requested ۶ৎ | keiji akaashi doesn’t like how popular you are.
you’re really popular at fukurōdani academy.
everyone in the school knows your name, and probably what you look like too.
but akaashi doesn’t like it.
sure he’s happy that everyone likes you, or at least almost everyone.
but he doesn’t like that you’re always swarmed by people the second you’re not in any of your classes.
you could step one foot out of your classroom, and there’d already be ten students around you, offering to carry your bag and offering you water.
it’s not because they happen to be at your classroom fast enough, it’s because they ditch the last ten minutes of class to be at your beck and call first.
or you’re at lunch, munching on an apple with people surrounding you, watching really intently how you eat an apple, like they’ve never seen a girl eat an apple before.
he doesn’t get it.
he doesn’t get why people have to be around you all the time, even if it’s just breating the same air as you.
yes you’ve got the whole package, you’re pretty, smart, unbelievably funny, and you’re so nice. you would barely hurt a fly.
but he’s a little blind sided considering he’s your boyfriend of three years. of course you’re the prettiest girl to him, you always have been.
and he knows how lucky he is to have you, considering almost every student at school would kill to date you.
your locker is always filled with love letters, with undying confessions in them that are a little too extra.
‘keiji, catch everything that’s about to fall out of my locker.’ you tell akaashi, taking a breath before opening your locker in a swift move.
you’d been sick at home for the past two days, so the regular amount of letters you get, have tripled.
there are a lot, of envelopes. and akaashi manages to catch most of them with the trash bag he’s holding, no other bag would fit this many letters.
and along with too many letters, there’s also a handful of plushies. ones that you will be keeping, a facemask, and a small pot with medicine in it.
that’s definitely one of the most random items you’ve gotten.
‘this would’ve been useful two days ago,’ you mumble, fetching the things you actually need out of your locker.
‘there’s still a letter in there,’ akaashi says, his hand brushing past yours as he grabs the letter in the corner of your locker.
‘oh, thanks.’ he hands you the letter, and your breath hitches at the handwriting on the envelope.
it’s akaashi’s hand writing.
your name is written in cursive, perfectly centered and neat.
‘a letter?’ your gaze flicks between him and the letter, turning it around to see the stamp being your initials, along with tiny hearts.
‘open it when you’re alone, call me after.’ he smiles softly, tying the trash bag and slinging it over his shoulder, quickly going to the trash bin to throw it out.
the only letters you should read are his, not from some stupid guy who’s only trying to get in your pants.
akaashi would rather you never get any other letters than the ones he writes you, but that’s out of the question.
a/n: i scrambled this together in 20 minutes with christmas music playing, also the end is a little half assed i’m sorry 😢
Summary: Everyone arrives in Cousins carrying the weight of heartbreak. Conrad arrives carrying a secret girlfriend. Keeping your relationship hidden seems like the right thing to do...until the happiest anyone has seen him in years starts raising questions.
Words: 6,1k.
Warnings & Tags: based by this request. established & (not) secret relationship. mentions of grief. there's no romantic relationship between him and belly here! everyone's happy. fluff. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).
Note:I know you’ve all been missing my Conrad fanfics, so here you go! I wrote this to an upbeat track from Olivia’s new album, so I hope you can feel the vibe and guess which song it is:)
Btw, remember that the right person should make you shine, not leave you looking so sad when you’re in love<3
The thing about happiness was that people noticed it when it had been missing for a long time.
That was the problem.
Not the relationship. Not the secret. The happiness.
And Conrad just found out everyone was going to Cousins three days before they were supposed to leave.
Jeremiah called first, sounding distracted in the way he always did when something was bothering him but he didn’t want to admit it. The conversation wandered in circles for nearly twenty minutes, touching on summer plans, the beach house, Steven, and Belly, though somehow every subject seemed to lead back to her anyway. And after that came a call from Belly herself but even though she tried to sound normal, Conrad could hear the exhaustion underneath her voice. It wasn’t the kind that came from lack of sleep. It was the kind that came from caring too much about something and not knowing what to do about it. Then Steven started sending messages to the group chat, complaining about Taylor in increasingly dramatic paragraphs before immediately following each one with a new message insisting everything was completely fine.
By the time Conrad finally set his phone down, he felt like he’d spent the afternoon listening to a series of relationship autopsies. Everyone seemed unhappy in one way or another. Jeremiah and Belly were trapped in one of those complicated spaces where nobody knew exactly what they were to each other anymore. Steven and Taylor were fighting again. Even Belly, who had always been so hopeful about love, sounded tired whenever she talked about it.
The strange thing was that for the first time in years, Conrad wasn’t joining them in their misery.
The realization felt so unfamiliar that it took him a moment to recognize it.
For so long, he had been the complicated one. The difficult one. The person carrying enough grief and guilt and unresolved feelings to fill every room he entered.
Ever since Susannah died, sadness had attached itself to him so completely that sometimes he wondered if people remembered there had once been another version of him. A lighter version. A version that laughed more easily and didn’t constantly feel like he was trying to keep himself from falling apart. Grief had become such a permanent fixture in his life that even he had started thinking of it as part of his personality. It lived in the pauses before he answered questions, in the tension that never quite left his shoulders, in the way he often found himself staring out windows without realizing it. Some days it was manageable. Other days it followed him everywhere. It still did, if he was being honest. His mother was still gone. There were still moments when he reached for his phone because he wanted to tell her something before remembering he couldn’t. There were still songs he skipped and memories that caught him off guard. The pain hadn’t disappeared. It never would. But somewhere over the last few months, something else had quietly settled beside it.
You.
The thought came to him as naturally as breathing. Conrad glanced up from his phone and immediately found you across the room. You were stretched out on his bed with one of his sweatshirts pulled over your hands, completely absorbed in the novel resting open in your lap. The late afternoon sunlight poured through the window beside you, painting everything in warm shades of gold. Dust drifted lazily through the air. The room was quiet except for the occasional turn of a page and the distant sound of traffic outside.
You hadn’t noticed him looking yet. You were too focused on your book, your eyebrows occasionally pulling together whenever something happened in the story. Every few minutes you would shift slightly, your leg brushing his without thinking about it.
Such a small thing. Such an ordinary thing.
Yet Conrad felt his chest tighten every time.
Maybe that was the part that surprised him most. Happiness hadn’t arrived dramatically. There hadn’t been a singular moment where everything changed. It had happened slowly, quietly, in the background of his life while he wasn’t paying attention.
It happened during late-night phone calls that lasted until neither of you could remember what you’d originally been talking about. During drives with no destination. During afternoons spent studying together in comfortable silence. During all the little moments that seemed insignificant until he looked back and realized they weren’t. Somehow you had slipped into his life without demanding anything from him. You never asked him to be less sad. You never treated his grief like a problem that needed solving. You simply sat beside him when things were difficult and laughed with him when they weren’t. And over time, Conrad discovered something terrifying: being with you made him feel lighter. Not cured. Not fixed. Just lighter. Like he could finally put down some of the weight he’d been carrying for so long.
The truly embarrassing part was how obvious the effect was.
Conrad used to think people exaggerated when they talked about being in love. He used to think they were dramatic when they described constantly wanting to look at someone. Then he met you, and suddenly he understood it all. Half the time he found himself watching you without realizing it. Watching you read. Watching you talk. Watching you laugh at things that weren’t even particularly funny. The worst part was that he genuinely enjoyed it.
Right now, for example, you were doing absolutely nothing interesting. You were sitting on his bed reading a book. That was it. Yet Conrad couldn’t stop looking over every few minutes. Couldn’t stop smiling every time he did. If Jeremiah ever found out, he would be insufferable about it.
The thought almost made him laugh.
Instead he leaned back against the headboard and let himself watch you for another moment. The sunlight had shifted enough that it illuminated the side of your face. One strand of hair kept falling forward, and every few pages you pushed it back behind your ear with the exact same absentminded gesture. Conrad knew he should probably stop staring. He knew it was ridiculous. But every time he looked away, his attention drifted back. As though some invisible thread connected him to wherever you happened to be.
Maybe that was why the idea of Cousins suddenly seemed complicated.
Not because he didn’t want to go.
He did.
The beach house would always feel like home, even now.
But everyone else was arriving there carrying heartbreak. Relationship drama. Uncertainty. They were coming because things weren’t working. Because they needed space. Because they needed answers.
Meanwhile, Conrad was sitting here trying not to smile every time his girlfriend turned a page.
It felt unfair somehow.
Almost selfish.
The truth was that he wanted to tell people about you. More than he cared to admit, actually.
He wanted to stop catching the word girlfriend before it slipped out in conversation. He wanted to stop pretending that the person he texted first thing every morning and last thing every night was just another friend. Sometimes he would be halfway through telling Jeremiah a story before realizing he had to carefully edit you out of it. Other times Belly would ask what he’d been doing over the weekend, and Conrad would find himself summarizing entire days without mentioning the person he’d spent every hour with.
It felt strange. Wrong, almost. Because for the first time in years, he had something in his life that made him happy without complications attached to it. No uncertainty. No confusion. No endless knot of feelings he couldn’t untangle.
Just you.
The simple, extraordinary fact that you existed and somehow loved him back.
But every time he considered telling everyone, he found himself looking back at the group chat.
At Jeremiah’s frustration hidden beneath jokes. At Belly’s exhaustion. At Steven’s dramatic relationship updates that somehow managed to sound both hopeful and doomed at the same time. Everyone seemed to be carrying around their own version of heartbreak. Everyone seemed stuck trying to figure out where they stood with the people they loved. Against that backdrop, the idea of showing up at Cousins and announcing that he was happier than he’d been in years felt selfish somehow. Worse than selfish. It felt like showing off. Like arriving at a funeral and talking about how good your day had been.
Conrad knew that wasn’t entirely rational, but the feeling lingered anyway. How could he explain that after spending so long being the person everyone worried about, he suddenly wasn’t anymore? How could he explain that the constant ache in his chest hadn’t disappeared but had somehow become easier to carry because someone was sharing the weight?
His gaze drifted toward you again, as if his thoughts naturally ended there. You were still sitting on his bed, your book forgotten in your lap now, sunlight pooling around you in soft golden patches. The room felt warm and lazy with late afternoon. Outside, he could hear distant traffic and the occasional bark of a dog somewhere down the street. Inside, everything felt suspended in one of those quiet moments that only happened when you were completely comfortable with another person. The kind of silence that didn’t need filling. The kind that felt like home.
As though sensing his attention, you looked up from your book. Your eyes met his instantly. And then you smiled.
It was immediate.
The kind of smile that appeared because you were genuinely happy to see someone looking at you.
“What?” you asked.
Conrad opened his mouth, fully intending to say nothing.
Instead, he realized he was smiling too.
Apparently that was something he did now.
Something he couldn’t seem to stop doing.
“What?” Conrad asked.
“The smiling.”
He frowned.
“The what?”
“The smiling.”
You pointed directly at him.
Conrad rolled his eyes and leaned back against the headboard, but the effort was completely ruined by the fact that he was still smiling.
A laugh escaped you, filling the room for only a second before fading away.
The sound hit Conrad somewhere directly beneath his ribs.
Every time.
Every single time.
It didn’t matter how often he heard it.
It didn’t matter whether it came from a joke, a movie, or something completely ridiculous. The reaction was always the same. His chest tightened. His stomach flipped slightly. Everything in him seemed to soften all at once.
Which was probably a problem.
A serious problem, actually.
Because people were not supposed to react this strongly every time their girlfriend laughed.
At least he assumed they weren’t.
“You know,” you said, setting your book aside completely now, “normal people don’t smile every single time they look at someone.”
Conrad let out a quiet laugh.
Then he looked at you again.
The sweatshirt sleeves hanging over your hands. The crease between your eyebrows that appeared whenever you were trying not to smile. The familiar comfort of your presence filling the room.
And suddenly honesty seemed easier than pretending.
“I’m not normal about you.”
The words slipped out before he could stop them.
For a moment the room went completely still.
Your expression softened instantly.
The teasing disappeared.
Something warmer replaced it.
Something that made Conrad wish he could take a picture of the way you were looking at him and keep it forever.
Because the truth was embarrassingly simple.
He was so in love.
Hopelessly. Completely.
In the kind of way that made everything else in his life seem brighter around the edges. In the kind of way that made ordinary afternoons feel important. In the kind of way that made him understand every ridiculous love song he’d ever mocked.
And maybe that was exactly why he couldn’t bring himself to tell everyone yet.
Everyone else was arriving at Cousins carrying relationship problems.
He was arriving with the solution to all of his.
Showing up hand-in-hand with you while Jeremiah and Belly tried to figure out whatever was happening between them felt wrong. Letting Steven watch the two of you while he and Taylor spent half their time arguing felt wrong too. The more Conrad thought about it, the more obvious the answer became.
Nobody needed to know now.
“Secret relationship for the summer?” you asked after a moment, tilting your head.
Conrad nodded.
“Secret relationship for the summer.”
That should have been the end of the conversation.
The plan was straightforward. Keep things quiet. Act normal. Spend the summer in Cousins without anyone figuring it out.
Unfortunately, Conrad Fisher had apparently forgotten how to act normal around his girlfriend.
***
By the time they got inside the beach house, everyone had already noticed that something was different.
Not the relationship.
Nobody was looking for that.
It was the happiness.
Which, somehow, was worse.
Because secrets were normal. People expected secrets. This group practically lived on them. Every summer in Cousins seemed to come with at least three hidden crushes, two unresolved breakups, and one relationship nobody was willing to define out loud. People lied about who they liked. They lied about who they missed. They lied about being over things they were very obviously not over. It was practically tradition. Nobody would have been surprised if Conrad showed up carrying some new secret.
What nobody expected was for Conrad Fisher to walk through the front door looking happy.
Actually happy.
Not the polite version of happy he occasionally performed for other people. Not the carefully constructed version that disappeared the second he thought nobody was paying attention. This was something different. Something lighter. It sat in the way he carried himself, in the looseness of his shoulders, in the easy smile that appeared on his face without warning. The difference was subtle enough that a stranger might have missed it completely.
But these people weren’t strangers.
They had spent years watching Conrad become quieter.
Years watching grief settle into him.
Years watching him carry sadness around so consistently that eventually it stopped looking temporary and started looking permanent.
So naturally they noticed the second it wasn’t there.
The front door had barely finished opening before Jeremiah appeared from somewhere deeper in the house. One second there was shouting from the hallway and the sound of a cabinet slamming, and the next his brother was charging across the room at full speed. Conrad barely managed to drop his duffel bag before Jeremiah crashed into him, wrapping both arms around him in a hug hard enough to nearly knock him backward.
“Dude!”
Jeremiah’s voice rang through the entryway before Conrad even had both feet inside the house. A second later, his brother came barreling across the living room with a grin stretched across his face and his arms already open.
Conrad barely had enough time to drop his duffel bag onto the floor before Jeremiah collided with him.
The impact nearly knocked him backward.
“Good to see you too,” Conrad muttered with a laugh, wrapping one arm around him.
Immediately, the familiar smell of sunscreen, salt air, and whatever body spray Jeremiah had apparently bathed in this summer hit him. It was oddly comforting. Familiar in a way that instantly transported him back to every summer that had come before this one. The smell of beach days. Bonfires. Sand tracked through the house. Childhood.
For one brief moment, everything felt normal.
Then Jeremiah pulled away and froze.
It happened so subtly that Conrad almost missed it. One second Jeremiah was grinning ear to ear, still caught in the momentum of the reunion, his hands gripping Conrad’s shoulders as if he couldn’t quite believe his brother was finally standing in front of him again. The next, something shifted. The grin began to fade, not all at once, but slowly, like a wave receding from shore. His eyebrows drew together. His head tilted slightly to one side. His eyes narrowed in concentration as they moved across his brother's face with an intensity that felt oddly personal, as though he were studying a painting he had seen a thousand times before and had suddenly noticed an entirely new detail hidden within it. He didn’t look suspicious. He didn’t look concerned. If anything, he looked bewildered. Like reality had quietly rearranged itself while he wasn’t paying attention.
“Whoa.”
The word left him slowly.
Conrad frowned immediately.
“What?”
Jeremiah didn’t answer right away. Instead, his gaze continued traveling over Conrad’s features. His eyes lingered around his mouth, then his eyes, then somewhere in the general space of his expression, searching for something he couldn’t quite name. The silence stretched long enough to become uncomfortable.
“You look…”
He stopped.
Conrad stared.
Jeremiah pointed at him.
“You look good.”
Before Jeremiah could explain himself, another voice entered the conversation.
Steven wandered out of the kitchen carrying an open bag of chips, looking distracted in the way he always did when food was involved. He barely glanced up at first. Then his eyes landed on Conrad.
And he stopped walking.
The chip suspended halfway between the bag and his mouth remained forgotten in his hand.
His eyes narrowed.
“You look weird.”
Conrad let out a long sigh.
“Hello to you too.”
“No, seriously.”
Steven lowered the chip.
“You look really weird.”
Conrad stared at him.
“You guys are making me sound like I got replaced by a clone.”
“That’s honestly kind of what it feels like,” Steven admitted.
Jeremiah immediately pointed.
“Thank you.”
Conrad rubbed a hand over his face.
“What are you talking about?”
Neither of them answered immediately because neither of them seemed capable of explaining it.
It wasn’t anything obvious.
Conrad’s hair was still slightly messy from traveling. His clothes were the same comfortable, worn things he always wore. He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t acting particularly different. He wasn’t suddenly bouncing off the walls with excitement.
And yet, something about him felt lighter.
The change existed in tiny places that shouldn’t have mattered but somehow did. It was in the looseness of his shoulders, no longer held perpetually tight as though bracing for impact. It was in the way his jaw wasn’t clenched. It was in how his eyes seemed clearer somehow, less shadowed, less burdened. The exhaustion that had lived permanently beneath them for years hadn’t completely disappeared, but it wasn’t the first thing anyone noticed anymore.
Across the room, Belly looked up from where she had been crouched beside a paper grocery bag, carefully organizing cans and boxes into neat piles across the kitchen counter. At first, it was nothing more than a passing glance, the kind of automatic look people gave when someone entered a room. But then her attention lingered. Her hand remained wrapped around a box of pasta she had been in the middle of putting away, and without realizing it, she stopped moving altogether. Her eyes stayed fixed on Conrad. There was something unsettling about the feeling that settled over her as she watched him. Like stumbling across a photograph you hadn’t seen in years and suddenly realizing how much time had passed.
For a moment, she couldn’t identify what felt different. It wasn’t his clothes. It wasn’t his hair. It wasn’t even anything he was actively doing. It was simply the overall impression of him. The atmosphere he carried into a room. The expression resting naturally on his face when he thought nobody was looking. Then it hit her all at once. The tightness was gone. Not completely, not entirely, but enough that she noticed the absence of it immediately. The permanent tension that had seemed woven into him for years—the guardedness, the exhaustion, the quiet heaviness he carried like a second skin—had loosened somehow.
And suddenly Belly found herself remembering summers she hadn’t thought about in years. Summers filled with endless afternoons on the beach and late-night games around this very table. Summers before hospitals became familiar places. Before phone calls nobody wanted to answer. Before funerals. Before loss settled over the house like a storm cloud that never fully moved on. Before grief became the first thing people noticed whenever they looked at Conrad Fisher. There had been a time when laughter came naturally to him. When smiles appeared so often nobody thought to remember them. When happiness wasn’t remarkable because it was simply normal. Looking at him now felt like catching a glimpse of that version again. Not entirely. Not perfectly. But enough to make something ache deep inside her chest. Because the truth was she hadn’t seen him look this light in years. Maybe longer.
And somehow the strangest part of all wasn’t that the change existed. It was that Conrad himself seemed completely oblivious to it.
***
The entire afternoon only made the mystery worse.
Or better, depending on who was being asked.
Once Belly noticed it, she couldn’t stop noticing it. The evidence seemed to appear everywhere. Small moments at first. Easy to dismiss individually. But together they formed something impossible to ignore.
Jeremiah made one of his ridiculous jokes while helping unload coolers from the car and Conrad actually laughed, a genuine laugh, not the brief huff of amusement he usually offered before retreating back into silence. Later, without anyone asking, he grabbed grocery bags from the trunk and carried them inside alongside everyone else, making multiple trips without complaint. He lingered in conversations instead of slipping away the second nobody was paying attention. When Steven started rambling about some story from college, Conrad stayed. When Jeremiah launched into an overly dramatic retelling of something that had happened two weeks ago, Conrad stayed. When Taylor joined in and somehow made the story even more exaggerated, Conrad stayed. He listened. He participated. He rolled his eyes. He argued. He smiled. At one point Laurel mentioned needing help moving a stack of storage boxes upstairs and before anyone else could volunteer, Conrad was already carrying them.
By dinner, the mystery had become impossible to ignore.
The dining room glowed beneath the soft golden light of early evening. Outside, the last traces of sunlight painted the sky in shades of orange and pink beyond the windows, while inside the familiar chaos of a Cousins summer dinner unfolded exactly as it always had. Plates covered every inch of the table. Bowls were passed back and forth. Someone kept reaching across somebody else’s seat. Conversations overlapped until it became impossible to tell where one ended and another began. Steven and Taylor had somehow started arguing about something so insignificant nobody else could even remember how it began, yet both seemed determined to defend their positions with the intensity of opposing lawyers in a courtroom. Jeremiah was talking animatedly with his hands, nearly knocking over his drink twice while trying to make a point. Laurel periodically interrupted everyone to remind them to actually eat their food before it got cold. The room buzzed with laughter and noise and movement, filled with the familiar warmth that had always defined summers in Cousins.
And right in the middle of it all sat you...and Conrad.
Looking suspiciously content.
Not happy in an obvious way. Not grinning. Not acting wildly out of character. If someone who didn’t know him walked into the room, they probably wouldn’t have noticed anything unusual at all. But everyone at that table knew Conrad. They knew every version of him. The carefree boy he used to be. The grieving teenager he had become. The guarded young man who spent years carrying more than he ever admitted. And because they knew him so well, the difference stood out like a spotlight. He was relaxed. Comfortable. He leaned back in his chair instead of sitting rigidly upright. He listened when people talked. He contributed to conversations without being dragged into them. Every so often a smile appeared at the corner of his mouth before fading again. The kind that seemed to happen before he could stop it. At one point Jeremiah made another stupid joke and Conrad laughed so unexpectedly that Taylor nearly dropped her fork. Steven actually stopped talking mid-sentence. Laurel looked up from serving herself vegetables. Belly caught Jeremiah staring openly from across the table.
Conrad, completely unaware of the attention he was attracting, reached for the bread basket and asked you to pass the butter.
The silence that followed lasted barely two seconds.
But it was enough.
Enough for everyone at the table to exchange glances.
Enough for the same thought to pass silently between them.
What the hell happened to Conrad Fisher?
Belly finally gave up and set down her fork.
The sound was small, barely more than a soft clink of metal against ceramic, but it cut cleanly through the layered noise of the table. It wasn’t loud enough to demand attention, not really, and yet it did exactly that. Conversations faltered mid-sentence. Steven stopped talking entirely, his mouth still slightly open as if he had forgotten what he was about to say. Jeremiah’s hands, which had been moving animatedly through the air a moment before, slowed and then lowered to rest against the edge of the table. And across from them all, Conrad lifted his gaze too, blinking once as if pulled out of a place he had been drifting comfortably inside.
“What?” he asked, confused, like he genuinely couldn’t understand why the entire table had suddenly shifted its attention toward him.
Belly didn’t look away.
Her eyes narrowed slightly, not in accusation exactly, but in focus, the kind of look she got when she refused to let something slide just because it was easier not to confront it. “What’s going on with you?” she asked.
Conrad blinked again.
“What does that mean?” he replied, too quickly, his brow furrowing in a way that suggested genuine bewilderment rather than defensiveness.
“It means,” Belly said slowly, carefully choosing her words as though she was afraid the wrong ones might make everything collapse back into silence again, “you’re different.”
That single sentence settled over the table like a held breath finally released, and in its place came a heaviness that nobody rushed to interrupt. It wasn’t awkward exactly. It was too familiar for that. It was recognition. The kind that comes when everyone in the room has been thinking the same thing for hours, maybe days, but no one has been willing to shape it into language. Jeremiah leaned back in his chair, exhaling through his nose like he’d been waiting for someone else to say it first. Steven stopped fidgeting entirely, his earlier energy dissolving into stillness. Nobody disagreed. Nobody tried to deflect it. Because Belly was right, and they all knew it.
Conrad looked vaguely horrified.
“I’m serious,” Belly added, her voice gentler now, as if she regretted the alarm that had flashed across his face. “You just seem…” She hesitated, eyes flicking down briefly to the table as she searched for something precise enough to hold what she meant. Then she looked back up at him, steadier this time. “Happier.”
The word landed softly, but it carried weight anyway.
Conrad didn’t respond immediately. For once, he didn’t have a quick retort or a defensive explanation ready. His mouth parted slightly, then closed again, as if whatever answer he might have offered had caught somewhere behind his ribs and refused to come out cleanly. His eyes moved slowly around the table, taking in each face one by one. Jeremiah, watching him with an expression caught somewhere between curiosity and something almost hopeful. Steven, unusually quiet, studying him like he was trying to solve a problem he didn’t yet have the language for. People who loved him. People who had watched him fracture and rebuild himself in pieces over time.
And then, without thinking, Conrad’s gaze drifted away from them.
Toward the kitchen.
Toward you.
You were standing near the counter where Laurel had left an open bottle of wine, the soft amber glow of the kitchen light catching in the glassware as you reached for a stack of tumblers. You were mid-conversation with her, laughing softly at something she had said, your shoulders relaxed in a way that made the space around you feel less like a room and more like a moment unfolding naturally. There was nothing performative about it. Nothing aware of being watched. Just ease. Just presence. And the second Conrad saw it, something in his expression shifted so subtly it almost didn’t register at first, except that it did, because everyone at that table had learned how to read him too well not to notice.
It was not dramatic. It wasn’t sudden.
It was softer than that.
Like a door inside him had quietly opened without permission.
His eyes changed first. The guarded distance that often lingered there, even in lighter moments, eased without effort. His shoulders followed a fraction of a second later, dropping as though they had finally remembered they didn’t have to stay braced. And then, almost imperceptibly, the corner of his mouth tilted, not into a full smile, but something dangerously close to it.
And in that single, uncalculated moment, everyone at the table saw it.
They saw what pulled him forward before he even realized he was moving.
Conrad pushed his chair back.
It scraped softly against the floor, but he was already halfway up before the sound even registered. One moment he had been sitting among them, still caught in the aftermath of questions he didn’t know how to answer, and the next he was standing, as if some invisible thread had tightened between him and the kitchen and refused to let him stay still any longer. There was no announcement. No hesitation. No explanation offered to the people watching him. Just movement. Natural, instinctive, almost absentminded in the way breathing is when you stop thinking about it.
Jeremiah slowly sat forward in his chair.
“Oh.”
It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t even particularly expressive. But it carried just enough recognition to shift the energy at the table again. Conrad froze for half a second, just long enough for it to be noticeable, before immediately looking away. His jaw tightened slightly, and he dragged a hand briefly across his mouth in a gesture that might have been meant to hide something or simply to ground himself. Either way, it didn’t work.
“You need something from the kitchen?” Jeremiah asked, far too casually, the innocence in his tone doing absolutely nothing to disguise the amusement building underneath it.
Conrad exhaled through his nose, the sound long and resigned, like he had walked directly into a situation he should have avoided but didn’t have the energy to correct anymore. “Yes,” he said flatly.
Jeremiah waited.
The pause stretched.
Conrad sighed again, and finally added, “More wine.”
“Of course you do,” Jeremiah said immediately, leaning back in his chair with the slow, satisfied ease of someone watching a puzzle piece slide exactly where they expected it to go.
By the time Conrad disappeared from the dining room, Jeremiah was practically vibrating with restrained laughter, shoulders shaking slightly as he tried and failed to look composed. Steven, on the other hand, had gone completely still, his fork hovering uselessly over his plate as his attention tracked every step Conrad took. He watched him cross the open space between dining room and kitchen. Watched him slow, not because he hesitated, but because he didn’t need to move quickly. Watched the exact moment Conrad reached the counter where you stood beside Laurel, still mid-conversation, still laughing softly at something she had said.
And then he saw it.
The way Conrad didn’t interrupt, not exactly.
He just…entered.
Effortlessly. Like he had always belonged there.
Like the space between you and the rest of the room wasn’t a boundary at all, just an optional pause he didn’t feel compelled to respect. He said something under his breath first, something Steven couldn’t hear, but it made Laurel smile in that knowing, fond way she sometimes did when she saw things others hadn’t fully named yet. You turned toward him immediately, your expression brightening in a way that didn’t feel performative or surprised so much as naturally responsive, as if his presence was not an interruption but a continuation of whatever conversation had already been happening in some invisible layer of the room.
Conrad leaned slightly against the counter as he spoke, shoulders relaxed in a way Steven hadn’t seen in years. Not slouched. Not guarded. Not braced for anything that might come next. Just…there. Present, in a way that didn’t feel like effort. Like he wasn’t holding himself together by force anymore, like the edges of him weren’t constantly being pulled tight just to keep him from slipping into himself again. He looked at Laurel when she replied, nodded once with quiet attention, actually listening instead of waiting for a moment to escape, and then his gaze drifted back to you.
It wasn’t deliberate.
That was the part Steven noticed most.
It was the absence of decision.
Conrad’s attention didn’t go to you like a choice he made; it returned to you like something gravitational, like his mind had already filed you somewhere it didn’t need to think about anymore. The way he looked at you didn’t carry the careful restraint he usually used with everyone else, the subtle distance, the habitual control. There was none of that calibration here. Just ease. Familiarity without announcement. Softness without warning. Like the part of him that overthought everything had simply…stopped arguing when it came to you.
And Steven, still watching from the table, slowly leaned back in his chair like something had just clicked into place so loudly it felt almost rude.
“He still thinks we don’t know,” he said, half to himself, half to the room, eyes still fixed on the kitchen like he could catch Conrad in the act of pretending if he stared hard enough.
Taylor let out a short laugh, shaking her head as she followed his gaze. “Oh, he absolutely knows we know.”
Belly didn’t laugh right away.
She rested her chin in her hand instead, elbow propped on the table, watching the scene unfold across the room with an expression that looked almost fond in a cinematic way, like she had accidentally walked into the final scene of a story she had been reading for years. From where she sat, she could see all three of them in the kitchen: Laurel continuing her conversation as if nothing had changed, you leaning slightly toward her while still half-turned toward Conrad, and Conrad himself standing just close enough that he never quite had to step away from you to be part of either conversation.
“I think we knew before they did,” Belly admitted finally, her voice quieter now, almost amused at her own certainty.
Jeremiah immediately pointed across the table like she had just confirmed a long-standing theory. “Thank you.”
“I’m serious,” she said, a smile tugging at her mouth now that she wasn’t trying to suppress it. “It was obvious. Like…painfully obvious.”
Steven gave a slow nod, still staring toward the kitchen like he was trying to witness the evidence one more time just to make sure it wasn’t in his imagination. And across the room, Conrad was still standing there like nothing had shifted at all, still talking, still listening, still occasionally glancing at you in a way that somehow made everything else in the room feel slightly out of focus by comparison.
Jeremiah watched him for another second before a grin spread across his face. He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms behind his head like he had all the time in the world.
“Five bucks says they accidentally kiss in front of us before the week’s over.”
“Three days,” Steven corrected immediately, without even looking away from the kitchen.
“Two,” Belly said, almost at the same time, as if the answer had already been sitting in her chest waiting to be spoken.
And somewhere in the kitchen, completely unaware that the entire table had stopped being subtle about anything, Conrad let out a small, quiet smile at something you had just said, soft enough that it barely changed his expression, but real enough that it reached his eyes first.
Which, unfortunately for him, only proved their point.
Because whatever it was he thought he was hiding, it had already stopped being a secret the moment he started looking at you like that.
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 swipe through dating apps, 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.
SUMMARY: Rossi has to face his own past when the new case reminds him of you - a girl whose parents' murder he had once investigated. When the unsub sets his sights on you, both you and Rossi have to accept that you've always been each other's family. That revelation puts Spencer in a tight spot. A veteran FBI profiler is hardly an agreeable father-in-law.
In short: Rossi kind of has a daughter, Spencer is kind of in love and you're kind of in trouble.
WORDCOUNT: ~ 6k (idk what happened)
Rossi can't remember the last time he felt so sick. It isn't just the twisting, piercing feeling in his stomach that brings back memories of suspicious food. As something deep inside his chest clenches painfully, the man continues to look at the pictures inside the folder. His hands tremble noticeably.
The features, the eyes, the hair - all of it seems too familiar for his liking. The victims look just like you. Not to mention, they live around the same neighbourhood in Manhattan.
He looks at his watch again. Is eighty minutes really such a long stretch of time? Every minute he spends on this god forsaken jet is another minute he’s not watching over you. Those bastards need less than a minute to grab someone and take them away. He could already be late…
Hotchner easily picks up on Rossi’s agitation.
“What’s wrong?”
Rossi tosses the file on the table and lets out a ragged sigh. His eyes flicker towards the window. Glass skyscrapers and baux-arts buildings peek from behind milky clouds. Somewhere out there is the unsub and you. Hopefully miles apart.
“Have you heard of Anthony Beauford?” Rossi asks, his gaze returning to Hotchner.
Aaron is staring back at him with a stern expression. Metaphorical cogs inside his head are turning swiftly, as he’s trying to listen to what David isn’t saying. ‘Profiler profiling a profiler’ sounds like a drama school exercise.
“Tony the Executioner,” Spencer chimes in. He was just leaving the bathroom when he heard the conversation. ”Kidnapped, tortured and killed seventeen couples in less than two years. During his interview, he claimed he was saving children from their ‘evil foremen’. His parents, James and Caroline Beauford, used to prostitute Anthony in exchange for drug money.” Only after sharing a piece of his vast knowledge does Spencer realise something. “Rossi, you worked that case, right?”
“I did.” His voice doesn’t carry pride, only shame. “Caught the bastard but I was too late.” He shakes his head, ever so slightly. Old disappointment resurfaces. “The couple was dead. They left behind a daughter.”
Hotchner glances at the macabre pictures inside the folder. The connection is obvious.
“And she looks just like the victims,” Aaron says the quiet part out loud.
“Lives in the same area, too,” Rossi adds. There’s no point in hiding the truth from his colleagues. Whether he wants to or not, they will find out anyway.
“You kept in touch with her?” Spencer asks. His question is more out of surprise, rather than uncertainty. David wouldn’t know where you live if he didn’t call you every now and then.
“She was just a kid,” Rossi explains. As though these five words could absolve him of any crime he could have accidentally committed.
“All of them were,” Hotchner argues. “Seventeen orphans but you care only about this one.”
Rossi doesn’t answer right away. He stares at the skyline of New York outside the window. The buildings grow bigger as the jet lowers its flight. You’re so close, yet so far away from him.
“She wasn’t like other kids,” he speaks up after a while. “Sure, she did cry and miss her parents but she did something no one else did.” Rossi’s gaze returns to the two men in front of him. “She said she forgives me.” Hotchner’s and Spencer’s sudden change in expression makes David think back to that conversation with you. He’s quite sure he also made an equally confused face. “That it’s okay because even Spider-Man couldn’t save Uncle Ben and I’m no superhero.” An airy chuckle brushes past his lips. “I couldn’t just move on and forget her, not after that.”
Something shifts in the way Aaron is looking at Rossi. What used to be suspicion is now a profound understanding. Fathers have a curious, innate ability to recognise other fathers through the smallest tics.
“I know you want to keep her safe, Dave.” Hotchner’s tone is surprisingly soft. “I would do the same thing for Jack.” The man exhales, his lips pressed into a thin line. He knows that Rossi won’t like what he’s about to say. “But right now, she might be our best lead to catch the unsub.”
“Hotch is right,” Spencer interjects before Rossi can dismiss the suggestion. “If he’s after similar-looking women from the same neighbourhood, she might know him already.”
David looks between Spencer and Hotchner, weighing his chances at convincing them otherwise. His shoulders fall as he sighs. As much as he doesn’t like it, Rossi knows that they are right.
“And we will ask her about that,” he says. “After we get her someplace safe.”
Hotchner nods in response. In some cases, compromise is the best you can get. One of those is children.
You’re watching the world outside the shop window with a fond smile on your face. Living in a big city can be tiring and intimidating but there’s always a silver lining: Manhattan doesn’t wait, it doesn’t crumble. If you take a day longer to respond to an email or ask for an extension on your manuscript, the Big Apple will continue as it always has. Even when you feel that the world is shattering under your feet, the rats of New York still squeak and dine in garbage cans. As long as Manhattan moves on, maybe you can too.
A ringing phone pulls you away from your thoughts and back into reality. As you look at the caller ID, you can’t help but sigh in contentment. You pick up the phone, happy to talk to him. Like you always are.
“Hey, Dave! What-”
“Where are you?”
The question stumps you. As does the demanding tone of his voice. It’s more of an order than an inquiry.
“I’m at Bread & Batter, as usual,” you answer slowly. Your eyebrows furrow. “What’s going on?”
“Can you look around the shop?” he continues. Still unsure what to make of this bizarre phone call, you lift your gaze, searching the crowd. “Is there anyone suspicious? Maybe someone you recognise? A regular, maybe?”
Trying to look candid, your eyes trace every face within your sight. Nothing in particular grabs your attention. The girl who works Mondays, Wednesdays and Saturdays is remaking sandwiches. The boy who usually works with her and makes obvious passes at the girl is wiping down a table. The square-jawed man with thick glasses is drinking an americano, typing on his computer and handwriting notes once in a while. There is also a woman, probably in her 40s, who always wears something red. She’s sitting at the same table she always does and nibbles away at the crepe cake she always gets. The recent addition to familiar faces is a man around your age, probably a university student. He keeps absentmindedly stirring his chai tea while reading a thick textbook. Nothing about the customers is suspicious - at least in layman’s understanding of the word.
“There are a few regulars and the staff,” you say. Most of these people you know from sight but have never learnt their names. “Everything’s normal. Why are you asking?”
“I need you to stay there, no matter what happens.” There’s a tremble to David’s voice but you assume it’s just a quirk of technology. Everyone sounds a little different over the phone. “Don’t talk to anyone,” he stresses. “Do you understand?”
You can’t help but look around you once again. Your gaze meets that of the man at his computer. He gives you a polite, though awkward, smile and nods as a way to acknowledge your familiar presence. On any other day, you would slightly raise your glass as a silent greeting. Today, however, you cower away. Your eyes flicker back to the street on the other side of the window. Suddenly feeling exposed and vulnerable, you make a futile attempt at burrowing yourself further into your corner booth. In a city of millions, you find yourself too visible.
“You’re scaring me, Dave.” Your voice is quiet, fearful. Could someone be eavesdropping on your conversation? “What’s going on?”
“I’m sorry, kid. It’s just…” He hangs his voice. The moment of silence makes your heart race. People don’t do that when they deliver good news. No, they need a second to think about how to sugarcoat reality. “You fit the type of a bad guy we’re looking for,” Rossi says, his voice strangely flat. He means to hide his true emotions, accidentally sounding robotic. “Everything will be okay, I promise.” Words spoken in a soft tone calm you down slightly. Somehow, he could always talk you down from panicking. “Just stay put and don’t go anywhere until I get there, alright?”
“Okay,” you whisper.
“If anything happens, I’m just a phone call away.”
Nervous and confused, you fail to stop your half-hearted joke from slipping out:
“Just don’t take a coffee break on your way.”
You hear an airy chuckle on the other side of the phone. David has told you many times how strange and wonderful it is that your reaction to a crisis is cracking bad jokes. In his words, ‘crisis exhibits people’s true character’.
“I don’t like coffee breaks without you, kid,” Rossi says before the call is disconnected.
You squeeze the phone in your hand. The only thing you have to do is wait for David to show up. He is worried, so he will surely come as fast as he can. You just have to stay put. That’s easy, very doable. There’s nothing to be afraid of when you’re in a public place, waiting for someone. After all, this isn’t the first time he’s rushing to get to you. He’s yet to be too late, to leave you hanging.
Everything will be fine, like he said. You just have to wait.
Despite your relentless questions, Rossi is more than reluctant to indulge you with any specifics regarding the murders. He doesn’t see the point in letting you know what the unsub does to his victims, before and after their death. This doesn’t concern you in any way because you will never be close enough for the man to hurt you. At least, that’s what he keeps telling himself.
Walking through the precinct, you feel his hand against your back, nestled between your shoulder blades. Rossi is gently guiding you through the mob of policemen, family members and potential witnesses. Always a step behind you, he has the perfect view of anyone coming into your vicinity. One of the officers comes up to him but before he can say anything, David barks out a ‘not now’.
Entering the conference room, you’re met with curious eyes studying you from head to toe. Five FBI agents, suddenly frozen in time. Like a lodge of judges, they seem to be deciding your fate. Looking past their unreadable expressions, you see a large glass board. Something is scribbled in different coloured pens. The random words mean nothing to you. Your focus shifts to pictures. At first, it’s hard to discern what is shown in the photographs. There’s mostly beige, brown and red. The longer you stare at the pictures, the more you realise what you’re actually looking at - body parts.
“My God,” you whisper. “Are those-”
A woman with shoulder-length dark hair circles her arm around your shoulders and turns you around to look at Rossi and the busy policemen behind the door to the conference room.
“You don’t want to know, believe me,” she says. Seeing her hardened expression, you’re inclined to trust her words.
Rossi gives you an apologetic look. There’s almost a sense of pity in his dark eyes. He might not say it but you have a pretty good guess what he’s thinking about - he thinks it’s unfair that you have to go through this mess again. To feel like there’s a beast stalking you in the shadows. Only this time, he will make sure he has the upper hand.
“You stay here,” Dave orders, “I’ll bring you something to drink.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know,” he answers casually, before leaving the room and disappearing among rushing policemen.
Unsure what else to do, you sit down at the table. From what you know, and that isn’t a lot, the only danger this killer poses to you is strictly theoretical. Sure, you do look like his victims and live in the same area but you would notice a maniac stalking you, right?
The tense silence continues for a minute or two. The rest of Rossi’s team doesn’t know how much he’s told you or how much he’d want you to know. They look between themselves, quietly deciding what to do now. Do they carry on as though you weren’t there? Or should they immediately start questioning you?
The short period of indecisiveness ends when Spencer shows you a photograph of a familiar face:
“Hey, do you know a guy named Mike Simmons?”
The answer is stuck in your throat as your gaze slides off the picture and focuses on Spencer. You know his name only because Rossi once mentioned that you would probably get along with him. What Dave forgot to mention, however, was that Spencer Reid is unfairly pretty. The soft brown eyes, slightly parted pink lips, and coiffure of dishevelled hair. Despite his anxious demeanour, you notice the quiet strength residing somewhere deep inside him, put to slumber until danger appears. You know that type of man: rarely defends himself but will put his life on the line for others, no hesitation or questions asked. Unfortunately for you, it’s this very kind of man that makes your knees weak. Maybe it’s good that you’re sitting.
“That’s her neighbour.” Rossi’s voice makes you tear your eyes away from Spencer and look towards the glass door. “Lives one floor below, apartment number seven,” he continues, while putting a paper cup of coffee and a chocolate bar in front of you. You’re surprised to notice that he remembers your favourite brand. “His brother, Patrick, was arrested several times for domestic violence.”
You look at Dave with squinted eyes. Rossi may be a federal agent and a fantastic profiler but he’s not an oracle.
“How do you know that?” you probe, crossing your arms on your chest. Curious glint dances in your eyes. “Dave, are you cyberstalking me?”
His eyebrow quirks as he hears the question. “I have better things to do, kid,” Rossi answers. He almost sounds believable. “I only asked our technician to make sure you live around good people.”
You nod slightly, pondering his words. If it were anyone else, you’d be calling the police. The fact that it’s Dave looking out for you, even if he doesn’t have to, makes comfortable warmth spread through your body. Maybe guardian angels do exist?
“I don’t know if that’s extremely invasive or extremely nice,” you say.
“Yeah, dads tend to be like that,” the dark-haired woman chimes in. She and two other men exchange amused looks.
“A dad would beat that guy with a baseball bat,” Rossi argues. “I didn’t.”
“But you thought about it.”
“That’s not a crime.”
Jokes and niceties end there. What follows is two hours of detailed questions, often unconnected. Someone asks about work colleagues and then another person inquires about the clothing brands you wear. It’s beyond your understanding how those pieces of information can help them catch a murderer. Even so, you brave through the almost-interrogation. Every now and again, Rossi asks if you want a break. You keep telling him you’re fine, but he seems to believe he knows better. After every thirty minutes, he makes others leave you alone for a moment. It’s in those short pauses when he lets his strong resolve slip. For just a second, you can see the sadness inside him. He doesn’t have to say anything; you know it - Rossi would do anything to have you safe and sound in your apartment, blissfully unaware of the madness surrounding you.
Little did you know, the invasive questions were only the beginning of the second-longest night in your life:
“Absolutely not!”
Rossi’s words are the first thing you hear after returning from the bathroom. You were gone for no longer than five minutes and yet the calm conference room has suddenly turned into a war zone.
“This might be our only chance to catch him,” argues the man in the suit. His unmovable stoicism is unnerving.
You feel a warm hand being gently placed on your shoulder.
“Maybe we should ask the girl in question, boys?”
Everyone’s eyes turn to look at the dark-haired woman beside you. It’s impressive how easily she can command a room full of men.
“Me?” you ask sheepishly, still confused about the topic of the conversation. Why would they be talking about you and catching someone?
“You’re a smart one, sweetheart,” begins the dark-skinned man. “I’m sure you’ve figured out that you share a lot of characteristics with the other victims. We think that this unsub is already aware of you, probably watches you and a few other girls. Our best chance to arrest this guy is to catch him red-handed. You can help us with that.”
“You don’t have to do it, kid,” Rossi chimes in. Judging by the tone of his voice, he means you can’t or shouldn’t do it. Anything that puts you in harm’s way is stepping over the line.
“I know,” you answer.
Silence fills the room again. Their eyes are fixed on you, waiting for the answer. The prospect is terrifying but you know you won’t be able to live with yourself if you don’t even try to help out. Not every girl on the block has a grumpy FBI agent looking over her shoulder. A personal tragedy brought you a guardian angel with a goatee but it’s not a fair exchange. People shouldn’t go to pits of Hell just to find a sense of safety and belonging.
“Can you promise me that I’ll be fine?” you ask. “That you’ll be close by all the time?”
“Hey, kid, look at me.” The dark-skinned man gives you a soft, yet confident look. He gives the impression of someone who doesn’t back out of a fight. He may not start them but he always finishes them. “I promise that not a single hair will fall from your head.
“Alright,” you say under your breath. “I’ll do it.”
Rossi immediately starts walking in your direction. “I’ll go with you.”
“No.” The commanding voice of the suit-wearing man makes David stop in his tracks. “If you visit her regularly, the unsub definitely knows you. Reid will go.”
“M-me?” Spencer repeats, vaguely pointing his index finger at himself.
“If you let anything happen to her,” Rossi warns in a stern tone, “I’ll bring that baseball bat.”
Spencer only manages to answer ‘yes, sir’ in an absent voice. Something about the way he clenches his jaw makes you think that he knows Dave isn’t just joking. The baseball reference might be amusing but the sentiment remains unchanged: if Spencer is anything but perfect at his job tonight, he will wish it were the unsub who gets their hands on him.
Standing on the balcony, you close your eyes. Cool breeze fans against your shivering skin. Your ears are filled with music from nearby bars, laughter of drunk friends and late commuters losing their patience. There’s a distinct smell in the air, one you could never name. It’s the fragrance of millions of lives carrying on, of tears shared by strangers on the subway and of street vendors opening up their small business as the nightlife goes into full swing. Maybe the smell belongs to the very spirit of the city, the unmistakable genius loci of New York.
A smile appears on your lips as you take in a deep breath.
You open your eyes when you feel a jacket being placed around your shoulders. The soft padding tickles your exposed skin.
“You looked cold,” Spencer says in a low voice. Only now do you realise how close he is to you, as his warm breath brushes against your neck and cheeks.
“Thank you.” You can only hope that the dim twilight hides your blush from him. “It’s lovely, isn’t it?”
His hands remain on your shoulders. With each of his breaths, you can feel his chest against your back.
“Yeah, I guess it has… its charm.”
You look up to meet his gaze and immediately regret it. Low lights of the street glisten in his brown eyes, making them look almost gold. Cold wind tugs gently at his curls, swaying them to the ever-unchanging rhythm of the ocean. The yellow hue from your living room lamp gathers around his head, creating something resembling a halo. Is this what the artist saw before painting his first angel?
“You’re a terrible liar, you know that?” You try to hide your fluster with a giggle. If Spencer is aware of your ruse, he doesn’t let on. “Look, if you lean just right over the railing-”
A strong arm wraps around your waist before your head can leave the safety of the balcony. “Maybe don’t do that.” Spencer pulls you back against him. “I’d like to avoid Rossi with a baseball bat, if it’s all the same to you.”
For a moment, you wonder if he knows how hard he’s making things for you. Can he feel your heart rapidly thrumming against your ribs? Can he hear his own name being called in the breath he so easily steals from you?
“Fine, then you lean over.” You feign indifference. Grown women shouldn’t lose their heads for some guy they’ve known for less than a day. Then again, Spencer isn’t just ‘some guy’, is he? “If your head is far out enough, you can see it.”
Spencer strategically pushes you behind him. With one hand propping him up against the railing, he cranes his neck as far as possible.
“Is that the Brooklyn Bridge?” he asks. If you didn’t know any better, you’d assume the strange uptick in his voice is awe.
“One and only.”
The quiet moment doesn’t last long. Spencer seems to notice something in the street below. He gets up immediately, pushing you further into your home.
“You know, maybe we should go back inside,” he says, still staring at whatever caught his attention.
He closes the balcony door and locks it. Checks the lock twice, then pulls the curtains. Just to make sure no one can get inside this way, Spencer puts a chair against the door. The back of it prevents the handle from being pushed all the way. Turns out there’s some truth to action movies.
The two of you stand there, in the middle of your living room. Unsure what to do now. Having a cute guy all to yourself would be great in any other circumstances. The longer you stay idle, the more awkward this situation will become. Remembering that Rossi thought you’d get along with Spencer, you start looking around your apartment. What can a genius FBI agent have in common with you?
Your gaze falls on the shelves right behind Spencer. Black-and-white casings litter the wall from the floor to the ceiling. There may be a way to make this strange arrangement more comfortable and the hours of the night to pass faster.
“You wanna watch something?” you ask him. “I have an embarrassingly large collection of old movies.” Flustered, you point at the shelves behind Spencer.
Curious, he turns around only to let out a surprised gasp. He definitely saw the wall of cassette tapes when he entered but now he can really look at it.
“Kurosawa, Hitchcock, Huston, Curtiz,” he reads the labels. “Biggest names of the New Deal Era.”
“Spoken like a true connoisseur,” you nod in approval. “So, Casablanca or The Maltese Falcon?”
A half-grin tugs at the corner of his mouth. If it wasn’t for the brown doe eyes staring at you, you’d say Spencer looks cocky. “Humphrey Bogart fan?”
“I guess I like handsome men with firearms,” you tease.
The comment must strike a chord in his heart as Spencer stands still. He blinks quickly, finally realising that he does, in fact, fall into that category. He desperately wants to say something and keep up with your banter but he remains quiet. As much as he likes where your thoughts are going, he very much dislikes the idea of Rossi finding out.
Against his better judgment, Spencer sits down on the couch next to you. If only his body allowed him, he’d sit on the opposite end. His yearning heart, however, sat him right beside you, thigh brushing against thigh. The opening scene rolls when he feels your head against his shoulder. A comforting smell of lilac and vanilla takes over his senses. How weird would it be if he just stuck his nose in the crook of your neck and drowned in that fragrance?
The movie continues but Spencer can’t focus on anything happening on the screen. His mind is occupied by you. He’s all too aware of the way your body is positioned against his. Treading the waters, Spencer puts his arm around your shoulders. You respond immediately, tucking in even closer to him. Your head fits just right under his chin.
You feel a strange sensation as though someone is watching you. Maybe you’re just starting to be paranoid, or maybe there’s more to it. In any case, you lift your eyes from the screen. You’re expecting to see Spencer’s profile, his attention on the TV but the view is a lot nicer - he’s already staring down at you when your gazes meet. The tips of your noses brush ever so gently with each breath.
“Not watching the movie?” You whisper.
“Can’t focus,” he answers, voice equally low.
“What are you thinking about?”
His fingers trace faint circles on your arm. Those brown eyes stare at you with purpose, as though Spencer is attempting to read your mind. If he could, he’d probably see only himself.
“How much I want to risk getting my head bashed in with a baseball bat.”
A giggle escapes your lips. Spencer can’t help but smile at such a sweet sound.
“If it hurts, I will kiss it better,” you promise.
Spencer’s other hand trails up your thigh before its fingers find your jaw. He’s caressing you softly, still debating whether he should indulge himself. What if the baseball bat wasn’t rhetorical?
Any doubt he might have disappears when he feels your soft lips against his cheek, then the corner of his mouth. His thoughts turn fuzzy and, even if he wanted to, he couldn’t possibly string a coherent sentence.
With a firm, yet gentle hold on your jaw, Spencer presses his lips against yours. He inhales deeply, the smell of lilac and vanilla not only surrounds him, but penetrates his very spirit. Fixing the angle, he kisses you deeper. A strange hunger pulsates inside him, its greed only growing with each stolen peck. You let out a whine and Spencer takes that as the highest form of approval. He pushes his knee between your thighs, forcing you to lie on your back underneath him.
Breathless and completely smitten, you need to use all of your willpower to turn your head to the side. While you’re trying to catch your breath, Spencer isn’t so keen on taking a break just yet. His lips leave warm, wet kisses along your jaw and neck.
The sound of your giggle makes him suddenly stop, if just to look at your angelic, blissful face.
“You’re definitely getting that baseball bat,” you whisper.
Spencer laughs along with you.
“I’ll worry about that later,” he breathes out against your ear before continuing his ministrations.
Before the moment can get any more explicit, someone knocks on the front door. Heavy, angry bangs echo through the dimmed apartment. Spencer and you immediately stop your affections, exchanging worried looks.
“I’m not expecting anyone,” you say.
“Except for the unsub,” Spencer adds.
“You think it’s him?”
“There’s only one way to find out.”
He gets off you and stands up from the couch. Before Spencer can take another step towards the front door, you grab him by the shirt.
“Wait.” That panicked tone of your voice makes him consider cradling you in his arms again. You will definitely be safe if the unsub has to shoot him first. “You’re not actually going to open the door for a deranged murderer?”
As gently as he can, Spencer pries away your trembling hands. He gives them a reassuring squeeze.
“It’s either that or Rossi’s baseball bat,” he attempts to joke. The humour falls flat as you notice his own anxiety.
You don’t think it’s important at the moment to tell Spencer that Dave does not, in fact, own a baseball bat. When everything is over and both you and Spencer are okay, then you’ll tell him. Surely, the two of you will laugh about it and soon forget about the joke.
The banging on the door repeats. This time, the hits are even stronger, making the pane bend under the pressure.
“I know you’re in there!” comes a scream from the other side of the door. “I just wanna talk, sweetie!”
Still sitting on the couch, you curl your body into the tiniest ball possible. Maybe if you tuck your knees a little closer to your chest, you could simply disappear. You would find yourself in some faraway place, where the man behind the door can never reach.
“Let. Me. In!” He punctuates his howls with forceful bashes against the door.
With a weapon drawn, Spencer stands in the hallway. He’s standing right in the middle of the distance between you and the unsub. Each bang on the door makes him jump slightly. Whoever is trying to get inside doesn’t sound like a man possible to kill with just one bullet. Spencer will have to take his chances.
“Hey,” he calls out. “You want to talk to that girl who lives here, right?”
The banging suddenly stops. After all this commotion, silence should be welcome but it feels rotten through and through. This is the calm before the tsunami.
“Who the Hell are you?” answers a hoarse voice behind the door.
“I’m uh…” Spencer hangs his voice. With a quick look over his shoulder, he checks up on you. Curled up on the couch, you look like a wounded animal, begging to be spared. “I’m her boyfriend.”
Silence.
Then, a crash.
The front door bursts open as a large, burly man stumbles inside. He roars in a way so inhuman, blood curdles in your veins. Whoever barged into your home is not a person - hasn’t been for a long time. Even though he looks identical to the maintenance man who always greets you and warns you when the weather gets cold.
Spencer knows that words are futile. Wasting no time, he shoots the unsub straight in the chest. The man stumbles, falls on one knee. He stares at the dark spot on his black t-shirt. Blood seeps through the material, quickly spreading. Still, he manages to get back up on his feet. Another shot is fired, this time into the intruder’s back.
The unsub falls on the ground. Any other person would surely be dead but as he’s proven already, he can take much more than an average man. The corpse, like a boutique mannequin, lies motionless. Black puddle spreads across your hallways at a terrifyingly quick pace. Screams, footsteps and sirens all merge into one uproar. A painful ringing fills your ears, accompanied by rhythmic echoes of rushing blood.
You can’t feel your hands or your feet. Everything is terribly numb. Has it always been so cold in here?
Spencer’s face appears before you. His lips are moving but you can’t hear a word he says. You see his eyebrows furrow with worry.
“I want my dad,” you choke out.
He continues to stare at you in confusion. You’re not entirely sure what he finds so hard to understand about your wish. Then, his face lights up, as though some divine force granted him the understanding of basic English.
You feel your lips moving against your will. They form the same four words over and over again but you don’t know if you’re actually saying them out loud. The ringing is deafening.
Time seems to slow down as you’re watching Rossi rushing to you. He holds you close against his chest, shielding you from the macabre scene taking place in your hallway. Your face is hot and wet. When did you start crying?
The ringing in your ears slowly subsides as you begin to make out hushed promises:
“I’ve got you, kid. I’ve got you. Everything is alright, you’re safe with me.”
Feeling circulation return to your extremities, you put your arms around Rossi’s neck. One of his hands is caressing your back in soothing motions, while the other firmly holds your head against his shoulder. Even if you wanted to, you couldn’t look at the intruder’s body. Here, in this little cage of Rossi’s doing, you feel small and vulnerable. Strangely enough, it isn’t scary. It feels good to let him see you so raw and helpless.
Out of the corner of your eye, you see Spencer standing behind the couch. Apologetic, glossy eyes don’t dare leave you for a second. Fearfully, he reaches out to you. His fingers brush against your shoulder blade.
Rossi looks at this little sign of affection with reasonable suspicion. He looks between Spencer and you, quickly realising just what had happened before the fatal confrontation.
“I don’t need to give you all that fatherly talk, do I?” Rossi asks, watchful eyes glued to Spencer.
“What-” Confused, Spencer gives him a doe-eyed look. “What fatherly talk?”
“The baseball bat rule,” the dark-skinned man chimes in. He doesn’t even try to hide his amusement. “You break her heart, he breaks your neck.”
Spencer’s expression falls, his already pale face turns into a shade of grey. It turns out that the rhetorical baseball wasn’t rhetorical after all.
“Yeah, something like that.”
“I, uh…” Spencer trails off, trying to gather his thoughts after one of his colleagues just promised to maim him. “I think we should get her out of here.”
As much as Rossi is reluctant to have you out of his sight when you’re in such a fragile state, he knows it’s for the best. Besides, he doesn’t actually want to bash Spencer’s head in. That means he needs to delegate somebody else to take care of you. In some way, Rossi is glad that this somebody is none other than Spencer Reid. Any other man might not realise what it means to Rossi to leave you vulnerable.
“Come on, kid,” he whispers into your ear. “Go with Reid, he’ll take care of you.”
For the second time that day, Spencer answers with a ‘yes, sir’. Only this time, his voice isn’t absent. There’s a sense of awareness, a heavy weight, to his response. Neither Rossi nor Spencer means something temporary. Here, on the couch of your apartment, they make an agreement - father-in-law to son-in-law.
“I don’t want to look,” you argue in a meek voice.
“You don’t have to,” Spencer reassures you softly. “The paramedics already took him.”
Rossi watches as Spencer takes your arms and hangs them around his neck. As though you are without a will, your body follows the young man wherever he’s leading you. One of Spencer’s hands keeps your forehead glued to his shoulder, the other holds you securely around your waist. The two of you walk out of the apartment without you ever seeing the entirety of the aftermath. Perhaps it’s for the better.
As Derek, Spencer and you are gone from his sight, Hotch makes his way to Rossi. A faint smile dances along his lips. Once again, there’s that glint of profound understanding in his eyes - the look of a father recognising another father.
“You lied to me,” he says, forcing a cold tone.
Rossi looks up at him from under furrowed eyebrows. “Excuse me?”
“You said you don’t have children.”
David Rossi looks around the living room. His eyes wander along the titles of movies from the 1940s, self-help books and a single picture frame beside the TV. The photograph shows you and Rossi at your graduation. How come he sees the truth only now?
flopped onto the couch, you hear kenma groan at the interruption, face burying deeper into the cushions. kenma doesn’t get much sleep when maesi is around. spending his nights streaming and his days in business meetings and marketing strategies run him fairly dry, and your poor husband can’t always catch the breaks he needs and deserves.
and judging by the way maesi is patting his shoulder, it seems that the struggle will continue.
“maesi,” you say softly. “what is it?”
“dadda,” she ignores you. “apple.”
“what about the apple, sweetheart?” you ask, reaching your hand out to try and find the source of the problem. “would you like it cut up?”
“no,” your two year old denies, continuing to tap kenma on the arm. “dadda dood it.”
“no, mumma will do it-“
“what do you need daddy to do?” kenma asks, yawning softly. maesi squeals excitedly and stomps her tiny feet, the slippers she’s wearing muffling some of the joy she’s experiencing. he turns his head, blinking sleepily at his child before smiling softly at her zealousness. “what’s up, muffin?”
“dadda,” she repeats. “dadda, noisinus.”
kenma buries his face into the cushions and lets out a string of laughter, shoulders shaking as he understands what his child is asking for. a weak hand extends out for the apple, fingers beckoning for it. maesi giggles and passes her father the apple, both of them not even a little phased by your confusion.
kenma takes a bite of the apple, the soft crunch of his teeth sinking into the fruit making your head tip in intrigue. he’s not cutting it for her?
kenma chews for a moment, looking up to the sky in thought before passing the apple back to his daughter, “not poisonous.”
you snort and shake your head softly.
“tanks, dadda!” she says, tiny feet toddling to the other corner of the room, filled with toys and books for her to keep occupied with.
you plop yourself onto the couch next to kenma, laughing softly as he creeps his way into your lap. “poison?”
“you remember when i stole a bite of her lunch and she got mad at me?”
“yeah?”
“well-“ kenma yawns softly before smacking his lips. “i told her i had to make sure it wasn’t poisonous. now, before she eats anything, she makes me take a bite.”
you shake your head, “so everything she eats, you take a bite of?”
“except her mini muffins,” he chimes. “she’s too protective over those.”
synopsis ➸ some people say childhood friendships never last—but they're wrong about you and hajime. though twenty years of friendship doesn't prepare you for what happens when you finally see him as more than the boy who grew up next door
tags ➸ childhood friends to lovers, roommates to lovers, strong sexual tension, fingering, nipple play, oral sex (mentioned), size kink, praise kink, dirty talk, unprotected sex, creampie, voyeurism (sorta), getting caught, grinding, manhandling, implied exhibitionism, multiple orgasms, massage leads to more
wc ➸ 15.5k
Some people say childhood friendships never last—that they're as fragile as the paper airplanes you used to launch from the second-story window of Iwaizumi's bedroom, soaring briefly before crashing into the unforgiving earth below. But they're wrong. At least they were wrong about the three of you. You, Hajime, and Tooru had been constants in each other's lives since before conscious memory formed, your existences so thoroughly intertwined that sometimes you couldn't remember where your personality ended and theirs began. Your mothers still liked to tell the story of how three-year-old Hajime had stubbornly planted himself between you and a neighborhood dog that had wandered too close, his small fists clenched and ready to defend you despite his own obvious fear. Or how Tooru had wailed inconsolably when your family considered moving to Tokyo for your father's job when you were seven, staging a one-child protest on your front lawn until his mother dragged him home, embarrassed but secretly understanding. The move never happened, and sometimes in your darkest moments, you wondered how different life would have been if it had—if you'd never grown up witnessing Hajime's quiet evolution from the soft-spoken boy with perpetually dirt-stained knees to the powerhouse ace who could silence a gymnasium with a single spike.
People always assumed Tooru was the glue that held your trio together—charismatic, beautiful Tooru with his perfect smile and carefully crafted persona. But you knew better. It was Hajime who anchored you both, his unwavering reliability providing the foundation upon which your friendship was built. When Tooru pushed himself too far during practice, it was Hajime who forcibly dragged him home, his hand rough on the back of Tooru's neck but his eyes betraying genuine concern. When you struggled through advanced mathematics in your third year, staying up until your vision blurred and your fingers cramped around your pencil, it was Hajime who appeared at your window at midnight with energy drinks and his meticulously organized notes, refusing to leave until the equations made sense. "I'm not doing this for you," he'd grumble, but the lie was transparent. He had always been a terrible liar.
The three of you had created your own language over the years—a complex system of inside jokes, half-finished sentences, and meaningful glances that outsiders could never hope to decipher. You could communicate volumes with just the quirk of an eyebrow or the set of your shoulders. You knew exactly which smile of Tooru's was genuine and which was manufactured for his fangirls. Hajime could tell when your laughter was forced, calling you out with a simple, "Cut the crap," that somehow never felt harsh coming from him. And both you and Hajime had become experts at reading the subtle signs of Tooru's insecurity—the infinitesimal tightening around his eyes, the way his fingers would twist just a little too hard in the hem of his shirt. In those moments, you'd exchange a glance with Hajime, an entire conversation happening in seconds: Your turn or mine? He needs us. Again.
High school slipped away like sand through fingers, impossible to grasp no matter how tightly you clenched your fist around the memories. The inevitability of separation loomed like a thundercloud on the horizon, impossible to ignore but easy to pretend wasn't there—until graduation day arrived with its brutal finality. Tooru was Argentina-bound, his talent too immense for Japan to contain. Hajime had chosen Tokyo for sports medicine, his practical nature guiding him toward a future that would keep him connected to the sport even after his body could no longer withstand the punishing demands of competitive play. And you—well, you'd applied to universities in Tokyo almost as an afterthought, your real motivation transparent to anyone who knew you well enough. Where Hajime went, you followed. It had always been that way, even when Tooru was there to complete your triangle.
The night before Tooru's departure had been uncharacteristically subdued. No dramatic declarations, no forced cheerfulness. Just the three of you sprawled across the floor of his half-packed bedroom, surrounded by the artifacts of a childhood about to be left behind. Tooru's eyes had been red-rimmed, though he'd deny crying if confronted. Hajime had been quieter than usual, his normally expressive face carefully blank as he absently tossed a volleyball from hand to hand. You'd lain between them, your head on Hajime's thigh, your feet in Tooru's lap, feeling the physical connection between the three of you like a living thing, already grieving its imminent loss.
Tokyo welcomed you and Hajime with indifferent arms, the city too vast and impersonal to care about two more people from the countryside. Your apartment was cramped and overpriced, a fifth-floor walk-up with temperamental plumbing and walls thin enough to hear your neighbors' most intimate moments. But it was yours—yours and Hajime's—and there was something thrilling about that possession, about building something that belonged just to the two of you. No parents, no Tooru, no history except what you carried with you.
The first few weeks had been a chaotic blur of unpacking, getting lost on subway lines, discovering which convenience store had the best onigiri, and learning to navigate the strange new terrain of living with Hajime without the buffer of Tooru between you. You'd seen glimpses of this Hajime before—the one who existed when Tooru wasn't around to command attention—but never for extended periods. Never with this raw, unfiltered intimacy that came from sharing a bathroom sink and seeing each other first thing in the morning, bleary-eyed and defenseless.
Hajime in private was both exactly who you'd always known and someone entirely new. The gruffness remained, but without Tooru to focus it on, it softened around the edges. He still exercised with religious dedication, but now you witnessed the full extent of his routine—the way sweat gleamed on his skin as he did push-ups in the living room, his t-shirt clinging to the muscles of his back, the controlled rhythm of his breathing as he counted reps under his breath. You found yourself watching him more often than you'd care to admit, cataloging the details you'd somehow missed despite years of friendship: the small scar at the corner of his jaw from a childhood biking accident, the way one eyebrow lifted slightly higher than the other when he was skeptical, how his hands—always so capable and strong—could be surprisingly gentle when he absentmindedly massaged your shoulders after you'd been hunched over textbooks for too long.
Tooru's absence was strange and disorienting, like losing a limb. The phantom pain of missing his dramatic entrances, his ridiculous poses, his ability to fill a room with his presence alone. Video calls helped, but they were a pale imitation of having him physically present, his voice tinny through speakers, his image frozen by bad connections at the most inopportune moments. Still, there was comfort in seeing his face, in watching him gesticulate wildly as he described his new teammates, his new apartment, his new life that was happening without you. Sometimes you'd catch a shadow crossing his features when you mentioned something you and Hajime had done together, a flicker of something like loneliness before his practiced smile slid back into place. Those moments cut deep, made you question whether you'd made the right choice following Hajime instead of Tooru.
But then Hajime would do something—drop a cup of tea beside you while you studied, press his shoulder against yours during a crowded subway ride, fall asleep on the couch with his head tilted toward your bedroom as if even unconscious he was attuned to your presence—and the doubt would dissolve. There was an easiness between you now, a comfortable silence that had never been possible with Tooru around to fill every quiet moment with chatter. You learned that Hajime hummed tunelessly while cooking, that he folded his laundry with military precision, that he secretly read historical fiction before bed. He discovered your habit of talking to yourself when concentrating, your collection of ridiculous socks, your inability to remember to buy toilet paper despite multiple reminders.
The physical awareness of him grew by imperceptible degrees, like water slowly rising in a basin. You noticed things you'd never allowed yourself to notice before—the breadth of his shoulders under thin cotton t-shirts, the tanned column of his throat when he tilted his head back to drink, the way his hair fell across his forehead when freshly washed. His presence in a room changed the very air, charged it with something you couldn't name but could feel in the pit of your stomach, in the suddenly rapid beat of your heart.
Sometimes you'd catch him looking at you with an expression you didn't recognize, his eyes dark and unreadable. It would last only a second before he'd turn away, jaw tight, shoulders tense. In those moments, uncertainty would creep in, cold fingers of doubt trailing along your spine. Had you done something wrong? Was he regretting the decision to live together? Did he wish he'd chosen a different roommate, one who didn't leave hair in the shower drain and forget to buy groceries when it was their turn?
Then came the night that changed everything—though perhaps change isn't the right word. Perhaps it was more of an awakening, a sudden violent clarity washing over you like ice water, forcing you to see what had been right in front of you all along.
It was a Thursday evening in late October, the kind where autumn's chill had finally committed to its descent, no longer teasing with occasional warm afternoons but settling into the city with grim determination. Rain had been falling steadily since morning, not the dramatic downpour that would give you an excuse to call off plans, but the persistent, monotonous kind that soaked through layers regardless of umbrellas or hoods. You'd arrived home with damp socks and a foul mood, having stepped in a puddle that went halfway up your calf on the final stretch to your apartment building.
Hajime had beaten you home, evident from his muddy running shoes haphazardly kicked off in the entryway (a habit that normally irked you, but today seemed strangely endearing in its familiarity) and the smell of something savory simmering on the stove. The apartment was warm after the damp chill outside, steam fogging the kitchen window as Hajime stood with his back to you, shoulders broad beneath a worn gray t-shirt, the muscles of his forearms visible as he rolled up his sleeves to wash something in the sink.
"I'm home," you called unnecessarily, dropping your sodden bag on the floor with a wet thud.
He glanced over his shoulder, eyes taking in your bedraggled state with a quick sweep that somehow missed nothing. "You look like shit."
"Charming as always, Hajime," you muttered, but there was no heat in it. This was your rhythm, comfortable and worn like an old sweater.
"Take a hot shower before you catch something. Food'll be ready in twenty." He turned back to whatever he was doing, dismissing you with the easy confidence of someone who knew his suggestions would be heeded.
And they would be, because he was right—you were freezing, your clothes uncomfortably damp and clinging to your skin. But something stubborn in you resisted the immediate compliance, a childish urge to assert some kind of control in a day that had seemed determined to strip it from you at every turn.
"What are you making?" You moved closer instead, peering around his solid frame to see what was in the pot he was stirring. The kitchen was small, barely enough room for two people to move comfortably, and your shoulder brushed against his back as you leaned in.
"Curry. My mom's recipe." A pause, then almost grudgingly: "The one you like."
Something warm unfurled in your chest at that, at the knowledge that he'd chosen to make your favorite comfort food on this miserable day. It was so typically Hajime—gruff words masking thoughtful actions, caring for you in ways so subtle and consistent they were easy to overlook. He'd always been like that, from the time you were children and he'd wordlessly handed you his jacket when you shivered at the summer festival, to now, cooking you dinner after what he'd somehow intuited had been a terrible day.
"Let me help," you said, already reaching for the cabinet where plates were kept.
He made a noncommittal grunt that you interpreted as assent, and for several minutes you worked in companionable silence, moving around each other in the cramped kitchen with the unconscious choreography of people who had shared space for years. You set the table while he finished the curry, occasionally brushing against each other in the confined space—his hand on the small of your back as he reached past you for the rice cooker, your arm grazing his as you grabbed utensils from the drawer. Each point of contact sent a small jolt through your system, like static electricity, there and gone so quickly you barely registered it on a conscious level.
"Can you get the good glasses?" Hajime nodded toward the upper cabinet. "The ones your mom sent."
You moved to comply, stretching up on tiptoes to reach the cabinet above the stove where the nice glassware was kept—a housewarming gift from your mother, who had insisted that proper adults needed proper glasses, not the mismatched collection of promotional cups and chipped mugs you'd accumulated through high school. Your fingertips just grazed the shelf, not quite able to reach.
"Move," Hajime said from behind you, the single word a command rather than a request. Before you could respond, his chest pressed briefly against your back as he reached over you, his body heat seeping through your damp clothes and making you acutely aware of just how cold you'd been. He grabbed two glasses with ease, his height advantage making the task effortless where you had struggled.
As he set them on the counter, one slipped from his grasp—perhaps because of residual soap from washing his hands, or just one of those inexplicable moments of clumsiness that happen to even the most coordinated people. It shattered on the tile floor with a crash that seemed disproportionately loud in the small kitchen, glass fragments exploding outward in a glittering radius that included where you stood in your socked feet.
What happened next occurred so quickly that your brain struggled to process the sequence of events. One moment you were standing there, staring dumbly at the broken glass surrounding your feet; the next, Hajime's hands were on your waist, large and warm and uncompromising as they lifted you bodily off the ground as if you weighed nothing at all. There was a suspended second of weightlessness, of complete surrender to his strength, before he deposited you firmly on the countertop, your legs dangling a safe distance above the hazardous floor.
"Don't move," he ordered, voice dropping to a lower register than you were accustomed to hearing from him, authoritative and unyielding in a way that sent an unexpected shiver racing down your spine. "You'll cut yourself."
And then he was crouching down, carefully gathering the larger shards of glass, his movements precise and methodical. You sat frozen on the countertop, but it wasn't the broken glass that had immobilized you—it was the sudden, visceral awareness of Hajime as a man, not the boy you'd grown up with. The realization crashed over you with such force that it momentarily robbed you of breath, of thought, of any coherent response beyond the thundering of your heart against your ribs.
His hands. God, his hands. How had you never truly seen them before? Large enough to span your waist with ease, strong enough to lift your entire body without apparent effort. The same hands that had patched up your scraped knees as children, that had spiked volleyballs with devastating power in high school, that now moved with careful precision as they collected broken glass. The dichotomy was dizzying—such strength capable of such gentleness, such careful control harnessing such raw power.
And the way he'd lifted you—so effortlessly, so decisively, without hesitation or strain. As if the most natural response to potential danger was to simply remove you from its path, to take control of the situation and your body in one fluid motion. There had been nothing sexual in the gesture, nothing overtly intimate, and yet heat bloomed low in your abdomen, spreading outward until even your fingertips tingled with it.
This was Hajime—your Hajime—who had seen you with chicken pox and braces, who had held your hair back when you vomited after your first ill-advised experiment with alcohol at sixteen, who knew all your embarrassing secrets and childhood fears. And yet suddenly he was also this stranger with broad shoulders and capable hands and a voice that commanded obedience without question. How had you never noticed the way his t-shirt stretched across his chest when he reached up, or how the tendons in his forearms flexed as he worked, or the sheer masculine solidity of him occupying space in your shared kitchen?
"You okay?" His voice cut through your spiraling thoughts, and you realized he was looking up at you from his crouched position, brow furrowed in concern. "You look flushed. Are you getting sick?"
Sick? Yes, perhaps that explained the sudden heat in your cheeks, the difficulty drawing a full breath, the way your entire body seemed to vibrate with a new awareness you couldn't name. Easier to blame it on illness than to confront the truth—that something fundamental had shifted in your perception of the man before you, something that couldn't be undone or ignored.
"I'm fine," you managed, your voice sounding strange to your own ears, higher than usual and slightly breathless. "Just... startled."
He grunted, clearly unconvinced, and went back to cleaning up the glass. You watched him in silence, cataloging details with newfound intensity—the way his hair fell across his forehead as he bent forward, the strong column of his neck disappearing into the collar of his t-shirt, the flex and release of muscles in his shoulders as he moved. How many times had you seen him exactly like this, performing some mundane task in your shared space? And yet now, it was as if you were seeing him through a completely different lens, one that stripped away the comfortable familiarity of your history together and left only this visceral, primal awareness in its place.
Your mother's voice suddenly echoed in your memory, her raised eyebrow and knowing smile when you'd announced your plan to share an apartment with Hajime. "Just the two of you?" she'd asked, a teasing lilt to her voice that had made you roll your eyes at the time. "You know, sweetheart, people change when you live with them. You might see sides of Hajime you've never noticed before."
You'd dismissed her concern with the confident ignorance of someone who believed they knew everything there was to know about their oldest friend. "Mom, it's Hajime. We've been joined at the hip since we were in diapers. There's nothing about him I don't already know."
How spectacularly, catastrophically wrong you had been. Because the Hajime you'd known all your life didn't make your pulse quicken with a single touch. He didn't make you hyperaware of your own body, of the thin fabric of your shirt against suddenly sensitive skin, of the exposure of your bare legs where they dangled from the countertop. He didn't make you wonder, with a kind of reckless curiosity that bordered on desperation, what those hands would feel like on other parts of your body, what that voice would sound like murmuring against your ear, what that strength would be like if it was focused entirely on you in an entirely different context.
Hajime finished gathering the larger pieces of glass and stood, moving to the trash can to dispose of them. "Don't get down yet," he instructed, grabbing the broom from the corner. "I need to sweep to make sure I got all the small pieces."
You nodded mutely, not trusting your voice. There was something almost unbearably intimate about sitting on the counter watching him clean up the mess, something domestic and quotidian that now seemed charged with new significance. This was your life together—broken glasses and curry for dinner and rain pattering against the windows—and yet suddenly it felt like the setting for something much more complex, much more dangerous than mere friendship or sharing an apartment.
He swept methodically, his movements economical and thorough, occasionally glancing up at you with that same concerned furrow between his brows. "You sure you're okay? You've been quiet."
"Just tired," you lied, forcing a smile that felt brittle on your face. "Long day."
He studied you for a moment longer, eyes narrowing slightly as if he could see through the flimsy excuse, but ultimately he let it go. That was Hajime too—knowing when to push and when to give you space, respecting your boundaries even when he suspected you weren't being entirely truthful. The thought sent another wave of heat through you, the realization that his consideration, his attentiveness, had always been there but now carried new weight, new implications.
"Done," he announced finally, setting the broom aside. He moved back to stand in front of you, positioned between your dangling legs, and for one wild, heart-stopping moment you thought—hoped? feared?—he might put his hands on your waist again, might lift you down as easily as he'd lifted you up. Instead, he stepped back slightly, giving you space to slide off the counter on your own.
"Thanks," you murmured, suddenly shy in a way you'd never been with him before. Your feet touched the floor, and you were abruptly aware of the height difference between you, of how you had to tilt your head back slightly to meet his eyes, of how easily he could—
Could what? Your mind raced ahead, filling in blanks with possibilities that had never occurred to you before this moment. Could back you against the counter. Could tilt your chin up with those strong fingers. Could bend down and—
"Food's getting cold," Hajime said, breaking the spell. He turned away to grab the pot of curry, seemingly oblivious to the chaotic spiral of your thoughts, to the seismic shift that had just occurred in your perception of him, of your relationship, of everything.
You moved to the table on unsteady legs, sinking into your chair with the distinct feeling that you were no longer the same person who had walked through the door twenty minutes ago. That version of you had seen Hajime as a constant, a known quantity, a childhood friend turned roommate with no complex layers to navigate. This new version saw him as... something else entirely. Something that made your skin too tight, your breath too shallow, your thoughts too scattered to form coherent patterns.
As he served the curry, his forearm brushed against your shoulder, and you flinched at the contact, a small involuntary movement that didn't escape his notice.
"Seriously, what's wrong with you tonight?" he asked, genuine concern mixing with exasperation in his voice. "You're acting weird."
You looked up at him—at the familiar features you'd known all your life, at the strong jaw and direct gaze and perpetual slight furrow between his brows—and felt as if you were seeing a stranger superimposed over your oldest friend. How could you explain that the problem wasn't him but your own sudden, visceral recognition of him as a man, as someone who could make your heart race with just the casual display of strength, who could command a room—command you—with nothing more than the tone of his voice?
"Nothing's wrong," you lied again, knowing he wouldn't believe you but unable to offer anything closer to the truth. "Just... thinking about something."
He raised an eyebrow, clearly waiting for elaboration, but when none came, he simply shook his head and sat down across from you. "Fine. Keep your secrets. But eat something before you pass out."
You picked up your spoon obediently, going through the motions of eating while your mind continued its treacherous exploration of this new territory. Every movement Hajime made now seemed laden with significance—the flex of his jaw as he chewed, the way his fingers curled around his water glass, how his throat worked when he swallowed. Had he always taken up so much space at the table, his presence so solid and undeniable? Had his eyes always held that intensity when they rested on you, as if he could see beneath your skin to the turmoil beneath?
"Is it not good?" he asked, nodding toward your barely-touched food.
"No, it's delicious," you assured him quickly, forcing yourself to take another bite to prove it. "I'm just... distracted."
"By what?" he pressed, setting down his spoon and giving you his full attention. It was overwhelming, being the sole focus of that gaze, being pinned in place by nothing more than his interest, his concern.
"Work stuff," you said vaguely, knowing it was a weak excuse but unable to formulate anything more convincing when your brain was so thoroughly occupied with cataloging the exact shade of his eyes in the warm kitchen light, the precise curve of his mouth as it turned down slightly in skepticism.
He didn't believe you—that much was clear from his expression—but instead of calling you on the obvious lie, he simply reached across the table and pressed the back of his hand to your forehead, checking for fever with the casual intimacy of someone who had done so countless times before. His skin was cool against yours, his touch gentle despite the roughness of his calluses, and you fought the urge to lean into the contact like a cat seeking affection.
"You don't feel warm," he murmured, brow furrowed in concentration. "But you look flushed."
Because you're touching me, you wanted to say. Because I can feel your pulse in your wrist where it rests against my cheek. Because I suddenly can't remember how to breathe normally when you're this close. Instead, you pulled back slightly, breaking the contact before you could do something mortifying like turn your face into his palm.
"I'm fine, Hajime. Really. Just tired and wet and..." You trailed off, gesturing vaguely at your still-damp clothes.
Understanding dawned on his face. "You never took that shower. Go. Now. Before you actually do get sick." He stood, gathering your mostly-full plate. "I'll keep this warm for you."
The note of command was back in his voice, that tone that brooked no argument and expected immediate compliance. And just like that, the heat returned, spreading through your body like wildfire, making it difficult to stand without revealing the sudden weakness in your knees.
"Yeah, okay," you managed, pushing back from the table. "Thanks."
As you turned to go, his hand caught your wrist, the contact sending a jolt of electricity up your arm. You froze, heart hammering against your ribs, afraid to look back at him lest your face betray the chaos of your thoughts.
"Hey," he said, his voice softer now, tinged with genuine concern. "You'd tell me if something was really wrong, right?"
The question hung in the air between you, loaded with years of trust and friendship, with the certainty that had always existed between you—that no matter what, you could tell each other anything. Except this. How could you possibly tell him that everything had changed in the span of a few minutes, that you suddenly saw him not as Hajime-your-friend but as Hajime-the-man, that your body responded to his proximity in ways that were entirely new and terrifying and exhilarating?
"Of course," you lied, the words tasting bitter on your tongue. "Always."
He released your wrist, apparently satisfied, and you fled to the bathroom, closing the door behind you with perhaps more force than necessary. You leaned against it, eyes closed, breath coming in shallow gasps as if you'd run a marathon instead of simply walking down a hallway.
The face that greeted you in the mirror was both familiar and strange—your features the same as they had always been, but your eyes wider, darker, your cheeks flushed with color that had nothing to do with fever or cold. You looked like someone on the edge of something monumental, someone teetering between before and after, between safety and risk.
As you stripped off your damp clothes and stepped under the hot spray of the shower, you couldn't escape the realization that had ambushed you in the kitchen. Hajime was no longer just your childhood friend, your roommate, your constant. He was a man who made your pulse race and your skin tingle, whose casual display of strength had awakened something primal and hungry within you, whose voice could command your obedience with a single word.
And nothing—not the scalding water beating down on your shoulders, not the steam filling the small bathroom, not the rational part of your brain screaming warnings about ruining friendships and crossing lines that couldn't be uncrossed—nothing could wash away the sudden, visceral certainty that you wanted him. Not as a friend, not as a roommate, but as a man wants a woman, with all the messy, complicated, thrilling implications that entailed.
The question that remained, as you pressed your forehead against the cool tile of the shower wall and tried to regain your equilibrium, was what the hell you were supposed to do about it now.
The days following what you'd come to think of as the Kitchen Incident unfolded like a fever dream, your perception of Hajime permanently, irrevocably altered. It was as if someone had adjusted the focus on a camera you'd been looking through your entire life—suddenly everything was sharper, more defined, details you'd never noticed before now impossible to ignore.
There was the morning after, when you'd emerged from your bedroom to find him doing push-ups in the living room, body moving with controlled power, the muscles in his back shifting beneath his thin t-shirt with each precise movement. You'd frozen in the hallway, coffee mug clutched in white-knuckled fingers as you counted along silently—forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine—until he finally rolled to his feet in one fluid motion. A strange flutter rippled through your stomach at the sight, but you pushed it down immediately. This was Hajime, for god's sake. The same Hajime who'd eaten dirt on a dare when you were eight, who'd thrown up in your mom's hydrangea bushes after your first attempt at making cookies resulted in severe food poisoning. There was absolutely no reason for your heart to suddenly kick against your ribs just because he could do a lot of push-ups.
"Morning," he'd grunted, using the bottom of his shirt to wipe sweat from his face, momentarily exposing a stretch of tanned abdomen. You forced your eyes away, confused by the urge to keep staring. "You sleep okay?"
You'd mumbled something noncommittal, retreating to the kitchen before your brain could continue its bizarre malfunction. Probably just tired. Or hungry. Or both.
Then there was the incident with the jar three days later—a stubborn pickle jar with a lid that refused to budge despite your increasingly frustrated efforts. You'd been about to resort to running it under hot water when Hajime wandered in, drawn by your muttered curses. Without a word, he'd taken it from your hands, his fingers brushing against yours in a contact that sent an unexpected jolt through your system. He'd twisted the lid off with one easy motion, not even the slightest strain showing on his face as the vacuum seal gave way with a soft pop.
"Thanks," you'd managed, trying not to stare at his hands. Had they always been that large? That capable-looking? You'd seen those hands nearly every day for the past twenty years, and yet suddenly they seemed like they belonged to a stranger. A man, not the boy you'd grown up with. The thought made you strangely light-headed.
"You okay?" he'd asked, interrupting your confused spiral.
"Fine," you'd said quickly, snatching the jar back and turning away. Just a weird mood. That's all it was. You'd get over it.
But you didn't get over it. If anything, this strange new awareness of Hajime—of his physical presence, his strength, the sheer masculine energy he exuded without seeming to realize it—only intensified as the days passed. You found yourself noticing things you'd never paid attention to before: the way his throat worked when he swallowed, the rough calluses on his palms when his hand accidentally brushed yours, the way his t-shirts stretched across his shoulders, evidence of years of rigorous athletic training.
The breaking point came a week after the Kitchen Incident, when you'd returned home from a study session to find Hajime in the bathroom, crouched down in front of the sink, wrench in hand as he worked on a leaky faucet. He hadn't heard you come in, too focused on the task at hand, giving you an uninterrupted view of him from the doorway. He wore a simple white tank top that had seen better days, thin with washing and clinging to the muscles of his back where sweat had made it transparent. His jeans rode low on his hips as he leaned forward, exposing a strip of tanned skin and the waistband of his black boxer briefs. His arm flexed as he turned the wrench, the muscles shifting beneath his skin with controlled power that made your mouth suddenly dry.
You'd stood there, frozen in the hallway, watching as he worked, completely unaware of your presence or the effect he was having on you. Water dripped from the pipe onto his forearm, trailing down to his wrist in a meandering path that your eyes followed with inexplicable intensity. A bead of sweat rolled down the back of his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his tank top, and you had the sudden, intrusive urge to trace its path with your tongue, to taste the salt of his skin, to—
The thought had jolted you out of your trance, shocking in its suddenness and clarity. What the fuck was wrong with you? This was Hajime. Your best friend. The boy who'd pushed you on the swings and shared his lunch when you forgot yours and sat with you in the nurse's office when you had your first period at school and were too embarrassed to call your mom. You didn't think about licking his skin or touching him or—God—anything else your suddenly deranged brain was suggesting.
You'd backed away silently, retreating to your room before he could notice you, closing the door and leaning against it as you tried to understand what was happening to you. It was just stress, you'd decided. The pressure of university, of being away from home for the first time, of adjusting to this new life in Tokyo. That had to be it. There was no other explanation for why you'd suddenly started noticing your childhood friend in ways that made your skin feel too tight and your heart beat too fast.
Denial, it turned out, was a surprisingly effective coping mechanism—at least for a while. You managed to convince yourself that your heightened awareness of Hajime was just a phase, a temporary blip that would resolve itself if you just ignored it hard enough. You avoided being alone with him when possible, kept physical contact to a minimum, and desperately tried not to notice things like the way his hair fell across his forehead when he leaned over his textbooks or how his voice dropped to a lower register when he was tired.
But then came the heatwave—a brutally hot Saturday in early November, one of those freakish late-autumn days where summer seemed to have returned with a vengeance, the temperature soaring into the high eighties despite the changing leaves. You'd spent the morning at the library, studying for upcoming exams in the blessed air conditioning, but eventually hunger had driven you home despite the heat that hit you like a physical wall when you stepped outside.
The apartment was quiet when you entered, the only sound the distant hum of traffic from the street below and the soft whirring of the standing fan in the corner of the living room. You called out a greeting that went unanswered as you kicked off your shoes, dropping your bag by the door with a heavy thud.
"Hajime?" The apartment wasn't large—if he was home, he should have heard you. Perhaps he'd gone out, though his running shoes remained in their usual haphazard position by the door.
Movement caught your eye through the glass door leading to the small balcony—a flash of bare skin in the sunlight. You moved closer, curiosity drawing you forward, and then stopped dead, your breath catching in your throat at the sight that greeted you.
Hajime lay stretched out on a towel on the balcony floor, wearing nothing but a pair of black athletic shorts that rode high on his powerful thighs. His chest was bare, absolutely drenched in sweat that made his skin gleam in the harsh afternoon sun, the defined muscles of his abdomen rising and falling with each slow breath. The dusting of dark hair across his chest was visible now, damp with sweat and trailing down to his navel before thickening into a more defined path that disappeared beneath the waistband of his shorts. His small brown nipples were hard, either from the heat or the light breeze that occasionally stirred the heavy air, the contrast against his tanned skin making your mouth water in a way that shocked even you. A smaller towel was draped across his face, presumably to block the sunlight, leaving him unaware of your presence as you stood frozen in the doorway, eyes wide and heart hammering against your ribs.
He was magnificent—raw masculinity on display, unfiltered and unself-conscious in a way that made your knees weak and your core throb with sudden, undeniable want. Those shorts left absolutely nothing to the imagination, plastered to his body by sweat and revealing the substantial outline of what could only be his cock, thick and heavy even in its relaxed state. You couldn't tear your eyes away from it, from the clear shape visible through the thin, sweat-soaked fabric, your brain immediately supplying vivid imagery of what it might look like freed from those shorts, how it would feel in your hand, your mouth, between your thighs.
'Fuck,' your inner voice whispered, no longer interested in denial or pretense. 'Look at that bulge. He's fucking huge. I knew it, I fucking knew he'd be hung like that. I bet he could split me in half with that thing and I'd thank him for it.'
You should move. You should turn around, go back inside, pretend you'd never seen this—Hajime splayed out like an offering, all that strength rendered momentarily vulnerable in unconscious repose. But your feet remained rooted to the spot, your eyes greedily devouring details you'd never allow yourself to linger on if he were awake: the sharp cut of his hipbones above the waistband of his shorts, the way his throat worked as he swallowed unconsciously, the trail of hair that you suddenly, desperately wanted to follow with your tongue, from his chest all the way down to where it disappeared beneath his shorts, to take his cock in your mouth and—
'Jesus Christ, I need therapy,' your brain supplied, even as your body throbbed with want so intense it was almost painful. 'Or I need to get laid. By him. Right now. On this balcony. I don't even care if the neighbors see. They should see. Everyone should see what a fucking god he is.'
The towel shifted, and your heart stopped as Hajime's hand moved to push it up slightly, revealing the strong line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth. You were caught, deer in headlights, unable to move or speak or do anything but stare with undisguised hunger at the feast laid out before you.
"That you?" His voice was rough, whether from sleep or the heat impossible to tell. "Thought you'd be gone longer."
"Just got back," you managed, impressed at how normal your voice sounded when your internal monologue had devolved into a stream of 'fuck me fuck me please just fuck me until I can't walk straight, bend me over right here, I don't care, I'll take that monster cock any way you want to give it to me.'
He pushed the towel off entirely now, squinting up at you against the brightness of the sun. Sweat gleamed on his forehead, in the hollow of his throat, along the ridges of his abdomen. A drop rolled slowly down his chest, following the line of dark hair downward, and you tracked its progress with an intensity that bordered on obsession.
'Fuck, I don't care how sweaty he is, I'd lick every drop off him like it's the best thing I've ever tasted,' you thought wildly. 'I'd clean him better than any shower could, get on my knees and worship every inch of that body with my tongue until he couldn't take it anymore and had to fuck my throat just to shut me up.'
"You okay?" Hajime propped himself up on his elbows, brow furrowing in concern, the movement causing his abdominal muscles to flex and contract in a way that made your mouth water. "You look weird again. Is it the heat?"
Oh, it was heat alright—the heat of your cunt practically dripping at the sight of him, the heat of imagining those big hands spreading your thighs wide, those fingers pushing inside you, that mouth on your neck, your breasts, between your legs, that cock stretching you open so good you'd see stars.
"I'm fine," you said, the lie coming easily after weeks of practice. "Just a little warm."
He grunted, unconvinced as always by your increasingly transparent falsehoods. "Grab some water. You look like you're about to pass out."
'I'm about to cream my fucking pants is what I'm about to do,' you thought hysterically. 'One good look at that dick print and I'm ready to let you ruin my life, destroy my pussy, leave me a whimpering mess begging for more. I'd let you cum on my face and use it as a fucking face mask, I swear to god.'
"Good idea," you said, impressed by your own self-control when your entire body felt like it was on fire, your underwear embarrassingly damp just from looking at him. "You want some too?"
He nodded, still watching you with that slight furrow between his brows, the one that appeared whenever he was trying to solve a particularly challenging problem. You were the problem now, your strange behavior these past weeks, the way you flinched when he touched you, the flush that seemed permanently etched on your cheeks whenever he was near.
You retreated to the kitchen on unsteady legs, pressing your thighs together as you walked in a vain attempt to alleviate the ache between them. This couldn't continue. You couldn't keep living like this, constantly on edge, constantly fighting this new awareness of him, this hunger that threatened to consume you from the inside out. Something had to give.
But as you filled two glasses with cold water, hands trembling slightly, you knew with absolute certainty that it wouldn't be today. Today you would bring him water, you would make normal conversation, you would retreat to your room and shove your face into your pillow to muffle the sounds as you fucked yourself with your fingers, imagining it was his cock inside you, his voice in your ear telling you how tight you were, how good you felt, how he was going to fill you up with his cum until it dripped down your thighs.
And tomorrow? Tomorrow you would do it all again, trapped in this exquisite torture of wanting what had once been the most familiar, comfortable relationship in your life—now transformed into something dangerous, thrilling, and entirely out of your control.
Days passed in a haze of unrelenting sexual frustration following the balcony incident. You'd managed to hand Hajime his water that day, maintaining a facade of normalcy while your internal monologue screamed obscenities that would make a sailor blush. The pattern had continued—you going about your daily life pretending everything was fine while your mind supplied increasingly explicit scenarios involving your childhood friend, his massive cock, and various surfaces of your shared apartment.
Tonight was no different, the clock on your laptop reading 7:48 PM as you attempted to focus on an assignment due the following week. The apartment had been quiet for hours, Hajime still at practice, giving you a brief reprieve from the constant torment of his presence. You'd almost managed to trick yourself into believing you could be productive, that you could think about something other than what Hajime would look like naked and sweaty above you, when the sound of the front door opening shattered your concentration.
His footsteps in the hallway were immediately different—slower, heavier, with a slight drag that wasn't typical of his usual confident stride. You looked up from your laptop as he appeared in the doorway to your room, his face drawn in a grimace that set alarm bells ringing in your head.
"What's wrong?" you asked, immediately closing your laptop and giving him your full attention. Despite the constant state of arousal he unknowingly kept you in, he was still your best friend, and the obvious discomfort on his face pushed all lustful thoughts temporarily aside.
"Pulled something during practice," he muttered, leaning against the doorframe with one hand pressed to his upper thigh. Even in pain, he managed to look devastatingly attractive, his hair damp with sweat and his practice clothes clinging to his body in a way that highlighted every defined muscle. "Coach says it's just a strain, but it hurts like a bitch."
Your eyes were drawn to where his hand pressed against his thigh, just below where his athletic shorts ended. The muscle there was tensed visibly, and without thinking, you blurted out, "I could massage it for you."
The words hung in the air between you, and for a split second, panic seized your chest. What the fuck were you thinking? Offering to put your hands on his thigh when you could barely look at him without imagining riding his face? But before you could retract the offer, Hajime's expression shifted from surprise to relief.
"Would you? Coach showed us how to do it, but it's awkward to reach properly myself." He straightened from the doorframe, wincing slightly as he put weight on the affected leg. "It's my hamstring, upper inner thigh. Guess I pushed too hard during sprints."
Your mouth went dry at his casual description. Upper inner thigh. Which meant your hands would be inches from his—No. Focus. He was in pain, and he needed your help. This was what friends did for each other. It didn't matter that your heart was suddenly racing, that heat was pooling between your legs at the mere thought of touching him so intimately. You were an adult. You could handle this.
"Sure," you managed, aiming for nonchalance and probably missing by a mile. "Come sit down." You patted the edge of your bed after you put your laptop away, the only suitable surface in the room besides your desk chair, which was too small and awkward for what you'd need to do.
Hajime crossed to the bed with that same slight limp, the discomfort evident in the tightness around his eyes. He sat heavily on the edge of your mattress, the familiar weight of him causing the bed to dip, sending a cascade of memories through your mind—how many times had he sat exactly like this over the years? How many times had you shared this same casual intimacy without a second thought? And now, your heart was pounding like you were about to jump out of an airplane rather than help your injured friend.
"I, uh, need to..." He gestured vaguely at his shorts, a slight flush creeping up his neck. "To get proper access to the muscle."
"Right," you said, your voice embarrassingly high. "Of course."
With a grunt of discomfort, Hajime stood long enough to push his athletic shorts down his legs, revealing black boxer briefs that clung to his muscular thighs and, more distressingly, did absolutely nothing to hide the substantial bulge at his groin. You forced your eyes away from it, focusing instead on the clearly tensed muscle of his upper thigh, where a slight redness indicated the strained area.
He sat back down, now wearing nothing but his t-shirt and those obscenely tight boxer briefs, his legs slightly spread to accommodate the injury. "Coach said firm pressure in circular motions, working from the knee up. But not too hard right on the strain itself."
You nodded, not trusting your voice, and moved to kneel on the floor between his spread legs. This was fine. This was normal. This was just you helping your injured friend, not you positioning yourself at eye-level with his crotch, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his skin, to smell the clean sweat and masculine scent that was uniquely Hajime.
"Tell me if I press too hard," you said, placing your hands tentatively on his knee, feeling the coarse hair that covered his legs against your palms. His skin was hot to the touch, almost feverish, though whether from the injury or just his naturally high body temperature, you couldn't tell.
You began the massage gently, working your thumbs in small circles just above his knee, feeling the dense muscle beneath your fingers. Hajime was solid everywhere, the result of years of rigorous training, not an ounce of softness to be found. You worked methodically upward, applying gradually increasing pressure as you moved toward the strained area, focusing intently on the task at hand rather than on how close your hands were getting to the edge of his boxer briefs, to the place where his thigh met his—
"That's good," Hajime murmured, his voice lower than usual, slightly rough at the edges. "A little higher."
You swallowed hard and obeyed, moving your hands further up his thigh, your thumbs now pressing into the sensitive inner portion where the strain was located. This close, you could see where the hem of his boxer briefs had ridden up slightly, exposing more of his tanned skin. You could also see, no matter how hard you tried not to look, the unmistakable outline of his cock through the thin fabric, seemingly thicker than it had been a few minutes ago.
'He's getting hard from this,' your brain helpfully pointed out, sending a jolt of heat straight between your legs. 'Your hands on his thigh are making his cock hard. Imagine what would happen if you moved your hands just a little higher, slipped them under the fabric, wrapped your fingers around—'
"Harder," Hajime said, breaking into your increasingly inappropriate thoughts. "The muscle's really tight."
You bit your lip and increased the pressure, working your thumbs more firmly into the tense muscle. A small sound escaped him—something between a grunt and a groan—and the noise shot straight to your core, your cunt clenching around nothing as your brain immediately categorized it as one of the hottest things you'd ever heard.
"That hurts?" you asked, easing the pressure slightly, trying desperately to maintain some semblance of normal friendly concern.
"No," he said quickly, "It's good. It hurts in a good way. Don't stop."
Don't stop. The words echoed in your head, your imagination immediately supplying a very different context for them—Hajime above you, inside you, his voice rough as he told you not to stop, to keep going, to take all of him—
You realized your thumbs had stilled and resumed the massage, working the tense muscle with more confidence now. Hajime leaned back slightly, bracing himself on his hands, his head dropping back as another low groan escaped him. The position stretched his t-shirt across his chest, highlighting the defined muscles beneath, and caused his abs to contract visibly. The sight made your mouth water, your body responding with a rush of heat and dampness between your thighs.
"That's... really helping," he murmured, eyes closed now, completely unaware of the effect he was having on you. "A little higher, right where it connects... yeah, there."
Your hands were now mere centimeters from the edge of his boxer briefs, your thumbs pressing into the incredibly sensitive juncture where thigh met groin. You could feel the heat of him, the strength in the muscle even as it remained tense under your ministrations. And you could see, no matter how much you tried to be professional about this, that his cock was definitely hardening, the outline becoming more pronounced against the black fabric.
Suddenly, Hajime shifted, dropping from his seated position to lie flat on your bed, one arm coming up to drape across his eyes as he stretched his legs out more fully. "Sorry," he mumbled, "sitting was making it worse. Is this okay?"
It was more than okay. It was the stuff of your recent fantasies—Hajime sprawled across your bed, his powerful body on display, his legs spread to accommodate you between them. The new position pulled his boxer briefs even tighter across his groin, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. He was definitely hard now, his cock creating an impressive tent in the fabric, the head of it visible as a distinct ridge beneath the tight material.
"This is fine," you managed, your voice strangled as you adjusted your position, still kneeling but now between his spread legs as he lay on your bed. You resumed the massage, working your thumbs in firm circles against the strained muscle, trying to ignore the fact that his cock was now at eye level, so close you could lean forward and mouth at it through his boxer briefs if you lost all sense of self-preservation.
Hajime made another one of those devastatingly hot sounds—a deep groan that rumbled up from his chest—as your thumbs hit a particularly tight spot. "Fuck, that's it," he murmured, the curse word falling from his lips with an ease that sent another rush of heat to your core. "Right there."
Your cunt throbbed in response to his words, to his tone, to the sight of him laid out before you like some pagan offering to the god of your sexual frustration. Without conscious thought, you shifted position, raising yourself up higher on your knees to get better leverage, one leg moving to straddle his uninjured thigh as you continued to work the knotted muscle.
In this new position, your core was pressed directly against the solid muscle of his thigh, the pressure providing a tantalizing hint of relief for the ache that had built between your legs. You hadn't intended it—or at least, you could tell yourself you hadn't—but now that you were here, the temptation was overwhelming. You continued the massage, your thumbs working deep into the muscle, but your focus had shifted almost entirely to the delicious pressure against your cunt, separated from his skin by only the thin fabric of your shorts and underwear.
Hajime's groans grew more frequent, deeper, as you worked the strained muscle with increasing confidence. His arm remained thrown across his eyes, blocking his vision, leaving him unaware of how you'd positioned yourself, of how your hips had begun to move in tiny, almost imperceptible circles against his thigh. The motion was so slight that you could almost pretend it wasn't happening, that you weren't essentially grinding yourself against your best friend while he lay vulnerable and in pain beneath you.
But it was happening. With each press of your thumbs into his muscle, your hips rocked slightly, dragging your clit against the firm ridge of his thigh through your clothes. The dual sensation—his skin hot beneath your hands, his thigh solid against your core—was intoxicating, addictive. You found yourself pressing harder with your thumbs just to justify the increased pressure of your cunt against his leg, the massage becoming secondary to the slow, torturous pleasure building between your thighs.
You weren't even truly massaging anymore, your hands simply holding his thigh as your hips worked in increasingly blatant movements against him. Your breathing had grown heavier, your focus narrowed to the point of contact between your body and his, the rest of the world falling away as pleasure built in slow, inexorable waves. You were wet—embarrassingly so—your arousal likely soaking through your underwear and shorts to dampen his skin, but you couldn't bring yourself to care, couldn't bring yourself to stop this illicit pleasure even knowing how wrong it was, how much it risked.
"What are you doing?"
Hajime's voice cut through the haze of arousal like a bucket of ice water. His arm was no longer covering his eyes; instead, he had raised his head, propped up on his elbows, watching you with an expression you couldn't immediately decipher—shock, certainly, but something else too, something darker and more intense that made your stomach flip.
Reality crashed back with brutal force. You were straddling his thigh, grinding yourself against him like a bitch in heat while he lay injured on your bed. Your hands had stopped any pretense of massage, instead gripping his thigh as you essentially used him to get yourself off. Mortification flooded through you, hot and overwhelming, as you realized how completely you'd lost control.
"I—" you started, but what could you possibly say? How could you explain this away? Your mind raced for an explanation, an excuse, anything to salvage the situation, but came up empty. There was no innocent interpretation of what you'd been doing, no way to pretend this was normal behavior between friends.
Before you could formulate a response, before you could even move off his leg, a familiar electronic chime sounded from your laptop on the desk—the distinctive ring of an incoming video call. Tooru's custom ringtone, the one he'd set up himself the last time he'd visited, claiming it was "more dramatic" than the default.
Relief surged through you at the interruption, giving you an excuse to escape this excruciating moment. You practically leapt from Hajime's leg, scrambling toward your desk with undignified haste. "That's Tooru," you said unnecessarily, as if Hajime hadn't heard the same ringtone countless times before. "I should—I should get that."
"Don't," Hajime said, his voice carrying a note of command that sent an involuntary shiver down your spine despite the circumstances.
But you were already reaching for your laptop, flipping it open with trembling fingers. "He'll just keep calling if I don't answer," you said, the excuse sounding weak even to your own ears. "You know how he is."
Before Hajime could protest further, you accepted the call, Tooru's face filling the screen with his usual dramatic timing. His hair was perfectly styled despite the late hour in Argentina, his smile wide and practiced until he got a good look at your face.
"Well, don't you look flustered," he said immediately, his keen eyes missing nothing even through the screen. "What have you been up to, hmm? Your face is all red."
"Nothing," you said too quickly. "Just, um, exercising."
Tooru's eyebrows shot up, his expression shifting to one of delighted suspicion. "Exercising? In your bedroom? At eight o'clock at night?" His eyes narrowed, peering past you as if trying to see more of the room. "Where's Iwa-chan? Is he home?"
"I'm here," Hajime's voice came from behind you, still rough at the edges but controlled now, giving nothing away. He hadn't moved from your bed, still sprawled there in his underwear with a visible erection, but thankfully out of the camera's field of vision. "Just got back from practice."
Tooru's eyes lit up at the sound of Hajime's voice, his expression turning sly. "Oh? And why aren't you on camera, Iwa-chan? Hiding something?"
"None of your business, Shittykawa," Hajime growled, the familiar insult falling from his lips with practiced ease despite the charged atmosphere in the room.
Tooru gasped dramatically, hand flying to his chest in feigned offense. "So mean, Iwa-chan! And here I am, calling from across the world just to check on my two favorite people." His gaze shifted back to you, shrewd and calculating despite his playful tone. "You're being suspiciously quiet. Both of you are. What were you doing before I called?"
"Nothing," you repeated, knowing you sounded guilty but unable to come up with anything more convincing. "Hajime pulled a muscle at practice. I was just helping him with it."
"Helping him with it," Tooru repeated slowly, his lips curving into a knowing smirk. "I see. And how exactly were you 'helping' him with his... muscle?"
Before you could stammer out another unconvincing denial, you heard the bed shift behind you, and then Hajime was there, his presence solid and unmistakable at your back, still out of the camera's view but close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his body.
"Hang up," he said quietly, his voice pitched low enough that Tooru couldn't hear, his breath warm against your ear, raising goosebumps along your neck. "Now."
You ignored him, focusing on Tooru instead, desperation making you cling to this lifeline of normalcy, this barrier between you and the conversation you were definitely not ready to have with Hajime. "How's Argentina?" you asked brightly, your voice unnaturally high. "Tell us everything. How's your team? Your apartment? Have you tried that restaurant you mentioned last time?"
Tooru opened his mouth to answer, still looking suspicious but seemingly willing to play along, when you felt Hajime's hand on your thigh. Not your knee, not your calf, but high on your thigh, his fingers splayed wide, nearly spanning the width of it with his palm. The touch was deliberate, possessive in a way that made your breath catch, your words dying in your throat as his hand began to move slowly upward, pushing beneath the loose fabric of your shorts.
"Hang up," Hajime repeated, his voice firmer now, an unmistakable command that made your stomach flip and your core throb with renewed arousal. "Or I'll hang up for you."
His fingers continued their upward path, now brushing against the edge of your underwear, so close to where you were embarrassingly wet, where you had been grinding yourself against his thigh just minutes ago. The touch was a clear escalation, a deliberate crossing of the line you'd already blurred with your actions.
"Are you even listening to me?" Tooru's voice cut through your distraction, his head tilted in confusion at your obvious lack of attention. "What's going on over there? You're acting weird. Both of you."
Hajime's fingers slipped beneath the elastic of your underwear without warning, sliding easily through the slick evidence of your arousal to find your clit with unerring accuracy. The contact was electric, pulling a small gasp from your lips before you could stop it, your body jerking slightly in response.
"Are you okay?" Tooru asked, leaning closer to the screen, his brow furrowed in concern that quickly shifted to suspicion as his eyes narrowed. "Wait a minute. Where exactly is Iwa-chan right now? And why did you make that noise?"
Hajime's fingers didn't still at Tooru's questions, instead beginning to move in slow, deliberate circles against your clit, spreading your wetness, building a pleasure so intense it took everything in you not to moan out loud. His other hand came to rest on your shoulder, keeping you in place as he continued his torturous ministrations, his body a solid wall of heat at your back.
"I—" you started, but whatever excuse you might have formed died as Hajime slid a thick finger inside you, the intrusion so sudden and so perfect that your eyes threatened to roll back in your head. "Tooru, I should—I need to go."
Understanding dawned on Tooru's face, his eyes widening comically before a shit-eating grin spread across his features. "Oh my god," he said, voice rising with glee. "Oh my GOD. He's touching you right now, isn't he? That's why you're making those faces. That's why he's not on camera." He clapped his hands together in delight. "I knew it! I KNEW IT! You two are fucking!"
"We're not—" you began automatically, but Hajime chose that moment to curl his finger inside you, hitting a spot that made your words dissolve into a choked sound that could not possibly be mistaken for anything other than pleasure.
"Goodbye, Oikawa," Hajime said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through your body where he pressed against your back. Without waiting for a response, he reached around you with his free hand—the one not currently buried between your legs—and ended the call with a decisive click, closing the laptop with perhaps more force than necessary.
The sudden silence in the room was deafening, broken only by the sound of your rapid breathing and the obscene wetness of Hajime's finger still moving inside you, joined now by a second that stretched you further, making you bite your lip to hold back a moan.
"Now," he said, his mouth right against your ear, voice deeper than you'd ever heard it, "we're going to talk about what you were doing on my leg. About how fucking wet you are right now. About how long you've been wanting this." His fingers thrust deeper, emphasizing his words, making your back arch involuntarily. "But first, I'm going to make you come. Because I don't think you can focus on anything else right now, can you?"
The question hung in the air between you, not truly requiring an answer when your body was already providing one—in the way your inner walls clenched around his fingers, in the flood of wetness coating his knuckles, in the small, helpless sounds escaping your throat with each precise movement of his hand. You couldn't focus on anything beyond the overwhelming sensations he was creating, your world narrowed to the points of contact between his body and yours—his chest pressed against your back, his breath hot against your neck, his fingers buried deep inside your cunt, stretching you in a way that your own never could.
"Hajime," you gasped, the syllables of his name fractured by the pleasure building inside you. His thumb found your clit, rubbing slow circles with devastating accuracy, as if he'd been studying your body for years rather than touching you intimately for the first time. Perhaps he had been studying you, noticing things about your responses that even you weren't aware of, the same way you'd recently begun cataloging every detail of his physicality with obsessive precision.
"That's it," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through your body where he pressed against you. "Let me hear you. Let me feel how much you want this." His fingers curled inside you, finding that spot that made fireworks explode behind your eyelids, pressure building at the base of your spine with each deliberate stroke. "You've been driving me fucking crazy for weeks, you know that? Walking around in those little shorts, watching me when you think I'm not looking, those sounds you make in your room at night when you think I can't hear you through the wall."
Your eyes flew open at that, mortification flooding through you at the realization that he'd heard you—heard the muffled moans you couldn't quite contain as you touched yourself in the darkness, imagining it was his hands, his mouth, his cock bringing you to release. But the embarrassment was quickly overwhelmed by a fresh wave of arousal at the knowledge that he'd been listening, that he'd known all along what you were doing, who you were thinking about.
"You think I couldn't tell it was my name you were saying?" he continued, his fingers never slowing their relentless rhythm inside you. "Think I couldn't hear you begging for my cock through that thin fucking wall?" His teeth grazed your earlobe, the slight pain a counterpoint to the pleasure building between your thighs. "I've been hard for you for so long I thought I was going to lose my mind. And then today, feeling you grinding on my leg like you couldn't help yourself, seeing how desperate you were for me—fuck, I almost came in my underwear like a fucking teenager."
The image his words conjured—Hajime so turned on by your mindless rutting against his thigh that he nearly lost control—sent a fresh surge of wetness around his fingers, your clit throbbing almost painfully against his thumb as tension coiled tighter in your core.
"Hajime, I'm—" you couldn't finish the sentence, your words dissolving into a high, keening sound as he added a third finger, the stretch bordering on too much yet somehow exactly what you needed. Your thighs began to tremble, heat spreading through your lower body in waves that threatened to consume you entirely.
"I know," he growled, his voice strained with the effort of his own restraint. "I can feel it. You're getting tighter, wetter. Your little cunt is squeezing my fingers so hard, I can only imagine how good it's going to feel around my cock." His thumb pressed more firmly against your clit, circling with precise, relentless pressure. "Come for me. Now."
Your body obeyed as if it had been waiting for his command, release crashing over you with an intensity that bordered on violence. Your back arched sharply, a cry tearing from your throat as your inner walls clamped down on his fingers in rhythmic pulses, wetness gushing around his hand in a way that would have embarrassed you if you had any capacity for shame left. The orgasm seemed to go on forever, wave after wave of pleasure radiating outward from your core, leaving you limp and trembling in its wake.
As the intensity began to ebb, Hajime carefully withdrew his fingers, the loss making you whimper despite your oversensitivity. He turned you slowly to face him, and for the first time since he'd touched you, you could see his expression clearly—pupils blown wide with desire, jaw clenched tight with the effort of restraint, a flush high on his cheekbones that spoke of how affected he was by what had just happened.
He brought his hand to his mouth—the hand that had just been inside you—and deliberately, maintaining eye contact the entire time, sucked his fingers clean, tasting your arousal with a low groan that sent aftershocks of pleasure rippling through your still-sensitive body.
"Fuck, you taste good," he said, the crudeness of the words at odds with the almost reverent tone in which he delivered them. "Been wondering about that for longer than I should admit."
You stared at him, brain struggling to process the radical shift in your relationship, the fact that Hajime—your Hajime, your childhood friend, your roommate—had just made you come harder than you ever had in your life and was now telling you he'd been fantasizing about how you tasted. It seemed impossible, like a particularly vivid dream your sex-starved brain had conjured after weeks of unfulfilled longing.
"How long?" you finally managed, your voice hoarse, as if you'd been screaming though you were fairly certain you hadn't been that loud.
"How long what?" he asked, his hand coming to rest on your thigh, the touch possessive in a way that made your stomach flip pleasantly. "How long have I wanted to taste you? Touch you? Fuck you until you can't remember your own name?" His thumb traced small circles on your inner thigh, dangerously close to where you were still sensitive and wet from your orgasm. "All of the above, probably longer than you've been wanting the same things from me."
"I thought—" you began, then stopped, unsure how to articulate the weeks of confused desire, the certainty that your sudden awareness of him as a sexual being was one-sided, that acting on it would destroy your friendship.
"You thought what?" he prompted, his other hand coming up to cup your cheek, surprisingly gentle given the intensity of what had just transpired between you. "That I didn't notice how you looked at me? That I didn't want you just as badly? That this—" he gestured between you, encompassing the electric tension that had been building for weeks, "—was all in your head?"
You nodded mutely, leaning into his touch like a cat seeking affection, your body still humming with residual pleasure and the building anticipation of what might come next.
"I've wanted you for years," he said quietly, the confession falling between you like a stone in still water, ripples of implication spreading outward. "Not just like this—though fuck knows I've thought about it enough to fill several lifetimes—but all of you. Every part. The good, the bad, the fucking infuriating parts that make me want to shake you sometimes." His thumb brushed across your lower lip, his eyes tracking the movement with hungry intensity. "I just never thought you saw me that way. Not until recently, when something changed. When you started looking at me like you wanted to devour me whole."
"The kitchen," you murmured, understanding dawning. "That night with the broken glass. That's when it started for me. When I saw you differently."
A small smile played at the corners of his mouth, not the full grin that transformed his face but something softer, more private. "I wondered what had happened. One day we were fine, normal, and the next you were jumping every time I touched you, staring at me when you thought I wouldn't notice, taking suspiciously long showers after I'd been working out in the living room."
Heat flooded your cheeks at how transparent you'd apparently been, how obvious your sudden desire had been to the very object of that desire. "You lifted me onto the counter like I weighed nothing," you explained, the memory still vivid, still capable of sending heat pooling between your legs despite the powerful orgasm you'd just experienced. "You just... took control. And suddenly all I could think about was your hands on me, your strength, how easily you could—" You broke off, embarrassment finally catching up with you.
"How easily I could what?" he pressed, his voice dropping lower, rougher, his hand on your thigh inching higher, sending sparks of renewed arousal through your oversensitive body. "Tell me. I want to hear exactly what you've been thinking about."
The command in his voice was impossible to resist, breaking down the last of your inhibitions. "How easily you could hold me down," you admitted, the words coming faster now, tumbling over each other in their rush to be spoken. "Pin me against the wall, the bed, the floor—anywhere. How strong you are, how big your hands are, how they'd feel on my skin, inside me, how your cock would feel stretching me open, filling me up until I couldn't take anymore—"
Your words cut off as Hajime surged forward, his mouth capturing yours in a kiss that was nothing like the tentative first kisses you'd imagined during your more romantic fantasies. This was raw, hungry, desperate—teeth clashing, his tongue immediately seeking entrance which you granted without hesitation, his hand moving from your cheek to tangle in your hair, holding you exactly where he wanted you as he devoured your mouth with single-minded intensity.
You responded with equal fervor, weeks of pent-up desire finally finding an outlet as your hands clutched at his shoulders, his chest, anywhere you could reach, greedy for the contact you'd been denying yourself. He tasted faintly of you—a reminder of what he'd done moments ago—mixed with something uniquely him, a flavor you immediately knew you'd never get enough of.
When he finally broke the kiss, you were both breathing hard, his forehead resting against yours, his hand still tangled in your hair, grip just tight enough to send little sparks of pleasure-pain across your scalp.
"I'm going to fuck you now," he said, the crude statement delivered with such matter-of-fact certainty that a fresh wave of arousal flooded between your thighs. "Unless you tell me to stop. Unless this isn't what you want."
"I want it," you assured him immediately, no hesitation, no doubt. "I want you. Please, Hajime."
The plea in your voice seemed to snap something in him, the last thread of his restraint giving way. He stood, pulling you up with him in one fluid motion, his hands moving to your waist as he lifted you bodily—just as he had that night in the kitchen, but with far different intentions now. Your legs wrapped around his hips instinctively, your core pressing against the hard length of his cock through the thin fabric of his boxer briefs and your shorts, the contact making you both groan.
He carried you to the bed with the same effortless strength that had started this whole chain of events, laying you down with surprising gentleness given the obvious urgency of his desire. He stood at the edge of the bed, looking down at you with an expression that made your breath catch—hunger, yes, but also something deeper, more complex, a tenderness that belied the crude words and actions that had preceded this moment.
"Take off your clothes," he said, the command softened by the slight tremor in his voice, the way his eyes roamed your body as if he couldn't quite believe this was happening. "I want to see all of you."
You complied without hesitation, sitting up to pull your t-shirt over your head, revealing the simple cotton bra beneath—nothing fancy or seductive, not something you'd worn with the expectation of anyone seeing it. But the way Hajime's eyes darkened at the sight, his throat working as he swallowed hard, made you feel as desirable as if you'd been wearing the most expensive lingerie.
Your shorts and underwear followed, already damp from your earlier activities, leaving you in just your bra. Before you could reach behind to unclasp it, Hajime was there, his weight dipping the mattress as he knelt beside you, his hands replacing yours.
"Let me," he murmured, deftly unhooking the clasp and sliding the straps down your arms, his calloused fingers leaving trails of fire on your skin wherever they touched. When the last piece of clothing was removed, he sat back slightly, eyes roaming your naked body with undisguised appreciation, taking in every curve, every imperfection you'd normally be self-conscious about but couldn't find it in yourself to worry over when he was looking at you like you were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
"Your turn," you said, finding your voice despite the vulnerability of being completely exposed while he remained partially clothed. "Fair's fair."
A small smirk played at the corners of his mouth as he pulled his t-shirt over his head in one smooth motion, revealing the torso you'd been obsessing over for weeks—broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, defined pectoral muscles dusted with dark hair, abs that flexed unconsciously as he moved, the trail of hair leading down from his navel disappearing beneath the waistband of his boxer briefs. The sight was familiar from your recent observations yet somehow more overwhelming now, knowing you were allowed to look, to touch, to taste.
He stood to remove his boxer briefs, pushing them down his powerful thighs and stepping out of them with an athlete's grace. His cock sprang free, hard and thick and intimidating in its size—larger than you'd imagined even in your most optimistic fantasies, the head flushed dark and already leaking pre-cum, a bead of it glistening at the tip. Your mouth watered at the sight, your body clenching around emptiness in anticipation of being filled by him.
"See something you like?" he asked, the cockiness of the question belied by the slight uncertainty in his eyes, a reminder that for all his confidence, this was new territory for him too—this crossing of boundaries, this transformation of friendship into something else entirely.
"Everything," you admitted, no room for artifice or games between you after what you'd already shared. "I like everything I see."
The simple honesty seemed to touch something in him, his expression softening for a brief moment before hunger took over once more. He moved onto the bed fully now, nudging your legs apart to kneel between them, his hands running up your thighs in a touch that was both possessive and reverent.
"I've thought about this so many times," he murmured, his thumbs tracing the creases where your thighs met your hips, dangerously close to where you were wet and aching for him. "Having you spread out under me like this. Seeing all of you. Touching you wherever I want." His hands moved higher, skimming over your stomach, your ribs, finally cupping your breasts with a gentleness that contrasted sharply with the intensity in his eyes. "You're even more beautiful than I imagined."
The compliment sent warmth flooding through you that had nothing to do with sexual arousal and everything to do with the man delivering it—Hajime, who had never been free with praise, who showed his affection through actions rather than words, now looking at you like you were something precious and telling you you were beautiful.
His thumbs brushed over your nipples, drawing them into tight peaks, the sensation shooting straight to your core. You arched into his touch, a soft moan escaping your lips as he leaned down to replace one thumb with his mouth, hot and wet as he sucked the sensitive bud between his lips. His tongue circled your nipple with deliberate pressure, teeth grazing lightly in a way that walked the perfect line between pleasure and pain.
"Hajime," you gasped, hands coming up to tangle in his hair, holding him against your breast as he continued his ministrations, switching to the other side to ensure both received equal attention. "Please, I need—"
"What do you need?" he asked, raising his head to meet your gaze, his hair mussed where your fingers had clutched it, his lips slightly swollen from his attentions to your body. "Tell me. I want to hear you say it."
"I need you inside me," you said, beyond embarrassment, beyond anything but the desperate desire to feel him filling you, stretching you, completing the connection that had been building between you for weeks—perhaps years, if his earlier confession was to be believed. "Please, Hajime. I need your cock. Now."
A low growl rumbled from his chest at your words, his eyes darkening with renewed hunger. "Fuck, the mouth on you," he muttered, shifting his position to align himself with your entrance, the blunt head of his cock pressing against your slick folds. "Been dreaming of hearing you say filthy things like that."
He rubbed himself against you, coating his length in your wetness, the friction against your sensitive clit making you writhe beneath him, seeking more pressure, more friction, more of him. When he finally began to push inside, the stretch was immediate and intense—he was big, bigger than anyone you'd been with before, his girth forcing your body to accommodate him inch by agonizing inch.
"Fuck," he hissed, his jaw clenched tight with the effort of restraint, sweat beading on his forehead as he fought the urge to thrust forward all at once. "You're so tight. So fucking perfect." He paused when only the head was inside, giving you time to adjust. "You okay? Not hurting you?"
The concern in his voice, the fact that he was checking on you even while clearly struggling with his own control, made something warm bloom in your chest. "I'm good," you assured him, hands running up his arms to his shoulders, feeling the tension in his muscles as he held himself above you. "Just... go slow. It's been a while."
He nodded, understanding without needing further explanation, and resumed his careful entry, pushing forward with exquisite slowness, retreating slightly before pressing deeper each time, working himself into you with a patience that must have cost him dearly given the tightness of his expression, the trembling in his arms as he braced himself above you.
When he was finally seated fully inside you, both of you were breathing hard, adjusting to the overwhelming sensation of being so intimately connected. He was deep, deeper than you'd thought possible, filling you so completely that you felt stretched to your limits, hovering on that exquisite edge between pleasure and discomfort.
"You feel—" he began, then broke off, apparently unable to find words adequate to describe the sensation. Instead, he leaned down to capture your mouth in a kiss that was surprisingly tender given the circumstances, his tongue tangling with yours as he remained motionless inside you, giving you time to adjust to his size.
The kiss deepened, grew hungrier as your body gradually relaxed around him, the initial discomfort fading into a growing need for movement, for friction. You shifted beneath him, tilting your hips in a silent plea that he immediately understood, breaking the kiss to meet your gaze as he slowly withdrew almost completely before pushing back in with a controlled thrust that hit places inside you that made your vision blur at the edges.
"More," you gasped, hands clutching at his shoulders, nails digging into the firm muscle there. "Hajime, please, more."
He complied, setting a pace that was measured at first—long, deep strokes that allowed you to feel every inch of him as he withdrew and pushed back in, his eyes never leaving your face, watching for any sign of discomfort. But as your body opened for him more fully, as your moans grew louder and more desperate, his control began to slip, his thrusts becoming harder, faster, more demanding.
The change in tempo drove you higher, pleasure building with each precise stroke of his cock inside you. He shifted slightly, changing the angle, and suddenly he was hitting that spot inside you that made stars explode behind your eyelids, your back arching off the bed as a particularly loud moan tore from your throat.
"There?" he asked, though the question was clearly rhetorical given your reaction. A smirk played at the corners of his mouth as he deliberately aimed for the same spot again, watching with obvious satisfaction as you writhed beneath him. "Gonna remember that. Gonna learn every inch of you, figure out exactly how to make you scream my name."
The promise in his words, the implication that this wasn't a one-time thing, that he planned to do this again—to learn your body, to perfect his knowledge of what brought you pleasure—sent a fresh wave of arousal through you, your inner walls clenching around him in a way that made him groan, his rhythm faltering momentarily.
"Fuck, do that again," he muttered, his voice strained with the effort of maintaining control. "Squeeze my cock like that again."
You did, deliberately tightening around him, watching with fascination as his eyes nearly rolled back in his head, a string of curses falling from his lips as his hips jerked forward with increased urgency. The sight of him losing control because of you, because of how your body felt around his, was intoxicating, a power you hadn't expected to have in this situation.
His hand slid between your bodies, finding your clit with unerring accuracy, circling the sensitive bundle of nerves in time with his thrusts. The dual stimulation was overwhelming, pushing you rapidly toward a second orgasm that promised to be even more intense than the first.
"Hajime, I'm close," you warned, your voice breaking on his name as tension coiled tighter in your core, heat spreading through your lower body in waves that threatened to consume you entirely.
"Me too," he admitted, his movements growing more erratic, less controlled, his breathing harsh in the quiet of the room. "Want to feel you come on my cock. Want to feel you squeeze me when you let go."
His words, combined with the relentless pressure of his fingers on your clit and the perfect angle of his thrusts, pushed you over the edge. Your orgasm crashed over you with stunning intensity, your back arching sharply off the bed, a cry tearing from your throat that might have been his name or just an incoherent sound of pleasure. Your inner walls clamped down on his cock in rhythmic pulses that seemed to go on forever, wave after wave of ecstasy radiating outward from your core.
The sensation of you coming around him was apparently too much for Hajime's already strained control. With a low, guttural groan, he thrust deep one final time, his cock pulsing inside you as he came, hot spurts of his release filling you in a way that should have concerned you but in the moment felt only right—primal and perfect and exactly what you both needed.
He collapsed on top of you, his weight a comforting pressure rather than a burden, his face buried in the crook of your neck as you both struggled to regain your breath. Your hands moved lazily up and down his sweat-slicked back, feeling the strong muscles there gradually relax as the intensity of your shared release ebbed, leaving behind a pleasant lassitude that made your limbs feel heavy, your mind blissfully quiet for the first time in weeks.
After what could have been minutes or hours—time seemed to have lost all meaning in the aftermath of what you'd just shared—Hajime raised his head, looking down at you with an expression that made your breath catch. The hunger was still there, banked but not extinguished, but it was tempered now by something softer, something that looked dangerously like tenderness, like affection deeper than mere friendship or physical desire.
"That was..." he began, then shook his head, apparently unable to find words adequate to describe what had just transpired between you.
"Yeah," you agreed, understanding perfectly despite his lack of articulation. "It really was."
A small smile played at the corners of his mouth, not the full grin that transformed his face but something more private, more intimate. He shifted his weight, carefully withdrawing from your body, both of you wincing slightly at the loss of connection. He rolled to the side but kept one arm draped across your waist, as if unwilling to lose contact entirely, his hand splayed possessively across your hip.
"We should probably talk about this," you said after a moment, gesturing vaguely between your naked bodies, the implications of what you'd done, of the lines you'd crossed.
"Probably," he agreed, though he didn't sound particularly eager to engage in a deep discussion of feelings and boundaries in the afterglow of what had been, frankly, the most intense sexual experience of your life. "But not right now."
"No?" you asked, turning your head to meet his gaze, searching for any sign of regret, of uncertainty, finding only a satiated contentment that mirrored your own.
"No," he said firmly, his hand tightening slightly on your hip, pulling you closer until your bodies were flush against each other, skin to skin from shoulder to ankle. "Right now, I'm going to hold you for a while. And then, when I've recovered enough, I'm going to fuck you again. Maybe against the wall this time, since you mentioned that particular fantasy earlier."
Heat flooded your cheeks at the reminder of your earlier confession, at the matter-of-fact way he stated his intentions, as if there was no question that this would happen, that you would continue whatever this was between you.
"And after that?" you couldn't help asking, needing some reassurance that this wasn't just a one-night release of weeks of pent-up sexual tension, that there was something more substantial underpinning the physical connection you'd just shared.
Hajime's expression softened, his free hand coming up to brush a strand of hair from your face with surprising gentleness. "After that, we'll figure it out. Together. The way we always have." He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead that was achingly tender compared to the raw hunger of earlier. "I meant what I said before. I've wanted you—all of you, not just this—for years. That's not going to change just because we finally acted on it."
The simple honesty of his words, the quiet certainty in his voice, settled something in your chest that had been fluttering with anxiety despite the physical satisfaction still humming through your body. This was Hajime, after all—solid, reliable Hajime who had been your constant since childhood, who showed his feelings through actions more than words, whose promise of "together" carried more weight than flowery declarations ever could.
"Okay," you said, snuggling closer to his warmth, your head finding that perfect spot on his shoulder that seemed made for you to rest against. "Together."
His arm tightened around you in response, a wordless affirmation that spoke volumes. And as you lay there, content in the aftermath of pleasure with the promise of more to come, you couldn't help but think that your mother had been right after all—people did change when you lived with them, revealing sides of themselves you'd never noticed before. But sometimes, that change was exactly what you needed, the final piece clicking into place in a puzzle you hadn't even realized you were solving.
best friend!kageyama yearns for you to draw him.
wc: 2k, dedicated to @feiyuo <3
the smell of aoba johsai always lingered on your skin like a persistent perfume of elitism and overpriced sports drinks, mostly because your brother, tōru, insisted on hugging you every morning while weeping about his “cute little sister” going off to mingle with the “barbarians” at karasuno. being the younger sibling of the grand king meant your life was a revolving door of turquoise tracksuits and dodging flying volleyballs, but your heart had long since defected to a boy who had the social grace of a wet brick and the precision of a surgical laser.
kageyama was, to put it lightly, a disaster of a human being. he functioned on milk, salt plums, and an all-consuming desire to be the best. but to you? he was the ultimate muse.
to say that kageyama had it bad was like saying the sun is “kind of warm” or that tōru is “slightly annoying.” it was an understatement of galactic proportions. the boy was essentially a high-performance athlete powered entirely by milk, spite, and an excruciatingly large crush on the girl who shared a literal bloodline with his grand arch-nemesis.
while tōru preened for your sketchbook, striking dramatic poses that screamed “look at my glorious jawline,” kageyama was different. he didn’t know how to pose. if you asked him to stand still, he’d look like he was malfunctioning. no, the only way to capture the sheer, unadulterated electricity of kageyama was to catch him in his natural habitat: the court.
𓏵
you’d been visiting karasuno’s gym for months under the guise of “delivering notes” or “checking on the competition” for your brother. in reality, you were there to fill the back half of your sketchbook with the sharp line of kageyama’s nose, the way his bangs plastered to his forehead when he was gasping for air, and the terrifyingly beautiful focus in his dark eyes.
you had a crush. no, you had a full-blown, soul-shaking, “i might actually evaporate if he looks at me too long” infatuation.
kageyama, bless his dense little heart, was painfully aware of your talent. he’d seen you sketching tōru a thousand times during middle school. he’d watched your charcoal smudge across the paper to create the perfect arc of tōru’s serve. and deep in the cavernous, volleyball-shaped void of his chest, he was rotting with envy. he wanted to be the one you immortalized. he wanted to be the reason you broke out the expensive pencils.
he didn’t know he already was. he didn’t know that for every one drawing of tōru, there were ten hidden pages of him—kageyama diving, kageyama shouting, kageyama looking soft and sleepy over a carton of milk.
𓏵
when he finally asked you to the spring high national tournament, he didn’t do it with flowers or a smooth line. he walked up to you after practice, vibrating with so much nervous energy he looked like he was about to phase through the floor, and shoved a crumpled piece of paper into your hand.
“come,” he barked, his face turning a shade of red that rivaled a ripe tomato. “it’s the second round. we’re against inarizaki. i’m going to... you should bring your book.”
“my sketchbook?” you asked, tilting your head.
“yeah. that.” he looked away, his neck flushing. “i’ll do something worth drawing. i promise.”
he was so desperate for your gaze that he was basically offering his soul up on a silver platter, provided that platter was a volleyball court. he wanted to be your masterpiece. he wanted to be the only thing you saw through the lens of your art.
𓏵
the atmosphere inside the gymnasium was thick enough to cut with a butter knife. the roar of the inarizaki cheering squad was a physical weight, a rhythmic thumping that made your teeth rattle. you sat in the stands, clutching your sketchbook to your chest like a sacred relic.
you’d made a pact with yourself: if they won this—if kageyama managed to conquer the “strongest challengers”—you were going to show him. you were going to show him the hundreds of sketches. you were going to tell him that your heart beat in the same rhythm as his sets.
then, it happened.
it was the third set, and the tension was a live wire. kageyama was a man possessed. he moved with a fluidity that made your fingers ache to draw. he was the conductor of a chaotic, orange-clad orchestra.
during a particularly grueling rally, the ball came back to karasuno’s side. everyone expected a set to asahi or tanaka. even the inarizaki blockers were leaning toward the pins. but kageyama—your magnificent, socially stunted kageyama—saw a gap.
he didn’t jump. he didn’t wind up. with a flick of his wrists that was so fast it felt like a glitch in reality, he dumped the ball over the net. it hit the floor before anyone could even blink.
he landed on his feet, the momentum carrying him forward. he didn’t yell. he didn’t do a fist pump. instead, he looked across the net and let out a smirk so devastatingly handsome, so fueled by pure, unadulterated confidence, that you felt your soul leave your body through your ears.
your charcoal was out before he even turned around.
your hand moved with a mind of its own. you captured the sharp angle of his shoulders, the triumphant glint in his eyes, and that *smirk*. it wasn’t just a point; it was a declaration. he was showing you. he was proving that he was worthy of every stroke of your pencil.
𓏵
when the final whistle blew and karasuno emerged victorious against the powerhouse that was inarizaki, the stadium erupted. you didn’t hear the cheering. you didn’t hear the drums. all you saw was kageyama standing in the center of the court, chest heaving, scanning the crowd.
his eyes found yours. even from the stands, the intensity of his gaze was enough to melt lead. he looked like a king who had just conquered a continent specifically to impress his favorite peasant.
you gave him a thumbs up, your face glowing with a pride so fierce it felt like sunstroke. he gave a sharp, jerky nod, his ears turning pink even through his exhaustion.
𓏵
you waited for him outside the locker rooms, tucked into a quiet corner away from the buzzing crowds. your sketchbook was open to the last page—the drawing of the setter dump. it was the best thing you’d ever created. it looked alive, as if the paper couldn’t quite contain the sheer force of kageyama.
when he finally emerged, he smelled like deep-heat rub and victory. he looked wrecked, his hair a damp mess, but the moment he saw you, he straightened up like a soldier.
“you came,” he said, which was the most obvious statement in the history of the universe.
“i promised, didn’t i?” you stepped closer, the distance between you shrinking until you could feel the warmth radiating off his body. he was looking at you with such raw, terrifying devotion that you felt like you were standing too close to a bonfire.
“did you... did you do it?” he asked, his voice uncharacteristically small. “did you draw me?”
“i did more than that, kageyama.”
you took a deep breath and handed him the book. you didn’t open it to the page of the match. you opened it to the very beginning—to a sketch from a year ago. it was a drawing of him drinking milk after a loss, his expression soft and contemplative.
he froze. his large, calloused hands trembled slightly as he began to flip through the pages.
there he was. page after page.
kageyama laughing at something hinata said.
kageyama practicing his serves until his arms turned red.
kageyama sleeping on the bus with his mouth slightly open.
kageyama, kageyama, kageyama.
“you...” he choked out, his eyes wide. he looked like he’d just discovered a new element. “you’ve been drawing me this whole time?”
“tōru thinks i’m drawing his serves,” you whispered, your heart doing gymnastics in your ribcage. “but i’m always looking at you. i’ve always been looking at you, kageyama. because you’re the most incredible thing i’ve ever seen. and i... i’ve loved you since the first time you yelled at a volleyball for not obeying you.”
the silence that followed was heavy, but not uncomfortable. it was the silence of a dam finally breaking.
kageyama dropped the sketchbook onto the bench beside him—carefully, as if it were made of glass—and stepped into your space. he was a literal mountain of a boy who could crush a ball with his bare hands, yet he looked completely helpless.
“i thought,” he started, his voice cracking. “i thought i had to win to make you look at me. i thought if i played the best game of my life, maybe i’d be worth a page in your book.”
he reached out, his fingers brushing against your cheek with a gentleness that felt illegal for someone so strong. he looked like he wanted to swallow you whole, to tuck you into his pocket and never let the world see you again. he was completely, utterly, and hopelessly gone for you.
“you’re the only reason i look up at the stands,” he confessed, his thumb tracing your jawline. “i don’t care about the trophies. i just wanted to be your favorite subject.”
“you’re my only subject,” you corrected, leaning into his touch.
he didn’t wait for any more words. kageyama, a boy who usually required a manual to understand human emotions, leaned down and pressed his forehead against yours. he was shaking—not from fatigue, but from the sheer, overwhelming weight of his feelings for you.
“i love you,” he muttered against your skin, the words sounding like a prayer. “i love you so much it feels like i’m constantly out of breath. if you stop drawing me, i think i’ll actually die. i’m serious. i’ll just stop functioning.”
you laughed, a bubbly, genuine sound that made his eyes soften into something incredibly tender. “i’m never going to stop, you big dork.”
he leaned in the rest of the way, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that tasted like salt and pure, unadulterated adoration. it wasn’t a smooth, cinematic kiss; his nose bumped yours, and he squeezed you a little too hard, but it was perfect. it was kageyama. he held you like you were the gold medal he’d been chasing his entire life, his arms wrapping around your waist with a possessive, devoted grip.
when he pulled back, his face was a vibrant shade of magenta, but he didn’t look away. he looked at you with a terrifyingly focused hunger.
“draw me again,” he demanded, though his voice was thick with affection. “now. while i’m looking at you like this.”
“kageyama, we’re in a hallway,” you giggled, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.
“i don’t care,” he said, his hand sliding down to interlock his fingers with yours, squeezing so tightly you knew he was never letting go. “i want the whole world to know i’m your favorite. especially your brother. i want to see the look on his face when he realizes i’ve taken up every single page in your head.”
you pulled him toward the exit, your heart feeling three sizes too big for your chest. outside, the winter air was crisp, but you were burning up. kageyama walked beside you, his chest puffed out, looking every bit the victorious king—not because he’d beaten inarizaki, but because he was finally the only masterpiece that mattered to you.
as you walked, he kept glancing down at you, tripping over his own feet twice because he refused to take his eyes off your face. he was a goner, a total disaster, and he was entirely yours.
the sketchbook in your bag was full, but as you looked at the boy holding your hand like it was a lifeline, you knew you were only just getting started on the first chapter of a very long, very messy, and very beautiful series of portraits.
n: thank you so much for the oikawa drawing @feiyuo mmmjhdjdjheushs i accidentally posted this when i was trying to save it as draft
your roommate has been running her mouth to her now ex-boyfriend that you were a nerdy little virgin, and after they broke up you let kuroo find out if she's telling the truth.
starring. kuroo tetsuro x fem!reader
genre: fluff, romance, smut, timeskip!kuroo
wc: 9.7k
warning: 18+ mdni., smut. nsfw. unprotected sex. cunnilingus. some themes of exhibitionism (?). cheating. mentions foursome. detailed smut. tit play. oral (f and m!receiving). face sitting. creampie. p in v. pwp (?). kuroo and reader matches each others freaks.
You live in a two-bedroom apartment tucked away in a quieter ward of Tokyo—not too far from the city’s rhythm, but just enough to give you a breather. It's modern, clean, and honestly more space than you need. You could’ve gone solo. The rent was well within your budget, a little indulgent even, but something about sharing the space felt… right. Whether it was a leftover instinct from dorm life or just the quiet knowledge that silence in too many rooms can get heavy over time—you weren’t entirely sure.
Eventually, through a casual coffee catch-up with an old college colleague, you were introduced to someone else who happened to be in the same position: apartment hunting, strapped for time, and looking for something stable. The arrangement was convenient. She seemed easygoing enough, worked long hours like you did, and respected shared space. No red flags, no awkward tension. You didn’t overthink it.
And for a while, everything just... worked. You had your routines—brushing past each other in the kitchen during rushed mornings, the occasional shared takeout dinner in front of the TV, the soft hum of separate lives running parallel. You didn’t hang out much, but you coexisted comfortably. That was enough.
What you hadn’t expected, though, was the shift that happened a few months in. The subtle kind. The kind you wouldn’t notice at first—until a stranger’s shoes started appearing by the door on the weekends, or the low murmur of laughter drifted from her bedroom late at night.
You didn’t care.
She could do whatever she wanted, and it wasn’t your business. When she first told you she was seeing someone—some guy named Kuroo, apparently—you offered nothing more than a nod. They’d been together for a few months, she said. “He might start staying over more. Was that okay?” You told her it was. You didn’t mind. Not really.
Even the nights when the walls failed to hold their secrets didn’t bother you. You’d hear it, sometimes. Soft giggles turning breathy. The rhythmic creak of her bedframe against the wall. The occasional slip of a moan that crawled down the hallway. But it was always distant. Easy enough to ignore. You’d just turn up the volume on your music or pretend your pillow muted everything. It didn’t affect you.
You rarely crossed paths with him.
Work kept you out late, and on most nights, you slipped into the apartment quietly, careful not to wake anyone even when you knew they were still awake. Sometimes you’d see him in passing—a flash of dark hair as he leaned over the sink, his hoodie thrown carelessly over one shoulder. His voice would drift from the other room, low and teasing. But he never really looked at you. Never acknowledged you. And that was fine. You had no interest in making small talk with your roommate’s boyfriend.
He must have thought she lived alone.
And maybe she wanted it that way.
Still, there was something oddly satisfying about the way he lingered in the living room sometimes, eyes drifting over the shelves that lined the far wall. The ones filled with manga spines, collector’s editions, limited-release box sets. Hand-built Lego models positioned with the care of a gallery. You’d catch the subtle pause in his voice when he spoke near them, the shift in his tone from casual to curious.
“This stuff’s cool,” he said once, running a hand along the edge of a display. “Didn’t know you were into Legos.”
You hadn’t been close enough to see her face, but you could hear the disdain wrapped around her reply.
“God, no,” she laughed, that practiced little snort she used when she wanted to sound above something. “That’s my roommate’s. She’s like, a total nerd. Obsessed with comics and kids’ toys and whatever. I let her keep it out here. It’s, like, her thing.”
You stood just out of sight in the hallway, expression unreadable, your bag still slung over your shoulder.
You didn’t say a word. Just turned toward your room, the door clicking shut behind you as her laughter faded into silence.
Let her laugh. Let her act like it was something to be embarrassed about.
Because the way his voice had caught before she answered? You didn’t miss that.
It was subtle—the kind of pause most people wouldn’t think twice about. But you weren’t most people. You caught that split-second hitch in his voice. Like he was expecting someone else to respond. Like he had a different name on his tongue before hers came out. And once you noticed that—everything else started to unravel.
After that, your roommate’s colors started bleeding through her carefully layered persona. The kind of girl you swore you left behind in high school. Pretty, mean, passive-aggressive. The type who needed to feel above someone just to breathe easy.
She liked to act casual, like it was all girl talk. Like she wasn’t trying to sink her claws into your insecurities.
“Kuroo was so good last night,” she would say, eyes glinting as she leaned against the counter, always loud enough for you to hear. “I swear, he knows my body better than I do. He had me pinned—biting, moaning, choking. I couldn’t stop shaking.”
She’d glance at you as she said it. Smirking. Cruel.
“I mean... not that you'd know what that’s like,” she added with a fake laugh, stirring her tea like she hadn’t just thrown acid at your self-worth. “He doesn’t go for girls like you.”
You smiled. Calm. Unbothered.
“You’re right,” you said sweetly. “And I’m not interested. That’s fine.”
But inside? You were laughing.
Because she had no idea.
You’d lived that wild, messy, electric kind of life she only pretended to understand. Back in college, you’d had your fair share of boyfriends—and girlfriends. Pretty ones, sweet ones, dangerous ones. The kind who got on their knees just to worship your thighs. Who sucked on your tits like they’d die without the taste. You’d been kissed against dorm walls, fucked in music rooms, devoured in the backseat of a car while your heels dug into fogged-up windows. You’d had people beg to taste you—tongue-deep until your legs shook, until your moans echoed down quiet hallways.
You’d been wild. Reckless. Insatiable. You’d even tried a threesome with a married couple once—just to see if you could make them both fall apart. You did. Twice.
But then you graduated. Got a job. Realigned your priorities. You weren’t that girl anymore—not all the time.
You hung up the stilettos and the lipstick-stained wine glasses. You traded morning-after texts for early meetings. Nights spent tangled in sheets became nights at your desk, fingers flying across a keyboard instead of someone else’s skin.
You retired from the chaos and focused on your career.
But that girl—the one she thought you couldn’t possibly be?
She still lived within you, and she was just waiting to come out and play.
You’d almost forgotten her until that morning. The one where she sat at the kitchen island with bed hair and a proud smile, sipping her coffee like it was just another Tuesday. She didn’t just talk about her night with Kuroo—she dissected it, glorified it, sprinkled it over your morning like sugar in your tea. Not that you asked, but she offered every lurid detail anyway, like you were the best friend she never had and the enemy she always needed. He was so big. He made her gag. She choked a little—laughed as if the memory alone still lingered at the back of her throat.
You didn’t flinch. Not then.
But it didn’t stop. It became a pattern. Whenever Kuroo stayed the night—his shoes by the door, his laugh echoing in the kitchen—she’d find a way to mention it. How her throat was sore. How she could still feel him. How she couldn’t walk straight. All of it tossed out with that lazy grin and self-satisfied tone. At first you told yourself it was just her way—crude, bold, a little drunk on the attention. But something in her voice changed. Something smug. Pointed.
And then came the men who weren’t Kuroo.
You saw one first by accident. You’d woken early for work and padded down the hallway, half-asleep and still rubbing your eyes, only to nearly crash into him outside the bathroom. He was tall, wearing nothing but boxers and looking for a jacket. He blinked at you like you were the one in the wrong hallway. He muttered a soft “morning,” then disappeared into her room.
You didn’t say a word.
But the worst—no, the most unforgettable—happened one humid night when sleep just wouldn’t come. You'd tossed in bed until frustration took over, deciding a warm glass of milk might help settle you down. The hallway was dark, the tiles cool beneath your feet. But the second you turned the corner toward the kitchen, your breath caught.
Her bedroom door was wide open.
You froze.
The sounds were unmistakable—flesh on flesh, low groans, the wet thud of skin colliding with skin. Heavy breathing, slurred moans, and the distinct slap of motion too fast to be just hands. The room reeked of alcohol and sweat. And you saw it all—every obscene detail lit by the dim glow of her desk lamp.
One man was behind her, rhythm sharp and relentless, his hands gripping her waist as she braced herself on shaking arms. Another lay beneath her, her knees braced on either side of him while he thrusted up into her from below, mouth latched to her breasts, tongue circling one nipple then the other like he couldn’t decide which to devour first. And a third—God—the third stood in front of her, hips pumping as she sucked him down, her mouth stretched wide around him, spit slicking her chin and dripping to her collarbone.
You watched as her whole body trembled under the force of it—three men, three directions, all taking turns. Her throat constricted as she took him deeper. Her back arched as the one underneath groaned into her chest. The man behind her pulled her hips back, harder, rougher. She whimpered. Moaned. Her nails scraped the sheets. And when the one in front finally shuddered and came, you saw the spill of it leak past her lips, trailing white down her chin as she let out a breathless laugh—uncaring, uninhibited, completely lost in pleasure.
None of them noticed you.
Not even when you stepped back and nearly knocked over the dish rack in your daze.
You almost laughed.
So much for good sex.
So much for Kuroo not going for girls like you.
You didn’t sleep that night.
The next morning, she confronted you in the hallway, freshly showered and still damp, eyes smug with victory. “You saw, didn’t you?”
You didn’t deny it. Just nodded once, softly.
And she beamed—fucking beamed. “I can take three cocks at once,” she said proudly. “Feels good, you know? Having every hole filled at the same time. It’s like—ecstasy. And they even took turns, babe. I lost count of how many times they came. My holes have been filled thrice as much.”
You stared at her, mouth dry, heartbeat unsteady. Her words were half confession, half performance.
And then, as if it were an afterthought, she added, “I wanted you to see it.”
Your brows furrowed. “What?”
“I left the door open on purpose. Thought it might loosen you up. But I figured you wouldn’t join anyway. Those guys probably aren’t into your type.”
You didn’t rise to it. Not yet. “How about Kuroo?”
That made her pause for a second. Just a flicker.
She shrugged. “The dick’s good. But he’s getting clingy. Talking about labels and exclusivity and all that serious shit. I don’t like that.”
Your stomach sank. “You told me it was serious.”
“It wasn’t. Until he thought it was.”
And just like that, she turned away, humming to herself as she made her coffee like she hadn’t just shattered something in the room. Something delicate. Something quiet and private and stupidly hopeful that you didn’t even realize you’d been holding on to.
You never judged her. God knows college has been a blur for you too. You’d partied, drank too much, made your own share of mistakes. But still—something about seeing her like that, twisted and shaking and laughing with a mouthful of someone else, had done something to you.
Maybe it was the betrayal. Maybe it was the performance. Maybe it was that deep, unspoken part of you that had started to care about Kuroo even if you didn’t want to admit it.
But what you never forgot—what stayed carved in your mind, looping over and over like a cruel joke—was the smirk she wore as she wiped cum off her chin and looked toward the door.
She knew.
And you’d never seen her look more pleased.
It was one of those rare, treasured off days—the kind where time stretched and slowed, unbothered by alarms or obligations. You padded out of your room with a fresh mug of coffee and a sealed box in hand: the latest Lego Architecture set you’d been dying to build. The living room was quiet, lit by soft daylight filtering through the sheer curtains, and for once, blissfully yours. Or so you thought.
You settled cross-legged on the rug, carefully opening the box and sorting the pieces into neat color-coded piles across the coffee table. The soft clink of plastic against plastic was meditative, your fingers already moving by muscle memory as you started on the foundation.
Then, the door creaked open.
You glanced up, expecting it to be your roommate stumbling in from a late-morning hangover—or another boy doing the walk of shame. But instead, it was him.
Kuroo Tetsuro.
Hair tousled in every direction, eyes half-lidded with sleep, and wearing nothing but a loose shirt and sweatpants slung far too low on his hips. He blinked at you like you were a hallucination.
“…Shit,” he muttered under his breath before stiffening like he’d been caught stealing.
You raised an eyebrow.
There was a beat of stunned silence before he scrubbed a hand down his face and cleared his throat. “You’re—wait, you're the roommate?” He pointed at you like he couldn’t quite believe it. “You’re her roommate?”
You looked back down at the half-built Lego set and calmly clicked a few pieces together. “Mmm. That’s what it says on the lease.”
Kuroo stared at you, then at the Lego box, then back at you. “Is that—oh my god, is that the Fallingwater set?” His voice pitched up slightly, boyish excitement suddenly blooming on his face.
You blinked, slightly surprised at the sudden shift. “Yeah. Limited edition, too.”
His eyes lit up in a way you hadn’t expected from someone who, until now, had only existed in your mind as a tangled mess of sex sounds and sneaky exits.
“I’ve wanted to build that one for months,” he said, stepping closer without even realizing it. “Frank Lloyd Wright is—God. His work is insane. That cantilever design? Pure genius.”
You stared at him for a second, momentarily caught off guard. “You’re into architecture?”
“I’m into Legos,” he corrected with a grin, dropping down to sit a few feet away from you on the floor. “Architecture’s just the gateway drug.”
The way he said it was so earnest, so casually nerdy, that you couldn’t help but let out a soft laugh. He didn’t seem to notice he was still inching closer, eyes darting across your sorting piles with the practiced gaze of someone who had done this a hundred times before. His fingers twitched like he wanted to reach for a piece, to help build.
“You’re not usually home,” he added after a second. “She always says you’re working.”
“I usually am,” you replied, not bothering to hide the slight edge in your tone. “Today’s the exception.”
Kuroo paused, then gave you a sheepish look. “Well, I feel kind of dumb. I’ve been talking to your Lego collection like it was hers.”
You glanced at him, amusement tugging at your lips. “So you do talk to the Lego sets.”
“Only the ones that deserve respect,” he shot back easily, gesturing toward your build. “That one? Deserves a round of applause.”
There was a pause—just long enough to realize how quiet the apartment was with only the two of you in it. Just long enough for the tension to crackle faintly in the air, unfamiliar but not unwelcome.
For the first time, you were seeing him as something more than your roommate’s cocky lay. He was still smug. Still smug and way too attractive for his own good—but there was a softness there too, the kind that clung to people who used their brains for more than ego. A surprising amount of dork nestled beneath the devil-may-care smirk. You didn’t know what to do with that just yet.
Still, you couldn’t resist the tease.
“You can help sort, if you wash your hands,” you said, tilting your head.
Kuroo gave you a mock gasp. “You think I’d touch a limited edition set with dirty hands? I’m offended.”
You laughed under your breath as he stood up and headed to the sink, and as the sound of running water filled the space, you glanced back down at the instructions in front of you.
It seemed like, for once, today might actually be interesting.
And maybe—just maybe—so was he.
Eventually, you and Kuroo became close, as he sometimes helped you with your builds if you were free and he happened to be in the apartment.
It was just an innocent hangout since you two shared an interest—nerding out over collectors' sets, comparing mini-figures, debating Marvel versus DC, and even spending quiet evenings building modular LEGO cities in comfortable silence. It was never anything more than shared company, quiet companionship, and a love for plastic bricks and fantasy worlds.
But apparently, that probably hit a nerve with your roommate.
Because a few days later, you came home from work and stepped into the middle of a storm brewing in the living room.
“You always hang out with her now,” your roommate spat, her arms folded tightly across her chest. “Why?”
You froze, one foot just inside the doorway, the other still outside. You blinked at the tension in the air—at the way Kuroo stood across from her, jaw tight, like he hadn’t expected this either.
“She’s cool,” Kuroo said simply, voice calm but edged in confusion. “We like the same stuff. That’s all it is.”
“That’s all it is,” your roommate echoed mockingly, rolling her eyes. “So what, you're into nerds now? You think you're gonna build a little LEGO love story with her?”
Kuroo frowned. “It’s not like that.”
She scoffed, arms flying up in the air. “Bullshit. You’re getting soft. And since we’re airing things out—guess what, Kuroo? I’ve been fucking other people the entire time. Not just one or two.”
You watched from the hallway as she stepped closer, lips curling into a smirk. Like this wasn’t a confession—it was a flex.
“Three guys,” she said, slowly, as if daring him to react. “At the same time. And I liked it.”
She said it proudly. Like there was no shame, no remorse, no thought to how it might hit him.
And it did hit him.
You saw it in the subtle shift of his stance, the way his shoulders pulled back and his jaw clenched. He didn’t yell. He didn’t crumble. But you saw the exact moment it clicked—that he wasn’t just some convenient hookup to her, but completely disposable.
“You’re serious?” he asked, slowly.
She shrugged, unapologetic. “Dead serious. And I don’t get why you’re acting like we were exclusive. I never promised you anything.”
He inhaled sharply through his nose, glancing away like he was trying to keep his temper level. “I just thought we respected each other. I thought you gave a shit. And I thought you and your roommate were friends. That’s why I even talked to her in the first place.”
The room fell uncomfortably silent after that. You felt a sting deep in your chest—for him.
You knew Kuroo wasn’t the type to get attached easily. But he had cared. He wouldn’t have lingered around your coffee table for hours helping you alphabetize your manga, or asked you what your dream Star Wars set was, if he was just killing time between fucks.
And now, he looked like he’d just had the wind knocked out of him.
You didn’t want him to see your face, the way your brows pulled together or how your heart ached with sympathy for him. So, quietly, you backed away from the hallway and slipped into your bedroom, shutting the door behind you before the fight could escalate further.
You didn’t want to hear any more of it—not the insults, not the ego, not the unraveling of something he’d believed was real.
All you could do was sit on your bed, palms pressed to your thighs, and let yourself hurt in silence—for the boy who never deserved to be treated like a backup plan.
After that argument, you never saw much of Kuroo again. You hadn’t asked for his number or any of his socials, and he never asked for yours either. Maybe it was intentional—maybe it wasn’t—but either way, you chalked it up to a chapter that closed before it could fully begin. It was easier that way, wasn’t it? Your roommate moved on fast. So fast that the same night you’d heard her moaning another boy’s name through the thin apartment walls while you buried yourself under a pillow and turned the volume of your anime up louder than usual. You weren’t sure if it was pity or residual anger that lingered in your chest, but either way, you avoided bringing it up.
A few months passed. Your job had picked up pace, and while your calendar was often cluttered with deadlines, you managed to put away enough money to indulge yourself a little. Which is why you didn’t even flinch at the entrance fee for the local comic and toy convention—hell, you even treated yourself to priority access, determined to beat the crowd before anyone could swipe that rare LEGO Star Wars Ultimate Collector Series set you’d been eyeing online for weeks. You weren’t sure if it would even be there, but the hope was enough. And if not, there were always manga volumes to haul home, limited prints, and maybe another blind box you didn’t need but would justify with weak logic about resale value.
The place was buzzing with life. Cosplayers brushed past you in elaborate wigs and armor; booths were stacked high with colorful displays; the air smelled like plastic wrap, buttered popcorn, and overpriced takoyaki. Your bag was already a little heavier than it should’ve been—three volumes of a manga you hadn’t even started and two keychains you didn’t need clinked together at your side—but your heart was light. It was a good day. You were in your element. You were happy to be spending money that you earned doing something you didn’t hate. That in itself felt like a win.
You were crouched in front of a display, squinting to read the fine print on the LEGO box tucked in the farthest shelf corner—your prize almost within reach—when a familiar voice slid in from behind you, smooth as ever, but touched with disbelief.
You turned. And just like that, the convention disappeared for a second.
Kuroo stood a few feet away, noticeably overdressed for the venue. His dark button-up was tucked neatly into charcoal slacks, the lanyard from the Japan Volleyball Association still clipped to his belt, a blazer slung casually over one arm. His hair was a little more tamed than the last time you saw him, like he’d just stepped out of a boardroom instead of a crowd full of anime fans and collectors. And yet, his expression—wide-eyed and visibly caught off-guard—was anything but polished.
“…Tetsu?”
He grinned then, that same crooked smile that used to flash your way over unfinished LEGO builds in your living room, the kind that warmed something unguarded in your chest.
“I thought that was you. I’d recognize that laser-focus over a brick set anywhere,” he teased, stepping closer. “You stalking LEGO aisles now?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” you said, glancing pointedly at his outfit. “Did you just come from a funeral or are you here to do tax audits on people’s purchases?”
He laughed, the sound genuine. “Meeting at the JVA ran long. I was supposed to head straight home after, but I saw the convention signs on my way out and figured I’d pop in. Nostalgia, you know? Didn’t think I’d run into anyone I knew… especially not you.”
Your smile faltered only slightly, the past nudging its way in. “Yeah… I didn’t think I’d see you again either.”
For a second, neither of you said anything. The noise of the convention carried on—someone shouted about free pins at booth twelve, another person squealed over a celebrity sighting—but in that moment, it was just the two of you, standing shoulder to shoulder in front of a LEGO display that felt like a full circle too ironic to ignore.
“I didn’t get to say sorry,” Kuroo said quietly, his voice softer now, lower. “Back then. I should’ve reached out. But I didn’t even know how.”
“It’s okay,” you said, and maybe you meant it. Maybe part of you still felt the sting of that goodbye-that-wasn’t, but seeing him again like this, in the middle of a day you thought would be just another solo outing, made the ache feel a little more bearable. “You don’t owe me anything.”
His eyes searched yours for a long moment, as if trying to read between the lines. And then, with a small smile, he gestured toward the shelf. “So… you finally get it? That LEGO set you’ve been after?”
“Almost. Some guy just bought one before me. I’ve been debating if I should just fight him for it or cry in the corner.”
Kuroo smirked, like it was 3AM again and you were bickering over missing pieces. “I’ll help you strategize. Worst-case scenario, we distract him with a full-blown scene in the Gundam section.”
You laughed, and just like that, the heaviness began to lift. Maybe the past didn’t need to be reopened in full detail. Maybe there was something worth picking up from here instead—on neutral ground, between plastic bricks and overpriced manga—and maybe this time, neither of you would let it slip so easily.
You eventually started spending more time at Kuroo’s apartment—not because it was necessarily more convenient, but because the idea of inviting him over to yours felt layered with complications you weren’t ready to unpack. Your roommate still lived there, and after everything that had transpired—the awkward tension, the quiet spite, the ghost of her moaning someone else’s name just hours after things ended with Kuroo—it didn’t feel right. It didn’t feel neutral. And you didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of thinking she had any space in whatever it was that you and Kuroo were slowly building now.
He never asked questions. Just unlocked the door, let you in, and cleared space on his coffee table for your snacks and whatever LEGO set he’d been tinkering with that week. It became your quiet ritual. He’d handle the bulk of the instruction booklet while you sorted pieces by color or shape, occasionally bickering about which build deserved priority. You laughed more often than you had in weeks. Kuroo, for all his smug quips and relentless teasing, had a calming presence when he was relaxed like this—lounging in sweats, hair pulled back haphazardly, glasses perched on his nose, and a cup of instant coffee steaming between you.
It was during one of these hangouts—somewhere between building a replica of the Millennium Falcon and reorganizing his manga shelf—that he really started noticing the little things about you.
You wore glasses at his place. Not the contact lenses or styled versions of yourself that the world got to see, but the comfort version—the one with oversized hoodies, your hair tied up, and those thick-rimmed frames slipping down the bridge of your nose every few minutes. You’d wrinkle your nose every time they slid too far, push them back up with a finger, then hunch further into the build like you were preparing for battle. It was absurdly endearing.
Kuroo found himself watching you more than he watched the pieces. The way your brow furrowed in focus, the way your voice softened when you talked about your favorite arcs, how your hands hovered when he got too reckless snapping bricks together.
And the more time he spent with you, the harder it was not to remember all the things your ex-roommate used to say about you.
He hadn’t thought much of it at the time. She’d speak in offhand remarks—half-laughed criticisms and quiet jabs that he hadn’t really questioned. Stuff like, “She’s sweet, but kind of childish, don’t you think?” or “Her room’s full of toys and junk, I don’t know how she lives like that.” It sounded harmless then. Maybe even normal, like the kind of light annoyance roommates always had about each other.
But now, sitting across from you while you earnestly explained the rarity of a certain manga edition you were planning to hunt down next weekend, he realized how misplaced those comments really were.
Your roommate hadn’t been annoyed. She had been dismissive. Cruel, in subtle ways that made him feel gross now that he understood the full picture. Because if this was you—brilliant, expressive, unapologetically passionate—you weren’t someone to mock. You were someone worth watching. Worth listening to. Worth knowing.
Kuroo was starting to think he’d like to know you even better.
And he did.
The more time you spent at his place, the more the line between casual hangouts and something softer, something more intentional, began to blur. It wasn’t sudden—nothing about it was rushed or dramatic—but rather a quiet shift, the kind that unfolds slowly when two people realize they enjoy each other’s company more than they probably should.
It started with the little things.
He began walking you home instead of just waving from the doorway. He'd pick up your favorite snacks without needing to ask. Once, he texted you in the middle of the workday just to share a photo of a new LEGO architecture set he spotted in a store near the JVA office—“Made me think of you,” he’d said.
Then came the first not-quite-date, when he asked if you wanted to grab ramen after a long build session. It wasn’t phrased romantically, but when he held the door open for you with a lopsided grin and a low, “Dinner’s on me,” it lingered like a promise.
After that, it became a quiet pattern—late-night meals, museum dates disguised as “research” for future builds, bookstore strolls where he let you drag him into the manga aisle even though he always ended up walking out with more volumes than you did.
One evening, he surprised you with a black box tied in yellow ribbon, smugly handing it over like he was presenting you with a Nobel prize.
You opened it to find a bouquet of LEGO flowers—intricate, colorful, and painstakingly detailed.
“I figured they wouldn’t die on you,” he said with a small shrug, but his ears flushed red, betraying just how much the gift actually meant.
You smiled so brightly it made his chest ache.
Later that night, you sat side by side on his floor, building each stem and petal piece by piece. Your fingers brushed occasionally, and each time it happened, he didn’t pull away. Neither did you.
And when you were finally finished, the vase of plastic blooms sat proudly by his kitchen window, catching the light like real blossoms might. It stayed there—quiet, permanent, and real in its own way. Just like the two of you were starting to become.
More sets of LEGO flowers bloomed forever in the corner of Kuroo's bookshelf, perched beside a manga box set he'd later surprise you with. Then another. Then a collector's figurine. A special-edition Blu-ray. It became a habit for him—dropping by a shop after work, carrying something that made him think of you. Something you’d gush over while adjusting your glasses or scrunching your nose in delight. Kuroo loved how animated your voice became when you explained the significance of a certain volume or lore from a world he only half-understood but always listened to anyway.
He loved the way your eyes sparkled when you carefully peeled away the plastic wrap, reverent in a way that almost made him jealous of the object in your hands.
“Tetsu, I told you to stop giving me gifts randomly.” you scolded him after he just handed you a new set of Lego figures.
Kuroo shrugs his shoulders and gives you a sheepish smile, “I like giving you gifts just because, okay?”
That went on and on—nights tangled in LEGO instructions and accidental laughs, meals shared over manga discussion, and growing routines that never needed to be spoken aloud. Eventually, he started asking you on actual dates. A quick dinner after helping him with his laundry. A detour to the park after a weekend spent sorting model kits. You never had to ask if it was a date—he made it clear every time he paid, every time he walked you home, every time his fingers lingered at the small of your back.
Then one night, he took you somewhere just a little fancier.
A cozy, tucked-away place with dim lighting and soft music humming underneath clinking silverware. You wore something nice—not over the top, but enough to make Kuroo smile the moment he saw you. He was dressed in a dark button-down shirt, sleeves casually rolled, a silver watch peeking from his wrist. Formal enough to make your heart thump a little harder when he pulled out your chair for you.
You talked—about work, a new LEGO release, some anime remake coming out soon, and halfway through dessert, it slipped out.
“So…what are we?” he asked, fingers absently running along the rim of his wine glass.
You paused, lips parting—but he beat you to it.
“I mean, I already know what I want us to be,” he added, voice quieter, more certain. “I’d just like to know if you feel the same.”
Your heart skipped. You didn’t answer with words—not right away. Instead, your hand slid over his on the table, your thumb brushing his wrist like it had always belonged there. Kuroo’s smile widened, soft and crooked.
That night, after he drove you home, it was meant to end the same way it usually did—warm, unspoken affection lingering in the air, a kiss on the cheek, a casual “see you soon” exchanged in the quiet of the night. Kuroo leaned in like always, one hand still gripping the steering wheel out of habit, his lips brushing against your cheek.
But this time, you didn’t let it end there.
"Stay," you said—softly but with no room for refusal—as your hand curled around the lapel of his coat and tugged him through the door. The click of the lock behind you echoed in the quiet, both of you breathing just a little heavier now.
His brow lifted, slightly amused, but when you reached for him—when you pressed your lips to his without hesitation—Kuroo dropped all pretense. He kissed you back just as fiercely, meeting the pull of your mouth with a hunger that had simmered under the surface for far too long.
You wrapped your arms around his neck as if anchoring yourself there, while his large hands settled on your waist, grounding you. The soft press of your bodies swaying closer felt like gravity had chosen this moment to pull tighter.
His mouth moved down—along the curve of your jaw, then lower to the sensitive spot just beneath your ear. When his lips found your neck, hot and deliberate, you tilted your head back and let out a breathy moan that made something flicker in his chest and spark in his eyes.
"God, you have no idea what you do to me," he murmured into your skin, voice low and gravel-thick with restraint. His hands were already wandering—sweeping over the curve of your waist, tracing the line of your ribs, bunching the fabric of your top like he couldn't decide whether to peel it off slowly or just tear through it and devour you whole.
Then, in one fluid motion, he hooked his arms under your thighs and lifted you effortlessly. You gasped, instinctively wrapping your legs around his waist, clinging to him as he carried you through the apartment like he already knew every step of the way. He nudged open the door to your bedroom with his foot and kicked it closed behind him with a soft thud.
“Are you sure about this, darling?” he asked, lips ghosting over your throat, warm breath teasing your skin. His voice was careful, velvet-wrapped concern undercut by the tension thrumming just beneath it.
“Yes,” you whispered without a second thought—breathy, aching, already burning. “Kuroo, yes.”
That was all he needed.
He set you down on the edge of the bed, fingers already working the hem of your top. He tugged it over your head, eyes darkening as more of your skin was revealed to him. “Fuck,” he breathed out, like seeing you undone just for him knocked the wind from his lungs. “You’re unreal.”
You helped him out of his shirt next, palms gliding across his toned chest as if you needed to commit every line, every scar, every warm plane of skin to memory. His pants were next, discarded somewhere along with yours, clothes tossed carelessly onto the floor as your mouths met again in a kiss that was less polite now—more heat than hesitation, more teeth, more tongue, more everything.
When he finally laid you down on the mattress and hovered above you, bare and wanting, the look in his eyes wasn't just lust. It was reverence.
“You're so fucking beautiful,” he said, almost like he was scolding himself for taking this long. “You’ve got no idea how long I’ve been thinking about this—about you.”
And then he kissed you again, slower this time, as his hand drifted between your legs—testing the waters, coaxing more of those breathy moans he was already addicted to.
“Gonna take my time with you,” he growled, “because after tonight, I’m not going anywhere.”
His voice was thick—low and rough with promise—as his mouth descended onto your chest. Kuroo's lips wrapped around your nipple, tongue swirling slow, lazy circles before he sucked hard enough to make your back arch. His free hand slid between your thighs, fingers parting your folds before his thumb found your clit with practiced ease, rubbing gentle, teasing circles that made your hips twitch.
“Tetsu,” you whimpered, threading your fingers through his dark, unruly hair, tugging just enough to draw a low moan from him.
Kuroo glanced up, eyes half-lidded but gleaming. “That’s it,” he murmured, voice vibrating against your skin. “Keep saying my name like that.”
You gasped as his fingers pressed in deeper, sliding along your slick heat, fingertips curling just right—just enough to make your thighs tremble and your breath catch.
He sucked on your other breast, taking his time, leaving red blooms along your skin like a trail he’d follow again later. The slow, wet sounds of his mouth on your tits mixed with the obscene slick of his fingers fucking you open, setting your nerves alight.
“Tetsu—fuck, I can’t—” you choked out, hips stuttering beneath his touch.
“Yes, you can,” Kuroo whispered, lips ghosting over your nipple before he kissed the swell of your breast. “You’re doing so good for me.”
He pulled back just slightly, lifting his head to watch you unravel for him—your body flushed, eyes glassy, chest heaving with every broken breath.
“Taste yourself, baby,” he said, bringing his glistening fingers up to your lips. You parted them instantly, moaning as he pushed them past your tongue. His groan was almost feral. “Fuck, you’re perfect.”
When he kissed you again, it was rougher—needier. He cradled your head in his hand, the other already stroking his cock as he lined himself up at your entrance.
“Tell me you want this,” he said, pressing his forehead to yours, voice trembling with restraint. “Tell me you want me.”
“I want you, Tetsu,” you breathed, wrapping your arms around his neck. “All of you. I’m yours.”
Kuroo didn’t hesitate. With a low groan, he pushed inside—slow and deep, stretching you open inch by inch until he bottomed out.
“Fuck,” he cursed, jaw clenching. “You feel… fuck, you feel like heaven.”
And when he started to move—thrusting slow, deliberate, grinding deep—you knew you’d never want anyone else. Not when Kuroo made you feel like this.
Each stroke was intentional, like he was mapping your body with every inch of his. One hand anchored beneath your thigh, fingers pressing into the soft underside, while the other stayed between your bodies, lazily circling your clit in time with the slow grind of his hips. The sounds he drew from you were loud, raw, almost embarrassing if they weren’t so fucking honest. You didn’t care. Not when Kuroo was whispering filth in your ear, kissing along your neck like he was claiming you with every mark.
“You feel that?” he murmured, lips brushing your skin. “That’s me. That’s all me, baby.”
When your back arched and your nails raked down his spine, Kuroo groaned—low and guttural, like the sight of you unraveling under him was too much to handle.
To say the least, Kuroo was obsessed with you in bed. He didn't expect someone so quiet, so soft-spoken and unbothered with drama, to be this wild and insatiable behind closed doors. Sometimes his stamina was off the charts—athlete-built and fueled by ego—but even he could admit: fuck, he couldn’t always keep up with you.
It drove him crazy in the best way.
You were demanding in all the right places. Greedy with your kisses, shameless when you rode him like you needed him deeper than physically possible, and vocal when you came, screaming his name like a prayer and a curse. Every time he thought he had you figured out, you flipped the script.
Kuroo used to think he was the one with the upper hand. He wasn't.
Your roommate—back when she and Kuroo were still trying whatever you’d call that—once mentioned you in passing. They were cuddling on your couch, legs tangled up in each other, when she scoffed and said, “She’s probably a virgin. You’ve seen her room, right? It’s full of Legos and manga. All that nerd shit? She’s definitely never been touched.”
He hadn’t thought much of it at the time, just hummed and nodded, though something about the certainty in her tone stuck with him.
Months later, when things with your roommate fizzled and Kuroo found himself in your bed, tangled in your sheets and catching his breath after your second round, he brought it up.
“She said you were probably a virgin,” he told you, laughing, head resting on your stomach.
You had chuckled, brushing your fingers through his messy hair.
“Yeah?” you replied, eyes gleaming. “Tell that to the guys I had in college. I practically broke one of them.”
You weren’t lying.
You proved it to him that same night. Straddling his face with that lazy smile and those goddamn glasses sliding down your nose. You rode him like you’d been waiting to prove a point and holy hell, Kuroo swore he saw the light. You had him pinned, hips grinding, thighs squeezing around his head like a vice, and he welcomed it. Happily. Drowning in your slick, drunk on your moans, Kuroo didn’t even care if he suffocated in your thighs that night.
He’d die a happy man.
You were so hot like that—uninhibited, filthy, hungry for him. And god, you looked so damn good when you sucked him off still wearing your glasses. Hair all messy from his fingers, mouth slick and eyes daring him to look away. He couldn’t. Not when your tongue ran along his shaft like you were savoring every inch. Not when you moaned around him like he was your favorite flavor.
“Fuck, baby,” Kuroo had groaned, head tilted back. “You’re gonna kill me.”
And you? You just smirked.
“I’ll make it worth your while.” He didn’t doubt it.
Kuroo had been ruined for anyone else after that.
The moment you rode him in his home office, shirt half-unbuttoned, your hands gripping the back of his chair, hair falling into your eyes and mouth hanging open when you moaned his name—Tetsurou—like it was the only thing that mattered in the world.
He never wanted to let you go anymore.
If he could marry you right then and there—naked, sweaty, your panties dangling from his desk lamp—he would’ve gotten down on one knee without a ring. Just a promise. Just you and him.
But you deserved something better. Probably something by the ocean. A quiet, golden beach proposal with the sound of waves behind you and a little velvet box tucked behind one of his science joke t-shirts. Yeah. That’d be perfect. He’d plan that out eventually.
Still, your little dates didn’t slow down.
Lego-building marathons in his living room, your legs tangled across his lap as you bickered about which minifig was better. Cuddles during movie nights where you wore his college volleyball hoodie and snuck popcorn from his bowl. Quiet mornings when you stayed over, sipping coffee and flipping through manga in nothing but your panties and his button-down shirt.
You called it simple. He called it everything.
Kuroo kept giving you things. His love language wasn’t subtle.
Whenever you were at your apartment, a box would show up. Your favorite snacks. A collector’s edition manga you mentioned only once. That limited-edition Ninjago set you joked about. Sometimes he even had them delivered while you were out—just so he could text,
"Check your doorstep, sweetheart."
And when you opened the door, it was there. Sometimes with a post-it that read, "Build this with me tonight?"
And you always did. The second you stepped inside his apartment—his real home, now that you’d practically claimed it with your spare toothbrush and the fluffy slippers he bought for you—there’d be a new set waiting on the table. Or a volume laid neatly beside your favorite spot on the couch.
You would groan playfully, “Tetsu, this is too much…”
But your eyes always sparkled. And that was all he ever needed to see.
Kuroo wasn’t a man of restraint when it came to spoiling you. He liked seeing your expression when you tore the wrapping off. He liiked hearing your happy little gasps. And he especially liked the way you thanked him—sweet kisses at first, and then crawling into his lap and grinding down until his hands gripped your thighs, his voice rasping near your ear.
"Fuck, sweetheart. Is this how you're gonna thank me every time I buy you something?"
You always gave him cuddles… or him fucking you in return.
Neither of you would have it any other way.
Most of your dates happened right there in his apartment. It was your little world. The walls full of bookshelves, scattered Lego creations proudly displayed beside framed photos of his team. Your favorite blanket always draped over his couch, because he swore it smelled like you. You’d both start watching something—some superhero rewatch, some obscure Netflix docuseries—and end up tangled on the couch, kisses turning sloppy, laughter breaking into gasps as he dragged you under him.
It was always his apartment. His couch. His bed. His office. You bent over his desk, your nails scratching at the surface as he fucked you from behind. Or on his kitchen counter, panties pushed aside as he held your thighs apart and groaned against your neck.
"You’re fuckin’ perfect, sweetheart," he’d whisper against your skin. "Can’t believe you’re mine."
And you—smirking, breathless, always ready to drive him wild—would moan out, “I’m all yours, darling.”
That was the thing about you two. No matter where, no matter what—it was always just the two of you. A little domestic chaos, a little nerdy fun, and a whole lot of love.
Kuroo Tetsuro was ruined for anyone else.
And truthfully, he liked it that way.
He liked waking up in his apartment with your leg tangled with his. He liked how your shampoo clung to his pillows and how your glasses sat on his kitchen island beside your empty mug. He liked carrying you to bed when you fell asleep on the couch with a LEGO brick half-built in your hand. He liked that you left things behind—your books, your socks, your presence.
Kuroo Tetsuro had turned his apartment into a second home for you, and he didn’t even realize it until one afternoon when you opened a drawer in his bathroom and found your toothbrush, your hair ties, and your lip balm already waiting. It felt easy with him—domestic. Warm. Comfortable. Real.
But last night, he needed more than domestic.
He’d just come back from a grueling business trip—seven days without you. Seven days of restless sleep, ignored hotel breakfasts, and staring at unread messages while stuck in JVA meetings that ran longer than necessary.
And the second he saw your text, “Door’s open. I’m still up.”
He didn’t go home.
He went to your apartment instead. And the second he walked in and saw you in your oversized sleep shirt and those thick-rimmed glasses you forgot you were wearing—his restraint snapped.
He took you right there in your bedroom.
On the bed. Then again on the floor. And once more with your thighs trembling on the edge of your desk as his name broke from your throat in loud, obscene cries you couldn’t muffle even if you tried.
Kuroo always had a thing for your glasses. Something about the way you looked up at him while you were on your knees, eyes blown out, lips stretched around him, lenses fogging up while you sucked him deep like you missed the taste of him as much as he missed the heat of your body. And he always loved how you let him fuck you in them—wanted it even—telling him how dirty it made you feel when his cum splattered your lenses or dripped down your chin as he kissed you hungrily after.
And last night?
He made you wear them the entire time. Told you he’d missed seeing your pretty face get ruined while they were still on.
So yeah, Kuroo made good on every lost second from that trip. Filled you so many times you couldn’t remember if your name or his was the last thing you said before passing out. Your inner thighs ached. Your sheets were still crumpled with drying stains. And you still felt the wet, pulsing mess between your legs as you stood in the kitchen making breakfast the next morning, robe half-open, neck blooming with hickeys.
He had left early for another JVA morning call—but not before kissing your forehead and stuffing you full one last time in the shower.
But of course—unfortunately for you—your roommate had heard everything.
At first, she brushed it off. You weren’t exactly loud usually, and she assumed you were probably a virgin or celibate by choice. But when she heard your voice—unfiltered, breathless, begging—moaning “Tetsu!” like a prayer answered through gritted teeth and slick skin, it made her stomach churn.
And it was the final straw when his voice echoed in return.
Moaning your name.
Groaning about how tight you were. How much he missed your pussy. How pretty you looked taking every drop.
It made her snap.
So when you entered the living room that morning, holding your travel mug and your bag slung over your shoulder, she was already there—arms crossed, face sour, passive-aggressive aura bleeding into the walls.
“How long has that been going on?” she asked without looking at you.
You didn’t pretend to misunderstand. You just sipped your coffee.
“Define that.”
Her nostrils flared. “Don’t play dumb.”
You leaned against the counter, hair still wet from the shower, smirking slightly.
“If you mean Tetsuro—last night was just making up for lost time,” you said airily. “He missed me. So did my thighs, apparently.”
“You’re disgusting.”
“Funny. That’s not what you said when you told me all about your foursome while dating him,” you replied, tilting your head. “One behind, one underneath, and one shoving it down your throat, right? You left the bedroom door open just so I’d see. Said you were trying to prove a point. What point was that again?”
Her mouth opened, then closed. Scoffed. “That doesn’t mean you get to snake away my ex.”
Your grin widened—sharp, knowing.
“Sweetheart, you cheated on him constantly. I just didn’t say anything because, frankly, it wasn’t my relationship to mourn.”
She rolled her eyes. “He’s probably just using you to get back at me. You really think Kuroo Tetsuro would go for you? You said it yourself—he’s a career man. And you—well, look at you.”
You took another sip from your mug. Unbothered. Your petty meter had barely lifted.
“You told me he wouldn’t fuck someone who wore glasses. Now he asks me to keep them on. Funny how things change.”
She scoffed again, louder this time. “You’re seriously going to act like I wasn’t the best sex he ever had?”
“I don’t have to act. I know he’d disagree,” you replied, voice sugar-sweet. “Besides, we were just friends at first. You remember that, don’t you? He liked my LEGO builds. We bonded over manga. I still have the first limited edition he gifted me. First of many.”
“I knew something was up when he started hanging out with you more. You’re not even his type.”
“He said I’m exactly his type,” you said softly. “Smart. Funny. Loyal. And, apparently, really good at taking his cock.”
That was the one that hit.
Her eyes narrowed. “Just because you finally lost your virginity doesn’t mean you’re special.”
You laughed, really laughed, and set your mug down.
“Oh, sweetie. I’ve had a wild sex life in college. I just toned it down to focus on work. Tetsu just brought it back out. And then some. He fucks me in every corner of his apartment. Did he ever do that with you? Kitchen table? Floor? Balcony during rush hour?”
She didn’t answer.
“Didn’t think so,” you murmured.
“You’re lying.”
You stepped forward and whispered like it was a secret.
“He came in me three times last night,” you said casually. “Told me he missed seeing it drip out. Even helped push it back in.”
Her face twisted.
You raised your brows. “But if you want, I can play you the voice memo he sent me last month. He had his cock in his hand and couldn’t stop moaning my name. It’s really quite romantic.”
“Bitch.”
You tilted your head. “Always have been. Just quieter about it.”
She let out an angry shriek before stomping back to her room and slamming the door hard enough to rattle the coat hooks.
You took another sip from your mug and hummed under your breath.
Toned down? Maybe. But this?
This was your victory lap.
And you hadn’t even told her yet about the time Kuroo made you cum just from sucking on your tits while you rode his thigh—glasses on, mouth wet, his hand around your throat as he whispered that he wanted to keep you forever.
♡ SUMMARY: your boyfriend, Tom, can't make you come. good that you know someone who can—and just so happens to be his brother and your ex, Mattheo.
♡ WARNINGS: MATURE CONTENT. cheating. Tom girlies, close your eyes while reading. lack of aftercare, emotional distance, sexual frustration, reader searches for comfort and finds it, nipple play, LOTS of kissing, teasing, dryhumping, oral f!receiving, fingering, slight overstimulation, praise, possessiveness, soft sex turned rough, religious themes hinted (nothing major), creampie, cum play, DISGUSTING bonus ending pls don't judge me.
♡ AUTHOR'S NOTE: what day is today? a good day to post a fic like this. <33
wordcount: 4,0k
Your first knock is quiet, careful, measured. Still, you flinch. In contrast to the eerily silent corridors, it’s a sharp, loud sound, slicing through the night like a deadly curse, sending a shiver down your spine—sealing the fate you’ve chosen for yourself at last.
Your legs tremble—although it’s April and officially spring, a chilly breeze sweeps along the castle’s thick walls, having you shrink into your woolly cardigan and abandon the confident expression you practiced in the mirror just before you left.
Seconds pass, seconds in which your heart hammers wildly against your ribcage, as though attempting to break free—mind like body, you suppose. You listen closely, but no sound comes from behind the thick oak door of his dorm. A weird, silly feeling expands in your chest, clawing its way up your throat.
And silly, it is—seeking out your ex, your boyfriend’s brother—in the middle of the night after Tom fell asleep beside you.
You are well aware that this is wrong. That you shouldn’t do it, should leave your past behind you, once and for all. Should cuddle up to your boyfriend instead and shove these insistent, mourning feelings to the very back of your mind.
Today, though, you couldn’t help yourself. Not any longer—aroused and aching, slick between your thighs. Restless with the need to come, to release your pent-up frustration, which has been building for months now.
In truth, Tom is a good lover—great even. What he does, he does well. He just never does quite enough.
Again, you should not let your thoughts stray this far. Not under any circumstances. But... with Mattheo, it felt different. Intimacy felt like a special connection you shared, both of you at your most vulnerable, and yet you never once felt unsafe in his arms.
You felt cherished and loved, and now—with Tom, it feels distant. It feels as though being intimate with him is a chore, a necessity to keep your relationship above water when otherwise it’s drowning.
Most of the time, he does not even bother kissing you, reassuring you, or encouraging you. It’s so shallow, you have never gotten to experience an orgasm with him. And he does not ask, either. When he is done, you are too. Left wanting as he turns around and dozes off—leaving you to your thoughts. Thoughts, which often include his brother, and, in the end, help you reach your high too—on your own.
If anything, though, you feel ashamed. You left Mattheo for Tom for a reason. You sought maturity and responsibility—and found just that with Tom. He’s ambitious, has his goals set, and is hardworking.
You found stability but, in exchange, traded love and affection.
Still, you chose this path for yourself. You are well aware, all things considered, Tom provides the traits you’ve wanted in a partner and has never denied you assistance with school-related work. Has been there for you and been a great companion.
You should’ve never left his dorm tonight.
And for a moment, you consider turning around. You consider returning to your bed, which has most likely cooled out by now, and try to be the girlfriend Tom expects you to be, deserves you to be.
Another moment passes, and you blink the tears that have gathered at your waterline away.
You are so unhappy. So desperate for a gentle touch that finally—
You knock again. Harder. Louder. Please open, you whisper into the darkness of the night, the words forming a misty cloud in the chilly air surrounding you. Please, Mattheo. I need you.
This time, a low groan—unmistakably Mattheo’s—rumbles from inside, and a second later, footsteps near the door.
The lock turns, and you exhale a breath you didn’t know you were holding.
The door opens just wide enough that he can peek outside—and yet, the mere presence of him spreads instant heat throughout your body, warming you from the inside.
His chocolate-brown eyes take no longer than a split moment to recognise your face, prying the door open further.
“What are you—” his eyes rake over your body, not suggestively, but observingly. When he realises you are wearing nothing more than thin satin pyjamas, he takes hold of your wrist and pulls you inside.
Mattheo switches on a small lamp, and it’s then when you are able to see each other properly that worry wipes the soft smile clean from his face.
“Are you all right? Has something happened?” He asks quietly, insinuating—his eyes darting between you and the door.
Even after all this time, he is still more worried about you than his own brother. Mattheo has always prioritised your safety over anything else, and the realisation makes your heart hurt. Tears finally spill, and you sniffle, turning away from him.
Mattheo gathers you in his arms then, wrapping them around you gently, protectively, letting you calm down. His hand smooths over your hair, brushing his fingers along your spine and whispering soothing words near your ear.
As soon as you calm yourself, you reluctantly part from the comforting warmth of his body, his thumb wiping away the moisture that has gathered on your cheek as his brown eyes, full of worry, gaze down at you.
And then, when he sits you down on his bed, you spill your heart out to him.
Everything you’ve been holding in for months leaves your lips, and with every sentence, your soul feels lighter. It feels as though your pain transfers to him—his eyes growing darker as minutes pass, shoulders tense, hands curled into fists beside him.
When you are done, there’s a long, agonising silence. So long and uncomfortable, you question whether it was the right decision to let him in on this.
But Mattheo—Mattheo only pulls you closer, wrapping his strong arms around you just as he did before. No judgement, no questions. Just quiet understanding and comfort.
After his lips brush a kiss on the top of your head, he reluctantly lets go of you. His eyes bore into yours, with an intensity and emotion you aren’t sure you can handle coming from him.
“Why?” he asks, quietly—but there is no trace of malice in his tone. “Why didn’t you come sooner? I could have— maybe I could have done something.”
You shake your head. “Being here right now is a mistake, Mattheo, and you know it. I shouldn’t have shared this with you, let alone come to sit on your bed. Tom is asleep, I should— God, I should leave.”
“Is that what you want?” he asks, curling a finger beneath your chin and tilting your head up, urging you to look at him. God, his eyes. The warmth of a crackling fireplace, intertwined with the sweetness of dark honey, staring down at you.
No, I don’t, you want to reply, but the words do not form on your tongue—still, your lips part, though for a different reason entirely.
The sheer proximity of him wipes reason from your every thought, and when his face inches closer, you don’t dare stop him.
Instead, you allow the relationship with Tom to drown, pulling yourself back above water in the same moment and sucking in the first breath of fresh oxygen in what feels like months.
When his lips brush over yours in a gentle, encouraging motion—as though he’s giving you a trial, a promise of what’s about to come—you don’t pull away. You whimper but reciprocate his invitation, and that is enough for Mattheo to deepen the kiss. He’s holding you close, one hand at the nape of your neck, the other resting just above your jaw, drawing soft patterns on your cheek with his thumb.
When he eases back, he swipes it over your lips, and you whimper again—but Mattheo pulls away, taking a moment to look at you—confirming by your hazed expression that yes, you do want this. That you need this just as badly as he does.
And then, your back hits the mattress, and Mattheo’s mouth is on yours again, more feral and hungry than before, while he’s hovering above you between your spread legs. His hands are on your shoulders this time, and with the tip of his finger, he traces along your collarbone, revealed by the V-cut of your pyjama top. He follows the seam downwards, and you can’t help but offer yourself to him, arching your back to encourage him for more, whimpering into the kiss.
God, how Mattheo has missed this. You, obediently spread out beneath him, legs wrapped around his waist, drawing the sweetest sounds from your swollen lips, which send a concerning amount of blood rushing straight to his already semi-hard dick.
All the while, your brain is screaming more, more, more, but all he’s giving you is barely-there touches, kisses that nearly make you beg for more.
In reality, Mattheo wishes to devour you—but after all these months, not knowing whether he’ll ever get another chance—he's savouring you. Slow, deliberate affection, just like you deserve, not rushing you through it.
His hips brush your thigh, and fuck—you nearly forgot what it feels to be desired—genuinely desired. He’s pressed up tight, trailing heated kisses down your neck, slowly undoing the buttons at the front of your shirt—rocking his growing erection against you, subconsciously so.
His fingers carefully peel the satin aside, the pad of his thumb brushing over your hardened nipple, and you gasp at the sensation. Never in all those months—
“Poor thing. So frustrated, hm?” Mattheo rasps, pressing a kiss to the hollow of your throat. “So frustrated, even the smallest touch makes you writhe. God, whatever shall I do with you?”
More. Touch me. Please.
“Mattheo,” you breathe, fingers tugging at his brown curls. “I—”
But he doesn’t let you finish your sentence.
“Let me show you— please, let me show you how you should be loved. Let me make you forget about him, sweetheart. Let me make you mine again.”
His lips trail a path of kisses along your sternum, down your tummy, halting briefly at the hem of your shorts, his eyes longingly gazing up at yours from below, a silent question swirling in the depths of them.
Yes. I need this. I need you.
As if he heard your thoughts, his fingers hook into the material of the only fabric still covering you, gently tugging it down your thighs alongside your panties.
“This is a bad idea,” you try again, huskily, but there is no sincerity behind your words. He merely shakes his head, the corner of his mouth curving into a playful smirk. He knows you are lying. And when his thumb finds your clit—swollen, begging for attention, drawing slow, torturous circles over it—you don’t tell him to stop, no. You chase his touch, angle your hips to offer more of yourself, revealing more of your glistening pussy to his hungry eyes.
Even in the dim light emitted from the lamp in the corner of his dorm, Mattheo can see your arousal—and subsequently can’t help but dip his thumb lower, collecting some of what has gathered at your entrance. He makes you watch when he brings it to his mouth and licks it clean, groans when he tastes you on himself.
As though you were the forbidden fruit no man dares to touch—but if it’s for you, Mattheo doesn’t care. Doesn't care if he fucking burns for it. You will be his damnation, even after all this time.
“Oh— oh God, Mattheo, this is— so perfect, but such a bad idea.”
“Bad idea?” he repeats, followed by a disbelieving laugh. “You know what a bad idea is? Leaving you to yourself like this—soaked and so. fucking. sensitive.”
The worst part is that he is right. And that you have wanted nothing more than for someone to take care of you, to pleasure you as you do them.
Your mind is hazy with lust, with the need to come, and you give yourself the last push, shoving any remaining thoughts of Tom into the take-care-of-it-later folder of your mind.
Then, your lips part, Mattheo studying you intently. “Please, touch me. Make me feel good. Make me yours again.”
Mattheo’s mind efficiently shuts off after he takes in those words and repeats them around five times in his mind to make sure he understood you right.
Hell, he won't let any second go to waste.
He presses one last kiss to the inside of your knee, then grabs your thighs and spreads them apart, far enough for him to fit in between. He’s feral—almost as feral as you are. His head dips, tongue delving between your folds, gathering the moisture seeping from your entrance and bringing it to your clit before his lips wrap around it effortlessly. And God, months without this kind of affection have made you overly sensitive. This feels as close to heaven as a mortal may reach in their lifetime—and you force your eyes open to watch him, watch your ruination.
You study him intently as he pleasures you, as though it’s the very thing he was made for, as though there is not a single thing he’d rather do. And there most likely isn’t.
Seeing him like this—fingers digging into the flesh of your thighs, moaning against your pussy, savouring your taste on his tongue—has molten heat form in your lower stomach, and the familiar, yet almost forgotten tingles spread throughout your entire body, having you grab and tug on his curls, press him more firmly against you.
Mattheo licks, sucks, drags his tongue through the mess between your folds, fucks you with his tongue, and is so fucking vocal about it. Praises you, encourages you.
“Good girl. So fucking good for me,” he nearly growls, spreading your legs impossibly wider. “This is what you needed, isn’t it? Just needed me between those pretty fuckin’ thighs, making you remember how good it can feel, hm?”
You don’t answer. Can't answer when he flicks his tongue against your sensitive clit, kisses it, and sucks it between his lips again.
You are about to come. God, you are about to come, and you don’t think you have ever felt this fucking good.
Don't stop, please, don’t stop.
He doesn’t stop. His hands leave your thighs, one of them intertwining with your own, reassuring you that he’s here to catch you when you let go, the other dipping lower, coating two of his fingers in your slick before he presses them against your entrance and pushes inside ever so slowly.
“Come, pretty girl. Come all over my face like I fucking taught you.”
Mattheo curls his fingers right against that sensitive spot inside you, and you don’t have any other choice but to follow his order even if you so wished.
His teeth graze your clit, fingers pumping deep, encouraging you with a low groan—and the vibrations of it finally send you over the edge. A broken moan slips past your lips—swollen from biting into them—and your fingers fist his hair tighter, thighs clamping around his head as stars dance in front of your eyes. You shake, you sob, and as your climax rips through you, so violently you think you may actually skip the dying part and ascend straight to heaven—he is there. He holds you, he praises you, and most importantly, doesn’t stop. Not until he’s drained every last drop of pleasure and you whimper due to the sensitivity.
Brushing one last soft kiss to your clit, he sits up, taking in your spent form with pure satisfaction.
He looks gorgeous like this. Chin soaked with both his spit and your arousal, lips swollen and reddened, hair a mess. In that moment, you realise you’ve missed him more than you thought. Not just because he always puts you first, but because he’s genuine with his feelings, careful with his words, and gentle with his affection.
“Fuck,” Mattheo exhales a long breath, a grin spreading on his face. “You did amazing. So fucking good, just like I remember.”
You whisper something in that sweet, velvety voice, and Mattheo doesn’t quite catch it but leans down to kiss you again anyway. You taste yourself on his lips and can’t help but lose yourself in the feeling of it.
Now, that the bliss of your high is slowly fading, you are feeling courageous. More than.
You reach between the two of you to palm his erection through his underwear, and his lips still against yours for a moment—but then, a wicked grin lets them curve upwards, and he lets them crash against yours again—coaxing you, making you feel bold.
With your hands on his strong shoulders, you finally circle his waist with your legs, and you can’t help but grind against him. Dragging your soaked pussy over his erection, still covered by the annoying piece of fabric he hasn’t bothered taking off yet.
Mattheo growls, the muscles in his jaw flexing.
He is holding back.
Reluctantly, you drop your head on the pillow beneath you, staring up at him, your palm brushing over his cheek affectionately.
“Mattheo, I want you— I want you inside me, please.”
Fuck, he thinks. You don’t know what you are asking from him. Once he feels your warmth around him, there is no fucking way he’ll ever let you leave again. No fucking way. And you are asking so sweetly, having come all this way here to pour your heart out to him—you deserve a reward.
His underwear is discarded somewhere on the floor, and not too long after, his toned body is framing yours, his hard cock dragging over your cunt as he slowly works his hips against your own.
“Please,” you whimper, and he adjusts himself just slightly, allowing his length to slip between your glistening folds. With every oh-so-gentle thrust, his weeping tip bumps against your still overly sensitive clit, and your nails claw at his back, moaning his name. Anything to get him to lose his patience.
You fucking need this.
“Mattheo. Please, I am begging you. You are my only, please let me have this.”
He curses under his breath, and yet, he straightens himself, hand beneath your neck to make you look at just how hard and needy he is for you. You moan at the sight of his soaked cock, caused by both your and his own arousal.
“Watch us when I push inside you. Watch how pretty you look when you take me.”
His hand fists your hair at the back of your head, supporting you—and then, with a throaty groan, the head of his cock slips past your entrance, having you both gasp at the same time. He's going slow—savouring every inch as you both watch him disappear inside your slick walls, pussy clenching tightly around the welcome invasion.
“So— so good, fuck, Mattheo— more, please, more.”
You think you hear something along the lines of “greedy fucking girl" before he lowers your head, braces his arms on either side of your face, and then drives home. All the fucking way, until the head of him nudges against your cervix, and you shriek in both pleasure and pain.
And Merlin help you, you want more. Harder, rougher. Give me all of you, Mattheo, your eyes damn near beg.
But he—he already looks fucking broken. Like the porcelain doll your grandmother displayed on her windowsill, with tiny cracks all over her once perfect exterior. They did not make her any less gorgeous, though—if anything, she looked like someone loved her properly.
And you love Mattheo, too. You’ve left your marks on him, on his soul, having him panting and breathing and moaning above you, thrusting so slowly, so carefully, you might as well tell him to break you too.
Your legs tighten around him. Encouragement. Please, please, don’t hold back.
Mattheo breathes out a pained whimper, meeting your eyes.
“I won’t— sweetheart, I won’t last long like this, fuck. It's been— been a while.”
Oh God.
You shouldn’t ask this. Hell, your mind should stay put for just once. Don't let your thoughts wander. But you ask nonetheless. “How— how long?”
“Nine months.”
You ended things between you nine months ago.
“Oh God, Mattheo. Don’t tell me—”
He nods. He nods, kisses you slowly and desperately, and then looks at you with an expression so close to hurt, you wish you had never asked.
“I want you. I only ever want you. And if I can’t have you, then I—”
“Mattheo— hey, look at me,” you shush him, cradling his face in your hands. “You have me. All of me. I belong to you, just as much as you belong to me. I was stupid not to realise it. I am yours. All yours, from now until the end of time.”
“Hmph—” he whimpers, increasing his pace, hips snapping against yours furiously, knocking the air from your lungs with every harsh thrust.
“Fuck, baby. Don’t say those things when I— when I am so—” he groans, a crease forming between his brows, concentrating. His cock twitches inside you, and it’s the only confirmation you need.
“Give it to me. Please. I need you. All of you. I need this.”
His thrusts grow erratic, deeper and rougher just as he knows you love it, and it takes everything in him to hold back. Hold back just a little longer to get you where he needs you.
He knows. He remembers. After all these months, he remembers, knows your body better than you do. Better than anyone—including Tom—ever could. Because they don’t care. But he does. Mattheo does and always has cared about your pleasure, your safety, your comfort. About you.
“Fuck, you are strangling me, baby. Fuck, fuck, fuck—
You only nod, breathing heavily, just like him. And then, his thumb is back on your clit, drawing perfectly tight circles around it, all while locking his eyes with you.
“Tell me,” he rasps, a sly smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Who does this wet, tight pussy belong to? Hm?”
Lord, you haven’t been to a confessional in ages, but perhaps it’s time to visit one some time soon. Very soon.
“It’s yours, Mattheo— fuck, it’s all yours,” you cry out, scratching his back as he slams into you, growling at your confession. His hips stutter just as you lose yourself in the bliss of a second, even better and more wrecking climax than the first. Only through the thick, hazy clouds enveloping your every sane thought do you feel as he empties himself inside of you, gently letting his body collapse on top of yours afterwards, sucking in deep breaths.
The waves of your pleasure almost drown you, but when you calm down, you reemerge, unharmed, feeling blissfully satisfied—brushing your fingertips along his spine, soothing him the same way he did with you.
What does not reemerge is your relationship with Tom.
And it won’t. Never again. You are home, and you are happy. You are exactly where you want to be.
In your lover's arms—in Mattheo’s arms.
・・・
bonus ending because I’m feeling myself today:
“No. Off. Keep those off,” Mattheo drawls from his side of the bed, arms tucked beneath his head as he watches you get dressed the next morning, nodding towards your panties just as you are about to step into them.
“Mattheo,” you warn him, but he gestures you over with one hand, sitting up on the bed.
You do as he says for once, intrigued by the sudden change in his expression. He gently, carefully kisses you when you stop at the edge of the bed and then smiles at you.
“Spread your legs, sweetheart,” he purrs, and reluctantly, you do.
Mattheo’s fingers dip between your folds, coating them with your combined arousal of the previous night, now beginning to drip out of you. You hiss, sore, but lean into his touch anyway—though he withdraws as quickly as he began, bringing his glistening fingers to your lips.
You open them, but he shakes his head.
Instead, he draws an M on your lips, smirking when he admires his work.
“For when you kiss him good morning. One last time.”
thank you so much for reading! <3 feel free to reblog and leave feedback! :3
—
masterlist. | oneshots.
Pairing: Conrad fisher x Female!Reader
Genre: Slow, fluff, found family, light angst
Warnings: Mentions of absent parent, mild grief, emotional vulnerability
Summary: You’re a preschool teacher. his daughter calls you “mom.” he doesn’t correct her. you don’t know what that means until he finally tells you.
Note: In case you need more of our Connie baby!
—
The first time she said it, I froze.
It’s an ordinary Thursday. The kind that smelled like spilled apple juice and washable paint. I was wiping down a stack of sticky puzzles while the classroom hums with the sounds of four-year-olds living out their small but mighty dramas. Behind me, I heard a quiet voice say, “Miss Y/N?”
I turned, crouching to her level. “Yeah, sweetheart?”
She’s wearing a crooked pink headband and holding a drawing clutched in both hands. She handed it to me with the gentle reverence of someone offering up a treasure. I took it carefully. “What did you draw?”
“That’s me,” she said, pointing. “And that’s my daddy.” She paused, finger hovering above the third figure. “And that’s my mom.”
I smiled, expecting maybe a wobbly sketch of a woman I’d never met. But the “mom” in question looked suspiciously like me. The same hair. Same glasses. Even the dress looked familiar. My throat tightened a little.
“Ellie,” I said gently. “Is that… me?”
She nodded. Her smile was missing a front tooth. “You’re like my mom.”
I should correct her. I should tell her she has one already, somewhere, wherever she lived now. But Ellie’s face was so full of certainty and warmth, and my heart did this strange, aching thing in my chest.
I didn’t say anything.
I just hung the drawing on the cork board behind my desk.
—
It wasn’t the last time she sayid it.
She said it when I braided her hair before naptime. When I sat beside her at lunch and cut the crust off her sandwich just the way she liked it. When I read her favorite story and she leaned against my shoulder like she’d known me forever. She said it with the unshakable confidence only kids had. Like it’s not a question. Like it’s the truth.
I told myself it’s just a phase.
Kids get attached to teachers all the time. That’s what my coworkers say. And it’s sweet, really. Kind of adorable.
But then Conrad Fisher showed up at pickup one afternoon, and Ellie ran to him, calling, “Daddy! I showed Mom my new painting!”
I swore the world stops turning.
He froze, his hand halfway to the strap of her backpack. “You showed who?”
Ellie didn’t notice the change in his tone. She’s too busy digging for her artwork. “Miss Y/N! She’s my mom now.”
She said it so cheerfully. So proudly. I stood there like an idiot, heart thudding in my chest, wishing I could disappear into the crayons.
Conrad’s eyes lifted to meet mine. I expected him to look confused. Or upset. I braced for it. But he didn’t look either. He just looked… tired. And soft around the edges.
He lifted Ellie into his arms and said, “That’s very nice, baby.” Then he looked at me again and added, “Thank you.”
—
I don’t know much about Conrad Fisher, but I know this: he always picked up Ellie on time, even on rainy days. He always asks her about her day. He packs her lunches with tiny notes and smiley faces. And he watches her like she’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him.
He’s young. Maybe mid-twenties. Handsome, but in a quiet way. Always a little rumpled like he’s been through the day already, even when it’s only 3 PM. His smile is rare but sincere, and the way he looks at his daughter like she’s his whole world. It makes my chest ache.
One afternoon, after most of the kids had been picked up, I found him waiting outside the door with two coffees in hand. He offered one to me like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“I figured you probably run on caffeine like the rest of us,” he said.
I took it, surprised. “Thanks. You didn’t have to.”
“I know,” he said. “But I wanted to.”
—
We started talking more after that.
Sometimes at pickup, sometimes when he dropped Ellie off early before his shifts at the hospital. Sometimes we sat on the bench outside the playground while Ellie chases butterflies.
He told me about med school. How he almost didn’t finish after Ellie was born. How everything changed when her mom left.
“She just… couldn’t do it,” he said one day, eyes on the mulch beneath his shoes. “We were twenty-two. She wanted freedom, travel. Not diapers and daycare.”
I nodded, quietly listening. “I’m sorry.”
“She hasn’t seen Ellie in over a year,” he said. “She stopped calling. Stopped sending birthday cards. Ellie doesn’t even ask anymore.”
I glanced over at where Ellie is twirling in the grass, the sun lighting up her hair like honey. My chest hurt. “She’s lucky to have you.”
He smiled, but it’s faint. “I don’t know what I’m doing half the time.”
“You’re doing fine,” I said softly. “More than fine.”
—
The first time he called me, it’s not about school.
It’s almost midnight. My phone buzzed, and his name lit up the screen. I answered, heart pounding.
“Y/N?” His voice was low. Shaky.
“Conrad? What’s wrong?”
“I think Ellie has a fever. She keeps crying. I tried the meds, but it won’t go down.”
I grabbed my coat before I’m fully awake. “Text me your address.”
Fifteen minutes later, I was on his doorstep, breathless from the stairs. He opened the door looking disheveled, panicked, and entirely too beautiful in a hoodie and sweatpants.
Ellie was curled up on the couch, flushed and sniffling. I knelt beside her, brushing damp curls from her forehead.
“Hi, sweet girl,” I whispered. “Let’s see how you’re doing.”
She clung to me like she always does, trusting. By the time I was done checking her temp and coaxing her into some water, she’s already asleep again in my lap.
Conrad stood in the doorway, watching with something unreadable in his eyes.
“I don’t know how you do that,” he said quietly.
I shrugged. “Practice.”
“No,” he said. “It’s more than that.”
—
I fell asleep on his couch that night, Ellie tucked between us.
In the morning, I woke up with her little hand gripping mine and Conrad’s jacket draped over my shoulders. The sun was just rising through the window, painting everything gold.
He’s sitting on the floor across from me, coffee in hand, eyes soft and tired.
“She asked if you could stay forever,” he said.
My throat tightened. “What did you say?”
He looked down at his mug. “I told her I’d ask you.”
—
Things changed after that.
He started bringing two coffees instead of one. He learns how I took mine. He asked about my favorite books, my family, my dreams. He remembered the little things. The important things.
Ellie drew more pictures. They all looked like families. Like us.
One day, she slipped a crayon into my hand and says, “Draw your house. You can live next to Daddy and me.”
I pretended it’s just a game.
But my heart kept whispering maybe.
—
One night, Conrad knocked on my door.
I was in pajamas, half-asleep. He’s standing in the hallway like he’d been walking around the block, building the courage.
“I need to tell you something,” he said.
I opened the door wider. “Okay.”
He hesitated, then stepped inside.
“She calls you Mom,” he said quietly. “And I know you’re not. I know that. But… I’ve never corrected her.”
I looked up at him. “Why?”
He took a breath and ran a hand through his hair. “Because I wanted it to be true.”
My chest twisted.
He kept going. “You’re the first person she’s attached to like this. You make her feel safe. Happy. And me? I’ve been showing up every day pretending I’m just grateful. But the truth is I look forward to seeing you more than I should.”
“Conrad,” I whispered.
“I know I’m a mess,” he said. “But if there’s any part of you that feels the same…”
I didn’t let him finish.
I kissed him.
It’s soft and tentative, like everything we’d been too scared to say. Like a promise forming between two people who never planned this but didn’t want to let it go.
When we parted, his forehead rested against mine.
“I think we’re a family already,” I said.
He breathed out a laugh, full of disbelief and relief.
“I think so too.”
—
A few months later, I moved in.
Not because he asked. Because Ellie did.
She handed me another crayon drawing, all hearts and flowers, and said, “Can this one go on our fridge?”
Our.
That night, I taped it up beside the grocery list and the overdue bills and the picture of the three of us at the park.
The next morning, Ellie climbed into our bed and whispers, “Good morning, Mom.”
The scent of dry-erase markers and fresh off-the-printer paper filled YN’s classroom as she straightened the last set of desks. Any minute now, the district representative would arrive, and she felt like a nervous wreck. If she could prove that Abbott Elementary was a wonderful and supportive place for students, maybe, just maybe, the district would help with funding.
A soft knock at the door made her straighten her blazer and take a deep breath.
“Is this room 124?” a deep voice asked.
“Yes! You must be—” Her words caught in her throat as she turned to face him.
Manny Rivera.
He stepped inside, his presence knocking the air from her lungs. It had been years since their bittersweet goodbye in college, when they chose career paths over love. Now, he was standing in front of her. In her school. In her classroom.
His dark eyes flickered with recognition, mirroring the surprise on her face. But when he spoke, his tone was all business.
“I’m Manny Rivera, the district representative shadowing your classroom today.” He extended a hand.
For a split second, she hesitated. Then, schooling her features, she took his hand in a firm shake. “Mr. Rivera.” Her voice was steady, even as knots twisted in her stomach.
The air between them buzzed with unspoken words. She struggled to focus, her carefully planned pitch for funding slipping from her mind.
Sensing the shift, Manny cleared his throat and broke the silence. “So… what’s the lesson plan for today?” He rocked on his heels, a faint smile playing on his lips.
YN blinked, then forced herself to snap back into the moment. “Oh! Right.” She returned his smile. “I usually start by taking attendance, then move into some light yoga.”
Manny raised a brow. “Yoga?”
“I find it helps wake the kids up, especially since some of them come in still half-asleep. It gets their brains going in a healthy way—and gives latecomers a chance to settle in without missing important work.” She shrugged. “It happens to the best of us.”
His smile widened. “That actually makes a lot of sense.”
“After that, we’re continuing our lesson on vowels. I’ll give them a short four-question quiz to see who’s struggling and who’s ready to move on. Then it’s their turn at the library, recess, and later, a fun color-by-number activity—except they have to solve addition problems to get the numbers.”
As she spoke, her confidence returned, and her enthusiasm shone through.
Manny nodded, clearly impressed. “Sounds like a great plan. Just tell me where to sit, and the classroom is yours.”
Her nerves hadn’t completely faded, but as she gestured to a spot near her desk, one thought echoed in her mind: ‘This is going to be an interesting day.’
———
The morning went by smoothly, and soon enough, it was time for the vowel quiz. YN walked around the room as the students focused, her heels clicking softly against the tile floor.
As she passed one of the desks, she noticed a small hand shoot up hesitantly.
"Ms. LN?" a boy named Jordan whispered, glancing nervously at his paper.
She crouched beside him, offering a reassuring smile. "What’s up, buddy?"
"I… I think I don’t get number two," he admitted, chewing on his pencil. "But if I get it wrong, does that mean I fail?"
YN’s heart softened. She placed a gentle hand on his desk. "Oh, sweetheart, there’s no way to fail this. It’s just to see where everyone is, so I know how to help. You're learning, and that’s what matters."
Jordan still looked unsure, but before she could say more, Manny knelt beside them.
"You know, Jordan," Manny said, his voice warm, "when I was your age, I thought quizzes were scary too but, you know what helped?"
Jordan looked up at him, curious. "What?"
"Thinking of them as puzzles. You just take your time, figure out the pieces, and before you know it, everything clicks."
Jordan considered this, then nodded slowly and picked up his pencil again.
YN met Manny’s gaze, and for a moment, they shared a look—silent appreciation passing between them.
—At the Library—
The kids sat cross-legged on the floor, eyes locked onto Manny as he held up ‘The Very Hungry Caterpillar’. He was animated as he read, using different voices for each part, making the story come to life in a way that had the students giggling and hanging onto every word.
"Alright," Manny said, turning the page. "Who thinks this little guy can actually eat all this food?"
A few kids covered their mouths to suppress laughter, while others eagerly shook their heads.
"He’s gonna get a tummy ache!" one of them blurted out.
Manny gasped dramatically. "You think so? But what happens next?"
YN stood off to the side, arms crossed, watching with an amused smile. He was a natural with the kids, effortlessly keeping their attention, something even seasoned teachers struggled with. The way he engaged them, encouraged their curiosity, it was… endearing. And, if she was being completely honest with herself, maybe even a little attractive.
"I saw that," came a voice from behind her.
YN nearly jumped out of her skin. She turned to find Melissa Schemmenti standing next to a cart stacked high with books, arms crossed, a knowing smirk on her face.
"Saw what?" YN asked, feigning innocence.
Melissa arched a brow. "You checking out Mr. District Representative over there like he’s a brand-new book you’re thinking about borrowing."
"What?! No, I—" YN sputtered, her face heating up. "I was just—he’s observing my class, so I was—letting him observe!"
Melissa scoffed, reaching for a book on the cart. "More like you’re observing him." She shot YN a look before casually walking off toward the checkout desk, leaving her standing there, flustered, arms still awkwardly crossed over her chest.
YN exhaled sharply, forcing herself to focus on the kids again, on anything other than the way Manny’s sleeves were rolled up to his elbows or how his voice softened when he spoke to the students.
Melissa wasn’t entirely wrong, but YN wasn’t about to admit that.
She shook her head, took a deep breath, and tried—tried—to keep her emotions in check but as Manny caught her eye from across the room and gave her a small, knowing smile, she knew it was going to be harder than she thought.
———
"Go on, take your break," Ms. Teagues said, waving YN off with a knowing smile. "I’ll keep an eye on the little rascals."
YN hesitated, but the pile of vowel quizzes waiting on her desk was calling her name. "You’re a lifesaver."
She headed back inside, surprised to find Manny already at her desk, sleeves rolled up, flipping through the tests.
"You don’t have to do that," she said, setting down her coffee.
He smirked. "I know. But I figured I’d help."
He reached into his bag, pulling out a container. The scent hit her first. Warm, spicy, and familiar.
"Are those… enchiladas?" she asked, eyes widening.
"Homemade," he confirmed, opening the lid. "You want some?"
She hesitated, but the smell was too good to resist. "I mean… if you’re offering."
Manny was halfway through marking a paper when he spoke, almost absentmindedly.
"I miss you, you know."
YN froze, her pen hovering above the test she was grading. The words landed like a sudden gust of wind, knocking the air from her lungs. She blinked, unsure if she had heard him correctly.
When she didn’t respond right away, Manny let out a breath and leaned back in his chair. "I don’t mean to put you on the spot," he said, running a hand through his hair. "It’s just… being here, watching you do what you love…it reminds me of how much I enjoyed being around you."
YN finally set her pen down, but she still couldn’t find the words to say.
Manny sighed and continued, his voice softer now. "But I don’t regret the path I chose after college. If I had to do it all over again, I would. Because I love my job. I love what I do, and I know you love what you do, too." He exhaled, shaking his head slightly. "The only thing I ever really wished was that we could be on good terms, you know? That we could… not have this weight between us."
The sincerity in his voice tugged at something deep in her chest. Finally, YN smiled, small at first, then genuine. "Manny, I don’t resent you for choosing your career. I think it’s great that you love your job because… I love mine, too. And if things had gone differently, who knows where we’d be now? But the truth is, I only ever wished the best for you."
Manny looked at her then, really looked at her, and for a long moment, neither of them spoke.
It was one of those rare silences that wasn’t awkward, but rather filled with a quiet understanding. A moment suspended in time, where the weight of the past and the possibilities of the future seemed to hang in the air between them.
His gaze flickered down to her lips for just a second before he cleared his throat and looked away, a small, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Before either of them could say anything else, the door suddenly swung open.
"Hey, YN! Sorry to interrupt," Jacob called out, stepping inside with a handful of supplies. "Do you have any extra glue sticks? I kinda miscalculated my science activity supply list, and now I’m in a bit of a bind—literally."
YN let out a breathy laugh, shaking her head as she stood up. "Yeah, Jacob. Check the supply cabinet."
Manny took the interruption as a cue. He pushed back from the desk, stretching as he stood. "I should get going anyway."
YN looked up at him. "You sure?"
"Yeah." He smiled, softer this time. "But I’ll be back tomorrow. Gotta monitor more classes, after all."
As he walked to the door, he hesitated for just a second before turning back.
"See you tomorrow, Ms. Ln."
She smirked. "See you tomorrow, Mr. Rivera."
And just like that, he was gone but the feeling he left behind? That lingered.
Summary: Theo and Y/N find each other again in the most ordinary moment, yet it becomes the beginning of something extraordinary.
Warnings: None just insane fluff?? - Ravenclaw! Reader
Word Count: 13.9k
. . • ☆ . °.•°:. *₊° .☆. . • ☆ . °.•°:. *₊° .☆ :.
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Theodore Nott had never truly understood what love felt like.
Affection was a foreign language in the Nott estate; his father’s coldness seeped into every corridor like a permanent draft. His mother had been gone for as long as he could remember, leaving behind nothing but the faintest echo of warmth. The only creature who had ever shown him anything close to tenderness was Tilly, the house-elf who had raised him with trembling hands and quiet devotion. Tilly’s gentle fussing, soft scolding, and the way she brushed his hair back when he cried as a child were the closest he had ever come to being adored.
Until fifth year, when he was paired by Snape’s cruel sense of humor or divine intervention, he wasn't sure with a Ravenclaw girl who challenged him in ways he wasn’t prepared for.
Y/N wasn’t a “know-it-all,” not really. She was something much more dangerous.
She was witty, sharp enough to slice through his excuses, yet creative, her mind always spinning with ideas he never saw coming. She worked like a storm, organized chaos, with quills everywhere and parchment covered in brilliant sketches and theories. And she was never afraid to call him out when he was being lazy or aloof.
At first, she’d been a nightmare to work with. Not because she was bossy—though she absolutely was—but because she refused to shrink in front of him the way everyone else did. She didn’t care that he was a Nott. She didn’t care about his last name, his reputation, or the rumors. She cared that he did his part, and she wasn’t shy about telling him when he wasn’t.
She wasn’t a control freak; she was simply a girl who refused to let her intelligence go unnoticed. A girl who demanded excellence because she gave it herself.
And for Theo, whose whole life had been defined by silence and shadows, she was utterly, terrifyingly fascinating.
Theo realized he was in trouble on a Tuesday.
Not because Y/N did anything dramatic, in fact, it was the opposite. She simply walked into their Potions partnership like she always did: hair slightly messy from the wind, an ink smudge on her thumb, and a stack of parchment under her arm that looked far too heavy for a fifth-year.
“Good, you’re early,” she said, sliding into the seat beside him. “We need to fix the third step in our outline. Your handwriting looks like a boggart trying to escape a quill.”
He opened his mouth to snap back, but she’d already pulled the parchment closer and started rewriting his notes in neat, looping script. Theo didn’t know why he stared. Maybe it was the way her brow furrowed in concentration. Maybe it was the faint smile she wore whenever she proved him wrong. Or maybe it was the fact that she didn’t treat him like a glass statue about to shatter.
“Merlin, Nott,” she sighed without looking up, “you’re doing that brooding thing again.”
“I don’t brood.”
“You absolutely brood. It’s one of your main personality traits.” She tapped her quill against her lips thoughtfully. “Right behind ‘never admits he’s wrong.’”
Theo felt heat creep up his neck annoyance; he told himself. Definitely annoyance.
She nudged his arm with her elbow. “Come on. Help me rewrite this. Unless you want Snape to crucify us.”
He muttered something unintelligible and leaned over her shoulder to read her notes.
And that—that—was the moment everything changed.
Because he was suddenly too aware of how close she was. Too aware of the faint smell of lavender clinging to her robes. Too aware of the fact that when she pushed her hair behind her ear, she accidentally brushed his forearm, and he felt it all the way down to his fingertips.
He jerked back a little. “Watch it.”
She glanced at him with that sly, knowing look that always made him feel exposed. “Relax. I’m not hexing you.”
“You might,” he muttered.
But she smiled. “If I wanted to hex you, you’d know.”
And there it was again, that spark. The one that hit him square in the chest every time she smirked, argued with him, challenged him, or simply existed too close to him. It wasn’t a crush, he told himself. No, nothing that ridiculous.
He just… admired her. Or tolerated her. Or maybe she just got under his skin in a very specific, infuriating way.
But then she looked up at him—really looked—and Theo felt something shift.
“See?” she said softly. “We actually make a good team.”
His throat tightened.
For someone who had never been loved, never been shown softness beyond a house-elf’s trembling hands… Her warmth felt like a threat. Her laughter felt like a risk. And her presence felt like a promise he wasn’t sure he deserved.
This was the moment Theodore Nott realized he was falling—slowly, stupidly, helplessly.
And she had absolutely no idea.
.
.
.
By sixth year, Theodore Nott had perfected the art of pretending she didn’t exist. Or at least… that’s what everyone else believed.
In reality, he’d kept tabs on Y/N with the precision of a spy and the subtlety of a Slytherin who absolutely refused to admit he cared. He noticed everything without ever being caught.
How she cut her hair over the summer. How she switched from blue ink to black. How she started sitting closer to the windows in the library because she liked the natural light for sketching. How she stopped raising her hand as much in class, but her essays remained brilliant. How she laughed differently now—quieter, but real.
He never spoke to her after their fifth-year project ended. They had submitted it, received an Outstanding, and she had smiled at him this soft, warm little smile that nearly knocked the air out of him.
And he, being an idiot, just nodded and walked away like she was nothing.
He regretted it every day since.
So when Slughorn called out partners for their sixth-year potions assignment, Theo already knew. Of course he did. His luck was cursed.
“Miss Y/L/N… and Mr. Nott!” Slughorn boomed cheerfully. “I hear from dear Professor Snape that you two make quite the team! Very promising! Very compatible working styles!”
Theo nearly choked on his own breath. Snape said what? He wanted to hex himself for ever being competent in front of that man.
Y/N stiffened just a fraction before turning her head toward Theo. Sixteen now, she looked… different. Older. Sharper. More confident. But her eyes, the ones he’d memorized on accident, still sparkled with that quick intelligence that always made him feel like she could read his mind if she wanted to.
Her gaze met his for the first time in a year.
And Merlin, that was enough to undo him.
She gave him a polite nod. Civil. Distant. As if they’d never spent late afternoons arguing over cauldron temperatures and rewriting each other’s notes. As if she hadn’t once made him laugh so hard he spilled half a vial of dittany on himself. As if she meant nothing.
He hated how much it bothered him.
She sat down at their table and pulled her textbook closer. “Nott,” she greeted curtly.
“Y/L/N,” he replied, equally curt—though it came out rougher than he intended.
Slughorn clapped his hands enthusiastically. “Now! Each pair will be brewing a different advanced potion, selected specially for your skill levels!”
Theo’s pulse ticked faster. Different potions. Meaning no backup. No anonymity.
Slughorn beamed, and that was when Theo knew something awful was about to happen.
“Mr. Nott and Miss Y/L/N…” He paused dramatically, reading his list. “You two will be brewing Amortentia.”
Theo stopped breathing.
Amortentia. The most powerful love potion in existence. The one that released the scent of whatever—or whoever you found most irresistible.
He had never hated Slughorn more.
Y/N blinked once, the only visible sign that she, too, was silently screaming. “Professor,” she said, composed as ever, “Amortentia is highly complex for sixth-year students.”
“Nonsense!” Slughorn declared. “You two worked beautifully together under Severus last year. He specifically recommended you as an exceptional pair to brew this potion.”
Theo was going to throw himself out the nearest window.
Y/N turned to him. “Shall we… get started?” she asked carefully.
Theo swallowed. Hard. “Yeah. Sure.”
They both started to grab the ingredients and began to organize them. Neither spoke. Neither breathed. Both pretended they weren’t aware of what they’d be smelling in less than an hour.
Finally, Y/N opened the textbook. “We’ll divide the instructions,” she said, almost too quietly.
He nodded. “Like last time.”
She paused. Not long—but long enough for him to notice.
“Yes,” she murmured. “Like last time.”
They began prepping ingredients, hands brushing occasionally, each touch sending a static shock up Theo’s spine. The tension between them was so thick it might as well have been another potion in the room.
Theo kept his eyes fixed on the powdered moonstone, refusing to let his thoughts wander to the moment the potion turned pearly white, when the steam would curl toward them, and he would smell— Merlin help him.
He wasn’t sure he wanted to know what he would smell. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know what she would. And he definitely wasn’t sure he could hide it once she found out.
The cauldron began to warm, the pearl shimmer forming just at the surface. Theo felt each second like a countdown to his own execution.
Y/N stirred clockwise, her wrist precise, elegant, infuriatingly calm. “Add the moonstone,” she murmured.
Theo did. His hand shook.
He braced himself. Any moment the steam would rise—the telltale spirals of Amortentia, silver and opalescent—
And then it happened.
The potion glowed, brightened, and released the first curl of vapor.
Theo expected flowers. Or broom polish. Or something normal.
Instead, the scent hit him like a punch to the ribs.
Lavender.
Charcoal.
Parchment.
And something soft—like the faint smell of the library.
His heart stopped. He actually stopped breathing. Merlin, no. Absolutely not. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening.
He snapped his head away from the cauldron before instinct could betray him and prayed Y/N hadn't seen the panic flash across his face.
But she wasn’t looking at him.
She was staring into the steam, just as entranced, just as startled.
“Right,” he said flatly, “because everyone smells nothing when they’re inhaling Amortentia.”
She shot him a look sharp enough to slice pewter. “I’m not discussing my private senses with you.”
“Private senses?” Theo echoed. “It’s a potion, not a diary.”
“It is literally a love potion,” she hissed.
He opened his mouth to argue, and that was when Slughorn popped up like a mole with bad timing. “Marvelous! Marvelous!” the professor boomed, clapping his hands. “Do breathe deeply, my dears! You’ll find the scents quite illuminating!”
Slughorn nodded, beaming. “That’s what Severus said too—‘Those two understand each other better than they realize.’ Quite an endorsement, hm?”
Theo wanted to disintegrate.
Slughorn waddled off to terrorize another group.
They worked in tense silence until Y/N finally said, barely above a whisper, “Your scent must’ve been… interesting.”
Theo froze. “Why would you say that?”
“You looked like you wanted to crawl out of your skin.”
He glanced at her. “And you looked like you saw a bloody prophecy.”
She glared. “I did not.”
“You did.”
“Did not.”
“Then what did you smell?” he pressed.
She exhaled sharply. “Something familiar.”
“That’s vague.”
“That’s intentional.”
He clenched his jaw. She wasn’t going to tell him—fine. But the steam was rising again, and this time the scent slapped him across the face.
Lavender.
Parchement.
Charcoal.
Her.
Her.
He turned away fast, but not fast enough. Y/N’s eyes narrowed. “You’re hiding something.”
Theo cursed under his breath. He could feel heat crawling up his neck. He needed to say something—anything—that didn’t sound like “I’m secretly obsessed with you and this potion just exposed it.”
He opened his mouth.
And something cracked behind them.
A dropped quill.
A sharp inhale.
Theo turned.
Draco Malfoy stood at the table behind theirs, pale as death, eyes wide, expression frozen like he’d just overheard the single most incriminating sentence in Hogwarts history.
Draco never said anything first when it mattered. He just watched. Watched the steam. Watched Theo’s face. Watched Y/N’s tension.
Then his gaze flicked to Theo’s grip on the stirring rod—a little too tight. His pulse in his neck—visible because Draco knew where to look. His stance—uneven, avoiding the cauldron like it was cursed.
A beat.
And then Draco muttered, so low only Theo could hear: “…You’re an idiot.”
Theo stiffened. “Shut up.”
Draco didn’t smile. He didn’t tease. He didn’t gloat.
He simply raised a brow, the kind of brow that said I’ve known you since you were two, and you think you can hide this from me? They glared at each other. The steam rose again. Theo pretended not to breathe.
Y/N finally snapped her notebook shut. “I’m going to wash this off my hands,” she said, her voice steady but her steps quicker than usual. “Don’t touch anything stupid while I’m gone.”
She walked toward the basin by the windows far enough not to hear them, but close enough to be suspicious.
Draco set his own ingredients down quietly, eyes flicking from the steaming cauldron… to Theo… to the spot where Y/N had walked off.
“You’re in trouble,” Draco murmured.
Theo tensed. “Shut up.”
Draco didn’t. Draco never did when it counted. “When did it start?” Draco’s voice was low, almost gentle, exactly the tone he used when he was being sincere rather than smug.
“Nothing started.” Theo’s lie was instant and awful.
Draco clicked his tongue softly. “Theo. I helped you steal biscuits from the manor kitchens when you were four. I know when you’re lying.”
Theo winced.
Draco continued, calm and surgical, “You won’t even look at the steam. That’s not avoidance, that’s fear.”
Theo swallowed. Hard. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, I do.” Draco’s eyes softened with understanding Theo absolutely did not want. “She’s your Amortentia scent.”
Theo felt his entire world stutter. He ran a hand through his hair. “Draco, don’t—”
“Relax.” Draco’s voice dropped even quieter. “I’m not going to embarrass you. And I’m not telling anyone. Not even the boys.”
Theo sagged with a breath he didn’t know he was holding.
But Draco wasn’t finished. He glanced toward the sinks, where Y/N now stood, drying her hands with careful movements, her head tilted slightly—subtly studying them from the corner of her eye.
“She’s clever,” Draco murmured. “If you don’t get yourself under control, she’ll figure it out before you’re ready.”
Theo’s stomach twisted. “You think she suspects something?”
Draco’s lips twitched. “She’s already analyzing you. Look at her posture.”
Theo did. Y/N was pretending to adjust her sleeves… but her eyes were flicking back and forth between him and the table. Observing. Calculating.
Draco nudged him. “If she catches you looking at her like that, you’re done.”
“I’m not looking at her like anything,” Theo snapped, but his blush betrayed him.
Draco smirked. “And now you’re blushing. Wonderful. Very subtle.”
Theo groaned into his hands. “Draco, I’m begging you—stop.”
Draco leaned in the slightest bit, his voice barely above a breath. “Start thinking, Theo. Because she’ll notice the signs long before you speak them.”
Theo’s pulse went wild.
“And if she smells you in her Amortentia?” Draco added quietly, “you won’t get to hide behind silence anymore.”
Theo froze.
Draco stepped back, perfectly composed. “Fix your face,” he muttered, “she’s coming back.”
Theo snapped upright just as Y/N approached, expression cool, observant, too sharp for his comfort. She placed her notebook back on the desk and said calmly, “What were you two whispering about?”
Theo opened his mouth—
Draco cut in smoothly. “Quills,” he said. “Nott’s handwriting is atrocious.”
Y/N’s eyes flicked between them. She didn’t believe that for a second. Not one. But she only hummed and returned to the cauldron.
Theo tried to breathe normally. Draco shot him a warning look: Get it together.
Y/N stirred the potion… and the steam rose again.
Theo felt his pulse hammer.
Y/N inhaled—barely, unintentionally—and her breath stuttered for half a heartbeat.
She caught something. Something familiar. Something she wasn’t ready to admit either. Her eyes darted to Theo before she masked it.
Intelligent. Sharp. Dangerous.
She would figure it out.
And Theo knew, with terrible certainty, that it was only a matter of time.
.
.
.
Theo stepped into the sixth-year boys’ dorm expecting silence.
Instead, he found a tribunal.
Draco, Blaise, Mattheo, and Enzo sat on his bed like a panel of dark-robed judges. Draco looked like the presiding magistrate. Blaise held a chocolate frog as if he were about to cross-examine someone. Mattheo wore the smug expression of a man about to deliver chaos. Enzo looked far too at peace for someone involved in an ambush.
Theo stopped in the doorway, expression flat. “No,” he said. “Whatever this is, absolutely not. I’m leaving.”
Draco patted the bed. “Come. Sit. Face your sins.”
“Nope.” Theo turned. “Absolutely not. I’m leaving.”
Blaise snapped his fingers, pointing. “Close the door, lover boy. You’re not escaping this intervention.”
Theo shut the door but refused to move. “Malfoy, you swore you wouldn’t say anything.”
Mattheo snorted so hard he choked on air. “Mate. He’s a Malfoy. Their whole personality is secrets and violating them.”
Draco looked offended. “I do not violate secrets. I simply… redistribute information.”
“Malfoy!”
Blaise threw a chocolate frog into his mouth. “You didn’t need Draco anyway. We’ve been clocking your pathetic pining for a year.”
Theo blinked, "What pining?"
All four boys burst into laughter at once.
Mattheo wiped a tear. “Oh Merlin, he said it with his whole chest.”
Enzo leaned back on his hands. “We all knew, Theo. We didn’t need a confession. We have eyes.”
Theo threw his arms up. “You all have bad eyes.”
“Actually,” Draco said proudly, “my eyesight is exceptional.”
“Draco, I hope the giant squid eats you.”
“Make it quick,” Draco said, straightening his collar. “I have plans tomorrow.”
Theo’s jaw tightened, barely noticeable unless you’d known him since childhood. "Fine. Out with it, you tossers."
Draco’s lips twitched just slightly. “Very well. Zabini, you go first."
Blaise lifted a brow and looked at Theo. "Remember last year in the library when we were studying for our Defense OWL, and I asked you what chapter we were on?”
Theo shrugged. “Yeah?”
“You didn’t answer,” Blaise said. “You just stared across the room like you were solving a crime.”
Draco added, “He was staring at Y/N.”
Blaise nodded. “Hard.”
Theo sputtered. “I wasn’t staring—!”
“You were,” Blaise said. “I called your name four times. You ignored me so completely, I checked to make sure you weren’t under a trance.” Theo buried his face in his hands.
Next came Enzo, who cracked his knuckles. “My turn. You remember that Ravenclaw boy who was trying to ask her to partner with him for a Charms project?”
Theo stiffened. “…No.”
Draco smirked. “He remembers.”
Enzo leaned back. “You glared at him so hard he backed out mid-sentence. Y/N didn’t even see it. But I did. You almost melted him.”
Mattheo chimed in, “And then Theo spent the next ten minutes pretending he wasn’t angry while sharpening his quill like it was a weapon.”
Theo groaned. “You’re all exaggerating.”
“No,” Enzo said. “We toned it down.” Theo wanted to evaporate.
Then Mattheo spoke; he wiggled his eyebrows like this was the highlight of his week. “My turn. Best moment of my life.” He dramatically clutched his pillow. “Quidditch match last year.”
Theo stiffened. “There was no moment.”
“Oh, there was a moment,” Mattheo said. “Ravenclaw scored, Y/N cheered, and your dumb ass nearly flew into a goalpost watching her.”
Blaise nodded vigorously. “You did a whole mid-air wiggle.”
Draco added, “You did smile like an idiot.”
Theo sputtered, “I DID NOT—”
Mattheo mimicked it. “You literally went—” He made a dreamy, stupid face. Theo lunged at him. Mattheo dodged, laughing.
Blaise clapped Theo on the back. “You floated down like a lovesick fairy.” Theo opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
Finally, Draco stood. He looked almost sympathetic. Almost. “Theo,” he said with practiced Malfoy calm, “you keep tabs on her.”
Theo blinked. “I do not.”
“You absolutely do,” Draco replied. “You know her schedule better than she does. You notice when she gets a new quill. You know which Ravenclaw girls she studies with. You always place yourself at the table closest to hers in the library. You walk slower in the hallway if you hear her behind you.”
“That last one was an accident—”
“No, it wasn’t,” all four boys said in unison.
Draco continued mercilessly, “And the best part? Every time she enters a room, you do that thing with your shoulders.”
Theo glared. “What thing?”
Mattheo exaggeratedly lifted his shoulders, straightened them, and pretended to look disinterested while clearly staring. Blaise threw his head back laughing. “It’s the ‘oh Merlin play it cool she might see me’ posture.”
Theo considered setting them on fire.
Draco finished with a softer, pointed look. “We’ve known for a long time, Theo. You’re not subtle. You never were. And today’s Amortentia lesson just confirmed it.”
Theo sank onto his bed, face in his hands. “I hate all of you.”
Mattheo tossed him a pillow. “We love you too, Romeo.”
Enzo went over to his side of the room, took out a bottle of alcohol, and opened it in salute. “To Theodore Nott, finally realizing the entire dungeon knows he’s in love.”
Theo made a strangled noise.
Draco clapped his shoulder. “And don’t worry. We’ll help you.”
Theo stared up at them, horrified. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
.
.
.
The library was nearly empty at this hour.
Candles flickered in long rows, casting honey-gold light across the ancient stone floors. Dust drifted in soft spirals. The air smelled faintly of old paper and lavender floor polish. A late-night hush settled over the shelves, as if the entire castle was holding its breath.
Y/N sat alone at her favorite table in the far corner, near the enchanted window that reflected the Black Lake’s currents. The glow from the underwater lights rippled across her open sketchbook, turning the parchment into shifting silver.
She wasn’t supposed to be drawing.
She had every intention of outlining her Arithmancy notes.
But the charcoal in her hand wasn’t behaving.
It drifted instead—idly, thoughtlessly—across the page, sketching curves and shadows she wasn’t consciously choosing. She hummed softly under her breath, brows lightly furrowed as she worked.
At first it looked like nothing.
A shape. A line. A faint shadow.
She rotated the page, squinting. The candlelight flickered over the parchment so the charcoal strokes darkened and blurred.
Her hand moved again. Another stroke. Another curve. A sharper angle—meant to represent frustration, she thought. Or restlessness. Or—
She paused.
The drawing wasn’t random.
It wasn’t abstract.
It was a pair of eyes.
Not generic eyes. Not ones she’d invented. No, the shape was too familiar. The cut of the brow. The slight downward tilt at the end. The shadow on the lower lid she’d never noticed consciously but apparently had memorized.
The charcoal in her hand stilled.
She stared.
Theo’s eyes stared back.
Very faint. Half-formed. But him. So clearly him.
Y/N blinked—once, twice—her heart stuttering in a way she did not permit.
“What…” she whispered, frowning softly. “Why am I—?”
She reached for the eraser. Stopped halfway. Her fingers hovered.
Because the truth curled in her stomach with quiet precision. She hadn’t sketched just anyone's eyes. She’d sketched his eyes. Without thinking. Without trying. Without even realizing.
Her pulse ticked behind her ear.
She touched the edge of the page, tracing the faint charcoal lines, studying the slight intelligence in the gaze, the intensity that was always there even when Theo was pretending to be disinterested.
It wasn’t the first time her sketches had drifted toward something familiar. But this was the first time she noticed.
The memory from Potions drifted back, Amortentia steam swirling around her, coaxing forward scents that made no sense at the time.
Warm parchment.
Night rain.
A subtle hint of cedarwood.
Ink.
Something familiar but unplaceable.
Something that had pulsed behind her ribs the moment she caught it. She exhaled shakily.
It was him.
She frowned again, leaning back in her chair. Her heartbeat thudded softly through her fingertips, tapping against the spine of her sketchbook.
Theo’s face flickered across her thoughts.
The way he looked at her today. No, didn’t look at her. Purposely, carefully, deliberately avoiding her. The slight tension in his jaw. The way he stiffened when she came close. The quiet storm behind his eyes, he didn’t think she saw.
She replayed Potions class, searching for logical explanations. None presented themselves.
The charcoal drifted back to the parchment, sketching unbidden—this time a line of cheekbone, a faint tilt of eyebrow. The beginnings of a face she wasn’t supposed to know so well.
Her stomach tightened—not unpleasantly, but unfamiliar.
“No,” she murmured softly, shaking her head. “That’s not—He’s not—You’re not—”
But she couldn’t finish the sentence. Any part of it. The candles flickered. The library seemed to lean closer. Her pulse whispered answers she wasn’t ready to admit.
She turned the page.
Fresh parchment. Clean. Safe.
She lifted her quill.
But her hand betrayed her again.
A jawline.
A curl of hair.
Eyes she already knew the shape of.
She set the quill down. Closed her eyes. And finally, finally allowed the truth to flicker—soft, unwelcome, but terribly real: She wasn’t sketching “nothing.” She was sketching him. And something inside her—something sharp and intelligent and terrifying—knew precisely what that meant.
.
.
.
The castle felt different that morning. Not louder, not quieter, just charged. As if the stones themselves knew something had shifted in the night.
Y/N walked quickly through the corridor leading toward the Great Hall, the cold stones echoing under her shoes. Her sketchbook was tucked securely under her arm, pressed close to her ribs like she could smother whatever truth she’d discovered in it.
She hadn’t slept. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw charcoal lines turning into his eyes.
Theo’s eyes.
She pulled her robes tighter, as if warmth might slow her racing mind.
It was nothing, she tried telling herself.
Just a coincidence. Just a sketch.
A lie she didn’t believe.
She rounded the corner and collided with someone. Hard enough that her books flew straight out of her arms, hitting the floor with a slap loud enough to echo.
“Damn—sorry,” a familiar voice muttered.
Her breath snagged.
Theo.
He crouched at the same time she did, both reaching instinctively for the fallen mess. Their hands brushed—brief, warm, electric—and they both jerked back like they’d touched a curse.
“Sorry,” Theo said again, quieter now.
“It’s fine,” she murmured, not trusting her pulse.
They reached for separate towers of parchment, notebooks, and quills, papers scattered everywhere like spilled secrets.
Theo’s movements were precise, quick, and too controlled. Like he was trying very hard not to feel anything. He handed her a stack. “This is yours.”
She nodded and took it without looking, too afraid their eyes might meet and everything she had been trying to bury since last night would spill out.
“Thanks,” she said softly.
She didn’t hear her own voice; she heard her heart.
Theo stood up first, brushing dust from his sleeve, his posture too stiff for early morning. His eyes flicked over her quickly, discreetly, but not enough to truly hide it.
“You’re up early,” he said.
“So are you.”
He exhaled, slow and shallow. “Couldn’t sleep.”
Her stomach tightened.
Me neither. She didn’t say it.
“Right,” he said awkwardly. “Well… good morning.”
“Yes. Right. You too.”
Silence wrapped around them—strange, fragile, unbearably aware.
Theo stepped to the side. She stepped in the same direction.
They froze.
She let out a small breath of a laugh, barely there, but real. “Sorry. Go ahead.”
Theo’s lips twitched, almost a smile. “You can go first.”
She walked past him, clutching the notebooks so tightly the edges dug into her palm.
She didn’t glance back.
He didn’t either.
But both of them felt the air shift between them—as if their bodies recognized something their minds were still trying to understand.
Y/N didn’t notice until she reached the end of the next hallway. She paused near a window, balancing her stack to pull out her schedule. A flash of untidy handwriting caught her eye.
She frowned.
This wasn’t her handwriting.
She pulled the book out fully. Not blue Ravenclaw leather. Dark green. The Nott family crest pressed into the corner.
Her breath vanished.
She hadn’t grabbed her sketchbook. She had grabbed Theo’s notebook. Her throat tightened as she flipped open the cover. Neat, slanted script filled the margins—charms, notes, arithmancy formulas, half-sketched runes.
But between them, light, almost hidden, were short annotations.
Observations.
A habit of hers. A detail he’d noticed. Something she’d done in class. A line: Why does she always look away when she’s thinking? She kept on reading... and reading until she couldn't anymore.
Her fingers went still.
Her heart hammered.
She closed the book quickly, hugging it to her chest.
Theo had taken hers.
Her sketchbook.
The one filled with sketches she didn’t want anyone to see.
Especially not him.
Especially not now.
“Oh no,” she whispered, dread and something else flooding her chest.
She turned on her heel—
And ran.
.
.
.
Theo dropped into his usual seat at the Slytherin table end of the bench, back to the wall, the place where he could observe the entire hall without anyone sneaking up behind him.
Habit. Instinct. Strategy.
He always preferred control.
Which is why his hands were perfectly steady as he set down the book he assumed was his. He flipped it open casually, half expecting the neat rows of arithmancy equations he’d written last night.
Instead, the first thing he saw was charcoal.
A dark stroke.
Then another.
Shadow. Depth.
And an unmistakable angle of a jaw.
His jaw.
Theo’s breath hitched so sharply he almost convinced himself he imagined it.
He blinked down at the page.
No mistake.
It was him.
Drawn in soft, precise detail like the artist had taken their time, studying each line, each shadow, each part of him he had never once thought anyone bothered to look at.
He reached out and touched the edge of the sketch, fingers barely grazing the parchment. The charcoal had smudged slightly where the heel of someone’s hand must’ve rested—familiar. Human.
Her hand.
His stomach dropped.
He turned the page slowly, afraid to look and more afraid not to.
Another sketch.
Not a full portrait, just his mouth. Neutral, faintly tense, like he always was when he was concentrating. The detail of it made something heavy press against his ribs.
He turned the page again.
His hair.
Messy, uneven, always falling into his eyes.
Who watches someone closely enough to draw them like this?
He swallowed, throat tight.
Another page.
His profile.
Sharp. Unforgiving. More angular than handsome, he’d always thought so. But drawn here… it looked softer.
Not softened—no.
Seen.
The distinction mattered. Theo’s pulse thudded under his skin. He flipped more pages less carefully now, driven by something he couldn’t name.
Another.
Another.
And then—
His eyes.
Rendered in fine, delicate strokes. Focused. Reflective. Alive.
He stared at the sketch until his vision blurred around the edges.
“What…” his voice cracked quietly, a sound he didn’t recognize. “Why would she…”
He closed the book gently, but not before tracing the curve of the drawn pupil with the pad of his thumb. His pulse hammered in his throat.
Theo had never been… anyone’s subject. Not of interest. Not of affection. Not of attention.
His father looked through him. Professors saw potential, not a person. Classmates saw a name, a lineage, a quiet, cold exterior. No one had ever studied him long enough to memorize the exact way his lashes cast shadows when he looked down.
But she…
She had.
He sat back, stunned, feeling something he’d never felt this sharply before— Not fear. Not confusion. Not even embarrassment. Something far worse. Something far better.
Recognition.
She had been watching him. Noticing him. Understanding him in ways he had never allowed anyone to.
Theo’s fingers tightened around the sketchbook.
For someone who had grown up without affection, without warmth, without softness—he didn’t have the emotional vocabulary for what was happening in his chest. It felt like pressure. Like heat. Like someone had turned the world slightly off-axis.
He inhaled deeply, but it did nothing to steady him.
He reopened the sketchbook.
Slowly this time.
Deliberately.
He looked again at the first drawing—his jaw, firm and unyielding. Her charcoal strokes followed the sharp edges of his bone structure with surprising reverence.
As if she saw something there he didn’t. Something worth capturing. He stared at the sketch for a long, long moment. Then another thought hit him—hard, unexpected, grounding: If she had his sketchbook… She had read his notes.
His marginalia.
His observations.
All the small, quiet things he’d documented about her without understanding why. A chill ran down his spine.
She knew.
She must know.
Theo closed the book gently, resting his hand on the cover, breath shallow. “…Merlin,” he whispered. Not fear this time.
Realization. Heavy. Inevitable. Almost terrifying. She didn’t draw people for no reason. He knew enough about her to know that. So what did it mean? Why him?
And why, out of every detail in this castle, out of every face she passed every day, had she been drawing his? Theo sat there, staring at the closed sketchbook, his entire world rearranging itself piece by piece. And for the first time in his life, the cold, quiet certainty hit him like a spell: She saw him. Not the Nott name. Not the mask he wore.
Him.
His fingers curled around the book. His chest tightened painfully. His next breath was shaky. And softly, barely audible, he admitted to the empty space around him— “…I think she feels it too.”
.
.
.
Y/N practically flew through the corridors, her shoes echoing sharply off stone. Students stepped aside as she rushed past, hair slightly wild, sketchbook-shaped panic in her eyes.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. Theo had her sketchbook.
Theo has your sketchbook.
Theo has your sketches.
Theo has your drawings of HIS FACE.
“No, no, no, no—” she whispered under her breath, gripping her robes as she sprinted down a staircase two steps at a time.
A group of third-years scattered. She was halfway to the dungeons before she even knew where her feet were taking her.
Please let me find him before he opens it.
She didn’t believe in miracles, but she prayed for one anyway.
.
.
.
Theo didn’t remember leaving the Great Hall—only the echo of clinking plates, the low murmur of conversations fading behind him, and the weight of her sketchbook pressed to his palms like it might burn a hole straight through him.
He walked in a daze through Hogwarts’ lower corridor, the long stretch of stone lined with flickering lanterns that cast serpentine shadows across the damp walls. The air was cool here, touched with the faint mineral scent of the dungeons and the distant rumble of pipes beneath the floors.
His footsteps were quiet.
His heartbeat wasn’t.
Everything inside him felt suspended, like the world had shifted an inch to the left and hadn’t settled yet. Like something irreversible had been set in motion the moment he’d opened her sketchbook and seen his own face staring back in charcoal.
Then he heard them. Footsteps. Fast. Uncontrolled. Running. Theo turned. And she came flying around the corner.
Y/N appeared with her bag slung over one shoulder, hair loose from rushing, breath uneven, eyes bright and wide—bright with panic, fear, realization.
She clutched his notebook like it held her entire heart inside it.
Theo froze.
She froze.
The air between them snapped tight like a drawn bowstring. She skidded to a halt, almost losing her footing, before she steadied herself and looked at him, really looked at him.
Her chest rose and fell rapidly as she whispered, “Theo. You have—”
“Your sketchbook,” he finished, voice lower than he intended. “I know.”
Her throat bobbed as she swallowed hard. She stepped forward like she was being pulled by a force she didn’t recognize yet.
“You—you opened it, didn’t you?”
Theo didn’t hesitate. He didn’t look away. “Yes.”
Her breath left her body in a gasp so quiet it almost vanished. Her fingers tightened around his notebook, nails pressing into the leather cover.
She spoke again, voice frayed. “… I saw yours too.”
His world stopped.
Everything inside him stilled. “You…” he said slowly, voice breaking around the edges, “you read my notes.”
She nodded, eyes glistening not with tears, but with the weight of truth settling over her.
“I didn’t mean to,” she whispered. “Yours was on top of my stack, and when I flipped it open—” She inhaled sharply. “Theo, you wrote about me.”
He felt heat flood his neck.
“I did,” he said simply, because denying it now was pointless. “A lot.”
“A lot,” she echoed, her voice trembling with disbelief.
They stood in the corridor like that, the space between them thick with everything they’d kept secret and everything they had accidentally revealed.
Finally, Y/N lifted the notebook she held.
His notebook.
She held it against her chest like a fragile thing.
“There were pages,” she said softly. “Pages of things you noticed about me.”
Theo’s breath shuddered out of him. He’d forgotten the extent of what he’d written. Or maybe he never realized how obvious it all looked to someone else.
“I wasn’t… planning for you to ever see that,” he said quietly. “Or anyone.”
Her eyes softened. “I know.”
Theo’s fingers curled around the edge of her sketchbook. “You weren’t planning for me to see this either.”
She shook her head quickly. “Never.”
He took a step closer, slow, careful, like approaching something sacred. Her breathing hitched, but she didn’t move back.
He lifted the sketchbook slightly. “You drew me,” he murmured, voice low, grounding.
She flushed deep. “I don’t know why I did. It wasn’t—I wasn’t thinking, Theo—”
“You were thinking,” he said, studying her expression. “You just didn’t realize what it meant yet.”
She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Because they both knew the truth now.
They’d seen it in ink.
In charcoal.
In each other.
Theo looked down at the sketchbook, thumb brushing the smudged corner of a page that still held the imprint of her fingertips.
“You draw things you pay attention to,” he said softly. “Things that occupy your mind.”
Y/N inhaled sharply through her nose, shaking. “And you write things you’re trying to understand,” she whispered back. “Things you can’t ignore.”
Their eyes locked.
This time, no one looked away.
Theo exhaled slowly. “Y/N… the things I wrote—”
“I read all of it,” she said before he could finish. “Every observation. Every note. Every line about me.”
He swallowed hard. “Then you know.”
She stepped even closer, close enough he felt the warmth of her breath on his collar.
“And you,” she whispered, “saw every sketch. Every version of you I put on paper.”
Theo’s grip tightened on the book. “I did.”
Silence fell over them— not empty, but full. So full it vibrated between their ribs.
Finally, she lifted her chin, eyes bright and terrified and brave. “So now what?” she breathed.
Theo looked at her like she was the only thing in the hall that mattered. He raised her sketchbook between them and said quietly, honestly, with no hesitation—“Now… we talk.”
And for the first time, she didn’t run.
She nodded.
And together, they stepped out of the corridor—side by side, holding each other’s truths in their hands.
.
.
.
They didn’t speak as they walked.
Their shoulders nearly brushed, and each time they drifted too close, one of them shifted—barely—like a reflex neither understood yet.
The dungeon corridor twisted, torches flickering low, shadows stretching long across the stones. Theo walked half a step ahead, like muscle memory—silent, steady, aware of every small sound she made behind him.
When he reached a narrow wooden door tucked between two stone archways, “This one,” he said quietly.
Y/N nodded, pulse hammering.
Theo pushed the door open.
The unused classroom beyond looked untouched by time. Desks stacked neatly in the corner, charms diagrams still pinned to the walls, dust floating lazily in the shafts of pale morning light.
It felt private. Protected. A room holding its breath for them. Theo stepped inside. Y/N followed, closing the door softly behind them.
It clicked shut like a secret.
The classroom felt untouched by time.
Dust drifted slowly through slanted beams of morning light. The old wooden desks stacked in the corner cast long shadows across the floor. Everything was quiet — too quiet — the kind of quiet that made every heartbeat echo.
Theo stood against the teacher’s desk, one hand resting on the wood for balance, the other gripping her sketchbook like it was something fragile and precious.
Y/N stood several feet away, clutching his notebook to her chest, fingers curled so tightly around it that the leather cover wrinkled beneath her grip.
For a moment, they didn’t speak.
They just looked at each other — two people standing still while the rest of the world felt like it was shifting beneath their feet.
At last, Y/N exhaled, voice trembling. “I didn’t mean to read as much as I did.”
Theo didn’t look angry. He didn’t look embarrassed. He looked… exposed. “So you read a lot,” he said quietly.
Y/N nodded, eyes lowering. “A bit.” Then — a whisper — “A lot.”
Theo nodded once, small and resigned. “I went through yours a lot.”
The air changed. Heavy, but honest.
.
.
.
Outside the classroom door, four Slytherin boys hid behind a statue of a particularly chubby knight. Blaise held Wesley's Extendable Ear that was under the classroom door.
Mattheo whispered, “Are they confessing yet?”
Blaise smirked. “Theo is definitely going to confess with his whole soul right now.”
Enzo squinted. “Can you hear better if I—” He leaned too far. The statue wobbled.
Draco grabbed his hood, yanking him back. “Enzo, if you compromise this mission, so help me—”
Mattheo shushed them violently. “They’re talking about feelings. Feelings.”
Blaise grinned. “Should we knock? Or applaud?”
Draco glared. “We stay hidden. They need privacy. And if you idiots blow our cover, I’ll—”
Inside, a desk scraped.
Four heads snapped toward the door like starving kneazles hearing a can open.
Mattheo whispered, “I bet Theo’s holding her hand.”
Enzo slapped his chest. “Take me instead, Merlin.”
Draco pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering, “I’m surrounded by children.”
.
.
.
Y/N stepped forward once.
Theo mirrored her step unintentionally, like his body reacted before his mind did.
Her eyes lifted to his. “When you wrote about me,” she said softly, “What did you mean by ‘I didn’t understand then’?”
Theo inhaled sharply, as if the question had hit him physically. He lifted a hand slowly toward her face, but right before touching her, he stopped. His fingers hovered in the space near her cheek, shaking slightly.
“I didn’t understand,” he said, voice low, raw, “Why you were in my thoughts all the time. Why I noticed everything you did. Why I… watched you without meaning to.”
Y/N’s chest tightened. “And now?” she whispered.
Theo swallowed, eyes darkening. “Now I know it wasn’t nothing,” he said. “Not for me.”
Her lips parted — not in shock, but in relief. “I figured.”
Theo finally opened her sketchbook, turning it toward her. The charcoal portrait of his jawline looked back at them. “This,” he said softly, “is not nothing.”
Y/N flushed deeply, arms wrapping around her torso like she needed to hold herself together. “I wasn’t doing it on purpose,” she whispered. “Sometimes I draw without thinking. When I’m overwhelmed or… distracted.”
Theo’s gaze softened. “You draw the things that stay in your mind,” he said. “The things you can’t ignore.”
She looked startled — because it was true. Because it was exactly true. “How do you know that?” she asked quietly.
He lifted the notebook she was holding and tapped it. “I’ve been… observing you. For a long time.”
Her breath caught. She opened his notebook, slightly flipping to one of the pages she remembered. “The notes you took…” she said carefully. “Theo, some of them were so… specific.”
Theo’s jaw flexed. “They were things I didn’t realize I noticed,” he said. “I’d write them down so I could make sense of them. I thought I was just being… analytical.”
“And now?” she asked softly.
He held her gaze. “Now I know I was paying attention because I couldn’t help it.”
Y/N carefully opened the notebook again and stopped at a specific note. She taps her quill against the parchment three times before writing when she’s anxious.
She looked up at him, eyes softer now. “You noticed that?” she whispered.
Theo nodded once. “You do it every time,” he said. “Right before essays. Or when a professor asks you something difficult. Or when you’re irritated.” His voice lowered. “Or when you’re trying not to show you’re nervous.”
Her stomach tightened.
Another page: She reads faster when she’s upset. Slower when she’s comfortable.
“Did you really watch me this closely?” she asked in a small voice.
Theo didn’t flinch.“I didn’t mean to,” he confessed. “But yes.”
Y/N pressed her lips together, breath shaking. Her voice dropped to almost a whisper. “I wasn’t imagining it then.”
“Imagining what?” Theo asked.
“That you were… noticing me.”
Theo exhaled slowly, like he’d been holding that truth inside him for months.
“I was,” he said. “I always was.”
The weight of their exchanged notebooks hung between them, heavy and fragile. Y/N looked down at his notes again — then back up at him. “Theo,” she said, almost afraid to ask, “Was this… why the Amortentia smell threw you off?”
Theo froze.
Completely.
His hand tightened around her sketchbook.
He looked wrecked.
“…Yes,” he said softly. Then, with more difficulty: “I didn’t understand it then. I couldn’t admit it. But now I know. It was because of you.”
Y/N’s breath hitched.
“What did it smell like?” she whispered.
Theo’s voice lowered, rough.
“Lavender.”
“Parchement.”
“Charcoal.”
“And something… quiet. Like the library late at night.”
Her library scent. Her books. Her charcoal stains.
Her.
Y/N’s voice trembled. “Theo…” He stepped closer very slowly, as if each inch changed the gravity around them.
“And you?” he asked, eyes locked on hers. “What did you smell?”
She shut her eyes for a second, gathering courage.
“Rain,” she whispered.
“And ink.”
“And something sharp — like cedarwood.”
Her voice shook. “And… you, Theo. I smelled you. I just didn’t know it yet.”
Theo inhaled short and sharp. His expression cracked wide open. Understanding. Fear. Relief. Want. All of it.
“You smelled me,” he repeated, stunned.
“Yes,” she said. “I did.”
Theo stepped closer.
Close enough that their shoes touched. Close enough, their breaths mingled. Close enough, no lies could exist between them. He lifted a hand, almost touching her cheek, but stopped one breath short again.
Everything in him trembled.
“Y/N,” he whispered, “I didn’t know how to name any of this.”
“I didn’t either,” she whispered back.
“I still don’t,” he admitted, voice raw. “But I know that when you drew me… and when I read your notes… and when you smelled me—”
He stopped, breath shuddering.
Y/N’s eyes glossed with emotion.
“You don’t need the perfect words,” she said softly. “Just honest ones.”
Theo leaned forward, not touching her, but so close her heartbeat tripped. Then, voice breaking in the quiet: “The honest truth is… It’s always been you.”
Her breath caught.
She felt herself tilting toward him, drawn in by gravity, by truth, by everything they had read in each other’s notebooks.
Their faces inched closer, lips a breath apart—
CRASH.
A loud clatter outside the door cut the moment clean in half.
Someone hissed from the outside, “Mattheo, you absolute troll—!”
Theo closed his eyes, jaw tightening in pure murderous rage. Y/N let out a weak, breathless laugh. But when she looked back at him. All the truth was still there.
Nothing had been lost.
.
.
.
The moment the door swung open, the four boys launched themselves away from the wall like startled pigeons.
Blaise, Draco, Mattheo, and Enzo stood in a very crooked line, dusting off nonexistent dirt, adjusting collars, fake-coughing, trying desperately to look like they hadn’t been using an Extendable Ear to eavesdrop for the past fifteen minutes.
Mattheo held a textbook upside down. Enzo stared intensely at the ceiling. Blaise pretended to inspect his own fingernails. Draco attempted casual elegance and failed miserably.
Theo stepped into the hallway with Y/N behind him, eyes flat, tone deadly calm. “Hello.”
All four boys flinched like he’d fired a spell at them.
Mattheo spoke first, way too fast: “Fancy seeing you here, Theodore! Wonderful morning, isn’t it? Crisp air, birds singing—”
“There are no birds in the dungeons,” Theo said.
Mattheo continued, “Yes, well, the metaphorical birds—”
“Shut up,” Theo replied.
Draco cleared his throat. “We weren’t spying.”
“Good,” Theo said, brushing past him, “that means you won’t mind me asking why you’re all sweating.”
Draco instantly wiped his forehead. “Dungeon humidity.”
“It’s December,” Theo muttered.
Blaise tried a different tactic, leaning against the wall and giving Y/N a lazy, overly casual smile.
“Lovely morning, Y/N.”
Y/N blinked. “Is that why you were yelling a minute ago?”
Blaise froze. Draco smacked him on the back of the head.
“Idiot,” Draco hissed.
Enzo beamed, too cheerful. “So! You two done talking?”
Y/N flushed crimson. Theo stiffened. All four boys’ eyes widened, waiting like hungry hyenas.
Theo inhaled sharply, trying to control the storm boiling under his skin. “We’re leaving,” he said flatly.
Mattheo pointed dramatically. “Together?”
Theo’s glare could have melted the stone walls.
Y/N fumbled, flustered, “We’re just— we need to— we were talking and—”
Mattheo gasped. “OH MERLIN, DID YOU—”
“No,” Theo snapped, grabbing Y/N’s elbow in a protective, grounding motion—gentle but sure. “We’re going.”
The boys scattered like rats.
.
.
.
They walked away from the chaos of the Slytherin boys yelling, their laughter echoing faintly behind them.
But Theo and Y/N barely heard it. Because somewhere in the middle of the hallway, without either of them noticing how it happened, their fingers found each other.
Softly. Accidentally. Naturally.
Y/N felt Theo’s hand brush hers for a moment, and instead of pulling away, her fingers curled on instinct.
Theo inhaled sharply. He looked down, startled… and then stunned. Her hand was still in his. Warm. Small. Steady. His fingers tightened around hers before he could stop himself.
Neither of them said a word. Neither mentioned it. Neither wanted to break the spell.
They just walked side by side, hands intertwined, hearts racing in quiet sync.
And Theo, without thinking, without planning, began guiding her somewhere he always went when he needed to breathe. Somewhere quiet. Hidden. Safe. Somewhere only he knew.
Theo turned a corner she’d never noticed before, leading her past a tapestry of a sleeping banshee and down a narrow stone passageway that felt untouched by students. The light dimmed, torches flickering low, making their shadows stretch across the floor.
Y/N looked around, breath soft. “Where are we going?”
Theo hesitated—just one second—then said, “Somewhere no one will bother us.”
She didn’t question it. Didn’t resist. She trusted him. More than she had trusted anyone in a long time.
Finally, they reached a small alcove at the end of the passage: a stone archway, half-lit by a single enchanted lantern that glowed blue and gold. Dust motes floated like stars suspended in water.
Theo stopped, still holding her hand.
Y/N stepped closer. “Why here?”
Theo’s chest rose and fell. “This is where I think best,” he said softly. “Where I go when I need to figure myself out.”
“And now?” she asked quietly.
Theo swallowed. “Now I’m here because of you.”
Her breath caught. They stood face-to-face in the quiet glow of her heartbeat, echoing against the stone, his breath brushing her lips when he spoke.
Theo’s hand, still entwined with hers, trembled. “Y/N,” he said softly, “I’ve been trying not to feel this for so long that I don’t… really know how to do this properly.”
She stepped closer until his chest was almost touching hers.
“You don’t have to know,” she whispered. “We can figure it out together.”
Theo’s eyes fluttered shut.
When he opened them again, the whole world had narrowed to just her.
Theo lifted his free hand slowly, gently, and cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing her skin as if he wasn’t sure she was real.
Y/N leaned into his touch safe, steady, warm. “Theo,” she breathed, “come here.”
Something inside him gave way. He leaned in, hesitant only for a moment, searching her eyes, asking without words:
Are you sure?
Is this okay?
Y/N nodded once, soft and certain.
That was all he needed.
Theo pulled her closer and kissed her. Softly at first, careful, cautious, like he was afraid she might break. Then deeper, warmer, as if every unspoken feeling they’d held for years finally found a place to go.
Her hand came up to his jaw, fingers brushing his cheek. Theo’s heart nearly stopped. She tasted like breathless hope. The kiss tasted like relief. And like the truth, they had finally let escape.
When they finally pulled apart, both breathless, Theo rested his forehead against hers, eyes closed, trying to steady the way his chest was trembling.
“Y/N…” He whispered her name like it meant everything. “Please don’t let this be the only time.”
She smiled—barely, but enough to light him on fire.
“It doesn’t have to be.”
Theo took both of her hands now, holding them between his palms, grounding himself in her warmth.
He breathed once, intensely and steadily, then lifted his gaze to hers. “I’m not good at this,” he admitted. “I don’t know how to say things the right way.”
“You’re doing fine,” she whispered.
Theo exhaled shakily. “Okay.” He held her hands tighter. “I want to be with you,” he said, voice low but certain. “Not just like this. Not just moments stolen in empty hallways.”
Her lips parted.
“I want all of it,” Theo continued. “You and me. Whatever this is becoming. Whatever this could be.” Then, softer: “Y/N… will you go out with me?”
Her breath caught her entire body warming, her heart swelling so fast she thought it might burst. She stepped closer, rising on her toes, and kissed him again, brief, soft, perfect.
When she pulled back, she whispered against his lips: “Yes.”
Theo closed his eyes, exhaling a shudder that sounded like years of walls finally cracking.
“Good,” he breathed. “Good.”
He pulled her into him, not a hug, not exactly, more like a promise.
A beginning.
They stayed there like that, hidden, quiet, holding onto each other
as if the castle had finally paused long enough for them to catch up to everything they had been denying.
And for the first time, the future didn’t terrify him.
Not when she was holding onto him.
.
.
.
That same afternoon, dinner was already loud and chaotic when Theo and Y/N walked hand-in-hand into the Great Hall.
Conversations dipped. Gasps fluttered through the tables. Even the candles seemed to flicker brighter as if they, too, were leaning closer. The Slytherin boys exploded into whispers and elbow jabs, each one trying (and failing) to act like they hadn’t been waiting for this for a year.
But at the staff table, only two professors truly watched: Slughorn. And Snape.
Horace Slughorn perked up immediately, hands trembling with excitement.
“Oh! Oh my!” he whispered breathlessly, nudging the air in front of him as if he were elbowing an invisible friend. “Would you look at that, Severus!”
Snape did not look.
Not yet.
Slughorn, however, leaned forward, beaming. “Finally! I knew they’d come around. Brilliant children, both of them. I could see it from the moment I paired them.”
Snape cut his meat slowly, silently.
Slughorn lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Isn’t it wonderful? Young love blooming in our very own halls!”
Snape’s eye twitched. Wonderful was not the word he’d use. Not for something like this. Not for something that felt like watching a ghost walk through a memory.
Finally, Snape allowed himself a glance.
Just a small one. Barely a tilt of his head. But enough.
Theo was guiding Y/N toward the Slytherin table with quiet confidence, thumb brushing the back of her hand like a promise. She looked up at him and smiled softly, shyly, blooming.
And something inside Severus Snape, something long buried under decades of bitterness and regret, tightened painfully.
Not because he disapproved.
But because he recognized the moment.
The innocence of it.
The inevitability of it.
The fragile, unspoken hope of it.
He had felt something like that once.
A lifetime ago.
Before mistakes. Before choices. Before everything hardened into walls he no longer knew how to take down. Snape’s expression did not change outwardly. But his eyes lingered just a second too long.
Long enough to betray that he understood far more than he wished he did.
Snape’s voice was quiet, almost lost beneath the hum of the hall. “I’m not scowling.”
Slughorn blinked. Snape took a controlled sip of tea. Then added, almost under his breath, “Simply… observing.”
Slughorn grinned. “Observing what, exactly?”
Snape did not answer. Because the truth felt too familiar on his tongue. He observed the way Theo looked at the girl beside him not with ownership, not with hunger, but with reverence.
He observed how she leaned into Theo’s shoulder, trusting, open, warm.
He observed something he had once wanted more than anything in the world: To be seen. To be chosen. To be understood. And he observed something he had lost — or perhaps never truly had.
But he said none of this.
He simply folded his hands and stared down the hall, his gaze so controlled it bordered on cold.
Slughorn continued cheerfully spooning mashed potatoes onto his plate. “Ah, to be young again. Don’t you agree?”
Snape’s jaw tightened. He did not agree. Not even remotely. But there was something quiet, small, buried beneath the surface of his voice when he responded: “It is… predictable.”
Slughorn laughed. “Romantic, you mean!”
Snape said nothing.
Yet his eyes softened a microscopic shift as he watched Theo whisper something that made Y/N blush and duck her head.
Slughorn nudged him. “You knew, didn’t you? Before they did.”
Snape’s lips pressed into a thin line.
He remembered noticing the way Theo searched for Y/N in the corridors… the way she instinctively moved closer to him in class… the way their tension smoldered quietly, desperately, painfully.
Of course he noticed.
Some things you only recognize if you’ve lived them.
He looked away first. “…It was obvious,” he said in a low voice.
Not cold. Not harsh. Just honest. What he didn’t add — what he would never say aloud — echoed silently under the surface:
I knew what it was because I once felt it too.
And I know how dangerous it is to realize it too late.
But Theo and Y/N?
No.
They had time.
They had courage.
They had done what he never could.
They chose each other.
And Snape, for all his bitterness, could not bring himself to resent it. He simply folded his arms and stared forward, face unreadable, heart unexpectedly heavy. Slughorn clapped him on the back, oblivious to the storm stirring beneath the surface.
“Well then! Cheers to young love!”
Snape’s reply was barely a whisper, almost drowned out by the clamor of students:
“…Indeed.”
But for once, he meant it.
.
.
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