Not Straight Millennial. 18+ MDNI She/They I'm 37, probably too old to be here, but I've been on and off since it started, back when dinosaurs roamed the earth.
i wish i had had more realistic expectations for my "healing girl" era.
the expectations that got me to my 30s were that of an 11 year old, because that's how old I was when things were at their worst. i believed that i wouldn't have mental illness. that i wouldn't be chronically ill. that i'd have a perfect life.
perfect doesn't exist. better does. good does. happy does. loving does. but the eleven year old me is still fighting for that definition of perfect. and i can't fault her for it, because she believed in me when it felt like no one else did. but i hope one day we can realize together that perfect doesn't exist, and that's okay.
Rumination is probably the most common type of OCD compulsion, but I rarely see anyone talking about it. I've talked to multiple people diagnosed with OCD who didn't even recognize it as a compulsion.
Basically, if you have OCD you have terrible intrusive thoughts. They can be about anything, but common themes are fear of being a bad person, fear of hurting someone, fear of contamination. etc.
Rumination is when you get stuck in a spiral. Rumination is when you spend hours catastrophizing, overthinking, analyzing, telling yourself it's going to be okay.
I'll say it again:
Rumination is a compulsion.
Rumination is a compulsion, and that means you have to stop doing it.
I did ERP (exposure response prevention) for my OCD with a therapist! For 9 months! And it did help, but the idea didn't really click until I found this website a couple years later.
And Oh My God. It made things make so much more sense, and I was able to pull myself out of an episode even though I wasn't in therapy or on meds at the time.
Genuinely if you have OCD, or even if you suspect you have OCD, I'm begging you to read some of these articles.
Like this was genuinely life changing for me.
Here are some of the ones that were most helpful to me:
When Jack takes off his prosthetic, he has no time to prepare himself for how his daughter looks at the most complicated part of his body with her toddler curiosity.
Chubby has seen her father without his leg before, obviously. There are only so many ways to preserve mystery when she doesn’t believe in closed doors, and Jack’s routine of (slight and tight) relaxation involves removing Leggy, his prosthetic. Leggy is her friend, and sometimes it needs cleaning. She gets to put stickers on the thing and tries feeding it yogurt.
But even with all the familiarity she has with her dad’s lack of leg, you and Jack should’ve expected the question to be asked at some point.
“Chubs, c’mon. You need your pajamas.”
“No pee-jams. No!”
Sitting on your bed in her diaper, Chubby keeps escaping your attempts to pull pajamas over her head.
“You’re naked.”
She looks down at herself, considering your accusation.
“I get diaper. Not naked.”
…Well. She got you there.
“She got you there—”
“I know, Jack.”
Jack sits at the edge of the bed as he unfastens his prosthetic, and you glare at him. He pulls it free.
“She sleeps between us half the time. The body heat of two parents and enough blankets to suffocate a horse works well to keep her warm. But sweetheart, listen to your mother—”
When he sets his prosthetic against the nightstand, Chubby stops trying to crawl away. She sits between the pillows and looks at Jack’s residual limb. The sudden stillness gets your attention first.
When Jack notices, his hand moves to rest over the end of his thigh, as if there’s something indecent about her seeing too much of the part of him that she has literally helped you clean before.
She tilts her head.
“Dada, where leg go?”
Jack glances at his prosthetic, propped up. “Right there.”
“No. That’s Leggy. Other leg. Where it go?”
You lower her pajama shirt into your lap as you know Jack too well to understand that the muscles in his jaw settle in a way that tells you he doesn’t want to answer the question. That he’s arranging his body around her question, and you can’t stop him.
Even if you could, you wouldn’t, because if you know your daughter well enough, too, she’ll know how to charm the hurt into something beautiful.
“I don’t have it anymore. I lost it. You know that.”
He’s been better than good about his leg long before you. He’s let Chubby knock on the socket like it was a door.
...He pretended to answer. But this ain’t a joke. His daughter is looking at him and realizing that his body is different.
He goes still, but he doesn’t stop her when she reaches out and presses a hand to his thigh.
“Does it hurt?”
“No, not right now.”
She plops down next to him, criss-cross-applesauce style. Jack looks at you, but not to plead, which is obvious. He’d probably chew off his other leg rather than ask to be rescued from a conversation with his little girl. But…you see the clear uncertainty, because you’re so good at making big things fit inside small, soft words.
You just nod.
Go on. Tell her there was a world where you existed without either of us and almost stopped existing altogether. Maybe leave the parts that still visit you in your dreams for when she’s older. All she knows is that you kiss me too much and sometimes uses a scary voice when I accidentally leave the door unlocked.
“My leg got hurt pretty badly.”
“Mommy fix with Leggy?”
Oh. That’s a heartkiller. Jack looks at you again, swallowing.
“No, baby. I didn’t know Mommy yet.”
Chubby turns to stare at you. She’s disturbed by this. You understand totally. A world in which you and Jack did not know each other feels unreal to you, too.
“Mommy not there? Who fix you?”
“Doctors helped me. They tried to fix the hurt leg, but it was hurt too badly. So they had to take it away to help the rest of me get better.”
Chubby stares down at the rounded end of his thigh, her small fingers curling into his shirt.
“You were sick like me? Like Mommy when she cough?”
“Sicker than that. I was in the hospital for a while.”
“You cry?”
…Oop. That is also a heartkiller, the way she says it. The way Jack sighs.
“Probably.”
“You were scared?”
Jack lowers his eyes at Chubby’s question. He feels as much as he feels he should lie. He could easily…well, not easily, but he could tell her that Dada knew everything would be okay and that he was brave.
But she deserves more than that. She may be too small for the truth of fear, but she doesn’t deserve some false version of her dad. That’ll make the truth harder to take down the line. He doesn’t know if he could handle that.
“Yeah, I was scared.”
Chubby’s face goes blank before it twists at the fact she’s just learned that her father can hurt. Of course, you should expect a tantrum or a wail for her dada, the immovable object of her life. The broad chest runs into, and the deep voice that makes the monsters beneath her bed dumb for even trying.
Her eyes begin to tear up. Her lips begin to pout. You instinctively shift closer, but Jack rubs her back first.
“Hey, hey. It’s okay.”
Anyway, Jack should think it beautiful and flattering that his being scared is harder for her to understand than his having one leg…considering it’s the most his heart can do before it dies on itself at her cries.
…The way yours is right now.
“Dada scared!”
“I was, but that was a long time ago.”
Her lip trembles as she sniffles.
“Your leg gone, you almost gone?”
…You’re not sure if Chubby even knows what she’s asking. Gone to her usually means work, or when you have to use the bathroom, and she can’t handle it. Or when she throws bun-bun under the couch.
But, apparently, she’s put enough of the pieces together, and when you look at Jack, you think he’s the man that must’ve been in that hospital bed.
You lay your hand over his before your tearducts can follow your daughter’s.
“I’m here now, baby—”
“No! Don’t go Dada! No Dada go!”
Chubby scrambles into him and locks her arms around his neck. Jack hugs her, which is too easy considering how tiny she is.
“I’m right here, baby.”
“No go.”
“I’m not going anywhere right now.”
You hear the care he takes with the last two words, because Jack never promises forever, not with the future that he watches like a hawk. And as annoying as it is, you understand his point.
But when your baby girl lifts her head and looks into his eyes, you understand the way he breaks in on himself.
“Stay, Dada.”
And jeez, how can he not at that? You, though? Breaking inward—silently, that’s not your style.
“...Dada’s not going anywhere. Can’t. I’ve got two girls to take care of.”
how to calm a nervous system that has been in survival mode for so long it forgot what peace feels like
first — this is not a character flaw. this is not anxiety as a personality trait. this is a body that learned, somewhere along the way, that the world was not safe — and has been trying to protect you ever since
the problem is it never got the memo that the danger passed
so it kept the alarm on. quietly. constantly. exhaustingly.
here is how you begin to turn it off —
— ✦ —
the body first — always the body first
you cannot think your way calm when your body is in alarm mode. the mind follows the body, not the other way around
long exhales
breathe in for 4 counts - breathe out for 7 or 8
the exhale activates your parasympathetic nervous system - your body's built-in "you are safe" signal
this is not just a vibe. it is physiology.
cold water on your face or wrists
in the middle of a spiral - run cold water over your wrists or splash your face
it signals directly to your brain: you are not in danger
shockingly effective. embarrassingly simple.
slow movement
a walk. gentle stretching. even just swaying side to side
a dysregulated nervous system has stuck energy in it - movement lets it complete and release
you are not being dramatic. you are discharging what your body never got to process
humming or singing softly
this vibrates the vagus nerve - which runs directly through your body's calm-down pathway
sounds strange. works beautifully.
— ✦ —
the daily practice — what builds safety over time
healing a hypervigilant nervous system is not one dramatic moment of breakthrough - it is a hundred small moments of choosing to register safety instead of scanning for threat
notice small safe moments — out loud, on purpose
"right now I am okay. right now I am warm. right now nothing is wrong."
your nervous system needs repetition to update its baseline
it learned fear through repetition - it unlearns it the same way
reduce stimulation deliberately
less doom scrolling. less noise. less rushing from one thing to the next
a hypervigilant system is already overwhelmed - stop adding to the load
quiet is not boring. quiet is medicine.
rest without guilt
a dysregulated body is a depleted body
sleep is not laziness. stillness is not wasted time
you are not behind. you are healing.
spend time in nature
trees, open sky, moving water
the nervous system responds to natural environments in a way it simply does not respond to screens and fluorescent lights
even twenty minutes outside can shift something real
— ✦ —
the deeper work - where the root actually is
the surface stuff helps. but lasting change usually asks you to go a little deeper
somatic therapy or trauma-informed therapy
a hypervigilant nervous system almost always has a history behind it
a good therapist does not just help you talk about what happened - they help your body finally finish processing what it stored
this is the most effective long-term path. if it is accessible to you, it is worth it.
self-compassion — not as softness, but as strategy
a harsh inner voice keeps the alarm on
every time you speak to yourself with contempt - why am I like this, what is wrong with me - your nervous system reads it as another threat
learning to be gentle with yourself is not weak. it is how you stop being your own source of danger.
name your triggers consciously
the anger at the driver who cut you off
the panic when someone takes too long to reply
the dread before something good, just waiting for it to fall apart
these are not random - they are patterns with roots
when you know what sets you off, you stop being ambushed by your own reactions
— ✦ —
the law of assumption layer
your nervous system is also your assumption machine
it is constantly scanning the world and finding confirmation of what it already believes - believe the world is unsafe and you will collect evidence everywhere - believe people will leave and watch how you unconsciously push them away - believe nothing good lasts and feel how quickly your hands loosen around beautiful things
so as your nervous system heals and begins to learn safety - your assumptions shift too
not by force. not by repeating affirmations through gritted teeth.
but because you genuinely, bodily, begin to feel like someone the world is kind to
and then the world reflects that back
— ✦ —
sit with this one — return to it when the bracing comes back —
I am safe in my body
I am safe in this moment
my nervous system is learning - slowly, gently - that peace is allowed to be my default
I do not have to earn rest
I do not have to brace for impact
I am allowed to just be here
— ✦ —
healing is not linear. some days the jaw clenches again. some days the old dread comes back and sits in your chest like it never left - that is okay - you are not starting over, you are just human - and you are learning, slowly and for real, that you were never as unsafe as you were taught to believe
the armour kept you alive once
you are allowed to take it off now
you are allowed to be soft in a world that is softer than you think
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.
I think part of getting better is complete ego death. Like you’re not above setting a timer for 5 minutes and focusing on a task. You’re not above doing a very simple 3 minute workout to start. You’re not above reading for 10 minutes a day when you first get out of your reading slump, even if you used to read for hours. You’re not above starting slow and then building up to where you want to be/where you once were. What you are above is total inertia. Doing something really is better than doing nothing. Radically accept where you are, radically accept your limits, and go from there. Don’t let your ego get in the way.
Not that I think all marriages are doomed but when deciding who to marry you should ask yourself “is this someone I’d want to divorce?” As in, is this someone I believe would be mature and fair, even when they’re upset and don’t particularly like me at the moment. Is this someone I could continue to trust while going through an adversarial process? And if the answer is no, don’t marry them.
Strange racists and homophobes on the internet seem to have access to an alternate way cooler version of TV than me. "every white character on TV is in an interracial relationship" "every show has a gay couple in it" "main characters keep having to secretly be bisexual and nonbinary" "every show has gratuitous full frontal nudity" like damn promise?? What channel???
hey if you ever get round to writing for jack abbot could I request a fic where maybe he and reader have been dating secretly for a little while and finally decided to tell everyone? thank you!
A/N: thank you for the request!! This is my first time writing anything for Jack so I can only hope I wrote his character okay!!
WARNINGS: includes mentions of erectile dysfunction and sex.
BLURB REQUESTS ARE OPEN!
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
“Oh, one more thing, although cleared for discharge, Room 4 might be occupied for a while. 23 year old male just found out he’s got erectile disfunction… he’s pretty upset.” You grimaced at the day shift as you swung your backpack over your shoulder, fingers returning to tap on the nurses desk.
Langdon blew out a breath. “Yeah, that’s pretty devastating news at that age.”
You hummed. “Unfortunately, that’s what happens when you take six tabs of Sildenafil from a random street dealer in the space of thirty minutes.”
Whittaker frowned, his hands involuntarily crossing over his crotch. “What’s uh— what’s the average age for that to start naturally?”
You pursed your lips to conceal your amusement and looked down at your booted feet. Santos waved a hand. “You’re safe for now, Huckleberry. It’s most commonly associated with men over forty.”
Your head didn’t move but your eyes slid up to watch everyone else’s gaze turn to Robby and Jack. You had to bite the inside of your cheek harder, swallow down a laugh that was threatening to bubble up your throat.
Robby nodded once—a bit self-deprecatingly—at his residents and students and lulled his head to look at Jack. “Yeah, we’re not far off.” He muttered.
“Speak for yourself,” Jack replied in a low tone, eyes still on the monitor as he finished up his last report.
The sound did something to your lower belly, much like his low tone usually did. You couldn’t wait to get back home with him, to be able to feel his touch and presence and not have to keep a professional amount of distance between you for at least twelve hours.
You both declared your relationship to HR almost seven months ago, when you knew things were getting serious. And despite their acceptance of the situation, you still hadn’t told the team.
It was by no fault of theirs. But you…enjoyed having it to yourself, having Jack to yourself. And he’d made it very clear that he felt the same. You didn’t want them in your business, in your intimate life.
More than that, you were afraid of what people would think. Scared for special treatment allegations, inappropriate behaviour reports, and the rumours that you were nothing more than a young piece of ass that Jack would eventually get bored of.
And Jack.. he had been nothing but attentive and reassuring when he suggested telling the board and you voiced your concerns. He’d showed you in more ways than one how deeply he felt for you. That this was not temporary, that he wanted a future with you.
So you reported your relationship to HR, admitted you’d been together six months already and no one had any suspicions. You kept it professional, kept it normal.
You knew tonight would be the start of the change. It was only this morning when you awoke to his head between your thighs that you finally relented, agreeing to tell the others in ED about you.
Dana raised a brow, lips curling into a grin as she read the underlying message that he was seeing someone. "Good for you, Abbot," she drawled, nodding her head once in a form of approval.
Langdon crossed his arms over his chest, brows furrowed with a taunting twinkle to his eyes. "Even more reason to stock up, man. Can't be leaving your woman unsatisfied."
Your eyes clocked Jack as he leaned back and shrugged his arms into his jacket, hurling his backpack over a shoulder as he approached you. Casually enough that no one seemed to bat an eye.
Until he slung an arm around your shoulder as you snaked yours around his waist.
“Oh, you don’t have any complaints, do you, sweetheart?” He asked, craning his neck to look down at you, brows slightly raised.
He shared a look with you, every ounce of love and adoration he felt glistening in his eyes.
Your heart hammered against your ribcage, heat creeping up your neck to sit on the tops of your cheeks. There was a crooked grin tugging on the corner of Jack’s mouth, an expression you couldn’t help but mirror.
A year of keeping your relationship a secret, six months of HR knowing, and now day one of your colleagues.
“Oh no, I’m more than satisfied.” You averted your gaze from Jack and to your colleagues, trying to catalogue their wide eyes and shocked expressions to memory.
The apples of your cheeks swelled as you smiled, big and wide and happy. Jack pressed his lips to the top of your head before turning you both toward the exit, his hand waving above his head as he walked you both out.
"Have a good shift, our phones are turned off." He called over his shoulder.
[looking at people younger than me] you have your whole life ahead of you [looking at people older than me] you have your whole life ahead of you [looking at myself] its over
Pairing: Jack Abbot x wife!reader Word Count: 1.2k
Description: Nine months after taking a nameless baby home, Jack celebrates your first Mother’s Day.
Tags/Warnings: So much fluff and Jack being the softest dad/husband ever. Pic is referential for baby’s outfit. Can be read as a standalone.
Note: Better late than never! Happy Mother’s Day to those who celebrate(d) 🌸🤍 Enjoy 🫶🏼
Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist
“Shhh, sweetheart,” Jack whispers. “Come on, mom’s still asleep.”
You are in fact not asleep, because their mumbling woke you up a few seconds ago. You hear a few soft babbles in response and more shushering, before you finally open your eyes.
The blackout curtains have been opened just a sliver, allowing the morning light to softly wash your bedroom. The clock on the nightstand reads a little past eight, which means Jack hasn’t been home for long from his night shift.
When you finally roll onto your back, you see the most endearing image ever. Jack’s standing at the foot of the bed, still in his black scrubs and slightly mussed hair with your little daughter, Poppy, propped on one arm while the other holds a beautiful bouquet of flowers.
A soft gasp leaves your lips, but it’s not because of the flowers, it’s because of Poppy.
At almost eleven months old, your girl is wearing the sweetest pink outfit you’ve ever seen in your life. Jack has dressed her in a cute pale dress with flutter sleeves, and a pink/white striped sun hat perched on her head. You haven’t seen the little number before, so he must’ve kept it hidden somewhere for the special occasion.
“What’s going on here?” You ask, narrowing your eyes playfully as you move to sit on the bed with a stretch.
Jack grins, his exhausted eyes glinting mischievously when he turns to look at Poppy for a second, as if they’ve made an agreement you don’t know about, and then turns again to cross the room toward your side of the bed.
“We’re celebrating someone important today,” he announces in that low raspy tone that drives you crazy.
Before you can say anything, Poppy realizes that you’re awake and immediately squirms in Jack’s hold to throw herself at you.
“Mama! Mama!”
You melt, welcoming her as Jack lowers her into your arms. The second she’s on your lap, her hands reach to pat your jaw clumsily, giggling when you give her an exaggerated gasp.
“Ma…ma…ma!” She babbles in her own baby gibberish.
“Oh my god, look at what daddy made you wear,” you coo, adjusting the little hat that got crooked when she landed on your arms. Your gaze lifts to meet Jack’s, who’s standing there with the flowers still in hand and the softest adoring smile in the world. “Jack…”
“I know,” he says, clearly pleased with himself.
Then he leans down, successfully dodging Poppy’s little head to press a soft kiss to your lips. His free hand cups the back of your head to deepen it, and you let out a soft whimper that makes his tongue graze your mouth for permission, when–
“Woah, woah,” Jack pulls back abruptly with a chuckle, when he feels Poppy tugging the flowers he’s carrying. “That’s not nice, kid,” he says to her, pulling the flowers away, but she has no idea she’s being scolded because he’s using the softest tone ever.
You let out a laugh, shifting her to put a little distance between them. Jack extends the arm holding the flowers away, and then cups your face again to steal a quick kiss, before whispering against your lips.
“Happy first Mother’s Day, honey,” he says fondly, so full of love he feels like his heart is going to burst.
Mother’s Day…what a concept.
For nine months, you may have not carried Poppy’s heartbeat under your ribs, but you carried her through so much more ever since that 4th of July. You carried her through the uncertainty of fostering a nameless baby, the long process of adoption paperwork, the fear of not qualifying, the hope despite of it, and then one day…she was finally yours.
Nine months. Yet you’d fallen for the abandoned baby since day one.
“Thank you, my love,” you whisper to him, swallowing the lump in your throat. Your eyes trace the lines on his face, the darkness under his eyes he can’t quite hide with a smile.
You’d left the night shift temporarily to take care of Poppy at home, which meant you only got to see your husband in these sacred moments.
“You look tired, Jack. You should get some sleep first–”
“Uh-uh,” he refutes immediately. “We’re going out for breakfast, among other things. Spoil you a bit, you know, the works,” he says with a smirk.
“Oh, we are?” You say excitedly, like he doesn’t spoil you every time you breathe anyways.
“P’s all ready,” he grins, gesturing at her with his chin. “Now her mother needs to get dolled up too.” His voice leaves no room to refuse, and to be honest, you don’t really want to.
You turn to Poppy, who’s still babbling away in a deep conversation with your collarbone, and tickle her round belly.
“Should I match your cute little outfit then, missy? Is that what we’re doing?” You coo, as her giggles fill the room, knocking your chin a couple of times.
“Alright, alright. Let’s trade,” Jack chuckles, picking Poppy back up. “And these are for you, sweetheart,” he gently places the bouquet on your hands.
Your cheeks heat and your stomach flutters, like you were back on your first date not knowing the life that was waiting ahead of you. Because back then, even if you had each other, you hadn’t been complete.
As you stare at Jack, with a full head of salt and pepper hair, blowing raspberries to the giggling baby in his arms, you realize this is what’s been missing all along.
Jack starts walking away to place Poppy in her playpen, and his limp doesn’t go unnoticed by you, before he suddenly stops in his tracks.
“Wait, I forgot to show you something,” he says, reaching for something in the pocket of his scrub pants. “Princess gave me these today.”
You perk up, and your eyes widen when he pulls out a pair of tiny and unfairly cute strawberry shaped sunglasses. They match her outfit perfectly.
“No, she didn’t,” you say amused.
“She said she wanted pictures,” he snorts, sliding them over Poppy’s nose.
Even though they’re slightly crooked from being a little big on her, you have to admit it’s a look. Between her floppy hat and that pink dress paired with those ridiculous sunglasses, she looks like the most spoiled and beloved baby on earth.
Truth to be told, as the only heir of the Abbot household, she is all that.
However, the whole thing lasts barely a few seconds, before she yanks the sunglasses right off her face and sends them flying somewhere across the room. She kicks her legs happily, reaching to pull Jack’s curly hair without a care in the world.
You stare at her in silence, before you deadpan, “Tell Princess she loved them.”
Jack shakes his head as you both burst into laughter.
“Get ready, honey. I’ll stay with her for a bit then I’ll take a quick shower.”
You nod, still looking at them adoringly as Jack secures her in his arms before bending down with a groan, picking up the sunglasses from the floor.
“You and I are going to wait for mommy, and you’re gonna let me take some pictures of you with these so I can show you off in the groupchat, kid,” he tells her, kissing her chubby cheek loudly as he exits the bedroom. “Mhm, they’re not ready to see you, P.”
Down the hallway, you can hear her go dada, dada, dada.
You smile. Happy Mother’s Day indeed.
🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸
Thank you so much for reading! Feedback is always appreciated 🤍
summary: you and your husband are trying to do everything to have a baby, but you’re unsuccessful, which makes you both deal with it your own way. Jack starts to take SWAT shifts as his new hobby and you’re livid about it.
warnings: 18+, smut, unprotected sex, kinda hate sex, dirty talk, slight breeding kink, infertility issues, mentions of unsuccessful IVF, frustration and angst
word count: 2.7k
~ Your Favourite Doctor Abbot masterlist ~
Usually you and Jack were communicating well.
But clearly not this time.
It was a few weeks after your second IVF treatment that didn’t work out. You were pissed off to the whole world, trying to find a reason why the universe went against you for wanting a baby with your greatest man you ever met.
Jack tightened his uniform, today he took a SWAT shift he didn’t tell you about.
You were already on your way to work when you noticed your laptop was missing and you turned your car to get back home.
Stepping inside the apartment, you walked to the kitchen to grab the laptop only to be met with Jack with his full gear on. Both of you stopped in your tracks, him almost immediately losing his breath when he saw your bewildered face.
“Are you for real right now?” You managed to choke out, clutching the laptop to your side.
“Honey...” Was all he was able to say when you stormed out.
Your car vanished with you when he finally got out of the apartment complex.
With a sigh, he knew that it would be a long day of you not responding to any of his text messages, so he didn’t even try to reach out to you.
On the other hand, you sat at your desk at work, stealing occasional looks at your phone, awaiting a few words from him. But nothing came through.
Looking out of the huge glass window, you rubbed your temple, thinking about all the things that happened in the last couple of months.
Everything seemed so simple. Get married, make a baby, be a happy family.
That baby part was so frustrating and sad. You both tried so hard to make it happen, coming to the fertility clinic, Jack getting his sperm count, to realise he’s actually very good for his age and you were also healthy. It didn’t make sense.
When you got your period after what was called a successful embryo transfer, you lost your hopes. Two months ago, doctors told you after drawing your blood that there is no way to explain how your body rejected the embryo again.
You and Jack were devastated, he told you to not stress about it, that you have plenty of time to try again. But simply, you were so fucking tired that you gave up for a little bit. Stopping to talk to him, burying yourself at work, he did practically the same.
When you found out he’s taking those SWAT shifts behind your back, calling it a wholesome hobby, you went red. Telling him how he’s stressing you, how you’re scared for his life. He always just nodded and let you talk, absorbing your words like a sponge.
–
Walking through the threshold of your apartment late in the afternoon, he wasn’t home yet. Of course.
Even though your mind was full of irritation and deep sadness, you managed to do the laundry and hang his camo pants and jackets into his closet, you even felt the fabric of one of them, and you smiled to yourself. God, you loved when he wore those, but you hated for what purpose. Also you knew how Jack loved to do what he was doing.
A little over eight in the evening, he gently opened the entrance door, walking in only in his black shirt, while having his other things stuffed in his bag. The apartment was quiet with only some soft noise coming from the living room, signaling that you’re still awake.
You cursed under your breath, trying to do some yoga pose on the mat that was sprawled on the floor in front of the tv.
“Fuck your sun salutation…”
Jack leaned against the couch, watching you amused. Finally noticing him standing there, you puffed out a breath to brush a strand of your hair from your face while getting on your knees.
“Hi.”
He bit off his amusement and went over to sit on the edge of the sofa, close to you.
“Hey. I see you’re onto something…” he whispered, giving you a tired smile.
You rubbed your thigh, those leggings tightly wrapped around you and you felt annoyed by it.
“Yeah. Trying something, since you stopped doing your morning hot yoga.” you rolled your eyes, getting into a baby pose, a relief slipping past your lips.
Jack knitted his brow, yeah, he stopped doing that because he was busy with his SWAT hobby.
“We can do that together, you know that.” his hand reached to rest on your back and you quickly got up on your feet and walked to the kitchen.
Jack ran a hand through his hair, sighing with frustration etched on his face, following you.
“Look… I’m sorry, okay?”
You could hear remorse in his voice, turning around to face him, noticing how he’s toying with the wedding ring on his left hand.
“Robby called me, Jack.” your voice trembled softly, you hated how everything still made you so emotional.
His face turned into concern. “What?”
“You were shot on your stupid hobby shift.” you were nowhere calm.
As if Jack’s wound on his upper back itched, he shifted a little, narrowing his back.
“Shot at.” he put his finger up, to state a fact.
“I don’t fucking care, Jack. I– you– I’m scared, okay? I… What if I’m pregnant and you get seriously wounded on duty and– what if–” you stuttered, tears welling in your eyes.
That was his cue to close the distance between you, to wrap his strong arms around your shivering figure, to just hold you firmly against his solid body.
“I know, I know…” he whispered into your hair, rubbing soft circles onto your back, pressing small kisses onto your forehead.
You sobbed softly into his shoulder, holding tight onto him, all stored emotions flowing out of your system at once.
“Are you okay? Was it bad?” you lifted your gaze, wiping tears away while giving him a concerned look.
Jack ran a hand through your hair, looking into your eyes. “Just a little graze on my back, that’s all. I took care of it while I was in the hospital.”
Parting a little from him, you sighed. “Okay… I’m… I’m sorry, I’m just a hormonal mess and I really hate to even think about you being hurt.”
“I understand. I should’ve told you about the shift today. We’re not communicating well these days. Weeks, actually…” Jack hummed, taking a step towards a fridge, to grab something to eat.
You stood there, leaning against the counter, wiping the rest of the tears.
“I’m trying my best, really, Jack.”
“Are you?” it was something that he didn’t want to say out loud but he did. And it stirred a real hurricane.
“What?”
“Huh?” his mouth was full of yogurt.
“You know what? Maybe get yourself shot properly next time, you idiot.” you snarled and stomped away somewhere into your apartment.
Abbot almost choked on the yogurt when he processed what you just said and he threw it into the sink, following you to where you were, only to find you in the closet, bent over, rummaging through your clothes.
“Enough of this bullshit, young lady.” He was done with everything that came with your marriage.
Grabbing you by your waist, he threw you over his shoulder, carrying you to the bedroom.
“Jack! Let me go! Don’t fucking mess with me now!” you screamed at him, your fists colliding with his back and he hissed when you touched his wound.
Stopping near the bed, he placed you on it, to the unmade sheets from morning, towering over you.
“I’m gonna run away and lock myself in the bathroom until you’re done taking off your leg.” you challenged him, panting hard. Maybe from the excitement.
Jack smirked widely, taking off his shirt, to show you his absolutely delicious abs.
“Taking my leg off? Oh, sweetheart. You forgot that I don’t have to do that anymore since getting that better type of prosthesis.” [a/n: this is a fiction and I want for Jack to have the best type of artificial leg for him to move around better;)]
A gulp was heard through the room, he was right, you forgot. Remembering how he came home ecstatic about him being able to be more flexible with him moving around.
“I’m gonna put a baby in you.” he undid his belt, throwing it on the ground and you scoffed.
“You’re funny, really.” You bursted into a sarcastic chuckle.
“Maybe, but we will see.” Jack reached for your ankle to yank you to the edge of the bed, tearing off your yoga leggings, causing you to gasp in shock.
“From when you’re wearing nothing underneath this?” his eyes darkened at the sight of your nice pussy, pushing your legs apart, grazing the sensitive skin of your thighs with his calloused fingers.
“Jesus christ, Jack, stop this romantic shit.” you rolled your eyes, acting all annoyed, but you couldn’t stop the wetness pooling out.
“Mmm… so, hate sex it is?” it wasn’t a question, his camo pants were open in a moment, with his cock sprung free, aching for you.
“Uh, oh.” you choked out, mouth salivating at the sight.
“Gonna fill you real good, baby, because I’m so fucking full because of your attitude.” a growl later, you thanked god that your bed was in that perfect height at which he could fuck you senseless while he leaned against the edge of the mattress.
Stretching your cunt delicately, you couldn’t help but moan helplessly, nails digging into the skin of his forearms, his hands bruising your waist as he rutted into you roughly.
“I almost forgot how you feel. So fucking tight for me… Ugh…” he let out a pathetic moan, your name escaping his lips like a mantra.
He was hitting that spot over and over again, that one that made you always see stars.
“Fuck, yes, yes, yes, Jack–” you repeated maybe for a thousand of times, letting him know that you’re close.
Suddenly he stepped back, stumbling a little on his feet, pulling out of you harshly, leaving you clenching at nothing, his dick twitching and leaking.
“What– what are you doing? Jack, don’t play your freaking games with me.”
He loved how you looked when you were needy, unsated, cheeks flushed and sweaty mess for him.
Wiping his forehead off his sweat, he pushed into you again, halting with his whole size to kiss your cervix with his tip. Your back arched with a loud whine, your legs trembling with the painful clench of your pussy.
Giving your ass a little smack from the side, he leaned down to capture your lips in a searing and hungry kiss, biting your lower lip.
“How does it feel, huh? Your husband, balls deep inside you, stretching that irritated moody cunt of yours, hm? You’re gonna come around my cock, nicely, aren’t you?” Jack moved you further on the bed to be able to put his weight to the mattress by kneeling between your legs, pushing them more into your chest to trap you underneath him.
That caused you to knock a breath out of your lungs, eyes wide as he thrust fast into you, your bodies making obscene sounds, your pussy squelching around his thick shaft.
“Jack–” you choked out and he knew.
“Come on, show me how much you hate to see me in that combat gear.”
And you were falling down that high hill, screaming his name as if your life depended on it.
It was too much for him, your beautiful clenches full of lust, the way his balls were tight from all the time he held back, his loud moan was something ethereal that you loved to witness.
Face twisted in orgasmic bliss, he pumped his seed into you, painting your walls with it, there was so much of it that it already leaked while he was still connected with you.
“Fuck…” you breathed out, sweaty and so done with any movement of your body, the soreness spreading through your limbs.
Jack pushed your legs open, leaning down to cradle your face while resting on his elbows. His smile was so genuine and loving, you almost started to cry. Flexing your neck to peck his nose, you let out a giggle.
“I love you. And I’m sorry again.” he whispered against your lips, when your arms wrapped around his neck.
“I could use a better sorry… with your mouth.” you bit your lip and he just shook his head at how unbelievably hot you were at that moment.
–
“Robby it’s nothing, really.” you were grumpy as hell, when your colleague actually made you come to the ED, because you fainted at work while making yourself a third coffee in the morning.
Michael gave you an unamused look, staring through his readers to the chart, reading a blood work.
“I think I have to call your husband.” He said, holding his professional expression.
“You can go now, I’m gonna be okay. Thanks.” you told your colleague and she left you there.
Your attention fell back on Robby. “Cut the bullshit. What is wrong?”
“Do you–”
But he was cut by the powerful swing of the door open by your protective husband. Jack was at your side, cupping your face to see if you’re okay.
“Darling, I told you to call me anytime.”
Robby cleared his throat, taking in Jack’s attire, cocking his brow at him wearing his SWAT gear.
You both turned to face Robby again. Feeling your husband’s large hand wrapped around yours, it gave you some sort of relief for the tension inside your stomach.
“I see you’re still having that hobby…” Michael murmured, adjusting his glasses just to stare back into the chart.
Jack had the corner of his lips up. “We simply agreed on some compromise.”
“Oh, yeah, sure.” You scoffed, rolling your eyes.
“Anyway. When was the last time you had your period?” Robby lifted his gaze at you.
No way you’re gonna discuss your hormones with this man, no matter how close you were.
“What are you trying to imply, man?” Jack interfered, clearly concerned.
“Ehm, I don’t know, maybe a month and half ago? I mean who cares, I was like a walking hormonal beast because of the IVF courses so… they told me it might be irregular for a bit…” you shifted uneasily, cheeks blushing in embarrassment.
“And you’re actively trying to have a baby, I guess?” Robby was scribbling something onto that damn chart.
“Come on, Robby—“
“No, we, we’re just, I don’t know, messing around, right?” You gave Jack a look to stop this nonsense and he gave you just a shrug.
“Well, it’s my biggest honour to tell you that you’re actually pregnant.”
Robby was grinning like an idiot.
A silence enveloped in the air, your breath stuck in your lungs, your hand instinctively clutching Jack’s.
“You’re lying, that’s— it— I—“ you stuttered, voice shaking, eyes welling with tears.
“I’m not. Your urine and blood levels are screaming baby all around the chart.” Michael glanced at Jack who almost passed out.
“Give it to me.” Abbot snatched the chart from his hands, standing up on his feet, reading those numbers and holding his breath.
You sat there, breathless while your face was etched in frown.
“Jack.” Your voice reminded him to come back to reality and he couldn’t help but smirk.
“Told you I’m gonna put a baby in you, love.”
Your blush deepened and Robby took it as a cue to storm out of the emergency room.
Jack sat in front of you on the hospital bed, grabbing your hands into his, bringing them to his lips and kissing your knuckles, his eyes were glossy, mirroring the affection of his heart.
“We’re gonna be parents, my darling… you’re gonna be a mom. And I’m gonna be a dad. Amazing.” He whispered, inhaling sharply.
Your body trembled, you nodded with a burst of a chuckle, joy spreading through your body as a few tears rolled down your cheeks.
“A baby… our beautiful baby…” you whispered, almost scared you’re gonna lose the moment you waited for so long.
Jack leaned closer, resting his forehead against yours. “I’m gonna quit my hobby. To not scare you. To not stress you.”
Your eyes stared into his. “Are you okay with that? Really?”
“I want you to have the most calm and comfortable pregnancy in the world. So yes.” He cupped your cheek with his palm, pecking your lips gently.
Outside, Dana was watching them from the nurse station, standing beside Robby.
“Do you think he ever stops with that adrenaline shit?”
Robby just pursed his lips with a shake of his head. “Nope.”
Request: Reader gets injured at Pittfest and Brendon is her emergency contact.
8k words.
AN; Thank you for the request !! <3 I took it and kinda ran with it and it developed into something slightly different, but vibes are still there. Please note I finished writing this (and am posting this) from my phone at work because it’s a national holiday and I am bored and wanted to write instead of work lol. This is not proofread for grammar at the time of posting. I appreciate any and all feedback (please be polite though <3)
CW; Mass shooting, death, etc. It’s PittFest.
Brendon Park wasn’t used to waking up cold anymore.
He was used to overheating and needing to turn on the bedroom AC in the middle of the night because you were nestled into his body, raising his body temperature to a borderline unbearable point.
Like every single morning, he rolled over to slam his large hand onto his beeping alarm, Old Reliable, as you’d called your mortal enemy, because iphone alarms that didn’t ring half the time be damned, Brendon loved the old school alarm clocks.
The red 5:00 AM blinked at him angrily. He blinked right back.
Brendon swung himself upright, feet landing with a heady thud onto the cream coloured rug covering the herringbone floor under his bed. He tilted his head to the left, crack, then to the right, crack. Then, with one big huff, Brendon stood up and marched his way to the kitchen. Every step he made was decisive and calculated like every other part of his life– Order started first thing in the morning for Dr. Park.
At the large quartzite kitchen island, he made his usual breakfast which consisted of scrambled eggs, turkey bacon, spinach, and avocado, with a side of black coffee. The only sound in the quiet apartment to be heard was the buzzing of the news reporter talking from the living-room TV.
Once he was done eating, Brendon rinsed his dishes and placed them into the stainless steel dishwasher. Then, he went back to the master bedroom and threw on briefs, a pair of white socks, black shorts with a matching black compression shirt before heading out the front door of the condo and down the hallway to the elevator to go to the gym on the main floor for his 5:30 AM workout.
By 6:15 AM, the waterfall shower head was turned on and the bathroom mirror was fogging up from the humidity. Brendon’s sweaty clothes were tossed into the laundry hamper as he stepped into the shower, washing away any remnants of sweat and tiredness left on his body.
What made today different from every other day was that by the time he had towelled himself off and went back into the walk-in closet to get dressed, you weren’t groaning yourself awake in the california king sized bed.
Usually, you’d be tossing and turning at the sounds coming from the bathroom and grumbling nonsense as Brendon came to press a kiss to your temple as a good morning. He’d shut the alarms ringing on your phone minutes apart because you’d snoozed the three alarms that had been programmed at fifteen minute intervals and plugged the phone in so it could charge a bit after being lost in the sheets while you slept.
But no, today, your side of the bed was empty and cold, sheets still tucked under the mattress unlike usually when half the sheets were pulled off from how much you moved at night. You’d gone to your best friend, Olivia’s, apartment with a duffel bag stuffed with all kinds of clothes and products so you could spend the three day weekend dancing around at PittFest, an event you’d bought tickets for the second the lineup was released.
Brendan’s eyes looked away from where you’d usually be laying and reached for his phone to see if you’d texted him since you’d left the night prior. Nothing. The only thing on his lockscreen was the picture of the two of you on vacation in Tulum last winter and a few emails that had come in from the hospital administration.
Usually that wouldn’t bother him– he knew you were probably sleeping in after a girls night that he knew always turned rowdy even if you guys stayed in, but you had essentially dropped off the surface of the earth and left him with a cold shoulder after an argument earlier during the week, which seemed impossible because you lived together, but you were of the stubborn kind, and your silence was eating him alive.
—
Brendon had met you four years ago through your best friend, Oliva, where you’d quite literally bumped into each other in the cramped kitchen of her downtown apartment for her housewarming party. Liv had met Brendon in university, sororities and frats and all that, and they’d struck it off like long lost siblings. It was surprising that it had taken you so long to meet the orthopaedic surgeon considering their friendship. However, that hadn’t mattered much because the second Brendon laid his eyes on you as you refilled the ice cooler to bring into the living room, he knew he was done for.
What took you by surprise was that, when you’d turned to look at him after walking backwards and bumping into him, your name tumbled out of his mouth like a stutter. The tips of his ears turned red as his eyes widened.
“Uh sorry–” You started confused, but not displeased, at how this handsome stranger knew your name when you’d never seen him before. “Do I know you?”
“I’ve seen you in Liv’s posts.” He explained, desperately trying to not sound like a total creep. “I’m Brendon. Liv and I met in university.”
Your eyebrows furrowed as you tried to piece if Brendon existed in the collage of Liv’s life you’d made in your mind. She was a free spirit who’d decided to drop out of med school and go travel around the world instead. Liv would go do seasonal work in different countries and save up every penny she could to just travel around the country after. She always brought back an array of trinkets, pictures, and stories of torrid affairs. It was only fair that you started trying red strings to keep track of all the interesting characters she met on her adventures.
Ah yes! There he was. Brendon was the med school friend who’d met up with her in Peru to do sandboarding.
“It’s nice to finally meet you. I was looking forward to it.” Brendon had indeed. The first time he had seen a picture of you, the bodily reaction he experienced to seeing your smile had shocked him so hard that he had called Olivia and demanded to meet you. Not yet. She’d told him with a tone similar to the owner of a dog wagging its finger at it after finding a chewed-up shoe. “I’ve only heard good things about you.” Brendon leaned in and it made you realize just how massive of a man he really was.
Somehow, the sounds of the party happening down the hallway seemed to evaporate into thin air and you and Brendon lost yourselves in conversation. The conversation started from the sand snowboarding adventure in Peru with Olivia to mountain biking in Arizona then to you being taught how to ride a bike when you moved in with your college friend when you were twenty-one years old. It wasn’t until someone came to get some ice because there was none left in the living room that you realized that had been so deep in the most fluid conversation of your life that all the ice you’d taken out had melted in the bucket.
It was an obvious decision to give him your number when he’d sheepishly asked and by the end of the night, when all the stragglers were heading back home, Brendon had asked you on a supper date the next evening which you enthusiastically agreed to.
When you and Olivia were finally alone, curled up into her bed with most of the apartment cleaned up into a load of big garbage bags, you rolled over to look at her.
“Liv, I know I’m being dramatic, but I swear there were sparks flying between Brendon and I. Am I crazy?” You hadn’t felt that way about any man you’d met since your ex-boyfriend three years ago, and even then, meeting Brendon made you realize that it hadn’t even been that eye opening to meet your ex. Your first encounter with Brendon was equally exhilarating like a kite flying through the sky on a windy day and soothing like a glass of warm milk before bed when you were little.
“No, you’re not crazy.” Olivia answered, a knowing smile on her lips as she fluffed her pillow up to look at you comfortably. “I knew this would happen, that’s why I didn't introduce you guys.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t think he’s ready for you right now.” She began and paused for a second like she was trying to put together the right words. Your lifted eyebrows and pointed look urged her to get on with it quicker.”I wanted to let him ferment a bit before I matched you guys up. Seems like he’s deadset on proving me wrong though.” Olivia laughed and smacked you on the shoulder playfully. “Listen, I love the guy, he’s like the brother I never had, but he was still in his douche canoe phase and you’re too special to not catch at the right time.”
—
It had taken Brendon some time to fully open up to you as you started seeing each other. He was the classic avoidantly attached guy and you seriously thought about ending things with him over the first year, but Brendon took you and your concerns seriously and worked on himself. He always showed you that you meant the world to him and that he was willing to put the effort in. It also may have helped that Olivia had given him a few stern talking to’s to make him get his shit together when she saw you teetering.
The next three years had been more than perfect. Brendon took you on vacations every year, he invited you to move into his beautiful apartment and had asked you to decorate the place to make it more homey– the apartment had felt like a shell to him until you had brought life to it.
His older sister absolutely adored you– she had threatened to neuter him if he hurt you in any way because she finally had the sister she’d always dreamed of. Although, she had told you she used to dress him up in her fluffy pink tutus and make him do dance recitals with her when she was doing ballet, so at this point it was more like the addition of an official sister.
You had met his parents much later than he had ever met yours. Both of your parents were divorced, but his parents had gone through much more than yours ever did. Where your parents simply fell out of love and remained good friends after their long relationship, Brendon’s mother and father had been cheating on each other for years, and the divorce had felt like a blessing to the Park children. They had spent their formative years bouncing from house to house with both parents talking behind each other’s backs, trying to poison their children against one another.
That had set the tone for Brendon’s views on relationships and had been the leading factor in his hesitation whenever he found someone that seemed like they could be the perfect balance to himself.
After getting to know his parents a bit better, it had made a lot more sense to you why Brendon was the way he was. In fact, it had surprised you how well he had turned out despite all of that. You had figured that his sister’s marriage had helped your boyfriend not swear off of relationships completely, even though he remained reticent and it had been a long road to where you were. Brendon’s sister had married an absolute gem of a man who had become an important figure in Brendon’s life, and they had made a beautiful life for themselves and gave the surgeon a look into what life could possibly be like for himself.
—
At 7:00 AM on the dot, Brendon grabbed his keys off the hooks by the front door. He slipped his shoes on, his eyes lingered on the empty hook where your keys should be hanging for a second too long, before walking out the door.
The fourth year of your relationship was when things started to get a little bit rocky. People around you started feeling too comfortable asking questions– When would he propose? When was the first baby coming? What about buying a house? The questions were to be expected, and they were harmless enough, but it was Brendon’s reaction to them that got the alarm bells ringing.
You and Brendon had wanted the same things from all those late night conversations dreaming about your future together– marriage, kids, a home in the suburbs and weekends filled with soccer games and pool parties. But, as that reality crept up closer and closer, Brendon started regressing into his old ways. He would shut down the conversations before they could fully be addressed and deflect any comment you or anyone else made. Every conversation ended the same way.
Not now.
Later.
When the time is right.
Your friend Sabrina’s engagement tipped the scales.
She’d known her boyfriend, Justin, for barely a year before he slid a massive diamond on her ring finger in front of fifty people and proclaimed his love for her. You knew that everyone had their own timing in life, and that your friend’s speedy engagement said nothing about your own relationship, but it would be a lie to say it hadn’t opened the wound up again.
Brendon standing beside you quietly as Sabrina went around the room waving her borderline eyesore of an engagement ring was what had triggered the fight that happened earlier in the week between you and your boyfriend.
“I love you, Bren. You know I do.” You had started with a sigh after he had shut you down when you had started talking about Sabrina’s engagement once you’d gotten back home. “But I know what I want for myself and I’ve always been honest with you. I don’t ever want to end up resenting you or regretting things because I let myself stay in a relationship that doesn’t align with what I want from life.” You knew it was harsh, but sometimes that was the only option. Brendon only listened when things got ugly. “If you don’t want the same things as I do, it’s not fair to either of us to keep dragging this on.”
It had been easier than you had expected to utter those words. You had been thinking about them, had even said them out loud to Olivia, but you had never expressed your reality to Brendon. It was true, you loved him deeply and you wanted all of those things with him, but at the same time you would never hold yourself back for a man. Your mother had made you promise her that as you cried into a tub of pistachio ice cream after your first break up in high school.
—
By 10 AM, Brendon was elbows deep in paperwork while Olivia’s hand was slapping your cheek, apparently thinking your face was the snooze button on top of her alarm. Normally, you were hard to wake up in the morning, but her hand was much rougher than how Brendon would lull you out of sleep. This had quite literally been a rude awakening.
“Oh fuck off.” You grumbled and smacked her back. Olivia let out an offended gasp as she opened one eye to look at you, laying across from her in her bed. Although your friend wasn’t up and ready like Brendon was, she was still better than you were when it came to waking up.
“Today’s the day!” Olivia exclaimed, energy surging into her body as she realized that today was day one of PittFest. “I think I’m going to wear the ruffle shorts with that big suede belt you found at the vintage shop.” She didn’t even give you time to open your eyes before she was off into one of her monologues. “Do you think it’d be cute with the gold hoops?”
All you did in response was lift your arm and give her a thumbs up and turn around to sleep for a few more minutes, even though that was always a trap that made you late in the mornings.
“Ok, fine.” Olivia ceded. “I’ll go get breakfast started, but I’ll be back in fifteen if you’re not awake. We want to get there early enough for a good parking spot.”
When you heard Olivia’s muffled footsteps leave her bedroom, you finally opened your eyes and rolled onto your back to look up at her ceiling for a moment. You should have been so excited for today, but for some reason there was this anxious pit in your stomach that you could only hope would go away as you got ready.
You grabbed your phone and opened it, your heart sinking a bit at the text message on your screen.
bren <3 : Have a good day.
bren <3 : I love you.
Usually you’d feel warm in your chest when reading those three words. Usually you’d respond back quicker than you could formulate a thought because loving Brendon came so naturally to you, you didn’t need to think about it. But this week had felt like somebody had tilted the earth a few degrees and everything was just a bit off.
Since your argument with Brendon earlier on in the week, it felt like you had been two ships passing in the night. Brendon was stuck at the hospital later than planned most days, trying to make his way through the piles of paperwork on his desk, and whenever he’d come home you’d have already made and eaten supper– his portion waiting for him in a glass tupperware in the fridge. He’d find you sitting on the couch watching re-runs of the original Sabrina the Teenage Witch and he’d come join you, but you were both too tired to interact meaningfully.
You loved Brendon, there was no doubt in that, but you were frustrated and exhausted. So, you simply liked his message and tossed your phone back onto the bed before getting up.
It wasn’t that you didn’t want to talk to him, but you just couldn’t bring yourself to pretend that everything was alright and be as affectionate as you always were. Your co-worker had called you petty; you called yourself justified in your behaviour.
“Legend.” You sighed out as an iced coffee was shoved into your hand the second you crossed the threshold into Olivia’s kitchen. She was standing by her kitchen island, two ceramic plates she’d made in her pottery classes on the counter adorned with sourdough bread topped with egg salad on the counter.
“Do you want me to do the braids you showed me from pinterest?” Olivia asked after your quiet thank you at the food placed in front of you. You nodded with a hum and started eating your breakfast, not bothering to elaborate on her question. “Are we going to talk about it?” Your friend asked, knowing the reason behind your shift in mood in the last few days. You’d been discussing your insecurities with her for the last few months and you’d texted her after the argument with Brendon, but you hadn’t seen each other yet, so you hadn’t been able to dive deeper into the whole ordeal. Olivia knew you well, well enough to know that you weren’t feeling well by your lack of ‘:-)’ at the end of a silly message you’d sent her.
“Not yet,” You began. “I just want to have fun today.”
“I hear you.” Olivia answered, after swallowing a mouthful of avocado and egg. “I’m here when you’re ready, you know that.” And with resolution, she shifted gears to talking about the makeup look she’d be doing and which jewelry would complement her outfit the best.
—
A few hours later, Brendon was elbows deep in scrub sinks and you were dancing around with Olivia on the grassy hills of the field where Pitt Fest took place. You’d thought about texting him a picture of your outfit, and then thought about texting him when you arrived at the first set of the day, and you even thought about sending him a picture of the ridiculously overpriced drink menu, because he would always get so frustrated at how events overcharged for goods even if he was basically swimming in his surgeon money.
You’d held back at each of those moments though; feeling the need to stay cold hoping that maybe this week of you barely being there would click something into place in Brendon. Your heart weakened at the thought of his warm eyes and you couldn’t help but wonder if he was thinking about you as much as you were thinking about him.
“You know,” You started all of a sudden after a moment of quiet. Olivia’s head snapped towards you so quick you worried she’d injured her neck. She pushed her sunglasses up to take you in properly and crossed her hands onto her lap, dramatically showcasing how focused she was on you. “I hate being like this with Brendon. I hate feeling like this.”
Olivia hummed in response, knowing that you just needed to vent without necessarily hearing about solutions or what she thought.
“I love him so much for fucks sake, and I can’t picture myself marrying or having kids with anyone else, but I’ll be damned if I get dragged along for a few more years until he decides what he actually wants and by then it’ll be too late for me.” You admitted, your head dropping to look down at your lap with shame.
“He’s always been a bit messed up when it comes to relationships because of his parents, you know this.” Olivia chimed in softly. Her voice gentle like she was talking to a skittish animal. “I’ve never seen him work on himself as much as he has for you. He really does love you; I just think this is the biggest hurdle he’s ever had to face.”
Your friend prided herself on being the number one man hater in Pennsylvania, however she knew deep down that Brendon would come through. She’d seen how flustered he’d been when you two met and how he had basically begged her to tell him all the things you liked so he could plan the best first date you’d ever been on; he planned to make it the last so it had to be perfect.
“I just don’t want to be collateral in someone else’s war with themselves.” You sighed and looked up from your intertwined hands to meet Olivia’s eyes. “I feel like even when I’m giving myself deadlines of when to end things with him I’m just lying to myself. I don’t want to be without him, and I’m scared I won’t be strong enough to walk away if it comes to it.” Tears had started flooding the inner corners of your eyes by the time the last word came out of your mouth.
Olivia reached over, her manicured hand wrapping around yours as she gave it a reassuring squeeze. “I think you need to trust in the strength of his love for you.” Is all she said to you, her tone certain and calm, which soothed you instantly. “Come on, Weezer is playing soon and I know you don’t want to miss them.” Olivia suddenly got up and leaned forward to you, holding her hand out for you to grab onto and lift you up. With a nod, you linked hands and she pulled you back up to your feet, literally and metaphorically.
A 20-minute wait had managed to calm all your nerves and a dopey smile appeared on your lips as you heard the familiar tune of Island in the Sun. That damn song broke your resilience and you pulled out your phone to take a quick video to send to Brendon.
Babe : Our song.
Babe : I love you.
Your phone was shoved back into your small sling purse before you could think twice and unsend the message that came so naturally to you. God, you hated it here.
Although Brendon had been all EDM and Rap when you’d met him, he’d come to appreciate the soft ballads that had you swaying around your apartment when you cleaned. One song in particular, Island in the Sun, that had played in one of your guilty pleasure movies Aquamarine, had become the white flag in any argument between you and Brendon, as few and wide as they came. It could lighten any mood and bring the both of you back to each other like a lighthouse calling to a lost boat.
You’d checked your phone two hours later in hopes to see an answer from your boyfriend, but there was only a notification from uber eats giving you a 20% off on a delivery order. You figured he was probably in an emergency surgery or wrapping up his day as it was nearing 5:30PM.
“You ready to start heading out?” Olivia had asked you after looking at the rest of the performers for the evening. Although you loved going out, you also loved going the hell home after a day filled with crowds of people under a hot sun.
“Absolutely.” You nodded and started walking side by side in the direction of the parking lot.
Everything was fine, until it wasn’t.
It was like a bomb detonated with a deafening bang and everyone got real quiet.
Then, another bang rang out, and then another in quick succession.
At first nobody moved, they tilted their heads up to look for the fireworks they’d heard, but the sky was its regular shade of blue. It wasn’t until someone yelled out ‘Shooter!’ at the top of their lungs that people started screaming.
“What was that?” Olivia turned to you, moving almost sluggishly as the shock paralyzed her entire body. It felt like a joke. Like Ashton Kutcher should have popped up on stage with a filming crew for the reboot of Punk’d. “Was that–?”
It wasn’t until someone came crashing down between you two that the seriousness of the situation really dawned on you. The sensation in your stomach was rare, but familiar. It was that pit you’d felt this morning when waking up.
“Go! We need to go!.” You managed to choke out as you grabbed Olivia’s hand, dragging her forward towards the car park where you saw people flocking to. The escape attempt came with hurdles, as people tried to push each other to get to the gates first, body after body falling down like dominos.
Every shot that rang out felt like a whip to your heels as you ran faster than you ever knew you could. It felt like your imagination was playing tricks on you as they sounded like they were landing closer and closer to you and Olivia. Without thinking about it twice, you grabbed Olivia’s hand and jerked her forward so she’d be running in front of you.
You could see the exit. The three fence gates that were open, people being funneled through them like cattle entering a kill pen. People had to slow down to all manage to fit through, but it’d been carnage as people jumped over one another to get to safety first. The indomitable human spirit they said.
Then all of a sudden it felt like you were hit with a bat in your back. And that bat had tiny explosives in it that popped when it made contact with your body.
“You okay?” Olivia whipped her head around and slowed down for a few steps when she heard the breath being audibly knocked out of your chest. She saw your eyebrows furrowed together, mouth open in a small ‘o’ as your hand reached to where you’d felt the punch.
“I don’t know.” You said as you felt a heat start spreading inside your body. You kept running, which got Olivia to turn her head back around and try to focus on angling herself properly to make it through the gates as quickly as possible. You took in the biggest breath you could muster as you pulled your hand back in front of you and saw your fingertips stained with a dark red. You’d been shot. You couldn’t alarm Olivia until you made it to the car. She needed to focus on running forwards so you could escape.
Once you were in the car she just had to drive you to safety. To Brendon. He would fix all of this mess. He always fixed your silly messes.
In the few metres you covered since passing the gate, the pain had spread in your chest and you felt your t-shirt getting wet and sticky on your skin. Each breath was getting harder to take.
“Please, she’s hurt!” Cried a voice out as Olivia unlocked her car. It hurt to move, but you turned your upper body to find two teenage girls. The ginger haired girl was being held up by her friend. Her feet dragged behind her with every step they took. She looked like she was holding on to whatever life force she had just to get her friend to safety. “Take us with you!”
“Come on.” Olivia said, running around the car to help the two girls into the backseat. It took all the effort in the world for you to open the front door, the simple action of flexing muscles triggering another wave of pain shooting through your middle. “Hey, hey– you okay?” Olivia asked like she had a potato in her mouth. Huh, that was weird. Should Olivia be driving if she was having trouble talking like that?
Your vision darkened like the edges of an old movie as you turned to your left. Olivia’s head was jumping from you to the road, speeding enough to escape the blood bath without causing an accident. It was like a bumper cart playground in the parking lot. Cars were zooming past one another. Police and Ambulance sirens were wailing like banshees.
“Hospital. Need to hurry.” Came out with a voice you didn’t recognize. It was you. It sounded like you. But it wasn’t you. You had floated up into the clouds, feeling like there were only balloon strings tying you down to your body.
The blonde girl with the freckles was sobbing as she shook her friend’s shoulders. The white flowy dress she’d been wearing was stained in shades of red and brown in the center of her body.
“What are your names?” You managed to whisper out, having to take as deep a breath as you could to stay awake.
“This is Gwen,” she hiccuped. “I’m Rosie.” Gwen and Rosie. You wondered if those were short for anything, or if they’d been given the nickname from the start. Gwendolyn and Rosalie. Pretty. You wondered if you’d ever have daughters. Brendon would be so good with a daughter.
“It’s going to be alright, okay?” Your eyelids were so heavy. And god did Olivia turn on the AC? It was so cold in the car. It seemed like that had somehow calmed down Rosie as the back of the car got quiet. The peace that came from the quiet after all the horrors that had happened in the last hour lulled you into your seat.
You never fell asleep on roadtrip drives with Olivia. It was one of your unbreakable vows you’d agreed to. The passenger always stays awake with the driver. But this time it was so hard. She’d forgive you if you slept for just a little bit, right? Besides with the speed she was driving, you’d be reunited with the love of your life in no time.
—
Brendon was about to scrub in for a surgery when “Code Triage” was announced over the P.A systems. The second he heard those words, he whipped his body around and marched himself right back out of the scrubbing room. He walked to the closest nurses station he could find and immediately asked what was happening.
“There’s an active shooter at Pittfest.” The nurse sitting at the desk replied to him instantly, her spine straightening up when she Dr. Park marching towards her. “We’re the nearest trauma center so most of the victims are coming this way.”
“Fuck.” Was all that came out of Brendon’s mouth. The swear shocked the nurse even more. Although Park the Shark was known for his biting tone and condescending demeanor, he never swore. He was professional enough to remain courteous in the presence of others, especially patients.
Brendon reached into his back pocket and fished out his phone. He hadn’t been able to check it since earlier that morning because he’d been stuck in procedure after procedure. You had answered him hours ago. Said you loved him. Those three simple words he’d been yearning to hear from you all week. It had been killing him to be so distant while sharing the same bed.
Hearing your voice singing along to Weezer in the back of your video was like having a sip of water after being stranded in the desert. You hated when you went to concerts and you could hear your voice in your videos. You always said that you would stop singing at the next concert, but you always did. The music was always too good for you to not let go and sing along. It was one of Brendon’s favourite things about you, how much love consumed you.
He tried calling you. Once, twice, three times. Each time, your phone just rang on and on until your voice spoke up.
“So sorry you couldn’t reach me. Please leave me a voicemail, or even better send me a text! Have a great day.” He could hear the smile on your lips. All Brendon wanted was to see that same smile in that moment.
He found Olivia’s number next.
“Brendon!” Olivia’s voice rang out, her voice wobbly but tight, like she was trying her darndest to keep it all together.
“Are you guys okay?” He asked after explaining that you weren’t answering your phone. Relief flooded through his body as he heard his friend’s voice. If she was answering, then you guys must be okay. You had probably just lost your phone in the chaos.
“She didn’t tell me she got shot. She was awake and talking until we got to the car and then she just started going real quiet. I’ve been trying to get her to talk but she just makes a few sounds and she’s out again.” Olivia had never sounded so panicked. In all the years Brendon had known her, she’d always had such a blasé attitude. Now, it sounded like she’d strung up all her words together and if she said quickly enough it wouldn’t be real.
“How far away are you?” Brendon was already running to the stairway down to The Pitt. His heart was in his throat. It felt like he couldn’t move his tongue and his fist was balled together so tightly he felt his elbow flare up.
“10 minutes. There’s also two girls with us. One is not in good shape, Brendon.”
That was all Brendon needed to hear for him to start leaping down three steps at a time with how massive his stride was. He barged through the doors of the ED, seeing everything all set up and organized for triage. Patients were already being wheeled in, clothes bloody and faces white from shock or blood loss.
“I need people at the ambulance bay. Now!” Brendon barked out, running to the ambulance bay. “My wife is coming in with another injured girl and two passengers. GSWs to the abdomen on both of them.” Brendon didn’t bother looking at the people who fell into step behind him.
“We’ve got them, Dr. Park.” Dr. Shen’s voice pulled him out of his fear induced haze for a moment. “You know you can’t get in the way when they arrive.” He patted the orthopaedic surgeon’s shoulder in a sign of encouragement as he walked off the next car that arrived.
“Brendon!” He heard Olivia scream out as he saw her Bronco drive up into the ambulance bay. The tires screeched against the concrete as Olivia slammed the breaks and yanked open her door to get out. She ran to the other side as doctors swarmed her. “The girls in the back are Rosie and Gwen. Gwen has been unresponsive since we got in the car.”
Brendon ran up to your side, opening the car door to reach you. His hands held your cheeks like he was holding a newborn as he let his eyes roam over you quickly. When he moved his fingers to start counting your pulse. Your skin was sickly pale and you could barely open your eyes when you heard him call your name.
“Hey baby.” You managed to choke out, although you couldn’t keep your head up. His gentle touch and his deep voice could wake you up from any slumber imaginable.
“Black and white. Bring her to paeds.” Ellis spoke from the back of the vehicle as she slapped a checkered band on Gwen’s wrist. Rosie was crying as she looked at her own yellow band. She didn’t need to be told what the difference meant. She knew she’d lost her childhood best friend on the way to the hospital.
“On three.” You heard as you hissed at the pain that bloomed in your back as hands probed at you and then lifted you up to place you onto a gurney. “Ma’am, can you hear me? Watch the abdomen.”
“Park.” Came out like a warning tone. “We’ve got to take her in, she’s getting weaker. I need you to move.” Shen was surprisingly firm. It was out of character for the jolly attending, but he wasn’t playing around this time. “Your wife needs serious help, right now. If you want to be useful, go see Dr. King in the yellow section.”
Everything was bright and so loud all of a sudden. You could hear multiple voices overlapping around you, but you couldn’t recognize a single one of them.
“Female, thirties, GSW to left upper quadrant, hypotensive en route, no EMS transport.”
A gust of cold air made goosebumps appear on your skin as the cold metal of scissors started slicing through your shirt to expose the damages.
“Breathing shallow. Cool and clammy. Weak radial pulses. Get me a bag of O-Neg please.” Rattled on another voice. There were some beeping noises and some pressure on your stomach. “Shit. She’s got free fluid. It’s a massive hemoperitoneum. She needs to go into an OR now.”
You didn’t hear the end of that sentence as your eyes rolled into the back of your head and everything went dark again. “She’s unresponsive! Pressure’s tanking. We’ve got to intubate if she’s going to last long enough to see the inside of an OR.
The team of doctors and nurses around you scrambled as they got ready to slip the tube into your airways.
“Alright, I’ve got cords.” The doctor spoke, moving his hands gently. “And, we’re in! Get Dr. Walsh in here. And let Dr. Park know she’s being sent up for surgery.”
—
Brendon had helped out where he could. Deciding to keep his mind busy by not letting his hands stop moving. At least here could do something and help rather than be completely useless as he waited for any update on you.
It felt like it had been forever until he was advised that you had crashed and were being wheeled into surgery. The nurse had tried not to give too many details, but Park the Shark had come out and bullied the young nurse into telling him everything she knew. The bullet had destroyed your spleen and you were bleeding out internally. You were on the touch and go and the surgical team would do their best to tip the skills in your favour.
“Hey Liv, how are you feeling?” Brendon crouched down next to his friend that he’d sorted out when they went into the hospital. She’d been lucky enough to only have scratches and bruises.
“She pushed me in front of her Bren.” Olivia teared up. You’d prioritized her safety over yours, and you had saved her life. You were the reason she was sitting in the cafeteria chair with only some bad bruises. Brendon wrapped his arms around his friend both for her and for him. It hadn’t surprised him at all, that was just the kind of person you were.
“You called her your wife when we arrived.” She pointed out, sniffling and rubbing away at her eyes. “Did you realize that?”
“I didn’t. It just came out.” Brendon admitted. “She’s going into surgery now. She’s tough, she'll make it.” He said like there was no other option possible. You would survive this. You had to. “I got her a ring three months ago.”
“What?” Olivia asked, somewhat shocked because Brendon hadn’t told her. He had asked for your pinterest board dedicated to dream engagement rings that you didn’t know he knew about, but hadn’t said anything afterwards.
“I know she’s been losing hope in me. I was going to propose on our trip to Croatia.” He reached back into his pocket to pull out his phone and unlocked it. He swiped to his pictures and turned his phone back to Liv to show her the picture of the ring.
“Brendon–” She stopped herself with a gasp, her hand going to her chest in awe. “This is beautiful! She’s going to love it.”
“I know.” Was all he said before sitting next to his friend in silence. “It’s in my work bag. I’ve been carrying the ring with me wherever I go.” A chuckle escaped like he couldn’t quite believe himself. “She was really upset after Sabrina’s engagement party and I didn’t want her to think I was proposing because I felt like I needed to.”
“We talked about it a bit today. I told her to trust in your love for her.” Olivia comforted her friend, who although he was incredibly smart, was also a massive knucklehead a lot of the time.
“I just need to see her eyes filled with life again.” Brendon’s breath stuttered. His throat closed up again and he had to wiggle his neck around to gain control of his body again. “I don’t know what I’d do with myself if she doesn’t make it through this, Liv.”
The nurses who passed in the hallway sped up their walk when they noticed it was none other than Park the Shark who was sat on the hospital floor, his eyes red and his usually neatly combed back hair a mess.
“Don’t even go there, Park.” Olivia threatened him, but there was no fire behind her eyes. “She’s going to make it through or I’ll bring her back to life and kill her myself for doing this to us.”
—-
It took 18 hours after you’d been wheeled into the OR for the ICU team to start lowering your sedation.
It took another hour after that for you to show signs of life.
For those 19 hours, Brendon sat with his large frame packed in like a sardine can on the uncomfortable visitor chairs they’d put in hospital rooms. His ass was aching, but that was nothing compared to the pain he felt at seeing you plugged in to all of the machines that surrounded you.
Usually, the scene in front of him would mean nothing. He had learned to detach himself emotionally from his patients the second he entered his residency. Brendon walked into the OR, did the best he could, and would wipe his memory of whatever happened the second he walked out of the room.
But this wasn’t anyone. This was you. The love of his life.
He’d never thought he’d meet someone like you, who could bring so much joy and warmth into his life by simply existing in his vicinity. Truthfully, he considered himself incredibly lucky that you even tolerated him.
Brendon was an asshole. He knew that and he was okay with it. He was anal, and compulsive, and got frustrated easily.
Yet somehow you’d managed to see past all of that and you’d found his soft spots. The gummy areas that had been pushed so far within himself they hadn’t managed to be hardened like the rest of his person.
“Hey Baby,” Brendon cooed and pulled his chair closer to your bed so he could brush your face. “I’m here, you’re okay.”
Everything was dark and groggy. You could start to make out the sound of a rhythmic beeping and a voice you couldn’t quite place talking to you. It felt like you’d taken one of those naps where you oversleep by accident and you have no idea what day it is when you wake up.
“That’s right, come back to me gorgeous.” It was Brendon. Brendon was there. You could feel his fingertips brushing against your temple and his lips kissing your palm.
“Bren?” Your throat was so sore. God, what happened? You tried to open your eyes but it felt like they had been glued shut. Your limbs felt like they’d been weighed down and you were locked in your body. “Where am I?”
“You’re at the hospital. There was an accident. You’re okay and so is Liv.” Brendon reassured you before you could ask about your friend. He knew you’d start panicking when you remembered you were with your best friend. “Take your time, I’m just going to go tell the nurse that you’re awake. They’re going to need to do some check ups.”
With that, Brendon kissed your cheek and left the room briefly. During that time, you were finally able to open your eyes and take in your surroundings.
The bleak hospital room. The wires and tubes coming out from all over your body. The blue hospital gown you were wearing.
“Welcome back.” Said the nurse who came in after Brendon. She had a reassuring smile on her face as she started checking your vitals. “You fought hard. We’re happy to have you with us.”
“That’s my girl.” Brendon responded in your place with a grin that was half proud, half still dying inside from almost losing you.
“I’m starving, the food was way too expensive for how small the portions were.” You needed to laugh about something to start processing what had happened the day before.
“Sweetheart, I will get you anything and everything your heart desires.” The surgeon chuckled as your stomach rumbled. “You scared the living shit out of me.” Brendon finally admitted to you after the nurse had left and you had rested for a few more hours.
“I was scared too. I thought I’d never see you again.” Tears welled up in your eyes and Brendon reached out to wipe them away before you could. “I love you Bren, I really do. With my whole heart.”
“I love you more than words could ever describe.” He responded with urgency. Then he fished into his pocket and pulled out a navy velvet box. “I wanted to make this a whole big romantic thing in Croatia, but then shit kept happening, and I can’t wait anymore.”
Your mouth opened in shock as your brain caught up to your eyes.
“I bought this a few months ago after we went to my sister’s place for supper. I’ve known since the day I met you that you were the one for me. Meeting you made me feel like I could actually start living life, not just let it happen to me.” He opened the box and in it sat the most beautiful yellow diamond engagement ring.
“Brendon— I, I have no words.” The tears that streamed down your face were tears of joy this time.
“Well, hopefully there’s one.” Brendon chuckled, although he couldn’t help but feel the tip of his ears go red. “Will you marry me and make me the luckiest man this world has ever seen?”
“Of course! I do!”
With a relieved laugh, Brendon slipped the engagement ring onto your finger and leaned forward to press a gentle kiss to your lips.
“I knew I couldn’t live without you for one second, but even the thought of losing you made me feel like a shell of myself. I couldn’t wait a minute longer.”
Pairing - Jack Abbott x Attending Physician Dr. Angel
Word count - 1.6k
Summary - Santos, Whittaker and Javadi find out their attending is married and are desperate to find out who it is and how long she’s been keeping this a secret from the ER. A betting board ensues, making everyone more desperate to find out.
Warnings - 18+, MDNI, cursing, reader is married with children, fluff, no use of Y/N, reader not physically described, nickname is Dr. Angel.
Main Masterlist & The Pitt Masterlist
You’re hunched over the break room table, arms folded like a makeshift pillow, cheek pressed into the crook of your elbow. Soft, uneven snores leave your lips as you catch a few precious minutes of sleep before a gruelling double shift.
Christmas is the busiest time in The Pitt, falls from ladders whilst decorating, lacerations from prepping Christmas dinner, burns, scalds, food poisoning- not to mention the amount alcohol induced injuries that come through the doors.
Your peace however, lasts maybe 5 minutes.
The door to the break room swings open and in trudge Santos, Whittaker and Javadi, mid-conversation and talking way too loud for the hour.
“I’m telling you, the bar’s supposed to have a mechanic bull-”
“-and bottomless wings on Thursdays!”
You groan internally, refusing to lift your head. Maybe if you stay perfectly still, they may think you’re dead and leave.
Dennis is the first to notice his very much alive attending collapsed over the table. He freezes before frantically waving down the others to try and lower their volume.
Trinity squints at you before letting out a small snort. “That cannot be comfortable”
“Be quiet!” Victoria hisses, smacking Trinity’s arm as she circles the table to grab a snack from her bag. On her way back she stops dead, eyes widening. “Holy shit.”
Santos and Whittaker follow her stare straight to your left hand.
The huge engagement ring catches the fluorescent lights, the sparkly wedding band tucked beneath it looks like something out of a luxury commercial.
Your voice emerges, muffled and unimpressed from the cradle of your arms. “None of your business kiddos”
“Fuck- how long have you been awake?!” Santos jumps.
You lift your head just enough to glare at them through sleep-heavy eyes. “This whole time, you guys are the loudest people here. Now either lower the volume or go take your break somewhere else”
“But-” Whittaker opens his mouth.
“That’s an order from your attending” You raise your eyebrows, punctuating it with a soft, involuntary yawn.
They scatter instantly, shooting each other incredulous looks.
Once the door swings shut, you twist the glittering ring with your thumb. You slide both bands off after a moment, loop them onto the chain around your neck and tuck them beneath your scrubs.
You drop your head back into your arms, determined to steal at least another minute before being pulled into the thick of the emergency room.
You’ve just made it through pre-rounds with Robby when Trinity appears at your elbow.
“So .. Dr Angel, how was your evening?” She asks, her voice pitched with fake innocence.
“Very productive” You stare up at the patient chart displayed next to the nurse’s bay.
Dennis sidles up to your other side. “Productive like .. paperwork productive? .. Maybe marriage paperwork?”
“Really you two?” You drum your fingers over the desk. “Go and help your patients”
An hour later, you’re sanitising your hands after consulting with a patient when a cup of coffee is shoved into your hands by Javadi.
“I just think it’s really beautiful, you know? Marriage. Commitment. Love. Rings. Big rings, huge rings. Rings that look like they cost more than this years tuition-”
“Thanks Victoria” She beams at you, in total belief that she’s about to receive more information. Instead you walk to your next patient with a parting smile.
By lunch, the Pittlings have recruited reinforcements, Perlah, Donnie, even Jesse. All of whom try desperately for any sort of information about your mysterious husband.
You’re then cornered at the med cart by Princess, who’s pretending to grab supplies for a patient. “So, hypothetically if someone was married-”
“No”
“and hypothetically hiding it-”
“Nope”
“Would it be because the husband is famous? .. or dangerous? .. is he famous and dangerous?!”
“North 4 is waiting on their meds Princess”
Dana’s voice carries from the nurses desk as you drag your hands down your face for the millionth time this shift. “Trauma inbound, Angel, 2 minutes tops- you got this one or do you want Robby to take it?”
“I got it Dee, they give you anymore details?” You ask, snapping on a pair of blue gloves.
“Nope” She pops the P and sends you a smirk. “But I hear some people ‘round here are wanting more details from you”
She wiggles her left hand, you can’t help but roll your eyes, fighting a smile before heading to the ambulance bay.
On the way, you pass Ahmad’s betting board which is now decorated with neon sticky notes.
Who is Dr. Angel married to?
ER Doctor- Dana, Robby, Santos
Civilian - Ahmad, Perlah, Mel
Cop - Javadi
Criminal (morally grey) - Ogilvie
Firefighter - Donnie, McKay, Mohan
Made up to stop people from hitting on her - Joy
Someone famous - Princess, Emma
OR Doctor - Langdon, Whittaker
Peds Doctor - Mateo
Ahmad stands proudly beside it. “Morning Doc”
“What the hell is this Ahmad?” You stop dead in your tracks to examine it.
He lifts his hands up, trying to stifle laughter. “Don’t blame me! The people want to bet!”
You find yourself back hunched over the break room table just as you were before the start of the shift. 12 hours gone, only 12 more hours to go.
Every spare minute has been dodging questions, redirecting conversations about husbands and threatening (but not really) to write everyone up.
The door swings open again and you brace yourself for another onslaught of questions.
Instead Jack strolls in, backpack slung over his shoulders and a red shirt peaking out of his black scrubs. Completely unaware that the whole ED has been theorising about his existence.
“Hey Angel” he heads straight for the coffee pot.
You lean back in your seat, arms crossed loosely “You’re not supposed to be here for another two hours Jack”
“Well, you sound thrilled to see me” he teases, placing the cup in front of you before pulling up a chair.
“I know- I’m sorry, I am happy you’re here” You run your hand over your face, keeping eye contact with him. “.. Just tired”
“What’s bothering you?” His expression softens.
You let out a humourless laugh “Did you not see Ahmad’s betting board? ‘Who is Dr. Angel married to?’ I’ve had residents and med students alike questioning me like I’m a spy”
Jack’s mouth twitches upwards. “Sweetheart, you’ve been keeping this on the low for the past 15 years, how did they finally figure it out?”
“Whittaker, Santos and Javadi saw me with my rings on” You smirk slightly. “Victoria said that it looked like it cost more than her car”
He chuckles, taking your hand and lifting it to his lips. Pressing a kiss to the spot where your rings usually sit. “Only the best for my wife”
You brush a hand through his greying curls. “Kids okay?”
He nods “Dropped them at your parents, said we’d be back in time for them to open presents from Santa in the morning”
That pulls a real smile from you. You stand, squeezing his shoulder as you pass. “Gotta get back out there, waiting room’s a disaster”
“Hey” His fingers curl around your wrist gently, tugging you back. “I love you”
“I love you too” You lean down to press a chaste kiss to his lips.
Jack places a hand on your jaw, deepening the kiss slightly-
“Holy fucking shit!”
You jerk back, nearly knocking the coffee from the table.
Trinity stands in the doorway, her eyes wide and hands thrown in the air like she’d just witnessed a miracle.
“I knew that Robby and Dana knew who your husband was! Yes!” She turns on her heel, sprinting down the hallway to already collect her winnings.
“Best Christmas present ever! Suck it Huckleberry!”
“Merry Christmas to you too, I guess” you murmur, shaking your head in disbelief as Jack cackles squeezing your hand.
step into the shadows to find the light @tacos4president - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
