#(agents getting ready with the pause again)

[itslilacokay]

HE GOT OUT GUYS NO WAY (this is a definitely real ava 11 screenshot)

[cipheress-to-k-pop]

the one with the runaway bride

Pairing: Theodore Nott x Reader

Word Count: 12.1k (damn)

Summary: Sometimes running away from a wedding leads you exactly where you're meant to be — preferably into the arms of a much better guy.

A/N: These fics just keep getting longer and longer. again lowkey kinda hate this and i feel like i made theo heavily ooc but it is what it is ig

Theo hated churches.

He wasn’t particularly religious—never cared much for the belief in some higher power watching over them all. After all, if someone like that did exist, his mother—a devout, gentle woman—wouldn’t have been ripped from the earth so soon. It should’ve been his father, not her. At least, that’s what he’d thought as a boy.

Still, despite his aversion to anything even remotely sacred, he found himself sitting alone in the pews of a quiet chapel. The sun streamed through stained glass, washing the room in warm, fractured color. He didn’t believe in prayer, but he came here anyway. This had been his mother’s favorite place before she died, and somehow, being here made him feel closer to her—like she might hear him, if only faintly.

“Mamma,” He murmured, voice low, “sometimes I truly wonder what my future was meant to look like.”

The war was over, but the silence it left behind was deafening. He spent a lot of time now, wondering about his place in the world. He and the rest of his mates—Berkshire, Riddle, Malfoy, and Zabini—had played a crucial role, working as double agents under Dumbledore’s orders. But because their involvement had remained classified, carefully buried under the Ministry’s politics, they were still seen as Slytherins first. As former sympathizers. As a threat. Pariahs.

It stung. He had done the right thing, when it mattered most. And yet, he wondered if this cold reception was all he’d ever receive.

A few years ago, he hadn't even expected to live this long. His younger self had been certain he’d never survive the war—that he’d be killed for his betrayal of Voldemort and reunited with his mother much sooner than expected. But he had survived. And now, once again, he was adrift.

That’s why he came back here—hoping for clarity, for a sign. But as always, the silence answered him back.

He sighed softly, rising to his feet and tucking his hands into his coat pockets, ready to leave. His shoes echoed against the marble floor as he turned toward the exit.

But before he could cross the threshold, the chapel doors burst open with a loud bang.

Theo blinked.

A vision in white stumbled inside.

Satin, lace, curls escaping from a veil. Breathless. Flushed. A wild gleam in her eye.

His heart paused mid-beat as he recognized the chaos incarnate now standing in the aisle, clutching the skirt of her wedding dress like she’d just escaped a dragon, veil askew, bouquet long gone, and cheeks flushed pink like she’d run from hell itself.

His mouth opened before he could stop it.

“(L/N)?” The name left his mouth before he could stop it, soft and shocked and just a little bit disbelieving.

You looked up, startled — like you hadn’t expected to see another soul inside — and your eyes widened in delight.

“Theodore Nott!” You beamed, chest still rising and falling in heavy breaths, curls frizzing at the edges, voice giddy and strange, “Fancy seeing you here! Gosh, I haven't seen you since Hogwarts! How are you? And the others—Riddle, Berkshire, and the lot? All good, I hope.”

Theo stared at you in complete bewilderment as you keeled over to catch your breath, tugging off your veil and fanning yourself with it like some kind of deranged society lady.

“Merlin’s sweaty balls,” You gasped, dramatic as ever, “It’s impossible to breathe in this damn corset.”

“They’re good,” Theo said slowly, brow furrowed, “I’m sorry, are you in a wedding dress?”

You nodded, breathless, laughing like the question itself was hilarious, “Unfortunately, yes. Bit of a pity I didn’t realize I didn’t want to marry the sorry bloke thirty minutes ago. Would’ve made my escape a lot easier if I wasn’t drowning in fifty pounds of satin.”

He blinked at you, still speechless, hands deep in his coat pockets.

“I mean—” You barreled on, eyes wide and shining, “there I was, standing at the altar, looking at my so-called fiancé, and it just hit me: I cannot wake up to his sorry mug for the rest of my life. To hell with my parents. And society. I don’t want to be a Bulstrode. That name sounds like the arse-end of a toad, don’t you think?”

You paused, eyes narrowing playfully, “(Y/N) (L/N) sounds so much nicer, doesn’t it?”

Theo arched an unimpressed brow, “You know you can get married without changing your last name, right?”

At that, you absolutely lost it—doubling over in wheezing laughter, slapping your knee like he’d just told the funniest joke in history.

“You always were such a crack-up, Theodore!” You gasped between giggles, “Where are my manners? What brings you here today? Certainly not for the wedding, I hope—because, well—” You gestured at yourself, still panting in the middle of the cathedral, “you can probably tell that’s not happening.”

Before Theodore could get a word in, the sound of heavy footsteps thundered down the hallway. Your eyes went comically wide as you pressed yourself flat against the stone wall, wedged just behind the chapel door as it swung open with a bang.

In marched your father—red-faced, sweaty, and breathing like a charging Hippogriff. His eyes locked onto Theodore like he was a bloodhound catching a scent.

“Have you seen a girl in a wedding dress?” He barked.

Theo quirked a brow, gaze sliding—slowly, deliberately—to the right, where you were doing your best impression of a human statue. From where he stood, he could see you mouthing frantic no’s, shaking your head so violently he was almost certain you’d give yourself whiplash. Your hands were flying in wild, desperate gestures, pleading silently.

He turned back to your father, the picture of calm.

“No, sir.”

Your father squinted, suspicious—but apparently not enough to question it. “Well, if you do,” He huffed, already half-turning, “you tell her to march her sorry behind back into that hall and marry the boy, or she’ll be sorry.”

The door slammed shut behind him.

You clutched your chest like you’d just survived a curse, eyes squeezed shut as you slid bonelessly to the floor in your crumpled wedding dress.

“That,” You breathed, “was nerve-wracking.”

You peeked up at him with a grateful look, “You’re a good liar, Nott. Thank you.”

Theo looked down at the breathless, sweaty heap you’d become, still sprawled on the stone floor like a very distressed meringue. With an amused smirk, he cleared his throat, “Well… good luck with everything, (L/N). Let me know if you actually go through with becoming a Bulstrode. I’ll send a wedding gift.”

You gaped up at him in horror as he began to sidestep the tangled mass of satin and lace that was your gown, clearly preparing to leave the chapel and abandon you to your doom. Without thinking, you grabbed his calf—your perfectly manicured nails digging into his trousers, the massive engagement ring catching the light like a cursed artifact.

“What?! You can’t go now! You have to get me out of here!”

Theo arched a skeptical brow, “And why, exactly, would I do that?”

You pointed at him in outrage, still clutching his leg like a deranged bride octopus, “You just lied to my father! That makes you an accomplice. A—A conspirator! You're already implicated!”

Theo looked thoroughly unimpressed, “I could just tell him you were hiding behind the door like a terrified possum.”

You gasped, “You wouldn’t.”

He tilted his head, “Try me.”

Panic glittered in your eyes before you straightened your spine and went full Slytherin, “Fine. You want to play that game? I’ll tell everyone you’re my secret paramour. That you seduced me, took my virtue in the belfry, and that’s why I fled the altar.”

Theo’s mouth dropped open, scandalized, “I beg your pardon?”

You clasped your hands together, expression softening into exaggerated, pleading sweetness, “Please, Theodore. I’m not asking for your soul. Just… apparate me out of here. One quick jump and I’ll be out of your life forever.”

He stared at you. Then sighed.

“Merlin help me,” He muttered, “You’re even more unhinged than I remember.”

“So that’s a yes?”

He offered you a hand, “Only if you swear not to mention the word ‘virtue’ ever again.”

You grinned, already taking his hand, “Deal, my paramour.”

He groaned. Loudly.

Theo stepped closer, one hand sliding around your waist, tugging you flush against him. You blinked up at him, stunned into silence by the proximity. Up close, you finally understood why half the girls in your year had harbored crushes on him. He had that kind of face—the infuriatingly beautiful kind that made your stomach swoop before your brain could catch up.

Then—with a sharp crack—the world twisted out from under your feet.

You landed hard against him, fingers fisting the lapels of his jacket like your life depended on it. Which, to be fair, it had.

Warm sunlight spilled over your face, the bustling sounds of the street around you cutting through the fading disorientation. You blinked. Then smiled.

You were free.

Theo watched you quietly as your eyes danced over every detail—the streetlamp, the baker’s cart, a child chasing a butterfly. Everything ordinary now seemed extraordinary through your gaze. You looked like someone seeing the world for the first time.

“Are you good, (L/N)?” He asked, low and cautious.

You didn’t take your eyes off the street. “A new world’s waiting for me,” You said softly, “It’s… terrifying.”

He didn’t say anything, but his grip around your waist didn’t loosen.

You stood there, trembling fingers still tangled in the fabric of his coat, heart pounding like it was trying to sprint back to the cathedral.

Theodore’s sharp gaze softened as he took in your messy lipstick, sweat-dampened curls, and the way you clung to him like the world had just tipped sideways. You looked like a woman on the edge of disaster—or greatness. Maybe both.

"Where were you planning to go?" He asked quietly.

You blinked up at him, dumbly, your glassy eyes beginning to sting as the reality of what you’d just done crashed over you like cold water.

Oh Merlin.

What had you done?

You didn’t have a house. You didn’t have a job. You didn’t have money of your own. Your entire life had been orchestrated by your father—who’d been all too eager to sell you off to your so-called fiancé—and you’d just thrown a wrench in his perfect little plan.

"I... I hadn’t thought that far." You admitted, voice barely a whisper as your bottom lip began to tremble.

Theo sighed, dragging a hand through his hair, “Bloody hell.”

You started to stammer, trying to save face, “Look—I’ll figure it out. I just needed to get away. You don’t have to—”

“Don’t be dense,” He muttered, “Come on.”

You furrowed your brows, confused, “Come on where?”

“My home,” He said bluntly, “You’re clearly overwhelmed, and you need to breathe somewhere that isn’t a chapel or the middle of a bloody street. You can crash in the guest room. I’ll pour a cup of tea. Or Firewhisky, if you’re feeling rebellious.”

You stared at him, stunned silent, “You’d really do that for me?”

In all honesty, Theodore had no idea why he was doing this for you.

Maybe it was the way your eyes looked—raw and frightened—that struck something in him. He remembered that look. Back when his mother died. Back when he was stuck between two worlds, pretending to be loyal to the Death Eaters while secretly fighting for the other side. When the war ended, and he had no bloody idea who he was without it.

He knew helplessness like an old friend. And though he’d never admit it aloud, he also knew he wouldn’t sleep tonight if he walked away now—knowing you were out there, wandering the streets in a bloody wedding dress or dragged back to marry someone you didn’t love.

“Yeah,” He said finally, “I would.”

You exhaled shakily, blinking back tears, “Okay.”

“Okay.” He echoed.

He held your arm carefully—like you were a glass about to crack—and apparated you both away.

By the time your feet touched down again, you were standing in a warmly lit corridor outside a tall, modern-looking door. Theodore slid a key out of his coat pocket and unlocked it with a click.

“My flat.” He said simply, stepping aside to let you in.

You blinked, glancing around as you followed him, “Wait. Don’t you have a whole family manor somewhere?”

He raised a brow as he tossed his coat onto a sleek brass hook, “Not fancy enough for you, darling? Would you rather go to the five-star resort your family booked for your honeymoon instead?”

You gaped, then closed your mouth, then opened it again—only to come up short, “Touché.”

He chuckled, pushing open the door, “I live in a flat because the manor’s too bloody big for just me. I might move back in when I’m older, but right now? No one needs twenty-three bedrooms unless they’re running a boarding school.”

You rolled your eyes, stepping inside after him, “Just say you’re rich and move on,” you muttered.

You were mid-sigh when your eyes took in the space—and almost instantly, the tension in your shoulders loosened. His flat wasn’t enormous, but it was stunning. Dark hardwood floors, rich emerald and charcoal accents, and floor-to-ceiling windows framed the London skyline like a painting. The air smelled faintly of pine, leather, and something warm—like spice and magic.

Books lined custom-built shelves along one wall, and a record player quietly spun something soft and jazzy in the corner. A massive velvet sofa sat in the center of the open-plan living area, flanked by brass sconces and a few well-kept plants.

Theo disappeared into a side room, leaving you standing awkwardly in your crumpled wedding dress in the middle of his living room. When he returned, he had a folded stack of clothes in his hands.

“I grabbed whatever looked closest to your size,” He said, handing them over with a half-shrug, “Might still be a bit big—but it’s cozy, at least.”

You unfolded the hoodie and held it up. It fell nearly to your knees.

“You’re joking.”

“Or you could stay in your wedding dress. Very sexy.”

You let out a laugh, “You got me again.”

You eyed the clothes, then glanced back up at him, “You sure none of your… lady friends left something behind? Something a bit more...appropriate?”

Theo smirked, unfazed, “I don’t keep a lost and found bin, sweetheart. But nice try.”

You grinned despite yourself, clutching the clothes to your chest.

“Go on,” He added, gesturing toward the hallway, “First door on the right—bathroom’s there. Take your time. Come out when you’re ready. I’ll sort dinner.”

“You cook?”

He looked at you, mock-offended, “I’m Italian.”

“That’s not a yes.”

Theo placed a hand over his heart, feigning injury, “Wow. So little faith.”

You laughed—a real one this time—as you padded off toward the bathroom, the ridiculous rustle of your wedding dress trailing behind you. Hoodie and sweats in hand, feet aching, heart still thudding from everything you’d run from.

But somehow, in the warmth of this space, with the sound of jazz humming in the background and Theo cooking up dinner—you started to feel something you hadn’t felt in a long time.

Safe.

Maybe, just maybe… you were going to be okay.

When you finally emerged from the bathroom, the last remnants of your old life had gone swirling down the drain—hairspray, waterproof mascara, and everything else that once held you together. You felt… lighter. Your skin was clean, your hair damp, and the oversized hoodie you wore—Theo’s—smelled faintly of cedar and citrus. It hung down to your thighs like a dress, and the joggers were barely hanging onto your waist.

The scent hit you first—garlic, tomatoes, fresh herbs—and your stomach let out a traitorous growl.

Theo looked up from the stove, giving you a once-over before turning back to stir the pot. “Look at you,” He said with a lopsided smirk, “Didn’t think my clothes would suit you that well.”

You gave him a smirk and did a twirl to show off the outfit—just in time for the joggers to fall right to your ankles. You both burst into laughter.

“The elastic’s useless and the drawstring’s just for decoration.” You said, tossing the offending trousers over the back of a chair.

“Wouldn’t be the first time I charmed the pants off a woman.” Theo replied smoothly.

You snorted, shaking your head.

He slid a bowl across the island toward you—tagliatelle with a thick, rich Bolognese sauce, steam curling up like it had its own mind.

You took one bite, and your eyes fluttered shut. “Oh my god,” You groaned, “This is… this is unreal.”

He gave a small shrug, “I told you.”

You were already shoveling in another forkful, “I haven’t eaten something that didn’t taste like sadness in months.”

Theo leaned against the counter, watching with amusement, “Easy, love. You keep going at that pace, you’ll make those giant joggers fit.”

You swallowed and let out a dramatic sigh, “Wedding diet. I’ve been living off steamed vegetables and heartbreak.”

He laughed, deep and full, “Well, lucky you. There’s more where that came from. And gelato in the freezer.”

Your head snapped up, “You’re kidding.”

“‘Chi mangia bene, vive bene,’” He said with a smirk, “‘Those who eat well, live well.’ My mamma drilled that into me.”

You blinked, then smiled, “Incredibly smart woman.”

For the first time in what felt like forever, your smile didn’t feel like something you had to fake or force. You sat there, in someone else’s hoodie, with sauce on your cheek and your hair still damp, in a flat that smelled like warmth and comfort and garlic.

Theo reached across the table, brushing his thumb gently against the corner of your mouth, “You’ve got a bit of sauce—right there.”

You blinked, startled by the tenderness of the gesture. His hand lingered a second longer than necessary before he pulled back.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go home?” He asked, quieter now.

You gave him a half-smile, soft but guarded, “Sick of me already?”

His lips quirked, but his eyes stayed serious, “I just mean… are you sure you won’t regret this? People get cold feet. Panic at the altar. Happens all the time, or so I hear. And the longer you stay here—the more real this gets—the harder it’ll be to undo without fallout.”

You sat still for a moment, then set your fork down, appetite forgotten.

“It wasn’t cold feet,” You said, voice low, “I never wanted to get married.”

Theo didn’t interrupt. He just waited.

“My father did. Desperately. He’s been obsessed with bloodlines and alliances since before I could walk. Marrying into the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Like that still means anything in this world.” You let out a bitter laugh, “Somehow that old bastard managed to squirm his way out of Azkaban after the war. And now he’s back to doing what he does best—peddling blood purity and ruining my life.”

Theo’s jaw tensed, but he said nothing.

“I spent months shoving my feelings down, just trying to be the daughter he wanted. The obedient one. Because what choice did I have?” Your fingers curled around the fabric of his hoodie, “But when I was standing there—at the altar, staring down a future I didn’t choose—I realized something. Maybe I didn’t have choices before. But I could make one now.”

Silence stretched between you for a beat.

Then, softly, Theo said, “That was brave.”

You let out a watery laugh, swiping your sleeve beneath your eyes, “Please. Not like you, playing double agent for Dumbledore. Now that was brave.”

He shook his head, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, “That was reckless.”

“It was noble. Valiant,” You said, voice steadier now, “Really, the kind of madness only a true Slytherin could be ambitious enough to pull off.”

Theo arched a brow, “Flattery? From you?”

You gave him a crooked grin, “Don’t get used to it. Mine was just… selfish. Desperate.”

He looked at you, the warmth in his gaze soft but unwavering, “It’s good to be selfish sometimes.”

You held his gaze, breath catching slightly when his eyes didn’t waver. There was something weighty in the silence—something soft and unspoken stretching between you, tugging gently at the space that separated your bodies.

Theo’s fingers drummed once against the tabletop, then stilled. Neither of you moved.

Your pulse thrummed in your ears. He looked at you like he was trying to memorize the shape of your face, and for a second, just one second, you let yourself wonder what it would feel like to close the distance.

Then you blinked, cleared your throat, and reached for his plate. “Well. Since you think it’s good to be selfish,” You said, trying to sound casual, “I’m gonna eat the rest of your pasta.”

Theo let out a breath that might’ve been a laugh—or a sigh. Maybe both, “Oi—at least leave room for dessert.”

***

Loud, boisterous laughter was the first thing that dragged Theo out of a half-dream. He groaned, arm flinging over his eyes as the unmistakable sound of his front door swinging open—without ceremony—hit him like a freight train.

“What the—who the hell is making all that noise?” He muttered, voice hoarse as he blinked toward the ceiling.

The culprits were, predictably, already raiding his kitchen like starved hyenas: Draco, Lorenzo, Mattheo, and Blaise, helping themselves to his fresh bread and the groceries he’d actually gone out and picked himself—because unlike those degenerates, he cared about food quality.

He should’ve never given them spare keys.

“For emergencies,” He’d said. “Only if it’s important,” He’d said.

Idiotic. Clearly, their definition of ‘emergency’ included hungover brunches and unsolicited early morning gossip.

“Morning, sunshine,” Draco drawled with an infuriating smirk, already sprawled across Theo’s sofa, eating the hand-picked strawberries Theo had searched three markets to find, “You’re just in time for the morning news”

Theo groaned louder and face-planted into the cushions, “Could you shut up? Some of us are trying to sleep in our own damn flat.”

“Oh, come on,” Blaise said, smirking as he rifled through Theo’s cabinets, “You must’ve heard by now. (L/N). You remember her—Pansy's roommate. She left Bulstrode at the altar. Just ran right out.”

Lorenzo let out a low whistle, “Left Bulstrode standing there like an absolute mug. At the altar, mate. In front of everyone. Just turned and walked straight out mid-vows. I mean—iconic.”

Mattheo, chewing thoughtfully on a stolen slice of sourdough, shrugged, “Serves him right. No way Bulstrode was ever gonna bag a babe like (L/N). He’s got the charm of a wet napkin.”

“And get this,” Blaise said, lowering his voice into a tone of mock-conspiracy, eyes glinting, “Rumor is—she had a lover on the side. Secret romance, hidden rendezvous, the whole nine yards. Some bloke she’s apparently been in love with for ages. No one knows who, though.”

Theo, face still hidden by the couch cushions, flinched.

Blaise squinted at him, “You look... twitchy. Something you wanna share with the group?”

Before Theo could invent an excuse, a sound cut through the room—soft footsteps padding across the floorboards.

The guest bedroom door creaked open.

You stepped out, bleary-eyed, rubbing your face with the sleeve of Theo’s oversized hoodie—his hoodie that hung off your frame like it had been stitched for you. Your hair was tousled from sleep, legs bare, the joggers you’d worn the night before still draped over a chair in the corner, clearly forgotten.

Theo’s eyes flicked up to you for a moment—heart skipping a beat at the sight of your flushed cheeks and mussed hair—but he quickly masked the softness with a cool, unreadable glance.

Every sound in the room died on cue.

You blinked at the kitchen full of frozen Slytherins and offered a sheepish smile, “Um… morning?”

The silence that followed was nothing short of reverent.

Mattheo dropped his toast. Lorenzo’s jaw unhinged. Draco choked on a strawberry. Blaise turned—slowly, dramatically—to Theo with the grin of a man who had just unearthed a scandal.

And then—chaos.

“No bloody way,” Blaise said, pointing an accusatory finger, “You?! You’re the lover?!”

“No, no,” Theo said immediately, sitting up straighter, “She’s not—I mean, it’s not— It’s not like that.”

You nodded, “It’s really not what it looks like.”

“She’s not—” Theo added, standing abruptly.

“We’re not—” You said at the same time.

“Dating.” You both finished in unison.

The pause that followed was only broken by Blaise’s slow, disbelieving laugh, “You two seriously rehearsed that or something?”

Mattheo’s gaze flicked from you, to the hoodie, to Theo’s bedhead and thoroughly disheveled state, “You sly, secretive little bastard.”

“You’re blushing,” Lorenzo cackled, pointing at Theo.

“I’m not blushing.”

“You’re so red your freckles are blending in.”

“You lot need to leave,” Theo growled, yanking the mug out of Draco’s hand.

“Oh, we’ll leave,” Mattheo said, standing with an exaggerated sigh, “Just as soon as we finish processing the greatest plot twist since Dumbledore kicked it.”

“I don’t know,” Lorenzo mused, “This might top it. Runaway bride finds solace in former classmate’s bed—”

“Spare room!” You and Theo barked at once.

“Oh right,” Blaise said, lazily gesturing to you, “Because that totally explains the no-pants situation.”

You threw up your hands, “He doesn’t have any trousers that fit me!”

Mattheo let out a low whistle, “Stars above, I wish I had popcorn.”

Theo’s jaw clenched, “She needed a place to stay. I offered. That’s it.”

“And I accepted. Platonically.” You stressed.

“And Theodore isn’t some adulterous whore,” You added with a sigh, “He’s just an unfortunate bloke with terrible timing who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

The way your voice softened at the end made something twist in Theo’s chest.

“Well, you did good,” Lorenzo said, grabbing another slice of bread, “Bulstrode’s an ugly git anyway.”

You shared a glance with Theo who gave you a soft, barely there smile that was meant to reassure you in a way that conveyed, 'See? What you did wasn't so bad.'

“So what’s the plan now?” Blaise asked, eyeing the two of you over his coffee, “You two just gonna keep playing house?”

“Oi, ease up,” Theo said, casting him a warning look, “Don’t overwhelm her.”

He glanced at you briefly, then added, “We talked last night.”

“Ooo, pillow talk.” Mattheo smirked—earning himself a slap to the back of the head.

Theo rolled his eyes, “We were talking, and I offered to let her stay here. As long as she needs.”

You caught Theo’s eye and saw a softness there that only came out when he looked at you. In that moment, the chaos of friends and gossip faded away, leaving just the quiet promise of safety and belonging between you two.

***

You sat cross-legged on the floor, the open suitcase in front of you spilling out clothes, books, and a few small trinkets you’d brought from your old life. The boxes stacked neatly nearby were still untouched—silent reminders that this was real, that you were here now.

Getting your things back from your home had been easier than expected. You’d slipped in while your father was at work, your heart racing as you moved quietly through the familiar halls. The moment your hand wrapped around your wand—left behind for safekeeping during the wedding—it felt like you could finally breathe again. You packed up your life swiftly, shrinking and sending each box to Theo’s flat before you could second-guess yourself.

“It feels weird seeing all my stuff here.” You murmured, running your fingers over your old Slytherin scarf. A soft smile tugged at your lips as memories from Hogsmeade weekends and late-night gossip sessions filled your head. Back in school, your dormmates used to call dibs on the boys in your year—Pansy obviously claimed Draco, Daphne was hell-bent on Mattheo (she had a thing for bad boys, she used to say). The others squabbled over Blaise and Lorenzo, leaving you with Theo by default. You’d taken it in stride, because Merlin forbid you end up with Crabbe or Goyle. If only sixth-year you knew you’d one day be living with Theo Nott after bolting from your own wedding.

“Like this is really happening.” You said softly.

Theo leaned against the doorway, arms folded, watching you with a look you couldn’t quite place. You let your eyes rake over him—how he somehow made jeans and a simple black long-sleeved tee look sinfully good without even trying.

“Don’t you want to unpack?” He asked after a moment, voice casual, “Make it feel a bit more like yours?”

You shook your head, teeth tugging at your lower lip, “I don’t want to get too comfortable. I need to move out soon, find my own place. Can’t just settle in someone else’s flat.”

Your eyes drifted to the empty dresser and the bare walls, imagining them filled with your perfume bottles, your shoes lined up in the closet, your keepsakes resting in quiet corners of the room. It felt… indulgent. And dangerous.

Theo pushed off the doorframe and crossed the room with that quiet confidence that always made your stomach flip. He crouched beside you, fingers brushing yours as he gently pulled the scarf from your hands.

“Don’t be so pressured,” He said softly, “Take your time.”

Your breath caught at the tenderness in his voice, so at odds with the sarcasm he usually deflected with. His gaze held yours—warm, steady, unflinching.

“What kind of fake adulterous whore would I be,” he added, smirking just a little, “if I didn’t give you a comfortable place to stay while you figure things out?”

You let out a shaky laugh, swatting his arm as your cheeks flushed. The warmth in his eyes made your chest tighten in a way that had nothing to do with fear. It felt... safe. For the first time in a long time.

He reached out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, fingers lingering just a second too long. Your breath hitched. Your heart thudded. And before you could stop yourself, your gaze flicked to his mouth.

The moment hung there—suspended and fragile—until it broke like glass.

Theo cleared his throat and pulled back. You dropped your gaze and fanned your burning cheeks, pretending not to notice the way your entire body buzzed with unspoken tension.

He stood, casting a quick glance around the room before his eyes landed on a box labeled “Bathroom.” With a quiet smile, he bent to pick it up.

“I’ll go put this over there.” He said, voice gentler now even though you both were well aware he could've used his magic to charm the objects in its place.

You watched him go, heart fluttering wildly in your chest, feeling strangely steady for the first time in days.

Strangely at home.

***

Watching Theo get ready for work every morning had become your newest, most humbling routine. In the quiet hours before he left—hair perfectly styled, cufflinks glinting faintly in the sunlight—you were struck with the growing realization that your life was a blank page. And not in the hopeful, inspiring way. No, it felt like staring at an overdue assignment you had no idea how to finish.

When he was home, everything felt a little easier—light conversation over breakfast, quiet companionship in the evenings, his effortless presence filling the flat with a calm you hadn’t realized you craved. But once he was out the door, you were left with hours that stretched out like an endless, silent ache. And with that ache came the inevitable realization: you weren’t here to play house with Theodore Nott. You needed to get your life in order.

Which was why, this morning, you were dressed. Not just dressed—put together. A soft, Chanel-inspired ensemble hugged your form, elegant and mature, polished right down to the glossy sheen of your lips.

Across the table, Theo sat in his usual tailored suit and tie, sipping his coffee while reading the newspaper.

He was a dream roommate—unbothered, polite, attentive without being invasive. He cooked most mornings and evenings, and you handled lunch and dishes out of principle more than anything else. And yet, no matter how well you split the duties, you still felt like a freeloader in silk pajamas. He never asked you to contribute, never brought up rent or groceries or anything at all.

Which, ironically, only made the guilt settle heavier in your chest.

It was unbearable. So this newfound spark of motivation—this desire to prove you could stand on your own two feet again—burned fast and hot.

He was fixing his watch by the mirror beside the door, running gelled fingers through his hair, smoothing it back with that practiced grace. You stepped over, holding his coat in one hand and yours in the other, and offered it to him with a quiet, “Here.”

He murmured a small thanks as he slipped into it, but you didn’t step back.

Instead, you reached up to adjust his tie, fingers deft as you corrected the slight tilt in the knot. “I know you’re just going to mess it up the second you get to the office,” you said, smiling softly, “but it’s driving me crazy.”

You smoothed the tie down gently, fingertips brushing the lapels of his coat. When your eyes lifted, you caught him staring—not at your eyes, but your lips, still slick with gloss from your post-breakfast touch-up, and suddenly it felt like a mistake to stand this close, in this kind of silence, with him looking at you like that.

You met his gaze. Your heart stuttered.

Was he leaning in?

Or were you imagining it—some cruel trick your body played when it got too used to his scent, his proximity, the low hum of affection that vibrated just beneath the surface?

Before you could answer, he inhaled sharply and stepped back, the moment snapping like a taut string.

“Busy day today?” He asked, voice neutral, composed.

You cleared your throat, recovering quickly.

“Yeah,” You said, grabbing your purse and your coat, avoiding his eyes, “I’m visiting Slughorn at Hogwarts. I was always good at potions, and he used to favor me—mostly because I always showed up to those ridiculous Slug Club meetings.” You gave a faint chuckle.

“I heard he’s still teaching and struggling to keep up with his personal research. I was kind of his unofficial assistant in seventh year, so… I’m hoping he’ll consider taking me on. As an apprentice or something.”

You kept your tone light, casual, even though your pulse thudded in your throat. You avoided his eyes as you adjusted the strap of your purse.

Theo held the door open for you, and your heart flipped in your chest like it always did when he did things like that without thinking—like it was natural. Like you belonged here.

“Good luck, (Y/N).” He said simply, his voice low but earnest.

You turned your head slightly, offering him a small smile. The way he was looking at you made your steps falter for just a second.

“Thank you.” You said, voice barely above a whisper.

And then you walked on, heels clicking softly on the marble floor, heart fluttering like mad against your ribs.

***

You practically skipped down the stone steps of Hogwarts, the weight of your nervous anticipation completely lifted from your shoulders. The crisp air smelled of old parchment and damp moss, and for once, you didn’t mind. Your cheeks were flushed, your hands clutching the letter Slughorn had scrawled in excitement after your meeting: an official offer to join him as his private research assistant, with the intent of training you to become a certified Potions Master.

Your heart was hammering by the time you reached Theo’s flat, and you didn’t even knock—just flung the door open and stepped inside, calling his name like a storm announcing itself.

“Theo!”

He appeared from the hallway, towel slung over his shoulder, clearly mid-way through drying his hair, shirt sleeves rolled up, “What? Are you okay?”

You beamed so brightly you could’ve lit the whole room with just the force of it, “I got it—I got the position! I’m going to train with Slughorn! He’s taking me on!”

For a second, Theo just blinked at you, frozen in place. Then your words seemed to register fully and he opened his mouth to say something—but before he could, you launched yourself at him.

Your arms flung around his neck, and he caught you with a startled grunt, stumbling back half a step before wrapping his arms tightly around your waist, instinctively keeping you upright. You laughed, giddy and breathless against his shoulder, your legs kicking slightly off the ground.

“I knew you would.” He said against your temple, voice low and warm and slightly amused, though the hug he gave you was grounding, solid, and real.

You pulled back just enough to look up at him, eyes bright, “I’m going to be a Potions Master.”

Theo’s hands stayed on your waist, his lips twitching into a rare, open smile, “You’re going to be brilliant.”

You didn’t know what possessed you then—maybe it was the adrenaline, maybe it was the way he was still holding you like you were something precious—but you leaned in without thinking and pressed a kiss to his cheek, quick and full of warmth.

Theo blinked, stunned.

You blinked, too, realizing what you just did.

He slowly set you down on your feet, clearing his throat, but the faintest shade of pink had crept up his neck.

"Thank you, Theo." You whispered, looking up at him like he hung the moon in the sky, "For everything."

***

You were halfway through folding the laundry while Theo showered when the door flew open with no warning, the sharp click of heels on hardwood echoing like the cue for a dramatic entrance.

“Surprise, darling!” Pansy announced grandly, stepping into the apartment with a flourish, a pastry box in one hand and designer sunglasses in the other, “I brought macarons from that place you liked in Paris—Theo, you better be decent!”

She strutted into the living room expecting to find her best friend brooding over black coffee, muttering about case files or the Ministry’s latest idiocy.

Instead, she found you.

Her heel halted mid-click. Her eyes went wide, lips parting in stunned recognition.

“(Y/N)?”

You blinked, holding a half-folded jumper, “Hi—?”

The pastry box slipped from her fingers, forgotten as she gasped.

“(Y/N)!”

Before you could react, she barreled across the room, arms wide, heels thudding across the floor. She crashed into you with a hug that nearly knocked you into the couch, her perfume wrapping around you like a familiar blanket as she squeezed you breathless.

You laughed, arms wrapping around her just as tightly, “Oh God, I’m so sorry I didn’t make it to the wedding! I couldn’t get a Portkey in time—I felt awful. I’ve missed you so much!”

Pansy pulled back to get a proper look at you, holding you at arm’s length like she needed to confirm you were real, “Oh, how’s newlywed life treating you? How’s your husband—” she started brightly, then trailed off.

Her eyes scanned your outfit—comfy shorts and an old Quidditch tee—and then flicked to the half-folded laundry scattered across the coffee table.

And that was precisely the moment Theo stepped out of the bathroom.

Shirtless. Damp. Joggers slung low on his hips. A towel around his neck, his hair still dripping.

Pansy blinked. You blinked. Theo froze like a deer in headlights.

Her eyes snapped between you and Theo. Once. Twice.

Her jaw dropped.

“No. Bloody. Way.”

You swallowed hard, “I, uh... I ran from the altar. I’ve been living here for a month. Surprise?”

A beat of silence.

Then—

“You absolute plonkers!” Pansy shouted, whirling around like a furious peacock as the front door opened again and the rest of the boys filtered in—Draco, Blaise, Mattheo, Enzo—all pausing mid-step at the scene.

Theo grimaced.

Pansy turned on Draco with fury, “You ranted to me for an hour last night about Potter’s work ethic, but you didn’t think to mention that one of my closest friends from school ran out of her own wedding and moved in with Theo?”

Draco’s eyes widened, “I thought you knew!”

“You lot are unbelievable.” She huffed, throwing her hands up.

Draco looked caught somewhere between amusement and panic. Blaise choked on a laugh. Mattheo raised his hands in mock innocence.

Pansy, eyes glittering with mischief, turned back to you with an exasperated scoff, “We’re getting drinks tonight. You and I are going to unpack every bloody bit of this madness. And if there’s any scandal you’re hiding from me, I swear to Merlin—”

You gave her a sheepish smile, heart fluttering with the kind of warmth that only old friendships could bring.

“I wish. But I can’t tonight. I’m working with Slughorn now—officially—and I’ve got my first full day tomorrow. Still need to study up a bit. I really don’t want to get fired before I even make it to lunch.”

Pansy’s features softened instantly. She stepped forward, cupping your cheeks with warm hands and smoothing your hair in a way that made your eyes sting.

“Slughorn?” She breathed, proud and a little misty, “You’re working with Slughorn? That’s incredible. I’m so proud of you.”

Your throat tightened, “Thanks, Pansy. God, I missed you. Let’s do a proper catch-up this weekend, yeah? I don’t want to keep you from your homecoming party—you should go have fun.”

She nodded and pulled you into one last tight hug. “This weekend,” she warned playfully, “or I swear I’ll come kidnap you from this flat myself.”

You laughed, hugging her back, “Deal.”

Just then, Theo reappeared in the living room, now fully dressed and slipping his watch onto his wrist. He reached for his coat, but you were already there, stepping behind him to help him shrug it on.

“Don’t you have to be up early tomorrow?” You asked gently, brushing invisible lint from his sleeve.

From behind you, Blaise gave a low whistle.

“Ooooh, listen to that,” Mattheo drawled with a teasing grin, “Wifey’s making sure the hubby gets to bed on time.”

Theo rolled his eyes, already used to these jokes and glanced down at you, a quiet smile pulling at his lips, “It’s just one drink.”

You sighed, half amused, half resigned, “Okay. Just… don’t come home completely smashed.”

“No promises.” He said with a wink, and the door shut behind them seconds later.

***

The bar buzzed with the low hum of chatter, clinking glasses, and a jazz cover of a Weird Sisters song playing over the speakers. The group had claimed a corner booth, drinks in hand, laughter spilling over every few minutes.

Theo nursed a firewhisky, sitting back with his usual composed expression which caught the attention of Mattheo, “Oh, don’t drink that too fast, Teddy boy. You don’t want to go back absolutely hammered to the missus.”

“You lot are ridiculous,” Theo muttered, though a hint of fondness softened his tone.

“Oh, come off it,” Blaise grinned, swirling his drink, “You like it. You’re practically glowing these days. It’s very unnerving.”

“Very domestic of you, Theo,” Enzo added, smirking, “Sharing a flat, cooking her breakfast, letting her steal your clothes—”

“She doesn’t steal my clothes.”

Mattheo grinned, “Mate, I saw her wearing your Chudley Cannons jumper yesterday.”

Theo looked away, clearly caught.

Pansy took a slow sip of her cocktail, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Honestly, I’m shocked you let her stay with you. You’re usually so…” She waved a perfectly manicured hand, “emotionally unavailable. Allergic to company, really.”

Blaise leaned in, eyes gleaming, “I mean hardly a surprise considering how badly gone he was for her back in school.”

Pansy froze mid-sip.

“Wait—what? Who was gone for who?!” she gasped, nearly slamming her glass on the table, voice sharp with disbelief.

The boys blinked in surprise.

“You didn’t know?” Draco asked, brows raised.

“You’re kidding,” Blaise said, laughing, “You always shoved them into group projects and made them sit together during dinners — we thought you were matchmaking!”

“I was!” Pansy snapped, whipping around to glare at Draco, “Because I wanted to go with you, and the other cows in our dorm had already called dibs on Enzo, Mattheo, and Blaise. Theo was just—left!”

She turned back to the table, eyes wide with the horror of missed opportunity, “Don’t you think if I’d known he fancied her, I would’ve shoved them into a broom cupboard and locked the door?”

Mattheo cackled, “That’s so on-brand for you.”

Pansy groaned, dramatically dropping her head onto Draco’s shoulder, “You absolute wankers. If one of you had opened your mouth years ago, that wedding she had a month ago? Could’ve been yours, Theo.”

Theo sipped his firewhisky quietly, hidden behind the rim of his glass. Flashes of you in a wedding dress and veil flickered behind his eyes, a soft blush spreading across his neck. None of them missed it.

Blaise nudged Mattheo, “He’s thinking about it now.”

“Oh, he’s been thinking about it.”

Theo threw his head back, downing the rest of his firewhiskey in one go, “I need another drink.”

***

The door flew open with a crash, nearly coming off its hinges.

“We have arrived!” Lorenzo declared, clearly drunk, arms wide, as if expecting applause.

Theo stumbled in between Blaise and Mattheo, arms slung over their shoulders like a war hero being carried off the battlefield. His shirt was half-untucked, hair a mess, and his eyes—when he managed to open them—were glassy and unfocused.

You poked your head out from the kitchen, arms crossed, “What happened to ‘just one drink’?”

“He drank.” Blaise said simply.

“Like a fish.” Mattheo added.

“Like a moron.” Draco corrected as he strolled in behind them, tossing Theo’s coat over a chair, “He’s your problem now.”

Theo blinked at the sound of your voice and perked up immediately. “Tesoro!” He slurred, trying to walk toward you but very nearly face-planting into the floor. You caught him under the arm just in time.

“Hi, Theo,” You said softly, “Oh gosh you smell like bad decisions.”

“You need to eat,” You added, “Something starchy. Or you’re going to feel like roadkill tomorrow.”

“He never eats when he’s like this,” Blaise said from where he was sprawled over a kitchen chair, “We’ve tried. It’s hopeless.”

“Chi mangia bene, vive bene, remember?” You said softly, probably butchering his mother's saying as you guided Theo toward the table.

That stopped him. His gaze sharpened just enough to find your eyes.

He leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours with a quiet breath, “E chi ha te… ha tutto.”

Your heart skipped even though you hadn't a clue what he just said.

Mattheo made an exaggerated gagging noise, “Okay, Casanova, wrap it up.”

Draco, grinning, gave you a mock bow, “He’s all yours. Good luck with drunk Shakespeare.”

As the door shut behind them, Theo was still leaning on you, breathing you in like he needed your scent to stay upright.

“You smell like a distillery.” You said, amused.

“You smell like home.” He mumbled.

Your cheeks warmed, and you pushed the plate gently into his lap, “Eat your toast, Romeo.”

***

The bar was warm and golden, tucked away on a cobbled side street with velvet booths and enchanted candles flickering lazily overhead. You and Pansy had claimed a prime table by the window, cocktails already half-finished and a bowl of enchanted peanuts floating between you, occasionally popping like popcorn.

“I swear,” Pansy said, leaning in conspiratorially, “if Draco mentions his new wand polish one more time, I will hex him bald.”

You snorted into your drink, eyes gleaming, “You wouldn’t. You like running your hands through his hair too much.”

She grinned, “Touché. But I’d still threaten it. Keeps him humble.”

It was the first proper girls’ night out you’d had in what felt like forever, and Pansy — ever the scene-stealing, chaos-bringing goddess she was — made it feel like the war, the heartbreak, and everything in between had never happened.

“So,” She drawled, resting her chin on her palm with a wicked glint in her eye, “Tell me everything. Are you dating? Shagging? Secretly married? Come on, give me the details.”

You laughed, swirling the pink liquid in your glass — some fruity, glittering cocktail you hadn’t tasted since your Hogwarts days. It cooled your fingers while your cheeks burned hotter by the second.

You rolled your eyes, trying to bite back your smile, “It’s not like that, Pans. We’re just good friends. Honestly, I don’t think I’d have made it this far without him.”

“Oh darling,” She said with mock pity, “it’s always ‘not like that’ until you’re wearing his jumpers and catching feelings.”

You opened your mouth to object—but the words caught in your throat. You had worn his jumper. You were catching feelings.

Pansy’s eyes widened. She gasped, clutching her chest with dramatic flair, “No. No way. You like him.”

“I didn’t say that." You muttered.

“You didn’t have to!” She squealed, grabbing your hands across the table, “Oh, you poor lovesick thing. I knew it. I knew it!”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands, “You are insufferable.”

“I’m right, though,” She sang smugly, taking another sip of her drink, “And I actually happen to know that our dear Teddy has been—”

“(Y/N).”

The voice cut through the air like a curse.

You froze.

Pansy’s glass paused halfway to her lips. Her smile vanished.

Your blood ran cold. You didn’t have to look to know who it was — that voice had once lived in your dreams. Now it only haunted your nightmares.

Slowly, you turned in your seat.

And saw your ex-fiancé standing at the edge of your table.

You stared up at him, heart thudding so hard it felt like it might crack your ribs. He looked mostly the same — slicked-back hair that tried too hard to look effortless, a coat more expensive than it was tasteful, and that same smirk he always wore like armor. His jaw was tighter now, clenched like he hadn’t unclenched it in months. His eyes were cold, sunken a little, and mean in a way they didn’t even bother to hide.

“I didn’t expect to find you here.” He said, voice low, razor-edged.

Pansy was on her feet before you could speak, stepping in front of you like a drawn wand. “And yet here you are,” She said, all sugar and venom, “Funny how you manage to show up where no one wants you.”

He didn’t even glance at her. His eyes stayed locked on you, “We need to talk.”

“No, we really don’t,” Pansy snapped, “Back off before I hex your bits so far inward you’ll need a St. Mungo’s specialist to find them.”

“Pansy,” you murmured, brushing your fingers against her sleeve. Your hand was shaking.

He took a step closer, “Just five minutes. That’s all I’m asking.”

You rose slowly, pushing your chair back, jaw tight, “Fine. Five minutes. Nothing more.”

“Absolutely not—” Pansy began, but you shook your head.

“I’m okay.”

You weren’t. Not even remotely. But you needed this to end. To really end.

The night air was sharp against your skin, the hum of the city muffled as you stepped into the alley behind the bar. You folded your arms, more out of defense than cold.

“So this is what it takes to find you now?” He said, voice curling with disdain, “Are you selling yourself like a whore on street corners now?”

You exhaled slowly, trying to keep your voice steady, “What do you want?”

He took a step forward, “I heard the rumors. People talk, you know. Especially when a bride vanishes in silk and ends up playing house with that filthy blood traitor Theodore Nott.”

Your lips parted in disbelief.

“I should’ve known,” he sneered, “You always acted so self-righteous. But look at you now — just another slag hopping into the next man’s bed. Must be nice not needing vows to spread your legs, yeah?”

The words hit like a slap, your stomach twisting with fury and disbelief.

“I’m done listening to this.”

You turned—and before you could even brace yourself, he yanked you sharply by the collar and slammed you hard against the brick wall. The air whooshed out of your lungs as your back hit the cold surface, the impact jarring your entire body.

His hands tightened suddenly around your throat, fingers digging into your skin in a cruel grip. You gasped for air, panic surging as darkness edged your vision.

“Don’t you dare think you can just walk away from me.” He hissed through clenched teeth, eyes wild and merciless.

You clawed at his hands, desperate to break free, but his strength was overwhelming, pressing down harder, choking the breath from you.

"Reducto!"

The spell hit him square in the chest, blasting him off you with bone-jarring force. He flew backward, crashing into the far wall of the alley with a sickening thud before collapsing in a heap, gasping and stunned.

Pansy didn’t hesitate.

She stormed toward him like a vengeful shadow, wand leveled between his eyes as he groaned and tried to sit up. Her voice was shaking—but only with rage.

“You filthy little coward,” she spat, every word laced with venom, “Touch her again, and I’ll break every bone in your body.”

He growled, trying to rise—Pansy kicked him flat in the chest, knocking him back to the ground with her heel, “Stay. Down.”

Your knees buckled, the sudden rush of oxygen burning your throat as you slid down the wall, coughing and trembling.

“Whoa—hey.” Pansy caught you, strong and certain, one arm steadying you as the other clutched her wand, “I’ve got you, love. You’re okay. We’re going home.”

And this time, you let her carry the weight.

***

The world spun sharply as Pansy apparated, the crack of displaced air still echoing in your ears. The warmth of her body vanished the moment your feet hit solid ground—wood floors, familiar scents. You were in Theo’s flat.

Laughter and chatter from the living room fell to a jarring halt.

Five pairs of eyes turned in unison: Theo, Draco, Blaise, Mattheo, and Enzo—all frozen mid-conversation, drinks in hand. The moment they saw you, everything dropped.

“(Y/N)?”

Your name left Theo like a punch to the gut.

You were trembling, arms wrapped tight around your middle as if they could hold your ribs together. Pansy still held onto you, as if she wasn’t entirely sure you wouldn’t collapse, and even she looked rattled under the scrutiny of the room.

“That fucker,” She said through gritted teeth, “Grabbed her outside the bar. Slammed her into a wall. Tried to—” her voice faltered, thick with fury, “She couldn’t breathe.”

Theo moved.

Fast.

He crossed the room in three strides, gently brushing Pansy aside like she was made of smoke. Then he was in front of you, hands hovering for a split second before he cupped your face, cradling you like you were something fragile and sacred.

His eyes roamed over your features—your split lip, your glassy eyes, the bruising fingerprints beginning to bloom like violets around your throat—and something in him shattered.

His jaw clenched, fury crashing through him like a tidal wave. He looked like he could tear the world apart.

“I’m fine.” You rasped, voice barely more than a whisper.

You tried to smile—a brittle, curling thing, “I know that probably doesn’t help my case, but… trust me, I’m fine.”

“Don’t do that,” Theo said softly, thumb brushing over your cheekbone, his voice hoarse and tight, “Don’t lie to me right now.”

Your breath hitched.

Draco hovered beside Pansy now, brushing her hair behind her ear as he muttered something only she could hear. She nodded once, giving her boyfriend a soft smile before turning her gaze back to you, eyes gleaming with steel.

Theo gently tugged you forward into his chest.

You didn’t resist.

You couldn’t.

Your limbs had surrendered somewhere between the alley and the flat, and he was warm, steady—home. Before you could stop it, a sob cracked loose from your chest, raw and shaking. Your hands fisted into his shirt like it was the only thing tethering you to earth.

He held you tighter.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, voice trembling beneath the quiet, “I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

The flat was eerily quiet now. One by one, the boys filtered out, their faces grim with the weight of what had just happened.

Mattheo lingered just long enough to press a firm, reassuring hand to your shoulder. His voice was low, steady, almost a promise, “You’re safe now. We’ll take care of everything from here.”

Blaise didn’t say a word. Instead, he gave a slow, deliberate nod to Theo, then to you, his expression taut with barely restrained anger and resolve.

Enzo’s jaw clenched as he glanced at you one last time. “He’s a dead man,” he muttered under his breath before turning away and joining the others.

You barely noticed them leaving. Your world had shrunk to the steady rhythm of Theo’s heartbeat humming against your ear, the comforting warmth of his hand pressing into your back, and the ache lodged deep in your chest — a raw, stubborn pain that refused to fade.

“I want him arrested. Tonight.” Pansy’s voice cut through the silence like ice, cold and deadly calm but laced with a fury that made the room vibrate, “Draco, I’m serious. He attacked her in public. Slammed her against a wall. Choked her until she could barely breathe.”

Draco’s tone was clipped, measured, but the sharp edge of anger was unmistakable, “You have a name?”

“Graham Bulstrode.” Pansy replied without hesitation, her voice razor-sharp and unyielding.

Draco’s jaw tightened, “Consider it done, my love.”

Every word settled into your foggy mind — distant but painfully clear. The tremble in your hands hadn’t stopped, but Theo’s arms wrapped around you only tightened, as if willing to keep the danger at bay. He leaned down, pressing a tender kiss to the crown of your head, a quiet vow whispered without words.

When the door finally clicked shut behind the last of the others, the tension finally broke. The tears you had been holding back surged forward, hot and fierce, tumbling freely down your cheeks. You clung to him, the safety of his presence grounding you as the storm inside began to settle.

You buried your face in Theo’s chest, shoulders trembling as the sobs broke free, wracking your entire body with every breath. He held you through it, solid and steady, one hand gently combing through your hair like he could smooth away the terror still clinging to your skin.

“I’m so stupid,” You gasped, the words catching in your throat, “I’ve—I’ve thought about that moment for the past month. What I’d say. How I’d stand up for myself. I imagined throwing that stupid ring back in his smug face, saying something cutting, something final—but when it actually happened…”

Your voice cracked, guilt burning behind your ribs.

“I couldn’t even speak. I just froze. I have a wand but I couldn't cast a single spell. I let him say all that shit about me—about you—and I... I didn’t even defend you, Theo. I’m so sorry. I'm so useless.”

He didn’t answer right away.

He just held you tighter, like your apology hurt more than anything else that had happened. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet—gentle, but resolute.

“You have nothing to be sorry for.”

His words rumbled in his chest, warm against your cheek.

“I don’t give a damn about what you said or didn’t say to him. You don’t owe me a defense—not ever.”

You looked up at him, blinking through the tears. His eyes found yours, fierce and heartbreakingly soft, like you were something sacred—something he’d never let break.

“And you’re not stupid, (Y/N), or useless,” He said, voice thick with emotion, “You’re incredible. Brave. Stronger than you even realize. And I’m so fucking proud of you.”

His thumb brushed a tear from your cheek as he leaned in and pressed a kiss to your forehead—gentle, grounding, safe.

“He’s not going to get away with this,” Theo whispered, “I promise you.”

You sighed, sinking deeper into him, like you could finally let go of everything you’d been holding in. His arms wrapped around you again, warm and sure.

“Come on,” he murmured, “Let’s treat that bruise. Get you something to eat.”

But you shook your head, face pressed tight against his chest.

“Don’t let me go.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy anymore—it was tender, healing. You curled into him like you could disappear there, into the rhythm of his breathing and the thrum of his heart.

“I’m never going to let you go.”

And you believed him.

His heartbeat echoed beneath your ear, strong and unwavering. With every beat, the weight in your chest began to lift—slowly, steadily.

Safe. Loved. Finally, home.

***

A couple weeks later it was raining softly outside, the kind of slow, constant drizzle that blurred the windows and made the world feel far away. You and Theo were curled up on the couch, legs tangled, a blanket lazily thrown across your laps. A half-empty mug sat abandoned on the coffee table beside a crumpled takeout bag. The telly hummed faintly in the background, long forgotten.

“So then she goes, ‘I forgot to run the control,’” You said, exasperated, “and I swear to Merlin, I have never seen Slughorn that mad in his life.”

Theo snorted, one arm draped across your shoulders, twirling a strand of your hair around his finger, “Serves her right for always nicking your freshly ground moonstone.”

“Right? And of course, the one day I’m not there to supervise her, she completely tanks it. It’s not like I was goofing off—I was at the Ministry signing off the paperwork for Bulstrode's trial.” You sighed, “Slughorn knew, so I didn’t get in trouble, but I still have to repeat all her damn trials for the next few weeks. As if I don’t already have enough on my plate.”

“What’s keeping you so busy, Bella?” Theo asked, smiling as he gently unraveled the curl and let it spring back into place, “Maybe I can help.”

“Well, I’ve been needing to check out some apartments. Can’t really leave that to you, now can I?” You yawned, “But if you want, we could go together?”

Theo stilled.

He pulled back just slightly, brows furrowed as he studied your face, “Apartment hunting?”

You blinked, “Yeah… I’ve been looking at places closer to work. Just something small. I mean, I don’t make much yet.”

There was a beat of silence, then, “Wait—(Y/N), are you planning to move out?”

You nodded slowly, suddenly self-conscious, “I mean—I’ve been here for a while now and I love it, obviously, but I didn’t want to overstay my welcome. I figured—”

“You think you’re overstaying?” His voice cut gently but sharply through your words.

You faltered, “Well, I just—”

“You’re not,” Theo said, a little breathless now, like the words had been sitting on the edge of his tongue for too long, “You’re not overstaying. I want you here.”

Your breath hitched.

“I want to come home to you. Every day. Not to an empty flat. Not to a world where you’re somewhere else.”

His hand found yours, threading your fingers together like a lifeline. His voice dropped lower, steadier.

“Stay. Please.” His thumb brushed over your knuckles, slow and sure, “I want to come home knowing the woman I love is safe. Here. With me.”

You stared at him, wide-eyed, the world narrowing to his hand in yours, the soft thunder of rain against the windows, the warmth of his words blooming in your chest like magic.

“What do you mean, the woman you love?”

Theo let out a quiet laugh, a little stunned you hadn’t realized it already. His smile turned lopsided, eyes shining.

“Are you daft, (Y/N)?” He said, voice thick, “I’m in love with you. I’ve been taken with you since we were kids, and I’m still—” He broke off for a breath, like the truth was catching up to him all at once. “Still completely gone for you.”

Your heart did something unsteady in your chest.

“Say it again.” You whispered.

He cupped your cheek with one hand, his eyes never leaving yours.

“I’m in love with you.”

Your heart stuttered. The words lingered in the air between you, delicate and heavy all at once—like the hush after a spell’s been cast.

You didn’t look away.

You couldn’t.

“I’ve loved you for a long time too, Theo,” You whispered, the confession trembling on your tongue, “I don’t even know when it started—when I began falling for you—but I did. And I fell hard. I mean, who wouldn’t?”

You smiled through the softness in your voice, “You’re the kindest, most patient man I’ve ever met… and I’m thanking my lucky stars that I met you on the day of my wedding.”

That pulled a laugh from him—warm, full, and brimming with disbelief. He tilted his head back slightly, grinning like you’d just handed him the entire sky.

You leaned in just a fraction, voice softer now, “I want to stay. Not just in the flat. In your life. With you.”

That did it.

Theo closed the distance, his hands cradling your face as his lips found yours in a kiss that felt like coming home. It was fierce and tender all at once—like a dam breaking, like every moment of yearning pouring out of him in one breathless, burning exhale.

You melted into him, arms winding around his neck, your body pressed close as the kiss deepened—hungry now, desperate. His fingers tangled in your hair, yours fisting in his shirt, both of you trying to memorize the moment, to feel every inch of it like it could make up for all the waiting.

Weeks—months—of unspoken words, of lingering touches and stolen glances, of intimate moments that always ended with breathless silences and aching restraint—crashed into a single breath.

Theo kissed you like you were his lifeline—like he’d been holding back a storm and had finally been given permission to let it break.

You gasped as his lips trailed from your mouth to your jaw, your throat—reverent, hungry, like he was rediscovering you with every breath. “Tell me to stop,” He murmured, voice hoarse with restraint, “Say the word, and I will.”

But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

Instead, you tugged him closer, heart pounding under his palm as your fingers slid into his hair, voice trembling with a dangerous sort of affection, “If you stop, Theodore Nott, I’m sleeping at Pansy’s tonight.”

He let out a low, incredulous laugh—half-choked and fully wrecked—then kissed you again, deeper this time. Certain. Claiming. The rain tapped gently against the windows, forgotten behind the haze of fogged glass and the thrum of two hearts finally letting go.

And when he lifted you off the couch, carrying you down the hall with all the tenderness in the world and not an ounce of hesitation, the only thing either of you could think was:

About bloody time.

***

It was barely 9 a.m. when the front door to Theo’s flat creaked open—again, without so much as a knock.

Mattheo’s voice cut through the quiet, “I swear, if this idiot didn’t do the groceries and we hiked all the way here for his strawberries for nothing, I’m setting the place on fire.”

“I brought croissants.” Lorenzo offered brightly.

“You brought them from my kitchen,” Draco said flatly, “You literally stole them from my counter.”

Theo stumbled out of the bedroom, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, “Do none of you understand the concept of boundaries?”

He was mid-scowl when Blaise’s voice drifted in from the hallway, “Don't you imbeciles think it's too early to—”

And then they all fell silent.

You had just stepped out of the bedroom—the master bedroom this time, not the guest room—bleary-eyed and yawning, wearing nothing but Theo’s hoodie. Again. Hair a little messy, legs bare, looking entirely at home.

Draco blinked, “Déjà vu.”

Mattheo let out a dramatic sigh, “Alright, but like… why is it always the hoodie and no pants? Not that I’m complaining—it’s just, you know what, never mind.”

Blaise leaned against the kitchen island, arms crossed, “So what’s the excuse this time? Sleepwalking? Laundry explosion? Sudden amnesia about how trousers work?”

You didn’t even flinch.

“We’re dating,” You said flatly, tugging the sleeve of Theo’s hoodie over your hand as you rubbed your eye, “And I’m not wearing pants because I had sex with your friend. Good morning.”

Silence.

Four pairs of stunned eyes stared at you.

Lorenzo made a choked noise, “I—okay.”

Mattheo sputtered, hands flailing, “You can’t just say that without warning!”

“You asked.” You replied dryly.

Draco took a long sip of coffee, muttering behind the rim of his mug, “I owe Pansy ten Galleons.”

***

Bonus:

Your heart pounded as you stared at the closed doors, the soft strains of the wedding march beginning to drift through the wood. Your palms were sweaty around the bouquet you carried, nerves and excitement swirling in your chest.

Then, the doors swung open, revealing you in a stunning white dress, your smile bright and genuine as you began your walk down the aisle. The hush of the ceremony wrapped around you like a warm embrace, the aisle stretching ahead lined with friends and family.

A memory flickered through your mind—just a couple of years ago, you had run away from a different wedding down the hall, only to find refuge in this very chapel. It was here that you met your to-be husband, the love of your life.

Your eyes locked onto the man standing across the room, looking impossibly handsome in his tailored suit. His gaze locked onto you immediately, and for a moment, all the noise and bustle melted away. It was just you and him.

Only a few feet separated you now, but something in your heart couldn’t wait. Before you realized what you were doing, you broke into a gentle run—this time towards the groom.

Theo’s face broke into a gentle smile—the kind reserved only for you—as he reached for you. Before you could even think twice, his arms closed around you, catching you effortlessly. Your feet lifted from the floor as he spun you gently, twirling you in a slow, perfect circle.

The world blurred—lights, faces, music—all faded into a whirl of warmth and happiness.

He pressed his forehead to yours, a slow smile curling on his lips as he whispered, "You just can't wait to marry me, can you?"

You laughed softly, breath warm against his skin, "I couldn’t run away—tried it before. Too much work."

His eyes sparkled with amusement and love as he pulled you closer, the world around you fading into nothing but this perfect, shared moment.

***

EXTRA BONUS BECAUSE I CAN HEHEHE:

Hogwarts, Year 6:

You glanced across the potions table, scanning the clutter of ingredients before turning slightly toward the Slytherin bench.

“Theodore?” You said cautiously, holding your crushed lacewing flies with gloved fingers, “Could I borrow the asphodel? Just for a sec.”

He looked up from his cauldron like you’d just asked for his wand. There was a pause. Not rude, not angry—just... blank. Then, wordlessly, he slid the jar toward you across the table. His fingers brushed yours for the briefest moment when you took it. Cold skin. A little spark. His hand recoiled like he’d been burned.

“Oh. Um. Thanks.” You murmured, blinking.

He just gave a short nod, already turning away, jaw tight as he went back to slicing his valerian root like it had offended him personally.

You blinked again, confused, then padded back over to your side of the room where Pansy was lounging against the workbench like it was a chaise lounge in the Slytherin common room.

She quirked an eyebrow, “What was that?”

You shrugged, a slight pout forming on your lips, “I don’t know. I guess he just really doesn’t like me.”

Pansy snorted, “Please. If Theo really didn’t like you, you’d know.”

Meanwhile, across the room, Theo was absolutely not concentrating on his potion anymore. He was staring blankly into the cauldron, stirring too fast, ears tinged pink.

Your hands just touched.

***

Forever Taglist:

@simonsbluee

@notslaybabes

@superheroesaremyjam113263

@writers-whirlwind

@paankhaleyaaar

Harry Potter Taglist:

@downbad4reid

[4linos]

already gone.

kim seungmin x f!reader

synopsis: to the world, you’re the perfect couple: the rising athlete and the woman who stood by him. but behind closed doors, something is shattering. the MLB offer. the agent. the betrayal you never saw coming. now your home is no longer a refuge, but the battleground where truth and love fight for survival.

warnings: angst, heated arguments, infidelity accusations, implied cheating, emotional distress.

wc: 6335

[already gone part 2]

The soft click of the clasp echoed faintly in the bedroom as you fastened the final earring into place. Your fingers were clumsy, tired, but determined. The room was dimly lit, the last orange traces of sunset bleeding through the curtains, casting a warm glow over the vanity where you sat. Behind you, Seungmin stood near the full-length mirror in his navy suit, carefully adjusting his cufflinks.

“Are you sure you don’t want to just stay home?” he asked for what had to be the fifth time, his tone light, teasing, but underneath, you caught it, something uncertain. Something else.

You glanced at him through the mirror, watching as he checked his tie again, even though you had already fixed it just minutes ago. His posture was relaxed, the easy smile on his face was one you’d seen countless times before… but it didn’t reach his eyes. Not tonight.

“I already told you,” you replied, reaching for your lipstick. “I’m going. I want to be there.”

He exhaled with a slight chuckle, walking over to you. His fingers brushed your shoulder, and you paused applying your lipstick as he leaned in and kissed the top of your head. “You’re amazing, you know that?” he whispered.

You smiled, but your heart didn’t flutter the way it usually did. “You’re stalling,” you said plainly.

He grinned as if caught red-handed. “Can you blame me? You’re just… very pretty. Distracting.”

“You’re very bad at changing the subject,” you said, standing up and brushing invisible lint from your dress.

A soft fuss broke the moment, your daughter, Iseul. You instinctively moved toward the crib in the corner of the room where she lay in her tiny floral onesie, fists waving in complaint. Before you could reach her, Seungmin stepped in front of you.

“I got her,” he said gently, scooping her up into his arms with practiced ease. “Go on, finish. We’re already late.”

You hesitated, watching as your husband soothed your baby with a quiet hum. Even after years of marriage, and two children, it still made your heart twist to see how naturally fatherhood came to him.

“Are you sure?” you asked.

“Always,” he said, giving you a lopsided smile.

The distraction of getting ready, wrangling a toddler who had earlier decided to dump an entire box of cereal on the floor, and feeding the baby between curling your hair had left you frazzled. Seungmin’s teasing earlier had only barely been tolerable.

“Maybe it is taking longer because I’ve got two little humans to keep alive now,” you’d snapped at him earlier, glaring as he chuckled.

He’d raised both hands in mock surrender. “Not complaining. Just saying you’re not the fastest anymore.”

You’d muttered something under your breath, but Seungmin had leaned down, kissed your shoulder, and taken Iseul from your arms like it was second nature. “I’m serious though,” he had added gently. “You don’t have to come. You’ve done enough today. You always do.”

And for a moment, you had almost considered it. Almost.

But that look, the one that didn’t quite match his words had bothered you more than you admitted. You were tired, yes. But more than anything, you were curious.

Now, watching him with your daughter, that strange unease returned. You shook it off, slipped on your heels, and followed him downstairs.

Seungmin’s mother arrived just in time, letting herself in with the spare key. She was beaming, as always, excited to babysit her grandchildren for the evening. She ushered you both out of the house with warm reassurances.

“You both look wonderful,” she told you, bouncing Iseul with ease. “Have fun! Don’t worry, I’ve got everything handled.”

You kissed your children goodbye, lingering maybe a little longer than usual and followed Seungmin to the car.

The venue was already buzzing when you arrived. The end-of-season dinner was a yearly tradition, but this year felt different. Bigger. More elaborate. The private hall was beautifully decorated, navy accents for the Lotte Giants, chandeliers glimmering above round tables where players, coaches, managers, and their families were already seated, laughing, talking, raising glasses.

You were seated at one of the central tables with other wives and girlfriends, many of whom you’d grown close to over the years. There was an easiness to it familiar faces, shared exhaustion from parenting, the camaraderie of loving men whose careers were as demanding as they were exhilarating.

Seungmin settled in beside you, and his hand found yours beneath the table. His thumb brushed along your skin absentmindedly, comfortingly. You leaned in closer, murmuring, “See? Aren’t you glad we came?”

His smile was soft. “Yeah.”

And yet, there it was again. That shadow behind his eyes. That silence between sentences.

You didn’t press him. Not yet.

Dinner was a blur of laughter, clinking glasses, and endless toasts. You chatted with other WAGs, one of whom was due with her third baby in a few months and shared tips about baby sleep regressions and toddler tantrums. Seungmin drifted in and out of the conversation, occasionally throwing a playful jab at his teammates, smiling when someone complimented your dress.

But the entire night, you couldn’t shake the feeling that he was performing. Laughing at the right moments. Responding on cue. Holding you a little too tightly, like he was memorizing the weight of your hand.

Then the general manager stood up. The room fell quiet.

You turned toward the front, expecting the usual end-of-season wrap-up: congratulations, next season’s goals, and the usual pat-on-the-back speeches.

But this was different.

The GM’s voice echoed across the hall. “Before we close out this amazing season, I want to take a moment to acknowledge someone very special someone who’s been a cornerstone of this team for years. A player whose heart, discipline, and incredible right arm have led us through some of the toughest games of our careers.”

The room was still.

The GM continued, “Seungmin, you’ve given everything to this team and it shows. You’ve been more than a pitcher. You’ve been a leader. A brother. A Giant in every sense of the word.”

Seungmin squeezed your hand beneath the table.

“I know I speak for everyone here when I say: thank you. Thank you for the years, the grit, the wins and for making us proud. The MLB will be lucky to have you.”

Cheers erupted around the room. Glasses raised. Players clapped Seungmin on the back. WAGs smiled at you with congratulatory looks. There were whistles. Laughter. Applause.

But your body went cold.

The MLB?

The Major Leagues?

You turned to Seungmin slowly. He was smiling, ducking his head modestly, but when his eyes met yours, the truth was there. Quiet. Heavy.

You leaned closer. “What did he mean? The MLB?”

Seungmin’s smile faltered. “We’ll talk later.”

“Seungmin,” you whispered, but the room was too loud now. The moment had passed. Or maybe it had only just begun.

The car ride was so quiet it felt like the silence itself had weight.

Heavy, pressing. Like a fog that rolled in between you and Seungmin, blanketing the small, familiar space of the car in a silence that had never felt so foreign. This wasn’t the comfortable quiet that often passed between you, not the kind that came with years of knowing each other so well that words weren’t always needed.

No, this was something else.

This was the quiet of things left unsaid too long.

This was the sound of trust cracking.

Outside the windshield, the streets of Busan passed by in a blur of neon and night. Streetlights flickered over the hood of the car, casting fleeting stripes of light across Seungmin’s jaw, his hands on the wheel, the furrow of his brow. But you couldn’t look at him, not now. Not after the dinner.

Your arms were tightly crossed against your chest, like folding in on yourself could hold everything inside. Your disappointment. Your anger. Your fear. And your heartbreak most of all, that aching, low throb of heartbreak that kept pulsing under your ribs, like a bruise you didn’t see coming.

You felt him shift beside you.

Then his hand reached toward yours, the way it always did.

It was instinctive, familiar. Seungmin had always reached for you like this, even in silence. During fights. During your long hospital stay after giving birth to your daughter. During that sleepless month when your son wouldn’t stop crying and you were too exhausted to speak. His hand always found yours.

But not tonight.

You flinched.

Your arms tightened around yourself and you turned, just slightly, away from him.

Seungmin’s hand hovered in the air for a moment, then slowly fell back to the console. He didn’t speak right away.

And when he did, his voice was low. Regretful.

“I’m sorry.”

The words floated there, soft and tentative.

You stared out the window. You weren’t even looking at the streets anymore, just letting your eyes unfocus, mind reeling, thoughts scattered and tangled. You could hear the apology, sure, but it barely registered. It was buried under the roaring in your chest.

Because all you could think about, all you could see behind your tired, stinging eyes, were your babies.

Your son, Minjoon, who had refused to nap earlier today and had thrown a tantrum when you tried to get him into his formal little pants for dinner. Who’d needed three full readings of Goodnight Moon before he calmed down. Iseul, who had been fussy all evening, needing to be held, rocked, reassured. Her tiny body curling against your shoulder like you were the only thing keeping the world from swallowing her whole.

And the whole time, you’d powered through.

You’d put on the dress you’d been saving. Done your makeup. Smiled. Laughed.

For him.

Because it was supposed to be his night.

And the whole time, the whole time he’d known.

He’d known his future plans.

He’d known your life was about to be upended, and he hadn’t said a word.

A lump formed in your throat, thick and hot. You swallowed it down, but it didn’t go away.

Seungmin sighed again. This one sounded heavier.

“I didn’t want to ruin tonight for you,” he said, voice quiet. “I didn’t want to ruin what we have. I know I should’ve told you earlier. I just… couldn’t. I didn’t know how.”

“You didn’t want to,” you said, eyes still fixed on the passing lights. “There’s a difference.”

That made him fall quiet.

You weren’t trying to be cruel. But you were tired, soul-deep tired and something in you had fractured when the general manager said “MLB.” The idea that your husband had been building a future, a whole new life across the ocean, and hadn’t included you, even in thought, had taken a sharp edge.

He shifted slightly in his seat.

“You don’t understand—”

“Don’t,” you cut in. “Don’t say I don’t understand. I understand too well. You’re scared, right? Scared of what it would mean to bring this up. Scared of how I’d react. So you just… kept it from me. Like it would somehow protect me. Like I couldn’t handle it.”

You finally looked at him then, and your voice cracked.

“I gave birth to two children. I’ve handled more than you know. And I thought we were in this together.”

Seungmin’s eyes flicked over to you, and the guilt in them nearly broke you. But not quite.

“I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to risk you resenting me,” he said quietly. “I didn’t want to be the reason you uprooted your life, left your family, your friends. The kids… They’re so young. You already do everything for them. I thought maybe, if I just waited, if I figured it out first—I could make it easier. Cleaner. Safer.”

You shook your head, biting down hard on your bottom lip to keep it from trembling.

“You don’t get to make that choice for me, Seungmin.”

He looked down at his hands on the wheel. “I know.”

A long silence stretched between you. The car rolled into your neighborhood quiet, peaceful. Your street, lined with hedges and low lights, your home waiting up ahead. You stared at the windows, lit from inside. A warm, quiet glow.

You could imagine your son asleep in his bed. His dinosaur pajamas. The way he sometimes rolled over in the middle of the night and called for you in his sleep. Your daughter probably cradled in her grandmother’s arms, small and peaceful, unaware of the storm brewing outside her home.

You exhaled shakily. “Did you ever stop to think how this would affect them?”

“Yes,” Seungmin said, his voice hoarse. “Every day. And that’s why I’ve been so torn.”

He turned off the ignition. The sudden silence made your ears ring.

“I want to do what’s best for us. I want to give them a future. I thought this opportunity—” He paused, eyes flicking to yours. “I thought maybe it would be worth it. A few hard years, and then we could have something more.”

You sat back in your seat, chest tight. “And you didn’t think what we already had was enough?”

His lips parted, but no words came out.

Because that was the question that echoed through the car, through your mind, through your bones.

You were building something. Here. Now. You had a family. You had a rhythm, even if it was messy and chaotic and exhausting. You had love. Wasn’t that enough?

The betrayal wasn’t just about baseball. It was about being left out of the most important decision since you’d chosen each other. Since you’d become parents. Since you’d stood at that altar years ago, hands clasped, promising to never go forward without the other.

And tonight, he had gone forward. Without you.

“I’m so sorry,” Seungmin said again, voice cracking this time.

You reached for the door handle but hesitated. Your hand hovered there, your heart racing.

You looked at him one last time. “We’re not okay.”

He nodded slowly. “I know.”

You got out of the car, heels clicking softly on the ground. Seungmin followed a few steps behind, but he didn’t reach for you this time. Didn’t try to touch your hand. Didn’t speak.

Inside, your mother-in-law greeted you with a warm smile and gentle hushes, the kids were fast asleep. You thanked her. You smiled tightly. You said all the right things.

But inside, the ache lingered.

That night, you lay in bed beside Seungmin, your backs turned to each other for the first time in months. And though your body was still, your mind was not.

Because you weren’t thinking about MLB contracts.

You were thinking about a dimpled little boy who would one day ask why you moved. Why you left his playground, his cousins, his language. You were thinking about your baby girl who wouldn’t remember this home, her first room, the sound of the ocean just beyond the porch.

You were thinking about whether you were strong enough to make this leap and whether the man beside you would be the one holding your hand, or the one who had already let go.

The morning light seeped into the bedroom like a quiet intrusion soft, unwelcome. It threaded through the curtains and warmed the edge of the bed where you lay, still in your dress from the night before, now wrinkled and clinging to your tired body.

You hadn't changed. You hadn't even taken off your earrings.

Sleep had come in short, fractured waves stolen between the cries of your daughter needing to be fed at 2 a.m., and the restless tossing that followed after, your mind far too loud to silence. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw the banquet hall, the raised glasses, the moment the general manager said "The MLB will be lucky to have him," and the proud, practiced smile on Seungmin’s face.

And then… the way he hadn’t looked at you when he said it.

He was still sleeping now, or pretending to be. His side of the bed was slightly turned away, shoulders curved inward, a breath that wasn’t quite steady. You didn’t care to check. You slid out of bed wordlessly, your movements quiet but brisk, careful not to wake the children or him.

You padded barefoot into the nursery and found your daughter still asleep in her crib, her tiny chest rising and falling beneath the soft pink blanket your mother had crocheted. You stared at her for a moment, absorbing the stillness, the simplicity of her peace. Your son was next, curled up in a tangle of dinosaur sheets, one small hand clutching his favorite plush tiger to his chest.

And just like that, the sharp edges of your anxiety dulled, briefly. Your children were safe. Still here. Still yours.

But the gnawing ache in your stomach hadn’t left.

You walked into the kitchen, made yourself a cup of lukewarm coffee, and settled at the table with your phone, screen lighting up with unread messages. Friends. WAGs. Notifications. Mentions. Group chats.

One name caught your eye.

A message from Yuna, one of the team wives, someone you had grown relatively close to. Always sharp-eyed and protective of the women around her. The message was short, clipped.

“Hey. Have you seen the article?”

You frowned.

Tapping the link she’d attached, you opened it and began to read.

“Inside Scoop: Lotte Giants Star Kim Seungmin’s Secret MLB Talks And the Woman Behind It All”

It was a gossip piece. The kind that pulled from ‘sources close to the player,’ spun half-truths into narratives, laced with just enough credibility to make it hard to dismiss.

You skimmed, your heart already racing. The opening paragraphs went over Seungmin’s impressive final season stats, a summary of his fan popularity, and then, the shift.

“Sources tell us that Kim has been in quiet communication with a high-profile American agent, who has reportedly been facilitating a deal behind the scenes for over a year. The two met during a prior sports event in California, where, according to insiders, the relationship between the pitcher and the agent extended beyond professional bounds.”

You stopped breathing.

No. No, no, no.

“While neither party has confirmed the rumors, those familiar with the situation say their connection appears personal and long-standing. One source adds: ‘She was more than just a rep. She was someone he trusted, someone close.’”

Your hands trembled as you scrolled.

“When asked for comment, Kim Seungmin’s representatives declined, saying the athlete is focused on finishing the season strong and spending time with his family. But the silence speaks volumes.”

You lowered the phone slowly, your heartbeat in your ears.

It felt like ice water had been poured into your veins.

A woman.

Someone he’d met in California.

Someone “close.”

Someone who had been “facilitating a deal for over a year.”

You thought back searching your memory, tracing timelines. Seungmin had gone to the U.S. for a week during the off-season last year. He said it was for a training camp and you’d believed him. Why wouldn’t you? He'd FaceTimed you with a smile, sent photos of his hotel room, texted you how much he missed you.

You remembered because you’d been pregnant then. You remembered how miserable that week had been swollen feet, morning sickness that lasted into the night, and a toddler with a fever. You’d managed it all. Alone. And when he came back, he’d brought you a sweatshirt that smelled like new cotton, a stuffed animal for your son, and a small pair of baby sneakers.

It was one of the rare times he seemed truly guilty about being away.

And now… this.

You stared at your coffee, untouched, hands tightening around the mug like it might anchor you.

The sounds of the morning were beginning to rise,

Seungmin came down not long after. Hair messy. Shirt wrinkled. Face unreadable.

But your eyes were sharp now. Searching. Watching.

He said good morning like nothing had changed. Like the night before hadn’t happened. Like you hadn’t laid in the same bed wondering if the man beside you was no longer just your husband, but a liar.

“Did you sleep at all?” he asked, moving toward the fridge.

You said nothing.

He turned. “Babe?”

“Who is she?”

The words came out colder than you intended, but you didn’t care. You couldn’t afford to be gentle. Not now.

Seungmin froze.

He blinked slowly, confusion flickering in his features. “What?”

“The woman. The agent.” You pushed your phone across the table toward him, screen still lit with the article. “You’ve been talking to her for a year?”

His expression darkened as he read. A muscle in his jaw twitched.

“This is bullshit,” he said, pushing the phone back. “You know how gossip sites work. They just—”

“Don’t lie to me.”

He paused.

That pause was worse than a confession.

Your throat tightened. “Just tell me the truth.”

“There’s nothing going on,” he said, voice steady, but not reassuring. “She’s a sports agent. I met her once. She reached out after the winter games. She said there was interest. I didn’t think it was serious. It wasn’t personal.”

“You didn’t think it was serious?” you repeated, voice rising. “You’ve been talking to her for a year. Setting up your career without me. And now there’s an article saying it’s more than that, and I’m just supposed to believe it’s all nothing?”

“She wants me in the MLB,” he snapped, then immediately regretted it. His voice dropped. “That’s all. That’s all it is.”

You stood.

Something inside you, that tightly held center, broke.

“Do you know how humiliating this is?” you whispered. “Do you have any idea how it feels to be the last to know about your own husband’s life? To find out in a room full of strangers that he’s moving across the world? And then the next morning, read that he’s been seeing another woman behind my back, business or not — for a year?”

Seungmin was pale now. Quiet.

“I never touched her,” he said. “I never crossed that line, I never cheated on you.”

“But you hid her,” you said. “And that says enough.”

Your son peeked around the corner, clutching his plush tiger, wide-eyed.

You exhaled, fighting to calm the storm inside you. You bent down, kissed the top of his head, and guided him back toward his toys.

“I’m not doing this in front of the kids,” you said without turning around. “I’m not fighting with you where they can hear.”

Seungmin’s voice was barely audible. “Then when?”

You looked back at him, the man you’d loved for years, the man who had held your hand in delivery rooms, danced with you barefoot in the kitchen, written love letters on hotel stationery.

“I don’t know,” you said. “Because right now, I don’t even know who you are anymore.”

And for the first time in your marriage, you walked away.

Not because you didn’t love him.

But because you had to protect something more fragile.

Yourself.

-

The silence that had stretched like taut wire through the early morning finally snapped by noon.

You’d tried to hold your tongue. Tried to focus on the children. On the daily motions that had once felt so automatic, making lunch, folding a forgotten pile of laundry, wiping jelly from your son’s cheeks. But even the gentlest parts of your life had turned sharp, heavy with unsaid words.

Seungmin paced behind you, trailing like a shadow, quiet but restless. You could feel his gaze at your back, like static.

He was waiting.

For you to explode.

Or for you to let it go.

And you could feel it crawling up your throat, that familiar heat. You had done this for too long. Swallowed things for the sake of peace. Told yourself it was just the job, just stress, just a phase. But today? There was no peace left to keep.

You turned toward him, jaw set.

“You’ve been hiding things from me for months.”

His eyes locked with yours instantly, tired, bloodshot. “I wasn’t hiding anything.”

“Don’t—” You barked a short, incredulous laugh. “Don’t say that. You didn’t tell me about the MLB deal. You didn’t tell me about this agent. And now, suddenly, the news breaks and everyone knows before I do?”

“I didn’t know it was going to come out like that,” he said, frustrated. “It was supposed to be private.”

“Private? We’re married, Seungmin!”

“I know that—”

“Do you?” Your voice cracked. “Because I didn’t feel married last night. I felt like someone tagging along at a dinner where my husband’s future got announced without me. And I didn’t feel married this morning, reading that some womanhas been guiding your entire next chapter, while I was here — pregnant, raising two kids — not knowing anything.”

He ran both hands through his hair, the tension in his shoulders visible. “It’s not like that—”

“Then what is it like?” you snapped. “Explain it. Tell me, because right now the facts don’t add up. You said you didn’t cheat, but I never even said you did.”

That stopped him.

His eyes went wide like you’d pulled the ground out from under him.

You stared.

And he knew. You saw the flicker of realization in his face. That he had let something slip, a defense he shouldn’t have offered if he wasn’t guilty of more than what you knew.

“I didn’t cheat,” he said again, more measured now. “I just thought— when I saw the article, I thought—”

“You thought I’d accuse you,” you said flatly. “Because something did happen.”

“No!” He stepped forward, desperate. “No. Nothing happened. I swear to you.”

You crossed your arms. “Then why are you scrambling? Why is your story changing every ten seconds? First you barely knew her, then she reached out to you, now she’s been helping you for a year?”

He gritted his teeth. “She reached out after the winter games—”

“You already said that.”

“She brought up the offer before it was even real. I didn’t take it seriously at first—”

“And yet somehow, she’s close enough to you now that people think you’re involved,” you said bitterly. “Funny how fast that escalated.”

He groaned, turning his back briefly, dragging a hand down his face. “I didn’t want this. I didn’t want it to turn into this. I just— I’ve been trying to secure something better for us. For the kids.”

You laughed again, but there was no humor in it. “Don’t you dare bring our kids into this. Don’t act like this was some noble sacrifice. You weren’t thinking about them. You weren’t thinking about me. You were thinking about you. Your career. Your next big move.”

“That’s not fair.”

“What’s not fair,” you shot back, “is waking up next to a stranger. A man who made decisions without me. Who kept a woman secret from me for over a year. Who lied — or twisted the truth so carefully it felt the same.”

Seungmin stepped closer, voice rising now to match yours. “She’s a professional contact. I didn’t want to involve you until I knew it was real. Is that so hard to understand?”

You were yelling now. “What’s hard to understand is why I had to find out with the rest of the world. If you respected me, if you trusted me, if we were a team like you always said— you would’ve told me.”

He shouted over you, voice breaking with frustration. “I was scared, okay?! I didn’t want you to say no. I didn’t want you to hate me for dragging you and the kids overseas. I didn’t want to make this harder than it already is.”

You stared at him, truly stared.

And what broke you wasn’t the yelling.

It was the fear in his voice. Not of losing you, but of confronting the truth. Of facing the fallout of a decision he’d already made.

Your chest heaved. Your eyes burned.

“That’s the part you don’t get,” you said, quietly this time. “You already made it harder. Not by asking me to leave. Not by considering the offer. But by lying. By deciding I couldn’t handle the truth.”

He shook his head, voice thick. “It wasn’t about you.”

You scoffed. “Right. That’s the problem, isn’t it?”

You didn’t notice how loud you’d become until the silence that followed felt unnatural. And then, A piercing, frantic cry cut through the house.

Iseul.

Shrill, high-pitched, panicked.

You both turned at once.

Seungmin moved first, instinctively, like the father he still was bolting toward the nursery hallway. But your hand shot out and grabbed his wrist, stopping him cold.

He looked at you in confusion, breath shallow.

You stared at him with fire in your eyes.

“No.”

His brows furrowed. “What— she’s crying—”

“I’ll go,” you said, your voice raw. “Not you.”

“Why?” His voice cracked. “She’s our daughter.”

“No,” you whispered. “She’s my daughter right now. Because I’m the only one here.”

He blinked like you’d slapped him.

You let go of his wrist.

Then you turned and rushed.

Down the hall, through the open nursery door, into the soft lavender-painted room where your daughter wailed from her crib, little fists clenched, cheeks red and glistening.

You gathered her into your arms, heart pounding, holding her to your chest like a shield. Her tiny body shook against yours, but you whispered soothing words, rocking her gently.

“I’ve got you,” you murmured. “I’ve got you.”

And you meant it.

Not just for her.

For yourself.

Because right now, in this house filled with cracked trust and echoing pain, you were the only one still standing for her. For both of your children. You couldn’t protect them from everything, but you could be the one who stayed honest.

You rocked her until the cries softened, until her small breaths slowed against your collarbone.

And in the hallway behind you, you heard Seungmin sit down on the floor hard, like the weight of everything had finally caught up.

But you didn’t go to him.

Not this time.

The house was too quiet.

Hours had passed since the first argument, the one that left your daughter screaming in your arms and your husband sitting stunned in the hallway like the wind had been knocked from his chest. You thought maybe that would be the end of it. That silence would stretch long enough for one of you to finally make sense of what to say.

But you couldn’t stop thinking.

And Seungmin? He couldn’t stop moving.

He hadn’t left the house, but he’d stayed out of the nursery, out of the bedrooms, mostly pacing through the kitchen and hallway like a caged animal. When you walked past each other, it was stiff, shallow. He opened his mouth once, maybe twice, but the words fell away before they landed.

Until now.

It was dark out when it happened. The kids were finally asleep, your son curled in your bed, the baby passed out against your chest after her last bottle.

You passed her to her crib slowly, carefully, and left the nursery on bare feet, moving quietly through the hall.

Seungmin was waiting at the end of it arms crossed, leaned against the doorway to the living room like he was forcing himself to stay still.

You didn’t stop walking.

“Can we talk now?” he said, not looking at you.

You paused.

Turned.

“Yes,” you said. “But I’m not doing it with half-truths again.”

He nodded. “Okay.”

You crossed your arms. “So start from the beginning. Not the version you’ve revised three times. The truth.”

He pushed off the wall and walked into the living room. You followed.

He didn’t sit. Neither did you.

“It started last winter,” he began, voice low. “There was this exhibition thing in L.A., and one of the scouts introduced us. Her name’s Madison.”

Madison.

It hurt, having a name to put to the ghost. Somehow it made it worse.

“She said she’d seen me pitch in Busan the year before,” he continued. “Said she thought I had MLB potential. I didn’t believe her at first.”

“And?”

“She gave me her card. Said if I ever wanted to explore the option, I could reach out. I didn’t. Not for months. But then— after I got that minor injury in spring training, I started thinking about my shelf life. How fast it could end. How the kids are growing, and we’ll need more— more security, more stability. So I called her.”

Your expression hardened. “You were injured, and you didn’t tell me?”

“I didn’t want to worry you.”

You scoffed. “You didn’t want me to know. That’s what you mean.”

He winced, but didn’t correct you.

“I wasn’t planning anything big at first,” he said quickly. “It was just supposed to be background talk. Feelers. I didn’t even sign anything.”

“But you were talking to her regularly,” you said. “Behind my back. Letting her shape your decisions. Tell me again how that’s not hiding something?”

“She had connections,” he said. “I needed her.”

“You needed me,” you said. “You needed us. But you didn’t think we could handle the truth?”

“I didn’t want to drag you into something that wasn’t certain.”

“Bullshit,” you said, your voice cracking. “You didn’t want to hear me say no.”

His lips parted. Shut again.

Your heart was pounding now. Hard.

“And now this article comes out,” you said. “And it says you’ve had a close relationship with her. Not just business. Not just professional. And you still expect me to believe it was nothing?”

He threw up his hands. “Because it was nothing!”

“You keep saying that,” you snapped. “But everything else you say changes! First you barely knew her. Then she was a connection. Then you were working together for months. Now she’s your lifeline to a better life?! Which version is the truth, Seungmin?”

He stepped toward you, voice raised. “You think I’m sleeping with her? You think I would cheat on you?! After everything—”

“I didn’t say that!” you shouted. “You did!”

His mouth opened again.

And again, he had nothing.

“Do you hear yourself?” you said, near tears now. “You keep trying to fix the story instead of just telling it. Every time you talk, I feel like I’m catching you in another lie.”

He turned away, paced across the room, grabbed at his hair.

“I wasn’t lying,” he said, almost to himself. “I wasn’t trying to— I didn’t want to—”

“You didn’t want to hurt me?” you asked, voice softer now, but shaking. “Then why does it feel like every word you say is cutting deeper?”

He turned, frustrated. “I was trying to make the best of what I could! I thought if I got the deal solid first, you’d feel better knowing it wasn’t just a risk—”

“I don’t need you to protect me from risks,” you snapped. “I need you to be honest. I need you to respect me enough to let me choose the hard things with you.”

He stared at you, this woman who had stood by him through every game, every travel stretch, every missed birthday and late-night bus ride. And now, when he needed you most, he realized...

He’d gone too far without you.

And now he couldn’t pull you back.

Your hands dropped to your sides, empty. Exhausted.

“I don’t even know if I’m angry at you,” you whispered. “Or if I’m angry at myself for not seeing it sooner.”

He blinked, breathing uneven.

You moved past him, toward the hallway again.

“Where are you going?”

“I need air.”

He followed. “You can’t just walk out—”

You turned, eyes blazing.

“No,” you said. “You need to leave.”

His face twisted. “What?”

“I need space. The kids are asleep. I’m not doing this again while they’re in this house.”

He hesitated. “Where the hell am I supposed to go?”

“I don’t care,” you said. “You can go to a hotel, you can sleep in your car, you can call your manager. I just— I can’t look at you right now.”

He laughed, bitterly. “So that’s it?”

“No,” you said. “But it’s all I’ve got tonight.”

His eyes were wild now, mouth slightly open, chest heaving with things he couldn’t say fast enough.

“Fine,” he muttered. “Fine. You don’t want to hear it? You don’t want to listen to anything I have to say? Then I’ll go.”

“I’ve been listening,” you shouted. “It’s just that none of it makes sense.”

He shoved past you, storming into the bedroom. You heard drawers yanked open. A zipper. A bag hitting the floor.

You stood frozen in the hallway, watching the shadows move under the door.

Then, moments later, it opened. He walked past you, hoodie on, baseball cap low, duffel over his shoulder. His mouth pressed into a line.

You didn’t speak.

Neither did he.

He walked down the stairs, opened the door, and stepped outside.

You watched him through the window, standing still in the dark. His car door opened.

But he didn’t get in.

He stood beside the car for a second, shoulders hunched like the weight had finally settled across them.

And then he looked back toward the house.

For a flicker.

A moment.

As if expecting you to follow.

You didn’t.

And then he got in.

And drove off.

You didn’t cry at first.

You stood there, gripping the edge of the banister like it was the only thing keeping you upright.

Then, once the headlights vanished, once the silence roared back into your chest—

You broke.

Not loudly. Not dramatically.

You just sank.

Onto the stairs. Onto your knees. And the sobs came in waves. Quiet, painful, relentless.

Because love wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

Because you didn’t know what was real anymore.

Because the man you had once called home had chosen a path that no longer included you, not fully.

And you didn’t know if he would find his way back.

//

masterlist.

❌proofread

[marvelseries19]

SAFE WITH YOU

Chapter Five - Castaway

Pairings: Natasha Romanoff ft female agent reader

Genre: Angst

Summary: The process of coming back is hard, yet not impossible, especially since Natasha is right by your side through it all. And you finally get your happy ending.

A/N: Okay, with this, we say goodbye to this series. From this point on, there will be no more chapters. However, I will make one-shots to dive deeper into the healing process and show parts I didn't show or talk about, things you're curious about. As always, you're more than welcome to leave comments, feedback, requests, ask questions, etc. Enjoy. And if you see typos, no, you didn't.

Warning: +18, nightmares, maybe mentions of ptsd, etc. Some very, VERY suggestive part at the end.

Word count: 7.5k+

[You do not have permission to repost or translate any of my stories or claim them as yours.]

The days in the medical wing pass in a strange, suspended rhythm. Time feels warped — too fast in some moments, agonizingly slow in others. You sleep in stretches, eat when they tell you, and endure tests and scans and soft-spoken assessments. They tell you your body is healing well. No major infections. The weight loss is significant but expected. Dehydration is corrected. You’re stable.

But you-you don’t feel that way.

The ceiling tiles blur into a single repeated shape. The bed is too soft. Too still. There are no rustling trees, no ocean wind, and no birds to mark the sunrise. Just the mechanical hum of machines, the occasional beep of monitors, and the muffled footsteps of nurses outside your door.

You find yourself waking in the middle of the night, expecting smoke, thunder, and the sound of waves. But there’s nothing. Just silence. You wonder if your body forgot how to feel safe.

Natasha comes every day.

She doesn't hover. She doesn’t overwhelm. She just is. Always there, curled in the chair near your bed, boots kicked off, hands wrapped around lukewarm coffee, flipping through a book without really reading it. Sometimes she talks. Sometimes she doesn’t. Mostly, she just watches you. Like, she still can’t quite believe you’re real. That you’re here.

There are moments when she reaches for your hand and hesitates, catching herself like she’s afraid she’ll break you.

On the sixth day, the doctors tell you it’s time.

“You’re stable,” the lead medic says gently. “We can continue monitoring from home and give you instructions. It’s entirely your call, but… We think you’re ready.”

You’re not sure what “ready” is supposed to feel like. The idea of leaving the room you’ve come to accept as a kind of purgatory doesn’t make you feel free — it makes your chest tighten.

You nod anyway.

Natasha is quiet as she helps you dress. Civilian clothes. Soft. New. The fabric feels too thick, too unfamiliar. You move slowly, your body still remembering scarcity. Still conserving energy. Still unsure it’s safe to let go.

She kneels to help with your shoes and pauses when you flinch at the contact. You recover quickly, hand on her shoulder. “Sorry.”

“You don’t have to be,” she says softly.

As you stand together at the doorway, your discharge papers in a folder under your arm, Natasha glances down at your hand and laces her fingers through yours.

You hesitate. “I don’t know what’s waiting out there. I don’t know how to—”

“I know,” she says. Her grip tightens. “We’ll go slow. Whatever pace you need.”

You nod, even though your chest still aches with uncertainty.

The elevator ride down feels surreal. You’re not used to enclosed spaces with buttons and polished metal reflections. Your heart skips once, twice — Natasha notices.

“We can go back upstairs,” she offers quietly. “It’s okay if you’re not ready.”

You shake your head. “No. I just… need to get used to it again.”

When the doors open, the light is different. Sharper. Louder. There are more people. Too many. The security staff nods respectfully as you pass, and you catch a glimpse of yourself in a hallway mirror.

You don’t look like the version of yourself that disappeared. You’re thinner. Your eyes are sharper, older somehow. There’s a haunted look to your posture, even when you try to stand tall.

Natasha opens the car door for you. It feels strange — being helped. Being ushered. You slide into the seat and keep your eyes forward the whole drive, watching a world that moved on while you were gone. So many people, so much motion. Bright lights. Noise. Life.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Natasha asks softly, not pushing.

You shake your head at first.

Then, quietly: “It doesn’t feel like mine anymore. Like… I left the world for a while, and it forgot me. And now I’m trying to remember how to belong to it again.”

She nods slowly. “I know that feeling.”

You glance at her. “Yeah?”

“I lived in shadows for a long time. It’s different. But I remember what it’s like to come back and not recognize the shape of your own life.”

That lands. You stare out the window. “And what did you do?”

She looks over at you, eyes soft. “I made new memories. With the people I loved.”

The apartment building comes into view. It’s familiar and unfamiliar all at once. You remember the smell of the hallway, the way the light slants through the windows in the afternoon. You remember the doorframe, the number on it, the chipped edge of the paint. Home. Kind of.

Your hand pauses on the doorknob. Natasha’s close behind you, silent.

You whisper, “What if I don’t know how to live in it anymore?”

She’s quiet for a moment. Then, gently says, “Then we make it new. Together.”

You open the door.

Inside, everything is neat. Intact. Untouched. Maria must’ve kept it clean. Your things are still where you left them: photos, books, and your coat hanging by the door like it had been waiting for you.

You step inside slowly, eyes scanning everything.

Natasha doesn't push. She just follows quietly, giving you room.

In the corner, you spot something unexpected — a small carved figure, worn and faded. Red. Maria must have brought him from the med facility. You walk over and hold him in your hand, brushing your thumb along the ridges of the coconut’s face.

Natasha watches you with something close to reverence.

You finally turn to her.

“I don’t know what comes next,” you admit.

She steps closer, placing a hand gently against your back. “Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out.”

You nod, your eyes wet but steady.

And for the first time in a long time, you believe her.

You stay near a window for a while. The apartment is quiet, every sound soft and unfamiliar. You’re still holding Red, fingers absently brushing the worn coconut shell, when Natasha’s voice cuts gently through the stillness.

“Do you want to take a bath?”

You glance toward her, surprised by how simple and kind the question sounds. A bath. It’s been… years. And for a moment, the idea makes your chest feel tight — not because you’re afraid of it, but because it feels too gentle, too civilized, too far from where you were.

You swallow. “Yeah, but would you… stay with me?”

Her face softens. "Yeah, of course.”

She says it like it’s the easiest thing in the world — like she hasn’t missed you every second of the past three years. Like she wouldn’t drop everything to do exactly that.

Natasha walks you to the bathroom without fuss. She starts the water, adjusting it with practiced motions, quiet in the way she always is when things really matter. You sit on the closed toilet lid, watching steam curl toward the ceiling, already letting the warmth pull at the edges of something inside you.

Once the tub is full, you strip slowly, wrapping a towel around yourself as she turns away to give you space. You can’t help but smile at that, even if it’s faint — Natasha Romanoff, world-class assassin, averting her eyes with her cheeks slightly blushed, like you’re some delicate painting she’s afraid to damage.

You step into the water, easing down with a quiet hiss of breath as the heat envelops you. Your muscles scream and then slowly, slowly, begin to relax.

You lean your head back against the porcelain edge, eyes half-lidded. Natasha sits beside the tub on a folded towel, elbows on her knees, just watching you with a small smile and eyes full of unshed things.

After a minute, her voice breaks the calm.

“Can I help? With your hair?”

Your throat catches. You didn’t expect the offer, not like that — not so softly.

You nod. “Yeah. Please.”

She moves closer, sleeves pushed up, and gathers a little shampoo in her hands. Her fingers slide gently into your hair, slow and careful, massaging your scalp in delicate circles. It feels so good it nearly makes you cry — not because it hurts, but because it doesn’t. Because you didn’t know something so simple could still feel like this.

Her hands are steady, rinsing with warm water cupped between her palms, careful not to splash. She never rushes, never speaks unless it’s to quietly ask if something’s okay.

And when she wraps a towel around your hair and kisses your temple, something in you — something wound too tight for too long — finally lets go.

“You’re here,” she murmurs. “You’re really here.”

You rest your cheek on your arm along the tub’s edge. “It still feels like I’m dreaming.”

“I know,” she says. “Me too.”

You sit in the cooling water a little longer, side by side in silence that no longer feels empty. Eventually, she helps you out, wraps you in warmth, and leads you back to the bedroom with the kind of patience that doesn’t ask anything in return.

And through it all — the quiet, the closeness, the simple human contact — you begin to believe that maybe you really did come home.

And when she wraps a towel around your hair and kisses your temple, something in you — something wound too tight for too long — finally lets go.

—

Later, you’re on the couch, curled in on yourself. You hadn’t wanted to lie down in the bed just yet. Natasha didn’t question it—just handed you a throw blanket, sat beside you, and let the silence settle. She doesn’t crowd you. But she doesn’t leave either.

You stare down at the ring around your neck. The chain is cool against your collarbone.

“I thought about you every night,” you say, voice low, almost ashamed.

Natasha turns her head toward you. “So did I.”

You swallow hard. “I pictured you. Waiting. And then I started wondering if I’d made you up just to have something to hold onto.”

She shifts closer. “I thought I’d never see you again. Every day I told myself I had to keep moving because if I stopped, I’d have to admit you were gone.”

Your voice is a whisper. “And now I’m not gone. But I don’t know how to be here either.”

Natasha reaches over and takes your hand, slow and deliberate. Her thumb brushes over your knuckles. “Then we’ll figure it out together. There’s no right way to do this.”

You lean your head against her shoulder. It feels like touching solid ground after months in open water.

“I missed you so much it hurt,” you say.

She presses her lips to your temple. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

—

That night, after takeout and too many emotions to name, you stand at the bedroom door again.

The bed is made. The pillows fluffed. But it feels like walking into a memory.

Natasha waits patiently, giving you the space to choose.

“I want to try,” you say quietly. “But only if you stay.”

“I was never going to leave.”

She pulls back the covers and slides in beside you, and you crawl in with careful movements, still half afraid the walls might collapse if you breathe too loud.

You both lie on your backs, eyes open in the dark.

“Do you hate that I changed?” you ask.

Natasha’s voice is soft but certain. “I don’t care how you changed. I only care that you’re still mine.”

You roll toward her. Her arm is already there, waiting for you to curl into. You rest your forehead against her collarbone, heart racing like it hasn’t calmed down in years.

“I’m scared,” you whisper.

“I know,” she says, kissing your hair. “Me too.”

But she holds you all the same.

And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself fall asleep.

The room is dark and quiet. Natasha’s breath is steady beside you, warm, familiar, and grounding. You count each inhale, each exhale, like an anchor, like maybe if you focus hard enough, the rest of you will settle too.

But it doesn’t.

The bed is too soft. The mattress, the pillows—it all feels like it’s swallowing you whole. Your muscles are tense, your jaw is locked, and your breath is shallow. It’s not the silence that unsettles you. It’s the stillness. Too comfortable. Too easy. Too alien.

You lie there for what feels like hours, heart thudding loud in your chest, staring into the darkness.

Eventually, you slip out of bed as quietly as you can. The floor is cool under your feet, grounding in a way the mattress never could be. You lower yourself slowly, cautiously, and lie flat on your back beside your side of the bed, the wooden floor pressing firm and unyielding against your spine.

It feels… real. Familiar. You exhale, finally.

And that’s where Natasha finds you five minutes later—when her hand reaches across the bed and touches only cold sheets.

Her breath catches, and then you hear the mattress shift as she scrambles up, switching on the bedside lamp. Her voice is low but tight.

“Y/N?”

You blink up at her from the floor. “I’m here.”

She sees you and stills. Her shoulders drop slightly with relief, though her expression softens with worry.

“I—I couldn’t sleep,” you say quietly. “The bed felt wrong.”

She doesn’t say anything for a second. Then, without asking, she reaches for the blanket at the foot of the bed, kneels beside you, and drapes it gently over your body. Her fingers linger a moment against your arm.

“Next time, wake me. Please.”

You look at her, eyes tired. “I didn’t want to bother you.”

“You’re not a bother,” she says immediately, voice low and raw. “Not now. Not ever.”

A beat passes. Then Natasha shifts down beside you, lying flat on the floor without hesitation. The floor creaks beneath both your bodies. She glances at you sideways, head tilted on the hardwood.

“You’re really doing this?”

“You’re down here with me, aren’t you?”

A small smile plays on her lips. “Of course I am.”

Another pause.

“You know,” you murmur after a while, staring up at the ceiling, “the floor reminds me I’m real. That I’m here. The bed’s too forgiving. It’s too easy to think I might be dreaming all this. Or worse—dead.”

Natasha’s face turns toward you, open and quietly aching.

“I used to sleep on the floor too,” she says after a long beat. “First few years out of the Red Room. I couldn’t take the softness. The quiet. I felt like I didn’t deserve comfort.”

You nod, your throat tight. “I get that.”

“But you do deserve it,” she continues. “Even if it takes time to believe it.”

You’re quiet for a moment. Then: “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again. I didn’t let myself hope.”

She reaches out slowly and links her pinky with yours. “Hope’s stubborn. Just like you.”

The silence that follows is heavier, but not suffocating. A kind of understanding passes between you without needing words.

Eventually, you roll onto your side, facing her. She mirrors you instantly, and your foreheads touch lightly. Her hand finds your waist, pulling you close beneath the blanket.

This close, it’s easier to breathe.

“Thank you for not giving up on me,” you whisper.

“I could never bring myself to,” she replies, barely audible.

And with her warmth against your chest, her breath against your cheek, and the floor beneath you steady and real—you finally drift into sleep. Not perfectly. Not painlessly. But peacefully, for the first time in a very long time.

Together.

You wake slowly, eyes still closed, warm under the blanket, the floor beneath you solid and cool. For a second you forget where you are, panic fluttering at the edge of your chest—until you feel a thumb brushing slow circles against your side, and the scent of Natasha’s shampoo grounding you more than the floor ever could.

“Morning,” she whispers.

Your eyes flutter open. She’s already awake, head propped up slightly on her arm. Her gaze is soft, red hair a little wild from sleep.

You blink at her, throat dry. “You didn’t move.”

“Didn’t want to leave you alone,” she says simply.

You shift a little, wincing faintly from the stiffness. “You’re going to have back problems, Romanoff.”

She smiles, one of those rare, real ones. “Too late.”

You lie there in silence for a bit longer, the light beginning to slip in through the curtains.

“Part of me feels stupid,” you admit eventually, your voice still hoarse from sleep. “Sleeping on the floor, avoiding a bed like it’s a trap.”

“It’s not stupid,” she says gently. “It’s survival. You’re adjusting. That takes time. However long you need—I’ll be here.”

You stare up at the ceiling. “Everything feels different. Like I’ve got to learn the world all over again.”

“Then we’ll learn it together.”

That brings a lump to your throat. She must see it, because she reaches up and brushes your cheek with the back of her hand.

“I missed you so much,” she murmurs. “Every single day.”

You nod, voice tight. “I kept thinking about you. I kept wondering if I’d ever… just see your face again. Even once.”

She leans in slowly and kisses your forehead, staying there for a beat. “Well, now you’re stuck with me.”

A small laugh escapes you, and it feels good. Rusty, but real.

You finally sit up, stretching out your sore limbs, and Natasha follows suit, brushing out her tangled hair with her fingers. You glance at the bed, then at her.

“I think I want to try the bed again tonight.”

She smiles. “I’ll be there, too. We’ll face it together.”

It’s still strange—this new normal, this second chance. But in the quiet morning light, sitting beside her on the hardwood floor with a blanket draped over your shoulders and your heart a little less guarded, it doesn’t feel so impossible.

Not with her.

Not anymore.

The next night, it happens again. You try the bed. Last a little longer. Then move to the floor.

And again, Natasha follows — no questions, no sighs, no trying to coax you back.

The third night, she doesn’t even wait. When you quietly slip down to the floor, she follows moments later with a pillow tucked under her arm.

By the fourth night, you wake up and realize you haven’t moved at all.

You’re in bed. Still in Natasha’s arms. And for the first time since the island, you don’t feel like you have to run from peace.

—

A few months later.

The apartment is lived-in now. There's a plant on the kitchen windowsill that Natasha insists is thriving, even if it leans a little sideways. The couch has a dent where you both usually sit. Red is perched up on the shelf under the TV next to some decorations and framed photos of you and Nat, now forever a part of your life. And you smile every time your eyes land on it. Always a reminder of what you endured.

You’re healing. Not in a straight line, not without setbacks, but with intention. With her.

Some mornings are harder than others. You still wake up drenched in sweat sometimes, heart racing with ghosts. On those days, Natasha doesn’t try to fix it. She just hands you tea, brushes a hand through your hair, and sits close until your breath evens out.

There are good days, too. Days where you wake before her, cook something new, and even laugh freely. Days you catch her looking at you like you’re made of something rare and whole. You still don’t quite believe it, but you try.

You’ve been seeing a therapist SHIELD recommended. You hated it at first—too many questions, too much stillness. But eventually, it became a space you didn’t dread. You’ve started talking about the island, the silence, the routine that kept you sane.

You and Natasha still dance around some things. She hasn’t pushed you for intimacy beyond what you offer. She reads your cues like second nature—holding your hand when you’re overwhelmed, giving you space when your shoulders go rigid, curling beside you in bed when you reach for her without a word.

But it hasn’t been easy.

There was a week when you barely spoke after an argument. She’d gone on a short mission without telling you until the morning of, and you’d panicked, snapped at her, shut down. When she returned, you couldn’t look at her, too afraid of how much you need her. Too afraid of what needing someone means.

It was Natasha who finally broke the silence, sitting beside you on the couch and saying quietly, “You can be mad. I’ll still come back.”

That night, you cried in her arms for the first time in weeks. You hated that it helped. You loved that she held you anyway.

You’ve started working again. Slowly. First from home, reviewing field reports, helping analyze strategies—things that reminded you of who you were. Maria checked in regularly and, once, even told you she missed getting her ass handed to her during briefings. You laughed.

You and Natasha are different now. Not in a way that’s broken, but in the way that time remakes things—gently, with wear and meaning. You cook together more. You argue over whose turn it is to do laundry. You fall asleep facing each other now, not with fear, but with something like trust.

There’s still hesitation in both of you. Moments where your voices lower, not out of secrecy but out of reverence for how fragile things once were. You talk about the future, sometimes in fragments. A trip somewhere quiet. A garden. A place where you both might feel steady.

You're learning how to live again—with her and within yourself. The island isn’t gone. The pain, the scars—physical and not—aren’t either. But the ache isn’t everything anymore.

Love, you’ve learned, isn’t just the reunion. It’s the staying. The choosing.

And every single day, she chooses you.

—

The apartment was quiet one night.

It had been months now. Months of rebuilding, of learning how to be again—how to sleep through the night, how to laugh without guilt, how to let someone reach for you without flinching.

The bad days hadn’t disappeared, but they came fewer and further between. Now, most mornings started with coffee, soft light through the windows, and Natasha wrapped around you in sleepy warmth. Now, you could walk into a room without scanning every exit. Now, the weight on your chest was no longer constant.

And tonight, the stillness didn’t feel like a threat. It felt like rest.

You sat on the couch together, a half-watched movie flickering on mute, both of you tangled under the same blanket, your legs draped over hers. Her fingers lazily traced circles against your calf, like she was touching you just to remember you were real.

You watched her—her profile illuminated by the glow of the screen, soft and calm and so achingly beautiful in that quiet way you’d come to treasure.

You hadn’t said it out loud, not yet.

But it had been on your mind lately. That ring. The one that used to mean someday. The one that had waited carefully in a thin yet resistant chain around both of your necks for years now, quiet and patient.

You shifted a little and leaned your head against her shoulder.

"Hey," you said, voice soft, hesitant but steady.

She turned her head toward you, the question already in her eyes.

You reached for her hand under the blanket, fingers slipping between hers. “Do you ever think about it? The wedding, I mean.”

Natasha blinked. For a second, she didn’t say anything. Then her thumb brushed over your knuckles, slow and thoughtful. “I used to,” she said, almost a whisper. “Every day. When you were gone, I—I’d think about what it would’ve been like. What we lost.”

You leaned into her a little more. “And now?”

Her hand squeezed yours gently. “Now… I think we might be ready.”

You let out a slow breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “Yeah?”

She nodded, shifting to face you more fully, her free hand brushing a strand of hair from your face. “You feel it too, don’t you? That the worst is behind us. Not gone, but… no longer in control.”

You swallowed thickly. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while. Just didn’t know if I could say it without jinxing it, I guess.”

Natasha’s expression softened, her eyes shining just a little in the low light. “Say it now.”

You looked down at your joined hands. “I want to do it. The wedding. I think… I think I’m finally ready. I feel safe again. With you. With us. I want to stand with you and mean it in front of everyone. I want that day.”

She reached out and cupped your cheek, pulling you into a kiss—gentle, lingering, a promise wrapped in silence.

When she pulled back, her voice was barely more than breath. “Then let’s do it.”

You smiled, your eyes damp, but your heart light. “We waited so long.”

“And I’d wait forever,” she said, pressing her forehead to yours. “But I’m really fucking glad I don’t have to.”

You laughed through your tears, and she kissed you again—this time with more certainty, more heat, and more joy. You curled into her chest, hand tightly holding your ring still proudly on the chain around your neck, heart thudding with a rhythm that felt steady for the first time in years.

And there, in the hush of your shared home, you both knew: it wasn’t just about a wedding. It was about choosing each other, again and again, even when the world fell apart.

And now, finally, you were ready to celebrate that choice.

Together.

It was almost funny how simple it was in the end.

No announcements. No grand gestures. Just two people holding hands on a porch swing, sipping coffee while the sun rose over the Barton farm.

Clint had seen it the second you stepped out of the car with Natasha, your fingers linked, a soft calm in your posture that hadn’t been there before. He didn’t say anything right away. Just gave a knowing smirk, clapped you on the shoulder, and ushered you both inside where Laura was already pulling something out of the oven.

The smell of cinnamon and fresh bread wrapped around you like a blanket. It felt safe there, like nothing bad could happen under that roof. Maybe that’s why you found the words so easily.

“So,” you said slowly, sitting at the long kitchen table with your hands wrapped around a warm mug, “we’re finally going to do it.”

Clint raised an eyebrow. “Do what?”

Natasha leaned in a little, the corner of her mouth twitching with a smile. “The wedding.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Laura let out a quiet, happy gasp and reached for your hand.

Clint blinked. “For real this time?”

You nodded. “For real. We’re ready.”

Natasha didn’t say anything, but she reached over, laying her hand over yours on the table. That said enough.

Clint leaned back in his chair, folding his arms with a proud grin. “Took you long enough.”

You rolled your eyes with a quiet laugh. “You’re one to talk. You and Laura eloped.”

Laura grinned. “And we regret nothing. But you two? You deserve a day. A real one. Something good.”

You hesitated. “We were thinking… maybe here?”

Clint sat up straighter. “Here? Like—here, here?”

Natasha glanced out the window, eyes softening as they landed on the old barn at the edge of the property. “Yeah. It feels right.”

Laura squeezed your hand. “We’d be honored.”

Clint’s grin only widened. “We’ll string up some lights and clear out the barn. Get the kids to stop shooting arrows for five minutes. It'll be perfect.”

You smiled, something warm blooming in your chest. “Just a few people. Small. Family. Maria, Fury, and the team. Phil, if he’s back from the field. That’s it.”

Natasha leaned her head against your shoulder. “Just us. The ones who stuck through it all.”

Laura stood and kissed Clint on the temple. “Then it’s settled.”

The next few hours passed in a blur of light laughter and soft plans. Talk of fairy lights and music. Maybe Lila could make some signs. Nate would be the ring bearer if he could sit still long enough. There was talk of food, dresses, suits—or not. Just something simple. Something real.

You stepped outside after lunch, barefoot in the grass, the wind soft through your hair. Natasha followed, her hand slipping easily into yours. You stood in front of the barn, weathered wood and high beams, the kind of place where new chapters felt possible.

“This is really happening,” you said, voice quiet.

She turned to you, her eyes bright and steady. “Yeah. It is.”

You smiled, then leaned in, forehead against hers.

And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like you were holding your breath.

The days that followed passed in a gentle rhythm—slower than you'd expected, but full of meaning. No frenzy. No rush. Just two people returning to themselves and to each other.

The dress fittings happened in a softly lit boutique that Maria insisted on renting out for the afternoon. “You deserve this,” she said simply when you protested. “And besides—this’ll be fun.”

And it was.

Natasha stepped out of the dressing room first, hesitant, smoothing her hands down the fabric of the ivory gown. It was elegant and minimal, with a soft sweep of silk and lace. Not overly formal. Not flashy. But it stopped your heart in your chest.

You stared for a moment longer than you meant to. “You’re going to ruin me,” you murmured.

A rare flush crept up her neck. “You like it?”

You crossed the small space to her, brushing a hand down her arm. “I love it.”

She reached up to cup your cheek. “Wait until you try yours on.”

You laughed, but when you returned a few minutes later in your own dress—simple, flowy, perfectly you—Natasha just stared.

She didn’t speak at first. Just looked at you like she was memorizing something holy.

“Say something,” you whispered.

She blinked. “You’re real.”

The next few weeks were filled with quiet preparations. You helped Clint hang fairy lights in the barn while Laura stitched small details into the table linens. Lila painted wooden signs. Even Tony, who initially joked about throwing you a Stark-sponsored blowout, settled into his role of unofficial bartender for the night with only mild grumbling.

Fury didn’t say much when you told him the date—just clapped a hand on your shoulder and said, “It’s about damn time.”

Coulson smiled like he knew this would always be the ending.

And Maria—Maria just hugged you tightly, fiercely, as if she'd carried the weight of hope for both of you all this time. The night before the wedding, you and Natasha sat side by side in bed, each holding a notebook of vows you'd been scribbling in for days.

“Want to hear mine?” she asked quietly.

You nodded, heart thudding softly.

She read aloud words about almost losing you, and you coming back- About how she never stopped carrying you with her, even when she didn't believe in anything else.

You cried before she even finished.

Then, with trembling hands and a steadier voice than you expected, you read her your own. Words about the island. About how you survived and how she had helped you live again when you thought you wouldn't.

“I’m not promising easy,” you told her. “But I am promising you everything. Whatever I’ve got, it’s yours.”

That night, you slept in each other’s arms. And for the first time since you returned, there were no dreams.The morning came soft and slow, light pouring in through the farmhouse window. Natasha left early to get ready in the Barton house, Maria dragging her off with a garment bag and a mischievous wink. You stayed with Laura, sipping tea and letting Lila braid your hair while your dress hung by the window, glowing in the sun.

You should’ve felt nervous. You kind of did. But more than that, you felt… ready.

Whole.

Alive.

The barn had been transformed. The fairy lights flickered above rows of chairs filled with people who loved you. The air smelled like wildflowers and pine. There was music playing—soft, old, familiar.

And then, there she was.

Walking toward you down the aisle, in that same ivory dress, barefoot like you, a tremble in her lips and eyes glassy with tears.

You didn’t remember moving—only that you ended up in front of each other, smiling like the world had finally exhaled.

The vows came easy. No shaking. No fear. Just truth.

Natasha reaches for your hands. She holds them like they might disappear — like she's still, even now, making sure you're real. Her thumbs trace soft circles over your knuckles. Her lips press together for a moment as she breathes in, slowly.

Then she begins.

"I didn’t grow up believing in forever," she says, her voice quiet but sure. "Or softness. Or in anything that lasted. I’ve been a weapon. A shadow. A ghost meant to not be seen." You feel her hands tighten around yours. The crowd is gone, fading into a blur. It's just her. Just this.

"But then there was you. And somehow, you saw through all of it. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t run. You loved me back into a person."Her eyes shine, green and wet with unshed tears. Her voice doesn't tremble. "I thought I lost you. And I would have carried that for the rest of my life. But here you are. Here we are."

She pauses, breathes.

"So I promise — not just to stand beside you, but to grow with you. To fight for the life we've built. To listen even when it’s hard and to speak even when it scares me."

A single tear breaks loose and rolls down her cheek.

"You are the only home I’ve ever believed in. You are the peace I never thought I’d deserve. And you’re the only person I will ever want to spend forever with. So I vow to be yours. Without armor. Without fear. With everything I am."

You take a breath.

You hadn’t expected your hands to shake. But they do. And Natasha, as always, notices. She gives them the smallest squeeze —I'm here.

And you begin.

"I used to believe that surviving was enough," you say, and your voice is soft but strong. "That making it through was the victory. But you, you reminded me that surviving isn't the same as living."

You feel Natasha’s grip tighten again, like her heart is answering yours.

"You brought me home, even when I didn't know how to walk through the door." A few sniffles ripple quietly through the small crowd.

"I promise to keep learning how to live—with you, beside you, for you. I promise to wake up every day and choose this. Choose you. Even when it’s hard. Especially then." Natasha’s lips tremble now, but her smile holds steady, and she looks at you like you’re the center of the universe.

"You are my safest place. My sharpest truth. And the first light I saw after so much darkness. I’m not promising perfection. I’m promising honesty. Growth. Love — always, unshakable, enduring. Quiet when it needs to be. Loud when it matters." You pause. "Whatever I have, whoever I become, it’s yours. Always has been. Always will be."

When the officiant says the words—"You may kiss your wife"—Natasha wastes no time.

Her hands come up to cradle your face as yours curl into the fabric of her dress. The kiss is not rushed, but full. Steady. Like breath coming back after being held for years.

And when you part, the barn is full of quiet cheers and wet eyes and smiles that feel carved from joy.

Clint lets out a loud “Finally!” that breaks the spell just enough to make everyone laugh.

You kissed her like it was the only thing you’d ever wanted to do. And it really was.

And when the music picked up, when the sun dipped and the lights above danced in the wind, when your friends clapped and toasted and swayed—

You held her close under the string lights, her forehead pressed to yours, and whispered,

“We made it.”

Natasha smiled. “We start now. I love you,” she whispers, too quietly for anyone else.

“I love you,” you whisper back and know — without doubt, without fear — that this is only the beginning.

—

The cabin sat at the edge of a lake that shimmered silver in the moonlight. It was small, nestled between tall trees and a quiet sky, wrapped in a hush that seemed to exist just for the two of you. The kind of quiet that made it feel like the world had finally stopped spinning.

It was your first night here.

No one else. No duties. No beeping medical machines. Just Natasha and you. Just soft blankets and the smell of pine and a fireplace crackling low in the hearth. The lake was still. The wind was kind.

Dinner had been quiet — not because there was nothing to say, but because the silence was full of the kind of peace you'd both fought for. Natasha had held your hand across the table, thumb brushing over your wedding ring as if to reassure herself it was really there. You’d done the same.

Now, inside the bedroom, you stood at the window, fingertips resting on the wooden frame, looking out at the dark.

Natasha watched you from across the room. You could feel her gaze, warm and gentle, resting on you like a blanket. She didn’t speak right away. She never rushed you. Not since you came back.

You turned around slowly, and when your eyes met, there was something unsaid in them, something shared. You crossed the room with bare feet and a steady heart. Stood in front of her. Let her take your hand.

“I missed this,” you whispered.

Her hand tightened around yours. “Me too.”

No rush. No sudden movement. She leaned in and kissed you, soft and unhurried, like she had all the time in the world. Her other hand rose to your cheek, anchoring you there, letting you feel it — that you were wanted. Loved. Safe.

You touched her face in return, fingertips featherlight on her jaw, and said, voice barely a breath, “I’m ready.”

Natasha’s eyes flickered with emotion, and she nodded. “Okay.”

And in that word — just okay—were a thousand I love yous.

She helped you out of the soft sweater you’d pulled on earlier. Her hands were reverent and steady, asking with every inch of movement. You nodded when she looked to you for permission, and you undressed her too, slowly and carefully. It was the first time in so long that it hadn’t been out of necessity, or urgency, or desperation — but because you wanted each other. Because your bodies had been through war and survival and time apart, and you were choosing each other again.

She guided you to the bed, and the moment you lay down together, it was like something clicked into place. Natasha’s lips brushed your collarbone, your pulse, and your jaw. Her touch was gentle yet firm, a reminder of the love and passion that had always been between you. As you held each other close, the weight of the world seemed to lift off your shoulders, leaving only the warmth of her body against yours.

She slowly removed your shirt , revealing the scars and memories that marked your skin. But instead of recoiling, Natasha's eyes softened with understanding and acceptance, making you feel truly seen and loved in a way you had never experienced before. With each touch, each kiss, it was clear that this reunion was not just about physical desire but about healing and rebuilding what had been broken. The same followed for the rest of your clothes, each layer shedding away the pain and insecurities that had built up over time. As you stood there vulnerable and exposed, Natasha's embrace felt like a safe haven, a place where you could finally let go and be yourself without fear of judgment.

Her hands trace every curve, every scar, every piece of skin as if it were the first time. Soft, gentle, memorizing every new part of you. Her fingers dipped low from your collarbone, down to the small of your back, leaving a trail of warmth and comfort in their wake. With each touch, it felt as though she was erasing the past and creating a new beginning for you both. Her kisses followed your body from your neck to the valley of your breasts and down to your hips, igniting a fire within you that had long been dormant. In her embrace, you found solace and acceptance, a sense of belonging that you had never experienced before.

Natasha looks up to your face, silently asking for permission to continue exploring the depths of your desires. You meet her gaze with a nod, giving her the go-ahead. One of her hands reaches up for your hand, intertwining your fingers with hers, before she finally leans down to your center.

As she delves deeper into your pleasure, you feel a wave of ecstasy wash over you, surrendering completely to the intimacy of the moment. Natasha's touch is both gentle and confident, guiding you to heights of passion you never knew existed.

There were no words for a while. Just breath, skin, quiet affirmations. You whispered her name like a promise. She said yours like a prayer.

When it was over, and the room was full of warmth and the soft scent of pine and skin and shared love, she held you close, one hand trailing up and down your spine.

“Was it okay?” she asked quietly, her voice husky and a little breathless.

You nodded against her shoulder, then pulled back just enough to look her in the eye.

“It was everything.”

Her lips curved into a soft smile, and she leaned in to kiss you again — slow and deep and grateful.

You fell asleep that way. Skin against skin. Her heartbeat beneath your ear. No more running. No more surviving. Just two hearts, still learning to heal, finally at peace.

Together.

TAGLIST: @womenarehotsstuff @seventeen-x @ctrlaltedits @ciaoooooo111 @unexpected-character @redroomgraduate @natsaffection @cheekysnake @viosblog112 @riyaexee @lilyeyama @idontliketoread2127 @ima-gi--na-tion @sunny-poe @artemisarroxvolkov @hotcocoandonuts @scarletsstarlets @splatashaswife @generalbirdsalad @fxckmiup @yelldontwhisper

[pedroscowgirl]

unexpected encounter

aaron hotchner x fem bau!reader

Warnings: smut! minors dni! p in v (wrap it up), creampie, power dynamics (he's your boss), teasing ? lmk if i forgot something (i prob did)

summary: You were off duty, enjoying a sunny afternoon in a tight, bodycon sundress that accentuated your curves, when you unexpectedly ran into your boss, Aaron Hotchner.

masterlist

a/n: i know it's fall but i just couldn't get this idea out of my head so here you go <3

(also it's 3 am rn and ill post my hugh story tomorrow for those who were waiting on it cuz now its getting a lil late)

The evening sun casts a warm glow as you step out of the café, its fading rays highlighting your sundress, a snug, bodycon fit that clings to your curves. It’s a casual weekend, far removed from the usual dark suits and crime scenes, and you feel a certain freedom in wearing something that shows off your figure. The dress is vibrant, hugging your waist and hips, and the neckline dips just enough to reveal a hint of cleavage, nothing too provocative, but more than enough to draw attention.

You’re not expecting to run into anyone from the BAU, especially not your boss, SSA Aaron Hotchner. But as fate would have it, there he is, standing near his car across the street, his gaze locking onto you as if he’s frozen in place.

You pause, surprised at seeing him, and the moment stretches out longer than you expect. Hotch, the ever-composed leader, is staring. Not just a glance, but a full-on, wide-eyed stare. His usual mask of professionalism cracks slightly as his eyes trace the lines of your dress, lingering briefly on the exposed skin at your neckline before snapping back to your face.

"Hotch?" you say, your voice light with disbelief, trying to break the tension. "I didn’t expect to see you here."

He clears his throat, his expression quickly shifting into something more familiar stoic, controlled. But there’s no mistaking the way his eyes flicker back to you, like he’s struggling to keep his gaze in check.

“I could say the same,” he replies, his voice a little more hoarse than usual. "I didn’t mean to stare."

You chuckle, trying to ease the tension. “It’s alright, I’m off-duty, you’re allowed to stare.” You give him a teasing smile, knowing full well how rare it is to see this side of him.

Hotch seems to struggle with how to respond, his usual sharpness dulled for a moment. He’s not used to seeing you like this, out of your professional attire, out of the controlled environment of the BAU. He’s not used to seeing you as…anything other than an agent.

“I... uh… you look nice,” he finally says, and you swear you catch a glimpse of something like admiration in his voice, something he’s clearly trying to suppress.

You smile again, feeling a bit of warmth rise to your cheeks. “Thank you, Hotch.”

For a moment, it’s just the two of you standing there, the sounds of the city buzzing around you. It’s strange, he’s your boss, after all. But here, outside the confines of the BAU, things feel different. There’s no case, no profile, no killer to chase. Just Aaron Hotchner, looking at you like he’s seeing you for the first time.

“Well,” he says after a pause, breaking the silence, “I should… get going.”

“Yeah,” you nod, not wanting the moment to end. “I’ll see you Monday.”

But as you turn to leave, you can feel his eyes on you for just a second longer than necessary, like he’s not quite ready to break the spell.

And neither are you.

Monday rolls around, and you’re back at the BAU, your professional self once again. You’re dressed in your usual work attire, nothing flashy, just your go-to blazer and slacks. But something feels off. Specifically, Hotch feels off.

You notice it almost immediately during the morning briefing. Normally, Hotch commands the room with his calm authority, making eye contact with every agent to ensure they’re on the same page. But today, he’s avoiding your gaze. Subtly, of course, but after working together for so long, you can tell. When he speaks, his voice is as firm as always, but there’s something different, an edge, a tension that wasn’t there before.

He keeps the briefing short, his eyes barely lingering on you as he assigns the team to tasks for the case. The second it’s over, he quickly retreats to his office, leaving the rest of the team exchanging confused glances.

“What’s with him?” you whisper to JJ, leaning in as everyone gathers their files.

JJ shrugs. “I have no idea. He’s been quiet all morning.”

Emily slides in next to you, overhearing the conversation. “Did you do something to piss him off?” she teases, her eyes glinting with curiosity.

You roll your eyes but feel your stomach flip, wondering if you should tell them what happened over the weekend. You and Hotch didn’t do anything wrong, but there was definitely a moment. One you haven’t been able to stop thinking about either.

“I didn’t… exactly piss him off,” you say, your voice lowering. JJ and Emily exchange glances, their interest piqued.

“Spill,” Emily demands, her tone playful but insistent.

You sigh, looking around to make sure no one else is within earshot. “I saw Hotch over the weekend. Outside of work. I was, uh, wearing a dress.”

JJ raises her brows. “Okay…?”

“A bodycon sundress,” you clarify, feeling your cheeks heat up. “And it was… well, more revealing than what I normally wear around here.”

Emily leans back, clearly enjoying this. “So, you’re telling me Hotch saw you looking all hot and couldn’t handle it?”

You shrug, a small smile creeping onto your face. “I don’t know about that, but he definitely stared. I mean, he was stunned. He couldn’t even look away for a minute.”

JJ’s eyes widen in amusement. “No way. The Aaron Hotchner showed an expression on his face?”

“Exactly!” you say, laughing now that you’re sharing it with them. “I didn’t think much of it, but today? He’s been acting weird. It’s like he can’t even look at me.”

Emily grins. “You broke Hotch’s brain. Well done.”

JJ chuckles softly. “He’s probably just not used to seeing you like that, out of work mode. It might’ve caught him off guard.”

“Off guard is an understatement,” you murmur, thinking back to how he couldn’t tear his eyes away. “But it’s not like anything happened. It was just… a moment.”

“A moment that Hotch clearly can’t stop thinking about,” Emily adds. “You’ve thrown him off his game, and honestly? I love it.”

JJ gives you a more reassuring smile. “I’m sure he’ll get over it. It’s Hotch. He’s probably just trying to re-center himself. Maybe he’s worried about crossing any lines.”

You nod, but part of you wonders if there’s more to it. The way he looked at you—it wasn’t just surprise. There was something deeper, something he clearly didn’t know how to handle.

“Well,” Emily says, grabbing her tablet, “this should be fun to watch. Let’s see how long it takes for him to figure out how to act normal around you again.”

You laugh, but internally, you feel that same curiosity rising. What was Hotch thinking when he saw you? And why does it feel like it’s affected him this much?

The rest of the day drags on, but you can’t shake the tension between you and Hotch. Every time you walk by his office or catch a glimpse of him from across the bullpen, there’s this undercurrent, something simmering beneath the surface. You try to focus on the case, to act as if nothing happened, but it’s impossible to ignore the way his presence feels so much heavier today.

By mid-afternoon, you’ve had enough. You need clarity, or at least to know that this awkwardness isn’t all in your head. So, when you notice Hotch heading for the break room, you seize the opportunity.

You walk in just after him, the door swinging shut softly behind you. He’s standing by the coffee machine, his back to you, shoulders a little more tense than usual. You take a breath before speaking.

“Hotch?”

He turns slowly, his eyes meeting yours, and for a second, there’s that flash of something, surprise, maybe even desire, before he quickly masks it with his usual professionalism.

“Agent” he says, the formality of your title jarring. His voice is cool, but there’s an edge to it, like he’s holding something back.

You step closer, trying to keep your tone casual. “I’ve noticed you’ve been… distant today.”

Hotch raises an eyebrow, but there’s a tightness in his jaw. “I’ve been focused on the case. Nothing more.”

You cross your arms, feeling a mix of frustration and something more personal. “Really? Because it feels like you’re avoiding me.”

He doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he looks away for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts, before his eyes return to yours. “I’m not avoiding you. I just—” He pauses, his expression faltering for the briefest moment. “I want to maintain professionalism, that’s all.”

You blink, caught off guard by the admission. “Is this about Saturday?”

There’s a flicker of something in his eyes, confirmation, maybe. He looks almost uncomfortable now, like he’s been caught in something he didn’t want to acknowledge.

“I didn’t expect to see you outside of work,” he says carefully, his voice a little quieter. “And… I wasn’t prepared for how you looked.”

You feel a warmth rising in your chest, knowing now that you weren’t imagining things. “It was just a dress, Hotch.”

He lets out a soft, almost imperceptible sigh, his hands resting on the counter behind him as if he needs the support. “It wasn’t just the dress. It was…” He hesitates again, as if he’s struggling with how much to admit. “It was seeing you outside of this job. Seeing you as… more than just my agent.”

Your breath catches slightly at his words. More than just an agent? You hadn’t expected him to be this honest, to admit that there was something more to his reaction.

“And that bothers you?” you ask, your voice softer now.

“It complicates things,” he says, his gaze finally softening. “We work together. I’m your superior. I have to maintain a level of professionalism, not just for me, but for you, too.”

You step a little closer, feeling a pull between the two of you that you can’t quite explain. “But it’s not just about professionalism, is it?”

Hotch’s eyes search yours, and for the first time, you see the conflict written all over his face. “No, it’s not,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. The air feels thick with everything unspoken, everything hovering just beneath the surface. You can feel the distance between you narrowing, both physically and emotionally, and it’s like a magnet pulling you closer.

“I don’t want this to affect our work,” he finally says, breaking the silence. But the way he’s looking at you now, his eyes soft, his expression vulnerable, makes you wonder if he’s trying to convince himself more than you.

“It won’t,” you assure him, your voice steady. “We’re both professionals. But we’re also human.”

Hotch exhales softly, his posture relaxing ever so slightly, like the weight of his inner struggle is easing. He still looks conflicted, but there’s a shift in his demeanor, a sense that maybe he’s not entirely ready to let this go, either.

Before either of you can say anything more, the door to the break room opens, and you both immediately step back into your professional roles as JJ walks in, oblivious to the charged moment she’s interrupted.

“Hey,” she says casually, reaching for the coffee pot. “You guys okay?”

“Yeah,” you reply quickly, exchanging a brief glance with Hotch. “We’re fine.”

JJ looks between the two of you but doesn’t press further. “Good, because we’ve got a new lead on the case. Hotch, we need you in the conference room.”

Hotch gives you one last look before nodding to JJ. “I’ll be right there.”

It’s a warm, sunny afternoon when you arrive at the park for a team’s casual get-together, organized by Garcia, who insisted everyone needed some downtime outside the walls of the BAU. Laughter and conversation fill the air as the team relaxes, scattered across picnic tables and blankets.

You’re wearing that sundress again, the one that hugs your curves, the one that made Hotch’s breath catch in his throat the last time he saw you. It’s a bodycon dress that highlights your figure, with just enough of a neckline to show off a hint of cleavage, and when you walk up to the group, you immediately feel his eyes on you.

Aaron stands across the grassy clearing, wearing a simple polo and jeans that fit him perfectly. The dark material contrasts with the sunlit background, casting shadows across the strong lines of his jaw and the slope of his neck. He’s looking at you, his expression intense, his thoughts seemingly far away.

He’s quiet—Hotch always is during these gatherings—but you know what’s on his mind. It’s the same thing that’s been lingering between the two of you for days, the weight of unspoken words and unresolved tension. His eyes flicker from your face to your body, lingering on the dress, and you can see his jaw tighten. The rest of the team is laughing, eating, and enjoying the afternoon, oblivious to the tension that’s simmering just beneath the surface.

As you settle down near the picnic table, chatting with JJ and Emily, you can feel Hotch’s gaze like a physical touch. He tries to be subtle, to act like nothing is out of the ordinary, but you catch him glancing at you again and again. Each time, his eyes darken with desire, his body language betraying the thoughts racing through his mind.

You shift slightly, adjusting the hem of your dress, and you can almost feel the way his focus sharpens. Every movement you make seems to affect him, his grip tightening around his coffee cup, his posture stiffening ever so slightly. He’s trying to keep it together, trying to maintain that professional composure, but you can see him slipping.

From across the table, Garcia rambles about some new tech gadget she’s discovered, and Reid chimes in with his usual barrage of facts. But your mind is on Hotch, and the way his gaze hasn’t left you for more than a few seconds. You glance up, meeting his eyes from across the distance, and the heat between you is undeniable.

He looks away quickly, but you catch the way his fingers clench slightly into a fist before he releases them, exhaling as if to steady himself. You bite your lip, feeling a surge of confidence as you decide to tease him, leaning forward a little more as you laugh at something Emily says. You know exactly what you’re doing.

Hotch’s eyes flash again, and for a moment, you think he’s going to snap. His hand flexes against his thigh, and his gaze grows even darker, filled with barely-contained need. He wants to touch you, he needs to, you can see it in the way he shifts in his seat, the tension rolling off him in waves. But he can’t. Not here. Not in front of the team.

The rest of the group is oblivious to the magnetic pull between you two, but you know. And Hotch knows. His restraint is fraying at the edges, his focus divided between trying to keep up the pretense of professionalism and the urge to take you somewhere more private.

You catch his eye again, holding his gaze just a moment longer than before, and you swear you see the corner of his mouth twitch, the smallest hint of a smile, or maybe something more primal. His control is slipping, and he’s fighting it with everything he has.

As the afternoon stretches on, the laughter and casual conversation continue, but all you can think about is what’s going to happen when this gathering ends. When it’s just the two of you. When he doesn’t have to hold back anymore.

And by the way Hotch keeps looking at you, his thoughts following every move you make, you know it’s only a matter of time.

As you pack up your things, you notice him lingering by his car, his eyes still on you, and your heart skips a beat when he makes his way over to you.

"Need a ride home?" he asks, his voice smooth but heavy with something more.

You nod, sensing that this is the moment you’ve both been waiting for. There’s an undercurrent in his words, a promise of something more than just a simple ride.

The drive to your place is thick with tension, the kind that makes the air feel heavier, charged with anticipation. Neither of you speaks much. There’s no need to, everything has already been said in the heated looks exchanged back at the picnic, in the way his hand brushed your lower back for just a second too long as he led you to his car. It’s there in the way he’s gripping the steering wheel now, his knuckles white as he tries to keep control, though you can tell that his thoughts are anything but steady.

You glance at him from the passenger seat, noticing the way his jaw is clenched, the tendons in his neck tight as he stares at the road. His usual cool, collected demeanor is crumbling, and you know exactly what’s on his mind. You in that dress. The way he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about it since he saw you at the park. The way you’ve been teasing him all afternoon, letting your fingers linger on his arm when you spoke, leaning just a bit closer to him than usual.

It’s like a silent game between the two of you—one that’s about to reach its breaking point.

The second the car pulls into your driveway, you can feel his restraint finally snap. The engine is barely off before Hotch is out of the car, quickly making his way around to your side. He opens the door for you, but as you step out, you can see the way his eyes are filled with a hunger that’s only grown stronger throughout the day. His hand is on your lower back again, guiding you up the steps to your door, but this time, his touch lingers. You can feel the heat of his hand through the thin fabric of your dress, and it sends a thrill through you.

You unlock the door with trembling fingers, your heart racing, knowing what’s about to happen. You step inside, and the second the door closes behind him, it’s like a dam breaks.

Hotch’s hands are on you before you even have time to turn around. His fingers curl around your waist, pulling you back against him as his mouth finds your neck. His lips are hot and urgent against your skin, and you can feel the rough stubble of his jaw scraping lightly as he kisses along the curve of your throat. His breath is ragged, and you can feel the tension radiating off him in waves.

“I’ve been wanting to do this all day,” he growls against your ear, his voice low and rough, filled with barely-contained need. His hands slide up your sides, his fingers tracing the outline of your dress, and the way he’s touching you, like he can’t get enough, makes your body heat up instantly. “Ever since I saw you in that damn dress…”

You gasp as his hands tighten on your waist, pulling you even closer, his hips pressing against you in a way that leaves no doubt about how badly he wants you. His mouth moves along your neck, hot and insistent, as his fingers slip beneath the fabric of your dress, hiking it up slightly so he can grip your bare skin.

“Aaron…” you breathe, your voice catching as you tilt your head to give him more access. Your body is already reacting to his touch, your pulse quickening, heat pooling in your belly. You want him just as badly, have been wanting him since the moment he first laid eyes on you in this dress.

You barely make it to the kitchen before Hotch lifts you up, his strong arms wrapping around your waist as he sets you on the counter with ease. The cool surface contrasts with the heat of his body pressing against you, and you gasp at the sensation. His hands are everywhere now, on your thighs, sliding up to your hips, then gripping your waist as he pulls you even closer to the edge of the counter.

He kisses you hard, his lips crashing against yours with a need that makes your head spin. It’s a kiss filled with everything he’s been holding back, all the tension from the past week finally spilling over. You kiss him back just as desperately, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer as his hands continue to explore your body.

His fingers slide under the hem of your dress, hiking it up higher as his hands trace the curve of your thighs. The way he’s touching you is possessive, almost frantic, like he can’t get close enough. He breaks the kiss for just a moment, his forehead resting against yours as he catches his breath.

“You drive me crazy, you know that?” he murmurs, his voice rough with desire. His hands slide up your sides, brushing over the neckline of your dress. “This dress… you have no idea what it does to me.”

You bite your lip, your heart racing as you look into his eyes, dark with need. “I wore it for you,” you admit softly, your voice breathless. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about it.”

Hotch groans softly "fuck you're such a slut for me" his hands tightening on your waist as he kisses you again, slower this time, but no less intense. "fuck yes aaron I am" you replied and his hands roam over your body, slipping beneath the fabric of your dress to touch your bare skin. You arch into his touch, your body responding to him in a way that makes it impossible to think about anything else.

One of your straps slips from your shoulder, and in an instant, Hotch freezes. His breath catches as he pulls back slightly, his eyes fixed on your exposed skin. The strap falls, and your breast is revealed to him. For a moment, he just stares, his eyes darkening even more as he takes you in.

“God…” he breathes, his voice barely a whisper. His hands move to your shoulders, gently pushing the strap further down until your dress is hanging loosely off one side. His eyes flicker up to yours, filled with a mix of awe and raw desire. “You’re so beautiful.”

He leans down, his lips brushing softly over your exposed skin, kissing along the curve of your breast with a tenderness that makes your breath hitch. But the tenderness doesn’t last long, soon, his kisses grow more urgent, more desperate, as his hands cup your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your sensitive skin.

You moan softly, your head falling back as his mouth finds your nipple, his tongue swirling around it before he sucks gently, sending a surge of heat straight to your core. His hands grip your waist, pulling you closer to the edge of the counter as he continues his assault on your senses, his lips and hands everywhere at once.

“I can’t… stop,” he groans against your skin, his voice rough and filled with desire. “I’ve wanted this for so long…”

His hands slide down to your hips, gripping you tightly as he pulls you against him, his erection pressing firmly between your legs. You gasp at the sensation, your hands gripping his shoulders as he moves against you, his breath hot and ragged in your ear.

“I need you,” he murmurs, his voice low and desperate. “Right now.”

You nod, breathless, as you pull him closer, your legs wrapping around his waist as he lifts you slightly off the counter. His hands slide under your dress, pulling it up higher as he presses himself against you and takes off your underwear, his lips find yours in a heated kiss that leaves you both gasping for air.

When he finally enters you, it’s like everything else fades away. The world outside, the past week of stolen glances and restrained touches, it all falls away as he moves inside you. His pace is slow at first, savoring the way you feel wrapped around him, his lips brushing over your skin with every thrust.

You arch against him, your hands gripping his back as he moves faster, his control slipping as the need between you builds. His mouth is on your neck, your shoulder, your breasts everywhere, as he pushes you closer and closer to the edge.

The strap of your dress falls completely now, both your breasts exposed to him, and Hotch loses it. His hands cup your breasts again, his thumbs brushing over your nipples as he thrusts harder, deeper, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

“You’re perfect,” he groans, his voice filled with awe and desire. “Everything about you… I can’t get enough.”

You moan his name, your body trembling as he brings you closer and closer to the edge. The way he moves inside you, the way he touches you, it’s all too much. You feel the tension coiling in your belly, ready to snap at any moment.

And then, with one final thrust, you’re falling. You cry out, your body arching against him as pleasure crashes over you in waves. Hotch follows seconds later, groaning your name as he shudders, his body tensing as he finds his release.

For a moment, neither of you moves, your bodies still connected, your breaths mingling as you come down from the high of it all. Then, slowly, Hotch pulls back slightly, his hands still holding you close as he looks into your eyes, his expression softer now, filled with something more than just desire.

“You’re incredible,” he whispers, his voice full of awe as he brushes a stray hair from your face. “I don’t know how I’m ever going to keep my hands off you after this.”

You smile, breathless, as you lean in to kiss him again, slow and deep, savoring the moment. “Then don’t,” you whisper against his lips, and the way he kisses you in return tells you that he has no intention of letting go anytime soon.

taglist (lmk if u wanna be added): @looking1016 @pear-1206 @doe-eyed-diva @ssa-aaronhotchner @sweetpinkchampagne @totallyjovialblaze @pastelpinkflowerlife @donttrustlove @actualdeemon @jencole214 @fandomawesomeness @devilslittlehelper

[darkmatilda]

𝐩𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐞 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: when an unsub hunts their victims in a casino, choosing couples that fit a specific pattern, spencer has no choice but to once again ask his friend for a little favor.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐭𝐰: spencer reid x diva!female reader, undercover as a couple, reader wearing a dress, header and summary FAKE AF bc literally casino scene is like 5% of a fic, the rest are just preparations, kind of like this friends episode where they're just getting ready lol

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 4k

𝐚/𝐧: requested by @mggslover <33 u don't know this about me, but that ep with reid in the casino had me barking like a pack of german shepherds, so i just couldn't stop myself from adding it

"So, we already have a profile. The unsub is a man between twenty-five and thirty years old. A gambler who has lost his entire fortune, yet he still plays, desperately trying to surround himself with luxury, refusing to accept his reality. His victims are men just like him—young posers, living beyond their means. They all had partners, attractive and confident women who belonged to the social group they dreamed of, unaware of who they were really dating. The unsub probably used to date someone like that as well. By getting rid of them, he experiences a deep sense of purification. He believes he is killing the part of himself that he sees as false, when in reality, that part is his true self," Morgan recited, pacing in circles around the office, gripping a black marker in his hand—the same one he had just been using to write on the whiteboard.

Suddenly, he stopped and let out a chuckle. "I think I know what we need to do to catch him. It's actually pretty obvious."

Everyone watched him with intrigued expressions. Usually, it was another team member who had these sudden bursts of verbosity, but that didn’t mean the others were immune to them from time to time. For the sake of maintaining balance in the universe.

"Enlighten us, then," Prentiss urged him, perching slightly on the edge of the table with her arms crossed over her chest.

Morgan spread his arms as if accepting a challenge. He paused for a moment, as if building suspense, then stated simply:

"Undercover agents who fit the profile of his victims."

His gaze swept over the team members, observing their reactions. Everyone focused on his idea, weighing the chances of success.

Reid noticed the concentration on their faces—right at the moment when his eyes accidentally met Morgan’s, who had been watching him for quite some time. He didn’t even have the chance to sigh before his friend asked the question Spencer knew was coming.

"You know how to play poker, right, Reid?"

"Well, turns out I’m banned from casinos in Las Vegas, Laughlin, and Pahrump for card counting..."

"So that’s a yes," Morgan cut him off, nodding in satisfaction. He looked fully committed to his plan—determined to see it through and catch the unsub. "Alright, great. That leaves us with two things."

He paused dramatically. Prentiss arched a brow.

"Go on, enlighten us again."

"One of them is money," Spencer guessed without difficulty.

Morgan waved a hand dismissively. "Rossi’s got it covered."

"Oh, do I now?" Rossi leaned back in his chair, giving Morgan a pointed look. "Did it ever occur to you to ask me first? Do I look like some random ATM to you?"

"So Reid goes in as a potential target, looking for the unsub among the players,"  JJ cut in, slowly and logically summing everything up. "Makes sense. But there’s still one problem. Every victim had a partner. Without one, he won’t fit the profile."

It looked like he had been waiting for this to come up. The moment it did, he locked eyes with Reid without a word, certain that his friend would immediately understand what was going through his head.

Spencer remained still for a moment before shaking his head as realization hit him.

"I need to ask you for a favor."

“No way,” he scoffed. “No. Just no, this is—”

♠

Just some subtle foreshadowing.

Before those words were even spoken, Reid had to catch up to her first. And that was no easy task—she was making her way to her lab at an incredible speed, her elegant heels clicking sharply against the floor as she walked, nose buried in a stack of papers she was analyzing with deep concentration. She wasn’t even looking where she was going, something Spencer noted with a tinge of jealousy. If he attempted the same maneuver, he’d undoubtedly trip over the most random object right before the stairs, tumble down ten flights, take twenty people with him on the way, and, at the very end, someone would accidentally kick his broken body and spill their coffee on him. Black. No sugar.

She was walking so fast that he had to break into a light jog just to stay a step behind her.

"Hey," he tried to get her attention.

He was already embarrassed by how out of breath he was.

She didn’t stop, but she did slow her pace significantly. Instead of responding, she simply raised a finger, signaling for silence, and continued analyzing whatever it was she was analyzing.

Spencer sighed, irritated as always by her sense of superiority, and simply took the documents from her hands.

It was so unexpected that a startled, deeply offended sound escaped her lips.

"Can’t you see I’m a little busy?"

"This won’t take long. I just need to talk to you."

They both came to a halt. She folded her arms across her chest, raising a perfectly arched brow. Beneath her white lab coat was, as usual, an elegant outfit, and the rest of her appearance hardly needed describing—stunning, as always. Spencer would never admit it, not even for unlimited access to the Library of Alexandria, but every time he was within her orbit and his eyes landed on her, he had to blink and remind himself she was real. Even if they’d already seen each other multiple times that day.

She pressed her lips together, visibly impatient.

"You’ve got a minute. Two, if it’s something sufficiently interesting," she said, waiting for him to get to the point.

And the moment she did, Spencer’s slightly labored breathing from his earlier exertion became embarrassingly audible.

The corners of her lips curled into a smirk.

"Someone chasing you?"

"Actually, I need to ask you for a favor." He ignored the comment, hiding his embarrassment behind a mask of irritation. He sighed, partly to calm his breath, partly to prepare himself for the next words. While he thought the first part of Derek’s plan was good, the second, in his opinion, left much to be desired.

Any other agent could’ve gone with him—there were two or three in the team, counting Garcia. And she wasn’t even accustomed to fieldwork. She just happened to fit the profile they’d created. Incredibly attractive and confident to the point of being borderline cocky. Morgan had insisted on her, but when it came to convincing her, he’d passed it off to Spencer.

"If I remember right, and I’m pretty sure I do, you already owe me for checking that last piece of evidence. You really want to add another one to that?"

"No, but I’m afraid I don’t have much of a choice. So...would you pretend to be my partner while I play poker at the casino, and try to spot our current suspect among the other players?"

He figured it would be easier if he just said it outright.

The woman didn’t even flinch.

"Can you play poker?" she asked, eyeing him carefully. She scoffed. "I want to see that. Fine, let's do it."

Spencer's eyes went wide. He had a hundred arguments ready, but he didn’t expect her to agree so easily.

"What?" she asked, noticing his reaction.

"Just like that? No questions? Doesn’t it bother you that you'll have to pretend to be...my girlfriend?"

He shook his head.

He tried to sound as if it were something completely natural, just another surprising element of the job he encountered all the time. However, he couldn’t help but swallow at the end of his sentence, an entirely involuntary reflex, betraying the hint of nervousness that had settled inside him.

She took a step forward, closing the distance between them, stopping only when she was uncomfortably close, slightly tilting her chin up. Her expression remained unreadable, not even a hint of a mocking smile.

"I mean..." Reid began, but the thought he wanted to express got lost, his focus slipping. Of course, he got distracted. He broke eye contact, shifting his gaze to some random spot on the wall behind her, silently cursing his own reactions. When he looked back at her, he forced himself to maintain the illusion of normalcy. "What I meant is, this could be dangerous. After all, it's a serial killer. You don't have to agree to this if you're having doubts."

She didn’t seem at all disturbed or frightened. She barely shrugged.

"So what? You’ll be there too."

Deep down, he felt like someone had just handed him a medal for special services to the country and shaken his hand, congratulating him. He called himself an idiot and made a mental note to retake the IQ test sometime soon.

“So you trust me?” he asked, driven by some strange impulse.

She simply raised an eyebrow at him.

“Is there a dress code I need to follow?”

He felt like squeezing his eyes shut out of embarrassment. Instead, he just shook his head in denial.

“No…also…actually…no. Just be yourself.”

She nodded as well, and he had the feeling something shifted at the corners of her lips. A hint of a smile, maybe. Then she moved even closer. Surprised, Reid opened his mouth, and she reached for what he’d forgotten he was even holding—documents he’d almost torn from her hands earlier.

So that’s why she’d been so close.

“See you then,” she said, brushing past him toward the direction she’d been heading before he stopped her. The scent of her perfume wafted into his nostrils as she did. “We’ll see what kind of poker player you are.”

The urge to turn around over his shoulder was overwhelming. And to speak up, almost painful.

“The best,” he added.

“Do we look natural? You know, like a couple?” Spencer asked with concern.

There was something sweet in her laugh.

♠

His hand was stiffly resting on her waist, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't relax it. She, on the other hand, standing right next to him, touching him and fitting against his body like a puzzle piece, didn’t have the same problem. She sighed and took his hand, guiding it lower down her body to make it look like a natural position.

“Not at all,” Prentiss said bluntly, shaking her head.

“You look like siblings who were forced by their mom to pose together for a picture,” Morgan added, watching them with a hint of dread. It was starting to sink in that this plan had way less chance of success in reality than it did in his head.

“So that means no?”

“Of course, it means no, idiot,” the woman hissed at him. Suddenly, she stiffened, as if surrendering, and pulled away from him.

Spencer raised his hands in a defensive gesture, looking at his teammates. They’d met in the office that evening, the day before the planned operation. The unsub always struck on the same day of the week, so they had to wait for the right time. Their task was simply to practice pretending to be a couple. Sounded easy enough, right?

"I don't get why everyone's so upset!" he said, looking at them. "Is it really that weird that groping a colleague doesn't come naturally to me? I think, honestly, it’d be worse if the roles were reversed—"

"Not in this case, man," Morgan replied, shaking his head. He rubbed his forehead and straightened up, as if washing his hands of the whole thing. "I’m exhausted. You two can practice this on your own. I don’t care how long it takes, you can sit here all night if you need to. Just remember, tomorrow you have to act like you’re dying to rip each other’s clothes off at any given moment."

Spencer felt warmth on the back of his neck. She rolled her eyes.

"And if it doesn’t work?" she asked. "What then? Can’t another agent take his place?" For a moment, she stared at Morgan before shrugging. "You, for example."

Spencer shot her a wounded look.

"Et tu, Brute…"

She glared at him.

"You want me to play Brutus with you?"

Meanwhile, Prentiss and Morgan had slipped out of the room, leaving them alone. Spencer sighed heavily. He was really starting to worry about the coming day and the undercover mission ahead. They both fell silent for a while, he rubbed his tired eyes and slowed his breathing, trying to rationalize it to himself.

"You know, I wouldn’t stress about it so much," he finally spoke up, glancing at her and her arms crossed over her chest. "I mean, tomorrow I’ll be sitting at the poker table, focused on the game, so I won’t be thinking about how to act natural. And because of that, it’ll be easier to actually act natural...you know what I mean?"

She probably knew what he meant, but that didn’t stop her from letting out a small snort at his convoluted explanation. Instead of answering, she stayed silent for a moment before slowly walking over to one of the chairs and dragging it to the center of the room.

She had to know Spencer was staring at her, completely puzzled by what she was doing, but she didn’t bother explaining herself. Letting go of the chair, she moved away and then gestured toward it with her hands, like she had just pulled a rabbit out of a hat during some magic show. Spencer felt like he was watching something exactly like that.

"Well, go ahead. Sit down," she said.

"What?"

"You said tomorrow you'd be sitting at the poker table and it’d be easier for you to focus. So, let’s see how true that is."

"That’s not exactly what I meant—"

"I’m not sitting here all night. I'm telling you that right now. So just sit down and let’s find out if this whole plan even has a chance of working. Because, right now, with your behavior, it doesn’t have any."

Reid remained still for a moment, almost holding his breath. She had hit a sensitive spot—the success of tomorrow's plan and catching the unsub. Reluctantly, he trudged over to the chair. He glanced at her. She urged him on with a look.

He sighed and sat down. As soon as he did, she settled herself—not anywhere else—but right on his lap.

Due to the surprise, he took a slightly too deep breath. Hearing this, she looked at him from beneath her raised eyebrows.

"Sure, keep reacting like that," she said, sarcastically. She adjusted herself, one hand resting on his shoulder. Once she was sitting comfortably, her soft body pressed against his, she moved her hand to the back of his neck, her fingertips brushing through his hair. "Very natural. Very convincing."

"We don't need to be that convincing."

"If we're going to draw the unsub's attention, then yes, we do. Otherwise, what's the point?" She scoffed. "So you can dig up your poker skills?"

"My poker skills are fine, I don't need to dig them up," he replied almost automatically.

"Confidence. I like it. Seriously. Just try to put it into something else. Into your partner, for example," she began, in a lecturing tone. As she spoke, her face was very close to his. She had an expressive face, moving it as she explained, and Spencer followed her every motion with his eyes, almost as if she were a medallion in the hands of a hypnotist. "According to the victim profile, you're supposed to be a bit insecure. And you know what insecure people do, especially in environments like this? They pretend to be confident. So do it. Hold me tighter, show those guys on the other side of the table..." She gestured behind her as if someone were actually there, "...that this beautiful woman is yours. And they can only look."

His own pulse was treacherous, thankfully she couldn't hear it. Spencer felt slightly dizzy, suddenly way too aware of how she was positioned on his lap, the scent of her, and the delicate brushing of her hair against his neck when she moved.

"There are no guys," he mumbled dumbly, not knowing what else to say.

She flicked him on the forehead.

"Then imagine them."

Spencer felt hyper-aware of the spot on his forehead where she had touched him. For a moment, he tore his gaze away from her, which was difficult when she was literally on top of him. He did it, though, to take a calmer breath before what he was about to do next.

He started by adjusting her on his lap. She might have been comfortable, but he certainly wasn't. He felt like she was about to slide right off him. He placed his hands on her waist—not like she was a delicate porcelain figure, though. Not that he grabbed her roughly or tightly. He just did it the right way. One of his arms wrapped around her for better stability. She watched him, almost without blinking, with genuine curiosity. The corners of her lips slowly turned upward.

For a moment, he disconnected from his thoughts, not worrying whether it looked natural for any imagined people. He just wanted them both to be comfortable.

"Is it better now?" he asked, not teasing, but with genuine curiosity.

He felt the muscle in her thigh move, the subtle tension rise as his hand rested on that part of her body. He relaxed his fingers, letting them cover most of its surface.

Her lips were slightly parted, her breath escaping in a soft, quiet rustle.

"Almost," she said.

Without breaking her gaze from his face, her hand found his, the one resting on her thigh, and guided it higher, increasing the pressure. Spencer had no idea how he was still managing to control his breath so perfectly. Maybe he was too dazed to focus on his own reactions. Maybe he'd surrendered to the situation, not overthinking it, just letting it flow. Where to? He didn't know. Where did he want it to go? He didn't know that either.

"Now," she began, releasing his hand from her grasp and sliding her fingers along his forearm. "Now it's perfect."

She shifted. Gently, probably an unintended twitch. The weight of her body lifted and then settled again, rising and falling on his lap, almost on his hips. The surface brushed against another surface. Body on body.

They were silent. Why were they silent?

If someone had asked him about the capital of Sri Lanka, he'd probably say Fidel Castro.

The emptiness that filled his mind almost embarrassed him, while she looked at him from under slightly raised lashes, her gaze as usual strong, seeming to pierce right through him. He had to break it, he had to stop this before the physical closeness pushed him into doing something foolish.

“So,” he began suddenly, throwing the words out before he'd even prepared the rest. He blinked, trying to focus. “Did you know that originally, poker was played with 20 cards, not 52 like it is now? In the earlier versions of the game, it was usually played with fewer people. It was only with the evolution of poker, and the rise in its popularity, that the full deck was gradually used, allowing for more variety in hands and more complex strategies.”

For a moment, she just looked at him in silence. He held her gaze, doing his best to stay composed. It wasn’t that he was denying his awkwardness—he was well aware of it. And he knew that if she didn’t get off him soon, things were going to get really out of hand.

She sighed and ruffled his hair, like she was petting a dog.

“It was almost perfect,” she murmured, shaking her head. She pointed at him with a warning finger before slowly moving off him. She didn’t seem affected at all, like the whole thing hadn’t fazed her one bit. At least not in the same way it had shaken him. “Tomorrow, no more talk like that, understood?"

Spencer nodded, completely agreeing.

The casino was a blend of intense red and deep gold, popping from nearly every corner. It also radiated from her—her dress and accessories made her look like a goddess dedicated to the place, reigning over it with authority.

♠

"So, there's something we forgot to discuss," she said as they made their way to the table. Spencer kept his gaze straight ahead, his arm around her, while she was looking at him, specifically his profile. She wasn’t watching her feet, clearly relying on his guidance. Lowering her voice, she leaned in. What from the outside might have seemed like a flirtatious whisper with a sly grin and fluttering eyelashes was, in fact, a serious question. "Do you want me to keep an eye out for your unsub while you're busy with the game?"

Reid shook his head.

"You’re not a profiler."

"Doesn't mean I can't tell when some guy's staring at me."

"Everyone stares at you."

She focused on his words, puffing her lips as if conceding the point.

"Fair point," she muttered, pulling her face away from his neck.

His words weren’t an exaggeration in the slightest. She really did have that effect on people, especially men, but not only them—like the sound of a siren, immediately drawing attention from all around. He felt almost strange walking arm in arm with someone like that. He didn’t know what kind of primal territorial instinct had awakened in him, but he felt the urge to pull her closer. He shook his head disapprovingly at his own thoughts, and she tilted her head at him, questioning. Nothing, he mouthed silently.

He didn’t need to do that, pull her closer, of course. They quickly took their seats at the table where the game was about to begin. She lowered herself onto his lap just as they had practiced the day before. Thank God they had done that. Otherwise, his mind would have started spinning like plates in a microwave, feeling it all somehow more real, then, under the watchful eyes of strangers.

She glanced at his face, a slight tension in her expression. He realized she was tense again. He took a breath and adjusted her position, lifting her slightly, holding her as if it were an established routine, following the instructions. When he thought of it that way, it was actually easier.

She gave him a gentle smile, weaving her hands together at the back of his neck. He responded, honestly.

And then, there were only the cards.

Okay, that wasn’t entirely true. He couldn’t afford for it to be just the cards. His job was to spot the one right face among dozens, not to win. That part had become her priority—she kept whispering hints into his ear, as if she still wasn’t fully convinced that he actually knew what he was doing.

“We should play against each other sometime,” she suggested.

“Don’t think for a second I’d go easy on you.”

“You think I’d need you to?”

Her question—well, more of a scoff—barely registered in his mind. Because just then, he caught an unfamiliar gaze lingering on them, watching for longer than the rest. And not just at them, but at one very specific spot.

She sat on his lap, completely at ease, not even noticing how the hem of her short dress was riding up a little too much.

It had caught the attention of the man sitting directly across from them—who was staring, shamelessly, at that very spot.

She must have sensed the way he tensed slightly because, within a second, her lips hovered near his ear.

“What is it? Did you spot the unsub?”

Spencer met the man's gaze and, with a natural movement, reached for the hem of her dress, tugging it down into place.

“I did,” he replied.

Then, without hesitation, he turned his head slightly to the side—locking eyes with the man who had been watching them from the very start.

by the way, happy women's day! <33 u are all incredible and invaluable (never forget that)

[kiwriteswords]

The Prophecy [Aaron Hotchner x Female Reader]

Masterlist|| Ao3||Word Count: 4k|| AN: This is for the lovelies who have also felt unlovable, defeated, and gotten their heart broken time after time. This was originally supposed to go in an entirely different direction when I started writing this during the week, but now it is purely self-indulgant...BUT writing this was cheaper than therapy. I also might be embarrassed by this in the morning and delete this--idk LOL. Tags/Warnings: female reader, alcohol tw, reader has self-worth issues, reader goes on bad dates, might be slightly ooc for hotch idk, hotch is no.1 reader defender, hotch falls first, whipped!hotch, insecure!reader, heartbroken reader, protective!hotch, mainly hotch's POV, reader is 100% a mary sue--sorry, not sorry. Summary: Hotch watched you get treated incorrectly time and time again by your poor choice in men. Over time, he begins to try and show you what you deserve.

In the cool, dim light of the early morning, Aaron Hotchner walked into the BAU roundtable room, his footsteps quiet against the polished floor. 

The team was already there- 

Everyone but you gathered around the table, their voices a low murmur of concern. He paused at the door, observing them--

A rare moment of unguarded conversation among the agents.

Your name was circling the room. He knew his team wasn’t one who gossiped, per se. But this was different than workplace chatter; this seemed…this seemed important. 

"Did you see her last night?" JJ asked, her voice tinged with worry. "Spencer found her crying in the parking lot.

Across the table, Spencer nodded, his youthful face more solemn than usual. "She was in her car. Just...sitting there. It was late."

Penelope shook her head, her vibrant accessories jangling softly with the movement. "That guy she's been seeing, the one who keeps popping in and out of her life? He stood her up again. I mean, who does that to someone as wonderful as her?"

Derek’s jaw tightened visibly. "We need to tell her to cut him loose. The guy's no good."

Emily leaned back in her chair, her expression thoughtful. "It's not our place to say who she should see, but it's tough watching her go through this."

Rossi, ever the sage, swirled the coffee in his cup before speaking. "The heart has reasons that reason knows nothing of, but it doesn’t make it any easier to watch someone you care about get hurt."

Hotch stepped into the room fully, the conversation pausing as all eyes turned to him. He moved to his usual seat, the chair's soft scrape punctuating the sudden silence. 

"How is she this morning?" His voice was calm, but there was an undercurrent of concern that matched his team's.

No one seemed ready to answer. It was a telling silence, one that spoke volumes about their collective unease for your well-being.

Clearing his throat, Hotch folded his hands on the table, his gaze settling on each of his team members. 

"We're a team, and we look out for each other. It's not just about being agents; it's about being there for one another as people." His eyes darkened with a quiet intensity. "We need to make sure she knows she's supported, not just as a colleague, but as a friend."

Just then, the door opened again, and you stepped in. There was a slight redness around your eyes, a testament to the previous night's tears, but you masked it well with a brave smile. 

"Morning, everyone," you said, your voice steady despite the slight quiver you hoped no one noticed.

The room filled with choruses of "Morning," each agent offering you a smile, but their eyes were too knowing, too filled with empathy.

As the meeting proceeded, Hotch found himself watching you more often than usual. 

You were the glue of the team--

Always brightening up the room. 

Always making sure everyone else was okay. 

It pained him to see that light dimmed, even just a fraction. 

He made a mental note to check in with you later, privately, to offer a listening ear if you needed it.

Throughout the briefing, your contributions were as insightful as ever, but Hotch noticed the small things--

The way your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes.

How you were quieter than usual. 

Less inclined to join in the lighter moments of banter.

When the meeting broke up, Hotch lingered, watching as you gathered your notes and prepared to head to your office. 

He took a deep breath, steeling himself for the conversation ahead. It was not just about being a leader now; it was about being a friend and maybe--

Just maybe, something more.

In that quiet, somber room, as the early rays of sunlight began to filter through the blinds, Hotch realized just how deeply your well-being affected him. 

The realization was sudden, like a shift in the air--

A silent acknowledgement of a burgeoning concern that felt a lot like the beginning of something far deeper.

Not even a week later, the office was nearly empty. 

The hum of computers and the distant sound of night shift agents were the only accompaniment to the soft clacking of Hotch’s shoes against the polished floor as he prepared to leave for the evening. 

It had been a long day, filled with the usual demands and stresses, but none of that seemed to matter now as he rounded the corner and stopped short.

There you were, pacing the bullpen in a dress that took his breath away--

A stunning array of shimmering fabric that cascaded down in elegant folds, catching the dim office light and throwing it back out in soft, glowing ripples.

It was unlike anything he had ever seen you wear; the dress made for a special occasion, its beauty stark against the backdrop of the BAU’s utilitarian surroundings.

Looking at it, it reminded him of your personality. A reflection of light on everyone around you. Made up of so many pieces--beautiful in itself, but for others to appreciate as well. 

Your face, however, told a different story. 

It was etched with disappointment, the hurt in your eyes stark and unguarded as you moved restlessly across the floor. Hotch’s concern deepened, his initial pause turning into a determined stride towards you.

You didn’t notice him at first, lost in your troubled thoughts. When you finally saw him, the surprise on your face quickly morphed into a strained smile. 

"Oh, Hotch, I didn’t see you there."

"Clearly dressed for a special occasion," he commented softly, his voice carrying a note of concern. "You look...beautiful." 

He meant it, but the compliment was tinged with…worry as he took in the full picture--

The meticulously done makeup, the curls in your hair falling just so, the perfume that seemed a touch too poignant for the empty office.

You chuckled weakly, the sound hollow. 

"Was supposed to be a special night. I had a date, but..." Your voice trailed off, and you shrugged, a brittle edge to your movements. "He cancelled. Less than an hour ago. Guess it wasn't as special to him."

Hotch frowned, noting the weariness that seemed to seep through your attempt at humor. 

"You shouldn’t have to feel this way," he said, stepping closer, his voice lowering. "You put so much into this, into everything you do. It's not right, him not seeing that."

Your smile faltered, and you looked away, a self-deprecating laugh escaping you. "Maybe I’m just too much, you know? Maybe it’s just... me--”

"No." Hotch said firmly, cutting through your words. His expression was stern, but his eyes were kind, a rare show of open frustration mixing with something softer. "It’s not you. It’s him. Anyone who fails to see what they have right in front of them doesn’t deserve it."

Your eyes met his, and for a moment, the bullpen seemed to hold its breath. The air between you was charged, filled with the unspoken thoughts and emotions swirling around.

"You deserve someone who sees you," Hotch continued, his voice emphatic--passionate even. "Not just the effort you put into one evening, but every day…the way you look out for everyone here, how you keep us…together. You deserve much more than last-minute cancellations and excuses."

The words seemed to hang in the air, heavy and sincere. You swallowed hard, the impact of his words slowly sinking in. The corners of your mouth twitched, a ghost of a genuine smile beginning to form. "Thank you, Hotch," you murmured, your voice thick with unshed tears. "I...I needed to hear that."

Hotch nodded, his posture relaxing slightly as he sensed the shift in your demeanor. "Anyone would be lucky to have you," he added, the truth of his statement clear in his steady gaze.

As the silence stretched between you, a palpable connection in the quiet of the almost deserted office, it was clear that something had shifted. 

Not just in the night. But perhaps, just maybe--in the space that lay between personal heartache and the promise of something deeper, something real that was just beginning to take root in the dim light of the bullpen.

About a month had passed, and Hotch kept a close eye on you. He hated that not much had changed for you. He wanted to see you return to the office with a smile on your face one day. 

That you’d share you met someone who charmed you and held space for you in a way you deserved. 

Someone that treated you right.

The way he wishes he could tattoo it into your brain all of the ways he knows you should be treated. The way he wishes he could treat you that way--

Just to show you. 

Or what he told himself when he began thinking about how he wouldn’t stand you up. 

How he’d hold every door open for you. 

How he’d be prompt and make sure you knew you could take his word. 

Yet here you were. 

The local bar was buzzing with the usual Friday night crowd, the atmosphere lively and the lights dimly lit, casting a warm, inviting glow over the small group from the BAU. 

Laughter and chatter filled the air as the team, having wrapped up a particularly grueling set of cases, gathered around a large table cluttered with empty glasses and half-eaten appetizers. 

Hotch, who usually opted out of such gatherings, found himself not only attending but also genuinely enjoying the camaraderie. 

His eyes frequently searched you out, making sure you were handling the evening well.

As the night progressed and the drinks flowed more freely, the conversation deepened into personal territories. You, slightly more uninhibited from the alcohol, began to share more openly about your recent dating woes. 

"And then," you laughed, though the humor didn't quite reach your eyes, "he just disappears. Poof! Like magic. One day, it's text after text, and then nothing. Like I made it all up in my head."

You laughed. It echoed. He watched, heart sinking. You were drifting. Away.

The team's laughter quieted down as they listened, their expressions a mixture of sympathy and discomfort. Rossi raised his eyebrows, shooting a look at Hotch, who was watching you intently. 

Your smile faded as you continued, the alcohol loosening your tongue further. "I don't know, maybe it's just me. I dunno…Maybe I'm just...unlovable."

A heavy silence fell over the table, the word hanging in the air like a thick cloud. 

The team exchanged awkward glances--

Clearly at a loss. 

Hotch's jaw tightened as he saw the self-deprecation take a darker turn, his concern deepening.

"That's not true," Hotch finally said, his voice firm and commanding attention. "Being ghosted says more about his character than it does about your worth. You are... incredibly important, not just to anyone you date but to all of us here." His voice softened, "You light up every room you enter, and if someone can't see that, it's their loss, not yours."

The table went quiet, everyone looking between you and Hotch, sensing the weight of his words. 

Your eyes welled up with tears--

The kindness in his voice breaking through the veneer of humor you had used as a shield all night. 

"Excuse me," you muttered, quickly standing and making your way to the bar without meeting anyone’s eyes.

As you stood and made your way to the bar, the rest of the team exchanged knowing looks, their earlier conversation giving way to a shared understanding of what needed to happen next.

Derek caught Hotch's arm as he started to follow you. "Man, you see the way she lights up around you?" he said in a low voice, his gaze serious. "She deserves someone who's going to show up for her, really show her how she should be treated."

Emily chimed in, her expression earnest. "And not just show up, Hotch. You need to say it, too. She needs to hear how you feel about her. It’s obvious to all of us, and honestly, it’s been a long time coming."

Rossi, ever the sage, gave Hotch a firm pat on the back. "You’re a good man, Aaron. You both deserve a shot at happiness. Don’t let your chance slip by because you’re too cautious to take the next step."

Hotch looked between his friends, their faces reflecting a mix of encouragement and insistence. 

The weight of their words settled over him, reinforcing what he already felt in his heart.

 He nodded, a resolve firming in his eyes as he turned to follow you to the bar.

"Thanks," he murmured, grateful for their support. 

The team watched for a moment longer, satisfied with their intervention, before they started to gather their things, their subdued waves goodbye mingling with quiet hopes for what might develop between their stoic leader and the woman who had brought a new light to his eyes.

Hotch watched them leave before turning his attention back to you--

Now alone at the bar. 

Throwing back another drink.

With a newfound determination, he was ready to take the advice of his team to heart and to make this evening a turning point--

Not just for tonight, but for all the days to come.

He approached quietly, taking the seat next to you. The bartender moved away to give you some privacy, sensing the shift in mood.

"You don’t have to try so hard to be okay all the time," Hotch said gently, his voice barely above the noise of the bar. "It’s alright to not be alright."

You turned to look at him, the dim light of the bar highlighting the vulnerability in your expression. "I just don’t want to be this person, Hotch. This...sad, pathetic person who gets left all the time."

"You are not pathetic," Hotch countered softly, his tone earnest. "You’re human. And being human means you feel things deeply. It’s one of the things...one of the many things that makes you so special."

Your eyes met his. 

A mix of gratitude and sadness swirling within. 

"Why are you so good to me?" you asked, a small, wistful smile playing on your lips.

"Because you deserve someone to be good to you," Hotch replied, his gaze steady. "And I'm here as long as you need."

The conversation paused as you both sat, the noise around you fading into a background hum. 

Hotch’s offer hung in the air. 

Sincere and simple. 

A promise from a friend that felt like it could be the start of something more, something neither of you had expected but perhaps both needed.

You did not take much convincing to get home. Hotch watched your balance waver. Your eyes glassy. Your yawns. Your red-rimmed eyes. 

The silence in the car was thick--

Only occasionally interrupted by the soft hum of the engine and the faint sound of passing traffic. 

Hotch kept stealing glances at you. His concern evident in the crease of his brow and the tight set of his jaw. 

You stared out the window, your reflection ghosting back at you, tinged with the glow of the streetlights.

Breaking the silence, your voice was soft but filled with a weariness that seemed too heavy for one person to bear. 

"There was this guy I really liked," you began, your words slightly slurred from the drinks. "He always kept me on the back burner. I'd wait by the phone. Hoping he’d call. But he never did. I hate that I've turned into the girl I used to judge…the one who cares too much about people who don't care about her at all."

You paused, a bitter laugh escaping your lips as you continued. 

"I’d give up anything just to love someone who loves me back. It feels like I've taken a back seat in everyone else's life because they've all found love. And me? I’m just... I'm so alone. It’s like this loneliness follows me into every room, no matter how many people are there."

Hotch listened, his expression somber, the usual reserve slowly melting away under the weight of your heartfelt confession. 

After a moment, he spoke.

His voice low and filled with an unexpected vulnerability. 

"I understand what you mean," he admitted. "After my marriage ended and Haley...after she died, I was thrown into a kind of loneliness I had never known. When you spend so much of your life with someone, you don’t realize how much of yourself is intertwined with theirs until they're gone."

He paused, choosing his words carefully. 

"And you’re right, no matter how full other parts of your life are, nothing can truly fill the void that’s left by a lack of romance or intimacy. It’s a different kind of emptiness, one that seems to echo louder the quieter it gets."

Your head turned slowly to look at him, surprised not only by his openness but also by the resonance of his words with your own feelings. 

There was a comfort in knowing you weren’t alone in your loneliness. 

That someone as composed and self-assured as Hotch could understand such deep, personal pain.

"The hardest part," Hotch continued, his eyes briefly meeting yours before returning to the road, "is learning how to fill that void in a way that’s healthy, without losing yourself to it. And I see you trying to do that, even if it doesn’t feel like it right now."

The car pulled up to your place, the engine idling as you both sat in silence for a moment, letting the weight of the conversation settle.

"Thank you, Hotch," you finally said, your voice softer, tinged with gratitude and a newfound respect. "For understanding. For being here."

Hotch nodded. A gentle smile touching his lips. "Always," he assured you. "Let me walk you to the door. Just to make sure you're okay."

At your door, you turned to face Hotch--

And without a word, you wrapped your arms around him in a grateful hug. 

It was more than a simple gesture of thanks; it was a release of some of the night’s accumulated tension and loneliness.

Hotch, caught slightly off guard, heitated for only a moment before his arms came around you, returning the embrace with a protective warmth

He could smell the faint mix of your perfume, now mingled with the sharp scent of alcohol, and it stirred something in him--

A concern deeper than the usual care he held for his team. 

As he held you, his hand gently patting your back in comfort.

Hotch found himself wishing he could do more.

Wishing he could step inside. Make you a cup of coffee. And talk through the night until you felt better. 

But he held back, acutely aware of the boundaries that his role as your superior and his professional integrity dictated.

As you finally pulled back, looking up at him with eyes that showed a flicker of something like relief and comfort, Hotch realized that his feelings were perhaps more complicated than he had admitted to himself. 

There was something magnetic about you. 

Something that drew him in, far beyond the simple need to protect a team member. 

It was a pull he hadn’t expected, one he hadn’t felt in a very long time, and it left him momentarily unsure of his next words.

“You’re sure you’ll be okay?” he asked, his voice low, filled with genuine concern.

“Yes, thanks to you,” you replied, managing a small smile that seemed to brighten the dim hallway. “Really, Hotch, I can’t thank you enough for tonight.”

“Just doing my part,” Hotch said, trying to sound more casual than he felt. “But if you need anything, or just want to talk, you have my number.”

You nodded, and there was a lingering look, a silent acknowledgment of the bond that had deepened tonight, before you turned to open your door. “Goodnight, Hotch,” you said, stepping inside.

“Goodnight,” he replied, watching the door close gently behind you. 

He stood there for a few more moments, lost in thought. 

The night had revealed layers of both your vulnerabilities and strengths, and Hotch felt a renewed commitment to supporting you, not just as a leader but as someone who genuinely cared.

As he walked back to his car, the quiet of the night surrounding him, Hotch felt a mixture of worry and something akin to anticipation. It was clear now that his concern for you went beyond the professional; it was personal, and it was growing. 

He hoped that would be the end of it. He wished it would.

He just wanted to see you happy. 

Glowing from within like he knew you could and often did. 

Hotch approached your desk, his steps deliberate, echoing softly in the nearly empty bullpen. 

The rest of the team had already left for the day, leaving behind a quiet that seemed to magnify the frustration evident in your posture. 

As he drew closer, he saw your face buried in your hands. Your shoulders tense.

The office was quiet. The clock ticked loud. Each second echoed. You sat, staring. Lost.

"What's wrong?" he asked, his tone laden with concern as he stopped beside your desk.

You lifted your head, your expression a mixture of bitterness and fatigue. "Guess," you said, voice tinged with a harsh laugh.

"A guy?" Hotch guessed, his brow furrowing as he watched your reaction.

"Yup," you replied bitterly. "Got a lovely message today. Apparently, I'm not pretty enough and not compatible enough for him. And oh, he couldn't possibly date someone who works for the FBI." The frustration in your voice grew with each word. "And to top it all off, I'm losing my reservation at this place that took ages to get into."

Hotch's expression shifted from concern to disbelief, then to a visible annoyance. "Where do you find these guys?" he asked, his tone sharp. Boys. He wanted to say. "I'd love to have a chance to talk to them, give them a piece of my mind."

Your eyes widened slightly, taken aback by his intensity. 

Hotch's jaw was set, his eyes hard with indignation on your behalf. 

After a moment, he softened slightly, gesturing to your things. "Collect your things," he instructed.

You stared at him, confusion etched across your face--

"What?"

"We’re going to that dinner reservation," Hotch stated firmly, as if it were the most natural decision in the world. "It’s important to you, and you deserve at least one night where someone can attempt to live up to what you deserve."

The sudden shift in the evening's plans left you momentarily speechless, your previous frustrations giving way to a surge of something else--

Surprise. 

Perhaps tinged with relief. 

You slowly began to gather your belongings, still processing his words.

"Hotch, I..." you started, unsure of how to express your gratitude or the flurry of emotions his gesture had sparked.

"No need to thank me," Hotch interrupted gently, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he saw the change in your demeanor. "Let’s just go have a good evening, okay? No expectations, no pressures. Just dinner. As friends."

The word 'friends' hung in the air, safe yet filled with unspoken possibilities. 

As you followed him out of the office, your steps matched his in rhythm. 

A silent acknowledgment of the shift in your relationship.

As they walked out of the BAU, Hotch's actions spoke volumes about the kind of evening he intended to provide. 

He held every door open for you-- 

His movements graceful. 

Assured. 

A soft but firm hand on your back guiding you through the thresholds. 

At the restaurant, he pulled out your chair, a gesture that might have seemed outdated to some, but from him, it felt respectful. 

A nod to a gentler time.

A time he still lived in and was raising his son to live in. 

Once seated, the conversation between you flowed effortlessly.

You spoke animatedly about the dishes, your favorites, and the memories associated with them, lighting up as you described the people woven throughout your life.

How highly you spoke of them and how important they were to you.

These memories that made you who you were. 

Hotch watched you, a small, genuine smile playing on his lips, captivated by the light in your eyes and the passion in your voice.

As the evening progressed, Hotch found himself offering compliments, each more personal than might be usual for a boss. 

“You have an incredible way of seeing beauty in simple things,” he remarked sincerely, watching as a blush crept up your cheeks.

It was cute. He’d never seen your cheeks turn that color pink before. 

Sweet, even. 

You seemed taken aback, almost shy, under the weight of his words. "I...thank you," you stuttered slightly, your smile bright but your eyes reflecting a hint of disbelief. "I-I’m not used to hearing that kind of thing."

Hotch's expression turned quizzical, his head tilting slightly. “Really? I find it hard to believe no one has ever told you that before. To me, you are so many things…”

Your eyes widened, and a vulnerable honesty shone through as you responded. "I've never been complimented like that. And from someone like you--Hotch,” You laughed, almost at yourself, “you’re... you’re attractive, smart, important. For you to see me like that, it’s... i-it’s everything. And hard to believe."

Hotch paused, the weight of your words settling between them. His brow furrowed slightly, not in frustration, but in a thoughtful reassessment of how he had come to view you--

Not just as a subordinate or a friend, but as someone deeply impressive in your own right. 

Someone he cared for more than just a team member or friend. 

Something so much more, he’d realized. 

“You should believe it because it’s true,” he said earnestly. “And I’d tell you more often if you’d let me.”

The air around you seemed to charge with a new energy, a mixture of surprise, anticipation, and a burgeoning realization of the mutual respect and admiration that might be blossoming into something more. 

The way Hotch looked at you in that moment--

With a profound seriousness tinged with warmth. 

It made your heart flutter in a way that no hollow compliment from anyone else ever could.

Dinner continued under this new, uncharted atmosphere, each of you navigating this subtle shift in your dynamic, exploring the boundaries of a relationship that was, perhaps, no longer just professional. 

As the night drew on, the conversation deepened, not just into personal likes and aspirations but into what made each of you the person sitting at that table. 

As Hotch drove you back to the BAU parking lot after what had unexpectedly turned into one of the most memorable evenings of your both of your lives.

The night air felt charged with a new, electric energy. 

He had been the perfect gentleman throughout the night, insisting on paying for dinner and ensuring every part of the evening felt speciall.

Standing beside your car under the soft glow of the parking lot lights, you turned to him, your heart full of gratitude. "Thank you, Hotch. This was...this was the best not-date, date ever," you said, the words not quite sufficient to express the depth of your feelings.

Hotch smiled, a hint of something more serious in his gaze. "It can be considered an actual date, if you want...or I could plan one that could be our actual first date, if that would be something you’d be interested in," he proposed, watching your reaction closely.

Your expression shifted to one of disbelief, a mix of joy and astonishment dancing in your eyes. "Y-You...would want to go on a real date with me? But look at you? You're handsome, sexy, smart, experienced... and I'm just me?"

Hotch shook his head, his expression softening with a warmth that made your heart skip a beat. "I can’t believe you don’t see what I see," he said earnestly. "You are incredible, truly. You’re beautiful, smart, and absolutely wonderful. I so lucky if you’d have me."

The words washed over you, stirring a mix of emotions so intense they nearly overwhelmed you. "This feels too good to be true, like a dream," you murmured, the vulnerability in your voice mirrored in your eyes.

Like he said the words you’d been waiting for…for so long. 

Hotch stepped closer, his voice dropping to a tender murmur. "Honey, this isn’t a dream. This is real, all of it," he assured you, his call to affection so genuine it carved a warm path straight to your heart.

The air between you had thickened, the kind that could change the course of a life 

You felt the intensity of his gaze, the palpable connection sparking between you, and in a moment of need to ensure this wasn't a figment of your imagination, you blurted out, "Pinch me, I must be dreaming."

Hotch chuckled softly, his eyes alight with affection and amusement. "I’ll do you one better," he said, and before you could respond, he leaned in.

His lips met yours in a kiss that sent sparks flying through every nerve in your body. 

A kiss so profound and filled with emotion it felt as though everything but the two of you had melted away.

A kiss that put all other attempts from others before to shame. 

As you kissed under the soft lights of the BAU parking lot, it was as if the world had come to a standstill, the only sound being your combined breaths and the faint rustle of the night wind. 

It was the kind of kiss that marked the beginning of something new and beautiful.

A moment neither of you would ever forget—

The world seemed to realign itself slowly as you both pulled apart. 

Breathless. 

The air was still thick with the electricity of the moment, and the soft glow of the parking lot lights cast a gentle halo around you. 

He gazed down at you, his eyes searching yours for a reaction, a sign of how you felt after such a profound connection.

For a few heartbeats, neither of you spoke. 

You were both caught in the gravity of what had just happened. 

The kiss lingering like a promise between you.

Finally, Hotch broke the silence, his voice gentle, tinged with hope. 

"Was that better than a pinch?" he asked, a tentative smile playing on his lips.

You couldn't help but laugh softly, the sound light and filled with the fluttering of a thousand tiny butterflies in your stomach.

"Much better," you admitted, your voice a whisper as you dared to meet his eyes again. "Hotch, I...I didn't expect this. A-Any of this."

Hotch's smile grew warmer, his hand reaching up to gently tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his touch lingering just a moment longer than necessary. "Neither did I," he confessed. "But I'm glad it happened. You're...you're more amazing than you realize. And I want to explore this, explore us, if you're willing."

The sincerity in his voice, the earnestness of his gaze, it all made your heart swell even as a sliver of uncertainty lingered. 

"Are you sure? I mean, you're you, and I'm...well, I'm just me. Are we really good for each other?"

Hotch’s expression grew serious, his thumb softly caressing your cheek. "You are not 'just' anything," he said firmly. "You are incredible, and yes, I am sure. More than I've been about anything in a long time. I admire you, respect you, and I am drawn to you. I hope to make up for all those who failed so miserably at trying to hold something as special as you.”

His words, so full of conviction and depth, washed away the last of your doubts. 

"O-Okay," you whispered, a smile breaking through your initial apprehension. 

As you both lingered by your car, neither of you in a rush to end the night, the conversation drifted to lighter topics--

Plans for your next outing. Favorite movies, books, the comfortable chatter marking the ease that had always existed between you, now deepened by the new, flourishing intimacy.

Finally, with a last, lingering look, Hotch said goodnight, promising to call you tomorrow. 

As you watched him walk away, his figure receding into the night, you felt a warmth spreading through you, a mix of excitement and peace, the night’s surprises leaving you eager for what the future might hold.

And for Hotch, he knew he had a 1 in a million chance of a lifetime to prove to you over and over again what you deserved. He never wanted to see the light in you dim again. If anything, he wanted to be the one to help you burn brighter. 

Tag List: @zaddyhotch @estragos @todorokishoe24 @looking1016  @khxna @rousethemouse @averyhotchner @reidfile @bernelflo @lover-of-books-and-tea @frickin-bats @sleepysongbirdsings @justyourusualash @person-005 @iyskgd @hiireadstuff @kcch-ns @alexxavicry @superlegend216 @sweethotchlogy

[pagesfromthevoid]

Honey & Glass | r. r. | 3

Robert “Bob” Reynolds x superpowered!reader

Word Count: 4.5k

Warnings: Mentions of void. But otherwise tooth rotting fluff.

Author’s Note: Technically the end of the story. But I’m sure I’ll write more about her and Bob over the course of those 14 months soon

Masterlist | Talk to Me! | AO3

“You’re all idiots, just come up stairs,” Valentina’s voice echoes through the main floor of the old Avengers Tower. 

The Thunderbolts –as Alexei decided they would be called –glanced at each other wearily. Bucky doesn’t trust a thing that comes out of Valentina’s mouth. Not a goddamn word. But her agents have stood down, and there’s a clear path to the elevator. And he really needs to save his assistant. And Bob. 

He’s getting too old for this shit, honestly.

When the doors open, Valentina immediately starts spouting her usual bullshit.

“How crazy is it to think about all of the…monumental fights that happened exactly here, where you’re standing?” She spouts, pouring herself a glass of champagne as the team approaches. “I mean, the place wasn’t cheap. But it’s got good optics.” She pauses, looking up finally and smiling at all of them. 

“This ends today,” Bucky says, stepping forward in front of the rest of them.

“Congressman Barnes. You know, I never really thought you’d have a promising political career –but less than half a term? Yikes.”

“We’re taking you in, Val,” Walker cuts in, rolling his eyes. 

Valentina scoffs though, setting her glass down. “I don’t think so, junior varsity Captain America.”

Bucky is trying to get eyes on his assistant; he knows she’s here. She has to be. Same with Mel. But Walker goes to pull his gun and Bucky snaps at him. “Walker.”

Valentina just smiles, knowing that Bucky isn’t going to let her get killed by any of them. He wants to let them; he understands. But he needs de Fontaine alive –he needs her to face consequences the right way or everything he’s done –everything he’s trying to do –will mean nothing. 

“Nice to see you, Ava –and Yelena. Wow. You look…awful. You sure you’re ready for that public facing role you asked me about?”

Yelena sneers, stepping around Bucky now herself. “Eat shit, Valentina. Where’s Bob?”

“And Bucky’s assistant,” Walker interjects. Bucky narrows his eyes, reminding them she has a goddamn name.

But Valentina just chuckles again, like all of this is some big joke. “Look at you. You are all so adorable. Just think –I send you down there to kill each other and instead, you make nice and form a team!”

“Where are they?” Ava asks one more time, but her tone is clipped. They’re all about ready to pounce.

“They’re both fine. Working together, actually. I told you, Congressman Barnes –your girl is a swiss army knife. She’s got talents far beyond what you give her credit for. Robert?”

There’s a pause –just long enough that they can hear footsteps. Heels clicking behind boots. Then Bucky feels it –that tingle at the base of his skull. The uncomfortable pin pricks of her getting into his head. He looks around, noticing everyone else feels it too –except Valentina.

Don’t freak out, she says, Well, not about me. I would freak out about Bob. I wouldn’t fight him.

Walker is about to say something but Ava is the one that catches on that it’s their heads first. Don’t worry about fighting. You’ll get out of here soon.

She’s about to say something, Bucky can tell, but Valentina is talking again.

“Years of hard work have finally come to fruition,” she explains, motioning to Bob who comes to stand beside the director. Behind him stands Bucky’s assistant, who is shifting uneasily as she stares up at Bob. She doesn’t look scared –not of Bob, at least. She looks…worried. “Stronger than all of the Avengers combined. He has the power of a thousand exploding suns –Earth’s mightiest hero. The Golden Guardian of Good. The Sentry.”

Bucky can’t help but make a face at all of this posturing. “I’ll bite –what do you plan to do now? Take over the world like every other bad guy?”

But the director scoffs again, shaking her head. “Oh, god no. Robert here –Sentry, as he’s aptly named –is a hero, James. He’s going to protect the world. Where the Avengers have failed, he will succeed.” She turns to Bob now, putting a careful hand on his arm. Bucky notes that she almost flinches, like she’s expecting something bad to happen when she touches him. But nothing seems to happen. “Robert, take care of them, will you?” 

Bob looks down at Valentina for a moment, then glances back at the young woman behind him. Like he’s waiting for her permission. But she doesn’t make a motion one way or another, fear freezing her finally. Bucky knows that look; it’s the same look she had when she came in six months ago after being cornered and he decided to teach her to fight. 

Cornered. Frustrated. Powerless.

“C’mon guys –just give yourselves up. I don’t…I don’t want to hurt you.”

Do not fight him. You will not win, she insists as Valentina steps back, pulling her along. But that falls on deaf ears as a dogfight breaks out. Bucky can’t keep track of how many punches he throws or how many knives he breaks. Walker’s shield is twisted into him and he’s thrown across the room. Every punch, every shot, every attack –it’s like they’re nothing. The guy doesn’t flinch, he doesn’t bruise, he doesn’t bleed. 

But they do.

All of them do.

He only stops when she cries out as Bucky’s arm is ripped off his shoulder and thrown to the ground. She’s shoving away from Valentina, finally putting the skills Bucky has taught her to some use to throw Valentina off balance and twist out of her grip. Bob watches as she throws down the files that she’s been forced to carry and drops down to grab her boss’s arm. The rest of them are rushing to the elevator, trying to get away as fast as they can. But she’s hesitating, looking between Bob and her boss –her friend. 

Don’t hurt them, she says but her lips aren’t moving. Bob realizes –that tingle at the base of his skull –it’s her. Please.

Yelena is yanking her into the elevator, but she’s trying to look at him with pleading eyes as the doors shut. Please.

But she hears him –a voice, distorted. Dark. Shadowed in his mind but loud enough in her own that she can feel it in her very bones.

They always leave. Even when they promise they won’t.

When they get to the ground floor –and they’re sure that Bob is not going to come finish them off –Bucky turns on her.

“Are you out of your goddamn mind? What did I tell you about getting closer to Valentina?”

She flinches back, not expecting to be scolded after the events of the last few days. “I wasn’t thinking –I was talking to Mel –,”

“You’re right. You weren’t thinking. You could have been killed.”

“Hey, hey –do not yell at her,” Yelena cuts in, stepping between her and Bucky. The Russian puts her hand up. “She did not know she was going to be kidnapped –she was doing her job. Which –by the way –you taught her to do. So it is technically your fault.”

“Oh no –,” she starts, shaking her head quickly.

“It is not my fault –,”

She shushes them all suddenly, throwing her hands out to the sides. Everyone is staring at her like she’s insane, but she’s staring like she’s listening intently to something. Ava says something, tries to get her attention, but she waves her away. 

“Something’s wrong,” she says, spinning around several times. 

Her eyes lock into the sky just beside the tower –a shadowed, caped figure. She wants to think it’s not something evil –it’s not Bob, it can’t be. Deep down, though, she recognizes this figure. She’s seen it in his mind before –and those eyes. The only part of the figure that’s not casted in shadows –two white, glowing spots that look directly into the soul –are staring down at them.

He puts his hand out and the helicopter that is circling spins out of control suddenly, crashing into the tower. One by one, people around them disappear into shadows themselves, and she tries to step forward –tries to save someone; anyone. But Alexei holds her back gently. Bucky and Alexei stand on either side of her, looking up in horror as Yelena steps forward with Ava. Walker is pulling off his helmet, following their gazes as shadows creep up the buildings surrounding the engulfed tower. 

“You all know the truth,” he says. And it’s Bob’s voice –she knows it. But it’s distorted and full of anger. The same voice she heard earlier –the one that told Bob that they always leave. “You can’t outrun the emptiness.”

“I think Bob’s dark side got superpowers,” Walker states, eyes wide as they all stare in horror. “We need to get everyone off the streets.”

They’re all too distracted to notice that she does not follow them. That she stays planted in place, looking up at the figure that is slowly creeping its way towards her as the shadows begin to consume those around it. Vaguely, she registers that Bucky is yelling her name but she ignores him as she takes half a step forward towards the shadows.

“You promised you wouldn’t leave,” he says, peering down at her. “You did though. You left. Just like Yelena said –we’re all alone in the end.”

Bucky is screaming at her now, and so is Walker. But Yelena steps to her right and looks at her –knowingly, as if the former Black Widow knows something that was never shared between the two of them. Then, Yelena steps forward into the shadows. And he watches, waits. His thoughts are much clearer than Bob’s. They’re more violent; more feral. But they’re easier to understand.

“He’s not alone. And neither are you,” she promises, taking the plunge into the shadows herself. 

*****

In the end, they do what superheroes always do:

They save the world from the bad guy.

Except the bad guy wasn’t actually a person.

It was loneliness, and self-loathing. It was the darkness that surrounds you when you’re at your lowest and think it’s the end. It was the hardest parts of life thrown at you all at once, trying to drown you.

It’s something that…doesn’t just go away. And it didn’t just go away. 

It’s there. It’s lingering.

But that Void –as they’ve been calling it –can’t be ignored. But it can be filled –and that’s what they’ve been doing. For Bob, for themselves, for each other. Valentina did a lot of bad –but out of that bad has come some good. 

She has friends, for example. Though Alexei would insist they’re family, even if they’ve known each other a month. And she has a job that pays obscenely well (though, given the PR nightmare that is her new team, it better). 

Bucky made it clear that he wasn’t going to take part in anything relating to the team if she wasn’t hired as their PR manager. Yelena had seconded that notion, and Valentina wasn’t really in a place to negotiate so here she is. Living in New York City, with what could be described as her own floor of the Watch Tower, trying to clean up the team’s PR nightmare.

Living in the WatchTower is…weird, she thinks.

She’s gone from living in a crappy little apartment in DC with a random roommate she met on Facebook, to living in what was once the Avengers Tower in New York. With the New Avengers. 

This isn’t how she imagined her life. Though she can’t complain. 

When she isn’t trying to convince Walker to stop arguing with trolls on Twitter (“Seriously. This is what they want. Give me your phone.”) or stop Alexei from getting random sponsors from internet scams (“Sponsors will not ask for your credit card!”), she’s kind of actually enjoying herself. She makes good money, she has good friends, and her job isn’t that bad. 

The team is a hot mess. Don’t get her wrong —they truly are a PR nightmare. But they’re her PR nightmare and it’s not like she can get fired if she doesn’t do a good job at helping them. 

However, she’s doing a damn good job at helping them. 

Tonight is a great example. She’s sitting in the kitchen, finishing an outline for the next meeting with Valentina. Because while the director might think she’s in charge, she is not —and the team has entrusted their PR manager to ensure meetings with the director go their way and no one else’s. 

It’s late; she should probably be asleep. But she likes being up late when the team is out doing training because then she’s awake when they’re back. Though, it also means she gets to work in her pajamas and she much prefers that. And Alexei, bless him, has given her so many random shirts that are twice her size with New Avengers logos on them that she has a nightshirt for every night to wear with her boxer shorts that she definitely didn’t steal from the laundry the first week they all lived together. 

Bob —who has been distant and quiet most of the day —wanders into the kitchen. He’s wrapped up in a sheet, though he’s also wearing a sweater and sweats, and she briefly wonders how he’s not hot. She keeps an eye on him from her computer, though she doesn’t say anything initially. Sometimes he needed that push to talk, sometimes it was clear he didn’t want to. Tonight felt like the latter. 

They have…some kind of relationship. More than friends but less than dating. A weird in between that she doesn’t mind but is a bit confusing.

It’s clear they have some sort of feelings for one another. After everything that happened last month, she couldn’t help how she felt. Though she takes everything at his pace.

He clings to her (not literally but he’s always as close as he can be without making her uncomfortable). When the team is on missions and he’s left behind, she’s with him. Him reading, her working on whatever PR problem they’re facing now. Sometimes they lay on the couch together and watch movies.

Because she’s the only one he can touch without shame spiraling them, Bob likes to hold her hand whenever he can. That’s all he’ll do in front of the team; they don’t question that. But he lays his head in her lap when they’re alone. She plays with his hair absently and does whatever she’s doing. He just sort of exists in that moment and enjoys it while it lasts. And they just enjoy whatever they have.

When he drops his spoon three times in a row, she finally speaks up. 

“Are you good?” She asks, shutting her laptop. He’s staring at the spoon on the ground, clearly contemplating getting it. She slips off the chair and does it for him. “You don’t look too hot.”

He waves her off, but she can see the thin layer of sweat that stuck to his hair and skin. She reaches up to touch his forehead, though it dawns on her as soon as she touches him that there’s no real way to check his temperature. 

“Bob, we talked about this,” she reminds him gently. 

He huffs some and nods a bit, pushing his hair out of his face. “Just…I can’t sleep. That’s all. Nightmares and stuff —hard to sleep when I can’t control those. I’ll be okay though.”

“Do you have them a lot?”

He just nods and shrugs, opening the fridge to take a bottle of water. “Yeah. Less when the others are around —think that’s why I fall asleep during meetings.”

She hums in response, taking a note of that, then nods. “Let me know if I can help.”

“I don’t think you can,” he replies simply, but it doesn’t seem like he minds as he smiles at her wearily. Then he starts to leave, calling over his shoulder, “Thanks though.”

She wants to argue, but stops herself. “At least hang out here with me then,” she counters, pushing her laptop across the counter and trailing behind him. “I just finished Friday’s outline; we can put something mindless on and maybe that’ll help you sleep? That helps me.”

He hesitates, clearly considering it, then nods some. She motions for him to follow her, and they end up finding themselves sitting in the living room. For a moment, she’s staring at the buttons on everything before realizing —she’s never actually turned anything on up here. Usually it’s just on. Or Bucky does it for her. 

“Oh shit, hm.”

“What’s wrong?” He asks, sitting up some and leaning over. 

“I…don’t know what does what. I need to label all this shit,” she laughs sheepishly, sitting down beside him. “Any ideas?”

He shrugs. “I just push things ‘til something happens.”

“Fun idea,” she offers, crossing her arms over her chest as she considers what to do next. “But I don’t touch buttons I don’t know how to use. I’ve seen plenty of movies that say that’s a bad idea.”

“What do we do then?”

She hums, looking around. The room is lit with dimmed lights and the cityscape is glowing around them. Then she grabs two of the throw pillows on the couch. 

“You trust me?” She asks, looking down at him. She’s smiling, holding out her hand to him.

Bob doesn’t hesitate this time, taking her hand and pulling himself up. He doesn’t let go, either because this is his way of saying he does trust her or because he just wants to touch her. But she doesn’t care one way or another because she leads him to the elevator and hits the up button. 

They stand in silence, hand in hand, shoulder to shoulder as the elevator shoots up to the top floor. Bob is fidgeting, and without even poking into his head, she knows he’s worried about what they’re doing. But she just squeezes his hand reassuringly as the doors open. Then she pulls him along towards the staircase that leads to the helipad outside. 

There’s one more set of stairs that leads to a small balcony –nothing fancy; probably there as an observation deck. But she found it the second night there after having tried to label a map of the tower for everyone. She didn’t label this part for selfish reasons, though anyone can find it if they really try.

The pillows drop to the ground and she kicks them some to adjust them to be cushions. Then, she pulls her hand from Bob’s and sits down, legs dangling over the edge and arms braced against the railing. The way the tower is shaped blocks the wind, but allows for an excellent view of the entire city from this vantage point. Rest in peace, Tony Stark, she thinks, because this is the best thing he designed in this tower. Bob is hesitant but sits down beside her, though he criss-crosses his legs under him instead of letting them dangle. 

Shoulders brush again, and she reaches out to take his hand without a word. He interlocks their fingers, no questions asked, and leans against her. And for a while, they just sit there in silence. They don’t really need to speak; they have each other’s company and that’s all she really needs. She hopes this is enough for him too.

An hour or so must pass, because he adjusts slightly and she lets out a small laugh as he lays his head in her lap without question. She runs her fingers through his hair, scratching at his scalp as she does so and he closes his eyes

“We gonna camp out up here tonight?” She asks, voice soft and finally tinged with tiredness.

“Can we?” 

She considers it for a moment. He’s warm enough that it’s comfortable, even if there’s a slight chill in the air from being so high up. The team won’t be back until the early hours of the morning, so it’s not like they’ll be looking for the two of them right away. So she just nods and taps him to get him to move, then pulls her legs up off the edge. Bob moves the sheet he’s discarded to cover the ground some and she adjusts the pillows to be used properly now. 

Then they just lay down, face to face. They’re almost nose to nose, and Bob is smiling softly, the weariness that he had earlier just barely apparent in his eyes now. 

“Can I try something?” She asks, and he nods once, brows furrowing. Her hand moves slowly, resting on his cheek. “You’re going to feel that weird little pin prick.”

Bob braces for it; closes his eyes. She knows he doesn’t like it when she’s in his head; not because he doesn’t like her powers but because he doesn’t want her to be afraid of whatever is going on in it. She doesn’t mind whatever she sees, though, because she knows that he’s trying to be better. He’s working on it, and they’re all there to help him. So when his mind floods into hers, and she sees the fragments of the nightmares from earlier –the ones that are just brimming on the edge if he closes his eyes.

It’s him –well, it’s Void, actually. And it’s the lab where Void almost won. In this nightmare, though, he does. Consumed by the shadows, and the self-loathing. And Bob is standing there, unable to stop and save all of them. There’s crying and begging. She even hears her own voice, telling him that he’s only made things worse.

But then…she pushes it away. Sort of, at least.

They’re still there —still scary. But not as loud or as violent. Their faces are blurred out and Void is gone, replaced by just a shadow figure without eyes or a voice. It takes a lot of energy to do this –she’s never really held it longer than an hour or so –but touching him is helping keep it up. 

His breathing is even –soft, calm. He’s let out a soft, “oh,” having not experienced this level of calmness in a long time –if ever. Even if the thoughts aren’t as violent, they’re still there. But she’s trying to push them all away; replace them with something good. Though it takes most of her energy to even blur the current thoughts. 

But a new thought –not one she’s planted, but his own –flashes in her mind. It’s him and her. Where they are –above the city, looking at each other. And he’s reaching out to her. But he’s not timid in his own thoughts. He’s confident, and instead of taking her hand, he’s taking her by the waist and pulling her closer and –

“Oh my god,” he suddenly cries, pulling away and sitting up. He’s blushing furiously, covering his face. “I’m so sorry –that’s not –I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I’m sorry –,”

She sits up, pulling his hands away from his face. She can feel the flush on her cheeks, but it’s a good thing as far as she’s concerned. “Hey, don’t apologize –I’m not uncomfortable.”

He looks at her with surprise, blue eyes swimming in confusion and dare she assumes, a little bit of hope. “You’re not?”

Laughter bubbles up and she can’t help it. “Bob, we hold hands pretty much every day. We basically cuddle any time no one else is around. Do you think I’d do that if I wasn’t comfortable?”

“I mean, you’re always nice to me. I just thought, you know, because you’re the only one that doesn’t get pulled in –you’re just doing that to be nice.”

She can’t help herself. She should have been patient, but he’s so…endearingly blind, and she realizes that if she doesn’t do it now, it may never happen. Her lips are on his without another word, leaning into him to get close. Unfortunately, Bob doesn’t seem to expect this –though he’s very excited nonetheless because his thoughts are just repeating holy shit, holy shit, holy shit and he falls onto his back. She falls with him because she doesn’t expect him to not know she’s going to kiss him. But his hands find her waist, and she catches herself by her hands on either side of him.

And he’s looking up at her with a faint blush on his cheeks, and she’s looking down at him with a bright smile that she can’t contain.

“Can we try that again?” She asks, and he nods quickly, closing the distance himself this time. 

One hand finds itself tangled in her hair and the other is gripping her waist like she’s going to disappear. The connection to his mind has been severed, but she doesn’t need to read his mind when she’s laying on top of him anyway. The kiss is awkward and a bit messy –neither of them have clearly been this close to another person in a while. But something about that only makes it better as she presses herself closer to him. 

He makes a sound –it’s quiet, but an obvious whine as she nips at his bottom lip. Her tongue slips past his lips and he makes that sound again, a little louder this time. A little more desperate. But it’s him who pulls away, and she wants to be okay with that but honestly, she’s more flustered than she’s willing to admit. They’re both breathing hard but she rolls off him and lays on her side, hands tucked under her head as Bob lays flat on his back and covers his face. 

“I –sorry, I couldn’t breathe,” he admits with an awkward laugh. And she laughs too, shaking her head.

“It happens,” she reassures.

There’s a pause, then she shifts, laying her head on his chest. He tenses just a bit, perhaps not expecting her to want to keep touching after all of that. But he relaxes, and drops his hands from his face, then slowly wraps his arms around her. He’s unsure, but when she presses closer to him, he squeezes her tight and rests her cheek against the top of her head.

“Thank you,” he whispers into her hair, and his voice is sluggish with exhaustion.

*****

“Look at the two lovebirds!” Alexei yells, pointing at the security feed in the conference room.

Bucky looks up from his phone, frowning some as everyone gathers around the monitors to see her and Bob, asleep, on the roof. It’s not the weirdest thing he’s seen, but it’s not what he’s expecting.

“Finally,” Yelena complains, throwing her hands in the air. “I thought we were going to have to lock them in a closet or something.”

“Should we go wake them up?” Ava asks, kicking her feet onto the table. “Valentina will be here any minute. Do we really want to give her any kind of leverage over us?”

“Leave them be,” Bucky says, tossing his phone onto the table. “Just shut off that camera. We’ll make up an excuse why they’re not here.”

The team agrees not to bring it up. Let the two have whatever time they want together.

Bucky’s just thankful he doesn’t have to listen to her complain about how hot Bob is anymore.

———

Taglist: @ilovemarvel12 @k1ttyjuice @magikdarkholme

[kxsagi]

Hello hello! I'm the menace who sent the sae x Shidou!reader req a while back! 😈

Part two pls but this time Shidou!reader got hired as bllk manager 👀 oh dear how will the bllk guys react with this menace lock in the same facility as them. Also also sae being grumpy that he has to get his dose of gf only through the bltv lmao

“𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐫”

a/n: LMAO I LOVE THIS ENERGY

“who the hell hired that?” 

“you mean the gremlin doing cartwheels across the field at 6 AM?” 

“the one who challenged shidou to a headbutting contest and won?” 

“the one who tried to pants kaiser during his interview?” 

ego turns from the control room with the slow, empty gaze of a man who has seen things. “yes.” 

you, the newest blue lock manager and certified agent of chaos, stretch on the turf like a track star hyped up on energy drinks and poor life choices. 

“ALRIGHT, LOSERS!” you grin, twirling a clipboard like a baton. “i’ve been hired to manage you psychos into proper, functioning humans! we’re gonna clean! we’re gonna hydrate! we’re gonna team build until someone snaps!” 

bachira is already on board. “do we get to play dodgeball with fireballs?” 

“hell yeah, fire safety is for cowards!” 

rin looks ready to walk into traffic. kaiser’s trauma has been reactivated. karasu actually claps. “finally, someone with vision.” 

“if you touch my ass again, i will kill you,” kaiser mutters, inching away. 

you grin. “no promises, blondie.” 

cut to blue lock TV, aka BLTV, where the nation watches weekly updates of japan’s hottest soccer chaos factory. 

currently, the screen displays you standing on a bench, yelling through a megaphone: “WHOEVER STOLE MY PINK GATORADE, YOU HAVE 10 MINUTES TO RETURN IT OR I’M HIDING SARDINES IN YOUR SHIN GUARDS.” 

in madrid, sae itoshi is slouched on the couch, jaw clenched, remote in a death grip. 

“... i miss her,” he mutters like a war widow. 

his teammates glance over. 

“you mean your girlfriend who just tried to fight don lorenzo for doing pushups in her ‘zone’?” 

“she’s not even looking at the camera,” sae hisses. “i can’t even get eye contact. all i get is BLTV crumbs.” 

on the screen, you lock eyes with the nearest camera, smirk, and blow a kiss. 

“that one was for my sexy red-haired husband in madrid,” you say cheerfully before throwing a shoe at isagi. 

sae flinches like he got hit. “she’s so hot. gosh, i hate this.” 

back at blue lock, shidou tries to bite you again. 

“do it and i’m putting you on litter box duty.” 

“worth it,” he purrs. 

rin has locked himself in the weight room. reo and nagi are betting on who cries first this week. niko follows you around like a confused duckling. yukimiya offered you tea once and you barked at him. 

“who needs therapy when you can just... be her?” reo whispers. 

somewhere in the chaos, ego watches it all unfold and sighs. “perfect. just what blue lock needed.” 

a menace to tame the menaces. 

but sae, grumpily watching from afar, whispers into his phone: “just wait. i’m pulling up next week and taking you home. permanently.” 

he pauses as you get tackled by a squad of blue lock players mid-game and cackle like a villain. 

“… or i’ll just join the madness.” 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[kdh-tally]

Mystery x Reader Headcannons

Prompt : Headcannons of Mystery and his partner.

Author's Note : 4/5 complete. The only one left is Jinu!! Should i start tagging my master list in these so you can read the rest?

You met Mystery by accident. 

You were at a gaming café late at night, your favorite time to play.

It wasn’t crowded, there were just a few regulars playing quietly in their own corners.

You were halfway through a ranked Valorant match, trash-talking your opponents in a low voice and carrying your teammates like always.

You played with your camera on, only for your teammates to see however.

That’s when he sat next to you.

You didn’t notice at first. Not until someone on your team started whispering through your headphones. “Yo… is that Mystery from Saja Boys next to you??”

You glanced to your left to see some dude setting up a game next to you.

Tall guy, hood up, mask on, purple nail polish, and the infamous hair.

 You only saw a glimpse of his screen, he was queueing into your game.

Fortunately you and your friends were in the lobby. 

So you paused your game and looked over.

“You new?”

He paused, then slowly pulled down his mask just low enough to answer clearly.

“Nah. Just haven’t played in a while.”

He had spent quite a lot of his time as a human playing games and watching anime.

You smirked at this, not really caring for his idol status. 

“Good. I need more teammates who don’t panic when I push solo.”

He stared at you through his hair before speaking again “You’re that top Radiant Jett player, aren’t you?”

“Guilty.” You grinned, kinda shocked he knew who you were. “You’re one of the Saja Boys right?” 

Mystery was hooked from that second. Not just cause you were an absolute pro at one of his favourite games, but because you made him slightly nervous in a way few people did.

You didn’t seem to care that he was an idol. 

You were just a chill gamer with good reflexes and a sharp tongue.

He started matching his log-in times with yours. Sitting next to you and watching your play through. You didn’t speak much but you always played together. 

Eventually, you added each other on social media.

He used a private account of course.

He started bringing you drinks and snacks.

He’d leave em on your desk cause you sit in the same place everytime.

One night, after a long match, he took off his headset and asked, quietly, "Would you ever wanna hang out later?"

“Depends on who I'd be hanging out with.”

“…Me.”

“Then yeah. I would.”

Many of your hang outs did end up being at the cafe, except you two wouldn’t be playing games.

You’d order food, talk, get to know each other, etc.

One day a group of fans surrounded your table when the two of you were discussing who was the best agent to main.

“H-hi,” one of them stuttered as they stood by your table. “Could we have an autograph?”

Mystery looked stunned and was ready to respond, but then they pulled out a poster of you?????

You were shocked too

“Are you talking to me?”

They nodded enthusiastically.

You were stunned but signed it. They took photos with you before leaving.

Damn

Unfortunately, they captured Mystery’s hair in the image.

Now fans know that both you and Mystery hang out at the cafe.

The cafe gets stalked and so you’re forced to hang out somewhere else.

He eventually invites you to the dorms cause your privacy at the cafe just gets breached too many times.

This is perfect cause guy has a mega awesome setup.

He rooms with Baby and they’re both gaming nerds so they have everything

You love his room.

You see Baby alot cause its his room too but he’s super chill and usually out at some convenience store?

Mystery confesses to you after you clutch a 1v3.

You were so hyped cause it was like some pro match with the best players in the world and you won.

He was watching you, hair up, eyes bright and smirking.

“I like you” he muttered.

You turned to him, eyes wide. “Whaaaaaaaaat?”

“I like you.”

You’rse still so shocked.

“I’m not great at this stuff,” he said, voice low. “But I like being around you. You’re smart, annoying, kind of terrifying. It’s good.”

You stared, brain lagging.

“You gonna say something?” he asked, amused.

You let out an amused laugh, tossing a pillow at his head “I like you too, idiot.”

He smiled. 

Now that you're dating he gets hella clingy.

He always brings you snacks before a gaming session.

You got matching everything

Matching usernames

Matching pfp’s 

Matching outfits on your characters

He sits closer to you. 

He doesn’t sit at all, he lounges on your lap.

One day someone was flirting with you online and he reported the account but he didn’t feel like it was enough.

He goes to Baby, learns what doxxing is and threatens to release the guys information.

The poor person might lose his job just because he flirted with Mystery’s partner 😐

Loves listening to your voice.

Whenever he has to go on tour without you he listens to your past lives or calls you just to hear you speak.

Since you spend most of your day gaming (its basically your job) late night ramen dates in the dorm kitchen become your thing. 

You sit on the counter while he cooks. He lets you taste test everything, feeding you with his own chopsticks, pretending not to blush.

He let you borrow his hoodie once. Now it’s yours. 

He never takes it back. Instead, he buys a second one and pretends that was his plan all along.

The most encouraging boyfriend.

When you go live Mystery watches from a burner account and sends messages like

“who’s that pro? i think i love them”

“your boyfriend is so lucky”

“marry me”

He holds your hand under the desk while gaming, thumb running circles into your palm whenever you die in-game or get frustrated.

You both door-dash takeout at 1 a.m. and eat on the floor of his room, surrounded by energy drink cans, empty snack bags, and your gaming gear.

Extra food gets sent to Baby

If you ever get into an argument he gets super soft after. 

Doesn’t apologize with words, he just shows up with your favorite snack, lies down next to you, and nudges your shoulder until you give in and cuddle.

The other Boys only found out through Baby

Jinu notices Baby keeps bringing more food into his room and corners him. 

“Are you guys hiding someone in there?” he interrogates the blue haired guy in the living room.

Romance and Abby are watching curiously.

“I’m not hiding anything”

“So why do you always take enough food to feed four people?” Jinu scoffs

“It’s for me, Mystery and…”

“And?..” Jinu, Romance and Abby ask at the same time.

“And Mystery’s partner.”

“What the hell?”

You can hear them crashing out from the room but you don’t plan to leave.

Mystery is all comfortable on your chest, your playing with his hair as he sleeps. 

Life could never be better.

He would call you things like:

Pro : When you beat everyone in your game.

My Hero : Teasingly

Your Username : He loses you in a store and just goes Has anyone seen ‘Your Username’!”

Out of embarrassment you run back to him.

Mine : Possessive. 

자기 (jagi) : “Baby” but in korean. He doesn’t want to call you his bandmates name but still wants it to be cute. Hence the reason it’s in korean.

You would call him things like:

Pretty Boy : Affectionately. Picture you two cuddling at night. He’s just such a pretty boy.

Sweetheart : In voice chat when you play with others. He mutes his mic reaaaal quick when you say this.

Furry : I think this one is self explanatory…

Cutie : You just get so much cute aggression around him.

Lovey : Almost all the time.

[luveline]

Hey my lovely, could i equest a blurb where reader seeks one of spencer's hugs and he's all soft and mushy about it!! I just think he'd give really warm hugs and want one so bad!

shy!reader + post!prison Spencer have a hug

Spencer understands why you might find him intimidating. He did go to prison for a few weeks, and even if the idea of his being a potential felon didn’t scare you, there’s nothing wrong with being nervous around the unknown. You’ve had a few more weeks to get to know the others on the team. He tries not to take it personally that you’re closer with some of them than you are him. 

Plus, you’re awfully shy. 

Spencer’s been trying to communicate that he’s an idiot. He was shy, once, and he tends to be shy about things now, too, even if he’s taken to hiding that. He hides a lot, these days. 

But things aren’t hopeless with you. You’re inarguably his best work friend now that Morgan’s not around, taking the desk next to his —through coincidence or insistence, he has no idea. 

“What flavour do you have today?” he asks. 

You show him your bag. The convenience store outside of work has the strangest sweets from all sorts of places. You’ve been bringing in a different bag each day, and you always share. “Today is apricot and peach ‘millions’,” you tell him, shaking the bright pink bag like a rattle. 

Inside, the millions bounce against each other like miniscule polystyrene balls but with a heavier weight. 

“Awesome!” he says, holding out his hand. “Please?” 

You rip the corner and tip a generous helping of candies into his palm, doing the same in your own hand. “Ready?” you ask. 

“Three, two, one.” 

You both tip your heads back at the same time. Apricot and peach are similar flavours, and Spencer can’t tell the difference when they’re both in play. He can also taste apple juice and the sharp citric acid flavour they put in every candy. 

He can’t tell if you like them. He quite enjoys it, will happily eat the leftovers if you’re not interested, but your attention isn’t on the candy when he looks up. You’re staring straight at him. 

“What?” he asks, perturbed. 

“Nothing, just. Had a rough morning. Thanks for trying the candy with me.” 

He frowns. “I’m sorry. Let me know if there’s something I can do to make you feel better. I can make you a cup of hot chocolate?” 

“Don’t worry about it.” 

Spencer’s sure that to an outsider, he and the team appear to travel to a hundred cities a month. In reality, cases aren’t as densely packed, especially with the government expanding their profiling teams, and the majority of Spencer’s day is spent answering emails and giving advice to agents, law enforcement, and his colleagues. He doesn’t see much of you (where you’re forced to work ViCAP calibration as newbies usually are, almost like a hazing) but he does take you that hot chocolate around lunch time. Just to make sure you have the option. 

It’s sometime past four PM when you appear again. 

“Hey,” he says, turning to you where you’re paused behind your desk chair, “you're finally done?” 

“Not yet. So many case files to transcribe, opinions to cross check, signatures and…” You wince. “It’s a lot. You already know.” 

“I don’t, actually. I only ever had to do ViCAP as punishment, and I was extremely well-behaved. For a while, anyway.” 

You hesitate with something heavy on the tip of your tongue. You’re like every profiler wherein your tells are self-identified and quelled, but you’re still so new, and Spencer’s an expert. You want to ask him for something, but you don’t think you’re allowed. If he presses the issue you’ll shut down, and if he offers you another cup of hot chocolate you’ll simply drink it without letting him in on the real secret. 

Spencer waits. 

“Spencer, you don’t have to say yes, just… You’re the nicest friend I have, and you always know what I need to hear. Um, I know you don’t like touching people and I wouldn’t ask you to if you don’t want to, but it’s been a really long time since someone hugged me, and…” Your voice gets quieter and quieter, until you’re whispering, and then fizzling out. 

“You want a hug?” he asks, surprised. 

“If that’s okay.” 

“I give really good hugs,” he warns, climbing from his chair immediately, arms opened, an unmissable invitation. “You’ll never get over it.” 

“Really?” 

He can’t believe you came to him specifically for a hug. He’s gonna lose his mind. Gentle, Spencer ushers you into his arms, head quick to duck down, his thumb on your shoulder. 

You could’ve asked anybody in the office for a hug. Penelope would have hugged your brains out. Emily, Unit Chief and secret sweetheart, would’ve taken you off of ViCAP and given you a loving pat on the back. But you didn’t ask Penelope or Emily, you asked him. 

“You don’t have to ask me first,” he says quietly. 

“You don’t like touching.” 

“That’s more to do with germs, and I’m not worried about yours,” he says. “Unless you’re about to tell me you have a headache.” 

“It’s like this pounding behind my eyes,” you say with a laugh. 

Spencer smiles, his mouth and nose to the side of your head. He gives you a good ten seconds of quiet, his palm warming your shoulder, before he murmurs, “Any better?” 

“You’re really warm,” you murmur back. 

Spencer resists the urge to squeeze you. “It's the oxytocin.”

“Or you’re just really, really warm.”

[scarluna]

Thoughts of You - I am able to breathe again.

Y/N starts work as a client agent at a big corporate company. There, she meets Jungkook, a man who confuses the hell out of her.

Pairing: Jungkook x Fem!Reader

Genre/Tags: plus sized reader, fuckboy jungkook, insecurities, smoking

Chapter available: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4

Chapters: 5 / 5

Chapter Warnings: mature language, a little sexual tension

A/N: OKAY. After all of your sweet comments I decided to get closure for myself so I talked with the dude. And here is the OFFICIAL ENDING of TOY. Enjoy. x

The next morning, Y/N walked into the office with her walls firmly back in place.

Headphones in.

Eyes forward.

No stops at the break room. No casual glances around to see where he might be.

She took her seat like a shadow—silent, unbothered, unreachable.

Jungkook arrived not long after. She felt him before she saw him, like some shift in the atmosphere. But she kept her eyes glued to her screen, even as he dropped into the seat next to her.

“Hey,” he said, nudging his chair closer. “You good?”

“Fine,” she replied. One word. No glance.

He paused. Looked at her. Waited.

She didn’t offer more.

He tapped his pen restlessly, shifting in his seat. “You’re being weird.”

Y/N didn’t respond.

After a beat, he leaned in slightly, keeping his voice low. “I swear, I can’t tell when you’re in the mood to talk or when you’re gonna burn the building down.”

She let out a dry chuckle—humorless, sharp. “Maybe I’m just crazy.”

That made him freeze.

He looked at her then, really looked at her. But she didn’t meet his eyes. Her gaze stayed locked on her screen, fingers poised above her keyboard, body tense like a trap ready to spring.

She didn’t say anything else.

Didn’t need to.

The sentence hung between them, heavier than it had any right to be. Maybe I’m just crazy. What she really meant: maybe I’m too much. Maybe I’m not worth the effort. Maybe you confirmed every worst thought I’ve had about myself.

Jungkook sat back slowly, and for the first time, he didn’t have a clever comeback. Didn’t try to fill the silence.

He just sat there.

And then—by lunchtime, he was gone.

No messages. No comments. No smoke break.

Just… gone.

The same the next day.

No Jungkook.

No teasing. No tension. No emotional whiplash.

And surprisingly?

The quiet was nice.

Y/N didn’t realize how loud his presence had become until it disappeared. How much of her brain he occupied. How much effort it took to pretend she wasn’t affected every time he cracked a joke or let his eyes linger too long.

Without him, everything felt lighter. Like the office had taken a breath. Like she could finally breathe.

She didn’t miss the way the others looked around, noticing the absence too. But no one asked. No one said anything.

And neither did she.

Because for those two days, peace felt better than possibility.

-

Jungkook returned to the office two days later, the usual buzz returning with him.

Y/N didn’t react when he walked in.

She was already seated, eyes on her monitor, her expression unreadable. Her hoodie sleeves were pulled over her palms again—a quiet tell only those who really knew her would catch.

Not that he noticed.

Or maybe he did. But if so, he didn’t show it.

The others greeted him casually as he dropped his bag onto his desk and slouched back into his chair, the image of nonchalance. His hair was a little messy, dark circles slightly more prominent than usual.

“Yo,” Taehyun called as he passed by, “Where the hell you been, man?”

Mina glanced over too, grinning. “Yeah, we thought you quit or died or something.”

Jungkook snorted. “Nah. Just the hospital.”

Their expressions shifted—half curious, half concerned.

“What, you sick?” Taehyun asked, pausing beside his chair.

Jungkook shook his head, pulling out his water bottle and twisting the cap. “Nah. Went to donate blood. A friend’s relative needed it.”

“Oh,” Mina blinked. “Damn. That’s actually… really nice of you.”

He shrugged. “Not that deep.”

The moment the word hospital left his mouth, Y/N stood up.

Not out of concern.

Not out of interest.

Just—timing.

Perfect, careless timing.

She grabbed her lanyard off the desk with a single flick of her fingers, slung it around her neck, and headed straight for the exit, not sparing Jungkook so much as a glance.

Didn’t ask what happened.

Didn’t even flinch at the word donate.

Mina noticed.

So did Jungkook.

Especially Jungkook.

She walked right past him—deliberately, calmly—and met up with the usual group already headed outside for their smoke break. Taehyun tossed her a lighter, and she lit up with the ease of someone trying to feel less. Not more.

Behind her, she could feel the ghost of Jungkook’s eyes on her back.

But she didn’t look.

Not once.

She leaned against the railing, let the wind hit her face, and dragged in her first breath of smoke like it was medicine.

And maybe it was.

Because for once, she didn’t feel like being polite.

She didn’t feel like softening the edge.

Let him sit there.

Let him feel the space he left behind.

Let him wonder what changed.

Because for once, Y/N wasn’t interested in making it easier for someone who had no idea what it took for her to even show up every day.

Let the silence answer for her.

-

The office clock dragged its hands through the late afternoon lull, the fluorescent lights humming overhead like they were bored of everyone beneath them.

Y/N didn’t wait for anyone this time.

No group chat.

No eye contact across desks.

No word to Mina.

She simply stood, grabbed her badge, slipped her phone into her back pocket, and headed for the door like smoke was the only thing tethering her to gravity.

She didn’t notice Jungkook shift in his seat until she was already halfway to the hallway.

“Y/N,” he called softly, almost like a question. “You going for a smoke?”

She paused—not long, just a breath—and nodded once without turning around. “Yeah.”

That was all he needed.

He was on his feet, trailing behind her without being asked.

She didn’t stop him.

But she didn’t wait for him either.

The door to the back lot creaked open, spilling the heavy air of late afternoon into their lungs as they stepped outside. The asphalt was still warm under their shoes, the sun dipping lower behind the row of parked cars.

As she reached for her lighter, he patted his pockets.

“Shit,” he muttered. “Left my cigarettes in the car.”

Y/N didn’t sigh. Didn’t roll her eyes. Didn’t offer some teasing comment like she might’ve weeks ago.

She simply pulled a cigarette from her pack, held it out between her fingers without looking at him.

He took it carefully, their fingers brushing for half a second—barely a touch, but she still felt it.

They lit up in silence.

Not the comfortable kind they used to share.

This was the kind that wrapped around their ankles and weighed them down. Heavy, almost intentional.

Jungkook leaned against the railing beside her, blowing smoke out through his nose. He didn’t look at her, but she felt his eyes flick toward her now and then.

She didn’t give him anything.

No words. No glances.

She just smoked like it was all she needed, like he wasn’t even there.

After a few minutes, he finally pushed off the railing, stubbing the cigarette out with the toe of his boot.

“I’m heading to the store,” he said, tone low and neutral, like he wasn’t sure what reaction he expected—or wanted.

Y/N gave him a single nod, barely lifting her eyes. “Cool.”

Then, without another word, she flicked her own cigarette away and turned to walk back inside.

Didn’t wait for him.

Didn’t ask where he was going.

Didn’t look back.

-

It was just past noon when Mina plopped into the empty seat next to Y/N, a knowing look already tugging at her lips.

Y/N didn’t even glance up. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re thinking it,” Y/N muttered, scrolling half-heartedly through her inbox.

Across from them, another colleague—Ines, from marketing—leaned over the partition with a sly grin. “We’re just saying… you haven’t been your usual ‘please don’t perceive me’ self lately.”

“Yeah,” Mina chimed in. “You’ve been extra pretty. Extra sharp. But also, like… a little murder-y.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “That’s just my resting face.”

Ines laughed. “Maybe. Or maybe it has something to do with a certain someone who’s suddenly quiet around you. Who accepted a cigarette from you like it was a gift from the gods. Who looked like he wanted to say a thousand things and said none.”

Mina leaned in dramatically. “Jungkook.”

Y/N sighed, finally setting her mouse down. “Can you both not?”

Mina tilted her head. “Y/N… be honest. Are you still thinking about what he said? The ‘eat you up’ moment? The girlfriend jokes? The dancing? The constant hovering? Because like, if I were you, I’d be spiraling.”

“I’m not spiraling,” Y/N lied.

Ines folded her arms. “So ask him. Ask if it was just work flirting or if it meant something.”

Y/N stared at her like she’d lost her mind. “Are you serious? I’m supposed to walk up to him and go, ‘Hey, were you fake flirting with me, or were you secretly imagining marriage?’”

Mina snorted into her coffee. “You’re the one who’s not letting it go. You might as well find out.”

“I’m not asking him. My ego is already in shambles.”

Ines gave her a look. “Then don’t ask for your ego. Ask for your peace.”

That shut her up.

The silence lingered between the three of them until Mina nudged her arm gently. “Look… you don’t have to do anything right now. But if you find yourself alone with him—really alone—promise you’ll ask. Just once. Just to know.”

Y/N exhaled slowly.

She didn’t want to. She really, really didn’t want to.

But the worst part wasn’t the silence.

It was the wondering.

So she nodded—once, quietly. “If we’re alone… I’ll ask.”

A pact with herself. A line drawn.

No expectations.

Just answers.

And maybe, after that—

She could finally move on.

-

Y/N was mid-scroll, headphones in, pretending to be immersed in a true crime breakdown on YouTube while her inbox blinked with things she had no intention of answering.

Her body was relaxed. Mentally somewhere else entirely. Safe.

Until she wasn’t.

A shadow passed beside her desk, followed by a soft voice—familiar, low, and completely out of pocket.

“Wanna go for a smoke?”

She froze.

Her hand paused on the mouse.

Her spine straightened just slightly.

Her brain did the thing where it shut down completely, because—what?

Her eyes flicked upward and, sure enough, there he was.

Jeon Jungkook. Hoodie slightly wrinkled, tired eyes, tattoos peeking out under his sleeves, one hand resting casually on the back of her chair like this wasn’t the first real thing he’d said to her in days.

He met her gaze, expression unreadable. Casual. Like this was normal. Like the silence between them hadn’t stretched into something uncomfortably loud over the past week.

Y/N blinked.

He waited.

Slowly, she pulled out one earbud. “Now?”

Jungkook shrugged. “Unless you’ve got a meeting with HR.”

Her mouth opened, then closed again.

What the actual fuck.

Before she could think too hard about it, her body betrayed her and stood up.

She grabbed her badge and turned around, only to lock eyes with Mina and Ines across the room—both of whom were practically vibrating in their chairs, eyebrows wiggling like they were choreographed.

Y/N shot them a glare that promised violence, but they only grinned harder.

She followed Jungkook through the halls, out the side exit, past the back lot—and straight down the sidewalk, across the quiet street, toward the small park a few blocks from the office.

No one else followed.

It was just them.

They didn’t speak.

The wind brushed against them gently, the sun dipping behind soft clouds as they reached the bench tucked into a quiet corner of the park. It wasn’t far, but far enough to be… something else. Separate from the office. From everyone else.

They sat down, side by side but not touching.

Y/N pulled out her pack, handed him a cigarette wordlessly—like she always had.

He took it with a quiet “thanks.”

They lit up.

Inhale.

Silence.

Exhale.

Still silence.

But it wasn’t empty.

It never was with him.

Y/N glanced at him briefly, studying the way he leaned forward, elbows on knees, cigarette resting between his fingers like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

He didn’t look at her.

Not yet.

But she knew it was coming.

And her heart was already beating too loud.

She had made a promise.

If they ended up alone—

She’d ask.

And here they were.

Alone.

The smoke curled lazily between them, hanging in the air like a barrier she wasn’t sure she wanted to cross.

Y/N sat stiffly, elbows on her thighs, cigarette burning slowly between her fingers. She didn't know how long they sat in silence—seconds, maybe minutes—but eventually, she spoke.

Her voice was softer than she expected. Careful. Like the words might break something.

“So… how’s the new relationship?”

She didn’t look at him when she asked. Just kept her gaze locked on the faint cracks in the pavement beneath their feet.

Jungkook didn’t hesitate.

“It’s good,” he said, exhaling smoke through his nose. “Actually… it’s amazing.”

Y/N nodded once, slowly.

Jungkook continued, as if he hadn’t noticed the tightness in her shoulders. “It’s completely different than my last one. In a good way. No games. It’s just easy, y’know?”

She nodded again.

Still, nothing. No sting. No ache. No sharp edge where her heart should’ve been.

She expected to feel it. The jealousy. The smallness. The shame.

But she didn’t.

There was just a stillness in her chest. Like her body had gone quiet, holding its breath for something else entirely.

She turned her head slightly, letting the cigarette rest between her lips as she stared off toward the trees.

Her mind was chaos. Thoughts overlapping. Heart pounding—not from heartbreak, but from the pressure building behind her ribs.

She wasn’t hurt.

But she was stuck.

Caught between wanting to leave and needing to know.

She took a slow inhale, then out, grounding herself in the motion.

“Can I ask you something?”

Her voice trembled—barely—but he caught it.

Jungkook looked over at her, brows raised. “Yeah. Of course.”

Then, without waiting, he shifted closer—his side brushing hers as he sat properly on the bench, facing her now.

“Shoot.”

And just like that, the moment she’d been dreading was here.

The silence after his word felt louder than anything else.

Her throat tightened.

Her mouth opened—

Then closed again.

But she had promised herself.

So she took one more breath.

And prepared to finally ask.

Y/N’s fingers trembled slightly as she lifted the cigarette to her lips, but her voice—when she finally spoke—was steady.

“Was all the flirting over the past month just because you were bored at work?” Her gaze stayed forward, not on him. “Like… was it just something to pass time because you had nothing better to do?”

She hesitated, then added, more quietly, “Or was there actually something more to it?”

There it was.

The question.

The damn thing that had been sitting at the back of her throat for weeks.

Jungkook didn’t answer right away.

She heard the soft drag of his cigarette, the slow exhale.

Then his voice, low and calm. Not defensive. Not apologetic.

Just honest.

“Nah. It’s just work flirting,” he said.

A pause.

“But I did it because I liked you more than anyone else here. Still do.”

Y/N finally turned her head slightly, eyes meeting his.

He looked at her the way he always did—relaxed, open, unreadable.

“I’m not out here flirting with everyone like that,” he added. “I ask you for smoke breaks. I mess with you. You’re the only person in this place I actually enjoy talking to.”

She blinked.

Jungkook took another drag, glancing off into the trees before continuing.

“But if I had deeper intentions…” he paused, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, “I’d have asked you out. Like, properly. Not just stood around bumming cigarettes and making dumb jokes.”

Y/N nodded slowly.

And surprisingly?

She didn’t feel the ache she had expected. No wave of embarrassment, no flush of rejection, no pit forming in her stomach.

Just relief.

A slow, steady exhale. Like something heavy had finally slipped off her back and landed far behind her.

“Okay,” she murmured.

Jungkook looked at her again, watching her carefully.

Y/N offered a small, tired smile. “Some of the things you said stuck in my head.”

Another slow inhale. Another breath.

“My colleagues noticed it too,” she said, her voice softer now. “So I needed to ask. I needed to know what’s been going on.”

Jungkook nodded, his expression surprisingly gentle.

“I get it,” he said. “I’m glad you asked.”

They sat in silence again.

But this time—it wasn’t awkward. Or tense.

It was peaceful.

Y/N leaned back slightly, letting the smoke trail upward into the sky, her shoulders lighter than they’d felt in weeks.

She didn’t get the fairytale answer.

But she got the truth.

And for once, it was more than enough.

The cigarette burned halfway through between Jungkook’s fingers before he spoke again.

His voice was more careful now. A little softer. Less playful.

“I’ve noticed,” he said, eyes on the trail of smoke curling up into the sky, “that you’ve been different ever since I got a girlfriend.”

Y/N’s breath stilled for a second—but not from guilt. From the clarity of hearing it said out loud.

She didn’t deflect.

Didn’t deny.

She simply nodded, gaze steady on the bench in front of them.

“I have,” she said plainly. “Because I have respect for myself.”

Jungkook finally looked at her.

She met his eyes fully this time—no hesitation, no flinch, no softness diluted with doubt.

“I have morals,” she continued, voice calm but firm. “And I didn’t want to cross any lines. Even unintentionally. So I distanced myself.”

The wind picked up slightly, rustling the leaves above them. Neither of them moved.

Jungkook let out a quiet breath, almost like a sigh. “That’s fair.”

He flicked the ash off his cigarette. “I’ve tried not to act the same either. Since getting into something serious.”

Y/N gave a small nod. “I noticed.”

There was no accusation in her voice. No passive anger. Just an understanding—subtle, sharp, necessary.

He looked at her again, more intently this time. “I didn’t want to disrespect her. Or you.”

She gave him a faint, dry smile. “Then it’s good we both stepped back.”

He didn’t disagree.

They sat in that mutual stillness—two people who had walked right up to a line they didn’t quite understand until they were forced to see it clearly.

Not in shame.

Not in regret.

But in quiet acceptance.

Jungkook stubbed out the remainder of his cigarette and leaned back on the bench, arms resting behind him as he stared up at the gray sky. “You’re a good person, Y/N.”

Y/N let her eyes wander ahead, unfocused. “I’m just trying to be one.”

“Still,” he murmured. “I’m glad we talked.”

“Me too.”

-

Y/N reentered the office with a lighter step than before, as if a burden had finally been lifted from her shoulders. She found herself greeted by the usual mix of chatter and knowing glances from her coworkers. Mina and Ines exchanged a quick look as she passed by, a silent question hanging in the air.

At her desk, Taehyun leaned over with a curious smile. “So, what happened out there? You look… different.”

Y/N paused, then offered a small, genuine smile. “I talked it out with him.”

Her colleagues leaned in slightly, eager for any details of the shift that had clearly transformed her mood.

“I told him everything,” she continued softly, her eyes scanning the familiar surroundings as she settled back into her seat. “I said I needed to know if all this was just work flirting or if there was something more. He told me it was only work flirting—that he’d asked me out for smoke breaks because he liked me more than anyone here. And he made it clear that if he had deeper intentions, he’d have invited me on a proper date already.”

There was a brief silence among the group as they absorbed her words. Y/N’s voice took on a steadier tone, filled with a quiet relief. “I feel… lighter. Like I can finally breathe again.”

She paused, a flicker of uncertainty crossing her face as if she sensed there was more he hadn’t said. “There’s this feeling, too—like maybe he hid something from me or didn’t tell me everything he felt. But honestly, at this point, I’m just glad to have the clarity. I’m ready to move on.”

Her coworkers nodded, the room filled with a mix of understanding and unspoken respect for her openness. Mina gave her an encouraging nod, and Taehyun added with a supportive grin, “Sounds like you did what you needed to do, Y/N. That relief? That’s priceless.”

With that, Y/N returned to her work, feeling steadier than she had in weeks. The conversations and teasing around the office now carried a different tone—a tone of acceptance and, more importantly, self-respect.

And as she settled at her desk, Y/N realized that sometimes, the hardest conversations reveal exactly what’s needed: a chance to let go, a breath of fresh air, and the courage to finally move on.

[wattpadbxtch]

Stressed for What?

pairing: spy!paige x techy!azzi

Paige had never sat still in her life.

And this was a woman who’d been strapped to a chair for two hours during a fake hostage drill and still managed to dislocate her own shoulder just to stab someone with a pen cap. So stillness? Not in her DNA.

But today, the pacing was different.

Because Azzi was in the field.

Azzi.

Her Azzi. Her engineer. Her tech lead. Her “I prefer low-risk environments and only carry a sidearm to shut you up” girlfriend.

And even though it was a low-tier recon gig—“in and out, no combat, light surveillance”—Paige couldn’t stop spiraling.

“She’s not field-trained like we are,” she muttered, half to herself, half to the unlucky comms tech sitting nearby. “She overthinks. She double-checks her equipment. That’s adorable when she’s fixing my optic scope, not when she’s surrounded by armed targets.”

“Agent Bueckers,” the comms tech tried, gently, “She’s in a secure zone with four escorts and live satellite backup.”

“She didn’t eat enough before she left,” Paige added. “She gets light-headed when she’s stressed. What if she fainted while hacking a terminal?”

“She’s literally standing up straight and typing right now,” the tech replied. “I can see her.”

Paige growled and paced again. “If someone even breathes in her direction wrong—”

Azzi’s voice crackled over comms, calm and casual:

“Extraction complete. Files recovered. Heading to dust-off. ETA: seventeen minutes.”

She sounded like she’d just wrapped up a grocery run.

Paige all but tackled the comms unit.

“Azzi? Are you okay? Are you safe? Did anyone make eye contact with you too aggressively? Blink twice if you’re emotionally disturbed.”

There was a long pause on the other end.

Then Azzi’s voice again, this time flat with amusement:

“I’m literally walking and drinking a juice box.”

Paige blinked. “…They gave you a juice box?”

“Yeah. Grape. Not even expired.”

“Baby,” Paige said, pinching the bridge of her nose, “do you understand that I’ve spent the last hour planning what kind of revenge rampage I’d go on if you so much as scraped your elbow?”

“I didn’t even walk near danger.”

“I had your emergency blood type printed onto my jacket in case I had to extract you myself.”

“Okay, that’s… kind of sweet but also insane.”

Paige sighed and slumped into a chair. “I just—don’t like being the one left behind.”

“You’re cute when you’re feral.”

“Don’t patronize me, I was ready to burn a village.”

When Azzi got back, Paige met her on the tarmac before she could even fully disembark. She looked fine. Perfect, even. Wind in her curls, that smug little half-smile tugging at her lips.

“I’m home,” she said, holding up the juice box in victory.

Paige didn’t say anything. Just walked right up and hugged her like she was afraid Azzi might evaporate if she didn’t hold on tight enough.

Azzi, slightly breathless, hugged her back. “Okay, wow. You were really stressed.”

“You don’t go in the field,” Paige mumbled into her shoulder. “I don’t like this. You’re not the one who gets shot at.”

“I wasn’t even near bullets.”

“I don’t care. I imagined you in like, thirty different hostage situations and one laser trap scenario that involved wolves for some reason.”

Azzi pulled back and kissed her. Soft. Reassuring. “I was fine.”

Paige nodded, but her grip didn’t loosen. “I know. I just love you. And I like loving you alive.”

Azzi smiled. “Then let’s go home, Agent Feral.”

[zeizeizeizei]

Idiots.

Zeb (from across the room, approaching):

"You been sleepin’ alright?"

(Kallus glances up from the datapad in his hands, surprised by the question—but not unpleasantly so.)

Kallus (a little guarded, but his voice is warmer than it used to be):

"Trying to. Still getting used to the quiet, I suppose."

Zeb (grins):

"Yeah, well... the Ghost hums, but she don’t scream orders at you.

Give it a few nights."

(Kallus almost smiles at that, shaking his head faintly.)

Kallus:

"That’s oddly comforting."

(A pause. Then—casual, but with intent—Zeb walks closer, leans against the edge of the table.)

Zeb:

"Y'know... 'Agent Kallus' always felt too stiff for you. What do your friends call you?"

Kallus (blinks, then hesitates):

"...I don’t really—"

(And then Zeb, looking at him through his lashes, cuts in gently.)

Zeb:

"Aleksandr... Aleksandr... Alex."

(Kallus stiffens slightly—like the word reached deeper than expected.)

Kallus (quietly):

"How did you—?"

Zeb (grinning, softer now):

"I looked it up before..."

(Kallus looks down, lips parting slightly. A breath escapes him that sounds like surprise. Maybe relief. Maybe something he’s not ready to name.)

Kallus (murmuring):

"...No one's called me that in a long time."

Zeb:

"Should I stop?"

Kallus (his eyes finally meet Zeb’s again—there’s something raw there, but not closed-off):

"...No. It’s alright. Just… unexpected."

(Zeb leans in a little, voice dropping, a teasing glint in his eye—though his tone stays gentle.)

Zeb:

"You blush every time I say it?"

Kallus (raising an eyebrow, deadpan):

"I do not."

Zeb (laughs):

"You do. It’s cute."

(Kallus actually laughs then—quiet, real—and Zeb watches that laugh like it’s something rare.)

Kallus:

"You’re incorrigible."

Zeb (tilting his head, cocky smile):

"And you like it."

[holdmytesseract]

Mother Knows Best

☆ The Baby Fever AU ☆

Loki x Y/N feat. Frigga

Summary: Loki is quite a bit uncertain and afraid of becoming a father - but luckily his mother is here to soothe his worries. After all, mother knows best, right?

Warnings: tooth rotting fluff, sweet Loki and Frigga moments, Loki being a mama's boy and very protective, pregnancy things

Word Count: 1,5k

a/n: Finally some Baby Fever again, yaay! 🤗 To write this sweet, lil' story has been on my mind for a long time... I hope y'all enjoy it!

Baby Fever Masterlist °☆• Loki Masterlist °☆• Masterlist

divider by the lovely @fictive-sl0th <3

"Darling?" Loki opened slowly the door of the meeting room in which you were going to give a lecture in about twenty minutes for a few SHIELD agents.

"Come in!" You called out to your husband; allowing him to enter the small room.

Loki found you currently connecting your laptop to the projector hanging on the ceiling. He smiled watching you work and decided to step closer.

"Hey, babe!" Your beautiful Y/E/C eyes lit up when you met his gaze.

Those irises are shining even more now, Loki noticed; his mind immediately connecting it to the famous pregnancy glow. The mere thought caused his heart to skip a beat. Twelve weeks in and he still quite couldn't believe it.

"Hello, my love." The god reciprocated your radiating smile and passed by the huge table in order to get to you.

Greeting you with a lingering kiss, you welcomed him with open arms; crossing your hands behind his neck.

"And you, babe? Off to visit your parents?" Loki smiled; confirming your suggestion with a nod. "Well, rather my mother, since my father will most likely be busy as always - but indeed. I'm going to Asgard now. Is that alright, my love? Are you getting along... alone?" "Sure. I am almost done preparing and-" "That's not what I meant, Y/N," your husband interrupted you; slight worry reflecting on his face. One of his hands travelled to rest on the tiny baby bump, which became clearly visible mere two days ago. Concerned blue eyes looking from your face to the bump and back.

"Getting ready for your lecture?" He asked; hands landing on your hips; thumbs immediately starting to rub soft circles into your clothed skin.

You nodded and buried your hands in his raven locks. "Mhm. I hope the technology is working properly this time." You let out a small laugh. "Fingers crossed that it will work." Loki chuckled and leaned against the white, wooden table; pulling you softly with him, so that you came to stand between his spread legs.

"I hope it is showing you some mercy today." You nodded, "Would be favourable, yup." and paused for a moment to just admire the stunningly handsome man in front of you. His raven hair was wild and free; falling in gentle waves over his broad shoulders. Loki was wearing a traditional green, gold and black Asgardian tunic. You loved it when he wore the clothes of his home.

Your husband gave you a last look, before he vanished in the familiar rainbow light of the Bifrost.

"I know," You winked at him and stood on your tiptoes to press your lips against his for another kiss. "We're good, I promise. Please, go and visit your parents." "Are you really sure, my love?" You gave him a nod and smile. "To 100 per cent. You wanted to visit them since two months..." He swallowed - and you could see that a bit of guilt flashed in his eyes. "Yes, but... I-I couldn't leave you alone. You know I didn't want to. Not until you passed the first critical twelve weeks-" "Which I did today," you interrupted him; taking his free hand in yours and placing the other on top of his, which was still splayed over your stomach.

"Go, babe. I'm sure Frigga is dying to enfold her youngest son in her arms." Loki nodded; gave you a soft smile and a kiss. "I'll see you later. Call Heimdall if something is wrong. He can send me straight back." You smiled; squeezing his hand, before you let go. "Noted, babe. See you later - and please greet your parents from me." Loki walked to the open space at the back of the room, "Definitely, my love." and looked up to the ceiling. "Heimdall? Please take me home!"

"Thank you, Heimdall. I appreciate this very much." The man in golden armour gave Loki a small bow. "I informed the king and queen of your arrival. You are awaited." He gave him a nod in order to thank him and made his way towards the royal palace.

The first thing Loki did, when his feet touched Asgardian ground, was to straighten his tunic and run a hand through his long curls. He didn't want to look dishevelled when meeting his parents. He was a prince after all...

"Welcome home, my prince." Heimdall greeted Loki; giving him a nod. "Thank you, Heimdall. It's been quite a long time... Great to be back." "Indeed..." Heimdall started to smile. "But you had your reasons. Lady Y/N has probably already conveyed my greetings, but... Congratulations, again, my prince." Loki couldn't help but smile; grateful that he got along with the Gatekeeper so well by now - which certainly had not always been the case.

Once the younger prince of Asgard arrived at the gates of the palace, he already saw his mother waiting for him; a big smile displayed on her face. "Loki..." She welcomed her son with open arms. The god smiled; his heart sloshing over with love. "Mother."

Frigga immediately pulled him into a tight hug - and not letting go again. "Congratulations, my son - from the bottom of my very heart. I'm so, so proud of you. Of the wonderful man you became."

The god had a hard time to hold back his tears - but he couldn't. Neither could Frigga.

"I love you, mother."

"Thank you, mother," he choked out; hot, salty liquid dripping from his chin and soaking the fabric of Frigga's dress.

He felt how the queen started to shake her head, before she backed up a bit, in order to cup her son's cheeks. She wiped his tears away with her thumbs; staring into his matching blue eyes. The Allmother smiled; still seeing the little boy Loki once was standing in front of her.

"No, Loki... You don't have to thank me. You did this. You made all this on your own." The god smiled through his tears and pulled her into another hug.

Frigga buried a hand in his locks; squeezing his tall body. "I love you, too, son."

"How is Y/N doing?" Frigga continued to speak after a few steps. "Everything alright with her and the baby?" Loki nodded quickly. "Yes, yes. She and the baby are doing well." "That is reassuring to hear."

After the heartily reunion of mother and son, Frigga took her son on a little walk through the nature of Asgard.

"Where's father?" Loki asked, while strolling alongside Frigga down the forest path with her arm looped through his. "He's joining us later," Frigga answered and gave her son a little mischievous smile. "I allowed myself to take a selfish moment alone with you." He couldn't help but chuckle.

Another few steps passed in silence, until a small giggle slipped past the Allmother's lips. "I still can't believe that my littlest boy is going to become a father soon." Loki responded with a light-headed chuckle of his own. "Me neither, mother. It... It's still quite overwhelming from time to time. Especially now since Y/N is starting to show. I-"

Once again, he had to fight the tears.

He sighed; knowing that he wasn't able to hide anything from his mother. "I... I am excited, yes. But I am also so afraid. What if I am... A bad father? What if I can't be the person this child needs me to be? What if I fail, mother?" Frigga immediately stopped in her movements; causing Loki to stop, too. "Loki..." She took his hands. "You will not fail." "What makes you think that? Why are you so certain of this? Failing is in my nature, I-" The Allmother smiled; interrupting her child once more. "It's not. You did not fail your probation." Loki blinked. "You did not fail the beautiful relationship you have with your wife." "Y-Yes, but..." Frigga squeezed his hands. "No buts, son. You won't fail. You're going to be the best father. Your heart and the love you will feel for this small creature is going to guide you, believe me."

"I-I'm so incredibly happy." Frigga smiled. "And it shows, son. You have all the right to be happy. You deserve it and yet... I feel something overshadowing your happiness. What is it?"

The god's eyes widened at his mother's words. How in all the nine realms was she able to- "Motherly instinct, sweetheart. You'll know what I'm talking about as soon as you hold your very own child in your arms. Tell me." "M-Mother, I-" "Nuh.Uh," she interrupted him immediately again. "Loki, when are you finally going to understand that lying to me will never work? You may be able to trick all the others around you... But not me."

Loki’s features softened. "Truly?" "Yes. I know this is frightening and a big change, but... Don't let your fears overshadow your happiness. You've grown, sweetheart. You're stronger and wiser - and you have a wonderful lady by your side."

The god smiled; letting his mother's words sink in.

Loki nodded; letting go of Frigga and gestured towards the little path. "After you."

"Thank you. I really hope you're right." Frigga lifted a hand to cup his cheek. "I know I'll be right. I can feel it." Loki turned his head to place a soft kiss on her wrist.

The goddess smiled. "Let's head back to the palace, shall we? I bet your father is already awaiting us."

Tags: @muddyorbsblr @mochie85 @asgards-princess-of-mischief @jaidenhawke @ijuststareatstuffhereok89 @multifandom-worlds @jennyggggrrr @mishkatelwarriorgoddess @fictive-sl0th @herdetectivetheorist @hisredheadedgoddess28 @chennqingg @princess-ofthe-pages @km-ffluv @brokenpoetliz @huntedmusicgardenn @lokiforever @stupidthoughtsinwriting @loz-3 @jaguarthecat @icytrickster17 @eleniblue @yourfriendlyslytherinhc @kimanne723 @lou12346789 @smolvenger @lokisrealpurpous @isaidoop @lokisgoodgirl @aagn360 @cakesandtom @alexakeyloveloki @glitchquake (Continuing in the comments)

[kathaelipwse]

SHIELDED HEARTS — Joshua Hong x Reader A birthday special for @joshuatingz 💌 It's a queued post so if it doesn't post on 12am IST I am so sorry! TT

Pairing: Joshua Hong (Solo Idol for this fic) x F.Reader (Elite Bodyguard) Genre: Drama | Angst | Action | Slow Burn Romance Trope: Idol x Bodyguard | Forbidden Love | Forced Proximity | Emotional Slow Burn | Hurt/Comfort | “I’d take a bullet for you”

Warnings: Violence/injury (non-graphic) | Mentions of blood + stalker behavior | PTSD trauma/nightmares | Forbidden relationship dynamics | Swearing | One-night emotional intimacy | Corporate manipulation + fame pressure | NO PROOF READING WAS DONE

Word Count: 13,370 words

Synopsis: Joshua Hong is a global idol drowning under the weight of perfection. You're the hardened bodyguard assigned to keep him safe—emotionally distant, professionally untouchable.

But when danger creeps too close and lines begin to blur, you're forced to face the truth: You're not just protecting him from the world. You're protecting yourself from him.

Then one night, one knife, and one kiss change everything.

Now you're not just risking your life to save his. You're risking your heart to love him.

Author’s Note: Happy birthday, @joshuatingz I wrote this for you!! — a messy, aching, love-drenched drama where Joshua chooses YOU again and again, even when the whole world tells him not to. You deserve all the soft boys, broken boundaries, and long stares across crowded rooms. Thank you for being my sunshine in human form. I hope this fic hugs your soul like he would. 💖

The fluorescent lights of the briefing room hummed, a stark contrast to the silence that had fallen after your handler’s terse summary. Your gut, however, churned with a familiar unease that no amount of practiced composure could fully mask. You stood at ease, arms clasped behind your back, as the assignment file slid across the polished surface of the desk. The words stamped in aggressive red ink across the top made your brow twitch almost imperceptibly.

“HIGH-RISK CLIENT: HONG JISOO (JOSHUA) Profession: Soloist — Global Tour Underway”

Your handler, a man whose face was etched with years of calculated risk, flipped to the next page. “He’s going international next week,” he stated, his voice devoid of inflection. “Asia to Europe. VIP-class travel, multiple open venues, and a threat letter slipped into his fanmail this week. That’s your new client.”

You allowed yourself a slight frown. “A celebrity?” The word tasted foreign on your tongue, not quite fitting with the grim reality of the assignment. Your world was one of shadows and threats, not flashing lights and adoring crowds.

“A soloist,” he corrected, his gaze unwavering. “No group members. No backup. He’s vulnerable. And someone knows it.” He paused, letting the implication hang in the air. “You leave for Seoul in three hours. Get your gear ready.”

You first met Joshua at a luxury rehearsal space in Seoul – a private, discreet facility with an impressive layer of security. The air inside hummed with the faint vibrations of a distant bassline, and as you entered the main studio, his voice reached you, a melodic current melting through the space like honey on heat. He was finishing a vocal run, the last notes lingering in the air, before he turned. A towel was slung casually around his neck, and his eyes, though tired, held a sharp, observant quality.

You executed a formal salute, your movements precise and economical. “Agent [Your Last Name], Private Protection.” Your voice was level, devoid of any unnecessary warmth.

His eyes raked over your attire – fitted tactical wear, a complete absence of makeup, and a posture honed by years of training. He took in the holstered weapon at your hip, the spare magazines, the comms piece discreetly nestled in your ear. A faint, almost imperceptible flicker of surprise crossed his face.

“You’re not what I expected,” he said, extending a hand, an attempt at a cordial greeting.

You didn’t shake it. Your hands remained clasped behind your back. “I’m not here to meet expectations,” you stated, your voice flat. “I’m here to keep you breathing.” The pleasantries, the small talk, they were distractions you couldn’t afford.

The first few days were… tense. Joshua was accustomed to solitude, to operating independently. He moved like someone who had never truly relied on others, not even his own team. You trailed him through crowded airports, through the controlled chaos of interviews, through the sterile environments of recording studios. You observed his movements, the practiced ease with which he offered a smile on cue, a polite nod, but noted how his eyes often seemed distant, his presence not entirely his own. He was a performer, and the performance extended beyond the stage.

“You always walk behind me like that?” he asked one evening, his voice laced with a hint of exasperation after a particularly draining radio taping. He glanced over his shoulder, where you maintained your position, a constant, silent shadow.

“It’s the best line of sight,” you responded, your voice devoid of emotion. “First to react. Last to fall.” It was a simple statement of tactical principle.

He snorted, a dry, humorless sound. “That’s comforting.”

You didn’t offer a smile. Your purpose wasn't to comfort, but to protect.

That night, you caught him. He was slipping past the drowsy hotel security, a hooded figure merging with the pre-dawn shadows. Your instincts flared, but you held back, blending with the deeper darkness, observing. He found a quiet bench nestled behind the venue, a secluded spot hidden by overgrown shrubs. He pulled his hoodie further over his head, a gesture of retreat. You didn’t approach. Not until a figure emerged from the trees behind him, a dark silhouette against the muted glow of the city.

In three seconds flat, you had the man on the ground, your forearm locked at his throat, the metallic scent of damp earth filling your nostrils. “Security! Step back!” you barked, your voice sharp and trained, cutting through the stillness.

Joshua jumped to his feet, startled, his eyes wide. “Wait – he’s just staff, he’s from the stage crew—!” His voice was a panicked whisper.

You released the man, the quick assessment confirming Joshua’s words. Your heart was steady, a controlled beat in your chest. Your pulse, however, thrummed with the aftershock of adrenaline, a silent testament to the constant vigilance.

“Everyone’s a threat until I confirm otherwise,” you stated, your voice flat, as the stage crew member scrambled away, bewildered. Joshua stared at you, a mixture of fear and something else you couldn't quite decipher in his eyes.

The next morning, it appeared. An envelope, stark white, slid silently under the suite door. No markings. No fingerprints. Just a single sheet of paper inside, the words stark and chilling.

“You took him from me. You can’t keep him.”

You picked it up with a gloved hand, slid it into a plastic evidence bag, and delivered it to hotel security. Joshua was silent the entire time, pacing the suite in a hoodie and sweats, his eyes glassy, distant.

“I thought the stalker was gone,” he murmured, his voice barely audible. “I thought we buried this.” He ran a hand through his already disheveled hair, a gesture of deep frustration.

You stared at him, cold and unblinking. “You were wrong.”

He looked up, his gaze meeting yours. “You’re not like the others.”

“Because the others smiled?” The question was a challenge, a test.

He shook his head slowly. “No. Because you’re not afraid.”

Later, you sat cross-legged just outside his suite door, your weapons holstered, earbuds in one ear, the other open to the sounds of the hallway. You didn’t sleep while he slept. That was your rule. Your watch was your own, an unyielding vigil. The door creaked open behind you, a soft protest in the quiet hall.

Joshua leaned out, clad in a hoodie and pajama pants, his hair tousled and falling into his eyes. “You’ve been out here all night?” His voice was low, tinged with a faint surprise.

You nodded. “Standard.”

He leaned against the doorframe, a thoughtful expression on his face. “You don’t like me very much, do you?” The question hung in the air, a curious blend of amusement and genuine inquiry.

“I don’t have to.” Your response was immediate, unvarnished.

He paused, considering your words. “But you do care. A little.” It wasn't a question, but a statement, a gentle probing.

You looked up at him, your eyes tired but sharp. “You’re not here to make friends. I’m not here to flirt. We survive. That’s the job.” Your voice was flat, your stance unwavering. This was a professional engagement, nothing more.

He didn’t speak for a long moment, the silence stretching between you. Then he murmured, “Good night, Agent [Your Last Name],” and quietly shut the door.

Your jaw clenched, a familiar tension tightening the muscles.

Because he was wrong.

You were already starting to care.

--

The next venue was a sold-out arena in Osaka, a sprawling concrete beast consumed by a vibrant, pulsating sea of humanity. Crowds wrapped around the building like tenacious vines, their collective energy a tangible force. Fans screamed his name, their voices a continuous, high-pitched wave, while others waved banners adorned with his image or sobbed openly, overcome by the sheer proximity to their idol. The chaos was electric—a dizzying, overwhelming spectacle that, if you weren’t trained to see through it, you’d mistake for pure, unadulterated love.

You stood by the back entrance, a silent sentinel, flanking Joshua with a second, equally stoic bodyguard on the opposite side. Your senses were heightened, scanning the perimeter. You trusted no one – not the venue staff, whose faces shifted between feigned helpfulness and thinly veiled annoyance at the security measures, not the stage crew, bustling with their equipment, and definitely not the fans, whose adoration could quickly morph into a dangerous crush.

The second the doors opened, a primal surge of human bodies pressed forward, a wave of eager fans breaking against the temporary barriers. A girl, her face flushed with excitement, screamed Joshua’s name and tried to push past the restraining barricade, her eyes locked onto him. Her foot caught on the railing—a precarious stumble that sent her lurching forward, dangerously close to faceplanting into the concrete.

Before anyone else, even the other bodyguard, could react, you moved. It was a fluid, almost instinctive motion. One arm shot out, a rigid barrier, shielding Joshua from the immediate threat of impact. The other, precise and unhesitating, grabbed the girl’s jacket, redirecting her weight just enough to stop her momentum, preventing her from crashing to the ground. The crowd, a collective entity, gasped, a ripple of shock moving through them. You didn’t blink. Your gaze remained fixed, scanning, assessing.

Joshua looked at you sideways as he was swiftly ushered through the now-opened security door, a flicker of something unreadable in his expression.

“Do you… ever miss?” he asked, his voice low, almost a murmur, as he was pulled into the relative quiet of the backstage area.

You didn’t answer. There was no need. Your actions spoke for themselves.

Inside, the arena’s cavernous space felt strangely hollow despite the pre-show bustle. As Joshua began to rehearse his solo ballad, his voice echoing through the vastness, you initiated your sweep of the stage wings. It was a methodical process: checking fire exits, securing equipment cases, noting every shadow and potential hiding spot. You were halfway through clearing a sparsely furnished dressing room when his voice filtered through the distant speakers—raw and stripped down, just him and his acoustic guitar.

You stopped mid-step, your movements momentarily arrested. His voice had the kind of softness that threatened to sink into your ribs, a melodic vulnerability that caught you off guard. You shook it off, a mental shrug. You weren’t here for the music. You were here for the mission.

But then, something in his tone shifted. A note wavered, a slight crack in the otherwise flawless delivery. A pause. A grunt of frustration.

You returned to the hall to find him crouched by his water bottle, a deep frown etched on his face as he stared at his setlist.

“You’re off key,” you said bluntly, your voice cutting through the quiet hum of the backstage area. It was an observation, not a criticism.

He raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusement warring with his frustration. “Wow. Thanks for the professional feedback, Agent.”

“I’ve heard you sing four times a day for two weeks. I’d know.” Your tone was flat, factual.

He stared at you, a bit taken aback, like he didn’t expect you to be listening, truly listening, beyond the periphery of your protection duties. “…My throat’s been weird,” he admitted, his voice a little hoarse. “Too many interviews. Not enough sleep.” He rubbed the back of his neck, a weary gesture.

You paused, your mind quickly accessing a different kind of database – one on practical solutions. Then, you reached into your discreet tactical bag and produced a small, insulated thermos. “Honey ginger tea. Helps with inflammation.”

He blinked, surprised. “You bring tea?”

“I bring solutions.” Your gaze was steady, unwavering. It wasn’t about comfort; it was about maintaining peak performance, and a compromised voice was a liability for a performer.

Later that evening, after Joshua was secured in his hotel suite, you returned to the training facility for your scheduled conditioning. You thought you had the place to yourself, a brief sanctuary of controlled exertion. You were mid-combo—barefoot, sleeves rolled up, sweat clinging to your skin, the rhythmic thud of your fists against the heavy bag filling the silence—when you heard footsteps.

Joshua stood at the edge of the mat, arms crossed, a water bottle clutched in his hand. He wasn't in his usual stage attire; instead, he wore a simple t-shirt and track pants, looking more like an ordinary person than a global idol.

“You fight like a movie character,” he said, tilting his head slightly, a curious glint in his tired eyes. “But, like… one that wins.”

You didn’t break rhythm. Your movements remained fluid, economical. “You’re not supposed to be down here.”

He shrugged, unperturbed. “Security said I had fifteen minutes. I used them.” He watched silently as you executed a sweeping kick, a swift block, a powerful flip, your body moving with a dangerous grace. When you finally stopped, your breath steady, your hair damp with sweat, he offered his water bottle.

You declined with a brief shake of your head.

“You know, most people I meet are…” he gestured vaguely with his free hand, encompassing the invisible throngs of fans and industry professionals, “impressed, nervous, or fake. You’re just… not even fazed.” There was a genuine note of curiosity in his voice.

“Because I’m not here for you,” you stated, picking up your towel, wiping the sweat from your brow. “I’m here for the threat.” Your focus remained singular.

His expression shifted—something unreadable, perhaps a flicker of disappointment or understanding. “Right,” he said, nodding slowly. “You’re ice. Got it.”

You picked up your towel, a faint smirk playing at the corner of your lips, a rare deviation from your usual stoicism. “I’m what keeps ice from melting.” You walked past him, heading towards the changing rooms.

The next evening, your patience wore thin. Backstage at a music show, the veneer of celebrity began to crack. Joshua kept smiling too wide, laughing too long, even when the host made a particularly snide joke about his “loner vibe” now that he was a soloist. You saw the way his jaw clenched, the momentary hardening of his eyes, as soon as the cameras turned off, the polite facade dropping away to reveal a flicker of raw vulnerability.

Outside the studio, despite the meticulously planned, supposedly “private” exit, paparazzi were waiting. A crush of flashing lights and shouted questions erupted as the van pulled up. Someone had leaked his schedule. Again.

You reacted instantly. You shoved him into the van, a firm but necessary push, holding the door shut with your foot until his manager could clear a path through the aggressive photographers. The air crackled with the frantic energy of the crowd.

He didn’t speak until the car finally pulled away from the curb, leaving the blinding flashes behind. “Thanks for earlier.” His voice was quiet, almost hesitant.

You didn’t answer. There was nothing to say. It was your job.

“I mean it,” he added, a hint of earnestness entering his tone. “No one else sees how much pressure this is. They think being solo means being free. But really…” He trailed off, his gaze fixed on the passing city lights.

“…It’s lonely?” you finished, the words surprising even yourself. The question hung in the confined space of the van.

His eyes met yours in the rearview mirror, and for a brief moment, you saw it—that flicker of deep exhaustion and genuine loneliness behind the practiced charm, the effortless smile. You weren’t supposed to see it. It was a breach of the professional distance you so carefully maintained.

Back at the hotel, you took your post outside his suite again, settling into your usual cross-legged position against the wall. You were just getting comfortable when the door cracked open, a sliver of light spilling into the dim hallway.

He stood there, barefoot, hoodie zipped up to his chin, looking small and vulnerable. “You always sit like that?”

“Yes.”

“Sleep like that?”

“When I can.”

He hesitated, his gaze fixed on you. “You’re different from all the others....and you keep proving it”

You didn’t look up, keeping your focus forward. “This time is it because I don’t talk?”

“No. Because you see me—but you act like you don’t.”

You finally met his gaze, holding it steadily. “Because the moment I start treating you like a person instead of a client, I make a mistake. And that mistake can get you killed.” Your voice was low, hard, and devoid of any warmth. It was the brutal truth of your profession.

He stepped back, clearly taken aback by the bluntness, by the raw honesty.

“I’m not asking you to like me, Joshua,” you said, your tone colder now, a deliberate ice wall rising between you. “I’m asking you to stay behind the line.”

The door clicked shut a second later, the sound sharp and final.

But from inside, you swore you heard him whisper:

“Then why does it feel like you already crossed it?”

-

Osaka had pushed him too far. The gruelling schedule of back-to-back performances, an endless gauntlet of press interviews, no proper meals, and barely five hours of sleep spread across three brutal nights had taken its toll. Joshua was a perfectionist—a trait you recognized and, begrudgingly, respected. He’d refused to shorten rehearsals, meticulously double-checked every choreo note, and politely, firmly, brushed off any concern from his team. He drove himself relentlessly.

So, you weren’t surprised when he nearly collapsed outside his dressing room. You saw the subtle sway, the sudden pallor, the way his eyes glazed over just before his legs gave out. You moved instantly, a blur of trained motion. You caught him mid-fall, one arm around his waist, the other bracing his head before it could impact the hard marble floor. He was heavier than he looked, but you held him steady.

“Get the med team!” you barked to a staff member who had frozen in place, eyes wide with alarm. The person scrambled, fumbling for a comms device. You checked his pulse – rapid, thready. His skin was clammy, despite the air conditioning. A fever was rising. Likely dehydration and full-body burnout, a classic case of pushing too hard. Of course, it would be you who had to care for him. It always seemed to fall to you, the one who wasn't supposed to care.

They moved him to the suite’s couch, a flurry of hurried, inefficient movements. IV support was swiftly set up, fluids dripping steadily into his arm. But when the medical team finally left, their immediate task complete, the rest of the staff scattered like smoke, vanishing with polite apologies and promises of checking in later. No one stayed.

So you did.

You pulled a chair beside the couch and settled in, allowing yourself a small, resigned sigh. “You push yourself like this often?” you asked, your voice low.

He gave a weak, dry chuckle, his eyes still closed. “You noticed?”

“You fainted.” The bluntness was deliberate. No room for sugar-coating.

He tried to sit up, a flicker of his usual driven self returning. “I have another soundcheck in—”

“Lay down.” Your voice cut through the air, steel beneath the calm. He blinked at the unyielding command in your tone and, to your slight surprise, obeyed, sinking back against the cushions with a groan.

Moments later, room service arrived with bland miso soup and white rice, precisely what you’d ordered. You placed the tray on the coffee table and turned to him. “Eat.”

He groaned softly, pushing himself up slightly on an elbow. “I don’t think I can move yet…”

You hesitated. This was certainly not in the protection protocol. Your job was security, not personal care. Your internal rulebook screamed against it. But with a resigned breath, you scooped a spoonful of the warm soup and held it out to him.

He stared at it, then at you, a slow smirk spreading across his pale face. “You sure you’re not a fan?”

You narrowed your eyes, a warning. “Open your mouth, or I swear I’ll pour this over your face.”

He chuckled, a dry, raspy sound, but he obeyed, parting his lips. You fed him slowly, spoonful by spoonful, until the bowl was empty. It was a bizarre, domestic tableau, utterly out of place with your professional identity.

As the sky outside darkened, you dimmed the lights in the suite, creating a softer, more restful atmosphere. You double-checked the security cameras outside the suite door, a routine sweep, not expecting another threat so soon after the last one. But when you returned to the hallway, after confirming the feeds were clear—you saw it.

Another envelope. White. Unmarked. No postage. Just like the first. Your heart thudded once, a cold knot tightening in your gut.

You unsheathed your pocketknife instantly, the blade glinting dully in the dim light, and swiftly slit the seal. Inside: a single photo. Grainy. Black and white. A shot of Joshua standing by a window, from a distance, blurred, but unmistakably him.

Beneath the image, typed in stark black letters: “You look better unconscious.”

Adrenaline surged, hot and sharp, chasing away any lingering weariness. This wasn't just a threat; it was a statement of proximity, of chilling intimacy. You shoved the suite door open, the sound echoing loudly in the suddenly too-quiet room.

Joshua jolted up from the couch, confused, his eyes wide. “What happened?”

“Stay down,” you ordered, your voice sharp, already scanning the windows, the corners of the room, even the air vents. “Someone’s watching this floor.” Your tone was ice, movements sharp, economical—checking exit routes, adjusting blinds, securing the hallway outside the door with additional, emergency locks.

Joshua watched you transform—calculated, ruthless, utterly focused. It should’ve scared him. Your sudden intensity, the cold, predatory efficiency of your movements. But instead, he whispered, a faint sound, “Damn.”

You turned, your eyes fixed on him, ready for a question, for fear. “What?”

His eyes, still a little bleary from sleep and exhaustion, softened. “You’re terrifying. And kind of… amazing.”

You scoffed, the sound a rough expulsion of air. There was no time for compliments, for emotions. You raised your radio. “Front desk,” you barked, your voice low and urgent. “Increase all surveillance on the executive floor. Now. And send security personnel to every entrance.”

The next morning, you were livid. Absolutely seething. Apparently, no one had logged the hallway breach. No cameras had picked up movement. It was as if the envelope had simply materialized. You stormed into the morning debrief, a small conference room filled with the hotel’s security team and Joshua’s touring staff. Your voice was low, controlled, but laced with a vicious edge that made the air crackle.

“This isn’t a joke,” you hissed, leaning across the table, your gaze sweeping over their bewildered faces. “You have a breach, a direct threat against my client, and your priority was what, breakfast service?”

They floundered, stammering excuses, shifting uncomfortably in their seats. Joshua—half-asleep in sweats and a hoodie, still looking a little pale—stood beside you, a silent, unexpected ally. “She’s right,” he said, his voice quiet but firm, cutting through their pathetic apologies. “Someone’s slipping past security, and if you won’t handle it, I’ll get my own team. You’ll be replaced.”

The room went silent, a collective gulp audible. Joshua’s words carried weight, the threat of financial repercussions far more impactful than your professional indignation.

Joshua turned to you after the meeting broke up, a faint smile touching his lips. “You’re scary when you’re mad.”

“I’m scary when I care.” The words slipped out before you could censor them, a raw, honest admission.

He grinned, a genuine, warm expression that momentarily chased away the exhaustion from his face. “That sounded almost affectionate.”

You didn’t smile. Couldn't. Your guard was always up.

Until he nudged your shoulder, a light, almost teasing touch. “Hey. If I write a ballad called ‘My Bodyguard Scared the Hotel Staff Into Competence’, will you laugh?”

You gave him a long, assessing look, your gaze unwavering. And then—finally—you let out a reluctant, quiet laugh. It was a soft huff of air, barely a sound, but it was there. The first one he’d ever heard from you.

“Miracle,” he whispered, his eyes wide, a genuine wonder in his voice.

You didn’t mean to fall asleep that night. You’d taken your usual post outside his door, watching camera feeds on your tablet, your fingers still curled protectively around your knife handle. You were vigilant. But when the dream came, it came hard, an assault of familiar terror. Flashbacks. Screams echoing in your ears. A room full of choking smoke, the acrid smell burning your nostrils. Blood on your hands, slick and warm, not your own.

You woke up on the cold hallway floor, breath ragged, a frantic gasp escaping your lips. Sweat soaked through your back, clinging to your tactical shirt.

The suite door creaked open, a soft sound in the pre-dawn quiet. Joshua stood there, an oversized T-shirt hanging loosely on his frame, bleary-eyed from sleep but alert, his gaze immediately finding you.

He didn’t say a word. No questions about the obvious nightmare, no pitying glances. He just walked back into the suite, and returned a moment later with a soft hoodie—his. He held it out in front of you, a simple offering. No questions. No judgment. Just an unspoken understanding.

Your hand trembled slightly as you took it, the fabric soft against your skin. It smelled like detergent, clean hotel linens, and a faint, comforting trace of him. You slipped it over your head without a word, pulling the hood up.

He sat beside you on the hallway floor, pulling his knees up to his chest, mirroring your posture, but less rigid. Silence stretched between you—warm this time, not tense.

“Thank you,” you murmured eventually, your voice still a little rough from the abrupt awakening.

He glanced at you sideways, his eyes gentle. “For what?”

“For not asking.”

He nodded slowly, a profound understanding passing between you. “For now.”

--

Late nights blurred into early mornings. The relentless rhythm of the tour never slowed. Neither did the teeming crowds of fans, their adoration a constant, overwhelming force. Neither did the intrusive glare of the cameras, capturing every public moment, every practiced smile. But something about Joshua, beneath the polished facade, was starting to.

You noticed it in the almost imperceptible slump of his shoulders the moment he stepped offstage, the raw exhaustion that seeped into his posture. In how long he stared out of van windows, lost in thought, without uttering a single word. In the ghost of his smile when fans screamed his name – hollow, practiced, a mere reflex rather than genuine joy.

You never asked. It wasn't your place. Your role was to observe, to protect, not to pry into his inner world. But one night, he told you anyway.

You were sitting in the hallway again, your back against the cool wall, tablet resting in your lap, the camera feeds scrolling silently. The suite door opened, a soft click breaking the quiet. Joshua stepped out, his hoodie pulled up, barefoot, a silent apparition in the dim light.

He didn’t say anything for a while. Just sank down beside you, his shoulder brushing yours, a familiar warmth seeping through your tactical gear. The silence between you stretched, comfortable rather than tense.

“I used to think I wanted to be adored,” he said softly, his voice barely a murmur. “And now… I just want to breathe.”

You glanced sideways, your eyes on his profile. “Then breathe.”

He gave a hollow, almost bitter laugh. “You don’t get it.”

Your voice stayed even, devoid of judgment or impatience. “Then explain it to me.”

So he did. Little pieces. Unfiltered. The crushing pressure of being perfect, of living up to an impossible image. The profound loneliness of anonymous hotel rooms, night after night. The insidious fear that one day, the screams would fade, and no one would scream his name anymore. The suffocating reality that even rest had to be scheduled, measured, performed, just like everything else in his life.

You didn’t interrupt. Didn’t offer empty reassurances. Didn’t try to fix it, because some things couldn’t be fixed with a quick solution. You just listened, a steady, unwavering presence in the face of his unraveling. And for once, he looked at someone without feeling like he had to be Joshua, the star, the idol. Just Joshua. The vulnerable, exhausted human being.

The next night, he followed you again. You were in the hotel’s private training studio after hours—fluid movements, focused expression, hands and feet slicing the air in practiced combat sequences. You didn’t acknowledge him when he entered, didn’t break your rhythm when he leaned silently against the mirrored wall, watching you.

But when you did finally pause, a sheen of sweat on your skin, he said it.

“You look peaceful like this.”

You raised an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement in your tired eyes. “Covered in sweat and kicking padded bags?”

He smiled, a soft, genuine curve of his lips. “You’re not overthinking. Not overanalyzing. Just… being.”

You tossed him a towel from the stack beside you. “You should try it sometime.” The suggestion was a quiet invitation.

He caught it deftly, a grin spreading across his face. “That’s not a ‘no.’”

You started noticing small things, too. Details you logged automatically, then found yourself revisiting. Like how he always pulled his hoodie tighter on plane rides, as if the soft fabric was a meager armor against the invasive eyes of the world. How he never listened to his own music on loop during long travel days, preferring the quiet hum of the plane or the gentle murmur of a distant conversation. How he consistently thanked the crew every single time, even when they forgot his meals or mixed up his orders, a quiet courtesy that spoke volumes.

You’d been trained to study patterns, to pick up on anomalies, to see what others missed. It was a crucial part of your job. But you hadn’t been trained to care. Not like this.

One night on the tour bus, the dim lights of the cabin casting long, shifting shadows, you found yourself watching him sleep—his head resting against the cool window, mouth parted slightly, breathing soft and deep. The faint, ambient light caught on the tips of his hair, giving him an almost ethereal glow. You looked away fast. Too fast. A sharp, internal reprimand. This was dangerous territory.

Trouble found you in Madrid.

You were backstage, a controlled chaos of crew, instruments, and last-minute checks. You spotted him instantly: a stranger, badged but unfamiliar, lurking near the stage entrance. His movement was too smooth, too deliberate, his eyes too focused on Joshua’s dressing room door. He didn’t belong.

You clocked it in seconds. Your hand, already near your concealed weapon, dropped subtly. You cut him off by the stairwell, effectively blocking his path. “Who cleared you?” you demanded, your voice low, cutting through the background noise.

He stammered, his eyes darting. “I—I’m with sound—”

“Then say the name of the head tech.” Your gaze was cold, unblinking.

He went silent, his face paling, unable to produce the information.

You stepped forward, all shadow and steel, closing the distance, radiating quiet menace. “Wrong answer.”

Security, alerted by your comms, dragged him out within minutes. He had a hidden mic and a camera pen clipped to his jacket, sophisticated surveillance tools. If you’d been ten seconds slower, if you’d hesitated for even a moment… Joshua never would’ve seen it coming.

Management praised your instincts, their relief palpable. So did the venue’s head of security, nodding grimly at your efficiency.

Joshua? He did something no one expected.

He mentioned you in his interview that night. The clip, widely shared, went viral. “My bodyguard saved my life yesterday,” he said with a wide, genuine grin, the kind that reached his eyes. “I think she’s part ninja.”

The fans, watching from their screens around the world, went wild. Your name, or at least your role, was suddenly public. You watched the clip from the hallway later, your jaw tight, a familiar sense of dread creeping into your gut.

Later, when you confronted him about it, he merely shrugged, oblivious to the implications. “What? You deserve credit.”

“You made me a target,” you said flatly, the words clipped. “They’ll dig now. Photos. Forums. Personal info.” Your privacy, your carefully constructed anonymity, was being chipped away.

He frowned, a ripple of concern crossing his face. “Then I’ll protect you for once.”

You shook your head, biting your tongue to prevent the words that threatened to spill out. Don’t say it. Don’t feel it.

That night, he stood beside you at the hotel window, the lights of Madrid sparkling below like scattered embers against a dark canvas. The air between you was charged, thick with unspoken emotions.

“You’re the only person I don’t have to pretend with,” he said quietly, his gaze fixed on the city lights, his voice soft, almost fragile. “You’re my safe space.”

Your breath caught in your throat. It was said like a whisper. A truth. A plea. A heavy, dangerous gift.

You turned to him slowly, your voice barely audible. “Don’t say things like that.”

“Why not?” He finally met your gaze, his eyes earnest, vulnerable.

You looked him in the eye, letting the weight of your words settle between you. “Because it makes it harder.”

His lips parted, a silent question in his eyes. “Harder to what?”

You stepped back, putting distance between your bodies, between your dangerous proximity.

“To remember I’m just supposed to keep you alive.”

He looked like he wanted to say more. Like he had a thousand questions, a thousand protests. But instead… he let you walk away, the silence stretching long and cold in your wake.

-

The city was asleep, a vast, hushed expanse beneath a blanket of indifferent stars, but you weren’t. Sleep had become a luxury you rarely indulged in on tour. Not when the client was a global phenomenon, his face plastered on billboards and screens across continents. Not when the stalker, a ghost from his past, had so chillingly resurfaced. And certainly not when Joshua, with an almost defiant disregard for his own safety, insisted on staying in rooms with sprawling, floor-to-ceiling windows that offered no privacy screens, just an open invitation to the world outside.

Your routine was etched into your very being: endless patrols of the halls, meticulous checks of every surveillance camera feed, and a constant, low hum of awareness, listening for anything out of place. So when you noticed the rooftop access door blinking "unlocked" on your surveillance tablet, a silent alarm blared in your mind. You moved without a word, your movements swift and silent, a shadow within the shadows.

The door creaked open quietly, a barely audible sigh in the night. The cool night air, thick with the scent of distant city lights and exhaust fumes, brushed against your face. Joshua sat alone near the ledge, a solitary figure against the vast expanse of the urban sprawl. His hoodie was pulled tight around him, almost swallowing his head, and his legs were folded beneath him, a posture that suggested he had been there for a while, lost in thought. His phone lay beside him, a dark, inert rectangle. His hands were clenched tightly on his knees, white-knuckled. And his shoulders… they were shaking.

You exhaled slowly through your nose, a silent, controlled breath. Every instinct, every rule of your professional code, screamed at you to leave. To walk away, to grant him the solitary grief he sought. But the sound that slipped from his throat wasn’t quiet grief, wasn't a gentle sob. It was a raw, broken sound, a muffled cry of wreckage that tore at something deep within you.

You approached slowly, your steps barely disturbing the silence of the rooftop. He didn’t notice you, lost as he was in his private agony, until your shadow fell beside him, long and distinct in the ambient glow from the city below.

Joshua flinched, a sudden, jerky movement, as if pulled from a deep trance. He looked up, his eyes wide and startled, before quickly averting them. “…I’m fine,” he murmured, his voice thick and strained.

“No, you’re not,” you stated, your voice flat, devoid of judgment. The truth, unvarnished.

He laughed then, a bitter, broken sound, rubbing his eyes roughly with the back of his hand. “Right. Forgot. You see everything.”

You sat beside him, the cold concrete seeping through your tactical pants. Still, silent. Close enough that your knees nearly touched. You offered no platitudes, no empty reassurances. You simply existed beside him, a steady, grounded presence in his storm.

He didn’t look at you when he whispered, his voice barely audible above the distant hum of the city, “Everyone loves Joshua.”

You waited, letting his words hang in the air, knowing there was more.

“No one sees me.” His voice cracked on that last word, breaking entirely, dissolving into a ragged gasp.

You didn’t speak. There were no words that could fill the chasm of that confession. Instead, you just reached over, your hand moving without conscious thought, placing it gently on the back of his neck. With a soft, firm pressure, you pulled him into you, into the space you had meticulously created between you and the world.

He resisted for a split second, a flicker of surprised tension in his body. And then, as if a dam had broken, he collapsed into your arms, his carefully constructed composure shattering. He gripped the front of your jacket, his fingers digging into the tough fabric like it was the only lifeline in a vast, turbulent ocean. His face pressed against your collarbone, his breathing ragged and wet against your skin. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Didn’t pull away. You simply held him, a solid anchor.

He buried himself deeper against you, like he could disappear into you if he just tried hard enough, if he could just escape the relentless glare of his public life. “I hate this,” he whispered, his voice muffled against your jacket. “The pressure. The fakeness. How I smile until my face hurts. And then they ask for more.”

You held him tighter, your arms a protective cage around him. You felt the rapid tremor of his body, the frantic beat of his heart against your own. He breathed in against your skin, a deep, shuddering inhale, as if your presence alone grounded him, pulled him back from the brink.

And then—slowly—he pulled back. Just a little. Just enough to see your face, his eyes, glassy and swollen from unshed tears, searching yours. His gaze lingered on your lips, a silent question passing between you.

And then he leaned in—

Not rushed. Not needy. Just aching. A desperate, raw longing. His lips brushed your jaw, a soft, fragile kiss against skin that shouldn’t burn, but did. A spark, unexpected and fierce, ignited deep within you, spreading warmth through your veins. You didn’t stop him. Your eyes fluttered shut, your breath catching in your throat.

But before it could deepen, before it could truly break every single rule written between you—every boundary, every professional line—you pulled away. Fast. Too fast. The abruptness of your movement startled him.

He blinked, a flicker of confusion and hurt in his swollen eyes. You stood abruptly, your heart hammering against your ribs, a frantic drum against the sudden, cold reality. “This can’t happen.” Your voice was a harsh whisper, barely audible.

His jaw clenched, a muscle jumping in his cheek. “Why?” The single word was a challenge, a plea.

You didn’t answer. You couldn't. The reasons were too many, too complex, too dangerous. You just turned and walked away, leaving him alone again on the cold rooftop, the vast, indifferent city spreading out below.

The next day, everything was wrong. The air between you was thick with unspoken words, with the ghost of a touch, with the phantom echo of a kiss. He didn’t speak unless he absolutely had to, his usual easy chatter replaced by a strained silence. You avoided his gaze like it was fire, knowing that one look, one moment of shared vulnerability, would shatter the fragile barrier you were trying so desperately to rebuild. There were no sarcastic quips, no shared eye rolls over a particularly annoying interviewer, no quiet smiles in the van as the scenery blurred past. Just cold professionalism. Stiff tension. And the constant, maddening memory of soft lips against your skin, a silent torment.

Backstage, just before a tech check, the unavoidable happened. He cornered you. Literally. One arm planted firmly on the wall beside your head, the other bracing the table behind you, blocking you in with nothing but sheer proximity. His presence filled your personal space, a suffocating heat.

“I’m not letting this go,” he said, his voice low and tight, vibrating with suppressed emotion. “You don’t get to pretend it didn’t happen.”

You didn’t move, didn’t flinch. Your gaze remained fixed on a point just past his shoulder. “You’re about to perform.” It was a deflection, a desperate attempt to regain control.

“Then give me something to sing for.” His voice was a raw plea.

You tried to sidestep, to slip past him, but he caught your wrist. His touch wasn’t aggressive. It was desperate, almost trembling, a fragile connection that threatened to unravel your iron control.

“I’m not asking you to quit,” he said, his eyes burning into yours. “I’m asking why the hell you kissed me back if you didn’t mean it.”

You looked up at him, breathless, caught in the sudden intimacy, the raw accusation. The truth tasted like ash in your mouth.

“I didn’t kiss you,” you whispered, your voice barely a breath. “You kissed me.”

“And you let me.” His voice was firm, unwavering, holding you accountable.

Silence stretched between you, charged with unspoken truths and dangerous desires. Then, with a surge of renewed resolve, you tore your wrist away. Not harshly, not violently, but with a quiet finality that resonated through the tense space.

“I can’t fall for someone I might have to take a bullet for.” The words were a shield, a cruel but necessary truth, meant to wound him enough to break the connection.

He stared at you, his face suddenly pale, like you’d cracked something vital inside him. The energy, the desperation, drained from him, leaving behind only a profound, aching vulnerability.

And then he let you walk away.

But this time, he didn’t try to stop you. He just stood there, watching you go, the space between you growing wider with every step.

----

Days later,

The pattern wasn’t coincidence anymore. It was a cold, calculated campaign. You’d meticulously tracked five schedule leaks in under a month—locations paparazzi shouldn’t have known, hotel rooms swarmed by screaming fans before Joshua’s arrival, arrival gates somehow packed even with unannounced landings. Every incident screamed inside job. There was a mole, burrowed deep within his team, feeding information, orchestrating these breaches. You were sure of it.

You stayed up late that night in Berlin, the city lights painting faint stripes across your hotel room wall. Your tablet glowed, its screen filled with logs, emails, redacted backstage passes, and security footage. You meticulously pieced together the fragmented data, every variable pointing inward. Someone from the inside was feeding information. You just didn’t know who. Yet. But you would.

The fan signing in Frankfurt was a tense, tightly controlled affair. You’d doubled protocols, personally swept the venue twice, your eyes missing nothing. Every face in the endless line of adoring fans was scanned, assessed, dismissed. Joshua sat at the table, a picture of polite charisma, his hands aching from the endless stream of autographs, his smile unwavering.

You stood ten feet behind him, a silent guardian, watching the crowd like a hawk. Your senses were hyper-alert, tuned to the slightest deviation, the faintest ripple of malice in the sea of adoration.

And then you saw it.

Row 4. Seat 6.

A man. Too still. Too pale. His eyes, cold and unnervingly focused, were locked only on Joshua. Not a phone in his hand, not a flicker of excitement. He didn't even blink. He stood before his turn was called, a stark violation of the orderly flow. A hoodie was pulled low, obscuring most of his face. And then, a glint of metal beneath his sleeve, a flash of something hard and sharp.

“JOSHUA—DOWN!” Your voice tore through the air, a primal scream of warning that cut through the low hum of the crowd.

You lunged.

The attacker didn’t hesitate. His arm arced, the blade a terrifying glint aimed straight for Joshua’s chest, a lethal trajectory.

But you got there first.

Steel met flesh. Pain bloomed sharp and instant in your left side deep enough that you had believed it must have missed an organ by a centimeter or so, a searing fire that exploded through your nerves. You tackled him off-course, twisting your body to take the blow, driving your knee into his gut with brutal force. He grunted, the air knocked from his lungs, and he went down.

Security swarmed then, a belated rush of bodies. But it was Joshua’s scream that pierced through the rising noise, a raw, terrified sound.

“Y/N!”

Blood pooled under you, a sickeningly rapid stain against the floor, faster than you could stop it. Your vision blurred, the edges of the room closing in. A cold, creeping numbness seeped into your limbs.

Joshua dropped beside you, his voice shaking, raw with panic. His hands, usually so practiced in delicate movements, were fumbling, trying to press against the wound, to stem the crimson flow. “You’re okay—you’re okay—just stay with me—” His words were desperate, frantic.

You blinked slowly, forcing your eyes open, trying to focus on his panicked face. You tried to speak, the words a faint whisper. “You’re safe.”

“Don’t say that like it’s enough!” His hands were slick with red, warm and horrifying against your cold skin. “God, you’re bleeding—why is there so much—?!” His voice broke, dissolving into a choked sob.

You reached for his hand weakly, your fingers brushing his. Your world tilted. And then everything went black.

White walls. Beeping monitors, their rhythmic pulse a testament to your own fading life. The antiseptic sting of too-clean air filling your lungs, sharp and unwelcoming.

You woke up hours later, disoriented, the pain in your side a dull throb that anchored you to reality. Joshua was there—slumped in the uncomfortable hospital chair beside your bed, his head resting on the edge of the mattress, his hand still wrapped tightly around yours, a lifeline. His eyes were red-rimmed, his face drawn and pale, his hoodie wrinkled and probably bloodstained, like he hadn’t moved in hours, hadn't cared for himself.

You whispered, your throat dry, “Hey.”

He jolted up, his head snapping towards you. His eyes, swollen from unshed tears, filled instantly, shimmering with unspeakable relief. “You’re awake.”

You tried to sit up, wincing as a sharp jolt of pain shot through your side. “Relax. It’s just a slash.” A tactical lie. You knew how deep it was.

He shook his head, tears finally spilling down his cheeks, his voice breaking on every word. “It could’ve been worse. I saw it happen. I saw the knife—I saw you bleed for me.” He squeezed your hand, his grip tight, almost painful. He pulled your hand up, pressing it to his face, his tears mixing with the drying blood on your skin.

You looked away, unable to meet his raw, unguarded emotion. This wasn't supposed to happen. This wasn't professional.

And then he said it. Soft. Shattered. So quiet you almost didn't hear it over the beeping of the machines.

“You’re not just a bodyguard to me.”

Silence. A heavy, pregnant silence that filled the sterile room. He leaned in, slowly, his forehead coming to rest against yours, skin to skin, a profound intimacy. “I’m sorry I kept pretending. I knew it the moment you were in my arms on that rooftop. I—I don’t care about the job, the stage, the fans. If you hadn’t woken up—”

You closed your eyes, a desperate plea. “Don’t.”

“—I would’ve fallen apart.” His voice was choked, raw with a grief he couldn’t contain.

The next morning, management arrived. A phalanx of grim-faced executives and tour organizers, their suits crisp, their expressions severe. They kept their voices low, an illusion of discretion, but not low enough for you not to hear.

“We appreciate your service, Agent [Your Last Name], but she’s compromised. Emotionally involved.” It was a woman’s voice, sharp and unsympathetic.

“She saved my life,” Joshua said flatly, his voice devoid of his usual idol charm, cold as steel. He stood by your bedside, an unyielding presence.

“She’s not stable enough to protect you anymore,” another voice chimed in, dismissive.

“She’s the only one I trust.” Joshua’s voice rose, a dangerous edge creeping in.

“Joshua—”

“If she goes, I walk too.”

Dead silence. The air crackled with the sheer audacity of his threat. The implications were staggering: a global tour derailed, millions of dollars lost, a career potentially jeopardized. All for you.

You turned your head weakly on the pillow, wincing at the pull of your stitches. “Don’t make this harder,” you murmured, your voice hoarse. You meant it for him, for both of you.

He didn't acknowledge you. He stood firm, a defiant barrier between you and the door, between you and their corporate machinations. “It’s not up for debate.” His gaze locked with the manager who had spoken. "You think you can just remove the person who risked their life for me? The person who actually does their job? You have no idea what you're talking about."

The lead manager, a man whose face was usually impassive, flushed dark red. "Mr. Hong, this is a professional decision. Her judgment is clearly impaired. She's injured, she's emotionally invested. This is a liability."

"A liability?" Joshua scoffed, a bitter laugh. "She's a hero! And if her 'emotional investment' means she puts herself between me and a knife, then I want that 'liability' by my side. You think anyone else here would do that?" His eyes swept over the nervous faces of the management team. "You call her compromised because she cares? I call that the only reason I'm still breathing."

"You're being irrational, Joshua," another manager tried, stepping forward. "This is your career. Your reputation. Imagine the headlines: 'Idol in Love with Bodyguard,' 'Security Breach Due to Personal Feelings.' It's a risk we cannot take."

"Risk?" Joshua advanced, his voice rising, usually so controlled, now raw with fury. "The risk is letting her go! The risk is trusting you people, who couldn't even keep a stalker out of the building! She's the one who found him, she's the one who took the hit. You want to talk about stability? My stability is tied to her being here. Don't you dare touch her contract."

The argument escalated, a shouting match echoing in the sterile hospital corridor outside your room. You lay there, helpless, listening to Joshua fight for you, his voice cracking with emotion, his usual quiet demeanor replaced by a fierce, protective rage.

And in that moment, with your blood still drying in the bandages, with the dull throb of your wound a constant reminder, and his heart split wide open, laid bare for all to see—

You finally understood.

This wasn’t just about safety anymore. It hadn't been for a while.

Recovery was supposed to be quiet. A period of stillness, of healing, away from the chaos of the tour.

It wasn’t.

You’d barely been cleared to walk when the tabloids erupted, spinning sensational headlines that twisted your professional heroism into a scandalous drama.

“Joshua’s Bodyguard Hospitalized After On-Stage Attack” “Who Is She? The Woman Who Took a Knife for Korea’s Beloved Soloist” “Security or Something More?” "was she the one he mentioned in the interview?"

Photos, grainy and intrusive, leaked across every gossip site—Joshua clutching your bleeding body on the arena floor, his face a portrait of raw devastation, a pain too visceral for even the most jaded fan to dismiss as mere acting. You saw them from your hospital bed, the flickering screen of the bedside TV a cruel mirror to your recent trauma. He hadn’t left your side, a silent, unwavering presence through the endless IV drips and pain medication. He tossed his phone across the couch, a frustrated sigh escaping him. “They’re turning it into a drama.”

You didn’t respond. Couldn’t. Your mind was still reeling, replaying his words from that terrifying night, etched into your memory with chilling clarity.

“You’re not just a bodyguard to me.”

And worse—the ultimatum he’d delivered to his own management, a threat that had silenced even the most powerful executives:

“If she goes, I walk too.”

Two days after your discharge, the company held a crisis meeting. It was less a meeting, more an interrogation, a formal attempt to regain control of a narrative they felt was slipping dangerously out of their grasp. Joshua sat beside you in the sterile boardroom, unshaven, his jaw locked, his back ramrod straight, radiating an unyielding defiance.

“We can’t afford this kind of attention,” the PR head began, her voice clipped, her gaze pointedly avoiding yours. “The media is speculating wildly. We suggest rotating her out for the rest of the tour. For the sake of the brand.”

Joshua didn’t look away from the polished table, his eyes fixed on some distant point. “No.” His voice was a flat, unyielding refusal.

“Joshua—” The company CEO, a man rarely challenged, began with a warning tone.

“She stays.” His gaze finally lifted, meeting the CEO’s with an intensity that brooked no argument.

“It’s emotional compromise, Joshua. It puts you at risk.” The PR head tried again, leaning forward.

He finally looked up, his eyes sweeping across the faces of the management team, his voice low but filled with a scorching weariness. “I perform with a hundred cameras on me every day. I fake smiles, I fake sleep, I fake stability. The only time I feel real is when she’s there.” His gaze shifted to you, a fleeting, almost imperceptible softening in his eyes, before hardening again as he faced them. "You want to talk about compromise? My life is a compromise. My real emotions are locked away. She's the only one who sees past the performance."

You stayed silent. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. Because you knew that if you spoke, if you acknowledged the raw honesty in his voice, you’d start feeling things you weren’t allowed to feel. Things that would shatter the last vestiges of your professional detachment.

You returned to duty the next day. Against the company’s wishes. Joshua’s ultimatum had held, a testament to his unexpected power. The first thing you did was systematically purge the lingering threats. You didn’t waste time on pleasantries. You walked straight into the backstage offices and, with cold precision, fired two backstage staff whose credentials had been duplicated, their involvement in the leaks irrefutable once you dug deeper.

Joshua watched quietly as you reclaimed control. There was no hesitation in your movements, no weakness in your resolve. You were back, sharper and more ruthless than ever.

But later, as you checked the hallway camera feeds from your usual post outside his suite, he leaned against the wall behind you, a silent presence. His voice was soft, hesitant.

“You okay?”

You nodded, keeping your eyes on the tablet screen. “I’m fine.”

“You were stabbed.” His voice held a note of disbelief.

“It wasn’t fatal.” You offered the factual, clinical response.

“That’s not what I asked.” His voice was lower now, edged with frustration, a gentle insistence that broke through your carefully constructed facade.

You turned, met his eyes. And for once… you let the walls lower. Just a fraction. Enough to let him see the truth.

“I’m scared,” you admitted, your voice low, almost a whisper. “Not of the job. Of what it’s turning into.”

His brow furrowed, a crease of concern appearing between his eyes. “What do you mean?”

You hesitated, searching for the right words, the words that wouldn't betray too much, but enough. Then, your voice dropped even lower, barely audible. “I can’t protect you if I’m distracted. And lately… I’m always distracted. By you.” The admission hung in the air, a fragile, dangerous confession.

The tension between you, simmering for weeks, snapped later that night. The afterparty was held at a private penthouse suite, a lavish affair meant to celebrate the tour’s success. Joshua was there, smiling again—but this time, even from across the room, you could tell it didn’t reach his eyes. You watched him, wine untouched in your hand, your jaw tight, a familiar ache in your chest.

He approached you after an hour, the ambient lights of the penthouse casting long shadows, his expression unreadable, a blend of exhaustion and fierce determination.

“I don’t want to do this anymore.” His voice was low, intimate, cutting through the low thrum of music and conversation.

You stiffened, your hand instinctively going to the concealed knife at your hip. “Do what?”

“This fake distance. This pretending.” He stepped closer, invading your personal space, forcing you to look at him, truly look at him.

“We don’t have a choice—” you began, the automatic response rising to your lips.

“We do.” He cut you off, his voice firm, unyielding. He stepped closer still, until you could feel the subtle heat radiating from him. “Everyone else draws lines. Why can’t I choose where mine go?”

You shook your head, the logic of your training screaming at you to resist, to push him away. “Because my line is your safety. And falling for you puts that in jeopardy.”

His voice dropped to a whisper, an almost breathless sound. “So you’ve fallen.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to. The truth was in your eyes, in the trembling of your hands, in the erratic beat of your heart.

You left the penthouse early. The air felt too thick, the music too loud, the unspoken words between you too deafening.

But later that night, as you lay in your own sterile hotel room, the quiet broken only by the hum of the air conditioning, he showed up outside your door. You heard the soft knock, then the fainter scrape of bare feet in the hallway, before you even reached for the peephole. He stood there, hoodie up, eyes shadowed, his breath shaky, visible in the cool night air.

“Let me in,” he said, his voice raw, stripped bare of all artifice.

You stared at him from the doorway, your own breath catching. “Joshua…” Your voice was a warning, a plea.

“I’m not asking for forever. I’m not asking for promises.” His eyes, dark and desperate, pleaded with yours. “I’m asking for one night where we don’t lie to each other.”

Your heart pounded, a chaotic rhythm against your ribs. Every fiber of your training screamed at you to refuse, to shut the door, to maintain the professional distance that kept him safe, and you sane. But the raw vulnerability in his eyes, the unspoken plea for a single moment of honesty in a life built on lies…

You stepped aside.

And let him in.

You weren’t supposed to open the door. Every fiber of your training, every cold, calculated instinct, screamed at you to keep it shut, to maintain the impenetrable barrier between your dangerous world and his. You weren’t supposed to let him in, to invite chaos into the meticulously constructed order of your life. But when Joshua stood there—hood up, shoulders hunched, his voice trembling as he uttered that raw, desperate plea, his eyes heavy with things unsaid—you stepped aside.

And everything changed.

He didn’t touch you right away. He walked in slowly, his gaze sweeping the sterile hotel room like he’d never seen it before, like he was afraid it would vanish if he blinked. The air around him shimmered with a fragile vulnerability. You shut the door behind him, the soft click echoing loudly in the sudden silence.

Silence sat between you. Familiar. Charged. Thrumming with the unspoken.

He turned, his eyes finding yours, dark and searching. "Tell me to go," he whispered, his voice barely audible.

You didn’t. Your throat felt tight, a knot of conflicting emotions. Instead, you heard yourself say, "You should." It was a desperate, final attempt at self-preservation, at upholding the rules that were rapidly crumbling around you.

His jaw clenched, a muscle jumping in his cheek. "But you don't want me to." It wasn't a question, but a quiet, knowing statement.

You shook your head once, a slow, decisive movement. "No." The word was a bare, honest admission.

He stepped closer. Not rushing. Not pushing. Just... close. So close you could feel the warmth radiating from his body, so close you could smell his cologne—a soft blend of cedar and something warm like vanilla, an unexpected comfort. Your breath hitched in your throat.

"Then tell me what we are." His voice was a low murmur, a demand and a plea intertwined.

You stared up at him, your breath shallow, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. The truth, raw and dangerous, spilled from you. "We’re the reason this could fall apart."

He let out a shaky exhale, a sound of profound relief, a soft, breathless laugh. "Then let it."

He kissed you like he’d been holding his breath for months, years even. A desperate, consuming hunger that stole the air from your lungs. Your back hit the door with a soft thud, and his hands came up slowly—one bracing beside your head, fingers splayed against the cool wood, the other hovering near your hip like he wasn’t sure if he had the right to touch you.

You gave it to him. Your fingers fumbled for the hem of his hoodie, tugging it down, pulling him closer, cementing the connection. The kiss deepened—hungry, yes, but also reverent, like he was worshipping something sacred and fragile. And terrified. Because nothing about this was safe. Not the desperate need in his touch, not the wildfire spreading through your veins, not the complete abandonment of every single rule. And yet, it felt like the only safe place either of you had ever known.

He shifted, his body pressing against yours, and a low groan rumbled in his chest. You felt his smile against your lips as the kiss finally broke, just for a breath. "You scare the hell out of me," he whispered, his eyes dark, intense, burning into yours. "And I think… I think I like it."

You couldn’t help but let out a soft, surprised laugh, a fragile sound that echoed in the quiet room. "I should be the one saying that."

He grinned, a genuine, joyful expression that transformed his tired face. "Oh, believe me, you do. You’re like an enigma wrapped in tactical gear." He leaned down again, pressing light kisses along your jaw, tracing a path to your ear. "But an enigma I desperately want to solve." His lips found the sensitive skin of your neck, sending shivers down your spine, before returning to capture your mouth in another deep, searching kiss.

At some point, you ended up on the bed. Not rushed. Not a frantic shedding of clothes. Just… close. A slow, deliberate unburdening of layers, both physical and emotional. You lay side by side in the dark, the soft glow of the city filtering through the curtains, your breath mingling, fingers tangled loosely between you. The air in the room was thick with unspoken needs, with the fragile intimacy of shared secrets.

He stared at the ceiling, his voice a low, thoughtful murmur. "I thought I wanted fame. Thought that was the end goal, the ultimate validation. Turns out, I just wanted someone to know me. To actually see me, past the stage lights and the screaming crowds."

You traced your thumb along the back of his hand, a soft, comforting rhythm. "I do."

He turned his head slowly to look at you, his eyes searching yours in the dim light. "You see everything. All the ugly parts, all the fear, all the moments I’m not 'Joshua.' And you stay anyway." There was a profound wonder in his voice, a hint of something akin to awe. He carefully brought your hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to your knuckles, a silent gesture of reverence.

You smiled faintly, a bittersweet twist of your lips. "Not for long." The truth, sharp and unavoidable, cut through the fragile peace.

His face fell, the joy draining from his features. "Don't say that."

"It's the truth," you insisted, forcing the words out. "This tour ends. My assignment ends."

He leaned in again, his body shifting closer, gently pressing his lips to your temple, then trailing soft, worshipping kisses along your hairline. "Then let me pretend. Just for tonight. Let me pretend there’s no end, no assignments, no rules." His arm tightened around your waist, pulling you flush against him, as if he could absorb you into his very being.

You stayed in his arms until dawn, the night a blur of whispered confessions and tentative touches. You didn’t sleep much, your mind too alive, too aware of him. But when you did drift off, it was with his fingers gently raking through your hair, a comforting weight against your head, and his voice, husky with sleep and raw emotion, whispering things he wasn’t supposed to say.

His soft murmurs filled the quiet of the room. "You make me feel real. More real than any stage, any roar of the crowd." He tightened his hold, a desperate confession. "You keep scaring the hell out of me, because you're the only one I don't want to lose." His voice cracked, imbued with a vulnerability you never thought he'd show. "Don't leave me behind when this is over. Please."

At one point, he shifted, and you winced slightly at the pull of your healing wound. He noticed immediately, his arm tightening around your waist. "Are you okay?" he murmured, his voice laced with concern, instantly alert. He carefully, almost reverently, lifted you slightly, his strength surprising, pulling you closer without putting pressure on your injury. He cradled you against him, his hand gently tracing the bandages. "You're so light," he whispered, a hint of awe in his voice. "And you went through all that for me." His voice was choked with emotion, a profound gratitude radiating from him. He then kissed the soft skin behind your ear, a tender, possessive gesture.

-

And when you woke up, still tangled with him in the sheets, the first light of dawn painting the room in hues of soft grey and rose—your heart knew. The rules, the strict boundaries you had lived by, they were already broken. Shattered into a million irreparable pieces. There was no going back to who you were before this night.

You left before the sun came up, the pre-dawn chill biting at your skin. Not because you wanted to. Every instinct, every raw emotion, screamed at you to stay, to linger in the warmth of the tangled sheets, in the quiet intimacy you’d found. But leaving was a necessity. Staying would’ve meant admitting what you already knew, what hummed beneath your skin: last night changed everything. And it couldn’t happen again. You didn’t leave a note. You didn’t look back. Joshua didn’t try to stop you, the silent understanding between you a palpable force.

Tour resumed in Prague, but the vibrancy of the city did little to alleviate the tension that simmered in every room you entered, every shared space. He watched you like he was afraid to blink, his eyes following your movements, a silent question in their depths. You, in turn, avoided his gaze like it was oxygen, afraid that one direct look would shatter the fragile composure you were desperately trying to maintain. Every conversation became a performance, forced and stilted. Every silence, deafening, heavy with unspoken words and the ghost of a touch. The space between you—once electric, filled with dangerous sparks—was now unbearable, stretched taut with an unspoken intimacy you both fought to ignore.

The leak came three days later. A blurry photo, posted anonymously to an online forum, then rapidly spread across social media.

“Joshua Hong leaving a hotel room at 5 AM… alone.” “A woman seen entering hours before.” “Speculation: his bodyguard?”

It spread like wildfire. The digital world erupted. Fans panicked, their adoration quickly turning to confusion and betrayal. Journalists swarmed, their questions relentless, their lenses hungry. PR scrambled, a flurry of panicked calls and emergency strategy sessions. The carefully constructed image of Joshua Hong, the pure soloist, was fracturing.

The company called an emergency meeting. You stood still, arms crossed, a silent, unyielding presence as executives argued about your existence like you weren’t even in the room.

“We can’t control the narrative if this keeps up,” the PR head declared, slamming a hand on the table.

“Deny it,” the CEO demanded, his face grim. “Issue a formal statement. It’s a fabrication, a smear campaign.”

“Move her. Rotate protection immediately,” another executive insisted, gesturing dismissively towards you. “Get her out of the public eye. Get her off the tour.”

Joshua sat silently through it all, his jaw clenched, his eyes unreadable, absorbing every word, every insult leveled at you. Then, slowly, deliberately, he stood. The room went still, all eyes on him. And he said four words that broke the entire table, silencing the chaotic clamor:

“I won’t deny it.”

The silence that followed was absolute, breathtaking. The manager’s voice, when it finally broke, was sharp, laced with disbelief. “Joshua—this is your career. Your image. Everything you’ve worked for.”

He finally looked at them, his gaze cold, unwavering, cutting through their corporate rhetoric. “She saved my life. She is my safety. You don’t get to treat her like a mistake just because you’re uncomfortable with the truth.” His voice was low, laced with a dangerous undercurrent of conviction.

You didn’t say a word. You couldn’t. Because if you opened your mouth, you weren’t sure whether you’d scream in frustration at their callousness or cry from the overwhelming weight of his fierce loyalty.

You met him later that night on the rooftop. The same one. Where it all began. The cold air was a familiar comfort. His hoodie was up, obscuring most of his face. Yours, too. Neither of you looked at each other right away, the city lights below a glittering tapestry that offered no answers.

Finally, he broke the silence, his voice barely a whisper in the vast open space. “You regret it?”

You didn’t lie. You couldn’t. Not to him. “…No.” The single word was barely audible, but it held the weight of a thousand unspoken truths.

He turned to you then, his eyes searching yours in the dim light. “But you’re scared.”

“Of what comes next,” you admitted, the fear a cold knot in your stomach. Not for yourself, but for him.

“I don’t care what they say.” His voice was firm, resolute.

You met his gaze then—honest, burning with a defiance you both shared. “I do. Because what they say can end you.” It was a brutal fact of his profession, a truth that had haunted you since the headlines broke.

He stepped closer, closing the small distance between you, his voice dropping to a low, raw whisper that reached deep into your core. “And what you say… ends me too.”

You didn’t kiss. You didn’t touch. The air between you hummed with an even greater intensity than before, a silent acknowledgment of the unbreakable bond that now tied you together. But when you left that rooftop, the night air chilling your face, you both knew:

Whatever came next—the media storm, the company’s wrath, the uncertain future—

You wouldn’t face it alone.

The Vienna venue was massive. A cathedral of sound and light, packed to its soaring rafters with thousands of screaming fans. A live broadcast, reaching millions across the globe. Global eyes watching, waiting, consuming every moment. It was the perfect place for a statement. The perfect place… for something to go wrong. And you knew—something was going to go wrong.

You’d been reviewing the intricate floor plans all morning, the blueprints spread across your hotel room table like a morbid puzzle. You’d paced the corridors, a restless shadow, adjusting every detail of Joshua’s entrance path, scrutinizing every access point. Something about the tension in your gut was different this time. It wasn’t just nerves. It was instinct. A cold, unshakeable certainty that the final act of this twisted drama was about to unfold.

The stalker sent one last message. Delivered with chilling precision through a hacked audio file, piped directly into the comms system just moments before the show was set to begin:

“You took her bullet. Now she’ll take yours.”

Your stomach dropped, a cold, sickening lurch. This wasn’t about fear anymore. It was personal. This was revenge. You grabbed your comms, your voice sharp, urgent. “Evacuate his backup entrance route. Now. Clear everyone.”

Joshua was minutes from walking on stage, the roar of the crowd already a distant, vibrating hum, when you cornered him in the hallway. He saw your face—the grim set of your jaw, the sudden pallor, the tremor in your hands—and his own relaxed composure evaporated. He dropped everything he was holding—a water bottle, a small towel—and his eyes widened.

“What happened?” he demanded, stepping towards you.

“Stay in your dressing room,” you ordered, your voice strained, desperate.

“I’m not—”

“Please, Joshua. This isn’t a drill.” The plea in your voice was uncharacteristic, a crack in your professional armor.

He stared at you, his gaze piercing through your attempt at stoicism. “You’re shaking.” His hand instinctively reached for your arm.

“I’d rather shake than bury you.” The words were raw, torn from deep within you.

But Joshua, for all his fame and compliance, didn’t stay behind. He didn’t obey. The second you turned, moving with desperate speed, he followed you. Down the wrong hall. The very hall you were trying to clear. Straight into the line of fire.

You saw the figure at the end of the corridor—the disguised crew member, blending seamlessly until their face lifted, until the glint of steel in their sleeve betrayed them. Too close. Impossibly close.

Your body moved before your mind could even process the threat. Another lunge. Another scream, torn from your throat, a desperate warning. But this time, just as the attacker lunged, Joshua shoved you. A powerful, unexpected push that sent you stumbling sideways.

The attacker missed. The blade, meant for you, sliced harmlessly through the empty air where you’d been. Security, alerted by your scream and the comms, swarmed in, tackling the assailant in a brutal rush. Sirens blared in the distance, quickly muffled. The crowd in the arena was never alerted, never knew how close disaster had come.

But the world stopped for just a moment. For you. For Joshua. He had risked himself. For you.

Back in the relative quiet of the green room, you paced the floor, the adrenaline thrumming through your veins, your hand trembling uncontrollably as you pulled the blood-stained earpiece from your collar. The familiar weight of the comms device felt alien in your shaking fingers.

Joshua entered, breathless, his chest heaving, his face pale with exertion and lingering terror.

You whirled, your voice raw with frustrated fury. “What were you thinking?!”

“I was thinking I’m done watching people hurt for me.” His voice was equally raw, but laced with a defiant conviction.

“You could’ve been—!” You started, gesturing wildly, the image of the knife flashing before your eyes.

He stepped forward, closing the distance between you, his voice low. Unshakable. Firm.

“You’d take a bullet for me, right?” It wasn’t a question, but a statement, a profound understanding that pierced through all your defenses.

Your voice broke, tears pricking your eyes. “Every time.” The admission was instinctive, undeniable.

He reached for your hand. He didn’t just take it; he held it like it was the only thing keeping him alive, his fingers intertwining with yours, his thumb tracing frantic circles on your skin.

“Then let me take everything else. The press. The fallout. The risk. You took the pain. Let me take the weight.” His gaze was intense, unwavering, demanding that you believe him.

You blinked fast, hot tears finally spilling down your cheeks. “You don’t get it.” The industry, the machine—it would crush him.

“I do.” He pulled you in, his arms wrapping around you, pressing your forehead to his. His breath ghosted over your lips, warm and steady.

“I love you.”

You froze, every nerve ending firing. The words, simple yet profound, reverberated through your entire being.

He whispered again, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes, his gaze burning with a fierce, reckless honesty. “I love you. And I don’t care if the whole world finds out. I’ll stand in front of every camera, every critic, every executive and say it.”

Tears welled in your eyes, blurring his face. “You can’t protect me from the industry.” The machine would chew you both up and spit you out.

“No,” he said, brushing your cheek with his thumb, wiping away a tear. “But I can stand with you. And I will. Every damn time.”

That night, after the show, after the terse official statements were released, after the stalker was caught and identified as a disgruntled former employee with a dangerous obsession, after the media flooded in, demanding answers—

Joshua walked on stage for the encore. The roar of the crowd was deafening, a wave of sound crashing over the arena. The lights dimmed, casting him in a soft, ethereal glow.

And then, without warning, he spoke into the microphone, his voice carrying clearly, resonating through the vast space, silencing the crowd’s excitement.

“I want to thank someone special tonight. Someone who doesn’t wear glitter. She doesn’t sing. She doesn’t seek the spotlight. But she’s protected me more than anyone I’ve ever known.” His gaze swept across the arena, then settled on the wings, where you stood, a silent guardian in the shadows. “She almost died for me. So I think it’s time I start living for her.”

A collective gasp rippled through the crowd, followed by a profound, reverent silence. And across the sea of glowing phone lights, people didn’t scream. They wept. Because they could see it too. What had always been there, simmering beneath the surface, now laid bare for the entire world to witness.

You watched from the wings—fingers curled around your earpiece, the comms system now blissfully quiet, your heart lodged in your throat. He didn’t need protection anymore. Not in the way he once did. He needed you. All of you. And this time, you weren’t walking away.

The end.