“You spent the entire evening convinced Spencer had developed a drinking problem.”
Morgan hesitated.
“I was…close.”
Rossi finally recovered enough to laugh, a deep, warm laugh that echoed through the dining room as he crossed the room and pulled both you and Spencer into one of his characteristically overwhelming hugs.
“I’ve spent years trying to get this kid drunk,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief as he stepped back to look at Spencer with unmistakable affection. “Years.”
His eyes flickered toward you before returning to Spencer.
“I have to admit…”
He smiled.
“I didn’t expect this to be what finally loosened his tongue.”
Even Hotch stood.
He wasn’t particularly demonstrative, never had been, but the smile he offered the two of you was genuine enough to soften every sharp line in his face.
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion as you leaned instinctively against Spencer’s shoulder, still half laughing and half hiding your burning face from everyone’s delighted attention.
Spencer looked down at you with sleepy affection, completely oblivious to the fact that he had single-handedly dismantled weeks of carefully orchestrated secrecy. He leaned over and pressed the gentlest kiss against the top of your head before sighing softly.
“I ruined the surprise.”
“You did.”
“I’m sorry.”
You looked up at him.
His expression was so genuinely remorseful, so heartbreakingly sincere despite the unmistakable haze of alcohol clouding his thoughts, that you couldn’t possibly stay embarrassed.
A smile spread across your face.
“I’ll forgive you.”
His eyes brightened immediately.
“You will?”
“Eventually.”
The relieved smile that followed was almost childlike.
“Good.”
He sat quietly for another few seconds, apparently satisfied that the crisis had been resolved.
Then he turned toward Rossi with complete seriousness.
summary: you've spent years convincing the bau that your love life is chaotic, casual, and completely detached—while quietly dying every time aaron hotchner looks at you. but when your dating profile attracts the wrong kind of attention and your unit chief is forced to look a little closer, it turns out there are very few things more dangerous than being profiled by the man you're hopelessly in love with.
notes: i've been a little conflicted about posting lately, but... it's my birthday, and i want aaron hotchner—so here you go! i've been working on this for a while and had a very very smart friend help me with the "profiling" parts (especially reid) so i hope y'all enjoy! i also really wanted to actually write the smut, but this fic hit the block limit so hard and fast it actually hurt. as always, please please let me know what you think!
warnings: swearing / cursing, blushing, italics, reader wears a skirt (and heels), reader has a cat, implied age gap, best friend!reid, some pretentious ranting, horny thoughts, likely incorrect behavioural and psychoanalytical information, likely incorrect technical information (sorry garcia), canon-typical themes (homicide, etc. referred to off page), stalker / stalking behaviour, ambiguous use of "online dating" (because i tried to keep it vaguely around s6/s7 era), kind of rushed ending? and... fade to black / implied sex (i’m so sorry) 18+ only still, mdni.
word count: 19001
MONDAY 9:25AM
Working for the FBI means having secrets is difficult. Working with the BAU makes it downright impossible.
Not because your colleagues are nosy—no, they’re just… perceptive. Which means if you want to keep something to yourself, you need to know how to manipulate their perception. Even if it doesn’t work on all of them—you glance at Reid, already seated at the round table with his nose buried in a book—at least it works on most of them.
At least, it works on Aaron Hotchner.
Your boss. Your unit chief. The man who absolutely cannot find out about your big, fat, massively inconvenient, deeply inappropriate crush on him.
Reid glances up from his book as you drop into the seat beside him. “You’re wearing a skirt.”
You cross your legs and lean back. “Excellent observation, Reid.”
“It’s impractical,” he says simply. “Especially with heels. Your centre of gravity shifts forward by almost fifteen degrees, which shortens your stride length and reduces balance recovery time. You’re significantly more likely to trip while running.”
You roll your eyes. “Good thing I’m not planning on fleeing the scene of a crime today.”
“Ignore boy genius, baby girl,” Morgan says as he steps into the room, heading straight for the espresso machine. “You look good.”
You flash him a grin. “See? Somebody appreciates me.”
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.”
“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.
notes: smut warning. eeek! last day but not last chapter! slightly rushed because i wanted to get it out asap for you so sorry for any mistakes. i think im gonna carry it on for a little bit of aftermath when they go back to school and wrap it up once the relationship is established? then we’ll go back to normal stand alone fics! 🥰 buckle up for this one because it’s what you’ve been waiting for . . . also i feel im rusty as hell with smut so lmkkkkk. like and reblog <333
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“ALFIE BUTTLE?”
“yeah.”
“as in . . alfie alfie? alfie buttle? from school?”
“yeah,” you smiled.
“what are you doing with him?! since when were you guys friends?!”
“we’re not really . . . i mean — he’s just over here the same time as us, they’re in the same complex as us and everything. but yeah, he basically offered to walk me home.”
your mum hummed on the other end of the phone, scanning the outside from the kitchen sink. “well . . that was awfully nice of him. i really appreciate him doing that for you.”
“i know. it was very nice.”
“and were you ok on your own? you weren’t scared staying by yourself?”
“yeah, it was fine. we got some food together and i just watched some tv when i got back . . yeah, it was fine.”
balancing your phone on your shoulder, you couldn’t stop the grin on your face as you spoke to your mum, updating her on how your trip was going and filling her in on plans when heading home. you’d been telling her about last nights antics when she questioned why you hadn’t stayed with the girls, and told her how there’d been a bit of a fallout, but nothing major. it was basically a bunch of drunk nonsense and that you’d be friends when they all woke up.
“alfie didn’t keep you company?” you could hear the teasing in her voice.
“you allowing a boy in my apartment?”
“not what i said.”
“that’s what i’m hearing,” you sang.
“you dare.”
you chuckled, eyes drifting down to the pool. it was almost nine and the place was still quiet — perfectly expected for a holiday morning, everyone still pinned to their beds from the weight of last night - their hangover would undoubtedly wake them before they could themselves. it was the first morning you’d woken up feeling fresh, clear-headed, awake. no pounding behind your eyes, no dry mouth, no fog to shake off or anxiety to battle against. just a soft, unfamiliar lightness in your chest.
too light.
giddy almost, whether it was from the appropriate amount of sleep you got last night or lack of drink and other substances in your body—
or maybe it was something entirely different.
who knew.
you eyed the empty pizza box on your table, the grin tugging your lips as your mum continued to ramble down the phone, organising your own airport pick-up conditions.
“do you want pizza?”
you looked up from your feet, to your left where you saw the small pizzeria with a bright neon sign outside it. your stocks grumbled at the very thought, and alfie was already side-stepping towards it, his eyes still on you awaiting confirmation.
“hm, yeah. i’m happy with pizza.”
he nodded and lead the way, well, a step ahead, not wanting you to fall short of two steps out of his sight. “i actually don’t even like pizza.”
you froze, mid-step up the curb. “what?”
“i don’t like pizza,” he half-laughed, half-coward with embarrassment in his steps.
“how do you not like pizza? who doesn’t t like pizza?” your thoughts spoke out loud. “it’s—it’s pizza?”
he shrugged his shoulders, hands in his pockets. “saucy, innit.”
“saucy?”
“don’t like red sauce.”
you stared at him with that face you knew was using all the muscles in your face. “i don’t like red sauce but i still eat pizza?”
he shook his head at you. “you’re a fraud.”
you just stood at him, your mouth basically agape with surprise. “ . . . you’re so odd.”
he shrugged, laughing at himself. “told you i’m a fussy eater.”
“no, there’s fussy eater, alfie, and then there’s you.”
he raised his shoulder again.
you watched him, standing up onto the curb and stepping towards the counter. “i’ll ask without sauce?”
“what?! no, no it’s ok,” he stepped in, confusing you a little. “don’t do that.”
“why? they won’t mind?”
“that’s so embarrassing,” he mumbled between you, standing so close you could smell the faint scent of beer on his breath. not in a turnful way, but in a . . musky, manly-scented way — and if kind of made you go what the fuck.
“no it’s not,” you smiled slightly, reassuring him with your eyes before approaching the counter. you felt him grab your wrist you assumed to pull you back but he let go and stepped back, hands in his hair. you didn’t get why he’d be so embarrassed. you didn’t care. you were sure the guy didn’t care so long as you placed that €10 in his hands. “hi! can i get a plain margarita please?”
he nodded, and you eyed the menu, your eyes lighting up as you spotted an even better solution. “oh! alfie, how about garlic bread?” you looked over your shoulder and he looked up from behind you, agreeing. “and a garlic bread as well, please.”
you sat down on the curb with both boxes on your lap, your coins rattling in your hand before you stuffed it back in your pocket. “i didn’t ask for a sauceless pizza . . not that it would’ve mattered,” you handed him his box.
“thanks,” he sheepishly smiled. “i just feel like . . i mean i go to subway and i order ham and cheese . .” he looked at you unashamed but acting like he should be. “i just know they’re judging me hard behind the counter.”
“i wouldn’t care . .” you shook your head. “you think too much of what people care about you — well, unimportant people. i mean you’re never gonna see that guy again,” you nodded to the man in the stall. “and i’m sure he’s seen worse things on this street than a guy ordering a cheese bread.”
alfie nodded, opening his lid. “yeah, you’re right. i dunno, i do care about what unimportant people think. and i usually don’t care what people think.”
“yeah,” you flipped open the top and grabbed a slice, the cheese thick and stringy. your mouth was watering. “thank you, by the way.”
“i fuckin’ love garlic bread,” alfie mumbled before lifting it to his mouth. two seconds later, a sharp gasp left his lips. “AH! FUCK!” he covered it, “fucking scalding!”
you laughed unexpectedly, trying to hold your food in your mouth mid-bite while your eyes closed, chuckling deeply at his stupidity.
“ooowwww,” he continued, looking at you with an amusement in his eyes but a pain - eyes glossy, like if he didn’t laugh right now, he could probably cry. it was very sweet.
“aw,” you shared sympathy, your own eyes glossy from the subtle tears of laughter. “you alright?”
“yeah,” he breathed, wiping his eye, “that fucking burned.”
you laughed again, hunching over slightly, covering your mouth, your chewing on hold.
he could be so funny without trying to be.
you thought of how he’d reached over and tapped his card before you could pay, how he walked on the outside of the pavement without even thinking, how he tried to play off when cheese burned the roof of his mouth when really you knew he was hurt.
your mum could hear the soft snickering on the line. “what are you laughing at?”
“nothing,” you shook your head, “something stupid.”
“hmph . . alright. what’s your plans for today? last night and all that.”
you let out a breath, sipping your bottle of water. “i don’t know. probably go hard tonight.”
“y/n don’t say that!” she groaned. “i don’t want you back in a body bag! nor a bone out of place!”
“mum calm down . . i got holiday insurance.”
“my nerves are away with you, girl. i’m going.”
you laughed over the phone. “alright. i’ll text you later. i miss you.”
“i know, but you’re doing alright. this time tomorrow you’ll be getting ready for the airport.”
“i know. that’s true,” you looked down at the pool again, hearing a slide door open. it was so early you could hear all the weird bugs cricketing and humming about, the birds chirping faintly in the trees. they all went into hiding when the apartment blocks came to life. “alright, i love you. talk to you later.”
“i love you more. please don’t go too crazy.”
“i won’t. love you. bye!”
“bye honey.”
you dropped your phone on your chest, not knowing how to cope with the feeling in your chest. it was almost overwhelming how ticklish it felt, like it wasn’t supposed to feel this relieved.
you were still in the top from last night, the material comfy and more than likely to be a sleep shirt when you got back to the uk.
“should we go in and get you a new top?”
you smiled and shook your head as he took a step towards the one of many identical shops you passed by on the daily when on holiday. the type of shop that sold clothes from flowey tops to swimshorts, bikinis that were trendy back in 2014 to t-shirts with dirty sayings. sunglasses, towels, beach bags, hats, inflatables. it had magnets, snow globes, pens, mirrors, toys like the little robotic walking dogs and designer handbags for a tenth of the price.
“come on, let just go in,” he nodded his head encouragingly, already up the first step.
you fought to roll her eyes although you weren’t entirely mad. you followed him in the cramped space and didn’t know where to look first. scanning for a pretty bracelet or keyring. you plucked three magnets while you were there incase you missed your chance tomorrow for your relatives. alfie nudged your arm and you looked to find him pointing out a lighter with a pair of tits on it.
“what the fuck,” you laughed, picking it up. “maybe i should get this for my nan.”
“was thinking the same thing, you know.” he looked at you, watching a smile break out on your face. you both laughed at the image.
“these are kinda sick,” you tried on a nice pair of shades, liking how they framed your face.
you looked to alfie who handed you the same pair in a better colour. you chose them instead.
“do i look like a dad with these?” he tried on a rectangular pair of 2000s themed, surprisingly pulling them off. “yeah!” you placed a cap on his head, “you look like you’re about to host a barbecue.”
you looked at yourselves in the skinny mirror, taking a moment to realise you were getting carried away with all the gadgets, more than likely not even going to use them back home.
you held up a set with mirrored lenses, and he took his off, letting you slide them on for him. you were then just staring at yourself in them, impressed by the quality. “wow. do not wear those to a poker game.”
alfie smiled, watching your eyes dart across his face, getting a real good look at your eyes without feeling weird about it. “right, let me find a top.”
the shop had some nice pieces you would actually wear, and not all just neon t-shirts with writing like ‘free blowjobs’ or ‘old pussy is better than no pussy’. “i think this will do,” you held up a white bandeau top that was frilly at the end, knotted at the bust. “or this one,” a red one in the other. they were €8.
“that one.”
you held up the white. “this one?”
“yeah, that’s more you.”
your cheeks warmed unexpectedly. “ok.”
you were at the till, paying for your things when he was still messing around with things, trying wicker hates on. “i think i’m gonna buy this.”
he had an odd looking hat on his head, but you just let him be. “whatever you want, babe.”
you paused at the till, grimacing at yourself for the pet name and freaked at our easily it slipped out. you tried to play it off as a patronising joke, but really you were horrified at yourself. alfie noticed it though, and laughed, looking at himself in the mirror. “i do look sick.” he looked over at you.
you rolled your eyes, amused by his antics.
“hey.”
you jumped at the unexpected voice, seeing faye standing at the slide doors of the balcony.
her hair was a nest, recently waken from her slumber. her makeup was still half on, her tiny pyjamas twisted. she looked like she came out of a coma.
“hey.”
she stepped out cautiously, her arms folded into herself. you faced out to the view.
“i just wanted to talk about last night . . apologise for my behaviour.”
you pulled a face, still viewing the scenery. “to be honest, i don’t want to. i don’t care, faye. i accept your apology and i appreciate your maturity for recognising your wrongdoing, but respectfully, you need to stay away from me today. all of you, until i feel like talking to you,” you confessed, your tone plain. “you’re lucky i wasn’t drunker than i was or i would have literally smashed your face in. all your faces in. and partly i still want to, so please just steer clear of me and go back to bed.”
you could feel the tension spawn in as the words left your mouth although your tone wasn’t aggressive. her movements slowed and any sense of easiness, vanished. she no longer felt invited out onto the balcony as she realised you were still upset.
she swallowed, and slowly nodded her head. “ok.”
“thanks.”
she backtracked into the room, leaving you alone again with a exhausting wave of agitation.
you always did try to avoid fights as a whole, especially when anyone was drunk, you know how people get. you never wanted to fight your friends - and you’d never want to hurt them - but when they got in that mood, you had to challenge yourself to not give in - because it’s an unfair fight to begin with, nevermind drunk you.
last night caught you off guard. you felt you didn’t really have a chance to react because you were so goddamn confused — trying to make sense of what was actually happening and what you’d done wrong.
you guess that’s what hurt: you’re friends should’ve recognised your innocence instead of painting it as fakeness . . which again, was confusing on your behalf because when had you ever been fake to your friends?
that was the whole point of a friendship, you weren’t fake with one another?
you tried to settle yourself, to not think of last night and think happy thoughts! and things to look forward to!
beth said the girls were going to go shopping this morning for souvenirs and such to bring home, but you’d declined the invite, explaining you’d already gotten yours last night and was going to spend the morning down at the pool. she didn’t push, and went on to get ready, telling you to enjoy it.
the pool was empty at this time of day, you were the only one down this early, the sun thankfully blasting on full heat as the UV hit a new high of 10.
you put on your tiniest bikini — well, ok, not your tiniest, but one that wouldn’t leave mad tannins nor feel like it was agitating you with tightness or loose strings. you didn’t plan on wearing it at all, but with no one around and the sun at its highest, you thought why not.
your hair was up and out of your way as you tottled on down to the best placed sundeck there was, laying your towel down and placing your belongings beside it.
you were taking it easy today, from start ‘til finish. you took out your kindle and enjoyed the silence after costing some SPF over you, not trying to catch wrinkles before 25, and relaxed. you didn’t even think about last night, nor wondered what the girls were up to. you just zoned in on your book while sweat began to puddle on your stomach, cooking your skin softly.
you’re 20 pages in when you hear footsteps approaching. your eyes lift above the screen to see none other than your companion last night, sunglasses on and a pharmacy bag in his hands, nike sliders scraping the ground.
“oh . . hey.”
“hey,” you shuffle up a little, not wanting your chins to be on show.
“how’s things?” he slows towards you, standing at the side of you, at a distance. he feels like you’ve seen enough of him, like he might be suffocating you a bit with his presence these last few days.
“they’re . . alright. no bad blood but . . space is needed today,” you nod, squinting up at him. his shades are dark, you can’t see his eyes, but even without them, he’s going his best to not acknowledge the absolute scene in front of him which is you entirely oiled up from head to toe; your stomach glistening in a way he almost feels sick. “why were you at the chemist?”
he senses your concern, and opens the bag, looking down at it, “it’s for carter. he’s so burnt, i actually offered to go get him a certain cream that will help. he’s the only one that came home last night. i actually feel a bit bad for him, i know he’s in pain.”
“at least it’s the last day, he should stay in the shade today.”
“yeah, i think that’s the plan. we can’t really leave anyway, the other two have the only keycard, so . . if we go out, we can’t get back in,” he shares, stepping back.
“that’s a bit annoying. you should just stay by the pool today anyway, it’s too warm to be doing anything, i think,” you slide back down, arm over your head.
“yeah. feel like i been up your arse though, you not sick of me?” he makes fun of himself, and you smile, his expression tickling you. “i stick you 5 days a week, buddy, this is nothing new,” you grin.
he still watches you from his door, knocking for carter to answer with a smile on his face before it opens. “i’ll be back out then.”
“UV’s 10. you might as well.”
“dunno what that means.”
you roll your eyes, “it means you’ll get a really good tan today.”
“oh sick.”
you continue sunbathing, book in hand, trying to fight the urge to get in the pool when your front half of your body is thudding like its own heartbeat. you need to flip over, but you need your back protected.
“poor guy’s a lobster.”
“yeah?” you set your book down as alfie comes to sit next to you.
“yeah. i told him to call me if he needs anything else though,” he lays his towel down, taking off his cap. “jesus, it is hot today.”
“i know,” you watch him, eyes scanning his back as he adjusts his things and takes off his watch. “make sure you put suncream on . . especially on your moles.”
he looks at you over his shoulder and smiles, “you sound like my mum.”
“i know but . . i know with my cousin, he has moles and my auntie prioritised them being protected in the sun so just — make sure you’re covered. you’ll still tan.”
he finds it endearing, and reaches for his bottle to squeeze a generous amount in his hand. you watch him until you’re satisfied he’s ok.
he runs it across his chest, around his neck, and even at the sides of his head where his hair is shaven down. he does a good job, but you’re still staring at his back, the little dots along his spine he has no chance of reaching, even with all that muscle. you have to point it out. “your back, alf.”
he looks at you, and in response, holds out the bottle.
you take it, because you know it’s physically impossible for him to do it himself. “move up.”
he’s smiling, because you both know this is cliché, but he knows you’re too cautious for his health to give a fuck. he shuffles up and faces his back to you as you move to his seat and sit behind him, your legs folded.
“i could just put two dots on your back . . .” you say, rubbing it into your hands so it’s not cold, “but i’m just going to cover everywhere because it’s so hot, okay?” you don’t touch him until he give you his permission.
“ok.”
you place your hands on his shoulders, and alfie tries not to flinch. your hands start at his broad shoulder blades, coating them in the protective coconut scent and glide down and around them. already, you’re squeezing more in to cover the base of his back, his muscles like bumps under your palms.
he inhales sharply through his nose.
you don’t say anything.
you move lower, dragging the suncream down either side of his spine, palms flattening, smoothing the liquid out evenly. you were suddenly hyper-aware of how close you were — your knees almost brushing his hips, your shadow falling over him. he fidgets when you reach the dip in his back, his shoulders tensing.
“you’re gonna miss bits if you keep fidgeting.”
“sorry,” he muttered, and he didn’t move. if anything, he went still.
you continued, making sure to leave a slightly heavy dollop on top of the moles for extra protection. “if i do your sides, are you going to be ticklish?”
alfie breathed a laugh, his fingers pinching his head like he was in deep concentration, or fighting a pain, almost. “yeah.”
you smile a bit, “. . so . . you want me to leave it then?”
“no, just do it, i’ll hold my breath.”
you pull a face even though he can’t see it. you let out a loud giggle. “alfie that won’t do anything.”
“i know, just do it!” he laughs, bracing himself.
you ease into it, following the natural slope of his back until your fingers reached his sides and skim his ribs, careful and not hurried. the air feels thicker, as you run the ridges of his his ribcage, feeling muscle there.
the way your hands moulded to the shape of his body, almost gently gripping him when doing his sides—
alfie felt like he was fighting for his life.
it shouldn’t feel like this, he told himself. it was suncream, nothing else, but the slow drag of your hands, the way you were working carefully instead of rushing it —sent a strange, tight sensation through his chest.
don’t be weird, don’t be weird, don’t be weird. he told himself.
he tried to be normal, tried to act as nonchalant as a guy did when a girl —you— sat behind him in a bikini that with everything shining and on show, bare, with fingers as slow and deliberate as they worked over him like it was routine.
he hated to be a pervert — but you had the set pair of tits he’d ever seen - and a girl from school had got a boob job in your year.
“alright,” you slowed, and alfie let out the breath he’d been holding, chest rising fully. you smiled.
he turned before you’d properly finished, muscles moving when he adjusted, stomach flexing, and your eyes landed on the faint trail of darker hair disappeared beneath his swim shorts.
you pulled your hands away, too quickly.
you wiped them on your towel, eyes deliberately averted now. “let it dry before you lie down. it’ll only take a few minutes.”
he nodded, still not trusting his voice, fingers still pinching the top of his nose.
you didn’t question it. just got up and moved back to your original seat.
“thanks.”
“you’re welcome.”
it grows quiet as alfie sits there, doing as you’d told to let his cream dry in.
he watches you next to him. “ so you actually reading or just pretending?”
“i am reading.”
“what you reading?”
“a book?”
he throws his hat at you and you laugh a little, sitting up a bit. “it’s a thriller with a bit of romance going on. i think she’s actually just killed the guy.”
“oh. fitting.”
you glance at him again, catching the line of his jaw, the way his hair seems lighter at the tips, even the solidness of his neck made you wonder how much he actually pushed himself in the gym.
you looked away quickly, heart acting up.
the birthmark near his collarbone caught your eye before you turned. “did you cover that?” you said, deflecting.
“offering your services again?”
“please just put some on it so i can sunbathe in peace. please.”
he smirked, and reached for the bottle anyway.
ᯓ ✈︎
remember you said you were taking it easy?
yeah, well, that was out the window.
you haven’t paid for a single drink all night, every time your cup’s empty, there’s another one shoved into your hand: vodka lemonade; something blue; something pink that tastes like sweets and nothing else - you can’t taste the alcohol, and you know the servers fill the glass half way. it’s dangerous. you know it’s.
you take a sip anyway.
juice. genuinely just juice.
it felt like you just teleported to the strip. getting ready in the apartment was fine, being in the company with the girls was ok too. they came back with a handbag (fake, but a damn good dupe) of the one you’d said you’d hunt down and find the next time you guys went abroad. they presented it to you, saying it was a peace offering and an apology, telling you how they’d all pitched in to buy it for you. you accepted it, wearing it out tonight.
you’re in a floaty state, the drink moving quick, pulling you into that state of perfect drunk.
at least you’re laughing.
the girls are back in your orbit, arms linked, hands around the other, screaming lyrics at the top of their lungs like the song was written for them personally. faye keeps pulling you in for hugs that last too long, pressing her forehead to yours and shouting apologies you can’t quite make out.
courtney grabs your hands and spins you under the lights. the floor is sticky and wet, your feet slide. you nearly go down and all of you shriek, collapsing into each other in hysterics.
everything’s funny.
everything’s loud.
everything feels okay.
your head buzzes, pleasantly empty, like there’s fuck all behind your eyes. just the drink you’ve been consuming, swishing around in your head.
the boys played a drinking game before they came out. it was supposed to be an easy game, something to help pass the time; to play in the back while they all got ready, waiting their turn for the shower and for jay to finish ironing their shirts for tonight. it got to the point where alfie had stepped out of the shower to complete his go and dylan helped jay take his shot without him needing to lift his hand off the ironing board.
they were wonky by the time they’d walked down the street, laughing like lunatics and acting like animals with their rough play and running and jumping into things.
you were at the table, sipping your straw, moving your body casually to the music while the girls prepared themselves for a photo, rustling bags for lip liners, fluffing hair. you clocked the other group among the shuffling about 10 feet away.
the place was packed, and the instant joel clocked you, you knew they were coming to join your table.
he hadn’t even set his cup down when courtney had shoved her camera in his hand. apparently digital cameras were the coming trend. “jo-wel take—take our photo please,” the sound of her slurring made you all laugh.
your eyes drifted, eyeing the crowd when you saw the others, two approaching, two still at the bar. alfie looked at you knowingly.
his expression was flat, his eyes still, glancing at your table; zoned on faye in her cheap cropped jacket, cold on courtney in her stupid feathered top, looking up beth and that tacky necklace around her neck.
you caught it, even when he glanced around the room afterward to play it casual; in his navy polo, fitting him perfectly with where it emphasised him where he wanted it most - catching his slim waist but tight around his biceps, complimenting his skin tone and the tan he’d accomplished this trip. the top button was undone, promising eyes the smallest sight of the start of his chest, not that you didn’t know what it looked like already. his hair was styled effortlessly, not an inch of stubble on his face, clean shaven, his skin glowing.
your eyes trailed down his arms, catching the thickness of his forearms, the faint faint running along it down to his wrist where a heavy watch sat; signet ring on his pinky.
your heart was thumping with the base anyway, the heat sending your head to a floaty place, the sun kicking your ass in the way it knocked any sense out of your head, especially with the company of drink in your system.
you watched him making his way forward like it was against his own will, not mad, just . . disappointed . . uncomfortable almost, like, his face might have been blank but you knew it read ‘for fuck’s sake, not here’ — and selfishly, you didn’t care —
because he looked so fucking sexy.
FUCK! THAT FELT GOOD TO ADMIT TO YOURSELF.
fuck, he did.
he was so fucking sweet.
and he looked so good.
you weren’t even going to hide it, you were tired of acting, the sun leaving you loose - your face was nearly like a kicked puppy, almost as if you could sense his irritated towards you for being back with your mates he’d basically recused you from the night before.
you could feel it in your eyebrows, how they were raised with shame and guilt.
fuck. you were so drunk.
he met your eyes, and one look and he knew how you felt — and he physically couldn’t keep up an act. he dropped his tense attitude upon seeing your knowing stare, and subtly, softly, you could see the tension ease in his face. his eyes falling gentle, the fucking smallest, tiniest lift in the corner of his lip as he circled around to you, still not speaking a word.
he stopped next to you, a step behind, not saying a word. you stood with a sloppy grin on your face.
“Y/N GET IN THE PICTURE!”
you stumbled as jess threw her arm around your neck, pulling you into the end of the photo, your smile so unbelievably drunk, eyes growing heavy, your body weight thrown onto your friend for the small lense to capture. yet, the digi cam was big enough to capture your hand clasped around the bicep in the back for stability, holding you up.
you stepped back onto your feet, looking for your bag, moving your hair from your face as you crouched, however, a hand came to take your own and pull you up slow and steadily, the bag around their arm.
you looked at alfie with your 90s style shoulder bag on his shoulder, your eyes asking the question.
“it was on the floor,” he quietly dropped your hand.
you looked to the handbag.
“it was open.”
your head shot up to his eyes.
suddenly, your drowsy state was alert.
he stared at you.
alfie still had your bag on his shoulder when he leaned down and slowly slipped it down his arm, mouth close to your ear so you could hear over the noise.
“do you want to go to the bathroom?”
you pulled back to look at him, for some reason, feeling like this was a trap. like, there was no way he was actually . . getting at . . doing what you think you were both going to do . . with that . . stuff still sitting in your bag.
he answered for you and lead the way, nodding to the toilets and guided you with a hand on your back, keeping you close in the crowds but carrying the authority to manoeuvre you both through it.
you had some balls still carrying that packet about with the amount of police surrounding the area lately. all the popular holiday destinations had so many law enforcement casually standing around party destinations in full gear: heavy black boots, bulletproof vests, massive guns occupying their hands. you’d become used to it as the nights carried on, but tonight seemed to be the first night you felt actually paranoid with the sexy cops standing about.
waiting on a free stall felt like eternity. standing with your arms crossed, head tilted, leaning on the wall; alfie mirroring you from the wall opposite, both your eyes on each other. it was quieter but still loud with the multiple voices, the air thick and warm, you could almost bite into it.
the girls was jam packed. alfie nodded when he felt the men’s was emptier, and you hesitantly followed, partly ashamed to be heading in with him when you knew exactly what everyone was thinking when seeing you.
hoots and hollers emerged from deep voices as you entered the stall, alfie’s tall frame hiding you mostly from eyes as he shot warning stares at those watching, even so much as pausing before following you in with his hand on the door, his unimpressed face saying it all.
he turned to see big, doe eyes looking up at him from the closed toilet seat, hands clutching both ends of your handbag.
“are you judging me?”
his face screwed up in response.
“do you think i’m a skank?”
alfie’s features deepened further. “what?”
“i don’t even know what it is.”
alfie’s eyes widened at that. “wha—” he looked at your handbag like it was a bomb, “y/n that’s dangerous.”
“well it’s either ket or ‘DMA.”
he swallowed down at you.
not because he was scared, but because as much as much as he slagged the shit out of girls who did drugs on a weekly basis, turned his nose up at and even used as ammo in silly weekend debates -
it was the hottest fucking thing coming from you.
“have you done any of them?”
his shoulders relaxed.
you were asking if he was comfortable.
alfie crouched down so he was eye-level with you, a soft, reassuring smile on his face as he took your handbag from you and grinned. “have you?”
you watched him unzip your bag before snatching it back, holding it to your chest. “be honest — you think i’m a skank.”
his head hit the door of the cubicle, an annoyed look taking his face now. “y/n, i’d never and have never thought of you as skank. i don’t think you’re a dirty . . disgusting, ratty . . sniffing scumbag.”
you were so worried this was the last thing you were going to do with this weird holiday bond you’d formed whilst away before you jetted off home and he told everyone how much of a sleazy, waster, piece of shit you were sticking your nose in a pack of powder every night. you’d be ruined. so unbelievably ruined.
“i think you’re funny. you’ve the biggest fucking nerve talking about everyone else doing it on a monday fucking morning,” he snickers a laugh, and then is unable to hold it back, letting his cackles out.
you joined.
“you fuckin’ bitch!”
you laughed harder, rocking back in your seat as alfie let himself drop onto the floor, holding his stomach.
and just like that, your nerves were gone. you lay against the tiled wall, looking down at him across from him in that stupid, sexy, navy polo top.
“have you had a good night?” he asks.
you watch him, brain going smoosh. “yeah. they’ve been ok.”
he lifts his head in acknowledgment.
“i’m glad you guys came though.”
he just smiles.
you reach for the zip of your bag after watching for a minute, the littlest bit of hesitation numbing in your fingers, for the simple fact that, you felt like you didn’t need it. you were content how you were, happy with the buzz you had rocking with the drink alone - but - alfie was already here, you were here, he was here for one reason and one reason only and you weren’t going to let him down.
besides, when you were left with the girls, you’d be thankful for the hit.
alfie watched your fingers pop open the bag, drowning out the noise in the room as you both became hyper-focused on the task at hand. you looked from the packet to him, your heart racing a little, your cheek beginning to flush.
why was this so embarrassing???
“you first,” you tilted it to his direction.
alfie shuffled forward until he was infront of you. his hand curled around your wrist, keeping it steady while the other felt for something in his pocket.
upon patting himself down, he swore under his breath, and looked to the side in thought. “. . . joel has my key . . .”
without missing a beat, you scooped your acrylic, pinky nail into the bag of powder and held it out under his right nostril.
alfie tried to hide his amusement in this serious situation, and dipped his head ever so slightly, locking his eyes with yours.
he stayed with you after few minutes after you’d snorted your share up your nose, the embarrassment and shame still hanging heavy while looking at him afterward.
you still half-expected that certain look from him. the one where his eyes held that unavoidable judgement in them. a smugness to him that said ‘you’re just like the rest of them.’ you were ready for him to leave, to snicker and walk away, to fill the boys in on what he’d just got up to with you in the stall and maybe even add his own little spin to it.
but he didn’t.
he watched you tip your head back while patting down your nose, placing the tiny baggie in your handbag with the smallest twitch in your hand. “you alright?”
his voice spooked you despite its monotone, and you looked at him, nodding, tucking your hair behind your ear that kept falling forward. you sat on the toilet lid while he remained on the floor in front of you, waiting for you to make the move that reassured him — you were okay.
you could hardly look at him, waiting for the high to kick in so you could get on with your night.
but when you stole a glance at him, alfie was already watching you — no judgement. no smugness. no amusement. nothing.
he reached forward and moved the hair out of your face again, his fingers sliding smoothly behind the shel of your ear, making sure it didn’t move.
you stared at him.
the bathroom door kicked open and you both spilled back out into the club like nothing had happened, like you hadn’t just flipped the night sideways, and how from there it all blurred into one long, messy memory.
alfie getting weirdly fascinated by the hand dryer and announcing it was “actually mad how powerful these are.” jay immediately trying to fight a traffic cone outside and losing. joel insisting he could hear the music echoing inside his bones. you laughing so hard at absolutely nothing that alfie had to steady you by the elbow while telling everyone you were ‘just overwhelmed by the vibes.’ the strip feeling brighter and louder than usual, police sirens popping up somewhere that sent everyone running purely on instinct, you and alfie sprinting for half a street before realising no one was chasing you and crouching behind a shuttered shop crying with laughter. jay reappearing out of nowhere and asking if anyone had ‘seen his dignity.’ alfie buying water and pressing it into your hands every ten minutes like he’d decided it was his job to keep you alive. you remember sitting on a curb debating whether the moon looked fake tonight, or sharing crisps with strangers who told you they loved you, or alfie leaning in to tell you something important and then completely losing the thought halfway through which sent you both into hysterics.
you couldn’t stay off him. arms brushing stood next to each other; legs pressed together sat on the curb. his body was always close enough, the warmth never left. he’d been glued to you all night, and you, him. you both began to lose your friends when taking too long in the bathroom or down a quiet alleyway, each one breaking off throughout the night it felt as you were in and out of your handbag, combining packets, losing lip liners and dropping phones.
not that it affected either of you. your company was the only one that mattered, considering everyone else wasn’t on your upbeat level.
talking fast. moving faster. giggling loud. practically jumping in your steps, you were wide-eyed and ready for the night to be yours.
it was hard to stay still.
you watched a fight break out from the inside of a club, your arm tangled with alfie’s as your cheek hovered at his back, initially going to tell him something, and instead become fascinated by the sight in front of you. alfie was watching it too. even the bar tender making your drink was watching.
you broke out of it when, eventually, someone did try to break them up, and the smallest of strands from alfie’s cotton shirt brushed the tip of your nose, unaware of how close you were leaning into him.
you wanted to melt right into his bones.
especially when the girl next to him started sharing a giggle with him at the bar, and you can’t remember if you did pull her long, curled ponytail or just badly want to. you don’t remember having a long face, but you recall alfie turning around and backing you up as you refused to take so many steps away from him, seeing his lips pulled in that loud smirk, like he knew something was up as he carried both your glasses.
“what’s the matter?” he leaned down to speak in your ear.
“nothin’.”
“yeah there is.”
“there’s not,” your eyes shot to the side to look at him, faces so close, you could see individual hairs at the start of his eyebrows.
he tried to make you laugh, pressing his forehead to the side of your head like the rhino he was which made break instantly. his arm snuck around the front of you in a somewhat hug as he squeezed you tight, your body moulding perfectly against his.
whether it was the bass of the music and the multicoloured lights, the endless drinking, or the entire packet of whatever you’d bought rewiring your insides — your legs felt lighter, your arms looser, your heart racing at the same time it slowed down, and when you didn’t drop your hands from around alfie’s neck after pointing out some guy to the right, when you stayed there swaying with him instead - you started to realise how frighteningly in control and out of control you were of both your body and mind. how close he was, how warm and heavy his hands felt at your ribcage, how comfortable the position was for both of you.
your hand curled into the nape of his neck when a group of girls shoved past, teeth sinking into your tongue as he instinctively pulled you closer, close enough that you had to lift one leg slightly to make room for them to squeeze through. loud and squeaky, wedges stomping into the ground that they’d end up 6ft under if the brushed your baby toe.
he was fixed on your side profile, even with the scowl on your face that said you were two seconds away from punching someone, and he couldn’t look away when you turned back to him. he wanted to see every detail. the curl of your lashes. the softness of your skin, even the faint acne scars along your jaw that only made you more real to him. the tiny crease between your brows, the baby hairs by your ear - he kept dragging his eyes back to your mouth, only to get trapped again by the compelling masterpiece that were your eyes.
he loved seeing the many changes over the past week: in the sun, in the moonlight, under bright multicoloured lights or the reflection of water. he wished he could slam the colour in the palm of his hand and use it as his preference for all future belongings.
“we should go,” he said suddenly, voice low, almost careful.
“go where?”
he blinked like the answer was obvious. “home.”
you tilted your head, squinting at him, grin still pulling at your mouth. “why?”
“pool,” he added after a second. like it was the most natural next step in the world.
and it was.
it seemed like an amazing idea.
the strip was too loud, too bright, too crowded anyway — things were starting to annoy you, unless it was the steady pressure of his hand guiding you through bodies, unless it was the way he kept glancing back to make sure you were still there, still smiling, still upright, still with him.
it felt like you reached the apartment block in 2 seconds thanks to a speedy tuktuk, the giddiness kicking in when dropped mere meters from your complex. a new wave of thrill and excitement shot through you, lighting every nerves with a new reckless and exhilarating blaze. you kicked your heels off in the street, abandoned carelessly by a palm tree and bolted to the pool, bare foot, laughing while you ran, jumping in not five seconds before alfie did, sending a massive wave of a splash everywhere.
you surfaced spluttering, hair in your face, still laughing when you felt him reach for you underwater, lifting you up just to throw you under again in the deep end, and doing it over and over again until your stomach hurt with laughter, struggling to breathe.
he had the sense to quit, chuckling to himself as he reached for you to pull you back to the shallow end, inhabiting a surge of confidence to pull your your arm up over his shoulder, the other following in your own consciousness.
you looked like a drowned rat. you know you did. you sputtered more water, scraping your hair back, knowing your eyelashes were probably clumped together and your makeup beginning to wash off whether it was waterproof or not.
you laughed in his face when seeing his eyes dance over yours, knowing you probably looked scary.
you quickly fell to silence, chests rising heavily under the water, droplets falling from both your hair and lashes — alfie’s annoyingly looking longer and thicker than yours ever would, you couldn’t quit looking at them.
it was only when you realised you couldn’t move your body any physically closer that you noticed how tangled you actually were — both of your legs hooked loosely around his waist, just above his hips to keep while your your chest brushing his every time the water lifted you. his hands sat firm on your hips, holding you without daring drop lower.
the realisation hit all at once, sharp and dizzying, the laughter drying up in your throat as the air between you changed.
thick and sharp, suddenly very aware of itself.
alfie seemed to clock it at the exact same time.
his grip shifted slower. more deliberate. his eyes flicked down, then back up to your face, and something darkened there, something heated that made your stomach flip.
“do you actually hate me?”
his question catches you off guard.
your break your gaze off his lips and look at him in the eyes, pulling back ever so slightly, you place a hand on his shoulder with a confused look that always comes across passive-aggressive.
he continues. “i just feel like you hate me too much to . . .” his gaze falters, pulling his own confused gaze looking off behind your shoulder.
“to what?” you try to block his view.
“i dunno.”
you stare at him.
thirty seconds pass.
you cross your arms behind his neck. “whether i hate you or not, does that matter right now?”
he glances up.
your smile is loud.
“you’re gonna blame me for this in the morning.”
“i know.”
there was no time to waste.
with fingers curling into his wet hair, you dragged him down to meet you, lips crashing together hard enough that he made a sound you felt in your chest more than heard.
the water sloshed around you as he stumbled beneath the water, hands tightening like instinct had taken over, like he’d been waiting for permission he hadn’t realised he was holding his breath for. his hands dropped to your ass as you opened your mouth, allowing him full access as your tongues met each other for the first time.
you were starving for him. you couldn’t help but almost eat him, forcing your tongue to taste every inch of him. he couldn’t breathe, trying to keep up with your needy, eager pace.
“fuck,” he breathed against your mouth, and you laughed quick once, eyes still closed before kissing him again.
this one slower. deeper. even messier.
he moved you both until your back hit the pool wal, your teeth catching his lip by accident and he groaned: low, startled, pleased, pulling you impossibly closer in the water.
every nerve felt lit up, electrifying, the pool suddenly too small – too full of him.
your arms slipped from his hair to your skirt, thumbs tucking down the sides before tugging them down.
“wait-wait—wait,” alfie pulled away just enough so that your nose were still brushing. “ . . . i don’t think i can do this in a pool . .”
your brows furrowed instinctively.
the door to his apartment slammed against the wall as he carries you both in, kicking it closed as a trail of water soaked the floorboards in your steps.
he lifts you without warning — just hooks his arms under your thighs and hauls you up against him like you weigh nothing — and you gasp, instinctively clinging to him, legs locking around his waist as he stumbles toward the steps, still kissing you like he’s scared if he stops for even a second you’ll change your mind.
your mouths moved in sync, your body tingling every second you guys touch, an inexplainable feeling of warmth and familiarity consuming you despite this being your first time with one another. there’s relief the same time there is an aching amount of impatience.
his hands slide from your back to your ass to your hips where he grips you, hauling your against his, the ache is unbearable between your legs. your hands pull at his shirt before you guide his wrist in the direction of your soaked, see-through skirt. “alfie, please.”
he answers with what you want, peeling his heavy shirt off before throwing it to the side an pushing down your skirt along, his hand sliding into your wet thong not a second after.
a moan escapes you at the contact and alfie stutters a breath of air, like, he can’t believe this is happening. that he’s the one making you like this. “you ok?”
“yes, please, hurry up,” you whine, holding his wrist, the wall keeping you upright for now. you can’t even look at him in his shirtless state or you might combust.
you struggle to kiss him as his fingers stroke you at first, his palm covering your mound whole as he rubs you slow and torturously before sliding a finger between your lips.
your moan loudly, and he takes the opportunity to slip his tongue back in your mouth, now taking control as you melt into him.
he’s fast to add another finger, pumping them into you slowly at first until you’re used to their intrusion, your nails digging into his bare shoulder blade. “oh my god, quick,” you beg, lips brushing his as he fastens his pace.
you don’t know if it’s the drugs that makes the experience of him fingering you so incredibly or if it’s just alfie in general, but you’re embarrassed by how good his fingers alone are. long and thick and familiar with what they’re doing, “fuck, i’m gonna come already,” you whisper pathetically, voice hoarse, your head dropping as he keeps going, his lips finding your jaw as he sucks and nips.
you remember coming hard, his fingers pumping in and out of you at an ungodly pace through it until you could feel your own release on your legs.
your mouth hung open, a string of breathless, whiney sounds leaving them as he slowed his moments until you gave his shoulder the smallest push, the pleasure teetering overstimulation, you needed a moment to collect yourself.
although it really was a moment, because in your bambi-like stance, your stumble towards him with your hands pulling at your top, peeling off with your bra unbuckling after. alfie stumbled back also, his eyes flying from your face to your tits: his mouth filled with saliva.
your hands gripped his face while his grabbed your thighs, hoisting you up on him with ease as you wrapped your legs around him.
you could feel how hard he was. how badly he wanted you. if his dick didn’t give it away, his actions did; large hands exploring your body, mouth attacking your own, legs tripping backwards as he couldn’t think straight. “fuck me.”
you remember your back on his bed, and him dropping his torso rolling on yours, careful not to crush you with his body weight. your fingernails traced his back, his sides and his stomach, feeling the muscle everywhere but you couldn’t leave his arms alone.
boxing you in, you gripped his biceps, waiting for him to shuffle his shorts off while waiting for him, legs spread, ready and eager.
you hated when he pulled his mouth away, chasing his lips every second they parted from yours.
even in your frenzied state, when both your eyes were blown and seeing things, you saw the attentiveness in his green and the hesitance when he paused above you, boxers off, cock standing proud in all it’s glory, surprising you — but not really.
you knew alfie was a big boy. you’d be more surprised if he had been any different.
“it’s ok,” you assured, eyes trained on him in his hand.
you were so wet, he slid right in with ease.
“aw fuck—alfie!” you cried out, feeling him inch in bit by bit. he was big. the stretch burned in a way you couldn’t breathe with how good it felt. you wanted to cry with pleasure, you hadn’t experienced anything like this. your hands gripped his hips, nail digging into them, ushering him to keep going.
“fuck,” he swore, watching himself slide into you. he was already light-headed, trying not to bust.
with a final push, you moaned, eyes screwed shut, mouth wide open, feeling every inch of him push into you, every vein stroking your walls before he quickly started to move: you felt like dynamite.
your whole body was tingling. buzzing. the overbearing thrill of him skin on skin with you sending every nerve, every hormone into its own little delightful party of fireworks.
the wet sound of skin slapping built on top, the feeling of alfie’s lips trailing down your neck to your chest sending your head spinning. you opened your eyes to watch him approach your breast, watching his tongue come out to lick your nipple before taking it in his warm mouth, sucking hardly and biting delicately, your back arched for more.
your arms locked around his neck as he moved his mouth to the other, sucking it into his hot, warm mouth while his hand palmed the left, squeezing hard while his hips continued to rock into you.
“—fuuuck, alfie,” your head hit the pillows as he came back up, mouth nudging your own.
“how are you real?” he spoke against your mouth, “it’s a sick joke,” he kissed you slow, capturing your lips with his own as his hands gripped your tits, the most beautiful set of tits he’d ever laid his eyes on; the softest skin he’d ever ran his hands across.
“faster,” your breathed, mouth falling open as your noses brushed together, your nails scraping down the dip of his back. alfie quickened his pace with a swear, pulling out a little further each time before rutting back into you; pussy clinging to him tighter and tighter each time he pulled away.
“fuck, i’m not gonna last,” he admitted, your hands falling as he rose to his knees.
you gasped as his hands grip your thighs and pull you down the bed, closer to him, legs risen in a way that allows him to hit at a deeper angle. “oh—FUCK!” you yelp as he begins to ram into you, your whole body jolting with each one of his heavy thrusts.
you never want it to end.
an hour passes. maybe two. you can’t remember.
all you know is that alfie is scarily skilled at least when it comes to you both as one, because your throat hurts with the noise coming from it all night, your legs burn from the positions they’ve been flipped in and the feeling between your legs — she hurts with a greedy satisfaction, yearning for more but knowing she can only take so much.
alfie makes you come at least three times as much as you can remember — with his fingers, with his dick, and with his mouth – which he told you he was ‘winging’ ‘cause he’d never done it before upon diving in.
you found that very hard to believe when your juices quite literally shot out of you, body wriggled with intensity, you’d never been so loud in your life in that moment.
you were spent. completely and utterly spent — to your utter dismay.
the bed was soaked. your hair was tatted. and sweat glistened your forehead. alfie’s muscles burned, sweat coated his back and abs, his hair messily sprawled across his forehead. he felt on cloud 9, nerves still dancing around with giddiness at its accomplice.
your bodies were miraculous together.
there was something about this particular match-up that would make others envious for what they didn’t know they lacked.
everything clicked. hips, hands, mouths, the rhythm you kept finding without speaking. every movement landed exactly where it was meant to, like neither of you had to adjust or second-guess or search for what the other wanted. like each move seemed to slot into place like muscle memory neither of you had learned yet.
it was fucking exhilarating. you didn’t know how to describe it as you lay there. it was the kind of fit that made your head spin, that made heat rush through you faster than your brain could keep up. messy and breathless and electric and just — perfect.
you knew you’d never experience anything like to again, and as sleep began to take over you, you wondered if it was the MDMA or ket or whatever that made you feel like that, or if it was just alfie.
you questioned it.
you tried to work out where the drugs ended and alfie began — told yourself it had to be the ket: the floaty warmth, the way everything felt unreal and too intense to trust.
but then he shifted in his sleep an pulled you closer without thinking - and your heart lept.
you waited for the regret.
for the panic.
for that familiar crash of what have i done?
but it never came . . which began to weird you out more even in your sleepy state.
however, in your safe state of security and comfort, you allowed yourself to drift, knowing there was no answers needed as of right now and no rush to run from it.
yourusername
liked by yourmum, alfiebuttle and 393 others
yourusername random selection cus i’m dead this morn 🫠 can’t believe it’s the last night, don’t want to go home 🧡🌅🪩 though i do miss my toastie machine xxx
summary: all alfie needed was a little bit of a push
content: love island!au , swearing , possessive behaviour , kissing , sexual innuendo
notes: ok hard launching the love island!au i really don’t know how long this is gonna last. i give it … until season 13 is over. will i ever stop creating au’s??? probably not
wc: 2,383
BEING IN A couple since day one was … good. You think. You weren’t too sure how to feel about it. On one side it was consistently stable, on the other side, you were wondering whether you were too quick to settle down.
It wasn’t like you hadn’t tried to explore connections with the other boys, because you had, it was just that none of them were particularly your cup of tea.
Alfie was lovely, he really was, you just wished sometimes that he’d try a little bit harder. You were starting to think that he was growing too comfortable in your couple and thought it was okay to start slacking.
It had only been a week and a half, so maybe you were just being a little dramatic, but it didn't change how you felt by any means.
The morning was chill. Nothing dramatic apart from a bowl of sliced fruits slid your way and refilling your water bottle numerous times whenever you asked him too.
When your phone chimed with a message, you shot up from your place on the day beds, reading the message over before gasping and squealing.
“Oh my God!”
“What?” Hannah asked, grabbing onto your wrist to pull your hand down and read the message.
“She got a message?” Morgan muttered from beside Alfie.
“‘Reader and Oscar, Marcus and Emma are waiting to take you on a date. Please go and get ready’!”
“No way!” Hannah screamed before beginning to jump up and down with you out of excitement.
“Shit.” Alfie muttered, rubbing his bottom lip.
“Why’s she so excited?” Morgan frowned, “Bit weird.”
“Nah, ‘s alright.”
All of the girls helped you get ready, Holly curling your hair while you did your makeup and Mehreen stood to the side, showing you your different outfit options.
You didn’t have long to pick, so you just threw on the most put-together-looking combination she threw your way and stumbled to put your wedged heels on as you went down the stairs.
“Ooo, look at you!” You awed at Oscar, who was wearing a white button-up top open with some black shorts. “Bye, Alfie!”
“No hug? The fuck, girl?” He scoffed playfully.
“Aw, come here.” You grinned, wrapping your arms around his neck and pecking his cheek.
“Don’t miss me too much.” He hummed, patting your ass lightly as you let go.
“Cocky, you.”
“Duh.”
Pulling away from him, you interlocked your arm with Oscar’s and made your way out of the villa and to the cars that would be taking you to your date area.
The boys and Alfie shared a bit of a knowing, worried look before the doors closed and they were blocked off from the outside world.
Marcus was a nice guy.
The date was a little across-the-table scene with a thin vase of flowers between you and a fruity mocktail to share.
You got to learn a bit about him, finding out that he was semi-pro footballer at 29 and had three siblings, consisting of two brothers and one sister. You made a comment about how big his family was, which then prompted him to respond with ‘Yeah, makes me want an even bigger one when I get the chance’.
The remark took you aback a little, not expecting him to be so forward about the possibility of creating a family on the first date.
He was different to Alfie — more bold, more straightforward — and you couldn’t decipher as to whether you liked it or not.
Marcus had good chat, you’d give him that. He didn’t talk about himself too much, and he seemed genuinely interested in getting to know you as a person. Across the patio, you could see Oscar getting along with Emma pretty swimmingly as well.
By the time you made it back to the villa, the sun had set and everyone was in their ‘glam’ outfits. It was kind of perfect, to be honest, because your outfit fit the vibe and it saved you having to change again.
“We’re back!” You exclaimed, hand still locked in Marcus’.
“Yay!” Hannah cheered, waddling over to you the best she could in her maxi dress and heels, “Hi, my love!”
“Hi!” You grinned, hugging her tightly.
“Were they holding hands?” Archie grasped Alfie’s shoulder as they walked off.
“Fuck.” He replied in a mutter, “Am I fucked?”
“Nah, nah, nah. Just be cool.”
You greeted Alfie when he joined, but he didn’t seem too excited to see you again, which put you off a little. You were expecting a grand gesture of sorts, maybe a spinning hug or an offer to go and chat, but all you received was ‘Hi, y’alright? How was it?’.
The girls pulled you to the side, sitting around the mini fire pit so that Emma could introduce herself properly and then you could both debrief the details of your date.
They all seemed really stoked for you, sensing that this was a man who might be willing to put a bit more effort in than Alfie.
“Wait, how old is he?” Mehreen double-checked.
“29.”
“Girl!” She scoffed out laughter, “Age gap much?”
“I know, I know!” You pressed your hands to your cheeks, “But he’s so fit.”
“He is gorge.” Holly nodded in agreement, “More than Alfie?”
You sighed heavily, pursing your lips before speaking, “I don’t know— No, I do. Alfie is definitely more my type, but he’s just been lacking in the effort department, and that’s not something I appreciate. Like, if you want me, please let it be known to the world.” You dramatically threw your hands up to the sky.
“I remember you saying.” Lana noted, “He’s just too comfortable, babe. Hopefully this’ll give him a kick in the bollocks.”
“Yeah.”
On the other side of the villa, the boys were having a much similar conversation, except Alfie was keeping quiet, watching Marcus speak with ego.
“I think the date went really well. She’s a lovely girl, stunning, seemed to take my flirting well and all, so, yeah. Pretty chuffed.”
James glanced at Alfie momentarily before barking out in laughter, “Alfie’s fuming.”
“What?” Alfie blinked, “Nah, nah I’m not. It’s fine. I understand, she’s a proper looker. No hard feelings.”
“I’m gonna go and pull her now, actually.” Marcus said before departing from the boys and making his way over to you.
You beamed at the sight of him, meanwhile Alfie was muttering under his breath, “Y’just spent 3 hours with her, what else could you possibly have to say?”
“And you wanna say you’re not fuming?” Archie cackled, slapping his thigh.
“I’m not fuming, I’m just … Argh, lads, don’t.” Alfie’s fingers came up to dig into the corners of his eyes as he laughed through his ‘tantrum’.
“You’re jealous.” Christian shrugged.
“Yeah, but you’ve got every right to be. You’ve been coupled up since day one. I’d be more concerned if you weren’t arsed, to be honest mate.” Morgan gave his two pence.
“Look look look look look!” Archie gasped, and all the boys heads snapped in the direction he was looking at.
Marcus had his arm around your shoulders as he guided you toward the seating area under the terrace.
“Cheeky bastard!”
“You reckon he’s trying to get a rise out of you?” Morgan asked, looking at Alfie.
“I dunno … If he is, that’s just a bit pathetic. Like, you’re in here to find love and you’re dedicating all of your time to pissing off some random guy?”
“To be fair, on the date, he didn’t ask about you at all.” Oscar explained.
“Is that worse, though?” James but in, “Like, is that more inconsiderate?”
“You lot are scrambling with my head, man.” Alfie groaned, running a hand through his hair, “Bare stressing me out. Chill.”
“We’ve just got your back, mate.” Christian patted him on the shoulder.
Your chat with Marcus was going well.
He was sitting rather close to you, fingers skimming the edge of your thigh mindlessly. He asked how you felt about the date, and whether or not you were still willing to get to know him having now been put in an environment with both him and Alfie. You told him that you were, and Alfie being there didn’t change anything for you because you weren’t closed off by any means.
Speaking of, he seemed to be making his way over to you both pretty purposefully.
“You okay?” You hummed once he was close enough.
“Yeah, do you wanna go chat?” He nodded to the side.
“Yeah, ‘course.” You agreed, nudging Marcus’ hand off your thigh and making the move to stand up, until he stopped you.
“It’s okay, you two stay here, I’ll go get a drink.”
“Okay, thanks.”
“Cheers, mate.” Alfie nodded, taking his place beside you and getting extremely comfortable.
He took your legs, slinging them over his lap and threw his arm over your shoulders, keeping you tucked nice and tight into his side. You loved it. This was the type of treatment and behaviour you wanted to receive from him, not passive touch and barely meaningful conversations.
Your fingers found the hand that was dangling beside your head, interlocking with his perfectly and letting your thumb stroke over his first finger.
“Y’alright, beautiful?” He started.
“Oh, so now I’m beautiful?”
He frowned, “You’re always beautiful.”
You hummed, acknowledging his words but not giving him half as much attention as you would’ve done had you been a bit more happier with his treatment towards you.
“What?” He nudged your knee with his lightly, “Talk to me.”
“Just …” You huffed, picking your head up and turning to look at him, “You haven’t even been giving me the time of day recently, and now that someone wants me, you’re like a territorial dog.”
“Am I? I don’t think I am.”
You raised your eyebrows, a light smile on your face, “Alfie.”
“What?”
“Don’t be stupid, ‘coz you’re not. You haven’t pulled me for a chat in days, and now Marcus takes me for a date and has a little cuddle with me, you’re all over me again.”
“Is that what the issue is? We don’t talk?”
“I just …” You rested your head back on his arm, “I’d appreciate a bit more effort.”
He hummed, bringing his other hand down to rest on your shin, rubbing up and down.
“I’m sorry.”
“Are you?” You clicked your tongue.
“I am.” He nodded, “Tomorrow, I will bring you breakfast and a coffee, oat milk not normal,”
You laughed at the detail.
“And then I will hog you the whole day. Anyone tries to pull you for a chat and I will fight them off. Sound good?”
“Mmm … I might get a bit annoyed with you after a while.” You joked, “Or maybe you’ll get annoyed with me.”
“Reader, I could never get annoyed with you.”
“How’d you know? You haven’t spent more than fifteen minutes with me alone in the past four days.”
“Oh, c’mon.” He groaned, rolling his eyes and resting his head to the side, leaning it on yours, “I’ll make it up to you.”
“What if Marcus wants to talk to me all day tomorrow?” You quipped.
“He can fuck right off.” Alfie murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple casually.
“Alfie.” You tutted, slapping his thigh.
“I’m serious. Gonna super glue our hands together tonight.”
“Oh, no, don’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“‘Coz then I can’t use them.” You teased, smirking in a way that had his brain short circuiting and trying to come up with a response to your innuendo.
“What you gettin’ at, girl?” He grinned.
“No, nothing.” You shrugged, feigning innocence.
“You proper mess with my head, you know that?”
You turned your head, keeping eye contact with him as you beamed.
“Good or bad?”
“Oh, good. But, only ‘coz it’s you. Anyone else and it would be a nightmare.” He replied, blinking excessively in a way that told you he was nervous, but he didn’t want to seem like a pussy for refusing to maintain eye contact.
“I feel the same about this protectiveness.”
“Really? Is it doing it for you?”
“Mmm maybe a little bit.”
“Yeah?” He smirked, leaning in a little.
You nodded, poking your head forward the rest of the way until your lips were interlocked with his.
His arm tightened around your shoulders, keeping your head in place as one of yours came up to cup his cheek.
It was perfect, soft but passionate in all the right ways. It wasn’t all about the tongue, but he let it be known how much he wanted you through the glides of his against yours.
Hannah gasped, “They’re snogging.”
Mehreen nearly broke her neck with the speed in which she turned around to glance.
“Aw, yay.” Holly whispered, clapping quietly with small movements so it wouldn’t be audible.
When you pulled back, he came in for another, this time offering you light pecks rather than a full, tongue-in-mouth debacle.
“Happy now?” He chimed.
“No. You can rub my feet before bed.”
“Fuck sake.” He huffed, puffing his cheeks out and leaning his head on your chest.
You giggled, wrapping your arms around him properly and kissing the top of his head.
“God, you are so clingy when you wanna be, aren’t you?”
“Sorry, you just whinged at me for not being clingy enough!” He scoffed.
“I did not whinge!” You exclaimed through laughter.
“You fuckin’ did!”
“Oi!” You shoved him back.
“No, no, I’m playing,” He grinned, his hands finding your waist, “I kinda like when you put me in my place.”
“Okay, chill.” You snorted before reaching out and running your thumbs over his shockingly sharp canines, “Also, I like these.”
“Yeah? They’re sharp, ennit?”
“Mm, you’ve got proper fangs.”
“Good for biting.” His lips upturned, pressing his lips to yours again.
You grinned into it, happily clasping your hands at the back of his head and keeping him close.
The only thing that was able to pull you off of each other was the sound of production alerting you that it was time for bed.
Reluctantly, you dragged your lips off of his and sighed.
notes - had this is the drafts for a while but was too scared to post
wc - 1,900
You and Alfie had been dating for just over a year - a relationship built quietly in the gaps between public lives. Long enough that loving him felt natural.
You met through mutual friends, one of those accidental introductions that somehow turned into everything. At first, keeping things private had been easy. Social media had a way of turning soft, personal things into entertainment for strangers, and neither of you wanted that. So the relationship existed mostly off-camera - tucked into late-night takeaways, weekends hidden up North, quiet airport pickups, hoodies borrowed and never returned.
Friends and family knew. The people who mattered knew.
But the internet was observant in ways that bordered on frightening.
People started connecting dots months ago. Alfie appearing in someone's vlog in the background of a party, your laugh faintly audible somewhere off camera. TikToks where you were sitting suspiciously close together. The same kitchen appearing behind behind separate Instagram stories posted minutes apart. Fans noticed when you both disappeared from London at the same time, and somehow, you always seemed to be 'visiting friends' near the Grotto whenever Alfie was there.
Now the date of the Sidemen Charity Match was rolling around, and with every passing day, Alfie became more and more excited about it. Training clips played constantly on the TV. Group chats buzzed non-stop. You found it adorable.
He wanted you there, along with his family and friends. And that meant cameras - cameras you couldn't control. Thousands of people in the crowd. Content creators filming every second backstage.
The closer the match got, the more impossible privacy started to feel.
One evening, rain tapped softly against the windows of the London flat while the two of you sat tangled together on the couch. The room glowed warm from the lamp in the corner, Alfie stretched out beside you in joggers and hoodie, one arm lazily slung around your waist while some football highlights played ignored on the TV.
Or rather, he ignored them. For once, he seemed distracted.
You felt him glance at you before he spoke.
"So..." he started carefully, his thumb brushing absentminded circles against your side. "About the match."
You looked up from your phone immediately, already smiling. "Oh, you mean the only thing you've talked about for the last week?"
"That's harsh."
"It's true."
He grinned at that, nose scrunching slightly before he tipped his head back dramatically against the sofa.
"Sorry for being passionate about my athletic career."
You snorted. "Athletic career? Alfie, you got out of breath carrying shopping upstairs yesterday."
"Yeah, well," he said, pointing at you lazily, "different skillset."
You laughed quietly, settling further against him, and for a second he smiled too, easy and familiar, before that thoughtful look crept back in.
His fingers drummed lightly against your hip.
"So, seriously," he said after a moment, voice softer now. "I've been thinking."
"That's dangerous."
"Oi- shut up."
You grinned into your drink while he rolled his eyes, though there was a faint smile tugging at his mouth.
Then he looked at you properly.
"Maybe we just make it official now."
Your brows lifted slightly. "Official?"
"Yeah." He shrugged, trying to play it casual, but you could tell he'd been sitting on this thought for a while. "People already basically know anyway. Every comment section's like fucking FBI headquarters."
"That's because you're subtle as a brick."
"I am subtle."
"You posted a photo of your dinner and my reflection was in the toaster."
"That," he pointed firmly, "was not my fault."
You laughed, and Alfie's smile widened for a second before he leaned closer, lowering his voice like he was confessing something ridiculous.
"Nah," he murmured, lips twitching, "I just want people to know I bagged an absolute fucking rocket."
You blinked at him once before a laugh escaped you, warm and uncontrollable.
"Alfie."
"What?" he said innocently, though he already looked pleased with himself. "I'm being serious."
"You're unbelievable."
"No, you're unbelievable," he corrected immediately, squeezing your waist. "Look at you."
You shook your head, trying to hide your smile as heat crept into your cheeks. He noticed instantly, grin turning smug. "There she is," he teased softly. "Knew that'd get you."
𝜗𝜚
The atmosphere inside the stadium was electric long before the match had even started.
Music blasted through the speakers, loud enough to vibrate through the seats, cameras sweeping across the crowds while thousands of people filtered into the stands in football shirts and creator merch. Everywhere you looked there were signs, phones, people shouting names across rows the second they spotted someone they recognised.
It was chaos.
Very Sidemen chaos.
You sat beside Livvy in the family-and-friends section, legs crossed comfortably as you scrolled through messages on your phone while the players warmed up below. The oversized Sidemen FC shirt you wore swallowed your frame slightly, sleeves resting just above your elbows.
AB 23 - in bold lettering across the back.
Subtly had clearly gone out the window.
You spotted Alfie near the sideline almost immediately, mid-conversation with a few of the boys, bouncing lightly on his feet with that endless energy he always seemed to have before anything competitive. Even from here you could tell he was buzzing.
Warm-ups were well underway now, players spread across the grass in small groups while coaches and organisers moved around them. Even from the stands, there was a visible difference between those who approached the game like a bit of fun, and those who had convinced themselves they were about to play in the Champions League Final.
Alfie was somewhere in the middle.
He was moving constantly, jogging a few paces before stopping, adjusting something, turning to say something to one of the others before bouncing straight back into whatever he had been doing before. Every gesture seemed slightly bigger than necessary, every reaction slightly more animated, the excitement radiating from him even at a distance.
As though he could feel himself being watched, Alfie looked up from the pitch. His gaze travelled across the stands, scanning rows of faces before finding the section where his family and friends were sitting.
The moment he spotted you, his expression changed. His whole face softened, like someone had turned down the stadium noise just for him. The grin that tugged at his mouth wasn't the big chaotic one he used for cameras or teammates - it was the smaller one, reserved for you.
There was something strangely intimate about being recognised in a crowd that large. About being seen by someone who knew you, really knew you, in a place where you were supposed to blend into thousands.
Alfie held your gaze for a second longer than necessary, the corner of his mouth lifting just a little higher when he noticed the shirt you were wearing. His shirt. His number.
Then one of the boys shouted something at him, and he tore his eyes away reluctantly, shaking his head with a smile that hadn’t been there a minute ago.
𝜗𝜚
The players' lounge afterwards was loud in that messy, exhausted sort of way that only came after events like this.
Music played somewhere too loud in the background, people drifted between conversations still half in kit, half changed, medals hanging crooked around necks while cameras continued catching snippets of everything. The adrenaline of the match still lingered in the air - everyone talking over each other, replaying moments, laughing about missed chances and near disasters.
Everyone seemed in ridiculously good spirits despite the result.
Mostly because the match itself had been unreal.
And because Alfie had scored an absolute screamer.
You'd watched it happen from the stands in genuine disbelief - the ball hitting the back of the net before the entire stadium erupted around you. Alfie sprinting across the pitch afterwards absolutely losing his mind while his teammates jumped on him.
You were pretty sure Livvy had nearly ruptured your eardrum screaming beside you.
Now every few minutes someone nearby was still replaying the goal on their phone.
"Look at this finish again," his brother said for about the tenth time, shoving the screen toward the table. "Actually disgusting."
His mum laughed warmly beside you. "He's going to be insufferable for weeks."
"He already is," you said immediately.
"Correct," his dad agreed.
Before anyone could continue, a sudden burst of noise came from across the lounge.
You looked up just in time to see Alfie walking in with a few of the boys, still riding the high of the match completely. His hair was damp from a shower, medal hanging around his neck over a black t-shirt, and despite the exhaustion written across his face, he looked happier than you'd seen him in ages.
Buzzing was honestly an understatement.
He was mid-story when he spotted your table. Mid-sentence, he broke off entirely.
You barely had time to smile before he made his way over, weaving through people quickly, still grinning like an idiot.
The second he reached the table, he leaned down automatically, one hand bracing against the back of your chair while he kissed you quickly - easy, instinctive, like he hadn't spent the last year trying not to do things like that publicly. There was no hesitation, no flicker of doubt. Just him choosing you without thinking, like muscle memory.
The conversation around the table paused for approximately half a second.
Then his brother made a dramatic gagging noise.
"Right, okay, enough."
Alfie didn't even look away from you. "Jealous?"
"Deeply."
You laughed quietly as Alfie finally pulled away properly, though he stayed close enough that his hand settled immediately against the back of your neck for a second - warm and grounding, thumb brushing once against your skin like he needed the reassurance that you were really there.
Up close, you could practically feel the energy radiating off him.
"You alright?" you asked softly, smiling.
"Am I alright?" He looked genuinely offended by the question. "Did you not witness the greatest goal Wembley's ever seen?"
His dad snorted into his drink. "You lost."
"Details," Alfie dismissed instantly, waving a hand.
He stayed stood beside you, too full of adrenaline to sit still properly, one hand drumming against the back of your chair while he waffled on about moments from the game, how he felt during the warm up, the sitter he missed in the first half.
There was something nice about hearing him talk like this when the cameras weren't shoved in his face.
No exaggerated reactions for content. No playing things up. Just real excitement.
Eventually Alfie finally dropped down into the seat beside you properly, still buzzing enough that his knee bounced relentlessly against yours. He didn’t even try to stop it - if anything, he shifted closer, thigh pressed against yours like he needed the contact to bleed off the leftover adrenaline.
"I'm proud of you," you told him quietly when he had settled down and stopped bouncing around like an over-excited puppy.
The words seemed to hit him harder than all the shouting and hype from earlier had.
His expression softened instantly. His knee stilled.
For a second, despite all the noise around you, all his attention narrowed entirely onto you.
Then, because he was still Alfie, the softness lasted approximately two seconds before he grinned again.
"And I scored in front of my girlfriend wearing my name on her back," he added smugly. "Movie."
𝜗𝜚
yourusername
liked by alfiebuttle and 142,946 others
yourusername: a good day to wear number 23
alfiebuttle: yeh i bagged two rockets today, no biggy
content - established relationship, seizures, fluff
notes - something a little different but i wanted to give this condition some representation
wc - 1,300
When you first started dating, epilepsy was one of the things you were most nervous to tell him about.
You'd had it your whole life. As far back as you could remember, medications, hospital appointments, neurologists, and seizure plans had been woven into you everyday routine. To you, it was normal, sometimes inconvenient, but normal.
To other people, though, it wasn't.
So when things with Alfie started becoming serious, you'd spent days worrying about how he'd react.
Instead, he'd listened carefully, asked questions, and learned everything he could.
Now, eleven months later, it had become a routine neither of you wanted but both knew how to handle.
Right now, the two of you were curled up on the sofa in his bedroom, a blanket was tangled around your legs, the room illuminated only by the war glow of a lamp in the corner and the flickering light of the television.
Some action film played in the background, though neither of you had paid much attention to it for the last twenty minutes. The takeaway menu currently held far more importance.
"You're not getting pineapple on the pizza," Alfie declared, scrolling through options on his phone.
"I absolutely am."
"You are a menace to society."
You laughed, opening your mouth to argue back, when a familiar feeling washed over you.
Your laughter died in your throat.
A cold sensation spread through your stomach, spreading like icy water through your veins.
A faint buzzing crept into your ears, like static building under your skin, and your fingers twitched involuntarily against the blanket.
The room seemed to tilt ever so slightly.
The television, which had faded into background noise moments earlier, became overwhelmingly loud. The flickering light from the screen seemed brighter than before.
A familiar sense of dread curled around your chest.
Not now.
You swallowed hard and sat up slightly, your hand tightening around the blanket tangled across your lap.
Alfie noticed immediately. One second he was grinning, the next, all traces of amusement vanished.
"Hey."
Your vision blurred, like you were looking at everything through fogged glass.
"Alf..." you managed. The sentence never finished.
He was already moving, phone forgotten on the sofa.
"It's okay," he said calmly. "I've got you."
The calmness in his voice grounded you for a brief moment.
You wanted to answer, wanted to tell him you knew, but the words wouldn't come. Your thoughts scattered before you could catch them.
You saw him pause the film, push the coffee table further aware, moving anything dangerous out of the way, and grab the cushion from beside him.
Everything felt slow and distant as your thoughts became muddled.
Then the seizure hit.
Your body stiffened. The world disappeared.
Alfie carefully guided you onto your side as the seizure progresses, making sure your head rested safely against the cushion
He checked the time on his phone. Started timing.
Just like he'd been taught. Just like he'd done before.
The room suddenly felt far too quiet without your laughter.
Rain tapped steadily against the glass. The soft patter felt impossibly gentle compared to the violent rhythm of your muscles.
The television sat frozen on a paused frame.
Alfie remained beside you the entire time, one hand near your shoulder, not restraining, just steady and grounding.
Watching.
Waiting.
Making sure you were safe.
His heart still clenched every time it happened. He wasn't sure that part would ever go away.
No matter how many seizures he'd witnessed, seeing you lose awareness always sent a stab of helplessness through his chest.
But he'd learned something important over the past year.
You needed calm. Not panic.
"It's okay," he murmured quietly, even though he knew you couldn't hear him, his head gently smoothing over your hair.
The seizure continued.
Then gradually, slowly, it began to ease, the movement becoming less intense.
Your body relaxed and eventually it stopped.
When the seizure ended, exhaustion hit you like a wave.
You opened your eyes to a blurry ceiling and an even blurrier boyfriend.
"Hey," he said softly.
Your head felt impossibly heavy, like someone had filled it with wet cotton. Your tongue felt thick, like it didn't quite belong in your mouth, and your arms felt a second too slow to respond to you thoughts.
Every muscle in your body ached.
The room felt too warm and too cold at the same time, your body struggling to decide which sensation to hold onto.
Confusion settled over you.
"What happened?"
His lips twitched.
"You lost the pineapple debate."
You groaned. "Oh no."
"Absolutely tragic, I know."
A weak laugh escaped you, immediately making him smile.
There you are, exhausted and disoriented, but back.
Alfie handed you the bottle of water he'd already prepared and unscrewed the cap for you.
"Easy," he said as you tried to sit up.
A hand settled against your back, steadying you.
You took a few careful sips, the cold water helped clear some of the fog.
A dull throb pulsed behind your eyes, not painful, just insistent - the familiar echo of your brain rebooting.
"Tired?" he asked.
You nodded. "So tired."
"Yeah, that's usually how this goes." His thumb rubbed small circles against your shoulder,
There was no awkwardness.
No pity.
No treating you like you were fragile.
Just the comfortable rhythm you'd built together over months of hospital appointments, medication reminders, and recovery naps.
After nearly a year together, he'd learned exactly what you needed afterwards.
You shifted closer, leaning your head against his shoulder. He was warm, comfortingly familiar. The blanket rustled softly as you settled, your muscles still heavy and uncooperative, but his presence made the weight feel easier to carry.
Your fingers curled loosely into the fabric of his hoodie, the cotton soft and familiar beneath your hand. His warmth seeped into your skin, chasing away the last of the cold that always lingered after a seizure.
"Thanks." you mumbled.
Alfie kissed the top of your head.
"Stop thanking me," he murmured against your hairline.
"Still," you whispered, because gratitude sat stubbornly in your chest even when your brain felt foggy.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. Rain continued to tap against the window in a steady rhythm like the world outside was trying to soothe you too. The paused film sat forgotten on the television, casting a faint glow across the room.
The room felt peaceful again. Safe.
Alfie would never admit it out loud, but every seizure still scared him. Not because he didn't know what to do - he did. He knew the routine by heart. He knew how to recognise the warning signs. He knew to move any hazards, to time the seizure, to stay calm, and to wait patiently for you to come back.
But knowing what to do didn't stop the fear completely. Watching someone you loved lose awareness, even for a few minutes, never stopped feeling frightening.
Alfie rested his cheek lightly against your hair, his arm curled around you.
Making sure you were okay.
Making sure your breathing stayed steady.
Making sure you knew he wasn't going anywhere.
You felt the subtle rise and fall of his breathing, and he felt yours, his attention flicking to the rhythm of it the way it always did after a seizure.
Eventually he reached for his phone again, careful not to jostle you.
"So..." he said, voice low.
You narrowed your eyes suspiciously.
"What?"
"I'm ordering pizza."
A smile tugged at your lips. "And?"
"And because you've had a rubbish evening..."
He sighed dramatically, nudging you knee gently with his own, the kind of soft, wordless reassurance he'd mastered over the past year.
"...you can have the pineapple."
You grinned into his shoulder. "That's true love."
"Don't push it." he muttered, but you could hear the smile in his voice.
You let your eyes drift closed again, the warmth of him seeping into your bones. With your head resting against his shoulder, pizza on the way, and rain tapping softly against the window, the world slowly settled back into place.
