I just wanted to start my first post off by saying welcome and I'm happy to have you here. I would like my Tumblr page to be a safe space for everyone so please be kind. Please don't hesitate to reach out if you ever want to talk about anything.
This is my side quest account where I will be posting for everything that isn't Harry Potter-related. Here is my Side Quest Masterlist. If you're interested in reading anything from my Harry Potter Masterlist, here it is. As always, if you have any requests or just want to talk, please don't be afraid to reach out.
Just a couple of things about me:
My name is Nadine
I use she/her pronouns
I am a 23 year old currently living in Washington D.C.
I am attending university and working which means I am fairly busy so I will post whenever I get a chance. I don't have a posting schedule or anything
I’m a Cancer, Ravenclaw, INTJ, and Type 5 Emmeagram
I love psychological thrillers (movies, books, tv shows, etc) so if you have any recommendations or you're looking for any recommendations, please let me know!
Like I mentioned earlier, if you ever want to talk, I'm always willing to listen
With the Fourth of July coming up, I had a cute idea. Enjoy!
The Fourth of July at Jack Crawford's house had become something of an unspoken Bureau tradition, a yearly attempt to remind everyone that there was, in fact, a world beyond crime scenes and autopsy reports.
For one afternoon every summer, profiling serial killers was replaced with perfectly grilled hamburgers, folding chairs scattered across an expansive backyard, children shrieking somewhere near the pool, and enough red, white, and blue decorations to make Beverly Katz quietly question Jack's taste in party supplies.
Bella had taken over the patio with the quiet efficiency that made everything she touched feel welcoming, arranging trays of fruit beneath striped tablecloths while Jack stood over an enormous grill wearing an apron that declared KISS THE COOK in aggressively patriotic lettering.
"No pictures," Jack warned as Beverly immediately lifted her phone.
"No promises," she answered.
Jimmy Price had somehow already burned the first batch of hot dogs.
"I don't understand," he insisted.
"You put them on twenty minutes ago," Zeller replied.
"I was talking."
"You were monologuing."
"I was telling a story."
"You forgot the fire."
Jack sighed heavily. "It's been ten minutes."
"Long enough."
Across the yard, Alana Bloom settled into a lawn chair with a glass of lemonade, watching the chaos unfold with the kind of fond resignation reserved for people who had long ago accepted that FBI gatherings would always resemble organized disasters.
By the time Will Graham arrived, the party was already in full swing.
He climbed out of his truck wearing a faded navy T-shirt, jeans that had seen better days, and sunglasses he would inevitably lose before sunset. Wesley, one of his dogs, leapt down after him with considerably more enthusiasm, immediately deciding that Jack's backyard belonged to him.
"There he is," Jack called as he knelt down to greet Wesley. "You only brought one?"
"I'm learning restraint." Will said flatly.
"No," Beverly corrected from somewhere near the pool. "You're learning that Bella won't let six muddy dogs in her house."
"That's also true." Will nodded.
Wesley trotted happily toward Bella, accepting scratches behind the ears as though he'd been personally invited.
Will glanced down at his phone. One unread message. (y/n).
I'll meet you there! Don't let Jimmy cook anything for me.
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth despite himself.
Typical.
He slipped the phone back into his pocket.
(y/n) (l/n) had been part of his life for so long that it had become impossible to remember what adulthood looked like before her.
They'd met during their sophomore year of college after she'd marched across the student union, dropped into the empty chair across from him without invitation, and announced, "You look weird."
Will had stared and she'd smiled. Will immediately noticed that she had perfect teeth. That was unfair.
"I mean that as a compliment." She grinned even wider.
"You do?" He closed his book.
"The interesting people are always weird." (y/n) declared.
He'd blinked. "I don't have many friends."
"I noticed." She shrugged.
"You noticed?" He softly asked. Nobody noticed him.
"You were eating lunch alone while reading a book about criminal behavior." (y/n) pointed out. A pause. "That's either incredibly concerning..."
"...or?" He tilted his head.
"...or you're going to be my friend." (y/n) grinned and plucked the book from his hands, turning it over in her hands.
He hadn't agreed. She'd simply started showing up. Study sessions. Coffee. Library. His apartment. Forcing him to come to hers where they had horror movie nights (those were secretly his favorite days).
She had attached herself to him with the determination of someone who'd already made the decision for both of them.
Oddly enough...
Will had never really wanted to shake her.
Years later, someone at the Bureau had once asked if the two of them had ever dated. Will had made a visible gagging noise. She had kicked him squarely in the shin.
"I would change your life and you know it." She hissed. “I hate you.”
"Right back at you." He said through gritted teeth, leaning down to look at the forming bruise on his shin.
"We're never speaking again." (y/n)’s eyes narrowed at him.
They'd gone to lunch together an hour later. That was simply how they worked. Like siblings.
Annoying.
Loyal.
Entirely incapable of functioning normally around one another.
Which was exactly why Will didn't think twice when she texted to say she'd meet him at Jack's.
She was probably running late. Or she'd stopped for coffee. Or she'd gotten distracted rescuing another stray animal. Again. Nothing about it seemed unusual.
Until forty-five minutes later.
The unmistakable purr of an expensive engine rolled into Jack's driveway.
Conversations slowed.
Several heads turned.
Beverly looked up from her drink.
"Oh, look." Beverly smiled as she took a sip of her beer. "Hannibal actually came."
"He said he would." Jack glanced over from the grill as he flipped some hotdogs.
"I know." Beverly shrugged. "I just didn't believe him."
The sleek black Bentley came to a smooth stop. The driver's door opened first.
Hannibal Lecter stepped out.
Will frowned immediately. "...Is he wearing shorts?"
"I didn't know he owned knees," Jimmy looked offended. Alana and Beverly burst out laughing.
They weren't casual cargo shorts or athletic shorts. Of course they weren't.
They were impeccably tailored linen shorts paired with a crisp white button-down, sleeves neatly rolled to his forearms, loafers polished enough to reflect the afternoon sun.
Even dressed for a backyard barbecue, Hannibal somehow looked as though he'd wandered out of the pages of an expensive lifestyle magazine.
Then the passenger door opened.
(y/n) climbed out laughing at something Hannibal had just said, one hand resting against the roof of the car as she straightened. A red, white, and blue bikini top disappeared beneath an unbuttoned white linen shirt, paired with denim shorts and oversized sunglasses perched atop her hair.
"...What?" Will frowned. “Why is she with him?
She closed the door and Hannibal rounded the front of the car.
Neither of them seemed to notice that the entire backyard had gone suspiciously quiet.
As they started walking toward the house, Hannibal reached out almost absentmindedly.
His hand settled against the small of (y/n)’s back.
Not possessively.
Not dramatically.
Comfortably.
Like it belonged there.
Like he'd done it hundreds of times before.
(y/n) didn't even look down. She simply leaned the slightest bit closer as they walked together, continuing whatever conversation they'd been having.
Will blinked once.
Then twice.
"...Jack." He whispered, stepping closer to the grill.
"Hm?"
"Am I hallucinating?"
Jack followed his line of sight. "No. You are not."
"..."
"..."
"They arrived together." Will said softly.
"They did." Jack confirmed.
"Why did they arrive together?"
Jack shrugged. "I assumed you knew."
"I don't know anything." Will stared at him.
(y/n) spotted him before anyone else.
"There you are." (y/n) ran into his arms. She was one of the very few people that he allowed to touch him. “My favorite tortured professor.”
Hannibal followed at an unhurried pace, stopping beside her without ever seeming out of place.
"(y/n).” Will said gently.
"Hello.” (y/n) giggled and kissed his cheek.
"You came with Hannibal." He said.
"I did." (y/n) nodded.
"Why?" Will asked.
She tilted her head. "He drove."
"From where?" Will questioned.
"His apartment." (y/n) grinned. She was used to Will questioning her decisions.
"Why were you at his apartment?"
(y/n) looked genuinely confused. "We were unboxing wine."
"Okay."
"It made sense." (y/n) said softly.
"Okay."
She smiled brightly. "You look nice." She gestured to his outfit.
"So do you."
"Thanks."
Without another word, she wandered back toward Hannibal, slipping her hand in with his.
Will watched her go. Something about the interaction had felt...
Different.
Not bad.
Just...
Different.
He couldn't quite explain it, and the day only became stranger from there.
By the time lunch was served, (y/n) had somehow ended up sitting on Hannibal's lap while everyone crowded around the patio table.
She reached across his plate without asking.
"That looks better than mine." She murmured in his ear.
"It is." Hannibal nodded, holding it towards her.
"I'm taking it."
"I assumed."
She stole a piece of grilled pineapple from his fork and Hannibal simply cut himself another. Not a word of protest.
Across the table, Beverly slowly lowered her drink.
Later, while Jack argued with Jimmy about proper grilling temperatures, (y/n) wandered over with a bottle of lemonade.
"Hannibal."
"Yes love?"
"Can you please open this?"
He accepted the bottle, twisted the stubborn cap free, and handed it back without interrupting his conversation.
She smiled. "Thank you."
"You're welcome."
Again. Like breathing. Like routine. Like they'd done it every day for years.
Will found himself watching them more than participating in the conversation.
Every few minutes, one of them reached for the other without thinking.
A hand brushing her back as she squeezed past.
(y/n) straightening the collar of his shirt after a gust of wind flipped it upward. Hannibal quietly replacing her empty drink before she'd realized she'd finished it.
None of it looked rehearsed. None of it looked new.
It looked...
Lived in.
At one point, one of the younger interns spent a little too long watching (y/n)’s ass as she crossed the yard toward the pool.
Hannibal noticed. Of course he noticed, and without ever raising his voice, he addressed the young man.
"If your attention continues to follow Ms. (l/n) rather than the conversation you're currently participating in, I'm afraid everyone here will begin drawing conclusions about your manners."
The intern went bright red. "I—"
"I'm sure it was unintentional." Hannibal said.
"Yes, sir." He swallowed and nodded. "It won't happen again."
"I'm certain it won't."
(y/n) returned a moment later carrying a bowl of pineapples and strawberries.
"What'd I miss?" She grinned up at him. Hannibal accepted a piece she'd already speared with a fork.
"Nothing of consequence."
She smiled. "I believe you." And held out a fork for him to take a bite.
By sunset, blankets covered the grass and everyone had settled in to wait for the fireworks.
(y/n) sat comfortably against Hannibal's side, her head resting briefly against his shoulder while they watched children race sparklers across the yard.
The first firework bloomed overhead, painting the sky in brilliant red.
(y/n) turned toward him to say something.
Whatever it was ...
She never got the chance.
Hannibal leaned in. She met him halfway.
It wasn't a quick peck. It wasn't shy.
It was the kind of kiss shared by two people who no longer wondered whether they were allowed to touch one another.
When they finally pulled apart, (y/n) smiled up at him before resting her forehead briefly against his.
Jack slowly looked toward Will.
"Are they dating?"
Will didn't answer immediately.
Because the honest answer was somehow worse. "I don't know."
Beverly stared at him. "You don't know?"
"I thought they were just..." He gestured vaguely. "Existing."
"They're kissing, Will." Beverly said. “Like full on kissing.”
"I can see that." Will hissed.
"And the hand on her ass?"
"I saw that too."
"And she keeps stealing food off his plate."
"I noticed."
"And she's been sitting in his lap for the last ten minutes."
Will closed his eyes. "I know."
Later that evening, after the fireworks had faded and people began gathering empty cups and folding chairs, Will finally cornered the two of them near the back porch.
"When."
(y/n) blinked, confused. "What?"
"You." He pointed at Hannibal. "You." He pointed at her. "When."
"Should we tell him?" (y/n) looked at Hannibal.
"I believe it's time." Hannibal nodded.
She nodded thoughtfully. "About eight months."
"Eight months?" Will stared.
"Approximately," Hannibal said.
"You've been dating for eight months?" Will’s voice was barely above a whisper.
(y/n) smiled sheepishly. "We thought you knew."
"I DIDN'T KNOW."
"We're adults," she said with a laugh. "It just never came up."
"I INTRODUCED YOU."
"You did," Hannibal agreed.
"I CREATED THIS."
"You certainly facilitated the initial meeting."
"I DESERVE CREDIT."
(y/n) lifted one hand without missing a beat. She flipped him off. Will looked scandalized. Hannibal inclined his head politely.
"Thank you."
"Don't patronize me." Will pointed accusingly.
"I wasn't aware that gratitude could be interpreted as patronizing."
"It can when it's you."
Beverly appeared seemingly out of nowhere, folding her arms across her chest with the expression of someone who had just discovered the greatest piece of gossip she'd received all year.
"I have approximately fifty questions."
(y/n) laughed. "I figured."
"Who's more romantic?"
Hannibal answered immediately. "She is."
"I knew it." Beverly looked delighted. "Who said 'I love you' first?"
"I did," Hannibal replied.
(y/n)’s smile softened. "And he beat me by exactly three days."
Beverly pointed triumphantly. "I knew it. No one looks at someone like that without saying it first."
(y/n) buried her face in Hannibal's shoulder.
"I'm never coming to another party."
"You'll survive," Beverly said cheerfully. "Next question."
She looked directly at Hannibal. "Who apologized after your first argument?"
"(y/n)."
(y/n) looked offended. "Excuse me."
"You were objectively incorrect." Hannibal said softly.
"I was passionate."
"You apologized."
"I did apologize."
"And then," Hannibal continued, entirely too calm, "she brought me tiramisu."
(y/n) pointed a finger at him. "Because you looked smug."
"I was."
"You still are."
"I am."
Beverly looked between them.
"That's disgusting."
"I know," Alana muttered from behind her.
Beverly wasn't finished.
"Who's clingier?"
(y/n) immediately pointed at Hannibal, who looked almost offended.
"I object." He laughed.
"You text me good morning every single day."
"You appreciate those messages."
"I do."
"You become concerned if I do not send one."
"That's not the point."
"It seems precisely the point."
“Who is louder in bed?” Beverly raised an eyebrow.
Will pinched the bridge of his nose. "I've made a terrible mistake."
"You introduced them," Beverly reminded him.
"I know."
She looked back at (y/n).
"Who kissed who first?" (y/n) smiled. "He did."
"You hesitated," Hannibal corrected gently.
"I was nervous." (y/n) shrugged.
"You've never been nervous in your life."
"I was with you."
For perhaps the first time all evening, Hannibal looked genuinely caught off guard.
(y/n) noticed as a slow smile spread across her face. "You didn't know that?”
"I suspected."
"I was terrified." (y/n) laughed, holding his hand.
"You hid it remarkably well."
"You make everyone nervous."
"I don't."
"You absolutely do." (y/n) flicked his nose.
Beverly made a soft, delighted noise. "Oh, this is incredible."
She leaned forward again. "Who's the bigger flirt?"
(y/n) didn't even hesitate. "Him."
Every head turned toward Hannibal.
“Seriously?" Will said. “He flirts?”
"He flirts constantly," (y/n) said. "He just does it like he belongs in a Jane Austen novel."
"I do not." Hannibal leaned down and kissed her cheek.
"You absolutely do." She cleared her throat dramatically. "'You look rather lovely this evening.'" Another. "'I do believe this color was invented exclusively for you.'" Another. "'I fear you've become terribly distracting.'" (y/n) folded her arms. "Normal people just call someone pretty."
"I have called you pretty." Hannibal argued.
"Once."
"It was implied several hundred times."
"It was."
"I cannot believe Hannibal Lecter has game." Beverly was laughing so hard she nearly spilled her drink.
"He has entirely too much game," (y/n) sighed.
"I've been informed." Beverly said, grinning. “But you never answered the question. Who is louder in bed?”
“Probably me.” (y/n) shrugged, not embarrassed at all. “He is very thorough.”
Will looked vaguely horrified. "I don't like knowing this."
"You asked nothing," Beverly reminded him.
"I know, but somehow I'm learning everything."
"Last question," Beverly announced.
She looked between them with a grin that promised absolutely nothing good.
"When did you both realize this wasn't just casual dating?"
(y/n)’s expression softened. She looked at Hannibal before answering.
"I don't know."
"You do." Hannibal grinned.
"I do?"
"You moved a box of tampons into my apartment with a toothbrush and a pair of your favorite fuzzy socks."
(y/n) blinked slowly. "Oh."
"You also purchased some of the seasonings that I use.”
"And then..." (y/n) laughed quietly. "I realized one day I'd started calling your house 'home' by accident."
For a brief moment, Hannibal simply looked at her. No teasing. No perfectly crafted response. Just quiet affection.
"I remember," he said softly.
(y/n) stood on her tippy toes and kissed him. "So do I."
The entire group went silent.
Beverly sighed dramatically.
"I hate both of you."
"You don't," Jack said.
"I really don't."
She smiled into her drink.
"But I'm going to make fun of you for the rest of your lives."
"I would expect nothing less," Hannibal replied.
Will clapped both hands firmly over his ears.
"That's enough."
Beverly grinned.
"I've still got forty-four questions."
"I'm leaving."
"You can't."
"Watch me."
(y laughed loud enough that Wesley barked from somewhere across the yard, and Hannibal's attention shifted to her automatically, smiling before he'd even realized he was doing it.
Beverly noticed.
"So..." she said quietly. "You smile like that every time she laughs?"
Hannibal didn't even try to deny it. "Apparently."
As laughter drifted across the backyard and the last sparks disappeared into the summer sky, (y/n) found herself settling comfortably against Hannibal once more, his arm slipping around her waist with that same effortless familiarity that had confused everyone hours earlier.
A few feet away, Will watched them quietly.
"They're disgustingly happy," he muttered.
Alana smiled into her lemonade.
"I know."
Will watched (y/n) laugh at something Hannibal whispered, her entire face lighting up in a way he'd never quite seen before.
After a long moment, he smiled to himself. "I just wish they'd told me."
"They probably thought you already knew."
Will considered that, then laughed.
"That actually sounds exactly like something those two would do."
Hey everyone! I promise I'm trying to be more consistent, but here you go. I hope you like this one. As always, if you have any ideas, don't be afraid to reach out!
(y/n) (l/n) had lived across the hall from Dr. Hannibal Lecter for nearly a year.
Eleven months, to be exact. She lived there long enough to recognize the sound of classical music drifting beneath her apartment door on Sunday mornings. Long enough to know that he preferred dark suits in the winter and lighter ones in the spring. Long enough to learn that the man somehow looked perfectly put together at every hour of the day.
Which was annoying. Deeply annoying.
(y/n) had once stepped into the hallway at nine o'clock on a Saturday morning wearing an oversized sweatshirt and fuzzy socks with foxes she'd forgotten she still had on.
Hannibal had stepped out of his apartment at the exact same moment.
In a tailored three-piece suit.
At nine o'clock.
On a Saturday.
(y/n) stared at him. He stared back.
Neither had spoken for several seconds.
Finally, she'd pointed. "Why are you dressed like that?"
"As opposed to?" Hannibal had glanced down at himself.
She gestured vaguely. "Normal people."
"I'm going to the market." The corner of his mouth twitched.
(y/n) looked him up and down again. "The farmer's market?"
"Yes."
"Why do you look like you're about to negotiate a peace treaty?"
And that had been that. Their relationship in a nutshell. Most people seemed intimidated by Hannibal Lecter.
(y/n) genuinely could not understand why. Not because she didn't know who he was.
She absolutely did.
Everybody did.
His name appeared in magazines. Television interviews. Newspaper articles.
The famous psychiatrist. The respected lecturer. The culinary expert whose dinner parties somehow managed to acquire waiting lists.
(y/n) had attended several of those dinner parties. Not because she was interested in socializing, but mostly because the food was incredible.
The first time she'd attended, she'd accidentally committed what several guests had later described as a social crime. Everyone else had spent twenty minutes discussing wine.
(y/n) had spent twenty minutes eating.
Eventually Hannibal approached her. "You seem to be enjoying yourself."
"I am." She looked up from her plate.
"You haven't touched your wine." Hannibal noticed.
"I don't know enough about wine to have an opinion."
Another pause.
"You don't wish to discuss it?" He curiously asked.
(y/n) blinked. "Not particularly." Then she'd pointed at the plate. "Whatever this is, though?"
Hannibal had looked down. "Osso buco."
"It's fantastic." (y/n) grinned.
The compliment had been entirely sincere. Then she'd taken another bite. "Do you have bread?"
Several nearby guests looked horrified. To this day, (y/n) still wasn’t sure why.
Hannibal had simply smiled. And brought her bread.
After that, she occasionally attended his events whenever she had the time.
The guests changed. The conversations changed. She remained exactly the same.
(y/n) never treated Hannibal like a celebrity and she never seemed particularly impressed by his accomplishments. Never cared about his reputation.
To (y/n), Hannibal was simply the unfairly attractive man who lived across the hall and owned jackets worth more than her monthly paycheck. A fact she frequently reminded him of.
"I don't understand why anyone needs this many coats." (y/n) found herself standing in his bedroom one evening when all the guests had left.
Hannibal glanced toward the closet. "I assure you, there are not that many."
She looked unconvinced. "You own more coats than I own plates."
"That seems unlikely."
"It is not."
The truth was, she liked him. Not romantically. At least, not consciously. He was intelligent. Patient. Easy to talk to.
And despite appearances, surprisingly tolerant of her nonsense.
(y/n) worked as a pediatric speech-language pathologist. Most days she loved her job. Some days she wanted to lie face down on the floor for several hours.
Children were wonderful. Children were exhausting. Children regularly sneezed directly into her face.
She spent her days helping kids communicate and building their confidence. Celebrating victories that often seemed small to everyone except the families involved.
It was rewarding and meaningful work.
And by the end of most days, she was completely exhausted. Which explained why she almost missed the sound.
It was raining when she heard it.
A miserable, cold rain that seemed determined to soak through every layer of clothing she owned.
(y/n) had just finished a particularly long day at the clinic. Her shoes were soaked. Her glasses kept fogging. All she wanted was a hot shower and absolutely no human interaction. Then she heard it.
A tiny cry. She stopped walking and the sound disappeared.
For several moments she stood there, staring at the street.
Nothing. Just rain. Cars. The distant sound of traffic. Then it came again. Small. Weak. Almost impossible to hear.
(y/n) immediately groaned. "No."
The universe ignored her as the cry came a third time.
"Absolutely not." (y/n) closed her eyes.
Another cry. A longer one.
When she opened her eyes again, she was already turning around. "You're lucky I'm a decent person."
Finding the source took less than a minute, but getting to it proved significantly more difficult.
The sound was coming from a storm drain near the curb.
She crouched beside it as rainwater trickled through the metal grate. The opening of the grate was dark and for several moments, she saw nothing. Then two tiny eyes blinked back at her. Her heart instantly melted.
"Oh no." She whispered.
The kitten looked terrible. It was tiny, soaked, covered in dirt, one ear appeared bent, and its fur stuck out in every direction.
And despite being approximately the size of a potato, it somehow looked furious. The kitten hissed.
(y/n) gasped. "You're spicy." The kitten hissed again. "Okay." She nodded. "Good communication."
The kitten clearly disagreed. Several attempts at coaxing it out failed spectacularly. (y/n) tried speaking softly. The kitten hissed. She tried offering part of her granola bar. The kitten hissed.
She tried reasoning with it. The kitten hissed.
Eventually she found herself lying on the wet pavement while reaching halfway into the drain. This was not how she'd imagined spending her evening. A passing pedestrian slowed, and she pretended not to notice.
"Come here." The kitten retreated further. "Please." Nothing. (y/n) sighed dramatically. "I am risking my life for someone who weighs six ounces."
Fifteen minutes later, (y/n) finally managed to grab it.
The reaction was immediate. Tiny claws. Tiny teeth. Maximum violence.
"Oh!" She nearly dropped it as the kitten hissed directly in her face. "You know what?" She carefully lifted it free. "I liked you more five minutes ago."
The kitten continued screaming even as she tucked it against her chest.
The tiny body felt alarmingly thin beneath the wet fur. Immediately her annoyance vanished.
The rain continued falling around them, and for the first time, the kitten stopped fighting.
(y/n) looked down at the tiny creature. The creature looked back. Something shifted. The decision was made.
Neither of them had any say in it.
"Well." She sighed. "I guess you live with me now."
The kitten sneezed. Her expression immediately turned horrified.
"Oh my God." Another sneeze. "Oh no."
The panic began instantly.
Because she knew absolutely nothing about cats.
Nothing.
Dogs?
Sure.
Cats?
Not a clue.
Could kittens get colds?
Did they need special food?
Did they need blankets?
Medicine?
A tiny therapist?
(y/n) had no idea.
Which left her with exactly one option.
She hurried toward the apartment building and the kitten bundled carefully against her chest, while her shoes squished with every step.
The kitten occasionally hissed for dramatic effect.
By the time she reached the building, she looked like she'd survived a natural disaster.
The elevator ride felt painfully slow.
(y/n) stared down at the kitten. The kitten stared back. Neither trusted the other. A strong foundation for any future relationship.
The elevator doors opened.
(y/n) stepped into the hallway as the kitten sneezed again.
Instead of walking toward her own apartment, she marched straight across the hall.
A moment later she stood outside Hannibal's door.
The kitten wrapped in a towel.
Her clothes soaked.
One hand raised to knock.
"You're lucky." The kitten meowed. (y/n) narrowed her eyes. "Don't start."
Then she knocked.
And waited for Dr. Hannibal Lecter to solve yet another problem he absolutely did not create.
The moment the door opened, Hannibal knew something had gone wrong. (y/n) was standing there and she looked like she’d lost a fight with the weather.
Her hair was damp from the rain, several escaping the messy bun she'd attempted somewhere along the way. Water dripped from the sleeves of her jacket onto the hardwood floor. The towel bundled in her arms appeared to be moving.
Hannibal's gaze shifted from (y/n) to the towel. Then to the pair of tiny eyes peering out from the folds. A pause followed.
She looked exhausted, but the kitten looked murderous.
"Hannibal." She said softly.
"Yes?"
"You're a doctor, right?” She asked.
"I'm a psychiatrist." He replied flatly.
"Same thing."
"It absolutely is not."
(y/n) immediately shoved the towel toward him. "Help."
The kitten hissed. Hannibal blinked once. Slowly.
"What exactly am I helping with?" He took the towel and peered at the kitten.
"I found her." (y/n) shrugged.
"So I gathered."
"In a storm drain."
"Naturally."
"What does that mean?" (y/n) frowned.
"It means this feels like something that would happen to you."
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Then sighed. "That's fair."
Without waiting for an invitation, (y/n) stepped into the apartment. This wasn't unusual. Neither was the fact that Hannibal simply moved aside to let her. The kitten chose that exact moment to attempt another dramatic hiss.
(y/n) looked offended.
"Why does she keep doing that?" She peered at the kitten that Hannibal was holding in the towel.
"She is frightened." Hannibal said gently.
"No. This feels personal."
"It isn't."
"Then why is she looking at me like that?"
Hannibal glanced at the kitten. The kitten glared. He glanced back at (y/n). The resemblance in expression was unfortunate.
"I believe you're imagining things." He said, trying not to smile.
The kitten sneezed. (y/n) immediately gasped. "There!"
"There what?"
"She sneezed." (y/n) whispered.
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because she's a cat."
"What kind of answer is that?" (y/n) stared at him.
"The correct kind."
"Hannibal."
"Yes?"
"Be serious."
“I am.” He looked genuinely puzzled.
The kitten sneezed again, and she looked moments away from calling emergency services. "Oh my God."
"She is fine." Hannibal promised.
"You don't know that."
"I do."
"How?"
Hannibal blinked. Slowly. "I have eyes."
The silence that followed lasted several seconds.
Then (y/n) reluctantly nodded. "Okay. I am trusting you because you are a doctor." Another pause. "Does she eat rice?"
"No."
"Can she?" (y/n) curiously asked.
"Possibly."
"Should she?"
"No." Hannibal replied firmly.
"Okay."
She accepted this information with surprising seriousness, and then a moment later: "When will she get bigger?"
Hannibal closed his eyes. Briefly. Only briefly.
When he opened them again, she was still staring at him expectantly. Waiting. Patiently. Like this was a completely reasonable question.
"She has been in your possession for less than an hour." He murmured.
"So?"
"So she will not grow before bedtime."
(y/n) looked disappointed. "Huh."
The kitten suddenly climbed free of the towel.
Before (y/n) could react, the tiny creature scrambled directly up Hannibal's sleeve.
(y/n) gasped, and the betrayal was immediate.
"Oh." Hannibal froze. The kitten settled comfortably against his shoulder.
(y/n) looked personally wounded as the kitten began purring. She pointed accusingly.
"Traitor." The kitten ignored her. "I rescued you." Nothing. "I crawled into a sewer." Silence.
"I could've died." The purring continued.
Hannibal remained perfectly still.
Not because he minded.
Because he was attempting to determine when exactly the kitten had decided she belonged there.
(y/n) folded her arms. "You like him more."
"I don't believe that's possible to determine."
"I absolutely do."
The kitten rubbed her face against Hannibal's jaw.
(y/n) stared in disbelief. "Wow."
Hannibal carefully reached up and scratched beneath the kitten's chin.
The purring somehow intensified. (y/n) looked devastated.
For the next thirty minutes, she proceeded to ask every cat-related question that had ever entered a human mind. And several that probably hadn't.
"How often does she need to eat?" (y/n) pulled out a small notebook
"Several times a day."
"What if she doesn't eat?"
"Then she should see a veterinarian."
"What if she eats too much?"
"The same answer."
(y/n) nodded thoughtfully. A moment later: "How much sleep do cats need?"
"A significant amount."
"That's so unfair."
"Why?"
"I would also like to sleep eighteen hours a day."
"An admirable goal."
(y/n) pointed at him. "You're making fun of me."
"Only slightly."
“I’m naming her Bunny.” (y/n) declared and Hannibal rolled his eyes.
The kitten eventually settled into Hannibal's lap. This development pleased her immensely.
It pleased Hannibal considerably more than he intended to admit.
(y/n), meanwhile, had made herself comfortable on the opposite side of the sofa. At some point she'd removed her damp jacket, and at another point she'd kicked off her shoes.
Her glasses had slipped slightly down her nose as she watched the kitten.
Comfortable. Relaxed. Entirely at home. The realization should not have felt significant. Yet somehow it did.
A few weeks passed. Then several more. And somehow Bunny became both of their problems.
(y/n) texted Hannibal constantly.
(y/n): Why is Bunny staring at the wall?
Hannibal: Cats do that.
(y/n ): Weird.
Hannibal: Yes.
(y/n): Should I stare at the wall too?
Hannibal: No.
Another day:
(y/n): Bunny bit my foot.
Hannibal: Did you deserve it?
(y/n): Rude.
A third:
(y/n): She keeps sitting in the bathtub.
Hannibal: And?
(y/n): That's weird.
Hannibal: Not particularly.
(y/n) strongly disagreed.
The real issue, however, was that Bunny had developed a habit. Every morning she escaped, crossed the hallway, and appeared at Hannibal's apartment. As though she owned it.
(y/n) was horrified, but Hannibal secretly found it amusing.
One rainy evening, (y/n) arrived once again in search of the cat. She didn't bother knocking this time. Another unfortunate habit she'd developed.
The apartment door was unlocked.
She stepped inside.
"Hanniba are you here? Bunny disappeared ag—"
She stopped. Someone else stood in the living room.
Tall.Curly-haired. Broad shoulders. Slightly rumpled clothing. A face that looked permanently exhausted. The stranger blinked.
(y/n) blinked back, and for several moments nobody spoke.
Then Bunny trotted happily across the room.
(y/n) immediately scooped her up as the stranger watched. Amused.
"Hi," (y/n) said as Bunny cuddled up to her.
"Hello."
(y/n) considered him carefully, then nodded.
"Yeah."
A pause.
The stranger tilted his head. "Yeah, what?"
"You look exactly like the kind of professor I would've had a crush on in grad school."
The silence that followed was extraordinary. He blinked.
(y/n) continued, “Like exactly."
Another blink from the curly haired man.
"You teach literature?"
"No." No replied slowly, wondering where the conversation was going.
"Creative writing?" (y/n) asked.
"No."
"Psychology?"
"No."
“Really?” (y/n) frowned, “Are you lying to me?”
"Nope." He shrugged.
"Well." (y/n) said softly, "I definitely would've hooked up with you."
A choking sound emerged from somewhere behind her.
(y/n) turned as Hannibal came out of the kitchen.
A wine glass in one hand.
His expression was perfectly composed. Almost perfectly. The emphasis being almost.
(y/n) completely missed it.
Will did not. Will noticed immediately.
His eyes flicked toward Hannibal.
Then back to (y/n). Then back to Hannibal again. A dangerous smile began forming.
The sort of smile that appeared moments before someone became deeply annoying.
"Anyway." (y/n) shrugged as she adjusted Bunny in her arms. “Who are you?”
"Will Graham."
"(y/n) (l/n)" She said softly. “This is Bunny. I don’t know Bunny’s last name.”
Will shook her hand. Then looked toward Hannibal again. The smile somehow grew.
(y/n) remained entirely oblivious. Several minutes later she finally left with Bunny tucked beneath one arm.
A long list of cat-related concerns trailing behind her. The apartment door closed, and silence followed. Will waited approximately three seconds.
Then: "Hannibal."
"Hm?" He looked at Will.
"Are you going to tell your girlfriend you're in love with her?"
The silence that followed was immediate. Dangerous. Extraordinary.
Hannibal slowly looked up from his wine.
"(y/n) is not my girlfriend."
Will stared at him. For several moments. Then sighed. "That's actually much worse."
Hannibal frowned as Will leaned back in his chair.
A look of profound amusement settling across his face. "Oh, you're doomed."
"Hm."
"You just don't know it yet."
And for the first time all evening, Hannibal found himself wishing Will would leave.
The problem with Bunny was that she had become entirely too comfortable.
The problem with (y/n) was that she had done the same.
It happened gradually.
Slowly enough that neither of them noticed at first.
Bunny began spending more time in Hannibal's apartment than her own.
(y/n) followed shortly afterward. At some point she stopped knocking. At another point she learned where he kept the tea. Neither of them acknowledged this development.
It simply existed.
Like gravity.
Or weather.
Or Bunny shedding on every available surface.
"Hannibal."
"No."
"You don't know what I'm asking."
"You want something."
"I do." A pause. "Can Bunny have whipped cream?"
"No."
(y/n) sighed dramatically. "You're ruining her childhood."
"She's a cat."
"A child."
"A cat."
(y/n) pointed. "You're impossible."
Unfortunately, Hannibal found these conversations increasingly enjoyable. And more concerningly, he found himself expecting them. Looking forward to them.
When a day passed without (y/n) appearing at his door, he noticed.
When she was late coming home from work, he noticed. When Bunny arrived alone, he noticed that too. The realization should have concerned him. Instead, it settled comfortably into his routine. Like she'd always belonged there.
Will noticed immediately. Of course he did. Will noticed everything.
One evening he arrived to find (y/n) sprawled across Hannibal's sofa with Bunny asleep on her stomach. A mug of tea sat on the coffee table with one of Hannibal's blankets covered her legs.
Will stopped in the doorway.
Looked at (y/n), then looked at Hannibal.
"No." Will said.
"Hm?" Hannibal looked up from his book at him.
"I'm not getting involved."
"In what?"
Will simply pointed. Vaguely. At everything.
(y/n) looked up from her phone. "Hi, Will." She grinned.
"Hi." A pause. "You live here now?"
(y/n) looked confused. "No. Why would I live here?"
Will stared. Then looked at Hannibal. Hannibal looked back. Neither spoke.
(y/n) missed the entire exchange. Weeks later, things became significantly worse.
Or better.
Depending on who was being asked.
(y/n) arrived for dinner carrying takeout. Which was unusual. More unusual was the smile on her face.
"You seem pleased." Hannibal gently takes Bunny from her arms.
"I had a date." She said.
The words landed strangely. A sharp sensation settled somewhere beneath Hannibal's ribs.
Unpleasant.
Immediate.
Unexpected.
(y/n) continued speaking. Oblivious. "He was nice."
"Was he?"
"We met through a friend."
"Hm."
"He's an accountant."
"Hm."
She frowned. "Are you listening?"
"Of course." He wasn't. Not particularly. Will arrived fifteen minutes later.
One glance at Hannibal told him everything. "Oh."
Hannibal ignored him.
Will smiled. "Oh, that's bad."
"What is?" (y/n) asked.
"Nothing."
After she left, Will waited exactly thirty seconds. Then: "You're jealous."
"No."
"Hannibal."
"No."
"You absolutely are."
Hannibal continued preparing tea. Will laughed. Actually laughed.
"An accountant?" Silence from Hannibal. "That's what upset you?" Silence. "Hannibal."
"What?" He snapped.
"Ask her out." Will shrugged. The room became quiet.
"Will."
"You are in love with her."
"I am not."
"You know she keeps one of her mugs here, right?" Silence. "You know her coffee order." Silence. "You know her favorite flowers." Silence. "You bought the tea she likes."
More silence.
Will pointed at him, “Ask her out."
The following evening, (y/n) returned home from another date with the accountant.
It had gone well enough. Not spectacularly. Not terribly. Just... fine.
Which was perhaps the problem.
She found Hannibal standing in the hallway. An unusual sight.
"Hannibal."
"(y/n)."
"Everything okay?" She asked. She could tell something was off with him.
"How was your evening?" He asked.
(y/n) blinked, and then she smiled. "It was good."
"What did you do?"
The question came quickly. Almost too quickly.
"We had dinner." (y/n) shrugged.
"Where?"
She laughed, "Why are you interrogating me?"
"I am making conversation."
"Sure."
The smile he gave her was entirely unconvincing. (y/n) found herself laughing again.
For the next ten minutes Hannibal somehow extracted every detail of the evening.
The restaurant.
The conversation.
The man.
The dessert.
By the end, (y/n) was beginning to suspect he had opinions.
Many opinions and most of them were negative. She found it oddly charming. When she finally disappeared into her apartment, Will stepped out of Hannibal's. Unfortunately.
"Hounding her for information now?" Will grinned.
"Hm."
"Ask her out." He said firmly.
Silence. Then: "Fine."
Will nearly dropped his coffee. "Wait."
Hannibal walked away. About twenty minutes later, he came back.
"Did that work?" Will practically jumped off the couch to talk to Hannibal.
The date happened three days later.
(y/n) expected something extravagant. A private restaurant. A reservation impossible to obtain. An eight-course meal.
Instead, Hannibal arrived carrying a picnic basket.
(y/n) stared, and then she laughed.
"What?" Hannibal asked.
"A picnic?" (y/n) grinned.
"You sound disappointed."
"No." She smiled. "Just surprised."
The park overlooked a small lake. Quiet. Peaceful. Exactly the sort of place (y/n) loved.
The realization made her pause. Because she had never told him that. At least not directly. Then again...
Maybe she had.
Months ago.
In passing.
The kind of detail most people forgot.
Hannibal never forgot.
The afternoon passed easily.
Conversation flowing the way it always had.
Comfortable.
Natural.
Simple.
(y/n) couldn't remember the last time she'd felt so relaxed on a date.
As the sun began lowering in the sky, they found themselves walking along the water.
Shoulders brushing occasionally.
Neither moving away.
"You know," (y/n) said.
"Hm?"
"I think this is the nicest date I've ever been on."
A smile touched his mouth. "Dangerous thing to tell a man."
"There it is." (y/n) smiled.
"What?"
"The flirting."
Hannibal looked amused. "I wasn't aware I was flirting."
"Liar." She hissed.
His eyes softened.
The look that followed made her stomach perform an embarrassing somersault.
"You are very beautiful when you're amused." Hannibal said softly.
(y/n) immediately forgot how words worked. Which was unfortunate.
Because she normally excelled at words. She helped children communicate for a living.
Yet somehow: "I—"
Nothing.
(y/n) cleared her throat. Tried again. Failed again.
Hannibal's smile widened. "Have I rendered you speechless?"
"No." A pause from her. "Maybe."
His laugh was low. Warm. Dangerously attractive.
(y/n) hated it. She loved it. Both things could be true.
By the end of the evening they stood outside her apartment door.
The hallway was quiet.
Bunny sat inside the window watching.
Judging.
As always.
Neither moved.
Neither seemed eager for the night to end.
(y/n) waited. And waited. And waited.
Nothing.
Hannibal remained perfectly composed.
Infuriatingly so.
Eventually realization dawned.
He wasn't going to make the first move.
For all his confidence, all his charm, all his smooth flirting...
He wasn't going to do it.
(y/n) rolled her eyes, then grabbed the front of his jacket.
"Hm?" He looked down into her eyes.
"Be quiet." And kissed him.
For perhaps the first time in his life, Hannibal Lecter looked genuinely surprised.
The sight alone was worth it.
When they finally separated, (y/n) smiled.
"There."
"There?" Hannibal blinked.
"You were taking too long." (y/n) shrugged.
A rare laugh escaped him. Soft. Genuine. Beautiful.
Then he leaned down and kissed her again. He gently cupped her cheek, his other hand tangling in her hair.
This time neither of them seemed particularly interested in stopping.
Somewhere inside the apartment, Bunny began meowing loudly.
Hi everyone! I am so sorry that it's been so long that I've posted anything. I've just had a lot of big life changes. I graduated from my master's program, got a job, and moved to a new state. I've been loving it, but getting adjusted has been a journey. I haven't been able to write or read as much as I would like, but I think I'm back on track and settled down. To make up for not posting as much, I have a long one for you. As always if you have any ideas, let me know, I'm always open to them. Please enjoy!
The white Jeep Wrangler rattled a little as it rolled down the gravel drive, tires crunching over stones that had probably been there longer than the vehicle itself. Tall trees crowded the narrow road, their branches arching overhead like they were inspecting the newcomer.
Will Graham watched from the porch of his cabin.
Every now and then, he would rent out the other cabin that was on his property. Over time, he would renovate it with things like marble countertops, an electric stove, a waterfall shower head. It was much too modern for his liking, so he lived in his own cabin, while the other one was rented out for weeks or months at a time.
A renter hadn’t stayed in the smaller cabin in almost three months. Usually the quiet suited him better than the extra money.
The Jeep finally came to a stop near the neighboring cabin. The engine shut off, and for a moment nothing happened.
Then the door swung open.
She stepped out with the kind of energy that immediately felt misplaced in Wolf Trap. Loud in the way color is loud against a gray sky. She stretched her arms above her head like she’d just escaped a long drive, hair bouncing around her shoulders. Her skin warmed by the late afternoon sun. Big eyes magnified slightly behind round glasses as she looked around the property like she was cataloging everything.
Will had expected someone quieter. Someone who came to the woods because they belonged there. And even without speaking a word to her, Will knew she didn’t belong to the woods.
She popped the back door open next, leaning halfway inside the Jeep.
“Brynn, you’re going to love it here,” she said, voice carrying across the clearing.
A gray British shorthair cat stared back at her from inside the carrier like it had been personally wronged by the concept of nature.
Will’s dogs noticed the Jeep before he did.
Buster lifted his head first, then Winston, then two more followed, drifting toward the edge of the yard with cautious curiosity.
The woman pulled the carrier out and balanced it on her hip.
“Okay,” she said to the cat. “We’re doing the woods thing now. Embrace the aesthetic.”
Will sighed quietly and stepped off the porch.
She noticed him halfway across the clearing and her face lit up instantly.
“Oh.” she called, waving like they already knew each other. “Hi!”
Will slowed slightly. Most people didn’t greet strangers in the woods like that. She walked toward him with the carrier tucked against her side.
“You must be Will Graham,” she said easily.
“Yes.”
“I’m (y/n). Well, technically the paperwork probably says something else, but (y/n) is easier.” She shifted the carrier slightly. “This is Brynn. She’s not outdoorsy, so this is going to be a whole journey for her.”
Inside the carrier, Brynn stared at Will with flat, unimpressed yellow eyes.
One of the dogs edged closer, and (y/n) immediately crouched.
“Oh my god,” she whispered like she’d just discovered treasure. “Hello.”
The dog hesitated. Her voice softened, the brightness dimming into something careful and patient. “It’s okay,” she murmured. “You don’t know me yet.” She slowly extended her hand, palm down.
The dog sniffed once, then leaned forward enough for her fingers to brush behind his ear. Her touch was gentle. Deliberate. Like she understood animals were conversations, not objects.
Will watched that for a moment longer than he meant to.
“Well,” she said, standing again with a grin, “if that’s the welcome committee, I feel pretty good about my decision.”
She shifted Brynn’s carrier again.
“I’m here to write. Or attempt to. We’ll see how that goes.”
Will nodded slightly. “What do you write?”
“Thrillers mostly. Crime stuff. Cold cases. Creepy things that probably say a lot about my mental health.” She laughed lightly like that wasn’t alarming. “Anyway,” she continued, “if my screaming becomes an issue, just assume it’s either writer frustration or Brynn seeing a leaf move wrong.”
Will glanced toward the cabin. “You’ll be fine here.”
“I figured. Quiet helps.” She paused, glancing around the woods again. “You’ve got a beautiful place.” Then she smiled again. It was bright and unfiltered. “Alright. I should probably let you get back to… whatever mysterious woods things you do.”
Will didn’t correct her. He just nodded once and turned back toward his cabin. Behind him, he heard her speaking softly to the cat again.
Three days passed before Will mentioned her to anyone.
He sat across from Alana Bloom at the small table in his kitchen, the afternoon light slanting across the wood.
She was midway through a cup of tea when she asked casually, “I heard you rented the cabin again.”
“Yes.”
“To who?”
Will hesitated a second. “(y/n) (l/n).”
Alana froze. The reaction was immediate enough that Will noticed.
“Did she use that name when she rented?” she asked carefully.
He frowned slightly. “No. But the other day she told me that was her real name. Said when she stays places, she uses a different name.”
Alana set her cup down slowly. “Are we talking about the same (y/n) who wrote the Cold Hollow series?”
Will stared at her. “I don’t know.”
“Will,” Alana let out a quiet laugh of disbelief.
He didn’t respond.
“She’s … extremely well known.” Alana said softly.
Will looked mildly concerned now. “I don’t read much fiction.”
“That’s obvious.” Alana leaned back slightly, still smiling. “Her books are everywhere.”
Will filed that information away without comment.
It was early afternoon when his phone rang a few days later. He answered it absently. “Graham.”
“Hi!” (y/n)’s voice sounded slightly breathless. “I promise I’m not a stalker or anything. You left your number in a notebook on the entrance table. Said to call if there are any problems."
Will waited.
She continued talking. “Okay so this might be a stupid request, but I want to start a fire.”
“Excuse me?” Will said slowly.
“In the fireplace,” (y/n) clarified quickly. “Not like … arson.”
“That’s good.”
“I just realized I have absolutely no idea how to do that.” There was a pause. “Could you maybe show me?”
About an hour later, the firewood was stacked neatly beside the hearth.
(y/n) knelt on the rug, watching like a student while Will crouched near the fireplace arranging the logs. Brynn sat on the arm of the couch nearby, tail wrapped neatly around her paws, watching him with quiet suspicion.
(y/n) rested her chin in her hand.
“So is there like … a science to this?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“I knew it.”
He struck the match. The flame caught the kindling slowly.
She leaned forward slightly, fascinated. “This is already more successful than my attempt.”
“You tried?” Will asked, alarmed that she even attempted to start a fire.
“Yes.”
“Without knowing how?"
“I believe in learning through failure.” She nodded thoughtfully.
The fire crackled softly as it grew. (y/n)’s eyes followed the flames like she was studying them. Then she started talking again. “So I’m stuck on this scene,” she said.
Will didn’t look up.
“A guy disappeared in the seventies,” she continued. “Small town, no witnesses, car left behind, cold case for decades.”
He adjusted one of the logs.
“And I keep thinking about motive,” she went on. “Like, what kind of person waits that long to get away with something?”
Will glanced at her briefly. Brynn’s yellow eyes followed the movement.
“Someone patient,” he said.
(y/n) tilted her head. “See, that’s interesting,” she said. “Because patience implies planning.”
A nose pushed gently against Will’s arm. One of his dogs had wandered inside unnoticed. (y/n)’s entire expression softened instantly.
“Oh hey,” she whispered. She reached down slowly, fingers brushing through the dog’s fur. “Hi sweetheart.” The dog leaned into her hand without hesitation. Will watched the way she scratched gently behind his ear. “You’re very polite,” she told the dog quietly.
Brynn observed this interaction like a skeptical supervisor. The fire cracked softly. (y/n) glanced back at Will.
“You know,” she said thoughtfully, “you have the energy of someone who knows a lot about crime.”
Will looked at her. “That’s a strange observation.”
She shrugged. “Occupational habit.” Then she grinned. “But hey, thanks for the fire lesson. I promise not to burn your property down.”
Morning light filtered through the kitchen window the following morning when Alana knocked on Will’s door.
Will opened it a moment later, hair still slightly damp from the shower and one of his dogs hovering curiously behind his legs. Alana held something under her arm.
“I brought you something,” she said.
Will stepped aside to let her in. She placed the book on the kitchen table. The cover showed a quiet stretch of woods and a single road disappearing into the distance.
Will glanced down at it.
The author's name sat in neat lettering across the top.
(y/n) (l/n)
“You should read it,” Alana said.
Will looked back up at her. “I don’t read much fiction.”
“This isn’t really fiction.”
He frowned slightly. “That’s the problem.”
Alana tapped the cover. “She writes crime thrillers. Cold cases, missing persons, long investigations.” She paused. “And she’s disturbingly good at it.”
Will pulled out a chair and sat down slowly.
“You know the woman renting the cabin next to you?” Alana continued. “She’s sold millions of copies.”
He stared at the cover again. “She didn’t mention that.”
“Of course she didn’t.” Alana smiled faintly. “Just read it and tell me what you think.”
Will didn’t plan on finishing the book that night. He sat on the couch with one of the dogs resting against his leg and opened the first page mostly out of curiosity. Two hours later he was still reading. The house had gone quiet around him. Outside, the woods settled into darkness.
The writing wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t dramatic. It was precise. The story followed a decades-old disappearance in a rural town. A man gone without explanation. A case that had slowly rotted in a police file.
But the unsettling part wasn’t the mystery. It was the psychology. The killer in the story wasn’t written like a monster. He was written like a person. Patient. Observant. Methodical.
Will leaned back slowly as he finished the final chapter sometime after midnight. The book rested loosely in his hands.
She understood something most people didn’t. The way criminals thought. The way they justified themselves. It wasn’t guesswork. It felt like observation.
Will set the book down beside him. Across the clearing, a light glowed in the window of the neighboring cabin.
She was still awake.
Three evenings later, a knock sounded on Will’s door.
He opened it to find (y/n) standing there holding a pot.
“Hi,” she said brightly. Steam curled from the container. “I made too much chili.”
Will glanced at the pot. Then at her.
“I thought you might want some. Homemade cornbread too.”
He stepped aside to let her in and the dogs greeted her immediately.
“Oh hello again,” she said, crouching to scratch one of them behind the ears.
Brynn had apparently not joined her. The smell of chili filled the kitchen as she set the pot on the counter.
“Comfort food,” she explained. “Writer rule. If you’re frustrated, feed someone.”
Will handed her a bowl. They sat across from each other at the small kitchen table. For a few minutes they ate quietly.
(y/n) leaned back slightly in her chair. “So,” she said casually, “what do you actually do?”
Will looked up.“For work?” He asked.
“Yeah.” She gestured vaguely with her spoon. “I’ve noticed you come home really late sometimes.”
He didn’t answer immediately.
“And once,” she continued thoughtfully, “you were covered in blood.”
Will blinked once.
“That sounded accusatory,” she lifted a hand quickly. “I didn’t mean it like that.” She smiled sheepishly. “I write about crime. I notice things.”
Will considered that. “I consult for the FBI.”
(y/n)’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Oh.” There was a small pause. “That … makes a lot of sense actually.” She leaned forward slightly now, suddenly interested. “So you profile people?” She curiously asked.
“Yes.”
Her eyes lit up behind her glasses. “That is incredibly helpful to know.”
Over the next few days, (y/n) began appearing more often.
Sometimes with coffee. Sometimes just leaning against the porch railing while Will fed the dogs. The conversations were strange. Not uncomfortable. Just … specific.
“What kind of childhood produces someone patient enough to commit a crime thirty years later?” she asked one afternoon.
Will glanced at her. “Neglect. Obsession. Long memory.”
She nodded thoughtfully, tucking the answer away.
Another day she asked, “Do killers usually revisit places connected to the crime?”
“Sometimes.”
“Why?”
“Control.”
She hummed thoughtfully and scribbled something down in a small notebook. Will watched her for a moment.
“You’re writing again.” He noted.
“I’m always writing.” She looked up suddenly. “Does that bother you?”
“No.”
She smiled slightly. “Good.”
A pause passed between them. Then she tilted her head slightly.
“You’re interesting, Will.”
“I’m not.” He frowned faintly.
“You are.” She studied him like a puzzle she hadn’t finished solving yet.
Will had the strange feeling she was analyzing him. Not intentionally.
But still.
A week later, Will stepped outside just as evening settled over the trees.
A light glowed in (y/n)’s bathroom window. He wasn’t paying attention at first. Then movement caught his eye.
Through the half-open curtain he caught a brief glimpse of her stepping into the bathroom, hair pinned loosely on top of her head. She disappeared a moment later, the sound of water starting. Will immediately looked away. The woods felt quieter after that.
The next afternoon (y/n) leaned against the porch railing while Will worked on repairing a loose board.
“You’re very quiet,” she said.
Will glanced up briefly. “I talk when necessary.”
“That’s mysterious.”
“It’s not.”
She tilted her head slightly.
“You know,” she said casually, “most people would notice when someone is flirting with them.”
Will paused.
Then looked at her. “You’re flirting with me?”
She laughed softly. “See? That’s what I mean. I’ve been trying for weeks.”
The power went out just after midnight two nights later. Will noticed when the lights flickered once, then died completely. The house fell into darkness. He checked the breaker box.
Nothing.
Outside, the neighboring cabin still glowed with warm yellow light. Since (y/n)’s place had clearly been updated, there was nothing wrong with its power. Will hesitated for a moment. Then he walked across the clearing and knocked. The door opened a second later.
She stood there wearing loose sleep pants and an oversized sweater. Her hair was slightly messy like she’d been up writing.
“Oh hey,” she said. Then she noticed the darkness behind him. “Power out?”
“Yes.”
She stepped aside immediately. “Come in. I don’t think I’m allowed to say no because this is your place.”
Brynn sat on the back of the couch watching the scene unfold like a tiny gray judge.
(y/n) smiled faintly as Will stepped inside.
“Well,” she said, “I guess the woods decided you’re having a sleepover.”
A few days passed before Alana noticed the difference.
It happened in Will’s kitchen again, the late afternoon sun stretching across the table between them.
They were discussing a case. At least, they had been.
Alana had asked a simple question about behavioral patterns, and Will had answered, but then he’d paused halfway through his explanation.
“She writes about that,” he said suddenly.
“Who does?” Alana asked.
Will didn’t seem to realize he’d said it out loud.
“(y/n).”
Alana leaned back slightly, studying him. “You’ve been spending time with her.”
“She asks questions.” Will shrugged. “Good questions.”
“And you answer them.”
“Yes.”
Alana watched him for another moment.
He seemed … lighter. Less withdrawn in the way he normally was when discussing criminal psychology.
“You like her,” Alana said simply.
Will looked up immediately. “No.”
Alana smiled slightly. “You talk about her differently.”
“I don’t.”
“You do.”
“She’s observant,” he said. “And her writing is accurate.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Will didn’t respond.
Alana stood, collecting her bag. “Just be careful,” she said gently.
“About what?” Will tilted his head slightly.
Alana only smiled. “About writers.”
The following afternoon, Will walked across the clearing toward (y/n)’s cabin.
She had mentioned earlier that one of the porch steps felt loose. He figured he could fix it quickly. The door wasn’t locked. He knocked once before stepping inside.
“Hello?”
No answer.
Brynn appeared on the arm of the couch, staring at him like she had expected him.
“Hello,” Will said quietly. The cat blinked slowly. He stepped out onto the porch and tightened the loose board with a few tools he’d brought.
The repair took less than ten minutes. When he stepped back inside to wash his hands, something caught his attention. A stack of papers sat on the coffee table.
Typed pages. A manuscript.
Will hesitated. Then he noticed a line near the top.
Chapter Eight.
Curiosity tugged slightly at him. He picked up the first page. The scene opened with a quiet man who lived alone in the woods. Someone observant. Someone who understood people too well. The description was subtle, but the similarities grew clearer as he read. The character consulted on violent crimes. He had an unusual ability to empathize with killers. He struggled with isolation.
Will lowered the pages slightly. The protagonist wasn’t just inspired by him. It was him. The door opened behind him.
“Oh—” (y/n) stopped in the doorway. Her eyes moved from Will to the pages in his hands. “Oh no.”
Will set the manuscript down slowly. “You wrote about me.” It wasn't a question.
(y/n) winced slightly. “That sounds worse than it is.”
“You didn’t ask.”
“I didn’t think you’d read it.” She stammered. “And it’s not like I used your name or anything. It’s not exactly you. Just … inspired by you.’ She stepped inside, closing the door behind her.
Will watched her carefully. “You profiled me.”
“I observe people. It’s my job.” Her voice softened slightly. “You’re fascinating, Will.”
The room felt suddenly smaller. He took a step closer. “You analyzed me.”
“Not analyzed.” She hesitated. “Studied.”
“That’s worse.” Will grumbled.
“You profile killers for a living, Will. You can’t really be shocked when someone profiles you back.”
He stopped only a few feet away now.
“You wrote that the character understands darkness.”
“You do.” She said softly.
Their eyes held for a moment longer than either of them expected. She shifted slightly, a little uneasy. “You’re not mad,” she said quietly.
“No.”
“Good.”
There was a small pause. Then she added, almost teasingly, “You’ve also been watching my windows.”
“Of course I noticed.” Her voice had dropped softer now. “Writers notice everything.”
They were standing very close now. (y/n) looked up at him through her glasses, eyes wide but steady. “You know,” she murmured, “most people would be a little more alarmed by a writer turning them into a fictional character.”
Will’s voice was quieter now too. “Most people don’t understand what you wrote.”
“And you do?”
“Yes.”
“Okay,” she whispered.
Neither of them moved for a moment. Then Will reached out slowly, brushing a stray piece of hair away from her face. The touch was tentative. (y/n) didn’t pull away. In fact, she stepped closer.
“Will,” she murmured.
He kissed her before he could think too hard about it.
It started slow.
Careful.
But (y/n) kissed him back immediately, her hand sliding up to the collar of his shirt as if she’d been waiting for him to figure it out.
The tension that had been building between them for weeks finally snapped into something warmer.
Will pulled back slightly, studying her expression. She was smiling.
“See?” she said softly. “You’re not as mysterious as you think.”
He leaned down and kissed her again.
Brynn watched the entire scene from the couch like a silent witness.
A few weeks passed in a rhythm neither of them acknowledged out loud. Will would find excuses to walk across the clearing. Sometimes he fixed something that didn’t really need fixing. Sometimes he just showed up.
(y/n) started bringing food more often. Soup once. Cookies another night. A pot pie that Will suspected had taken hours to make.
They’d sit at the small kitchen table or on her couch while Brynn monitored the situation from a nearby surface. They talked about writing. They talked about cases. They talked about things that were almost personal, but never quite crossed the line.
They never kissed again.
The tension lived quietly between them, like a second conversation neither one of them knew how to start.
One Saturday morning, (y/n) knocked on Will’s door. He opened it to find her standing there in a simple graphic tee and jeans.
“Do you like vegetables?” she asked.
Will blinked once. “Yes.”
“Great.”
She pointed toward the clearing where her Jeep sat waiting.
“You’re coming with me.”
The farmers market was busier than Will expected. Rows of small tents lined the street. People moved between tables filled with fresh produce, baked goods, and jars of honey.
(y/n) walked easily through the crowd, greeting vendors like she’d been there before. Will followed slightly behind her, hands in his pockets. He was used to observing people. What he wasn’t used to was watching her in a place that wasn’t quiet woods and dim cabin light. She was… different. Brighter somehow. More animated.
“Hi,” someone suddenly said. A woman holding a paperback book stepped closer. Her eyes lit up when she looked at (y/n). “Oh my god,” she said. “You’re (y/n) (l/n), right?”
She smiled warmly. “I am.”
“I loved Cold Hollow,” the woman said quickly. “The ending completely wrecked me.”
(y/n) laughed softly. “That was the goal.”
Will stood quietly nearby while they talked. The woman asked questions about characters, about the next book, about where she got her ideas. (y/n) answered every one of them with easy enthusiasm.
She looked completely comfortable.
Completely at home.
Another reader approached.
Then another.
Someone asked for a picture.
Someone else asked her to sign a book.
Will watched the whole thing unfold.
He’d known she was successful.
He hadn’t realized what that actually looked like.
The woman who had first approached them glanced toward Will suddenly. Her smile turned slightly curious.
“Is he your boyfriend?” she asked (y/n).
(y/n) looked over at Will.
Then she shook her head lightly. “No,” she said. “He’s my neighbor.”
The woman nodded easily and turned back to (y/n).
But something in Will’s chest shifted slightly. A feeling he couldn’t immediately name.
They walked through the rest of the market with a bag full of vegetables (y/n) insisted she needed. Will carried it without comment. He was quieter now.
They reached the edge of the street where her Jeep was parked.
Will finally spoke. “Why did you say that?”
She looked over at him. “Say what?”
“That I’m not your boyfriend.”
“Well … you’re not.” She blinked, confused.
Will looked ahead at the road for a moment. “I know.”
(y/n) frowned slightly. “You asked like it bothered you.” He didn’t answer right away. She studied his face. “Will?”
“We kissed,” he said. He shifted slightly, clearly trying to organize his thoughts.
“Yes.”
“And then we continued seeing each other.”
She nodded slowly.
“But you don’t consider that… something.”
(y/n) tilted her head. “Will, we kissed one time.”
He looked at her then. “Twice." He corrected.
“That doesn’t automatically make someone your boyfriend.” She let out a small laugh.
Will absorbed that. His expression didn’t change much, but (y/n) could see the gears turning behind his eyes.
Finally he said quietly, “I don’t want you to see anyone else.”
“That was very direct.” She said flatly.
“I’m trying.”
She leaned lightly against the side of the Jeep, arms folding loosely. “Why?”
Will looked at her for a long moment. The market noise drifted around them, distant and unimportant. “Because,” he said slowly, “over the past few months I’ve grown… fond of you.”
“Fond?” She smiled softly.
“Yes.”
“That’s your big confession?”
Will considered that. “I like spending time with you,” he said. “You’re intelligent. Observant.”
“And?” (y/n) raised an eyebrow.
He hesitated again. “You’re kind to my dogs.”
“That feels like the real reason,” she laughed.
“It’s important.”
(y/n) studied him for another moment. Then she stepped closer. “You know,” she said softly, “most people would just say they like someone.”
“I like you.”
She smiled. “That’s better.”
There was a quiet moment between them.
Then (y/n) reached for his hand. “Well,” she said, squeezing it lightly, “for the record…”
Will looked at her.
“I wouldn’t mind if you were my boyfriend.”
Will nodded once, as if that resolved something important. “Okay.”
(y/n) laughed again. “Okay?”
“Yes.”
She shook her head fondly.
“You are unbelievable.”
Brynn watched them from the Jeep window, unimpressed as always.
This is the final part of this series. If you have any series ideas or any ideas in general, please let me know. I've had a ton of fun writing this and I hope you all have enjoyed it.
It was an elegant affair, hosted in the sprawling glass-and-steel conservatory of the Reynolds Foundation. It was a place where money glittered in every champagne flute and the air smelled faintly of orchids and polished floors.
A friend of Richard's was hosting a brunch. Nothing over the top, just something where people with a ton of money got together for a fancy breakfast.
(Y/N) looked stunning in her pale blue midi dress. Her hair had been swept up, gold jewelry at her throat. She laughed gently at someone’s joke, one hand resting lightly on Lyla’s head.
Will stood not far, talking with Jack. Richard mingled nearby with a senator and an ambassador’s wife. His eyes always flicked back to his daughter.
Security was tight. Every exit manned. Guests vetted.
There was no reason to be on edge. And yet. One second she was there. The next—
She wasn’t.
Will noticed first.
His eyes scanned the crowd automatically. The blue dress was gone. Lyla stood alert, ears twitching, but didn’t bark.
He started moving. Calm at first. Lyla immediately followed him.
“Jack,” he said tightly, “Where’s (Y/N)?”
“What?” Jack turned.
“She was just by the fountain—she was just right—” Will’s voice was rising. His heart was already in his throat. “She’s gone Jack.”
Chaos bloomed. People were checked. The building was locked down. No alarms had gone off. No one saw her leave.
Will’s hands shook as he grabbed a passing agent. “Get surveillance footage, anything you can. Check the damn floors, the staff, everyone.”
Jack was barking orders. Richard looked like he’d been punched in the chest. Lyla was growling now, circling, nose low to the ground.
A tray clattered to the floor. Someone screamed.
Someone else asked, “Didn’t she just walk past the orchids?”
But no one saw anything. At least not clear enough to make an official statement. It was like she’d vanished. Like thin air had opened its hands and swallowed her whole. And for Will, it felt like he couldn’t breathe.
No one was okay.
That same afternoon, the conference room at the BAU had become a war room. There were laptops open, phones ringing, walls papered with security stills and maps. Agents filtered in and out, hushed and tight-faced. The lights were too bright, the air too still.
Will sat in the far corner, fists clenched on his knees, staring at the grainy surveillance footage. His jaw was locked so tight it hurt.
She’d just disappeared.
No struggle. No sign of panic. One minute she was standing beside a flower arrangement, and the next she was simply gone.
He hadn’t even said goodbye. He hadn’t kissed her that morning. He hadn’t protected her.
Footsteps. Sharp, deliberate. Will looked up, expecting fury. But Richard Sullivan wasn’t angry.
He was wrecked.
Still composed, somehow, in the way only men trained by legacy and control could be, but his eyes were glassy, shoulders tight.
Will stood automatically.
“I’m—” he started, but Richard lifted a hand.
“This isn’t your fault,” Richard said quietly. “I don't need you to apologize Will. I don’t blame you.”
Will blinked. “You should.”
“I won’t.” Richard stepped closer. “There was no way to anticipate this. Not with the level of security we had. No forced entry. No tripped alarms. It was a small event. Nobody even knew it was happening besides the people who had been invited.”
He exhaled slowly, voice lower.
“This had to come from the inside. Someone’s been watching. Listening. Maybe longer than we realized.”
Will’s mouth was dry. His voice broke on the words. “She trusted me.”
Richard didn’t flinch. “And she was right to.”
Before Will could respond, a shrill ring cut through the silence.
Everyone froze.
Jack answered the phone on speaker, standing in the center of the room.
“This is Jack Crawford.”
A man’s voice filtered through the speaker. Calm. Unhurried.
“I need to speak with Richard Sullivan.”
Richard stepped forward, jaw tight. “I’m here.”
A pause.
“You have a very brave daughter.”
Will surged forward, but Jack held a hand up.
“I don’t care who you are,” Richard said. “Tell me what you want. I’ll give it to you.”
The voice hummed, almost amused. “We already have what we want.”
Will’s heart stopped and his knees nearly buckled.
Alana was by his side in an instant, grounding him with a hand on his back.
“She’s fine,” the voice said smoothly, as if that was enough. “She’s a fighter. I can see where she gets it.”
Richard’s breath caught. “Then tell me. Tell me what this is about.”
Another pause. Then: “You’re preparing to announce your support for the International Transparency Bill, correct? The one that forces private political donors to reveal foreign investments?”
Richard’s brow furrowed. “Yes.”
“We don’t want you to support it. That’s it.”
Richard froze.
“We’ve tried other ways. Letters. Threats. Your security got tighter, so we got smarter.”
“You’re doing this over a vote?”
“A very public vote. One that will impact a great deal of very powerful people.”
Richard’s voice cracked. “I’ll drop the bill. I’ll make a statement.”
“Maybe,” the voice said. “But first, prove to me you’ll follow through.”
“I said I would—”
Jack stepped in, voice sharp. “We need proof of life before anything moves forward.”
Silence.
(Y/N)’s voice came through, faint but clear.
“I’m okay, Dad. Don’t do anything stupid.”
Will’s head snapped up.
“I mean it,” she said. “I’m fine. But my dress is ruined. It was the custom Sherri Hill one. The one mom helped me design so I’m pissed.”
Richard made a strangled noise that was half-laugh, half-sob.
(Y/N) continued, “Also, how’s Lyla?”
The man’s voice returned. Calm. Pleased.
“You have your proof. I’ll consider your offer, Richard. Keep your phone close.”
Click.
The line went dead.
Will stared at the phone, pulse roaring in his ears.
(Y/N) was alive. But she wasn’t safe. Not yet.
And someone inside the Bureau had helped make that happen.
Five day later, Richard Sullivan was pacing the bullpen of the building. Everyone was too scared to approach him. It was clear that he hadn't eaten or slept since his daughter had been taken right from under his nose.
The sleeves of his dress shirt were rolled, his tie loosened, the lines under his eyes deeper than anyone had ever seen.
“I’m calling the number again,” he said, gripping his phone.
Jack stepped in, voice low but firm. “No. That’s exactly what they want. They're looking for a panic response. We wait for them to come to us.”
“I’ve been waiting.” Richard’s voice cracked. “She’s been gone for five damn days.”
Silence stretched through the war room. Nobody knew what to do at this point. How to help. At some point during the third day, Will had to be removed from the room because he was completely unraveling.
He sat alone in the break room, elbows on the table, untouched coffee cooling by his hand. His hair was a mess. His shirt rumpled.
He stared at the table like it had answers he couldn’t see.
He wasn’t allowed in the room anymore. Not with the way he’d been snapping. Not with the way he’d nearly choked an agent who suggested (Y/N) might’ve run away on her own.
The only thing that made him move at all was Lyla. She sat under his chair like she was grieving too.
The phone rang.
Everyone froze.
Jack answered again, hitting speaker.
“I assume the offer still stands,” the same distorted voice said. “This time, we want cash. Offshore account. Large, untraceable.”
Richard stepped in. “How much?”
The man gave a number that made everyone’s eyebrows lift.
“I’ll pay it,” Richard said instantly. “I don’t care what it takes.”
Jack cut in, “Not until we hear from her again.”
A pause. And then her voice.
“Hey, Dad. And I’m assuming Jack is there too, so hello.”
It was hoarse. Fragile. But her.
Will burst into the room. No one had to call him, he just felt it in his chest. “I’m here.”
“Hey, Will,” she whispered. “Are you still being broody and standoffish?”
A breathless, broken joke. But it was her.
Richard clutched the edge of the table so hard his knuckles went white.
“(Y/N),” Will said, swallowing hard, “Are you—”
“I’m okay,” she said. “Well. Not okay okay. But I mean, it could always be worse.”
Tears slipped from Will’s eyes.
Behind them, one of the agent's screens flashed. “We’ve got a bounce point. North of Winchester. Industrial park. Looks abandoned but it’s not.”
“Move,” Jack said. “Everyone, now.”
She didn’t know where she was.
Concrete walls. Metal chair. No windows. There had been a mattress at first, but they took it away after she tried to block the camera. The lights stayed on 24 hours a day. Cold. White. Endless.
At first, they were kind.
They fed her. Spoke to her like she was a guest. But then she didn’t cooperate. And things got worse.
They weren’t physical toward her, at least not yet, but the threat hovered. Instead they controlled everything else. No food yesterday. No hot water. No clean clothes. No answers.
She wrapped her arms tighter around herself.
She missed Lyla’s warmth at her side. She missed Will’s rough voice in the mornings. Her eyes stung.
But deep in her chest, buried beneath fear and hunger and exhaustion, something stayed lit.
Will was coming. He had to be. The sound of boots came first.
Voices. Shouts. A door kicked in.
She blinked hard against the bright lights. The sudden chaos made her flinch, but someone shouted her name.
“(Y/N)!”
She turned. Will. Eyes locked on her.
“Will—” she started to stand, but her legs gave out.
He crossed the room in seconds, catching her before she hit the ground. Wrapping her up. Holding her like she was the only thing that mattered.
She sobbed against his shoulder, body trembling.
“I knew,” she whispered. “I knew you’d come. I told them you were coming.”
He said nothing, just buried his face in her hair, shaking, clutching her like if he let go, she’d vanish again.
Outside, Jack helped Richard from the car.
And when Richard saw her, disheveled, pale, wrapped up in Will’s arms but alive, he didn’t try to hold the tears back.
Lyla cried too, loud and high-pitched until (Y/N) reached for her.
"Hi baby," she whispered kneeling down beside her.
The reunion was chaos. There were tears, hugs, breathless apologies and through it all, Will never let go. Not once.
At the Bureau, she sat in the glass interview room, shoulders tense but her chin high. She wore clothes that Richard managed to swing by her house and grab, a blanket wrapped around her. She was in an oversized deep navy sweater and leggings. Jack, Hannibal, Alana, and Will watch from the other side of the one-way glass.
She spoke clearly and honestly while Richard held her hand and she gave her statement.
"They were kind. At first. I think they thought I’d come around. Thought I’d convince my father quietly. It was a man from the brunch. He asked me to come see something. I thought I recognized him. I followed. Then I don’t remember much. They didn’t hurt me, at least not like that. But they made sure I knew I was powerless."
When it was done, she looked toward the mirror, knowing they’re behind it.
“We need to take you to the hospital now (y/n).” Alana said gently stepping into the room.
"They didn't hurt me." (y/n) told her. The last thing she wanted was to go to the hospital and answer more questions.
"I understand," Alana nodded. "But we need to check for more than broken bones, sweetheart."
The silence was deafening.
Richard instantly grabbed (y/n)'s hand again. Will paled, swaying slightly, looking a little sick.
(Y/N), shaken but steady, said, “They didn’t touch me. Not like that. I swear. Please believe me Alana. I would’ve told you.”
Alana squeezed her hand. “I do believe you. But this is about protecting your future. Your mind. Your power.”
They go and afterward (y/n) sleeps for 24 hours straight.
Will doesn’t move. He sits beside her bed with his hoodie on, hair messy, face hollowed with guilt and exhaustion. He listens to her breathe. He watches her dream.
At one point Richard says, “You can rest, Will. I’ve got her now.”
Will shakes his head.
“No,” he says softly. “You trusted me once. I’m not walking away now.”
By the time (Y/N) stirs, the world already knows exactly what had happened.
“Sullivan Heiress Kidnapped Under FBI Protection — Who’s to Blame?” - Critics slam the Bureau’s top profiler after high-profile security failure.
“FBI Profiler or Forbidden Lover? Questions Swirl Around Will Graham’s Role in Heiress Abduction”- An agent’s personal ties are now under investigation.
“Too Close to Protect: Bodyguard’s Affair with Political Royalty Ends in Kidnapping” - Experts say the lines were blurred—and so were the consequences.
“Agent or Accomplice? Public Trust in BAU Shaken After High-Profile Kidnapping” - Richard Sullivan remains silent as scrutiny mounts.
Will sat on the couch, scrolling silently through the news feed. His jaw clenched with each headline. They were worse today, meaner and messier. The kind of stories that blurred truth with suggestion just enough to make it believable.
(Y/N) looked up from her place on the other end of the couch. Her laptop was still open, but she hadn’t read anything on the screen in the last ten minutes.
“Will,” she said quietly, “stop reading that.”
He didn’t.
“It doesn’t help,” she added. “It just makes it worse.”
Will’s thumb paused on one article.
“Sleeping on the Job? Or Should We Say Sleeping with the Job? Will Graham's Emotional Involvement Blamed for Heiress' Abduction” - Insiders allege protection became personal long before the incident.
He scoffed under his breath, but before he could close the screen, (Y/N) caught a glimpse and laughed, an actual laugh, small and hoarse.
“That one’s funny,” she said, grinning just a little. “I mean how do you come up with "Sleeping on the Job? Or Should We Say Sleeping with the Job?" That's probably the best one I’ve seen all day.”
Will turned slowly, eyebrows drawn. “You think that’s funny?”
She blinked. “I mean… a little? I was kidnapped. I’m allowed to have a sense of humor.”
He didn’t smile. Just stared at her like he didn’t know how she was still breathing under the weight of it all.
“How did you live like this?” he asked. “The press. The pressure. The people staring.”
She shrugged, still half-laughing. “Panic attacks.”
He didn’t think that was funny either.
Her smile faded a little. She reached out, brushing her lips against his cheek.
“I don’t blame you,” she said, soft and certain. “Not even a little.”
Before Will could say anything back, Richard appeared in the doorway, arms crossed, exhaustion stamped across his face.
“Okay,” he said. “Enough of this brooding, silent, love-stricken nonsense.”
(Y/N) sat up. “Excuse me?”
“You two are miserable,” Richard said plainly. “I’m miserable just watching it. You need to figure it out. Talk. Fight. Make out. I don’t care. But do something. Because I’m too old to witness this much emotional constipation.”
Will blinked. “I—”
Richard pointed at him. “Not a word, Agent Graham.”
(Y/N) stifled a laugh and raised a brow. “Well, since we’re talking about doing things—”
Richard groaned. “Why do I already regret this?”
“I want to do an interview.”
He stared at her. “No.”
“Dad—”
“Absolutely not.”
She stood, suddenly serious. “People think this is Will’s fault. That he was distracted. That he was unprofessional. That he let me get taken. He didn’t. He’s the reason I’m alive. And I’m going to say that on record.”
Richard didn’t respond at first. He looked at her, really looked at her, the strength in her spine, the steadiness behind her eyes.
“If you do this,” he said finally, “I pick the network. Someone I trust.”
“Done.”
“And therapy gets bumped to three times a week.”
(Y/N) groaned. “You’re impossible.”
“Non-negotiable.”
She nodded. “Fine.”
Will said nothing. But the look in his eyes said everything.
Two weeks later, (y/n) sat across from a talk show hosts. Someone that everyone knew. The studio lights were too bright, but (Y/N) didn’t flinch. She wore soft blue and Will knew it was for him. It was his favorite color on her. He hair had been pulled back in a low, elegant twist. There were flowers on the coffee table, tea in her hand. She looked calm. Unshakeable.
Will watched from the living room in Virginia, the remote loose in his hand. Alana sat beside him on the couch, trying not to smirk.
“She’s terrifying,” she said. “In the best way.”
Will didn’t respond.
Onscreen, the interview began.
The host, polished and sympathetic, opened gently.
“Thank you for being here, Miss Sullivan. First, how are you?”
(Y/N) smiled faintly. “I’m doing okay. Everything has been really hard, but I'm managing.”
“You’ve received an outpouring of support over the past few weeks. But there’s also been a lot of speculation.”
She nodded. “That’s one word for it.”
“Would you like to clear anything up?”
(Y/N)’s smile sharpened. “Yes. First of all, I was never left alone. I wasn’t taken because of some lapse in security. This was planned. Coordinated. And the person assigned to protect me, Will Graham, did his job better than anyone else could have.”
The host tilted her head. “I'm assuming you know this, but there are rumors about the two of you. That it became something more than just protection.”
(Y/N) paused. Then said clearly, “I fell in love with him.”
Will blinked hard.
The interviewer leaned forward. “Can you tell us what happened?”
“I think it’s easy to look at someone like me, someone from a political family, with money and influence, and assume I’m untouchable. But I’m not. I’m human. I was scared. And Will made me feel safe. Seen.”
The host waited. Then asked, “Do you regret falling for someone in the middle of all of this?”
(Y/N) shook her head slowly. “Not even for a second.”
Will swallowed hard, still staring at the screen.
“She’s gonna break you,” Alana said softly, smiling.
“She already did,” Will whispered.
After the interview, Will’s phone wouldn’t stop ringing.
Beverly. Jack. Hannibal. Richard.
All of them. Calling, texting, leaving voicemails.
But none of them were her.
He was sitting on the edge of his bed, still wearing the hoodie he shouldn’t be wearing in July, the one that smelled vaguely like her perfume because she always stole it.
Lyla paced the hallway like she could feel the static in the air too.
And then his phone finally lit up.
(Y/N) Sullivan Calling
He answered before the first ring finished.
“I love you.”
It was immediate. Unfiltered. As easy as breathing.
There was a pause. Then:
She giggled. “You didn’t even say hi.”
“Didn’t need to.” He leaned back, eyes fluttering shut.
“Say it again,” she whispered.
“I love you.”
“I like hearing you say it.”
“I’ll say it as many times as you want.”
She was quiet for a second, and then said softly, “I’m coming home.”
“Good,” Will said. “I’ll be waiting at the airport.”
A few hours later, she came off the plane in soft linen and dark sunglasses, hair in a braid over her shoulder. People stared. Of course they did.
But she didn’t look at anyone else.
Just Will.
He was waiting in the corner, awkward and beautiful, holding her favorite drink and a small bouquet he picked up from a street vendor outside.
“You’re ridiculous,” she said, smiling so wide it hurt.
“You made cookies,” he said back. “I had to match your energy.”
She threw her arms around him and he dropped everything to catch her. The coffee and the flowers, gone. She kissed him right there in front of half the terminal, and he let her.
When she pulled back, she was crying a little.
“Don’t do that,” he whispered, brushing his thumb under her eye.
“I missed you.”
“I missed you too.”
She sniffled, then smiled. “Want to come home with me?”
He looked at her like she was the only thing in the universe.
I hope everyone has been enjoying everything so far. With the way things are going, I think the next part will be the last one. I've enjoyed writing this so if you have any other ideas, please don't hesitate to let me know. Just a little warning this is where things get sexual, smutty, however you want to say it. But yeah, enjoy!
The sun dipped low behind the pine trees, casting soft, golden light across the lake. A gentle breeze rustled the trees, cool but not cold. (Y/N) sat cross-legged on a lounge chair on the balcony.
Her laptop perched on a thin pillow, her fingers dancing across the keys.
Right beside her, Lyla slept in a patch of sunlight.
Will leaned against the doorframe, watching her in silence for a moment before he finally spoke. Softly, so he didn't startle her.
“Hey, dinner is ready.”
She looked up, eyes blinking like she’d forgotten time existed.
“Oh.” She closed the laptop and stood, stretching. “Thank you.”
She followed him into the kitchen, barefoot and warm from the sun, her hair tied loosely on top of her head. Lyla followed.
The food was good.
But the silence between them was not.
Both of them sat there, trying to chew like nothing had happened hours before.
Like she hadn’t kissed him.
Like he hadn’t kissed her back.
Like she hadn’t nearly unbuckled his belt before he told her exactly what he wanted to do to her.
(Y/N) pushed a piece of chicken around her plate. “I think I'm going to make cookies again.”
Will nodded, eyes on his food. “Okay.”
The oven timer ticked down in the background. Will sat on the couch, book in hand, pretending to read. (Y/N) came in quietly, padding across the hardwood. She sat down beside him.
Her thigh pressed against his. Will’s eyes flicked toward her, cautious.
She started playing with his hair. Running her fingers through it.
Slow. Easy. Dangerous.
He closed his eyes leaning into her touch.
“Careful (y/n),” he said quietly.
She smiled a little, brushing a curl away from his forehead. “Do you really mean what you said earlier?”
He didn’t answer right away.
Then, so soft it was barely audible, he said, “We can’t do this.”
That sentence landed like glass shattering between them.
She pulled back slightly, blinking. “Seriously?”
Will stared at the ceiling, jaw tight.
(Y/N) stood, her arms crossed, glare sharp. “You can’t just say all those things to me and then take them away.”
He didn’t look at her.
She stepped back, pacing now, like she had to keep moving or she’d combust.
“You kissed me back. You told me what you’d do to me. You wanted me.”
Still, Will said nothing.
“Jesus, Will,” she scoffed, voice rising. “What the hell do you think this is? You think I throw myself at every guy who protects me?”
“No,” he said softly. "Yes, I kissed you back and yes I wanted, no want you, but we can't do this."
“This isn’t just protection, and you know it,” she snapped.
He closed his eyes as if he was trying to figure out the words to say.
“Unless that was just another lie you told so I’d shut up and behave.” She laughed, sharp and bitter.
Will finally looked at her.
His voice was low. “I’m doing my job.”
She stared at him like he’d slapped her.
“Right,” she said. “I understand that, Will. Even though you made it very clear that this wasn’t just a job for you.”
He flinched.
Her arms dropped to her sides. “The contract doesn’t say you can’t fuck me and still do your job.”
Will’s breath caught. He didn’t speak for a full five seconds.
Then—
“It does,” he mumbled.
(Y/N) blinked. “What?”
“It does,” he repeated. “Not in the exact words you just used. But yeah, it does. Something about professionalism.”
She just looked at him.
For a long, long moment.
And then turned and left the room.
That night Will couldn’t sleep. Neither could she.
The silence of the cabin felt too loud. Too hollow. Like everything that wasn’t said earlier echoed down the hall.
He was still awake when she padded softly into his room.
She didn’t say anything.
She didn’t have to.
Will lifted the blanket without a word.
She slid into bed beside him, curling against his side like she’d done it a thousand times before. One hand pressed flat to his chest. Her forehead tucked under his jaw.
Her voice came quietly. Fragile.
“I hate sleeping alone.”
Will closed his eyes.
His arm wrapped around her, slow and careful.
“I’m not used to people staying.” He said.
He rubbed slow circles into her back.
She shifted closer, breath catching. “There’s only one person who knows the real reason I left law school. And it’s not my father.”
Will didn’t ask.
She didn’t explain.
But she kept talking. Soft, broken confessions against his skin, like prayers whispered into the dark.
He held every one of them.
Until her breath evened out.
Until she fell asleep on his chest.
And Will realized…
He was already in too deep.
The following evening, the scent of warm sugar and browned butter filled the air. The oven ticked off with a soft ding, and (Y/N) smiled to herself as she pulled the cookies from the tray, placing them on a plate. Golden. Gooey. Perfect.
The ones from the night before ended up burnt.
Will was still on the couch, eyes half-pretending to read, book resting loosely in one hand.
She walked in barefoot, hair messy, an oversized t-shirt slipping off one shoulder. The plate in one hand, two napkins and a glass of milk in the other.
“Peace offering?” she asked softly.
He looked up.
And for the first time all day, he smiled. “Depends on the cookies.”
(Y/N) grinned and sat down on the floor in front of the couch, placing the plate between them. “Only the best.”
Will slid off the couch and joined her, sitting close enough that their knees touched. They ate in companionable silence, passing the milk back and forth like teenagers at a sleepover.
Their shoulders bumped.
They laughed.
Everything felt warm again.
(Y/N) licked a bit of chocolate off her fingertip, unconsciously, humming at the taste.
Will froze.
Just for a second.
She caught the look in his eye and smirked, not seductive, just mischievous. She leaned over to gently smear a bit of chocolate on the corner of his mouth.
“There,” she said. “Now we’re even.”
Will grabbed her wrist mid-movement, his fingers wrapping around her like a slow current.
He looked her dead in the eye.
His voice dropped.
“If you do that again…” His thumb brushed her palm. “I’m not stopping this time.”
(Y/N)’s heart skipped.
She just reached out again, slow, deliberate. She traced chocolate across his bottom lip this time.
And that was it.
Will snapped.
He pulled her into his lap in one fluid motion, cookie plate forgotten, milk sloshing quietly behind them.
His mouth found hers immediately. It was hot, slow, consuming. His hands gripped her thighs, her waist, anywhere he could touch.
When they finally broke apart, both breathless, her fingers were still tangled in his hair.
His voice was low. Rough.
“You’re going to have to ask,” he said, lips brushing her jaw. “For everything.”
She nodded, trembling slightly. “Okay.”
“Because if I start,” Will whispered, kissing just below her ear, “I’m not stopping until you’re falling apart under me.”
(Y/N)’s breath caught. “Please Will.”
Those words undid him.
He kissed her again, deeper this time, tasting her moan, her need, her name.
She shifted in his lap, gasping as his hands slid under the hem of her shirt, teasing up the curve of her spine.
Will groaned softly, like he was trying to control himself but couldn’t. Not now.
Not with her warm and willing in his arms.
“You’ve been driving me crazy,” he breathed against her throat.
“I know,” she whispered, smiling.
“I’m going to tease you,” he murmured. “Until your voice breaks.”
(Y/N) shivered.
His hand moved to cup her jaw, gentle but firm.
“Do you want that?”
“Yes,” she breathed. “God, yes.”
And just like that, contract, job, consequences, none of it mattered anymore.
Only her. Only this. Only them.
Will didn’t move quickly. He didn’t have to.
Every kiss was slow, unhurried. Certain.
His hands slipped under her shirt again, and this time he didn’t stop. Fingers warm and deliberate, sliding up the curve of her back as he lifted the thin cotton fabric inch by inch.
She raised her arms, breath catching as he peeled it over her head and tossed it aside. The cool air kissed her skin for only a second before Will’s hands were back. They were rough, reverent, tracing her ribs like he was memorizing her.
“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, eyes roaming her like she was art. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”
(Y/N)’s lips parted, heart pounding.
He leaned forward, lips ghosting across her collarbone, then lower, slow kisses down the center of her chest, stopping only to look up at her.
She was trembling, hands sliding into his hair again. “Will…”
“You have to tell me,” he said softly. “What you want.”
She whimpered. “You. I want you.”
“More,” he said. “Say more.”
“I want your mouth on me,” she breathed. “Your hands. I want to feel you everywhere.”
Will groaned, low and hungry, and kissed her again, hard now, hands moving to her hips, grinding her against him. There was nothing polite about it anymore. He wanted her to feel how badly he needed her.
“You feel that?” he whispered against her lips. “That’s what you do to me.”
She nodded, dizzy, grinding back against him with a gasp.
“Fuck—” Will’s voice cracked as he pulled her tighter, as if that could calm him.
He shifted, laid her down gently on the rug in front of the fireplace, kissing her the whole way down, neck, chest, stomach, until he was kneeling between her thighs.
When he pulled her shorts down, he did it slowly, watching her the whole time. Her panties were soaked and Will let out a shaky breath as he kissed the inside of her knee, then higher, and higher.
(Y/N)’s hips arched up toward him, desperate, pleading.
“Patience,” he murmured. “You said I could tease you.”
“I didn’t say torture me.”
Will chuckled, dark and warm. “Same thing.”
And then his mouth was on her.
She cried out, no pretense, no hesitation. Her hands scrambled for something, anything, his shoulders, his curls, as he dragged his tongue over her like he had all the time in the world.
“Will—” she gasped. “Will, I can’t—”
“Yes, you can,” he muttered against her, fingers curling inside her while his mouth kept working. “You’re going to fall apart for me. Don’t fight it.”
She came hard. With a full-body tremble and a high, keening moan that filled the room. Her legs clamped around his shoulders. Her hands yanked his hair. Will loved it.
He kissed his way back up her body, licking the taste of her off his lips as he hovered over her.
Her eyes were glazed, lips parted, completely undone.
And he was still fully clothed.
(Y/N) reached for his shirt, desperate. “Off.”
Will helped, tugging it over his head and tossing it behind him. Her hands slid over his chest, his shoulders, like she was starving for him.
He kissed her again, harder now, breath catching as she reached for his belt like she’d tried days ago.
This time, he didn’t stop her.
She undid it slowly, pushing his jeans down just enough. When her hand wrapped around him, Will swore, head dropping to her shoulder.
“You’re killing me,” he groaned.
She smiled. “Good.”
Will didn’t wait anymore.
He lined himself up, one hand braced on the floor beside her head, and paused.
“Are you sure?”
Her voice was wrecked. “Yes.”
He pushed in slowly.
Both of them gasped.
He felt too good, too deep. It was like her body had been made just for him. Her nails scratched down his back as her head tipped back against the rug.
Will buried his face in her neck, groaning her name like a prayer.
“I’m not going to last,” he whispered. “You feel too fucking good—”
She moaned. “Then don’t.”
But Will couldn’t let it be fast.
Not after everything.
He moved slow. Deep. Hands laced with hers above her head. Mouth on her neck. Whispers between thrusts.
“Look at me.”
“I’ve got you.”
“You’re mine.”
(Y/N) came again, shaking under him, her moan more like a sob. Her legs wrapped around his waist, holding him in place, needing more.
Will let go. Hard.
He came with her name on his lips and his mouth on her skin, like he needed to mark every inch of her. When he collapsed beside her, they were both sweaty and shaking and breathless.
For a long time, neither of them spoke.
Their fingers stayed laced.
The cookies were cold on the plate behind them.
And the only sound was the sound of two people finally breathing after holding it all in.
The morning was soft.
Pale sun filtered in through the trees, casting light across the hardwood floors. Will woke first, eyes adjusting to the sight of (Y/N) still curled against him. Her bare leg tangled over his, her face peaceful in sleep.
He didn’t move.
He just watched her, brushing one hand over her curls and wondering how the hell he was supposed to walk away from this.
Eventually, she stirred. Smiled. Kissed his shoulder.
Neither of them said much. Just shared quiet touches, soft kisses, coffee in shared silence. Like they both knew the spell was fragile.
And then Jack called.
The silence was loud on the way back to civilization.
Will drove. (Y/N) stared out the window, her arms crossed, mind racing.
He hadn’t said much since they left. No touches. No teasing.
Just the quiet return of the man she met in the beginning who was guarded and unreadable.
And (Y/N) was spiraling. She tried not to show it, but her chest felt tight. Her mind ran through every scenario. Every possibility. Every excuse he might give for pretending the night before hadn’t happened.
When they pulled up to her house, she didn’t wait for him to say anything.
She got out, mumbled a thank-you, and disappeared into the house.
Lyla whimpered but followed.
Richard arrived just before sunset, in a dark suit and sharp eyes. He stepped into the foyer like he owned the ground beneath his shoes, and in many ways, he did.
Will met him at the door.
“Mind if we talk?” Richard asked, and Will nodded, already bracing for it.
They sat in the study. Closed door. No distractions.
Richard didn’t waste time.
“How was the cabin?”
Will didn’t blink. “Quiet. Productive. She worked on her dissertation. I kept up with profiles. She baked a lot of cookies.”
Richard watched him for a long time. Not saying a word.
Will stared back.
“I’m very good at reading people, Agent Graham,” Richard said slowly. “It’s how I’ve stayed alive in this career. You’re good, but something about you changed.”
Will didn’t flinch. “Maybe I just got used to her.”
“That’s not all of it.” Richard leaned forward. “I’m trusting you, Will. Don’t make me regret that.”
Will nodded, jaw tight. “Understood.”
Richard left the room without another word.
He knocked softly on (Y/N)’s door next. She opened it, surprised but not resistant.
They talked for a long time. The kind of conversation filled with quiet, careful pauses and deeper things unsaid.
Will didn’t eavesdrop.
He just waited.
Eventually, Richard came out. Straightened his tie. Nodded once toward Will.
“Thank you,” he said. “For everything.”
And then he left.
(Y/N) emerged a little while after, dressed down and tired, hair tied back. She stood in the doorway for a moment before quietly asking:
“Do you regret it?”
Will looked up from where he stood at the counter, drying a glass. “What?”
“The cabin,” she said. “What happened? All of it.”
He set the towel down. Walked toward her.
“Absolutely not.”
Her eyes flickered up.
Will’s voice was soft but firm. “This means something to me. I just don’t know how to be with someone like you.”
She gave him a quiet, sad smile. “I don’t want you to be anything other than who you are.”
I think this is the longest part so far, so get comfortable. It's a little on the more dramatic side, but that's what makes this fun. I'm really enjoying where this is going and I hope everyone else is too!
Will woke to the sound of Lyla’s nails clacking across hardwood, muffled voices, and a sharp burst of what sounded like French and rage.
He sat up slowly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, then pushed his door open just enough to peek out into the living room.
(Y/N) was pacing the room barefoot in her pajamas. She was in silk shorts and a camisole set that did absolutely nothing to help Will wake up calmly.
She had one phone pressed to one ear, another in her hand, and was muttering something in French under her breath. Something sharp. Will had no idea what she was saying, but she wasn't happy.
“Madame Dupont, si le photographe est en retard encore, je jure que...” She trailed off when she heard movement from the hallway.
He stepped into living room and (Y/N) froze mid-step. She looked at him, completely composed in the span of a heartbeat.
“Do you want waffles?” She asked.
He blinked. “What?”
“Waffles. I can make some if that’s what you want for breakfast.”
“Uh… no, I’m good," he didn't want to bother her and she sounded busy. "I’ll just have cereal. Thanks though.”
She nodded once, like it was normal to offer waffles after threatening someone in perfect Parisian French.
Then she turned back to her call, completely calm.
Will poured himself some cereal in the kitchen, listening as her voice moved between clipped English and elegant French, which was heated, fast, commanding.
Finally, when she hung up and let out a frustrated sigh, he stepped around the counter.
“Is everything okay?”
“We have a gala tonight.” She groaned pinching the bridge of her nose.
“We? Gala?”
“Charity. My dad co-hosts it with a few of his friends. It’s a mix of old money and newer egos. It's very black tie, very performative, very annoying. And I completely forgot it was tonight.”
Will raised an eyebrow. “And I’m… going?”
“Of course,” she said, already typing out a new message on one of the phones. “You’re my shadow, remember? These people eat scandal for breakfast. If I showed up without you, the whispers would be insane.”
“What am I supposed to wear?”
She smirked without looking up. “Your tux is on the way. It’s black. The bowtie matches my dress.”
“You got me a custom tux?” He blinked.
“You didn’t think I was gonna let you show up in something off the rack, did you?”
“How did you know my size?”
“I measured you,” she shrugged as if this was something she did all the time.”
He opened his mouth to respond, then shut it again.
She winked.
About eight hours later, (Y/N) stood in front of the full length mirror in her bedroom, carefully adjusting her diamond earrings. Her midnight blue gown hugged her figure like it had been stitched in the dark by someone who understood the concept of temptation far too well.
The back dipped dangerously low, nearly to her waist, and the subtle shimmer in the fabric caught every bit of light like starlight.
She grabbed her clutch and turned to Lyla who was sitting in the door way.
“Alright, my perfect angel,” she said, crouching down to look into her eyes. “I need you to behave tonight. No chewing anything. No crying. No knocking over the ficus.”
Lyla blinked at her like she understood.
(Y/N) kissed her head. “Good girl.”
Will came down the stairs, she turned at the sound of his footsteps, and his entire world tilted sideways.
She was radiant. Regal. Sin incarnate wrapped in silk and sparkle. And her eyes, lined and soft, locked on his. She asked him to help her fasten a delicate bracelet around her wrist. It was antique Cartier, probably older than Will’s childhood home.
“You clean up nice,” she said, lips curling.
“You…”
“Speechless?” she teased.
“Maybe.”
She gave him a once-over. The tux fit him like a glove, every line sharp, every detail intentional. He looked taller, broader, somehow more dangerous.
Her bowtie rested against his throat like a secret only she got to keep.
“Your bowtie’s crooked,” she murmured, stepping in close.
She reached up, fingers brushing against his skin as she straightened it. Will held his breath.
When she finished, she stepped back. “Perfect.”
He still hadn’t moved.
The limo glided through the city, tinted windows hiding them from the flash of traffic and paparazzi. Will sat stiffly, hands resting on his knees, trying desperately not to let his eyes slide over to her legs, crossed, glowing under the dim lights, or the diamond pendant nestled above her collarbone.
“You good?” she asked, voice soft.
“Yeah.”
“You look tense.”
He glanced at her. “You look expensive.”
“I am expensive, Will.” She laughed.
He turned to the window, lips twitching into a reluctant smile.
When the limo pulled up to the venue, flashbulbs greeted them before the car even stopped. Will stepped out first and then offered a hand to (y/n) to help her out.
She stepped out like she’d been born under a spotlight. Poised. Effortless. Will followed, staying close behind, hand on her lower back as they moved through the cameras, the reporters, the glamor.
Inside, Richard met them by the entrance.
“You look lovely, sweetheart,” he said, kissing her cheek.
She smiled, eyes shining. “So do you, Daddy.”
Richard turned to Will, shaking his hand. “Stay close to her tonight. I don’t have a good feeling.”
“Yes, sir.”
(Y/N) arched an eyebrow. “That serious?”
“I hope not,” Richard murmured, scanning the room. “But something feels off.”
Will’s shoulders stiffened as he moved closer to her side.
(Y/N) looped her arm through his. “Don’t worry,” she whispered. “Nothing feels off to me, so I think we’re good.”
Will nodded, but his eyes were already sweeping the room.
Too many people. Too many cameras. Too many hands reaching for her attention.
He didn’t like it. Not one bit.
The ballroom shimmered in candlelight, gold accents casting halos across champagne flutes and polished marble. Strings played softly from a raised platform while a sea of perfectly tailored suits and sparkling gowns flowed around them.
(Y/N) reached back, grabbed Will’s hand without looking, and wove their fingers together.
He blinked at the contact, warm, sudden, electric.
She glanced at him, a little shy. “My dad said to stay close.”
"Right." Will swallowed.
She gave his hand a little squeeze, then led them deeper into the crowd.
Jack appeared near the bar, swirling his bourbon with the air of someone who both belonged here and deeply resented it. Will nodded toward him, but Jack’s eyes were already locked on someone else and sure enough, that someone stepped up beside him.
Dr. Hannibal Lecter.
Of course he was here.
He looked pristine in black tie, every detail flawless, posture regal, eyes sharp. He greeted Jack with a slight smile and then turned, politely interested, toward the approaching pair.
“Dr. Lecter,” Jack said, gesturing between them, “this is (Y/N) Sullivan.”
(Y/N) extended a hand. “It’s an honor, Dr. Lecter. I’ve read your work on psychological deviance — the 2016 paper on ritualistic violence and identity displacement? Incredible.”
Hannibal took her hand delicately. “The honor is mine, Miss Sullivan. Or should I say Doctor?”
“Almost,” she laughed. “Just a few more months.”
“You carry yourself like someone much further along,” he said smoothly.
Will side-eyed him. Hard.
(Y/N) practically glowed under the compliment. “Thank you. That’s… really kind.”
Will blinked. That was what had her flustered?
Will watched her closely, the blush creeping up her neck, the way she tucked a curl behind her ear, and chuckled under his breath.
She turned to him, eyes narrowing. “What?”
“Nothing,” he said, still smirking. “Just haven’t seen you flustered before.”
She narrowed her eyes further. “Don’t make me stab you with a shrimp fork in front of Jack.”
Will’s grin only widened. “Classy.”
The night unfolded like a fever dream of politics, press, and power.
Senators. Former Presidents. A pop star whose name Will couldn’t even remember but (Y/N) had screamed about once during a particularly chaotic morning playlist. Everyone wanted a piece of her.
And everywhere she went, Will followed. He was half a step behind, hand hovering at the small of her back.
At one point, a congressman from Vermont cornered her about economic policy in the European Union.
At another, she gave a flawless, impromptu answer to a journalist’s question about female leadership in conflict zones. It was something she clearly hadn’t expected, but handled with terrifying grace.
Will watched it all. Watched the way she moved, the way she charmed, the way she wore power like it had been passed down with her last name.
And then he showed up.
The son of a very famous actor. A household name. Model-turned-activist-turned-annoying trust fund baby.
He cut through the crowd with ease, hair slicked back, tux sharp, lips already curved in a smirk.
“(Y/N),” he drawled, pulling her into a hug that lasted way too long. “You look insane.”
Will’s spine straightened. Sure she did, but that doesn’t mean he needed to say it like that.
The guy leaned in like no one was watching, fingers brushing her arm, shoulder, waist. Just about anywhere he could touch without getting slapped.
Will stepped back just a little, trying to give them some privacy, but (y/n) grabbed his hand, making sure he didn’t go too far..
The guy kept talking. “Still doing all that diplomacy stuff? Saving the world in five-inch heels?”
“She is,” he said flatly.
The man blinked. “Sorry, who—?”
Will didn’t offer a name. Just rested a hand on the small of her back.
Protective. Possessive. Territorial.
(Y/N) looked up at him, surprised.
“She’s busy tonight,” Will said coolly.
The man gave a slow nod. “Right. Well. See you around, (y/n).”
He winked at her and disappeared into the crowd.
Will didn’t move his hand.
(Y/N) turned to look at him fully, one brow raised. “Feeling a little territorial there, Watchdog?”
Will’s jaw flexed. “He was too familiar.”
“He always is,” she said. “He’s harmless.”
“Harmless isn’t the same thing as safe.”
She smiled. Just a little. “Was that jealousy, Graham?”
“Not even a little.”
“You sure? Looked like you were about to throw him into the ice sculpture.”
He didn’t answer.
She bumped his shoulder. “You’re cute when you’re feral.”
The strings slowed, shifting into something older. Classic. Lush.
(Y/N) sipped the last of her champagne and turned to Will, eyes bright. “We’re dancing.”
“I don’t dance.”
“You do tonight.”
She didn’t give him a choice, just took his hand, led him to the floor, and spun so they were chest to chest.
Will stood awkwardly, unsure what to do with his hands until she reached for them, placed one gently on her waist and slid the other into her own.
She looked up at him. “There. Was that so hard?”
He chuckled, awkward. “You’re good at this.”
She rolled her eyes. “I knew seven ballroom dances by the time I was eight. This one’s called "keep your head up and don’t let your tiara fall off.”
He laughed, actually laughed, and the sound made her stomach flutter.
They swayed together, slow and quiet. Close enough to feel the space shrink between them.
For once, she wasn’t talking. For once, he wasn’t overthinking.
They just moved.
Her hand curled tighter in his. His fingers splayed a little wider on her back. Neither one of them dared to name what it felt like.
But both of them knew.
Eventually the gala ended after a few speeches and (y/n) managed to slip away without having to answer too many questions from reporters.
Back at her townhouse, The echo of the gala still lingered in the silk of her dress and the curve of his palm, even after they got home and she kicked off her heels in the entryway.
(Y/N) disappeared into the kitchen without a word and returned a few minutes later with a plate stacked high.
“Are those—” Will started asking.
“Cookies,” she said, already flopping down on the couch. “I made them last night. Triple chocolate chunk. For stress.”
Will sat beside her, slower, still in his tux, bowtie loosened and posture tight like he didn’t quite know what to do with himself. He took a cookie. Bit in. Groaned.
“Holy shit. These are amazing.”
“I bake when I’m spiraling,” she said simply. “You’re welcome.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes, chewing. Letting the night settle around them like dust.
Will glanced over. “You were kind of incredible there.”
She gave a lazy smile, head tilted back against the couch. “It’s not that exciting. I was trained for these things before I could walk.”
Will chuckled. “I’ve never been in a room with that much money before.”
“Most of it’s evil anyway.”
He looked at her, a little longer than he should’ve. “That guy,” he said finally. “The actor’s son.”
(Y/N) rolled her eyes and picked at her cookie. “Luca? He’s no one important.”
“He seemed pretty familiar.”
“We grew up together. Moms were best friends. So, like, every holiday, every vacation, he was around.”
Will nodded. Then: “Were you ever—?”
“Ever what Will?” She smirked.
“Like together?”
“Only once. He was actually my first time. When we were sixteen. On his family’s private island. It lasted about twenty seconds, so I’m not really sure it counted as anything. I laughed when he tried to kiss me afterwards and he didn’t talk to me for three weeks.”
"That's brutal."
She leaned her head back again. “The thing is, I actually was sad. He was one of my only friends back then, but he’s harmless, Graham.”
A beat.
Then: “Were you really jealous?”
Will looked at her.
Shrugged.
And went quiet.
(Y/N) studied him, curious. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” he said, voice lower now.
She frowned, the air between them shifting. “Okay but can I pout until you change your mind?”
He let out a tired laugh, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He set the half-eaten cookie on the coffee table and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, rubbing his hands together slowly.
“I was jealous,” he admitted.
(Y/N)’s brows lifted.
“Not because he touched you,” Will said, voice steady now. “But because that’s your world. The gala. The press. Rooms where people casually hand over million-dollar checks like it’s a party trick.”
He looked at her now, eyes dark and serious.
“And what hurts is that I still can’t stop thinking about you. You in that dress—” he broke off for a second, jaw tight. “That dress was unreal.”
She was quiet.
Then, softly, “If you had the chance… what would you do?”
Will stared at her.
“If I had the chance,” he said, voice rough now, “you’d have your legs wrapped around my waist.”
(Y/N)’s breath caught.
“And we wouldn't stop until she sun came up.”
She was frozen. Silence. A beat. Two.
Then he stood, hand running through his hair like it might shake something loose from him. “Go to bed,” he said. “Before we do something we’ll regret.”
(Y/N) didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just stared up at him, heart thundering in her ears.
Will didn’t look back as he walked toward the hallway. “Goodnight, sweetheart.”
The door clicked shut behind him.
The next morning, Will sat at the table, coffee in hand, jaw tight, trying to pretend like his phone hadn’t buzzed seventeen times since 6:30 a.m.
He didn’t even look up when (Y/N) walked in, hoodie pulled over her head, and sunglasses on inside the house.
“Have you seen it yet?” she asked, voice flat.
He slid his phone across the table without a word.
On the screen: Page Six. Daily Mail. TMZ. CNN Style.
Photos of the gala.
Her in the midnight blue dress. Him in the tux. Dancing. Standing too close. His hand on her waist. The look on his face. The look on her face.
And the headlines were bold:
“Power, Politics, and Romance? Sullivan Heiress Gets Cozy with Mystery Bodyguard”
“A Closer Look at (Y/N) Sullivan’s Black-Tie Companion”
“Sullivan Family Silent as Dating Rumors Spark at Charity Gala”
(Y/N) flopped down in the chair across from him and stole his mug. “Do you think if I fake my death I could move to Portugal and raise goats? Would you come with me?”
“No and no.”
She took a long sip glaring at Will. “Dad’s going to murder me.”
As if summoned, her phone rang.
She didn’t even check the screen. Just groaned and declined the call. “And there it is.”
Will leaned back in his chair, staring at nothing.
“My face is everywhere,” he muttered.
She peeked at him from over the mug. “At least you looked hot.”
He arched his brow.
“You did. Girls on TikTock are calling you ‘Security Daddy.’”
Will groaned.
(Y/N) laughed and nudged his knee with hers. “Relax. If it makes you feel better, you’re trending below the shrimp tower scandal.”
“I don’t want to be trending at all.”
She watched him for a second, then reached across the table and gently tapped her fingers against his wrist.
“Sorry,” she said quietly.
Will looked at her.
“For pulling you into this.”
He was silent for a long time.
Then: “I’d still rather be here than anywhere else.”
And (Y/N)’s heart plummeted in the best, worst way possible.
The media attention from the gala died down within 48 hours, so (y/n) decided to go on a long walk with Lyla. They both deserved this.
It was cooler than usual, gray skies and soft wind, and (Y/N) welcomed the quiet for once.
She walked a few feet ahead of Will, Lyla’s leash loose in her hand. She was bundled in a cream coat and an oversized scarf wrapped around her neck. She looked cozy. Unbothered.
“I’m just saying,” she said, glancing down at Lyla. “If I have to completely reframe my chapter on post-conflict diplomacy because that one visiting professor wants to feel important, I should get partial credit for not biting him.”
Lyla huffed.
Will grinned behind his coffee.
(Y/N) pointed a gloved finger. “Exactly. You get it. Misogyny and outdated policy theory? Jail.”
Will trailed behind them, sipping his black coffee, half-listening, half-scanning the quiet street. This was their routine now, late-afternoon walks after class, a bakery stop, maybe the flower vendor on the corner.
And for a minute, it felt normal.
She reached the corner and crouched to look at the flowers on display. “Lyla, you think we should get chrysanthemums today? Or pansies?”
Lyla sat obediently beside her. Will stayed back, leaning against a lamppost, watching her smile, the soft way she touched the petals, how she always paid in cash and tipped too much.
(Y/N) glanced up, a practiced smile already forming. “Hi—”
“I saw you at the gala,” he said. “You looked beautiful.”
(Y/N)’s smile faltered. “That’s kind of you.”
Will’s eyes narrowed.
“You’re even prettier up close,” the man added taking a step closer to her.
(Y/N) stood straighter, tugging Lyla’s leash a little tighter. “Thank you.”
“I was wondering when I’d find you out here. I’ve been waiting. I know this is where you typically walk in the afternoons.”
Will’s chest tightened.
Lyla let out a low growl.
Will moved immediately. By the time he got there, (Y/N)’s hands were trembling. The man’s smile had turned into something colder, closer to hungry.
Will stepped between them. “Back up.”
The man looked at him, lips twitching. “You’re the man from the photos. The one at the gala with her.”
Will didn’t respond, just stood there, blocking (Y/N) completely.
The man smirked. “She’ll come around eventually. Pretty things always do.”
Will didn’t blink. “You need to leave.”
Lyla’s growl deepened.
The man gave (Y/N) one last look and turned away, disappearing into the crowd like smoke.
Will turned, expecting her to be angry, shaken maybe but what he saw stopped him cold.
(Y/N) was frozen.
Her chest rose and fell too fast, too shallow. Her hands were shaking harder. Her eyes unfocused.
She wasn’t here anymore. She was somewhere else.
Will stepped in gently lowering her to a bench. “Hey.”
She didn’t respond.
“(Y/N). Look at me.”
Still nothing.
Then the tears started, silent, uncontrollable. Her breath caught in her throat and she clutched the edge of the bench like she was drowning.
Panic attack.
Will dropped his coffee and stepped in, hands moving slowly.
“Hey. I’ve got you. You’re okay,” he said, voice low, calm, close. "You’re safe. He’s gone. You’re with me. And Lyla’s here too.”
Her fingers curled into his coat and she pressed her face against his chest, crying in short, uneven gasps.
Will didn’t rush her. Just held her, steady, firm, the city moving around them like a blur.
Once the attack was over, Will decided it was best to take her to the bureau for a moment. Jack would want to know what had happened. It was just around the corner.
When they got to his office, (Y/N) sat curled in one of the leather chairs, coat still wrapped tightly around her. Lyla sat under her feet, unmoving.
She hadn’t said much during the walk over.
Will sat beside her, tense, arms crossed.
Jack stood by the window, pacing. “You said he knew about the gala?”
Will nodded. “It seemed like he had been there. Said he’d been waiting for her to come to the park. We walk there almost every afternoon.”
Jack sighed. “We’ll pull the footage, send it out to local units. See if we can identify him.”
Will nodded again. Glanced at her. She still hadn’t looked up.
The door opened.
Richard walked in like a storm in a suit.
He took one look at his daughter who was pale and shaking, and everything in him snapped.
He crossed the room and crouched beside her. “Baby girl.”
(Y/N) blinked. Her voice was hoarse. “I had a panic attack.”
Richard froze.
She looked at him. “I haven’t had one since…”
“I know,” he said softly.
Since she was sixteen.
Since the last time someone came too close.
Will’s hands curled into fists in his lap.
Jack stepped forward. “Richard, maybe you and I—”
But Richard turned to Will.
“Walk with me.”
They didn’t speak for a few moments in the brightly lit hallway.
Richard was quiet. Controlled.
Then, “She said you helped her through it.”
Will nodded. “I’ve had a few.”
Richard nodded once. “So did I. Years ago. Before she was born.”
Will looked at him.
“I know what it does to you,” Richard said. “What it feels like. How it scrapes the inside of your chest like broken glass. She used to get them when she was younger. Hers were different than mine though. She was almost silent. The only way I could tell was her eyes, she was somewhere else. I was always worried that I wouldn’t know she was having them when it happened. It scared the hell out of me.”
Will didn’t respond.
Richard stopped pacing and turned to face him. “I’m grateful you were there. Really Will. You’re the only person she’s let close in years.”
Will exhaled. “I’m just doing my job.”
Richard stared at him.
Then asked, casually, “Is that what you were doing when you danced with her at the gala?”
Will’s jaw clenched. “She wanted to dance. I didn’t want to say no.”
“And you have a hard time telling her no?” Richard raised an eyebrow.
Will hesitated. “Sometimes.”
Richard chuckled, tired. “Join the club.”
Will smiled, just barely.
But then Richard’s tone shifted. Lower. Sharper.
“You’ve got a job to do, Will. And I get it, I really do. She’s absolutely brilliant. Beautiful. Impossible not to notice. Just like her mom was.”
Will didn’t move.
“But falling for her,” Richard said, “was not part of the deal.”
Silence.
Will nodded once. “Understood.”
Richard didn’t look satisfied. Just tired.
“Don’t break her,” he said quietly. “She’s had enough of that.”
When Will returned, (Y/N) was standing by the window, arms wrapped around herself, Lyla pressed to her side. Her eyes met his the second he stepped inside.
She didn’t say anything.
Just looked at him like he was the only thing in the room she could trust.
And maybe, in that moment he was.
Richard crossed his arms, staring at the whiteboard covered in grainy photos and redacted files. His jaw was tight, his voice lower than usual.
“What do you think about them disappearing for a few days?”
Jack looked up from his tablet, skeptical. “Disappearing?”
“I’ve got a small family cabin, out on the state border. No one knows about it except me really. We used to go when (Y/N) was younger but after her mom…”
Jack frowned. “You want to pull her off the radar?”
“I want her to breathe, Jack,” Richard said. “Even if it’s just for two or three day. She can afford to miss school.”
Jack’s mouth pressed into a line. “And Will?”
“He’ll go with her,” Richard said. “The property’s fenced. Security is top of the line. Surveillance around the perimeter. He’ll be able to monitor everything. You’ll get updates every six hours.”
Jack was quiet for a long moment. “I don’t like it.”
“But you don’t hate it either,” Richard said.
“Fine," Jack sighed. "But if one thing goes sideways, they’re back here by nightfall.”
“Understood.”
Outside the door, (Y/N) waited, hands shoved into her coat pockets, Lyla sitting obediently beside her. She looked calmer than she had hours earlier, but Will could still see the edges, the aftershock of panic, the exhaustion under her eyes.
“Everything okay?” she asked.
Will gave her a soft nod. “We’re going on a trip.”
When they arrived to the cabin, Will had expected a log shack with poor insulation, questionable plumbing, and maybe a taxidermy bear in the corner.
What he got was not that.
The cabin sat behind two tall iron gates and a long, winding drive. The house was sleek, angular, all dark wood and glass. Modern. Private. Surrounded by trees dense enough to swallow noise.
Inside, the floors were wide-plank oak, the furniture minimalist and plush, and the lighting warm. There was a full kitchen, a fireplace, a wall of books in the living room, and a central control room with multiple monitors showing live footage from the perimeter cameras.
Will stared at the screen. “This is not a cabin.”
(Y/N) grinned. “Daddy doesn’t do rustic.”
She pointed down the hall. “That one’s your room. Mine’s the next over. Cameras are monitored from here, and there’s a safe in the floor if you want to lock your gun up while we’re here.”
Will glanced at her. “You’ve done this before.”
“I grew up in politics,” she said. “Security was my first language. I never really stayed here, but there were other similar places.”
She disappeared down the hall, Lyla trailing behind her.
“Taking a bath,” she called over her shoulder. “Don’t break anything.”
Will shook his head but found himself smiling.
The scent of lavender filled the air as she padded into the kitchen in a fluffy robe and slippers, hair damp and skin dewy. Her movements were quiet, practiced, like she knew how to find calm, even if it didn’t come easy.
She made hot chocolate from scratch with real milk, real sugar, dark cocoa powder, and a dash of cinnamon. Topped with homemade marshmallows from a tin labeled in her own handwriting.
Will looked at the mug she handed him. “This is ridiculous.”
She grinned, sitting beside him on the oversized couch. “It’s comfort.”
They sat in silence for a while, the fire crackling low, the only light coming from the fireplace and the glow of the monitor room down the hall.
Will caught her watching the flames, face soft, eyes far away.
FLASHBACK - AGE 16
She was curled into the corner of the hallway closet, knees tucked to her chest, fingers white-knuckling her phone. Lyla, just a gangly, clumsy puppy back then, pawed at her leg gently, whining.
Her hands were shaking.
Again.
Too many whispers. Too many cameras. Too many photos of her at a school fundraiser with the governor’s son. The photos twisted into tabloids, then online forums, then messages.
Ugly ones.
Crude, violent ones.
One morning she woke up and her school locker was covered in printouts.
She stopped eating. Stopped sleeping. She wanted to stop existing.
And then, one afternoon, it hit her all at once. A panic so fierce she thought she’d die from it.
The air was too thin. Her ribs felt broken. The walls were closing in.
Her father found her an hour later.
Held her while she sobbed. Promised it would stop.
And eventually it did.
Until now.
BACK TO PRESENT
The scream tore through the cabin like a gunshot.
Will bolted upright.
Lyla’s paws hit the floor hard, and she didn’t wait, took off down the hallway, barking once, loud.
Will followed.
He found (Y/N) tangled in the sheets, gasping, eyes wide and wild with panic. Lyla was already beside her, whining softly.
She didn’t even see Will at firstm just curled forward, arms wrapped around her stomach, trying to breathe.
“Hey—hey, it’s okay.” Will knelt beside the bed, hands raised. “It’s me. You’re safe.”
Her eyes snapped to his, tears pouring silently down her face.
She opened her mouth, but no words came.
He climbed up beside her slowly, careful not to spook her, and pulled her into his arms.
And she didn’t fight it.
She collapsed into him like he was air.
Will wrapped his arms around her fully, strong and grounding, holding the back of her head with one hand and pressing the other against her spine.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered. “I’ve got you. I’m here.”
She was shaking violently now, breath catching, tears soaking his shirt.
He didn’t say anything else.
Just held her.
Minutes passed.
And eventually, her breathing slowed.
Her fists unclenched.
And she looked up at him with the most vulnerable expression he’d ever seen on her.
“I’m so tired,” she whispered.
Will brushed a curl out of her face. “I know.”
“I don’t want to be scared anymore.”
“You won’t be,” he said. “Not with me here.”
And for the first time since this all started, she believed him.
Will woke slowly.
For once, he’d actually slept.
His eyes opened to the soft gray of dawn filtering through the windows. The sheets beside him were cold.
Too cold.
He sat up.
“(Y/N)?”
No answer.
Lyla’s nails clicked against the hardwood outside the door, pacing. When Will opened it, the Doberman immediately looked up at him and whimpered, ears back, tail stiff.
Her leash was still on the hook.
Her collar was still hanging by the door.
(Y/N)’s phone was sitting on the dresser.
Not good. Not good. Not good.
Will’s blood went cold.
He pulled on the first sweatshirt he could find and ran barefoot to the camera room.
Nothing.
No sign of her on the porch. Not by the gate. Not on the paths or near the driveway.
His fingers flew over the keyboard, toggling between feeds.
Still nothing.
Lyla barked, one sharp, anxious sound.
Will’s pulse was roaring.
He sprinted to his room, dropped to his knees, yanked the safe open, and pulled his gun out.
His phone buzzed.
Jack.
Will didn’t hesitate.
“Tell me you have eyes,” Jack said, no greeting.
“I don’t,” Will answered, chest tight. “She’s not on any cameras.”
A beat of silence.
“Will—”
“I know.”
“You have about three minutes to find her or I’m sending a team.”
“Give me two,” Will said, already moving.
He found her at the edge of the property, down by the water, wrapped in a blanket, staring at the still lake.
Hair loose, robe dragging in the grass, feet bare. Her arms were crossed over her chest.
Peaceful. Untouched. Alive.
Will nearly dropped to his knees.
He didn’t speak at first, he couldn’t. His hands were shaking too hard.
She turned, startled. “Will? Is everything okay?”
He stalked toward her, fury rolling off of him like heat.
“What the hell are you doing (y/n)?”
Her brow furrowed. He had never spoken to her like that before. She had never seen him so angry. “I— I couldn’t go back to sleep. You looked peaceful. I didn’t want to wake you.”
“You didn’t wake me?”
She blinked, confused. “I was only gone for ten minutes—”
“Ten minutes is the difference between you living and dying, (Y/N). Do you understand that?”
Her face fell.
Will ran both hands through his hair, turning away, pacing like a caged animal.
“Do you have any idea what went through my head? Your phone was still inside. Your dog didn’t know where you were. I didn’t know where you were.”
She took a small step toward him. “I’m sorry—”
“Don’t.” He shook his head. “Don’t just say that. You’re way too smart for this.”
She looked like she’d been slapped.
He turned and stormed back toward the house, already calling Jack.
(Y/N) followed quickly behind, barefoot on the stone steps.
“I said I’m sorry,” she said again, softer now. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Will didn’t answer. He was still furious. Still terrified.
Still feeling the phantom weight of an empty room and cold sheets.
Twenty minutes later he sat at the kitchen island, stiff and silent, arms crossed tightly over his chest.
Lyla sat beside him like a silent guard, tail wagging when (Y/N) passed by with the waffle iron.
She didn’t speak.
Just made breakfast quietly, mixing, pouring, flipping, plating, like muscle memory. Like an apology.
When she set the plate in front of him, he barely glanced at it.
“I’m not hungry.”
His stomach betrayed him. It growled.
She said nothing.
Just walked around the counter and stepped between his knees, warm from the stove, sweet-smelling from syrup and cocoa powder.
He didn’t stop her.
Didn’t move when she climbed into his lap, straddling him, knees on either side of his thighs.
Her hands cupped his face.
“Hey,” she said gently. “Look at me.”
He did. And he softened.
“I’m sorry.”
Will stared at her, still breathing hard.
“I mean it,” she whispered. “I’ll wake you next time. I promise. Pinkie swear, solemn oath, blood pact, whatever it takes. Just please stop being mad at me. I can't take it."
He searched her face like he was afraid she’d vanish again.
Her thumbs brushed his cheekbones.
“You can’t scare me like that,” he said, voice barely audible.
“I didn’t think,” she admitted. “I just needed air.”
“Then take me with you,” he said, forehead pressed against hers now. “Please.”
She nodded. “Okay.”
Silence.
Then she smiled, soft and wry. “Now eat your damn waffles, Graham.”
He huffed a quiet laugh and pressed his mouth to her shoulder.
As the morning turned into the afternoon, Will decided it was time to work for a little bit.
The sun hung low in the sky, casting gold across the countertops as Will stood at the island, tapping through files on his tablet. Notes, profiles, threat patterns. Anything to distract himself.
Footsteps echoed down the hall. They were fast and sharp.
She stormed into the kitchen like a summer storm in silk pajamas.
Will glanced up lazily. “Yes, (Y/N)?”
She stopped, arms crossed, hair wild from air-drying and stress. “You told my dad?”
“Yes.”
“Why?” She snapped.
He didn’t even look up. “Because I couldn’t find his pride and joy and I figured he’d want to know.”
“He yelled at me.” (y/n) narrowed her eyes at him.
Will clicked on a new file. “As he should have.”
She glared. “You’re so annoying.”
“Mm.”
She stuck her tongue out at him. He paused and looked up at her.
“I’m not scared of you.”
Her head tilted, smug. “No?”
“Nope,” Will said. “Just your father.”
She laughed, and for a moment, it softened something between them.
But then her smile faded slightly. “He said he’d be pissed if I died.”
Will looked at her again.
She laughed again, but it was thinner now. Forced. “Can you imagine? What a scandal that would be. Sullivan heiress murdered under FBI protection. Someone’d definitely lose a job.”
Will didn’t smile and he set his tablet down.
“I don’t think that’s funny.”
(Y/N)’s throat bobbed. “I know.”
Will stared at her for a moment too long.
“I don’t know what I’d do either,” he said softly.
The silence bloomed between them.
(Y/N)’s voice dropped. “Is this more than a job for you?”
Will’s eyes searched hers and something in them cracked.
But instead of answering, he looked back down at his screen.
Like it hadn’t happened.
Like he didn’t almost just say the one thing she’d been desperate to hear.
She stepped closer, but not much. Just enough that he could smell her lotion and the cinnamon in her hair from breakfast.
Her voice was quieter now. “Will?”
Still nothing.
She leaned on the counter, closer now.
Right there.
So close he could feel her breath.
“I asked you a question.”
His jaw flexed.
She waited.
“It’s more than a job for me, but I’m sure you already know that.”
And he finally looked up at her with something in his eyes she hadn’t seen before.
Not warmth. Not play. Possession.
His jaw was tight. Shoulders tense. Eyes fixed on the glowing screen in front of him like it held all the answers.
(Y/N) didn’t move at first.
Then, quietly, deliberately, she walked around the counter.
And climbed into his lap. Just like she had that morning.
Will didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak. But his hands immediately went to her waist, grounding her like muscle memory.
She tilted her head, curls falling over one shoulder, and stared at him with those wide, unblinking eyes.
Her voice was soft. Dangerous.
“So this isn’t just a job for you?”
Will’s breath caught. Because it wasn’t. It hadn’t been for a long time.
“No, it’s not just a job (y/n).” He whispered.
(Y/N)’s fingers moved slowly, lightly, curling around the back of his neck. Her touch made him shiver.
Then, without another word, she kissed him.
Slow. Intentional.
Soft lips, warm breath, one hand sliding up into his hair.
Will didn’t move for a second.
Then he kissed her back. Just as fully and desperate.
Like he’d been waiting for permission.
Her arms wrapped around his shoulders. His hands gripped her thighs. The kiss deepened, messy and hungry now, all the restraint he’d held onto crumbling.
When she started to reach for his belt, Will caught her wrist gently, breaking the kiss with a breathless groan.
“Wait.”
She blinked, lips kiss-swollen, pupils blown wide. “Why?”
He shook his head, chest rising and falling fast. “If we don’t stop—”
“I don’t want to.”
He swallowed hard. “If we don’t stop now, I won't be able to stop until you don’t even remember your last name
She exhaled, eyes fluttering.
His voice rough now. “Until you’re crying and your legs won’t stop shaking.”
Her breath hitched.
“Are you ready for that?”
Her lips parted.
Then closed again.
She bit her lip and looked away, just briefly.
Will watched her carefully, still breathless, still burning, but calm beneath it. Waiting for her.
When she didn’t answer, he reached up and brushed a knuckle gently across her cheekbone.
Then he slid her off his lap, carefully setting her down like she was made of glass.
“I have some work to finish up,” he said quietly.
She blinked, caught somewhere between flustered and speechless.
Will gave her a small, crooked smile as he stood. “But we’re going to talk about this. Later.”
Then he walked away.
Leaving her standing barefoot in the middle of the kitchen, mouth slightly open, heart racing, and skin still tingling where his hands had been.
It had only been a few weeks, but Will already knew her routine by heart.
Pilates or some other workout class in the mornings. Campus meetings. Research roundtables. Late-night study sessions with her classmates. Nightly walks with Lyla.
The Doberman was always nearby. Tea was always steeping. Jazz music humming through the house at night. It was the kind that made everything feel a little softer.
She wasn’t a bad person to be around. In fact, she was … easy.
Easier than he expected. Smart. Calm. Witty in that quiet, under-your-breath way that caught him off guard more than once.
And gorgeous. Which didn’t help.
At all.
Especially not when she passed him in the hallway, barefoot, still rubbing sleep from her eyes, in one of those silk robes that stopped just below her butt. She always asked if he wanted anything from the bakery in the mornings.
He’d said no. His body had said something else entirely.
Late one evening, he heard the back door creak open.
He padded through the kitchen, stepping out onto the porch quietly.
There she was, curled into a patio chair with a glass of red wine in one hand and the other resting on Lyla’s head. Her legs were tucked up beneath her, robe sliding off one shoulder, hair frizzy from sleep.
She looked soft and undone and maybe just a little sad.
“Are you okay?” Will asked gently.
She jumped a little. “You walk like a damn ghost Will.”
“You left the door open.”
“Mm. Guilty.”
He sat on the steps, close enough to hear her, far enough not to press. “Can’t sleep?”
She sipped slowly. “Sometimes my brain doesn’t know when to shut up.”
“Wanna talk about it?”
She stared at the moon for a long moment. “Not really. But I probably will anyway. The wine helps.”
He nodded, waiting.
“My parents expected perfection,” she said after a moment of silence as if she was gathering her thoughts. “Always have. Not ‘do your best’ just … perfect. Anything less felt like a threat to the family name. And I hate talking about my family name. I just wanted to be me sometimes.”
She didn’t look at him, but he could feel the truth in her voice.
“What happens when you’re not perfect?” He asked gently.
“I don’t know,” she said, smiling faintly. “I’ve never let it happen.”
Will swallowed. “All your degrees. What are they in?”
“Political Science and Economics for undergrad. International Law at Yale. And I’m getting my doctorate in International Relations now.”
He blinked. “How the hell did you have time for all of that?”
She shrugged. “Private tutors. I graduated high school at sixteen. College by nineteen. Law school by twenty-two.”
Will let out a low whistle.
“I never really had a childhood,” she said. “Or college years, or… anything fun. I think that’s why I like waffles so much. Feels like rebellion. My mom always had a thing against sweet breakfast foods.”
He laughed. “You’re dangerous.”
“Exactly,” she said, raising her glass. “Pure menace.”
She leaned back into the chair, eyelids heavy. Her voice softened.
“I know you didn’t want to take this job, Will. You don’t have to lie about it. I’m not clueless.”
Will looked at her, really looked.
“I didn’t want to babysit a rich girl who never worked for anything,” he said honestly.
She met his eyes.
“I was wrong,” he added quietly.
The look she gave him then, part surprise, part warmth, lingered in the back of his mind long after she slipped inside for the night.
The following day was normal as always. Some type of workout class, dissertation work, seminars. They were leaving her final class when it happened.
A boy, maybe twenty, lingered just outside the lecture hall. He was dressed like money trying to look casual. White polo. Expensive watch. Entitled eyes.
“You know,” he said loud enough for the hallway to hear, “I heard your daddy bought all of your degrees. Is he planning on paying the dissertation committee next?”
Will moved before he could stop himself but she beat him to it, reaching out to gently grab his wrist.
Y/N turned, calm as ever, smile razor-sharp.
“If you didn’t get into Yale, it’s okay to just say that,” she said, voice smooth.
The boy flushed. “You think you're better than everyone else?”
“I don’t have to think it,” she said, tilting her head. “You’re doing a great job proving it for me.”
Lyla growled low, not a bark, just a warning, and the boy stepped back instinctively.
Y/N didn’t flinch.
She stepped closer instead, voice like ice.
“You think calling out my father embarrasses me?” she said. “You wish you had the weight of that name. I don’t think you could survive it.”
Then she turned on her heel, not giving him the dignity of another glance, and walked off.
Will followed in stunned silence.
Later, when they reached the car, he just muttered, “Remind me never to get on your bad side.”
She smiled without looking at him. “You’ll never be on my bad side Will. But, you’re cute when you’re annoyed.”
Later that night, Will heard (y/n) moving around near her bedroom. He glanced at the clock, it was late for her. Really late. She was usually in bed by 9:30.
Will went back reading on the couch when she came down the stairs.
The click of her heels was the only warning.
He looked up and blinked.
Hard.
Leather mini skirt. Bare legs. Cropped baby tee that clung to every perfect line. Gold hoops. Glossy lips. And confidence that could’ve leveled a city block.
“Where are you going?” he asked, already knowing the answer and already hating it.
She grabbed her black purse from the counter. “Out. Drinks with a few friends.”
“You sure that’s a good idea right now?”
She looked over her shoulder. “I’ve been good all week, Will. I deserve a break.”
Will stood, slowly, grabbing his jacket. “Give me a second. I’m not saying you don’t deserve a break, but I think it would be best if I was there.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You don’t have to come.”
“I do, actually.”
“I’m not going to get snatched from a bar.”
“Maybe not,” he sighed, already sliding on his jacket, “but what we do know is that you’re going to get drunk and have to walk home alone. You might get snatched at that point. Or leave with someone who doesn’t know what danger looks like.”
Her jaw tightened. “So what, you’re just gonna follow me around like some bodyguard with a superiority complex?”
Will raised a brow. “That is literally my job (y/n). Your father is paying me for that.”
She huffed. “This is ridiculous.”
And then she stomped out the door.
Will followed without a word, eyes never leaving her.
Because yeah, this was ridiculous.
But letting her walk into a bar looking like that, without him, was something he wouldn’t be able to forgive himself for.
The bar was packed, a low-lit, hazy kind of busy. Music pulsed underfoot and conversations buzzed just above the beat.
Will was two steps behind her as they entered, and it was instant.
Everything stopped.
Heads turned like clockwork, men, women, everyone caught mid-sentence as she stepped into the light, makeup soft but sharp, skirt hugging every curve like it was custom-made. That little smirk on her lips, that effortless confidence, she wasn’t just walking into the bar.
Will exhaled through his nose. Trouble. She was pure, unfiltered trouble.
She disappeared into a group of girls near the back, the clink of pool balls cutting through the music. He clocked them immediately, other grad and doctoral students, a couple from her classes. Familiar faces he’d seen while shadowing her on campus.
He ordered a whiskey neat and claimed a booth in the back corner, perfectly angled to keep her in his line of sight. Lyla lay down under the table, still alert, still watching.
(Y/N) laughed, full-bodied and loud, as one of the girls challenged her to a game. She took the cue, chalked the end, and broke the rack like she knew exactly what she was doing.
And hell, she did.
Will blinked. She was good.
He pulled out his phone, thumbing a quick message to Alana.
Will: She’s playing pool.
Alana: Like, actually playing? Or standing there looking rich?
Will: Playing. Winning.
Alana: That's hot.
He rolled his eyes and took another sip.
Then came the shift.
Will caught it before it even happened.
A guy stepped up beside her. Tall. Athletic. Smile just a little too confident. He was in expensive sneakers. Will caught someone saying his name, Daniel.
He watched them hug.
Watched her laugh at something Daniel whispered in her ear.
Watched his hand find her waist and then stay there.
Will’s jaw flexed. He took another sip of whiskey. Didn’t blink.
Daniel didn’t move. His hand was on her hip now. Then her lower back. Then her ass.
Will sat forward.
(Y/N) didn’t seem to care. She was grinning, eyes half-lidded, leaning into the contact like she didn’t feel the weight of Will’s stare from across the room.
Daniel held her hand. Tucked her hair behind her ear. Brushed her cheek when he missed a shot.
Will’s stomach twisted. This wasn’t just flirtation. This was familiar.
Maybe even a little intimate.
And then —
Something shifted.
Across the bar, just behind Daniel, a man sat alone. Older. Sunglasses indoors. Nursing a drink he hadn’t touched in over an hour.
Camera phone raised.
Click.
Will’s pulse spiked. He was on his feet before he thought about it.
(Y/N) looked up as he approached. She gave him a drunken grin.
“Time to go,” Will said low.
She blinked, drunk and a little breathless. “You okay?”
“No,” he said tightly, glancing past her. “We need to leave. Now (y/n).”
Daniel straightened. “Hey, are you the guy looking after her? Will, right?”
Will’s eyes didn’t leave the man at the bar. “Yeah.”
“Cool,” Daniel said, unfazed. He leaned in, kissed (Y/N)’s forehead like they’d done it a thousand times. “Thanks, man. I appreciate it.”
Will’s fists clenched.
Daniel looked at her again, softer this time. “See you in class, okay?”
(Y/N) nodded, her voice lazy with wine. “Monday.”
Will didn’t say a word. He just wrapped an arm around her waist and steered her out the door.
Outside, the air was cooler. Quieter.
(Y/N) giggled, stumbling a little in her heels. “You’re mad.”
“I’m not mad.”
“You’re so mad,” she said, looping her arm through his.
Will didn’t answer. She hummed a song under her breath as they walked, her body warm against his side.
“You’re hot when you’re grumpy," she whispered. "Very Clint Eastwood. Brooding and twitchy.”
“Stop talking.”
She gasped, delighted. “You are mad.”
He looked down at her. “He was all over you.”
“I know,” she said dreamily. “Isn’t he pretty?”
Will stopped walking. “You think that’s funny?”
She turned to face him, brows raised. “What, are you jealous?”
“No,” he said too fast.
She grinned, wide and a little sloppy. “You are. You’re jealous. Of Daniel.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
She tried to twirl and nearly faceplanted off the curb, then spotted a black cat darting across the street.
“Oh my god,” she gasped. “KITTY.”
“Don’t—”
But it was too late.
She tore off down the sidewalk.
And tripped.
Directly into a bush.
Will stared, momentarily speechless.
Lyla sat beside him, clearly unimpressed.
He walked over slowly, reached down into the foliage, and pulled her out by the elbow.
“That bush came out of nowhere.” She was laughing too hard to stand.
“You’re an embarrassment.”
“I’m a delight.” She leaned against him the rest of the walk home.
Back at the townhouse, Will opened the door and let Lyla inside first. (Y/N) kicked off her heels, holding onto the wall for balance.
“Water,” he said. “Then bed.”
“Yes, dad,” she said, tossing her purse on the couch. “You gonna tuck me in too?”
Will raised a brow. “If I do, you’re not waking up in your bed alone.”
She blinked.
He froze.
They stared at each other for a long second, the air thick, humming with something sharp.
“Go to bed,” he said quietly. “Before we both say something we’ll regret.”
She rolled her eyes and turned on her heel—
And immediately tripped over Lyla.
Lyla didn’t even move. Just sighed.
Will burst out laughing. It was low and deep, the kind he never let out in public.
She flipped him off from the floor. “You’re such an ass.”
“You’re being a brat.”
“I am a brat,” she said proudly.
He helped her to her feet, half-carrying her to her bedroom. She stripped out of her clothes with no sense of urgency or shame, pulling on an oversized T-shirt that fell to mid-thigh.
Will handed her a bottle of water and set two aspirin on the nightstand.
She blinked at him from the bed. “You’re good at this.”
“At what?”
“Taking care of me.”
He didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to.
He turned off the light and pulled the door halfway closed behind him.
“Sweet dreams, Watchdog,” she murmured.
Will pressed his forehead to the wall outside her room.
And cursed Daniel six different ways under his breath.
The following morning, (Y/N) woke up with a groan. Her limbs were tangled in her sheets, her mouth dry, and her head pounding. The sunlight streaming in through the window felt like a personal attack.
She pushed herself upright and immediately regretted it. “Ow,” she muttered, hand to her forehead. “Too much tequila. Too many feelings.”
Lyla was curled up in the corner, watching her like a tired babysitter.
(Y/N) shuffled out of bed, oversized T-shirt hanging off one shoulder, and padded toward the kitchen on bare feet.
Will was already there. Mug in hand, leaning against the counter like some kind of tragic painting. Flannel and denim. Coffee and quiet.
He slid a mug across the counter without looking up. “Drink. Sit.”
She did both.
After a few minutes of silence, she peeked at him over the rim of her mug. “So, uh how bad was I last night? I know I'm not the most cooperative when I'm drunk.”
He took a long sip before answering.
“You chased a cat.”
She winced.
“Fell into a bush.”
“Oh god.”
“Tripped over Lyla. Flicked me off.”
She blinked. “Did I at least look cute doing it?”
He gave her a sideways glance. “You also called me hot.”
She nearly choked on her coffee.
Will smirked.
She set the mug down with a dramatic sigh. “So, no dignity left. Got it.”
He leaned against the island, arms crossed. “You survived. Barely.”
She smiled faintly, then looked away. “Thanks for taking care of me.”
His voice was soft. “You don’t have to thank me.”
Before she could respond, his phone buzzed.
Jack Crawford.
Will answered. “Yeah?”
He listened, jaw tightening. His eyes flicked to her. Then back down.
“Right. We’ll be in soon.”
He ended the call and looked at her carefully.
“That guy at the bar. The one taking photos? They found him this morning.”
She straightened. “What?”
“Arrested him on another charge, but there’s not much to hold him on. He’s connected to the threats, but it’s messy. He hasn’t said anything. And taking photos of you in public isn’t enough to stick.”
“Invasion of privacy?” she offered weakly.
“Maybe. But not enough. He’s not going away.”
She went quiet, fingers tightening around the mug.
Will stepped closer. “I know you hate being watched. I know you want to act like this doesn’t scare you.”
“It didn’t,” she whispered. “But now…”
He reached out, just enough for her to feel the warmth of his hand resting beside hers on the counter.
“I won’t let anything happen to you,” he said. “Not while I’m here.”
She looked up at him, eyes wide and wet, vulnerability sharp in her chest. “You promise?”
He didn’t flinch. “Yeah. I promise.”
Within the next hour, the two of them had gotten dressed and made their way to the bureau.
(Y/N) moved through the building like she’d been there a hundred times, because, in a way, she had. Funded half of it.
She knew Jack, knew the corridors, and knew where the best coffee machine was.
Will peeled off briefly to work on some profiles. Jack took her to his office for a quick update. And, of course, Richard was already waiting.
He stood when she entered, kissed her forehead, and motioned to the couch. “Tell me everything, baby girl.”
Will returned half an hour later to find the three of them in conversation. Y/N curled into the corner of the couch with her laptop, Richard reviewing some stats from her last media prep, and Jack going through security protocol again.
But then someone else walked in.
“Hey,” Daniel said, smiling like he belonged there. “I didn't think I was ever going to find you, this place is like a maze.”
Y/N brightened. “Daniel! I can’t believe you found me. I always get lost in there, but thank. you for coming. I just figured we could go back through one of our assignments..”
Richard stood, extended a hand. “You must be Daniel.”
“Yes, sir. Big fan of your work, by the way. The global sustainability report you co-chaired with the UN? That changed how we did our entire case study for a class I took last semester.”
Richard looked genuinely pleased. “Well, good to hear it’s reaching the right minds.”
Will leaned against the doorframe, silent, jaw ticking.
“Daniel’s one of the best in the department,” Y/N added, smiling proudly. “We’ve been in, like, five seminars together.”
“Smart and charming,” Richard said. “You have good taste, baby girl.”
Will's stomach dropped. Jack raised an eyebrow in his direction but said nothing.
Daniel glanced at Will. “Nice to see you again Will.”
Will nodded stiffly.
“Thanks for doing all this,” Daniel said. “It's nice to know she’s in good hands.”
Will said nothing. Jack didn’t even try to hide the smirk behind his coffee cup.
Daniel leaned in to whisper something to (Y/N), and she laughed, light, careless, warm.
Will looked away then stepped out of the room. Jack caught up to Will as he was headed toward the elevators.
“You okay Graham?” He asked.
“Fine.”
“Sure doesn’t look like it.”
Will glared. “Why is he here?”
“Probably because your girl wanted to work on a paper.”
“She’s not my—” Will stopped, sighed. “I don’t like him.”
Jack patted his shoulder. “You don’t have to. But if you’re going to stare at her like that in front of her father, try not to look so murdery.”
Will glared harder.
“Don’t worry,” Jack added, walking off. “Your secret’s safe with me. For now.”
Daniel had left an hour ago, and (Y/N) was curled up in the conference room reviewing notes for a dissertation revision. Headphones in, stylus tapping against her tablet screen, a cup of overpriced iced matcha sweating beside her.
She was focused, or at least she was trying to be, when the glass door opened.
She glanced up.
And almost dropped the tablet.
Alana Bloom walked in like she owned oxygen. Tall. Glossy hair. Slim black slacks and a perfectly tailored blouse. Minimal makeup, perfect skin, bright eyes. The kind of woman who made you want to sit up straighter just by existing.
(Y/N)’s jaw tightened.
Will stood up from the couch in the corner, smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Alana.”
She smiled back. “You’re still alive Will. That’s good.”
(Y/N)’s stomach twisted.
He moved toward her. Easy. Familiar. Comfortable. Not flirty, but definitely known.
Alana put a hand on his wrist, laughing softly about some case update. Will said something that made her laugh harder. He looked pleased.
(Y/N) didn’t even realize she was staring until Alana glanced over.
“Oh,” she said, stepping toward the table. “You must be the reason I haven't seen him at work in weeks.”
(Y/N) blinked.
“I’m Dr. Alana Bloom,” she said, extending a hand. “I work in behavioral sciences with Will. Well, near Will. He doesn’t really work with anyone. I heard you were working on your doctorate, that's major.”
“Thank you,” she said, shaking her hand. “And I'm just (Y/N).”
Alana smiled. Friendly. Effortless. Annoyingly pretty.
Will cleared his throat. “She’s Richard Sullivan’s daughter. The threats we’re investigating.”
Alana’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Oh. That's no fun.”
(Y/N) nodded once. “Nice to meet you Alana.”
The silence that followed was just a little too long.
Alana eventually excused herself, and Will followed her out to talk over something about a shared case.
(Y/N) didn’t hear a word of it.
She just watched the way Alana leaned in. Touched his arm. How Will let her.
Eventually they went back home and Will told her he’d get started on dinner. She just stiffly nodded and told him she was going to take a shower.
Typically (y/n) watched him cook, but today something was off, so Will went to her room to check on her.
He knocked gently before opening her door. “Hey, dinner’s—”
He paused.
(Y/N) was sitting on the floor in front of her bed, oversized hoodie swallowing her frame, Lyla lying next to her like an old friend. A box of colored pencils sat between them, and she was coloring an intricate page of flowers and dragons like it was the only thing keeping her sane.
He cleared his throat. “You okay?”
“I didn’t know you were bringing a supermodel to work today.” She didn't even look up at him.
Will blinked. “You mean Alana?”
She glanced at him now, expression unreadable. “She’s, like, clinically beautiful.”
“She’s a friend., (y/n). One of the only ones I have.”
“Sure.”
“She is,” he said, stepping into the room. “We’ve worked together for years.”
“Right. And she touches all her coworkers like that?”
Will blinked. “Are you jealous?”
She let out a sharp breath, more amused than angry. “Please. Why would I be jealous of someone who looks like that, has a PhD, and probably gets asked to pose for Vogue articles on feminism and plant-based wellness?”
He sat down on the edge of the bed. “There’s nothing going on.”
(Y/N) snapped her colored pencil in half. “There’s nothing going on with Daniel either.”
Will raised an eyebrow. “Could’ve fooled me.”
She glanced at him. “That what you think? That I’m just running around making out with classmates for fun?”
“You let him put his hands all over you.”
She shrugged. “It doesn’t mean anything.”
Will frowned. “It didn’t look meaningless.”
She set the broken pencil aside and sighed, softer now. “I didn’t get any of that stuff, Will. Not in high school. Not in college. No dating. No parties. No sneaking out after curfew. I was studying for the bar while everyone else was at football games.”
He was quiet.
“I’m figuring it out now,” she said. “What I like. What I want. How I want to be seen.”
Will looked at her, really looked.
“And what do you want?” he asked.
She didn’t answer right away.
Instead, she reached for another pencil, this one gold, and started filling in a patch of wings on her page.
“I want someone who sees me before the name,” she said softly. “Before the headlines. I want someone who stays even when I’m messy. Loud. Not perfect.”
Will watched her hand move across the page.
Then said, quieter, “That’s what Daniel gives you?”
She glanced up. “Daniel doesn’t give me anything. Not really.”
Will nodded, slow.
She looked at him for a long moment. “And Alana?”
“She’s never been the one,” he said.
(Y/N) exhaled, eyes falling back to the page.
Will stood. “You hungry?”
“A little.”
“Come down in ten. I made stir fry.”
She looked at him, soft around the edges now. “I still can’t believe you know how to cook.”
When the daughter of the BAU’s biggest benefactor becomes a target, Will Graham is tasked with protecting her, but neither of them is prepared for what it means to truly be seen.
Just wanted to give a trigger warning. If you watch the show/seen the movies/read the books, I'm sure you know the topics that come up. I want to give an overall warning to swearing and sexual scenes. If anything else comes up, I'll add it.
The elevator dinged and all heads turned, as they always did when Jack Crawford had company.
Richard Sullivan walked like he owned the building and in some ways, he did. Tailored suit, polished shoes, cufflinks glinting in the harsh light.
The woman behind him could’ve been a ghost, silent and poised, her heels whispering against the floor. She wore a cream sweater, the gold jewelry dancing with each step, black skirt hitting mid-thigh with tights that had never seen a snag. She wasn’t flaunting money. She was bred from it.
Will Graham glanced up from his desk, nose still buried in a report on missing persons in Virginia. He didn’t recognize them. But he didn’t have to. They screamed old money; generational wealth, boarding schools, social clubs where last names mattered more than what you did for a living.
Trailing behind her was a Doberman, lean and glossy, not a single step out of sync with her rhythm. It didn’t look like a pet. It looked like a soldier. Trained, sharp-eyed, quiet.
Jack met the pair with a handshake and a nod. No fuss. Then he led them down the hall without a word. The girl, no, woman, glanced once at Will as she passed. Curious eyes. Or just aware. Too aware for someone her age.
They disappeared behind a closed door.
Will returned to the report, but the words didn’t stick.
Half an hour passed before Jack reappeared.
“Graham,” he said. “Got a second?”
Will followed him into the conference room. Richard Sullivan stood as he entered, offering a hand that Will took more out of instinct than choice.
“This is my daughter,” Richard said. “Y/N.”
She didn’t stand. She barely looked up from the book in her lap. It was some dense foreign policy tome with a battered spine and too many tabs. The Doberman didn’t stir, only flicked its ears once in Will’s direction.
“We’re receiving threats,” Jack explained, motioning to the table where folders sat unopened. “Mostly directed at Richard’s daughter. Not him.”
Will leaned against the edge of the table. “So what’s the ask?”
“We want you to stay with her,” Jack said. “Follow her to class, keep an eye on her, until we find out who’s behind this.”
Will blinked. “You want me to babysit.”
Richard didn’t smile. “It’s not babysitting. It’s protection. She may not show it, but this is serious. Whoever’s doing this knows things. Personal things.”
Before Will could answer, Richard slid a contract across the table.
“Take some time to read it if you’d like,” he shrugged. “Have your lawyer read it too if you want. Jack Crawford says you’re one of the best and I’d trust him with my life. I’ve kept up with your research too Agent Graham and I have to say, I’m impressed.”
Will glanced down at it, and his jaw clenched when he saw the amount of money he would be offered for just following around his daughter.
“No, it’s too much.” Will shook his head.
“No, it’s not.” Richard said. “And if you need more, we can make that happen. She’s my only daughter,” Richard said. “Her safety doesn’t have a price.”
Will looked at Jack. “Can I talk to you outside?”
Jack followed him into the hall.
“What is this?” Will asked. “He’s buying my time?”
“He’s buying your eyes,” Jack said. “And yes. He funds most of the research you’re doing right now. You like your lab? That was Sullivan money.”
Will scrubbed a hand down his face. “I don’t want to babysit a spoiled legacy hire.”
Jack raised a brow. “She’s got a law degree, two undergrads, and she’s working on a doctorate. Speaks three languages fluently. She might be babysitting you.”
Will didn’t answer right away.
But his eyes lingered on the door.
Will leaned his shoulder against the wall, arms crossed as he stared at the floor. “So what exactly does Richard Sullivan do?”
Jack exhaled slowly, already anticipating the follow-up questions. “Politics. High-profile. White House-adjacent.”
Will blinked. “You’re saying he’s... what? A cabinet member?”
“Not exactly. But he might as well be,” Jack said. “Foreign policy advisor. Sits on every panel that matters. Has the President’s ear. Quiet power, the kind of people listen to behind closed doors.”
“And his family donated to the program?”
“Great-grandfather helped fund the BAU back when it was a scrappy little think tank,” Jack said. “Richard’s kept the checkbook open ever since. Grants, research, facilities. He's a believer in what we do.”
Will didn’t answer.
Jack clapped a hand to his shoulder. “Just meet her again. You’ll see.”
Will stepped back into the room. Richard was back at the table, making some kind of note on his phone. Y/N was still in her chair, the book now closed in her lap. She looked up as Will approached.
He offered his hand.
She smiled, not wide, just a soft, effortless thing that made him feel like he was looking at someone in a museum. “Thank you,” she said, her voice warm but reserved.
She gestured down toward the Doberman at her feet. “This is Lyla. She’s a sweetheart, but she bites on command.”
Richard mumbled without looking up, “She’s extremely trained. Just be careful.”
Will let out a slow breath. “Duly noted.”
The next morning, Will moved into her townhouse. He hadn’t known what to expect.
He’d prepared himself for something cold and sterile. Art gallery energy. A fortress of curated power.
What he found was warm.
The townhouse was pale pink and cream, soft light streaming in through sheer curtains. It smelled like vanilla and fresh flowers. Books lined every available surface. Family photos nestled beside stacked textbooks. Candles. Throw blankets. A teacup still resting on a side table.
Lyla padded ahead of him, silent as ever, leading him past the sunlit living room and into a hallway.
“This is you,” Y/N said, opening a door to a guest suite. “Full bathroom’s through there. I put fresh towels out, but if you want something different, I can switch them.”
Will nodded once, still trying to wrap his head around this space. “Thanks.”
She handed him a folder. “My schedule. Mostly doctoral work and classes. I do Pilates and barre in the mornings, then class, research meetings, and media prep with my team in the afternoons. Walks with Lyla after dinner.”
He blinked. “You’re busy.”
“I like structure.” She smiled faintly, then stepped aside to let him in. “You’re welcome to anything in the fridge. I stocked a few things I thought you’d like. Turkey jerky and iced tea?”
He turned slowly. “How did you know I like those?”
“You look like someone who doesn’t cook,” she said, eyes gleaming with amusement. “And Jack talks when he’s stressed.”
Will gave a half-smile, then glanced around again. “I’m surprised you live in a house. I figured…”
“A castle?” she teased, tilting her head.
He shrugged. “Something close.”
She laughed, bright and real, and Will found himself smiling again before he could stop it.
“My family does have an estate,” she said, eyes softening, “but this is close to campus. It makes me feel normal.”
Will didn’t reply.
He didn’t know what to say to someone like her, elegant, brilliant, deeply kind in a way that was somehow not naïve. But he was already sure of one thing: He couldn’t keep his distance for long.
The following morning, Will hadn’t expected to wake up to the smell of waffles.
For a second, he thought he’d dreamed it. But no, syrup, butter, something rich and golden in the air. And bacon. Definitely bacon.
He rubbed at his face, shuffled into a T-shirt, and padded down the hall barefoot.
The kitchen came into view, soft morning light filtering through the windows, golden and warm, catching the delicate curve of her shoulder as she stood in front of the stove.
Tiny pajama shorts.
Matching tank top.
Long legs and a quiet hum as she flipped the last waffle onto a plate.
Will stopped mid-step. Turned slightly. Considered going right back to the guest room and pretending none of this ever happened.
But then she turned around.
Sleepy smile. “Good morning, Will,” she said, like they were already friends. “Breakfast is almost done. You like waffles?”
He swallowed. “Yeah.”
“Good.” She set the plate down on the kitchen island. “I made too much, so help yourself. You drink coffee or tea?”
“Coffee,” he said automatically.
She poured him a mug without asking how he liked it and somehow, it was perfect. Cream, no sugar.
Of course it was.
She sat across from him in her tiny pajamas and ate slowly, crossing one leg over the other like she didn’t just exist on a completely different plane of elegance.
“Pilates at nine,” she said between bites. “You can come, or you can wait in the lobby. They don’t really allow men in class unless it’s couples.”
“I’ll wait outside.”
She grinned over the rim of her cup. “Shy?”
He looked down at his plate. “Just trying to be respectful.”
PILATES: 9:00 AM
By the time they pulled up to the studio, she’d changed into a rose-pink set, long sleeves and leggings, her hair pulled into a bun at the crown of her head. She looked like a ballet ad come to life.
Will sat in the sleek, modern lobby while she disappeared behind glass doors. He kept one eye on the hallway, one on the entrance. Lyla sat at his feet, unbothered.
An older woman passed by, nodding to Will with a whisper. “She’s lovely, isn’t she?”
Will didn’t answer, but the corners of his mouth pulled tight.
CAMPUS: 11:30 AM
She walked ahead of him without trying to shake him, like he was meant to be there. Some students stared, others waved. She returned every greeting with an easy warmth.
A boy on a bike nearly crashed when she said his name and complimented his debate team win.
Two girls dropped their iced lattes when she stopped to ask how their internship interviews went.
Not once did she mention her father. Her wealth. Her name.
She just knew people. Made them feel like they mattered.
Will watched it unfold like a pattern he hadn’t expected. Every interaction was intentional, not calculated. She moved like she belonged, and she made others believe they did, too.
He stayed back. Watched the way people drifted into her orbit and left with lighter shoulders.
He’d been wrong about her.
So wrong.
DOCTORATE RESEARCH MEETING: 2:15 PM
Y/N sat at the head of a long table with professors and grad students hanging on her every word. Her voice never rose, but her arguments were sharp, well-structured, hard to ignore.
She caught Will watching from the glass door and winked.
It should’ve embarrassed him. But he smiled.
MEDIA PREP: 3:45 pm
They met with a publicist in a crisp navy suit, rehearsing hypothetical interview answers about her doctoral research. The woman tried to coach her through one response, something about phrasing a quote more diplomatically.
Y/N tilted her head. “If you want bland, you should hire a senator.”
The publicist blinked.
Will choked on his water.
WALKS WITH LYLA: 6:30 PM
Later, walking home with Lyla trotting between them, Will finally said, “You’re quick.”
She raised a brow. “Would you rather I weren’t?”
“No,” he said. “Just didn’t expect it.”
“Let me guess.” She smirked. “You thought I’d be helpless. Spoiled. Too soft for the real world.”
He didn’t answer.
She laughed softly. “It’s okay. Most people do.”
“You make it hard to keep assumptions,” he admitted.
She looked over at him then, not teasing, not smug. Just… honest. “Good,” she said quietly. “Assumptions are boring.”
Later that evening, Will sat in the living room with Lyla curled up by his side, still pretending he was only here to work.
But she was in the kitchen again, barefoot, music playing low, pouring herself a glass of wine while she reheated leftovers.
She moved like someone who belonged to herself, not to her father, not to a headline, not to anyone’s agenda.
Will wasn’t sure when the line between bodyguard and something else had started to blur.
Imagine a Will Graham x reader where they actually moved into his cabin together, and he brings her on fishing dates?? I think it would be a sweet story, maybe it could be a part 2 of your previous one🥹
Hey! This was such a cute idea that I wanted it to have its own imagine. I hope that's okay and I hope you like it!
Here is the link to my masterlist.
Will Graham: Quiet Waters
It started with a phone call at 9:42 PM on a Wednesday.
(Y/N) had been staring at the same cold mug of tea for over an hour, curled up on the edge of her couch like her body didn’t know what to do without adrenaline. Her apartment was quiet, the lights too dim, the shadows too loud.
Her leave of absence had started that morning. Crawford’s decision. Officially, it was framed as “time to recover and decompress.” Unofficially? It was an intervention.
Six years as a behavioral analyst with the Bureau—specializing in child abductions. Six years of stepping into the minds of monsters. Of studying how they think, where they go, who they target. Of sitting across from grieving parents and tracking patterns in missing persons reports like puzzle pieces to trauma.
The last three cases had been too close together. Too personal. A boy who looked like her nephew. A girl who called her by her first name before being taken. One child didn’t make it.
Jack Crawford didn’t wait for her to ask for time. He gave it to her, mandatory.
And that’s how she ended up alone in her apartment, untethered, fighting the kind of quiet that echoed too loudly.
Then her phone buzzed.
Will.
She answered without hesitation.
“Hey,” he said, soft and low in the way he always was when he was worried. Will Graham didn’t raise his voice when he cared. He lowered it, like secrets should be protected even from silence.
She swallowed. “Hey.”
A beat passed. And then—
“You shouldn’t be alone right now.”
She let out a breath, uneven. “Yeah. Jack agrees with you.”
“What happened?” he asked, though he already knew. He always knew.
“The last one was a little girl who called me by my name,” she said, voice fragile. “I talked her through her fear when we found her. She held my hand the whole way to the hospital. And I just—” Her words cracked, crumbled. “I can’t do it again. Not right now.”
“I know,” Will said quietly.
Silence stretched, not uncomfortable, just full.
Then, gently: “I’ve got space.”
Her brow furrowed. “Will…”
“You know I do. The cabin. It’s quiet. The dogs would be happy to have you around.” He paused. “I’d feel better knowing you weren’t trying to fix yourself alone.”
“I don’t want to be a burden,” she said automatically.
“You’re not a burden,” he replied, without hesitation. “You’re my girlfriend (y/n). You’re not alone. Not if I can help it.”
Her throat tightened. He didn’t say things like that often, not with so many words.
But when he did, he meant every syllable.
She blinked against sudden heat in her eyes. “Okay,” she whispered. “I’ll pack a bag.”
Two days later, she pulled into Will Graham’s driveway with a duffle bag in the backseat and exhaustion in her bones. The sky had just begun to melt into evening, pine trees backlit by the gold of early dusk. The dogs barked the second she parked, sharp and excited, and by the time she stepped onto the porch, Will was already there, propped against the doorframe in his usual flannel and bare feet.
She stood still for a moment, just taking him in.
Home.
“I brought snacks and trauma,” she called, a tired smile tugging at her lips.
Will huffed a soft laugh and stepped forward, opening the door for her. “Come in. You’re good for the dogs.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You sure about that?”
“They’ve been restless without you. Winston kept checking the porch like he was waiting.”
“Okay, rude. I didn’t even get that from you.”
Will didn’t rise to the bait. He reached for her bag instead. “Let me take this.”
Her fingers lingered on the strap for half a second longer than necessary before she let go. That alone said more than she meant it to.
Inside, the cabin was warm in a way that wasn’t just temperature. Smelled like cedar, something baking, and pine from whatever soap he used. She’d been here before, she was at his house almost every day, but she never stayed overnight. They always liked their own space.
Until now.
“Your room’s made up,” he said gently. “And you can stay as long as you need.”
“You sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. I’ve been asking you to move in for the longest. ”
She nodded. “Okay. Then I’m here.”
Will looked at her then, really looked. And for a second, he didn’t say anything. Just reached out, brushing his fingers lightly down her arm. “I’m glad you are.”
That night, she sat on the porch wrapped in a blanket, watching the trees sway while the dogs curled at her feet. Will sat beside her, close enough to touch, but didn’t.
By the end of the first week at the cabin, it became glaringly obvious that (y/n) was terrible at living off the grid.
The toast? Always burnt. Every morning. Will watched her scrape the blackened edges with a butter knife like it was a personal challenge, muttering “it’s fine” as she stacked the charred slices with increasingly false optimism.
The spider incident had nearly ended her life, or at least, according to her dramatic retelling.
Will had found her standing on a chair, wielding a glass cup like a weapon while yelling “Joseph, please get off the ceiling.”
“You named it?”
“He looks like a Joseph.”
“…That’s a wolf spider.”
“I knew he had main character energy.”
Will didn’t say much, just gently coaxed the spider outside and spent the rest of the day listening to her suspiciously check the ceiling every fifteen minutes.
She couldn’t catch a fish to save her life either. She cast the line too hard, reeled too slow, talked too loud, and lost more bait than she landed. But she never gave up. She kept trying, kept showing up every morning when Will knocked on her door, tea in hand, patience in his eyes.
She brought her Polaroid camera with her everywhere, documenting the strange, lovely new rhythm of their days. The first photo she took was of Will handing her a thermos on the dock. The next was the dogs curled around her legs by the fire. Then Will reading in a patch of sun. The way his hand looked gripping a coffee mug. Her own feet, bare on the porch. A half-caught fish flopping indignantly in her bucket.
On week three, when the fog still clung to the edge of the lake and Will had just handed her a mug of tea, she raised the camera in his direction.
“Hold still,” she whispered.
Will blinked, half-asleep. “Why?”
“Because you look like a sad forest prince,” she replied, completely serious.
Each photo went on the corkboard in the kitchen with little pins shaped like stars.
Will never said anything. But he always looked.
In fact, one night, long after she’d gone to bed, he added a photo to the board himself.
It was one she hadn’t taken—her, standing barefoot on the porch, hair damp from the lake, smiling at one of the dogs with the kind of ease she hadn’t worn in months.
He pinned it gently, then stood there for a long while, just looking.
One morning, Will didn’t speak as they walked to the dock. Just handed her a blanket and her tea and nodded toward the bench. She sat beside him, line dangling lazily in the water, her shoulder brushing his.
It was quiet, deep quiet, the kind that settled in your chest and pressed the air out.
For the first time in weeks, she felt like she could breathe.
They sat like that for a long time, fishing in silence, the kind only two people who understood pain intimately could share.
Then, softly, Will said, “That’s why I fish.”
She glanced over. He wasn’t looking at her, just out at the water, distant but not far.
“My brain doesn’t quiet down. Not really. But this… slows it. Makes the noise feel more like background. You know?”
She nodded. “I do now.”
Will didn’t smile, exactly, but something in his expression shifted. A subtle easing. Like sharing it out loud made it a little less heavy.
The next day, she fell in.
It wasn’t graceful. One minute she was wrestling with a snagged line, muttering curses under her breath, and the next her foot slipped on the dock and she went down with a startled splash.
Will was in the water before she even surfaced.
“(Y/N)!”
She came up laughing, soaked and sputtering. “I’m fine! It’s just water, not lava. Oh my God, Will, are you panicking right now?”
He didn’t answer. Just waded over, hands on her arms, checking her pupils like she’d been shot and not just clumsy.
“You went under,” he said, voice tight.
“For like three seconds.”
He didn’t laugh. Not until she reached out and flicked a strand of wet hair at him.
She yelped and nearly dropped the pole in excitement, holding the fish up like a prize.
“Look! William! Look!”
He stepped over calmly, peering at it. “Beginner’s luck.”
She ignored him. “His name is Gregory. Gregory had a family.”
Will blinked. “Gregory is dinner.”
She gasped. “Will.”
He shrugged, deadpan. “We all have a role to play.”
“You’re a menace.”
“I’m a realist.”
They released Gregory after a dramatic monologue from her about his wife and twelve kids back home.
Will shook his head and wrote “Gregory, 7:32 AM, survived assassination” on a Post-it. She pinned it under his Polaroid on the corkboard.
Later that evening, she found Will sitting on the porch, the dogs asleep beside him. The sun had dipped behind the trees, the last streaks of orange and lavender fading across the sky.
She sat beside him in silence.
After a moment, he looked over.
“You seem lighter.”
She nodded. “I think I forgot how it felt.”
“To be okay?”
“To feel safe,” she said softly. “Not waiting for the next awful thing.”
Will didn’t reach for her. He didn’t need to.
But he said, “Then stay until it doesn’t feel so far away anymore.”
And she did.
That night, she had a nightmare.
It was always the same. A hallway. A child’s voice echoing from the end of it. A flash of red. Hands reaching.
Too late.
(Y/N) woke with a sharp breath, heart pounding, fingers tangled in the quilt like she’d been trying to hold on to something that wasn’t there.
The cabin was dark. Still.
She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes, trying to slow her breathing. She hated this part, the moments after. The disorientation. The coldness in her chest. The familiar ache of knowing it wasn’t real, but the fear was.
She didn’t expect the knock on the door.
Just three soft taps.
Then: “(Y/N)?”
Will.
She swallowed. “Yeah. I’m up.”
He cracked the door open, worry written all over his face even in the low light. He didn’t ask what happened. He didn’t need to.
“I’ll make tea,” he said simply.
A few minutes later, they sat side by side on the porch steps. Her mug was warm in her hands, the scent of chamomile and honey wrapping around her like a blanket. The dogs were sprawled out nearby, Winston resting his head on her foot like he somehow knew she needed grounding.
The night air was cool, but not cold. The forest was quiet, except for the soft rustling of leaves and the distant hoot of an owl.
Will hadn’t said anything since they sat down. He didn’t push. He just existed next to her, solid and steady.
She stared into the trees for a long time before speaking.
“I don’t want to go home.”
His eyes flicked toward her, slow and thoughtful. “Then don’t.”
“I mean eventually,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “When I go back to work. The cases. The apartment. The noise in my head. I just… I don’t want it.”
Will’s voice was low. “You don’t have to go back to all of it at once.”
She turned to look at him. “You think it’s that easy?”
“No,” he said. “I think it’s that hard. Which is why you don’t have to do it alone. Even when you go back to work, you don’t have to go back there.” He nodded toward the woods. “This is your home too, if you want it.”
Something cracked in her chest, softly, sweetly.
“You mean that?”
“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t.”
She let out a slow breath, letting the weight of his words settle inside her.
And then, after a beat: “Will?”
He looked over.
“Can I—” She hesitated. “Can I sleep in your room tonight?”
His eyes didn’t widen. His expression didn’t shift into surprise. He just nodded, like he’d been waiting for her to ask.
“You never had to ask,” he said gently.
Her throat tightened. “I just don’t want to be alone.”
“You’re not,” he murmured. “You haven’t been since the day you pulled into my driveway.”
The room smelled like cedar and clean sheets and the faint scent of Will’s soap. She hesitated for a second in the doorway, then crossed to the bed, pulling back the quilt like she’d done it a hundred times before.
Will slipped in behind her a few moments later.
The dogs curled up at the foot of the bed like they knew this was where everyone was supposed to be.
Will didn’t say anything as he settled beside her, but his hand found her waist, warm and steady, and he tugged her gently back into his chest.
She exhaled, slow and deep.
Everything in her body unclenched.
Will’s voice was barely audible in the dark. “You’re safe.”
She nodded, already halfway to sleep.
And for the first time in weeks, maybe longer, the quiet didn’t feel heavy. It felt like peace.
It felt like home.
Morning came in soft layers, mist rising off the lake, pale light filtering through the trees, and the low hum of birds just beginning to wake.
(Y/N) blinked her eyes open to the feeling of warmth.
Will’s arm was still around her waist, solid and unmoving, like even in sleep he hadn’t wanted to let go. One of the dogs had claimed the bottom corner of the bed; another snored softly from the rug.
The room smelled like pine and sunlight and something she’d never known she needed until now: safety.
She didn’t move.
Not at first.
Because for the first time in a long time, she felt still. Not numb. Not exhausted. Just still. Present.
Will stirred behind her, breath brushing the back of her neck. He shifted, then propped himself up on one elbow. His voice was gravelly from sleep.
“Hey.”
She rolled to face him, smiling lazy and genuine. “Hey.”
He looked at her for a long moment, no urgency, no tension. Just her. In his space. In his bed. Like it had always been meant to feel this natural.
“Sleep okay?”
“Eventually,” she murmured. “You helped.”
“You always help me,” he said.
The air between them shifted, something unspoken, rising slowly. Neither of them looked away.
(Y/N) reached up, brushing her fingers over the stubble on his jaw. “You know I’m not just here because I needed space, right?”
Will’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “I was hoping.”
“I think,” she said carefully, “I might be here because I don’t want to be anywhere else.”
The quiet that followed wasn’t awkward, it was heavy with certainty. The kind that settled in the bones.
Will leaned in and she met him halfway.
The kiss was slow. Unrushed. The kind that made time feel like it didn’t matter anymore.
His hand cupped her cheek, thumb brushing over her skin like she might vanish if he let go.
But she didn’t.
She stayed.
Later that morning, she stood barefoot in the kitchen, one of Will’s old sweatshirts hanging off her frame, sipping tea while the dogs milled underfoot.
Will moved around her easily, flipping pancakes, setting out plates like it was just another day.
But it wasn’t.
Not anymore.
“You ever think about keeping a second toothbrush here?” he asked casually, eyes on the stove.
She grinned. “I thought about it last night.”
Will glanced over, just long enough to catch her smile. “You know you can stay. Even when you go back to work.”
“I know.”
“I mean it. Not as a guest.”
She stepped closer, sliding her arms around his waist from behind.
“I know,” she said again. “And I will.”
He turned in her arms, pressing a kiss to her forehead.
The kettle whistled. The dogs barked. The morning moved on.
But something between them had settled into place, firm, quiet, right.
The snow had started falling around noon, soft and unassuming. Now, hours later, it was a curtain of white outside Will’s cabin window. It was thick enough to erase the road and the line between the trees. He stood in the kitchen, mug in hand, gaze fixed on the storm like he could will it to stop.
Behind him, (y/n) sat cross-legged on the couch, cheeks flushed from the cold, hair still wet from playing outside in the snow. Winnie, her Bernese Mountain Dog, was curled at her feet, a mass of sleepy fur and heavy paws. The power had flickered once already, and the wind whistled low beneath the eaves.
“Well,” she said, voice gentle, “It looks like I’m not making it home tonight.”
Will didn’t answer right away. He sipped his tea like it might keep his hands steady, like it might stop the thrum of awareness that always came when she was near. “No, it doesn’t look like it. It’s not safe to drive.”
She leaned her head back against the cushion, eyes on him now. Big and unreadable. “Are you okay with that?”
A pause. Too long.
“Of course,” he said.
It wasn’t a lie, not exactly. He liked having her here. He liked the sound of her laugh echoing through the quiet house, the way she looked barefoot in his space, like she belonged. But he also knew how close the line was. One wrong look, one wrong move, and he’d want more than he should.
She got up and walked to the window, arms wrapped around herself. Her oversized sweater was loose at the shoulders, and Will had to force himself to look away.
“I’m not trying to be a bother Will,” she added, looking over at him. “I can just take the couch.”
“You’re not a bother (y/n).” His voice came out low, rough. “And the bed’s more comfortable. You and Winnie can share it.”
She turned to him then, something unreadable flickering across her face. “You’re offering me your bed, Will?”
He didn’t answer right away. Just set his mug down with a little too much force and nodded. “Yeah. I’ll take the couch.”
Her brows knit together, something close to irritation in her expression now. “Or we could just share it.”
Will blinked. His heart gave one hard thump.
“We’re adults,” she said softly, stepping closer. “It’s just sleeping.”
It wasn’t. They both knew it wasn’t. But he didn’t stop her when she moved past him, didn’t stop her when she gently brushed his arm with her fingertips on the way down the hall.
He stood alone for a long time before he followed her.
The bedroom was dim. It was lit only by the fire in the living room and the spill of snow-light through the window. She was already under the quilt, lying on her side, back to him, hair a halo against the pillow. He hesitated just long enough to feel stupid, then eased in beside her, careful not to touch.
Silence stretched between them, warm and heavy. He thought she had fallen asleep, then:
“Will?”
“Mhm?”
“You don’t have to pretend you don’t want this.”
His breath hitched. She didn’t move, didn’t turn. Just gave him the chance to at least pretend he was asleep. But he didn’t.
Instead, he whispered, “I think about you more than I should.”
She smiled into the dark. “Then think about me now.”
The moment Will’s fingers brushed the bare skin at her hip, she drew in a soft breath. It wasn’t much, just a quiet intake of air, but it was enough to send a bolt of heat through his chest.
He leaned in, brushing her hair away from her cheek, lips just barely ghosting her skin. She turned toward him instinctively, and that was all it would take. One more second, one more inch. It felt like something sacred. Something long overdue.
Then came the soft thud of paws on hardwood.
Winnie trotted in, big brown eyes blinking up at the bed, tail wagging like she had no idea she’d just ruined something fragile. Will let out a breath through his nose and pulled back, retreating to the edge of the bed like her presence had broken the spell.
“I should take the couch,” he said quietly.
Her brow furrowed. “Will—”
He reached again, gentle this time, gently stroking her cheek, fingers trailing the edge of her jaw like a promise he couldn’t keep. “It’s safer.”
She blinked at him. “Safer than what? What do you mean?”
“You,” he murmured. “Regretting something in the morning.”
A beat of silence passed as she stared at him.
“What makes you think I would regret it, Will?”
Her voice was soft but steady. A challenge without force, the kind of honesty that made his chest ache.
He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Not with everything he wanted teetering so close to the surface. Instead, he stood, grabbing the flannel he’d left draped on the chair, and left her in the dark with Winnie hopping up onto the mattress in his place.
The next morning, (y/n) stepped into the kitchen with sleepy eyes and hair still mussed from the pillow. The snow outside was thicker now, coating the trees in white and stretching into the distance with no end in sight.
“I’m sorry I’m still here,” she said softly, arms crossed over her chest.
Will stood at the stove, flipping pancakes onto a warm plate. He turned slightly, eyes landing on her with that unreadable calm he wore like armor.
“Why are you apologizing?”
She hesitated. “Because I think I’m making you uncomfortable.”
He was quiet as he plated the bacon and strawberries next. Then he said, without looking up, “It’s the opposite.”
She blinked. “Then what is it?”
Will finally met her eyes. “I don’t quite trust myself with you. Not when we’re locked in this house. Not when it’s quiet and easy to forget all the reasons I’ve stayed away.”
She didn’t know what to say to that. But when he turned back around, he slid the plate toward her. It was stacked high with chocolate chip pancakes, three strips of bacon perfectly crisp, and strawberries cut just the way she liked them.
“You remembered,” she said, quietly surprised.
“I keep them here for you,” Will replied. “Just in case.”
She sat slowly, heart tight in her chest.
Will didn’t eat. He wasn’t a big breakfast person. He just poured himself more coffee and took his time before heading down the hall. When he returned, he set a folded pair of gray sweatpants and an oversized navy hoodie on the table beside her.
“They’ll be big on you,” he said. “But warm.”
She looked down at the clothes, then back up at him. “Will…”
He didn’t let her finish. Just gave her a look, gentle, unreadable, and then whistled for the dogs.
Outside, the snow kept falling. Harder.
Winston barked and bounded ahead, his coat nearly blending into the trees. Winnie, small but focused, trotted after him, responding to Will’s commands like she’d been doing it for years.
He was patient with her. Kind. (y/n) stood at the window, wrapped in Will’s hoodie, one hand resting on the glass.
He looked beautiful out there. Serious and soft in the same breath, the kind of man who didn’t need to be loud to be steady. She watched him kneel in the snow, rewarding Winnie with a treat, scratching gently behind her ears. Winston danced around them like an older brother proud of her progress.
And something deep in her chest clicked into place.
She wanted this. All of it.
The cold mornings. The sleepy dogs. The man who remembered her favorite breakfast and kept hoodies just for her. The man who didn’t trust himself with her because he cared that much.
She wanted the life that existed in the quiet spaces between words. The life that waited for her out there, in the snow, beside him.
Will stepped back inside, snow dusting his shoulders and the edges of his hair. Winnie bounded past him, tail wagging wildly as she shook off flakes all over the entryway.
(y/n) bent down and picked Winnie up savoring the moment. She knew in a couple months she’d be way too big to scoop up.
He set his gloves on the counter and crossed the room. “You okay (y/n)?”
She pulled Winnie closer, lips curving in a sad sort of smile. “Yeah… no.”
Will's brow knit together. “What’s wrong?”
“I mean,” she said, exhaling, “I’m okay. I’m here with you and Winnie. You two are the most important… people in my life.”
He swallowed hard at that. But she kept going.
“But I can’t have you the way I want you.” Her voice was soft, tired. Honest.
Will looked away. “You don’t really want me.”
Her eyes narrowed just slightly. “Don’t tell me what I want Will.”
“I’m not good for you,” he said, more to the floor than to her. “You deserve someone who isn’t broken. Someone closer to your age. Someone who doesn’t wake up in the middle of the night wondering if he’s still sane.”
“I don’t care about any of that.”
Will shook his head slowly, jaw tight. But (y/n) only shrugged, like she was too tired to argue. Winnie noticed the tension and licked her cheek.
“Anyway,” she said quietly, “it’s supposed to let up this afternoon. I’ll just head home then. Give you your space back”
“No,” Will said, sharper than he meant to. “You’re not driving in that.” He gestured to the window where the snow was still coming down.
“I have a Jeep,” she said, raising a brow. “I’ll be fine.”
“I don’t care what you drive,” he snapped. Then he softened his tone, looking at her directly. “You’re not going anywhere until I feel safe letting you go.”
They stared at each other for a long, loaded second. Then Winnie barked and wiggled to get out of (y/n)’s arms so that she could play with the other dogs. She was clearly unaware she was diffusing the most emotionally tense moment of the last twelve hours.
Will exhaled, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Can you tell me about your work,” he said after a moment. “Your design stuff.”
She blinked, a little caught off guard. “You want to know?”
“I asked, didn’t I?” He responded walking to the couch and she followed, sitting down beside him.
She smiled a little, jokingly rolling her eyes. “Alright. So you know that I do interior design stuff. I mostly do residential work. Designing kid’s bedrooms and living rooms have always been my favorite. I think being a perfectionist helps, but I probably spend way longer working on houses than I probably should. I mostly work with big name clients. Celebs, musicians, a couple politicians. I try not to name drop, but you’d probably know a few of them. It typically takes six months to a year to decorate a house, depending on the size. With all the custom ordering and stuff like that.”
He looked genuinely surprised. “You never told me that you worked with celebrities.”
“I don’t talk about it much. Don’t get me wrong, I love my job, but it’s not something the average person relates to. I once went on a date with an actor. He had a private chef, took me to a private concert, and a yacht with a firework show.”
Will smirked, his mouth twitching like he couldn’t stop it. “Why didn’t that work out?”
She looked out the window again, voice quiet. “Because I don’t want that life. Never did.”
He studied her.
“I like the woods,” she said. “I like grocery shopping in peace. I like sitting on the porch with Winnie. My work is chaotic enough. But this?” She turned to look at him. “This is what I want. I worked really hard for a couple of years, rarely sleeping, surviving off energy drinks and adrenaline so that I could leave LA, Miami, and New York for a couple months and just exist, peacefully.”
Will stepped closer, close enough that (y/n) could see the tightness in his jaw, the storm still clinging to his shoulders. But he didn’t reach for her.
“I’m scared,” he said quietly. “Of messing you up. The way I do everything else.”
Her heart ached at the way he said it/ So matter-of-fact, like it was just another truth he’d resigned himself to.
She didn’t move, didn’t push. Just met his eyes and said softly, “You don’t ruin things, Will. You just don’t let yourself have them.”
He looked like he wanted to argue, but he didn’t. Instead, he turned away, the weight of her words sitting heavy between them.
Outside, the snow hadn’t let up. It blurred the trees, made the house feel like it was floating in the quiet of some other world.
Later, as the chill began to creep in, Will showed her how to work the old wood stove, his hands steady even as hers fumbled with the kindling. The fire caught slowly, a warm orange glow spreading across the room. She sat back on her heels and smiled, proud.
“Okay, woodsman,” she teased. “What else do you know?”
He gave a rare, crooked smile. “I know you haven’t eaten anything since breakfast.”
She perked up. “I could make dessert.”
He quirked a brow. “You keep dessert supplies in your bag?”
“No,” she said, grinning. “I keep dessert supplies in your kitchen. You just don’t notice.”
She returned from the fridge a moment later with a jar of Nutella and a bowl of strawberries. Will looked unimpressed.
“That’s not dessert. That’s a bribe.”
“And it’s working.” She dipped a strawberry and held it out to him, eyes dancing.
He hesitated, then leaned in and took it from her fingers, lips brushing the tips, tongue catching a bit of the chocolate. Her breath hitched just slightly, but he didn’t pull away. His eyes lingered on hers for a moment longer than necessary.
She fed him another.
This time his fingers curled lightly around her wrist as he took it, gaze unreadable, heat simmering low between them.
The fire crackled behind them, painting them in amber light.
They didn’t say much after that. She made a little nest of pillows and blankets on the couch while he added another log to the fire. He sat beside her, quiet and unsure, until she leaned her head on his shoulder and said, “You can relax, you know.”
So he did.
She fell asleep like that, tucked against him, warm and soft and peaceful. Will stayed still for a long time, eyes on the flames, one hand lightly resting on her arm. She smelled like something sweet and woodsy. Her hair tickled his jaw. Her breathing was steady.
God, he wanted her.
But more than that, he wanted her safe. Comfortable. Wanted her to know she mattered to him, even if he wasn’t brave enough to show it the way she deserved.
He shifted carefully, curling one arm under her knees and lifting her into his chest. She stirred but didn’t wake, only nuzzled closer, like she trusted him completely.
He carried her to the bedroom, the storm still whispering against the windows, and laid her down gently on the bed. She curled into the pillow immediately, hoodie slipping off one shoulder.
Will stood over her for a moment, heart thudding too loud in his chest.
Then he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead.
“Goodnight,” he murmured.
And he turned to head back to the couch, leaving the warmth of her behind.
Will was up before the sun again.
Quiet, careful, as always. He cooked breakfast, chocolate chip pancakes, bacon, and strawberries. She hadn’t asked him to, but he’d cook her breakfast every day for the rest of his life if she wanted it.
When (y/n) woke, the house smelled like warmth. Bacon and vanilla. The stove was crackling gently. Outside, she saw him in the snow again, gloves on, hood up, crouched in the snow while Winnie bounded excitedly around him. His voice was muffled through the glass, calm and encouraging, his entire focus on her dog.
Her heart squeezed tight in her chest.
She wanted him. God, she wanted him. But the wanting wasn’t just physical, it was heavy and slow and buried in her ribs.
It was the wanting of every quiet morning like this, every crooked smile he didn’t mean to give, every time he remembered something she’d only said once.
And because she wanted him so much, she stayed away.
She ate her breakfast in silence, kept her distance all day. Will didn’t say anything, didn’t push, but she saw it in his eyes. He knew what she was doing.
And he knew why.
The afternoon drifted by in quiet pockets of time. She read on the couch with Winnie curled up beside her. She played fetch in the snow and helped Will bring in more firewood.
Dinner was quiet, steady. He cooked again, and she set the table. They didn’t speak much. But it was comfortable. Safe.
After dinner, she hugged him, long. Not dramatic, not intense. Just lingering. Her arms around his middle, her cheek to his chest. He held her back without hesitation. Said nothing.
Then she whispered, “Goodnight,” and turned toward the bedroom.
But the bed was too cold. Even with Winnie.
Too big.
Too empty.
She tried to read, to scroll, to think about anything else. But the silence stretched like a weight on her chest, and eventually, she gave in. Padded down the hall barefoot, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands.
She found Will in the living room, sitting in the dark, the last orange glow of the fire flickering across his face. He didn’t look surprised to see her. Just waiting.
She crossed the room slowly and stood before him. “I don’t want to sleep alone again.”
He didn’t argue.
Will stood, quiet and careful, and took her hand without a word. Led her back to the bedroom with only the creak of the floorboards and the hush of the storm outside between them.
They didn’t rush. There was no frenzy in it, no tearing off clothes or desperate gasps. Just slow, reverent movement. Fingers over skin like it was something sacred. They undressed each other piece by piece, with no shame, no fear, only intention.
Will hovered over her, breath shaky, the look in his eyes unlike anything she’d ever seen. Like he was memorizing her.
Then she reached up, cupped his jaw, and whispered, “Promise me I won’t regret this.”
His voice was low, barely a breath. “You won’t.”
She believed him.
And when he kissed her, it wasn’t rough or possessive. It was tender. Careful. Like he didn’t want to break her. Like maybe he knew he could finally let himself have something… someone… and not ruin it.
They moved together like they’d been waiting for this moment in a thousand lifetimes. Skin to skin, mouths brushing, hands wandering. There was no space left between them, and no fear.
Only want.
Only warmth.
Only Will.
The storm had quieted overnight, leaving the world covered in a thick, clean sheet of white. Morning light filtered through the curtains, pale and gold, brushing over tangled limbs and bare skin.
(y/n) stirred first.
Will was still asleep beside her, chest rising and falling in the slow rhythm of someone finally at peace. She studied him in the hush of the morning, his lashes against his cheeks, his hand resting just above her waist, the subtle curve of his mouth softened without tension.
For a moment, she let herself just be in it. Warm, wanted. Wanted by him.
But eventually, her thoughts caught up. Her heart skipped and twisted all at once, and the weight of what had happened, what it meant, sat heavy in her chest. She pulled the blankets tighter around herself.
She needed to know.
Later, once Will was up and had poured coffee into the mismatched mugs he kept for guests, she leaned against the kitchen counter and asked, quietly, “So… what now?”
Will froze, only for a second. But she saw it.
He set the mug down, back to her. “What do you mean?”
She blinked. “I mean, what does this mean, Will? Last night, with us. In your bed. That isn’t something I just do on a whim.”
“I don’t want to make it a big deal (y/n).”
Her breath caught.
Will turned, jaw set, eyes cold in the way they only got when he was trying not to feel. “You were upset. We were snowed in. It just… happened.”
The words hit her like a slap. She blinked, trying to find her footing.
“You promised me Will,” she whispered, voice shaking. “You looked me in the eye as I laid under you and told me I wouldn’t regret it.”
“I don’t know what you want me to say.”
She took a step back, lips parted in disbelief, eyes wet. “Wow.”
Will looked like he wanted to take it back, but fear held him in place, the same way it always did. The same way it had for years.
“Don’t,” she said sharply when he took a step toward her. “Don’t come near me.”
“(y/n)—”
She turned on her heel and stormed toward the bedroom. Threw on her own clothes and tossed Will’s laundry basket. Her movements were sharp, frantic, like if she didn’t keep moving she’d fall apart.
Will followed her down the hall. “Please, just listen—”
“No, you listen Will,” she snapped, whipping around. She had never used that tone with him before. Her voice cracked, eyes glassy. “I have never felt more safe with someone in my life. And you—you—made me feel like that was something to be ashamed of.”
“I’m trying to protect you—”
“From what, Will? You? You think I haven’t already chosen you? You think I don’t know what I’m doing?” She laughed bitterly. “God, I trusted you.”
She grabbed her bag, slung it over her shoulder, and bent to scoop up Winnie. The puppy whined softly, sensing the tension.
Will moved to block the door. “You’re not driving in this.”
She glared at him, tears now falling freely. “I’m not staying here.”
He reached for her arm. “(y/n), please—”
She yanked away like his touch burned. “No. You don’t get to touch me and then act like I’m disposable.”
He looked gutted. But she didn’t care, not now. Not when everything inside her felt shattered and small.
She opened the door and stepped out into the snow, Winnie nestled against her chest. Will called her name, but she didn’t look back.
She couldn’t hear him, not over the blood rushing in her ears. Not when her heart felt like it was breaking in two.
Not when she was so damn pissed off.
The snow hadn’t let up much by the time (y/n) hit the main road, but she didn’t care. Her hands gripped the wheel, knuckles tight, eyes burning. Winnie whimpered in the passenger seat, sensing her distress. She glanced at the puppy with a shaky breath and tried to soothe her.
“I’m okay, baby. We’re okay.”
She wasn’t.
It happened fast. A flash of headlights. A horn. A car losing control on black ice, skidding into her lane. She swerved, too late.
The crunch of metal was deafening.
Everything spun.
Then: silence.
Alana Bloom had just finished her second cup of coffee when the call came in. She had already been in the hospital waiting to speak to a patient.
A Jane Doe, accident victim, unconscious, brought in with only a first name given by EMTs—(y/n). Late twenties. The passenger seat held a Bernese Mountain Dog puppy named Winnie.
Alana’s blood ran cold.
She knew that name. She knew both of those names.
Will had only mentioned her a few times in that quiet, vague way of his, but Alana wasn’t stupid. The man barely spoke about anyone, but he’d said (y/n)’s name with a softness she’d never heard before.
So she went. Sat in the waiting room with Winnie until Will arrived, curled up beside her, shaking and restless, eyes locked on every door that didn’t open.
And then Will stormed in like a man possessed.
He looked wild. Disheveled. Desperate. His eyes immediately landed on Winnie, who barked once and rushed toward him, tail wagging and full of relief.
Will dropped to his knees, burying his face into the dog’s fur, clinging like she was a lifeline.
“She’s okay,” Alana said gently. “She’s stable. They’re prepping her for surgery. Just a broken arm, some bruised ribs, nothing that won’t heal.”
Will exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for hours. He didn’t look at Alana, just kept his eyes closed, hand fisting Winnie’s soft fur.
“I thought I was protecting her,” he said quietly.
Alana’s expression softened. “Will…”
“I thought if I kept her at a distance, I wouldn’t break her.” His voice cracked, raw and unfiltered. “But she left the second I made her feel disposable. And she almost died thinking I didn’t care.”
Alana sat down next to him, not pressing, just being there.
“I love her,” he admitted, voice barely audible. “I love her so much it terrifies me. I’ve been scared this whole time. Of ruining her. Of needing her.”
“She’s strong,” Alana said. “But she’s not invincible. And she sure as hell doesn’t need you to save her from yourself.”
Will finally looked at her, eyes haunted.
“She was just trying to love me.”
“Then let her,” Alana said gently.
Will swallowed hard and nodded, eyes already on the double doors that led to surgery.
He wasn’t going anywhere.
The room was warm and dim, machines humming in a steady rhythm. Snow still fell quietly outside the hospital window, blanketing the world in white as if to muffle the sharp edges of what had just happened.
When (y/n) stirred, it was slow. Her eyes fluttered open, pupils unfocused, lips dry. Everything ached, but she was here. Alive.
Will was the first thing she saw.
He sat beside her, elbows on his knees, hands clasped like he didn’t know what else to do with them. His head snapped up the second she moved.
“Hey,” he breathed, voice rough around the edges. “Hey, you’re awake.”
Her eyes crinkled in the smallest smile. “Barely,” she mumbled, voice thick with medicine.
Alana stepped inside quietly behind him, soft shoes on tile. Winnie wasn’t allowed back, but she'd stayed curled up in Will’s passenger seat, as if she knew this was where she needed to wait.
Will leaned forward, closer to the bed, and that’s when Alana saw it—his eyes shimmering. His throat worked like he was trying to swallow something down, but couldn’t.
She’d known Will for a long time.
She had never seen him cry.
“I’m sorry,” he said hoarsely.
(y/n) blinked slowly. “Why are you sorry?”
He exhaled shakily, a hand coming up to wipe at his cheek. “Because this happened because of me. You were upset. I pushed you away. If I hadn’t…”
She cut him off with a slow, groggy shake of her head. “You didn’t make me leave, Will. That was me.”
His shoulders dropped, but he still looked like he might fall apart. She reached out, weakly, fingers brushing the back of his hand.
Then her eyes drifted to Alana, who stood just to the side, arms crossed gently.
“You’re Alana, right?” (y/n) asked, blinking slow but deliberate.
Alana smiled. “That’s me.”
“You’re so pretty,” (y/n) mumbled, words slightly slurred, lips curved up. “Will talks about you all the time. You’re prettier than I was expecting.”
Alana let out a small laugh, warm and genuine. “Thank you. You’re pretty too. I see why Will’s taken a liking to you.”
At that, (y/n)’s eyes darted back to Will. “Guess he didn’t like me enough,” she mumbled, a little bitter despite the haze in her voice.
Alana glanced between the two of them and read the air perfectly. She offered (y/n) a smile and gently excused herself. “Nice to officially meet you (y/n). I’ll give you guys a minute.”
Will waited until the door clicked shut.
He reached out and took her hand properly this time, threading his fingers through hers. Her hand was small in his, cool from the IV, but steady.
“I do,” he said softly. “I do like you enough. I love you.”
Her eyes fluttered. Then a soft, sleepy smile curled at her lips.
“You gotta say that again,” she murmured, eyes already drifting shut. “When I’m not high on meds.”
Will brushed a knuckle along her cheek, careful not to disturb the bandage there. “I will. I promise.”
She exhaled, soft and slow, sinking back into sleep with his hand still in hers.
He didn’t let go.
The next morning came quietly, soft winter light pouring into the hospital room. The hum of machines was no longer overwhelming, and (y/n) blinked slowly against the brightness. She was clearer now, more herself, and immediately aware of the dry taste in her mouth, the weight of the IV in her arm, and—
Will.
Slouched in the chair beside her bed, half-asleep, beard a little unkempt, fingers still lightly touching the blanket like he needed to feel that she was real.
She cleared her throat softly.
His eyes opened instantly.
“Hey,” she said, voice rougher but steadier than the day before.
“Hey.” A breath of relief, a tired smile pulling at his lips. “You’re really awake this time.”
She tried to push herself up, then winced.
He was on his feet in a second. “Careful. Wait, I’ve got you.”
She let him adjust the pillows, and their hands brushed. She paused, then cleared her throat again, more out of nerves than discomfort.
“So… yesterday.” Her cheeks warmed. “Was I... weird?”
Will sat back down, eyes crinkling at the corners. “No. You were adorable. And a little high. You flirted with Alana.”
“Ugh.” She groaned. “She’s so pretty.”
“She said the same thing about you.”
A smile tugged at her lips despite herself. “Well, that’s comforting.”
Before either could say more, a soft scratching came at the door, and then a tiny bark.
“Hold on,” Will said, rising.
He opened the door to reveal a very excited Winnie, tail wagging so hard her entire body wiggled. A nurse trailed behind, smiling indulgently.
“She’s been trying to break into the ICU all morning,” the nurse said. “But I gave her ten minutes.”
Will helped Winnie onto the edge of the bed and (y/n) lit up, holding her good arm open for the pup.
Winnie licked her chin like she was making sure every inch was real.
“Hey, baby,” (y/n) whispered, pressing her face into the dog’s soft fur. “I missed you too.”
Will watched quietly, heart squeezing. This, all of this, was hers. His. Theirs, if he didn’t mess it up.
The roads cleared the next day, and reluctantly, Will went back to work.
He didn’t make a big show of anything, just walked in, grabbed his files, and headed to his desk. Beverly caught him by the coffee machine an hour later.
“So... is it true?” she asked casually. “You’re dating (y/n) (l/n)?”
Will blinked. “I wouldn’t exactly say dating. Why?”
Bev blinked back, slow and smirking. “Damn. Didn’t think you had it in you.”
He frowned. “What do you mean?”
Beverly tapped a few keys on her computer, spun the monitor around and Will’s eyes narrowed at the glowing magazine page displayed on screen.
A home so sleek, so breathtaking, it barely looked real. Headline: Inside the Soulful Spaces of Designer (y/n) (l/n)
He scrolled.
Celebrity clients. International praise. Design awards.
And a photo, her, radiant in a soft pink jumpsuit, curls loose around her shoulders, posing in front of a Malibu property.
“Jesus,” he muttered.
Bev grinned. “Sorry Will, but she’s way too cool for you.”
He just stared at the screen a little longer. Then he turned and walked off with a muttered, “She’s not too anything for me.”
A few days later, she was back home.
Bandages off, arm in a brace, moving slow but steady. She didn’t need help, but Will wasn’t going anywhere. He’d taken a few days off and planted himself on her couch like it was his full-time job.
He brought in groceries. Took Winnie on walks. Refilled her water bottle before she even realized it was low. She tried to protest, but he ignored her.
“I’m not leaving you,” he said simply, handing her a cup of tea she hadn’t asked for. “So stop trying to make me.”
She settled, not because he told her to, but because... she didn’t want him to go.
That night, they sat on her couch again. A fire crackled. Winnie was passed out at their feet, warm and dreaming.
Will was watching her carefully, like he was searching her face for something.
“What?” she asked, soft.
He hesitated, then leaned in just enough to brush a curl from her cheek. “You never said it back,” he said. “Not that I’m pushing. I just wasn’t sure if you remembered.”
(y/n) stared at him for a moment, heart tightening. She did remember. Every word. Every look.
She turned toward him, reaching up to touch his jaw.
“I remember,” she whispered. “I was just scared I’d say it before you meant it.”
He shook his head, eyes soft. “I meant it the second I said it.”
Her thumb traced the edge of his bottom lip. “Then say it again.”
Not out of arrogance or forgetfulness, but because his neighbor, (y/n), had a habit of letting herself in. A quiet sort of ritual had formed between them over the past few months.
Her warm presence slipped into his evenings like sunlight filtering through a window: unexpected, comforting, and never quite overstaying.
Tonight, though, he was hosting. Alana Bloom and Will Graham sat at his dining table, sipping wine and slowly working their way through a carefully plated appetizer: foie gras with a cranberry glaze, bright and complex.
The smell of something rich and savory wafted through the air. Alana stood at his side, glass of wine in hand, while Will leaned against the kitchen island with the familiar wariness he always carried like a second skin.
They were mid-conversation when the front door opened.
"That must be (Y/N)," Hannibal said without missing a beat, his eyes softening in that rare way they did only for very select company.
She stepped in like she owned the place, a little sunbeam in a denim jacket and sneakers, holding a brown ball of energy in her arms.
The dog, Nala, wore a tiny yellow bow on her head and immediately wagged her tail like she was thrilled to be indoors with a new audience.
"Hey, Doctor Lecter," (Y/N) chirped, glancing around the room and doing a double take at Alana and Will. Her voice was light and friendly, as if she lived there, as if walking into Hannibal Lecter’s house was one of the most normal things she had ever done. “Oh! Sorry, I didn’t know you had company.”
Will blinked. Alana looked between her and Hannibal, expression frozen in polite surprise.
Hannibal only tilted his head. “You’re always welcome, (Y/N). You know this. Nala as well.”
“I’m (Y/N). And you two must be Alana and Will. I’ve heard a lot about you,” she said to them. She extended a hand while Nala squirmed slightly in her arms.
Alana arched her brow staring at the brown mini schnauzer in (y/n)’s arms . “She’s adorable.”
“Hannibal told me you like dogs,” she added, eyes on Will as she gently handed Nala over. “She likes soft-spoken people. I think you’ll get along just fine.” The little dog immediately started licking his face like they were old friends.
(Y/N) turned her bright attention to Alana. “You’re prettier than I thought you were gonna be. That’s so unfair.”
Alana gave a breath of a laugh, glancing toward Hannibal like she couldn’t believe this was happening.
(Y/N) shifted, rising on her toes to kiss Hannibal on the cheek like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Thanks for agreeing to watch her, Doc. I’ve got a date tonight, but I shouldn't be out too late. You’ll tell her not to eat your slippers, right?”
“She prefers leather,” Hannibal said with a perfectly neutral face, but a glint of amusement in his eyes.
Alana and Will were silent as she breezed out just as easily as she arrived, calling over her shoulder, “Wish me luck!”
Hannibal gave a small, indulgent smile. “Good luck.”
The door shut behind her and silence lingered for a moment, broken only by the soft panting of Nala, now nestled on Will’s lap like he was her new throne.
“If sunshine were a person, it would be her,” Alana said, looking toward the front hall in disbelief. “And you like her.”
Hannibal merely lifted his glass, swirling the wine. “She’s an enjoyable neighbor.”
“I’m surprised you’ve never mentioned her,” Alana added, raising an eyebrow at Hannibal.
“There was nothing to mention,” he replied smoothly, taking a sip of his wine.
“Really?” Alana’s eyes sparkled. “Because you smiled when she walked in.”
“I can see why. She's very pretty.” Will added.
Hannibal’s gaze flicked toward him. Sharp. Icy.
Will, rubbing Nala’s head, narrowed his eyes slightly. “How do you feel about her going on that date?”
Hannibal didn’t answer. But the slight twitch of his jaw and the way his gaze lingered on the door gave them all they needed to know.
**
Later that night, the lock clicked and (Y/N) walked back in without knocking.
Will looked up from his glass. “You just have a key?”
“Of course I do. Why wouldn’t I?” she said breezily.
Alana turned slowly to Hannibal, one brow raised. Her smirk said oh, there’s definitely something here.
Then (y/n) walked straight up to Will, ruffling a hand through his hair. “I like your curls. They’re soft.”
Will looked a little stunned. Alana looked like she was trying not to laugh. Hannibal was already holding out a glass of wine for her as she flopped onto the couch beside him.
“Dessert?” he asked, gesturing to the plate waiting for her. A perfect lemon tart.
She groaned. “You know me so well. That date was a disaster. Boring. No opinions on anything. He called my job ‘cute.’ Like I’m just babysitting teenagers all day.”
“He wasn’t worth your time,” Hannibal said simply.
(Y/N) picked up her fork. “Yeah, but at least now I know. Plus, Nala got some quality time with you guys.”
Will looked at her. “I think she likes me.”
(Y/N) shrugged. “She has great taste.”
Alana watched Hannibal closely. There was something calm about him now, like he’d been holding his breath until she walked back in.
(Y/N) rose from the couch, cradling Nala in her arms again after she'd eagerly crawled back over from Will's lap.
"Alright, Nala. Time for bed, sweetheart. We've both had a big day."
She turned to Alana, her smile bright and natural. "I'd love to get dinner with you sometime soon, by the way. As long as Will agrees to babysit this spoiled gremlin."
Will, still recovering from being playfully manhandled, looked up with a crooked grin. “Deal. She’s less demanding than most people.”
"Perfect," (Y/N) chirped. Then she turned to Hannibal and gave him a soft smile. “Thanks again for the wine and the tart, Doc. You spoil me.”
Hannibal bowed his head slightly, one hand tucked behind his back. “It’s always a pleasure.”
She leaned forward and kissed his cheek again—so natural, so casual—then waved and disappeared through the door.
The silence that followed felt oddly full. Alana was the first to break it.
“She’s literally a ray of sunshine,” she said, almost in awe. Her eyes were still on the door, as if expecting (Y/N) to come back in with one more bright comment.
“She is,” Hannibal agreed. He moved slowly, delicately gathering the wine glasses as if he needed to keep his hands busy. “She teaches high school math.”
Will laughed softly. “Of course she does.”
Alana looked at Hannibal over the rim of her glass. “When are you going to make a move on her?”
Will’s brow lifted. “Before I do?”
That earned a look from Alana, but Will only laughed harder, cheeks coloring slightly as he remembered the way she’d tousled his hair like they were old friends.
“I didn’t say I would,” Will defended. “But you saw her. Who wouldn’t?”
Hannibal didn’t respond immediately. His face was schooled, as always, but there was a sharp glint in his eyes. He didn’t like the idea of anyone else looking at her like that.
“She deserves someone more thoughtful,” he said finally.
“She deserves someone who smiles at her the way you do.” Alana said to Hannibal.
**
The next day at the FBI building, the teasing began the moment Hannibal stepped inside.
Alana leaned against his office doorway with a smirk. “Sleep well, Hannibal?”
Will popped his head in behind her. “Or were you up late thinking about your sunshine?”
He didn’t dignify them with a response, just lifted a brow and sipped his coffee. That didn’t stop Alana from grinning.
“You let her into your house, around your knives, your wine, your dog-sitter duties, and now you’re telling me there’s still nothing going on?”
“I never said that,” Hannibal replied coolly.
Now Beverly had joined in. “Wait, who’s sunshine?”
Jack raised a brow as well, clearly amused. “You’ve been holding out on us, Hannibal.”
That afternoon Hannibal was reviewing files in his study at the townhouse when he heard the knock. A soft, familiar rhythm.
He was mildly surprised. She rarely knocked. And she had a key.
He opened the door, eyes landing on (Y/N) in an oversized hoodie and leggings, her hair pulled back messily. She gave him a slightly sheepish smile.
“Is it weird that I usually just come in?” she asked, clutching a small notepad in her hand.
“I don’t mind,” he said, stepping aside to let her in. “But I’m curious, what prompted the formality?”
She shrugged. “I dunno. You were having dinner with people last night. Maybe I thought I’d seem like less of a stray cat if I actually knocked today.”
“Stray cats are often charming,” he murmured.
(Y/N) plopped onto the arm of his couch, flipping open her notepad. “Okay. So. I want to learn how to cook.”
Hannibal arched his brow.
“Not like… French gourmet level,” she said quickly. “I mean, you can do that. But I’ll burn your house down. I just want to not embarrass myself when someone asks if I can make something that isn’t cereal.”
He considered for a moment, then nodded once. “We’ll start tonight. Something simple.”
**
The kitchen smelled like roasted garlic and something warm and buttery. (Y/N) stood barefoot by the counter, rolling out dough with determined concentration while Hannibal quietly diced herbs.
“Okay,” she said, lifting her hands dramatically. “This doesn’t look completely terrible.”
“It looks promising,” he agreed, moving closer to examine the rolled dough.
“Just wait till I bake it and turn this whole effort into a carbonized disaster.”
“You won’t,” he said, guiding her toward the oven with a warm, steady hand at the small of her back. “I’m here.”
It was such a simple sentence. But her breath caught a little as she slid the pan into the oven.
Of course, twenty minutes later, she did burn it. Just a little.
Hannibal didn’t comment, only smirked when she let out a groan and buried her face in her hands.
“I am a disgrace to women in Hallmark movies everywhere.”
He chuckled, genuinely. Not a polite social laugh, but something low and warm.
She peeked up at him. “Don’t laugh at me, Hannibal.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m enjoying your company.”
Something about the way he said it made her blush. She turned to grab a dish towel, but he caught her wrist gently.
His gaze lingered on her, thoughtful, curious, perhaps even fond.
She tilted her head at him, lips curved.
“Stop looking at me like that,” she said softly. “I might fall in love.”
He held her gaze a second longer, before stepping back slightly, ever composed.
“I’ll try to be more careful with my expressions,” he murmured, though the amused flicker in his eyes said otherwise.
Later, when the laughter had settled and she was curled on his couch, sipping a glass of wine, she looked over at him.
“My school’s hosting a fundraising carnival next weekend,” she said. “Games, booths, food trucks. They always go all out. I’m supposed to show my face, but I don’t really want to go alone.”
“Are you inviting me?” he asked, placing his glass down.
She smiled. “I am. If you’re up for it. I mean, it’s no opera house, but the fried Oreos are great.”
Hannibal leaned back in his chair, watching her with an unreadable expression.
“For you,” he said quietly, “I’d endure worse.”
She laughed, throwing a pillow at him gently.
“You say that now, but wait until you see my principal in a dunk tank.”
**
The school carnival was already in full swing by the time Hannibal arrived, the late afternoon sun casting a warm golden haze across the lawn. Booths lined the parking lot, each one buzzing with energy: pie-throwing games, local food vendors, a dunk tank, and more high schoolers than he had seen in one place…ever.
Then he spotted her.
And looked adorable.
(Y/N) stood near the ticket booth, waving animatedly at someone across the way. She wore a pair of denim overalls rolled up at the ankles, white sneakers now smudged with grass, and her school’s bright purple T-shirt with a hand-drawn-looking mascot on the front. Her hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail, tendrils escaping around her face, and she looked absolutely radiant.
Hannibal allowed himself a private smile. She had always been vibrant, but here, in her element, surrounded by students and coworkers, she absolutely glowed.
“Hey, you made it!” she beamed, trotting over with a slight bounce. Her face lit up even more at the sight of him. “You look very clean for a carnival.”
He was, in fact, immaculate. A pale blue button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled precisely to the elbow, dark slacks, and loafers that had no business being near cotton candy or hay bales. And yet he somehow looked like he belonged, at least to her.
“I do try to maintain a standard,” he said mildly, offering a crooked smile. “You, however, look appropriately festive.”
She twirled once, the front pocket of her overalls flapping. “You like the fit? It's peak teacher chic.”
He chuckled and held out the canvas tote he’d brought. “A gift. Since you mentioned being low on raffle tickets.”
(Y/N)’s eyes widened as she peeked in. “You brought me a whole roll?! Hannibal! That’s like, a hundred tickets. I could win a car.”
“I rather thought you might like the giant unicorn plush I saw near the back.”
She laughed and hooked her arm through his. “I’m saving the unicorn for next year. This year’s prize is a dignified, grown woman’s carnival stag.”
As the two of them wandered the grounds, he marveled at how effortlessly she moved through her world. Students ran up to her with neon snow cones, teachers waved from booths, and even parents offered warm greetings. Everyone had something to say to Miss (Y/L/N), and she greeted every one of them by name.
It was charming. Overwhelmingly so.
Then came the group of girls, probably freshmen or sophomores, all oversized glasses, braces, and shy energy.
“Miss (L/N)!” one of them squeaked. “Is that your boyfriend?”
Hannibal pretended to be entirely focused on the ring toss booth, but his ears honed in with surgical precision.
(Y/N) looked at the girls, then at Hannibal, who remained deliberately aloof, then back to the girls with a slow smile.
“Something like that,” she said, eyes twinkling.
The girls exploded into giggles.
“He’s kinda hot.” one whispered too loudly before they fled like startled deer.
Hannibal arched a brow at her once they were alone again. “Something like that?”
“I didn’t want to embarrass you,” she teased, nudging his elbow.
“You assume I'm embarrassed easily,” he said coolly, but there was amusement in his tone.
Later, while they pursued the games, Hannibal quietly bested a particularly tricky ring toss. He returned to her, victorious, holding a stuffed stag.
“For you.”
(Y/N) clutched the prize dramatically. “He’s perfect. His name is Lecter.”
He smirked. “Naturally.”
As the evening waned and string lights flickered on overhead, (Y/N) found herself mid-conversation with a colleague when her hand brushed against Hannibal’s. Almost without thinking, she laced her fingers through his. She didn’t look at him immediately, too nervous, but finally she glanced up.
“Is… is this okay?”
His voice was low and warm. “More than okay.”
And just like that, the chaos of the carnival melted away.
Later that night, Hannibal walked her to her door. He expected to say goodnight, but she unlocked the door and tilted her head with a smile.
“Come in. I’ll make you tea.”
He followed her inside. The lights were soft as Nala asleep in a tiny donut-shaped bed by the couch. She disappeared into the kitchen, calling out, “Thank you for today, Hannibal. You were perfect. Even won me a stag.”
“I believe Lecter is the real star of the evening.”
She laughed and returned with two mugs of chamomile. She handed him one, curled up on the couch in her overalls, and looked at him with sleepy contentment.
“I promise not to let Nala eat him,” she said solemnly. “But I am sleeping with him every night.”
“I would expect nothing less.”
They sipped in silence, the night calm and warm.
It wasn’t a grand confession. It wasn’t a kiss. But the air between them had shifted.
And Hannibal knew he was already in far deeper than he had ever planned.
**
The Behavioral Sciences office was as stark and clinical as (Y/N) had expected. There were gray walls, government-issued furniture, and people in buttoned-up suits moving briskly from one corner to the other.
She stood in the middle of it all like a drop of honey in a cup of black coffee.
Her bright blouse and high-waisted jeans were a splash of color against the muted palette, and the small brown paper bag she carried gave her the same look she wore every time she walked into her classroom holding a birthday cupcake for a student: proud, warm, and a little mischievous.
She looked around the office before her eyes settled on the tall man with the salt-and-pepper beard who seemed to exude authority. He was smiling at something someone had said, but when she walked up to him, that small smile widened into something real.
“Hi,” she said. “You look like you're in charge.”
Jack Crawford chuckled, standing. “That’s one way to describe it.”
“I’m looking for Dr. Hannibal Lecter. I figured it was time I saw where he goes when he disappears into his mysterious day job.”
Jack grinned, already liking her. “And who might you be?”
“I’m the neighbor,” she said with a wink. “But I also come bearing food. So I’d say I’m more of a hero.”
He laughed—a real, chest-deep laugh that echoed around the room. Agents looked up in surprise. “Well, any friend of Hannibal’s is welcome around here. I’m Jack.”
They shook hands, and the two quickly fell into an easy conversation. Jack asked about teaching, her sharing a story about one of her more chaotic algebra classes, and the two of them laughing like old friends.
Meanwhile, in his office, Hannibal was in the middle of a session with Will when the door opened.
Alana leaned in, trying (and failing) to hide her smirk. “Your sunshine is here.”
Will raised an eyebrow, confused. Hannibal’s own expression didn’t change, but he stood up without hesitation.
From the hall, he could already hear Jack laughing. When he turned the corner, he found (Y/N) standing beside him, animatedly talking, her paper bag held protectively in both hands.
Her eyes lit up when she saw him.
“There you are,” she said with a grin. “I got a little bold today. Used my day off to cook for you.”
She lifted the bag like a trophy.
Jack gave Hannibal a look, the sort that said, You lucky bastard.
(Y/N) turned and spotted Alana. “You’re here too! I feel like I’m on some weird crossover episode.” She hugged Alana like they were old friends, then caught sight of Will just behind them.
“William!” she chirped, walking right over to ruffle his hair.
Will blinked like a surprised dog, then chuckled. “You’re in rare form today.”
“I’m always like this,” she said with a shrug. “Just not always in federal buildings.”
Hannibal took the bag from her hands with a reverent kind of amusement. “You cooked for me?”
She looked proud and slightly sheepish. “I did. Don’t worry, nothing’s charred this time. I had a very patient and wildly talented teacher.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” he said, his voice warm.
Alana appeared in the doorway again, lightly tapping her watch. “Hannibal, we’ve got to go. Field consult.”
He sighed softly and looked back at (Y/N), reluctant. She stood up on tiptoe to hug him, arms slipping around his waist.
“I’ll see you later,” she murmured.
He nodded, brushing his hand gently against her back. “Thank you for the surprise.”
As she left, Alana watched her go with raised brows, then turned to Hannibal with a knowing smirk. “You’ve got it bad.”
**
That evening, Hannibal returned home expecting the familiar. Maybe she’d already let herself into his apartment, curled up on the couch with Nala and a book. Maybe the little stuffed stag named Lecter would be resting on her stomach as she napped.
Instead, her apartment light was on, and something about the quiet felt…off.
He knocked gently. “(Y/N)?”
“Come in,” her voice called, weak but still cheerful.
She was stretched out on her couch, her head resting against a pillow with a cool towel draped across her forehead. Nala was curled loyally at her side, as if standing guard.
“You’re not well,” Hannibal said softly, moving to kneel beside her.
“Just a headache. One of those annoying ones that feels like it’s behind your eye.” She cracked one eye open. “Still alive though. Did you eat the lunch I made?”
“I did. It was delicious.”
“Liar,” she whispered, smiling.
Hannibal chuckled, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. “No, truly. A bit salty, perhaps. But very well-seasoned.”
“Salt’s a seasoning,” she mumbled, making him laugh again.
“I’ll make tea,” he said, rising.
He moved with his usual elegant precision, boiling water, preparing chamomile, and bringing over a glass of water and a small bottle of painkillers.
When she sat up with a groan, he helped her take them before offering his hand.
“Come. I’ve drawn a bath.”
“You really didn’t have to do all this.”
“Would you do it for me?”
“…Yes.”
“Then allow me.”
He helped her to the bathroom. The lights were dimmed, the tub full and steaming gently with lavender-scented water. She turned to thank him, but when she reached for the hem of her shirt to undress, he was still there.
Their eyes met.
Something charged settled between them.
She didn’t say it aloud, but he read it in the look: Don’t go.
And he didn’t. He simply turned around, giving her privacy.
**
Later, when she emerged in a soft robe, cheeks flushed from the heat, he was still there, waiting in her living room with Nala asleep at his feet and tea cooling on the table.
She sat beside him quietly.
Their fingers touched on the couch cushion. Then lingered.
Neither of them joked it away this time. No teasing glances. No smirks.
Just stillness. Warmth.
And when (Y/N) leaned her head on his shoulder with a small sigh, Hannibal closed his eyes.
Even Nala stayed asleep.
The living room was quiet, golden, and still.
Hannibal sat in his favorite armchair with a worn book open in his lap, though his eyes hadn’t moved from the same paragraph in nearly ten minutes. Not because the content failed to hold his attention — but because (Y/N) had fallen asleep beside him on the couch, and her presence anchored him in a way that no story could compete with.
She was curled up under the throw blanket she kept in the corner of his living room, her face tucked halfway into the plush fabric, her breathing deep and even. The stuffed stag, Lecter, rested just beneath her chin.
His phone buzzed quietly against the table.
Alana: Have you told her you love her yet?
He didn’t reply right away.
The screen blinked again, and this time, the buzzing didn’t stop. Alana was calling.
He glanced toward (Y/N), still undisturbed, before slipping out into the hallway.
“Hello,” he answered quietly. “Is it urgent?”
“Don’t ‘hello’ me, Hannibal. Answer the question.”
He could hear Will in the background. “He hasn’t even kissed her yet Alana, he can’t say that he loves her. But when are you going to her, Lecter?”
“You take care of her when she’s sick.” Alana said. “You dealt with a high school fundraiser for a night and her dog basically lives at your house. What are you waiting for?”
There was a shuffle as Will grabbed the phone.
“Listen,” Will’s voice came through, slightly muffled. “If you’re not ready to tell her, fine. But you could at least ask her out. Like, a real date. None of this neighborly wine and soup crap.”
“I bring dessert, too,” Hannibal replied, amused.
Will huffed. “That’s worse.”
Alana was back on the line. “She’s obviously crazy about you. You know that, right?”
Hannibal leaned against the wall, allowing himself a rare moment of honesty. “Yes.”
“So what are you waiting for?”
He looked toward the door, past the threshold where she lay asleep on his couch. Peaceful. Trusting. A part of his home now in ways he never imagined someone could be.
“I don’t know,” he admitted softly.
“Well,” Alana said, “figure it out before Will does.”
“I heard that!” Will called in the background.
He hung up a moment later and returned to the living room, where (Y/N) was still asleep, her nose twitching slightly as Nala repositioned herself near her feet.
With a small sigh, Hannibal moved into the kitchen.
He didn’t think about what he was doing, he just cooked. Something warm and comforting. Braised chicken in a herb-thyme broth with creamy potatoes, the kind of meal meant to soothe headaches and sleepless nights.
He plated it carefully, placing each item like a gift, the way he always did when it was for her.
She stirred just as he was setting the table.
Her hair was mussed, and one sock had slipped halfway off her foot, but she smiled sleepily at the scent of food.
“You didn’t have to do all that,” she murmured as she stretched.
“But I wanted to.”
She rubbed at her eyes, then blinked up at him with something gentle and unguarded. “You’re gonna spoil me.”
He smiled, helping her to her feet. “I think I already have.”
They ate slowly, talking about nothing and everything. She told him about her students, how one of them had asked if she had a boyfriend who was “good at math” and he told her about a particularly infuriating dinner guest who had no palate whatsoever.
Afterward, she stood and grabbed his hand.
“Come with me.”
She led him out to her small balcony garden, where string lights had been hung above the railings, twinkling like stars caught in branches.
It was warm and green and chaotic, with ceramic pots of herbs crowding every surface and the faint scent of mint in the air.
Hannibal stood still, soaking in the ambiance.
She turned to him with pride written all over her face. “It’s not much, but I love it. I thought the lights might make it feel a little more magical.”
He looked at her, really looked.
The fairy lights caught in her hair, glimmered in her eyes, and when she hugged Lecter to her chest like a child might a favorite toy, something in him simply broke open.
She glanced up at him just in time to see the look on his face, the one she’d caught only in fleeting moments, never for this long.
He stepped forward, slow and deliberate.
And then he kissed her.
It was soft and questioning, barely more than a breath, but it sent lightning through both of them. She froze for a heartbeat, and he felt it, thought he’d misread the moment, thought he’d gone too far and he began to pull back.
“I’m sorry—”
But she caught him by the collar, her grin blooming like sunrise. “You’re ridiculous.”
And then she pulled him back down.
The second kiss was fuller, certain. Her hands in his hair, his arms around her waist. A little clumsy, a little breathless and absolutely perfect.
When they finally pulled apart, Nala was sitting just inside the open doorway, tail wagging.
“Even she approves,” (Y/N) murmured.
“She’s always been a good judge of character,” Hannibal replied.
The fairy lights above them flickered gently in the breeze, and for the first time in longer than he could remember, Hannibal felt completely at peace.
Just a little side note, while reading you’ll probably fine some common themes I like to weave into a lot of things like baking, dogs (obviously), and high level academia.
Also! If you have any requests or ideas, please don't hesitate to reach out. I'm open to hear what you want me to write about.
Will Graham
The Space Between Us: Will Graham is drawn to one of the FBI's new hires whose late-night visits to his class become the only solace in his chaotic world.
Where Fear Rests: When a brilliant profiler is pulled back into the field to help solve a brutal case, she forms an unexpected connection with Will Graham.
First Times: When Will's graduate student lets it slip how inexperienced she is with relationships, Will decides he wants to help.
Unspoken Tension: There has been a lot of unspoken tension between Professor Graham and a recent graduate of the program (this is very different than what I normally write so proceed with caution haha)
Cabin Fever: When a winter storm traps her with the one man she’s spent months denying, secrets melt, boundaries blur, and both are forced to confront the love they’ve been too afraid to claim.
Quiet Waters: When a string of difficult cases forces behavioral analyst (Y/N) to take leave from the FBI, her boyfriend Will Graham offers her quiet refuge at his cabin, where early mornings, fishing trips, and unexpected comfort slowly remind her what it feels like to be safe again.
The Writer Next Door: When a bubbly crime novelist moves into the cabin next door, Will Graham expects the woods to stay quiet. Instead, he finds himself slowly drawn into her world of questions, stories, and a connection he doesn’t quite know how to name.
Hannibal Lecter
That was Impulsive: When Will Graham’s dog sitter, his loud, loyal high school friend, crosses paths with Dr. Hannibal Lecter, a quiet evening turns into the start of something neither of them expected, especially not under Will’s watchful eye.
The Southern Belle and the Cannibal: With cowboy boots, baked goods, and a heart too big for her own good, she never expected to unravel the most controlled man in the room.
Life is Short, Eat Dessert First: Will Graham's best friend moves to be closer to him and she shares the same hobby as Hannibal.
His Sunshine: Hannibal Lecter's neighbor is a bubbly and bright high school math teacher who can only be described as "Sunshine".
Unexpected Guests: Hannibal's neighbor and her new cat quietly become part of his daily routine before either of them realizes it.
Red, White, and You: The FBI's annual Fourth of July cookout was supposed to be simple: burgers, fireworks, and one day without discussing serial killers. Unfortunately, Will Graham didn’t account that he'd completely overlook his best friend dating Hannibal Lecter for eight months.
Series
Will Graham; Delicate Threats: When the daughter of the BAU’s biggest benefactor becomes a target, Will Graham is tasked with protecting her, but neither of them is prepared for what it means to truly be seen.
Was it Worth It?: You need a last minute date to meet some old high school friends and Loki is more than happy to help.
Was it Worth It? Part 2: A continuation of the story above.
Broken Glass: Google defines broken as "having given up all hope; despairing."
STEPHEN STRANGE
We Never Were Friends: You get stood up on a date and Stephen being the gentleman that he is refuses to let your night go to waste.
BUCKY BARNES
Sunflower: Even though you have no memory of it, you’ve been told that you used to work with HYDRA. Tony won’t let you read any of the files he has on you, but you’re not taking no for an answer.
Sunflower Part 2: This is a continuation to the story above.
THOR ODINSON
Being an Avenger is Hard: Like really hard. And finding love is even harder.
PETER PARKER
Get it Done: Peter isn't known for his luck when it comes to women. Tony Stark is hoping that he can turn that bad luck around for his benefit.
STEVE ROGERS
Peter's Admission Consultant: One morning the Avenger Tower gets a visitor and Steve is instantly intrigued.
NATASHA ROMANOFF
You're Either a Winner or a Loser: Natasha isn't used to having competition. But don't they say that competition is the best form of motivation?
