Could I get a little one shot with a Pedro boy in the Tardis with the Doctor? Maybe Din? Imagine Din trying to understand the Tardis! 😆 I'm also pretty sure Captain Jack and Oberyn would get on like a house on fire!
A/N: Mel, my dear, this ask has had me listening to Murray Gold's soundtrack all evening. Specifically the track "Tooth and Claw" for some reason! That being said, it has resulted in a short (by my standards, anyway) one-shot, as requested! Also, the mind races at the thought of Captain Jack and Oberyn. Consider that one pencilled in...Enjoy!
Bess xx
Dancing at the Edge of Disaster
11th Doctor x Din Djarin x F!Reader
Teen & Up / T+ / 13 + (Some swearing, mild affection)
Wc: 2.8k
Tags: Ship breakdown, canon-typical silly behaviour from The Doctor, reader insert, non-sexual but we still fancy Din Djarin in this house, helmetless Din.
Landing inside the Razor Crest, Din enlists your help to get his ship moving through hyperspace again.
A03 Link | Masterlist
The TARDIS shook as The Doctor landed it, but you clung to the railings for a beat longer out of slight fear.
“What the hell happened? Where are we?” you asked. The Doctor straightened up, heading over to the panel above the controls to get a reading.
“It…it doesn’t say,” was all he said, running a hand through his hair, panic setting in. “It looks like we’ve been forced to land, though.”
“That explains the rough landing,” you said, finally letting go and heading over to him to read the panel yourself. But all the information you were used to reading was absent, and in its place was a dark screen.
“Can we take off?” you asked. The Doctor reached out and flicked a few switches, frantically pulled levers, but alas it was to no avail. He shook his head before loosening his bowtie; a telltale sign that he was stressed, and in way over his head.
“No, she-,” he caressed the console, “she’s locked herself down”.
“So we have no choice but to find out where we are?” you asked, slightly giddy. The last time the TARDIS had needed to make an emergency landing like this you’d ended up in an entirely new pocket universe, and had spent four days on some of the most beautiful planets you’d ever seen in your time travelling.
The Doctor, usually ever enthusiastic, pressed his lips together firmly, then pointed at you.
“You,” he began, walking up to you, “should not be this happy about what is potentially a massive cock up,” he said. You giggled, closing the gap and re-tying his bowtie, trying to calm him down.
“Relax, Doctor. It will be fine,” you said, “Come on, let’s-”.
A loud bang at the door changed your tune rather swiftly, and you found yourself grasping his hand on instinct. He took yours in his, before guiding you behind him, further away from the door.
“Nothing can get through that…right?” you asked. The Doctor gulped, then shook his head.
“It’s rare, but…some things can. It all depends on what’s on the other side of that door”.
But your questions were soon answered as the TARDIS doors flew open. With a loud bang, they smashed against the walls behind them, and you flinched as a cloud of smoke billowed in through the open door. Evidently someone had been using something externally to break into the doors, and you’d only heard the bang once they’d deactivated the shield.
Tensing his hand in yours, The Doctor removed his sonic screwdriver from his jacket and activated it, trying to get a reading on anything that might be approaching. You didn’t fully understand the technology at hand, but you knew enough to ascertain that it certainly wasn’t about to act as a weapon. Your eyes darted around the control room for anything that could be useful for self defence, but with the exception of a fire extinguisher on the lower deck, there was nothing. Being a pacifist was a very attractive quality in The Doctor, but it did rather metaphorically shoot you in the foot when it came to things like this.
The screwdriver came back with a reading, but not in a language either of you had a hope of understanding. The Doctor hit the shaft of the tool on the console, hoping it would recalibrate itself, but to no avail. You were trapped in your own ship, unable to leave, not knowing what was coming next.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, turning to face you, “This is my fault”.
“Save the apologies for later, Doctor,” your heart pounded as you watched a figure enter the TARDIS in your peripheral vision, “We’ve got company”.
The Doctor turned his head and watched as a man entirely in silver entered the TARDIS; heavy boots clanging against the metal floor as he walked in. He held some kind of gun in his hand, and his entire body was covered in a dark material, adorned with metal plates acting like armour. If you had indeed fallen into another universe, you assumed that before you was a warrior, whom you didn’t even know if you’d be able to communicate with.
Fantastic.
The man walked a few paces in, but soon that nervousness you felt in their presence dissipated. The familiar confusion of someone unaware of the TARDIS mechanics walking in for the first time, and desperately trying to piece together how a ship could possibly be bigger on the inside than the outside.
You couldn’t help but chuckle as the man pivoted on his axis, turning in all directions to gaze at the interior, his lack of understanding evident even without seeing his face. The Doctor grinned with you, noticing how your grip on his hand lessened with each passing second. He was just glad you were alright…
“What the Kriff,” came a modulated voice from the mystery man before you. Now, it was The Doctor’s time to shine.
“She’s a beauty, isn’t she?” he said. The metal man’s head whipped back in your direction, almost startled that he knew how to speak. You wondered, depending on where he was from, if he wasn’t expecting the two of you to sound so similar to him.
“Oh, good, you speak Basic,” was all he said as he holstered his weapon, before tentatively walking over towards you.
“Basic?” you queried to yourself in a whisper, before realisation dawned that ‘Basic’ would just be this man’s language. At least the TARDIS’ translation system was still up and running, even if nothing else was.
“Listen, I’m sorry to intrude, but I need your he- wow how big is this vessel?” the man replied as he stepped up to the console, his helmeted head still gazing around.
“I believe we may need your assistance as well,” The Doctor said, before outstretching his free hand, “I’m The Doctor, captain of this ship. This one behind me is my companion,” he said, introducing you to the man by name. You smiled over at him and watched as the two men shook hands, thankful that was a universally recognised gesture for friendliness and introduction.
“I’m Din. Din Djarin,” he said, “What is this place?”.
“Well, before I answer that, I’d like to ask where we landed. And, more importantly, why you’ve grounded my ship,” The Doctor said, finally releasing your hand from his and turning his attention to the console, “And, while you’re in my house, it’s rather rude to not take your hat off,” he joked, leaning forward and tapping the man’s helmet.
“I took a vow. I shall not show my face,” Din explained.
“Why’s that?” you asked, feeling braver, and intrigued by this man.
“I’m a bounty hunter by trade. Never revealing my identity keeps me safe.”
“Can’t argue with that,” you shrugged.
“Very well,” The Doctor smiled, “So, back to my question. Where are we?”.
Din gave some co-ordinates that seemed unfamiliar to you both - their format was entirely different to anything you’d ever seen, which made you see that you were in fact in another universe entirely.
“Your ship landed in mine. I locked it down with carbonite clasps and then worked on getting inside, assuming you were pirates trying to rob me. Figured I’d get to you first,” Din explained.
“Well, I can safely say we are not that at all. Just two travellers who have somehow crossed over the space-time continuum barrier…again,” you said, throwing subtle shade at The Doctor who simply rolled his eyes.
“Will you shut up,” he teased back, leaning over to ruffle your hair. Din coughed softly, not wishing to intrude but being a man of efficiency he had very little time for pleasantries.
“Yes, my good man! So, what can we help you with?” The Doctor asked.
“My ship; she’s compromised. Now I am satisfied that neither of us are intending to harm the other, I am curious if there may be anything aboard your vessel which could get mine back up and running?” he asked.
“What’s the problem with it?” you asked.
“My shields. They got damaged recently, and until they’re fixed I cannot go into hyperspace. Without that function, I don’t have enough fuel to make it to the next engineer's port. In a way you two arriving on board was somewhat of a miracle - if you can help me?”
The TARDIS had always been good at getting you where you were needed; even if that wasn’t where you necessarily wanted to be. The Doctor smiled at Din’s explanations, knowing that his own ship had done just that once again, including breaking some serious rules of time travel to do so. Whoever this man was was clearly destined for so much more if the universe - any universe - knew him staying alive was of paramount importance.
“I’m sure we can. Show me to your ship!”.
Din led you both out of the TARDIS and into his own ship - The Razor Crest. Inside felt like an aircraft carrier with how large it was. It was hard to believe that he piloted this ship on his own. You remained downstairs while Din showed The Doctor upstairs to the cockpit and to show him what repairs he needed.
Within minutes a flash of tweed ran past you, The Doctor’s excitable and child-like charm taking over. It wasn’t often he was tasked with fixing anything as complex as the Razor Crest, with maintenance to his own ship seemingly not being as interesting anymore. Then again, after 1100 years of looking after the same piece of equipment, you imagined that it must all feel routine nowadays.
You and Din stepped back inside and watched from the sidelines as The Doctor rifled through boxes of parts, determined to find something so specific.
“Is he always like this?” Din asked, his arms folded and body leaning against the wall of the TARDIS. You chuckled, nodding.
“More often than not,” you said.
“Aha!” The Doctor exclaimed, pulling a mass of wires and parts out of the box.
“Got what you need?” you asked, to which he excitedly hurried over with a grin on his face.
“Yep! Din, are you happy for me to go ahead and make a start on repairs?” he asked.
“Of course. Thank you, kind sir,” Din said.
“Don’t mention it, seriously. I’ll leave you in my companion’s capable hands here. Don’t worry, she doesn’t bite!” The Doctor teased, too excited to even consider waiting for anyone to join him before he’d bolted out the door.
“I’m sorry about him. He does rather love the maintenance aspect of piloting a ship. And yours is new, and different. I’ll probably be hearing about this for weeks,” you chuckled, heading into the main hub of the TARDIS now that The Doctor had gone.
“Then I’m sorry too,” Din said, and you could have sworn that you heard a faint chuckle beneath that helmet.
“So, while we wait, what do you say? A tour of the place?” you offered.
“There’s more?!”
You guided Din through the halls of the TARDIS, showing him anything you think he may find interesting or unique - everything from control rooms, the mechanics beneath the main control room, right down to the library. Of course, the one with the swimming pool.
He stood bewildered at everything you showed him, unable to comprehend the technology that went into this ship. He asked about it, how it came to be, and while you weren’t the most clued up on the hows and the whys, you were able to give him enough information about Time Lord technology that it seemed to satisfy his curiosity. Clearly extra-terrestrial life was less of an unfamiliar concept to him as it was to you, a human, as he seemed not the slightest bit phased at the concept of a man from another world.
“Living out in space would certainly be a damn sight more comfortable in a ship like this,” Din said as you returned to the main console room. You smiled, then leant on the control panels to face him.
“It’s not bad, especially considering we can be gone for real-life weeks at a time,” you said, watching Din as he began admiring the main console’s many buttons and levers.
“Try months,” he chuckled, “What does this do?” he said, pointing to a lever. You chuckled to yourself.
“That’s just the parking sensor,” you said.
“Seriously?,” you nodded, “Okay, what about…this?” he pointed to another switch.
“That one’s labelled! Read it yourself!” you teased. Din cleared his throat.
“Ah, so it is. Apologies, my visor…not the easiest thing to see out of.”
“So, take it off? Just while you’re in here,” you said, “We’ve already established I’m not even from your universe. Surely that’s a loophole in itself?”. Din laughed to himself, then shrugged.
“You actually make a good point. Besides, it would be so good to see what that beautiful face of yours actually looks like properly,” he said, and you felt yourself burning with embarrassment at the same time.
“Din!” you laughed, “Do they teach you to be so cheeky with women where you’re from?” you asked. Din shook his head, before lifting his hands to the rim of his helmet. It hissed faintly as he pushed upwards, removing it entirely, revealing the man beneath.
Oh, my stars.
“I don’t know,” came his unmodulated voice, “Did they teach you to be so gorgeous where you’re from?”.
“Good genes,” you winked, smiling as you observed him. Distinct jawline, a slight bit of scruffy facial hair, dark brown curls, and a nose you could only compare to that of a Roman God’s. It was a shame he spent his life hiding, to be fair.
Din resumed looking over every aspect of the control panel, tentatively sliding levers and pushing buttons (with your guidance, of course) to get a feel for the ship and trying desperately to understand its technology. You admired his amazement with every explanation of what each element did, and for a brief moment he appeared to be shades of your Doctor. That wonderment, the child-like fascination; you wondered if it was in all male, humanoid species, or if you’d just been lucky enough to find two men so similar in their interest, yet polar opposites in every other way.
Soon, The Doctor returned. Bounding up the stairs to the control panel, he greeted you with a soft kiss to the cheek, his arm snaking around your waist - a small affection which had become more prevalent as of late. You smiled at his touch, then laughed as he paused, pointing towards a now helmetless Din.
“What changed your tune?” he asked.
“Your companion here,” Din nodded towards The Doctor’s arm wrapped around you, “made the argument that as we’ll never cross paths again, there was no real harm. That, and I wanted to be able to read and understand as much of this ship as possible. This really is such an amazing vessel you have. Part of me wishes I were a pirate so that I might take some parts for my own use…,” he joked.
“She’s the best. I trust you’ve been given a guided tour?” The Doctor asked. Din nodded, grinning.
“I gotta find a way to get a swimming pool in my ship,” he chuckled, “Speaking of, were you successful in your repairs?”.
“Yes! She’s all up and running, your shield systems are back online!”.
“That’s brilliant, thank you. I’ll be on my way then - not before unclasping you, though,” Din said, reaching for his helmet, “Is there anything I can do to repay you for your kindness?” he asked.
You both shook your heads. This is what you did; and it’s why you travelled together. Making a difference, one place at a time.
“There’s no need, Din,” you said, “Just take care of yourself?”.
Din nodded, taking one last look around the TARDIS before putting his helmet back on, and heading towards the door. The two of you waved over at him as he stepped outside, closing the door behind him.
As Din deactivated the carbonite clips from the TARDIS exterior, the ship wobbled inside, clearly trying to take off. The Doctor practically fell on top of you as it did, his gangly legs doing nothing to stop himself from stumbling.
“Sorry!” he said, moving himself from pressing into you on the console, watching as all you managed was to laugh at him.
With the TARDIS free, you managed to set off back towards your own universe. However you’d fallen through into this galaxy, you figured the ride back out into your own was going to be a rocky one.
“I’d hold onto something,” The Doctor cautioned you, clinging himself to the control panel as he steadied the TARDIS in preparation to punch through out into deep space.
“A bit rich coming from you, no?” you teased given his earlier fall, but heeding his warning.
“Shut up!” he laughed, before pushing the main control lever up and setting in motion a violent descent back to your own universe. The TARDIS hummed into action, the familiar sound of her dematerialising whirring in your ears before the engines fired up and began forcing their way out of this galaxy.
🌪️ Chapter Summary: April 4th, twenty-twenty-something: the day you thought would never end finally comes to a close.
🌪️ Pairings: Fem!Earthling!Reader x Din Djarin
🌪️ Word Count: 11.3k
🧡 Author's Note: Apologies for the delay with this chapter. Real life/adulting is a lot, and then I got sick on top of that. So, to express my gratitude for all the love, I present to you 11.3k words of fluff and a sprinkle of backstory.
AO3 Link to Ch 8
Chapter 8: Regular Ole Humans
April fourth, twenty-twenty something
"Dorothy?" Din's tentative whisper came as the orange sun kissed the horizon, bathing the land in a soft, warm, orange-pink glow.
You heard his words, but now that the crisis was seemingly over and the adrenaline was beginning to fade, you were left a trembling, terrified mess who couldn't stop crying.
"I got shot," you eventually managed to sputter. Hell, those were the only words you could process in the moment.
"I know," Din murmured as his thumb gently stroked your knuckles. "Let's get you fixed up," came his quiet words of encouragement.
Shot.
I got shot.
The words tumbled over themselves on repeat.
Shot.
On your own property.
Never in your wildest dreams would you have ever imagined that there would come a day that you would be the one taking a gunshot - err, phaser shot to the leg. You were a nurse. You treated gunshot victims. It wasn't supposed to be the other way around. Not only did you get shot, but you'd been shot by a fucking evil robot from fucking outer space.
What were the odds of that happening?
You had been shot.
Your Spaceman was still beside you, still holding your hand, staring at you with brown eyes full of concern, probably thinking you were being overly dramatic. He was a fucking bounty hunter from outer space with his own phaser. Blaster, you corrected yourself. He was probably wondering why you were hysterical. Getting shot was probably a daily occurrence for him.
However, that wasn't the case for you.
You never wanted getting shot at to be normal for you.
None of this was normal for you - Strangers getting dropped by a tornado and ruining your pickup, black Death Troopers, getting shot.
Oh, and don't forget about the tiny green alien that was currently strapped to your chest.
You'd been shot by an alien robot with an alien baby strapped to you.
With unfocused eyes, you started to wonder if that strange blue-green lightning that lit up the sky moments before it dropped the intergalactic version of the Tin Man from the Wizard of Oz on your truck had struck your pickup instead. That must be it. You'd been electrocuted or picked up by the tornado and were stuck in a coma or something. That would make more sense than the scenario you found yourself in.
"Dorothy?" your Spaceman tried again, almost hesitantly, after you didn't respond to his earlier offer of getting you fixed up. "C'mon, let's get you inside." He tugged on your hand, and you allowed yourself to be pulled from your prone position to sit beside him on the dirt ground.
You sat there in a daze, knowing that you must look like a mess. Dirt clung to your skin, clothes, and hair. Ugh, you didn't even want to imagine what your hair looked like after riding for almost two hours and then falling off Jack. You were a dirt-covered, blood-caked, disheveled mess who was still in too much shock to get in gear to get inside and treat your injuries.
With a glance at your Spaceman, you found it unfair that after almost two hours in the sun, the brawl with the metal contraption only increased his attractiveness. The only dirt on him was from sliding across the ground in an effort to dodge the robot's phaser attack. The light sweat along the man's brow and arms made his tanned skin almost glow in the setting sun's light. And for someone who just survived a life-or-death altercation, his hair had the messy, "I just rolled out of bed" look that most men could never achieve, no matter how hard they tried. Then there was the man's chiseled jaw, making him appear as if he'd been carved by the Romans of ancient times. The shadow that had started to cover his jaw yesterday had transformed from a five o'clock shadow to the beginnings of a scruffy, patchy beard, only adding to the handsome, rugged look.
Meanwhile, you just pulled a twig from your hair.
So unfair.
The last few days had to be some huge cosmic joke. Any moment now, you were confident that you would wake up in the ICU again and never hear the end of it from Cassie. This had to be some kind of strange dream, and you just needed to wake the fuck up, because there was no way you just got shot by a robot, and now had the universe's most handsome Spaceman-Bounty Hunter kneeling beside you.
Your eyes slid back to the killing machine, crushed from the tree, now possessing a giant cavity in its chest with wires sticking out from it, compliments of Jack. You couldn't take your eyes off the robot - You couldn't stop reliving those terrifying moments over and over.
What would have happened if a tree hadn't crushed it? The top half of the demonic device could bend, twist, and move with such ease that you had a hard time processing that it was made of metal and wires and not a living being. You'd never seen anything that advanced except on the screen. If the bottom half could move just as easily, could it walk? Run? Would it have tracked you down because your house was the closest thing to it? Would it have wandered until it found your town with its small Main Street? And then what?
Maybe more importantly, why was it after Din and Grogu to begin with? And if there were more, would they still be on the hunt for their target?
Jack's nose leaned down to nuzzle your head, and you gently ran your hands up and down his soft, velvet snout to soothe him. You should let Din help you up and get you out of the dirt so you could start tending to your injury, but you couldn't stop staring at the decimated black robot that dealt the wound to your calf. There wasn't much time before you would need to deal with your injury and release the makeshift tourniquet Din fashioned out of your jeans, but you were frozen in fear by the death machine only a few feet away from you.
"Why was that thing after you guys?" Turbulent brown eyes and a serious face stared back at you. "I thought you were the bounty hunter. Unless things are different in outer space, shouldn't you be the one tracking the bad robots down?"
Din pulled a deep breath through his nose before replying, "Will you please let me help you get inside? I promise to explain to the best I can once I know you're okay."
"Yeah, but what are we going to do with that?" you whispered, pointing to the Death Trooper or whatever Din had called it.
"Let's not worry about that right now," Din tried to suggest. "We can deal with it once we get you patched up."
You shook your head. "We need to take that thing back to the house with us," you told him, voice still quiet, but slowly strengthening.
"I will," Din reassured you. "But it can wait until we get you back."
You shook your head again. Hadn't stopped shaking your head in utter disbelief, actually, because this whole scenario was insane. "We can't risk someone finding it. It needs to come back with us now. We can lock it up in the storm shelter until we can figure out what to do with it," you argued as dozens of worst-case scenarios flooded your mind. "That," you paused to point at the black evil robot of death, "is like nothing I've ever seen before, except for in like, TV or the movies. If someone finds that out here, there are gonna be a lot of questions that I don't know how to answer. I certainly can't answer them without telling them about you and Grogu. Or - Or what if someone else finds it? What if the neighbor's cattle get out, and he comes looking for them and finds that? What if the government finds out about it? What if the government already knows about it?"
"Dorothy."
"What if they come and take you and Grogu along with it?!" Din's softening brown eyes only increased your panic. "What if they manage to get it working again? Will it come straight back here looking for you guys?"
"Dorothy," his calming voice stopped your spiraling thoughts. However, when you could finally focus on Din, his lips had flattened into a grimace as his brown eyes shifted to the robot and then back to you. "I can't carry both of you. Let me get you back to your house, and then I'll come back and get it."
"I don't need to be carried," you huffed, already shifting to stand on your own two feet to demonstrate your prowess. Unfortunately, the second you got your feet under you, the pain from your injury shot through your leg, making you falter.
Of course, it had to be your bad leg that got shot, which was probably only making matters worse. Mentally and physically.
Fortunately, Din was right there to keep you from falling flat on your ass.
"Thanks," came your embarrassed mumble. "I just need some help standing up, and then I think I can handle it from there."
Din sighed with his hands on your upper arms and eased you back to the ground. "Will that thing let me touch it?" he asked, nodding to the black draft horse staring down at the man hovering precariously close to you.
Honestly, it was a miracle that Jack hadn't tried to take another bite at him just for touching you. Instead, you said, "That thing's name is Jack, and he just saved all of our lives." Din's wary eyes looked at Jack and ticked an eyebrow up when your horse let out a huff. "What do you want to do with Jack?"
"I figured I could throw what's left of the droid over his saddle and have him carry it back while I help you," he explained, still locking eyes with Jack.
"What do you think, buddy?" you asked your horse, reaching for his muzzle again. "Think you can behave yourself? For me?" You gave his cheeks a few scratches before sliding your hands up his bridle to flip the reins back over his head to pass off to Din.
With a dubious look, Din gripped the leather reins as he stood. "Teeth to yourself," he warned Jack, bringing a smile to your face as he tugged on the reins.
Jack bobbed his head and huffed, but refused to allow Din to lead him away from you. "Go," you sighed, giving his elbow a swat. Jack's ears twitched and tail flicked in irritation, but finally obliged, hooves clopping slowly across the dirt past you to follow after Din.
Warily, you watched as Din began prying the robot under the downed tree trunk. At Grogu's quiet coo, you pulled him out of the baby harness to cradle him in your arms, hoping he felt supported rather than being the one to have to support you as you attempted to discreetly wipe more tears off your cheeks.
Uncertainties flicked through your mind. Anxiety that the robot wasn't dead and would come to life and kill all of you in the blink of an eye. Fears that you weren't the right person the universe should have entrusted to care for the two travelers you'd offered your home to. What did you know about aliens or space? How were you supposed to help guide them on their journey back home without getting them injured or abducted by the government?
With a firm tug, Din freed the black robot but ended up severing it at the waist, leaving long strings of wires and its legs and feet still sticking out on the other side of the tree trunk.
Definitely not in Kansas anymore.
When Din picked the top half of the black robot off the ground and carried it to place it across Jack's saddle, Jack took a couple of steps away from Din, keeping a solid two feet between them no matter how your Spaceman tried to approach him.
"Jack," you scolded, glaring at the stubborn draft horse.
Your Spaceman didn't let Jack's ornery streak faze him. "It's okay," Din murmured, keeping his voice calm as he looked Jack in the eyes. "It's not gonna hurt anyone anymore, thanks to you." Din took a step closer to Jack, and you smiled when Jack didn't inch away. "I just need your help getting it back so I can help Dorothy."
When Jack still didn't move, Din slowly and cautiously hoisted the top half of the robot's body to rest over the saddle. Once it was balanced, Din gave the draft horse a wary look as he took a quick step away, probably expecting another nip, but Jack thankfully behaved himself. For once. Another warm smile spread across your face when you watched Din tentatively stick his hand out, and after a brief sniff, Jack nuzzled his nose into your Spaceman's palm.
"Everything's gonna be okay," you breathed out, stroking the top of Grogu's head as you spoke. Whether you were reassuring the alien child or yourself was uncertain, but both of you relaxed when it became clear that the robot showed no signs of resurrection.
You and Grogu watched Din finish the task at hand. The man's arms bulged, and he growled as he rolled the trunk of the tree enough that he could slip the lower half and the wires out before adding them to the pile on Jack's saddle. Once Din seemed confident that the battle-bot was balanced appropriately, he led Jack back to where you were still seated on the ground.
"That's my boy," you beamed at the horse towering over you. Grogu cooed, and you both chuckled when Jack moved to lick your salt-dried tears from your cheek again. "I'm okay, buddy," you assured him.
Din cast an expectant look down at you before saying, "Your turn," as he crouched beside you.
"I just need help standing up," you told him as you tucked Grogu back into the harness strapped to your chest so you could use both hands for balance. "I can use you or Jack to help me limp back." At Din's skeptical eyebrow twitch, you glared at him. "It's not that far," you defended, pointing to the house in the near distance.
And by not far, you were guessing you were about a quarter of a mile from your front porch, but it could have been worse. This could have happened at your property line, and at that point, you might as well dig your own grave because there was no way you'd manage to limp back from there.
Sensing you weren't giving up, Din heaved a sigh and nodded. He held his hands out, and you settled your elbows in his palms, bracing your forearms across his as he helped you to your feet. Your teeth clenched against the pain, and you shook your head. Unfortunately, it appeared that your leg had gone numb from the tourniquet. While you couldn't feel the injury, your numb noodle-leg kept you from putting any real weight on it.
"Damn it," you muttered under your breath when you gave up, easing yourself back to the ground, tears of embarrassment brimming in your eyes.
Now is not the time to break down, you told yourself. Although it was your bad leg, and the pain reminded you too much of your accident, you couldn't break down. You couldn't let yourself slip back to those terrible days. Your Spaceman and his Furby needed your help, and you needed to ensure that the evil death robot was locked up below the ground before you could let yourself fall apart. You had almost psyched yourself up enough to give standing another go when Din's question caught you by surprise.
"Is this a hug moment?" he asked with a sympathetic shrug, and you couldn't help but let out a watery half-cry-half-laugh at the thoughtful offer.
You shared a smirk with him and nodded. "I wouldn't say no to one right now."
Din leaned in, and you allowed your hands to wrap around his neck to cling to him, drawing as much strength and warmth from the embrace before you - Before you were suddenly moving.
What you thought had been Din's awkward attempt at a half-hug was actually his right arm bracing your back while his left slipped under your knees, and the bastard had you in the air and was on his feet before you could blink again.
"You cheat!" you accused with a gasp, ignoring the way his chest rumbled against you when he chuckled. "I can walk!"
"Sure, you can," came his patronizing response, with a large, shit-eating grin despite your glare.
The sound of huffing came moments before your hair got ruffled from Jack's giant nostrils coming up to sniff you. "I give you permission to bite him again." Instead of following your orders, Jack chuffed and bobbed his head, looking incredibly amused by the situation you'd found yourself in.
"I think we're friends now," Din commented with a smirk.
"Traitor," you whispered to Sir Jackass and let one arm loose from Din's neck to snatch the leather reins dangling beside you. "Alright, giddy up," you ordered with a pat to your Spaceman's shoulder, smirking when Din's smile fell and his eyes rolled at your command.
With a shake of his head, Din marched towards your home in the early twilight with Jack walking slowly beside him. Grogu popped his head out of his harness and cooed at his keeper before turning his toothy smile toward you. You brought the hand holding Jack's reins so your fingers could stroke the top of his head, and you melted when the tiny green child snuggled himself against your chest for the remainder of the journey.
"For the record, I'm not sorry we got stuck with you," Din murmured, keeping his eyes directed forward.
Your eyes widened in surprise at the proclamation. "Really?" Honestly, out of the entire world, he's not sorry he fell on some random nurse's truck in the middle of nowhere, instead of the front stoop of the Kennedy Space Center?
"We could have gone anywhere. Actually, I did leave. Twice," he reminded you. "But you make a good cup of caf," he replied with a shrug. "And the cookies weren't bad."
The snort that escaped you made your Spaceman crack a smile.
Deciding that the Furby had the right idea, you let yourself relax in Din's arms.
And if you let yourself enjoy resting against Din's broad chest and take a moment to appreciate being carried by those ripped, muscular biceps you fantasized about earlier in the day… well… you had been shot today. After all, if this was some sort of cosmic joke on you, then why shouldn't you get to enjoy being carried around by a big, muscular Spaceman?
The sting of the betadine swab burned, forcing a quiet hiss to escape your lips as you cleaned out the diagonal gash that was now embedded in the side of your right calf.
Just another scar to add to the collection.
With a heavy sigh at the thought, you returned to your wound. There wasn't time to dwell on the past. You were racing the clock, but with any luck, you'd be able to sneak downstairs to grab your emergency bag and would have yourself cleaned and patched up before Din made it back inside.
In a surprising turn of events, you discovered that your Spaceman was possibly a worse mother hen than Cassie was.
Thank god Cassie and Rosie were out of town and missed the exciting, terrifying ordeal. At least you'd been able to order Din to deal with the robot to give you some time alone to decompress and reflect on the strange day. Din was gullible enough to fall for your promise of staying put, whereas your other roommates knew better. If Cassie and Rosie had been here? Cassie would have sicced her daughter on you while she dealt with things, and there was absolutely no hiding from Rosie. Your niece probably would have sat on the counter while you showered, talking a mile a minute about whatever she was obsessed with at the time, and would have ratted you out to her mother for leaving the bed to shower on your own.
But they weren't here. You wouldn't be able to say that in a week, but that was a problem for then.
Once you released Din's makeshift tourniquet from your now-destroyed jeans and were relieved to find that your injury was no longer gushing, you decided to act fast. You needed a shower to wash the day away, and you didn't want to wait around to see just how much supervision your Spaceman had in mind for that task.
After the trek from the field to your front porch, there was a slight debate between you and Din about what to do with Jack, the robot (droid, he kept correcting you), as well as you. The debate between you two could have been on a half-hour comedy special. He simply held you in his arms at the bottom of the porch stairs as if it were effortless, unfazed by the extra weight as the two of you argued about the order in which things should be done.
Din thought he could leave Jack out front until you were completely bandaged and taken care of. Simple, right?
However, your Spaceman quickly learned that Jack had no concept of the word stay. In the span of time it took for him to suggest that, Jack had already gotten bored and began meandering towards the main road. The eighteen-hand-tall Percheron cross was already recognizable enough on his own. The last thing you needed was your neighbors catching him saddled up and riderless while carrying an evil space droid… which both you and Din wanted to avoid if possible. So, instead, Din's compromise was to have you tie Jack to the porch rail and then carry you up to your bedroom on the second floor.
After he deposited you on your bed, you gave him the best verbal step-by-step instructions, along with forcing Din to watch a YouTube video on how to remove Jack's bridle and saddle, before he left you with instructions to stay before he got back. You watched him as he grabbed Grogu, while you began rambling, trying to add any step you might have forgotten nervously. Din nodded along before interrupting you with a simple, "Dorothy, I think I've got it," and took Grogu downstairs with him before leaving you alone.
You tried to stay in bed…
At least you tried to until you heard the storm shelter doors slam shut, indicating Din had the robot that shot you locked away underground. You hissed and braved getting up so you could limp down the hall to spy on him from the top of the stairs. Thankfully, Din left the main door open, giving you a straight shot through the screen door and the perfect view of your Spaceman tugging on Jack's reins.
Din was trying to get the stubborn draft horse to go with him back to the barn, but Jack stood there, staring at the strange man tugging on his reins without budging an inch. Din's baritone voice floated through the screen door and up the stairs. You couldn't make out exactly what he was saying, but when he tugged harder on the reins, you were able to make out the word "Jackass." You snorted at both Jack's and Din's stubbornness. Unfortunately, your snort drew Grogu's attention from his spot at the bottom of the stairs, as he was also trying to watch his keeper deal with your stubborn horse. When the toddler's black eyes turned to look up at you, you placed an index finger in front of your mouth to signal for him to stay quiet as you backed away from the stairs.
Seeing as how Din hadn't made much progress getting Jack back to the barn and still had to get Jack's gear removed, you figured you had time to start at least cleaning yourself up.
Twenty minutes later, you were showered and changed into a comfy pair of shorts and an oversized shirt. Now, sitting on the edge of the upstairs bathtub with your hair wrapped up in a towel, you were almost finished cleaning your injury. At least phaser wounds, even grazes, had the benefit of somewhat cauterizing the bleeding. Between that and Din's tourniquet, you were able to take a full shower without disturbing the wound too much.
The screen door slammed closed downstairs, and you could hear Din's muffled baritone voice say something to Grogu seconds before you heard his boots stomping up the stairs. You carried on cleaning the last of the debris from your wound as you heard him walk past Rosie's room and then the bathroom, heading to the end of the hall where your rooms were.
The audible sigh he let out when he discovered you weren't where he'd left you brought a smile to your face.
Busted.
"Dorothy?" he called as you heard his boots approach the bathroom.
"In here," you called, smile replaced with a cringe when you dug a chunk of charred flesh and a tiny pebble out of the last piece.
"I thought I told you to stay put?" he asked from the other side of the closed door.
"You did," you confirmed, smirking when he released another irritated sigh. "You can come in. I'm decent." The knob turned, and the door cracked open slightly as if to confirm you were clothed before he opened the door the rest of the way. "Did Jack behave himself?"
Din eyed the towel wrapped around your head before he shrugged. "More or less," came his grumbled answer. "He at least let me put that cream you gave me on his wound before I turned him out. For whatever good that will do," he added on with a roll of his eyes.
"What do you mean by that?" you asked, not sure why Din still seemed displeased by his success. "You got his gear off him and got the antibiotic ointment on his wound. As far as Jack is concerned, I'd say that counts as an unmitigated success."
Din's eyes locked on yours before saying, "Just not sure how effective the cream will be because the second I let him out into the pasture with the others, he found a muddy puddle and rolled around in it." Typical, you thought with an eye roll. "Then he found a ball in the mud and took off when it scared him."
You let out a snort at that and went back to taking care of your own wound. "Rosie probably left one of her soccer balls outside. But now you know the two things that spook Jack. Soccer balls and crushed robots from outer space," you teased without looking up from the task at hand. "I might need your help getting down the stairs here in a sec. I need to get to my bag."
"I can grab it," Din offered, already turning to leave, ignoring your motion for him to stop.
"I can do it!" you argued, but it was too late, Din was out the bathroom door, and his boots could be heard thundering down the stairs before you could take a breath.
And Din called you bossy.
Moments later, you could hear the closet in the hallway close before you heard him climbing back up the stairs.
"Here," he offered, handing you the small black duffel bag you tried to keep stocked with some essentials for minor injuries. After the last couple of days, it was going to need a serious restocking.
"Thanks," you breathed out, accepting the bag from him. You placed it on the closed toilet seat beside you and began rifling through the contents to see what options were left.
The laceration was probably deep enough to need sutures, but it looked like there were just enough butterfly sutures left that you could hopefully get by with a bandage and taking it easy for a few days. You weren't sure how you were going to explain a blaster wound to your colleagues if you went in to work to have them patch you up.
"Can I help?"
You pulled your eyes from your kit to see Din shifting nervously just inside the small, yellow bathroom. His eyes were flicking between yours and the laceration across your calf that was beginning to ooze. "I've got it," you assured him with a quick smile, but that seemed to only add to the guilt lingering in his eyes. "But if you want to and don't need to check on Grogu -"
As if on cue, Grogu sputtered, "Patu!" as he rounded the corner to the bathroom.
"Whoa! Did you climb up all those stairs by yourself?" you asked him with an impressed nod. "Those steps are almost as tall as you, buddy. There's no stoppin' ya now."
Grogu grunted and toddled around Din to make his way to your perch on the bathtub.
"He's been working on it since I got back inside," Din informed you with a proud smile at his ward. Once Grogu made it to your side, Din turned his expectant eyes to you.
"Alright," you caved and bent your knee to make room for Din to sit on the tub's edge. "Wash your hands," you instructed the other human in the room while you dug through your bag and pulled out the butterfly sutures and bandaging material.
A tiny three-fingered hand popped into your vision, and when you peered over your bag, you found the green toddler standing beside the tub with his hand outstretched toward the wound on your leg. His eyes were closed in concentration, looking like he was trying to reach his stubby, short arm to grab for you. You watched, curiously, as he kept cracking his eyes open, looking like he was checking on your leg, but after the third time, he gave up with a grunt and dropped to his bottom.
"I'm gonna be fine, buddy," you told Grogu, reaching down to rub the top of his head. "I just got a scratch like you did. Now I'm gonna have some stickers that match yours and Din's." Grogu's only response was to shrink into himself as if he were disappointed, and you gave him a soft smile to show him you weren't hurting.
"The kid's special," Din's baritone voice rumbled quietly in the small bathroom as he straddled the tub across from you. "That's why Gideon and the Imps were after us."
"Hands," you ordered, and squirted some antiseptic cleaner on his hands before doing the same with yours. "Other than being the most adorable alien I've ever seen, what makes him special?" you asked, working the hand sanitizer over your hands, mentally adding more gloves that would fit Din as well as you to your list of supplies to grab when you returned to work on Monday.
If the last two days were any indication of the future, you'd definitely need to be more prepared.
"Isn't he the only alien you've ever seen?" Din asked with a quirked brow as he copied your motions, taking his time to massage the sanitizer thoroughly into his massive hands and fingers, almost hypnotizing you with his motions. But when you stuck your tongue out at him, he let out a heavy breath and let his gaze fall to the Furby sitting on the floor beside the tub. "Grogu has… powers."
You blinked as you processed what Din had said and held up a finger for him to wait, and quickly snatched your phone off the counter and hit record to add a new entry into your Spaceman's oral library, which you began during your overnight talks. "Powers?" you repeated, looking between Din and the green alien in question, who was no longer pouting on the ground, but was instead rummaging through your emergency kit.
Din quirked an eyebrow at your phone as you placed it on the tub under your bent knee, hoping to record everything. Apparently deciding that he was fine being recorded, he took a short breath to steady himself. "The kid has magic powers," he explained with a deep breath, nodding when your eyebrows lifted. "I wouldn't believe it either if I hadn't witnessed it with my own eyes. The things I've seen him do… He can lift objects with his mind. I've seen him create a shield of air to protect us from flames. I've seen him heal people." Din paused to smile at the kid who was now holding your stethoscope by the bell and shaking it.
"Here," you whispered to him, passing him the last of your butterfly sutures. "I'm gonna push the edges together, and I want you to place them in even intervals like this," you paused to demonstrate with the first one. At Din's nod, you winced and pointed for him to place the next one. "Are Grogu's powers unique to his species?"
"I'm not sure," he admitted. "Where I'm from, there are apparently others with similar abilities. They called themselves Jedis. From what little I've seen, there are several species that can wield magic powers. They claim to use something called the Force."
"You mentioned the Jedis when we were talking last night," you murmured, wincing as Din placed another butterfly down. Three down, two to go. "You were looking for them on Tython."
Din nodded. He didn't speak right away, eyes concentrating on the task at hand. You were content to let him tell their story in his own time. But when Din placed the last butterfly, you caught his eye shift to the scars that marred your knee and leg, you figured it was no longer his story he was focused on. Your Spaceman frowned as he suddenly realized the extent of your prior injuries. One long scar that ran down the middle of your leg from almost mid-thigh to about three or four inches past your knee. Two more scars streaked down either side of your right leg, with the one along the outside coming in as your longest one by far, almost spanning the length of your leg.
Goosebumps erupted across your entire body when Din's hands gently wrapped around your leg and his calloused finger traced the longest scar for a couple of inches, stopping when your newest wound intersected it. With your calf being tenderly cradled in Din's massive palm, you were torn between embarrassment and relief that you made the last-minute decision to shave your legs.
But if Din was going to share his story, you supposed it was only fair to share part of yours.
"Car accident."
At your softly spoken words, Din released your leg from his hands, apparently suddenly realizing the intimate position he'd inadvertently found himself in.
"We got T-boned coming home one night, and I got my leg crushed against the passenger door. I was out of it for a bit. When I woke up, Cass told me that I almost lost it entirely, but the doctors managed to save it. Unfortunately, they didn't save my soccer career," you tried to joke, but Din's concerned brown eyes remained locked on yours. All you could do was give him a tight smile and a shrug. "I probably would have died, but a nurse was driving behind us who saw the whole thing happen. She came to visit me in the hospital later and told me that the night of the accident, she'd been upset that she was late leaving her shift, but if she hadn't been…" You faded off as snippets of memories from that night seeped through your defenses.
Your eyes fluttered closed for the briefest moment as you allowed yourself to remember that terrifying night. There wasn't much you could remember, just your piercing scream along with bright, flashing lights through the parts of the car you could see from. When you managed to shake them away, you opened your eyes and gave Din a tight smile.
"She is actually my charge nurse now. Never thought I would end up in healthcare, but after everything that happened… It was the first thing that really sparked any interest after the accident."
"I'm glad she was behind you then," Din murmured.
The numbness that encapsulated your heart when you remembered or spoke about that night held strong, but you knew that he might feel differently if he ever learned the full story. And for only knowing him for two days at this point, that thought chipped away at the shield protecting your heart.
You gave another tight smile. "It might not be as cool as Grogu's magic tricks," you began, ready to change the topic with a forced smile at the green toddler on the floor. "But my magic trick is that I have enough metal plates, pins, and screws in my leg that I set off metal detectors now," you announced, smiling when Din chuffed and shook his head at your attempt at a joke. "How did you end up with Grogu?"
The smile fell from Din's face at your question, and his eyes dropped to Grogu, removing the earpiece of your stethoscope from his mouth before looking back at you. Your curiosity was piqued when you realized that the man looked almost guilty.
Taking a deep breath, Din began. "Remember how I told you that I'm a bounty hunter?" It was your turn to furrow your brows at his question, but you nodded, not sure where he was going with this. "The Guild that I was a member of wasn't getting jobs that paid anything acceptable. So, the Guild leader mentioned a job that was under the table, but paid well. They didn't give me any information to go on except a fob and the last few digits of the target's chain code. So all I knew was that the target was fifty." He paused again, nervously fiddling with the paper backing from one of the butterfly sutures.
But once he finally began telling their story, you were mesmerized.
You listened to his smooth, baritone voice as he spoke, the small bathroom only adding to the acoustics as his tale unfolded. You listened to him, discovering that Grogu was the target and the journey they went on to get off Arvala-7. Din must have sensed your indignation when he finally revealed that he turned the child over to people who were planning on experimenting on him, and held up his hands to stop your impending reprimand the second your mouth opened. At that point, you leaned over to pick Grogu up to hold him in your lap while Din continued to spin his tale.
With Grogu snuggled against you, you were hooked on every word of the man's story. The more Din spoke, the more relaxed he became. He walked you through every adventure they experienced together and even touched on some of the softer memories of just the two of them bonding on their ship. But there was something beyond his words, something beyond their story that spoke to something deeper. Din didn't need to say it. The truth was obvious in every word and every look he gave Grogu.
Din had fallen in love with the small green child in your lap.
"The Jedi told us about the magic rock on Tython, so we went there to see if the kid could contact a Jedi," Din said, reaching out to stroke one of the green toddler's ears as his story brought you to the present.
"Cue the black death robots of doom, a tornado, and now here you are," you murmured, giving Grogu a quick squeeze.
Din cracked a half-smile that gifted you with that adorable dimple of his, making you smile back at him. "Here we are," he nodded before resting his head against the yellow tiled wall.
The recording on your phone told you he'd been speaking for forty-two minutes, but it didn't feel like that. Even with both of you straddling the tub's wall, with Din's legs stretched out, and your right leg propped up in front of you, it shouldn't have been comfortable, but you could have listened to him talk for another forty-two minutes just like this.
"I call bullshit on one thing." Din crossed his arms over his chest in a challenge to your declaration, but you tossed him a quick wink before picking Grogu up under his armpits to study the overly large ears and eyes. "There's no way you're fifty."
"He's not human," Din reminded you with a smile. "The Jedi we found said that she'd met another of his species who was hundreds of years old."
Part of you still thought you were crazy for believing Din and his almost implausible stories, but then Grogu smiled at you, and you believed him all over again.
Grogu squirmed in your arms, and your smile turned sad as you tucked him back against your chest. "Kinda sad though," you murmured, your index finger tracing one of the wrinkles on top of his head. "To think that he is still gonna be a kid when you're…" You faded off, not wanting even to voice it. "Sorry."
Din's arms relaxed, and his hands came to rest on his knees. "It's why I've been trying to track down a Jedi. Someone who can train him better than I could." The man's brown eyes went soft as he watched Grogu give him a slow, sleepy blink from your arms. "Dorothy?" he asked, eyes sliding from his to yours. "I am concerned that there is something wrong with the kid." Your body went instantly alert at that and dropped your head to assess the green alien toddler in your arms. "Health-wise, he seems fine, not acting sick or off like me, but he hasn't been able to use his powers since we arrived."
Grogu's sad coo almost seemed to confirm his keeper's suspicions.
"He tried to heal the cut on my head after we took off the first time," Din explained. "I thought he was just tired. He's tried to move things around a few times since we've been here, and I'm pretty sure he was trying to heal your leg earlier."
"I appreciate the offer, buddy," you told Grogu with a quick peck to the top of his head, "but I'm gonna be just fine. Although it would have been nice to see a demonstration. Extra proof that I'm not crazy," you teased as you passed Grogu back to his Spaceman.
The green toddler sputtered something and reached for Din's face as you grabbed the bandaging supplies you'd set aside.
"Do you think his powers will come back?" Din questioned, keeping his eyes on the child in his arms as he bounced him in his lap. "Like your guess about my symptoms eventually getting better? Maybe this is how Earth affects him?"
With a shrug, you replied, "Your guess is as good as mine. If there was a lecture in nursing school over alien anatomy, I must have missed that day," you joked as you wrapped your leg with the white roll gauze you had left in your bag.
Din let out a deep breath, but seemed accepting of the circumstances for the time being. You kept sneaking glances at your two alien guests as you bandaged your calf with gauze, then a leftover ace bandage for extra durability. Din's face was still weary, and you hoped the man would get some rest this evening, but it was heartwarming watching him interact with Grogu. The kid obviously adored the man, and the feeling was clearly mutual.
"If we ever find my helmet, I can show you some videos of the kid using his powers and some other pictures of some of the places we've visited," Din offered, tucking Grogu against his chest.
"You have pictures and videos on your helmet?"
He nodded. "The display inside," he explained as if that made any sense to you.
So, the helmet was more than just his religion. It also contained memories of his time with Grogu, and only Din knew what else was stored there. If you suddenly lost all of your pictures of Cassie and Rosie, you'd be gutted. "We'll find it," you promised. "If you were wearing it when you landed, it has to be closer to the house."
"I hope so," he murmured. "I'll be glad when we find it," he breathed out.
Your eyes narrowed at his words, noting that neither his face nor his tone seemed optimistic. "Why do I feel like there is a but in there?"
A little huff escaped his nose. "But," he began with a smirk, "that is just the beginning. There is still a lot to figure out."
"One step at a time," you tried to assure him. "Maybe it is kinda fortuitous that you ended up here." When Din's eyes turned skeptical, you shrugged. "You get some more time with him," came your quiet explanation. "Assuming no more robots followed you through whatever portal sucked you in and dropped you on my truck, Death Troopers don't exist here. Aside from the one that is in pieces in my storm shelter." And after the up-close-and-personal demonstration you received this evening, you hoped that was the only one that followed Din and Grogu here. "Your Empire doesn't exist here… Not saying that I don't want you guys to get back home, but… Maybe the universe decided you needed a break."
"A break?" Din questioned with a quirk of his brow.
You shrugged again, suddenly feeling embarrassed by the suggestion. "A vacation of sorts. Think of it as some more time together. No Jedis, no Empire, no rock 'em, sock 'em robots hunting you down." You smiled at Din's snort of amusement. "Just a chance for the two of you to be normal-ish," you added, stretching your arm to give a quick boop to Grogu's nose. "We'll have to get creative keeping this one hidden, but you'll get to experience the world as a regular ole human," you smiled, wagging your eyebrows at his pink-tinged cheeks. "And more importantly, you get some more time with this adorable little guy while we figure out how to get you back to where you belong."
There was a mix of emotions washing over his face, passing too quickly to pinpoint one before the next one emerged. You could sense that a part of him wanted what you were offering: A chance to live, an opportunity to experience this life without the fears and concerns of being hunted down. However, you knew this wasn't where they were meant to be. As insane as it still sounded, even to you, there was something in the man's eyes that told you they belonged out there, amongst the stars. Part of you wondered if it had just been Din who landed on your truck, if he would even go back at all. For someone who wasn't even forty yet, he looked exhausted. A kind of exhaustion that went beyond missing a couple of days of sleep. After listening to him talk about the last year he had just spent with Grogu, you couldn't blame him.
"I appreciate your hospitality, Dorothy, but we -"
"Don't belong here," you finished for him, sharing an understanding smile with the man. "I know."
"I don't want to give up trying to find a way back."
"Didn't say you should."
Din's eyes fell to Grogu, and you couldn't help but smile, watching the much larger, imposing man be so gentle and caring with the tiny alien in his hands. "I don't mind helping you with your farm until we figure out how we got here and how we get back. It is the least I can do after everything you've done for us," he said quietly.
"But," you prodded, sharing a sad smile with the man.
"But," he sighed, "I've seen too many people lose themselves to the routine of normalcy and end up forgetting the mission." Something in his words made your chest constrict, and you wondered if this man had ever allowed himself a day of leniency in his life. "I can't do that. I made a vow when I took Grogu in as my Foundling. If he's not safe here, or this place is hurting him somehow, I can't give up on finding a way to get back."
You stretched your right leg and shifted so that it rested on the other side of the tub. "I respect that," you whispered, and leaned forward to rest a comforting hand on Din's knee, not commenting when you felt the man's muscular thigh practically leap under your palm at your touch. "But I'm gonna tell you something that my therapist told me when I was lost after my accident. Din, the best way you can help Grogu and yourself get back is by taking care of yourself." Brown eyes slid from where your hand rested on his knee to lock eyes with yours. "You're not going to do either of you any good if you keep running on empty. Did you listen to yourself when you told me about everything you've gone through trying to get Grogu to his Jedi?" Din frowned, but didn't try to argue with you. "You went through all of that, and that was before you got dumped on my pickup by a tornado." Grogu picked that moment to coo as if agreeing with you, making you smile. "Let's focus on the important things. Grogu might not be able to use his powers right now, or maybe he can't use them here at all, but he seems to be healthy otherwise. After a little rest, I think you will be too. Let's prioritize finding your helmet this weekend before I have to go back to work on Monday, and unless another wormhole or something magically appears, let's save figuring out how to get you back for after both of you get a chance to rest and recover."
"Not forever," he murmured, flicking his brown eyes from your hand on his knee to your face.
"Just until we find your helmet and figure out how to get you back to your spaceship," came your affirmation with a small shrug.
Din blew out a deep breath, and you watched some of his own resolve crumble. "And what do regular ole humans do on Earth?" he asked with a slightly amused smirk.
Before you could answer his question, Din's stomach let out a loud growl.
Grinning, you said, "We eat pizza rolls."
"Would you just stay put?" Din grumbled loudly enough for you to hear him as he pulled the pizza rolls from the oven and set the hot baking sheet on the stove to cool.
You smirked at your Spaceman from the hall, unable to hide the smile at him dressed in his new set of pajamas you'd purchased for him earlier in the day. The loungewear and bare feet were a stark difference from the tactical pants and boots, and leagues more casual than his coat of arms. However, it wasn't just the casual, relaxed clothes; it was also the hot pink oven mitts adorning his hands that brought you immense joy.
"I heard the oven ding, and I thought I'd come help," you tried, grin exploding into quiet giggles when Din turned his glare to you as he shucked the pink mitts from his hands and tossed them on the countertop.
"You can help by staying off your leg," Din chided before he crossed the kitchen to stop you from coming further.
"But you don't know where the plates and stuff are. Besides, you're my guest."
"I can figure it out. And I'm not your guest, I'm your employee now. I'm supposed to be paying off my debt."
Before you could argue with his logic, your Spaceman had you in the air. A quiet oof escaped your lips as you rolled your eyes. "You know, I am capable of walking," you reminded your Spaceman.
While Din had tentatively agreed to take the rest of the weekend to recharge, he apparently hadn't agreed to stop being your own personal chauffeur. Not that you were complaining about the way he cradled you in his arms as he carried you back home and up the stairs earlier, because you weren't. In fact, the whole experience felt like something straight from a book. It was decisively swoon-worthy.
However, when it was time to head downstairs, being hoisted over his left shoulder with your ass up in the air while he carried you down the stairs as if you were a sack of potatoes was decidedly less romantic. Not twenty minutes later, here you were again, folded over his shoulder and being hauled back to the couch.
"Your stickers won't hold that wound together if you keep putting weight on it," Din reminded you as he took the last few steps to the sofa.
You rolled your eyes, but couldn't complain too much when your view was his backside, complete in his new clothes: a clean white shirt and blue flannel pajama bottoms you purchased for him earlier in the day. Now that he was freshly showered and in clean clothes, he walked out of his bedroom looking almost like a new person. The underlying exhaustion was still there, but between your talk, a shower, and a shave, Din almost looked as if, instead of missing out on a year's worth of sleep, he'd only missed a handful of hours.
A giggle followed by a raspberry made you lift your head to find Grogu a couple of steps behind you, pointing and laughing at how his guardian was carrying you. The kid (you were even picking up Din's moniker for the alien now) refused to allow either one of you to carry him down the stairs after he figured out he could do it on his own. It reminded you so much of Rosie when she was finally allowed to do that on her own (not that it stopped you and Cassie from padding the rails and floor with blankets when you could).
In response to Grogu's raspberry, you gave him one of your own as your Spaceman deposited you on the couch.
"Don't encourage him," Din chided, but you could hear the underlying bemusement in his voice. "But he likes you. You're good with him."
"How can you not be? And he reminds me a lot of Rosie. He's at a fun age. Just wait until he starts talking or turns into a teenager," you teased.
"Don't remind me," he grumbled. "And you," Din began as he whirled to face Grogu, still toddling along behind to catch up. "You were supposed to be watching Dorothy, you womp rat."
Judging by the string of grunts, squawks, and raspberries thrown back at Din, Grogu needed no help defending himself.
"On second thought, it seems like he's already got the backtalking down," you teased, sharing a toothy smile with the ornery toddler. "And I don't think he appreciated being compared to whatever the hell a womp rat is," you added on with a pointed look to the man, who was rolling his eyes and shaking his head before he stalked back to the kitchen. "Is he always this grumpy?" you asked the squat child shuffling towards you on the couch.
"Bah!"
"I'll take that as a yes," came your flat response. "Plates are in the upper cabinet to the right of the sink," you called across the house after hearing Din start opening the cabinets. "Oh! Grab some of the little saucer bowls in there too and grab the Ranch from the fridge!"
"What's Ranch?" Din asked from the kitchen once he found the plates.
If you weren't sold on the fact that he was an alien before, that question all but settled the debate for you.
"They don't have Ranch in space?" you asked, appalled by the thought. "I can't wait to introduce you to one of the best dipping sauces ever. You'll want to take a bottle back with you," you warned. "It's in the door of the fridge, and it is in a bottle with a blue and green label."
Grogu grunted and smacked the couch to get your attention, and you found his arms stretching for you while the tiny goblin opened and closed his hands, otherwise known as the universal actions of a child wanting to be picked up.
"While he is doing that, what do you say the two of us pick out a movie?" you questioned the toddler as you lifted him to cradle against your chest while you cautiously attempted to stand up. Once on your feet, you shared a smile with Grogu and held your index finger to your lips, only to be extremely tickled when the child in your arms mimicked the gesture with a clawed finger.
As quietly as possible, you limped and shuffled to the old bookcase that held most of your DVD collection. You only risked one glance toward the kitchen, pleased to find Din's back to you while he was searching the fridge, and quickly gimped the rest of the way to your destination.
"I know we had a copy of it here somewhere," you muttered to yourself as you scanned the old plastic cartridges, looking for the particular film in question.
"Dorothy!" Din's stern reprimand echoed around the living room, his low, baritone voice resonating deep in your chest.
"Geesh!" came your startled response. You shot the overly worried Spaceman a glare. "I'm gonna start making you wear a bell," you grumbled before returning to find the movie in question - Ah! The Wizard of Oz. "It was a graze -"
"A graze that will reopen if you don't. Stay. Off. Of. It," he argued, taking his time to enunciate each word as he placed each plate down on the coffee table.
"I'm being careful. I am a nurse, remember? If I mess it up, I can fix it." You shot Din an annoyed look, but his unimpressed, brown eyes were already glaring back at you. "I was picking out our dinner entertainment," you explained, holding up the DVD box for Din to see, but his only response was a slight twitch of his right eyebrow. "This is a classic. And then you'll understand where your little pet name for me came from."
Din's only response was to roll his eyes as he let himself drop to the sofa. With your watchdog otherwise occupied, you popped the disc into the player, snagged the remote, and tenderly crept back to join Din on the sofa. Dark brown eyes tracked every step, and by the time you finally reached your destination, you cringed as your wound protested.
"Here," Din sighed before he reached down to grab your feet, cautious to avoid putting any pressure on the bandage wrapped around your right calf.
"What are you doing?" you asked as he gently lifted your feet until your legs were resting over his thighs. When you attempted to draw your legs back, he rested a hand over your right ankle, stopping you.
"Would you just let me help you?" he asked, and while his hand lingered on your lower leg, it wasn't more than a comforting weight, giving you enough of an out if you really wanted one. "I'm just taking the weight off your leg," came his tired response. With your legs stretched across the man's lap, you were now facing him on the couch, which made it all the better to fix him with your annoyed glare. "It's either this or I carry you to the chair with the leg rest," he countered, nodding at the old recliner in the corner that was still piled full of your blankets and overnight supplies from last night.
What you wanted to do was take your legs back and scold the man for not thinking you could take care of yourself, but instead, you asked, "Why?"
Din seemed genuinely surprised by the question. "Why, what?"
An exhausted breath left your chest as you relaxed back against the armrest, giving you an extra second to study the man sitting beside you. "What's with all the coddling? It's just a graze, it's not like my entire body is bruised from head to toe. I'm capable of caring for myself."
"I never said you couldn't," Din defended, still looking confused. "I thought I was following your rule."
Now it was your turn to be confused. "Following my rule? Pretty sure I never made any rules about men from outer space carrying me around wherever I go," you said with a light huff of a laugh at the end.
"No," he sighed, shaking his head in frustration. "I thought this was your, uh, Golden Rule, or whatever you called it." At his answer, all of your irritation dropped from your face as you melted slightly when he gave an embarrassed shrug. "Even if your planet didn't have a Golden Rule, I have my own code of conduct. You helped us, took us in, and tended to our injuries. Now it's our turn to do it for you."
Even Grogu chimed in with a quiet coo of agreement from your lap.
In an attempt to hide the flush creeping up your neck and onto your cheeks, you ducked your head to stroke the kid's forehead as you settled into your new position.
After all, it was comfortable, and your leg already felt better propped up.
"Now, these are called pizza rolls," you explained to the tiny green alien in your lap as you still attempted to avoid making eye contact with the brown eyes watching you. Grogu's ears perked up, and the kid was practically drooling as you brought his plate closer to him. When his tiny hands went to grab for one, you gently brought a hand up to stop him. "Careful, buddy, they're really hot when they're right outta the oven. Take a little bite from the corner," you continued, plucking one of the golden brown squares from his plate to demonstrate. Grogu's eyes went wide at the steam coming from within the crust. "But you don't want to wait till they get cold, cause then they're not as good, but if you dip them in a little bit of Ranch, it's perfect."
Grogu grabbed one of the bite-sized pieces from the plate and followed your directions perfectly. The toddler watched with awe as the steam and cheese goodness inside, and gave it a healthy dip in the creamy sauce. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see Din also following your instructions, though the tiny pizza roll seemed almost comically small in his massive hands.
Your guests let out simultaneous sounds of pleasure at their first bite of Ranch-coated junk food. Grogu's came out more of an excited squeak, while Din's was a stunted moan. At the sound of his cut-off moan, you risked a glance up and found him nodding his head.
"I think we'll be okay being regular ole humans if the food here is this good," Din said without prompting.
Grogu nodded eagerly, already fisting a toasted pizza roll in each hand, ready for more.
With your smile in place, you grabbed your own plate as well as the remote from the coffee table and pressed play.
If you thought Grogu's eyes went wide at the taste of pizza rolls, his oversized eyes almost bulged out of his tiny head when the TV flared to life with the movie. It was more fun watching your guests watch the movie than watching the movie yourself.
When Dorothy opened the farmhouse door after being deposited in Oz by a tornado, and the screen changed from black-and-white to full color, Din asked, "So, what happened to us is a common phenomenon with tornadoes?"
You couldn't stop the amused snort that escaped, and you started gathering yours and Grogu's empty plates to distract yourself. "Only in the movies, Tin Man," you finally replied, giving Din a soft smile.
Din shook his head as he gently lifted your legs from his lap before he picked up the dishes to deposit them in the sink.
"Turn the lights off on your way back," you called from the couch.
Not that you were content to stay there, but Grogu was too focused on the movie, and you didn't want to disturb him.
It had nothing to do with your Spaceman's words, "Even if your planet didn't have a Golden Rule, I have my own code of conduct. You helped us, took us in, and tended to our injuries. Now it's our turn to do it for you," forcing that swooning feeling to emerge again.
The clicking of the light switches followed Din as he systematically turned off the lights on the way back to join you on the couch.
"Leave the main door open," you called when he moved to head down the hall to close it. "The weather is still nice. We can leave the screen door open so it doesn't get stuffy." At Din's skeptical look, you nodded. "No one comes out this way. Besides, I'm sure you've already hidden some of your weapons around the house when I left you unsupervised while I was showering this morning."
What was meant to be a light-hearted jab at the man's obsession with his weapons turned into a flat glower when Din shrugged in easy acceptance.
"Tell me you didn't hide weapons in my house," you sighed.
Din avoided looking at you while he made himself comfortable on the couch with your legs on his lap again.
"Din…" you prodded, but the only answer you got was a small quirk of his lip, and you heaved an annoyed sigh before returning your attention to the movie.
The three of you watched the movie unfold in silence until, one by one, you each started to drop off. Grogu went first, his small body curled against your abdomen, his soft snores audible in the quieter moments of the film. You shivered as a cold breeze drifted through the screen door right as Din got his first glimpse of the Tin Man. His head rolled to glare at you when he caught the reference, but you just smirked at him. Neither of you said anything, but when Din stretched an arm to snag your Lion King blanket from the pile on the recliner, you laughed when the man chucked it at your head.
You shook out the fleece blanket, with a content smile on your face as you spread it across the couch, covering you and your guests. And, if Din made no move to move his hand from your right ankle once your legs were covered, well, there was no point in drawing any attention to it. Especially when you realized he had finally drifted to sleep with his head lolled back against the couch.
Thankfully, you were too exhausted to overanalyze the strange turn of events, because it was still bizarre. However, if Din was willing to pretend to be a regular ole human for the time being, then you could pretend that this was a perfectly normal night.
The three of you were all out before Dorothy, Toto, and their new trio made it to the Emerald Palace.
🌪️ A/N: Y'all, I'm truly blown away by y'all's response to this story. I'm so glad y'all are enjoying it. Hoping to update the next chapter in another 2-3 weeks. I'm really excited for the next couple of chapters. We go back to Din's POV in the next chapter, and then we *finally* get to meet a couple of characters before too long! 🧡
Dividers by: @firefly-graphics
🧡 Tag List: @racheldon @leeroyjagginz @djarins-cyare @higgsvoidout @abandonedreaper @brunlocc @foreignbrunette
Please drop a comment or send me a message if you'd like to be added to the tag list 🧡
Country Roads Masterlist
Next chapter in series - Chapter 9: TBD (coming soon)
Joel, only now starting to feel the impending sense of loneliness, decides to listen to Tommy and sign up on an online streaming service called Ravish.
summary: as the seasons change in jackson, so does your relationship with joel. It starts with small things—his quiet presence outside the schoolhouse, how he keeps bringing you books for the kids or how his gruff demeanor softens just slightly when he talks to you.
pairing: jackson!joel miller x fem!teacher reader
word count: 8k
content warnings: slight reader description, y/n used once or twice, slight slow burn, fluff, some angst, maria appearance, ellie being ellie, grumpy joel but soft, kissing but at the end.
a/n: request from anon. inspired by autumn/winter months. divider by @saradika-graphics.
August
Autumn in Jackson smelled like wood smoke and damp earth, like something settling in before the frost. Maybe that was why it always felt like a fresh start. Or maybe it was because school began then, and with it, the quiet thrill of sharpening pencils, smoothing out worn pages, and watching young minds spark to life.
The air carried a crisp bite in the mornings, warming just enough by midday to make the schoolhouse feel less like a drafty old cabin and more like a place where something good could grow. You tried to hold on to that feeling now as you stood in the small room, surveying the meager stack of books on the shelf. Five. That was it. Five stories to last an entire year.
Maria did what she could—she always did—but Jackson could only provide so much. Food, shelter, safety. The essentials. Books, though? Books were sacred.
The kids deserved more. They deserved to get lost in stories, to hear unfamiliar words roll off the tongue, to dream beyond the walls of this town. And right now, all you had were the same five dog-eared volumes, ones that had already been read so many times the kids could recite them back to you. They needed more.
You’d mentioned it offhand, a passing comment to Maria or Tommy—how the kids were running out of new books to read, how their little library shelves were looking thinner by the week. You hadn’t thought much of it at the time.
Maria had brought it up to Joel once in passing, maybe while handing out patrol assignments or over dinner at the hall. Though he didn’t say much in response—just a slow nod, a quiet grunt of acknowledgment—he’d kept it tucked away.
After that, every time he rode beyond the gates, rifle slung across his back, he started looking. Not just for threats. Not just for supplies.
For books.
For the kids, at least. That’s what he told himself.
When Maria stopped by the schoolhouse, a small stack of books cradled in her arms. She set them down on your desk with a satisfied smile.
“Look what turned up,” she said, brushing the cold from her sleeves.
Your eyes widened as you reached for the top one—a hardcover copy of Charlotte’s Web, its edges worn but still intact. Beneath it, a few dog-eared paperbacks, pages yellowed with time but still readable.
“Oh, Maria,” you breathed, running a hand over the covers. “Where did you find these?”
She waved a hand. “You mentioned needing more. Figured I’d keep an eye out.”
You smiled, touched by the gesture. “Thank you.”
Maria didn’t correct you. Didn’t mention the real reason those books were here. Just shot you a knowing look before heading back out into the cool autumn breeze.
That day, you watched as the kids excitedly flipped through the pages, some still having to share, but none of them seeming to mind. Their little fingers traced over faded words, their voices rising with excitement as they pored over the “new” books. It was worth it—seeing them light up like that.
A few days later, more books appeared.
Five of them were stacked neatly on the steps outside the schoolhouse. No note. No explanation. Just left there in the quiet of the early morning.
You glanced around, expecting someone to step forward, maybe one of the townsfolk who had extras lying around. But no one lingered nearby, no one waiting to be thanked.
Possibly Maria had found more books but something about it didn’t sit right.
Then it happened again and again.
Every few days, another small pile of books—some more battered than others, their covers soft with age, spines cracked, but pages still intact. Someone was going through a lot of trouble to bring them here.
And you were determined to find out who.
____________
“Maria?” You called as you spotted her walking through town one Saturday afternoon, bundled up against the lingering chill in the air.
She turned, offering you a polite smile. “What’s up?”
You fell into step beside her, arms crossed. “How have you been finding all of these books?” Your voice was casual, but your curiosity slipped through.
Maria blinked, then let out a small chuckle. “Oh,” she shook her head, a little amused, a little knowing. “I didn’t find them.”
Your brows furrowed. “Then who—”
“Actually, Joel has—”
You stopped mid-step. “Joel?”
Maria’s smirk deepened, but she didn’t add anything else, just gave you a meaningful look before continuing on her way.
Joel.
You found him that afternoon, just as he was tying off his horse near the stables, fresh from patrol. His jacket was dusted with dried mud, his knuckles scuffed like he might’ve had to wrestle something—or someone—on the way back. And slung over his shoulder, nestled in his pack, you could just make out the edges of another book.
You crossed your arms and cleared your throat. “So… you wanna tell me why you’ve been sneaking books onto my porch like some kind of storybook bandit?”
Joel exhaled through his nose, shaking his head as he unbuckled the saddle. “Ain’t sneakin’,” he muttered. “Just droppin’ ‘em off.”
You stepped closer, tilting your head. “And where exactly are you finding all of these?”
He grunted, shifting his weight like he wasn’t sure why this was even a conversation. “Out there.” A vague nod toward the gate. “Old houses. Shops. Whatever’s left.”
You studied him, trying to piece it together. Joel wasn’t the type to go out of his way for things that weren’t necessary. He took care of what needed to be done—patrols, keeping Jackson safe—but this?
This was something else.
His fingers flexed against the strap of his pack, like he was debating whether to keep holding it or shove it into your arms and walk away.
“You didn’t have to do this,” you said softly.
Joel finally looked at you then, eyes flickering with something unreadable. He swallowed, a muscle ticking in his jaw.
“Kids need somethin’ to do,” he muttered. “Better than runnin’ around causin’ trouble.”
You huffed a quiet laugh. “You sure it’s just for the kids?”
His gaze dropped for half a second—just long enough for you to notice.
Then he shook his head, pulling the pack from his shoulder and thrusting it toward you. “Got more in here,” he said, clearing his throat. “Figure you’ll know what to do with ‘em.”
You took it, fingers brushing his. His hand was warm, rough from years of work, and the moment lingered longer than it needed to.
“Thank you, Joel.”
His lips parted slightly, like maybe he had something to say. But instead, he just gave a short nod, stepping back, putting space between you.
As he turned to go, you could’ve sworn you saw the corner of his mouth twitch—just the slightest hint of a smile.
September
You’d slowly worked your way into Joel’s life. Not that he’d admit it—not out loud, anyway.
It had started with the books, but there had always been something about him that intrigued you. Even before that. The way he carried himself and spoke in that quiet, measured way, like he only said what was worth saying. How he seemed to be made of sharp edges but had the softest touch when it came to the people he let in.
The books had just given you an excuse to talk to him.
And once you started, you didn’t want to stop.
You made a habit of waving when you passed him in town, throwing a casual ‘Hey, Joel’ over your shoulder as you carried on with your day. At first, all you got in return was a nod. Maybe a grunt.
Then, one day, he actually said ‘Hey’ back.
After a while, he started stopping when you stopped.
He never lingered long, always busy with something—fixing the fencing near the sheep pen, hauling supplies, heading out on patrol. But he let you talk to him, and that was something.
Small talk at first—how the kids were doing, whether the new batch of patrol recruits were worth a damn, what Jackson needed more of before winter hit. Nothing special. But the more you spoke, the more he softened. You saw it in how he lingered a little longer when you crossed paths, how his gaze didn’t dart away as quickly, how his nods turned into real answers.
Like today.
“I love this time of year,” you said one afternoon, adjusting the lesson plans in your arms as you passed Joel near the hall.
Joel glanced up from where he was adjusting his pack, one brow raised. “Why’s that?”
“It’s the beginning of autumn,” you said, shifting the stack of papers against your hip. “The air gets crisp, the leaves start turning.” A small smile tugged at your lips. “Or maybe I’m biased.”
His gaze lingered for a second longer than usual. “Biased how?”
“Well…” You hummed, pretending to think. “It’s my birth month.”
Joel let out a quiet huff, shaking his head. “Yeah, see, that explains it.”
You grinned. “And what about you? What’s your favorite month?”
“Don’t have one,” he answered too quickly.
You raised a brow. “No favorite month? No favorite season?”
“They’re all the same,” he muttered, adjusting the strap of his bag. “Just depends how miserable the weather wants to be.”
You rolled your eyes. “Okay, well, what about the worst month?”
“September,” Joel said immediately, shifting his pack higher on his shoulder. “It’s forgettable.”
Something about the way he said it made you pause.
Not because of the words, but because of the way his jaw tightened, the flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. Like the answer had been waiting there, right at the surface, ready to slip out the second you asked.
Forgettable, he’d called it.
The way he said it made your stomach twist. Like he wasn’t talking about the month at all.
You didn’t push. Just nodded, shifting the papers in your arms. “Huh.”
Something about the way he said it didn’t sit right. Like, he didn’t mean September was forgettable. Maybe he meant he was.
And that’s when it clicked.
You kept your expression neutral, storing the information away. If you were right—and you had a feeling you were—his birthday was coming up.
Joel exhaled through his nose like he was already done with the conversation. “You need help with those?”
You blinked. It was the first time he’d ever offered.
“Nah, I got it,” you said, watching as he gave a small nod and started walking away.
You let him go because even if Joel Miller hated his birthday, you already knew you weren’t going to let it pass unnoticed.
____________
You found out from Tommy that Joel’s birthday was September 26th.
He hadn’t meant to tell you—just an offhand comment, muttered between sips of coffee as he patched up a tear in his glove. But the second the words left his mouth, Tommy went stiff, like he’d said something he wasn’t supposed to.
“He don’t like to talk about it,” he warned, his voice quieter now. “Lost Sarah...”
Joel had lost his daughter that same day.
The weight of it sat heavy in your chest that night, curled up under a too-thin blanket, staring at the ceiling. You wanted to do something, but how did you celebrate a day that only brought him pain? The thought made your throat tighten, eyes burning as you buried your face in the pillow.
You couldn’t fix it. Couldn’t take away the hurt.
Maybe you could give him something that didn’t feel like a celebration but still meant I see you.
The answer came sooner than expected.
It was a chilly afternoon when you spotted Joel walking toward you, his shoulders hunched against the wind. His usual scowl was in place, but something was different.
He was carrying something.
“Hey,” you greeted, shifting the basket in your arms as he came to a stop in front of you.
Joel exhaled through his nose, his gaze flicking away like he was already second-guessing himself. Then, without a word, he reached into his pack and pulled out a small, wrapped bundle.
Rough brown paper, tied with twine.
He held it out. “Here.”
You blinked. “What’s this?”
Joel sighed, looking somewhere over your shoulder like this whole thing was deeply inconvenient for him. “You said September was your birthday month.”
Your breath caught in your throat.
Carefully, you took the bundle from his hands, fingers grazing his—rough, calloused, warm even in the cold. You pulled the twine loose and peeled back the paper.
A mug.
Not just any mug. Sturdy ceramic, a little chipped at the rim, but glazed in a deep, autumn gold. You could tell it was old but well-made, like the kind you’d find in a house that had once been a home.
You swallowed past the sudden lump in your throat. “Joel…”
He shifted, rubbing the back of his neck. “Figured you might need one,” he muttered. “See you haulin’ coffee to the school every mornin’. Thought… well. Just thought.”
Your fingers curled around the handle. It fit perfectly in your palm.
It was nothing grand. Nothing fancy, but it was thoughtful.
You looked up at him, warmth spreading through your chest. “Thank you.”
His ears tinged pink. He gave a stiff nod like he wasn’t sure what to do with your gratitude.
Your heart pounded. Now or never.
“Actually…” You hesitated. “I have something for you too.”
Joel’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing slightly. “For what?”
You bit your lip, gripping the mug a little tighter. “For your birthday.”
Something passed over his face—quick, fleeting. His jaw clenched, his fingers flexing at his sides.
He shook his head. “You don’t gotta—”
“I know,” you cut in softly. “I know you don’t like your birthday. But… I still wanted to do something for you.”
Joel went quiet.
You let the words settle between you, watching the tension in his shoulders, the way his mouth pressed into a firm line like he wanted to argue but couldn’t quite find the words.
Then, finally, he exhaled, slow and measured. “What is it?”
You smiled. “Come by my place later and find out.”
His eyes flickered with something unreadable. He hesitated. Then, after a long pause, he gave a small nod.
That evening, there was a knock at your door.
Joel stood there, arms crossed, looking like he wasn’t sure if he regretted showing up or not.
You grinned. “Come in.”
He did, stepping inside cautiously, gaze sweeping over the cozy space—books stacked in uneven piles, a blanket draped over the couch, the faint scent of something warm in the air.
You grabbed the package from the table and turned to face him. “Here.”
He stared at it. Then at you.
Slowly, he reached out and took it.
He unwrapped it carefully, calloused fingers making quick work of the twine. The paper fell away, and Joel went still.
A flannel shirt.
Dark green, lined with soft fleece on the inside. Thick enough to keep him warm on patrol, but not too heavy. Well-made, just like the one he always wore—the one you knew had been patched up more times than you could count.
His fingers smoothed over the fabric, quiet.
You shifted on your feet. “I noticed yours was getting pretty worn,” you murmured. “Thought you could use another.”
Joel swallowed, still staring at it.
For a long moment, you thought maybe you’d overstepped. That he’d shake his head, shove it back at you, mutter something about how he didn’t need it.
Instead, he surprised you.
He cleared his throat. “It’s… nice.” A pause. “Thank you.”
Your chest ached at how hesitant he sounded. Like he wasn’t used to someone thinking about him, let alone for him.
You smiled. “Happy early birthday, Joel.”
He looked at you then. Really looked, and for the first time, he didn’t seem quite so uncomfortable with the weight of it.
October
October had settled into Jackson with crisp air and golden leaves crunching underfoot. The town buzzed with preparations for Maria’s fall festival: strings of lanterns hung between buildings, tables were set up with baked goods, and the faint scent of cinnamon and apples drifted through the streets.
Joel had tried to ignore the whole thing. Tried.
But then you’d mentioned it—offhand, casual.
“You’re coming, right?” You’d asked, tilting your head at him as you straightened a pile of books in the schoolhouse.
Joel had grunted, which you took as hesitation.
You just smiled. “C’mon, it wouldn’t kill you to have a little fun.”
And somehow, he’d found himself agreeing.
Now, Ellie sat across from him at the dinner table, stabbing at a slice of pie with unnecessary force, a wicked glint in her eye.
“I’m so excited for the dance,” she said, too loud, flashing Joel a knowing grin.
Joel grunted, trying to appear disinterested as he scooped up another bite of stew. “Mhm.”
Ellie’s grin widened. She was a shark who had scented blood.
“Is your girlfriend gonna be there?” she asked, dragging out the word obnoxiously.
Joel nearly choked on his food. He shot her a glare. “She ain’t my girlfriend.”
Ellie gasped dramatically, clutching her chest like she’d been personally wounded. “Wow. Harsh.”
Joel exhaled sharply through his nose, setting his spoon down with a little too much force. “I ain’t havin’ this conversation with you.”
“Oh, you so are.” Ellie leaned in, elbows on the table, smirking. “You’ve been actin’ all weird lately. Like, more than usual.”
“I don’t act weird.”
“You so do.” She started counting on her fingers. “You’ve been nice to people. Like, actually talking to them instead of just grunting. You suddenly care about how you look before you leave the house—”
Joel scoffed. “The hell I do.”
Ellie ignored him, grinning wider. “And the other day? You were smiling. Like, a real, actual smile.”
Joel picked up his spoon again, pointing it at her. “You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”
Ellie kicked her feet up on the chair next to her, completely undeterred. “Oh, but I do. You like her.”
Joel tensed, his jaw ticking. Ellie just sat there, smirking, waiting for him to deny it.
He didn’t.
Instead, he focused on his food, muttering under his breath, “Eat your damn pie.”
Ellie beamed in victory.
“Can’t wait to see you two at the dance,” she sang, hopping up from the table and grabbing her plate. “Gonna be so romantic.”
Joel groaned, rubbing a hand down his face.
What the hell had he just agreed to?
____________
The hall had been transformed. Twinkling lanterns hung from the rafters, casting everything in a warm golden glow. Tables were lined with mismatched candles, their tiny flames flickering against the cool draft seeping in from the open doors. The scent of cider and baked apples filled the space, blending with the sound of laughter and the soft strum of a guitar from the corner.
You stood near the refreshment table, hands wrapped around a warm mug, watching as couples twirled across the wooden floor. It was almost normal.
For a moment, it was easy to pretend the world wasn’t broken. That beyond Jackson’s walls, there weren’t infected lurking in the shadows, waiting to take all of this away.
You shifted on your feet, smoothing a hand over your dress—nothing fancy, just something simple, warm enough for the crisp autumn night, paired with your trusty boots. The fabric swayed gently as you moved, and you felt a little lighter, a little more… hopeful.
Then, the door swung open, and your breath caught, causing your heart to do a stupid little flutter at the sight of him.
Joel’s hair was combed back—not slicked, not perfect, just neater than usual, like maybe he’d actually put in some effort. He wore a deep green flannel, the one you’d given him for his birthday, unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves pushed up to his forearms. He wore jeans, boots, and his usual belt. Still very much Joel, but softened somehow.
Beside him, Ellie smirked up at him, clearly impressed.
“Damn, look at you,” she teased, elbowing him as they stepped inside. “Who knew you could clean up this nice?”
Joel shot her a look. “I ain’t cleaned up.”
Ellie snorted. “You so are.” Then, as if just noticing you, her smirk widened. “Ohhh, I see now.”
Joel followed her gaze, his eyes landing on you. His movements slowed, just for a second.
Then he exhaled through his nose, shifting on his feet like he was suddenly self-conscious.
You smiled. “You made it.”
He grunted, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “Yeah, well. You asked.”
Ellie gasped, loud and exaggerated. “Wait. Wait—did Joel Miller just admit he came here for you?” She turned to him, grinning. “That’s, like, the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.”
Joel shot her a withering look. “Go away.”
Ellie only cackled, grabbing a cup of cider from the table. “Nah, I think I’ll stick around and see how this plays out.”
You laughed, shaking your head. “Be nice, Ellie.”
Ellie snorted. “I am being nice. You should’ve seen him before we left—kept grumbling about how this was a waste of time. And yet, here he is.”
Joel pinched the bridge of his nose. “I swear to God—”
You stepped closer, tilting your head up at him. “You do look nice, though.”
Joel’s hand dropped. His gaze flickered to yours, something unreadable behind it.
A slow breath. Then—so soft you almost missed it—“You too.”
A warmth spread through you, settling deep in your chest.
Ellie groaned, dramatically rolling her eyes. “Oh my God, just dance already.”
Joel scowled. “Ain’t happenin’.”
Ellie grinned. “We’ll see about that.”
You chuckled, taking a slow sip of your cider, already scheming.
Ellie, ever the troublemaker, smirked one last time before making a half-hearted excuse and disappearing into the crowd, leaving you and Joel standing there alone.
You turned to him, offering a fresh cup of cider. “Here.”
Joel hesitated for just a second before taking it, his fingers brushing against yours—warm and rough.
“Thanks,” he muttered, eyes fixed on the floor like the damn woodgrain had something interesting to say.
You smiled, watching him. It was strange, seeing him here—out of place but present, the usual tension in his shoulders just a little looser. The lantern light flickered over his face, casting soft shadows along the sharp angles of his jaw, catching the silver in his hair.
Then, the band struck up a new tune.
Your breath hitched. That song.
An old favorite, one you hadn’t heard in years. Something soft and slow, the kind of melody that wrapped around you like a warm embrace.
You set your cider down, turning to Joel with a grin. “C’mon.”
His brow furrowed. “What?”
“Dance with me.”
Joel stiffened, shifting on his feet like you’d just asked him to recite poetry in front of the whole town. “Nah.”
You sighed dramatically. “Joel.”
“Nope.”
You took a step closer. “It’s just one dance.”
“I don’t dance.”
“You do.”
“I don’t.”
You arched a brow. “Not even back in the day?”
Joel huffed, eyes darting to the side like he was contemplating an escape route. “That was different.”
Your lips twitched. “Different how?”
He exhaled sharply, tilting his head back before looking at you again. “You ain’t lettin’ this go, are you?”
“Nope.”
Joel stared at you for a long moment. You could see the war in his eyes—the reluctance, the hesitation.
Then you reached for his hand, and he let you.
His palm was broad, calloused, fingers twitching slightly under yours. You squeezed gently, giving him an out if he wanted it.
He didn’t take it.
With a quiet sigh, Joel let you lead him toward the dance floor, moving stiffly at first, like his body had forgotten how this worked.
“You’re gonna be fine,” you teased softly, placing his free hand at your waist.
He swallowed. “You say that now.”
You started to sway, guiding him with slow, easy steps. After a beat, he followed.
The tension in his shoulders faded gradually, his grip firm but careful, like he wasn’t sure how much space to leave between you. You took the liberty of closing the distance just a little more, your body brushing against his as the music hummed around you.
He smelled like worn leather and cedarwood. It made you feel safe.
His hand at your waist flexed slightly. His thumb brushed absentmindedly against the fabric of your dress, barely there, but enough to make your breath hitch.
You tilted your head up to look at him. His gaze was already on you.
Something unreadable passed between you.
“You’re not bad at this,” you murmured.
Joel scoffed, shaking his head. “Not sayin’ I like it.”
You smiled. “Sure, Joel.”
He huffed, but his fingers curled a little tighter at your waist, holding you closer. His grip wasn’t hesitant anymore.
“You’re a…” He started, his voice low, rough.
You grinned. “Pain in your ass?”
Joel exhaled sharply, something close to a laugh—not quite, but enough to make your stomach flutter.
“No,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Was gonna say somethin’ else.”
You tilted your head up at him, eyes bright with mischief. “Oh? Like what?”
Joel’s jaw tightened, like he was debating whether or not to take the bait. His gaze flickered away for a brief second before landing back on you, something unreadable in those deep, hazel eyes.
“You’re persistent,” he finally said.
Joel let out a quiet grunt, but there was no real bite behind it. His thumb brushed absently along your waist just enough to send warmth curling through you.
“You always this difficult?” he asked, his voice quieter now.
You hummed, swaying a little closer. “Only with you.”
Joel’s fingers twitched against your waist. His eyes held yours, something shifting in them, something softer than before.
“I should’ve known,” he muttered, but his voice had no frustration. If anything, he sounded almost… amused.
You grinned. “You’re gettin’ used to me, though.”
He shook his head, but his lips twitched just enough for you to notice. “Don’t know ‘bout that, sweetheart.”
December
Autumn was long gone, swept away with the last of the golden leaves. Winter had settled into Jackson with an unforgiving grip—bitter winds, thick snowfall, the kind of cold that seeped into your bones no matter how many layers you wore.
Today was no different.
Snow had started falling in the early afternoon, dusting the rooftops and piling in soft drifts along the streets. By the time class ended, the steady flurries had thickened into something heavier, swirling outside the schoolhouse windows.
Most of the kids had already rushed out the door, eager to get home before the worst of it hit, but a few lingered behind, helping you straighten chairs and gather up scattered lesson papers.
Then, the door creaked open, and a burst of cold air followed Joel Miller inside.
He stomped the snow from his boots, shaking his head as he pulled the scarf from around his neck. A familiar worn satchel was slung over his shoulder, and he made his way toward your desk, setting a small stack of books down with a quiet thump.
“Found these on patrol,” he muttered, glancing at you before shifting his weight like he wasn’t sure if he should linger.
You brushed your hands off on your skirt and stepped closer, fingertips trailing over the covers. “You’re making a habit of this,” you mused, looking up at him.
Joel grunted, rubbing a hand over his beard. “Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”
You smirked with an expression that read—Sure, Joel.
Before you could tease him further, the wind outside howled, rattling the old windowpanes. One of the kids—Lucy, a bright-eyed girl no older than seven—paused in the middle of stacking the bookshelves.
“Sounds bad out there,” she murmured.
Another gust of wind shrieked against the schoolhouse walls. The fire in the woodstove crackled, but a draft crept in beneath the door, chilling the air. You frowned, moving to peek outside.
Your stomach dipped.
The gentle snowfall from earlier had turned into a full-blown storm. White-out conditions. The streets had already disappeared under a thick, shifting blanket of snow, and the wind howled through town, sharp and biting.
Joel came up behind you, close enough that you felt his warmth. “Storm’s settin’ in fast,” he muttered, voice low.
You turned to the kids, trying to keep your voice calm. “Alright, looks like we’re stayin’ put for a bit.”
Lucy’s little brother, Daniel, fidgeted. “For how long?”
Joel crossed his arms. “’Til it clears up enough to walk home safe.”
The words weren’t unkind, but Daniel’s face still fell. His lip trembled, and he blinked up at Joel, eyes wide. “But what if it doesn’t stop?”
Joel sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. You could see the exact moment he caved, the hard lines in his expression softening just slightly.
Kneeling down, he met Daniel’s worried gaze head-on. “Ain’t the first storm I’ve seen, kid,” he said, voice gentler now. “Won’t be the last. Nothin’ to do but wait it out. We’re safe here.”
Daniel sniffled but nodded.
You hid a smile, glancing at Joel as he stood back up. He caught you looking and huffed. “What?”
“Nothing,” you said innocently.
He narrowed his eyes, but before he could press, another voice piped up.
“What do we do now?” Lucy asked, shifting on her feet.
Joel glanced at you. You both knew the worst thing to do was let the kids sit in silence, stewing in worry.
You clapped your hands together. “We make the best of it.”
A few skeptical looks.
“Ever had a snowstorm sleepover?”
Lucy perked up. “Like… camping?”
“Exactly like camping,” you said brightly. “Except warmer.”
Joel snorted. “Debatable.”
You ignored him. “We’ve got books, a warm fire, and if we’re lucky…” You shot a glance at Joel. “Maybe some stories?”
Joel sighed, already shaking his head. “I ain’t—”
“C’mon, Joel,” Ellie’s voice suddenly called from the doorway.
You turned just in time to see her waltz in, brushing snow from her shoulders. “Oh, hell yeah,” she grinned, glancing around at the kids. “We havin’ a storm party in here?”
“You shouldn’t be out in this,” Joel muttered, but there was no real heat behind it.
Ellie shrugged, flopping onto a chair. “Relax, old man. I barely had to walk a block.”
She turned to the kids, nodding toward Joel. “Y’know, he’s real good at tellin’ stories. Bet if you bug him enough, he’ll spill a good one.”
Joel scowled. “Ellie.”
Ellie grinned, leaning back. “What? Just sayin’.”
You smirked, crossing your arms. “Guess it’s unanimous, then. Looks like you’re up, Miller.”
Joel exhaled sharply, glaring at Ellie before looking back at you. For a second, he seemed like he might refuse. Might grumble something about how this was your problem, not his, but then Daniel looked up at him again, eyes still a little wary, still searching for reassurance.
Joel sighed, shaking his head. “Fine.”
Cheers erupted from the kids. Ellie whooped, shooting you a smug look.
You smiled, settling in as Joel pulled up a chair.
He leaned back, arms crossed, eyes scanning the small group in front of him like he was still debating whether this was worth his time. But then Lucy wiggled forward eagerly, Daniel tucked himself into the corner of the worn-out couch, and even Ellie leaned in slightly, clearly expecting a show.
Joel sighed, like he was already regretting this, and then—he started talking.
You leaned against your desk, watching him. Hanging onto every word.
At first, you were just listening, like everyone else. But then, your focus started to shift—not just to what he was saying, but how he was saying it.
The way his deep, low voice wrapped around the words, rich and slow, his Texan drawl stretching certain syllables, dragging out vowels in a way that sent a shiver up your spine.
God.
How had you never noticed it before?
His voice wasn’t just rough—it was warm, like whiskey on a cold night, settling deep into your bones. There was a cadence to how he spoke, how his gravelly tone smoothed over certain words and sharpened on others.
The fire flickered beside him, its glow catching the silver in his hair, casting deep shadows along the strong cut of his jaw. He wasn’t a performer, wasn’t trying to be—but he had the room in the palm of his hand, his voice steady, sure, filling the space between the crackling woodstove and the howling wind outside.
You swallowed, fingers gripping the edge of your desk.
Shit.
This was bad.
You’d always liked Joel. Always found him intriguing in that quiet, rough-around-the-edges way. Now it was something deeper, dangerous.
You had it bad.
The worst part? You weren’t even sure when it had happened. Maybe it was the books or the way he always looked out for the kids. Maybe it was the rare, reluctant smirks he sent your way or how his hands lingered just a second too long when he handed you something.
Or maybe it was just him.
Joel Miller. A man made of sharp edges and quiet kindness, of steady hands and a voice that had somehow curled itself around your heart without you realizing it.
“You listenin’ or just starin’?”
Your eyes snapped up.
Joel was looking right at you, brow raised, mouth twitching at the corners like he already knew the answer.
Heat rushed to your face. “I—I’m listening.”
Joel hummed, unconvinced. His gaze flickered down—just for a second—before returning to yours. His fingers tapped against the armrest of his chair.
“Y’look real deep in thought over there,” he mused. “Somethin’ you wanna share with the class?”
Ellie perked up immediately. “Ohhh, yeah, what were you thinkin’ about?” She shot you a wicked grin. “Wait—were you staring at him?”
Joel groaned. “Jesus Christ.”
You rolled your eyes, crossing your arms. “I was not staring.”
Ellie snickered. “Sure.”
Joel just shook his head, exhaling sharply. “You gonna let me finish this story or what?”
“By all means,” you said, biting back a smile.
Joel held your gaze for a second longer, something unreadable flickering behind those deep brown eyes. He leaned back again, clearing his throat.
But this time, when he kept talking, you noticed something different.
How his voice dipped a little lower, his fingers curled slightly tighter around the chair. The way his eyes found yours between sentences like maybe he was thinking about you, too.
____________
The snow finally stopped after two long hours, the sky clearing just enough for the late afternoon sun to peek through the heavy clouds. Its weak rays glinted off the thick blanket of white outside, already softening at the edges, turning to slush where footprints had trampled paths.
Joel stood near the door, arms crossed, watching as Lucy and Daniel rushed past him, their boots thudding against the wooden floor. Ellie was right behind them, already packing a handful of snow.
“Last one outside’s a rotten egg!” she called, shoving her way through the door with a laugh.
The kids shrieked, disappearing into the bright afternoon, their voices echoing down the street.
Joel sighed, shaking his head. “Told ‘em I’d walk ‘em home.”
You smirked, stepping beside him, watching the kids tumble into the fresh snow. “Think they’ll be okay without you?”
Joel scoffed. “Barely.”
You chuckled, shifting slightly—and that’s when you realized.
It was just the two of you now.
The schoolhouse was quiet. The fire in the stove had died down to embers, casting a dim, flickering glow against the walls. Outside, Jackson stirred back to life after the storm, but in here, it felt like time had slowed.
Joel hadn’t moved. He still stood beside you, close enough that his warmth reached you, despite the cold creeping through the gaps in the door.
You cleared your throat, turning toward him. “Guess that means you don’t have an excuse to run off now.”
Joel arched a brow. “Wasn’t plannin’ on runnin’.”
Your lips quirked. “That so?”
His gaze flickered to yours, steady, unreadable. Then—so subtly you almost didn’t catch it—his fingers twitched at his side, like he’d thought about reaching for something but thought better of it.
You swallowed, suddenly hyper-aware of every little thing. The way his hand hovered just inches from yours. The roughness of his knuckles, the calloused pads of his fingertips, how easy it would be to close the space and—
You shook the thought away.
Joel shifted, glancing toward the table where the stack of books he’d brought still sat. “Y’gonna take those home?”
“Probably.” You moved past him to gather them up, but the moment your fingers brushed the top book, another hand beat you to it.
Joel’s.
Your breath hitched.
For a second, neither of you moved. His hand had settled just over yours, warm, solid, his fingers barely curling against your skin. A beat passed. Then another.
You glanced up.
Joel didn’t pull away.
His gaze met yours, something flickering behind those deep brown eyes—something unreadable, something waiting. The air felt different, heavier, like the storm had never really left.
Then, he cleared his throat and pulled back, grabbing half the stack and tucking it under his arm like nothing had happened.
“C’mon,” he muttered, heading for the door. “Ain’t lettin’ you haul all these by yourself.”
You blinked, heart still racing, then let out a breathless laugh. “Wow. Chivalry isn’t dead after all.”
Joel rolled his eyes, holding the door open for you. “Don’t make me regret it.”
You grinned, brushing past him, close enough that your shoulder bumped his. “Too late.”
Joel huffed. But as you stepped outside, boots crunching in the fresh snow, you caught it—that small, almost imperceptible tug at the corner of his mouth.
And you knew.
He wasn’t regretting it at all.
February
“Alright, make sure not to eat the glue sticks,” you warned, hands on your hips, though you couldn’t keep the laughter out of your voice.
A few giggles erupted around the classroom.
“I wasn’t gonna,” Daniel muttered, even though you had caught him eyeing one earlier.
You shook your head fondly, surveying the scene in front of you. The classroom was a mess of red and pink paper scraps, doilies, and way too much glitter. Some of the kids took their time, carefully writing heartfelt messages in their Valentine’s Day cards, while others scribbled their names in messy, oversized letters before immediately running off to cause trouble.
Still, it was sweet.
Seeing them like this—carefree, just being kids—it made all the chaos worth it.
Once the last of the glue had dried, you clapped your hands. “Alright! Time to exchange.”
Excited chatter filled the air as the kids hopped up from their seats, running around the room to deliver their cards. Daniel handed Lucy one, grinning as he presented his with a dramatic flourish. Ellie, having appointed herself The Valentine’s Day Critic, went around judging everyone’s artistic abilities, much to the other kids’ annoyance.
Lucy—sweet, thoughtful Lucy—clutched a card in her hands, biting her lip in concentration.
Then, with a determined nod, she slipped it into her coat pocket and bolted out the door.
Joel had just finished up at the stables when he heard his name being called.
“Mr. Joel! Wait!”
He barely had time to turn before Lucy skidded to a stop in front of him, red-faced from the cold, her scarf trailing behind her.
Joel blinked down at her. “Somethin’ wrong?”
“Nope!” she beamed. Then, without another word, she shoved a handmade Valentine into his hands.
Joel frowned, glancing down at it. The card was lopsided, the edges trimmed with uneven bits of lace. A few hearts were drawn in the corners, scribbled in crayon, and right in the center, in big, careful letters—
Happy Valentine’s Day, Joel!
And at the bottom—Love, (Y/N)
Joel’s entire body locked up.
Lucy rocked on her heels, beaming at him like she’d just handed him gold.
He stared at the card. His grip tightened slightly. Then loosened.
“What is this?” he asked, voice gruff.
“A Valentine,” Lucy chirped, looking far too pleased with herself. “Miss (L/N) made it for you.”
Joel blinked. “She… what?”
Lucy nodded eagerly, her braids bouncing. “She must really like you. She worked really hard on it.”
Joel opened his mouth. Closed it. Shifted his weight.
He could count on one hand the number of times in his life he’d been genuinely caught off guard. This was one of them.
“Uh—”
“Well, see ya later, Mr. Joel!” Lucy chirped, already spinning on her heel and dashing off.
Joel watched her go, still frozen in place, still holding the damn Valentine like it was a live grenade.
His heart thudded once, heavy in his chest. You had made this? For him?
He glanced down at the card again before his feet carried him towards the school.
____________
You had just stepped out of the schoolhouse, wrapping your scarf tighter around your neck as the cold breeze nipped at your cheeks. The day was already starting to fade, the sun slipping lower behind the rooftops, casting long, golden shadows over the snow-covered streets.
As you locked up the door, you heard footsteps crunching in the frost behind you.
You sighed, already turning. “Did you forget someth—”
The words caught in your throat. It wasn’t one of the kids.
It was Joel.
He was holding a familiar lopsided Valentine's card in one hand, gripping it like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with it.
Your stomach flipped.
Joel shifted, his jaw working like he was debating something. His other hand was stuffed deep in his jacket pocket, his shoulders tense like he’d rather be anywhere else—but his feet weren’t moving.
You frowned. “Joel?”
He exhaled sharply through his nose, lifting the card slightly. “You, uh… you make this?”
Your eyes flickered to the crumpled Valentine, the sight of your own name scrawled at the bottom in a handwriting that definitely wasn’t yours.
It took all of two seconds to piece it together.
Your lips parted in realization. Lucy. That little menace.
The laugh bubbled up before you could stop it, slipping past your lips, a warm contrast against the chilly air. “Oh, Joel.” You shook your head, biting back a grin.
Joel’s frown deepened. “That a yes or a no?”
You grinned, arms crossing. “It’s a no. But I know who did.”
Joel’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Lucy.”
“Bingo.”
He let out a heavy sigh, raking a hand through his hair. “Jesus Christ.”
You laughed again, watching as he stared down at the card like it had personally offended him.
“She told me you made it,” he muttered, like he still wasn’t sure if he was being messed with.
“Yeah, sounds like Lucy,” you mused, shaking your head. “She’s got a bit of a matchmaking streak.”
Joel grunted. “Figured that out real quick.”
You smirked. “So. What’d you think?”
He blinked. “What?”
“The card,” you teased. “You seemed pretty torn up about it. For a second, I thought you wanted me to make you one.”
Joel scoffed, but the tips of his ears had gone pink.
“I wasn’t torn up about nothin’,” he muttered, rolling his shoulders like he could physically shake off the flustered energy clinging to him.
You just tilted your head, watching him.
He huffed, stuffing the card back into his pocket like it was evidence of something, like he needed to get rid of it but couldn’t quite bring himself to toss it.
That warmth curled low in your stomach again. Because for all his grumbling, for all his attempts to brush this off, there was one simple fact he wasn’t acknowledging.
He’d come all the way here to ask you.
Just to be sure.
The thought made your heart skip.
You stepped a little closer, voice softer now. “Well… if you wanted one, you could’ve just asked.”
Joel’s breath hitched, just barely. His fingers flexed at his sides, like he was stopping himself from doing something—stepping back, stepping closer.
You bit your lip, smiling. “Next year, maybe I’ll make you a real one.”
Joel swallowed, the muscle in his jaw ticking. Then, after a long beat—
“Yeah,” he muttered, barely audible. “Maybe.”
Then, before you could say anything else, he turned, muttering something under his breath as he stomped off into the snow.
You watched him go, his broad frame cutting through the snow, shoulders tense like he was trying to shake off something that had crawled under his skin.
Maybe that was the problem because you didn’t want him to shake it off.
Not this time.
“Joel.”
He didn’t stop.
You took a step forward, heart pounding. “Wait.”
His pace quickened, boots crunching against the frozen ground, as if putting more space between you would make this whole thing disappear.
Your stomach twisted. “Joel!”
He let out a sharp breath and finally stopped, turning on his heel so fast you nearly ran into him.
“What?” His voice was gruff, a little too sharp, like he was already regretting stopping.
The look on his face made you hesitate—jaw tight, lips pressed into a firm line, his eyes flickering with something unreadable. But you swallowed past the lump in your throat, forcing yourself to speak.
“Why… why are you upset?”
Joel scoffed, rubbing the back of his neck, his breath curling into the cold air. “Because a damn kid embarrassed me.”
You frowned. “No, I mean—”
“And because you think it’s funny.”
“I—Joel, that’s not—”
“And because—”
“Will you just shut up for a second?”
The words snapped out before you could stop them, your voice louder than intended.
Joel blinked. His mouth shut, brow furrowing as he stared at you, caught off guard.
Your heart pounded, breath shaky, but you had already started. No going back now.
“I’m not laughing at you,” you said, your voice steadier now. “I’m frustrated because you’re too damn stubborn to see what’s right in front of you.”
Joel didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
So you pressed on.
“I like you, Joel.” The words tumbled out before you could second-guess them. “I have for a while. And maybe Lucy saw it before you did, but hell—I see it too. In the way you look at me. The way you show up for me. The way you’re standing here, right now, instead of walking away like I know you want to.”
A long, heavy, unbearable silence hung in the air.
Joel stepped forward.
It was slow and hesitant, like he wasn’t sure if he was making the right move, but he was. He always had been.
His hand lifted, rough fingers brushing against your cheek, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. The touch was warm, careful, lingering longer than it needed to.
His voice was quieter when he spoke. “You ain’t wrong.”
Your breath hitched.
Joel exhaled sharply, looking down for a moment before lifting his gaze back to yours. “I—” He stopped, shook his head slightly, as if the words wouldn’t come out right. But then, finally—“I like you too.”
The words were gruff and unpolished but true.
Something cracked open inside you, something warm that had been waiting for this exact moment.
You barely had time to process before Joel was closing the last bit of space between you, his hands framing your face, his lips pressing against yours.
The kiss wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t desperate. It was steady.
Like him.
Like something solid and certain, something that had been there all along, waiting for the right moment to fall into place.
God, you melted into it, your hands grasping at the front of his jacket, pulling him impossibly closer.
Joel let out a quiet breath against your lips, his fingers tightening slightly like he’d been holding himself back for too long and wasn’t sure how to stop anymore.
Neither of you pulled away.
When you finally did, Joel’s forehead rested against yours, his breath warm in the freezing air.
“Guess Lucy was onto somethin’,” you murmured.
Joel huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. “Little troublemaker.”
You grinned. “Mm. Remind you of anyone?”
His lips brushed against yours, just barely, before he murmured—
In a world with no outbreak, Joel Miller runs a popular bakery—grumpy, flour-dusted, and way too serious about sourdough. His daughters, Sarah and Ellie, are either helping or causing chaos behind the counter.
Then there’s you—a stressed-out grad student who starts doing your thesis in his cozy café. You only came for the pastries… and the baker.
𐙚 i. love in loaf form
𐙚 ii. empty table
𐙚 iii. blanket burrito and grumpy caretaker
𐙚 iv. the return
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
a/n: all work is written by me and the pronouns used are usually for female readers. if there is anything sensitive or triggering in my posts, you can message me to let me know. thank you!
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ CLOSE TO YOU | HARRY CASTILLO X FEM!OC MASTERLIST
For Sam Alcott, love has always been a con job.
A beautifully packaged lie.
A fairytale designed to sell overpriced flowers and jewelry.
The thought of it alone is exhausting. Maybe she's just cynical. Or maybe it's the years of bad dates, failed relationships, and men who saw her as either a convenience or a challenge, never something in between. Love is something she can't quite figure out, and frankly, she has better things to do—like work.
Work makes sense and doesn't disappoint her. Then there's Harry Castillo, her billionaire boss.
Charming, generous, the kind of man who could make even the most hardened realist believe in happily ever after. So when Sam learns that Harry, for all his effortless charm, has never been in a serious relationship or even had the thought of settling down. When his younger sister, Rita, insists it's time for that to change, so she asks Sam to find the perfect matchmaker to finally get her brother to settle down. In a whirlwind of situations, she finds Lucy, an expert in high-profile matchmaking.
Rita, however, isn't convinced. She's suspicious of Lucy's intentions, and in true little-sister fashion, she decides to intervene. Her plan? Sam. The woman who's been in Harry's life the longest, the one who knows him better than anyone—whether she wants to admit it or not.
For Sam, It's absurd. It's beyond her job description. And yet, somehow, she finds herself agreeing.
Sam knows she is screwed. Literally screwed.
But she also couldn't deny that being the apple of Harry Castillo's eye was kind of thrilling.
For years, she had been the trusted assistant, the one who kept his world running smoothly while he charmed his way through an endless rotation of beautiful, disposable women. Sure, he'd given her fancy gifts like Tiffany necklaces, a limited-edition Prada bag—but they felt more like a gesture of gratitude to her services than anything heartfelt.
And now? He was actually noticing her.
Or that's what she thought all this time.
important notes: warnings of mature content will be stated to the specific chapter, so if you're under 18 pls dnr! also, just letting you all know that english is not my first language so if you come up any typos or wrong grammar, sorry in advance!
other note: i dipped in and i'm here back again on my pedro pascal bullshit! unlike my other writing in here, this fic is basically harry x female original character!
coffee png is from @png-portal
this book is also available in my ao3 account and wattpad account
scan code to listen the spotify playlist for this story or visit my account
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter 1 - new york, new york
Chapter 2 - liaisons
Chapter 3 - the gambler
Chapter 4 - lovefools
Chapter 5 - here, there & everywhere
Chapter 6 - drama queen
Chapter 7 - wedding planner
Chapter 8 - divine intervention
Chapter 9 - domestic fantasy
Chapter 10 - pandora's box
Chapter 11 - blurred lines
Chapter 12 - some kind of beautiful
Chapter 13 - valuable
Chapter 14 - close to you
Chapter 15 -
Chapter 16 -
Chapter 17 -
Chapter 18 -
Chapter 19 -
Chapter 20 -
Epilogue
☆ MAIN MASTERLIST | NAVIGATION | SOCIALS | SIGN OFF BANNER MADE BY. @ALDERAANDORS
main post & chapter list | 18+ (minors DNI) | ao3
word count: 88.6k
Joel Miller x f!reader | complete 🧡
summary: Hot Construction Guy is the bane of your existence - he seems to only pop up at the worst possible moment for you, every time you see him.
There’s no way there could be something more there.
Right?
full fic tags/warnings: academia AU, modern AU, one-sided enemies-to-lovers, no outbreak, live music, fluff, banter, everyone is alive, misunderstandings, ex boyfriend who was manipulative and a jerk (only mentioned), no use of y/n, pet names (darlin, gorgeous, honey, baby, sweetheart), later: smut, kissing, grinding, frottage, p in v sex, oral sex (f! and m!receiving), creampie, somnophilia, phone sex, semi-public sex; each chapter will have its own tags
a/n: this fic is completely finished! It was my 2023 NaNo project. I’ll post a new chapter every Friday. There are 23 chapters and an epilogue. There is eventually quite a bit of smut, but it’s going to take us a little while to get there. Mind the tags (for the whole fic above and for each chapter). That “one-sided enemies-to-lovers” tag was the motivation for the whole fic — what if only one of you thinks you’re enemies? And here we are. Chapters with smut are marked with *. The dates in each chapter are from a fictional fall semester, 2024. Shoutout to @fanatictypist for reading this and encouraging me 💕 and to the PPCU server.
note about reader: in this fic you’re a college professor, vaguely of English literature and poetry. You like live music, you like to read, and Ellie is your niece. You have a best friend named Beth, a sister who is having a rough time, and a difficult mother. I’ve avoided physical descriptions and most clothing descriptions, except when plot-relevant. You are vaguely shorter than Joel. No age is specified, but I imagined 36-year-old Joel here (and 14-year-old Sarah), and most English PhDs wouldn’t get to this type of position until they were 28 or 29 at the earliest, even if they went to grad school right out of undergrad. So you can imagine reader any age from there to mid-30s, or whatever you want, really.
* = chapter contains smut
Come celebrate the end with me with some fun asks! Ch 23 goes up 5/17 and the epilogue 5/24.
Chapter List
Chapter 1 | 2.4k
Wednesday, September 4, second week of the semester
Chapter 2 | 2.4k | preview
Friday, September 6, second week of the semester
Chapter 3 | 2.4k | preview
Monday, September 16, fourth week of the semester,
Friday, September 20, fourth week of the semester
Chapter 4 | 1.8k | preview
Interlude
Chapter 5 | 3.4k | preview
Friday, September 27, fifth week of the semester
Saturday, September 28, fifth week of the semester
Monday, September 30, sixth week of the semester
Chapter 6 | 2.1k | preview
Wednesday, October 2, sixth week of the semester
Chapter 7 | 2.4k | preview | art by @kittyoperas 🥰
Wednesday, October 9, seventh week of the semester
Chapter 8 | 2.7k | preview
Monday, October 14, eighth week of the semester
Chapter 9 | 3.4k | preview
Tuesday, October 15, eighth week of the semester
Thursday, October 17, eighth week of the semester
Friday, October 18, eighth week of the semester
Saturday, October 19, eighth week of the semester
Chapter 10 | 5k | preview
Monday, October 21, ninth week of the semester
Chapter 11 | 2.4k| preview
Tuesday, October 22, ninth week of the semester
Thursday, October 24, ninth week of the semester
Friday, October 25, ninth week of the semester
Chapter 12 | 8.1k | preview *
Friday, October 25, ninth week of the semester
Chapter 13 | 9.3k | preview *
Friday, October 25 (still), ninth week of the semester
Chapter 14 | 3.9k | preview
Friday, October 25 (still), ninth week of the semester
Saturday, October 26, ninth week of the semester
Chapter 15 | 3.6k | preview
Saturday, October 26, ninth week of the semester
Sunday, October 27, ninth week of the semester
Chapter 16 | 5.8k | preview
Tuesday, October 29, tenth week of the semester
Friday, November 1, tenth week of the semester
Chapter 17 | 3.2k | preview *
Saturday, November 2, tenth week of the semester
Sunday, November 3, tenth week of the semester
Chapter 18 | 3.3k | preview *
Monday, November 4, eleventh week of the semester
Chapter 19 | 7.6k | preview *
Saturday, November 9, eleventh week of the semester
Sunday, November 10, eleventh week of the semester
Chapter 20 | 3.3k | preview
Saturday, November 16, twelfth week of the semester
Chapter 21 | 3.5k | preview *
Friday, November 22, thirteenth week of the semester
Chapter 22 | 2k | preview
Thursday, December 5, fifteenth week of the semester
Chapter 23 | 2.7k | preview *
Friday, December 6, last day of classes
Epilogue | 5/24
Saturday, May 10, summer Break
…
Drabbles & longer asks
Where would Joel and reader go on holiday together? from the MR ending celebration
Beth & Joel's first meeting asks, part 1 and part 2, from the MR ending celebration
Would they have kids? from the MR ending celebration
About their future adventures and how I got the idea for the fic, from the MR ending celebration
Some insight into ch2, the pile driver, and Trevor, from the MR ending celebration
Does Joel ever run into Matt? From the MR ending celebration
About Beth and Joel’s friendship, from the MR ending celebration
How I wrote it, from the MR ending celebration
Coming soon: how Joel found the poem 😏
...
Moodboards
@sawymredfox made this moodboard and it’s amazing 😩 please go look at it 💕
@djarins-cyare made this wonderful moodboard, I love it so much -- please go look at it! 🧡💚
@almostfoxglove made this amazing moodboard and I can’t deal with how much I love it. 🥹😭
summary: you've spent years convincing the bau that your love life is chaotic, casual, and completely detached—while quietly dying every time aaron hotchner looks at you. but when your dating profile attracts the wrong kind of attention and your unit chief is forced to look a little closer, it turns out there are very few things more dangerous than being profiled by the man you're hopelessly in love with.
notes: i've been a little conflicted about posting lately, but... it's my birthday, and i want aaron hotchner—so here you go! i've been working on this for a while and had a very very smart friend help me with the "profiling" parts (especially reid) so i hope y'all enjoy! i also really wanted to actually write the smut, but this fic hit the block limit so hard and fast it actually hurt. as always, please please let me know what you think!
warnings: swearing / cursing, blushing, italics, reader wears a skirt (and heels), reader has a cat, implied age gap, best friend!reid, some pretentious ranting, horny thoughts, likely incorrect behavioural and psychoanalytical information, likely incorrect technical information (sorry garcia), canon-typical themes (homicide, etc. referred to off page), stalker / stalking behaviour, ambiguous use of "online dating" (because i tried to keep it vaguely around s6/s7 era), kind of rushed ending? and... fade to black / implied sex (i’m so sorry) 18+ only still, mdni.
word count: 19001
MONDAY 9:25AM
Working for the FBI means having secrets is difficult. Working with the BAU makes it downright impossible.
Not because your colleagues are nosy—no, they’re just… perceptive. Which means if you want to keep something to yourself, you need to know how to manipulate their perception. Even if it doesn’t work on all of them—you glance at Reid, already seated at the round table with his nose buried in a book—at least it works on most of them.
At least, it works on Aaron Hotchner.
Your boss. Your unit chief. The man who absolutely cannot find out about your big, fat, massively inconvenient, deeply inappropriate crush on him.
Reid glances up from his book as you drop into the seat beside him. “You’re wearing a skirt.”
You cross your legs and lean back. “Excellent observation, Reid.”
“It’s impractical,” he says simply. “Especially with heels. Your centre of gravity shifts forward by almost fifteen degrees, which shortens your stride length and reduces balance recovery time. You’re significantly more likely to trip while running.”
You roll your eyes. “Good thing I’m not planning on fleeing the scene of a crime today.”
“Ignore boy genius, baby girl,” Morgan says as he steps into the room, heading straight for the espresso machine. “You look good.”
You flash him a grin. “See? Somebody appreciates me.”
Reid hums as he glances back down at his book. “Interesting how your clothing choices become statistically less practical in direct correlation to Hotch’s proximity.”
Your stomach flips. “Spence.”
He lifts one shoulder. “What? He’s not listening.”
You glance back at Morgan, whose eyes are glued to his phone, brow furrowed just slightly as he waits for the whirring coffee machine to fill his cup.
“That’s not the point, Spencer,” you mutter, turning back to him. “You need to—”
The conference room door swings open again and Hotch walks in—files tucked under one arm, the rest of the team trailing behind him.
“Morning,” he says, dropping the files on the table. “Hope everyone had a good weekend.”
Morgan snorts. “What weekend?”
“Yeah,” Prentiss mutters, dropping into the seat beside Reid. “I was here until five on Saturday finishing geographical profiles.”
“That’s because you alphabetise your paperwork,” you point out.
She gives you a look. “I enjoy being proficient.”
“Well,” you say lightly, leaning back in your chair “some of us managed to finish our paperwork on Friday and still have a very enjoyable weekend.”
Garcia gasps dramatically as she falls into the last empty chair, coffee in hand. “Ooh, look at you. Was there a man involved?”
You shrug one shoulder, biting back a smile. “I’m choosing to plead the fifth.”
Morgan points across the table. “That means yes.”
“Or,” Reid says without looking up from his book, “it means she enjoys making people speculate.”
“Aw, Spence,” you tease. “Don’t sound so bitter.”
He finally looks up from his book and fixes you with a look so flat it borders on threatening—because he knows what you’re doing. It’s what you always do. It’s how you manipulate their perception. How you keep your secret.
You perform.
You scroll through dating profiles, talk about men, brag about your weekends without ever being too specific. You flirt with almost everyone on the team—Reid more than the rest, because he’s your scapegoat... and your best friend.
He’s the only one who can see through the charade. Not because he’s emotionally perceptive, but because he did the math. He noticed the pattern. He realised very quickly that every time Hotch walks into a room or says your name, you react in a way that can only mean one thing:
Hotch is the secret you’re trying so hard to hide.
Because if you give a team of profilers an easy explanation—harmless flirting with a messy dating life and a weakness for attention—they won’t notice the way your entire body betrays you whenever your infuriatingly gorgeous boss gets too close.
Hotch clears his throat. “Well, lucky for all of you, it’s a quiet week.”
Reid shuts his book and sets it on the table.
“No active cases as of this morning,” Hotch continues. “Which means we’ll be catching up on consults, court reports, and the mountain of paperwork everyone’s apparently been neglecting.”
His eyes meet yours for the briefest second, and your pulse skitters.
“I’m bored already,” Morgan sighs, leaning back in his chair.
Hotch ignores him. “We’ve got two local consult requests from Fairfax County and a follow-up review from the Richardson case. Dave, I’ll need your notes finalised by this afternoon.”
Rossi nods once. “You’ll have them.”
“Garcia,” Hotch continues, “the Milwaukee office wants that digital forensic review by Wednesday.”
Garcia gasps softly, pressing a hand to her chest. “But I already colour-coded my entire week. That review wasn’t supposed to be due for another fortnight.”
Morgan blinks. “You colour-code your schedule?”
“Obviously,” Garcia says. “How else would I maintain my sparkling personality under crushing institutional pressure?”
Reid straightens. “Technically, organising information activates the same reward pathways as—”
“Don’t,” Prentiss says immediately.
Reid frowns slightly. “I was just going to say gambling.”
You snort softly before you can stop yourself, covering it quickly with your hand. Reid shoots you a look. Prentiss just shakes her head. And when your eyes finally flick back to the front of the room, Hotch is already watching you.
Not the team. You.
Your stomach twists.
That signature Hotchner scowl should not be as hot as it is. It shouldn’t make you cross your legs a little tighter or make your heart race the way it does. You should be used to that scowl by now. You’re on the receiving end of it often enough—whenever you crack a poorly timed joke or flirt a little too hard with Morgan.
Yet somehow, you still feel like you can’t breathe until his gaze finally shifts.
“Moving on,” he says evenly, “JJ will forward the consult details after the meeting.”
He spends the next thirty minutes briefing the team on consults and court appearances while you do your best to stay focused—but it’s hard. It’s hard because every time you look at him, your gaze drops to his mouth and your mind fills with all sorts of filthy ideas. Then he starts moving his hands as he explains something and you can’t help but wonder what they might feel like wrapped around your waist, your thighs, your throat.
His voice is a low rumble at the back of your mind, warm and firm, but you have no idea what he’s actually saying. All you can do is think about how that voice might sound, wrecked and rough, telling you how pretty you look when you—
“The briefing ended three minutes ago,” Reid says.
You blink hard. “What?”
He closes his notebook with a sigh. “The meeting’s over. You can stop internally monologuing now.”
You frown. “I’m not—”
He gives you a look.
“Ugh,” you groan. “You’re so annoying.”
You push up from your chair and walk out of the conference room without waiting for him, but you’re not surprised that he’s right behind you by the time you reach the bullpen. You drop down at your desk with another indignant huff, watching Reid do the same from the corner of your eye.
Everyone else is already settled at their desks—keyboards clicking, pens scribbling—and there’s a fresh stack of files next to your computer with a sticky note on top that reads: Fairfax files. Prioritize pages 12–18. – Hotch.
You want to laugh at the little sign-off, as if anyone else would have put these files on your desk. Your fingers trace over the note once before you peel it off and stick it to the bottom corner of your computer screen.
Reid snorts. “You know most people throw those away, right?”
You glance sideways at him. “I don’t want to forget the page numbers.”
He hums. “Sure.”
“You know,” you say, turning your chair to properly face him, “you’re being particularly judgemental today. What’s your problem?”
He stares at you for a moment, then glances back at the sticky note still attached to your monitor.
“I’m experiencing prolonged second-hand embarrassment,” he says plainly. “And repeated exposure tends to increase irritability.”
You roll your eyes. “Yeah, well—you’re increasing my irritability.”
“Exactly,” he says, already turning back to his computer.
You glare at the side of his head for a long moment, searching for a comeback—but your mind is completely blank. So with another irritated sigh, you turn back to your own screen, scoot your chair into the desk a little harder than necessary, and settle in for what’s shaping up to be a very boring Monday.
The next two hours pass by in a blur of interview transcripts, witness statements, and crime scene photos. The Fairfax County PD files detail the death of a woman in her late thirties who accidentally overdosed in her Reston home early last week. No prior history of substance abuse, financial instability, or high-risk behaviour—until forty-eight hours before her death.
In just two days, she withdrew a large amount of money, missed work without explanation, visited several bars she’d never been to before, and bought herself thousands of dollars’ worth of expensive jewellery and lingerie.
To anyone else, it might look like some sort of breakdown—an impulsive spiral that led to the kind of recklessness you can’t come back from. But to you, the behaviour feels too... artificial. As if someone is trying to construct the narrative of a troubled woman—checking all the right boxes to give investigators an easy explanation for a tragic overdose.
Only there isn’t enough concrete evidence to support your instinct. No stalker. No ex. No clear unsub who could have orchestrated this kind of ruse to cover what might actually be homicide.
You sigh. “Reid.”
“Hm?”
“Tell me if I’m overthinking this.”
Reid pushes back from his desk and scoots across the narrow stretch of carpet between your workstations. He doesn’t stop until his chair bumps the side of your desk, causing your pen cup to topple over and spill across the files you’ve got carefully laid out.
“Oops,” he says absently, pushing the pens aside.
You roll your eyes and start gathering them while he scans the files.
“The behavioural shift feels manufactured,” you say, dropping the pens back into their cup. “But there’s enough legitimate stressors here that I can’t tell if I’m forcing a pattern because it’s too clean.”
Reid examines the highlighted timeline for another few seconds.
“You’re focusing too much on the existence of the stressors,” he says. “Stress explains escalation. It doesn’t explain inconsistency.”
You frown slightly.
“She suddenly becomes impulsive socially, financially, and sexually, but her organisational habits never change.” He taps the timeline. “She still pays bills early. Still meal preps. Still attends a dentist appointment two days before her death. Real behavioural deterioration isn’t usually selective.”
Your brows lift. “So, I’m right?”
Reid nods, leaning back in his chair. “You’re right.”
“What’s she right about?”
You nearly jump at the sound of Hotch’s voice—low and even, a little rough around the edges in that way that always makes your stomach tighten.
“She thinks the behavioural shift is staged,” Reid says. “And I agree.”
He scoots back slightly as Hotch leans in, one hand braced on the back of your chair while the other pulls the file closer so he can read it properly. His tie falls forward, brushing lightly against your thigh—and suddenly, you can’t breathe.
He’s close. Way too close. You can feel the heat of his breath on your skin. Smell the bitterness of coffee beneath his cologne. Hear the quiet creak of leather from his belt as he leans in further.
“It’s too compartmentalised,” Reid says, his voice more distant than it was just a second ago. “Real behavioural spirals usually bleed into every aspect of a person’s routine. Sleep disruption, missed payments, changes in grooming habits, social withdrawal—something.”
Hotch lifts his hand off the desk and presses his thumb to the tip of his tongue—then flips the page.
Your pulse jumps so hard it almost hurts. Heat crawls up the back of your neck. Your whole body feels too hot, your clothes suddenly too tight, the bullpen too small—but you can’t move. Not with Hotch’s hand still on the back of your chair.
“But this is curated,” Reid goes on, tapping the timeline with the end of his pen. “The impulsive behaviour escalates while the foundational routines stay completely intact, which suggests intentional narrative construction.”
Hotch turns his head just slightly, dark eyes finding yours. “You caught that?”
You clear your throat. “I just... thought the escalation pattern felt off.”
“Her behavioural analysis is spot on, actually,” Reid says. “I can’t find a flaw in it.”
Hotch hums quietly as his eyes move back over the file.
“Good girl,” he says absently.
Your entire nervous system short-circuits.
“Keep it up,” he adds, smoothing his tie as he straightens.
You don’t say anything as he turns and walks away. You couldn’t even if you wanted to.
Reid just sits there, hands folded in his lap as he watches Hotch disappear into his office before slowly turning back toward you.
“You know,” he says thoughtfully, “the age-gap preference is actually more interesting than the authority fixation.”
You finally blink. “What?”
“Because the authority thing makes perfect sense. High-pressure careers tend to reinforce attraction to competence, decisiveness, emotional restraint—especially in workplace environments where leadership qualities become psychologically linked with safety and stability over long periods of exposure.”
You frown. “What are you—”
“But the older man preference is statistically more complicated because you don’t actually display the attachment markers usually associated with paternal absence or instability.”
Your eyes go wide. “Spencer—”
“You have a healthy relationship with your father, no documented authority issues, and relatively secure interpersonal attachment patterns, which suggests the preference is less psychologically compensatory and more rooted in behavioural reinforcement.”
“Reid.”
“For example,” he goes on, ignoring you completely, “you spent your formative professional years surrounded almost exclusively by older men in positions of intellectual and behavioural authority. Gideon, Rossi, Hotch—which likely created a reinforcement pattern where emotional competence became unconsciously associated with attraction, arousal, and sexual interest.”
You freeze. “Reid, I swear to—”
“You don’t react this strongly to older men generally,” he continues. “You react strongly to Hotch because he’s emotionally controlled, professionally authoritative, intellectually intimidating, and—”
He pauses, tilting his head.
“Very obviously your type.”
You glance frantically around the bullpen, scanning the desks for the rest of your team.
Morgan has his headphones on, completely focused on whatever report he’s typing. JJ’s desk is empty, as usual—she’s probably with Garcia. And Prentiss is only halfway back from the kitchen, still stirring her fresh cup of coffee.
Your gaze cuts back to Reid. “You are so lucky no one heard that, Spencer.”
He shrugs. “Wouldn’t matter if they did.”
Your brows pull together. “What’s that mean?”
“You’re good at redirecting attention,” he says, slowly pushing his chair back toward his desk. “You’re less good at hiding physiological responses.”
Your hand flies up to your cheek, palm pressing flat against the burning skin.
“Whatever,” you mutter. “It’s warm in here.”
Reid glances around the bullpen. “It’s sixty-eight degrees.”
“I hate you.”
“No you don’t.”
You shoot him one last glare before turning back toward your computer, aggressively waking up the monitor with your mouse.
You stay chained to your desk for the next few hours, finishing up the victimology report for the Fairfax files before taking them to Rossi for final review. Then you head out with JJ to grab a late lunch from the deli down the street, and when you get back, there’s a brand-new stack of files on your desk—only this time, with a tall takeaway cup of coffee set on top.
“Hotch got dragged into some last-minute Section Chief meeting across town,” Morgan says, pushing his headphones down. “Said he needs those cross-referenced before tomorrow morning.”
“Great,” you mutter, dropping into your chair.
Morgan chuckles softly as he pulls his headphones back up, turning back to his own pile of reports.
You grab the coffee from the top of the files and find a sticky note stuck beneath it—written quickly but still in his unmistakable handwriting: I owe you one. – Hotch.
Your stomach flips.
God. That’s pathetic.
You peel the note off and drop it into the top drawer of your desk, not wanting another psychoanalytic lecture from Reid if he were to spot that note stuck to your monitor.
The rest of the day passes the way every other caseless Monday afternoon does. JJ’s the first to head out—not long after five—taking advantage of the slow week to spend a little extra time with Henry. Rossi leaves about an hour later, announcing to the bullpen that he’s got a date with a bottle of wine and reruns of his favourite medical drama. Morgan manages to clear the files on his desk before seven, finally putting his headphones away before bidding the rest of the team farewell.
Prentiss and Reid linger until nearly nine, and only when the motion sensor lights blink out does Prentiss finally glance up, realising how late it is. She gathers her things and nudges Reid, who’s been firmly stuck in hyperfocus mode despite the rest of the world quietly slowing down around him.
“You coming?” he asks, adjusting the strap of his satchel.
You look up slowly, your brain buffering as it untangles itself from the files spread across your desk.
“Not yet,” you reply, blinking tiredly. “Hotch needs these by morning.”
Reid tilts his head. “Want me to wait?”
You wave a hand. “Nah, go ahead. I’ll get security to walk me to my car.”
“Alright,” he says, already turning away. “Just remember that positive reinforcement loses effectiveness when the subject becomes emotionally dependent on it.”
You glare at his back. “I’m reporting you to HR.”
“You’d have to explain the context,” he calls over his shoulder.
You roll your eyes as you turn back to the last file on your desk, taking a deep breath and flipping it open.
With the bullpen almost completely silent and the promise of sleep so close you can taste it, you manage to get through it in record time. You even give it a quick second pass to make sure you didn’t miss anything glaringly obvious in your tired state—but you’re used to working through sleep deprivation, and by ten p.m., you finally start packing up.
You organise the files back into a neat pile, then open the top drawer of your desk for Hotch’s note. You stick it to the top file and grab a pen, scribbling just below the words he wrote: Dangerous thing to promise me.
And, just as he did, you sign off with your name.
Then you gather the whole stack in your arms and cross the bullpen toward his office. Unlocked, as usual. You nudge the door open with your foot, warm lamplight casting an orange glow over the quiet space. It smells faintly like coffee and his cologne—enough to make your heart start racing the second you step inside.
You set the files neatly on his desk, trying not to linger on the quiet traces of him scattered throughout the room.
There’s still half a mug of cold coffee abandoned beside some paperwork, and the cashmere sweater he’d been wearing beneath his jacket this morning is draped haphazardly over the back of his chair. Quiet evidence of just how suddenly he’d been called away.
It makes you feel a little better knowing you really have helped him out.
You adjust the files until they’re perfectly straight, then take the sweater from the back of his chair and fold it neatly before setting it on the chest of drawers beside his desk. You hesitate for just a second before grabbing the mug of cold coffee and heading out of his office, straight for the break room. You empty it, wash it, dry it, then return to his office, placing it back on his desk exactly where you found it. Then you switch the lamp off on your way out, pulling the door most of the way shut behind you—the way it’d been before you stepped inside.
It doesn’t take long for you to gather your things, head down to security, and badge out. One of the guards escorts you to the parking garage, waiting until you’re safely inside your car with the engine running before he takes the elevator back up.
Once home, you quickly feed the yowling Leia—your cat, who’s very unimpressed by your late arrival—take a quick shower, change into your comfiest, threadbare sleep shirt, then crawl into bed with your laptop balanced on your knees. You know you should just try to get some sleep, but you’ve been ignoring a few personal messages and emails for a couple days now, and you know that if you don’t get to them soon, you’ll start to feel guilty.
You open your emails, reply to a couple, then pull up a new browser tab and type in the login address for the dating site Garcia set you up for. Not that you couldn’t have set up your own profile if you’d really wanted to.
No—this profile is just the unintentional byproduct of your ongoing attempt to redirect attention.
One slow Thursday evening in the bullpen, while you’d been loudly complaining about how impossible it was to meet men with a job like yours, Morgan had the brilliant idea of making you a dating profile. Garcia immediately lit up at the idea, pulling the site up on her computer while Reid launched into a rambling statistical analysis about the probability of finding genuine compatibility online.
Hotch hadn’t contributed to the conversation, but you’d known he was listening.
That had been the whole point. You always perform a little harder when Hotch can hear.
The site finally loads and you type in your credentials, waiting a few seconds for your profile to pop up.
Twelve notifications.
You click on the ‘messages’ tab and start scrolling. There are a few old conversations that fizzled out and you’ve long since decided not to reply to. There are a couple of messages from people you never intend on starting a conversation with. Then there are two new messages—ones you’d seen pop up on your phone but couldn’t be bothered to engage with over the weekend.
After all, you’re not actually looking to date anyone.
But one of the messages catches your eye.
DCRunner00: You seem like the kind of person who’s either very funny or very mean. I’m willing to risk it.
You snort, then type out a reply.
You: Unfortunately for you, those traits aren’t mutually exclusive.
Just as you hit enter, Leia leaps up onto the bed.
“Hey, sassy girl,” you coo, moving your laptop to reach for her.
Your fingers graze her soft coat, and she gives you an incredibly disapproving look.
You roll your eyes. “Alright. Sorry for loving you.”
You settle back against the pillows as she makes her way to the other side of the bed, curling up as far as she can possibly get from you.
Ping! Ping! Two more messages pop up.
DCRunner00: That’s probably the best possible answer you could’ve given.
DCRunner00: So what’s your worst personality trait? I feel like that’s more interesting than hobbies.
That answer comes a little too easily.
You: Workaholic. You?
DCRunner00: I get bored easily.
DCRunner00: Which usually means I either start running or annoying people for entertainment.
You: Sounds like a public safety issue.
DCRunner00: Depends who you ask.
DCRunner00: You should probably get some sleep, Workaholic. It’s late.
You glance over at Leia as she rolls onto her side, stretching her front legs, and only then do you realise you were actually smiling at your screen.
You shake your head, typing quickly.
You: Yeah, I should.
You: Night, Running Man.
Then you shut your laptop before he can send another message.
TUESDAY 9:50AM
“Morgan, you’re with me at district court this afternoon,” Hotch says, closing the file in front of him. “The defence attorney’s pushing back on the Richardson testimony, so we’ll need to review our timeline before the hearing.”
He’s wearing a grey suit today.
You can never think straight when he’s wearing a grey suit.
Morgan sighs dramatically. “Nothing says excitement like four hours in a courthouse basement.”
Hotch ignores him completely.
“JJ, I want the media requests filtered through Strauss’s office before lunch. Reid, finish the geographic overlays from the Fairfax case and send them to Rossi when you’re done.”
He glances once around the table.
“If anything urgent comes in, you’ll be notified. Otherwise, continue using this downtime to catch up on reports.”
Then he gathers the files into a neat stack and stands, turning toward the door.
The rest of the room starts moving slowly. Morgan mutters something to JJ about the court hearing, Prentiss turns to Reid, asking something about a case you don’t quite catch, and Garcia is already explaining something on her laptop to Rossi, who’s watching the screen with quiet concentration.
Which leaves you to shamelessly stare at your boss’ ass as he walks out of the room.
“You should probably blink.”
Your head snaps toward Reid, frown already forming. “I’ll blink when I want to blink.”
He presses his lips together to keep from laughing, and you know he’s fighting the urge to launch into some deeply unwanted psychoanalysis of your behaviour—but thankfully, the rest of the team is still too close for him to risk it.
Eventually, everyone starts filing out of the conference room and back into the bullpen. You end up being the last to leave, behind Reid and Garcia who are chatting animatedly about some new phone app they’re both obsessed with.
You’re just about to pass Hotch’s office door when—you hear your name.
You turn your head, and he gestures for you to come in.
Reid glances briefly over his shoulder, an irritatingly knowing look on his face as you turn and step into Hotch’s office.
You clear your throat, stopping a few feet from the desk. “Sir?”
“How late were you here last night?” he asks.
You lift a shoulder. “About ten.”
His jaw shifts as he leans back in his chair. “That’s late.”
“Morgan said you needed them done by the morning.”
“I didn’t mean first thing,” he says, smoothing the end of his tie. “You could’ve finished the rest before lunch.”
You blink. “Oh.”
His gaze holds yours for a second too long.
“You don’t need to stay late to impress me.”
Your eyes widen slightly before you force out a small, awkward laugh. “Oh—uh—good to know.”
He glances briefly at the navy-blue cashmere sweater still folded neatly on the chest of drawers.
“Still,” he says, lower this time. “I appreciated it. The files, and… everything else.”
Your breath catches softly in your throat.
“Anytime, sir,” you manage.
He nods once, then drops his gaze back to the paperwork on his desk.
You don’t need any more of a dismissal than that, so you turn quickly and step out, pulling the door shut behind you. He prefers it closed, even if he won’t admit it because he doesn’t want the team to think he’s shutting them out. He’s just more comfortable in private—it helps him focus.
By the time you get back to your desk, everyone else is already settled and working quietly. Not even Reid glances up or offers a teasing remark.
You drop into your chair and wriggle your mouse, grabbing your phone while you wait for the screen to wake up.
Two new messages from DCRunner00.
DCRunner00: Running Man?
DCRunner00: Great book. Slightly concerning nickname, though.
You can’t help yourself, so you type out a quick reply.
You: Better than ‘Workaholic’.
You: You read Stephen King?
“Hey, you busy?”
You glance over at Reid. “Aren’t we all?”
He tilts his head. “You’re on your phone.”
“I could be working.”
“Are you?”
“No.”
“Good,” he says, shuffling the files on his desk. “Hotch wants us to prep the full geographic and timeline package for the Fairfax files in case it turns into an active investigation.”
You sigh, already pushing back from your desk. “And by ‘us’ you mean...?”
“I could use your help.”
“Fine,” you mutter, setting your phone down.
He scoots over as you roll your chair toward his desk, settling in beside him. The files are all laid out, including your victimology report with Rossi’s few annotations. There are crime scene reports, autopsy summaries, witness statements, geographic overlays, and maps—everything needed to justify escalating the case into a full BAU investigation.
“Where do you want to start?”
“I’m trying to rebuild the geographic timeline digitally,” he says, “but half the field reports were logged out of sequence and now the movement patterns don’t align.”
You nod. “Okay, walk me through where it stops making sense.”
Three hours later, you feel like your eyeballs are bleeding. You’ve read the same witness statement at least twenty times now, but with every pass it only makes less sense. How could Annabelle Hutton possibly be placed in two different counties less than forty minutes apart?
“It’s physically impossible,” you mutter, rubbing your eyes.
Reid hums quietly beside you. “Not necessarily.”
You stare at him. “Care to elaborate?”
“Well, depending on traffic conditions, inaccurate timestamp reporting, and the reliability of eyewitness memory retention, there are at least four scenarios where the timeline could still technically work.”
You sigh, leaning back in your chair and staring up at the ceiling. “If you know so much, then why can’t you figure this out?”
He still doesn’t turn away from his screen. “I will. Eventually.”
You groan softly, dragging both hands down your face just as a familiar voice cuts through the quiet bullpen.
“No, listen to me carefully.”
Both you and Reid glance up automatically.
Hotch is walking slowly past the desks with his phone pressed to his ear, expression calm but impossibly stern in a way that immediately makes heat crawl beneath your skin.
“You don’t need to explain the problem again,” he says evenly. “You need to tell me how you’re fixing it.”
He pauses briefly beside Reid’s desk, listening.
“Then prioritise the transfer first,” he says. “If the paperwork isn’t filed before opposing counsel reviews discovery, the timeline becomes vulnerable and the entire testimony gets picked apart.”
He rests a hand on the partition between the desks, gaze fixed somewhere distant as he listens to the person on the other end.
“No,” he says after a moment, voice lower now. “I’m not asking you to stay late. I’m telling you this needs to be finished tonight.”
Your stomach flips.
This absolutely should not be as hot as it is.
“Good,” he says calmly into the phone, straightening again. “Call me when it’s done.”
Then he keeps walking, cutting through the bullpen before turning sharply toward his office.
You stare after him, the thought slipping out before you can stop it. “Do you think he talks you through it?”
“Probably,” Reid says, turning back to his screen. “High-control personalities usually prefer maintaining verbal direction in intimate situations because it reinforces predictability and compliance dynamics.”
You go still. You hadn’t actually expected an answer.
“Someone like Hotch would probably place a pretty high psychological value on responsiveness,” Reid continues. “The immediate compliance aspect reinforces authority, which means verbal direction would likely become part of the overall intimacy dynamic rather than just communication.”
Your face heats.
“Especially because he’s not impulsive enough to rely on unpredictability. He’d want constant awareness of how the other person is responding emotionally and physically, so talking them through things would help maintain control of the situation while also reinforcing trust.”
Oh my God.
“And honestly,” Reid goes on, “people with highly structured leadership personalities usually develop pretty strong positive associations with obedience because it confirms stability, attentiveness, emotional investment—” He pauses briefly. “Which means he’d probably find it disproportionately attractive when someone follows instructions immediately or responds well to praise because it validates both the authority dynamic and the emotional trust beneath it, so statistically speaking he’d—”
He stops.
Then slowly turns toward you.
“...I crossed a social boundary somewhere in there, didn’t I?”
You nod slowly, your voice coming out unnaturally high. “Just a couple.”
He sighs, dropping his chin slightly as he turns back to his screen.
You huff out a breathless laugh and lean back in your chair again. You need a minute to recover from that, because now you’re hot all over and the only thing you can think about is your boss hovering over you, praising you in that low, steady voice while his hand settles around your throat—
Fortunately, it doesn’t take Reid long to start rambling about geographic overlays again. You do your best to focus on what he’s saying, but after another hour of scrutinising the timeline inconsistencies, you decide you need an actual break.
You grab your phone and your jacket and head out of the office, sending a quick text to the team chat asking if anyone else would like a coffee from the cafe down the road. It’s a thousand times better than break room coffee.
When you step out of the elevator on the ground floor, you bring up your messages with DCRunner00. You’re not sure why, because normally you only check your profile when you feel like you need to keep up the act, but something about this guy keeps making you want to reply.
DCRunner00: I’ve read a few.
DCRunner00: What does a workaholic do for fun?
You type your reply as you step out of the building.
You: Work, mostly.
You: And sleep.
By the time you return to the office with a tray of four coffees, you have two new messages—but you can’t reply to them until you set the tray down at your desk.
“Thanks, pretty girl,” Morgan says as he takes one, flashing you a grin.
You smile back. “Anything for you, gorgeous.”
Then you pull your phone out of your pocket and bring up the message thread.
DCRunner00: What’s your schedule even like?
DCRunner00: You strike me as an “answers emails at midnight” type of person.
You: Nah. That’s my boss.
You: My schedule is chaos, though.
“Thanks,” Reid says as he takes his coffee, leaving only two.
You set your phone down and take the last two coffees out of the tray, leaving one at your desk before taking the other to Hotch’s office. You can see through the window that he’s not on the phone—for once—so you knock twice on the slightly ajar door before stepping inside.
He glances up, his brows pulling together slightly. “I didn’t ask for coffee.”
“I know,” you say quickly. “But it’s almost three, and you always need another coffee around three, and I figured you probably didn’t answer the team message because you still feel bad about me staying so late last night, which you shouldn’t, by the way.”
He straightens, brows drawing tighter.
“And I know you’ve got court with Morgan this afternoon, and you’re going to try to leave early, but someone’s definitely going to call at the last second and derail that plan, so you’ll only have enough time to get to the courthouse—not enough time to stop for coffee.”
You set the cup down in front of him.
“So,” you tilt your head, “coffee.”
He leans back in his chair, studying you for a second.
“That’s some pretty solid profiling, Agent.”
Your face heats instantly.
“Well,” you say, backing slowly toward the door, “maybe now you owe me two.”
The corner of his mouth lifts, just slightly, but it’s enough for the butterflies in your stomach to explode. You can’t help but grin as you turn away, slipping quickly out the door before your lungs forget how to work entirely.
You spend the rest of the day at Reid’s desk, finishing the case package for the Fairfax files and complaining about unreliable witnesses. Hotch and Morgan head off to court just after three, announcing to the rest of the team that they won’t be back. JJ is the first to head home again around five, followed by Prentiss, then Rossi—then you and Reid finally decide to call it a day just after six.
Which is also when you finally check your messages again.
DCRunner00: Chaos how?
You type a quick reply while you wait for your car’s AC to warm up.
You: Long hours.
You: Weird hours.
You: And a deeply unhealthy relationship with caffeine.
Then you tuck your phone away and head out of the parking garage.
Leia is already yowling by the time you step through your apartment door. She’s always hungry, even though she has an automatic feeder for dry food—but apparently that isn’t good enough. She prefers the wet stuff.
You quickly peel open a packet of fishy-smelling chicken jelly sludge and drop it into her bowl before washing your hands and moving into your bedroom. You flip the ensuite light on and start the shower, pulling your phone out of your pocket while you wait for the water to warm.
DCRunner00: Ah. So you’re one of those people.
You: Rude.
He replies almost immediately.
DCRunner00: Accurate, though?
You: Unfortunately.
You drop your phone on the bed and start undressing.
Ping!
DCRunner00: What do you actually do?
You hesitate. It’s not like you can just say you’re in the FBI. Contrary to what some people might think, real FBI agents can’t just go around bragging about their highly classified work status. It’s dangerous.
You: Mostly admin.
You: Governmental stuff.
You toss your phone back onto the bed and turn into the steamy ensuite. You shower quickly, dry off, run product through your damp hair, then pull on a shirt and a pair of sweatpants before heading back out into the kitchen.
You’re not in the mood to cook tonight, so you grab a protein bar out of the cupboard and start boiling the kettle while you check your phone for what feels like the hundredth time.
DCRunner00: Sounds boring.
DCRunner00: Do you get days off, though?
You drop a teabag into your mug before typing out a reply.
You: Sort of.
You: But if my boss calls, I answer.
He replies instantly again.
DCRunner00: I’m starting to think you secretly enjoy being overworked.
You: I think I’d get bored otherwise.
You pour the boiling water into your mug and watch his next reply pop up.
DCRunner00: That sounds suspiciously unhealthy.
You: Probably.
What about you? What do you do?
You tuck your phone into your pocket, then grab your tea and protein bar and head to the couch. There’s nothing you’re really interested in watching—since you don’t usually have the time to keep up with any shows—so you turn on the nightly news before grabbing your laptop and pulling up a new browser.
He’s already replied by the time you log in.
DCRunner00: Run.
DCRunner00: Read.
DCRunner00: Annoy people professionally.
You: That sounds made up.
You open your protein bar.
DCRunner00: It mostly is.
DCRunner00: So your boss actually calls you outside work hours?
You hesitate at the sudden redirection. Most men on dating apps prefer talking about themselves. Their jobs, hobbies, gym routines, childhood dogs—whatever makes them seem interesting—but this guy seems far more interested in observing than being observed.
You type out a vague response.
You: Sometimes.
You: Occupational hazard, I guess.
DCRunner00: And you always answer?
You: Pretty much.
You: He’d only call if it mattered.
His next reply takes almost two minutes to come through.
DCRunner00: Hm.
DCRunner00: I’m starting to think your boss gets more attention than I do.
You almost choke on your tea.
That’s... weird.
Maybe you have mentioned your boss a little more than strictly necessary, but he’s the one asking all the questions about your job. It’s a little hard not to mention your boss when your life practically revolves around him—in more ways than you care to admit.
You: Jealous already, Running Man?
DCRunner00: Should I be?
You sit up straighter, suddenly a little nauseous.
You: I think you’re spending too much time talking to strangers online.
DCRunner00: Maybe.
DCRunner00: You still replied, though.
“Okay,” you say, startling Leia who was half-asleep on the other end of the couch. “That’s enough.”
You: I’m going to sleep.
You: Try not to spiral while I’m gone.
His last message pops up just before you shut your laptop.
DCRunner00: No promises.
WEDNESDAY 8:10AM
“Come on,” you mutter, mashing the elevator button for the doors to close.
You’re a whole thirty minutes earlier than usual this morning. You didn’t even make a coffee in your travel mug before running out the door. You just woke up, brushed your teeth, checked your messages—and decided you needed to talk to Garcia immediately.
“Hey—woah.” Reid steps out of your way as you rush into the bullpen. “You’re early.”
You drop your bag on your desk and quickly shrug off your jacket.
“Is Garcia in yet?”
He frowns slightly. “I think so. Why?”
You pull your laptop out of your bag.
“I just—I need her.”
You’re already walking away before he can press any further, moving back through the bullpen with your laptop hugged against your chest. You’re just about to round the corner toward the elevators when—
“Hey—” Hotch stops short just as you nearly run into him. “Slow down. You alright?”
His hand is hovering near your waist—not quite touching, but close enough for you to feel its warmth.
You blink up at him. “Sorry. Yeah. Uh—totally fine. Just going to see Garcia about... a case.”
His brows pull together slightly.
“Alright, well, Garcia’s not going anywhere,” he says evenly. “Take a breath.”
You nod slowly, already stepping around him.
“Right,” you mutter. “Breathing. Got it. Sorry, sir.”
You can almost swear you see the corner of his mouth lift—but then the elevator dings behind you, and you have to hurry to slip through the doors before they slide shut.
It feels like an eternity before they finally open again, but once they do you practically sprint down the hall to Garcia’s lair and burst through the door without warning.
She startles so hard she nearly drops her coffee. “Sweet mother of encryption, knock first!”
“Sorry,” you say, breathless. “I need you.”
“Well, obviously,” she mutters, checking her shirt for any spills. “I’m the backbone of this entire operation.”
You drop down into the spare chair and open your laptop, setting it on her desk.
“You cannot judge me for what I’m about to show you.”
She glances up, brows lifting. “Oh. So this is serious?”
You grimace. “I don’t know.”
“Okay,” she says slowly. “Slightly less reassuring than I was hoping for. Tell me what’s happened.”
You take a deep breath, then let it out in a rush.
“You remember the dating profile you set up for me?”
She nods.
“Alright, so, I won’t lie, I haven’t really met anyone on there yet, but I check the messages occasionally. When I’ve got time, you know? And I don’t have a whole lot of ongoing conversations, but this one guy sent me something that was kind of funny, so I responded, and the conversation was pretty normal for the most part. I couldn’t reply all that quickly, but he didn’t seem to mind.”
You shift awkwardly, scooting your chair closer to her desk.
“Nothing really felt out of place until—well, he wouldn’t talk about himself much, which is strange because most people on dating apps are usually more interested in presenting themselves than gathering information. He kept asking questions about my job, actually. Not that my job is on my profile, but he was really curious about my schedule, or—I guess—lack of schedule.”
You wince.
“So now that I think about it, that was probably the second sign something might be off. Or maybe he just wanted to meet up, I don’t know.”
You hesitate.
“But then he sent me this message at like... two a.m.”
She squints at the screen.
DCRunner00: Bet you answer your boss faster than you answer anyone else.
“Mmm. Nope. Don’t love that,” she says, shaking her head. “That is not a normal amount of emotional investment for a stranger.”
You sink back in your chair. “That’s what I thought.”
She starts scrolling back through the messages.
“Have you told Hotch?”
“Nope.”
She glances at you from the corner of her eye. “You answered way too fast for that to be a normal response.”
“Because the answer is no,” you say firmly, leaning forward again.
“Mm-hm.” She keeps scrolling. “Okay, well... technically this could still be nothing. He could just be some lonely basement cryptid with Wi-Fi and poor social skills.”
You groan, dragging both hands over your face.
“You do mention Hotch kind of a lot.”
Your head snaps up. “He’s my boss.”
Garcia gives you a long look.
“Okay,” she says slowly. “Sure.”
“Garcia.”
“I’m just saying, if a man talked about a woman this much online, we’d all be making faces.”
You point at the screen. “Focus.”
“Right. Yes. Creepy internet man. Sorry.”
Her expression settles into something more focused as she turns back toward her array of monitors.
“Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do. Don’t block him yet.”
You sigh. “I don’t love that idea.”
“Neither do I, babycakes, but if he’s routing through the website normally, I might be able to pull connection data if we keep him talking long enough.”
You frown. “In English?”
She gives you another look. “Timestamps, login patterns, regional pings, possible VPN usage, device signatures if he slips up—basic digital stalking fun.”
“Oh, of course,” you say sarcastically. “Normal stuff.”
“For me, it is normal.” She points toward the laptop. “Now reply to him. Something casual. I want to see if he responds immediately again.”
Your fingers hover over the keys for a second before you type out your reply.
You: I thought I told you not to spiral.
He replies so fast that even Garcia flinches.
DCRunner00: Relax. It was a joke.
DCRunner00: Mostly.
She stares at the screen. “Okay, I officially don’t like him.”
You lean back in your chair again, nausea twisting low in your gut. “I feel sick.”
Garcia’s expression softens slightly. “Maybe you should tell—”
“No.”
She sighs quietly. “Okay. Fine. Can you keep replying from your phone?”
You nod.
“Good. Don’t overdo it, just enough to keep him engaged.” Her fingers start flying across the keyboard. “I’ll work my magic down here and call you if I find anything.”
You push yourself out of the chair, clutching your phone a little tighter.
“You’re the best, Pen.”
“I know.” She waves a hand without looking away from her screens. “Now go pretend to be emotionally stable upstairs.”
By the time you get back to your desk, almost everyone is already in the conference room ready for the morning briefing. You drop your phone beside your keyboard—too anxious to have it with you during the meeting—then quickly unpack your things and grab a notebook before making your way up.
Reid nods at you from his usual seat, gesturing to the empty one beside him.
“Hey,” you mutter as you drop down next to him.
His brows pull together. “Everything alright?”
You nod. “Yeah. Fine. I’ll explain later.”
Hotch keeps the morning briefing quick. He goes over yesterday’s court hearing, outlines the Fairfax briefing package in case it escalates into an active investigation, then gets JJ to run through the highest priority consultation requests.
You spend most of it toying with a loose thread on the cuff of your blouse. You’re pretty sure it’s the first briefing in years where you haven’t spent at least part of it staring at Hotch instead of your notes—and when the room finally relaxes and everyone starts to filter out, Reid turns to you.
“Okay, now I’m concerned,” he says.
You glance at him. “Why?”
“You didn’t look at Hotch once during that entire meeting.”
You roll your eyes. “Spence—”
“Something must be seriously wrong.”
You let out a long exhale, glancing briefly around the almost empty room. Only Morgan and Rossi are left, halfway to the door, deep in discussion about something that happened at the court hearing yesterday afternoon.
“Okay,” you say quietly, turning back to Reid. “I’m having some... trouble, I guess, with a guy.”
His brows shoot up. “A guy—”
“Online,” you add quickly.
He tilts his head. “I’m confused again.”
You sigh. “Remember that dating profile Garcia set up for me?”
“You mean the profile you allowed Garcia to create as part of your increasingly unsustainable performative dating strategy?”
You glare at him. “Yes. That one.”
“Then yes, I remember it very clearly.”
“Well,” you mutter, pinching the bridge of your nose, “I had this guy message me a couple days ago. It was normal at first but now it’s gotten... weird. So, I’m getting Garcia to look into it.”
His forehead creases. “Have you told—”
“No.”
“Maybe you should—”
“I said no.”
“Alright.” He raises both hands in surrender. “Okay. I’m dropping it. It’s just…”
You narrow your eyes at him.
“Well, statistically speaking, the majority of uncomfortable online interactions don’t escalate into actual stalking behaviour. Most people displaying premature emotional fixation online are socially isolated rather than violent.”
You lift a brow, waiting for the punchline.
“However,” he adds, “cyberstalking offenders also tend to develop parasocial attachments disproportionately quickly because the perceived emotional intimacy bypasses a lot of normal social barriers, which means escalation patterns can become highly personalised in a very short period of time.”
You stare at him.
“In cases where the fixation becomes grievance-oriented, the offender is usually highly organised rather than impulsive, so the behaviour tends to be significantly more deliberate and psychologically targeted.”
He pauses, frowning faintly.
“That was supposed to be reassuring.”
“…Thanks, Reid,” you mutter, turning away from him slowly. “Now I feel so much better.”
When you get back to your desk, you decide it’s time to reply again. You grab your phone and bring up the messages, taking a minute to think about what to type—knowing Garcia will be seeing the conversation too.
You type out the only mildly casual response you can think of.
You: You’re weird.
He replies just as fast as usual.
DCRunner00: You disappear a lot.
You: Workaholic, remember.
You: I told you my schedule was chaos.
You’re about to turn your phone over on your desk when a different notification pops up—from Garcia.
Garcia: If this is your version of flirting, baby girl, I think I just figured out why you’re still single.
You snort softly, typing out a quick reply.
You: Trust me, that’s not the reason.
Garcia: So there IS a reason?
You: Shh. I’m working.
Garcia: Boo!
You huff another quiet laugh as you turn your phone over, nudging it toward the edge of your desk in the hopes that you might be able to focus on work rather than creepy internet man for at least a few hours.
It doesn’t work.
Barely half an hour later, you lift your phone to check for another notification—but there’s nothing there. You pull up the message thread again and scroll up, checking the timestamps to see if he’s ever gone quiet on you before—but he hasn’t. Not really. So you type another message.
You: You went quiet. Should I be concerned?
It’s a calculated move. If he’s paying attention to response patterns—and at this point you’re pretty sure he is—then following up first helps maintain the illusion that nothing has changed. No sudden distance. No obvious discomfort. No reason for him to think you’re pulling away.
If he is dangerous, the last thing you want is for him to feel rejected.
An hour later, Rossi drops a legal pad onto your desk, asking you to take another look at a witness timeline that doesn’t feel right—which keeps you occupied for a good forty-five minutes. Then Morgan leans over the partition between your desks, asking if you can translate Reid into English. That takes up another hour of your day, and by the time you grab your first afternoon coffee, you’ve got three notifications.
One is a missed call from Garcia. The other two are from creepy internet man.
DCRunner00: Depends. Are you worried about me?
DCRunner00: Blue looks good on you, by the way.
Your stomach drops. “Oh my God.”
You immediately call Garcia back.
She answers on half a ring. “Are you wearing blue?”
“You saw me this morning.”
“I can’t remember,” she says. “Are you?”
You drag a hand through your hair. “Yes.”
“Holy shit,” she whispers. “You’ve got to tell—”
“No.”
“Are you insane?”
“Maybe, but—” You squeeze your eyes shut for a second. “Okay, just—hear me out. Blue is a statistically safe guess. It’s a neutral professional colour with high frequency in workplace attire, especially in government buildings.”
Garcia goes quiet for a second.
“And does this unsub know you work in a government building?”
“Don’t call him that,” you snap. “And—well, kind of. I didn’t tell him exactly, but I said... government adjacent.”
“I swear to God,” she mutters, “if I have to identify your body next week, I’m going to kill you.”
You press your free hand against your forehead.
“You won’t,” you say firmly. “Alright? We’re getting ahead of ourselves.”
Garcia scoffs loudly.
“Seriously,” you insist. “It could still be nothing. A weird coincidence, maybe an awkward guy with boundary issues and too much free time. We deal with actual predators every day. I can handle a few creepy messages.”
The line goes quiet again—then she sighs.
“Why are you so against telling Hotch?”
“Because I don’t want to bother him,” you say quickly. “We’ve got a quiet week, he finally seems slightly less stressed, and I don’t want to cause a whole fuss over something that might turn out to be nothing.”
She sighs again, louder this time. “Fine. I won’t go to Hotch.”
Your shoulders sag. “Thank you.”
“On one condition,” she adds. “I’m sleeping over tonight.”
You nearly choke. “What?”
“Non-negotiable.”
“Penelope, that’s insane.”
“No,” Garcia says firmly, “what’s insane is you trying to casually explain away potential stalking behaviour while actively refusing to inform your unit chief.”
“He is not stalking me,” you protest, keeping your voice low.
“Mm-hm.”
“You’re overreacting.”
“And yet,” Garcia says, “if you die, I become morally complicit because I knew about creepy internet man and failed to intervene.”
You frown. “…Morally complicit?”
“Accessory to murder-adjacent,” she corrects. “And my guilty conscience requires eight hours of sleep minimum, so congratulations. We’re having a slumber party.”
You let out a long sigh. “Okay. Fine.”
She hums, satisfied.
“I need to reply to him again.”
“Well, don’t ask me,” she mutters. “You’re the one who’s apparently fluent in creepy internet freak.”
You laugh despite yourself. “Thanks, Pen.”
“Mm-hm. And just so we’re clear, tonight we are watching wholesome romantic comedies and eating enough sugar to kill a Victorian child.”
“I was actually thinking psychological thriller marathon.”
“Absolutely not.”
You smile faintly, leaning back in your chair. “Fine. Romantic comedies it is.”
“Good,” Garcia says firmly. “Now hang up before I change my mind and march upstairs to Hotch’s office myself.”
You roll your eyes as you hang up, then open the message thread again. You don’t have to think too hard about what to type. You don’t want to escalate or accuse him, but you need him to stay engaged. You want him to explain himself to see how he reframes the behaviour.
You: Lucky guess.
The next few hours slip by in a strange blur of routine tasks and fragmented conversations.
At about three o’clock, Prentiss drops a file on your desk and asks if you can double-check a victim timeline while she’s stuck on the phone with Chicago. Then Rossi calls you into his office to sanity-check a profile theory he’s working through out loud—which means fifteen minutes of listening to him argue with himself while you sit there trying not to focus on Hotch’s voice through the wall.
When you finally get back to your desk, Reid spends twenty minutes walking you through a probability model nobody asked for but everyone somehow ends up listening to anyway. He only stops when Hotch appears, carrying a stack of files from the Richardson case he wants Morgan to look over before he signs them off—and for the first time in God knows how long, you don’t stare shamelessly at his ass as he walks out of the bullpen.
By six p.m., JJ and Rossi are gone, Prentiss is helping Morgan with the Richardson files, and Reid is building a tiny tower out of paperclips while he reads over a file Rossi dropped on his desk before he left.
At exactly six-fifteen, your desk phone rings.
“Hello?”
“Pack your things, baby girl. Your government-issued sleepover is about to begin.”
You snort softly. “Alright. I’ll see you soon.”
You hang up the phone and start clearing your desk, organising paperwork into piles and packing away stationery while you wait for your computer to shut down.
“See who soon?” Reid asks.
You glance at him. “Garcia.”
He tilts his head.
“She’s staying over tonight.”
His brows lift. “Because of your stalk—”
“Girl’s night,” you interrupt, eyes widening. “That’s all.”
His gaze narrows. “Should I be worried?”
You scoff. “About me? Never.”
You slide your arms into your jacket then finally pick up your phone, finding two new notifications from creepy internet man waiting for you.
“Really?” Reid asks, turning his chair to face you. “Because you’ve spent most of the day staring at your phone like it’s a bomb, you spent most of Rossi’s profile discussion peeling the label off your water bottle instead of contributing, and you reorganised the same stack of paperwork three separate times.”
You pause mid-motion.
“Also,” he continues, “you usually correct Morgan when he misquotes case statistics and today you let him do it twice, which honestly might be the most concerning—”
“Okay!” you cut in quickly, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “Good talk. Love the observational skills. Bye.”
He doesn’t say anything else as you walk away, murmuring goodbyes to Morgan and Prentiss as you pass, but you can still feel him watching you. You’re just about to press the button for the elevator when—
“Agent.”
You stop automatically, turning to find Hotch with a file tucked under one arm and that signature frown etched between his brows. Only this time it isn’t frustrated or disapproving—it’s curious.
You force a small smile. “Sir.”
His eyes move over your face briefly. “You alright?”
You nod once. “Of course.”
He takes a step forward, his voice dropping lower. “You sure?”
Your breath catches.
He’s close now. Too close. You have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. You can smell his cologne, feel his warmth, count the beauty marks dotted across his cheek.
“You’ve seemed distracted today,” he says.
You swallow hard. “Uh—no. No. Sorry, I just—I didn’t get much sleep last night.”
His brows draw a little tighter, and he opens his mouth as if he’s about to say something else—press harder, maybe—but then seems to think better of it.
“Alright,” he murmurs. “Get some rest tonight.”
Then he nods once and steps back, his jaw tightening for just a second before he turns away.
You don’t move immediately. You can’t. Your mind is reeling, your pulse is still hammering, and your breath is caught somewhere between your ribs while your lungs try to remember how to work.
“Hello?” Garcia calls from behind you. “I cannot hold these doors forever, babycakes.”
You shake your head. “Shit. Sorry.”
You turn and hurry into the elevator, slipping in beside her just before the doors slide shut.
For a moment, neither of you says anything.
Then—
“So, that thing you said earlier about there being a reason you’re still single…”
You shut your eyes. “Penelope.”
“I’m just saying,” she continues lightly, “unless I hallucinated whatever just happened in that hallway, I’m starting to develop theories.”
You ignore her, watching the numbers on the elevator slowly descend like counting down the days you have before the entire team figures out your secret. Because if this guy really is a creep, if you do have to tell Hotch, then it’s only a matter of time before the BAU are dissecting your dating life and realising what a ruse it really is.
And you know better than anyone that once these profilers start looking too closely at something, they rarely stop until they’ve pulled it apart completely.
The second you step through the door to your apartment, Garcia rushes past you to sweep the place. Leia startles almost immediately, running from the couch to your bedroom while Garcia complains about the fact that Leia is the only cat she’s ever met that doesn’t like her.
“Leia hates everyone,” you tell her, kicking your shoes off by the door. “Even me.”
Garcia just rolls her eyes, continuing from room to room to check the window locks and balcony doors.
Once she’s satisfied that everything is secure, she sets her laptop up on your kitchen counter and starts running a program that looks like hieroglyphics to you.
“Have you seen his latest messages?” she asks.
You shake your head, setting your phone on the counter. “No.”
She opens your laptop and logs into the dating site—because apparently she knows your password now.
DCRunner00: Maybe.
DCRunner00: Or maybe you’re just easier to read than you think.
You type out the first response you can think of, not wanting to seem like you’re overanalysing this.
You: Or maybe I’m just not trying so hard to be mysterious.
Garcia then spends the next ten minutes trying to explain her process to you in terms that almost make sense. So far she’s managed to narrow him down to a general region through login patterns and routing behaviour, but she still can’t lock onto a direct IP address. Not because she can’t—apparently that part would actually be pretty easy—but because doing it properly would mean running requests through systems that leave a trail. And right now, this definitely isn’t an official investigation.
“The second I start pulling the fun federal strings,” Garcia says, typing furiously, “there’s paperwork, access logs, oversight, and approximately twelve thousand ways for this to become a whole thing.”
You lean against the counter. “We don’t want that.”
“Not yet.” Her expression sharpens slightly. “Also, if creepy internet man is more sophisticated than he seems, there’s always a chance he’s monitoring for targeted tracing attempts. If he realises someone’s looking too closely at him before we know who he is, he could disappear completely.”
Your stomach twists. “Or escalate.”
You spend the next couple of hours keeping creepy internet man engaged while Garcia rambles tech jargon that makes less sense the longer the night wears on. At some point, you order pizza, then you migrate to the couch, and eventually you both end up sitting through the credits of Two Weeks Notice while waiting for one last reply in the hopes that he might finally answer something about himself.
DCRunner00: Refreshing
DCRunner00: Most people hide too much.
You: Depends what they’re trying to hide.
DCRunner00: What are you trying to hide?
You: Besides the fact that I’m exhausted? Nothing.
DCRunner00: You seem distracted tonight.
You: Long day.
DCRunner00: I noticed.
You: How was yours?
You wait until almost midnight before finally deciding to call it a night.
Garcia checks all the windows and doors again while you brush your teeth and change into pyjamas. When you step back out of your bedroom to say goodnight, Garcia is trying her hardest to lure Leia onto the couch with her, but Leia is very stubbornly curled up beneath the TV unit.
“Night, Pen,” you murmur, rubbing your eyes. “Thanks again... for everything.”
“Night, gorgeous,” she calls, peering over the back of the couch. “Wake me up if you hear literally anything suspicious. Or if Leia finally decides it’s my time.”
You laugh softly, blinking slowly as you turn back into your room and fall face first into bed.
THURSDAY 6:45AM
You’re not sure whether to be relieved or concerned when you wake up to no new messages from creepy internet man. He hasn’t gone quiet for this long before—but if he is just a normal, slightly awkward guy with boundary issues and an internet connection, well... it’s not that hard to believe he might just be sleeping.
Garcia is already up making coffee by the time you step out of your room, trying to bribe Leia out from under the couch with a tube of tuna paste.
The second she sees you, she jumps up and launches into another long-winded explanation about login activity and movement patterns across different access points. Apparently, creepy internet man logged in from three different geographical locations over the course of a few hours last night—which is normal, right? That means he was out doing normal human things, not just lurking in his mother’s basement, stalking women online.
Garcia isn’t entirely convinced that him moving locations is enough to get him off the hook as the BAU’s next unsub, but it at least shuts her up until you’re both back at the office.
“Hey,” Reid says as soon as you walk into the bullpen. “You haven’t been murdered.”
You frown slightly. “Good morning to you too, Spence.”
Morgan glances up from the file on his desk. “Uh—why are we getting murdered?”
Reid gestures vaguely in your direction. “Because she’s potentially being cyberstalked by a—”
“Oh, wow, look at the time,” you interrupt, glaring at Reid. “Wouldn’t it be such a shame if we all started minding our own business right about now.”
Prentiss turns in her chair, brows raised. “Cyberstalked?”
“Nobody is cyberstalking anybody,” you say as you drop into your chair. “And nobody’s getting murdered—but great start to the morning, everyone. Love the energy. Now leave me alone.”
Morgan chuckles quietly. “Damn. Thought you said you got laid last weekend.”
Your hands slip off the desk as you try to pull yourself closer.
“Technically,” Reid says, “she only implied it by refusing to answer Garcia’s question during Monday morning’s briefing.”
“Ah.” Morgan leans back in his chair. “I knew this was a drought issue.”
You scowl at him. “A drought issue?”
“Statistically speaking,” Reid adds, “people experiencing prolonged romantic or sexual dissatisfaction often display lower frustration tolerance and increased agitation in familiar social environments.”
Morgan looks at him. “Man, just say she needs to get laid.”
“Oh my God,” you snap. “I do not need to get laid. I am having a completely normal amount of sex already, thank you very much—and frankly I think it’s deeply inappropriate that you’re all this invested in whether or not I’m orgasming regularly.”
Reid tilts his head. “You’re having sex?”
Morgan’s brows shoot up, Prentiss chokes on her coffee, and you open your mouth to fire back at him when—
Someone clears their throat behind you.
Heat crawls violently up your neck—but you don’t turn around. You can’t.
“Briefing room. Five minutes,” Hotch says, his voice dangerously even. “JJ’s got an update on the custodial interview with Wallace.”
Morgan presses a fist against his mouth, trying—and failing—to smother the strangled sound of laughter.
Very slowly, you turn in your chair.
Hotch is standing at the edge of the bullpen with a coffee in one hand and a file in the other. His expression is almost perfectly composed, but there’s something dangerous lurking beneath it—something suspiciously close to amusement in the tightness of his mouth.
“Be right there, sir,” you blurt, lifting two fingers to your forehead in the most ill-timed attempt at a salute the FBI has ever seen.
Hotch just looks at you, the muscle in his jaw jumping once before he turns away.
You want to die.
The second his office door clicks shut behind him, Morgan drops his fist and smacks his palm flat against the desk with a choked laugh.
“Oh, you are never recovering from that,” Prentiss mutters, smirking behind her coffee cup.
Morgan leans back in his chair, grinning. “Baby girl, that was painful to watch.”
You drop your head into your hands.
“You somehow escalated the situation at every possible opportunity,” Reid says thoughtfully.
“I hate you all,” you mumble into your palms.
You spend the next half hour with your nose buried in your notebook, avoiding eye contact with the entire team while JJ explains the month-long back-and-forth that it took to finally get approval for the Wallace interview.
Apparently, the prison is limiting the interview to a single hour and reserving the right to terminate it early if the inmate becomes uncooperative—which Rossi thinks is less about policy and more about Wallace trying to dictate the terms of the interaction.
It’s not ideal, especially considering you were the one who convinced Hotch to push for the interview before Wallace is transferred to death row. His case was one of the first you ever studied during the BAU training programme, and there isn’t much you wouldn’t give to pick the sociopath’s brains. One hour with him feels dangerously short—that is, assuming Hotch actually picks you to be in the interview with him.
“We don’t have enough time to waste managing personalities in the room,” Hotch says, gathering the files in front of him. “I’ll decide on a second agent and send out the interview schedule later today.”
Chairs start scraping back almost immediately, files and notebooks snapping shut as everyone gathers their things and starts filtering out of the room—but you don’t move. You stay firmly planted in your seat, chewing thoughtfully on the inside of your cheek while you debate whether to follow Hotch into his office and ask to be part of the interview. You don’t even have to be asking the questions, you just want to be there. You were the one pushing for it in the first place.
But then your brain very helpfully reminds you that Aaron Hotchner heard you say the word orgasming less than an hour ago and suddenly, being on death row yourself feels infinitely preferable to making eye contact with your unit chief.
“You alright?” Reid asks, lingering beside you.
You sigh heavily, finally closing your notebook. “Yep. Just thinking about how I’ll probably have to fake my own death and change my name after this morning.”
He shrugs. “Hotch probably isn’t even thinking about it anymore.”
You glance up at him hopefully.
“Morgan definitely is, though.”
You roll your eyes, letting out another resigned sigh as you stand up and follow him out of the briefing room.
The rest of the morning manages to pass without incident. You stay chained to your desk, reviewing reports and processing any files that come your way while very deliberately not glancing up any time Hotch steps out of his office. At around eleven, Morgan and JJ head out to the cafe down the street and come back with coffees for the whole team. Then there’s a printer jam that gives the rest of the office a rare glimpse at just how angry Emily Prentiss can get when frustrated.
It isn’t until just before midday that you finally get up to go to the bathroom, and when you return to your desk, there’s one new notification in your inbox.
From: Aaron Hotchner
Subject: Wallace Interview
You’re with me next Thursday. We leave at 0700.
Your stomach flips.
“Wow,” Reid says, suddenly standing right beside your desk. “He picked you pretty quickly.”
You shoot him a warning look. “Spence.”
“I’m just saying, he usually deliberates longer.”
You glance back at the screen, rereading the first five words that make your pulse skip a little faster.
“You and Hotch do work unusually well together in confined conversational environments,” Reid adds.
You turn back to him, frowning.
He tilts his head. “That sounded more suggestive than I intended.”
You open your mouth to tell him how deeply unhelpful he’s being when your phone buzzes twice against your desk—like it does several times a day, but something about it feels different this time. Wrong.
You reach for it slowly, your stomach twisting tighter as you turn it over.
Two new notifications from creepy internet man. The first since last night.
You open the message thread—and your stomach drops.
DCRunner00: [Image attachment]
DCRunner00: Did you and your friend have fun last night?
The image is of your apartment building. It’s grainy, slightly crooked, clearly taken from somewhere across the street—but your living room windows are unmistakable. Warm light glowing through the glass. The blurred silhouette of someone inside.
Ice floods your bloodstream.
You stop breathing.
“Is that... your apartment?” Reid asks, leaning over your shoulder.
You don’t answer him. You can’t.
The bullpen dissolves into white noise around you.
Until—
“I’m done!” Garcia’s voice cuts through the static. “I can’t do this anymore!”
She’s marching right toward you, your laptop—that she’d still been monitoring—tucked under one arm.
Reid gasps. “Wait. Is that—”
Morgan straightens in his chair. “What’s happening?”
“Hotch’s office,” Garcia says, her expression dangerously stern as she stops beside your desk. “Now.”
You nod slowly, your shoes almost slipping against the carpet as you push your chair back. Reid steps aside just enough to let you stand, but before he can get too far, you reach out and wrap your fingers around his wrist, silently dragging him with you as you follow Garcia back through the bullpen.
Hotch glances up the second Garcia pushes open his office door.
“What’s going on?”
His tone is calm, automatic, already slipping into that low, calculated cadence he uses when he’s trying to talk someone down from the ledge. His gaze moves from her to you—and something in his expression shifts. Hardens. That muscle in his jaw ticking just once before he turns back to Garcia.
“What happened?” he asks, sharper now.
Garcia crosses the room quickly, opening your laptop and sitting it on his desk while you hover uselessly in the doorway with Reid still caught in your grip.
Hotch glances at the screen, his eyes flicking through the messages.
Then he looks back up—right at you—and something unreadable settles across his face. Something dangerous.
“Who sent this?”
Garcia spends the next five minutes explaining the entire situation at hyper speed while you just... stand there, leaning slightly against Reid like the whole world has tilted on its axis.
It’s funny how you can spend years building a career around finding bad people. Thinking like them. Predicting them. Profiling them. But the moment something happens to you—something real—that’s when all the theory suddenly stops feeling theoretical. And maybe it’s because you know exactly what people like this are capable of, or how quickly situations like this can escalate once someone decides they’re emotionally invested in you.
Or maybe it’s just the horrifying realisation that some part of you knew where this was heading all along. And you still didn’t do anything about it until now. Not until you put yourself—and your friend—in danger.
“Get everyone in the briefing room,” Hotch says the second Garcia finishes. “Now.”
Garcia nods once before slipping back out the door, and only then do you finally let go of Reid’s wrist—making a mental note to apologise later for the excessive physical contact.
Hotch’s eyes drop down briefly, following the movement almost automatically. Something tightens in his expression for half a second before his attention snaps back to the laptop still open in front of him.
“Reid,” he says. “Print the entire message history and document everything. Full timeline, screenshots, attachments—all of it. I want copies ready for the team in ten.”
You swallow hard. “The—the entire message history?”
“Yes,” Hotch says simply. “Every message.”
Could this day get any worse?
Fifteen minutes later, you’re back in the briefing room with the entire team flipping through printed copies of your dating profile and messages. It almost feels like an out-of-body experience. Like one of those mortifying dreams where you watch everything unfold from above without any real ability to stop it.
“Okay,” Prentiss says. “Where do we start?”
“Victimology,” Morgan answers immediately—then he glances at you. “Sorry, baby girl.”
You wave him off. “Reid’s been profiling me all week. Go for it.”
There’s a quiet ripple of laughter around the table, but Hotch barely blinks. He’s sitting on the opposite side, between Prentiss and JJ, with his arms folded tightly across his chest and gaze fixed on the copies spread out in front of him like he’s trying very hard not to look directly at you.
“We need to be careful building a victimology this early,” he says evenly. “Especially considering how well we know the victim. Personal familiarity creates bias.”
Reid tilts his head. “Normally, yes. But stalking crimes are often highly individualised.” He starts flipping through the printed messages as he talks. “Statistically speaking, stalking victims are usually targeted for a very specific reason. The motivation is generally rooted in either resentment, fixation, revenge, or romantic obsession.”
You grimace. “Fantastic.”
“Most victims also know their stalkers,” Reid continues. “Approximately seventy-five percent of stalking cases involve some form of prior relationship or perceived emotional connection.”
“Okay,” JJ says carefully, looking toward you. “Is there anyone you can think of who might hold a grudge against you? Someone you arrested, rejected, testified against—anything like that?”
You snort quietly. “Does every criminal I’ve ever interviewed count?”
The room goes still for half a second.
“Wait,” Prentiss says, sitting forward slightly. “Actually, that makes sense.”
Hotch’s eyes flick up as Prentiss pushes one of the printouts into the middle of the table, tapping the page.
“This escalation happened fast. Less than a week. That’s not somebody slowly building emotional trust from scratch—that’s somebody who already came into this interaction emotionally invested.”
“Or angry,” Morgan adds.
“Exactly,” Prentiss says. “He doesn’t lash out until she has Garcia over. That’s jealousy. Possessiveness.”
You sink lower in your chair.
“And he starts reacting every time she brings up her boss,” Rossi says, flipping through the printouts. “That’s territorial behaviour. He’s fixating on a prominent male figure in her life.”
“Not the only one fixating on him,” Reid murmurs beside you.
You elbow him immediately.
“Ow.”
Hotch glances up sharply. “Something to add, Reid?”
Reid straightens. “Uh—no. No, I think Rossi covered it.”
Hotch’s eyes narrow slightly, like he knows there’s something he’s missing, but he lets it go.
“Garcia,” he says instead, “tell me you found something useful.”
“Oh, I found things,” Garcia says immediately, the rapid clacking of her keyboard echoing loudly through the conference room speaker. “Deeply unsettling things. Our creepy little internet goblin has been very busy.”
Prentiss frowns slightly, mouthing ‘internet goblin’ across the table to JJ.
“Okay, so—profile was created nine days ago using a burner email and a VPN bouncing between three different states, which normally would make me want to set my computer on fire, but our boy got sloppy.”
Hotch leans forward slightly. “How sloppy?”
“Sloppy enough that one login pinged off a public Wi-Fi network less than six blocks from her apartment last night,” she says. “And before anybody asks, yes, I’m already pulling traffic cams.”
Hotch nods once, already shifting into command mode.
“Morgan, Prentiss—start canvassing within a ten-block radius of her apartment. Garcia will feed you anything useful from the traffic cams. JJ, coordinate with local PD and see if there’ve been any complaints of suspicious activity in the area. Peeping, prowlers, stalking complaints—anything that fits this escalation pattern. Rossi, start pulling names from old cases. Anybody with a history of fixation, stalking behaviour, or inappropriate attachment to investigators. Garcia, keep digging and keep me posted.”
Everyone starts moving immediately, papers shuffling and chairs scraping back as the room shifts into motion.
“I want to help,” you say suddenly. “This is my mess, let me fix it.”
“You can help,” he says evenly, “by going home, locking your doors, and staying there until we know exactly what we’re dealing with.”
You open your mouth to argue.
“I mean it,” he adds, voice low.
“I’ll take her,” Reid offers immediately.
“No,” Hotch says, gathering the printouts into one neat pile. “You go with Morgan and Prentiss.”
Then his eyes flick up, meeting yours.
“I’m taking her home.”
The next hour is one of the strangest of your life.
Hotch tells you to take your laptop back down to Garcia, who’s already in full FBI investigation mode—her screens covered in maps, metadata, CCTV stills, and enlarged screenshots of your own dating profile staring back at you in horrifying definition. When you finally make it back to your desk, Rossi spends twenty straight minutes walking you through every violent offender you’ve interviewed in the last three years, forcing you to revisit dozens of interactions you’d long since filed away as routine.
Somewhere in the middle of it all, Morgan drops a schematic of your apartment building onto your desk and starts questioning you about entrances, exits, blind spots, and security cameras while Reid quietly replaces the coffee you forgot existed an hour ago. It isn’t until Morgan leaves and JJ immediately takes his place beside you that you realise nobody has let you out of their sight for more than a few minutes at a time.
Then, finally, Hotch steps out of his office—files in one hand and his go-bag in the other, like he fully intends on staying the night if necessary.
“Ready?” he asks, stopping beside your desk.
You stare at the go-bag for one long, deeply horrified second.
“Yep,” you manage, voice tight as you slowly push out of your chair.
Hotch drives. You don’t even try to argue. You just sit in the passenger seat with your knees pressed together and your heart beating out of your chest. It’s not like you haven’t been in the car with him before. You have, plenty of times. This just feels... different.
Neither of you speak until he cuts the engine in the parking garage of your building, and you have to try very hard not to dwell on the fact that he hadn’t asked for directions the whole way here.
“Wait,” he mutters before climbing out of the car.
He grabs his bag from the back, then moves around the car and opens your door.
It takes an embarrassingly long time for you to unbuckle your seatbelt—your hands are shaking and your pulse is still pounding hard enough to make you dizzy—but once you finally do, you slip out of the car and lead him toward the fire stairs.
He never leaves more than a foot of distance between you. Never checks his phone. Never glances down. He stays glued to your side like a real protection detail. And thanks to your avid and wildly inappropriate imagination, you’ve already mentally written an entire bodyguard romance plot starring Aaron Hotchner and yours truly by the time you finally reach your apartment door.
“I—uh—wasn’t really expecting company,” you say as you push the door open. “Sorry.”
The second you step inside, Leia leaps off the couch with a loud, rumbling trill—probably wondering why you’re home before dark for the first time in years.
Hotch pauses, his brow furrowing slightly. “You have a cat.”
You glance back at him as you kick your shoes off and nudge them out of the way. “Is that really the most surprising thing you’ve learned about me today?”
He watches Leia for another second before glancing back at you. “It’s unexpected.”
You roll your eyes, trying to ignore the way your heart skips when he quietly toes off his shoes beside the door without even asking. Like he already expects to stay awhile.
Leia chirrups again as she pads through the living room toward you, no doubt about to demand an early dinner—until she catches sight of Hotch and abruptly stops short. Her ears flicker, her tail waving from side to side as she assesses the new man in her apartment.
Hotch crouches slightly, holding one hand out toward her.
“Oh, she doesn’t really like people,” you say quickly. “So don’t take it personally if she—”
Leia immediately walks straight up to him. She sniffs his hand once before pressing directly into his palm with a loud purr rumbling through her entire body.
Your eyes go wide.
Traitor.
Hotch’s mouth twitches faintly as Leia leans harder into his hand.
Oh my God. Are you jealous of your cat right now?
He gives Leia one final scratch behind the ears before straightening, the softness in his expression fading almost immediately as he slips back into work mode. He scans the apartment briefly before setting the files down on your tiny dining table and shrugging his jacket off, draping it over the back of a chair.
You stand there for a second longer than you probably should, watching him move through your apartment with the same calm focus he brings to crime scenes and briefing rooms and interrogation tables. He checks the windows, the balcony doors, glances briefly—thank God—into your bedroom, then double-checks the locks on the front door.
The whole thing feels weirdly surreal. You’ve imagined Aaron Hotchner inside your apartment a thousand times in a thousand different ways—just not like this. And nothing you imagined could have possibly prepared you for the reality of it. The way everything feels so much smaller. Warmer. More exposed.
Every object in every room suddenly feels mortifyingly personal.
If he lingers long enough in your kitchen, he’s going to notice the unusually empty trash can and realise you survive almost entirely on caffeine and convenience. If he looks too closely at your bookshelf, he’s going to find an unhealthy collection of romance novels with more trigger warnings than plot points. And if he looks into your bedroom again and turns his head just a little more to the right, he’s going to see your vibrator sitting on the nightstand—and then you’ll actually have to fake your own death.
Because you’ve spent years carefully curating a version of yourself that keeps people from looking too closely. Flirty. Casual. Detached enough to joke about bad dates and hookups and sex without anybody ever realising that none of it means anything. It’s easier that way. Easier to let everyone assume your attention is scattered in every direction instead of fixed very specifically on the one person you absolutely cannot have.
But this?
This feels dangerously close to being found out.
The next couple of hours pass in strange, uneven waves of normalcy and low-grade psychological torture.
Hotch sits at your tiny dining table without complaint, dwarfing it as he hunches over files and asks careful questions about your routines, your neighbours, and whether anyone in the building has seemed overly interested in you recently. His phone rings a lot, which isn’t unusual, and every time he answers it you spend almost the entire conversation staring unashamed at the way his shirt pulls tight across his back when he reaches for another printout.
Which is wildly inappropriate considering the circumstances, but you can’t really help it. You’re strung out, on edge, and, as Morgan so helpfully pointed out this morning, severely under-fucked.
And Leia, unfortunately—but not unsurprisingly—remains no help whatsoever.
By seven o’clock she’s fully abandoned you in favour of draping herself across Hotch’s lap while he reviews new data from Garcia, completely oblivious to the fact that you haven’t been able to breathe normally since he walked through the door.
“Are you hungry?” you ask eventually, moving back into the kitchen as if you have anything in there to offer.
Hotch glances up from his laptop, one hand resting absently against Leia’s back while she purrs in his lap.
“I’m fine.”
You lean a hip against the kitchen counter, folding your arms tightly across your chest. “Any updates?”
He glances back down at his screen. “Garcia narrowed the traffic footage down to three vehicles that stayed in the area longer than they should have—Morgan and Prentiss are running the plates now. And Rossi’s pulling relatives connected to your previous cases. Family members who attended trials, sentencing hearings, interviews. Anyone who might’ve had access to your name outside the official reports.”
You nod slowly, silence settling again for a moment before you exhale sharply.
“Are you sure sitting here doing absolutely nothing is really the best use of me right now?”
His eyes flick back up, that signature Hotchner scowl set between his brows.
“You think this is nothing?”
His voice stays calm, but there’s something firmer underneath it now.
“You’ve spent the last four days being threatened, surveilled, and followed by someone we still haven’t identified,” he says. “Morgan, Prentiss, and Reid are out chasing leads because somebody targeted you. Rossi’s pulling case files because somebody targeted you. Garcia’s been at her desk for six straight hours because somebody targeted you.”
His jaw tightens slightly.
“My job right now is making sure nothing happens to you,” he says quietly. “Let me do that.”
Your breath catches, something warm and uncomfortably familiar twisting in your chest as Aaron Hotchner just sits there watching you like he hasn’t said anything unusual at all.
Which, to him, maybe he hasn’t.
He’s just doing his job. Looking out for his team. He’s not here because he wants to be. He’s here because someone threatened one of his agents.
That’s all.
You clear your throat, pushing away from the counter before the silence stretches too long. “I’m—uh—I’m just going to shower quickly. If that’s alright.”
He nods once. “Want me to clear the—”
“No,” you say immediately. “God, no. No. It’s fine. Totally fine.”
His brows pull together slightly, confusion flickering briefly across his face before you turn and hurry into your bedroom, shutting the door a little harder than necessary behind you.
Then you take the longest shower known to mankind. You stand beneath the scalding spray for at least ten minutes before even touching anything. Then you scrub, exfoliate, shave, condition, rinse twice, and stand there for just a little longer before finally gathering the courage to step out. All the while trying desperately not to think about the fact that your unit chief is only two thin walls away while you’re dripping wet and completely naked.
You rummage through your dresser until you find an oversized sweater that isn’t totally threadbare and a clean pair of pyjama shorts. Technically, they’re just striped flannel pants you cut into shorts, but at least they’re not as short as the rest of your pyjama collection that definitely needs replacing.
If only you actually had time for things like shopping... and emotional stability.
“No, wait for Morgan before you approach,” Hotch says as you step quietly back into the living room, phone pressed against his ear while he paces slowly beside the dining table. “If the registration’s fake, I don’t want you making contact until we know exactly who’s inside.”
He pauses, expression sharpening slightly.
“Alright. Keep me updated.”
He lowers the phone slowly before looking over at you for the first time since you re-emerged—and for half a second, he visibly loses his train of thought. It’s only tiny. Barely there. Just a brief pause before his expression shutters back into place.
“Garcia tracked one of the vehicles from the traffic footage to a motel outside Arlington,” he says, glancing back down at the files scattered across the table. “The driver’s been masking his activity through multiple VPNs, so she couldn’t pull a clean trace from the motel Wi-Fi, but only one room in the motel was actively using the network.”
Your stomach tightens.
“The name on the reservation was fake,” he continues, “but the room was paid for using a credit card belonging to Daniel Mercer.”
The name hits you immediately.
“Ethan Mercer’s brother,” you say quietly.
Hotch nods. “Rossi confirmed it about twenty minutes ago. Morgan and Prentiss are waiting for local PD before they move in.”
You nod slowly, your pulse fluttering anxiously in your throat as you move toward the kitchen. Not because you actually need anything in there, but because standing still feels almost impossible right now.
“Ethan barely spoke during the trial,” you murmur, folding your arms as you lean back against the counter. “I don’t think I ever even met his brother.”
“You wouldn’t need to,” Hotch says, already gathering the files into a neat pile. “People build attachments to investigators without ever interacting directly. Especially when they’re looking for someone to blame.”
Your skin prickles. “You really think it’s him?”
“It fits,” Hotch replies evenly. “Established emotional investment, personal motive, no prior record. Which explains the inconsistency. The escalation without follow-through. The long gaps between contact attempts. He knows enough to be cautious, but not enough to stay controlled.”
He straightens, turning back toward you—and for the briefest second, his eyes drop to your bare legs before snapping back up to your face almost immediately.
He clears his throat. “This probably isn’t something he’s done before. But his brother has.”
The apartment falls quiet again after that. Hotch returns to collecting files while you stare absently toward the dark balcony doors, your pulse still refusing to settle beneath your skin.
“Well,” you mutter eventually, gripping the edge of the counter to hoist yourself up. “On the bright side, I still think I’ve dated worse.”
The joke leaves your lips lightly enough, the same way they always do—easy, detached, halfway between genuine and ironic so nobody ever pauses long enough to look too closely.
Except this time Hotch does pause.
“Why do you do that?”
You frown. “Do what?”
“Deflect.” He straightens again, one hand still holding a stack of printouts. “Every time something gets too serious, you make a joke. Or you flirt. Or you say something just inappropriate enough to throw people off balance.”
You lift a shoulder. “Maybe I’m just charming.”
“No.” His eyes narrow slightly, brows pulling together. “No, because it changes depending on the situation.”
Your pulse stutters.
“With Morgan it’s competitive,” he continues, setting the papers back on the table. “You tease him because he pushes back and it keeps conversations superficial. Garcia gets exaggerated stories because she responds emotionally instead of analytically. Half the things you say to Reid are specifically designed to make him flustered enough to stop examining what you actually mean.”
“Wow,” you murmur, shifting your weight against the countertop. “Starting to feel a little attacked here.”
But Hotch doesn’t seem to hear you.
“The dating profile doesn’t fit,” he says, almost to himself. “Neither does the apartment.”
Your stomach twists as his gaze moves briefly across the room. The bookshelves. The carefully organised clutter. Leia now curled up asleep on the couch.
“You project someone impulsive. Social. Sexually confident. But nothing in here supports that.” His eyes flick back toward you again. “You live like someone who protects their space carefully. Even the cat.”
“Leave Leia out of this.”
“She doesn’t like strangers.”
“She likes you.”
The words slip out too quickly, and something in his expression shifts.
“You keep people at a distance,” he continues slowly, close enough now that you can hear the quiet rasp beneath his voice. “Even the team. You let people think they know you because it keeps them from looking closer.” He hesitates, brow furrowing. “Except Reid.”
Your fingers tighten instinctively around the edge of the counter.
“You trust him,” Hotch says. “Not just socially. Behaviourally. You anchor yourself to him when you’re stressed. Physical proximity. Eye contact. Redirecting conversations through him.” He pauses, watching you carefully now. “And earlier you said he’d been profiling you all week.”
Oh God.
“Which means Reid already noticed the pattern.”
He goes quiet for a moment, his expression tightening almost imperceptibly as he looks back over the last few months—years—in real time. You can practically see it happening behind his eyes. Every interaction. Every joke. Every look you thought you’d hidden quickly enough.
“You track me.”
The words come quieter now. Less certain. Like he’s still realising them.
“You know my routines,” he continues slowly. “You anticipate questions before I ask them. You look up when you hear my office door open even when you can’t see me.” He steps closer again. “You know when I need coffee before I do. You watch my reactions before anyone else in the room.”
Your breath stutters.
And Hotch notices immediately.
His expression shifts slightly as his eyes flick across your face, your posture, your hands still locked around the edge of the counter hard enough that your knuckles have gone pale beneath the kitchen lights.
“Your breathing changes when I get too close to you,” he says quietly.
He takes another slow step forward, close enough now that you have to tilt your head back slightly to keep looking at him.
“You stop fidgeting,” he continues. “You go completely still.” His gaze drops briefly to your hands before lifting again. “Like you’re afraid movement alone is going to give you away.”
Your heart is beating so hard now you’re half-convinced he can hear it.
“You lose verbal fluency,” he says, voice lower now. “You trip over words you normally wouldn’t. Your pupils dilate. Your heart rate increases. And every single time I get close to noticing it—”
His eyes lock onto yours.
“You redirect.”
You can barely breathe now.
He’s standing right in front of you, close enough that the heat rolling off him sinks straight into your skin, close enough that one more step would put him between your knees where you’re perched on the counter.
And somehow the worst part is that he still sounds calm. Thoughtful. Like Aaron Hotchner is profiling you with the same careful focus he’d bring to an unsub—except this time the thing he’s slowly uncovering is the fact that you’ve been hopelessly in love with him this entire time.
You swallow hard, your gaze catching just briefly on his mouth before you drag it back up to his eyes, pulse hammering so hard you can barely think straight.
“Figured it out yet, Agent Hotchner?” you ask softly.
He goes still for half a second, something unreadable flickering across his face as his eyes drop to your mouth before lifting back to your eyes again.
The apartment suddenly feels oppressively quiet.
His throat shifts slightly.
And then—
His phone rings.
He steps back immediately, his expression shuttering back into something careful and unreadable.
“Hotchner,” he says, pressing his phone against his ear.
You don’t hear much after that. Not really. You recognise Morgan’s muffled voice, but you can’t quite hear what he’s saying. Not while Hotch slowly paces your living room. You catch fragments of the conversation. Questions. Short answers. The low, steady cadence of his voice slipping effortlessly back into work mode while your own nervous system continues actively collapsing in on itself.
Because holy fuck.
Holy fuck.
What the hell just happened?
“They got him.”
Your head snaps up. “They what?”
Hotch moves back to the dining table and starts gathering his things.
“It was him. Daniel Mercer,” he says. “Morgan and Prentiss found him in the motel room with multiple burner phones, printed screenshots from the dating profile, and enough surveillance material to establish intent.”
“Oh.”
“Local PD recovered notebooks too,” he continues. “Names, schedules, work addresses. Everyone connected to Ethan Mercer’s conviction. Judges, prosecutors, witnesses. You were first because you were the arresting agent.”
A cold shiver slips down your spine.
“Garcia also confirmed the motel Wi-Fi matched the same VPN chain used to access the dating profile,” Hotch adds. “Once Mercer realised the Bureau was involved, the direct contact stopped. After that he shifted to surveillance. Morgan said the room was covered in trial material. Photos. Notes. Newspaper clippings. He’d been building the grievance for months.”
He pauses, then looks at you.
“But they got him.”
“Good,” you say quietly.
Hotch nods once before turning back to the dining table, slipping his laptop into his bag with careful efficiency before gathering every file and printout into one neat pile.
“Local PD will hold Mercer overnight until federal transport clears,” he says, sliding the papers into his bag. “Garcia’s already started coordinating with the U.S. Attorney’s Office. You’ll need to give an additional statement tomorrow regarding the dating profile.”
You nod. “Okay.”
Hotch reaches for his jacket, draping it over one arm.
“There’ll still be additional officers patrolling the area tonight,” he says. “And if you don’t want to be alone, I can have Reid or Garcia stay here.”
“I’ll be fine,” you mutter, glancing down at the kitchen tiles. “You can stop babysitting me now.”
Hotch stills.
Then slowly, deliberately, sets his jacket on the table.
“Babysitting?” he repeats.
“You know what I mean.”
He steps toward you, brows drawn. “I don’t think I do.”
“You solved the case,” you mutter, heat crawling up the back of your neck. “You profiled me. Thoroughly. So congratulations, I guess. You figured out the whole sad little secret, the weird avoidance issues, the entire personality disorder cocktail—” You let out a short, humourless laugh. “You can go back to pretending none of this ever happened now.”
He closes the distance between you before you even fully realise he’s moving, stopping directly in front of the counter again. Exactly where he’d been when you asked him if he’d figured it out. Close enough that you can feel his warmth. Close enough that you can see the day-old shadow of stubble lining his jaw.
“You’re being deliberately provocative now because you’re embarrassed,” he says. “But embarrassment isn’t actually your primary response here.”
His gaze drops to your mouth again, and your pulse stumbles.
“If it was,” he adds quietly, “you wouldn’t still be looking at me like that.”
Your breath catches in your throat.
You want to say something. Anything. Another joke. Another deflection. Something sharp enough to cut through the tension in the air and stop him looking at you like this. Exposing you like this.
But you can’t.
All you can do is stare at him. At the steady intensity in his eyes. At the way his tie has loosened slightly over the course of the night. At the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath the white shirt you’ve spent an embarrassing number of years picturing on your bedroom floor.
You swallow hard, and he notices. Of course he does.
Something shifts in his expression then. Something softer. Less guarded.
His hand comes up beneath your jaw, his thumb pressing gently into your chin as he pulls you closer. You fall forward without hesitation, and he leans in, dark eyes still searching yours as if he isn’t entirely sure he has permission yet.
Then he kisses you.
It’s not rushed. Not messy. If anything, the first press of his mouth against yours feels almost unbearably controlled, like he’s still holding himself back even now.
But the restraint doesn’t last long.
Your hand catches his tie, tugging him closer, and something rough slips from the back of his throat as he steps in, his hips slotting between your thighs. His hand slides from your jaw into your hair, fingers tightening just enough to tilt your head back exactly as far as he wants it.
Your lips part against his with a broken sound, and he deepens it slowly, his tongue moving against yours like he has all the time in the world. Tasting you. Learning you. Mapping every small sound and ragged exhale with the same focused intensity he brings to everything—and somehow that’s what undoes you the most. Not urgency. Attention.
His breath mingles with yours, hot and uneven, and when his teeth catch your bottom lip it’s deliberate, measured—a sharp little spark shooting straight through your spine. Your hips roll toward him without permission, and his answering groan rumbles through his chest, vibrating beneath your palm and making you ache everywhere you’ve been starving for him.
Then he pulls back just enough to look at you properly again. His hand still tangled in your hair. Thumb dragging once across your jaw. His eyes move over your face with the same intensity he uses in every debrief, every case, every crisis, except right now you are the thing he’s making sure of.
Like he needs to be absolutely certain this is real.
“Aaron—”
“Bedroom,” he says immediately, voice low and rough enough to send heat crashing straight through you. “Now.”
FRIDAY 6:15AM
Your alarm blares somewhere beside the bed, startling you awake hard enough that your heart immediately starts pounding. You reach for it blindly, determined to silence it before it wakes—
Oh God.
The second your hand hits the snooze button, you freeze.
Your heart is beating faster now, your pulse thrumming in your throat as you turn slowly—so slowly—toward the other side of the bed, where Aaron fucking Hotchner stirs sleepily.
Your stomach swoops.
You slept with your boss last night.
With a shallow, shaky breath, you carefully start to move. His arm is heavy at your waist, but you manage to slip out from underneath it without fully waking him. You shove the covers off and shiver at the sudden exposure, leaning over the side of the bed to find your discarded sweater. You pull it over your head before quietly padding toward the ensuite, refusing to glance back at your very hot, very naked unit chief still tangled in your sheets.
You only just make it around the other side of the bed before something tugs at the back of your sweater. You stop, glancing back to find Hotch half-awake, eyes half-lidded with one hand caught at the hem of your sweater.
“Do you really get up this early?” he asks, voice rough with sleep.
“Yeah,” you murmur. “Most days.”
His brows pull together slightly. “Why?”
You let out a small, breathless laugh. “Because my boss is kind of a hard ass about punctuality.”
Something that almost resembles amusement flickers across his face.
“Sounds like a terrible boss,” he murmurs.
Then he tugs on your sweater again—hard enough this time that you let out a startled laugh as you stumble backward onto the mattress and into him. He catches you easily, one arm wrapping around your waist before you can even fully recover, pulling you back against the warmth of his chest.
“Yeah,” you murmur, laughing softly as his mouth brushes beneath your ear. “He’s awful. Very demanding.”
He hums, breath warm against your skin.
“He’s really hot, though,” you add, smiling despite yourself. “So I like having time to put in a little effort, you know? Hope he notices.”
“Oh, he notices.”
Your stomach flips. “Really?”
“Mhm.”
His arm tightens around your waist. “He notices the skirts.”
Heat floods your face. “Aaron—”
“He notices the tights.” His mouth brushes against the nape of your neck. “The ones with the seam up the back.”
“Oh my God.”
You try to turn your face into the pillow, but he just holds you tighter, pressing his lips firm against your neck.
“And the red bra,” he murmurs.
Your breath catches.
“Noticed that so much I had to wait until everyone left the conference room before I could get up.”
You let out a strangled sound, squirming in his arms, but it’s no use. His chest vibrates against your back, something suspiciously close to laughter.
“My washing machine broke that week,” you whine. “It wasn’t my fault.”
“Mm, sure.”
You twist around immediately. “I’m not lying.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, like he doesn’t quite believe you, but before you can protest again—he kisses you. Warm, slow, sleep-soft. His mouth moves against yours almost lazily, his hand tightening slightly at your waist when a pathetic little whimper slips out before you can stop it.
“Careful,” you murmur, breathless against his mouth. “Don’t want to be late.”
You feel his lips curve.
“Good thing I’m the boss.”
10:35AM
You made it to work well on time. Even after three orgasms, a shower, and an awkward attempt at a ‘What Now?’ conversation—that ended in the aforementioned third orgasm. Because fortunately for your rapidly fraying nervous system, Hotch hadn’t even hesitated when you’d finally asked what happens next. In fact, he’d answered a little too quickly.
The first thing he’d asked was whether you’d be comfortable keeping things quiet for a while. Not because he’s worried about the team finding out—he trusts them. Trusts you. The concern is Strauss, and the Bureau, and keeping you in the BAU while he figures out exactly how much trouble the two of you have just created for yourselves. At some point he’d even started muttering about reporting structures and supervisory chains, half-thinking out loud while pulling on his tie. Something about possibly moving your reporting line over to Rossi. Something else about needing to review the Bureau’s fraternisation policies before making any moves.
That was when you kissed him—effectively, and very quickly, kicking off round three.
Because he’d clearly been thinking about this for a while, which means Aaron Hotchner has been noticing a lot more than just short skirts and inappropriately coloured underwear. It means that the second he decided to kiss you in your apartment last night, he’d already known exactly what he was getting himself into.
“Alright, gorgeous,” Morgan says, startling you as he raps a knuckle against your desk. “They’ll be ready for you downstairs in ten.”
You glance up at him, brows drawn—and it takes an embarrassingly long second for you to figure out what he’s talking about.
“Oh.” You blink. “Right. Yeah, I’ll head down soon. Thanks.”
Prentiss looks over from her desk. “You gonna be okay?”
You lift a shoulder. “Sure. What’s another case report?”
Morgan frowns, dropping into his chair. “It’s not exactly every day you’re the victim, baby girl.”
“Yeah, but nothing really happened.”
Morgan and Prentiss both stare at you.
“Because of the team,” you add quickly. “You guys caught him before he actually did anything. So... you know, nothing bad happened.” You plaster on a smile that feels reasonably convincing. “Thanks for that, by the way.”
Prentiss narrows her eyes, but before she can say anything else, Reid appears.
“You’re in a remarkably good mood for someone who was being actively cyberstalked twelve hours ago,” he says, stirring his second coffee of the day.
You turn back to your screen, trying to ignore the heat creeping into your cheeks. “Maybe I just have a newfound appreciation for life.”
Reid studies you for a moment, clearly unconvinced—but he doesn’t push. He just moves slowly back toward his desk, setting his coffee down with unnecessary care while the rest of the team turn away, finally deciding to mind their own business.
You force your attention back to the report in front of you, determined to at least look productive for the next ten minutes—when a familiar voice cuts through your concentration.
“Rossi’s taking Wallace with you next week,” Hotch says, setting the file down on your desk.
You blink up at him. “I thought you were leading the interview.”
“I was.”
Something in his expression tightens briefly before he lowers his voice.
“Wallace has a long history of using sex, intimidation, and emotional targeting to destabilise people during interviews,” he says. “Especially women.”
You frown. “Hotch, I—”
“And if he says something to you in that room,” he continues evenly, “or looks at you the wrong way, I need to know the agent sitting beside you is still capable of thinking objectively.”
Your stomach flips as his eyes meet yours—steady, intense, devastatingly honest.
“Right now,” he says quietly, “I’m not sure that’s me.”
Then he’s gone. Moving through the bullpen back toward his office like he hasn’t just set your pulse racing and your head spinning. You watch after him for a moment before shaking your head, glancing back at your computer screen as if you’d been focused on it at all in the first place.
“…Huh.”
You turn toward the sound and find Reid staring at you again. Not rudely. Just watching with the same focused curiosity he’d been wearing since your suspiciously cheerful comment about cyberstalking.
summary: when your apartment became a swimming pool, aaron decided it's his problem. the resolution became permanent.
tw: lowkey slow burn, jack being jack, sexism at the end.
authors note: I finally found out why I couldn't post it last night. Please be kind. Tried something new here style wise. Let me know how you like it.
word count: 5.6k
masterlist
HIGH TIDE CAME (and brought you in)
The first sign that something was wrong was the water dripping from the ceiling.
At first, you ignored it.
After spending twelve hours chasing an unsub across three counties, your brain felt like it had been wrung out and left to dry. Every muscle in your body ached. Your shoulders were tight from hours spent in a cramped SUV, your feet hurt, and there was a dull headache forming behind your eyes that promised to become a full migraine if given the chance.
You dropped your go-bag beside the apartment door with a heavy thud, kicked off your shoes, and headed toward the kitchen in search of coffee you absolutely did not need but desperately wanted.
The apartment was quiet.
Too quiet.
Then—
Drip.
You paused. A frown tugged at your brow.
Drip.
The sound echoed faintly through the room.
You glanced around the kitchen.
Drip.
This time, you looked up.
A single drop of water fell from the ceiling and splattered against the countertop.
For a second, you simply stared. Then you sighed.
"Oh, you've got to be kidding me."
Another drop followed.
Then another.
Within thirty seconds, the occasional drip had become a steady trickle. Within five minutes, it was practically raining inside your apartment. Water streamed down the walls and pooled across the hardwood floor. The ceiling bulged ominously overhead, swollen with trapped water that looked seconds away from collapsing entirely. Panic and exhaustion made for a terrible combination.
You spent the next hour alternating between swearing, dragging furniture across the room, and desperately trying to reach your landlord.
Towels covered every available surface.
Buckets appeared from closets you hadn't opened in months. A mixing bowl from your kitchen ended up catching water in the middle of your living room.
By the time the emergency maintenance crew finally arrived, your apartment looked less like a home and more like a disaster zone.
The verdict wasn't encouraging.
A pipe had burst in the apartment above yours.
Water damage. Extensive repairs. Several days at minimum. Possibly weeks.
You stared at the maintenance worker as if he had personally offended you.
"So I can't stay here?"
The man winced apologetically.
"I wouldn't recommend it."
You laughed once. It sounded slightly unhinged.
"Fantastic."
Apparently being exhausted wasn't enough.
Apparently the universe had decided to make a point.
The moment the maintenance crew left, you collapsed onto the one remaining dry corner of your couch and rubbed both hands over your face.
The apartment smelled damp already.
The air felt heavy. Water still dripped somewhere in the background.
Your home no longer felt like home.
And that realization hit harder than you'd expected.
Your apartment wasn't anything special. The furniture didn't match, half the decorations had been purchased during sleep-deprived online shopping sessions.
But it was yours.
It was where you came after difficult cases.
Where you could finally stop being an FBI profiler and simply exist.
Your phone buzzed.
You pulled it from your pocket.
Aaron Hotchner.
Briefing at 0700. Be prepared to present victimology findings.
You stared at the message. Then at the water dripping from your ceiling. Then back at the message.
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it, the sound bordered dangerously on hysteria.
Before common sense could intervene, you typed:
Small problem.
The reply came almost instantly.
Define small.
Despite everything, the corner of your mouth twitched.
My apartment is currently trying to become an indoor swimming pool.
Three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
Are you safe?
The question caught you off guard.
Not What happened?
Not Call your insurance company.
Just—
Are you safe?
Something warm settled unexpectedly in your chest.
Yeah. Just kinda homeless.
Several seconds passed before your phone rang.
You answered immediately.
"Are you injured?"
The concern in his voice stopped you cold.
"No."
A brief pause.
"Good."
The single word was calm and controlled.
Yet underneath it, hidden beneath years of discipline and professionalism, was unmistakable relief. You leaned back against the couch.
"I'll figure something out."
"Such as?"
You opened your mouth but nothing came out. Because the truth was you didn't have a plan. Hotels cost money. Your apartment was flooding. Your car was currently sitting dead in the BAU parking lot waiting for a mechanic.
And it was almost midnight.
The silence stretched, the kind that made people confess things.
Finally, Aaron spoke again.
"Your car is still in the parking lot?"
You frowned, confused.
"How did you know that?"
"Morgan mentioned it."
Of course he had. Morgan knew everything.
"Yeah."
Another pause.
"Pack a bag."
You blinked.
"What?"
"Pack a bag."
"Hotch—"
"I'll be there in twenty minutes."
Your heart stumbled unexpectedly.
"What are you talking about?"
"You need somewhere to stay."
His voice remained steady, matter-of-fact. As if this decision had already been made.
"I can get a hotel."
"With what transportation?"
You opened your mouth and closed it right after.
His silence felt suspiciously like victory.
"Sir, seriously," you said. "I don't want to impose."
"You won't."
"But—"
"You are not sleeping in a flooded apartment."
The firmness in his voice left little room for argument.
Then it softened. Just slightly.
"And you're not wandering around D.C. at midnight looking for a hotel."
Something about the way he said it made your chest tighten.
Like the thought genuinely bothered him.
You looked around your ruined apartment.
At the puddles.
The soaked carpet.
The overturned furniture.
Part of you knew he was right.
The other part was painfully aware that Aaron Hotchner was offering to let you stay in his house.
The thought alone was enough to make your stomach twist.
"Twenty minutes."
Before you could argue again, the line disconnected.
You stared at your phone.
Somewhere between the burst pipe, the broken car, and Aaron Hotchner deciding your housing crisis was now his responsibility, your day had become significantly more complicated.
And somehow, despite everything, the knot of anxiety in your stomach had loosened just a little.
Because for the first time all evening, you weren't dealing with it alone.
You managed to pack two bags before the knock came.
Clothes.
Toiletries.
A handful of books.
A laptop.
Enough essentials to convince yourself this was temporary.
Nothing more.
The knock sounded exactly twenty minutes later.
Not twenty-one.
Not nineteen.
Twenty.
You shouldn't have been surprised.
"It's me."
You opened the door.
Aaron stepped inside.
The cool night air followed him.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
His eyes swept across the apartment immediately.
Assessing.
Cataloging.
Taking in every detail.
The water damage.
The damp carpet.
The collection of towels spread across the floor.
The exhaustion written plainly across your face.
You appeared in the bedroom doorway, blowing a loose strand of hair from your eyes.
His gaze landed on you.
"Are you okay?"
The question was simple. But something about the way he asked it made your breath catch.
His voice remained calm.
Controlled.
Professional.
Yet beneath it lingered something softer, warmer.
Something that had nothing to do with Unit Chief Aaron Hotchner.
You shrugged.
"Just annoyed."
A pause.
"And tired."
His expression softened almost imperceptibly.
His eyes dropped to your bags.
Without another word, he crossed the room, picked them both up effortlessly, and headed for the door.
You blinked.
"That's it?"
He glanced back.
"What?"
"No lecture?"
A reluctant smile tugged at your lips.
"No speech about emergency preparedness?"
A flicker of amusement appeared in his eyes.
"I think you've had enough excitement for one day."
The warmth that spread through your chest caught you completely off guard.
You smiled despite yourself.
For the first time all night, Aaron smiled back.
Small.
Brief.
But real.
"Come on."
You followed him outside.
And despite the uncertainty waiting ahead, for the first time since the ceiling started leaking, you felt something suspiciously close to relief.
The drive there had been quiet. Not uncomfortable—just quiet in the way most things were with Aaron. Comfortable silence had always been one of his strengths. You sat in the passenger seat, watching the city lights blur past the window while exhaustion settled deeper into your bones.
At some point, the adrenaline from the flooding apartment had worn off.
Now all that remained was fatigue.
The kind that made your eyelids heavy and your thoughts slow.
The kind that reminded you you'd been awake far too long.
When Aaron finally pulled into the driveway, you stared at the house for a moment.
Aaron's house was exactly what you expected.
And somehow nothing like you expected at all.
Warm light glowed from several windows.
The porch light had been left on.
It looked welcoming.
Lived in.
Safe.
Something inside your chest tightened unexpectedly.
Because while you'd worked with Aaron for years, this felt strangely intimate.
The BAU knew Aaron Hotchner: Unit Chief, profiler, leader.
The man who always had a plan.
The man who somehow remained calm while everyone else was losing their minds.
But this wasn't Hotch's house.
This was Aaron's.
And for some reason, that distinction felt important.
Aaron grabbed your bags before you could protest.
You followed him inside.
The moment the door opened, warmth greeted you.
Not just physical warmth.
The kind that came from a home people actually lived in.
Family photographs lined the hallway walls.
A backpack rested beside the staircase.
A pair of sneakers sat near the front door.
Jack's drawings covered the refrigerator in colorful chaos.
There were magnets holding up spelling tests and crayon masterpieces.
A toy car sat abandoned beneath the coffee table.
The faint scent of garlic and tomato sauce lingered in the air from dinner.
Evidence of life.
Evidence of things Aaron never brought to work.
For the first time, you realized how carefully he separated those worlds.
His professional and personal life.
And somehow you had just stepped directly into the second one.
"The guest room is upstairs."
His voice pulled you back to reality.
"Thank you."
Aaron looked at you.
Really looked at you.
And something in his expression softened.
"You don't need to thank me."
"I kind of do."
"No, you don’t."
The sincerity in his voice surprised you.
For a second, neither of you looked away.
The air felt strangely still.
You were suddenly aware of how quiet the house was.
How close he was standing.
How tired you were.
You cleared your throat.
"I'll figure something else out as soon as I can."
A small smile appeared.
The kind of smile Aaron rarely showed at work.
"There isn't a rush."
Your stomach did something strange.
You chose to ignore it.
Then, after a brief pause, he added—
"And outside work, you can call me Aaron."
The words hit you harder than being invited into his house.
Your brain stalled completely.
"Oh."
The smile widened slightly.
"Is that a problem?"
"No."
Your answer came entirely too quickly.
"No. Not a problem."
A flicker of amusement appeared in his eyes.
"Good."
You swallowed.
"Aaron."
The name felt unfamiliar.
Dangerously personal.
Something unreadable crossed his expression.
Gone almost immediately.
"Get some sleep."
You nodded.
"Goodnight."
The guest room was simple but comfortable.
Clean sheets.
Soft lighting.
A neatly folded blanket at the foot of the bed.
You changed into pajamas, sat on the edge of the mattress, and listened to the quiet house around you.
No dripping water.
No maintenance crews.
No collapsing ceiling.
Just silence.
Safe silence.
The realization washed over you unexpectedly.
You hadn't realized how tense you'd been all evening until now.
The knot in your shoulders loosened.
Your breathing slowed.
For the first time since walking into your flooded apartment, you relaxed.
And within minutes, you were asleep.
The arrangement was supposed to last a few days.
Maybe a week.
Just long enough for repairs.
Then you'd go home.
Simple.
Temporary.
Reasonable.
Unfortunately, water damage had other plans.
One week became two.
Two weeks became three.
Apparently replacing flooring, drywall, plumbing, and half a ceiling took significantly longer than anyone had originally estimated.
By the beginning of the third week, something unexpected had happened.
You'd developed a routine.
Every morning, you woke before six.
Every morning, Aaron was already awake.
Without fail.
You'd find him sitting at the kitchen table with a mug of black coffee and a stack of case files.
Reading.
Annotating.
Working.
The first few mornings consisted mostly of practical conversations.
Need a ride?
How's the apartment?
Did you sleep okay?
Simple things.
Professional things.
Then gradually, without either of you realizing it, those conversations changed.
One morning became breakfast together.
Then another.
Soon, sharing coffee before work felt normal.
Comfortable.
You started discussing books, cases, current events, random observations about human behavior.
Sometimes one conversation would lead to another until suddenly twenty minutes had passed and it was time to leave for Quantico.
Other mornings neither of you spoke much at all.
Aaron would read and you'd drink coffee.
The silence between you settling naturally instead of awkwardly.
It surprised you how much you enjoyed those mornings.
The BAU lived in chaos. Deadlines. Darkness.
But here?
There was coffee, morning sunlight, sound of pages turning.
And Aaron sitting across the table.
Little by little, you learned things about him.
Not because he volunteered information. He rarely volunteered anything.
But details slipped through anyway.
You learned he preferred his coffee black.
No sugar or cream.
You learned he reread reports whenever he was worried about a case.
You learned he loosened his tie almost immediately after walking through the front door.
As though shedding the weight of responsibility one careful inch at a time.
Most surprisingly of all—
You learned he smiled.
Frequently.
Far more frequently than anyone at the BAU would ever believe.
The first time you pointed it out, he looked genuinely offended.
"I smile."
You laughed.
"You really don't."
"I do."
"No."
"I do."
"You absolutely do not."
Aaron looked mildly scandalized.
Which somehow only made it funnier.
You laughed harder.
He rolled his eyes.
The sight nearly killed you.
Because Aaron Hotchner rolling his eyes was somehow one of the most unexpectedly charming things you'd ever witnessed.
Jack adapted far faster than either of you.
Children were like that.
Adults complicated things.
Kids simply accepted them.
By the end of the first week, Jack treated your presence as completely normal.
By the second week, he'd started knocking on your bedroom door every morning before school.
By the third week, he routinely appeared beside you on the couch while doing homework.
One evening, you found yourself sitting cross-legged on the living room floor while Jack enthusiastically explained the rules of a board game.
You were losing.
Badly.
"You're terrible at this."
You stared at him.
"I've known the rules for seven minutes."
"Still terrible."
"I think you're exploiting a loophole."
Jack gasped dramatically.
"You sound like Dad."
The front door opened.
Aaron walked inside.
His gaze immediately found the two of you.
It always did.
You tried not to notice that.
Tried and failed.
He loosened his tie as he crossed the room. Then paused. Jack was winning. You were clearly not. The board reflected this reality mercilessly.
Aaron raised an eyebrow.
"How's it going?"
"She's terrible."
You pointed accusingly.
"I'd like it noted that I'm being bullied by a child."
Jack looked delighted.
Aaron laughed.
Actually laughed.
Not a brief chuckle.
A genuine laugh.
Your jaw nearly hit the floor.
Aaron immediately realized his mistake.
His amusement vanished.
"Don't."
"That was a laugh."
"It wasn't."
"It absolutely was."
"It wasn't."
Jack looked at you.
You looked at Jack.
Neither of you believed him.
And for one brief moment, watching Aaron attempt—and fail—to maintain his dignity, happiness settled warmly inside your chest.
The dangerous kind.
The kind you weren't supposed to feel.
The problem wasn't living with Aaron.
The problem was getting used to him.
Getting used to seeing him relaxed.
Getting used to the way his eyes softened when he looked at Jack.
Getting used to finding him in the kitchen every morning before sunrise, sleeves rolled up, coffee already brewing.
Getting used to the fact that he noticed things.
When you skipped lunch.
When you were running on too little sleep.
When a difficult case followed you home.
Aaron rarely pushed.
But somehow his quiet awareness felt more intimate than concern spoken aloud.
And that was becoming a problem.
Because the longer you stayed, the harder it became to remember he was your boss.
The harder it became to remember this arrangement was temporary.
The harder it became to ignore the fact that you looked forward to seeing him every day.
You tried explaining it away.
The feelings, the butterflies, the warmth that spread through your chest whenever he smiled.
You blamed stress.
A temporary situation creating temporary emotions.
Your brain presented these arguments regularly.
Your heart remained unconvinced.
Unfortunately, your heart was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.
If anyone at the BAU noticed the shift between you and Aaron, nobody mentioned it.
At least not immediately.
Morgan was first to figure it out
Which was deeply unfortunate.
The moment happened on an otherwise normal morning.
You were standing near the conference room before briefing, trying to wake up enough to function.
Aaron walked past without looking up from the file in his hand.
At the same time, he set a cup of coffee down beside you.
Your coffee.
Exactly the way you liked it.
No questions.
No hesitation.
Morgan watched the exchange.
Then looked at you.
Then Hotch.
Then back at you.
A slow grin spread across his face.
"Oh."
Every survival instinct you possessed activated simultaneously. You froze.
Aaron continued reading, completely unaware or pretending to be.
Honestly, with him, it was impossible to tell.
"Oh?" you repeated carefully.
Morgan pointed between the two of you.
"Oh."
You felt dread.
"No idea what you're talking about."
"Mhm."
Aaron finally looked up.
"What?"
Morgan's grin widened.
"Dangerous question."
Aaron narrowed his eyes.
Morgan laughed.
"You know what? Never mind."
You immediately knew he absolutely did not mean never mind.
Morgan spent the next three weeks proving exactly that.
Rossi was somehow worse.
Morgan teased.
Rossi observed.
And that felt significantly more threatening.
One afternoon while waiting for the jet, Rossi settled into the seat beside you.
Far too casually.
The expression on his face immediately made you suspicious.
"You know," he said, "Hotch seems happier lately."
You nearly dropped your coffee.
The cup tilted alarmingly.
You managed to save it at the last second.
"Huh."
"Mhm."
You stared straight Ahead, refusing to make eye contact.
"Maybe he's having a good week."
"Maybe."
You hated that answer.
You hated the knowing smile that accompanied it even more.
Rossi patted your shoulder then walked away, leaving you to question every life choice that had brought you to this moment.
The real problem wasn't Morgan.
Or Rossi.
Or even your increasingly obvious feelings for Aaron.
The real problem was that he appeared to be having the exact same problem.
You noticed it gradually.
Small, tiny things.
The kind of details profilers were specifically trained to notice.
The way conversations would occasionally stop when your eyes met.
The way his attention always seemed to find you in a crowded room.
The way he'd linger in doorways as though he wanted to say something, then wouldn’t.
The way his gaze sometimes softened before he caught himself.
Before those walls came crashing back into place.
It wasn't obvious.
Aaron wasn't obvious about anything but it was there.
And once you noticed it, you couldn't stop noticing it.
Neither of you acknowledged it.
Neither of you dared.
Because acknowledging it would make it real.
Real things could break.
Real things could be lost.
For now, pretending felt safer.
Even if it was becoming increasingly difficult.
The Saturday pancake disaster should have been ordinary.
You came downstairs expecting coffee, maybe breakfast.
What you found instead was chaos.
Flour covered nearly every available surface.
Batter decorated the countertop.
The floor looked suspiciously sticky.
And the smoke detector appeared to be considering its options.
You stopped in the doorway.
Stared.
Then laughed.
Aaron looked up immediately.
His sleeves were rolled to his elbows.
There was flour on his shirt.
The sight alone nearly made you laugh harder.
"I had it under control."
Jack snorted.
"No, you didn't."
"I did."
"You absolutely didn't."
Aaron pointed a spatula at him.
Jack remained unimpressed.
You were still laughing and Aaron looked relieved.
As though your arrival had solved a major crisis.
Jack noticed too.
"See?" he announced triumphantly. "I told you we should wait for her."
Her.
Not your name.
Not Agent.
Her.
The simple word hit harder than it should have.
Like your presence was expected.
Like you'd always been part of the plan.
Something tightened painfully in your chest.
Aaron looked at you.
For a moment neither of you spoke.
The kitchen noise faded into the background.
The look in his eyes stole your breath.
Warm.
Soft.
Gone almost immediately.
But you'd seen it.
And judging by the way his gaze lingered for half a second too long, he knew you'd seen it too.
You rolled up your sleeves.
"Move."
Relief flashed across his face.
Jack pointed dramatically.
"See?"
And somewhere deep down, something dangerous settled into place.
Because for the first time, you stopped asking yourself if you were falling in love with him.
You already knew the answer.
The real question was what to do about it.
The call came on a Tuesday afternoon.
You were finishing paperwork when your phone buzzed.
The landlord.
Five minutes later, you hung up.
And just sat there.
Repairs complete.
Apartment ready.
Move back whenever convenient.
Good news.
Objectively.
The exact outcome you'd been waiting for.
So why did your stomach feel like it had dropped through the floor?
The answer followed you all afternoon.
Followed you through the briefing.
Through the drive home.
By the time you climbed into Aaron's car, the weight of it felt impossible to ignore.
The silence between you stretched longer than usual.
Eventually, you broke it.
"The landlord called."
Aaron's hands tightened slightly on the steering wheel.
Just enough for you to notice.
"Everything okay?"
You looked out the window.
"Yeah."
The word felt wrong.
"Everything's fixed."
Silence.
A beat passed.
Then another.
"Good."
The single word landed heavily.
You swallowed.
Good.
Of course it was good.
Your apartment was repaired, your life could go back to normal.
You should have felt relieved. Instead, all you felt was loss. The realization frightened you.
Because somewhere along the way, Aaron's house had stopped feeling temporary. It had started feeling like home.
Apparently Aaron wasn't handling it much better.
Because several minutes later, he spoke again.
"You don't have to leave immediately."
You turned toward him. His eyes remained fixed on the road.
"What?"
"You can take your time."
Your pulse quickened.
"Aaron..."
His jaw tightened.
"I know it's selfish."
The admission stunned you.
Aaron Hotchner rarely admitted vulnerability.
Yet there it was. Plain and honest. A confession disguised as a practical statement.
Your heart hurt. In the best possible way.
"Aaron."
This time he looked at you.
Only briefly, but it was enough.
Enough for something unspoken to pass between you.
Months of stolen glances.
Quiet mornings..
Movie nights.
Coffee.
Laughter.
All of it suspended between you.
Neither of you looked away immediately.
Neither of you knew what to say.
Because for the first time, pretending wasn't working anymore.
And both of you knew it.
The apartment was fixed.
The deadline was here.
Whatever this was between you—
It couldn't remain unspoken forever.
The conversation happened three nights later.
Not because either of you planned it.
Mostly because avoiding it had become impossible.
By then, every interaction felt loaded with things left unsaid.
Every glance lingered too long.
Neither of you were sleeping much.
And both of you knew exactly why.
The house was quiet.
Jack had gone to bed over an hour ago.
The dishwasher hummed softly somewhere in the background.
You came downstairs hoping a glass of water might somehow solve the problem of your overactive brain.
Instead, you found Aaron standing alone in the kitchen.
A mug sat in front of him.
Untouched.
Steam no longer rose from the coffee, meaning he'd been standing there awhile.
You leaned against the doorway.
"You know it's ten o'clock, right?"
Aaron glanced up. A faint smile touched his mouth.
"I know."
"You have work in the morning."
"So do you."
You crossed your arms.
"Can't sleep?"
A short laugh escaped him.
"No."
Neither could you.
The answer settled between you.
Dangerously revealing.
Silence followed.
Not uncomfortable.
Just heavy.
Like the room was holding its breath.
You watched him.
And for the first time since you'd met him, he looked uncertain.
Not Unit Chief Aaron Hotchner.
Not the profiler who always had answers.
Just a man standing alone in his kitchen trying to figure out how to say something difficult.
The sight made your chest ache.
Finally, he exhaled.
"You should move back."
The words hit harder than you expected.
For a moment, you simply stared.
"Oh."
Immediately, Aaron's expression changed.
Not what he'd meant.
Not even close.
You saw the realization the second it happened.
The regret.
You couldn't help it.
You laughed softly.
"What?"
You shook your head, smile tugged at your lips.
"You know, for a profiler, you're really bad at this."
His eyebrows rose.
"At what?"
You gestured vaguely between the two of you.
"This."
For a second, confusion remained.
Then understanding dawned.
The realization landed visibly.
His shoulders relaxed.
His eyes widened slightly.
And something almost like disbelief crossed his face.
"You know."
It wasn't a question.
You smiled.
"Yeah."
The room suddenly felt much smaller.
Much warmer.
Aaron looked away first.
A laugh escaped him.
Disbelieving.
"You've known for how long?"
You considered it.
"Long enough."
His head tilted.
"Months?"
"Probably."
Aaron looked personally offended, which only made you laugh harder.
"You weren't exactly subtle."
"I was incredibly subtle."
"No."
"I was."
"Aaron."
His expression immediately informed you he knew he had lost that argument.
You grinned.
The tension eased.
Then Aaron's smile faded.
Not completely.
Just enough for something more vulnerable to emerge.
The walls began to crack.
One by one.
The carefully constructed barriers he'd spent years building.
You watched it happen.
Watched him decide.
Watched him stop hiding.
"You deserve someone less complicated."
The words came quietly.
There it was, the real fear.
Fear that he wasn't enough.
Fear that his baggage outweighed everything else.
You smiled immediately.
"There he is."
Confusion flickered across his face.
"There who is?"
"The man who's spent months inventing reasons not to ask me out."
A reluctant smile appeared.
You stepped closer.
Enough to erase some of the distance.
Not all of it.
Just enough.
"Aaron."
His eyes met yours.
Steady.
Open.
Unprotected.
The sight stole your breath.
"You don't get to make that decision for me."
The words settled between you.
His gaze softened.
You continued.
"I know your life isn't simple."
A tiny huff of laughter escaped him.
"That's one way to put it."
"I know your job isn't simple."
Another nod.
"I know you're stubborn."
That earned a real smile.
"And?"
"And I still like you."
Silence.
Full of relief.
Full of hope.
Full of everything neither of you had been brave enough to say.
The look on Aaron's face nearly broke your heart.
Because for the first time, all that restraint disappeared.
Months of uncertainty, caution, wanting…
Gone.
The relief was immediate.
Overwhelming.
"I know."
You blinked.
"What?"
"I know."
You stared.
Then laughed.
"Aaron."
A smile appeared.
"I know."
"I just confessed my feelings."
"I noticed."
"And that's your response?"
The smile widened.
"No."
He reached for your hand, the gesture simple.
But somehow it felt monumental.
His fingers intertwined with yours.
"I like you too."
The words settled somewhere deep inside your chest. Exactly where they'd belonged all along. For a moment, neither of you moved. Neither of you looked away.
Years of profiling had taught you how to read people.
Aaron had always been difficult.
Controlled.
Guarded.
But now?
Now you could see everything.
The affection.
The relief.
The happiness.
The quiet disbelief that this was actually happening.
Your heart swelled.
Aaron's eyes dropped briefly to your lips. Then returned to yours. Giving you every opportunity to step away. To reconsider.
You didn't.
Neither did he.
The kiss was soft.
Like neither of you wanted to rush something that had taken so long to find.
One hand settled gently against your cheek.
The other remained wrapped around yours.
The world narrowed.
No cases.
No flooded apartment.
No uncertainty.
Just Aaron.
And the overwhelming realization that this felt exactly right.
When you finally pulled apart, both of you were smiling.
"You know," you said quietly, "Morgan is going to be unbearable."
Aaron groaned immediately.
The sound made you laugh.
And somehow, standing in the middle of his kitchen, hand still tangled with his, happiness felt wonderfully simple.
The next morning lasted approximately six seconds.
That was how long it took Jack to figure it out.
You and Aaron were sitting together at breakfast.
Not touching, not doing anything obvious.
Just smiling a little more than usual.
Apparently that was enough.
Jack walked into the kitchen.
Stopped.
Looked at you.
Looked at Aaron.
Then sighed dramatically.
"Finally."
You nearly inhaled your coffee.
Aaron looked genuinely horrified.
"Jack."
"What?"
"Jack."
"What?"
You were laughing too hard to help.
Jack rolled his eyes.
The expression was disturbingly similar to Aaron's.
"You guys were literally the last people to figure it out."
Aaron covered his face.
You laughed harder.
Jack helped himself to cereal, completely satisfied with the chaos he'd created.
And for the first time in weeks, the future didn't feel uncertain.
Six months later, someone finally crossed a line.
Not Morgan.
Not Rossi.
Not anyone whose opinion mattered.
An assistant section chief from another division.
The type of man everyone tolerated and nobody respected.
The type who interrupted women in meetings and called it leadership.
The comment happened after a joint briefing.
Several agents remained in the conference room.
People gathered files.
Prepared to leave.
You and Aaron had arrived together that morning and apparently that had been enough.
The man looked between you.
Then smirked.
The expression instantly made your skin crawl.
"Oh."
The room quieted.
Not completely.
Just enough.
Enough for people to start paying attention.
You recognized the tone immediately.
So did Aaron.
The man leaned back in his chair.
"I always wondered how some agents move up so quickly."
The room went still.
Every instinct you possessed screamed where this was headed.
The smirk widened.
"Guess it helps when the boss thinks you're pretty."
Silence.
Heat flooded your face.
Not embarrassment.
Anger.
Pure anger.
Years of work.
Years spent earning every opportunity.
Dismissed in a single sentence.
The man wasn't finished.
Of course he wasn't.
"Let's be honest."
Morgan's expression darkened immediately.
Rossi slowly removed his glasses.
"If she wasn't young and attractive, would she really be sitting at this table?"
Every muscle in your body locked.
Then Aaron stood.
Slowly, deliberately.
The room became completely silent.
His expression didn't change.
That somehow made it worse.
Because anyone who knew Aaron understood something important.
When he was angry, he got quieter.
Not louder.
"What exactly are you implying?"
The man laughed nervously.
"Come on, Hotchner—"
"No."
The single word cut through the room.
Cold.
Precise.
Final.
"We're not doing that."
The confidence vanished from the man's face.
"She earned every assignment."
Your throat tightened.
"Every commendation."
Another beat.
"Every promotion."
Nobody interrupted.
Because everyone knew he was right.
Aaron took one step forward.
"If you think a woman's success can only be explained by the man standing next to her, then you have absolutely no business leading agents."
The room remained silent.
The assistant section chief looked like he wanted the floor to open beneath him.
Aaron wasn't finished.
"And if you ever suggest her accomplishments belong to anyone but her again, you'll answer for it."
The warning landed with absolute clarity.
The man looked away first.
Aaron sat back down.
Conversation over.
Case closed.
That night, after dinner, you found yourselves alone in the kitchen.
Somehow important conversations always seemed to happen there.
"You didn't have to do that."
Aaron looked genuinely confused.
"Yes, I did."
"Honey—"
"You are not a child."
"No."
"You never were."
The certainty in his voice wrapped around something vulnerable inside your chest.
Something old.
Something that had spent years wondering if people truly saw your work.
Your effort.
Your accomplishments.
Aaron always had.
Not because he cared about you.
Because he respected you.
The distinction mattered.
Aaron reached across the table and took your hand.
His thumb brushed gently across your knuckles.
"You okay?"
You looked at him.
At the man who'd picked you up from a flooded apartment months ago.
The man who'd quietly made space for you in his home.
In his life.
The man who had somehow become home himself.
You intertwined your fingers with his.
"Yeah."
And this time, you meant it.
From the living room came Jack's voice.
"Dad?"
Aaron closed his eyes immediately.
You laughed.
"Yes?" he called.
"When you get married someday, can I tell everyone I set you two up?"
You burst out laughing.
Aaron dropped his head into his free hand.
A groan escaped him.
From the living room came triumphant laughter.
And sitting there beside the people you loved most, surrounded by warmth and light and the life you'd accidentally built together, everything felt exactly where it was supposed to be.
For the first time since the ceiling started leaking, you weren't wondering where home was.
The Heart of Rome (Marcus Acacius x OC!Princess) All Chapters
-completed-
Summary: You are a secret medicus (physician) who embarks on a perilous journey to heal General Marcus Justus Acacius, who was wounded during the war. However, there is a hidden truth: you believe yourself to be an orphan, but you are mistaken. In reality, you are a Roman princess, the daughter of the previous emperor. Everyone, including your half-brothers who now hold the throne, thinks you died long ago. You remain unaware of this truth, but everything you know is about to change forever.
Pairing: Marcus Acacius x OC/Princess, She has golden hair and hazel eyes, her age is 26, and her name is Aya, (later called Aurelia when she finds out she is a princess)
Rating: Explicit, 18+ MDNI, Smut
Word Count: +300k so far (sorry for writing loong chapters:))
Warnings: falling in love, loss of virginity, mention about virginity, slow burn, rough sex, smut, sex, oral sex (both f&m receiving), all sex, dirty talk, gladiators, battle, war, violence, blood, ancient time language, fluffy, injury, pregnancy, childbirth, breeding kink, drunk sex, grieving, intrigue, passion, lust
Summary: You marry Joel Miller not for love, but for convenience, and now you are bound by vows to a man whose gruffness hides more than you expect.
CW: 18+ MDNI, marriage of convenience, lots of fluff, slow burn romance with eventual smut, lil bit of angst, jackson!Joel, husband!Joel, wife!reader, mild anxiety, outbreak, alternate universe, big age gap (unspecified), oldman!Joel, dirty talk, pet names, p-in-v, multiple orgasms, oral, fingering, spitplay, praises, cumplay, one premature ejaculation, grinding, aftercare, size kink, talk of pregnancy, breeding kink.
Word count: 9.4k
Note: I wrote this one for my birthday today. Joel Miller as a husband is concerningly close to being a birthday present. I want that old man. I wouldn't mind unwrapping that old man on my birthday lol, sorry not sorry.
All characters are fictional and adults. Read at your own discretion. I’m not responsible for your media consumption.
This is not what you thought your life would be, but somehow you find yourself here in Joel Miller's house while the fireplace glows, warming the room.
You took his last name just this afternoon, in front of your friends and his family. He took a vow that you were not really sure if he meant it from the heart.
As you were unsure about your own.
Because you do not love Joel Miller, but now you are his wife.
Deep down in your mind, you have a selfish idea that you can still leave now. Everything will be forgiven. You do not have to stay if you are not sure. But you also know that this was your decision.
Either it was a wise decision or a desperate one, you are not sure.
Three weeks ago, when you were peacefully eating your stew in the hall, Tommy Miller approached you with a grin on his face. "Hey there, sunshine," he greeted.
"What do you want?" you eyed him.
"Can't I jus' say hello to my dearest ol' friend?" he chuckled, sitting down next to you. "Those boots suit you well," he nudged your boot with his.
You smiled but rolled your eyes at him. "I'm not interested in married men, sorry. Scram now, good sir."
Tommy let out a loud laugh. "M'not flirtin' with ya for fuck's sake. Maria would cut off my balls, y'know that."
"Yeah, I know. And I would help her happily," you said before eating a spoonful.
"Need a favor from ya," he muttered. "For old time's sake."
You turned to look at him. "And which old time's sake?" you asked. Tommy gave you a look that told you he was being serious. You sighed, "Alright. Spit it out."
You knew exactly what Tommy meant, but you just wanted to taunt him a little. You two had known each other long before Jackson. Tommy first met you when he saved you from a raider. His short-tempered nature made him smash a glass bottle over the head of the bastard, and he threatened to shoot him in the head if he did not want to leave you alone.
You did not trust anyone back then, so you spat on Tommy after he saved your life. One thing led to another. He had been friends with you ever since, despite how much older he was compared to you. None of that mattered when the two of you were just surviving, trying to see another day.
Until you two ended up here in Jackson, a place with a new hope. Where Tommy met the love of his life, Maria.
You had never seen Tommy so happy in his life as when you saw him after he married Maria. You were happy for them, even when you and Tommy had a fling a long time ago. It did not matter now. Neither of you made a big deal out of it. You loved him as a friend, and you were truly happy for him.
Tommy stared at you deep. "Promise me you won't overreact."
"I promise," you declared, feeling annoyed at him.
He looked around for a second, making sure no one was eavesdropping. And no one was. People were eating and chatting, minding their business.
Tommy cleared his throat, then he leaned closer and whispered, "I want you to try goin' on a date with my brother."
As the words left his mouth, you turned fully to stare at him in disbelief. "Your— WHAT?!" you yelled.
People turned their heads to look in your direction. Tommy muttered a sorry to them while you were still stunned. Shocked. Horrified.
"HAVE YOU LOST YOUR GODDAMN MIND?!" you yelled again at Tommy.
People turned their heads once again to check on you before returning to their own business.
Tommy flicked your forehead. "I told ya not to fuckin' overreact, goddamn it."
You finally looked around, finally noticing that you just made a scene before glaring back at Tommy. "You just fucking said you want me to go on a fucking date with Joel Miller," you whispered, feeling scared that anyone would hear. "Tommy— what—" you paused, "Are you fucking insane?"
"What's wrong about one date with Joel? S'not a big deal."
You made a face. "Did a clicker eat your brain out somewhere during patrol?" You scowled at him before whispering again, "He's old, Tommy. Like so, so old."
"You usually have a crush on older guys anyway. It's only Joel," he muttered as if it wasn't a big deal.
He wasn't wrong. But you still did not want to go. "Why does it have to be me? Can't you ask someone else? It's fucking weird. Joel is like a really mean old man. I have nothing in common with him."
"Hey, careful there. That's my brother you talkin' about," Tommy warned. "He's been through some shit. Things that would keep him at night. And now that Ellie's all grown up... he's been alone most of the time."
"That's not my fucking problem," you mumbled.
Tommy glared at you, making you stop complaining for a second, and listened to him. "Maria and I told him s'no good for him if he keeps drownin' in his loneliness. And guess what? The man finally listened once in his life. Now he's lookin' for a wife."
"The fuck?" you looked even more annoyed. "Do I look like I'm interested in getting married any time soon? I don't even wanna go on a date with him."
"Why not?"
"He's old."
"Didn't stop you from sleepin' with me back then."
You frowned at the reminder. "That was one-time. And— he's even older than you, asshole."
"It's jus' Joel," Tommy muttered. "He's way better than those punks you had a crush on."
"I don't even know him, Tommy," you grumbled. "The man's barely said three words to me since he got here years ago. He's mean."
Tommy sighed. "Listen, Maria told me you cried to her the other day," he muttered, making you turn your gaze from him. "Sayin' things like you feel tired doin' everythin' on your own. Said you need someone to love ya in this new part of the world we live in, 'cause you feel so alone, even in the crowd. Ain't that right?"
"Shut up," you mumbled as you looked away.
"Guess even your sunshine has its cloudy days, huh?" Tommy stared at you. "Then try with him."
"Ask someone else."
"I could've. Y'know, women in all Jackson would be all over him if I informed them of this. But I came to ya first."
"Why? Because you think he's the right one for me?"
"'Cause I care 'bout ya, stupid. I know my brother wasn't a saint, well, none of us was. But he sure does protect the ones he loves. And, hell, I jus' want the best for ya," Tommy said before getting up from his seat. "Though I can't decide anythin'. It's your call. Jus' sleep on it," he stated before patting your back and walking away.
You did end up going on that date.
The one that leads you here now. In your husband's house. Even if it still feels foreign to you to think that you are someone's wife now.
You refuse to believe that you are only here because you are desperate. But you know you are.
This marriage is supposed to be convenient for both of you. Joel needed a wife, and you wanted someone to love or care for, or to be loved. Hell, you were not sure. All you knew was that you were so tired of being alone. You were used to surviving all your life, so the calmness of the future days scares you. It made you feel so alone sometimes in the past few years. Even Tommy and Maria knew that, and they were trying to help you so you would not feel so alone anymore.
You were fine with it. Had always been fine with being alone. Finding peace in your own company and cherishing the moments you have with your friends in the community. But there were times when the voices in your head got too loud that you wished you had someone to make you forget about them, to tell you that everything is going to be fine.
And then there was this option for you to marry Joel Miller.
You had asked Tommy why Joel asked for your hand after one date, and the younger Miller said, "Joel don't do casual no more, not after he's lost so many people he cared about. He wants to make things right. Wants to live his life." Tommy stared deep into your eyes, even when you frowned as you considered the older Miller's proposal. "If he asked to marry you, then he meant it. He wants to marry you," he explained back then.
You keep fidgeting with the hem of your flannel as you sit on the couch near the fireplace while waiting for your husband, as he brews coffee for you both in the kitchen.
"You okay?" Joel asks, putting both mugs on the table in front of you.
You nod and grab one of the mugs. "Thank you."
The coffee smells good. You are not sure if you should have one, though. Your heart is already beating so fast. But Joel said it is a celebration for the two of you tonight, and you both love coffee.
It is so awkward now. You do not know what to say, and Joel does not say anything either. The silence is deafening.
"Where's Ellie?" you ask, breaking the silence.
"In her room in the garage. She seemed happy today. Talked a lot. A rare thing to see these days," he admits.
"What do you mean? I think Ellie talks a lot just fine. Well, maybe she wasn't as cheerful as she was when you two arrived in Jackson. She was just a kid who loved to tell silly puns back then."
Joel chuckles. "Yeah, she talks to you. Not t'me. She mostly jus' hates me now," he takes a sip of his coffee. "I remember how she used to lighten up when we talked about space. The girl wanted to be an astronaut. Not sure if she wants to be anythin' now."
You turn to look at him. "I'm sure she doesn't hate you, Joel," you mutter, "I think she's just going through a phase. All girls do."
To your surprise, Joel takes your hand in his calloused one and squeezes it. "Yeah. Hope so."
His hand is huge compared to yours. You stare at how he keeps holding your hand until he finally lets go.
"Wanna go to bed?" Joel asks.
Your breath hitches. "Mmm, not yet," you murmur.
"Are you nervous, sweetheart?" he turns to stare at your face clearly, and you turn your gaze to the mug on the table. You feel your cheeks getting hot from his stare. "Y'know we don't gotta fuck tonight if you don't wanna, right?"
That makes you turn your head to look at him. "We don't?"
"Yeah, we don't have to if you're not ready."
"You mean it?" you ask quietly.
Joel smiles, pulling your hand toward his lips, then kisses the back of your hand. "I mean it. We ain't gotta do what you don't wanna do, honey. You bein' here, lettin' me be your husband already makin' me full of joy."
You finally smile at him. "I thought you weren't really happy. You didn't look happy when we got married earlier today."
"That's probably jus' my face. Goddamn, I was nervous as hell, honey."
"You were nervous?" you ask in disbelief.
Joel nods. "Trust me. I was. My heart was racin' too damn fast that my ears started to ring."
"No way."
He laughs now. "What? Ya don't believe me?"
You shake your head. "You didn't seem nervous. You just look angry."
"Told ya that's jus' my face. How could I be angry when you jus' made me the happiest man today, hm?"
You open your mouth, but you are not sure how to say it, so you say nothing as you turn to stare at the empty mug again.
"What is it, darlin'?" he asks, concern in his voice. Joel lets go of your hand and reaches to cup your chin softly. "Hey... what's on your mind?"
"I just— I don't know. I'm scared, Joel."
He frowns. "Of me?"
"No. It's just... What if this is a mistake? This marriage. You know there is no love between us. Even when we took a vow."
The second it comes out of your mouth, you realize how stupid you are being. This is the night after your wedding, for fuck's sake, and now you are saying these things to your husband. What is wrong with you?
"Yeah, I know," Joel mutters. "I'm aware that there ain't no love between us. Well, not yet," he caresses your cheek with his thumb. "I had my doubts about this marriage too, sweetheart. But I ain't thinkin' it's a mistake. Not once. Especially not after I took a vow."
"Why did you wanna marry me?"
"Didn't we have this conversation already?"
"Yeah, we did."
"Then stop overthinkin' 'bout it, honey. C'mere," Joel reaches to hug you. "This okay? Me huggin' ya like this?" he asks.
"Mhm," you hum before hugging him back.
You stare at the fireplace from over his shoulder as you both hug. Staring at the flame as you cherish the feeling of how soothing his hug is. This is the closest either of you has ever dared. He kissed you earlier today in front of everyone after getting married, yes, but this hug is the most intimate gesture you two have ever shared.
"There will be a time... when we fall in love with each other during the mundanes," Joel whispers, "and there will be a time when we wish we'd done it sooner. But for now... we ain't gotta rush nothin', honey. We can jus' live our life."
His words... God, his words calm you down in an instant.
You have never considered that a man who looks as cold as Joel Miller could calm your mind down this very instant. This is only your first night with him, and he already brings peace to your chaotic mind.
Maybe you did feel that kind of peace when you were on that date with him. The magnetic pull you felt around him, even when you tried to deny it. The way he could make you feel seen when he gazes at you with those eyes of his. No one had ever stared into your soul that deep.
Maybe those feelings were the reason you said yes to the absurdity of this marriage.
"You wanna go to bed now, darlin'?" he asks, and you nod.
Once in his room, the tension in the air feels thick. The awkwardness comes back again. You stare at the ceiling of his room as you lie down on his bed, already in your modest nightgown with a blanket around your body.
"You comfy?" he asks before getting in bed himself. "Need anythin'? A glass of water?"
"I'm okay," you murmur.
Joel nods and lies down beside you on his side of the bed. "If you need anythin' in the middle of the night jus' wake me up, alright?" he turns to look at you. "And you ain't gotta ask my permission for anythin'. This is your house as well."
You nod and smile. "Thank you, Joel."
"Alright. Good night."
"Good night," you answer before turning to your side, facing away from him, and so does he.
But none of you goes to sleep. This is what happens when you drink coffee on your first night with your husband but without fucking.
Minutes later, Joel notices you keep tossing and turning behind him. He turns to look at you. Your eyes are closed, your face is scrunched.
"Sweetheart? You okay?"
You open your eyes and glance at him. "I can't sleep. I'm sure it's the coffee."
"Yeah, me neither," he sits up, "I think I'm jus' gonna do some carving until sleep gets to me."
"Alright," you nod.
You turn back to your side and close your eyes, trying to fall asleep, until around five minutes later, he comes back into the room. The sound of the door makes you open your eyes and look up at him.
Joel smiles at you as he stands near the bed, holding two mugs. "Hey... did I wake ya?"
"No, I haven't fallen asleep," you sit up on the bed, "What's that?"
"Raw milk. I jus' finished heatin' it. Here," he gives one of the mugs to you. "People say milk helps makin' ya sleepy. Don't know if it's true or not. Worth tryin' though."
You take the mug from him. "I thought you were carving."
"Yeah, I was about to carve," Joel mutters before he sits down on the bed. "But then you crossed my mind. I felt like a dick knowin' my wife was restless and alone on my bed. So I went downstairs to warm the milk."
"You don't have to..." you smile, "but thank you. It's so thoughtful."
"No problem. S'the least I could do after makin' my wife restless from the coffee I brewed for her," he smiles back.
The raw milk does not work like Joel thought it would. But somehow, the two of you manage to fall asleep around thirty minutes or hours later and sleep side by side through the night.
In the morning, you find his side of the bed empty. You get up to go to the bathroom and grab a robe to put over your nightgown before going downstairs.
"Morning," you greet him when you enter the kitchen.
Joel turns to look at you with a smile on his face. "You sleep well?" he asks, and you chuckle, knowing you both had terrible sleep last night. He grabs three bowls from the cabinet. "We're havin' soup and bread for breakfast."
"Here, let me help," you say as you grab the bowls from him and set them on the dining table.
"Ain't ya too sweet? Thank ya, darlin'." Joel smiles at you before hollering into the hallway, "Ellie! Breakfast. Now."
"Give me five more minutes," Ellie shouts.
"Now, Ellie," Joel orders.
A few seconds later, Ellie appears with a frown on her face. "I was playing the guitar. I'm not even hungry, Joel."
Joel looks at her with a stern face. "The guitar can wait. Eat first. Soup's gettin' cold waitin' for ya."
Ellie walks toward the table, feeling annoyed at Joel, then she looks at you. "Oh, hi. I totally forgot you live here now," she smiles at you, ignoring Joel.
Even before you and Joel became a thing, you had known Ellie first, so familiarity is not a problem between the two of you. Somehow, you even feel more comfortable with her than your own husband for now.
You smile back at her. "Good morning to you too, Ellie."
"Mm, yeah, my morning was shitty," Ellie mutters, "So how's your first morning being married to the old man?" she asks. You open your mouth to answer, but then she cuts you off, "Wait, no. Don't tell me. You two are clearly being gross. No, I don't wanna know. Let's eat."
Even if you did not make love to Joel last night, people would assume you did. Even Ellie assumed you did. Because that's what married couples do on their wedding night, normally.
Neither you nor Joel comments on it. But you do share a knowing glance. He gives you a smirk, and you hold your laughter before the three of you have breakfast together.
Days turn to weeks. The season gets colder, but Joel gets warmer and even warmer to you.
And you do feel happier, it turns out. You thought this was an unwanted marriage to you at first, but somehow it is everything you ever wanted.
You feel delighted having someone to come home to. Someone who always listens to all your problems without judging you. Someone who gives you hugs and kisses when you have a bad day. You had no idea that someone who was once so cold to people could be so very patient with you.
Your husband turns out to be the type of man who can calm you down and shut your brain off with his presence. He always holds your hand in the streets and leads the way while you chatter to him nonstop about everything as you two stroll around.
And somehow, even when he has a gruff expression on his face, Joel always reddens a little when any of the folks in Jackson congratulates you two. Never once did you think in your life that the icy-cold Joel Miller would blush over some simple comments.
Joel is the kind of man who always makes time for his wife, even after a long day. One time, he is about to take a nap after a long patrol, but the moment you mention going to tend to your horse, your husband ends up following you to the stable. Lingering in the stable and listening with a slight smile on his face as you tell him stories.
"I've always wanted a horse, so when Maria let me have one— a week after I arrived here with Tommy, I was so excited," you squeal. "Isn't she the most precious?" you ask as you guide your husband's hand to touch the mare.
Joel chuckles at your excitement. "Yeah, she is, sweetheart. Jus' like her rider," he smiles, watching you start to blush. "C'mon now, let's go home and get you a warm bath 'fore supper. Ya startin' to smell like horses."
You roll your eyes at him, but the smile on your face gets wider, letting him take your hand as you both walk back home.
You love how sometimes your inner child feels safe enough to appear around him. It just happens. Like he draws out a softness you thought you had outgrown.
Every morning, Joel would prepare breakfast for you and Ellie. Even when you tell him you can help with making breakfast, he tells you just to enjoy your mornings and have those extra minutes of sleep while he prepares breakfast. And it has become a routine for him to kiss your forehead before heading to the door when he needs to leave the house.
"You two are so gross," Ellie teases every time Joel is being sweet to you, making him glare at her.
And you would laugh at her comment and laugh even harder when Joel decides to kiss the top of Ellie's head. Even when she pretends to be annoyed at his affection, she always smiles later after Joel walks out the door.
One day, when you are out on patrol with Tommy, he keeps talking about Maria's morning sickness. "I'm sure the baby's torturin' her. My poor wife," he mutters.
"Then you should pamper her even more," you say before looking around at the scenery from your horse.
"I did everything I could," Tommy mutters, "and by the way, you're doin' a good job with my brother. The man has never smiled more in his life."
You turn to look at him with a grin. "He makes me happy too. Thanks, Tommy. For... everything."
Tommy chuckles, riding his horse beside yours. "Can't believe you're thankin' me. I remember you wanted to kill me with a kitchen knife the day after I told ya to go on a date with him."
"To be fair, my mind was all over the place because of you back then."
"Yeah, well, you're welcome," he says with a smile. "Marriage looks good on ya."
Everyone tells you that lately. Some say you look glowing. Your friends joke that you must have been fucked well by your husband.
None of them knows the truth. In the weeks you have been married to Joel Miller, you two have not had any sexual encounters. Yet.
He never urges you to do something you are not ready for. It is not like you never popped the cherry before you end up here in Jackson. It is not the lack of experience. Joel knows you were not comfortable enough to have sex with him yet, and he is okay with that. And maybe a little too okay with that.
But now you feel guilty because you feel like a bad wife. Have you been neglecting your husband? The realization hits you like a freight train.
"How's your patrol with Tommy today, sweetheart?" he asks during dinner.
It is just the two of you tonight. Ellie is out somewhere with a friend.
"Just a normal one," you answer. "How's yours?"
"Nothin' special either. Jus' saw some of those frozen infected," he picks up his empty plate before looking at yours. "You done eatin'?"
"It's okay, I can clean it up myself."
He shakes his head. "No worries, honey. Jus' get ready for bed. I'll be right upstairs."
You mutter a thanks and go upstairs. Sometimes you wonder if you have fallen in love with him already. Joel is so thoughtful and sweet to you. He never once raises his voice at you, even when his mood is sour. And he makes your life ten times easier to live.
The door to his room creaks when you open it. You walk toward the drawer in his room and smile when you stare at a picture of him and Sarah that he still keeps, and next to it, a picture of him and Ellie.
It always fills you with bliss to know how full of love your husband actually is. His heart is soft, though his past is rough.
You open the drawer and grab one of your modest nightgowns before walking into the bathroom to have a quick shower. But then you stop on your track as an idea forms in your head. You go back to the drawer that is filled with your nightgowns and underwear, then you grab one that you have not worn once since you got married.
It is a short nightgown. A really short one. The fabric is white and so thin that it is kind of see-through.
You have only worn modest nightgowns every other night, but tonight you have a plan.
After your shower, you expect to see Joel already in bed, but he is not. So you walk out of the bedroom and spot him at the carving table. He is working on the wooden bear you requested a couple of days ago, carving the wood with full concentration.
You notice how handsome Joel looks right now. He has always been attractive. You were just in denial at first because he was a real grumpy old man. But he is not as grumpy anymore, at least not to you.
"Hey... I thought you were already in bed," you mutter, making him turn to look at you.
The moment Joel sets his eyes on you, his eyes widen as he drops the wooden bear from his hand to the floor. "Sweetheart..." he murmurs.
"You drop the bear," you say before leaning down to grab it and give it back to him, "Here."
Joel blinks before taking the wooden bear from your hand. "Thanks, baby," he mutters, then puts it on the table. He turns to look at you again, "Your nightgown..." he freezes for a second before continuing, "It's real pretty."
"You think so? It's not too revealing?" you ask, teasing him while acting innocent.
You can see the blush forming on his cheeks, creeping down his neck.
Joel clears his throat before answering, "It's not if it's only for bedtime. It's real pretty on you."
"Okay..." you say as you hold back a laugh. "You wanna go to bed with me or... continue carving the bear?"
"C'mon, let's go to bed," he says, leading you by your waist.
You are unsure if you are teasing him or testing yourself. The way he puts his hand on your waist as he leads you to bed makes your insides all flutter. It's just a simple gesture, but the butterflies in your stomach go wild.
You watch him take off his watch and put it on the nightstand. The watch that stopped working around the time he lost his daughter, Sarah, in the earlier outbreak. He told you about that one night when you two stared at the ceiling while being vulnerable to each other.
You two slowly peeled back each other's trauma and talked it through during the nights you spent together as you got to know each other better. And it did feel great to have someone to talk to about it without feeling any regret afterward. You cried when you told him about yours, but he listened to you, and somehow the old man managed to make you laugh so loud that you had tears from laughing too much just two minutes later. Then he held you until you fell asleep in his big arms.
"Joel."
He turns to look at you after putting his watch down on the nightstand. "Yeah, baby?"
You say nothing else before you tiptoe up to kiss him on the lips. Joel kisses you back immediately as he puts one of his palms on your cheek and the other on the back of your head.
The kiss lasts for a while until you end up lying on the bed with him on top of you, his forehead on yours, and you both gasp for air.
"Joel... I want you."
He pulls back a bit to look at you better. "You ready f'me?"
You nod desperately and try to kiss him again, but he pulls back this time, making you frown at him.
Joel gets up from the bed and stares down at you lying on his sheets, all flushed. "Give me a sec, honey. I gotta appreciate how pretty my wife is."
That makes you chuckle. "Come back here..." you whine as you reach for him.
He smiles at your whine and gets closer to touch your stomach through the thin nightgown with his fingertips, making you gasp. The way his fingertips brush against your stomach through the nightgown gives you goosebumps all over.
"You look like an angel in this nightgown. And the pretty little bow... makes you look like a gift sent straight from heaven, f'me to unwrap."
"Joel..."
"I know, baby. I know," he mutters before pulling his undershirt over his head.
Your eyes widen at the sight. It is not your first time seeing his upper body bare like this, but it still surprises you to see how good he looks for a man his age. You stare at his salt-and-pepper happy trail, which leads to under his pants. Hell, there is a bulge there now.
And somehow it gives you more ideas to make it up to him since he has been so patient with you all this time. You want to make him feel good physically, as he did you emotionally so many times before.
"Joel..." you murmur, feeling nervous before you admit. "I wanna suck your cock."
The shame gets to you right after you said it loudly. Even Joel looks surprised at that.
"Honey..." Joel murmurs, getting closer to you again, then caresses your cheek with the back of his fingers. "You serious?"
"Yes."
"Alright," he reaches to take off his pants and briefs, finally showing you his hard dick for the first time.
Your face lights up as you stare at how huge it is, and you get on all fours on the bed in an instant, crawling closer to his veiny dick as he stands near the bed.
You palm his dick, already leaking on the tip, then smile at him. "Can I?"
Joel smiles back at you. "Wait, c'mere," he says before leaning down to kiss your lips deeply, making you melt as you close your eyes at the feeling, still on all fours. Then he pulls back and kisses your nose softly before pulling away to position his dick back in front of your face. "Okay, have at it, sweetheart."
You hold the base and kiss the tip before putting the head in your mouth. It is the biggest you ever put in your mouth. His girth, his length. Hell, even his balls are huge.
"Fuck..." Joel groans when you put his dick deeper in your mouth.
You take him even deeper until it hits the back of your throat, making you gag. Then you pull away on instinct and look up at him with teary eyes.
"Hey..." Joel reaches to cup your cheek, "you okay, baby?" he asks in a concerned tone, and you nod.
"I'm okay."
"You ain't gotta put it all inside your mouth, sweetheart," he caresses your cheek with his thumb. "Jus' suck the tip and stroke the rest with your hand, s'fine."
You do as he tells you for a while. But to Joel's surprise, you manage to almost put it all inside your mouth even when tears fall down your cheeks.
Joel groans at the feeling. This feels so unreal to him. His sweet wife is making every effort to take him all the way in her mouth. And fuck if it does not make him closer to blowing up his load deep in your throat.
When Joel feels you start sucking his balls while stroking his dick with your hand, then back at sucking his tip, he is losing it.
He accidentally starts spilling his cum all over your face as he grips your hair a little rough, making you gasp. It spills on your lips, your tongue, your chin, your nose, one side of your cheeks, and even some on your forehead.
"Goddamn..." Joel groans, "fuck— baby, m'sorry. I'm so sorry," he murmurs as he pulls his dick away from your face and looks down at you with full concern.
Joel stares at your face in regret and worry. His sweet young wife is all messy with his cum. He did not mean to cum so fast, nor did he mean to spill his cum all over you like this.
Now he feels bad because he made a mess all over your face, and he knows he cannot get it up again, at least not for a while. Fuck, he feels so guilty for being so old.
But to his surprise, you smile at him. "It's okay," you say.
"No, it's not okay. I'm real sorry, sweetheart," he mutters as he tries to wipe the cum off your face with his thumb, but then you clasp his hand and suck on his thumb instead.
He stares down at you in surprise.
"It's okay, Joel," you mutter, "I like it."
Joel shakes his head, but then he sighs and smiles at you. "I owe ya two or three orgasms at least 'cause of all this, darlin'. C'mon, let's get you cleaned up first. S'the least I could do for now."
You laugh at that. "Hmm, 'kay. I'm not complaining."
He prepares a hot bath for you and gives you privacy as he looks away, facing the wall when you take your nightgown off before getting in the bathtub. You really appreciate how he always gives you privacy, despite being married.
"I'll wait outside, alright?"
"You don't want to join?" you ask, looking up at him from the bath.
"Do ya want me to?" he asks, and you nod. "Alright. Scoot over, darlin'."
Joel gets in the tub and groans when he puts you on his lap, straddling him. He can see your tits fully bare now in front of him, glistening from the water. Your cheeks are slightly flushed now, either from the hot bath or from how intimate this night turns out to be.
He had cleaned up your face with water and soap earlier, saying that he felt so guilty seeing you all messy because of him, while you just giggled from the feeling of his calloused hand on your skin.
"I know you wanted to fuck, sweetheart..." Joel murmurs, "and I'm real sorry I can't get it up yet. Not after I came that hard. Guess it's jus' 'cause of how old I am," he caresses your cheek with his thumb, "m'sorry 'cause I'm so old, baby."
You shake your head at that. "No... don't be. I enjoyed it too, Joel. And I don't mind at all. I like that I could make you feel good."
He chuckles. "You're jus' too sweet. How could I get so lucky to have you as my wife, huh?"
You run your fingers through his salt-and-pepper hair. "Could it be that you and me are the lucky ones?"
Joel smiles and pulls you to him to kiss your lips. Then his kiss trails down to your neck, and down to your breast. You moan as you hold onto the back of his head. He licks one nipple, then looks up at you. "I taste soap," he mutters, "I didn't know you would taste like soap, darlin'."
You make a face for a while before laughing hard when you realize he made a joke. "That is so fucking lame, Joel," you say before splashing his face with water.
He laughs and shrugs. "It made you laugh, honey. Means it's a good one."
"I laugh at everything. Doesn't change the fact that you tell bad jokes."
After a bath and lots of laughter later, Joel helps you put on a towel around your body as you get up from the tub, and he accidentally gets a glimpse of your pussy for the first time. He did feel you on top of him during the bath, but he had not seen it properly. Not like this.
Fucking hell, he thinks. Now he feels like he just wants to fuck that pussy of yours with his dick. Not that he can do it anytime soon, though. Thanks to his old age.
When you walk toward your drawer, Joel pulls you to him. "No need to wear anythin', honey. C'mon, jus' get on your back on the bed," he watches you do as he says. Lying on your back with the towel still wrapped around your body. "Still as pretty as an angel, even in a damn towel," he murmurs as he stares down at you.
You smile at him.
"Can I unwrap this towel from my beautiful wife?"
"Yes."
The moment Joel sets eyes on your fully naked body, spread on the bed before him, he feels his old man's dick stir a little under his towel. He caresses your ankle before pulling it to his lips and kissing it. Then he rubs your foot against the salt-and-pepper stubble on his handsome face, making you bite your bottom lip at the sight.
Then he kisses your calf before bending your knees toward your chest, then spreads your legs in front of him, with his eyes all over you. You shiver beneath him. You can see the flames reflected in his eyes.
"Fuck if this ain't the prettiest pussy I've ever seen in my life," Joel murmurs. "Can I?" he asks for your permission.
You never nod so fast in your life.
Joel kisses your pussy. Then he sniffs on it while he rubs his stubble on your sensitive part.
You moan at the feeling. "Joel—" you grab at his hair, making him smile as he looks up at you.
Joel finally slides his tongue upward in one lingering stroke, licking you as if he were hungry for it. He sucks on your clit until you grab the sheets so hard while shaking.
"Hmm, s'wet enough now," he mutters before licking the two of his fingers and putting them inside you all the way to the knuckles. "I do okay?" he asks, looking up at you as he fingers you.
You nod and grab at his hair again as you get closer and closer to your orgasm. When he curls his fingers and nudges that spot while sucking on your clit, you are done. You cum on his mouth and fingers.
Joel smiles, licking the sweet nectar, his salt-and-pepper stubble wet as he pulls back from you to remove the towel from his lower waist. His old man's dick is finally half-hard.
"Do you want my help?" you ask as you come down from the high.
"S'okay, baby. I'm jus' gonna rub my cock on ya for a while. You mind?"
"Go ahead," you smile.
He rubs his half-hard dick on your wet pussy. Getting it all lubed up from your wetness. Then he jerks off with his hand, using your wetness as lube. "M'sorry, honey. S'not that you don't turn me on. My damn dick is jus' as old as me," he mutters.
"It's fine. Come here," you reach for him. He leans down to devour your lips while his hand keeps jerking himself off for a while until he is finally fully hard.
When Joel aligns his hard dick to your leaking hole, your breath hitches. You know it is going to feel like your first time again, having that huge dick inside you. You know his size would stretch you so good it hurts. But you are so wet now, and you really want your husband.
Only halfway in, Joel already feels how tight your pussy is gripping his dick. He can feel your wetness, your warmth, the tightness of it all around his dick. He looks down to stare at it. "Fuck, sweetheart. Your drippin' pussy looks so good around this old man's cock. Look at 'er suckin' me in."
But when he looks up at your face, you are wincing as if you are in pain. He stops his movement and reaches to touch your face. "Honey... you okay? Am I hurtin' ya?" he caresses your cheek, "You want us to stop?"
"Don't stop."
Joel feels your pussy clench even more when he leans down to kiss your cheek. "She wettin' my cock so good, baby. Fuck..." he whispers as he keeps thrusting in and out of you, still halfway in. He pulls back to stare at your pussy again before spitting on your swollen clit and pushing an inch deeper.
"Joel..."
"Yes, sweetheart?"
"Feels so good," you whisper, moaning when he puts his cock deeper. "Hurts a little, but I want it all in me, Joel," you beg, "wanna feel all of you."
A few thrusts later, Joel finally manages to bottom out in you. He groans when he feels his dick nudging your spot. "Holy fuck..." he mutters when you cum on his dick for the first time after he scratches that spot of yours over and over.
Your second orgasm of the night makes you feel lightheaded as you feel Joel still thrusting in and out of you in a steady movement.
"I feel sleepy, Joel," you mutter as you look up at Joel, and he slows his movement a bit. Then you continue, "Maybe we should've done this on our wedding night instead of drinking that raw milk, huh?"
That makes him chuckle. He leans down to kiss your lips, resting his forehead against yours while thrusting into you harder, making you gasp.
"I'm so close, baby. Where do ya want me to cum?" he asks between thrusts.
"Inside me?" you offer.
His eyes darken at that as he stares down at you. "You serious, darlin'?"
"Yeah. Can we?"
Joel smiles. "I'll do anythin' you ask me to, honey. I'm all yours."
You wake up late the next day. It is almost noon when you go downstairs after you pull on a sweater and jeans, finding the house completely empty. You feel bad because now the breakfast that Joel prepared for you earlier has gone cold.
After you finish eating your meal, you wash the dishes in the sink when you hear the sound of him walking into the house. Just from the sound of the footsteps, you know it is him. Your husband.
The art of knowing. You smile to yourself when you think about it. The way you always know the sound of his footsteps around the house, notice the silhouette of his wide shoulder. The way you search for him in the crowd when you hear his voice from afar. The way a smile appears on his stern face when he sees your angelic one.
"Hey, darlin'."
You turn to look at him. "Hey..." you say with a smile. Then you reach out to grab a mug you are going to wash, but Joel stops you and grabs the mug first.
"I got it, honey. Jus' sit down. I'll finish the dishes."
"No, it's fine. I can do it on my own. You just got home anyway."
You try to take the mug from him, but he puts it up high in the air, out of your reach. Joel chuckles, seeing your annoyed face as you turn to wash your hands. He finally puts down the mug and circles his arms around your waist, brushing your hair to the side as he kisses your neck from behind. You giggle from the feeling of his stubble rubbing your skin. He keeps tickling your neck with his stubble until you yield.
"Okay, okay..." you laugh, "fine. Wash the damn mug if you want it that bad. Ugh, you're gonna get us both wet."
"I don't mind gettin' wet 'cause of ya," he chuckles.
You eye him. "Yeah, right," you mutter before opening one of the cabinets. "I'm gonna make coffee. You want some?"
"You know I never say no to coffee, sweetheart."
Minutes later, you both enjoy your coffee while sitting on the couch near the fireplace. This gives you déjà vu. The very similar setting and proximity to what it was on your wedding night a month ago.
But the feelings you are feeling now are a lot different from last month.
You two are chatting about what Joel did earlier today. He tells you that he did construction work with Tommy for the community. And one thing leads to another, you end up telling him the story about how you hunt Tommy around his house with a kitchen knife the day after he told you to go on a date with Joel.
"You did?" he asks in disbelief. You nod, and he chuckles. Then he shakes his head as he puts down his mug on the table. "Makes me think of our first date," he mutters.
"What of it?" you ask, taking a sip.
"You called me Mr. Miller," he chuckles. "It was the most ridiculous thing ever. I've never once gone on a date with a woman and got called Mr. Miller before you."
"I had to respect the elderly," you shrug.
Joel laughs so loud at that. "Oh, honey. That mouth of yours."
You smile at him then. "I was just being polite, calling you that. To be fair, we were not even friends back then, and you are a lot older than me, so..."
"Yeah, I know," he leans his head against the backrest of the couch, pulling you closer to him, and squeezes you into his big arms. "I thought you were real sweet back then. And hell, you laughed at my dumb jokes. Maybe that's the real reason I asked you to marry me right away."
You roll your eyes at his smirk but chuckle.
Joel brushes his thumb along your cheek. "I think I'm fallin' in love with ya."
Your heart nearly stops beating when you hear his confession.
He clears his throat and continues, "Think I was already in love with ya during those days we spent together. I honestly don't know when it started, sweetheart."
"Joel..." you murmur as you look up at him.
"You ain't gotta say nothin', baby. M'not tryin' to pressure ya on anythin'."
You hug him without saying a word. Joel smiles and hugs you back. You nuzzle him closer until you end up straddling him, and he puts his big hands around your waist.
You kiss his lips until the skin near your mouth reddens from his stubble as you grind on top of him. When you finally pull back, Joel notices the redness on your skin. "Damn it, sweetheart. You're all red 'cause of me."
"I love you, Joel."
The moment the words come out of your lips, Joel feels the world stop spinning around him. His mind goes blank, and he suddenly hears the ocean crashing against the shore in his head while the violins begin to play.
And then he blinks.
And there you are. His wife. The light of his life, staring deep into his eyes after confessing the words he was longing to hear.
A second later, you are pinned under him on the couch while he devours your lips. Kissing all over your face, making you giggle. Inhaling the scent of your neck while his hand travels down to unbutton your jeans.
"Wait, wait... Joel— what if someone walks in?" you ask, gasping from all his affection.
"I locked the doors," he mutters.
"But are you sure?"
Joel pulls away from you and gets up without another word to check on the doors. "Already locked," he hollers from the hallway.
You smile when he walks back toward you on the couch while unbuckling his belt, then unbuttons his jeans. You notice how attractive he looks right now. The sleeves of his flannel shirt pushed up to his forearms. The watch on his wrist. This view in front of you definitely drenches your panties.
"C'mere," Joel mutters as he sits back on the couch, his jeans and briefs pooling around his ankles. He helps you undress before positioning you on his lap.
"Me on top?" you ask, feeling unsure but aroused.
"Only if ya want to," he murmurs.
"I want to," you answer before helping him put his hard, leaking dick inside of you. "Oooh, fuck..." you curse when his dick is halfway in.
"Atta girl, darlin'," Joel murmurs as he helps you bounce on him slow at first. "You look so pretty bouncin' on my cock," he smiles at you. "My pretty wife. Doin' so good f'me."
The way he says those words makes you even wetter. Joel keeps helping you move on top of him until he finally bottoms out.
You moan hard at the feeling. "It's so deep, Joel."
"It is," he murmurs, "I can see the bulge on your lower belly."
You are too concentrated on chasing the feeling that you ignore him as you put your hands on his chest and bounce on his dick harder.
Joel gets so turned on seeing you like this. He lets go of you and leans back on the couch while looking up at you bouncing on his dick. "Yes, baby... fuck," he groans, feeling your warmth around him. "Ride me, my precious cowgirl," he murmurs. "Ride me all ya want."
The sound of your wetness around him is obscene.
You fall on his chest when you finally cum on his dick as he helps you grind your swollen clit on his pubic hair with his dick buried deep inside you, making you cum even harder from the sensation. He strokes your back with his calloused hand while whispering sweet words in your ear. His other hand is grabbing your ass cheek playfully.
"Did I ever tell you that you have a very nice ass?"
You look up at him from his chest and laugh at that.
After a minute or two, Joel pats your butt, "C'mon, lie on your stomach, baby. I wanna see my wife's perfect ass when I'm poundin' 'er drippin' pussy with my cock."
You hold onto the cushion as you lie on your stomach on the couch, facing the fireplace.
Joel leans down to bite your ass cheeks playfully before positioning himself behind you. "Fuck me..." he groans when he thrusts into you, bottoming out in one go. "So fuckin' wet f'me. Pussy takin' me so good," he murmurs before kissing your shoulder. His thrusts get harder as he pounds into you. "I ain't gonna last long now, baby. Where do ya want me to cum, hm?" he whispers into your ear.
"Inside me."
Joel grabs your face with his hand to look into your eyes. "You do realize if we keep fillin' that pussy of yours with my cum, we gonna end up with a bunch of little Millers sooner rather'n later, right?"
Heat creeps into your cheeks.
"Y'want me to make you a momma, darlin'?" he asks, his dick swelling inside you as the words leave his mouth.
You cannot think straight because of how much you are feeling right now. But the thought of giving Joel Miller a baby...
"Can we have one?" you ask, feeling nervous if he denies it because of his age.
Joel grins. "Anything you want, honey. One is fine," he kisses your lips briefly before whispering, "though ten more is tempting..."
You laugh, and he taps on your nose before starting to thrust in and out, deep until he hits that spot inside you again.
"Joel..." you moan, "I— I'm close again."
To your surprise, Joel wraps his hand around your throat as he pounds into you harder from behind. "This okay?" he asks, and you moan yes, yes, yes into the cushion before creaming around his dick as you reach your second orgasm. The feeling of your warmth around him makes him start spilling his cum deep inside you. "Oh, darlin', fuuuck—" he groans as his dick pulses inside you, shooting ropes of his seed. A broken moan you have never heard before slips from his lips as he fills your womb with his cum.
The two of you go quiet for a minute as you both catch your breath, with his weight pinning you down, until you tell him to get off because he is crushing you into the couch.
Joel chuckles when you settle back onto the couch, legs lifted against the backrest. "Don't laugh," you mutter, "this is supposed to help increase the chances of getting pregnant, I think."
"Alright, Mrs. Miller," he teases. "Y'want my baby that bad, huh?"
You turn to look at him, half smiling. "Don't call me that. You make it sound like I'm a hundred years old."
Your husband laughs at that before placing a blanket around your naked body and leaning down to kiss your nose. "I would still adore you when you're a hundred years old, sweetheart," he chuckles, "though, I'm sure as hell gonna miss that pretty ass of yours."
You chuckle and gently caress his scars. A flicker of surprise crosses his rough face. "Honey..." he murmurs.
"I think you're gonna be a great dad..." You paused, looking into his eyes, "You're a real good dad to Ellie, as I am sure you were a good dad to Sarah," you mutter. "You might not be a good man for what you did, but you've always been a good dad... and a good husband to me."
Joel says nothing, but he smiles at you as he caresses your cheek with his fingers.
You smile back, looking up at him from your position, then grab his fingers toward your lips and kiss the wedding ring on his finger, the one that matches yours. "I thought this kind of love's never meant that much to me, Joel..." you murmur, "guess I was wrong," placing the back of his fingers on your cheek as you look into his eyes, you continue, "It means everything to me if it's with you."
"Sweetheart..." Joel whispers, tears forming in his eyes as he puts both palms on your cheeks. "You mean everything to me. I never dreamed that I'd meet somebody like you, baby. Not after everythin' I've been through. But now I can't even imagine life without you in it."
Joel hugs you in his arms so tight, like he never wants to let go. And you smile as you hug him back, feeling content and full of love.
For the first time, the future days no longer seem so scary. Because you have him. Your Mr. Miller. Your husband.
Nothing worries you anymore. Not with Joel Miller beside you. Not with this kind of love.
Um... okay... I'm not okay... When I wrote this, I had so many emotions all at once. I felt excited most of the time, but also sad when I wrote the part with Joel and Ellie. It was like reliving Part II, but with my own ending, I don't know. I didn't mean this to be 9.4k words so sorry. This was supposed to be a special one for my birthday on January 12, and I didn't expect it to be this long.
I'd love it if you leave a note on what you think about this. Reblog would be appreciated. Love y'all! 🤍
Fun fact: I wrote The Older Miller for my birthday actually, but I couldn't help but post it because I was so excited when I finished it, so yeah. I'm glad that I posted it on November tho, 'cause it gave me so much motivation to finish my thesis.
*SEASON OF THE WOLF: a joel miller x reader story.
The giant wolf that has been killing people around town shares a very striking feature with the quiet man that keeps breaking into your home— They both have the saddest, warmest brown eyes you've ever seen.
click here to join the taglist. / click here for my main masterlist.
warnings: werewolf!joel, age gap (reader is late 20s, joel is mid 40s), reader is afab and goes by she/her, no outbreak, mentions of csa, kind of southern gothic vibes, gore & violence, death of minor characters, stalking (but like in a romantic way), reader is mentally unwell, no y/n, artsy reader, slow burn, reader is depressed and somewhat detached from reality, religious themes, no description of reader other than being curvy/plus sized, some animals die but it happens off page, found family, technically cannibal!joel, mentions of periods & period symptoms, reader is bisexual, kind of monsterfucking, girldad!joel, death of a spouse, sarah lives, suicidal tendencies/suicide attempt, alcohol & weed consumption, eventual smut.
rating: +18.
fox says: hello friends! i've never written any supernatural fics before but the idea of a werewolf character has been stuck on my mind forever and i felt like joel would be the perfect fit for that; as many of you know i went back and forth a lot on whether this should be a joel or clint fic and in the end i thought the characterization fit joel better. this is also a small celebration of a follower milestone i reached a while back but it took me so long to post i already reached a second milestone lol anyway, thank you so much for reading my stuff and following me! as always, please let me know how we feel about it.
For you, an aerospace engineering professor at the university, life consisted of elegant equations and the sterile silence of a laboratory. That was until Joel Miller arrived—shaking the building to its foundations with the roar of a construction site and a cloud of cedar dust under the scorching Austin sun.
NAVIGATION
Chapter One: A Crack in The Foundation - Jan 28, 2026
Chapter Two: Controlled Demolition - Jan 29, 2026
Chapter Three: Yield Point - Feb 01, 2026
Chapter Four: Structural Integrity - Feb 07, 2026
Chapter Five: Load-Bearing Walls - Feb 11, 2026
Chapter Six: Tensile Strength - Feb 15, 2026
Chapter Seven: The Blueprint - Feb 22, 2026
Chapter Eight: The Plumb Bob - Feb 24, 2026
Chapter Nine: The Cornerstore - Mar 1, 2026
Chapter Ten: Static Equilibrium - Mar 14, 2026
Chapter Eleven: Resonant Frequency - Mar 19, 2026
Chapter Twelwe: Vaccinium Myrtillus - Mar 24, 2026
Bonus Ficlet: Artemis - Apr 3, 2026
Chapter Thirteen: Phase Transition - Apr 5, 2026
Chapter Fourteen: Thermal Expansion - Apr 14, 2026
Chapter Fifteen: The Doppler Effect - Apr 19, 2026
Chapter Sixteen: Shear Stress - Apr 21, 2026
Chapter Seventeen: Center of Gravity - Apr 24, 2026
Chapter Eighteen: The Curing Process - May 11, 2026
Chapter Nineteen: Thrust-to-Weight Ratio - May 24, 2026
Chapter Twenty: Latent Heat - May 25, 2026
Chapter Twenty One: Escape Velocity - Jun 1, 2026
This post also serves as a taglist. Just comment if you'd like to be tagged in future chapters!
18+ MDNI | popstar-bodyguard!Joel Miller x fem-popstar!reader (called 'Misty') | series | 37.3k+
Misty is back again for the North American leg of the Love in Motion: The Tour. 6 cities, 14 shows, each with its own challenges and events that only bring her and her new bodyguard closer.
Genre fluff, angst, eventual smut, popstar bodyguard AU, no outbreak AU
TW/CW innuendos, no Y/n (uses her stage name only: Misty), OOC Joel Miller (because it's important for the ✨plot✨), profanities, age gap (no specific age, he's just older than her), more in each chapter
Status on going
Note there's no taglist for this series
m.list | ao3
Chapters
Track 1: Who's That Boy Over There | wc: 2.2k
Track 2: Our Story Starts Here | wc: 2.1k
Track 3: Buzzkill | wc: 3.8k
Track 4: Is This What They Call 'Love'? | wc: 2.1k
Track 5: Say My Name Again | wc: 3.6k
Track 6: Good at Pretending | wc: 4.0k
Track 7: A Mistake | wc: 1.7k
Track 8: Almost | wc: 3.5k
Track 9: Oh, Boy | wc: 1.6k
Track 10: Say It or Don't | wc: 2.4k
Track 11: Sweet Like Honey | wc: 2.3k
Track 12: Fool | wc: 2.8k
𖹭 Bonus Track A: Morning Fun | wc: 1.5k
Track 13: Four-leaves Clover | wc: 1.5k
𖹭 Bonus Track B: Netflix and Chill | wc: 1.0k
Track 14 | wc: 0.7k
Extras
Day Off | wc: 3.2k
Post-Concert High | wc: 2.1k
Jealousy is a Disease | wc: 2.3k
Smile for the Camera
Pink Lollies
Lingerie Try-on
Featuring Misty
Recording Fun
Fangift
...
Media
Tour Itinerary
Album Concept Inspo | Posted after Track 7
Joel's Outfit for the Photoshoot | Posted after Track 13
