she/her I write fanfics like they’re movies: 🎭 Drama • ❤️ Romance • 💥 Action • 🖤 Psychological tension Different characters, real emotions. 📚 Addicted to writing stories you can feel. #MultifandomFics #HotchxReader #JacobBlack #CriminalMinds #Twilight #OCsWelcome
Here you'll find a safe space filled with heartfelt stories and emotions I’ve poured into my writing. I’m always open to suggestions, requests, and kind conversations. Use the links below to find my fanfics organized by character or theme💌
Down here are some of the stories I’ve ventured into — I hope you enjoy them! 💖
pairing: bucky barnes x reader
summary: You take a last-minute princess job at Morgan Stark’s birthday party expecting easy money and screaming children. You do not expect a grumpy Beast ruining your life with soft looks.
word count: 6.4k
warnings: fluff, mutual pining, awkward flirting, fairy tale references, mild language, bucky barnes being reluctantly soft.
a/n: not me showing up after months away from this website with the most random idea i’ve ever had. i hope you guys like it :)
“You know,” Sam Wilson says casually from the passenger seat, “most people hear the words free food and say thank you.”
From the backseat, Bucky Barnes stares out the window with the expression of a man being transported directly to his execution.
“I did say thank you,” he mutters.
“No, you grunted.”
“That was a polite grunt.”
Sam snorts.
Beside him, Steve Rogers keeps both hands on the wheel, suspiciously calm for someone participating in what is very clearly an ambush.
The city lights streak across the windows while traffic crawls forward.
Bucky should’ve stayed home.
He had a system at home.
A good system.
Coffee. Silence. Alpine curled beside him on the couch like a tiny judgmental loaf of bread. Maybe a movie he wouldn’t pay attention to. Minimal human interaction.
Peace.
Instead, Sam showed up at his apartment an hour ago carrying cupcakes and bad intentions.
“You can’t stay inside that apartment forever with Alpine,” Sam says now, like he’s continuing an old argument. “That cat is starting to absorb your personality.”
“She likes me.”
“She bites everyone else.”
“That sounds like a them problem.”
Steve hides a smile.
Bucky leans his head back against the seat with a groan. “Why am I even needed at this thing?”
“It’s Morgan’s birthday,” Steve says.
Sam grins. “Family event. It will be good for you.”
Bucky flips him off without looking.
The car goes quiet for a minute.
Not awkward quiet. Just familiar.
The kind built over years of near-death experiences and too many shared memories.
Outside, the city slowly shifts into larger houses, quieter streets, cleaner sidewalks.
Rich people territory.
Bucky already hates it.
“You could try having fun,” Steve says eventually.
Bucky stares at him like he personally insulted his ancestors.
“Why are you saying that like it’s easy?”
Steve glances at him briefly. “Because staying miserable on purpose gets exhausting after a while.”
That lands harder than Bucky wants it to. He crosses his arms, glaring out the window again while they pull through the massive Stark gates.
Lights glow across the property ahead, warm against the dark evening sky.
Music drifts faintly through the air.
Too many people.
Too much noise.
He already wants to leave.
Sam unbuckles first and points at him before he can move. “And no disappearing after ten minutes.”
“I never do that.”
“You vanished through a bathroom window last time.”
“It was efficient.”
“You’re impossible.”
Bucky pushes the car door open. “Yet here you are. Voluntarily spending time with me.”
Sam throws an arm around his shoulders immediately, dragging him toward the house despite his complaints.
“That’s because underneath all the grumpy murder grandpa stuff,” Sam says, “you secretly love us.”
“I could bench press you into traffic.”
“But you won’t.”
Bucky doesn’t answer.
Mostly because Steve opens the front doors right then—
And somewhere inside the house, faint and warm and distant, he hears someone singing.
— 15 minutes earlier —
The dressing room is chaos.
Cheap rhinestones scattered across the counter. Someone in the hallway yelling about balloons. Someone else asking where the cake table went.
And Dylan is pacing.
“No, no, no,” he mutters, tugging at the ridiculous blue Beast jacket stretched across his shoulders. “I can’t do this.”
You pause halfway through putting on your gloves. “Dylan—”
“I’m serious.” He points toward the door like the answer is waiting outside. “Do you know whose house this is?”
“Yes,” you say carefully.
“It’s the Starks.”
You stare at him through the mirror. “Tony Stark is literally paying us to sing to children, not dismantle a bomb.”
“That’s worse.”
You snort despite yourself, adjusting the off-the-shoulder yellow gown. It’s prettier than you expected when the agency shoved the costume bag into your arms this morning. Layers of gold satin spill around your feet, catching the light every time you move.
For one stupid second, you almost feel like Belle.
Dylan doesn’t.
“I think I’m gonna throw up.”
“You’re not gonna throw up.”
“What if the Avengers are there?”
You stop.
Okay. Fair point.
The knot in your stomach tightens instantly.
You need this job. Rent is due in four days, your audition last week went nowhere, and the commercial you filmed still hasn’t paid you. Which means you absolutely cannot afford to panic now.
So you grab Dylan by the shoulders.
“Listen to me,” you say firmly. “You need to calm down. Do you know how much we’re getting paid for this?”
“Yes, but—”
“And if you ruin this for me, I will personally feed you to the Hulk.”
That earns a weak laugh.
“Pretty sure he’s off-world,” Dylan mutters.
“Then I’ll wait.”
Another laugh. Better this time.
You smooth nonexistent wrinkles from his jacket. “We go in there, smile, sing, wave at rich children, and leave with enough money to survive another month. That’s it.”
A knock hits the door before he can answer.
“Princess Belle? They’re ready for you.”
Your stomach flips.
Dylan immediately pales again.
You squeeze his arm once before stepping away. “Breathe.”
Then you lift your chin, paste on a princess smile, and walk out.
The Stark house looks less like a house and more like a museum designed by someone with unlimited money and zero restraint.
Everything gleams.
Soft golden lights wrap around the enormous backyard. Staff members move through the crowd carrying trays of tiny desserts that probably cost more than your electric bill. Children run across the lawn wearing paper crowns and superhero masks.
And near the center of it all—
“Mama! Belle’s here!”
Morgan Stark barrels toward you at full speed.
You barely have time to crouch before she crashes into your arms, giggling wildly.
“Oh my gosh,” you say in your best princess voice, warm and bright. “Princess Morgan! I’ve heard so much about you.”
Her gasp is immediate. “Really?”
“Of course. The castle talks about little else.”
She beams.
And just like that, the nerves disappear.
Because this part—you know this part.
You know how to soften your voice until children lean closer to hear you. You know how to make wonder feel real. You know how to turn exhaustion into magic for two hours at a time.
Morgan takes your hand immediately and drags you toward the other kids.
“Belle, can you sing?”
“Can you dance?”
“Where’s Beast?”
“Oh, he’ll join us later,” you say smoothly, praying Dylan survives the next ten minutes. “But for now…” You straighten dramatically. “Who would like to hear a story?”
A chorus of screams answers you.
Then you start singing.
And the entire party quiets.
Not because you’re loud.
Because you’re good.
Your voice carries softly through the backyard while the kids sit cross-legged around you, completely enchanted. You smile at each of them like they matter individually. Like this isn’t just another exhausting gig at the end of a long week.
Across the lawn, Bucky looks up almost by accident.
And immediately regrets it.
Because now he’s looking at you.
Fairy lights glow softly above your head while children crowd around your skirts, completely enchanted by every word that leaves your mouth. You laugh at something one of them says, bright and easy and real enough that it reaches him even from across the yard.
And for one strange second—
You don’t look like someone pretending to be a princess.
You look like one.
Then your eyes lift suddenly.
Find his across the crowd.
Bucky expects the usual reaction instantly.
The hesitation.
The recognition.
That brief flicker people always get when they realize who he is.
Instead, your expression softens.
Just slightly.
Like seeing him standing there alone somehow matters to you more than it should.
And the smile you give him—
God.
It’s small.
Almost shy.
But warm enough that he actually feels it.
Like sunlight slipping through something cracked open.
You hold his gaze for one tiny, suspended second longer than necessary before turning back to the children beside you.
But now your heartbeat feels different too.
Because there was something unexpectedly gentle in the way he looked at you.
Bucky watches Morgan stare at you like you hung the damn moon.
Watches you stay perfectly in character when another kid spills juice on the hem of your dress.
You don’t even flinch.
“Accidents happen,” you tell the horrified child gently. “Even in castles.”
Something in his chest shifts unpleasantly.
Or pleasantly.
He hasn’t decided yet.
Because normally, people trying too hard to be sweet annoys him.
But you kneel to talk to the children at eye level. You remember every single name they tell you. When Morgan grabs your hand during the story, you squeeze back automatically without breaking character once.
None of it feels fake.
Which is exactly the problem.
Bucky exhales slowly through his nose, already irritated with himself.
You’re midway through teaching Morgan and three other children how to properly curtsy when your phone starts vibrating inside the hidden pocket sewn into your dress.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Your stomach drops instantly.
Because only one person would call you repeatedly during a job.
“Princess Belle,” Morgan says seriously, tugging your glove, “Amelia says princesses aren’t allowed to eat chicken nuggets.”
You crouch slightly. “Amelia has clearly never met a princess after a long day.”
Morgan gasps. “You eat nuggets?”
“In alarming quantities.”
The children dissolve into laughter.
Your phone buzzes again.
Definitely Dylan.
“Excuse me one moment,” you say gently. “The castle may be under attack.”
Morgan grabs your skirt dramatically. “By who?”
You glance at the phone screen.
Dylan: I THINK IM DYING
“…the French.”
You slip away before the kids can ask further questions.
The second you push through the side doors into the hallway, you answer.
“What happened?”
“I threw up.”
You stop walking. “What?”
“I told you I was gonna throw up.”
“Oh my God.”
“Also,” he says weakly, “I think I have a fever.”
You press your fingers to your forehead.
Of course he does.
Of course this happens at Tony Stark’s house.
“Can you still come out for the photos at least?”
A miserable pause.
“…if I move too fast I think I’ll see God.”
“Great.”
“I’m so sorry.”
And the worst part?
He genuinely sounds devastated.
You sigh, leaning against the wall. “It’s okay. Stay in the dressing room. Drink water. Don’t die before I get paid.”
“That’s fair.”
You hang up.
Then immediately turn and nearly collide with Pepper Potts.
“Oh!” she says. “There you are. Morgan’s asking for—” She stops instantly. “What’s wrong?”
You try to smile professionally.
It must fail horribly.
“The Beast actor is sick.”
Pepper blinks once.
“Oh no.”
“Yeah.”
“He can’t come out at all?”
“He’s currently fighting for his life in the dressing room bathroom.”
Pepper’s face cycles rapidly through concern, stress, and the specific exhaustion only rich parents hosting children’s parties can achieve.
Because unfortunately, the timing is terrible.
Kids are already gathering near the photo backdrop.
Morgan keeps asking when Beast is coming.
And somewhere nearby, you hear Tony Stark loudly saying, “I can absolutely do it.”
Pepper turns sharply. “No.”
From the other room: “Why not? I have range.”
“You have an ego.”
“I can roar.”
“You have to greet people.”
“I can greet people as Beast.”
Pepper pinches the bridge of her nose.
You almost laugh despite yourself.
Then another voice joins in.
“…Tony’s right, though.”
You glance toward the doorway and nearly choke on your own heartbeat.
Because standing there casually like this is a completely normal Tuesday are two actual Avengers.
Captain America himself stands beside a man you recognize from the News. Sam Wilson.
You suddenly become intensely aware that you’re dressed as a Disney princess while holding a phone that still has Dylan: I THINK IM DYING on the screen.
This cannot be your life.
Sam leans against the doorway easily, looking far too entertained by the situation already.
But it’s the man beside him that catches your attention.
The same man from earlier.
The one who looked at you across the backyard like he’d forgotten, for a second, where he was.
Dark hair. Tall. Broad shoulders filling out a black Henley. Arms crossed tightly over his chest like he already wants no part in whatever conversation this is.
And yet somehow, standing this close to him now, you still feel that strange little pull from earlier.
Unlike the others, he isn’t smiling. If anything, he looks like he’d rather walk directly back out the door.
Sam’s eyes flick briefly toward you before landing on Pepper.
“All due respect,” he says, “I think we found a better option.”
Bucky narrows his eyes immediately, like he already knows where this is going.
Steve nods slowly, already betraying him. “Actually…”
Pepper looks between them hopefully. “Wait.”
Sam grins.
“Oh, this is perfect.”
Bucky straightens immediately. “Absolutely not.”
“You’re tall,” Sam says helpfully.
“So is Steve.”
Almost on cue, Morgan’s voice suddenly rings through the backyard.
“UNCLE AMERICA!”
Steve barely has time to react before a tiny blur in pink slams into his legs.
“There he is,” Bucky mutters.
Morgan grabs Steve’s hand immediately. “Come see my castle!”
And Steve actually lets himself get dragged away.
“You’re abandoning me?” Bucky calls after him.
Steve only throws him an apologetic smile over his shoulder before disappearing outside with Morgan.
Bucky looks deeply betrayed.
Sam looks delighted.
“You were saying?” Sam asks.
Bucky glares at him. “I hope your wings fall off.”
Pepper is visibly trying not to laugh now.
Meanwhile, you’re standing there clutching your phone like your entire career is collapsing in front of you.
“I really don’t want to cause trouble,” you say quickly. “I can just explain to Morgan that Beast got delayed—”
“Morgan’s seven,” Pepper says softly. “She’s been talking about this dance all week.”
Guilt hits instantly.
Bucky notices.
And unfortunately for him, Sam notices Bucky noticing.
Which means it’s over.
“Buck,” Sam says, suddenly far too smug, “you wouldn’t even have to talk much.”
“No.”
“You’d just stand there looking grumpy.”
“No.”
“You already do that recreationally.”
“Why don’t you do it?” Bucky shoots back immediately.
Sam places a hand dramatically over his chest. “Because I’m beautiful in a completely different genre.”
“I’m gonna kill you.”
“See? Beast energy.”
Bucky looks at you then.
Really looks at you for the first time up close.
The gold dress.
The nervous expression you’re trying to hide.
The way your hands twist together for half a second before you force yourself still again.
You look exhausted.
But somehow you’re still worried about disappointing a little girl.
And that annoying feeling in his chest returns.
Stronger this time.
Pepper steps closer carefully. “Bucky,” she says softly, “could you help us out? Just for a little while.”
He exhales slowly.
Looks toward the backyard where Morgan’s laughter drifts through the open doors.
Then back at you.
“…I hate all of you,” he mutters.
Sam lights up instantly. “That’s not a no.”
“It should be.”
Pepper smiles hopefully. “Bucky?”
He closes his eyes briefly like a man accepting his fate.
“…fine.”
The room goes silent.
You blink. “Wait. Really?”
Bucky points at you immediately. “This doesn’t leave this house.”
Sam nearly folds in half laughing.
And ten minutes later, you’re backstage beside a very grumpy Beast while trying to adjust the dark blue coat around his shoulders.
The costume department clearly did not account for super soldiers.
The fabric pulls tight across his chest every time he moves.
Bucky notices you staring immediately.
You step closer carefully, adjusting the fur near the collar.
“I’m sorry if the costume’s too tight,” you murmur. “The actor who usually plays Beast is… significantly less built.”
Bucky huffs quietly.
“That’s one way to say it.”
Up close, he’s unfairly intimidating.
Dark blue fabric stretched over muscle. Gloves hiding the metal hand completely.
Even the ridiculous Beast mask somehow makes him look dangerous.
Which feels deeply unfair for a Disney prince.
“You know,” you say gently while fixing one of the gold buttons, “you really don’t have to do this.”
Bucky looks down at you.
Then toward the backyard where Morgan’s excited voice carries faintly through the doors.
“…yeah,” he says quietly.
A pause.
“I kinda do.”
Before either of you can say anything else, the dressing room door swings open and Morgan storms in dramatically.
“BEAST!”
The little girl launches herself directly at Bucky.
Every muscle in his body visibly locks.
You almost panic for him.
But then, carefully, awkwardly, he catches her before she can crash face-first into the costume.
Morgan gasps, completely enchanted. “You’re so tall.”
Bucky looks at you, and somehow you know that beneath the mask, he looks completely helpless.
You grin. “That’s Beast.”
Morgan grabs his gloved hand immediately. “Belle said you were late because of a curse.”
Bucky looks down at her.
“…yeah,” he says after a second. “Traffic curse.”
You snort so suddenly you choke on air.
Morgan is already dragging him toward the doors with alarming strength for a seven-year-old.
You smooth your dress quickly before following after them, trying to slip back into character.
But it’s harder now for some reason.
Because this doesn’t feel like part of the performance anymore.
You barely know him.
You know he looks permanently annoyed at the world. You know children somehow trust him instantly despite the terrifying resting expression.
And you know he agreed to wear a giant Beast costume for a little girl he clearly adores.
Which is doing unfortunate things to your brain.
The backyard erupts the second Morgan reappears with him.
“BEAST!”
Children swarm immediately.
Bucky freezes.
Again.
You quickly step beside him before the poor man fully short-circuits.
“Oh dear,” you say brightly in Belle’s voice, slipping naturally into the scene. “The Beast seems overwhelmed.”
“I wonder why,” he mutters under his breath.
You hide another smile.
The next twenty minutes become complete chaos.
Children asking Bucky impossible questions.
“Do you live in the castle?”
“Can you roar?”
“Why are your hands so big?”
One tiny girl stares at him suspiciously before asking, “Are you hairy everywhere?”
You nearly inhale your own tongue trying not to laugh.
Bucky looks ready to walk directly into the ocean.
But somehow he stays.
He does the photos.
Lets kids hold his hands.
Even growls once after Morgan begs him to.
The children lose their minds.
Across the yard, Sam is recording the whole thing while Steve laughs so hard he has to sit down.
You catch Pepper wiping tears from her eyes at one point.
Probably from laughing.
Probably.
Then the music changes.
Soft piano drifting through the speakers.
Your stomach drops instantly.
The dance scene.
Morgan gasps dramatically. “NOW!”
Bucky goes still beside you.
“No.”
“Oh yes,” you say, smiling at him through clenched teeth.
“I don’t dance.”
“You’re literally a prince.”
“I’m literally not.”
Morgan grabs both your hands and shoves them together before either of you can react.
And suddenly—
Oh.
Your gloved hand lands against his.
His hand settles carefully at your waist.
The other wraps around your fingers.
You feel him hesitate.
Not because he doesn’t know how to dance.
Because he’s trying not to hurt you.
The realization hits instantly.
“It’s okay,” you say softly before thinking better of it.
His gaze flicks down to yours through the mask.
The world around you keeps moving, kids laughing, phones taking pictures, Sam yelling something obnoxious in the background, but for one strange second, it narrows into just this.
The warmth of his hand.
The carefulness in the way he’s holding you.
The fact that he smells faintly like coffee under all the costume fabric.
“You trust people too easy,” he says quietly.
You blink.
“That’s a weird thing to say during a Disney dance.”
“You didn’t answer.”
You should probably make a joke.
Instead, your eyes catch briefly on his gloved fingers resting against your waist.
Gentle despite the strength behind them.
Then Morgan yells, “KISS HER!”
Both of you jump apart instantly.
“Nope,” Bucky says immediately.
“Absolutely not,” you add at the exact same time.
The music softens around you, warm piano drifting through the backyard while fairy lights glow overhead.
Bucky Barnes keeps one hand at your waist, the other holding yours carefully as he guides you through the slow steps.
Too carefully.
Like he’s afraid to press too hard.
Like he’s constantly aware of himself.
His hand tightens at your waist without warning, pulling you just a little closer each time. Close enough that you can feel the heat of him even through the heavy costume layers. And whenever he leans down to hear you over the music, a shiver runs all the way down your spine.
The music softens around you, warm piano drifting through the backyard while fairy lights glow overhead.
You glance up at him just as he looks down at your feet.
“…am I doin’ this right?” he asks quietly.
His voice comes out rough and muffled beneath the Beast mask, low enough that you almost don’t hear it over the music.
The question catches you completely off guard.
Because he sounds genuinely unsure.
You blink once. “You know how to dance.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
Something warm twists painfully in your chest.
His grip tightens slightly at your waist.
“Don’t wanna mess this up.”
You smile softly. “You know, most princes are a little more confident during the ballroom scene.”
“Yeah, well.” He exhales quietly. “Pretty sure this prince skipped rehearsal.”
That pulls a laugh out of you.
Bucky’s gaze lifts at the sound immediately.
Not to the children.
Not to the crowd.
Just you.
And for one strange second, the dance stops feeling like part of the performance at all.
Then, quieter this time:
“…seriously, though,” he murmurs, thumb shifting faintly against your waist, “I’m not crushin’ your feet, am I?”
Your heartbeat stumbles embarrassingly hard.
“No,” you whisper. “You’re perfect.”
This is getting dangerous. Because somewhere between the dancing and the quiet way he keeps looking at you, this stopped feeling like part of the job.
You clear your throat quickly and pull back just enough to look over his shoulder.
“Morgan!” you call brightly.
Across the dance floor, Morgan gasps dramatically like she’s been summoned by destiny itself.
“Princess Morgan,” you say sweetly, already stepping away from Bucky before your brain completely melts, “I believe the Beast owes you a dance.”
Morgan screams.
Actually screams.
Bucky looks at you immediately.
You give him your most innocent Belle smile.
His eyes narrow under the mask. “You’re ditching me.”
“I would never.”
“You literally are right now.”
Morgan crashes into him before he can argue further, grabbing both his hands excitedly.
“C’MON BEAST!”
Bucky looks at you one last time over her head.
“You’re trouble,” he says flatly.
Your pulse jumps embarrassingly hard.
Before you can answer, Morgan drags him away into the crowd of children demanding another dance.
The second he’s gone, you exhale.
Hard.
Then across the dance floor, Morgan spins dramatically beneath Bucky’s arm while he awkwardly tries to keep up without stepping on tiny children.
And despite the giant Beast costume and permanent grumpy expression he’s laughing.
You watch him crouch slightly when she talks so he can hear her better through the music. Watch him steady her automatically every time she nearly trips over her dress. Watch one huge gloved hand settle carefully at her back while she spins herself dizzy.
The Beast mask should make him look ridiculous.
Instead, somehow, it only makes the contrast worse.
Big and intimidating and visibly dangerous even under layers of fake fur—
Yet impossibly gentle with her.
Your chest tightens unexpectedly.
“Well,” a voice says beside you, “you’re lookin’ at him exactly the same way the kids are.”
You nearly jump.
Sam Wilson grins knowingly as he reaches for a cupcake from the dessert table.
“I am not.”
“Hm.”
“I don’t even know him.”
“That’s never stopped anybody before.”
You glare at him.
He grins wider.
Somehow, hours later, Morgan Stark still has enough energy to power a small country.
“Belle,” she says for what must be the twentieth time that night, “are you gonna stay forever?”
You smile tiredly, smoothing a hand over her hair. “I don’t think your dad has enough snacks for that.”
Tony points from across the yard. “I absolutely do.”
Pepper immediately says, “No, we don’t.”
Morgan giggles.
And beside her, the Beast exhales dramatically before lowering himself onto one knee with the exhaustion of a war veteran returning from battle.
“I’m old,” he mutters.
You laugh softly. “You danced with children for two hours.”
“I fought in actual wars that were easier than this.”
“You’re doing amazing, sweetie,” Sam calls from somewhere behind him.
The Beast lifts a gloved hand without looking and flips him off.
Morgan gasps.
You gasp louder. “Beast!”
Sam nearly collapses laughing.
“Sorry,” the Beast says flatly. “The curse slipped.”
Morgan thinks this is the funniest thing she’s ever heard in her life.
Honestly?
You do too.
A little later, Pepper gently steals Morgan away, leaving you alone beside the Beast for the first time all evening.
And suddenly the silence feels… different.
Not awkward exactly.
Just noticeable.
You become very aware of the night air against your skin. Of the weight of the wig pinned to your head. Of him sitting beside you with the Beast mask pushed up, revealing his face.
Which turns out to be a mistake.
Because he’s unfairly handsome.
You look away immediately.
“So,” you say, mostly to stop your brain from malfunctioning, “thanks again for saving my job tonight.”
He huffs quietly beside you. “Wasn’t for your job.”
Your eyes flick back to him.
“Morgan?”
“Morgan,” he confirms.
A beat passes.
Then, quieter:
“…you too, I guess.”
Your heart does something deeply irritating.
The corners of his mouth twitch slightly like he regrets admitting it already.
You smile before you can stop yourself.
“Careful,” you murmur. “You’re almost being nice to me.”
“That’s the mask.”
“Oh, right. Of course.”
“The fur changes a man.”
That earns another laugh out of you.
And again, that look crosses his face.
That brief pause like he wasn’t expecting the sound but likes it anyway.
You notice it this time.
From across the yard, Steve walks by carrying three children at once somehow.
“You surviving?” he asks.
The Beast sighs. “Barely.”
Steve grins, eyes flicking briefly between the two of you.
You suddenly get the horrible feeling everyone here knows each other too well.
Including whatever this weird thing currently happening between you and the grumpy fake prince is.
“So,” you say carefully after Steve leaves, “do you always volunteer for emergency Disney prince duty?”
He snorts softly.
“First time.”
“You seemed pretty experienced.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You handled the kids well.”
For a second, he doesn’t answer.
His gaze drifts toward Morgan laughing beside Pepper near the cake table.
Then he shrugs slightly.
“They’re easier than adults.”
You blink.
“…that’s actually the most concerning thing anyone’s said to me tonight.”
That finally gets a real smile out of him. Small. Crooked. Gone almost instantly.
But you saw it.
And unfortunately for your sanity, now you want to see it again.
“Cake!” Morgan announces like a war cry.
The children erupt instantly.
You barely have time to laugh before Morgan grabs both your hand and the Beast’s clawed one at the same time.
“C’mon!”
Bucky visibly braces himself.
Morgan leads you directly toward a tiny plastic table surrounded by miniature pink chairs.
Bucky stops walking immediately.
“No.”
Morgan gasps. “What?”
“I can’t fit in that.”
“You have to sit with Belle!”
Children nearby immediately begin chanting:
“BEAST! BEAST! BEAST!”
Bucky looks personally betrayed by every child present.
You press your lips together hard, trying not to laugh while lowering yourself carefully into one of the tiny chairs.
The skirt of your dress spills around you in soft yellow satin.
Across from you, Bucky stares at the chair like it insulted his family.
“You’re doing great,” you tell him helpfully.
“I hate you.”
“That’s not very princely.”
“That’s because I’m not a prince.”
Morgan points dramatically at the seat.
Bucky sighs like a man moments from death.
Then lowers himself carefully into the tiny chair.
The plastic creaks ominously.
Every child at the table gasps.
You fully choke on a laugh.
Bucky turns toward you slowly through the Beast mask.
Morgan shoves paper plates toward both of you proudly while Pepper begins passing out cake.
And honestly?
It’s cute.
Ridiculously cute.
Children talking over each other excitedly. Frosting everywhere. Morgan sitting between you and Bucky like she personally arranged a royal wedding.
Then Morgan accidentally gets blue frosting across her own cheek.
“Oh no!” she gasps.
You laugh softly, grabbing a napkin. “Hold still, princess.”
While you wipe frosting from Morgan’s face, you completely miss the tiny streak of blue icing that ended up on your own cheek.
Bucky notices immediately.
And unfortunately—
Now he can’t stop looking at it.
You’re talking to Morgan about castles or books or something, but he’s not listening anymore.
Because there’s frosting on your face, near the corner of your mouth.
And somehow that feels more distracting than the dress.
Than the dancing.
Than literally anything else tonight.
“You got somethin’ there,” he says suddenly.
You blink. “What?”
He gestures vaguely toward his own cheek with one giant clawed glove.
“…there.”
You try wiping it away blindly.
“Did I get it?”
“No.”
“Great.”
Bucky stares at the stupid oversized Beast gloves for a second like he’s reconsidering every decision that led him here tonight.
Then, carefully, he reaches across the tiny table.
His claw brushes softly against your cheek.
Warm despite the gloves.
You stop breathing entirely.
He tries wiping the frosting away—
Except the giant fake claw only smears it worse across your skin.
You stare at him.
He stares at the disaster he just created.
Then, very flatly:
“…I made it worse.”
From somewhere behind him, you hear Sam make a noise suspiciously close to choking.
Your laugh slips out before you can stop it.
Soft at first.
Then brighter.
“It’s okay,” you manage between laughs. “You tried.”
And before you can think better of it, you lean forward slightly.
“There,” you murmur.
Your fingers brush gently against the corner of his mouth, wiping away a streak of blue frosting Morgan must’ve gotten on him earlier.
The second you touch him—
He freezes.
Completely.
Your smile falters just slightly.
Because suddenly you’re very aware of how quiet he got.
How still.
How carefully he’s looking at you now.
Like your hand against his face means something bigger than it should.
Morgan looks between both of you while happily shoving cake into her mouth.
“…you guys are weird.”
Sam immediately loses his mind laughing somewhere behind the table.
And Bucky?
Bucky can’t even argue with her.
The party finally begins to quiet down sometime after cake.
Children are asleep on couches inside the house. Half-deflated balloons drift lazily across the backyard. Someone turned the music low enough that it blends into the warm night air instead of filling it.
And Morgan Stark is fully asleep in Bucky Barnes’s arms.
It happens slowly.
One minute she’s still talking sleepily about whether Belle and Beast would survive a zombie apocalypse and the next, her head slips against his shoulder mid-sentence.
Out cold.
You smile before you can stop yourself.
Bucky looks down at her carefully, adjusting his hold automatically so she settles more comfortably against his chest.
The Beast gloves are gone now.
The mask too.
And without them, he somehow looks softer and more dangerous at the same time.
Dark hair messy from wearing the costume all night. Sleeves pushed up slightly. Tired eyes watching Morgan with this quiet kind of patience that makes something ache in your chest.
Pepper appears beside you with the expression of a woman who’s one minor inconvenience away from sleeping for three days.
“Oh no,” she whispers fondly. “She’s done.”
Bucky huffs quietly. “Yeah.”
Pepper reaches for Morgan carefully. “I’ll take her upstairs.”
For a second, Morgan stirs slightly against him.
Then tiny fingers grab weakly at the front of his shirt.
“No,” she mumbles sleepily. “Beast stays.”
Your heart actually hurts.
Bucky goes very still.
Pepper looks dangerously close to emotional already.
And after a tiny pause, Bucky murmurs:
“Alright. I’m stayin’.”
Morgan settles instantly.
You swear Pepper might love him a little for that.
Eventually, between the three of you, Morgan is successfully transferred upstairs without waking again.
And then—
The silence.
Just you and him standing alone beneath strings of warm lights while the last few party guests drift out through the gates.
The yellow skirts of your dress brush softly against your legs every time the wind moves.
Bucky looks at you for a second too long.
Then looks away.
Then back again.
“You know,” he says quietly, voice rougher now without the mask muffling it, “that dress is kinda unfair.”
Your breath catches embarrassingly fast.
Because he says it like it slipped out accidentally.
Like he didn’t mean to say it aloud.
Heat crawls up your neck immediately.
So naturally, you deflect.
“Good thing the costume covered your face then.”
A tiny smile pulls at the corner of his mouth.
Then his gaze shifts briefly past you.
Toward the tables scattered across the backyard.
Most of the candles have burned low by now. Half-empty glasses abandoned beside crumpled napkins. Flower centerpieces beginning to droop after hours in the heat.
And right in the middle of one arrangement there is a single rose.
Bucky tilts his head slightly. “Thought Belle was supposed to have a rose.”
You blink, caught off guard by the comment.
Then laugh softly. “You know the story?”
He gives you a look.
“Steve made me watch animated movies for cultural rehabilitation.”
A laugh slips out of you instantly. “That cannot be a real sentence.”
“It absolutely is.”
“You poor thing.”
“I survived.”
“Barely.”
You laugh again.
One large hand closes around the stem of a red rose tucked between candles and gold ribbon.
And without ceremony he pulls it free.
You stare as he turns back toward you, holding it out casually like this isn’t doing very dangerous things to your heartbeat. You shake your head, smiling as you take the rose carefully from his hand.
His fingers brush yours for half a second.
Warm.
Gentle.
And somehow that tiny touch feels worse than the dancing did.
“You just stole from Tony Stark,” you murmur.
“He’ll survive.”
“You’re a criminal.”
“I’ve been told.”
And for one soft, dangerous second the fairy tale feels a little too real.
And suddenly the air feels too warm.
The fairy lights above you blur softly while your heartbeat pounds hard enough to be embarrassing.
Because there’s something very unfair about the way he looks at you now.
Not like Belle.
Not like part of the performance.
Like you.
And the worst part?
You think maybe he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.
A nervous laugh escapes you quietly. “You flirt a lot for someone who looked physically offended to be here earlier.”
“I was physically offended.”
“You’re doing better now.”
“That’s debatable.”
You smile.
His eyes drop briefly to your mouth.
And there it is.
That terrible, dangerous pause.
The kind that changes things.
Your heartbeat stumbles.
One more inch and—
Bucky steps back first.
Like the thought alone startled him. He glances toward the house, jaw tightening once when he realizes he doesn’t know how to do this anymore.
Doesn’t know how to stand in soft light with a beautiful girl dressed like a princess smiling at him like he’s someone safe to be around.
Not after everything.
Not when she still looks at him with warmth instead of caution.
Someone like you should probably meet someone normal.
Someone uncomplicated.
Not a man who spent half the evening hiding behind a Beast mask because it somehow felt easier than being himself.
And maybe that’s why, after a long pause, he just says quietly:
“You should get home. It’s late.”
The words hit harder than they should.
But you still smile softly. “Yeah. Probably.”
Neither of you move right away.
Then finally, you step back.
“Goodnight,” you say gently.
Bucky nods once.
“Goodnight, sweetheart.”
The nickname lands directly in your chest.
And then you leave.
Just like that.
No number exchanged.
No big moment.
Bucky watches until your taillights disappear through the gates.
And something in his chest feels suddenly, violently empty.
“…you are the dumbest man alive.”
Bucky closes his eyes immediately.
Of course Sam Wilson is still here.
“I don’t wanna hear it.”
“You didn’t even ask for her number!”
Bucky drags a hand down his face tiredly. “Sam.”
“No, seriously,” Sam says, horrified. “What was your plan here? Just suffer forever?”
Bucky glares at him. “I’m serious.”
“And I’m devastated for you.”
“I don’t—” He exhales sharply. “She’s sweet.”
Sam blinks once.
“…that’s your argument?”
“She deserves someone normal.”
“None of us are normal.”
“That’s different.”
Sam opens his mouth—
Then pauses suddenly.
His eyes drop toward the patio floor near Bucky’s boots.
“…hold on.”
Bucky frowns. “What.”
Sam points dramatically.
And there, half-hidden beneath one of the chairs, sits a pair of gold heels.
Tiny.
Definitely not his.
Bucky stares at them for a second.
Then something in his expression shifts almost immediately.
Because he remembers you wincing every few steps near the end of the party. Remembers you carrying the shoes in one hand while walking barefoot through the grass. Remembers the yellow dress brushing around your ankles while fairy lights reflected softly against your skin.
A quiet laugh escapes him before he can stop it.
Sam looks deeply offended by the existence of this emotion.
“Oh my God,” he says. “I thought she was Belle, not Cinderella.”
Bucky shoots him a look while bending to pick up the heels carefully.
They’re ridiculously delicate in his hands.
Sam watches the whole thing with growing horror.
“You are gone,” he says.
Bucky ignores him, thumb brushing absently over the gold strap.
Then, before he can think too hard about why he’s doing it, he glances toward the gates one last time.
Like maybe you’ll magically come running back for them.
Sam stares at him for a long moment.
Then slowly reaches into his pocket.
Bucky narrows his eyes immediately. “What’s that.”
Without answering, Sam holds out a small business card.
The princess company logo printed across the front.
The silence inside the building felt different after that case. Heavy. Alive. As if something was still hiding in the dark corners of the hallway, waiting for the right moment to breathe again. Most of the office lights had already been turned off by the time she walked in. The soft sound of her footsteps echoed through the empty floor, blending with the low hum of the air conditioning still running somewhere overhead. Her fingers were still cold, even hours after the coffee she had abandoned half-finished on her desk. Her body was exhausted. Her mind… far worse.
She didn’t knock on the door. There was no point. She already knew they were the only two people left in the building at that hour, and somehow that made everything feel more intimate. More dangerous, too. When she pushed the door open slowly, the quiet creak of the wood sounded far too loud against the stillness of the night. Her eyes lifted carefully, taking in the scene in front of her.
Aaron sat behind his desk with a file open in his hands, though he clearly hadn’t been reading for a while. His jaw was tight, tie loosened, sleeves rolled to his forearms like he’d spent hours trying to keep his mind occupied just to avoid thinking about everything else. His tired eyes slowly lifted when he noticed her standing there, and for a moment, the entire world seemed to hold its breath with them.
Neither of them spoke right away.
They didn’t need to.
After certain cases, words felt too harsh to exist. Too small to carry everything lodged deep inside your chest.
She closed the door softly behind her, barely making a sound, as if she were protecting that small space from the rest of the world. From reality. From reports. From the bodies. From the horrific images still burning behind her eyelids every time she blinked.
And he simply watched her.
Watched the way she kept her shoulders tense even though exhaustion was written all over her face. The way she avoided looking at him for too long, as if meeting his eyes would mean admitting just how close she was to falling apart.
She walked toward the desk slowly.
Without much courage, either.
His cologne was still the same.
Familiar.
Safe.
Comforting.
And maybe that was exactly what she needed right then. Because in the middle of all the violence, all the broken pieces inside her, Aaron was still the only place that felt quiet. The only place where her mind finally slowed down after days like this.
She stopped beside the desk.
“I thought you’d already gone home.”
Her voice came out soft, rough with exhaustion and emotions she no longer had the strength to hide.
Aaron closed the file slowly, not even bothering to mark the page. He’d read the same sentence three times already and still had no idea what it said.
“I thought you had too.”
Her eyes finally met his.
And that alone was enough.
Enough to crack every wall she’d spent the entire day holding together on her own. Enough to change the way she breathed. She pulled in a slow, deep breath, like maybe for a second she believed the weight crushing her shoulders could disappear that easily.
But it didn’t.
It never completely did.
Aaron stood carefully, slowly, like someone approaching something too wounded to handle sudden movement. But she didn’t pull away.
She never pulled away from him.
She was just tired.
And he knew it.
He always knew.
Because Aaron understood her in a way that was almost frightening. Better than she understood herself sometimes.
He lifted his hands slowly, and when his fingers settled against her waist, there was no rush to it. No urgency. Just that quiet kind of care that somehow felt far more intense than desperation ever could, because it was too intimate.
Too real.
Aaron leaned forward until his forehead rested gently against hers, and the second he touched her, she closed her eyes, focusing only on the steady rhythm of his breathing.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Like a silent hypnosis slowly pulling the chaos out of her body.
Her hands drifted upward until they gripped the fabric of his shirt, as though she needed it to stay standing. Without thinking, she rested her head against his shoulder, finally allowing her exhaustion to show. Aaron immediately wrapped his arms around her, pulling her closer while resting his head gently against hers. Then he pressed a slow kiss into her hair, lingering just long enough to make her feel a little safer, a little less lost.
Not too tight.
Not suffocating.
Just enough to remind her she wasn’t alone in this.
And then the silence returned once more.
But this time it wasn’t heavy.
This time it felt warm.
Soft.
Like hot water against frozen skin after an impossibly long winter.
His thumb moved slowly along her back in absentminded circles while she finally allowed her body to relax against his. As if she were hypnotized by the steady sound of his breathing, by the firm heartbeat beneath her hand, by the overwhelming sense of safety that only existed there.
With him.
In his arms.
Inside a secret neither of them dared to say out loud.
She was terrified of needing him this much.
But maybe the worst part was realizing Aaron always knew exactly when she needed him close.
Warnings: kidnapping, physical injuries not described, psychological trauma, emotional distress, mentions of blood, near-death situation, intense emotional conflict, guilt, power imbalance, slow-burn tension, mentions of panic attacks and anxiety, emotional distress
If I forgot about anything feel free to write to me. Your wellbeing is important to me!
Summary:
What was meant to be a lesson in control turns into something far more devastating when Hotch pushes you too far—until the spark that once made you essential is replaced by distance, precision, and silence. As you withdraw from the team, especially from him, the consequences of his actions begin to surface in ways he never anticipated… until you disappear.
The biting wind of Quantico seemed to whisper truths Aaron Hotchner would rather ignore. Within the gray walls of the FBI, you were a storm of instinct and impulse, while he stood as a granite wall, determined to hold it back. Where he planned, you acted. Where he calculated risks, you leapt. And that—more than anything—was what unsettled him: in the chaos you carried, he found a spark of life his meticulously controlled existence had long since suffocated.
The Buffalo case wasn’t just another mistake—it was the breaking point. A serial kidnapper, methodical, predictable within his own pattern, and Aaron Hotchner had profiled him with surgical precision, every detail falling into place like pieces of a puzzle he already knew by heart. The team trusted him. They always did. But you saw something that wasn’t on paper. In the witness’s eyes—shaking, bloodshot, desperate to help—there was a flicker that didn’t belong to fear alone. It was recognition. Familiarity. Something that didn’t fit in reports, something protocols ignored because it couldn’t be measured, proven, or reduced to data. And you followed it—without clearance, without warning—driven by a certainty that wouldn’t let you stop.
By the time anyone realized, it was already too late. The unsub shifted, breaking his own pattern with the same intelligence that made him dangerous, disappearing off the radar long enough to regroup… and in that gap, he took another life with him. A life that now weighed heavily over the entire room. A life that might have been saved.
The debrief was cold, almost clinical, but the atmosphere carried something far heavier than anything spoken aloud. The room felt smaller, the air too thick to breathe easily. No one said your name directly, but it lingered there—unspoken in every pause that stretched too long, in every glance that slipped away too quickly. And then there was him. Hotch didn’t raise his voice—not there, not in front of the team—but you saw what the others pretended not to: the tension carved into his jaw, the way his fingers pressed against the table with restrained force, the steady gaze fixed on you long enough to say everything he refused to voice. His walls didn’t crumble—not entirely—but they cracked, and you felt the exact moment it happened.
He rose with the same controlled composure as always, his perfectly tailored suit serving as flawless armor. On the outside, he was still the unshakable leader everyone followed without question. On the inside, he stood far closer to losing control than he would ever allow himself to show. His eyes met yours for a second longer than necessary, a charged silence passing between you like a warning.
“Agent S/N.”
His voice was low, firm—too controlled to be casual. It wasn’t a request. It never would be. He was already walking away when he added, without so much as a glance over his shoulder:
“My office. Now.”
The silence that followed was worse than any direct confrontation, because you knew exactly what awaited you on the other side of that door—and for the first time since the case began, you weren’t sure you were ready to face it.
You followed him down the corridor, the sound of your footsteps echoing softly against the floor as you tried to keep a steady pace—even as your mind drifted far from the present. With every step, the tension tightened, coiling in your chest like a knot that refused to come undone. You didn’t know exactly what to expect—you just knew it wouldn’t be gentle.
The fear was there, quiet but constant. But it wasn’t alone. Regret trailed close behind, heavy and suffocating, clinging to your thoughts with the image of that civilian who never got a second chance—a life that now weighed on you in a way you knew wouldn’t fade anytime soon. Maybe not ever. And still, something inside you refused to fully yield. A stubborn, unsettling certainty held its ground. You had seen something different. You knew you had. And you hadn’t reported it because, deep down, you already knew how it would end—ignored, dismissed, swallowed whole by protocol.
And now… this was the result.
This wasn’t how you imagined it ending. It was never supposed to go this far. And the worst part of it all was knowing the killer was still out there… and that maybe—just maybe—that was on you too.
When you reached Aaron Hotchner’s office, he didn’t hesitate. He pushed the door open and walked straight in, never slowing, never looking back, as if he already knew you would follow regardless. He didn’t even bother to close it. He crossed the room toward his desk, every movement precise, controlled—though now carrying a tension he wasn’t even trying to conceal anymore.
“Close the door.”
The command came in the same tone as before—low, firm, leaving no room for argument.
You stepped in after him, pushing the door shut until the sharp click echoed through the silence. It was such a simple sound, and yet it felt deafening in the charged stillness. Your steps slowed as you approached the desk, your body tense but upright, stopping when he reached the other side.
He looked at you.
And you held his gaze.
“Your impulsiveness is a professional and moral failure.”
His voice—usually so measured—cut through the space between you like a clean strike, sharp and unyielding.
“You act like the rules don’t apply to you, like danger is some kind of game.”
Every word carried more than authority—there was frustration there, something deeper, something personal.
“Your lack of control cost a life today.”
He paused, just long enough for the weight of it to settle between you.
“How am I supposed to trust you in the field?”
The silence that followed offered no relief. If anything, it only expanded, filling every corner of the room, thick enough to press against your skin.
You didn’t step back. You didn’t look away. You didn’t lower your head.
You stood your ground—firm, even with everything pressing in on you from the inside out: the fear, the guilt, the certainty, all colliding in the same space.
And that—more than any immediate response—seemed to make something inside Aaron Hotchner close off even further. His expression hardened, shifting into something colder, sharper.
The silence stretched on for a few seconds more before you finally spoke—long enough to gather the thoughts rushing too fast, tangled somewhere between guilt, anger, and a near-desperate need not to break under him.
You could see it in his eyes—this wouldn’t end quickly.
Not just because he knew you well.
But because this time…
You had gone over his head without a second thought.
…give room for a discussion. And that—"that"—he wouldn’t let slide. Still, you didn’t lower your head.
“Trust?” Your voice came out low, edged with disbelief, but steady as steel, cutting cleanly through the space between you. “You want to talk about trust after reducing me to a mistake in front of the entire team?”
The words came before you could soften them—because they’d been there long before you stepped into that room. Before Buffalo. Before the crime scene, where he had called you out in front of everyone—the team, local officers, anyone close enough to hear. You hadn’t answered then. You swallowed it, stayed silent, because you knew that in the end, the decision had been yours—and so was the weight of it. You weren’t trying to escape the blame. You couldn’t.
But that… that had been different.
Being exposed like that, in that moment, hadn’t been necessary—and you held onto it. Held onto it until now.
Because now it was just the two of you.
And there was nothing left to stop you from saying exactly what you thought.
He took a step forward—quick, deliberate—leaning slightly over the desk as if he needed to close the distance, as if he refused to give up even an inch of that space.
“I called you responsible for what happened,” he shot back, his tone still controlled, though tension thrummed just beneath the surface, “because you are.”
It hit. Hard. Direct. Like his words landed precisely where the guilt was already raw, exposed, impossible to ignore.
And you felt it—truly felt it.
Because you knew that mark wouldn’t fade. It would stay there, carved into you like a scar that never fully disappears, something you would carry from now on—in every decision, every field op, every choice.
Still, you didn’t step back.
“Don’t twist this,” you replied, holding his gaze with equal intensity, refusing to let him take full control of the conversation. “I’m responsible for the decision I made. Not for the failure of the entire system.”
“System?” He let out a short, sharp breath, straightening slightly—but not truly pulling away, as if his body needed the proximity to sustain the tension. “This isn’t a system failing. This is an agent ignoring a direct order.”
The way he said "agent" didn’t go unnoticed.
Cold. Too professional. Deliberately distant.
And that—more than anything—was what made you step forward, closing the space he had tried to create with that word.
“This is an agent seeing something her leader refused to,” you shot back without hesitation, every word laced with everything you’d been holding in for far too long. Your eyes never left his. “Because you wouldn’t have listened to me if I’d said anything, would you?”
The silence that followed was immediate—sharp enough to cut.
Dense enough to suffocate anything that dared move through it.
Because for the first time since this argument began, it wasn’t just about the mistake anymore.
It was about the two of you.
Aaron Hotchner’s gaze darkened, his expression tightening into something almost dangerous, as if every word you’d thrown at him was being processed, dissected… and countered internally before he even gave it voice.
“You know that’s not what this is about,” he began, his tone low, firm—but now carrying a tension he wasn’t even trying to mask. “You knew that if you had come to me with this… idea of yours…” He paused briefly, as though choosing his words with more care than usual. “…I would have said no. Because it would have put innocent people at risk. And that’s exactly what happened.”
He drew in a steady breath, controlling his rhythm, but there was no missing it—his patience was already wearing thin, even if the conversation had barely begun.
“You’re trying to justify disobedience with intuition,” he continued, each syllable precise, almost cutting. “That’s not courage. That’s recklessness.”
You stepped forward, deliberately closing the distance, challenging that invisible barrier he always kept between you—the desk, the posture, the authority.
“And standing still, waiting for the perfect scenario—what is that?” Your voice rose, not from loss of control, but from emotion finally spilling through the cracks. “Strategy?” You let out a breath, sharper now. “Because the way you operate, Hotch… people don’t die from mistakes.”
A beat.
“They die from hesitation.”
The words left your mouth before you could stop them.
And the second they did—you knew.
That had gone too far.
His jaw locked tight, the muscle flexing in a way that looked almost painful—as if, given the chance, he might actually hurt himself just holding that tension in place. And still, even then, a part of you noticed. Worried. Genuinely.
His gaze faltered for a fraction of a second—not with doubt, never doubt—but with impact.
Because that didn’t just hit something in this room.
It hit something older.
Other cases. Other calls. Moments when time was not on your side.
“You don’t understand,” he said then, quieter now—but still firm, still anchored in his own logic as if it were the only thing holding everything together. “Every decision I make doesn’t just involve you. It doesn’t just involve the victim you saw. It involves the entire team. Every move has consequences.”
“I know that!” Your voice rose before you could stop it, frustration breaking through before you had the chance to filter it, because in that moment it felt like he was reducing you to someone who didn’t understand anything—as if you were… lesser.
“Then act like it!” His voice lifted for the first time—not out of loss of control, but intensity, filling the space between you with a force that didn’t need volume to be felt. “Because when you go off on your own, when you ignore protocol, you’re not just putting your life at risk. You compromise investigations, you compromise operations… you compromise all of us!”
You shook your head, frustrated, your eyes burning—bright not with weakness, but with emotion held in for far too long. The urge to cry hit hard—for what happened today, for the life that was lost, for the guilt that had settled in and refused to leave—but most of all, for the anger.
Still, you held it back.
Not now. Not here.
You still had a point to make. You still had to face your superior… and carry the weight of a choice that had cost more than you were ever prepared to pay.
“I’m not reckless,” you began, your voice lower now but steady, each word chosen carefully, as if you needed him to truly hear you. “And I’m not a child who doesn’t understand that my actions have consequences for everyone in this building. I know what I did. I know I harmed the team…” A brief pause—barely there, but heavy. “…and especially that victim. But I think. I evaluate. I feel when something is wrong… and I couldn’t just ignore what I saw.”
“Feeling isn’t evidence.” Aaron Hotchner’s response was immediate, unsoftened—a clean blade cutting through any attempt at justification.
“But it saves lives!” you shot back just as quickly, conviction rising before it could be questioned, too firm to take back—and because of that, far too vulnerable for what came next.
“And today it didn’t.”
The words landed hard. Brutal. Direct. Like he had pressed into the most exposed part of you—the one you’d been trying to contain since the moment everything went wrong.
It felt like a wound still bleeding—too deep for any quick fix, no matter how many layers you tried to press over it. It was still there, raw, pulsing, reminding you.
You froze.
Only for half a second.
But he saw it.
And even then, he didn’t back down.
“That’s exactly the point,” he continued, his voice lower now—but far more intense, each word carrying something heavier than authority alone. “You’re so attached to the idea that your intuition is always right… that you fail to see the risk it creates.”
You drew in a slow breath, your chest rising with controlled effort, trying to steady the storm still burning inside you. Not to give in—but to keep from unraveling in a way that would strip you of everything you still needed to say.
“And you’re so fixated on control,” you replied, holding his gaze without flinching, “that you don’t realize when it blinds you.”
The words lingered between you, heavy. Dangerous.
Because they weren’t just about the case.
They weren’t just about today.
And you knew it.
You knew it the second you said them.
There was something almost inevitable about this confrontation now—like neither of you was willing to step back, like somehow you were both pushing each other to the edge, testing just how far it could go before something finally broke. If it was going to fall apart… it would be going down fighting. And part of you was painfully aware that he was doing the same—just differently. More controlled. More calculated.
He pressed—and you answered.
He advanced—and you held your ground.
Another silence settled over the room.
But this one…
was different.
Heavier.
More dangerous.
Because now it wasn’t just about right or wrong.
It was about who would yield first.
And he didn’t stop. Not this time.
“Control prevents chaos,” he said, steady, his voice slipping back into that almost infuriating composure—like it had been built not to break, as if every word passed through an invisible filter designed to keep any real loss of control from ever slipping through.
“No.” You shook your head immediately, not giving him the space to let that settle as truth. Your body was already tense, shoulders slightly raised, your breathing shorter than it should’ve been. “Control doesn’t prevent chaos—it masks it. It’s still there… you just take longer to react.”
His eyes narrowed slowly, not in surprise, but in assessment. As if he were recalculating every variable in this conversation—every response, every step you were both taking along a line that was growing thinner by the second. “I don’t work with assumptions,” he replied, sharp and direct, like he was closing the argument right there.
“You work with fear.”
The words slipped out.
And the weight of them hit just as fast.
That was low.
You knew it.
He knew it.
And still, neither of you took it back.
The air in the room seemed to vanish, like the space itself had shrunk around you, compressing everything—sound, movement, even time—into a single, suffocating point. For a second, you really thought he might snap. Not in shouting, not in anything uncontrolled… that was never his way. It would be worse than that. Cold. Precise. Final. The kind of thing that doesn’t unravel once it’s said.
But when Aaron Hotchner spoke… that’s not what came.
It was something more dangerous.
More controlled than ever.
“If you think this is fear…” he began slowly, each word measured with near-surgical precision, carrying a weight that had gone beyond the professional, “then you still don’t understand anything about what we do here.”
You held his gaze—but you felt it. Like a sharp, direct impact, almost physical. It wasn’t just what he said—it was everything underneath it. What it implied. As if he wasn’t just questioning your decision… but your place here altogether.
The line had been crossed.
And you realized it in the exact moment the silence returned—heavier than all the others, carrying something that could no longer be ignored. This had gone too far. Beyond the case, beyond rank, beyond the mistake.
Someone needed to stop.
Draw a line before this became something that couldn’t be fixed.
And for the first time since you stepped into that room… you considered that it might have to be you.
But just as quickly as the thought of backing down surfaced, it vanished—swallowed by something stronger. Stubbornness. Conviction. Or simply the inability to stop now that everything had already gone too far. You ignored the warning signs, the small fractures in the conversation that practically begged for someone to pull back, and you kept going.
“Then explain it to me.”
He didn’t hesitate. Not for a second.
“This isn’t about being right,” he said, his voice firm, grounded in something he had clearly told himself countless times before. “It’s about reducing error. Minimizing risk. Making sure as many people as possible make it home.”
A brief pause.
Almost imperceptible.
“Including you.”
It cut through the tension like something else entirely—something more human, closer, quieter… and for a moment, just a moment, it felt like it might shift the rhythm of the argument, ease the weight that had been building since you walked into the room.
But it didn’t.
You didn’t let it.
“And if that means ignoring the only real chance to save someone?” you shot back, your tone lower now, more controlled—but no less firm. Your eyes never left his. “Can you live with that?”
He didn’t answer right away.
But his silence wasn’t empty.
It was deliberate.
Measured.
The silence of someone choosing exactly what to say… and what it would mean once spoken.
“I live with the decisions that ensure more people survive,” he said at last, his voice low, steady, leaving no room for hesitation. “Not with gambles.”
You let out a short breath, almost humorless, disbelief surfacing before any rational response could form.
“I’m not a gamble.”
“Today, you were.”
That was enough.
There was no outburst. No raised voices.
But something inside you gave way.
“Then maybe you’re leading the wrong people,” you said, your voice controlled in a way that felt almost dangerous—because it didn’t need to rise to carry everything behind it. “Because I’m not going to stop acting when I know I can make a difference.”
That’s when he moved.
Aaron Hotchner stepped out from behind the desk for the first time since the argument began, circling it with firm, deliberate strides, every movement carrying intention. And you knew. You knew that was never a good sign. You were trained to read people—even when you shouldn’t, even when there were unspoken rules about not doing it with your own team… let alone your superior. But in that moment, it was unavoidable. It was written in his posture, in the way his gaze remained fixed, in the tightly controlled tension running through his entire body: whatever came next wouldn’t be easy.
You followed each step with your eyes, your heart racing without permission, as if it were already bracing for something that hadn’t yet taken shape. When he stopped at the head of the desk, closer now, eliminating any safe distance between you, the silence settled in—thick, impossible to ignore.
And then he said:
“Then maybe you don’t belong on this team.”
Silence.
Absolute.
Heavy.
Irreversible.
If you thought the day had already pushed you to your limit, this was the breaking point—the final drop that made everything overflow. There was nothing worse than hearing that. Not from him. Not after everything.
And you broke.
Not in some dramatic, immediate collapse—but in something quieter, deeper, far more internal… and still impossible to fully contain. Your heart seemed to drop straight into your stomach, a hollow emptiness opening in your chest as a suffocating pressure settled there, tightening, making it hard to breathe for a moment. Your hands grew damp, your fingers trembling ever so slightly, and your eyes burned, turning glassy, heavy with tears you refused to let fall.
But they were there.
All of it.
Every emotion.
Exposed.
Unfiltered.
He could see it.
Read you.
Like an open book.
You bit down hard on the inside of your cheek, trying to hold on to the control that was already slipping through your fingers. Your gaze flickered up to the ceiling for a second that stretched longer than it should have, your hand brushing over your face in a quick, almost futile attempt to steady yourself—even as it trembled. You didn’t notice the shift in his expression in that moment, didn’t catch the exact instant something in him gave way at the sight of you unraveling.
But he did.
And he knew.
He had gone too far.
He took a small step toward you, almost instinctive—like he was about to say something, like he wanted to fix it… or at least soften the damage.
But the moment you looked at him and noticed the movement, your hand rose immediately.
A simple gesture.
But unmistakable.
Stop.
And he did.
Instantly.
The silence that followed stretched longer than any of the ones before. It wasn’t confrontation anymore. It wasn’t a clash of wills.
It was consequence.
A few seconds—or maybe minutes—passed before you managed to speak, your voice thick, unsteady, but still holding just enough strength not to shatter completely.
“I know what I did…” you began, each word slower, heavier, like it had to be pulled out of you with care. “I know my mistake, and… I’m not trying to downplay it, like you said.”
You swallowed hard, the knot in your throat tightening.
“That victim’s life will always be etched into my skin… always sitting at the back of my mind. And I know that if I hadn’t made that choice…” your voice faltered for a second, but you pushed through, “the killer would probably be behind bars right now, instead of out there.”
You wanted to say more.
You could feel there was still so much left, so much unsaid.
But the words didn’t come.
So you just shook your head faintly, almost on instinct, your eyes closing for a moment that felt longer than it really was—and that’s when the tear slipped free. Stubborn. Silent. Tracing a quick path down your skin before you had time to stop it, before you could hold on to that last fragile layer of control. You dropped your head almost immediately, as if you could hide it, your hands coming up to your face in a hurried motion,
…trying to erase any trace of it, even knowing it was already far too late. Your breathing came deeper after that, drawn in with effort, like your lungs had to relearn how to work inside your chest, and when you finally lifted your gaze again, it was all still there—the weight, the exhaustion, the impact of every word spoken in that room.
The silence that followed dragged on. Thick. Uncomfortable. Almost unbearable. For a moment, it felt like hours had passed, as if time itself had slowed just to force you to feel every second of it… but in reality, it had only been a few minutes.
Minutes that were enough.
Enough for you to realize you couldn’t stay.
Not like that.
Staying there wasn’t an option anymore.
The suffocating feeling returned, tightening in your chest, climbing up your throat, as if the walls were slowly closing in, as if the air itself had thinned too much to support any attempt at control. And you knew exactly what came after that kind of feeling—you knew it too well to ignore it.
So you moved.
Slowly at first, almost hesitant, taking a step back as if part of you still expected something to stop you—a word, a gesture, anything. But nothing came.
And maybe that was for the best.
You took another step.
And another.
Until you turned your back on Aaron without saying a word, without looking again—because you knew that if you did, you might not be able to leave. Your hand found the doorknob with a faint tremor, but this time you didn’t hesitate—you opened it and crossed the threshold like someone finally coming up for air after being held under for far too long.
The hallway felt colder than before, emptier too—but you barely noticed. Your steps picked up pace without you meaning them to, fast enough to keep anyone away, but not frantic—you were still trying to hold something together inside yourself. Searching. For anywhere. Any door that could close between you and the rest of the world.
The first empty room you found was enough.
You stepped inside without a second thought, shutting the door behind you with a sharper click than you intended, as if that sound alone confirmed that no one was watching anymore. And it was only there, in that isolated space—away from the eyes, the pressure, away from him… that everything finally began to give way.
The moment the door shut behind you, the world seemed to… stop. Not in a gentle way, not like a silence meant to comfort—but like something abruptly severed, as if everything had been ripped away at once, leaving an avalanche in its wake. It came too fast, too hard, without warning. The emotion hit you all at once, unfiltered, leaving no room to sort through it, no space to hold it back. Your body reacted before your mind could catch up.
You stumbled, your shoulder hitting the wall beside the door harder than you intended, like you needed something solid to keep you from collapsing. The air… the air wouldn’t come. Or it came in fragments. Shallow. Broken. Your breathing faltered, catching halfway through, and your chest tightened in a way that was almost frightening, like something was pressing outward from the inside. Your fingers trembled as you brought your hand up to your throat, as if you could force space open, as if you could make your lungs work again.
But it wouldn’t.
Not properly.
Your heart raced—too fast, uneven—each beat loud enough to echo in your ears. Your vision flickered for a second, the edges dimming slightly, and a raw, real fear settled in—not of the case, not of the argument… but of losing control right there.
“Breathe.”
You tried.
But it didn’t work.
The air came in short, fractured pulls, each attempt falling short, like your body had forgotten how to do something so basic. You slid slightly down the wall, your knees weakening, your head spinning, the disorientation rising too quickly. Your mind was full—too full—everything at once—the victim, the mistake, his words, his expression, “maybe you don’t belong on this team”… all of it tangled together, repeating, echoing, relentless.
Out in the hallway, Penelope Garcia had seen you leave Aaron Hotchner’s office. And she knew. She didn’t need an explanation. She didn’t need to hear a word. The way you moved—too fast, too rigid—the distant look in your eyes, the fact that you hadn’t said anything… none of it was normal.
“Hey—” she called, but you had already turned the corner.
Garcia frowned, her chest tightening with immediate concern. She glanced quickly at Hotch’s office door, then back to the direction you’d gone… and made her decision.
She went after you.
Her steps were quick, but careful—like she didn’t want to startle you, but also wasn’t about to lose sight of you. “S/N?” she called again, her voice softer now, threaded with real concern.
She found you through the half-open door.
And stopped.
For a second, the sight in front of her froze everything—you pressed against the wall, clearly struggling for air, trembling, trying to pull in a breath that just wouldn’t come. It wasn’t just crying. It wasn’t just emotion.
It was a panic attack.
“Hey, hey, hey…” Garcia stepped inside immediately, closing the door behind her with care, like she was shielding you from the rest of the world. Her voice shifted instantly—lower, steadier, but still gentle. “It’s okay, I’m here, alright? I’m here.”
She moved closer slowly, no sudden movements, her eyes locked on you, tracking every reaction. “Look at me… try to look at me,” she asked softly, lowering herself just enough to meet you at your level without fully invading your space.
You tried.
But focusing was hard.
“I know, I know…” she murmured, noticing. “Don’t try to take a deep breath right now, okay? Just… follow me. Small. Slow.”
She lifted her own hand, demonstrating, exaggerating the motion so you could mirror her. “Breathe in… just a little… that’s it… hold… and let it out slowly… good… with me.”
Her voice stayed steady, firm—a point of anchoring in the middle of the chaos rushing through you.
“You’re safe,” she continued, even softer now, like each word was being placed with care. “You’re okay. This will pass. I promise.”
She didn’t touch you right away, respecting your space, but stayed close—close enough to catch you if you needed it, her eyes never leaving yours, like she refused to let you slip away completely in that moment.
“Stay with me… that’s it… just stay with me.”
You tried to follow her voice, but your body was still trapped in that desperate cycle, like every attempt to breathe only reminded you of how you couldn’t. Your chest rose too fast, fell too fast, and still it wasn’t enough—like the air wasn’t reaching where it needed to. Your hand gripped your shirt without you realizing it, fingers curling into the fabric as if that alone could keep you grounded.
“That’s it… just like that…” Penelope Garcia kept her tone steady, matching your rhythm, unhurried, never pushing. “Small, okay? You don’t have to pull in too much… just let it come in… and out…”
She leaned in a little more, her gaze steady on yours, as if she was holding you in place with that alone. “I know it’s hard… I know… but you’re doing good, okay? Stay with me…”
You tried again.
This time, the air came in a little easier.
Still shaky.
Still uneven.
But it came.
Your body reacted with a faint shudder, like it was slowly relearning, and your head dipped forward slightly, your eyes squeezing shut as you fought against the wave of emotion still threatening to pull you under.
“That’s it… that’s it…” Garcia whispered, almost like a constant reassurance, a presence that left no room for you to slip again. “I’m right here… you’re not alone in this…”
A few seconds passed—or maybe more—until your breathing truly began to slow. Still uneven, still heavy… but no longer desperate. Your heart was still pounding, but it no longer felt like it was trying to break free from your chest.
And then the rest came.
The emotion you had been holding back.
The part that wasn’t just about not being able to breathe.
A small sound slipped out of you, almost involuntary, and your shoulders trembled faintly. You turned your face slightly, as if still trying to hide, even knowing there was nothing left to hide.
Garcia noticed immediately.
And this time, she moved closer.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Her hand brushed against your arm first, gentle—like a silent warning before closing the distance, giving you space to pull away if you needed to… but you didn’t.
So she pulled you in.
Not abruptly.
Not forcefully.
But steady enough to wrap you in it.
“Hey… it’s okay…” she murmured softly, her voice low, warm—so completely different from the chaos you had just left behind. “You can let it out… you don’t have to hold everything in…”
And that’s when you finally broke.
Your body gave in against hers, even if only slightly, and the tears came—no longer restrained, no longer controlled. They fell hot and heavy, carrying everything you had been holding back since Buffalo, since the room, since the moment you realized it had all gone wrong.
Garcia didn’t say "it’ll be okay".
Not yet.
She just stayed there.
Holding you.
Letting you feel it.
“Breathe…” she whispered again, softer now, matching the rhythm you were slowly starting to find again. “That’s it… slow… I’m here…”
Outside, the hallway carried on like nothing had happened.
But in there… you weren’t alone anymore.
After what felt like hours—even though somewhere deep down you knew it had only been minutes—the crying began to fade. Not because the pain was gone, but because your body simply couldn’t sustain that intensity any longer. Your breathing was still uneven, but no longer desperate, and the tightness in your chest, though still there, no longer suffocated you the way it had before. Penelope Garcia’s embrace remained steady, constant—like the only stable thing in that moment—and as much as part of you wanted to stay there a little longer… you slowly pulled away.
Not all at once. Not completely.
At first, just enough to breathe a little easier. Then a bit more, until you finally put a small distance between you—still close, still grounded by her presence, but trying to pull yourself back together. You ran your hands over your face again, wiping away what was left of the tears, even though your eyes were still red, swollen, giving everything away.
You looked like a mess.
And you knew it.
Even so, when you spoke, your voice came out soft, still catching on certain words, carrying the remnants of the tears you hadn’t fully managed to hold back.
“Thank you, Garcia…”
She didn’t answer right away. She just looked at you for a moment, taking you in—not critically, never that—but with that careful attentiveness of someone who genuinely cares. Then she reached up, gently brushing a strand of hair away from your face, where it had stuck from the tears.
“Hey…” she said softly, almost a whisper, a small smile tugging at her lips—not quite happy, but warm. “You don’t have to thank me for doing the bare minimum, okay? I’m here… always.”
You let out a longer breath, still a little shaky, your gaze drifting away for a moment like you were still trying to piece yourself back together from the inside out.
“He was hard on you, wasn’t he?” she continued, her tone more careful now, less light—because she knew pretending nothing had happened wouldn’t help.
You didn’t answer right away.
Your fingers laced together in front of you, restless, and you shook your head slightly—not in denial, but like you were searching for the right words.
“He’s right…” you said at last, your voice still low, almost hoarse. “I messed up. I know I did.”
Garcia tilted her head, watching you closely, and this time, she didn’t let it slide so easily.
“One thing doesn’t cancel out the other,” she said, firm but still gentle. “You can have made a mistake… and he can still have crossed a line.”
The words lingered in the air for a moment.
Heavy.
Real.
You swallowed, your gaze dropping to the floor as you tried to take that in—without quite knowing what to do with it.
“I just…” you started, but stopped, letting out a small, frustrated breath. “I thought it would work.”
“I know,” Garcia answered immediately, without judgment, without hesitation.
Silence settled again—but this time, it wasn’t suffocating.
It was… necessary.
She didn’t rush you. Didn’t try to fill every space.
She just stayed.
And after a few seconds, she shifted slightly to the side, still close enough to reach you if you needed her again.
“Do you want to stay here a little longer… or come with me?” she asked carefully, like either choice you made would be the right one.
And for the first time since you walked out of that room…
You had a choice.
You stayed quiet for a few seconds, your gaze unfocused somewhere on the floor, like you were still trying to find your way back to yourself. Your body wasn’t trembling anymore, but the exhaustion had settled in—heavy in your shoulders, your hands, even in the way you breathed. Garcia’s question lingered, simple… but not easy to answer.
Staying meant facing everything still echoing inside you.
Leaving meant… moving forward.
You ran a hand over your face again, slower this time, less desperate, and let the air out of your lungs before finally lifting your gaze.
— I… — your voice came out soft, but steadier now — I think if I stay here any longer, I’m going to start overthinking everything.
Garcia gave a small nod, like she’d already expected that, not pushing, not rushing you.
“Then we won’t stay,” she said gently, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.
You let out a quiet breath through your nose, barely noticeable, straightening your posture even with the weight still clinging to your body. It wasn’t strength—not entirely. But it was enough.
“But I don’t want to go back out there like nothing happened…” you added, your gaze slipping away for a moment, like even admitting that was still hard.
“And you don’t have to,” Garcia replied instantly, firm, leaving no room for doubt. “No one here expects you to pretend you’re okay. And if they do… that’s their problem.”
That pulled something lighter out of you—a soft exhale, not quite a laugh… but close.
A beginning.
Garcia took a small step toward the door, but didn’t open it yet. Instead, she glanced back at you, studying you one more time, as if making sure you were truly ready to leave.
“We can go to my office,” she suggested, her tone a little brighter now, but still careful. “There’s coffee… chocolate… and zero judgment.”
You lifted an eyebrow slightly, your eyes still red, your expression still shaken… but this time, there was something different there.
“Chocolate?”
“Priorities,” she said with a small shrug.
And for the first time since everything started, it actually drew a faint smile from you. Soft, brief… but real.
You took a deeper breath, feeling it fill your lungs more fully this time, and nodded.
“Okay… I think I need that.”
Garcia opened the door carefully, like she was still protecting that small space that had formed inside, and waited for you to take the first step before following.
The hallway looked exactly the same as before.
But you didn’t.
And this time, you weren’t walking through it alone.
That day, you ended up in Penelope Garcia’s office and stayed far longer than you’d planned. Hours, actually. The kind of time that slips by without you noticing, because it’s exactly what you needed — not to think too much, not to go back to what happened, not to face anyone. Her office, full of color, soft lights, and little details you’d usually find over the top, felt almost like a refuge. You let yourself sink into the chair, still slightly curled in on yourself at first, while she kept sliding chocolates your way like they were a perfectly reasonable solution — and, in a way, they were. Between bites, between random comments and carefully chosen stories meant to distract you, you slowly started to come back. Not completely. But enough to keep from falling apart again.
Garcia talked, gestured, shifted topics with effortless skill, always watching you from the corner of her eye, as if tracking every subtle change in you. And you followed when you could, sometimes answering, sometimes just listening, letting her steady presence hold together what still felt fragile inside you. There were moments when you almost forgot — not entirely, never entirely — but enough to breathe without that weight pressing down on your chest.
But deep down, you knew.
You knew it wouldn’t last forever.
You knew that eventually, you’d have to leave.
And face the silence of your own home.
Alone.
And think.
Think about everything.
That same night — or rather, early morning — your phone rang, the sound far too loud in the quiet of your room. It took you a second to react, still caught somewhere between exhaustion and thoughts that came back in slower waves, but were still there. When you saw Derek Morgan’s name on the screen, you answered almost automatically.
His voice on the other end was steady, but not as light as usual. He explained quickly: a new case, immediate departure. And then came the question you already knew was coming.
You had a choice.
Go with the team.
Or stay.
For a second—just one—you almost said you’d go. Because that’s what you always did. Because that’s where you belonged. Because part of you thought maybe it would be easier to face everything head-on, not give the discomfort time to grow into something bigger.
But another part of you…
The louder one, in that moment…
Knew you weren’t ready.
Not to step onto that jet.
Not to face all of them.
Not after everything.
So you chose the harder option.
You stayed.
In the days that followed, you kept yourself busy with administrative work, burying yourself in reports, reviews—anything that could fill your mind enough to keep everything else out. It was a quiet kind of routine, almost mechanical, where you functioned… but weren’t really there.
When the team returned a week later, the reunion was inevitable.
But you made sure to control it.
You waited for the right moment—when everyone had settled in, when the rhythm of being back had softened—and called for a small meeting. Without Aaron Hotchner. On purpose.
You stood in front of them, your body tense, hands clasped together as you tried to hold yourself steady while you spoke. It wasn’t a long speech. It wasn’t rehearsed. It was direct. Honest. You owned your mistake, explained without over-justifying, making it clear you understood the impact of what you’d done.
For a second, when you finished, the silence returned.
And you waited.
For the worst.
But it didn’t come.
Instead, Derek Morgan was the first to stand, closing the distance between you without hesitation, pulling you into a firm embrace that left no room for doubt. “Hey… it happens,” he murmured, like it was simple, like it didn’t need to be more complicated than it already was.
And then the others followed.
Short words.
Light touches.
Understanding.
It wasn’t approval of what happened.
But it was… acceptance.
And that shifted something in the room.
Not completely.
But enough to lift the immediate weight off your chest.
Still, something in you didn’t go back to normal.
Especially when it came to Aaron Hotchner.
And everyone noticed.
Every interaction became more distant, more measured. You stopped sitting next to him on the jet, chose seats farther away, avoided eye contact unless absolutely necessary. You didn’t seek out his opinion the way you used to, didn’t start conversations, didn’t leave room for those small, unspoken moments that once came so naturally. Even the simplest things—like grabbing him coffee—disappeared.
You were still efficient.
Flawless at your job.
But… distant.
As if you had learned exactly what he meant to teach you—absolute control.
Only… taken too far.
You became almost a ghost within your own team.
Present.
But unreachable.
And Hotch noticed.
Not in the content of what he had said that day—because, deep down, he still believed every word—but in the way it had landed. The impact. The aftermath. He watched the light in your eyes fade little by little, replaced by something colder, more automatic, more… contained. And too late, he understood that in trying to shape you to his logic, in trying to fit you into something rigid and controlled… he had struck the one thing he never should have touched.
Your essence.
The very thing that made you different.
And necessary.
The absence of your chaos didn’t bring balance.
It left a void.
He tried.
In his own way.
A quiet “we need to talk,” delivered with more edge than he intended, as if he no longer knew how to soften it. A cup of coffee left on your desk without a word, without explanation, as if the gesture alone could fix something.
But you weren’t there anymore—not in the same way.
Because while he had his walls…
You had learned to build your own.
And now…
Yours stood higher.
But then everything changed—not gradually, not with warning signs anyone could have caught. It happened all at once, brutal and unforgiving, in the middle of the “Savannah Whisperer” investigation. It was supposed to be simple, almost routine by your standards: a quick check on an isolated rural property, just another location to verify, another possibility to rule out or confirm. You went out alone, like you had before, your radio clipped to your vest, the protocol clear in your mind—check in every fifteen minutes. Nothing unusual. Nothing that hinted at what was about to happen.
The first few minutes passed without issue. Silence was normal in places like that—too many trees, too much wind, too much space. The kind of place where even sound seems to get lost before it can reach anyone. The fifteenth minute came… and went.
Then the sixteenth.
And the silence remained.
At first, no one reacted right away. Small delays happened. A minute, maybe two—it wasn’t uncommon. But something shifted in the air inside the mobile command center. Subtle, at first. A glance that lingered too long. A shift in posture. Your name called over the radio, waiting for a response.
Nothing.
When the team reached the property and forced their way in, what they found wasn’t you.
It was the absence you left behind.
Your radio, discarded on the ground, crushed as if someone had taken deliberate effort to destroy it. And beside it… a dark stain in the dirt, uneven, still fresh enough to leave no doubt.
That was where Aaron Hotchner broke—but not the way most people would. Not in an outburst, not in shouting. It was quieter. More dangerous. For a few seconds, he simply… stopped. His eyes fixed on the shattered radio, on the dark mark staining the ground, taking in every detail with almost cruel precision, as if his mind refused to miss a single piece of it—even when this was no longer just about logic. His breathing slowed, too controlled, almost artificial, his jaw locked tight, the muscles in his face going rigid, while inside everything moved too fast—analysis, calculation, hypothesis—collapsing into each other in a matter of seconds.
And when he moved, it was immediate. No hesitation. No wasted motion.
“Morgan, full perimeter. No one in, no one out.” His voice was low, steady—but laced with a dense urgency, something sharper, something different, that didn’t need volume to command. “Reid, abduction pattern—now. I want possible exit routes in under two minutes. Garcia, pull every property within a ten-mile radius with a history of violence, abandonment, or underground structures. I want access to everything.”
He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t lose his composure. But everyone felt it. Because there was something there that didn’t belong to the usual rhythm. Something tighter. Sharper. More… personal.
He crouched down, picking up the broken radio with a care that didn’t match what it represented, his fingers brushing over the damaged surface as if there were still something left to pull from it—some detail everyone else had missed. His gaze darkened, not with loss of control, but with absolute focus—cold, precise, surgical. And yet, beneath it… something else. Something he wasn’t fully holding back. Something pressing at the edges.
He stood quickly, already moving before the thought had fully settled.
“He didn’t take her far,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else, connecting pieces in real time, his mind moving faster than his body. “Uneven terrain, limited time—he needed cover… a fixed point. An existing structure.”
“Hotch—” Derek Morgan stepped forward, trying to intervene, maybe to align the strategy—or maybe to slow down a pace that had already pushed past normal.
“We don’t have time.” He cut him off without looking, the response immediate, firm, but not aggressive. Just… final.
And that was when the team realized—this wasn’t chaos.
But it wasn’t control, either.
It was something balanced dangerously in between.
He didn’t ignore protocol.
He bent it.
Adapted it.
Accelerated decisions, cut through steps that would normally take minutes—hours—to confirm. He started acting before every answer was fully formed, trusting rapid inference, near-instinctive pattern recognition. Moving with a precision that edged on risk.
The same kind of decision he would’ve questioned you for.
The team exchanged looks. Spencer Reid was the first to fully grasp it, his gaze tracking every movement, every order given just a second ahead of the usual rhythm. He met Morgan’s eyes, and no words were needed.
They had never seen this before.
Hotch had always been the anchor.
The fixed point.
The constant that held everything together when the rest fell apart.
But now…
He was operating at the edge of his own logic.
Faster. More direct. More dangerous.
Not out of control.
But close enough that the difference couldn’t be ignored.
And for the first time, his control didn’t feel like a guarantee.
It felt like a race against time.
Because deep down, he already knew—
every second mattered.
And every delayed decision could cost more than he was willing to pay.
And without saying it out loud, there was something even clearer in every movement he made, in every decision that came too fast, too precise—
he was doing exactly what you had said.
Acting first.
Racing against delay.
Making quick calls to avoid the worst.
Only now…
it wasn’t theory.
It wasn’t a debate.
It was you.
And you weren’t just another victim.
And that changed everything.
Until they found it.
The entrance to the basement was hidden beneath an old structure, weathered wood creaking softly with the wind, almost impossible to notice at first glance—the kind of place you only see when you already know exactly what you’re looking for.
“Here!” Derek Morgan’s voice cut through, louder now as he shoved aside a loose panel, revealing the reinforced door beneath. Heavy. Old lock. Solid enough to hold off any standard entry.
“Locked,” he added, already testing it with his shoulder.
“Move.”
Aaron Hotchner didn’t even slow down when he said it.
There was no plan.
No hesitation.
No waiting.
There wasn’t time for any of that.
He went down first, ignoring procedure, testing the lock once—just once—before acting. The first impact landed hard and direct, the force behind it more raw than calculated, as if every strike carried everything he had been holding back since the moment he realized you were gone. The wood groaned, resisted—
but not for long.
“Again,” Morgan said, already beside him, ready.
The second hit came harder.
And the door gave in.
The air inside was thick, suffocating, heavy with damp and something else—something that turned stomachs before their eyes even adjusted to the dark.
“FBI!” Morgan called out sharply, his flashlight slicing through the shadows.
And then… you.
On the ground.
Too still.
“S/N…” Your name left his lips in a breath, barely audible—but already carrying something that had no place in the professional field.
Hotch reached you before anyone else could react, dropping to his knees at your side without thinking, as if the rest of the world had simply ceased to exist. His eyes moved over you too fast, taking in everything at once—the injuries, the unnatural pallor of your skin, the shallow rise and fall of your chest.
“She’s alive,” Spencer Reid said from behind, his voice urgent, almost relieved—but still tight. “Weak pulse, but it’s there.”
Hotch’s hands found you with an urgency that clashed entirely with his usual precision.
And they were shaking.
Actually shaking.
“Hey…” His voice broke for the first time, low, unsteady, as he adjusted his grip, trying to be firm and gentle at once. “Hey… I’m here… you’re okay…” The last words sounded less like reassurance and more like something he was trying to make true.
You barely reacted.
A faint movement.
Almost nothing.
But enough.
“We need to get her out of here,” Morgan said, already moving into position, scanning the space. “EMS is on the way.”
“No.” Hotch didn’t look away from you, already lifting you carefully, ignoring the protocol that said to wait for medical support. “We’re not waiting.”
He held you with a steadiness that didn’t match the tremor still running through his hands, adjusting you against his chest with care, like one wrong movement might break you further.
“Careful, Hotch,” Reid warned, eyes tracking your injuries.
“I know.” Short. Controlled. But heavy with something unspoken.
When he carried you up the stairs, the late afternoon light hit all at once—warm gold clashing almost violently against the darkness of the basement. The air felt different out there—lighter, alive—but he didn’t let go of you.
If anything, he held you closer.
Pulled you tighter against him, his head dipping just enough to rest against your hair, like he needed that physical proof, that contact, to be certain you were still there.
Alive.
“Stay with me…” he murmured, low, too close, his voice rough in a way no one there had ever heard before. “You’re safe now… it’s over… it’s over…”
The paramedics finally arrived—voices rising, movement all around, questions being asked, hands reaching in to take control—but for a moment, he didn’t let go.
Not right away.
“Sir, we need to take her,” one of them said, careful but firm.
Hotch hesitated.
A full second.
Maybe more.
And then, with visible effort, he allowed it, letting you go slowly, like he was releasing something he wasn’t ready to lose.
But before stepping back completely, he leaned in again, close enough that only you—or maybe no one—could hear.
“I went too far…” The whisper came broken, carrying something he never let slip. “I went too far… I’m sorry.”
And there, standing in the dust of Georgia, watching you being taken away, still feeling the weight of you in his arms, Aaron Hotchner understood with a clarity no analysis, no profile, no protocol had ever given him—
that absolute control wasn’t strength.
It was restraint.
It was distance.
It was… a way of protecting himself.
But also of losing.
And you—with everything he tried to correct, contain, reshape—had never been the problem.
You were the balance he never knew how to name.
And for the first time, that wasn’t theory.
It was a truth he couldn’t ignore.
Because without you… there was no order.
Only too much silence.
And in that moment, with a certainty that almost hurt, he knew—
Could you please write something when you’re new to the BAU and simply don’t understand why Hotch is so hard on you especially when you have Emily on the other side which is the only one Hotch smiles at on an regular basis when he looks at you he’s all steel eyes and no emotions and you struggle with it more than you like to admit you where the best at you’re old unit bathed in praise and now it seems that you can do nothing right Hotchs coldness was the one thing you’re jealousy for Emily another you know you shouldn’t but god you would love to know what it would feel like to get the look of admiration Hotch only seems to grand Emily. You once met Garcia on the Coffee bar and couldn’t help but ask what was the deal with this two Garcia is normally an Chatterbox but the look she gave you suggested that she for once would rather stay silent than to talk about this theme so you tried Morgan which only laughed and asked if you’re jealous For fucks sake yes you are! The truth is you have been in love with Hotch from the first moment you saw it and even if he doesn’t feel the same way it would be nice to atleast get positive attention from him. Much love❤️
Title: Conflicted Heart
👥 Paring: Aaron Hotchner x Reader (S/N)
⚠️ Warnings:
Angst, emotional tension, professional x emotional conflict, boss/subordinate dynamic, repressed feelings, no comfort ending, unhappy ending, angst ending
The silence in the briefing room felt heavier whenever he was there. It wasn’t imagination, and it wasn’t exaggeration — it was physical, tangible, as if the air itself weighed more in your lungs, as if every breath required a deliberate effort you didn’t have to make anywhere else. And at the center of it all had a name.
Aaron Hotchner.
Standing at the head of the table, he looked like a natural extension of that rigid, controlled environment, as if he belonged to the structure of the room itself. His posture was immaculate, too disciplined to allow for any easy emotional reading, as though every muscle had been trained never to yield. His hands rested on the dark wood with no visible tension — only absolute control, steady, unshakable.
His eyes moved across the board in front of him slowly, methodically, calculatingly, analyzing every detail, every line, every connection the team had worked so hard to build. Nothing seemed to slip past him. Nothing went unnoticed.
Every detail…
Except you.
Or maybe not.
Because when he looked — for a brief second, his eyes met yours — there was nothing careless in it. Nothing accidental. It was different. Cold, assessing, sharp, as if he were dismantling every layer of you without saying a single word, as if he had already reached a conclusion before you even had the chance to defend yourself.
No room for interpretation.
No room for error.
No room… for you to breathe properly.
Your body stayed still in your chair, but inside, tension slowly tightened, coiling like a knot forming in your chest with every passing second. Your fingers flexed faintly against the table, almost unnoticeable, while you forced your expression to remain neutral, steady, intact.
Professional. Controlled.
Exactly as he expected.
— This is incomplete.
His voice cut through the air with surgical precision — direct, clean, no raised tone, no emotional shift, no rush. And yet it seemed to cross the entire room just to land on you. Exactly you.
Your stomach turned slightly, but you didn’t look away this time. Not immediately. Because then his eyes finally locked onto yours — and in that brief contact, intense enough to be uncomfortable, there was something worse than coldness.
There was judgment.
— Revise the profile.
The words came effortlessly, almost mechanical, as if it were obvious, as if there was no need to explain, to guide, to open space for discussion. No additional explanation. No direction. No room for dialogue.
And most of all…
No recognition.
The silence that followed felt heavier than before, pressing into the space between everyone, making it harder to maintain composure, harder to pretend it wasn’t affecting you exactly where it hurt.
For a second — just one — your throat tightened, as if air had simply decided not to pass through. But you nodded. Automatic. Trained. Steady on the outside, even as everything inside tightened.
— Yes, sir.
Your voice came out firm enough, stable enough not to raise questions, even though you knew — with an almost irritating certainty — that you had already reviewed that profile three times. THREE TIMES. And you could remember each one clearly: the first late at night, exhaustion already weighing on your eyes; the second early in the morning, coffee still warm in your hands; and the third… moments before the meeting, reading it again, refining every line as if effort alone could make it sufficient.
And yet… incomplete.
The word kept echoing somewhere at the back of your mind.
You kept your gaze forward, but your jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. Your body remained still, trained not to react. But inside, something twisted — frustration and doubt entangling in a way you couldn’t fully separate.
Then, across the table, almost at the same time…
His tone changed.
Subtle.
Almost imperceptible.
— Good work, Prentiss.
The difference was minimal — a slight softening, a lower inflection, less cutting — but enough to stand out against his usual rigidity, like a detail too small for most people… but impossible for you to miss. Your eyes moved before you could stop them, instinctively betraying your attempt to stay focused forward.
Emily Prentiss tilted her head slightly, accepting the praise with that quiet confidence that seemed effortless, natural, as if recognition was simply part of her space there. And then… that. A faint smile touched Aaron Hotchner’s lips — small, quick, almost gone before it could be noticed.
But not by you.
Never by you.
Because you had been paying too much attention to every detail, every shift, every gesture he never directed your way. Your chest tightened in a quiet, suffocating way — not enough to break, but enough to ache constantly, insistently.
And the worst part was that it hadn’t been criticism. Not directly. Not at that moment.
It would have been easier if it had been.
Because criticism was something you could process, correct, turn into improvement, into performance, into results. But this… this was different. It wasn’t something you could fix. It was absence. Comparison. The constant, uncomfortable feeling of always being one step behind — even when you knew you weren’t.
Your fingers shifted faintly on the table, searching for something to hold onto — stability, control, anything. You inhaled slowly, regulating your breath as you would in the field, as you always did when control mattered most.
Mask in place. Intact.
But this time, it cost more than you were willing to admit.
Because that — that almost smile, that small gesture meant for someone else — hurt more than any direct criticism ever had. Because it didn’t come with words, it didn’t come with explanation, it didn’t come with the chance to respond. It simply existed… and placed you exactly where you didn’t want to be.
You had never been “insufficient.” Never. The idea itself felt strange in your mind, out of place, almost absurd, as if it didn’t fit anything you had built up until that point. In your former unit, your name wasn’t just known — it was a reference point, spoken with confidence, with respect, with the certainty that when you were involved, the job would be done the right way.
You remembered the crowded rooms, the meetings where your input came with attentive looks, quick notes, and quiet respect. You remembered.
You remembered colleagues coming to you in the middle of difficult analyses, urgency in their voices, that almost automatic trust before they even finished explaining the problem, as if they already knew that, somehow, you would see what they still couldn’t put together.
“If she said it, then it makes sense.”
You had heard that more than once. In different tones, in different moments, but always with the same foundation: certainty. And it wasn’t arrogance. It never was. It was a conclusion built over time, reinforced with every correct call, every precise read, every detail you picked up before anyone else.
Your behavioral insight was sharp, precise. You saw patterns where others were still trying to understand the basics, connected dots that seemed scattered, anticipated reactions before they were even fully formed. Your intuition wasn’t a random guess, it wasn’t luck — it was built, refined, the result of experience, constant observation, and silent dedication that no one saw, but that existed in every decision you made.
You knew who you were.
You knew how good you were.
And you had never needed to prove it twice.
But there… in that room, under that gaze, none of it seemed to matter. It was as if everything you had been, everything you had built with so much effort, had been left outside the door the moment you walked in. As if that version of you — confident, respected, reliable — simply ceased to exist in that space.
There, you were invisible when you got it right.
Your successes passed without sound, without weight, without any kind of recognition. Just another expected part of the job, something automatic, almost mandatory, as if it were the bare minimum — as if there were no merit in doing exactly what needed to be done, and doing it well.
But you were never invisible when you got it wrong.
Or when he said you did.
Which, sometimes, was even worse.
Because it wasn’t about a real mistake.
It was about the way he saw things.
And against that…
You had no way to compete.
Against how he decided. Or worse — when you hadn’t made a mistake at all, but he decided you had.
That feeling was the hardest to swallow, because there was no way to fix something that, to you, wasn’t wrong. There was no way to improve when the problem wasn’t in the execution, but in his perception — in a standard you couldn’t reach, much less anticipate. It was like trying to hit a target that kept shifting without warning, as if, in the end, it had never really depended on you at all.
Your jaw tightened for a second, and you had to consciously relax it, forcing your body not to react beyond what was acceptable. Your fingers hovered just millimeters above the table, barely moving, needing something physical to keep you grounded, present, in control — even if, in that moment, you had nothing left to hold onto.
Because losing control there… wasn’t an option.
It never had been.
And yet, the cruelest part wasn’t even the way he treated you — not directly. You could handle the coldness, the rigidity, the criticism; you always had. What truly hurt was the contrast.
It was impossible not to notice. Impossible not to compare.
Because he wasn’t like that with everyone.
Much less with her.
Your gaze, betraying you for a brief second, drifted toward Emily Prentiss, catching once again that quiet ease, that absence of tension you could never quite maintain. And then, almost like an inevitable reflex, it returned to him — as if, deep down, that was where everything began… and ended.
His posture was still firm, controlled, exactly as it had always been, but there were small differences — too subtle for anyone unfamiliar, too obvious for someone who had been watching long enough to notice what changed and, more importantly, when it changed. It was in the way his voice lost a fraction of its rigidity, how his tone shifted from purely technical to something almost imperceptibly patient. In the way his gaze softened, if only slightly, lingering a second longer than necessary, as if he were truly absorbing what was being said, not just evaluating it. As if there was… space. Space to listen, space to acknowledge, space for something human — brief moments that didn’t undermine his authority, but reshaped it into something different.
Things that, with you, simply didn’t exist.
And that was what hurt. Not his coldness — you had grown used to it, learned to work around it, to adapt yourself to it — but the fact that it wasn’t universal. It wasn’t a rule. It was a choice. Selective. Directed. And somehow, you always seemed to fall on the wrong side of that choice, as if no matter how hard you tried, you could never quite reach the point where he stopped being just your superior… and became something more human.
Emily Prentiss.
Her name surfaced in your mind before you even realized you were looking at her. Confident, composed, completely at ease. There was something in the way she moved within that room that didn’t come from visible effort — no hidden tension in her gestures, no constant caution in measuring every reaction. It was natural. Fluid. As if every step, every word, every silence already knew exactly where it belonged, as if she wasn’t trying to keep up with the rhythm — as if she was already part of it.
As if she already knew the terrain.
As if she instinctively knew where to step — even around him.
Your gaze followed a simple gesture: the slight tilt of her head as she listened, the way her arms crossed without stiffness, the ease with which she held eye contact. There was no tension there, no constant caution, no silent calculation before each reaction. She simply… was. Natural, comfortable, assured in a way you couldn’t be when you stood in the same place.
And he—
Aaron Hotchner responded.
It wasn’t anything explicit, not blatant favoritism, nothing that could be pointed out out loud without sounding exaggerated — or even unfair. It was subtle, almost invisible to anyone who wasn’t paying attention… but undeniable to you.
The way he let her finish her sentences without interruption, the way his eyes lingered on her a second longer than necessary, the way there was space. Space for her to exist there without being constantly tested, corrected, or put under scrutiny — without having to prove her worth with every word.
And more than that, the way he listened to her.
Truly.
Not just as a superior.
But as someone who… saw her.
The realization came slowly, uncomfortably, settling in your chest with a weight you didn’t want to acknowledge. Because the moment you gave it a name, you wouldn’t be able to ignore it anymore — wouldn’t be able to pretend it was just an impression, an exaggeration, something in your head.
You hated noticing it. Hated every second of awareness that made you see those differences, those details too small for anyone else… but too big for you to pretend they didn’t exist. You hated even more what it stirred inside you, because it wasn’t just frustration, it wasn’t just insecurity — it was something rawer, uglier, harder to admit.
Jealousy.
The word surfaced like a bitter taste in your mouth, and your reaction was immediate: rejection. Ridiculous. Childish. Completely unjustifiable. You knew that. You knew it didn’t make sense, that you had no right to feel it, that there was nothing there that belonged to you — nothing that justified the tightness in your chest, the excessive attention, the almost obsessive awareness of every interaction between them.
And yet, your body didn’t seem to care about logic.
Your gaze shifted away quickly, as if you had been caught doing something wrong, even though no one was paying attention to you in that moment. You straightened in your chair, drawing in a steadier breath, forcing it to remain controlled, regular, clinging to the only thing that still felt safe.
Professional.
Always professional.
But the feeling didn’t disappear. It didn’t fade, didn’t weaken. It stayed there — silent, insistent, taking root somewhere you couldn’t quite reach… nor control.
…nor control, like something that existed independent of your will — real and inescapable.
And you couldn’t stand not knowing anymore. Before you realized it, you were already thinking out loud… or thinking too much.
— What’s going on between them?
The question slipped out before you could stop it — quick, impulsive, as if it had been pushed out by the pressure building in your chest. Hours of silent observation, comparisons you pretended not to make, conclusions you avoided facing. And the moment the words left your mouth, you realized.
But it was too late.
The sound still seemed to linger in the air between you, impossible to take back.
Penelope Garcia froze instantly. The coffee cup halted just inches from her lips, suspended midair, as if time had slowed down just to capture that moment. Her eyes widened slightly — not dramatically, but enough to betray genuine surprise — as she turned her head toward you with deliberate slowness.
— Them… who?
The question came with a caution that didn’t match her usual bright, expansive nature, as if she were buying time, making sure she had understood exactly what you meant… or maybe hoping she hadn’t.
You exhaled through your nose, the sound edged with a restraint that was getting harder to hide.
Your body leaned forward slightly, arms crossing without you noticing, as if that posture could give you some kind of stability — as if you needed something physical to hold onto while saying it out loud.
— Hotch and Emily.
This time, there was no hesitation, no softening. The names came out direct, precise, and they settled heavily in the air the moment they were spoken, as if they took up too much space in the room, as if they could no longer be ignored or undone.
The silence that followed was different. Not empty, not neutral — full, dense, heavy with something that didn’t need to be said to be understood.
And coming from Garcia… that said everything.
Because if there was anyone on the team who always had a quick, witty, lively response, it was her.
But not now.
Now, she was quiet.
And that… was too loud.
Your stomach tightened slightly, an uneasy anticipation forming even before any answer came, as if some part of you already knew you weren’t going to like what was coming. And then she finally moved — slowly, as if even that small gesture required care, as if any sudden movement might shatter something already too fragile.
The cup lowered a few inches, still not reaching her lips. Her fingers tightened around the porcelain a little more than necessary, as if that small action could help organize thoughts that clearly weren’t so organized. Then her eyes met yours — cautious, careful, almost… protective, in a way that made something inside you tighten immediately.
— Sweetie…
Her voice came out softer than usual, gentler, stripped of its usual playful brightness. There was something different there, a kind of care, as if every word was being chosen with extra attention, as if she were truly stepping onto ground she knew was too delicate for any misstep.
— Some things… are better left alone.
You frowned immediately. The answer didn’t just fail to help — it bothered you. More than that, it ignited something inside you, a growing irritation mixed with that uncomfortable feeling of being circled around, as if the truth was right there but no one was willing to say it out loud.
— That doesn’t answer anything.
Your voice came out firmer now, still controlled, but carrying a tension you didn’t bother to fully hide. Your arms tightened slightly against your body in an almost automatic gesture, as if you were holding yourself together, keeping something bigger from slipping out.
Garcia hesitated.
Truly.
And that was enough to make your chest tighten even more, because that hesitation said everything she didn’t yet have the courage to put into words.
Her gaze faltered for a second, drifting to the side as if searching for an escape that didn’t exist. Her fingers tightened again around the cup, and she let out a small sigh before speaking once more, as if she needed that brief moment to gather something that, deep down, had already been decided.
— I know… — she murmured, almost to herself.
Then she looked back at you, and this time, there was something firmer there. Something settled.
A decision.
— And even so… it’s the most I can give you.
The words were gentle, even careful, but final in a way that left no room for insistence, no room for interpretation, no room for any hidden hope. And somehow, that was worse than any direct answer could have been. It didn’t calm you, didn’t bring clarity, didn’t ease the weight that had been building inside you — quite the opposite. It only made the knot in your chest tighten further, sharper, more uncomfortable, as if that confirmation had put everything exactly where it belonged… and made it impossible to keep pretending you weren’t seeing it.
As if, deep down, you had always known that the answer you were looking for would never be one you actually wanted to hear.
So you tried again… but this time, with someone else on the team.
Derek Morgan was worse.
Much worse.
There was no careful silence.
No elegant deflection.
No attempt to soften the impact.
He just laughed.
And it wasn’t a quiet, restrained laugh, the kind that slips out unintentionally. It was open, low, but clear enough to fill the space between you with irritating ease, as if it were light, almost amusing, as if there were nothing delicate about what you had just admitted.
Derek Morgan leaned his shoulder casually against the side of the table, crossing his arms as he watched you, his eyes carrying that teasing glint he made no effort to hide.
— Are you jealous?
The question came fast, direct, and worse… amused. As if it were obvious, simple, as if it weren’t pulling something far too uncomfortable out of you.
Your reaction was immediate.
Your arms crossed more tightly than necessary, as if the gesture alone could contain the irritation rising hot beneath your skin, spreading through your chest, your neck, reaching your face before you could stop it.
— Don’t change the subject.
Your voice came out firmer now, sharper, with less patience, as if any attempt he made to turn it into something light only made it worse.
And still, it wasn’t enough to wipe the smile off his face.
Morgan raised an eyebrow, tilting his head slightly as he studied you, as if you were a puzzle — or maybe something far simpler than you’d like to believe. Something too obvious to ignore.
— I didn’t — he replied, unhurried, his voice low and controlled. — I answered.
The silence that fell between you was immediate, heavy, dense, charged with a tension completely different from the one in the briefing room. This was more personal, more direct, harder to deflect or rationalize.
A second. Maybe two.
Your jaw tightened, your teeth pressing together harder than usual as your fingers gripped your own arm, as if that simple gesture could keep you steady, grounded, in control.
But the control… was slipping.
You felt it.
And so did he.
Because Morgan’s gaze never left you — steady, focused, waiting. Not for just any answer, but for the one you had been avoiding from the start.
And then—
— …yes.
The word came out low, almost swallowed, reluctant, as if admitting it out loud cost more than any confrontation before.
As if each letter had been dragged out of you, as if saying it aloud turned the feeling into something impossible to ignore… even for yourself.
The silence that followed was different. There was no teasing in it anymore, not like before. Morgan straightened slowly, uncrossing his arms, and his expression shifted — more serious now, more focused, more… careful, as if he were stepping onto ground that required more attention than before.
— Then you already know this has nothing to do with her.
The statement came calm, without judgment, but firm enough to leave no room for distortion — and that was exactly what irritated you even more.
Your head shook before he could even finish, immediate, instinctive — an automatic reaction to something you didn’t want to accept.
— It does.
The answer came out too quickly, laced with a resistance you didn’t even try to hide, because it was easier to place it on her, easier to point to something concrete, visible, outside of you… than to face what was really behind it.
— No. — Morgan countered, without raising his voice, but with a firmness that cut through any attempt you might’ve made to interrupt him. He took a small step forward, closing the distance between you just enough to make it impossible to avoid his gaze.
— It has to do with you… and him.
Your stomach flipped for real, a sharp, uncomfortable motion, as if something inside you had been knocked out of place — out of the spot where it could still be ignored. Because you understood. Instantly. Without effort, without needing an explanation, without needing him to say anything more. His words settled somewhere too deep, opening space for a truth you had been avoiding facing directly.
And for the first time since that feeling began, you couldn’t pretend you didn’t know exactly what you were feeling — or why.
The realization didn’t come as a shock. It wasn’t sudden, not explosive, no dramatic moment where everything finally snapped into place all at once. No. It had been there for too long already — silent, persistent, threading itself into every thought, every reaction, every glance you held for just a second longer than necessary, as if you were always searching for something that never fully came.
You just stopped running from it.
And when you did… it all came at once. Whole. Heavy. Impossible to ignore or push aside.
You were in love with him.
With Aaron… your boss — who barely spoke two words to you a day. Sometimes not even that in a week.
Your chest tightened the moment his name fully formed in your mind, as if even thinking of him that way was dangerous. Your fingers curled slightly at your sides, your breathing turning shallow for a second before you tried — unsuccessfully — to steady it again, as if you could regain control of something that had already gone too far.
Because now, you couldn’t pretend it was anything else. It wasn’t irritation, it wasn’t just a need for approval, it wasn’t just accumulated professional frustration.
It was this.
It had always been.
From the beginning.
From the first firm look he gave you — direct, intense, as if it cut through every layer without asking permission, as if he was already assessing you, measuring you, understanding you before you even spoke. And you remembered. Of course you did. Not just the moment, but the exact feeling that came with it — the slight hitch in your breath…
—of your breath, the way you straightened up almost on instinct, as if you already knew, even without understanding why, that you needed to be worthy of that gaze.
From the very first sharp command.
Short, direct, leaving no room for mistakes or hesitation — and yet, enough to ignite something inside you, an almost urgent need to prove yourself, to show that you were good enough. Not for just anyone. For him. Always for him.
Your jaw tensed slightly, and you bit the inside of your cheek in a small, almost automatic gesture, as if that alone could keep you grounded in the present, stop you from getting completely lost in the whirlwind of thoughts that had been building since the very first moment he made you feel… seen.
And that was what made everything so confusing, so deeply contradictory. Because most of the time, he did the exact opposite — he ignored you, corrected you, pushed you away, maintaining a firm, almost unbreakable distance. But there were moments. Rare, brief, almost nonexistent moments, when something shifted, when his gaze stopped being purely technical, distant… and became something else.
Something you didn’t know how to name.
But you felt it.
It was in those moments, when he truly saw you, that everything became harder. And those were exactly the moments that stayed, that lingered, that echoed inside you long after everything else faded — far more than any criticism, far more than any coldness. Because they were rare, almost imperceptible to anyone else, but to you, they were unmistakable — and enough to feed something you could no longer ignore.
Your chest rose with a deeper breath, but the air didn’t seem to fully fill your lungs, getting stuck somewhere between what you felt and what you were still trying to control. Because now you knew. And knowing made everything harder, so much harder than before, because it stripped away any possibility of pretending it was just an impression, just an exaggeration, just something temporary.
Maybe that was exactly why it hurt so much. Because it was never just about respect, never just about recognition — that would have been easier, safer, more manageable. But you wanted more. You wanted what he didn’t give, what he might not even know how to offer, what deep down, you knew you shouldn’t want.
Your eyes closed for a second, too quickly to draw attention, but long enough to feel the weight of it all settling inside you, firm and inevitable.
You wanted—
More.
More than that. You wanted attention that wasn’t purely professional, wanted words that didn’t come laced with command or correction, wanted a gaze that wasn’t cold, calculated, distant. You wanted to be chosen — not as an agent, not as part of the team, not as just another functional piece within something bigger, but as… something more. And that was the hardest part to admit, even to yourself, because it made everything far more complicated than it should have been.
Because, despite everything — despite every effort, every silent attempt to adjust, every detail you carefully controlled, every boundary you respected, and every emotion you swallowed before it could slip out — you had nothing. Nothing that suggested it could be reciprocated, nothing that left room for hope, nothing that justified how much it had already grown inside you without you even realizing it.
And yet, it was there. Whole. Strong. Impossible to ignore, like something that had already gone far beyond any attempt at control.
And maybe the worst part of all…
Was knowing that no matter how much you tried to control it, it wouldn’t simply disappear. It wouldn’t fade with time or logic, wouldn’t obey the same self-control you had always managed to maintain in every other situation. And that was exactly why you went after him. Without thinking twice, without weighing the consequences, without that careful filter you usually kept between what you felt… and what you allowed yourself to show.
Impulsive. Emotional. Exactly what he always said you were.
The irony almost made you laugh as you walked down the hallway — almost — but the sound never quite formed, dying before it could exist, because this time, you weren’t trying to prove him wrong.
This time, you were just tired.
Tired of swallowing it down, tired of analyzing every word, every look, every silence, tired of pretending it wasn’t affecting you far more than it should.
It was a mistake. You knew that. A big one.
And still… you didn’t stop.
His office door was slightly ajar, the light inside dimmer than the rest of the floor, casting soft shadows that contrasted with the cold white of the hallway, as if that space had already been set apart from the rest of the world before you even stepped inside.
For a second — one single second — you hesitated, feeling the weight of what you were about to do settle in your chest, pressing, trying to make you pull back.
But it wasn’t enough.
Not this time.
You pushed the door open, slowly at first, as if there were still a last chance to turn back, as if that movement could be stopped at any moment…
But it wasn’t.
The door gave way under your hand, opening space — and with that, there was no pretending you were still on the outside.
Then, all at once, you stepped in, not giving yourself time to think better of it or retreat.
He was sitting behind his desk, exactly as you had imagined — Aaron Hotchner, posture impeccable even outside the briefing room, back straight against the chair, his focus entirely fixed on the report in front of him. The pen moved with precision over the paper, firm, controlled, as if even the simplest motion carried discipline.
He didn’t seem surprised by your presence.
He didn’t even look up.
—not even for a second, as if he already knew you were there, but had deliberately decided not to acknowledge you yet.
— Agent (S/N).
His voice came out neutral, low, without any emotional inflection, as if you were just another item on his schedule, another task to be handled throughout the day. Something inside you tightened at that, an immediate, almost physical discomfort pressing against your chest in a way you knew all too well — that feeling of being reduced to something technical, distant, irrelevant.
Still, you didn’t step back. Not this time.
You stayed where you were, holding your ground as if your presence there was a conscious, deliberate choice.
— We need to talk.
Your voice came out firmer than you expected, heavy, dense, sustained by everything you had been holding in even before walking through that door.
And that was what made the difference.
Because this time, he looked.
Not hastily, not out of obligation — it was a slow, measured movement, as if he were choosing exactly when to give you his attention, as if even that was under his control.
And when his eyes finally met yours, something in the room shifted.
Subtle. Almost imperceptible.
But enough to make the space feel smaller, quieter, as if the air had suddenly grown heavier, harder to pull into your lungs.
His gaze lifted from the report slowly, locking onto yours with near-calculated precision — steady, controlled, as impenetrable as ever.
— About?
A single word. Short. Direct. Leaving no room for interpretation.
And yet, there was something there — a sharper focus, a quiet alertness — as if he already knew, even before you spoke, that this wouldn’t be an ordinary conversation.
You took a step further into the room. Then another.
And without breaking eye contact, you reached back and closed the door.
The click sounded too loud.
Too final.
Like a period placed at the end of a sentence before the conversation had even begun.
Your heart was racing, pounding hard and uneven against your ribs, betraying everything you hadn’t yet put into words.
But for the first time since you walked in—
You didn’t try to hide it.
— About you being harder on me than you are on anyone else in this team.
The words came out all at once — unpracticed, irreversible — carrying everything that had been building for far too long to be ignored.
No softening. No hesitation.
Loaded with everything you had been holding in for too long, as if, at that point, there was no longer any reason to filter or protect anything.
The air seemed to shift instantly.
Silence fell.
Heavy. Dense. Almost suffocating.
He didn’t respond right away. He didn’t look away, didn’t show surprise, didn’t react at all.
Nothing.
And yet—
Something changed.
Almost imperceptible, subtle enough to go unnoticed by anyone else.
But for you…
It was enough to put every cell in your body on alert, as if, suddenly, everything had become more unstable than before.
Because now, there was no going back.
And for the first time—
You didn’t want to.
— I treat everyone the same.
The answer came without hesitation, clean, controlled, as if it had been ready before you even spoke, as if it were a truth he had repeated so many times he no longer needed to think about it.
But there… in that moment—
It didn’t sound true.
As if it were an unquestionable fact, as if you were… wrong for even bringing it up.
— You don’t… you don’t treat me the way you treat the others on this team. My observations, the things I say… they’re never really heard, or they just don’t seem to have any value. It’s like I’m not even there, like I’m invisible. You listen to everyone, you respond, you correct, you guide… but with me, it’s always different, always distant, like I’m not even worthy of your attention — not even for something simple, like telling me where I can improve or what I’m doing wrong. It’s like no matter how hard I try, it’s never enough for you to even see me. And the worst part is not understanding why… I keep asking myself if I did something wrong, if I failed at some point, but you never say anything. You never correct, never acknowledge… nothing. So tell me, because I need to know… is it me? Or did you just decide I’m not worth it?
Your answer came before fear could catch up to you, before reason had time to make you pull back. It came out firm — firmer than you expected — and this time, you didn’t soften it, didn’t retreat, didn’t swallow what had been stuck in your throat.
The silence between you shifted instantly.
It became tighter, heavier, more dangerous — as if any word from that point on had the power to cross a line that couldn’t be undone.
You didn’t wait for his response. You kept going.
— With Emily, you—
— Careful.
He cut you off.
Low. Controlled.
The word came almost like a warning… or a boundary being set. The kind of tone that didn’t need to be loud to be felt. If anything, the lower it was, the heavier it landed.
It was a line.
Clear.
Deliberate.
And for the first time since you’d known him—
It felt personal.
The air between you seemed to thicken.
And still… you didn’t back down.
If anything—
you stepped further in.
— No — you shot back, your voice firmer now, heavier, carried by everything you had been holding in until that moment. And before you could think twice, you stepped forward, invading his space without permission, leaning over the desk until you were face to face with him—resolute. — I’m tired of this. Whatever it is, you treat me differently… like… like you despise me.
It hurt to say it out loud.
But there you were, standing in front of your boss, trying to understand why. Why he looked at you like that… as if there was always something wrong with you. As if, no matter how hard you tried, you would never be enough. As if you were always one step behind — not for lack of effort, but because, to him, you simply… weren’t worth his time.
Your breath left through your nose, heavier now, your chest rising and falling with force, betraying how far this had gone.
— I do my job. I do it well. And still, for you… it’s never enough.
The words didn’t come out neatly. They came as they were — raw, unfiltered, true. And that was exactly what made them sharper, harder to ignore.
Aaron Hotchner didn’t answer immediately.
But he stood up.
Slowly.
Unhurried.
Without a single abrupt movement.
And still, that simple action was enough to completely shift the dynamic in the room. The chair slid back with a quiet, controlled sound, almost insignificant compared to the tension building between you.
And when he was standing—
His presence filled the space in a way that felt almost physical, too solid to ignore, as if the air itself had grown denser around you, compressing any chance of retreat.
Imposing. Dominant.
The air felt heavier, harder to pull into your lungs, as if even that was affected by how close he now was.
He took a step toward you — small, calculated, but enough to close the distance into something dangerously intimate, far too close for any kind of neutrality to exist between you anymore.
— If you’re here expecting emotional validation—
— I’m here expecting respect!
Your voice cut through his sentence before he could finish, louder now, sharper, filled with everything you had been holding back, echoing off the walls as if it were too big for that confined space.
And for a second—
Just one—
The world seemed to pause.
Not dramatically, but in that subtle way things do when something shifts, when something slips out of its expected control.
Because something in his gaze changed.
It was quick, almost imperceptible — the kind of thing anyone else would have missed.
But you didn’t.
You felt it.
That usual rigidity faltered for the briefest fraction of a moment, as if your words had struck deeper than he intended to allow. Like a crack in something that had always seemed unbreakable, something more slipped through — fast, but impossible to ignore.
It wasn’t just authority.
It wasn’t just control.
It was reaction.
Real.
And that—
That was enough to make your heart race even faster, uneven, hard to keep up with, because for the first time, you weren’t just being evaluated.
You were… affecting him.
— You think I don’t respect you?
The question came out differently. His voice, once firm and impenetrable, now lower, more restrained, as if each word were being measured with unusual care.
And yet—
Affected.
It wasn’t obvious, not something anyone would notice from a distance. But you did.
Because you were too close.
Because you were too involved.
Because, at that point, even the slightest shift in him no longer went unnoticed by you—and that one, in particular, said more than he probably intended to show.
And that only made everything worse.
You hesitated for a second, maybe two—long enough to feel the weight of the question settling in your chest, spreading slowly—but not enough to make you back down.
Not anymore.
— I don’t think… I feel it. And I see it. The way you are with me is different.
Your voice came out steadier than you expected, even with everything trembling inside you.
A brief pause.
— Because you treat me like I’m the worst agent on this team. Like I’m always getting it wrong… always falling behind.
You took a deep breath, swallowing the knot in your throat.
— And the worst part… is that you never give me the chance to prove otherwise. You just push me aside, like I’m a problem you can deal with later.
The words came out more controlled this time, still firm, but with something different behind them—something deeper, more honest, as if, finally, the irritation had given way to what was really hurting you.
The silence that followed wasn’t immediate.
It built slowly, stretching between you, filling every space like a rope being pulled tighter and tighter, drawn to its limit without ever snapping.
And then—
Aaron Hotchner took another step toward you.
Close enough that it became impossible to ignore his presence, close enough to make everything else around you fade, as if only the two of you existed in that space—too tight for everything that was happening.
Close enough for you to notice the smallest details—the rigidity in his shoulders, the way his jaw tightened for a brief moment, almost imperceptible, before relaxing again, as if he needed that second to regain control.
— You’re not the worst.
The answer came immediately, firm, leaving no room for doubt. He took a step forward, closing the space between you even more, his gaze locked onto yours, heavy in a way that felt different.
— If you were, I wouldn’t expect so much from you.
His voice was low, controlled, but laced with something he was clearly trying to hold back.
— I don’t ignore you because you’re not capable… I do it because you’re better than you think. And that’s exactly why I can’t treat you the way I treat the others.
His jaw tensed slightly, as if each word was carefully measured before being spoken.
— With you, a mistake isn’t just a mistake… and I won’t be the reason I watch you break over something I could have prevented.
You froze. Completely.
It wasn’t just your body—it was everything. As if that sentence had hit a place inside you that you didn’t even know existed until it was exposed like that, without warning, without preparation.
Because it wasn’t what you expected. It wasn’t coldness, or rejection… it was care—and that hurt even more.
Your gaze faltered for a moment, your chest tightening as everything inside you tried to make sense of it. Nothing made sense. Nothing matched what you had felt up until now.
— Then why does it feel like the exact opposite?
Your voice came out lower, but still firm enough not to retreat.
The silence that followed hung between you, heavy, almost suffocating—because deep down, you weren’t sure if you actually wanted to hear the answer.
Because it didn’t make sense.
Or maybe it did… in a way you weren’t not ready to accept yet.
He held your gaze, unwavering, unsoftened. But there was something different there now—something deeper, heavier, as if every word that followed carried far more weight than anything said before.
— You feel too much.
The words came low, firm, direct, leaving no room for interpretation. His eyes stayed locked on yours, intense, as if he were seeing far beyond what you showed.
— And you act before you think when it…
— …hits. You get involved, you give yourself in… and you forget where you need to draw the line.
He took a breath, his jaw tightening slightly, as if each word had to be held back before it could fully slip out.
— And I can’t afford to ignore that. Not when you react like this, not when you let it interfere with your judgment.
His voice dropped even lower now, almost too heavy.
— I push you harder, I put pressure on you, I keep my distance… because it’s the only way to make sure you don’t lose yourself in what you feel.
There was a short, weighted pause—enough for the air between you to grow thicker.
— And because you should keep your distance—professionally and emotionally. From me.
The last part came out more restrained, more dangerous.
— Because if that line gets crossed… you won’t be the only one who loses control.
The words lingered in the air, heavy, dense, filling the space between you in a way that felt almost suffocating. And this time, they weren’t just heard—they were felt. Every single one of them landed without missing, cutting through whatever defenses you were still trying to hold together. Direct. Unfiltered. No escape.
That was how he spoke… as if he moved past every barrier without effort, as if he could see parts of you that even you avoided facing—especially when you were alone.
And that…
That hurt in a completely different way.
Because it wasn’t contempt. It wasn’t dismissal. It had nothing to do with diminishing you. It was understanding. Raw, direct, impossible to ignore. Each word seemed to find its exact place, one by one, echoing inside you, hitting points you didn’t even know how to protect.
You swallowed hard, feeling the air weigh in your lungs, as if even breathing had become more difficult. Even so, you didn’t step back.
Your gaze stayed locked on his—steady, even as everything inside you trembled.
— That doesn’t make me a bad agent.
Your voice came out lower, but firm, holding his gaze despite everything shaking underneath.
— Feeling doesn’t make me weak… it just makes me human.
You took a breath, forcing down the tightness in your throat.
— I can learn to control it, I can improve—but not at the cost of erasing myself just to fit what you think is right. I’m not a mistake to be fixed… and I won’t treat myself like I am.
Your voice sounded steadier than you actually felt, stronger than the chaos starting to spread inside you, as if you were still trying to hold onto some sense of control.
But he didn’t step back.
Not this time.
— But it does make you a liability.
The words came without softening, without hesitation, carrying a truth too harsh to ignore—and because of that, even harder to endure.
Now it hurt. Truly.
Not like before, not that sharp, irritated pain that came from frustration or wounded pride. This was deeper, quieter, more dangerous—as if something had been hit directly, without warning, without any chance to defend yourself.
Your chest tightened, the air faltering for a second, and it took real effort to stay there, standing, not stepping back, not looking away—even with everything inside you begging you to do exactly that.
— So that’s it?
Your voice wavered, almost imperceptibly, but still enough to bother you, enough to expose more than you wanted.
— You just… don’t trust me?
The question hung between you, fragile, yet carrying far more than the words alone could hold, as if everything you didn’t say was there too—implicit, impossible to ignore.
Aaron didn’t answer immediately.
But he didn’t look away either.
On the contrary, he held your gaze with an intensity different from anything before—steady, present… and this time, there was no coldness, no distance.
There was conflict.
Clear.
Undeniable.
Too alive to be hidden.
It showed in a way you had never seen in him before, as if behind all the control he carried so flawlessly, something was pressing against it—something he was actively trying to hold back.
— I trust you more than you think… but I can’t afford to show it the way you want me to. Because if I do, I cross a line I can’t cross. And it’s not about you not being good enough—it’s the opposite. It’s because you are…
The words came low, firm, but weighed down by something that didn’t match their simplicity.
And that—
That was exactly what unraveled you.
Because it didn’t make sense. Not with the way he acted, not with how he treated you, not with everything you had been feeling up until now.
Your heart sped up, pounding too hard, uneven, as your mind tried to catch up with something that simply didn’t fit.
— So that’s why you treat me like this? Is it because you don’t want me to be a liability to the team?
The question came out louder than you intended, raw, unfiltered, out of your control—pulled from you before it could be restrained. Because at that point, you no longer had the patience to figure it out on your own, to piece together fragments he insisted on leaving scattered.
The silence that followed stretched between you—long, heavy, almost tangible, filling every inch of the room until it became unbearable.
He took a breath, almost imperceptible, so subtle it would’ve gone unnoticed by anyone else. But you saw it. You always did. You saw the exact moment something shifted inside him, the precise instant he made a choice—not to act, but to speak.
And then—
— Yes… that could cause problems for the team.
The world seemed to stop.
Not abruptly, not like a sudden shock, but slowly, heavily, as if the sound around you had been pulled away for a second, leaving only that echo suspended between you.
Your heart dropped.
Truly.
It was immediate—a sudden emptiness opening in your chest, cold, uncomfortable, impossible to ignore, as if something had been ripped away without warning.
Because, for the first time, it didn’t sound like criticism. It didn’t sound like pressure. It wasn’t about work, rules, or any barrier you had grown used to facing.
It sounded like a limit.
A real one.
A line that hadn’t been drawn because of a lack of trust… but because of something else—something deeper, more complicated—and, because of that, far more dangerous.
Slow.
Painful.
It settled in slowly, without urgency—but leaving no room to escape.
His words still lingered in the air, too heavy to simply disappear, seeping into every corner of the room… into every corner of you, as if there was nowhere to hide from them.
— That… doesn’t answer anything.
Your voice came out lower now, more contained, but it no longer carried the same strength as before, no longer held the firmness that had been keeping you steady until then. Because deep down… it did answer.
Everything.
The truth wasn’t just in what he said, but mostly in what he didn’t say, in what he avoided, in what he didn’t have the courage to deny. And you saw it. In the exact moment his gaze faltered—slight, almost imperceptible, but still enough. Enough for someone who had been watching for far too long.
You felt it too. In the silence that followed, longer than any response, stretching between you like something alive, too dense to ignore. In the way Aaron Hotchner remained still… but not untouched.
And most of all, in the absence of a denial.
Your eyes burned, a slow, uncomfortable warmth rising, pressing, threatening to break through the control you had been holding onto so tightly. It was subtle—but persistent, like everything you had been trying to hold back from the very beginning.
You blinked once, slowly, trying to contain it before anything slipped through, trying to pull yourself back together before he noticed how deeply it had affected you.
Twice.
You held your breath for a moment, as if that alone could keep everything in place, as if not breathing meant not feeling.
You swallowed.
— I understand.
You nodded slowly, the movement almost mechanical, as if your body was just following something your mind had already accepted long before any words were spoken out loud.
A smile appeared—or something that tried to be one.
Forced.
Empty.
Lifeless.
— Of course you can’t.
The words came out too light for the weight they carried, almost soft—completely betraying what lay beneath them.
You took a step back, small, careful, as if any wrong movement would be enough to make everything collapse right there. Then another. The distance between you began to grow, inch by inch… and still, it felt insufficient, as if nothing could truly undo what had already been said.
— It was my mistake to think that…
A quiet laugh slipped out—weak, devoid of humor, breaking halfway through, closer to a breath than anything else. You shook your head slightly, as if you could stop the thought before having to face it all the way through.
— forget it.
— Agent—
— No.
The interruption came fast, firm, but not aggressive—just final. As if, for the first time, you weren’t cutting him off out of impulse, but by choice. Because hearing the rest… wouldn’t change anything.
You cut him off. Quickly, without raising your voice, but with a firmness that left no room for insistence—as if, for the first time, there was no space for him to take control of the situation. And this time… he let you.
The silence that followed was different from all the others. Not heavy, not suffocating like before, but calmer—and because of that, more final. As if everything had already been said, even without words.
You took a breath, but it didn’t seem to fully reach your lungs, getting caught somewhere between your chest and your throat.
— I just needed to confirm.
Your voice came out lower now, more fragile than you wanted to admit, more honest than it should have been. No barriers, no defenses, none of that control you had always held so tightly.
— That this will never be… anything.
For a moment, time seemed to stretch, pulling that instant thin enough to hurt, as if the entire world was waiting for the answer you already knew—but still needed to hear.
And then—
His gaze shifted.
Not abruptly, not enough for anyone else to notice. But you saw it. You always did.
The rigidity returned, settling back into every detail—his posture, his expression, the way he closed himself off again, retreating to that safe place where nothing could reach him.
Control rebuilding itself, piece by piece, almost imperceptible to anyone who didn’t know him—but painfully obvious to you. That familiar barrier rising again, steady, precise, exactly as it always had been. Aaron Hotchner returning to the place you knew—the place where everything was calculated, where nothing slipped through, the place you had never truly been allowed into.
— This isn’t appropriate.
Simple. Direct. Final.
No hesitation. No space.
And that was the moment—exactly that moment—when something inside you gave way.
It didn’t make a sound. It didn’t draw attention. It wasn’t dramatic, not in the way it perhaps should have been. But it broke. Completely.
You nodded slowly, as if your body was just following the inevitable, as if there was no energy left to question, to insist, to feel anything beyond that growing emptiness.
This time, without resistance. Without a fight.
— Of course.
The word came out low, almost too neutral—but your voice was… empty. No color, no weight, no trace of who you had been seconds before. No trace of you.
You turned, every movement overly controlled, too calculated, as if you were performing, following a script you had already memorized—a role that, in that moment, felt like the only thing still keeping you standing, even if it no longer made sense to keep playing it.
Your hand found the doorknob. It turned slowly, the cold metal beneath your fingers contrasting with the heat that still lingered in your chest, and the door opened with a soft sound, almost hesitant, as if even it understood that moment didn’t need noise.
You were ready to leave, ready to step through and simply walk away—when something made you stop.
Just for a second.
But it was enough.
— Do you know what the worst part is?
Your voice came while your back was still turned to him—calm, controlled, without any trace of accusation or anger. And yet… heavy. Heavy with everything you hadn’t said before, everything that had been left hanging between you, silently building up.
The silence answered.
He said nothing. He didn’t try to interrupt. He didn’t try to stop you.
And that… said more than any words ever could.
You turned your head just enough to look at him one last time, without fully allowing yourself to, as if you were afraid that if you looked too long, you wouldn’t be able to leave. Your eyes took in every detail too quickly and, at the same time, slowly enough to memorize them—even knowing you shouldn’t, even knowing it would only make everything harder later.
Still, you kept them.
— It’s not that you don’t feel the same.
The words came out soft, almost gentle, but there was something in them that didn’t match that softness—like a truth too harsh hidden behind a calm tone. And maybe that was exactly what made it hurt even more. Your eyes lingered on him for one more second, not out of doubt or hope, but like someone trying to hold onto every detail before leaving, as if, somehow, it still mattered. The way he avoided holding your gaze, the subtle tension in his jaw, the heavy silence that said more than any answer could.
You took a deep breath, feeling the air weigh in your lungs, and then spoke—unhurried, without raising your voice, but with a firmness that left no room to step back.
— It’s realizing that, deep down… you do feel it. And you choose not to.
The words stayed between you, suspended—not as an attack, but as an inevitable realization. And still, he didn’t respond. The silence that followed was no longer just heavy or uncomfortable; it was different, deeper, colder, as if something had finally ended there—definitively, irreversibly, with no chance of going back.
You waited. A second, maybe two. Long enough for him to say anything—to deny it, explain, or simply call your name. But nothing came. No movement, no sound, no attempt to stop you.
And in that emptiness, you understood.
This time, there was nothing left.
You turned, the movement slower than it should have been, as if your body was still catching up to a decision that had already been made before the words. And then you left. Without looking back this time, without hesitating, without stopping. Each step echoed softly in the silence of the room, marking a distance that could no longer be undone.
Your hand found the cold doorknob, and you turned it without effort. The door opened too easily, as if the world outside was already waiting—or simply didn’t care. For a brief moment, you almost stopped, almost looked back… but you didn’t. You just stepped through.
The door closed behind you with a soft, quiet click—but final.
I hope you enjoyed it. I wasn’t sure which ending you would like more, so I hope this one exceeded your expectations. I apologize for the delay—some things happened, and because of that, I couldn’t post it earlier. If there are any grammatical errors, I apologize; English is not my first language. (;
Could you please write something when you’re new to the BAU and simply don’t understand why Hotch is so hard on you especially when you have Emily on the other side which is the only one Hotch smiles at on an regular basis when he looks at you he’s all steel eyes and no emotions and you struggle with it more than you like to admit you where the best at you’re old unit bathed in praise and now it seems that you can do nothing right Hotchs coldness was the one thing you’re jealousy for Emily another you know you shouldn’t but god you would love to know what it would feel like to get the look of admiration Hotch only seems to grand Emily. You once met Garcia on the Coffee bar and couldn’t help but ask what was the deal with this two Garcia is normally an Chatterbox but the look she gave you suggested that she for once would rather stay silent than to talk about this theme so you tried Morgan which only laughed and asked if you’re jealous For fucks sake yes you are! The truth is you have been in love with Hotch from the first moment you saw it and even if he doesn’t feel the same way it would be nice to atleast get positive attention from him. Much love❤️
Title: Conflicted Heart
👥 Paring: Aaron Hotchner x Reader (S/N)
⚠️ Warnings:
Angst, emotional tension, professional x emotional conflict, boss/subordinate dynamic, repressed feelings, no comfort ending, unhappy ending, angst ending
The silence in the briefing room felt heavier whenever he was there. It wasn’t imagination, and it wasn’t exaggeration — it was physical, tangible, as if the air itself weighed more in your lungs, as if every breath required a deliberate effort you didn’t have to make anywhere else. And at the center of it all had a name.
Aaron Hotchner.
Standing at the head of the table, he looked like a natural extension of that rigid, controlled environment, as if he belonged to the structure of the room itself. His posture was immaculate, too disciplined to allow for any easy emotional reading, as though every muscle had been trained never to yield. His hands rested on the dark wood with no visible tension — only absolute control, steady, unshakable.
His eyes moved across the board in front of him slowly, methodically, calculatingly, analyzing every detail, every line, every connection the team had worked so hard to build. Nothing seemed to slip past him. Nothing went unnoticed.
Every detail…
Except you.
Or maybe not.
Because when he looked — for a brief second, his eyes met yours — there was nothing careless in it. Nothing accidental. It was different. Cold, assessing, sharp, as if he were dismantling every layer of you without saying a single word, as if he had already reached a conclusion before you even had the chance to defend yourself.
No room for interpretation.
No room for error.
No room… for you to breathe properly.
Your body stayed still in your chair, but inside, tension slowly tightened, coiling like a knot forming in your chest with every passing second. Your fingers flexed faintly against the table, almost unnoticeable, while you forced your expression to remain neutral, steady, intact.
Professional. Controlled.
Exactly as he expected.
— This is incomplete.
His voice cut through the air with surgical precision — direct, clean, no raised tone, no emotional shift, no rush. And yet it seemed to cross the entire room just to land on you. Exactly you.
Your stomach turned slightly, but you didn’t look away this time. Not immediately. Because then his eyes finally locked onto yours — and in that brief contact, intense enough to be uncomfortable, there was something worse than coldness.
There was judgment.
— Revise the profile.
The words came effortlessly, almost mechanical, as if it were obvious, as if there was no need to explain, to guide, to open space for discussion. No additional explanation. No direction. No room for dialogue.
And most of all…
No recognition.
The silence that followed felt heavier than before, pressing into the space between everyone, making it harder to maintain composure, harder to pretend it wasn’t affecting you exactly where it hurt.
For a second — just one — your throat tightened, as if air had simply decided not to pass through. But you nodded. Automatic. Trained. Steady on the outside, even as everything inside tightened.
— Yes, sir.
Your voice came out firm enough, stable enough not to raise questions, even though you knew — with an almost irritating certainty — that you had already reviewed that profile three times. THREE TIMES. And you could remember each one clearly: the first late at night, exhaustion already weighing on your eyes; the second early in the morning, coffee still warm in your hands; and the third… moments before the meeting, reading it again, refining every line as if effort alone could make it sufficient.
And yet… incomplete.
The word kept echoing somewhere at the back of your mind.
You kept your gaze forward, but your jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. Your body remained still, trained not to react. But inside, something twisted — frustration and doubt entangling in a way you couldn’t fully separate.
Then, across the table, almost at the same time…
His tone changed.
Subtle.
Almost imperceptible.
— Good work, Prentiss.
The difference was minimal — a slight softening, a lower inflection, less cutting — but enough to stand out against his usual rigidity, like a detail too small for most people… but impossible for you to miss. Your eyes moved before you could stop them, instinctively betraying your attempt to stay focused forward.
Emily Prentiss tilted her head slightly, accepting the praise with that quiet confidence that seemed effortless, natural, as if recognition was simply part of her space there. And then… that. A faint smile touched Aaron Hotchner’s lips — small, quick, almost gone before it could be noticed.
But not by you.
Never by you.
Because you had been paying too much attention to every detail, every shift, every gesture he never directed your way. Your chest tightened in a quiet, suffocating way — not enough to break, but enough to ache constantly, insistently.
And the worst part was that it hadn’t been criticism. Not directly. Not at that moment.
It would have been easier if it had been.
Because criticism was something you could process, correct, turn into improvement, into performance, into results. But this… this was different. It wasn’t something you could fix. It was absence. Comparison. The constant, uncomfortable feeling of always being one step behind — even when you knew you weren’t.
Your fingers shifted faintly on the table, searching for something to hold onto — stability, control, anything. You inhaled slowly, regulating your breath as you would in the field, as you always did when control mattered most.
Mask in place. Intact.
But this time, it cost more than you were willing to admit.
Because that — that almost smile, that small gesture meant for someone else — hurt more than any direct criticism ever had. Because it didn’t come with words, it didn’t come with explanation, it didn’t come with the chance to respond. It simply existed… and placed you exactly where you didn’t want to be.
You had never been “insufficient.” Never. The idea itself felt strange in your mind, out of place, almost absurd, as if it didn’t fit anything you had built up until that point. In your former unit, your name wasn’t just known — it was a reference point, spoken with confidence, with respect, with the certainty that when you were involved, the job would be done the right way.
You remembered the crowded rooms, the meetings where your input came with attentive looks, quick notes, and quiet respect. You remembered.
You remembered colleagues coming to you in the middle of difficult analyses, urgency in their voices, that almost automatic trust before they even finished explaining the problem, as if they already knew that, somehow, you would see what they still couldn’t put together.
“If she said it, then it makes sense.”
You had heard that more than once. In different tones, in different moments, but always with the same foundation: certainty. And it wasn’t arrogance. It never was. It was a conclusion built over time, reinforced with every correct call, every precise read, every detail you picked up before anyone else.
Your behavioral insight was sharp, precise. You saw patterns where others were still trying to understand the basics, connected dots that seemed scattered, anticipated reactions before they were even fully formed. Your intuition wasn’t a random guess, it wasn’t luck — it was built, refined, the result of experience, constant observation, and silent dedication that no one saw, but that existed in every decision you made.
You knew who you were.
You knew how good you were.
And you had never needed to prove it twice.
But there… in that room, under that gaze, none of it seemed to matter. It was as if everything you had been, everything you had built with so much effort, had been left outside the door the moment you walked in. As if that version of you — confident, respected, reliable — simply ceased to exist in that space.
There, you were invisible when you got it right.
Your successes passed without sound, without weight, without any kind of recognition. Just another expected part of the job, something automatic, almost mandatory, as if it were the bare minimum — as if there were no merit in doing exactly what needed to be done, and doing it well.
But you were never invisible when you got it wrong.
Or when he said you did.
Which, sometimes, was even worse.
Because it wasn’t about a real mistake.
It was about the way he saw things.
And against that…
You had no way to compete.
Against how he decided. Or worse — when you hadn’t made a mistake at all, but he decided you had.
That feeling was the hardest to swallow, because there was no way to fix something that, to you, wasn’t wrong. There was no way to improve when the problem wasn’t in the execution, but in his perception — in a standard you couldn’t reach, much less anticipate. It was like trying to hit a target that kept shifting without warning, as if, in the end, it had never really depended on you at all.
Your jaw tightened for a second, and you had to consciously relax it, forcing your body not to react beyond what was acceptable. Your fingers hovered just millimeters above the table, barely moving, needing something physical to keep you grounded, present, in control — even if, in that moment, you had nothing left to hold onto.
Because losing control there… wasn’t an option.
It never had been.
And yet, the cruelest part wasn’t even the way he treated you — not directly. You could handle the coldness, the rigidity, the criticism; you always had. What truly hurt was the contrast.
It was impossible not to notice. Impossible not to compare.
Because he wasn’t like that with everyone.
Much less with her.
Your gaze, betraying you for a brief second, drifted toward Emily Prentiss, catching once again that quiet ease, that absence of tension you could never quite maintain. And then, almost like an inevitable reflex, it returned to him — as if, deep down, that was where everything began… and ended.
His posture was still firm, controlled, exactly as it had always been, but there were small differences — too subtle for anyone unfamiliar, too obvious for someone who had been watching long enough to notice what changed and, more importantly, when it changed. It was in the way his voice lost a fraction of its rigidity, how his tone shifted from purely technical to something almost imperceptibly patient. In the way his gaze softened, if only slightly, lingering a second longer than necessary, as if he were truly absorbing what was being said, not just evaluating it. As if there was… space. Space to listen, space to acknowledge, space for something human — brief moments that didn’t undermine his authority, but reshaped it into something different.
Things that, with you, simply didn’t exist.
And that was what hurt. Not his coldness — you had grown used to it, learned to work around it, to adapt yourself to it — but the fact that it wasn’t universal. It wasn’t a rule. It was a choice. Selective. Directed. And somehow, you always seemed to fall on the wrong side of that choice, as if no matter how hard you tried, you could never quite reach the point where he stopped being just your superior… and became something more human.
Emily Prentiss.
Her name surfaced in your mind before you even realized you were looking at her. Confident, composed, completely at ease. There was something in the way she moved within that room that didn’t come from visible effort — no hidden tension in her gestures, no constant caution in measuring every reaction. It was natural. Fluid. As if every step, every word, every silence already knew exactly where it belonged, as if she wasn’t trying to keep up with the rhythm — as if she was already part of it.
As if she already knew the terrain.
As if she instinctively knew where to step — even around him.
Your gaze followed a simple gesture: the slight tilt of her head as she listened, the way her arms crossed without stiffness, the ease with which she held eye contact. There was no tension there, no constant caution, no silent calculation before each reaction. She simply… was. Natural, comfortable, assured in a way you couldn’t be when you stood in the same place.
And he—
Aaron Hotchner responded.
It wasn’t anything explicit, not blatant favoritism, nothing that could be pointed out out loud without sounding exaggerated — or even unfair. It was subtle, almost invisible to anyone who wasn’t paying attention… but undeniable to you.
The way he let her finish her sentences without interruption, the way his eyes lingered on her a second longer than necessary, the way there was space. Space for her to exist there without being constantly tested, corrected, or put under scrutiny — without having to prove her worth with every word.
And more than that, the way he listened to her.
Truly.
Not just as a superior.
But as someone who… saw her.
The realization came slowly, uncomfortably, settling in your chest with a weight you didn’t want to acknowledge. Because the moment you gave it a name, you wouldn’t be able to ignore it anymore — wouldn’t be able to pretend it was just an impression, an exaggeration, something in your head.
You hated noticing it. Hated every second of awareness that made you see those differences, those details too small for anyone else… but too big for you to pretend they didn’t exist. You hated even more what it stirred inside you, because it wasn’t just frustration, it wasn’t just insecurity — it was something rawer, uglier, harder to admit.
Jealousy.
The word surfaced like a bitter taste in your mouth, and your reaction was immediate: rejection. Ridiculous. Childish. Completely unjustifiable. You knew that. You knew it didn’t make sense, that you had no right to feel it, that there was nothing there that belonged to you — nothing that justified the tightness in your chest, the excessive attention, the almost obsessive awareness of every interaction between them.
And yet, your body didn’t seem to care about logic.
Your gaze shifted away quickly, as if you had been caught doing something wrong, even though no one was paying attention to you in that moment. You straightened in your chair, drawing in a steadier breath, forcing it to remain controlled, regular, clinging to the only thing that still felt safe.
Professional.
Always professional.
But the feeling didn’t disappear. It didn’t fade, didn’t weaken. It stayed there — silent, insistent, taking root somewhere you couldn’t quite reach… nor control.
…nor control, like something that existed independent of your will — real and inescapable.
And you couldn’t stand not knowing anymore. Before you realized it, you were already thinking out loud… or thinking too much.
— What’s going on between them?
The question slipped out before you could stop it — quick, impulsive, as if it had been pushed out by the pressure building in your chest. Hours of silent observation, comparisons you pretended not to make, conclusions you avoided facing. And the moment the words left your mouth, you realized.
But it was too late.
The sound still seemed to linger in the air between you, impossible to take back.
Penelope Garcia froze instantly. The coffee cup halted just inches from her lips, suspended midair, as if time had slowed down just to capture that moment. Her eyes widened slightly — not dramatically, but enough to betray genuine surprise — as she turned her head toward you with deliberate slowness.
— Them… who?
The question came with a caution that didn’t match her usual bright, expansive nature, as if she were buying time, making sure she had understood exactly what you meant… or maybe hoping she hadn’t.
You exhaled through your nose, the sound edged with a restraint that was getting harder to hide.
Your body leaned forward slightly, arms crossing without you noticing, as if that posture could give you some kind of stability — as if you needed something physical to hold onto while saying it out loud.
— Hotch and Emily.
This time, there was no hesitation, no softening. The names came out direct, precise, and they settled heavily in the air the moment they were spoken, as if they took up too much space in the room, as if they could no longer be ignored or undone.
The silence that followed was different. Not empty, not neutral — full, dense, heavy with something that didn’t need to be said to be understood.
And coming from Garcia… that said everything.
Because if there was anyone on the team who always had a quick, witty, lively response, it was her.
But not now.
Now, she was quiet.
And that… was too loud.
Your stomach tightened slightly, an uneasy anticipation forming even before any answer came, as if some part of you already knew you weren’t going to like what was coming. And then she finally moved — slowly, as if even that small gesture required care, as if any sudden movement might shatter something already too fragile.
The cup lowered a few inches, still not reaching her lips. Her fingers tightened around the porcelain a little more than necessary, as if that small action could help organize thoughts that clearly weren’t so organized. Then her eyes met yours — cautious, careful, almost… protective, in a way that made something inside you tighten immediately.
— Sweetie…
Her voice came out softer than usual, gentler, stripped of its usual playful brightness. There was something different there, a kind of care, as if every word was being chosen with extra attention, as if she were truly stepping onto ground she knew was too delicate for any misstep.
— Some things… are better left alone.
You frowned immediately. The answer didn’t just fail to help — it bothered you. More than that, it ignited something inside you, a growing irritation mixed with that uncomfortable feeling of being circled around, as if the truth was right there but no one was willing to say it out loud.
— That doesn’t answer anything.
Your voice came out firmer now, still controlled, but carrying a tension you didn’t bother to fully hide. Your arms tightened slightly against your body in an almost automatic gesture, as if you were holding yourself together, keeping something bigger from slipping out.
Garcia hesitated.
Truly.
And that was enough to make your chest tighten even more, because that hesitation said everything she didn’t yet have the courage to put into words.
Her gaze faltered for a second, drifting to the side as if searching for an escape that didn’t exist. Her fingers tightened again around the cup, and she let out a small sigh before speaking once more, as if she needed that brief moment to gather something that, deep down, had already been decided.
— I know… — she murmured, almost to herself.
Then she looked back at you, and this time, there was something firmer there. Something settled.
A decision.
— And even so… it’s the most I can give you.
The words were gentle, even careful, but final in a way that left no room for insistence, no room for interpretation, no room for any hidden hope. And somehow, that was worse than any direct answer could have been. It didn’t calm you, didn’t bring clarity, didn’t ease the weight that had been building inside you — quite the opposite. It only made the knot in your chest tighten further, sharper, more uncomfortable, as if that confirmation had put everything exactly where it belonged… and made it impossible to keep pretending you weren’t seeing it.
As if, deep down, you had always known that the answer you were looking for would never be one you actually wanted to hear.
So you tried again… but this time, with someone else on the team.
Derek Morgan was worse.
Much worse.
There was no careful silence.
No elegant deflection.
No attempt to soften the impact.
He just laughed.
And it wasn’t a quiet, restrained laugh, the kind that slips out unintentionally. It was open, low, but clear enough to fill the space between you with irritating ease, as if it were light, almost amusing, as if there were nothing delicate about what you had just admitted.
Derek Morgan leaned his shoulder casually against the side of the table, crossing his arms as he watched you, his eyes carrying that teasing glint he made no effort to hide.
— Are you jealous?
The question came fast, direct, and worse… amused. As if it were obvious, simple, as if it weren’t pulling something far too uncomfortable out of you.
Your reaction was immediate.
Your arms crossed more tightly than necessary, as if the gesture alone could contain the irritation rising hot beneath your skin, spreading through your chest, your neck, reaching your face before you could stop it.
— Don’t change the subject.
Your voice came out firmer now, sharper, with less patience, as if any attempt he made to turn it into something light only made it worse.
And still, it wasn’t enough to wipe the smile off his face.
Morgan raised an eyebrow, tilting his head slightly as he studied you, as if you were a puzzle — or maybe something far simpler than you’d like to believe. Something too obvious to ignore.
— I didn’t — he replied, unhurried, his voice low and controlled. — I answered.
The silence that fell between you was immediate, heavy, dense, charged with a tension completely different from the one in the briefing room. This was more personal, more direct, harder to deflect or rationalize.
A second. Maybe two.
Your jaw tightened, your teeth pressing together harder than usual as your fingers gripped your own arm, as if that simple gesture could keep you steady, grounded, in control.
But the control… was slipping.
You felt it.
And so did he.
Because Morgan’s gaze never left you — steady, focused, waiting. Not for just any answer, but for the one you had been avoiding from the start.
And then—
— …yes.
The word came out low, almost swallowed, reluctant, as if admitting it out loud cost more than any confrontation before.
As if each letter had been dragged out of you, as if saying it aloud turned the feeling into something impossible to ignore… even for yourself.
The silence that followed was different. There was no teasing in it anymore, not like before. Morgan straightened slowly, uncrossing his arms, and his expression shifted — more serious now, more focused, more… careful, as if he were stepping onto ground that required more attention than before.
— Then you already know this has nothing to do with her.
The statement came calm, without judgment, but firm enough to leave no room for distortion — and that was exactly what irritated you even more.
Your head shook before he could even finish, immediate, instinctive — an automatic reaction to something you didn’t want to accept.
— It does.
The answer came out too quickly, laced with a resistance you didn’t even try to hide, because it was easier to place it on her, easier to point to something concrete, visible, outside of you… than to face what was really behind it.
— No. — Morgan countered, without raising his voice, but with a firmness that cut through any attempt you might’ve made to interrupt him. He took a small step forward, closing the distance between you just enough to make it impossible to avoid his gaze.
— It has to do with you… and him.
Your stomach flipped for real, a sharp, uncomfortable motion, as if something inside you had been knocked out of place — out of the spot where it could still be ignored. Because you understood. Instantly. Without effort, without needing an explanation, without needing him to say anything more. His words settled somewhere too deep, opening space for a truth you had been avoiding facing directly.
And for the first time since that feeling began, you couldn’t pretend you didn’t know exactly what you were feeling — or why.
The realization didn’t come as a shock. It wasn’t sudden, not explosive, no dramatic moment where everything finally snapped into place all at once. No. It had been there for too long already — silent, persistent, threading itself into every thought, every reaction, every glance you held for just a second longer than necessary, as if you were always searching for something that never fully came.
You just stopped running from it.
And when you did… it all came at once. Whole. Heavy. Impossible to ignore or push aside.
You were in love with him.
With Aaron… your boss — who barely spoke two words to you a day. Sometimes not even that in a week.
Your chest tightened the moment his name fully formed in your mind, as if even thinking of him that way was dangerous. Your fingers curled slightly at your sides, your breathing turning shallow for a second before you tried — unsuccessfully — to steady it again, as if you could regain control of something that had already gone too far.
Because now, you couldn’t pretend it was anything else. It wasn’t irritation, it wasn’t just a need for approval, it wasn’t just accumulated professional frustration.
It was this.
It had always been.
From the beginning.
From the first firm look he gave you — direct, intense, as if it cut through every layer without asking permission, as if he was already assessing you, measuring you, understanding you before you even spoke. And you remembered. Of course you did. Not just the moment, but the exact feeling that came with it — the slight hitch in your breath…
—of your breath, the way you straightened up almost on instinct, as if you already knew, even without understanding why, that you needed to be worthy of that gaze.
From the very first sharp command.
Short, direct, leaving no room for mistakes or hesitation — and yet, enough to ignite something inside you, an almost urgent need to prove yourself, to show that you were good enough. Not for just anyone. For him. Always for him.
Your jaw tensed slightly, and you bit the inside of your cheek in a small, almost automatic gesture, as if that alone could keep you grounded in the present, stop you from getting completely lost in the whirlwind of thoughts that had been building since the very first moment he made you feel… seen.
And that was what made everything so confusing, so deeply contradictory. Because most of the time, he did the exact opposite — he ignored you, corrected you, pushed you away, maintaining a firm, almost unbreakable distance. But there were moments. Rare, brief, almost nonexistent moments, when something shifted, when his gaze stopped being purely technical, distant… and became something else.
Something you didn’t know how to name.
But you felt it.
It was in those moments, when he truly saw you, that everything became harder. And those were exactly the moments that stayed, that lingered, that echoed inside you long after everything else faded — far more than any criticism, far more than any coldness. Because they were rare, almost imperceptible to anyone else, but to you, they were unmistakable — and enough to feed something you could no longer ignore.
Your chest rose with a deeper breath, but the air didn’t seem to fully fill your lungs, getting stuck somewhere between what you felt and what you were still trying to control. Because now you knew. And knowing made everything harder, so much harder than before, because it stripped away any possibility of pretending it was just an impression, just an exaggeration, just something temporary.
Maybe that was exactly why it hurt so much. Because it was never just about respect, never just about recognition — that would have been easier, safer, more manageable. But you wanted more. You wanted what he didn’t give, what he might not even know how to offer, what deep down, you knew you shouldn’t want.
Your eyes closed for a second, too quickly to draw attention, but long enough to feel the weight of it all settling inside you, firm and inevitable.
You wanted—
More.
More than that. You wanted attention that wasn’t purely professional, wanted words that didn’t come laced with command or correction, wanted a gaze that wasn’t cold, calculated, distant. You wanted to be chosen — not as an agent, not as part of the team, not as just another functional piece within something bigger, but as… something more. And that was the hardest part to admit, even to yourself, because it made everything far more complicated than it should have been.
Because, despite everything — despite every effort, every silent attempt to adjust, every detail you carefully controlled, every boundary you respected, and every emotion you swallowed before it could slip out — you had nothing. Nothing that suggested it could be reciprocated, nothing that left room for hope, nothing that justified how much it had already grown inside you without you even realizing it.
And yet, it was there. Whole. Strong. Impossible to ignore, like something that had already gone far beyond any attempt at control.
And maybe the worst part of all…
Was knowing that no matter how much you tried to control it, it wouldn’t simply disappear. It wouldn’t fade with time or logic, wouldn’t obey the same self-control you had always managed to maintain in every other situation. And that was exactly why you went after him. Without thinking twice, without weighing the consequences, without that careful filter you usually kept between what you felt… and what you allowed yourself to show.
Impulsive. Emotional. Exactly what he always said you were.
The irony almost made you laugh as you walked down the hallway — almost — but the sound never quite formed, dying before it could exist, because this time, you weren’t trying to prove him wrong.
This time, you were just tired.
Tired of swallowing it down, tired of analyzing every word, every look, every silence, tired of pretending it wasn’t affecting you far more than it should.
It was a mistake. You knew that. A big one.
And still… you didn’t stop.
His office door was slightly ajar, the light inside dimmer than the rest of the floor, casting soft shadows that contrasted with the cold white of the hallway, as if that space had already been set apart from the rest of the world before you even stepped inside.
For a second — one single second — you hesitated, feeling the weight of what you were about to do settle in your chest, pressing, trying to make you pull back.
But it wasn’t enough.
Not this time.
You pushed the door open, slowly at first, as if there were still a last chance to turn back, as if that movement could be stopped at any moment…
But it wasn’t.
The door gave way under your hand, opening space — and with that, there was no pretending you were still on the outside.
Then, all at once, you stepped in, not giving yourself time to think better of it or retreat.
He was sitting behind his desk, exactly as you had imagined — Aaron Hotchner, posture impeccable even outside the briefing room, back straight against the chair, his focus entirely fixed on the report in front of him. The pen moved with precision over the paper, firm, controlled, as if even the simplest motion carried discipline.
He didn’t seem surprised by your presence.
He didn’t even look up.
—not even for a second, as if he already knew you were there, but had deliberately decided not to acknowledge you yet.
— Agent (S/N).
His voice came out neutral, low, without any emotional inflection, as if you were just another item on his schedule, another task to be handled throughout the day. Something inside you tightened at that, an immediate, almost physical discomfort pressing against your chest in a way you knew all too well — that feeling of being reduced to something technical, distant, irrelevant.
Still, you didn’t step back. Not this time.
You stayed where you were, holding your ground as if your presence there was a conscious, deliberate choice.
— We need to talk.
Your voice came out firmer than you expected, heavy, dense, sustained by everything you had been holding in even before walking through that door.
And that was what made the difference.
Because this time, he looked.
Not hastily, not out of obligation — it was a slow, measured movement, as if he were choosing exactly when to give you his attention, as if even that was under his control.
And when his eyes finally met yours, something in the room shifted.
Subtle. Almost imperceptible.
But enough to make the space feel smaller, quieter, as if the air had suddenly grown heavier, harder to pull into your lungs.
His gaze lifted from the report slowly, locking onto yours with near-calculated precision — steady, controlled, as impenetrable as ever.
— About?
A single word. Short. Direct. Leaving no room for interpretation.
And yet, there was something there — a sharper focus, a quiet alertness — as if he already knew, even before you spoke, that this wouldn’t be an ordinary conversation.
You took a step further into the room. Then another.
And without breaking eye contact, you reached back and closed the door.
The click sounded too loud.
Too final.
Like a period placed at the end of a sentence before the conversation had even begun.
Your heart was racing, pounding hard and uneven against your ribs, betraying everything you hadn’t yet put into words.
But for the first time since you walked in—
You didn’t try to hide it.
— About you being harder on me than you are on anyone else in this team.
The words came out all at once — unpracticed, irreversible — carrying everything that had been building for far too long to be ignored.
No softening. No hesitation.
Loaded with everything you had been holding in for too long, as if, at that point, there was no longer any reason to filter or protect anything.
The air seemed to shift instantly.
Silence fell.
Heavy. Dense. Almost suffocating.
He didn’t respond right away. He didn’t look away, didn’t show surprise, didn’t react at all.
Nothing.
And yet—
Something changed.
Almost imperceptible, subtle enough to go unnoticed by anyone else.
But for you…
It was enough to put every cell in your body on alert, as if, suddenly, everything had become more unstable than before.
Because now, there was no going back.
And for the first time—
You didn’t want to.
— I treat everyone the same.
The answer came without hesitation, clean, controlled, as if it had been ready before you even spoke, as if it were a truth he had repeated so many times he no longer needed to think about it.
But there… in that moment—
It didn’t sound true.
As if it were an unquestionable fact, as if you were… wrong for even bringing it up.
— You don’t… you don’t treat me the way you treat the others on this team. My observations, the things I say… they’re never really heard, or they just don’t seem to have any value. It’s like I’m not even there, like I’m invisible. You listen to everyone, you respond, you correct, you guide… but with me, it’s always different, always distant, like I’m not even worthy of your attention — not even for something simple, like telling me where I can improve or what I’m doing wrong. It’s like no matter how hard I try, it’s never enough for you to even see me. And the worst part is not understanding why… I keep asking myself if I did something wrong, if I failed at some point, but you never say anything. You never correct, never acknowledge… nothing. So tell me, because I need to know… is it me? Or did you just decide I’m not worth it?
Your answer came before fear could catch up to you, before reason had time to make you pull back. It came out firm — firmer than you expected — and this time, you didn’t soften it, didn’t retreat, didn’t swallow what had been stuck in your throat.
The silence between you shifted instantly.
It became tighter, heavier, more dangerous — as if any word from that point on had the power to cross a line that couldn’t be undone.
You didn’t wait for his response. You kept going.
— With Emily, you—
— Careful.
He cut you off.
Low. Controlled.
The word came almost like a warning… or a boundary being set. The kind of tone that didn’t need to be loud to be felt. If anything, the lower it was, the heavier it landed.
It was a line.
Clear.
Deliberate.
And for the first time since you’d known him—
It felt personal.
The air between you seemed to thicken.
And still… you didn’t back down.
If anything—
you stepped further in.
— No — you shot back, your voice firmer now, heavier, carried by everything you had been holding in until that moment. And before you could think twice, you stepped forward, invading his space without permission, leaning over the desk until you were face to face with him—resolute. — I’m tired of this. Whatever it is, you treat me differently… like… like you despise me.
It hurt to say it out loud.
But there you were, standing in front of your boss, trying to understand why. Why he looked at you like that… as if there was always something wrong with you. As if, no matter how hard you tried, you would never be enough. As if you were always one step behind — not for lack of effort, but because, to him, you simply… weren’t worth his time.
Your breath left through your nose, heavier now, your chest rising and falling with force, betraying how far this had gone.
— I do my job. I do it well. And still, for you… it’s never enough.
The words didn’t come out neatly. They came as they were — raw, unfiltered, true. And that was exactly what made them sharper, harder to ignore.
Aaron Hotchner didn’t answer immediately.
But he stood up.
Slowly.
Unhurried.
Without a single abrupt movement.
And still, that simple action was enough to completely shift the dynamic in the room. The chair slid back with a quiet, controlled sound, almost insignificant compared to the tension building between you.
And when he was standing—
His presence filled the space in a way that felt almost physical, too solid to ignore, as if the air itself had grown denser around you, compressing any chance of retreat.
Imposing. Dominant.
The air felt heavier, harder to pull into your lungs, as if even that was affected by how close he now was.
He took a step toward you — small, calculated, but enough to close the distance into something dangerously intimate, far too close for any kind of neutrality to exist between you anymore.
— If you’re here expecting emotional validation—
— I’m here expecting respect!
Your voice cut through his sentence before he could finish, louder now, sharper, filled with everything you had been holding back, echoing off the walls as if it were too big for that confined space.
And for a second—
Just one—
The world seemed to pause.
Not dramatically, but in that subtle way things do when something shifts, when something slips out of its expected control.
Because something in his gaze changed.
It was quick, almost imperceptible — the kind of thing anyone else would have missed.
But you didn’t.
You felt it.
That usual rigidity faltered for the briefest fraction of a moment, as if your words had struck deeper than he intended to allow. Like a crack in something that had always seemed unbreakable, something more slipped through — fast, but impossible to ignore.
It wasn’t just authority.
It wasn’t just control.
It was reaction.
Real.
And that—
That was enough to make your heart race even faster, uneven, hard to keep up with, because for the first time, you weren’t just being evaluated.
You were… affecting him.
— You think I don’t respect you?
The question came out differently. His voice, once firm and impenetrable, now lower, more restrained, as if each word were being measured with unusual care.
And yet—
Affected.
It wasn’t obvious, not something anyone would notice from a distance. But you did.
Because you were too close.
Because you were too involved.
Because, at that point, even the slightest shift in him no longer went unnoticed by you—and that one, in particular, said more than he probably intended to show.
And that only made everything worse.
You hesitated for a second, maybe two—long enough to feel the weight of the question settling in your chest, spreading slowly—but not enough to make you back down.
Not anymore.
— I don’t think… I feel it. And I see it. The way you are with me is different.
Your voice came out steadier than you expected, even with everything trembling inside you.
A brief pause.
— Because you treat me like I’m the worst agent on this team. Like I’m always getting it wrong… always falling behind.
You took a deep breath, swallowing the knot in your throat.
— And the worst part… is that you never give me the chance to prove otherwise. You just push me aside, like I’m a problem you can deal with later.
The words came out more controlled this time, still firm, but with something different behind them—something deeper, more honest, as if, finally, the irritation had given way to what was really hurting you.
The silence that followed wasn’t immediate.
It built slowly, stretching between you, filling every space like a rope being pulled tighter and tighter, drawn to its limit without ever snapping.
And then—
Aaron Hotchner took another step toward you.
Close enough that it became impossible to ignore his presence, close enough to make everything else around you fade, as if only the two of you existed in that space—too tight for everything that was happening.
Close enough for you to notice the smallest details—the rigidity in his shoulders, the way his jaw tightened for a brief moment, almost imperceptible, before relaxing again, as if he needed that second to regain control.
— You’re not the worst.
The answer came immediately, firm, leaving no room for doubt. He took a step forward, closing the space between you even more, his gaze locked onto yours, heavy in a way that felt different.
— If you were, I wouldn’t expect so much from you.
His voice was low, controlled, but laced with something he was clearly trying to hold back.
— I don’t ignore you because you’re not capable… I do it because you’re better than you think. And that’s exactly why I can’t treat you the way I treat the others.
His jaw tensed slightly, as if each word was carefully measured before being spoken.
— With you, a mistake isn’t just a mistake… and I won’t be the reason I watch you break over something I could have prevented.
You froze. Completely.
It wasn’t just your body—it was everything. As if that sentence had hit a place inside you that you didn’t even know existed until it was exposed like that, without warning, without preparation.
Because it wasn’t what you expected. It wasn’t coldness, or rejection… it was care—and that hurt even more.
Your gaze faltered for a moment, your chest tightening as everything inside you tried to make sense of it. Nothing made sense. Nothing matched what you had felt up until now.
— Then why does it feel like the exact opposite?
Your voice came out lower, but still firm enough not to retreat.
The silence that followed hung between you, heavy, almost suffocating—because deep down, you weren’t sure if you actually wanted to hear the answer.
Because it didn’t make sense.
Or maybe it did… in a way you weren’t not ready to accept yet.
He held your gaze, unwavering, unsoftened. But there was something different there now—something deeper, heavier, as if every word that followed carried far more weight than anything said before.
— You feel too much.
The words came low, firm, direct, leaving no room for interpretation. His eyes stayed locked on yours, intense, as if he were seeing far beyond what you showed.
— And you act before you think when it…
— …hits. You get involved, you give yourself in… and you forget where you need to draw the line.
He took a breath, his jaw tightening slightly, as if each word had to be held back before it could fully slip out.
— And I can’t afford to ignore that. Not when you react like this, not when you let it interfere with your judgment.
His voice dropped even lower now, almost too heavy.
— I push you harder, I put pressure on you, I keep my distance… because it’s the only way to make sure you don’t lose yourself in what you feel.
There was a short, weighted pause—enough for the air between you to grow thicker.
— And because you should keep your distance—professionally and emotionally. From me.
The last part came out more restrained, more dangerous.
— Because if that line gets crossed… you won’t be the only one who loses control.
The words lingered in the air, heavy, dense, filling the space between you in a way that felt almost suffocating. And this time, they weren’t just heard—they were felt. Every single one of them landed without missing, cutting through whatever defenses you were still trying to hold together. Direct. Unfiltered. No escape.
That was how he spoke… as if he moved past every barrier without effort, as if he could see parts of you that even you avoided facing—especially when you were alone.
And that…
That hurt in a completely different way.
Because it wasn’t contempt. It wasn’t dismissal. It had nothing to do with diminishing you. It was understanding. Raw, direct, impossible to ignore. Each word seemed to find its exact place, one by one, echoing inside you, hitting points you didn’t even know how to protect.
You swallowed hard, feeling the air weigh in your lungs, as if even breathing had become more difficult. Even so, you didn’t step back.
Your gaze stayed locked on his—steady, even as everything inside you trembled.
— That doesn’t make me a bad agent.
Your voice came out lower, but firm, holding his gaze despite everything shaking underneath.
— Feeling doesn’t make me weak… it just makes me human.
You took a breath, forcing down the tightness in your throat.
— I can learn to control it, I can improve—but not at the cost of erasing myself just to fit what you think is right. I’m not a mistake to be fixed… and I won’t treat myself like I am.
Your voice sounded steadier than you actually felt, stronger than the chaos starting to spread inside you, as if you were still trying to hold onto some sense of control.
But he didn’t step back.
Not this time.
— But it does make you a liability.
The words came without softening, without hesitation, carrying a truth too harsh to ignore—and because of that, even harder to endure.
Now it hurt. Truly.
Not like before, not that sharp, irritated pain that came from frustration or wounded pride. This was deeper, quieter, more dangerous—as if something had been hit directly, without warning, without any chance to defend yourself.
Your chest tightened, the air faltering for a second, and it took real effort to stay there, standing, not stepping back, not looking away—even with everything inside you begging you to do exactly that.
— So that’s it?
Your voice wavered, almost imperceptibly, but still enough to bother you, enough to expose more than you wanted.
— You just… don’t trust me?
The question hung between you, fragile, yet carrying far more than the words alone could hold, as if everything you didn’t say was there too—implicit, impossible to ignore.
Aaron didn’t answer immediately.
But he didn’t look away either.
On the contrary, he held your gaze with an intensity different from anything before—steady, present… and this time, there was no coldness, no distance.
There was conflict.
Clear.
Undeniable.
Too alive to be hidden.
It showed in a way you had never seen in him before, as if behind all the control he carried so flawlessly, something was pressing against it—something he was actively trying to hold back.
— I trust you more than you think… but I can’t afford to show it the way you want me to. Because if I do, I cross a line I can’t cross. And it’s not about you not being good enough—it’s the opposite. It’s because you are…
The words came low, firm, but weighed down by something that didn’t match their simplicity.
And that—
That was exactly what unraveled you.
Because it didn’t make sense. Not with the way he acted, not with how he treated you, not with everything you had been feeling up until now.
Your heart sped up, pounding too hard, uneven, as your mind tried to catch up with something that simply didn’t fit.
— So that’s why you treat me like this? Is it because you don’t want me to be a liability to the team?
The question came out louder than you intended, raw, unfiltered, out of your control—pulled from you before it could be restrained. Because at that point, you no longer had the patience to figure it out on your own, to piece together fragments he insisted on leaving scattered.
The silence that followed stretched between you—long, heavy, almost tangible, filling every inch of the room until it became unbearable.
He took a breath, almost imperceptible, so subtle it would’ve gone unnoticed by anyone else. But you saw it. You always did. You saw the exact moment something shifted inside him, the precise instant he made a choice—not to act, but to speak.
And then—
— Yes… that could cause problems for the team.
The world seemed to stop.
Not abruptly, not like a sudden shock, but slowly, heavily, as if the sound around you had been pulled away for a second, leaving only that echo suspended between you.
Your heart dropped.
Truly.
It was immediate—a sudden emptiness opening in your chest, cold, uncomfortable, impossible to ignore, as if something had been ripped away without warning.
Because, for the first time, it didn’t sound like criticism. It didn’t sound like pressure. It wasn’t about work, rules, or any barrier you had grown used to facing.
It sounded like a limit.
A real one.
A line that hadn’t been drawn because of a lack of trust… but because of something else—something deeper, more complicated—and, because of that, far more dangerous.
Slow.
Painful.
It settled in slowly, without urgency—but leaving no room to escape.
His words still lingered in the air, too heavy to simply disappear, seeping into every corner of the room… into every corner of you, as if there was nowhere to hide from them.
— That… doesn’t answer anything.
Your voice came out lower now, more contained, but it no longer carried the same strength as before, no longer held the firmness that had been keeping you steady until then. Because deep down… it did answer.
Everything.
The truth wasn’t just in what he said, but mostly in what he didn’t say, in what he avoided, in what he didn’t have the courage to deny. And you saw it. In the exact moment his gaze faltered—slight, almost imperceptible, but still enough. Enough for someone who had been watching for far too long.
You felt it too. In the silence that followed, longer than any response, stretching between you like something alive, too dense to ignore. In the way Aaron Hotchner remained still… but not untouched.
And most of all, in the absence of a denial.
Your eyes burned, a slow, uncomfortable warmth rising, pressing, threatening to break through the control you had been holding onto so tightly. It was subtle—but persistent, like everything you had been trying to hold back from the very beginning.
You blinked once, slowly, trying to contain it before anything slipped through, trying to pull yourself back together before he noticed how deeply it had affected you.
Twice.
You held your breath for a moment, as if that alone could keep everything in place, as if not breathing meant not feeling.
You swallowed.
— I understand.
You nodded slowly, the movement almost mechanical, as if your body was just following something your mind had already accepted long before any words were spoken out loud.
A smile appeared—or something that tried to be one.
Forced.
Empty.
Lifeless.
— Of course you can’t.
The words came out too light for the weight they carried, almost soft—completely betraying what lay beneath them.
You took a step back, small, careful, as if any wrong movement would be enough to make everything collapse right there. Then another. The distance between you began to grow, inch by inch… and still, it felt insufficient, as if nothing could truly undo what had already been said.
— It was my mistake to think that…
A quiet laugh slipped out—weak, devoid of humor, breaking halfway through, closer to a breath than anything else. You shook your head slightly, as if you could stop the thought before having to face it all the way through.
— forget it.
— Agent—
— No.
The interruption came fast, firm, but not aggressive—just final. As if, for the first time, you weren’t cutting him off out of impulse, but by choice. Because hearing the rest… wouldn’t change anything.
You cut him off. Quickly, without raising your voice, but with a firmness that left no room for insistence—as if, for the first time, there was no space for him to take control of the situation. And this time… he let you.
The silence that followed was different from all the others. Not heavy, not suffocating like before, but calmer—and because of that, more final. As if everything had already been said, even without words.
You took a breath, but it didn’t seem to fully reach your lungs, getting caught somewhere between your chest and your throat.
— I just needed to confirm.
Your voice came out lower now, more fragile than you wanted to admit, more honest than it should have been. No barriers, no defenses, none of that control you had always held so tightly.
— That this will never be… anything.
For a moment, time seemed to stretch, pulling that instant thin enough to hurt, as if the entire world was waiting for the answer you already knew—but still needed to hear.
And then—
His gaze shifted.
Not abruptly, not enough for anyone else to notice. But you saw it. You always did.
The rigidity returned, settling back into every detail—his posture, his expression, the way he closed himself off again, retreating to that safe place where nothing could reach him.
Control rebuilding itself, piece by piece, almost imperceptible to anyone who didn’t know him—but painfully obvious to you. That familiar barrier rising again, steady, precise, exactly as it always had been. Aaron Hotchner returning to the place you knew—the place where everything was calculated, where nothing slipped through, the place you had never truly been allowed into.
— This isn’t appropriate.
Simple. Direct. Final.
No hesitation. No space.
And that was the moment—exactly that moment—when something inside you gave way.
It didn’t make a sound. It didn’t draw attention. It wasn’t dramatic, not in the way it perhaps should have been. But it broke. Completely.
You nodded slowly, as if your body was just following the inevitable, as if there was no energy left to question, to insist, to feel anything beyond that growing emptiness.
This time, without resistance. Without a fight.
— Of course.
The word came out low, almost too neutral—but your voice was… empty. No color, no weight, no trace of who you had been seconds before. No trace of you.
You turned, every movement overly controlled, too calculated, as if you were performing, following a script you had already memorized—a role that, in that moment, felt like the only thing still keeping you standing, even if it no longer made sense to keep playing it.
Your hand found the doorknob. It turned slowly, the cold metal beneath your fingers contrasting with the heat that still lingered in your chest, and the door opened with a soft sound, almost hesitant, as if even it understood that moment didn’t need noise.
You were ready to leave, ready to step through and simply walk away—when something made you stop.
Just for a second.
But it was enough.
— Do you know what the worst part is?
Your voice came while your back was still turned to him—calm, controlled, without any trace of accusation or anger. And yet… heavy. Heavy with everything you hadn’t said before, everything that had been left hanging between you, silently building up.
The silence answered.
He said nothing. He didn’t try to interrupt. He didn’t try to stop you.
And that… said more than any words ever could.
You turned your head just enough to look at him one last time, without fully allowing yourself to, as if you were afraid that if you looked too long, you wouldn’t be able to leave. Your eyes took in every detail too quickly and, at the same time, slowly enough to memorize them—even knowing you shouldn’t, even knowing it would only make everything harder later.
Still, you kept them.
— It’s not that you don’t feel the same.
The words came out soft, almost gentle, but there was something in them that didn’t match that softness—like a truth too harsh hidden behind a calm tone. And maybe that was exactly what made it hurt even more. Your eyes lingered on him for one more second, not out of doubt or hope, but like someone trying to hold onto every detail before leaving, as if, somehow, it still mattered. The way he avoided holding your gaze, the subtle tension in his jaw, the heavy silence that said more than any answer could.
You took a deep breath, feeling the air weigh in your lungs, and then spoke—unhurried, without raising your voice, but with a firmness that left no room to step back.
— It’s realizing that, deep down… you do feel it. And you choose not to.
The words stayed between you, suspended—not as an attack, but as an inevitable realization. And still, he didn’t respond. The silence that followed was no longer just heavy or uncomfortable; it was different, deeper, colder, as if something had finally ended there—definitively, irreversibly, with no chance of going back.
You waited. A second, maybe two. Long enough for him to say anything—to deny it, explain, or simply call your name. But nothing came. No movement, no sound, no attempt to stop you.
And in that emptiness, you understood.
This time, there was nothing left.
You turned, the movement slower than it should have been, as if your body was still catching up to a decision that had already been made before the words. And then you left. Without looking back this time, without hesitating, without stopping. Each step echoed softly in the silence of the room, marking a distance that could no longer be undone.
Your hand found the cold doorknob, and you turned it without effort. The door opened too easily, as if the world outside was already waiting—or simply didn’t care. For a brief moment, you almost stopped, almost looked back… but you didn’t. You just stepped through.
The door closed behind you with a soft, quiet click—but final.
I hope you enjoyed it. I wasn’t sure which ending you would like more, so I hope this one exceeded your expectations. I apologize for the delay—some things happened, and because of that, I couldn’t post it earlier. If there are any grammatical errors, I apologize; English is not my first language. (;
But there's a fire burning in my bones (Ardeth Bay x fem!reader)
To read my other works, check my MASTERLIST !
Paring: Ardeth Bay x fem!reader
Universe: The Mummy (1999) / The Mummy Returns (2001)
Word Count: 2825
Requested: no...
Warnings: mention of wound, losing voice, a little depression episode, alusion to being intimate
If I forgot about anything feel free to write to me. Your wellbeing is important to me!
Summary: The one where Ardeth lost his voice.
In the morning, there was no indication that everything could go so badly. She kissed her husband, Ardeth Bay, goodbye before he went to patrol. She performed all the usual household duties and visited her best friend to help her with her newborn baby. They laughed and gossiped through the day. And then her whole world went downhill. They looked surprised at two Medjay warriors who came on with grave faces. She stood up, taking her friend's hand in hers.
“Who?” She whispered, looking at the face of a man who just two days ago laughed at her home at dinner.
“Sister… It’s Ardeth. He’s alive.” She felt like somebody had knocked the air from her lungs. “We were attacked, he was knocked out… the medic thinks he will be alright, but…”
“But what?!” She started to be afraid she would pass out if she did not know the state of the love of her life any longer.
“He lost his voice.”
The words echoed, meaningless at first, as if spoken in a language she did not know.
“Lost his… voice?” She whispered. Her grip on her friend’s hand tightened, as though that single touch was the only thing keeping her upright. Ardeth Bay - who spoke with authority, with quiet warmth, who murmured prayers at dawn and whispered her name in the dark - silenced? The Medjay nodded his head.
“The blow caused severe swelling to his throat. The medic believes it is temporary.” He hesitated. “But it will take time. Days, perhaps weeks. He must not strain himself.”
Her knees nearly gave up. And then she felt a wave of relief - her husband was alive. He was not lost to the endless darkness and silence.
“Take me to him.”
She raised her chin, trying to look like a chiefess. And her voice was much steadier than she thought it would be. The warrior just nodded and led her to the infirmary. The place smelled of herbs and fresh linens. Her eyes immediately found Ardeth. He lay on the bed, and a bandage was wrapped carefully around his neck. Even from here, she could see the bruise on his jaw and the upper part of his chest. She blinked rapidly, trying to calm herself, and then she moved closer. His eyes found hers, and she saw relief on them. His mouth opened like he wanted to say her name, but no sound came out - and then she saw frustration.
“I know, my love.” She carefully sat on his bedding, taking his hand with one of hers and gently cupping his cheek with the other. “Let your voice rest. They say it will be back. We just need to have a little patience.”
She caressed small circles with her thumb on his skin. His eyes closed at her touch, a long breath leaving his chest as if he had been holding it since the moment he woke. Ardeth leaned into her palm, instinctively, the way he always had after long patrols. She noticed his fingers trembling slightly in her hand. He slowly lifted his free hand - as he hesitated for a second - and with his thumb, he wiped a lonely tear she didn't even notice.
“You scared me… for a moment…” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, letting his smell calm her down - she always loved the smell of sand and oils on him. “But it didn't matter. You are alive, and that is important. We can deal with the rest.” She looked at him and smiled. His lips curved faintly, an apology written in the lines of his face. Slowly, he nodded, and he frowned at the uncomfortable feeling. She quickly tried to smooth it with her gentle fingers. She touched his nose with hers, and when his smirk grew bigger, she connected their lips in a tender kiss, full of emotions they both felt.
—
They both finally felt some peace after they crossed the threshold of their home. She scolded him with a smile every time he wanted to do anything other than rest. With tender touches, she helped him freshen up and made his bedding. She guided him to bed and eyed him with a look that brooked no opposition. He raised his arms in surrender, an exaggerated motion that made her shake her head fondly.
“Do not test me, Ardeth.” She warned him softly. “I'll tie you up if I have to.”
His shoulders shook with a silent laugh, the soundless mirth lighting his eyes even as he winced and carefully stilled himself. With worry written on her face, she gave him a cup of tea that was supposed to soothe his throat. When he finished, he didn't let her go to the kitchen again. He placed a hand on her hip and squeezed it gently. Then he patted the place next to him, and she already knew what he meant. She nodded with a smile, and with a few movements, she lay next to him. He wrapped his arm around her, bringing her close. Her hand found its place on his chest just above his heart. His heartbeat was steady beneath her palm, strong and familiar. She matched her breathing to its rhythm, letting the tension of the day finally loosen its grip.
“Let's go to sleep…” She mumbled into his skin, her thumb brushing over. “We did enough today.”
Ardeth hummed quietly in response, the sound barely more than breath. It startled her at first, and she lifted her head to look at him. His brows knit together as if unsure whether he had done something wrong.
“No.” She said quickly, smiling. “That’s… that’s fine. It’s a sign your voice just needs rest. Just… don’t push it.” He smiled at her and nodded with a sign of obedience, but she could see the spark of his stubbornness in his eyes. His fingers traced letters on her skin when she leaned and kissed him. All of this was his voice - it was his way to tell her that he loved her, that even though he was injured, he was there and he would protect her from everything in this world.
—
Some time passed, and Ardeth's body gained strength back. He helped her around the home more and got back to his Medjay duties. But his voice still hasn't come back. Whatever came through his lips was too soft, barely more than breath. A rasp that vanished as soon as it appeared, leaving him frowning in quiet irritation. She noticed it every time, and she helped him every time. She became his voice when he wanted to say something to his people. She was his voice when the women in the village couldn’t find agreement. And what is the most important - she was his strength. When she caught him trying to speak, she would sit next to him and hold his hand in hers. In the evening, she would caress his chest and jaw with oils that should calm his body.
“Easy, my love…” She whispered against his ear when her fingers worked on the knots on his shoulder. “Give yourself time. The medics warned us it won’t come through one night.”
Ardeth exhaled through his nose, eyes lifting to the ceiling in wordless protest. He raised one brow at her, the familiar look that once came with a teasing remark or a stubborn argument. Now it came with silence—and it made her heart ache all over again.
“I know…” She sat before him. “I hate this, too. But we’re in this together.” She intertwined their fingers, and he brought her hand to his lips. After a few seconds, he reached for some charcoal and the small slate they had begun keeping nearby. His hand moved quickly.
I am useless.
It caught her breath. She looked into his eyes. She took the slate from his hands and threw it without looking. She took his face into her hands, making him look at her.
“Do not ever write that again.” She said, quiet but fierce. “Do not ever think that again. You are not useless. You still lead your people even without your voice. You led them with your strength. You keep me together with your strength. Even if I wish to hear you scolding me for taking too much time to do… You are the one who gives me the power to make it all. You are not useless. You are healing. And all of them see it.” He searched her face, the storm in his eyes slowly easing. He took her hand and placed it on his heart, then pointed it at hers. She smiled, and her eyes filled with tears. “I love you, too, Ardeth Bay. My heart is yours to the end of time.”
He closed his eyes, and for a moment, he stayed still, taking her words. Her hand was warm against his chest. When he opened his eyes again, the turmoil she had seen so often these past weeks had quieted, replaced by something steadier—acceptance, and a fragile kind of hope. Ardeth leaned forward and rested his forehead against hers. He breathed in, deep and slow, as the medic had taught him. And then the words came out rough, broken, but audible - it was her name.
She froze. Her breath caught, and she didn't move, afraid she would shatter the moment. His eyes widened like he couldn't believe the words came out. And he smiled in that boyish way.
“You spoke.” She whispered, barely trusting her own ears. He nodded once, and she laughed softly, bursting into tears. She pulled him into her senses, minding his healing body. He snuggled his face into her shoulder. “This is our victory for today.” A quiet hum vibrated in his chest. That evening gave them new hope. And they knew they could communicate without words.
—
She came home later than usual that day. Everybody kept her busy, and she didn't even have time to eat dinner with Ardeth. The house was quiet when she finally pushed the door open. The lamps had already been lit, their soft glow painting the walls in warm gold. For a moment, she simply stood there, listening—half-expecting to hear him moving about, humming without realizing it, the way he used to.
Instead, she heard the scrape of charcoal. She found him sitting at the low table. He looked up, sensing her presence, relief showing on his face. He reached his hand to her, and she immediately took it. She kissed the top of his head and sat close to him - their knees connected.
“I’m sorry…” She said softly. “I should send a word. Today… the time just slipped through my fingers.”
He shook his head, pulling her closer. His embrace was firm, grounding. She rested her head against his chest. His hand cupped her head, and he gently moved the scarf she wore losely around her hair in respect of his people. His fingers combed through her hair, massaging her scalp. She nearly purred at the feeling.
“I hate leaving you for so long.” She whispered and looked at him. He gave her that familiar look again - half stubborn, half amused - and moved his fingers to touch her cheek.
“I’m… fine…” The words were broken, uneven, but clearer than before. It cost him effort; she could see it in the tension of his neck, the slight tremor in his breath. She moved her fingers, gently caressing the skin on his throat.
“Alright, alright…” She mumbled and quickly pecked his lips. “I believe you.” Ardeth smiled, satisfied, and moved, reaching her lips for a longer kiss. “I should do something to eat.”
She stood up and moved to the hearth, and then she noticed a ready stew. She turned to Ardeth, surprised, and realized that he was standing next to her with a smile.
“You made dinner?” He just nodded and started to prepare bowls for them. He gave her one and placed a hand on her lower back, guiding her back to the table.
“You… need to… rest too… stubborn woman.” She laughed softly at his words and sat down. She waited until he sat down next to her, and she put her hand on his knee. He placed his eyes on her, and she smiled gently, kissing him shortly.
“I missed that.” He nodded, connecting their foreheads. She closed her eyes, taking in his smell. He kissed her nose and pointed to their bowls.
They ate in silence that was no longer scary. Ardeth took care of tidying, and he came back to her with a vial of oil she didn't recognize. He helped her take off her cloak. He placed a small kiss on her spine and put some oil on his hands, warming it a little. He placed his hands on her shoulders, and his fingers started working on the knots of her muscles. He watched closely, noticing every reaction, every small noise.
“You are good at this.” She mumbled, relaxed more than in the last few weeks. He huffed softly, something between a laugh and a breath, and leaned closer so she could feel the warmth of his body.
“I learnt… from you.” Every word sounded like victory. A sign that his strength and patience helped him heal every day. She couldn't stop smiling. She turned slightly, and his hands stayed on her arms. “I… not say… this enough… I… love you.” She gently moved a lock of his hair from his face.
“You say it enough. Maybe not with your voice. But with everything you’re doing.” Her hand cupped his cheek, and she traced his tattoo with her finger. “You show it when you repair things before I even notice that something is broken. Holding me tight at night when I’m cold or can't sleep because of a nightmare. You show it every time when you give me trust to do things my way… And I love you so much…” She moved and came closer, stopping just a few millimeters from his lips. “Do you think… Do you have enough strength to take your wife to bed?”
Ardeth’s breath hitched at her question. For a moment, he just looked at her, weighing not only his strength but her words. And he didn't need to think long. In swift motion, he made her body collapse gently against his and connected their lips in a hungry kiss. She softly sighed in his mouth, and her hand moved into his hair. He kissed her like he had been holding it back for weeks - careful at first, then deeper, fuller, as if he needed to remind himself that this was real. She melted into him willingly, fingers tightening in his hair as she answered the kiss, slower, grounding him. She felt the tremor in him and gentled it, letting her thumb trace the familiar line of his jaw, easing him back just enough to look at his face.
“We have all night, my warrior. There is no need to rush.” She whispered with a smile, looking straight into his eyes. She found his hand and placed it against her breast so he could feel her strong and quick heartbeat. She stood up, not letting his hand go even for a second, and then she guided them to their bedroom. He watched her every movement, the way her hips swayed - and it only made him desire her more. He felt like a young man again, caught between impatience and awe that made his heart pound in his chest. Inside, she turned to him, and he didn't waste time before kissing her sweetly. His rough fingers traced her soft skin, taking off her clothes, making her shiver. She did the same for him, admiring how his muscles worked under her palms. She looked at him as a woman who knows what she wants, no longer a shy girl. And he delivered her what she wanted. He kissed and touched her whole body. He made her breathless. He made her scream in ecstasy. He made her see the stars. He made her feel safe, wanted, and seen. And when the world narrowed to nothing but warmth, she clung to him as if anchoring herself to the present, to life.
They lay tangled together beneath the linen, skin still warm, hearts slowing back into rhythm. She rested her head against his shoulder, tracing idle patterns on his chest, careful of the places still healing. His arm was around her, firm and sure, his thumb moving in slow, comforting strokes along her arm. He watched as sleep was slowly taking over her, how she fought against closing her eyes. He memorised how her body instinctively curled around his. And he held her close, knowing that it was the most beautiful thing he had seen in his life. Tomorrow will bring new fights and new victories. And through it all, they have each other. And it was enough.
Author’s note:
Thank you so much for reading! If it’s not too much trouble, I would love to hear your thoughts about it. Any feedback is greatly appreciated and motivate me to work.
I am sorry about every grammar mistake and misspellings. English is not my first language.
Klaudia 💜
Taglists are always open! If you want to be added fill this up or send me an ask!
Summary: SN picks Aaron up from work, and through playful teasing and quiet affection, they share a simple moment that shows their calm, comfortable, and deeply connected love.
Mastelist
The office lights were still on when SN appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame with her arms crossed. Aaron had his sleeves rolled up — the kind of sight that always made her pause for an extra second just to watch. He looked ridiculously handsome when he was focused on his work. The only flaw in that scene was exactly that: Aaron was far too absorbed in the papers in front of him to notice the time passing. As usual, he had completely lost track of it.
“Hotchner,” she called, resting her shoulder against the door. “If you don’t get up right now, I’m turning off the lights and kidnapping you back to our place.”
She tried to keep a serious expression, but the playful tone gave her away.
Aaron looked up. He held onto his seriousness for half a second… until his eyes met hers. The tension in his shoulders eased, and he let out a tired sigh.
“I’m coming,” he said, even though he made no move to stand.
SN rolled her eyes but walked in anyway. She crossed the room, picked up the tie he had left on the desk, and began folding it calmly, as if it were part of their everyday routine.
“You said that fifteen minutes ago.”
“I said almost coming,” he corrected, in that calm voice he always used to defend the indefensible.
She laughed — that light, easy laugh Aaron only allowed into his life because it belonged to her. He stood then, and without a word, wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her close. She fit against his chest naturally, as if that were exactly where she belonged.
“Home?” he asked softly, already knowing the answer.
“Home,” she confirmed. “With reheated food, old pajamas… and you complaining about the couch.”
“I don’t complain,” he replied, almost offended.
SN lifted her face, arching an eyebrow.
“You do.”
Aaron smiled faintly, completely giving in. He leaned down and kissed her forehead slowly, then her lips — a calm, unhurried kiss, filled with familiarity and affection.
“Then we should go before I start complaining right here.”
She laced her fingers through his and tugged him toward the door.
“See?” she teased. “That didn’t hurt at all.”
Aaron turned off the lights before leaving, closing the room behind them. He didn’t let go of her hand for a single moment — not in the empty hallway, not inside the elevator.
And on that simple night, without drama or urgency, that was all that mattered.
Because some pain doesn’t ask for help — it only asks for a safe place to exist.
⭐Hi everyone! This was meant to be a one-shot, but it ended up being a bit longer than I originally planned. I really hope you enjoy it. I apologize for any spelling or grammar mistakes, as English is not my first language. Reblogs, likes, and comments are very welcome (constructive comments only, please).
Summary: After a case triggers memories SN has spent years burying, she forces herself to keep working, determined not to be seen as fragile or different. Aaron notices the subtle signs she tries to hide and confronts her in private, offering not judgment, but understanding. As the past finally finds its voice, SN learns that strength doesn’t mean carrying pain alone — and that sometimes, being held is its own kind of courage.
Mastelist
From the very beginning of the case, SN knew something was wrong — not with the investigation, but with herself.
The suspect was nothing extraordinary. An ordinary man. A history of domestic violence, obsessive control, violent outbursts followed by rehearsed apologies. Nothing the BAU hadn’t seen dozens of times before. And yet, as she stared at the photographs spread across the briefing room table, something slowly tightened in her chest — uncomfortable, suffocating — like a door being locked from the inside.
She didn’t comment on it.
Didn’t raise questions beyond what was necessary.
Didn’t show anything other than her usual professionalism.
But Aaron noticed.
He noticed when SN — always so precise with her words — began choosing them too carefully, as if afraid of saying the wrong thing. When she crossed her arms tightly as another agent described the offender’s psychological profile. When her leg bounced beneath the table in an uneven rhythm — impossible to miss for someone who knew her as well as he did.
“SN?” someone asked during the meeting. “Do you agree with this approach?”
She blinked, as if being pulled back into the room.
“I do,” she answered too quickly. “It fits the pattern.”
The answer was correct.
The tone wasn’t.
Aaron held her gaze for a second longer than necessary. Long enough to notice the faint sheen of sweat along her temple despite the cold room. Long enough to see her fingers curl and uncurl, restless.
Out in the field, things only got worse.
SN kept working, but there was something restrained in every movement. Her breathing was too shallow. Her patience thinner than usual when simple decisions were questioned. At one point, when an agent suggested an alternative approach, she snapped sharper than she meant to — and apologized immediately afterward, visibly tense.
Aaron said nothing.
Not yet.
He waited until the end of the day, until the office was nearly empty, until the constant noise of routine finally faded. The hallway lights were dimmer when he watched her step into his office, placing several neatly aligned reports on his desk.
SN remained standing in front of him. Her posture was firm — professional, as always — but something was wrong. Her shoulders were too stiff, drawn tight as if she were bracing for an invisible impact.
“Close the door, please,” Aaron said quietly.
She hesitated — just for a moment. Almost imperceptible, but he caught it. Her fingers curled slightly at her side in an automatic gesture. Her gaze flicked to the door, as if weighing the option of leaving, before returning to him. She didn’t hold eye contact for long. There was something defensive in her eyes. Seconds later, she looked away again, fixing her gaze on a blank spot on the wall — as if facing emptiness was easier than facing what he might see in her.
Still, she obeyed. She walked to the door and closed it carefully, without a sound.
The soft click of the lock echoed louder than it should have.
When she returned to her place in front of the desk, Aaron noticed the restlessness hadn’t left her. Silence settled between them — dense, heavy with everything that hadn’t yet been said.
“What’s going on with you?” Aaron asked, his voice low and controlled. There was no accusation in it. Only concern.
SN stayed where she was. Her eyes fixed on that same undefined point on the wall, as if answering would take more strength than she had.
“Nothing,” she said after a brief delay. Her voice sounded mechanical — rehearsed. “I’m fine.”
Aaron didn’t move. Didn’t raise his voice. He simply watched her.
“Your hands have been shaking since this morning’s meeting,” he said calmly. “Your breathing is shallow. You’re restless, impatient… and that’s not like you.”
As he spoke, Aaron rose from his chair slowly, deliberately — careful not to make any sudden movements. He approached her step by step, attentive to every reaction — not out of fear, but out of respect for whatever pain might make her pull away. He stopped beside her, close enough to be present, not invasive, his gaze steady on her face while SN did everything she could to avoid meeting his eyes.
She let out a heavy breath and closed her eyes briefly, as if carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders.
“It was a hard day,” she replied, her voice a little sharper than usual. When she finally lifted her gaze to meet his, she added, “That’s all.”
But Aaron could see it — in her face, and especially in her eyes. Something restrained. A silent tension words couldn’t hide. They stood like that for nearly a full minute, exchanging nothing but looks — a brief stretch of time that felt endless.
“You made me lose my patience.”
“This is for your own good.”
Her breath caught at the memory. For a brief, frightening second, the air left her lungs. Her body swayed almost imperceptibly, and Aaron was instantly alert. Without thinking, he stepped closer and placed a steady hand against her back — firm enough to support her if she faltered.
SN’s eyes filled with tears she refused to let fall. The faint shine betrayed everything she had been holding in since the beginning of the day. And it was there — when the defenses finally cracked — that the words slipped free.
“This case…” she began, her voice weak, broken. She took a breath. Then another, grounding herself in the present. “He… talks the way my father used to.”
The impact hit Aaron the moment the words left her mouth — a silent blow to the chest. Still, he didn’t interrupt. He stayed quiet, attentive, giving her space — not because he had nothing to say, but because he knew that right now, any word might make her retreat.
SN dragged a hand down her face in a slow, exhausted gesture, as if trying to push away not just fatigue, but everything threatening to spill over. The effort it took to hold herself together was visible — to keep standing, to maintain the barriers that had always protected her. Her vulnerability didn’t come in the form of uncontrollable tears, but in that tense silence, in her clenched jaw, in the way she took breaths that were too deep before continuing — fighting something that had followed her for far too long.
“When I was a child, my parents were… abusive,” she said quietly. “Emotionally. Physically too.” She swallowed hard. “Yelling. Punishment. Control. I learned very early that showing fear only made things worse.”
She went on, her voice lower now — weighted with an honesty she rarely allowed to surface. Each word seemed heavier than it should have been, as if it had to pass through old layers before it could escape.
“Hearing that man today… it felt like I was back in that house.”
She paused, her gaze drifting somewhere distant, caught in a memory that refused to loosen its grip.
“I know I’m not,” she continued, steady but restrained. “I know I’m an adult. Trained. Capable. But my body doesn’t understand that. It just reacts.”
Her fingers curled tightly at her side again, betraying the tension still humming beneath her skin. Her mind was in the present — clear, rational — while something older took control. The tightness in her chest. The unsteady breathing. The constant sense of danger from something that no longer existed.
She took a deep breath, trying to anchor herself there — in that room, in that moment.
But the past was still echoing too loudly inside her.
Aaron stepped closer, closing the space between them until it nearly disappeared. SN could feel the warmth of his body beside hers — solid, steady. His hand remained at her back, firm and careful at once — not to restrain her, but to remind her that he was there, ready to hold her if she needed it. Every movement was measured, attentive — as though anything too sudden might break something too fragile to fix afterward.
“And you didn’t say anything,” he observed softly.
There was no reproach in his voice — only concern. The silence that followed carried the weight of that truth. SN breathed deeply, feeling his touch like an anchor as reality settled between them — heavy and unavoidable.
Then she turned fully toward him, finally facing him head-on. The movement caused his hand to slide slowly away from her back, returning to his side — respecting the quiet boundary she still needed.
“Because I don’t want that,” she said quickly, before she could stop herself. “I don’t want to be the agent with a difficult past. I don’t want different looks. Pity. Excessive care. I fought too hard to be seen as equal. I just want to be normal.”
The last word came out laced with frustration — almost a contained outburst.
“I’m not weak,” she added, her voice firm despite the slight tremor that betrayed her. “I’m just… feeling too much. And that scares me.”
Aaron stood before her, keeping a respectful distance — not invading the space she still needed to protect. His gaze was calm, but intense, taking in every detail, every crack she allowed to show.
“Feeling doesn’t make you weak,” he said with conviction. “Hiding everything from everyone does. That’s what hurts you.”
He paused, choosing his words carefully.
“You are the bravest woman I know,” he said quietly — steady, certain.
He held her gaze, wanting every word to be heard, absorbed.
“Not because you never felt fear,” he continued, “but because you grew despite it. Because you survived things that would have broken most people — and still chose to be ethical, competent, fair. You turned a difficult past into discipline, into empathy, into strength. That doesn’t diminish you. It defines you as someone who won.”
He took a breath before stepping a little closer and resting his hands on her arms — firm, careful — offering support without forcing anything. The gesture was simple, but full of intention. His thumbs moved slowly, almost imperceptibly, conveying a quiet calm as his eyes stayed locked on hers, grounding her in that moment.
“What you lived through was a fight. And you won. But winning doesn’t mean carrying everything alone forever.”
His tone softened — more personal.
“You don’t have to prove anything to anyone. Not to me. Being strong doesn’t mean enduring in silence. It means knowing when to let someone stand beside you.”
He paused, his eyes steady with quiet certainty.
“And I’m here. Not to shield you from the world — but to walk with you when it becomes too heavy.”
She breathed deeply, her shoulders finally easing.
“I don’t want this to define who I am,” she murmured.
“It doesn't define,” he replied immediately. “It’s part of your story. Not your capability.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable — it was full of everything that had already been said and everything still echoing between them. Then, with the same caution he’d shown all along, Aaron slowly opened his arms — a clear offer, not an imposition.
SN hesitated for only a second. A brief, almost imperceptible pause — then she took a small step forward and accepted the embrace. The moment her body met his, Aaron wrapped her up completely, pulling her close with a firm hold that left no doubt — she was safe there. One arm supported her back; the other held her against his chest, as if he meant to protect her from the entire world — even if only for that moment.
SN pressed her face into his chest, breathing in the familiar warmth, the scent, the steady rhythm of his breathing — slowly syncing her own to it. Something inside her finally gave way. Not in uncontrolled tears, but in the deep release of someone who, for the first time in a long while, didn’t need to stay on guard. The embrace anchored her in the present, pushing away the weight of memories that kept pulling her back.
Aaron dipped his head and placed a lingering kiss on the top of her head — a quiet gesture filled with care and affection. His hold adjusted — firm enough to support her, gentle enough not to overwhelm.
“You don’t have to carry this alone,” he murmured close to her ear, his voice low and steady. “And I don’t see you differently. I see you whole.”
SN closed her eyes, breathing deeply, allowing herself to stay there as long as she needed. Not trying to be strong. Not trying to prove anything. Just held.
And in that embrace, the world finally felt lighter.
I am honest to God so sick and tired of going into x reader tags and seeing people complaining about the amount of smut.
We writers are writing what WE want to write and we're posting all of it for FREE. It's our time and energy that goes into our fics and if we want to write porn without plot you had better damn believe that's exactly what we're going to write!
No one is forcing you to click on it and read it. If you don't like it there's so many things you can do to avoid it! Fliter out the tags, block us, just scroll on by! So many of us put warnings at the start so people can avoid things that they don't want to read, the rest is up to YOU, as the reader, to actually read those warnings.
But no! Instead you sit there and complain about there being no angst and fluff meanwhile your blog is literally empty. You're not reblogging what you like, you're not even taking the time to comment on the fics that people work so hard on and telling those writers that you like their stuff and that's exactly why so many don't bother writing angst and fluff! In fact, some don't even turn to writing smut, they just stop posting altogether because what's the damn point?
It's tiring to pour your time and energy into an angst or fluff piece -- whether it's 100 words or 10,000 words -- and get nothing back. Sure you don't have to engage, but no engagment leads many of us to thinking that people don't like/want it because they don't touch it.
Meanwhile the exact opposite happens when smut is posted. People actually engage with smut and it prompts many of us to keep on writing it since there is an active and engaging audience for it. Sure you can say we should "write for ourselves" and many do, but it's simply human nature to want people to engage with the writing we've put so much work into!
And, yeah, a lot of us do just want to write smut for the sake for writing smut and there's literally nothing wrong with that at all because it is OUR time and energy and WE get to decide what we do with it!
We're not content machines ffs. We're not here to make what you want when you want it. Learn to write yourself! Experience how time consuming and HARD it actually is! Especially when you add on real life things like work or college/university or trying to live in a world where living is super fucking expensive.
You could also try commenting on the fics you enjoy! Reblog them with keyboard smashes in the tags or emojis or whatever! Hell, if you don't want to reblog something that badly on a site that's meant to be built on reblogging and sharing your interests since there isn't an actual algorithm here, pop into their askbox and tell them! And if that's still not good enough, if you're still not willing to do that, like I've already said, write your own damn fics! It's what the rest of us are doing!
As someone who writes smut, fluff, light, dark, angst, whatever I feel like, the fics are there. And guess what? So many great writers right now are getting little to no interaction.
Comment. Reblog. Send asks. Encourage. Write what you want. But do not shit on writers for doing what they love and sharing it for free.
Universe: The Mummy (1999) / The Mummy Returns (2001)
Word Count: 1121
Requested: Again, no
Warnings: mention of crying and tattoos. Pregnancy. (Sorry! My baby fever is running hot!) The phrase in italic at the end means that Ardeth said it in Arabic.
If I forgot about anything feel free to write to me. Your wellbeing is important to me!
Summary: The one where the desert wind carries the sound of a heartbeat.
The desert was quiet around them. Outside the tent, the world seemed endless. The candle flickered, casting warm light on his bronzed skin, making shadows dance. She leaned against his chest, listening to his steady breathing — calm, like the wind moving over the dunes. Her heart raced, and every touch of his rough fingers made her nerves tingle.
Ardeth’s hand rested against her back, his thumb tracing patterns against her spine. He didn’t speak. He rarely needed to. The quiet between them was its own kind of language - one built from stolen glances across battlefields and whispered prayers beneath starlight.
She turned her face and nuzzled it into his neck. She inhaled deeply, taking in his smell - connection of warm sand, rich oils and something that was just him. She placed a soft kiss on the column of his throat and a lover on his collarbone. He muttered quietly, shifting slightly and wrapping his arm more securely around her, as if anchoring them both to this fragile moment. She traced her fingers along the line of his shoulder, memorising the feel of him — strong, worn by battle, yet gentled by familiarity. Ardeth lowered his head, pressing a brief, lingering kiss to the top of her hair. She felt the quiet strength of him, the certainty that no storm, no danger, could ever reach them here.
She moved to look at his face. Her hands moved gently against his strong arms. He watched her with his usual serious face, but his eyes were full of gentleness and love. Her fingers moved against his skin, tracing every small scar he got in the years of training and fighting. They come higher and higher, gently scratch his beard, to find their place in his dark curls. She slowly kissed his tattoo on his forehead, then moved to his right cheek and then to his left one. One of his hands rested on her hand, squeezing it with gentleness he found only for her. She let herself rest all her body weight against him, and she brought his face closer to her and connected their lips in a lazy and deep kiss. The kiss lingered, slow and unhurried, a language all their own. She felt the steady pull of his heartbeat, matching her own rapid rhythm, and for a long moment, nothing existed outside the warmth of his arms and the faint glow of the candle. When they broke apart, he rested his forehead against hers, eyes soft and shadowed in the flickering light.
“You know,” he murmured, his voice low and rough with emotion, “there is no one else I would rather have beside me in this world.”
She smiled, letting her fingers linger over the scars and curls she had traced. “Good… Because there is no other person than you for me either,” she whispered. “Through every storm, every battle… it has always been you.”
His thumb traced circles against her wrist, small, almost absentminded gestures that carried more devotion than words ever could. They exchanged a few short kisses, and she closed her eyes, letting herself rest in the steadiness of him.
“My love… Do you ever think about the future? About what is waiting for us?” she asked softly, almost afraid to break the quiet.
He tightened his hold just slightly, a shadow of a smile curving his lips. “Every day,” he admitted. “And always with you in it.” Her hand moved against his body to find his hand and intertwine their fingers.
“Do you think… Do you think there is a place for one more person in that future?”
For a heartbeat, Ardeth didn’t answer. The faint crackle of the candle filled the stillness, its flame trembling as if it too were waiting for his response. He lifted his head slightly, enough for their eyes to meet in the shifting half-light.
“One more person?” he repeated, his voice quiet, careful.
She nodded, her lips curving in a small, nervous smile. “Yes. Someone new. Someone who would make our world a little larger. And happier than it already is.”
His brow furrowed slightly, and for a moment, he searched her face — reading every subtle flicker of expression as though it were a map to truth. Then his gaze softened, understanding dawning slow and deep.
He reached up, cupping her cheek in his hand, his thumb tracing the faint tremor of her lower lip. “You mean…” His voice broke into a whisper, as if the desert itself might listen too closely.
She pressed her palm against his chest, over the steady beat of his heart. “Yes,” she breathed. “There will be three of us now.”
For a moment, he stared, every emotion flickering across his face — disbelief, awe, tenderness so raw it stole her breath. He wrapped his arms around her again, keeping her so close to himself, like she was the last thing in this world. A soft, almost broken laugh escaped him — rare and beautiful. “The gods are merciful,” he murmured against her hair. “They have given me more than I deserve.”
Her eyes stung, but she smiled, wrapping her arms around him, one hand starting to play with his hair “You’d done enough right things to earn it. You saved the world. You protected the people. You deserve all the happiness.”
He pulled back enough to look at her, his expression full of that quiet reverence she had seen only in his prayers. “You are my happiness. And you are merciful. You walk beside me, no matter what fate throws at us. You are giving me a family I dreamed about for so long.” She felt tears gathering in her eyes. She blinked fast, drawing small circles on his scalp. “You carry the light that guides me. And I will do everything to protect you. Protecting this new life.” He whispered into her lips and couldn’t stop himself from kissing her breathlessly.
“I never doubted this.” She whispered between his kisses, wanting him closer than it was probably possible. His hand finally found its place against her stomach. His rough skin met her softness. And for a moment, they stayed like this. Wrapped in the moment of warmth and love that will only expand.
She kissed him again, and he didn’t lose time to gently move them to hover over her. His lips started their way over her body, worshipping every small part of her. She heard him whispering against her skin in Arabic, but she didn’t dare to ask him about the meaning of them. She only remembered repeating “Noor Aini”, but asking could wait. Right now, they were in that sweet bubble. Nothing in the world existed but them, and a little life growing under her heart.
Dictionary:
Noor Aini (نور عيني) - "light of my eyes".
Author's note:
Thank you so much for reading! If it’s not too much trouble, I would love to hear your thoughts about it. Any feedback is greatly appreciated and motivate me to work.
I am sorry about every grammar mistake and misspellings. English is not my first language.
Klaudia 💜
Taglists are always open! If you want to be added fill this up or send me an ask!
🧾 Summary: I woke up smiling. It was my birthday — and for a brief moment, everything felt light. But once I got to work, every empty “hi” and every silence made me feel more and more invisible. What was supposed to be a special day turned into a maze of disappointment. Sometimes, when everyone goes quiet, the pain screams the loudest. And only at the end of the day, when I’d already stopped hoping... came the surprise.
⚠️ Warnings: Emotional angst, feeling of invisibility, vulnerability, comfort and reconciliation.
🔢 Word count: 1,834 words
*The Gif is not mine*
The alarm rang at 6:30 AM, and for a second, I hesitated to get out of bed.
But then I remembered: it was my birthday.
A smile formed on my face before my eyes were even fully open. I love birthdays — not for gifts or big celebrations, but for being remembered. For that effortless “happy birthday” in the hallway, a silly message on my phone, a tiny gesture that said: “you matter.”
I got up excitedly, turned on my favorite playlist, and made the best breakfast I’d had in weeks: pancakes with fruit, strong coffee, and fresh juice. I even put a little artificial flower on the table just to make the day feel extra special.
I got dressed with extra care, grabbed my badge and bag, and left the house with my chest full of hope.
That’s when things started to fall apart.
In the parking lot, Angela rushed past me.
— Morning, S/N! Sleep well?
— I did! You? — I replied, trying to sound cheerful.
— I’m good! It’s gonna be a tough one today, huh? Two robberies on the south side. See you inside!
That was it. No “happy birthday.”
My smile faded a bit. It’s okay. Still early.
In the locker room, Nolan joked about the machine coffee, Celina talked about a new podcast, Lucy rushed past me talking about a training session. Every day, those chats felt warm and familiar. But today... they felt hollow. Distant.
I forced a smile. They’re just distracted. Once the shift starts, someone will remember.
But the shift started… and no one did.
During the briefing, Grey ran through the cases with his usual sharpness. Harper asked tactical questions. And Tim — my partner — didn’t even look at me. Just took notes.
I decided to try.
— Funny how fast time flies, huh? July’s already here. — I said, keeping my tone light.
— Yeah. Half the year’s gone already. — Tim answered, not even glancing up.
— Right? Some dates just feel more… special. — I added, hoping he’d catch on.
— Like Diaz’s arrest anniversary? That’s today. Crazy, huh?
That hit like a slap.
He actually remembered the anniversary of a criminal’s arrest — but not mine.
I swallowed hard, eyes fixed ahead, pretending to focus. But inside, my stomach twisted like something was slowly breaking.
The day carried on. Cases, chatter, traffic complaints, coffee. People laughed and joked. But I… I wasn’t really there. Or maybe I never had been.
Even though Tim noticed my mood shift, he didn’t say a word.
Each passing hour made my chest feel heavier. My eyes stung.
Did they really forget? Am I just… not important to them?
At the end of the shift, I walked back to the locker room with slumped shoulders. My hands trembled as I unbuckled my holster. The mirror didn’t just reflect exhaustion — it showed heartbreak. The quiet kind. The kind that comes from waiting all day for something… that never came.
Then I heard footsteps.
I’d know that walk in the dark: Tim.
I turned, clinging to one last shred of hope.
— Hey… — I said, trying to sound casual even though my heart was screaming.
— I need you to come with me. — he said, his tone serious.
— Now? — I smiled, a flicker of hope lighting again.
— Yeah. It’s about the case from this morning. Grey asked me to show you something.
And just like that, the hope went out.
My throat tightened. His expression was all business — distant.
Just work. It was always just work.
I nodded, swallowing my disappointment. I’d mastered the art of smiling when no one looked. But today… I couldn’t even manage that.
We climbed a floor. Walked in silence. The kind that weighs more than words.
— Is it here? — I asked as he stopped in front of the training room.
He nodded and pushed the door open.
I stepped inside... and froze.
— SURPRISE! — echoed in the air.
The lights were on. Balloons everywhere. A table with a simple cake, snacks, hand-written signs. Angela. Lucy. Nolan. Celina. Harper. Even Grey, wearing the tiniest smirk.
They were all there.
They remembered.
They planned this.
I put a hand to my chest, overwhelmed.
And yet… it still hurt.
Tim stepped up behind me and whispered near my ear:
— You really thought we forgot?
I couldn’t answer. I just looked at him, eyes shining. People came up to hug me, wish me happy birthday, hand me gifts. But everything around me felt distant. My eyes only found him.
— Happy birthday, baby. — he said softly, a guilty smile tugging at his lips. — And… I’m sorry for making you think we forgot.
— I really thought… I really did… — my voice cracked. My chin trembled. — Sorry. I’m being silly. Just ignore me.
I started to step away, but he gently caught my arm.
— Hey. Don’t do that. You don’t have to bottle this up. Nothing you feel is silly. Talk to me. Did you not like the party?
— No… I loved it. I really did. I just… I thought you all forgot.
— I thought you forgot.
— It was awful, Tim. The whole day… waiting for someone to say it. I felt invisible. Like I didn’t matter.
He frowned, visibly hurt. Took my hand and led me to a quieter corner of the room.
— I’m sorry. That was never the plan. I wanted to surprise you, not hurt you. — he said, pain in his expression like my words had actually struck him.
— I know… but it did hurt. A lot.
— I’m sorry if I’m overreacting—
— You don’t need to be sorry. — he interrupted gently. — I know you. You feel things deeply. And that’s never a flaw.
He rested his forehead against mine, slowly.
— You’ve never been invisible to me. Not for one second.
— If I knew this would hurt you… I would’ve done it all differently.
— I just wanted you to feel special. Loved. The way you deserve to be.
— I know… — I whispered. — But even a simple “happy birthday” during the day would’ve been enough.
— I just felt so... small.
He pulled me into a strong hug, not caring who saw.
— Let me make it up to you. Even if it takes all night. — he whispered.
— You can start… by giving me the biggest piece of cake. — I mumbled into his chest.
He chuckled, clearly relieved, and kissed the top of my head.
— It’s yours. Biggest slice in the room. Bradford’s promise.
Oh, I get you 🥺 it’s really sad sometimes when the people we care about forget something that means so much to us. But I just wanted to say that your day is still special, even if the world forgets 💛 you deserve to be remembered.
I apologize if there are any grammar mistakes as English is not my first language.
being an x reader writer and trying to be inclusive of all readers makes me overthink so much like should i write about you having smth with milk in it? no no what if the reader is lactose-intolerant. about the reader being the big spoon? noo what if they wanna be cuddled like a little spoon. about fingers through your hair? noooo what if the person reading it is bald
Summary: When the BAU investigates a series of brutal kidnappings, SN finds herself at the center of the hunt. The prime suspect not only knows her, but was also responsible for destroying her past with Hotch years ago.
Warnings: Contains physical and psychological violence, kidnapping, torture, tension, and suspense.
Word Count: approximately 6,297
Mastelist
The BAU hallway was eerily quiet, as if even the air had learned to hold its breath. The steady click of SN's heels echoed across the tiled floor, each step carrying a tension she tried to hide. She clutched the case report tightly, her fingers pressing down on the paper, immersed in her notes, when she heard Hotch's deep, unmistakable voice calling her name:
"SN, we need to talk."
His voice was firm, authoritative… but there was something in his tone that made the air around him feel heavier, almost oppressive. She took a deep breath, lifted her chin, and stared at him with a controlled expression, hiding any sign of weakness. Ever since they were assigned to this case together, she had made a decision: to keep everything strictly professional.
"We're in the middle of an investigation, Hotch," she replied dryly, without looking away. "Can this wait?"
He took a step forward. His shadow was projected onto the wall, blocking part of the hallway light, and his eyes met hers with an intensity that made her stomach churn.
"Não pode", disse ele com firmeza, quase em tom de advertência. "O sequestrador... ele conhece você."
For an instant, everything seemed to stop. The distant ringing of phones, the murmur of voices in the offices… everything dissolved. The world collapsed under the weight of those words.
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The BAU team was immersed in a disturbing investigation: a man who left a trail of blood and broken families wherever he went. He kidnapped women within a specific age range, all with similar characteristics, but they hadn't yet discovered the exact pattern that led him to choose them.
Each clue raised more questions than answers. The evidence was fragmented, the witnesses traumatized, and his psychological profile oscillated between obsession and revenge. The team raced against time to try to predict his next move before another woman disappeared.
It was in this context that his name came up.
And that was why Hotch stopped SN in the hallway.
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SN felt her muscles lock up for a moment, but quickly regained control.
"What do you mean by that?" she asked, her voice firm, though her heart was hammering in her chest.
Hotch opened the file he was holding, pulled out a photo, and showed it to SN. As soon as her eyes landed on the image, the face imprinted there hit her like a punch in the gut.
Cole Turner.
University. Parties. Laughter.
Insistent stares.
An obsession she'd tried to forget for years.
"It can't be him…" she whispered in disbelief, more to herself than to Hotch.
"It's him," Hotch confirmed, his jaw set. "Not only does he know where you live, but he's been tracking your every move." He paused, his eyes locked on hers. "That makes you vulnerable, SN."
She tried to remain calm, but her heart was pounding so hard it hurt, as if each beat echoed in shock at the discovery.
"Then let's go after him." she replied firmly, clinging to the idea of regaining control.
Hotch took another step forward, further closing the distance between them. When he spoke, his voice was deep, low, laden with something she dared not name, almost like a whisper that enveloped her completely.
“You’re not going anywhere.”
Sun arched an eyebrow, crossing her arms firmly.
“I can take care of myself, Hotch. That’s my job.”
He stared at her, his dark eyes fixed on her, and when he answered, his voice was heavier, laden with something far beyond professional:
“Not when someone’s hunting an FBI agent.”
The tension between them was palpable, almost suffocating, as if the air in the room had thickened. Behind Hotch’s restrained gaze lay much more than concern. There were memories that insisted on resurfacing, there was pain that never healed. And there was a past between them that remained unfinished, lingering in the space between them like a shadow impossible to ignore.
SN took a deep breath, trying to maintain control.
"If this is an attempt to protect me for… personal reasons, Hotch, there's no need."
He closed his eyes for a moment, as if fighting something consuming him inside. When he spoke again, his voice was low, hoarse, almost a whisper that made her breath hitch.
"It's not personal." He paused for a long time, his eyes locking with hers with an intensity that made her shiver. "At least… it shouldn't be."
The silence between them became almost unbearable, so thick it seemed to fill every corner of the room. SN could hear the distant sound of voices coming from the conference room, but in that moment, it was as if the entire world had faded, leaving only the two of them.
Hotch was too close, close enough for her to feel his heat, for the subtle scent of his cologne to reach her, for the tension in the air to almost take shape. Her heart was beating chaotically, and despite her best efforts to maintain her composure, she couldn't ignore how unsettling his proximity was.
For a few seconds, they breathed the same heavy air, trapped in a space that reminded them of everything they'd tried to bury. Then Hotch looked away, as if it were the only way to compose himself, and that gesture, simple as it was, left SN with the painful certainty that there was something between them that still burned—strong, intense, too dangerous to say aloud.
"Let's go to the conference room," he said, returning to his professional tone, but his voice still held something he tried to disguise. "We need to put together an updated profile."
SN nodded briefly, trying to regain focus. But as much as she wanted to keep things on the work front, the name Cole Turner echoed in her mind like an incessant bell. Every memory of college was accompanied by an uncomfortable chill: the persistent glances, the untimely messages, the invitations she'd declined, and… that night he'd crossed the line. SN swallowed hard and forced herself to take a deep breath.
As they walked together to the conference room, Hotch talked about the kidnapper's behavior patterns and possible next steps, but SN could barely process the words. Her heart was racing, and the feeling that something was about to happen began to grow in her chest like a suffocating weight.
When they arrived, the team was already assembled. Reid was talking quickly about statistics, JJ was showing photos of the victims, and Rossi was analyzing maps with notes. Hotch got straight to the point:
"Cole Turner," he said, tossing the file on the table. "SN knew him in college. He has a history of obsessive behavior, and now we have evidence that he's been following her every move."
All eyes in the room turned to SN. She kept her face firm, but her discomfort was evident.
"He was part of my social circle at university," she said, her voice controlled. "He was always... persistent, but I never thought he could be dangerous. Apparently, I was wrong."
"His profile is becoming clearer." “The victim selection is directly related to physical appearance, but there’s also an emotional pattern. They all had some sort of past connection to him… direct or indirect.”
Hotch crossed his arms and looked at SN seriously.
“That means you could be his trigger.”
Her stomach churned. SN took a deep breath, squaring her shoulders.
“Then that’s all the more reason to go after him. Do we know where he is?” she replied, trying to sound firm.
“We don’t know where he is yet, but he’ll probably make mistakes that will lead us straight to him,” Hotch countered immediately. “But you’re staying at BAU headquarters. There’s no discussion about that.”
She glared at him indignantly.
“You’re taking me off the case?!” she said, her voice sharp and her eyes flashing with indignation.
“I’m keeping you alive,” she said, her tone low and sharp, making it clear there was no room for debate.
The atmosphere grew dense, almost suffocating. SN felt the weight of the team's gazes on her, but no one dared intervene. Finally, she let out a suppressed sigh and shook her head, giving in—at least on the outside. But inside, her mind was on high alert. She knew Hotch was there out of concern, not old feelings, and this only increased her frustration: she didn't want anything they'd experienced to interfere with her work. Every decision needed to be rational, every move calculated—because, at that moment, there was no room for distractions.
A few hours later…
Night had fallen over Quantico, and BAU headquarters was plunged into an unusual silence. The team remained gathered in the analysis room, reviewing reports, debating hypotheses, and trying to figure out Cole Turner's next move. The atmosphere was heavy, charged with tension.
SN, after hours without leaving the archives, decided to get a coffee. The floor's machine was broken, so she opted to go to the 24-hour coffee shop across the street, right next to the BAU parking lot.
"Don't go alone," Hotch said as soon as he saw her grab her coat. His voice was firm, but there was something behind it, a shadow of worry she knew well.
"It's literally across the street, Hotch," he replied, crossing his arms. "I'll be there and back in ten minutes."
He stared at her for a few seconds, his jaw set, but finally relented. "Tell me on the radio when you get there."
SN nodded, but deep down she knew he wasn't convinced.
The air outside was cold, biting, and the night seemed darker than usual. The streetlights cast small yellow circles on the ground, leaving large shadows between them. The sound of her heels echoed on the concrete, each step too heavy for someone trying to appear calm.
At the corner of the street, Hotch discreetly slipped out for a smoke—something he rarely did, but used as an excuse to keep an eye out without admitting he was worried. He leaned against the wall, watching the nearly deserted street, and noticed SN enter the coffee shop. Only then did he return inside.
It was only a few minutes. Almost nothing. But enough time...
SN left with his coffee in hand, breathing in the warm aroma that contrasted with the chill of the night. He walked back through the nearly empty parking lot, thinking about the case, trying to reorganize the fragments of the profile.
It was then that she heard it.
A tiny sound.
A metallic crack.
She stopped in her tracks. Her entire body tensed, her senses on alert. She looked around, but saw nothing. She clutched the cup between her fingers and resumed her pace, picking up the pace a little.
Across the street, Hotch, who had returned to the analysis room, heard a hissing, muffled sound, and SN's rapid breathing on the radio. Something in him snapped. Without thinking, he went to the window, searching for her.
It was at that moment that everything happened.
A strong arm appeared behind SN, wrapping around her waist, and another gloved hand clamped over her mouth. The coffee fell to the ground, scattering across the asphalt. She tried to fight back, kicking and struggling, but the attacker was bigger, stronger, and much more prepared. The smell of chloroform invaded her nostrils, burning, suffocating.
Inside, Hotch saw her being pulled to the side of the parking lot, where a black van was parked with its door open. He called her name into the radio, desperate, as he ran down the hallway.
The last sound SN heard before losing consciousness was his deep, desperate voice echoing in the distance:
"SN!"
And then…
Silence.
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The first thing that came back was the pain.
Then, the fear.
SN slowly opened her eyes, her lids heavy, and the world around her seemed to spin. A constant buzzing filled her ears, and her throat felt dry and scratchy, as if she'd swallowed smoke. She tried to move, but her wrists burned violently against the thick ropes that bound them to the back of a cold metal chair.
She took a deep breath, fighting the dizziness, trying to pinpoint where she was. The air was humid, almost sticky, and smelled of rust and mildew. A single lightbulb hanging from the ceiling swayed slightly, casting distorted shadows across the concrete walls. The muffled sound of dripping water echoed in the distance, like a slow, torturous clock.
It was then that she heard it.
A low, deep laugh. Familiar.
The kind of sound that made her stomach churn.
"I always knew we'd meet again someday, SN…"
Her blood ran cold.
Cole Turner.
Her name escaped his lips like a possessive whisper, and a chill ran down SN's spine, forcing her to control her breathing, even though her heart was pounding like a drum. She locked eyes with him, and his face still resembled hers from college—but his eyes were different. Before, there had been arrogance; now there was something worse: a cold, soul-chilling madness.
"You... should be arrested," he managed, his voice low, trying to sound firm.
Cole smiled. It wasn't a human smile; it was tense, sharp.
"Arrested?" He laughed, a dry sound. "Oh, SN... if I'd been arrested, none of this would be so much fun."
He began walking slowly around her, like a predator studying its prey. SN followed him with her eyes, attentive to every step.
"You know those women?" he said casually, almost indifferently. "All those who disappeared? They weren't random choices. They were just... stepping stones. Steps to you."
SN held her breath, her shoulders stiffening. Her fingers gripped the ropes tightly, her entire body tense as if every muscle knew any wrong move could be fatal. Anger and fear mingled in her gaze, which fixed Cole with an almost palpable intensity.
"What… is this all for?" Her voice was broken, filled with indignation and disbelief. "To look at me again? You killed all those women in cold blood," SN swallowed, her chest aching with rage and despair. "Just to get to me? Why? For what reason?"
Cole leaned down, level with her face. The closeness was suffocating, his scent mingling with the fear she tried to hide.
"It's always been about you, SN." His eyes shone with a sick obsession, his voice low and full of resentment. "But… you chose Hotchner."
The name fell from his lips like venom.
SN felt her chest tighten. The memory of the past hit like a wave, mixing anger and pain. Her jaw clenched, her fists pressing against the ropes. She didn't respond with words; her silence spoke volumes: disbelief, anger, fear.
He smiled, interpreting her every gesture as provocation. "Did you think you could simply ignore everything I did? That you could live your life while I watched, waiting for the right moment?" He leaned even closer, his breath hot against her skin. "Every detail, every step... I planned it all. Every woman you know... every life I took... everything was just to make you feel what I felt."
SN swallowed, her eyes watering, trying to maintain control. Every muscle in her body screamed for escape, for reaction, but she knew any false move could cost her dearly.
"You... are crazy!" she finally managed to say, her voice firm but trembling, filled with revulsion and hatred. "And all this... just because you didn't get what you wanted?"
Cole laughed, a low, cold sound that seemed to echo off the damp walls. "Crazy?" he murmured, leaning in, almost brushing her face with his. "No, SN. I'm methodical. Cold. Precise. Every action of mine has brought you to this moment… with me."
The air seemed heavy. SN felt her heart nearly stop for a moment, terror mixed with ancient anger at what happened to Hotch suffocating her. She realized he had no intention of talking or negotiating; every word was a cutting blade, every gesture a veiled threat.
"I need to get out of here… now." The thought burned in her mind, every fiber of her body screaming for freedom, her heart racing and her breath shallow, as fear and urgency mingled into an almost unbearable tension.
"You were always his, weren't you?" she said, her pent-up anger seeping through every word. "He had it all. The career. The respect." The team…" He leaned in closer, his eyes boring into hers, almost piercing her soul. "And you."
SN grimaced, trying to mask the panic rising in her chest, swallowing hard. She wanted to say that Cole never stood a chance, that nothing he planned could change that… but the voice wouldn't come. He could tell, smiling with that venomous arrogance that reminded her of college.
"You know what's worse?" His tone lowered, almost a whisper, filled with hatred and obsession. "The man you would sacrifice everything for... didn't trust you."
She held her breath, her wrists burning against the ropes, her muscles tense. Every second was an internal battle: maintaining her composure, trying not to show fear... but it was impossible to ignore the cold terror emanating from him.
The words hit SN like a punch, and she stared at him in shock. She closed her eyes for a second, searching for strength, trying not to react.
Cole noticed every detail. He wanted this. He wanted to see her break.
"You know that night he broke up with you?" she continued, savoring every word. "I went to him first. I told him we... had a past. I showed him fake photos. Fake messages. I told him every made-up detail." She smiled cruelly. "And the man who claimed to love you believed every word."
Her silence was heavy, but her eyes spoke volumes. Anger. Pain. Contempt.
Cole tilted his head, studying her.
"Deep down, you know it's his fault too." His voice was now sweet poison. "He didn't trust you."
SN swallowed. A lump formed in her throat. The hurt burned, still raw, as strong as it had years ago.
"You..." he said softly, almost a whisper.
Cole smiled, satisfied.
"Yeah... I just finished what Hotchner started." He leaned closer, his fingertips touching her face, and she tried to pull away. "But today... I'm going to make sure he suffers."
SN felt her heart tighten, anger and pain mixing with a sense of helplessness. Each of his words was a blade piercing her chest, reminding her of the abandonment and the past that still burned.
"That's why you're here," Cole continued, his voice dropping even lower, controlling each syllable as if savoring the effect. "So I can finish what he started. So you can feel... what it's like to lose everything."
SN looked away, trying to find some strength, but his every gesture seemed to crush her resistance.
He smiled, leaning dangerously close, his face almost touching hers.
"Every tear you shed... every stifled scream... will be my victory. You feel it, don't you? The fear... the guilt... the anger... all mixed together, consuming you."
He took a step back, just enough to drag SN's chair across the floor with force, making it creak and hurt her already tender wrists. The impact of wood against concrete echoed through the humid space, and she groaned softly, clenching her teeth to keep from screaming.
"You think you can fool me with this false calm?" Cole teased, moving closer again, his hand now firmly gripping her chin, turning her face to face him. "Every muscle in you screams with fear, SN. I can feel it... I can savor every second."
"Please..." she tried to speak, her voice hoarse and shaky. "Just... let me go."
He laughed, a cruel sound that cut through the room like sharp blades. "Let you go? No... I don't let anything slip away. You feel guilty, don't you?" His fingers dug into the skin of her jaw, making her shiver. "Guilt for loving someone who didn't trust you... guilt for believing lies, while you were always faithful."
SN swallowed hard, the heavy air burning her lungs, but she didn't shut up. "It was you!" Her voice cut through the silence like a desperate scream. "You did all this! I... I lost everything because of you!" Cole smiled at her anger, almost as if he relished the torment he was causing. "Exactly. All of this is for him... and for you. I want you to feel every bit of pain I felt. I want every thought you have of him to be torture."
He slapped the back of her hand quickly, the shock of pain searing her nerves. SN gasped, tears streaming, but didn't back down. "I won't..." he began, his voice breaking, "I won't let you get away with this! You'll pay for everything."
"Oh, but no one can save you, you're mine," Cole replied, leaning in, his breath hot on her face. "Every tear, every scream, every fear… everything is mine now."
He pulled her wrists up, twisting the ropes slightly and making her body arch against him in pain. SN screamed, finally letting the sound escape, hoarse and desperate. "Aaah! Stop! Please!" She was exhausted, but the pain wasn't just physical: it was emotional, every memory of Hotch, every moment she thought she trusted, every sense of betrayal he exploited.
"This is just the beginning," he murmured, his blue eyes flashing with madness. "I want you to feel that every decision you made, every choice to trust him… everything has led you here. You know he never truly trusted you, don't you?"
SN shuddered, tears streaming down her face. "I… I don't… I don't deserve this!" she screamed, pain mixed with anger and despair, but her inner strength still fought not to break completely.
Cole smiled, cruel and patient. "Do you deserve it?" He laughed, almost as if her pain were music. "You lived years believing in love, in trust... but all that died that night. And now... it's my turn to teach her true pain."
He held the ropes tightly, applying enough pressure to make her writhe, but without breaking her wrists, prolonging the agony. SN gasped, her fingers struggling against the immobility, her mind spinning with desperation. "No... don't do this to me!" she whimpered, her body trembling, each word a challenge mixed with a plea.
He leaned to the side, whispering in her ear, "All this... everything you feel... is just a warning. Hotch tried to protect you... and failed. I will never fail."
SN closed her eyes, tears flowing freely, feeling small and devastated, but still there, fighting not to give in completely. His every gesture, every word, every touch was a blow—physical and emotional—and yet, within her, a spark of resistance remained, silent, stubborn.
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It felt like hours, days, maybe even weeks. In truth, it no longer mattered—SN felt nothing anymore. Cole had spent endless time torturing her, physically and psychologically. Her throat was raw from screaming and begging for him to stop. Her face was stained with tears she no longer had the strength to hold back. She felt weak, her pulses throbbing with pain with every movement, as if her body itself were giving up.
It was then that she heard it. Footsteps, distant, echoing down the hallway. The sound brought a spark of hope that almost made her lift her head.
Cole, however, merely arched his eyebrows, a cruel smile playing on his lips.
"Looks like we have a visitor…" he murmured, his voice thick with mockery. "But don't think that'll save you. Not yet."
Cole walked to a table and picked up a knife, its blade reflecting the dim light of the warehouse in a menacing glow. His eyes burned with pure hatred, and every muscle in his body felt ready to explode with violence.
The air around him grew thick, almost unbreathable. SN felt her breath catch, her heart racing in an unsteady rhythm that echoed in her ears. A cold sweat trickled down her already fragile skin, and her throbbing wrists trembled against the restraints. It was as if the ice of the metal was already pressed against her, cutting into her skin, before Cole even took the first step.
"FBI! Open this door!"
His gaze changed immediately. Wild. Furious.
Cole yanked SN by the chair, dragging her closer to him, using her body as a shield. The tip of the knife pressed hard against her neck, his breath hot behind her ear.
The door burst open with a bang.
Hotch entered first, gun drawn, his gaze fixed on her. For a moment, the world stopped. His chest rose and fell rapidly, but his eyes… his eyes were pure despair.
"Drop the knife, Cole!" His voice was firm, but charged with tension.
Cole laughed, low, insane.
"Look at her, Hotchner!" he shouted, pressing the blade closer to her skin. "Look what you turned her into!"
Hotch took a step forward, calculating every move. Morgan and Rossi appeared behind him, weapons raised, ready.
SN felt her heart explode in her chest. The air felt too heavy to breathe.
"Drop the knife, now!" Hotch roared. "This ends here."
Cole hesitated, his eyes flickering between SN and Hotch, as if calculating his next steps. The tension in the air was so thick it felt like it crushed his lungs, each second dragging on in suffocating silence.
And then, SN saw the opening. Adrenaline coursed through her veins, drowning out the pain in her injured wrists and the weight of her exhausted body. In a quick, desperate movement, she twisted, using all her remaining strength to throw the chair at Cole's arm. The impact caught him by surprise, knocking him off balance for a moment—but it was all she needed.
Hotch lunged. A blow. A sharp shot. Cole fell to the ground, the knife sliding away.
Rossi handcuffed him. Morgan pulled him away.
But Hotch wasn't looking at Cole. His eyes were only on her. There was something in his gaze that brimmed with fear, guilt, and raw desperation, as if everything else had ceased to exist.
He ran to SN and knelt beside her, undoing the ropes with trembling hands.
"Are you okay?" he asked, but his voice broke, as if each word cost more than he could bear.
SN tried to look at him, but her watery eyes and blurred vision made it impossible to focus. Her skin was cold, her lips trembling, her breathing shallow. For a moment, it seemed she might respond, but then her breath failed her, and her body gave way, collapsing against him.
Hotch held her tightly, as if he could keep her from slipping from his arms. Her heart was beating weakly and irregularly, but he felt each beat echoing against his own chest, fast and desperate, as if he wanted to sustain her life with the strength of his own.
"Stay with me…" she whispered, her voice choked with fear, pleading in a way he never let on. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."
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The harsh white light of the hospital was the first thing SN noticed when she woke. Her heavy eyelids struggled against the brightness, each movement bringing a painful pang. A persistent buzzing echoed in her ears, mingling with the metallic smell that still seemed to permeate her clothes.
Her entire body ached—muscles burning, pulses throbbing with the memory of the ropes, every point of pain reminding her of the violence she had suffered. She tried to move, but a shiver ran down her spine, freezing her. For an instant, her treacherous mind brought back the cold touch of the knife on her neck, the acidic, suffocating smell of chloroform, the feeling of helplessness crushing every rational thought.
Aaron lowered his head, the weight of shame and guilt weighing down every gesture. "I saw you in that room... it felt like the world had ended," he confessed, his voice nearly breaking, hoarse with fear and regret. "I'll never forgive myself."
A heavy silence fell, broken only by the steady beeping of the heart monitor. SN took a deep, slow breath, turning her gaze to him. There was anger, pain, but also vulnerability—the one he knew so well.
"What if you hadn't made it?" Her voice was firm, low, cutting through the heavy air. "What if I had died there, would you know how to live with that guilt?"
Aaron closed his eyes, his jaw tense. When he finally looked at her again, her eyes were moist, burning, full of promise and guilt.
"I couldn't have stood it," he said, his voice heavy, filled with suppressed conviction.
SN turned her face away, letting the tears finally fall, silent and heavy. Aaron wanted to touch her, to pull her into his arms, but he didn't dare. He lay there, motionless, watching every breath, every tremor, as if watching was the only way to ensure she wouldn't disappear again.
SN took a deep breath, trying to compose herself, her body still heavy, as if every muscle remembered her captivity. She didn't want contact, not now. She just needed space, to feel like she could regain control of her own body and mind.
Aaron noticed. His gaze softened, his shoulders relaxing, and he nodded slightly. "I understand," he said, his voice low, firm, but not pressing. "You need space. I won't force anything."
She didn't respond immediately. She just lay there, her chest rising and falling, feeling her own breath. Each second felt like a taut thread, each memory of what she'd been through and almost lost crashing like a wave against her mind.
Aaron sat on the couch beside the bed, quiet, simply observing, offering his presence without invading. Every now and then, he let his eyes rest on her, without saying a word, conveying only that he was there, that he wouldn't disappear. A silent but firm support that seemed to hold the space around her.
"Thank you…" SN's voice finally came out, almost a shaky whisper. She tried to look away, hiding the fragility that still burned inside, but it was impossible to disguise it. "For staying… even without me asking."
He paused, breathing heavily, trying to organize his thoughts, jumbled with anger and relief.
"Just to be clear… I'm still angry with you. But even so… thank you. For not leaving me alone."
The air seemed heavy between them, heavy with everything unsaid, everything that still existed but neither of them dared to name.
Aaron leaned slightly on the couch, taking a deep breath, trying to contain the mixture of relief, pain, and worry that was squeezing him inside. His eyes were wet, shining with everything he couldn't put into words.
"Always," he murmured, his voice firm but thick with emotion. "No matter what happens... I'll stay."
He let his hand rest briefly on hers, a small touch, but full of promise. SN felt his steady presence, the silent certainty that, even amidst the chaos, he wouldn't abandon her, not again.
SN closed her eyes for a moment, resting her forehead on the pillow. Inside, a whirlwind of emotions: fear, anger, relief, and that persistent feeling of vulnerability she desperately tried to contain. But for now, she just needed that silence, that safe space, the simple certainty that he was there, without pressure, without expecting anything in return.
Later that day...
The interrogation room was small, cold, with the harsh glare of a white light that forgave neither shadows nor expressions. Cole was handcuffed to the table, sitting with a posture far too relaxed for someone in his situation. The cynical smile remained, as if all the chaos were just a personal game, and his every move was calculated to provoke.
On the other side of the glass, the team watched in silence. Rossi stood with his arms crossed, his expression firm; Prentiss stood still, but with sharp eyes, alert for any sign of manipulation; Morgan tapped his foot, his impatience evident. And Aaron… Aaron stood still, his body rigid, jaw tense, his eyes fixed on Cole with an intensity that seemed capable of shattering him without a touch.
"He wants you," Rossi said softly, almost a whisper, without taking his eyes off the suspect. "Anyone else coming in will be a waste of time."
Hotch took a deep breath, feeling the air heavy as he opened the door. Each footstep echoed on the cold floor, echoing in the already dense tension of the room.
"Agent Hotchner." Cole said the name like venom, his eyes flashing with malice. "Finally."
Hotch sat across from him, silent. They stared at each other, the tension so thick it felt suffocating.
"You couldn't." Hotch's voice was deep, restrained, like cold steel. "She's alive."
Cole chuckled, tilting his head, his smile thick with wickedness.
"Alive... but marked." Each word was venomous, an invisible blade slicing through the air. "Did you see what I did to her? What she went through... because of you."
Aaron kept his face impassive, but his fists clenched on the table betrayed his internal struggle not to react physically.
"You used her as a weapon because you couldn't get to me any other way," he said firmly, his voice full of restraint.
Cole leaned in, his eyes blazing with a cold, sickening obsession.
"No, Hotchner. She was always the center of all this. Do you think you were my rival? No. You were just the wall between me and her." Taking you down… was just the first step.
Hotch stared at him, every fiber of his body alert, controlling the fury that threatened to explode. Cole smiled, enjoying the silence like a feast, then leaned in, lowering his voice to a venomous whisper.
"And you still haven't realized… that I didn't act alone."
Hotch's heart raced, but he didn't let it show. Every muscle remained tense, alert, as if the mere reaction could cost him dearly.
"You're saying there's someone else involved," he stated instead of asking, trying to control his breathing and the impact of the revelation.
Cole smiled slowly, almost triumphantly, his eyes shining with dark satisfaction.
"You're the best at profiling, aren't you? So tell me, Hotchner… who do you think opened the doors to the FBI for me? Who do you think helped me get to her?"
The silence that followed was absolute, cutting. Every word hung in the air like a threat. If what he said was true, there was a traitor within the agency itself—and the thought made every muscle in Hotch tense even more.
Cole leaned back in his chair, the smile of victory still on his face.
"I warned you... this was never just about me..."
☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆
Nota da autora: Acho que esta é a história mais longa que já escrevi! Espero que gostem e sintam-se à vontade para compartilhar suas opiniões. Só um lembrete: inglês não é minha primeira língua, então pode haver alguns erros de tradução.
Summary: While on a call, the reader and her TO Tim run into a deadly situation...
Pairing: Tim Bradford x reader
Word Count: 2,400ish
Warnings: language, accidental drugging, near death experience, a little sneaking around behind the boss' back
A/N: I love the way this one turned out so much. We all need a little near death in our romance, right?...
A white powder flew all through the air, a fan spreading it your direction and fast, Tim wide eyed from the other end of the far hallway. You waved him off and he dragged out your suspect as you ran the opposite direction for a back door to the house. With a swift kick, you got a door open but it only lead to an bedroom. Fuck, you had to leave and now.
Something tickled your nose as you bolted over to a window, a strong heavy feeling settling in your bones like when you took allergy medication. Except this was coming on too fast and you couldn’t even get a hand on the latch before your legs were crumbling down.
Shit, you were going to die here. On the floor of some drug manufacturing house. Meanwhile Tim would use you as an example for his next boot, probably make them read all the police reports about your death.
Ah fuck, and you’d never even gotten to see the grumpy bastard laugh at one of your stupid puns you tried to win him over with every morning.
You slumped down on the floor as a pounding rang through your ears, sleep overtaking you.
Tim POV
“Y/L/N!” I shouted out in the front yard, kneeling over the suspect laying face down. “Y/L/N!”
“That shit will kill a fucking elephant. She’s long gone,” he said. I kneed him in the back, shoving him down.
“She dies, that’s murder,” I said, radioing to back up before I took a few deep breaths and then sprinted inside. She’d been in the back so I ran that direction, white powder still coating the air. I didn’t dare breathe that shit in. There was a door propped open but it was stuck, cockeyed. I rammed my shoulder into it, once, twice, the thing finally flying open and hanging half off the hinges.
No. No. No.
Y/N was passed out on the floor and even from here I could see her chest wasn’t rising.
Hurry, hurry.
I bent down and picked her up, running down the hall and back outside with her, laying her down on the grass.
Narcan, fucking Narcan.
I reached into my belt and sprayed it up her nose, her body staying still. “Come on, come on.”
Off of her belt I pulled out three more from a pocket. Jesus christ but I was not about to be mad about her over-preparedness right now. Three seconds later, another spray was up her nose, Y/N limp.
“No,” I growled, shoving down on her chest hard. “Goddamit, you wake the fuck up right now!”
I shoved another spray and then her last one into her nostrils before forcibly pressing down, trying to make her heart start up again.
Nothing.
“You’re not fucking dying!” I slammed my fist down, Y/N’s eyes flashing open as she sucked in air like a balloon. “Hey, hey,” I said, pulling her to sit up against me, Y/N coughing violently. “Breathe, just breathe.”
She was rag doll like, barely with it, her head lolling straight into the crook of my neck.
“Shhhhh,” I murmured, tucking her under my chin as her body tried to remember how to breathe normally. “S’okay. You’re alright.”
She passed out again but her breathing stayed steady, my arms holding her from going anywhere.
Thank fucking god.
Reader POV
A knock on the door of your hospital room had you turning your head, Tim entering with a stuffed bear in one hand, a styrofoam box in the other. You grinned wide and sat up in bed, Tim already scowling as you made grabby hands. “Aw, you like me, Bradford. Admit it.”
“I feel sorry for your pathetic ass,” he said, shoving the bear under your arm and resting the container in your lap.
“Oh yes, such a big meanie you are,” you said, flipping open the lid and humming. “A giant box of cheese covered fries. You know the way to a woman’s heart.”
He tossed a plastic fork on the bed, watching you chow down like he was visiting a zoo for the first time. “Jesus christ, girl.”
“I haven’t eaten since breakfast yesterday,” you said with your mouth full, shoving food in faster. It took an alarmingly little amount of time to polish it off, Tim shaking his head the whole time. You groaned when you finished, running a hand over your stomach. “Ah, that’s a good food baby.”
“Genuine question,” he asked, taking a seat on the edge of your bed. “Are you high?”
“Nope, just don’t have the energy to put on a fucking professional image right now,” you said, tilting your head at him. “Oh. My parents will be nominating you for sainthood or knighthood, all the hoods basically. Pretty sure they’d adopt you if they fucking could for saving me.”
“I’ve been informed,” he chuckled. “I ran into them in the hall. They seem like good people. No idea where they went wrong with you.”
“Wow, we got a comedian over here. Don’t quite your day job, pal.” He let his mouth twitch up, eyes searching your face for something. “So how was the waiting room all night?”
“Pft, you think I’d stay the night for you? You were fine.”
“Right, right,” you said, nodding your head. “I’m sure my parents talked to another LAPD Sergeant Bradford randomly all throughout the night. I’m sure they totally didn’t offer to let him come sit in here but he didn’t want to intrude on our family time so my mom totally didn’t smack him upside the head before she went and had a middle of the night dinner with him in the cafeteria. None of that totally happened, right?”
“Exactly,” he said, removing your tray and setting it off to the table at the end of the bed. “Your parents finally head to their hotel?”
You hummed, fiddling your hands in your lap. “They said it wasn’t PCP. I can still be a cop.”
“I know,” he said quietly.
“Tim, I watched the bodycam footage.” His whole body tensed, your eyes drifting away. “Grey let me watch when he stopped by last night. I…thank you-”
“Y/N,” he warned, your face meeting his again, a strange hardness set into his jaw.
“Thank you for not giving up on me. It looked…bad.” He sighed, that look in his eye he got when he was about to scold you. “And thank you for being my friend even though you say we’re not friends cause you’re my TO and I’m just your boot and all that but thank you for staying the night with my parents and for the greasy food and this gift shop bear. I’ll try to only call you an asshole a half dozen times a day from now on.”
He shook his head, hips lip curling up. “The thanks I get for saving your life. What a reward.”
“I am known for my generosity.” A deep laugh echoed in the room, your eyebrows launching sky high. “Wow, I don’t think I’ve ever heard that before.”
“Maybe you’re just not funny unless you’ve had a near death experience,” he said, a smug smile on his face.
“That must be it.” You sucked your bottom lip in, releasing it slowly. He carefully set a hand down on top of yours, giving it a soft squeeze. “You were scared I died.” He nodded. “Are you going to make me run laps around the shop if I ask for a hug?”
“Stop using humor to deflect,” he said softly. “Now ask that again.”
“I almost died,” you whispered, Tim nodding. “I would have if…did I make a mistake?”
“No. You did everything right and sometimes, shit still goes wrong. You’re alive because you carry more than is the norm for Narcan. I know you do that despite it being more to carry because fundamentally, you do this job to help people. Some sign up to catch bad guys. I don’t like those rookies. I like the ones that do this for the right reasons. So your kindness is what saved you. You helped saved yourself which is a pretty incredible thing for someone on the job only eight months.”
“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me which means you were probably really really scared too.” He nodded again, scooting closer when you sat upright and towards him. You wrapped your arms around him, Tim returning it, tucking you into his chest. “Would you have been mad if I’d died?”
“At myself. You’re still learning and my job is to protect you too. I’d be pretty fucked up for a long time but no, never mad at you.” You squeezed your eyes shut, inhaling sharply against his jacket. “Are you trying not to cry?”
“No, it’s…I don’t remember waking up but I remember that smell, your cologne. I knew it was you and I’d be okay.” You inhaled again, realizing just how weird you were being. But when you tried to pull back, Tim held you there, your back stiff. “I’m sorry for how awkward of a human being I am.”
“You? Awkward? Noooo,” he exaggerated, ignoring your apology.
“Tim-”
“Just feel safe for five fucking minutes without putting on a brave face for your parents, boot.” You rested your chin on his shoulder, his hand rubbing up and down your back. “Better?”
“Better,” you breathed out, letting yourself finally relax for the first time since you entered that damn hospital.
Two Years Later
“Move it, boot,” said Tim, coming up behind Mandi after role call. “Shop better be set up in two minutes or I’ll make you walk behind it today. And refill your fuckin’ Narcan in your belt after yesterday.”
“Yes, sir!” she said, taking off with her usual bright smile that had you stifling a laugh, Tim watching on with dread.
“It’s been three months and that girl still fucking smiles at me. What is wrong with her?” You patted his shoulder, feigning a frown.
“Aw, big bad TO isn’t so tough with his boot anymore, is he?” you teased. His jaw clenched in that way you knew that had pissed him off and it delighted you tenfold.
“I have failed every boot I’ve gotten since you. I wouldn’t call that nice,” he said, impervious to your smile.
“Well, it’s not their fault they can’t live up to my standard,” you said, winking at him. He groaned, throwing his head back. “She’s a morning person, Tim. You’re a night owl. Of course she irritates you.”
“You irritated me. She is…bubbly,” he said, shuddering at the word. “Cops can’t be bubbly.”
“Right, right,” you said, smirking at him, his brow furrowing. “Am I irritating you now?”
“Constantly. You look particularly evil in this moment though.” You grinned wider, TIm eyeing you up and down. “What are you up to?”
“Oh, nothing,” you said, clasping your hands behind your back, twisting your hips. “Nothing, nothing, nothing.”
“You’re freaking me out, Y/L/N. Spit it out.” You pulled open your back flap, and took out two items, pulling them around front in each hand, holding them up. “Why are you showing me Sergeant stripes?”
“Because as of 8:01 this morning, you are looking at Mid-Wilshire’s newest fucking Sergeant,” you grinned. He stared at your face, his doing that blank thing it did when you broke his brain a little.
“If this is a prank-”
“No prank. You are officially no longer in my chain of command.” You set the stripes down on the table, Tim’s eyes wide. “No more sneaking around.”
“Thank fucking god,” he said before crashing his lips to yours. You barely had your mouth open before a throat cleared, both of you jumping apart when Grey poked his head inside. You both turned, most of the office staring at you through the conference room glass before an obnoxious chorus of cheers echoed throughout the bullpen.
“I’m going to pretend that you two have never done that before,” said Grey, shooting you a glare. “Fill out the paperwork that you’re dating before you leave. Sergeant Y/L/N.”
“Yes sir,” you said, Grey rolling his eyes before leaving you alone. You squealed up at Tim, pecking his lips with a kiss. “Ah, I’m so happy I passed!”
“I for one want to know who you blackmailed into letting you take the Sergeant’s exam so early in your career,” he said, taking your hands, smirking while you twisted your hips again. “And you didn’t tell me you were studying, little rascal.”
“Remember how a few months ago I saved that girl who got roofied at a bar? Yeah um, turns out she’s the mayor’s daughter so…I got a golden ticket and I used it to be allowed to waive the years of service requirement for the test. Grey said I came in first which I don’t know if I believe but long story short, they created a second Sergeant’s position on day shift. Just for little old me. It pays to be friends with the powerful.”
“God, you’ve never been hotter.” You smirked when he picked you up, a camera shudder filling the room just as you kissed. Tim glared in the direction, Angela waving with an evil grin from the back doorway. “Angela!”
“It can be your Christmas card, Timothy,” she cackled before wandering away and you were sure you’d have the picture in your inbox within thirty seconds. You patted his arm, Tim’s smile returning fast.
“You could have used that golden ticket for anything,” he said. “And you picked me?”
“A shocking development wanting to openly date my boyfriend of a year and a half, I know,” you said, spotting Mandi heading back towards the conference room out of the corner of your eye. “Later, Sergeant. Be nice to your boot.”
“Sergeant,” he said proudly, something so innocent and boyish about him. “Be safe today.”
“You too,” you said softly, his cologne lingering in the air, a moment of calm washing over you like it always did when you caught a whiff of it. “See you at lunch?”
Summary: In the stillness of the hospital, she tries to hide the pain eating her from the inside. But when he stays, she realizes maybe she doesn’t have to be strong all the time. And that changes everything.
Warnings: Intense emotional content | Themes of vulnerability and healing | Hospital setting | Possible emotional distress triggers
Word count: approximately 800
The hospital room was silent, except for the soft beeping of the heart monitor and the gentle patter of rain against the window.
I was lying there, my body still aching—my pride even more so. Aaron sat beside me, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped together. He looked tense. He looked tired. But he wasn’t leaving. Not since they brought me here.
I opened my eyes slowly, staring at the blank white ceiling. I didn’t want to look at him. I didn’t want to see that look he always gave me when I got hurt—a mix of anger and worry, as if it was his fault he couldn’t stop it.
“You should get some rest,” I murmured.
“No,” was all he said.
I closed my eyes again, trying to hide the ache in my chest. Not the physical one. The other kind.
“I’m fine.”
Silence. Then, the scrape of the chair moving. The weight of him leaning against the side of the bed. His warm hand covering mine, firm yet gentle.
“You always say that,” he said.
I didn’t answer.
“You always say you’re fine. Even when you’re bleeding. Even when you’re shaking on the inside. You think you have to carry it all alone.”
I squeezed my eyes shut, fighting the tears threatening to fall.
“And maybe you’ve spent your whole life having to be strong,” he continued, his voice low but steady. “But now… you don’t have to be that way all the time.”
He lifted my hand to his lips and kissed it, slow and deliberate.
“Not with me.”
That sentence broke something inside me—like an old crack finally giving way. I turned my head toward him, and our eyes met.
“If I let you… will you stay?”
He was silent for a long moment. His hand still cradled mine with an impossible gentleness, as if he was afraid to break me—not on the outside, but inside.
Aaron looked at me with that quiet intensity that said everything he didn’t put into words. And then came the sentence that cut through my defenses like a sharp blade, yet as soft as a whisper:
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Simplicity is the ultimate sophistication. And right now, I just want to be simple for you: to be here, to stay, to not disappear. You can trust that.
It was like time stopped. I blinked fast, trying to clear the sting in my eyes. My throat tightened. My chest hurt in a way that wasn’t new—an old ache. A collection of nights swallowing tears, of days pretending to be unshakable, of years carrying the weight alone.
“You shouldn’t say that,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “Because if I believe you…”
My voice broke.
Aaron leaned a little closer until his forehead touched mine, his gaze locked on me.
“Believe me. I’m here. I see you. All that strength. All that pain. And I’m not going anywhere.”
I closed my eyes, but it was too late. The first tear escaped—silent, warm, tracing down the side of my face, betraying the walls I had kept up for so long.
He didn’t say anything. Just lifted his other hand and brushed it away with his thumb.
I let out a small sob, like I was apologizing for finally breaking. Like I didn’t know what to do with someone who simply stayed. Who asked for nothing. Who didn’t flinch in the face of the chaos.
“I’m so tired of being strong all the time…”
He carefully pulled me into his arms, holding me against him like it was where I’d always belonged. The warmth of his embrace, the steady sound of his heartbeat, the safety of something I wasn’t sure existed anymore… it was too much.
And I cried. Without shame. Without resistance. Without a mask. I just let it go.
Aaron held me like someone holding the world as it fell apart. Like someone who understood that sometimes the greatest act of courage is letting someone take care of you.
And that night, in the silence of a hospital room, I discovered that I could still be strong… even when I allowed myself to be weak in the arms of someone who never stopped seeing me as whole.
