hey diva, since you're finally accepting requests can you PLEASE write anything for Aaron warner 🙏 (preferably hurt/comfort) i've been missing my wife a lot lately and there are literally no fics of him lately
aaron warner x fem!reader
You wake to the warmth of him pressed against your side, one arm thrown lazily over your waist, his fingers brushing against yours in that soft, unconscious way that makes your heart squeeze. The morning sunlight falls across the room, catching the sharp line of his jaw and the messy strands of hair that stick up no matter how much he tried to tame them last night.
He hums softly in his sleep, a low, throaty sound that makes you giggle quietly, pressing your face closer to his chest. His hand twitches and finds your hip, pulling you a little closer without even waking. You trace the line of his shoulder with your fingers, memorizing him like you always do in these quiet mornings.
“morning,” you murmur against his skin.
He stirs, eyes fluttering open, and immediately a lazy smile spreads across his face. “morning,” he murmurs back, voice still thick with sleep. He yawns, stretches, and then, as if he just remembered, his eyes widen a little. “oh. meeting today,” he says, voice turning a little rougher with that almost-adult serious tone that always makes your chest ache.
You pout playfully. “yeah, big scary meeting with your dad. You’re leaving me alone?”
He shakes his head, grinning, tugging your hair softly as if to keep you from being sad. “I’m not leaving you alone,” he says, teasing, fingers sliding along your arm. “I’ll come back. I promise. And when I do…” He leans down, brushing his lips over your temple. “You and me, breakfast in bed. And maybe a movie. Or two.”
You giggle, curling against him. “promises?”
He presses a soft kiss to the tip of your nose. “Promise. Pinky swear.”
You smile against him, feeling the warmth of the morning, the quiet happiness, the easy intimacy you share before the world intrudes. “don’t be late,” you whisper.
“I won’t,” he murmurs. He sits up slowly, careful not to disturb you too much, stretching again and reaching for the clothes he set out last night. “I’ll be back before you even realise I’m gone.”
You reach up, tugging him down for one more quick kiss. “you better be,” you murmur.
He grins, resting his forehead against yours for a brief, stolen second. “I will. you’ll see.”
And then he stands, slipping into his jacket, one hand lingering on your hip before he finally turns to leave.
When he returns from the meeting, something is already different. It’s subtle at first, he moves around the apartment like a shadow, mechanical and detached. His laughter is rare, and when he speaks to you, his voice is flat, clipped, almost guarded. He avoids sitting beside you on the couch, doesn’t reach for you in bed, and when you try to nudge his shoulder playfully or brush his hand, he flinches. Just slightly, just enough to sting.
You convince yourself it’s stress. Big meeting, his dad’s expectations, too much on his mind. You try to ignore it. You busy yourself with small tasks, keep your own routines, but every evening when you pass him in the hall and he avoids your eyes, every night when he curls at the edge of the bed, all of it chips away at your heart.
As the days pass, the coldness grows. The apartment is quieter. He eats breakfast alone. He doesn’t comment on your little jokes. He avoids small touches, small kisses, small moments that used to feel effortless. Every flinch, every pull away, every avoided glance feels like a small blade. You try to pretend it’s nothing, that it’s temporary, that he just needs time to think. But your chest twists anyway, and you feel the slow burn of being shut out by the one person who used to be your world.
You try to ignore it. You tell yourself he’s tired, that he’s stressed, that it’s temporary. But each day, the cold distance becomes harder to ignore. By the time the week is nearly over, the warmth you woke up to that morning feels like a memory from another life. You hesitate before speaking, afraid your voice will push him further away. You bite back your laughter, your teasing, your small attempts at intimacy.
And then you can’t anymore.
He’s moving around the apartment again, avoiding you, standing stiff and distant as if he’s made a wall you can’t reach. You catch him passing in the hall and reach for his arm, just a small touch.
He jerks away, eyes narrowing. “stop,” he says sharply. “stop acting like everything’s wrong.”
Your chest twists painfully. “Aaron… I know you’ve been avoiding me. I know you’ve been distant.”
He freezes, jaw tight, eyes finally meeting yours but cold, sharp. “maybe it’s because you’re making it about yourself again. Not everything revolves around you,” he says, tone clipped, carefully controlled.
The words cut deeper than anything he could yell. You blink, fight the tears, voice tight: “okay.”
You retreat to the bathroom, lock the door, and let the tears fall quietly. Every silent sob, every small trembling breath, feels like a betrayal of the warmth you shared that morning. You press your face to your hands, wishing he would come after you, even though part of you knows he won’t.
Outside that door, he leans against the wall, jaw tight, fists clenched. He can hear you. He hates himself. Every second you cry, every tear you shed, it’s because of him. He thought he was protecting you, keeping you safe, but all he’s done is hurt the one person he promised he’d never hurt.
A week passes like this. You move through the apartment quietly, polite, careful not to press him further. He flinches at your touch, dodges your kisses, pulls back in bed. Every time you try to connect, he slips away like water through your fingers.
And then he can’t take it anymore.
He finds you on the balcony, wrapped in a blanket, staring at the city lights. “can we talk?” he asks, voice low, hesitant.
You shrug without looking at him. “If it’s to tell me I’m wrong, I don’t need it.”
“I’m not here to do that,” he says. “I just… I can’t stand seeing you like this. I can’t keep letting you hurt because of me.”
You finally turn, red-rimmed eyes meeting his. “you already have. you were mean aaron,” you whisper, voice wobbling
He swallows, voice trembling. “I know. I’m sorry. I never… I never wanted to do this to you.”
You take a shaky step closer. “then stop,” you whisper. “don’t you dare decide for me what’s safe.”
He closes the distance slowly, carefully, hands trembling as they reach for you. “I won’t. I promise I won’t ever do this again,” he murmurs, voice cracking. “I’ll spend forever making up for it if you let me.”
You don’t speak, just let him hold you. He presses his forehead to yours, and you can feel the tension slowly unraveling, the tightness in his chest. He murmurs your name over and over, apologizing quietly, gently, and you press your cheek to his chest, letting yourself cry into him, letting the hurt and fear and longing and love pour out.
He carries you inside, tucking a blanket around both of you on the couch, bringing you water, fussing over you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear again. Every small gesture is careful, deliberate, full of apology.
Hours pass in murmurs, soft whispers, your hands brushing his arms, his fingers lightly holding yours. You talk quietly about the past week, about how much it hurt, about the fear and confusion. And then, finally, exhausted and still trembling, you fall asleep against him. He holds you close, forehead pressed to yours, murmuring your name and apologies until sleep finally claims him too.
For the first time in a week, it feels like it’s just the two of you again. Safe, quiet, and together.
