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blackwhitez · 2 months ago

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BET YOU ────────୨ৎ

⤿ ALTERNATIVELY ✿ the science nerd fucks you in his dorm ᝰ.ᐟ

⤿ wc: 5k

s. jy × fem . reader

ⓘ cw: smut, academic rivals, literature student : reader, science student : jake, enemies to lovers?, they're literally nerds, unprotected sex, embarrassment, whiny jake, puppy!jake agenda, a lot of it, he's so cute, public-ish sex (not exhibitionism), eating out (fem), overstimulation, teasing, sexual tension. ♡

you always had your own suspicions around him—everyone called him a sweetheart, the golden retriever of the campus, kind to everyone. you thought no one could possibly be this good, but the more he spoke with his beautiful smile and gorgeous flowy hair, the more you believed it. that's until... he went on an uncalled for debate with you over his amazing science major.

you were in the college's conference hall with few elite students and three other professors discussing orientation plans and how to get students into your majors. you volunteered to help, and just so happens the sweetheart jake sim people talk about is here too. it's not a surprise. you see him around often when you participate in college events that bring different majors together. but it's your first time having a one on one talk with him.

"I could write down the history of the big tree planted in the campus' entrance, how it was planted when the first ever female student enrolled in our college." as you spoke, you heard a huff of a laugh. "I don't think new students would care about some history." he tilted his head, and your eyebrow rose.

"that's the issue about your major, it's not interesting enough." he played with the pen he had been fidgeting with for a while. "in science, you could explain the world with clarity poetry can never reach. it's so much deeper than words." he eyed you, eyes challenging and smug. you didn't break the contact, refusing to show weakness. but the more you did the hotter he got blabbing about science. he continued about the gravitational wave lab and the latest discoveries. meanwhile, your blood continued to boil. you have no idea you're fuming because of the insult to your major or of how gorgeous he looks with that stupid sunray casting on him from the hall's window like a paid actor.

the professors and students listened in amusement as you both went back and forth. one professor enjoyed it so much she suggested you two be the hosts for the panel during orientation week. you accepted the opportunity immediately. yes, you do volunteer often, but you're still not at the top of the top. it's perfect to boost your resume and get you noticed. of course, jake accepted the request, too.

when you left the hall, you heard someone whispering next to you. "hey, don't get the wrong idea. I wasn't arguing with you. I'm just that passionate about science." you look up to see him again, closer and ever dazzlingly beautiful. "it's fine. I don't get to defend my major that often, 't was fun." you say, as you continue to walk. "I think professor lee is more convinced over the impact of the science major, though." you internally roll your eyes, you could care less. before you speak again, he goes, "hey! wanna place a bet?"

you look at him. he's smiling so wide, the way you often had glimpses of from far away, but now it's close and... pretty. "who can convince professor lee to publicly endorse their major as more impactful wins the bet." oh, now you're interested. you would, in fact, love that. "and the prize?" you try to hide how amused you sound, but it shows, he grins. "ummm... the winner gets the other person to wear their major's sweater merch for a whole week."

that's so stupid...

but it's fun...

"sure." and that's how it starts. orientation week rolls in, where you both get busy with events and the bet on the line. you'd steal glimpses on what he's doing with his colleagues, and you'd catch him doing the same. the panel goes as heated as it was in the hall last time. this time, the friendly rivalry draws giggles from the students. you would occasionally shake your head, and when you look at him, he flashes you the cutest smile and winks. you had no idea what that meant.

you actually have no idea what most of his actions meant. if it were you, you'd call him a wolf than a golden retriever with the way he randomly gives you those dreamy eyes and raises his eyebrows before he looks away when you all were out handing flyers; with the way he's surrounded by a group of giggly girls most of the time; with the way he bites his lips and brushes his long hair with his fingers. he knows what he's doing.

but precisely, with the way he found you walking alone in a hallway to get more flyers and stopped you there. "I don't think you have to work that hard," you literally roll your eyes this time. "worry about yourself." he steps closer, with a pout. you're kind of taken aback, so you retreat your steps, accidentally cornering yourself between the wall and him. to your surprise, he leans into your ear. "count your days, y/n" his breath tickles you, "you will be wearing my sweater soon"

"my sweater"

he is insane

you hate yourself more by the end of the week, because—he won. of course he did. and here you are hovering your mouse over the college's merchandise shop tap. but most of them are sold out after the orientation week. you hear a kakaotalk ping and look at your phone. it's a new chat.

"can't wait to see you next week ^^"

clicking on the profile tells you who it is, though you guessed from the content of the text. you text him back.

"it's sold out"

"what to do?~ ^^"

you give him the same energy back. you hoped that would make him give up on the dumb bet, but you underestimated the nerd you're talking to. jake would never back down.

"come to my dorm I'll give you mine"

and he sends a cute and teasing sticker. he's annoying... but cutely so. he likes to push your buttons and you hate how much you enjoy it. you admit, being single for a while got you awfully bored. after that first debate and the entirety of orientation week has been the most fun you had for a long while. what could go wrong? you will just go and recieve a sweater.

you grab a jacket to throw it over your camisole and text him that you're coming. the sky was a gorgeous orange as you strolled your way to the boy's dorms. you text him again when you're outside, but he tells you to come to his room. you huff and hesitantly go in. It’s kind of quiet, and the few male students who spot you only took a quick glance and went about their business. you know some female students would invade the boy's dorm to see their boyfriends and vice versa, but something about it still feels weird for you.

you gently knock his door and he opens it in seconds. walking in his room, you can neither call it clean or messy. it's a bit of both. you could tell he tried to throw some clothes that were scattered on his bed into a "tidy" pile next to his closet. but one thing for sure, it smells really nice. not overwhelming at all, smells like fabric softner and faintly of flowers. something you never expected. but if you were to be honest, it still smells heavy of him.

"I have to admit, you did really well this week." you raise your brow in suspect with this sudden gentle tone. "why? is it weird to compliment you?" you nodded, "yes. I'm actually scared." he went to his closet and got his sweater off the hook. "I actually almost called off the bet halfway, because it felt stupid... but every time I saw the sweater it got me thinking of you wearing it." you can't tell if his grin was innocent or with a deeper intent. nevertheless, he looked like a puppy excited for a treat. except, he's holding it out for you.

"wear it, I can't wait till next week." he says, excited. he goes to sit on his desk's chair after handing you the sweater, his sweater paws between his legs, and looks at you with utmost anticipation. if he had a tail, it would be wagging. you swear you can see it. "now?" you look around the tiny proximity of his room. "yes!" you sigh, "fine. well... will you turn around or watch me strip?" he tilts his head, "would you let me?" you almost throw the damned sweater at him but he holds his hands up, "okay, okay."

when he turns his wheeled chair the other side, you make sure he's not stealing glances—you do trust him it's just your own little insecurity—before you take off your jacket and top, fold it aside, and put on the sweater. the smell of the same fabric softer in the air is coming off of it. "okay... I'm done." you fix your hair and straighten the sweater and your shorts.

for a few moments he doesn't say anything, just watches with a blank expression. for some reason, something about it—the whole thing feels extremely illegal, scandalous, hot. you can feel the heat rising to your cheeks, being in his territory, wearing his clothes as he watches you. an amusing smile finally breaks his controlled features, his voice shaky "not bad. looks better on you than me."

"well, I'm glad it's washed. I was going to walk out if it smelled like shit." he finally relaxed a little and giggled, blushing. he was blushing. why was he blushing so much? you know he's nervous with the way he can't stop touching his hair and abusing his lips. you wanted to tell him to stop before they start bleeding. "but really, what was the bet for?" you know it was just for fun, but jake knows both of you are busy students and would care less for stupid things like this. so, why did he start a bet out of no where.

"why did you agree?" he asks instead, tilting his head in the same amused way he does, but his eyes were more deliberate, intent. like he wants to get out a secret out of you before he tells his own. "you can't return the same question" you hold your ground. "and why is that," now he's off his chair, hands in the pockets of his sweatpants. "is it not literary correct?" he teases. you look away, hiding how his silly teasings gets you worked up.

"I was just curious, because you seem to enjoy it so much." you start to notice the waver in your voice, nerves getting to you, he's getting to you with the way he's standing tall in his room and looking ever handsome in the dimmed lights. the once fresh air feels thick and suffocating. your hands clasp to the hem of the sweater, noticing how they started sweating. even though you liked to take jake lightly and joke with him, you can't deny how actually smart he is and how tactful. you feel like you walked into his trap, but you don't seem to mind it.

he pushes his lip into a pout and raises his shoulders, "I did. but you seem to have enjoyed it too?" he teases again, with a knowing smile. that similar feeling you had in the conference hall is back. where you start to fume for all different reasons. he sees it, and you know he does. the faint dilation of your eyes. he knows his own affect on you. you can see it in the way he grins without his eyes. caught on your own thoughts to form a protest, to find the right words to attack him back, he goes first with soft strides you almost don't notice. before you feel his hand on the side of your face and lips locked fervently onto yours.

very quickly, your world starts spinning. it takes you few seconds to process you're kissing jake. jake the science major nerd. jake the beloved golden retriever of everyone. jake who always looks at you with such intent no one else does. the fumes in your body rush to your face. his lips feel so soft and hot, burning you both. once you respond, instinctively opening up for him, you feel him get more excited. enthusiastic with the way he holds you closer by your waist and slide his tongue over the plush of your lips. he almost suffocates you with his fervor.

placing your hands over his chest and shoulders, you did not know how much you were craving this. craving jake. yes, you've thought of how would it be like if you dated—and it sounded so silly and embarrassing you quickly made yourself forget about it, but you never thought how would it feel to have his plump lips caress yours, how his big warm hands hold your waist, how he would manhandle you and lift you to his bed, how it would feel to straddle him and return his kisses.

hours went by like minutes as you make out on his bed, as he sucks and bites your neck with his hand sneaking under your – his – sweater. your stomach flex, chills running through you at the contact of his soft fingertips caressing your body. you pant next to his head, his hair tickling you. a hot suck on a spot between your collarbone and neck draw a suppressed moan out of you. "jake..." you plea, hips rocking in swift motion onto his. you want him so bad. it's so bad it's driving you insane. you can feel him twitching, you can feel him so hard he keeps whining when you press on it.

"shit... you feel so nice, y/n" he speaks from your shoulder. he looks back for a quick check on you, "never thought I'd get the literature nerd on my lap" he grins his silly, flirty attempt grin he always gives you across campus and on the panel and in hallways. you couldn't hide the little bashful laugh that comes out of you, looking off distance. "what? you're shy now?" he pries for your gaze. "you wish." you trace a finger over his waistband, palm had no choice but to brush over the rising bulge, a noticeable twitch pushes the fabric. you hear him swallow, watching your every little action. "I knew it all along, you're not as innocent as you make yourself seem."

this time, your palm landed gently on his bulge, pressing curiously. this made you realise how much he have been holding back, because the simple touch made him jolt and hiss. you were shocked at first, but now you're the one having a mischievous grin on your face. your hand teasingly rub up and down his clothed cock. you notice, it's bigger than you thought. you squeeze, just a little bit, feeling it out. a guttural moan comes out of jake it makes your insides twitch. shit, you really like hearing him like this.

you sat up on your knees, jake watches you as you slide your shorts and panties off. the science sweater stays on. he gulps once more; how you're half naked with only his sweater on. pulling on his waistband to free him, cock rising and falling it makes you sick. you let him focus on you again, gently kissing his cheek, his soft but sharp jaw, his lips. as you move, his cock slaps the wetness of your exposed clit making you moan and lean into it. gliding on him feels so good you're seeing stars. and he's not even inside yet.

after menacing minutes of drawing whines out of the both of you, your cunt throbbing from the contact, from the smooth and sticky slide over his veins, and over the shroom of his head. he's impossibly hard and aching. translucent plops blooming out and dripping down his length. "fuck, y/n. if you don't ride me already–" he huffs in your neck, holding your hips so hard you think it would leave printed marks. "patience," you would never let him one up you in this game you created.

if he smiled you can't see it, as you align and slowly sit on him. you bite your lip, you did nothing to prepare. you're dripping wet but still a little tight. "fuck." you feel his tip plop in. the more you go down the more dizzy you are and can't take control anymore. you're glad he has his big hand on your lower back and helps you go all the way.

impatient, you start moving before he's all the way in. and fuck he feels amazing. he feels so so good, you think you're gushing wet again. "ahh.. y/n" his lips swollen and wet with your spit, skin flushing red and glistening. he had took off his own top at some point. your hand on his pretty abs as you kiss again and again. his taste is addicting, the way he bites you is addicting. you keep moving, and he keeps getting deeper. you keep tasting heaven every time his shroom tip grazes that spot. "shit, shit, shit, jake!" you're long lost careful with the noise being too loud and travelling the thin walls. anyone passing by would hear that. hell, anyone on the same floor. It’s probably dinner time by now. the sun is setting, and the room is getting dimmer, but both of you are getting hotter.

jake's hand have undone your bra under his sweater long ago, working one tit and mouth bruising a new spot beneath your ear. the pressure of his hand is dizzying. you almost lose your pace on his dick, so he picks it up, starts fucking you relentlessly while hugging your waist you start to see white. you try to focus on him and kiss him again but all you can do is pant and rest your forehead on his.

you're incredibly close you can taste it. "oh, I'm gonna cum." jake breathes. god his sounds turn you on so much. his whines and the way he keeps hitting the spot are throwing you over the edge. "I'm cumming, I'm cumming.." he almost cries. "please." you respond, wanting to feel it. wanting him to paint your walls as you cum too. you're tightening so much it draw moans and whines from the both of you. he's holding you so strong and close, focusing all his willpower into fucking you. "y/n..."

"oh- my god" you feel it, your knees clenching as you cum hard. the waves rip through your stomach to the top of your head. jake is cursing too. you can't tell if he came before or after you—or with you, but he stills for a moment, holding you strong, flush to his chest. he then moves slowly, riding out the high. cold sweat drips down your waist and bare thighs between jake. he stays hugging, face in your neck. your head throbbing and your core too. you take still moments to breath. faint sounds outside brings you back. "oh no... how am I gonna leave like this." you breath, in delirium.

jake finally looks, "you can stay?" he's back to his menacing act. and he still looks fucking hot, if not hotter with sex sweat glistening his face. "yeah, no." you try to hide the simmering blush with a stern tone. you really just fucked one of the elite students of your college, in his own dorm room, in his own major's sweater, shamelessly. looking back to day one at the conference hall, he was giving you this same look, like he'd be more than pleased to devour you.

when the sounds outside subside, you slowly and carefully shift off jake. "i need to go before there's more people around after dinner." you feel jake pouting without you looking as you collect your clothes. logically, he knows you're correct. but emotionally, he's already missing your warmth. he thought he'd get to do some aftercare, kiss you more as if he didn't a thousand times just now, cuddle you, and kiss you more everywhere. but you're already out the door.

the weekend pass by in an odd whim. you're constantly thinking about jake, the back and forth teasings of last week, the sex... his mouth... his smile... just how much he made you feel good. but also, the whole ambiguity around it. you're not dating and you're not friends either? you have no idea what you are and why you kept pushing and pulling each other. so, you just left. like none of that happened. you were so hot and embarrassed you chickened out. he got what he wanted and you got what you want(?) so what's more there to it?

when you meet again at the same conference hall to receive your rewards and few good words from your assigned professor. you try your best to act normal, though you can't help yourself checking on him every time the professor is speaking to him and the focus is not on you anymore. he seems normal. in his usual clean and professional, yet casual attire. did he get a haircut? his hair still looks long and curling at the ends but tidy. that's until your eyes meet. he looks a little worried, but there's also the glint of desire.

the professor makes a joke that you both look like the perfect pair and whispers, questioning if you're not dating already. you both just giggle and kindly deny the rumor, it probably became a topic among the professors who seen your debates. you and jake... together... he is cute. he'd make the loveliest boyfriend. it honestly would be funny if a perfect literature girl dated an elite science guy. you just know it would be a hot topic that would keep students amused until you both graduate. after the short meeting and exchange of empty future plans you both just nod off to and suggest empty promises, you two exist and to your surprise, a hand hooks onto yours and you're dragged into the nearest secluded class.

jake doesn't even bother to turn on the light, the sun coming in through the windows is enough. "everything's okay? did I do anything wrong?" you feel the worry dripping from his voice. like it's been killing him the entire weekend. he's so close, like he wants to be assured so bad. he really thought he did something wrong? when you were the one that ran out?

you soften, touching his cheek carefully. hesitant. "no, jake. you did nothing wrong." he literally melts, leaning into your touch like an obedient pup. he's a tall and huge guy. and yet, your simple touch affects him this much. you hate and love how much he affects you, how much your heart is throbbing inside your chest when he's looking at you like this.

it happens out of habit, a new habit you formed for him, you hook your hand through the back of his hair and the other arm over his shoulder and kiss him for all the wait you put him through. he moans.

that's how much he craved you through the weekend. but his kisses are gentle, yet passionate enough to tell you "I still want you and I will continue to". you can never get used to how good his mouth feels and tastes. it's always so plush and full of spit. bigger than yours, he almost devours you—and he does. in few minutes, his hand worked the buttons of your polo sweater, his mouth tasting your chest, trailing kisses to your ribcage and stomach. he kisses it with so much love it makes you melt. his hands hooked to your thighs, riding up under your skirt. you gasp when his hand grip your ass at the same time he's sucking a spot on your hip. he's going to be the end of you.

the next thing you know, your panties are down and jake taking his time placing kisses to your inner thigh. he watches you drip with wetness caused by him like it amuses him. the way he looks up at you drives you insane. "been thinking about you" he says, holding your leg up to get closer to your cunt. trailing his hot mouth in the direction where you want him to go. "wanted to taste you" and that's the last thing he whispers before he gives in to his need for you. his mouth latches openly on your core you literally wail and shake. "jake!"

his tongue flicks between your folds and he looks drunk how much he's enjoying the taste. he looks hungry. "oh my god," your hand goes from holding the wall behind you to one shotting out to thread through his hair since you can't stop yourself from moving to his face. he doesn't seem to mind any of it. he looks up at you, underneath his now messy bangs like he's telling you to go ahead and use him.

feels weird

you want to say, but the sensation is taking over you. It’s your first time getting eaten out and you didn't imagine you'd recieve it standing like this. with nothing but a wall for support. you want to push him, but you also like it. it feels really good. so good your thighs almost suffocating him. but he doesn't look like he'd care to lose his breath with him going in, nose deep, slippery sounds coming out, and you feel him drooling so much it's running down his chin.

to your surprise, long fingers slide in—you're assuming two—and curl making you hold in a scream. "I'm gonna cum, jake. I ca–" you were reaching your high when he suddenly started sucking hard. you felt like you were exploding into several fireworks, covering your mouth not to make the same mistake again. although you know, it’s probably too late by now. he licks and sucks you through it, you start begging him to stop. when he does, he gently puts down your leg and licks whatever remnants of spit and your cum on his mouth. he still looks like he wants more, eyes heavy and dilating when he gets up. but the way he kisses you is soft and gentle.

you feel him working something down with his free hand and then his bare cock rubbing on you. he must have been aching so much in his pants. you let him have his way with you, hand back into his hair soothing him through it. he sucks down your neck, as he's pounding and writhing against you like a horny dog. "god. I can't believe how you make me feel, y/n..." the head of his cock keeps poking, before he finally hold it and forces himself in with the most satisfying slide you suddenly want to cum again. you tentatively hold your knee up to make it easier for him and hook it around him. "keep talking to me like this and I'd think you really want me."

"what if I do, y/n?" you hear him pant to your ear, hips never stopping. "what if I actually... really... love you." your insides churn at that, eyelids fluttering. "bullshit." you had enough experience you know most of them throw this word around whenever. but jake, he was patient. he didn't get into your pants until he knew you wanted him too. you have no idea why you're trying to deny how his looks are different, his touch is different.

his thrusts halts for seconds. he slides out and you think it's over, it's done. but he's twisting you to face the wall and holds your hips out for him. you gulp, he's sliding in again to fuck you from behind. he rests his chin on your shoulder as he holds you in place. he's always close, like he never wants to be a sentimeter away from you. "you... you seem to not trust me yet. let me show you" moans escape you, he's so so deep. you don't think he got this deep last time. you want to say something back, have the last word, always, and it’s like he knows you do so he's going harder. his body is pushing you it’s making you one with the wall.

"jake. fuck, fuck, fuckkk." his free hand that was on your stomach, goes down to rub your dripping clit and you patently scream to the wall tilting your hips. his other hand somehow lift your bra, cupping your tit and squeezing your nip. you feel him everywhere it's dizzying. the sight of his veiny arm and fingers working your core as he keeps rutting into make you see the heavens gate.

his little whines next to your face is the cherry on top. he whines like an injured puppy it makes you want to cry. who knew he sounded this beautiful high with pleasure. is this how much he wants you? you want to tell him you wanted him too, you craved him too. but you can't help but whine it out, just like him.

it's coming, achingly close your knees joining together. the sensation of his hot fingers rapidly working you, his dick pushing all the way you feel it in your stomach, the warm hand and faint squeezes on your tit. "jake..." he's getting hold of every part of you deep inside until you explode. it arrives in waves, you don't know how many. just when you think it stopped, you're losing it again. in the midst of it, comes jake's mantra, "I'm coming, I'm coming..." you never heard such a melodic voice. you're seeing a pattern—he likes to announce his coming over and over. he stills deep in your cervix, gushing white ropes. you wince and whine, jake is pushing you further to the wall until there's really no space. his hand on your stomach.

there's a wet, droopy kiss on your neck. it sends chills, even after everything that had happened. the kiss lingers as he mutters into it under his breath. "I want you." he say, with demand. as if he didn't just had his way with you. but you understand it as in, "I want to continue this" he makes you chuckle a little bit—he doesn't know it yet but he's a romantic himself. you will tell him later.

♥︎ : @srehyaps

#goodness that was my first smut in a WHILE #hehe hope you enjoy #enhypen smut #enha hard hours #enha hard thoughts #sim jaeyun smut #sim jake smut #jake hard thoughts #nerd jake #nerd reader #academic rivals #enha smut

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peasack · 26 days ago

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I have a patent-teacher conference and guys its not okay I'm cooked.

Lowkey a bit of Valentina slander at the end but that's okay cause who likes her anyway.

Thunderbolts x Gn!Teen!Reader

✦ Parent-Teacher conference headcanons ✦

∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗

✦ Alexei Shostakov ✦

Immediate big bear grin. “Of course! I would love to! Finally, official father duties! I am ready.”

He’s way too excited. You almost regret asking him because he immediately starts planning what to wear like it’s the Olympics.

He introduces himself as your “papa” and tells wildly exaggerated stories about your achievements that didn’t happen.

“Ah yes, Y/N once lifted a car. Very strong. Takes after me.”

The teacher is just blinking rapidly “I-what?”

He lowkey embarrasses you, but he’s also so proud.

Brags about you non-stop and leaves with his arm around you, even if you’re fake-mad at him the whole way home.

✦ Yelena Belova ✦

Acts super casual about it. “Yes, I can go. Why not? Someone must supervise the situation.” But she’s secretly honored you asked her.

She shows up in the coolest outfit and definitely intimidates your teacher a little.

If the teacher complains about you, she’s like: “No. You are wrong. Y/N is perfect.” (Dead serious.)

If they praise you, she’s smug for the rest of the week.

“You know, you could have asked anyone. But you picked me. Admit it Mouse. I am the best.”

✦ Bucky Barnes ✦

Very quiet, kinda awkward. “Me? Uh… yeah. Sure, kid. If you want me to.”

He sits stiffly, probably wears his nicest jacket. Doesn’t say much unless he needs to defend you.

If the teacher says you’re struggling, he’s all protective like, “What’s the school doing to help them? They’re not doing this alone.”

Absolutely takes your side.

If the teacher complains about you hanging out alone, Bucky’s just like, “Yeah? Maybe the other kids should be less annoying.”

Buys you snacks on the way home.

Barely talks about the meeting, just quietly says he’s proud of you.

✦ John Walker ✦

Blown away. “Wait, you want me to go? Like… with you? Of course! Yeah, I can do that. I’m good at that. Totally. Parental figure. Yeah.”

(He’s so flustered it’s adorable.)

Takes it VERY seriously. Nods way too much. The teacher lowkey loves him because he’s polite and enthusiastic.

If they criticize you, John gets defensive FAST.

“Have you considered that maybe your teaching style isn’t working for them? Just a thought.”

Treats you to dinner after like it’s a whole formal event.

“You did good, kid. Real good. Thanks for letting me be there.”

✦ Bob Reynolds ✦

Looks like you just asked him to hold the sun. He’s so touched. “Me? You really want me to go? Yeah. Yeah, I’d be honored.”

Soft-spoken the whole time. Very respectful but sharp when it comes to defending you.

He listens carefully, makes eye contact, thanks the teacher even if they’re being harsh.

If the teacher praises you, he beams.

Quiet little proud smiles. Might ruffle your hair without thinking.

Gets awkward when you thank him.

“Oh—uh, you don’t have to thank me. I’m just glad you wanted me there.”

He'll be smiling after that all day.

✦ Ava Starr ✦

“Why me?” but not in a bad way—just genuinely surprised you’d choose her.

When you tell her you trust her, she agrees instantly. “I’ll be there. You got me.”

Has the most terrifying resting face. The teacher is so scared to say anything negative because Ava looks like she’ll end them.

If the teacher says you’re doing well, Ava’s eyes soften.

She just mutters, “Told you they were good.”

Doesn’t make a big deal out of it. On the way home she just quietly says, “Thanks for picking me.” But you can tell it meant a lot.

✦ Valentina Allegra de Fontaine ✦

"why would I wanna go to that"

Simply doesn't attend.

∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗

Hope you guys liked this one!! My requests are always open<33

Is it obvious that I hate Valentina

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dreamsteddie · 10 months ago

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Steve H.

Part Two, Part One

Okay, I started the last post with a "Haha wouldn't it be funny" which turned into a long, not-so-funny rant. So! Here is the funny part!

Steve is Dustin's brother and Claudia's son in all but law. He lives with them, calls Claudia mom and refers to Dustin as his brother, takes them to all his school events until he graduates and helps pay the bills after high school. Claudia never pressures him to apply to colleges he doesn't even want to get into or makes him feel like he has to move out any time soon when he turns 18, so he stays and gets a part-time job at Scoops where he bonds with Robin for life.

At the same time, drop out Eddie and his uncle Wayne move to town when the power company transfers him to the plant in Hawkins. It serves them well since Eddie needs a fresh start after getting tossed out of school without a degree for unjust reasons. He needs some place where he can make friends and get a job without his reputation hanging over his head, and Wayne would never abandon his nephew.

So they land in Hawkins and Eddie finds his feet by visiting the library and happening upon a gaggle of kids commandeering one of the reservable conference rooms for DnD. They're are a few older kids closer to his age there too, but the curly-haired one is definitely running the show.

Meanwhile, Wayne has failed to mention to his nephew that the main reason he agreed to the transfer uncontested was because he hit it off with one Claudia Henderson at a diner after a fishing trip and has been dating her without Eddie's knowledge for 8 months. He breaks the news to his Nephew when he starts making plans to propose and wants to introduce Eddie to Claudia and her sons before he does. Wayne loves Claudia but Eddie comes first and he wants to make sure they'll all make a good family.

So they go over to the Henderson household for dinner one night, Wayne having wrangled Eddie into a black button-down and jeans without holes so Claudia doesn't think he raised a ruffian.

Dustin answers the door and immediately freaks out because he's so excited. He's met Wayne before and so has Steve so he knows things are serious and there's a good chance Eddie becomes family down the line.

Yelling in excitement the whole way Dustin drags both men into the kitchen where the root of all Eddie's troubles can be found.

Steve.

He immediately starts bitching at Dustin about acceptable volumes, towel over his shoulder and hands on hips and Eddie is Gone. Sent. In the stratosphere and immediately smitten. He's lost in the clouds planning their own wedding until reality crashes back down on his head as Steve extends his hand and introduces himself as Dustin's brother.

Eddie, of course, does not know that Steve is not actually related to anyone in this family legally or otherwise and no one thinks to clue him in since they're all so accustomed to the family dynamic.

If Google had been around in the 80s Eddie's search history would be full of "Is it illegal to date my uncle's step-son? NOT RELATED BY BLOOD" "how many degrees of separation in the family tree is acceptable?"

Que Eddie desperately trying to suppress his crush and not ruin his uncle's happiness by wooing his almost step-cousin ew like he really wants to.

But it's so hard! Steve is so beautiful and kind and dorky and a little weird and basically everything Eddie could possibly want in a boyfriend! Eddie wants to bite his freckles and hold his hand so badly but he won't ruin Wayne's future marriage because he kissed his future stepson like they're characters in those soap operas Claudia likes. He won't!

And then to make matters worse Steve seems like he really wants to bond with Eddie. He's always asking him to hang out wether that's going to the mall to hang out with his best friend Robin or swapping tapes at Claudia's house or showing Eddie all his favorite spots in Hawkins. (Steve is very much dropping hints that he wants to date Eddie who he's 96% sure is into him but Eddie is too caught up to notice)

It comes to a head on the day of the engagement. Wayne enlisted all three of "his boys" to help set up a nice dinner party with their closest friends, something Claudia has always mentioned wanting to host, while Joyce invites her out for some shopping and girl time. Steve and Wayne do most of the cooking while Eddie and Dustin are on set up picking up the flowers and pulling the nice table setting down from the attic before separating to get dressed in their nice outfits.

It's like a moment from a fairytale when Steve walks down the stairs and smiles at him. He's so fucking handsome it makes Eddie's heart ache with the cold realization that he's fallen completely in love with a man he can't have. Eddie can feel a prickling behind his eyes but he brutally shoves the sensation down. Today isn't about him.

Eddie puts on a happy face. It's not hard, he is truly happy for Wayne. His uncle deserves the world and both him and Claudia looked so in love when she said yes. He just wishes it didn't have to mean never having the man of his dreams. Eddie sticks the party out and he thinks he did a pretty good job hiding his mood right up until Dustin barges into the basement where the hideaway bed lives. The plan was always for the whole new family unit to stay the night so Eddie heads down as soon as it is acceptable to fall face-first into the pillows and trash around a little bit. Maybe even scream. Sue him, he's heartbroken.

That's how Dustin finds him and he immediately starts crowing that he knew something was up with Eddie. He starts pestering in true Dustin fashion until Eddie inelegently blurts out "I'M IN LOVE WITH MY FUTURE COUSIN IN LAW!"

Dustin blinks at him for a few minutes while Eddie freaks out because he's been so good only for Dustin to bully a confession out of him the day his uncle got engaged like a jerk!

But then Dustin is literally rolling around on the floor howling with laughter and Eddie has never wanted to strangle someone and disappear at the same time in his whole life. He's about to start asking Dustin what the fuck is up when the younger boy sits up and says "He's not my real brother!" at which point it's Eddie's turn to blink at Dustin in silence.

Dustin explains that while Steve is definitely his brother in all the ways that matter he's not actually related to Dustin or Claudia, nor was he ever legally adopted.

Eddie hardly lets Dustin finish his story before he's booking it up the stairs to Steve's room with a truly unprecedented display of athleticism on his part. He franticly taps on the door, aware enough to avoid banding on it like he would like to lest he disturb the newly engaged couple down the hall.

Steve opens the door, eyes wide and slightly frantic. As soon as his eyes meet Eddie's they disappear from his eyeline because Eddie has dropped to his knees, hands clasped together, and begs "Mary me!"

Of course, they don't get engaged that night. Eddie kind of just panicked and said the first thing that came to his head, but they kissed and began to date with the full blessing of their weird little family.

#steddie #dreamer speaks #wayne munson #eddie munson #steve harrington #dustin henderson #fanfiction #claudia henderson #stranger things

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ssa-dado · 7 months ago

Text

21 - Physics

Aaron Hotchner x fem!bau!reader Genre: fluff, slight angst, whump Summary: Aaron Hotchner navigates the chaos of a teammate’s tragedy, personal struggles, and unresolved emotions toward you, with fate as his only constant. Past and present blur, coincidences and camaraderie intertwining as if tied by a red string. A case hits too close to home for everyone, forcing him to confront buried fears while managing the fallout as Unit Chief. But as events unfold, he realizes that nothing - neither relationships nor outcomes - ends quite the way he had foreseen. Warnings: violence, trauma, mentions of what happens in 3x09 & 3x11, use of alchool, some cuss words here and there, Hotch being a lot in his head, mentions of the fact you and Hotch fucked once, whoops. HOTCH SMITTEN LIKE A FOOOOL Word Count: 20.5k Dado's Corner: Flustered and smitten Hotch are peak Hotch. Also, I’m proud of finally nailing down a phrase that perfectly sums up their dynamic: he overthinks, while you overtalk. Oh, and one more thing: I officially have a new favorite character now, hope you love her as well. This chapter is a bit of a wild ride. A bit of fan service and the fan is me.

masterlist

In Stoic philosophy, physics (physikē) explores the nature of the universe, its structure, and the principles that govern it, providing the foundation for understanding humanity’s place within the cosmos.

For the Stoics, mastery of Physics was essential because it revealed the rational order (logos) underpinning all things, emphasizing the interconnectedness and inevitability of events.

The Stoics believed that fate (heimarmenē), the unbroken chain of cause and effect, binds all events in a web of necessity, with every occurrence unfolding as part of a rational, divine plan.

---

Sometimes, there’s just too much to do.

And honestly, sometimes, that feels like a blessing. A distraction.

Something to keep your mind from wandering back to the chaos of the past week. Not the mountain of paperwork waiting. Not the echoes of a case that clung to your thoughts. And especially not the emotional wreckage left behind.

No, you’d had a to-do list long enough to drown out anything else.

First, there had been guest lectures to prepare - because, God forbid, you gave up the career you’d built on your own before coming back to the BAU. That was yours and yours only, and you could never giving it up entirely.

Then, the FBI conference materials. A seminar on terrorism to finalize. Hours of research and fine-tuning to make sure it had been flawless, because that was the standard you’d set for yourself.

And let’s not forget the decade’s worth of solved cases you’d sifted through for examples to present. Because nothing screamed ‘productive’ quite like revisiting every horrifying thing you’d helped stop.

Then there was the apartment.

The apartment you still weren’t sure you wanted to call “home,” even though the rent you’d just paid suggested otherwise. Half of the boxes Aaron had helped you carry inside were still unopened, stacked against the walls.

And, of course, there was the team. The team that wouldn’t stop offering to help.

“We can chip in,” JJ had said.

“It’s no big deal,” Derek had insisted.

“Think of us as your moving dream team,” Penelope had declared, complete with jazz hands.

You had turned them all down. Firmly. Politely. And then less politely.

Aaron didn’t push, though.

He hadn’t insisted since your first no. He understood - probably better than anyone else - that you had to do this alone.

At least now you felt safe. For the first time in a year. And wasn’t that a luxury?

Another luxury? The fact that Hotch let you stay up late in the bullpen without questioning it too much. Not that he could afford to comment on your habits without opening the door to some pointed remarks about his own hypocrisy.

Because he stayed late, too.

Both of you. Night owls. Just like old times. Well, not exactly like old times.

Back then, you stayed late out of pride.

Who could solve the most cases? Who could earn the higher stats by the end of the quarter?

“I’m just saying,” Aaron had said one night in ’99, leaning against your desk with the kind of smugness that made you want to throw your stapler at him, “if I were you, I’d revise page ten of the case file. You clearly missed something.”

You, of course, had bristled. “Missed? I missed something?”

His reply was maddeningly neutral. “I’m just saying.”

You spent the next two hours poring over the file, only to realize, to your horror, that he was right. The unsub’s pattern was buried in the details you’d overlooked.

“Oh, you think you’re so clever,” you’d muttered as you shoved the solved case onto his desk.

“Not clever,” he’d replied with a faint smirk. “Efficient.”

Efficient? Well, now it was war.

What started as a casual rivalry quickly devolved into a full-blown competition. Nights in the office turned into marathons of who could close the most cases, complete with snarky comments and ridiculous one-upmanship.

“Did you just solve two cases in one night?” you’d asked incredulously one evening, staring at his smug face.

“Three, actually,” he’d corrected, leaning back in his chair like some kind of overachieving Greek god of profiling.

“Oh, it’s on,” you’d muttered, dragging another file off the pile and practically slamming it onto your desk.

By the end of the year, the two of you had obliterated every record the short-lived BAU had.

Even Gideon, who was famously difficult to impress, couldn’t believe it. He’d handed you a plastic trophy with the words ‘Most Productive Agents: 1999’ scrawled on it, muttering something about how he’d never seen anything so hideous.

“Let me remind you,” Gideon had said, handing over the trophy, “Rossi left the FBI before the end of the year. So, technically, you broke our streak by default.”

Neither of you cared. You’d still done it.

The trophy? Aaron had it proudly displayed in his office, perched next to his battered copy of Hegel for Dummies with a spine so broken it looked like it had been run over.

Yours? It was buried in one of those unopened boxes in your new apartment, its significance too bittersweet to face just yet.

Now, though, things were different.

The late nights weren’t about pride anymore.

They were about survival.

Aaron, in his office, scribbling away as if Haley’s forgiveness could be found at the bottom of yet another case report. You, in the bullpen, scratching out notes for your lectures with the same relentless drive - but this time, with the weight of a broken soul behind it.

Both of you would go home to spaces that felt more hollow than comforting.

Aaron’s was an empty house, caught in the eternal limbo of Haley’s indecision. Would she forgive him for being, in his words, a terrible husband and father? Or was he bracing for yet another blow in what felt like an endless cycle of disappointment?

Yours wasn’t much better. An apartment that didn’t feel like yours. Foreign surroundings that refused to settle into something familiar. Which was strange. For years, you’d thrived on not knowing where you were.

Changing countries more often than you changed your phone plan, living out of suitcases, hopping between temporary homes without so much as a second thought.

So why now? Why did this emptiness sting in a way it never had before?

“Maybe I’m getting soft,” you muttered under your breath, scribbling a note so aggressively you nearly tore the paper.

“Talking to yourself already?” Hotch’s voice carried down from the mezzanine, his tone calm but laced with just enough amusement to catch your attention. He stood leaning casually against the railing, looking down over your desk, which happened to be situated directly beneath him.

“Wouldn’t have to if you came out of your cave every once in a while” you shot back, not looking up.

There was a long pause before he answered. “Fair enough.”

But even as you bantered, you knew the truth: this wasn’t about the apartment.

It was about everything you’d tried to suppress catching up to you all at once.

It was fear. Fear of what had happened. Of what might still happen. Of being alone.

You sighed, leaning back in your chair and staring at the ceiling. Admitting it to yourself felt like defeat but at least, it was the first step forward, wasn’t it?

“Everything okay?” his voice cut through your thoughts again, quieter this time.

“Fine,” you said, your voice sharper than intended.

There was a pause. Then he said softly “You’re allowed to say you’re not, you know.”

You glanced up toward him, and sighed. “So are you,” you said, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Then, as if fate had synchronized your thoughts, both of you said it at the same time. “I’m not.”

You blinked, looking at him, unsure whether to laugh or crumble under the sheer awkwardness of it. He seemed just as taken aback, standing there with that signature furrow of his brow, like he couldn’t quite believe he’d said it out loud.

“Well,” he said finally “that’s one way to break the tension.”

It felt strange - refreshing, maybe - to hear it spoken aloud. Even though you’d known, deep down, that neither of you was okay, sometimes you just needed to hear the words.

To have it acknowledged. Somehow, knowing he felt the same made it just a little easier to carry.

You nodded toward the stack of papers on your desk, eager to redirect the moment before it got too raw. “Well, since we’re both in the mood for honesty, I’ve got something for you.”

He tilted his head slightly, now moving down the stairs and crossing the bullpen toward you. “You always know how to make the best gifts,” he said, a touch of dry humor lacing his tone.

“Oh, this one’s a real treat,” you said, sliding the folder toward him.

Aaron opened it, skimming the first page, and raised an eyebrow. “Case summaries. You shouldn’t have.”

“You’re welcome,” you replied with a wink.

He chuckled lightly, closing the folder. “I’ll review them and file them in the system immediately. Truly, a gift worth cherishing.”

“Or,” you countered, leaning back in your chair, “they could wait until tomorrow morning.”

His brow lifted, probably not convinced of your ungodly offer. “And you think I’d waste your hard work like that?!”

“No,” you said, shrugging. “I think they could be the very first thing you file tomorrow morning. None of my efforts wasted, and you get to go home.”

You could tell he considered it for a moment, even if he kept his gaze steady on yours. “You make a compelling argument.” He said in mock formality.

“I know,” you said, smirking slightly.

He glanced back at the folder, then at you, and sighed. “Alright,” he said finally. “Tomorrow morning.”

“Good choice,” you said, your voice softer now, the teasing edge gone.

Hotch leaned slightly against your desk, holding the folder in one hand. “That applies to you too, you know. Whatever you’re working on… it can wait until 8 AM tomorrow.”

You opened your mouth to respond, barely managing to say “Alri-” before the sharp ring of his phone cut through the air.

His expression shifted instantly.

That composed, slightly softer look he’d had moments before hardened into something sharper - focused, intense. You recognized it immediately, the way his jaw tightened and his posture straightened. Something was wrong.

“Hotchner,” he answered, his voice low. The sudden shift in his tone made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end.

You didn’t need to hear the other side of the conversation to know it was serious. The single word he barked into the phone - “Where?” - told you everything.

You shot out of your chair, your heart already racing, and rushed toward his office. By the time he hung up, you were there, pulling his coat from the rack and holding it out to him. His eyes met yours as he moved toward you, his pace quicker than you ever remembered.

“What happened?” you asked handing him his coat, though you had a sinking feeling you didn’t want to hear the answer.

He didn’t even hesitate.

His eyes locked on yours, and in that split second, you saw everything you needed to know.

“Garcia got shot,” he said.

---

“What do we know?” Rossi asked as he walked into the hospital waiting room, headed straight for him.

“Police think it was a botched robbery,” he replied, his voice clipped, with a tense jaw.

Emily, looked toward you, her eyes wide and disbelieving, the shock still fresh. “Where’s Morgan?” she asked, her tone edged with worry.

You shook your head. “He’s not answering his phone.”

Hotch could sense the strain beneath your calm exterior, the cracks starting to show despite how hard you were trying to hold it together.

Why were you doing that? He was there for that reason.

Spencer didn’t even pause. He turned away immediately, his usual hesitance replaced only by urgency. “I’ll call him again,” he said over his shoulder, already pulling out his phone as he strode toward the corner of the room.

Out of the corner of his eye, Hotch saw Rossi move closer, when he spoke, his voice was low, only meant for him. “What aren’t you saying?”

He didn’t look at Rossi right away, his eyes fixed on some indeterminate point across the room. Finally, he spoke, his voice quieter than before, almost a whisper. “I spoke to one of the paramedics who brought her in. It doesn’t look good.”

And so, all you could do was wait.

Time moved strangely there, in this place of fluorescent lights and antiseptic smells, where the hum of machinery and the distant shuffle of footsteps filled the silence.

Seven FBI agents in a room.

But the titles didn’t matter there. Because each of you felt completely useless.

There were minutes of restless movements, of silent prayers, of thoughts no one dared to voice aloud. Some paced the hallway, unable to sit still, as if walking could somehow outrun the helplessness threatening to suffocate them. Others fidgeted, their hands twisting and folding into patterns born of nervous energy.

But eventually, you all stilled.

Emily and JJ sat down together. Emily’s hand found JJ’s, gripping it firmly, as if she could siphon away some of her fear, absorb the weight of it into herself.

Across from them, Spencer perched on the edge of a chair, his arms crossed tightly, his right hand rubbing absentmindedly up and down his left side in a motion that felt almost protective, almost desperate.

Rossi stood apart from the rest of you, his back turned, his figure outlined by the stark light of the hallway. He held a gold bracelet in his hands, the same one he always carried, his fingers moving over it in a rhythm that suggested it was as much for grounding as it was for comfort.

And then there was you.

You sat to Spencer’s right, your brow furrowed, your breaths slow but audible. Your eyes moved rapidly, scanning nothing and everything all at once. He could tell you were buried deep in your thoughts, lost in the labyrinth of your mind.

He wanted to know what you were thinking - wanted to reach into the chaos and pull you out.

He couldn’t, that thing he knew.

Probably, you were still sifting through philosophies, trying to find the right citation to cling to, the one that would hold you steady. Something wise and comforting, something that would tell you this wouldn’t end in tragedy.

And him?

He stood still, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable. He knew he had to keep it together - for all of you, for himself.

He stood so close to your left that he could feel your knee brushing the fabric of his pants every so often, a touch so faint it barely registered but still managed to tether him.

He observed his team, each of you unraveling in their own quiet way, while he avoided, at all costs, the thought clawing at the back of his mind.

The thought of living this again - he knew what it felt like, this helplessness. He remembered it too well.

Back when it was you lying on an operating table, under needles and lights, fighting to come back to him. That same sense of uselessness had consumed him then, and now it was here again, circling like a vulture.

But his mind, cruel as it so often was, always found new ways to torture him.

It conjured new voices, fresh what-ifs, flashes of memories he didn’t want, tethering him to the fear that churned relentlessly in his chest. None of it was helpful. None of it worth listening to more than once.

And yet, amidst the noise, it was something small that healed him now.

Your touch.

Your knee pressed fully against the side of his leg, a quiet, grounding gesture that pulled him from the spiral before it could drag him any deeper.

He glanced down at you instinctively, and when your gaze met his, it was steady, knowing, and impossibly calm.

It wasn’t extravagant - there was no dramatic gesture, no soft-spoken reassurance. Just a nod.

A simple acknowledgment, because you knew.

You knew he needed to hold it together. As Unit Chief. As the leader. As the anchor in this storm of uncertainty.

And yet, in that single nod, in the quiet understanding etched into your expression, you told him something else, too: if it were just the two of you, you’d let go.

Together.

If you could, you’d be wrapped in each other’s arms, sinking into one of those uncomfortable chairs, your head resting on his shoulder, his leaning gently against yours.

Just like you had in his living room that one night when everything else had fallen apart.

That memory burned in his mind, as vivid as if it had happened moments ago. The way you had leaned into him, your hand brushing against his chest, anchoring him in a way he hadn’t known he needed.

He’d been thinking about it for weeks, replaying it over and over, striving for it without even realizing.

Your touch had burned itself into his memory. It was solace, it was safety, it was the only thing that made the world make sense when nothing else did.

And then, without warning, the moment broke. None of you moved first - you didn’t have to. Derek’s hurried steps into the waiting room shattered the fragile quiet.

“She’s been in surgery a couple hours,” JJ said softly, her voice almost hesitant, as though saying it aloud made it worse.

“I was in church,” Derek responded, his voice tight, his eyes darting to Hotch. “My phone was off.”

Spencer spoke up, his voice quiet but insistent, trying to reassure Derek, but Hotch’s gaze softened as it drifted to him, the tension in his team mate's expression contrasting starkly with the rigid lines of his suit.

He barely noticed your shoulder brushing against his arm - because apparently, personal space was just a suggestion with you - but he didn’t mind.

If anything, the contact softened the edges of his thoughts, kept him tethered to the present.

Then, the door opened, and a doctor stepped in. “Penelope Garcia?” he asked.

Hotch stepped forward immediately. “Yes.”

“The bullet went in her chest and ricocheted into her abdomen. She lost a lot of blood. It was touch and go for a while,” The doctor’s tone was clinical, detached, but the words carried the weight of everything they’d been dreading. “But we were able to repair the injuries.”

Aaron felt his breath hitch.

“So, what are you saying?” JJ asked, her voice strained.

The doctor hesitated for a moment before continuing. “One centimeter over and it would have torn right through her heart. Instead, she could actually walk out of here in a couple of days, and I’d say that’s a minor miracle.”

The words barely registered, muffled under the synchronized exhale of relief from everyone in the room, including him.

His chest rose and fell heavily, the tension still coiling so tightly in his body that he had to bite his lip to stop himself from letting it all spill out.

He couldn’t cry. Not here. Not now.

“She needs her rest. You can see her in the morning,” the doctor said before being immediately thanked and leaving the room.

Hotch straightened, forcing his composure back into place. He had to focus. He had to do what needed to be done.

“David and I will go to the scene,” he said, the words leaving his mouth almost automatically. “I think the rest of you should be here when she wakes up.”

Your brow arched slightly, the corners of your lips twitching upward for just a moment.

“I don’t care about protocol,” he added firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I don’t care whether we’re working this officially or not. We don’t touch any new cases until we find out who did this.”

Because when the family is involved, the law can go to hell.

You gave him another nod, this one filled with something more - pride, maybe.

---

But the consequences of his choices - of that particular decision, of every decision since - were harder to ignore.

It had started as something small, almost imperceptible. The kind of shift you only notice when looking back, piecing together the moments that led to now.

You spoke to him less on the job.

Maybe it had begun after Penelope was shot. Maybe it was even earlier than that - after that argument in the car the day Rossi rejoined the team.

It wasn’t as though he hadn’t noticed. He’d thought about it more times than he cared to admit, replaying conversations and briefings in his head, trying to pinpoint the exact moment it changed.

Still, whatever the catalyst, it was there - distance.

You were more careful now, more reserved.

The way you hesitated before voicing disagreements during case discussions, when you used to challenge him so freely, so instinctively.

The way your once-abstract musings - philosophical detours that most of the times used to drive him to the brink of frustration - were almost entirely gone. He rarely heard them from you anymore.

It was Reid now, who would bring up some concept or theory, his voice filling the space that used to be yours.

And Hotch would sit there, listening, waiting - hoping, even - for your voice to cut in, to weave those extra threads of detail, to challenge or expand the discussion in that way that had always been so uniquely you. But it never came.

Your language had shifted, too.

Gone were the sweeping truths and nuanced arguments that once made every discussion with you feel like a labyrinth. Now you were grounded, concrete.

Practical. Logical... ironic, really.

The very thing that sometimes frustrated him - the way you could lose yourself in abstraction, dissecting every nuance as if it held the key to the universe, even when a case demanded quick action - was the same thing that made you indispensable to his being… to work.

Indispensable to work.

It was why the two of you had been able to crack so many cases together - at work.

The confrontation was what made it work.

Necessary. Vital.

His logic sharpening your abstractions, your ideas loosening the rigidity of his structures. Because both of you wanted to be right.

And in that pursuit, you always found the balance - in the balance, you caught killers. In the balance, you saved lives. Different truths, coexisting.

But now? Now, he found himself paying more attention to the details that had slipped through the cracks.

You’d stopped calling him “Partner”.

It wasn’t the word itself that mattered. It was what it signified. How for a brief amount of time it had even become a running joke, how you’d introduce him to people as “my partner,” and how they’d inevitably misunderstand, assuming you were together.

Maybe it was the way you talked about him. Maybe it was the way he looked at you... back then.

Anyways, it was gone. Because now, on the job, you only called him "Unit Chief".

Clinical. Precise. A title that left no room for interpretation. Best friends outside of work; your superior within it.

But he missed the ambiguity.

He missed the way you’d once spoken to him on the job like he wasn’t just your colleague, or your boss. Like he was someone you trusted - completely.

And maybe that was what stung the most. That sense of trust between you, once so natural, now felt… guarded.

He wanted to fix it, but how could he, without crossing some invisible line?

Because pairing himself with you on a case would have been the easiest solution, but he’d never allow himself that.

He never did. He couldn’t. To do so would feel selfish, like he was abusing his authority to serve his own ends… even that thought alone made his stomach churn.

So, instead, he paired you with Reid for geographical profiles or with Rossi in the field, keeping you at a polite, professional distance, telling himself it was better this way.

Telling himself it didn’t matter that you barely spoke to him unless you had to. Telling himself that your sudden carefulness wasn’t personal.

And yet, outside the job, it was a completely different story.

You two had grown closer - seeking each other’s company in ways that felt almost inevitable.

You didn’t plan it, but somehow, you always ended up together. And considering how close you’d already been, it was startling, almost disorienting.

Your shared tragedies should have been the sole reason for it, forging something unshakable, but this… this was different. It was more intimate, more vulnerable.

It felt more… familiar, though with what exactly?

Maybe it was the way you always seemed to gravitate toward each other, how his phone would buzz with a text from you - asking if he had time to grab dinner or if he could help you pick out furniture for your new apartment.

“Don’t worry,” you’d said that morning, flashing him a grin that instantly made him suspicious. “I just need your muscles, not your opinion. Unless you want to tell me I’m wasting money.”

He raised an eyebrow, following you into the store like a man marching to his doom. “You brought me for labor but not to stop you from making bad decisions?”

“Exactly,” you replied, already strolling ahead like you owned the place. “And don’t worry - it’ll take a couple of hours at most.”

He stopped dead in his tracks, letting out a disbelieving laugh. “A couple of hours? Wars have been declared, fought, and peace treaties signed faster than it takes to shop for furniture.”

“What, you think I’m indecisive?” you shot back, turning to face him.

“I know you are,” he replied, his tone flat. “And meticulous, which doesn’t exactly speed things up.”

“Just trust me, Aaron,” you said, your grin widening in a way that felt more like a warning.

Indeed, it didn’t take a couple of hours. It took the entire day.

And by the time you got back to your apartment, he was certain he’d pulled at least three muscles he didn’t even know he had.

“Next time,” Aaron said, panting slightly as he set the box down with a loud thud. “I’m bringing a forklift. Or an entire moving crew.”

“Next time?” you asked innocently, a playful smirk tugging at your lips. “You’re already signing up for next time?! That’s so thoughtful, Aaron. Wow, you’re such a friend.”

“You’re lucky I have patience,” he muttered, glaring at the box like it had personally wronged him.

“Patience?” you laughed, crossing your arms. “You were ready to snap at that poor woman asking about the extended warranties!”

“That’s because she asked me six times,” he snapped, the memory still fresh.

“Well,” you said, grinning as you grabbed a water bottle from the counter and handed it to him, “now that torture is over, I think you deserve your prize. I have some office gossip for you.”

Aaron scoffed, took a sip from the bottle and crouched down to unbox the bookshelf. “I don’t care about your office gossip,” he said, his tone betraying none of the interest that actually was bubbling inside of him.

“...You don’t have to stay and build this, you know,” you offered, watching him carefully slide the first plank out of the box. “I’ve already dragged you into enough.”

“I’m staying,” he replied, glancing at you briefly. “I want to help.” Then, after a beat, he added, “So, what were you saying?”

You raised an eyebrow at him, making him regret what he just said. “Oh, so you do want to know?”

“You were going to tell me anyway,” he replied, pretending to be slightly annoyed.

“Well, now I’m not so sure,” you teased, plopping down next to him.

Then it happened.

Your hand reached for the instruction manual at the exact same moment as his, and your fingers brushed briefly. He froze, just for a second.

It wasn’t anything dramatic. No jolt of electricity, no world-tilting moment. Just… a touch.

Ordinary. Mundane.

And yet his brain, apparently bored of rationality, decided to hit pause.

You didn’t even seem to notice, already flipping open the pages of the manual like it was nothing – because it was. Meanwhile, he forced himself back into motion, his hand retreating too quickly as he muttered, “Sorry.”

“For what? Existing?” you quipped, glancing at him with a smirk that teetered on the edge of infuriating. “It’s fine, Aaron. Don’t worry, no need to be so polite.”

Polite. Yes, that’s what he was. Polite.

Not distracted. Not caught off guard. Certainly not anything else.

“It’s not a habit I plan to break,” he replied, his tone as steady as he could manage, focusing intently on pulling out the next piece of wood.

He just needed his personal space. You were close, physically, and his brain had momentarily overreacted. That’s all it was. It wasn’t significant. It wasn’t anything.

“I always forget I’m friends with the Queen of England,” you said, deadpan.

He shot you a flat look, holding up a piece that vaguely resembled part of a shelf. “So - are you actually reading those instructions, or are you just turning pages for fun?”

You squinted at the manual. “I mean… how hard can it be to put a rectangle on top of some other rectangles?”

He gave you a long, unimpressed stare. “…I’ll take that as a no” As usual, you got lost in your thoughts, your half-finished sentences going nowhere - resulting in still no gossip for him.

Thankfully, Aaron was used to that by now.

“So,” he said pointedly, cutting through your ramble, “the gossip you were so desperate to tell me?”

“Right,” you began, leaning in slightly, “I think Garcia and Kevin Lynch are dating.”

Aaron glanced at you, his brow furrowing. “Based on what?”

“Oh, come on, you were the one who planted the seed in my brain!” you said, pointing an accusing finger at him. “You met him first and said they’d be perfect together.”

“I told you they’d get along,” he corrected, his voice calm. “Not that they’d date, it was an observation.”

“Right,” you teased, leaning toward him. “Because Mr. Rulebook doesn’t meddle in office relationships.”

“I don’t,” he replied flatly, though the precision with which he was aligning the screws suggested otherwise.

“But you’re not denying it,” you teased, as you handed him the missing screw to complete his geometrical composition.

He sighed, already regretting the conversation. “Fine. I might have… noticed some things.”

Your eyes widened dramatically. “You’ve been paying attention? To gossip?”

He shot you a look so dry it could’ve absorbed a flood. “Not gossip. I noticed she’s been flirting with Derek over the phone less often in the past couple of weeks.”

You stared at him, probably trying to decide whether to be impressed or amused. “Oh so you do keep track of Penelope’s flirting habits?!”

“It’s hard not to notice, when all of this happens less than five feet away from me” he replied, focusing a little too intently on tightening a bolt. “She used to call him ‘chocolate thunder’ at least twice a day. Now it’s barely once.”

You snorted, clapping a hand over your mouth.

“What? If you’re going to accuse me of gossip, I might as well be thorough.” He frowned, though the faintest smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

You burst out laughing, sitting back on your heels. “Oh my God, I knew it. You secretly love this.”

“I don’t love this,” he said firmly, though his tone lacked conviction.

“Sure you don’t,” You smirked, glancing at the instructions and pretending to read them, just enough to give the illusion that you were actually contributing in some meaningful way. “So, what’s your theory? Think they’re dating?”

He shook his head, clearly weighing his words. “If they’re not already, they’re on the verge. Kevin’s nervous around her, and she’s not exactly subtle.”

You grinned, leaning closer. “I knew it! Now admit it, Aaron. You like the drama.”

Aaron sighed, picking up a screwdriver and turning his attention back to the pile of screws, as if sheer focus might absolve him of this entire conversation. “I don’t like the drama,” he said flatly. “I like efficiency. And indulging you in this nonsense means I won’t have to hear about it in bits and pieces over the next week.”

You gasped, clutching your chest with exaggerated offense. “Nonsense? This is workplace anthropology, Aaron. This is about human behavior, relationships, and the intricate web of connec-”

“Gossip,” he interrupted dryly, cutting you off mid-monologue.

You rolled your eyes, but your grin was unrelenting. “You are so reductive. This is about understanding the human condition! Philosophers have been debating the nuances of human relationships for centuries. Aristotle, Plato”

He glanced up, giving you a look that bordered on skeptical. “If this is about Aristotle and Plato, I’m out of here.”

“Oh, come on,” you said, nudging his arm. “You’ve read Hegel. You know this stuff!”

Aaron straightened the piece of wood he was working on, his voice impossibly dry. “I’ve read ‘Hegel for Dummies.’ The most philosophical thing I got from that book was the idea that contradictions eventually balance out.”

“Exactly!” you said, pointing at him. “Which is why gossip is just the dialectic in action - thesis, antithesis, synthesis. We’re observing interpersonal contradictions and resolving them through discourse. Hegel would be proud.”

“Hegel would ask for his name to be removed from this conversation,” he replied, his tone bone-dry.

“That’s not true!” you said, laughing. “This is exactly his philosophy. I know him.”

“He’s dead,” Aaron replied.

You froze, your hand hovering over a plank as your face morphed into an expression of exaggerated shock.

“Don’t tell me you’re going to cry because I reminded you he’s been dead for 200 years,” he added, the corners of his lips twitching despite his best efforts to stay serious.

“You’re heartless,” you said, glaring at him dramatically. “I’m grieving, and you’re mocking me.”

“You’re grieving a man you never met,” he pointed out, turning the screwdriver.

“Well, I’m sure we would have been friends,” you said, tilting your chin defiantly. “He would see me for who I truly am. A philosopher. A visionary.”

Aaron snorted quietly, shaking his head. “He’d last five minutes before walking out of the room.”

“Wrong,” you shot back. “He’d last five minutes before asking me to co-author his next book.”

He glanced at you, his expression unreadable. “It’s a shame you weren’t born two centuries earlier. You’d have spared him from obscurity.”

“Yes!” you exclaimed, pointing at him. “Thank you. See, this is why you’re my best friend.”

Aaron stilled, glancing at you briefly before returning his focus to the plank in his hand. “Because I humor your philosophical ramblings?”

“Because your dry humor is just a cover for the fact that you secretly love my ramblings. And I’d say you also agree with some of them.” You corrected, leaning in slightly.

He tightened a bolt, refusing to look up. “You’ve cracked the code. My life’s work of masking my enthusiasm has been undone by your unshakable confidence.”

“You’re so sarcastic,” you replied, grinning. “But seriously, Aaron. You’re the best.”

Before he could respond, you slid your arm around his shoulders in a quick side hug, leaning your head briefly against the curve of his neck.

It was nothing, really, again, just a fleeting gesture, casual. And that’s exactly why it felt so strange. So different.

He stilled, not visibly - at least he hoped not.

It wasn’t like those rare hugs of yours, the ones that seemed to stretch on for hours. This was just a fraction of a second, over before it even began, and yet it lingered, leaving behind a sour taste of wanting.

Maybe that was why it unsettled him. Your relationship didn’t rely on physical contact, it never had. Mostly because he wasn’t the type to invite it. Not intentionally. It just always felt too… intimate. Too exposing. It wasn’t that he didn’t like it - it was just… too much.

Too raw. Too close.

But you didn’t seem to mind. You always knew how to adjust, to make things work between you without pushing too hard or pulling too far.

And still, now once again you pulled back like it was nothing, grinning as though the moment hadn’t shifted anything at all.

That’s what got to him, he realized. The ease with which you could offer something like that and let it go, as though it didn’t mean anything. He envied it.

Jealousy, he thought, was too strong a word. Or maybe it wasn’t.

“But I’ll never be Hegel,” he said finally, his tone dry, laced with irony as he reached for the next piece of wood.

You blinked at him, tilting your head like he’d just said something utterly ridiculous. “Aaron Hotchner,” you began, your tone a mix of exasperation and fondness, “you’re better than Hegel.”

He glanced at you briefly, his expression somewhere between skeptical and resigned. “Oh please don’t you start.”

“I mean it,” you insisted, sitting up straighter, your grin turning softer. “He might’ve been a genius, but you’re… well, you’re you. Thoughtful. Smart. Kind. You’re my best friend, and I wouldn’t trade you for any dead philosopher.”

As much as he tried to act like he was above it, like he didn’t need the reassurance, he couldn’t deny how heartwarming it was to hear those kinds of words. Cheesy as they were. Deep down, he was a sentimental man, after all.

And so he sighed, but the small smile tugging at his lips probably betrayed him. “Could you please just hand me the next piece before this takes another century?”

“Anything for you, Queen of England,” you teased, passing him the next piece with an exaggerated flourish.

He gave you a look, the kind that said he was both exasperated and quietly amused. “Thank you,” he said, his voice dry but undeniably softer.

“Anytime, Your Majesty,” you replied, grinning as you reached back for the instruction manual. “Now, what’s next? Philosophical insights on brackets?”

“Just read the instructions.” He had just aligned another plank and was reaching for a screw when the sharp knock at the door interrupted the quiet rhythm of assembling furniture.

He froze, mid-motion, and then glanced at you. “That’s Mrs. Lee,” he muttered, already resigned.

Of course, it was Mrs. Lee.

She lived across the hall and seemed to have an uncanny ability to sense whenever he was over. In her late seventies, retired, widowed, and far too invested in both your lives, she had made it her unofficial mission to drop in with sweets every time Aaron was around.

Coincidentally, these sweets only ever appeared when he happened to stay over, as though he were the primary recipient and you were just a necessary middleman.

Well, it wasn’t exactly true - she adored you - but it was clear where did her preference lay.

Mrs. Lee, as Aaron had come to learn, was an enthusiastic watcher of outdated rom-coms, a self-proclaimed expert on “young love” - a category she had prematurely placed you and him into - and an avid admirer of “handsome men in suits.”

Naturally, she adored him.

You, softhearted as ever, had figured out early on that Mrs. Lee was lonely. So you occasionally let her hang out in your living room. She’d settle onto your couch with her movies, chatting about her glory days while Aaron begrudgingly assembled whatever piece of furniture you’d roped him into.

It had become a tradition he hadn’t agreed to but couldn’t seem to escape. And so the knock came again, more insistent this time.

“You want to get that?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

You grinned, tossing the instruction manual aside. “Of course. It’s probably for you anyway.”

Aaron sighed as you opened the door, revealing Mrs. Lee in all of her five-foot glory, holding some freshly baked pie.

“Hi, sweetheart,” came the familiar greeting, warm and affectionate as always. Then her eyes landed on Aaron, and her grin widened to near cartoonish proportions. “Oh, Aaron! I knew you’d be here.”

He glanced up briefly, bracing himself. “Good evening, Mrs. Lee.”

“I brought some blueberry pie,” she announced proudly, stepping inside and placing it on your counter. “I know how much you like blueberries, Aaron.”

He blinked, momentarily thrown. “How do you-”

“Oh, you just strike me as someone with good taste,” she interrupted as she made herself comfortable on your couch.

You turned to him, barely concealing your grin. “I think she’d be a great profiler.”

He agreed.

“Mrs. Lee, if only we weren’t already overstaffed, I’d hire you right away,” Aaron replied, his polite tone perfectly measured.

“Oh, Aaron dear,” Mrs. Lee cooed, waving her hand as though batting away a compliment, “you’re so kind. But I could never work at a job with a boss as handsome as you. I’d be far too distracted just watching you talk.”

Aaron froze, his face turning a shade of red that rivaled the t-shirt he was wearing.

“How do you work with him every day, sweetheart?” Mrs. Lee asked you, her tone conspiratorial.

You laughed, leaning back. “Oh, it’s easy. I just remind myself that under the suits, he’s really just a big softie.”

Aaron shot you a pointed look, his voice deadpan. “Not helping.”

Mrs. Lee giggled as she made herself comfortable on the couch, clearly entertained. “So, what’s today’s project?”

“Bookshelf,” you replied, gesturing toward the pile of wood and screws scattered across the floor.

Aaron frowned at the chaos. If it could even be called a bookshelf, it certainly didn’t look like one yet.

“It’s a bookshelf,” you insisted, catching the look he was giving it. “It’ll look better once you stop glaring at it and we actually continue working on it.”

“You’ll forgive me for not being optimistic,” Aaron muttered, crouching down to inspect the mess.

Mrs. Lee immediately chimed in, turning to you. “Oh, don’t listen to him, sweetheart,” she said, waving you off. “I’m sure it’ll be beautiful once it’s done. You two always make such a good team.”

Aaron sighed, already resigned to the commentary. “We’re not a team. I’m the one building this thing while she-”

“Supervises,” you interrupted brightly, leaning over to grab a stray screw. “You’re muscles and I’m brain, don’t forget about it.”

Mrs. Lee clapped her hands together in delight. “Oh, it’s just like my Charles and me! I’d dream up all sorts of projects, and he’d grumble the whole time but do them anyway. That’s how you know it’s love.”

Aaron froze mid-turn of his screwdriver, he glanced up. “We’re friends, Mrs. Lee,” he said firmly, keeping his voice as even as possible, though the comparison to her late husband didn’t exactly sit comfortably.

Mrs. Lee just laughed. “Oh, shoosh, Aaron, really, you’re exactly like my Charles,” she said, her tone fond but pointed. “Too serious, too practical. All logic. He was a lawyer, you know.”

Lawyer. Ha.

Weird how the coincidences had a way of piling up like bricks whenever Mrs. Lee was around.

Before he could deflect, you jumped in, far too quick for his liking. “Well, that must be fate! Mrs. Lee, did I ever mention that Aaron used to be a prosecutor before he joined the FBI?”

Her gasp was so loud it startled him. For a moment, Aaron thought she might drop her pie.

“A prosecutor? You?” she exclaimed, clasping her hands together as though she’d just unearthed some life-altering revelation. “Oh, Aaron, that is just too perfect. And I bet you were ruthless in the courtroom, weren’t you?”

Aaron opened his mouth to respond, but the words barely made it out. “Mrs. Lee, I-”

“Don’t be modest, dear,” she interrupted, brandishing her fork like it was a judge’s gavel. “I can just picture it - some poor defense attorney sweating buckets while you paced the courtroom like a lion on the hunt” She paused dramatically, then added an actual ‘rawr’ for emphasis, because apparently, the imagery wasn’t enough. “My, my, my. You must’ve been a sight to behold.”

Aaron rubbed the back of his neck, wishing desperately for the bookshelf to magically assemble itself so he could escape the conversation.

“You should’ve told me this sooner!” Mrs. Lee continued, turning to you as if you’d kept some scandalous secret from her. “I bet all those courtroom skills come in handy now, don’t they? You must be able to intimidate anyone with just one look.” She squinted the best she could, doing what Aaron assumed was her impression of his so-called “serious face”.

You laughed, nudging him playfully with your elbow. “She’s not wrong, you know. The Hotch Stare has probably solved more cases than our actual profiles.”

Aaron turned to you, leveling you with the exact look you were referring to - but the effect was slightly ruined by the warmth creeping up his neck, spreading to his cheeks. He could feel it, much to his dismay, and he looked away quickly, clearing his throat.

“The bookshelf,” he said dryly, but the flush in his face betrayed him entirely, and he knew it. Damn it.

You bit your lip, trying - and failing - to suppress a grin. “You’re blushing,” you pointed out.

“Oh, don’t tease him too much,” Mrs. Lee said, her grin widening as she leaned forward. “He’s probably shy. Aren’t you, Aaron?”

He didn’t need to look in a mirror to know the flush had deepened. Great. Now he was even redder. Wonderful.

“Extremely,” he replied deadpan, tightening the bolt in front of him with more focus than necessary, trying to ground himself in the mechanics of the bookshelf rather than the conversation swirling around him.

You couldn’t help but laugh at his failed attempt to use sarcasm. “Don’t worry,” you said with a smile that was far too fond for his peace of mind. “It's actually very cute when you blush.”

Aaron froze. No, no, no.

That was not something he was prepared to handle. He was already red, that much he knew - but now? Now, he could feel it spreading like wildfire.

He cleared his throat, his fingers tightening around the screwdriver with more force than necessary. “I don’t think that’s the kind of feedback the instruction manual had in mind,” he said dryly, though his voice wavered just enough to betray him.

You laughed again, soft and warm, and it only made things worse.

“Oh, come on,” you teased, leaning forward just slightly, your grin far too mischievous for his peace of mind. “You can’t possibly hate a compliment that much.”

“I don’t hate it,” he countered quickly, almost too quickly, still refusing to meet your eyes. “I just don’t think it’s relevant to… this.” He gestured vaguely at the bookshelf, hoping the movement would divert some of the attention away from his face.

He never thought he’d see the day when he’d be genuinely grateful for Mrs. Lee to launch into another one of her stories, but here he was. Apparently, miracles did happen. She’d managed to cut through your conversation, sparing him from further embarrassment.

“You two remind me so much of me and my Charles,” she said, a nostalgic sigh punctuating her words. “We teased each other constantly too. Oh, he’d look at me with those serious eyes of his and say, ‘You’re impossible, Sharon.’ Every single time.”

Aaron glanced up, her voice the reminder that, no matter how much he tried to convince himself otherwise, his heart wasn’t made of stone. Far from it, in fact.

“And I’d tell him, ‘No, Charles, you’re boring,’” she added with a chuckle. “And oh, the arguments we’d have! But they were the best arguments, you know? The kind that keep you sharp. Keep you… alive.”

Mrs. Lee’s expression softened, her smile turning bittersweet. “We got married after four months of knowing each other,” she said, her voice quieter now. “Fifty-two years of marriage. It wasn’t always easy, but I’d do it all again in a heartbeat. And I still miss him every single day.”

He was lucky enough to know what love felt like, but he could only hope to be as fortunate as her, to know what it felt like for a love like that to last even half as long.

He didn’t dare look at you. He already knew you’d give her that soft, understanding smile you always did.

“Some people are just meant to be, aren’t they?” you said, your voice quiet but carrying the kind of certainty that made it feel like a universal truth.

“Wise words, dear.” But then she grinned suddenly, the mischievous sparkle returning to her eyes. “Still, he was a pain in the ass sometimes. Wouldn’t let me watch ‘The Love Boat’ as much as I wanted. So, you know what? Fuck him.”

Aaron blinked, srprised. He caught the way your mouth twitched before you burst into laughter, and he shook his head, half-amused, half-incredulous.

“Mrs. Lee,” he said, his voice flat, though the corners of his mouth betrayed him.

As you handed him another piece of wood, Mrs. Lee leaned forward. “Speaking of love,” she began, her tone dangerously casual as she turned to you, “Sweetheart, don’t be shy about asking me to turn off my hearing aid tonight… you know, if the two of you need to unleash all that stress. Especially you Aaron, you need to loosen up.”

Aaron froze, screwdriver slipping slightly in his hand.

What?

Both of you blinked, eyes wide, before instinctively turning to each other to confirm if you’d just heard the same thing - or if it was some bizarre, shared hallucination. Then, in perfect sync, you turned back toward Mrs. Lee.

She was grinning, eyebrows raised expectantly, as if she’d just offered you an excellent tip on couponing and was waiting for your gratitude.

Oh, so she’s serious…

“Mrs. Lee,” you managed finally, your voice shaking with suppressed laughter, “what on earth makes you think we need to, um… ‘unleash’ anything?”

She raised an eyebrow, looking far too pleased with herself. “Oh, honey, I’ve been around. I notice things. It’s been a tough week for you at the BAU, hasn’t it? All those cases piling up. All that stress. I can see it.”

Aaron set down the screwdriver, his jaw tightening. “How do you even know what kind of week it’s been?”

Mrs. Lee sat back, crossing her arms like she’d been waiting for the question. “I know everything, dear. I have contacts.”

Aaron exchanged a look with you, utterly baffled. “Contacts?”

She nodded sagely, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. “I play bridge with a lady from the FBI cleaning staff. Lovely woman. You know… we simply talk.”

He couldn’t exactly fire the entire cleaning staff over this… but, for a fleeting moment, the thought had crossed his mind. Maybe just reassignments.

Practical. Strategic. Manageable.

But then the mental image of the inevitable paperwork reared its ugly head, and his idyllic fantasy died a quick and unceremonious death.

He’d just have to endure this one bookshelf and hope Mrs. Lee didn’t decide to take up poker with the IT department next. The idea of Garcia and Mrs. Lee joining forces was enough to make him break out in a cold sweat.

Mrs. Lee twirled her fork between the two of you, her grin devious. “And I also know you’ve been pushing yourselves too hard with all those late nights. That’s why I’m saying�� you should just do it. Trust me, it works wonders.”

Oh, he knew. He definitely knew. You’d both made that mistake once. But no - never again. Absolutely not.

“Mrs. Lee,” he said evenly, “I don’t think this conversation is appropriate.”

“Oh, Aaron, don’t be such a prude,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Just fuck and then you’ll thank me.”

Charles was right, she really was impossible.

He turned to you, half-expecting to see the same look of disbelief mirrored on your face.

But instead, what he got the moment your eyes met was worse - infinitely worse.

You laughed. A real, unfiltered laugh, bubbling up and spilling over as though the absurdity of everything had finally caught up to you.

The sound was so unexpected, so you, that he couldn’t help it. That was it. A chuckle escaped him before he could stop it, and then another.

God help him, he was laughing too. Unguarded. He could feel it, the exasperation, but also something almost electric, different.

That feeling. That lightness.

When was the last time he’d felt that?

---

1998.

Aaron Hotchner liked to think of himself as a rational man.

A man who could look a brutal truth in the face without flinching, who could hold himself together when the world around him was falling apart. He prided himself on composure, on logic, on not succumbing to the whims of emotion.

But apparently, all it took to unravel that carefully cultivated persona was you showing up in a miniskirt and lace tights.

Really? A miniskirt? This was what undid him?

Not an unsub with a gun, not the horrors of the job… no, it was a skirt that wasn’t even all that short.

It was the perfect length, actually - tasteful, stopping just above the knee, not too long, not too short. The kind of length that somehow drove him to the brink because it hinted at more without being too much.

Perfect.

Why was he even thinking about the length of your skirt?

He was a grown man with a law degree, a rising star at the BAU, and yet here he was, mentally cataloging the specific placement of a hemline like some Victorian prude scandalized by the sight of a woman’s ankle.

It wasn’t like he’d never seen legs before.

Everyone had legs. He’d seen hundreds of them. Thousands. He even had his own pair of legs, for God’s sake.

And yet, here he was, sitting across from you, hyper-fixating on the floral lace pattern winding up your tights - roses, specifically - and spiraling into thoughts so unholy that he half-considered ordering another drink just to drown his embarrassment.

It didn’t help that you’d picked a rose-scented perfume to complete the ensemble, as if you weren’t already doing enough damage.

Subtle but it hung in the air every time you shifted in your seat or leaned forward, wrapping itself around him like it was mocking his rapidly dwindling self-control.

Forget a taunt - this was an ambush, and he wasn’t sure he’d survive the assault without visibly combusting.

Fantastic. Death by roses. How poetic.

And as if the scent alone weren’t enough, his brain - traitorous thing that it was - kept linking it back to the roses on your tights.

It was as if fate had decided he wasn’t already pathetic enough, so it hit him with a one-two punch of matching visuals and aromas, because God forbid he forget for even a second where else he’d seen roses tonight.

Seriously? Did you want him to lose the last shred of dignity he had left? Of course not, you were oblivious to the chaos you’d wrought. Blissfully unaware.

And now he was mentally punching himself for being this ridiculous. He was better than this... he had to be.

So he told himself it was nothing. Just surprise, that’s all. He was simply adjusting to seeing you out of your usual loose-fitting work pants, a new variable.

Of course, that’s it. A new variable. Totally normal reaction.

And yet, despite all his internal lectures, he couldn’t stop his thoughts from spiraling every time his gaze drifted south, the delicate floral patterns climbing up your legs in a way that was almost cruelly mesmerizing.

And why was he even thinking the word “mesmerizing”? It was fabric. Just fabric.

He tried to justify it - he was just being thorough. After all, he was a trained investigator. Thoroughness was part of the job. He definitely wasn’t looking because the curve of your legs had rendered him incapable of rational thought.

He’d just wanted to make sure you still had both legs. That’s all.

Limbs accounted for, Agent, move on.

Except, of course, he couldn’t move on. Not technically. His brain had a knack for circling back to things - moments, words, details he should’ve let go of but couldn’t seem to shake.

This time, it was a few days ago. The way you’d casually invited him out tonight, as if it were nothing. Like it wasn’t a big deal. Like that’s just what friends do. Because, apparently, that’s what you were - friends.

Never mind that your so-called friendship was still in its embryonic stages. Never mind that you’d somehow managed to completely upend his world with one offhanded sentence.

“Mind joining me for a couple of drinks on Friday?” you’d said, so effortlessly it was almost infuriating.

Friday. Your day off.

The one day of the week you didn’t see each other.

You were asking to see him again on the only day you didn’t have to.

What were you doing to him?

Did it mean you actually wanted to spend time with him? Someone boring like him - not out of necessity, not because you were stuck at work or chasing down leads, but because you wanted to?

Why would you?

Why would someone as amazing, competent, smart, beautiful, and funny as you - someone who wore lace tights and a miniskirt on their Fridays off, and yes, Aaron, circling back to that again, apparently - want to spend time with him?

Bland. Broken. Overworked. With a sense of humor so dry even he didn’t fully understand it half the time.

And yet, before he could fully process what was happening, he’d agreed to your request... of course he had.

Because what was the alternative?

Spending yet another Friday night alone, replaying the worst parts of the week in his head?

Trying to convince himself that bad takeout and reruns of movies as old as you were somehow counted as "self-care"?

Going out with other colleagues and getting lost in the noise of too many conversations, only to utter a grand total of four sentences all night and come home feeling even worse?

Or…this. You.

Sitting across from him, lighting up the entire room with another absurdly entertaining story, because the universe had somehow decided you were its favorite magnet for chaos.

It wasn’t fair how easily you turned misfortune into something bordering on comedy gold, but he wasn’t complaining. He wasn’t even sure how you’d gotten here, exactly.

One moment, he’d managed to summon the courage to ask what you’d done on your day off - a monumental feat, as far as he was concerned - and the next, you were recounting it with the kind of unrestrained enthusiasm that could make a trip to the post office sound riveting.

Because, of course, you - a federal agent with an inexplicable knack for philosophical musings and a seemingly endless need to keep busy - had spent your day off at a flea market.

Except, as soon as you mentioned which market, his stomach dropped like a stone.

That place? That wasn’t a flea market - that was where good judgment went to die.

He’d made the mistake to even voice it out loud, so here it came. That spark in your eyes, the one that always appeared when you decided to mount your intellectual soapbox to prove him wrong. “Do you even know the history of that area?”

He blinked, halfway through lifting his glass, because no, he didn’t.

Maybe he did that to himself because straight up asking it wouldn’t make you raise your brows in such a disarming way when you voiced you facts.

And the words you used? Completely disarming. Most of them sounded like they’d been plucked straight from some forgotten 19th-century manuscript, one that had probably been touched by a handful of scholars and a few unlucky grad students. Words no one in casual conversation would ever use - except you.

Who even talked like that?

And, God, why was that so damn attractive?

It wasn’t like he was unfamiliar with big words - he was a lawyer by training, after all. He’d spent years with his nose buried in legal jargon and Latin phrases. He shouldn’t be so affected by vocabulary.

But what probably didn’t help was the fact that he was a history nerd. A big one.

He prided himself on knowing every obscure fact there was to know about Washington - dates, places, people. He could rattle them off in his sleep. And yet, you’d managed to pull out something he’d never heard before.

That was probably why now he was clinging to every word - because, naturally, you’d managed to hit his competitive streak, too... you just had to outdo him, didn’t you?!

He should say something to prove he wasn’t completely in the dark. Maybe casually mention that he used to collect coins as a kid.

But no. He wasn’t going to tell you that.

Not because it wasn’t true - it was, and he still did it sometimes, if he found one interesting enough - but because the second those words left his mouth, you’d know exactly what kind of loser he really was.

And what was worse? You’d probably tease him for it. Which, honestly, was the last thing he needed.

Or maybe the first. Hell, he didn’t know anymore.

“You’re really pulling out Reconstruction history to convince me it’s a flea market?” he said finally, lifting his glass to his lips in a poor attempt to hide the smile threatening to betray him.

“Yes,” you said simply, leaning back and crossing your arms with an air of victorious confidence. "Because it is a flea market. The absence of your knowledge does not negate its existence."

Aaron bit the inside of his cheek harder this time, half to keep from smiling and half to stop his brain from melting entirely.

God, you were insufferable. And brilliant. And - he really hated himself for thinking this - beautiful.

He could easily argue back.

He could tell you the truth - that the place you went to had devolved into anything but a market. That it was the kind of place he would’ve chased down suspects, not strolled through on a lazy afternoon.

But then you said the phrase “integral point of trade,” and Aaron swore he nearly choked on his drink. He busied himself taking another sip, just to avoid staring at you any longer.

He sighed softly, just enough to get you to glance at him. “What?” you asked, narrowing your eyes like you were daring him to say something contradictory.

Aaron shook his head, leaning an elbow against the table as he set down his glass. “Nothing,” he said smoothly, though the corner of his mouth betrayed him with a twitch. “I’m just impressed.”

Your brow furrowed slightly, clearly suspicious. “Impressed?”

“Mm-hmm.” He tilted his head, pretending to scrutinize you. "With how effortlessly you’ve managed to transform a casual conversation into a dissertation defense."

The look you gave him was preciously smug. “You’re just jealous you didn’t know any of this.”

Jealous? No… yes, kind of.

Bewildered? Yes.

Smitten? Absolutely.

But Aaron - trained professional, seasoned profiler, master of keeping things close to his chest - only picked up his drink again, hiding behind its edge as he muttered, “Sure. We’ll go with that.”

He let you have this one.

You looked far too pleased with yourself, your lips curved just slightly, your chin lifted like a challenge. It was a rare thing to see you so smugly triumphant, and as much as he wanted to argue - to win - he couldn’t bring himself to ruin it.

You’d never know that, technically, you were the one who was wrong. And that was fine.

Because if you knew, you wouldn’t be rambling so happily about your day, weaving it together with that unrestrained enthusiasm that made every mundane detail sound like it was something crucial.

You were, in a word, adorable.

The kind of adorable that made him laugh - not the polite, carefully curated chuckle he usually offered, but a real, startled laugh that felt foreign in his chest, like dusting off an old, forgotten relic.

The kind of adorable that came with you talking with your entire body, hands darting through the air as though you were trying to physically sculpt the story from nothing.

And somehow, Aaron found himself hanging on every word.

Even when the plot made no sense. Even when the punchline was nowhere in sight.

Adorable. Absolutely maddening. But utterly, ridiculously adorable.

And God, he was so completely smitten with you it was almost embarassing.

“…and then, as if the day couldn’t get worse, this guy completely cuts me off at the table. Like, who does that? It was so rude!” you said, your hands gesturing wildly and accidentally knocking the edge of the salt shaker.

He caught it just before it toppled and set it back in its place.

Oh, how you talked.

If Aaron was someone who overthought everything, you were someone who overtalked.

It was a paradox, really. You knew more languages than anyone he’d ever met. You were a genius, with a vocabulary so vast it could send people running for dictionaries. And yet, somehow, synthesis wasn’t in your lexicon.

You could spend twenty minutes setting up a punchline for a story that should’ve taken two, and he never minded.

You were recounting your flea market disaster like it was the most thrilling adventure, and of course, you weren’t just telling him. No, that wouldn’t be enough for you. You had to make him see it, live it, feel it the way you had.

“Wait, Hotch, you’re not getting it,” you’d said, your tone urgent, like it was a matter of life and death. And then, without warning, you grabbed his hand.

His heart did something humiliating - a stutter, a skip, whatever it was, it made him feel ridiculous.

Like a teenager with a crush. Which, of course, he wasn’t. He was a grown man. A rational man. One who should’ve been able to handle something as simple as you taking his hand to demonstrate a story.

But no.

You pressed his hand flat against the table, arranging his fingers like they were vital props in your reenactment. “This is the table,” you said with all the seriousness in the world, completely oblivious to the fact that you’d just stolen another year of his life with that one touch.

Your hands were on his.

Aaron Hotchner: a sheep in his nursery school Christmas recital, Pirate Number Four in his high school production of The Pirates of Penzance, and now - a table. A progression so absurd it might have made him laugh if he weren’t so desperately trying to breathe.

Stay calm, Hotchner. It’s just a table.

He should have felt ridiculous. Sitting there, his hand splayed out, but instead, all he could think about was how hollow his hand would feel the second you let go.

You had no idea, of course.

Oblivious to the fact that his brain was screaming at him to pull it together while simultaneously begging you to never stop touching him.

“And this is me,” you said, gesturing to yourself with your free hand.

Still, all he could think about now was the warmth of your hand on his, the way your fingers fit so easily against his own.

It’s a table, Hotchner, again. Just a table. Don’t lose your mind over a damn table.

“And this - oh, wait, I need something-” you said, pulling your hand away to grab the salt shaker, and in that instant, you proved his theory correct: his hand felt utterly and painfully empty without yours.

The salt shaker landed beside his hand, completing your bizarre little scene. “This is him,” you declared, as if it all made perfect sense.

“Salt shaker guy. Got it,” he said, his voice steadier now that you weren’t touching him.

You shot him a look. “Don’t make fun of the salt shaker. He’s pivotal to the story.”

He almost laughed at himself, for sitting there like a lovesick fool, hanging on your every word and praying for an excuse for you to touch him again.

Put them back. Please, for the love of God, put them back.

And then, as if you’d heard his silent plea, you reached for his hand once more, rearranging it.

Perfectionist. Adorable perfectionist.

“So,” you said leaning closer, “I’m here, looking at this table, minding my own business, when this guy” - you gestured to the salt shaker - “just swoops in out of nowhere and starts taking things. Like blatantly stealing!”

You were still holding his hand, your thumb brushing against his as you were, recounting how the ‘suspect’ had made off with a brass dolphin statue, of all things.

“A dolphin,” he’d said, unable to keep the amusement from his voice.

“Yes, Hotch, a dolphin. It was hideous, and I needed it,” you said, narrowing your eyes at him like he was the one who’d stolen it.

“And then - get this - the guy starts knocking over everything. A lamp falls, hits the table, and it all comes down.” you said, grabbing his other hand. Both of his hands now in yours. He was gone. Absolutely gone.

You continued “So - what am I supposed to do?” You looked at him expectantly, clearly waiting for his answer. Because, naturally, that’s what questions are for.

He straightened up slightly, clearing his throat. “You called the police because you’re FBI and have no jurisdiction-”

“I arrested him,” you interjected with flair, as if this were the most logical and inevitable conclusion. “Citizens’ arrest, it was humiliating. There was a crowd. They were staring. I had no choice. Society would crumble if we let salt shakers like him run wild.”

Aaron shook his head, his lips twitching as he fought off a grin. “And what? You read him his rights?!”

You adorably groaned, burying your face in your hands. “Worse - I might have told him, ‘Sir, drop the dolphin.’”

That was it. He lost it.

His laugh erupted, loud and unrestrained, turning heads at the bar. A few strangers even chuckled along, unaware of the joke, but Aaron didn’t care. He couldn’t stop.

For a man who lived by control, it should have been unsettling - the way he couldn’t rein himself in, the way his body betrayed him with laughter that felt too big, too loud.

But it wasn’t, not with you.

Because you’d managed to do what no one else could: make him forget himself. Make him let go.

And so he did.

His mind drifted away, pulled by a current he couldn’t control.

Aaron blinked, the memory of your hands on his burning his skin like an old scar. For a moment, he was back there: you across the table, reenacting the chaotic events of a flea market fiasco with a salt shaker and his hands, the sound of your laughter ringing in his ears.

But then the world shifted.

The small table stretched, the edges elongating, growing wider and longer until it wasn’t just the two of you anymore. The air thickened, filled with louder sounds - voices, overlapping conversations, a cacophony of presence.

This wasn’t 1998 anymore.

Now, the long table was crowded.

JJ sat at one end of the long table, her hand lightly resting on a glass of water as she laughed at something Penelope had said, her cheeks slightly flushed.

Whatever they were talking about, Aaron couldn’t quite make out - though the dramatic hand flails and an occasional squeal from Penelope made it clear it was probably something absurd.

On the closer side of the table, however, the conversation was significantly… less wholesome.

Next to JJ, Emily leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, her face shifting between disgust and reluctant amusement, like she couldn’t quite decide whether to roll her eyes or encourage it.

Across from him, Derek grinned like a man who knew exactly what he was doing, his hands moving in exaggerated, circular motions that left no room for interpretation.

It was amazing, really.

When these two were this animated, it was either because they were dissecting some niche crime novel they’d both read or... this.

“And I’m telling you,” Derek declared, spreading his hands wide, “they were this big. Unreal, man. You’d have to see it to believe it - the biggest pair of - ”

“Boobs, Derek?” Emily cut in, raising an eyebrow so sharp it could’ve sliced through his bravado. “Subtle. Really. I’m impressed by your dedication to being as respectful as a middle schooler on spring break.”

Derek leaned forward, his grin turning downright wicked. “Oh, please, Em. Don’t even try it. I’ve seen you straight-up melt over a girl in a button-down. Subtle ain’t exactly your thing either.”

Emily rolled her eyes, taking a deliberate sip of her drink before setting it down with a smirk. “First of all, button-downs are hot. Second of all, mind your business, Morgan.” She leaned back in her chair. “At least I’m not out here narrating a National Geographic special on boobs. Talk about subtle.”

And then there was Spencer.

Of course, Spencer. Talking fast - too fast - gesturing wildly as he rattled off some philosophical theory that had to involve at least three different German philosophers whose names Aaron couldn’t spell, let alone pronounce.

And you.

Sitting at Aaron’s left, your hands flitted into Spencer’s space every other second, countering his arguments with rapid-fire points that seemed to form their own language.

Aaron caught maybe a couple of words out of every ten.

Something about Nietzsche. No, wait - you hated Nietzsche. Kierkegaard? Possibly.

Honestly, it could have been both. Or neither. For all he knew, you were inventing philosophers now just to keep the conversation interesting.

The two of you had been talking nonstop for the past hours - since the moment you boarded the jet. It had gone on so long, so consistently, that the noise was no longer conversation but had evolved into a kind of background static.

The rest of the team had tuned it out completely, treating your relentless back-and-forth as white noise punctuated by occasional bursts of excitement whenever one of you discovered a particularly “thrilling” point.

...thrilling for you, anyway.

Aaron was fairly certain no one else on the jet had ever found Kant ‘thrilling’ - at best, just a dead guy with a vaguely suggestive name that occasionally got a laugh.

It stung a little, though, when Aaron thought about how the team had spent a good portion of that time joking about you and Spencer - probably their way of coping with the relentless noise of your debates.

“Okay, seriously,” JJ had groaned at one point. “when we get to the bar tonight, they are sitting at a separate table. I can’t handle this anymore. And with alcohol involved? Forget it. My brain will shut down.”

Emily, sitting across from her, smirked. “Oh, come on, JJ. Don’t you want to learn about something completely useless while sipping a margarita? Could be fun.”

JJ shot her a look. “Pass.”

“We could all sit together at first and then just sneak off,” Derek said, leaning back in his chair with a self-satisfied grin. “Teach and Pretty Boy probably wouldn’t even notice… you know what they say - philosophy’s the language of loooove,” he added in a sing-song tone, waggling his eyebrows.

Penelope, who had been giggling quietly behind her hand, finally chimed in. “Aw, like two adorable little nerdy lovebirds. It’s so sweet!”

Lovebirds. Aaron’s jaw tightened as he stared straight ahead.

They were joking, of course. Obviously. There was no way they actually thought you and Spencer could be a thing. Relationships at work were strictly forbidden, after all.

It was in the rules.

Not that Aaron was thinking about relationships. That would be absurd.

It wouldn’t work - not because he didn’t like Spencer. Hell, Spencer was practically his first child. But the idea of you and Spencer together? It just didn’t make sense.

Sure he was brilliant, compassionate, genuine - all the qualities anyone could ask for. But Spencer wasn’t… well...

He just wasn’t for you.

Not that Aaron knew what your type even was. It wasn’t as if he’d spent the better part of a decade cataloging your preferences. That would be ridiculous.

But he did know one thing - you liked clever people. And Spencer was clever. A genius. Of course, it made perfect sense to everyone else that you’d be potentially a good match. Didn’t it?!

And what about him?

Aaron felt like he was drowning.

The table was alive with energy, with three conversations firing off simultaneously. And Aaron sat in the middle of it all, the only one not speaking.

Still, he absorbed it all: every word, every shift in tone, every burst of laughter. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t interject, even when he had something to say.

He just listened.

He wished he could do more than that. He wished people could see that he cared, that he was invested in what they were saying, even if his quiet nods and glances didn’t scream it like everyone else’s chatter did.

Because that was the thing about Aaron: listening came naturally to him. Reacting? That was harder.

He watched as Penelope exclaimed, “No way!” her hands flying up dramatically, her voice a beacon of enthusiasm. JJ chimed in with a soft “Really?” that pulled everyone into her orbit for just a second. Derek countered with a smug remark that had Emily rolling her eyes, but even she couldn’t suppress a grin.

And Aaron? Aaron just sat there, absorbing it all while his voice disappeared.

An hour could slip by without him saying a word, until someone finally remembered he was even there.

And that was the irony of it all: he was probably the most physically imposing person at the table, but his silence erased him. The conversation moved forward, leaving him stranded somewhere back in the past topic, unheard and unnoticed.

Most of the time, he didn’t mind. He didn’t need to be the center of attention, didn’t crave the spotlight - not here, not after a long day of being the Unit Chief.

But when he did notice? It hit him like a freight train.

Suddenly, he became hyper-aware of everything. The way his arms rested awkwardly on the table. The position of his hands. The stiffness of his posture. The sheer weight of his silence.

He felt out of place. Like a ghost at his own table.

Aaron shifted in his seat, stimming with his fingers - a small movement, but one that betrayed his discomfort. He glanced at the others, wondering if anyone had noticed, if anyone might throw him a lifeline.

But the table buzzed on, oblivious.

It started to sting when Aaron realized no one had asked him a question in the last 45 minutes.

He sat there, at the table with his team, feeling like a ghost at his own gathering. The laughter and voices surrounded him, a cacophony of sound that made it impossible to pinpoint one conversation from the next. He could barely hear himself think, and yet, inside his own head was where he remained, trapped, desperately wanting to be part of the moment but unsure how to step back into the light.

There’s a theory that says you don’t exist unless someone calls and you respond.

So there was light.

A warm touch of a hand on his left shoulder.

Aaron froze.

And then, it happened. Finally, a question. At him.

“So, are you going to New York tomorrow?” you asked, your hand still resting on his shoulder.

He hesitated for a second, as if needing to confirm that you were actually speaking to him. But the look in your eyes, the way they searched his, and the slight tilt of your head in his direction were more than enough to prove that you were.

It was strange. He wasn’t really used to being addressed like this in group settings - directly, personally. When people spoke to him, it was always about work, requests to stretch the days off into a long weekend, or about Jack, asking if he’d seen him recently.

No, he hadn’t. Not really.

He’d seen Jack about a month ago for barely a minute. He’d been asleep. Aaron had only gone to Jessica’s house because he’d needed to, after the worst case he’d handled all year.

Even now, guilt lingered for intruding like that, for being selfish enough to need that quiet moment, and it only deepened when questions like those came up, pulling him back to what he hadn’t done, to who he hadn’t been.

And yet, no one ever asked him about that. About him.

The questions were always for Hotch the Unit Chief or Aaron the dad. They were never about just Aaron.

“I-I don’t know yet,” he muttered, his voice barely audible. He half-expected you to nod politely and return to your conversation with Spencer. But you didn’t... why?

“What play were you planning to see?” you asked, your voice soft but curious, as though the answer genuinely mattered to you.

He paused, caught off guard by the question. He wasn’t sure why you even bothered. You knew next to nothing about musical theatre - less than he knew about philosophy, and that was saying something.

Because, if he were honest, he probably knew more about musical theatre than you did about philosophy. And you had a PhD in philosophy. Every paper you’d ever published had some philosophical angle, every argument you made seemed rooted in it. Hell, your mind practically breathed in philosophy. But musical theatre? That was his realm.

He wasn’t just an occasional fan - he was a theatre nerd, borderline obsessive. The kind of person who read scripts for fun, hummed overtures from shows no one else remembered, and had opinions on whether revivals ever truly lived up to the originals.

So why did this simple question throw him? Why did it feel like there was a weight behind it he couldn’t quite place? Maybe because you didn’t know that about him - not yet, at least.

Sure, you knew he loved musical theatre - which, honestly, was already an achievement. He rarely felt safe enough to share that detail with anyone. You knew he made it a point to see a Broadway play every time he was in New York.

But the rest? The details? Those he never shared. Not with you, not with anyone.

You didn’t know how often he went back to see the same shows, over and over again, as if they were old friends waiting to welcome him home.

Or how much he cherished the intimacy of tiny off-Broadway productions - the kind performed in spaces that barely qualified as theatres, where the air buzzed with raw, electric talent.

And he wasn’t sure how to tell you all of that without sounding like… well, like him.

Aaron Hotchner: Unit Chief. Father. Theatre Nerd.

“I haven’t really decided yet,” Aaron began, the words tumbling out faster than he intended. “But I’ve been thinking about catching this play. The original cast is coming back for a limited run this month to celebrate the anniversary… it’s kind of a big thing.”

What the fuck had he just said?

He sounded like one of those pretentious purists who thought only the original cast could do a show justice - the kind of person who wrote overly passionate forum posts about “artistic integrity.”

The same kind of person, ironically, he’d wasted too many hours of his life arguing with in comment sections, armed with nothing but a sense of logic, proper grammar, and the faint hope that maybe he could introduce them to the concept of reasonable thought.

And now? He sounded exactly like them. Great. Just great.

He needed to fix it. Immediately. Before he dug the hole any deeper.

“It’s not that I don’t like the current cast ,” he added quickly, as if that would save him. “Far from it. They’re incredible. I saw them last year, and they were just as powerful as I remembered. But…”

Oh, great. There was the but.

“The first time I saw it…” He trailed off for a second, feeling a pull he couldn’t quite articulate. “It was on opening night, back when it was still off-Broadway. No one really knew about it yet. It felt… raw, I guess. Intimate in a way that stayed with me.”

Intimate. Really, Hotchner?

He immediately winced internally. Now he sounded like a creep. Fantastic.

That was probably why you were smiling at him like that, with those soft eyes and that too-kind expression. Compassion. Pity.

That had to be it. You were humoring him.

Perfect. Just perfect. Can he do at least one thing right in his life? Just one? Apparently not.

The words started coming faster, his attempt to salvage whatever dignity he had left. “I mean, it’s the themes,” his hands twitched as if to emphasize the points, but he forced them to stay still. “They’re… timeless, but also distinctly modern. Community. Survival. Resilience. Love in its purest and messiest forms.”

Now he was waxing poetic. Could he even hear himself?

“People finding each other and holding on, even when everything around them is falling apart,” he continued, fully aware he’d gone too far but somehow unable to stop. “It’s hard to explain, but there’s something about it - the music, the storytelling. It’s honest, but it’s hopeful. It doesn’t shy away from how ugly life can be, but it still manages to show there’s beauty in the fight.”

He finally stopped, feeling his face grow warmer by the second. He might as well have just stood up and shouted, “Hi, I’m Aaron Hotchner, I’m 42 and I’m currently experiencing a complete emotional breakdown over a musical. Please be kind.”

What was he even doing? Did he think this would impress you? No, worse - for once he didn’t think at all. That was the problem.

“I don’t know,” he added quickly, trying to reel himself back in. “I’m probably just being sentimental.”

Beautiful, Hotchner. Very subtle. He was officially done talking. Forever, if possible.

You still smiled, leaning in slightly, and Aaron braced himself for the inevitable teasing, the polite that’s nice before you turned the conversation elsewhere. But instead, you tilted your head and said softly, “That doesn’t sound sentimental to me.”

He blinked, caught completely off guard. That wasn’t what he was expecting. Not even close.

“It sounds… personal,” you continued, your voice steady and calm. “Like it left a mark on you. I think that’s kind of incredible, actually.”

Aaron stared at you for a second, his mind scrambling - you weren’t laughing at him. You weren’t humoring him. You were listening.

“I-” he started, but the words caught in his throat.

You tilted your head, your smile growing just slightly, like you could see how much he was struggling to process this. “Really, I mean it. The way you’re describing it… honestly, it sounds beautiful. You connect with it. That’s the whole point of art, isn’t it? To find meaning in it, to feel heard.”

Beautiful.

Now you were waxing poetic. But somehow, hearing it from you didn’t make him wince the way his own words did.

He huffed a small, almost nervous laugh, more to himself than to you. It was infuriating how easily you could do that, just be this way. “I guess it is”

“Of course it is.” You teased lightly, sitting back in your seat but keeping your eyes on him. “Now, are you finally going to tell me the name of this life-changing musical, or is it some kind of classified information?”

“It doesn’t really matter,” he muttered, already trying to move past it. “You probably wouldn’t know it.” He caught himself. “It’s not important.”

You tilted your head, your smile unwavering, clearly not letting him off the hook. “It sounds important to you,” you said softly, leaning forward just a little. “And if it’s important to you, it’s important to me.”

He huffed a small breath, glancing down at his hands. He couldn’t tell if your persistence was infuriating or disarming - or maybe it was both.

“It’s called Rent,” he finally said, the word slipping out before he could stop himself.

“I know it,” you responded without hesitation, and he was so surprised that he couldn’t help but chime in again.

“You do?” he asked, the surprise clear in his voice - not because Rent was niche, far from it. It was one of the most iconic musicals ever.

But coming from you? This felt like a monumental achievement, especially considering that the last time you two talked about musicals, you’d admitted to not knowing The Sound of Music was anything more than a movie. At this point, he’d learned to expect anything from you.

“Yes,” you said with a small smile. “It’s actually the only live show I’ve ever seen. My mom practically dragged me to it ages ago… it was the day I finished my PhD in linguistics.”

Aaron didn’t know where to begin. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. He did.

He knew you’d lived in New York while working on your PhD at Columbia, just a stone’s throw away from the very theatres he’d spent hours traveling to whenever he could manage a free weekend.

And yet, in all that time, you’d seen exactly one show. One.

It was baffling. Almost impressive, really - your sheer commitment to avoiding the arts.

Was it a conscious effort? A statement? Honestly, he wasn’t sure whether to be disappointed or begrudgingly admire the consistency.

“I don’t remember much of the songs, sorry” you admitted, your tone softer now. “I do remember, ironically, when we came in, they said the creator had passed the day before from a heart attack. I really could feel the emotion in the room. It was amazing - one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.”

It couldn’t be.

“January 26th, 1996,” he said, the words spilling out before he could stop himself.

You paused, your brows knitting together as you thought. “Oh, wow,” you murmured after a moment. “Yes, that’s right. How could you possibly know that?”

He felt his cheeks flush even as the words formed on his tongue. “That was opening night,” he said softly, almost hesitantly. “I was there too.”

You stared at each other, eyes locked. Silence.

He couldn’t quite put into words what it was that made the realization feel so… heavy.

Maybe it was the sheer improbability of it. How, out of all the places in the world, your paths had crossed that night in a tiny theatre in New York.

Because in 1996, you didn’t know each other. You were strangers in the truest sense of the word - two lives moving parallel, unaware of the other’s existence.

Of course, you wouldn’t remember seeing each other. How could you? The thought was absurd, and yet, the thought of it - of you there, somewhere in that 199-seat theatre, maybe half full - flustered him.

Had your eyes met in the foyer, just for a fleeting moment, the way they were meeting his now?

Had you brushed past him, two strangers moving toward seats that would bring you close but never quite close enough?

The thought sent him spiraling, not because it felt impossible, but because it didn’t. It felt inevitable.

Maddening and beautiful all at once, the kind of paradox that left him breathless.

There was a sweet, aching ignorance in the idea.

Neither of you had any way of knowing what you would one day mean to each other.

Of knowing that the stranger sitting nearby, lost in the same music and emotion, would one day become one of the most important people in your life.

It had to be fate.

You, sitting just as you were now - beside him, to his left. Or at least, that’s how liked to imagine it. Maybe you’d even leaned toward your mother then, the way you leaned toward him now, smiling.

Some people are just meant to be, aren’t they?

Fate, he thought again. Because if that wasn’t fate, he wasn’t sure what was.

So maybe he should go to New York. All the streets seemed to lead there.

Besides, someone he knew had just been assigned to lead the NYPD, maybe he should pay her a visit.

---

Hotch hadn’t expected how much the latest case would affect his team - or himself, for that matter.

He’d noticed something was wrong with JJ the moment they stepped into the first crime scene together.

There was a heaviness about her, a stillness he’d learned to recognize in the years they’d worked side by side. It wasn’t unusual for these cases to take a toll, but this one felt different.

He’d confronted her almost immediately, pulling her aside when Reid and the officer weren’t within earshot. He’d told her he understood - how could he not?

Ever since Jack was born, cases involving children had clawed at him in ways he couldn’t fully prepare for, no matter how many times he tried to steel himself.

But for JJ, it was different. It was worse. Every case they worked on - every horror they encountered - came across her desk first.

Every victim’s file landed in her hands before it reached anyone else. And far too often, those victims were women her age, mothers, daughters, lives cut short in ways too cruel to fathom.

He’d told her it was okay to lose it every once in a while, that no one could carry this job without feeling its weight. She hadn’t looked convinced, and he couldn’t blame her.

Coming from him - the Stoic - it must have felt hollow.

He saw it in her eyes, in the way her shoulders barely eased under his reassurances. She was still carrying it, even after the case was over.

And so he tried again.

He approached JJ as the officer closed the door on the car, securing the unsub’s wife, Chrissy, inside. She had killed him, desperate to protect their future child from his violent legacy.

“You okay?” he asked gently.

JJ stared blankly into the distance, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. It took a moment before she answered, her voice low and reflective. “You stop caring, you're jaded. If you care too much... it'll ruin you.”

“Just know that you did everything you could,” he replied softly. “Sometimes we get it right with a little luck, and most of the time we don't. That's the job. It's never perfect.”

He paused, his gaze shifting to her as his tone softened further. “It's still better to care.”

“You really believe that?” JJ asked, finally turning to look at him, her arms still folded defensively.

Of course not. Caring too much destroys you - it always does. Look at what it had done to his own life.

He shook his head slowly, his mouth twitching as if suppressing a more honest reply. “I believe it's never perfect.”

And maybe that’s what haunted him the most - how helpless he felt in the face of it. Because he knew better than anyone that words could only do so much. Pain like that didn’t dissipate because someone told you it was okay to feel it.

It lingered. It lingered in the quiet moments, in the spaces between cases, in the dark corners of your mind when you finally stopped moving.

Another one who didn’t show the weight of the case quite as visibly as JJ, but was no less affected, was Prentiss.

She was better at masking it - that much he could see. But Hotch also knew her well enough to recognize the way she carried her thoughts.

The motive behind this case, the layers of injustice, had settled heavily on her shoulders. It wasn’t hard to imagine why. Her frustration wasn’t so different from JJ’s in essence, it came from the same place - a longing for justice.

But for Prentiss, it wasn’t just about the crimes committed. It was about the deeper, systemic unfairness that had brought them here in the first place.

He could tell she was thinking about Chrissy, the young mother caught in an impossible situation.

About how, in a patriarchal society, the person who would truly pay the price for all of this wouldn’t be the perpetrator alone - it would be Chrissy, the woman who had tried to protect her child in the only way she thought she could.

It was horrifyingly unfair.

Aaron could feel her anger in the quiet moments, the way her jaw tightened when Chrissy’s name was mentioned, the way she avoided eye contact with anyone when the case wrapped. He understood it, but he didn’t say anything.

How could he? He had no right to.

As a man, he knew he was part of the very system she was furious with. Even unintentionally, even passively, he benefited from it. So he stayed quiet.

But that didn’t mean he did nothing. As a former prosecutor, he understood the gravity of Chrissy’s situation. The trial would not be easy. The legal system often wasn’t.

But he also knew the power of a voice within that system, the importance of framing the narrative with care. So he took the only step he could think of, the only one that felt right.

He sat down and wrote a letter addressing the complexities of the case. He focused on the circumstances that had forced Chrissy into a decision no one should ever have to make. He laid out the context, the systemic failures, the humanity of it all. And when it was done, he filed it with the process.

It wasn’t much, but it was a step.

It was all he could do - to have faith that the trial would deliver justice, not just for the victims, but for Chrissy as well.

With Morgan and Reid, the reasons were different - the questions a case like this left behind were vast, yet the two of them had latched onto the same one, albeit in opposing ways.

The cyclical nature of violence. The profound impact of familial legacy on individual behavior. Can you pass down the gene of evil? Is it inevitable? Or can it be changed?

It was ironic, really - how the same theme could yield two entirely different interpretations, juxtaposed like night and day.

For Morgan, who was slowly reapproaching a faith he’d long abandoned, the answers came from above. Or at least, he hoped they would.

Morgan searched for meaning in something greater, for the divine to offer clarity in a world that often seemed devoid of it.

Hotch couldn’t offer much in that regard; he understood it too well. He’d grown up in a family that confessed the same beliefs, heard the same hymns, recited the same prayers. And while the answers Morgan sought were his own to find, Hotch could offer a small gesture of solidarity.

So, when he went to the kitchenette for coffee, he made one for Morgan too. He didn’t say anything, just handed him the steaming cup, hoping the caffeine would keep him awake long enough to wrestle with those questions and, luckily, find some peace before it spiraled further.

He added an extra touch - his last dark chocolate truffle. He wanted it for himself, truthfully, but Morgan needed it more. It wasn’t much, but it felt like the right thing to do.

Because if there was one tenet of faith Aaron could still believe in, it was this: ‘be kind to one another.’ And sometimes, kindness came in the form of caffeine and chocolate

Then there was Reid. For him, the search for answers took a different path, one turned inward.

He sought them in the vast expanse of his mind, a database larger and more intricate than anything Hotch could fathom.

He knew that Reid’s healing process often began in solitude, pouring over facts, theories, and philosophical musings until they settled into something resembling clarity.

So, when he made coffee for him, he took care to prepare it the way Reid liked it - sickeningly sweet, almost more syrup than coffee. He didn’t interrupt Reid’s silent contemplation. It was still too early, the thoughts too embryonic.

Handing Reid the mug, he let the younger man be, knowing that if Spencer needed logical confrontation, he would come directly to him. They’d discuss the meaning of words, the patterns of human behavior, and then Reid would likely move on with his day.

What concerned him, though, was the possibility that Reid might go to you instead.

It wasn’t that Hotch doubted you - quite the opposite. If there was anyone who understood Reid’s need to dive deeply into the cultural and philosophical nature of humanity, it was you.

You had a way of peeling back layers, of digging into the complexities of existence, even when it required hours of intellectual and emotional suffering to do so. Hotch trusted you more than he trusted himself to guide Reid in those moments.

But if Reid came to you, it would mean the case had struck him harder than Hotch had realized.

Because you weren’t the first step in Reid’s process - you were the last. The one who could challenge him, pull him deeper, and help him emerge on the other side.

Hotch took a sip of his own coffee, glancing toward Reid, who was already lost in thought, and then toward Morgan, who sat quietly with his faith and his chocolate.

They’d find their answers in time, he knew. Whether above, within, or through someone who truly understood.

Rossi though was, without a doubt, the most frustrating one to figure out.

It wasn’t that Hotch didn’t understand why the case had affected him - he did. The reasons were as plain as day.

But Rossi’s stubbornness and unyielding pride made it nearly impossible to offer any kind of help, let alone get close enough to understand the full picture. He was still adjusting to the group dynamic, still learning to balance respect for everyone’s boundaries with his old habits of calling the shots.

Sure, there had been progress.

Rossi had made small steps toward blending in since rejoining the team, he was more open with him especially - but there were moments when his gaze drifted backward, to how things used to be.

That same tendency to look to the past was what Hotch knew had cut deepest in this case. The past haunted Rossi.

Hotch had seen it in the way his demeanor shifted, the way he threw himself into conversation with the local detective, whose story mirrored something unspoken in Rossi.

The detective had just closed a case that had haunted him for 27 years - a case that had cost him everything. His job. His mental sanity. His sense of self.

Rossi wasn’t as different from him as he probably wanted to believe.

Hotch had overheard more than one of their conversations, seen the way Rossi leaned in when the man talked about his regrets, about the weight he carried. And more than once, Rossi had mentioned his own “unfinished business,” those words lingering in the air like a loaded gun.

Hotch didn’t push. He couldn’t. Rossi had to face it on his own first, to admit - to himself, above all - that there was something he needed to confront.

But he hoped that when the time came, Rossi would find the strength to do more than just admit it. He hoped he’d find the strength to let it go.

Only an agent was left - two, if he counted himself.

It didn’t surprise him that the reason this case had shaken you was the same as his own, even if you hadn’t told him yet.

You didn’t need to. He knew you too well by now, and silence wasn’t as opaque as you probably hoped it would be.

And the thing that would help you was the same thing he knew would help him: dialogue. A confrontation of two broken individuals, trying to make sense of the same chaos from different angles.

You and him, speaking two completely different languages: physics and metaphysics. One grounded in logic and structure, the other stretching toward something bigger, intangible.

You sought answers in the abstract, in the why, while he clung to the tangible, the how.

Together, somehow, you always found your way.

Hotch made his way down the aisle of the jet, paperwork in hand, catching sight of you before he even reached your seat. You were hunched over a file, so engrossed that you didn’t notice him until he stopped beside you and cleared his throat.

Predictably, you snapped the file shut in an instant, like you were hiding state secrets. Too bad for you - he already knew.

“There’s no need to be so secretive about that case file,” he said, his tone deceptively casual as he lowered himself into the seat across from you, one hand tugging his tie back into place. “Especially when we’re both working on the exact same one.”

Your eyes flicked up, skeptical, and then down at the file he placed on the table - its size dwarfing yours like a monument to over-preparation. “Impossible,” you said, your arms crossing defensively. “Yours is the size of an encyclopedia.”

“Probably because it seems I’ve worked on it more than you have,” he replied, allowing himself the faintest hint of a smile. “Tell me, is it the Boston Reaper case by any chance?”

Caught you, Philosopher.

Your eyes widened, the look of someone watching a magician pull a rabbit out of a hat. “How? Why?”

That was all you managed to say, and Hotch had to fight back the urge to laugh. The great oracle of philosophy, reduced to caveman syntax. You sounded exactly like Jack when he was first trying to string together sentences as a toddler.

Those questions weren’t even for him - they were clearly for yourself.

How does he know? Why is he working on this case?

And honestly, Hotch thought, the answers were so obvious it was almost endearing that you bothered to ask.

He knew why you were both silently working on that case on the jet back to Quantico. It was your way of coping with the uncomfortable fear today’s investigation had stirred - that an old, unresolved case like this one could resurface, leaving a new trail of victims in its wake.

Fear - that you might end up like the detective from today, unprepared. All this time later, and still haunted by what could have been done differently.

The Boston Reaper wasn’t just another unresolved case. It wasn’t just about the local police pulling both of you off it before you’d even had the chance to work on a proper profile.

That had been frustrating, sure, but the ties to this case ran deeper.

For him, it had been his first case as a lead profiler, thrust into the role just as Rossi had abruptly left the team without so much as a warning.

For you, it had been your ever first unresolved case, the kind of professional scar that stayed with you no matter how many victories followed.

And then there was the part neither of you would ever mention aloud.

It had been the case assigned to both of you the morning after what could only be described as a monumental lapse in judgment - a lapse Mrs. Lee, would still gleefully encourage you to repeat.

“Fear,” Hotch said simply, answering the unspoken why. He didn’t dare meet your eyes as he added, “And you already know the ‘how.’”

Because of course you did.

That unspoken moment of realization between you was something he definitely didn’t want to linger on - mainly because the second he saw it in your eyes, he’d probably blush like an idiot, and you’d never let him hear the end of it.

“So,” he said briskly, gesturing toward your file, “can I read the Oracle’s thoughts on the case now?”

You hesitated for a moment, then handed him the file. “I got stuck,” you admitted, your tone less defensive now. “There’s barely anything in there.”

“Well, that’s why I’m here. Let’s see -” he said, flipping open the file.

His eyes immediately landed on one word written larger than the others, circled as if it demanded top billing in the drama of your thoughts.

“Fate,” he murmured, his lips twitching at the irony.

Of course it was fate.

If the past few days had taught him anything, it was that the universe had an excellent sense of humor - albeit a twisted one.

You leaned forward slightly, pulling him back to the present. “He uses the Eye of Providence as a symbol for his killings,” you explained, saving him from the philosophical essays you’d undoubtedly penned in the margins... thank God.

You continued “That’s where I started. But it led me nowhere. Then I thought about how he wrote ‘fate’ on the windshield of one of his victims in their own blood.” You paused for a bit. “Words are more powerful than symbols.”

That struck a chord. Words required intent, precision. They carried weight. They cut deeper.

Hotch’s eyes dropped back to the file, scanning your notes as he absorbed what you’d said. Pieces started clicking into place, fragments of thought aligning in a way that sparked something.

He looked up at you. “What if he sees himself as the personification of fate?” he theorized, his eyes searching yours for confirmation.

“Well, didn’t you read my mind, Unit Chief?!” you said with a grin. “That’s exactly what I’m trying to prove.” That look - the one you knew drove him just slightly mad - prompted him to respond before he even had the chance to think better of it.

“And to do that, you had to go back quite a bit. Since Christianity influenced Western culture, we don’t talk about fate anymore - that’s more pagan. Instead, we talk about providence,” he said, his voice steady, almost clinical. “Ancient Greece, on the other hand, is full of myths where fate is one the central themes.”

Your grin only widened, amused and maybe a little impressed. “Wow. You really are good, Agent Hotchner,” you said with a mock coo. “Yes, exactly.”

Of course.

You were teasing him - again - but there was a glint in your eye, a genuine spark that reminded him why he always ended up drawn into these conversations with you, whether he wanted to be or not.

“I did try the those first,” you continued “but the imagery didn’t match. To explain it, I had to revisit Stoicism. They saw the universe as governed by this entity called logos - a rational, divine order where everything connects in an unbroken chain of cause and effect. What I found particularly important is that fate, in their view, isn’t something chaotic but part of a structured system. It’s revolutionary.”

He wasn’t used to your characteristic back-and-forth during cases anymore. He hadn’t paired you with him in what felt like ages - since long before Rossi rejoined the team. Maybe it was deliberate. Maybe it wasn’t. He didn’t want to think too hard about it.

But hearing you now, rattling off ideas with that same unstoppable energy, he realized just how much he’d missed it. Your wits, your knowledge, your uncanny ability to pull connections out of thin air - it was as maddening as it was impressive.

Not that he particularly missed the mock praise you’d thrown his way earlier. That could stay firmly in the past where it belonged. Or, at the very least, it could try to sound a bit more genuine.

Not that he wanted to hear it, of course.

…Okay, maybe it was better to change the subject entirely.

He missed you.

“So, by presenting himself as ‘fate,’” you continued, “the Reaper excuses himself entirely. He’s not making choices - he’s just the inevitable result of the universe’s design. Or at least, that’s how he sees it. Responsibility lies with the deterministic nature of existence itself. Quite of a sophisticated delusion.” you added, leaning back with a wry smile.

Hotch tilted his head. “Interesting… but if he truly believed that, why leave a signature? Why call 911? That’s ego. He wants us to know it’s him. That’s not someone surrendering to inevitability - that’s someone demanding recognition.”

“That’s why I’m stuck,” you admitted, with a frustrated sigh. “The contradictions don’t align. His actions suggest ego, yes. A desire for attention, for dominance. But that one 911 call…”

He leaned forward slightly. “What about it?”

“The call bothers me,” you continued, your voice softer now, more introspective. “Too deliberate. Too… purposeful. I feel they aren’t just challenges. There’s something else, I can’t see it yet, but it’s not just about superiority. It doesn’t feel like pure ego.”

He responded to you way too quickly. “Then what does it feel like?”

You hesitated, searching for the right words. “Something human, maybe,” you said finally. “There’s something… ordinary about the Unsub. Normal. He blends in so seamlessly that even his grandiosity doesn’t seem entirely self-serving.” You gestured at the file in front of you. “I can’t connect these pieces. The deterministic philosophy. The theatrical ego. The calculated call. It’s like he exists in two worlds at once - one of chaos, and one of order.”

His gaze lingered on you for a moment. “And you think the truth lies somewhere in the contradiction.”

You shrugged. “Doesn’t it always?”

Hotch exhaled softly, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he watched you.

You couldn’t help yourself, could you? Always had to end with something emblematic, like you were writing the last line of a novel. Throw in a fade to black, and you were set.

“When you’re done making fun of me,” you said, raising your eyebrows at him, “could you explain how, with the same lack of material, you somehow have a file twice the size of mine?”

He couldn’t help the brief laugh that escaped him. Of course, you’d noticed.

“I’m not particularly proud of this…” he began, his tone measured but edged with a hint of self-deprecation. “But after we were pulled from the case, I went back to Boston a couple of weeks later.” He paused, gauging your reaction before continuing. “I got George Foyet’s testimony while he was still in the hospital.”

Your head snapped up, staring at him, completely stunned. “You?” you said slowly, suspicion lacing every syllable. “You went back to Boston? The man who practically has the Constitution tattooed on his soul took a statement after being removed from the case? That wasn’t even legal, was it?”

“It wasn’t,” Hotch admitted, his smirk widening just enough to make you narrow your eyes further. “But I knew they’d write a book about the Reaper case eventually. Once it became public domain, the testimony would be usable. I was just… proactive.”

“Proactive,” you repeated, shaking your head with a disbelieving laugh. “That’s barely ethical.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “I blame you.” His tone was deadpan. “You brought out the worst in me back then.”

You snorted, leaning back in your seat with an exasperated smile. “How convenient, blaming it all on what were actually your overthoughts after some drunk sex.”

Oh no. Absolutely not. He was not going there.

He looked down at the file on the table, hoping the angle would save him from the inevitable reddening of his face.

Why, of all the things you could’ve said, did you have to bring that up? It wasn’t even relevant - well, not entirely relevant.

Deflection. That was his only move now. Luckily, the one he had in mind was at least partially truthful.

“We’re landing in a few minutes,” he began, keeping his tone calm and measured, “so how about this: when we’re back, we exchange files. You can go through the testimony, and I’ll take another look at where you got stuck with the phone call. We both take the night to work on it, and tomorrow, we compare notes.”

You tilted your head, skepticism written all over your face. “And what if someone finds out we’re working on a closed case?”

“That’s why we’re doing it at your place,” he said, his tone completely matter-of-fact, like this was the most logical solution in the world. Because it was. It wasn’t an excuse, at all.

You blinked, caught off guard. “Oh, so now you’re inviting yourself over?”

“Haven’t seen Mrs. Lee in a few weeks,” he said smoothly, like that was somehow a perfectly valid justification.

You laughed at that, shaking your head. “Right… You know what? She might adore you, but let’s not forget who she entrusted with her blueberry pie recipe.”

What?

And you waited all this time to tell him that?

So this is what betrayal feels like. A little less dramatic than expected, but still, very disappointing.

---

If there was one universal truth about the BAU team, it was this: no matter how different you all were, no matter how much tension simmered beneath the surface after a long case, there was one sacred ritual that bound you together - going out for drinks.

Especially after the cases that were draining, but not devastating.

The ones that left you raw but still intact, just enough to crave the company of those who understood the madness you faced.

This case had been one of those.

There was a quiet hum of unspoken agreement as everyone wrapped up their notes, pens clicking shut, desks tidied with a precision that came from mutual understanding rather than coordination.

It wasn’t planned, but somehow, you all ended up converging in the bullpen at the same time, like a gravitational pull none of you could resist.

The collective exhaustion that had hung heavy all day began to lift, replaced by a singular, unifying hope: to fuck up your livers just enough to lighten the weight pressing on your minds.

It was Derek who broke the silence, standing up from his chair and tossing his notebook across his desk with a grin. “Who’s up for a drink?”

Emily cheered like she’d been waiting for this exact moment. “Who’s up for five?”

“Five bottles, you mean?” you chimed in, feigning doubt as though you were on the verge of saying no.

“Each,” Emily clarified with a playful wink.

That was all it took for you to reach for your pen, clicking it closed with a dramatic flair before placing it back into your holder.

“Count me in,” Rossi said casually, like this wasn’t the team’s collective miracle of the week. For someone who had only recently started joining you on these outings, this was practically a declaration of loyalty.

“I don’t know,” Spencer muttered, adjusting the strap of his bag - a move so predictable it immediately set off Derek.

“Stop with the ‘I don’t know.’ You’re in, kid,” Derek said, striding confidently across the bullpen, leaving no room for argument. “JJ?”

“I’d love to, but I’m gonna have to take a rain check,” JJ said, offering a soft smile that carried just enough warmth to make Emily’s heart squeeze.

That meant only a single person remained.

“Unit Chief,” you said, striding toward him with that determined glint in your eye. “Just one beer.”

Hotch exhaled, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at his lips as he glanced at you. “Sure,” he said simply, afterall he couldn’t say no to that, not after a case like this.

But apparently, his mere will hadn’t been enough to seal the moment.

The sound of the bullpen doors opening pulled his attention, the heavy glass swinging wide as a man in a suit entered. He moved with purpose, his expression unreadable, carrying an envelope and a folder that seemed too heavy for their size.

“Agent Hotchner?” the man called out.

Hotch straightened immediately, his spine rigid, the shift so automatic it was almost reflex. “Yes,”

What happened next took seconds, maybe less, but it felt like a lifetime compressed into the space of a breath.

His left hand moved to sign the notice, his name scrawled neatly onto the blank space with a pen he didn’t remember reaching for.

The man nodded once, taking the signed folder back with an efficiency that bordered on mechanical.

And just like that, he was gone - disappearing through the same doors he had entered, leaving destruction in his wake as swiftly as he’d brought it.

All that remained that could prove his existence was the envelope in Hotch’s hand, the weight of it far heavier than paper should ever be.

The bullpen was suddenly too quiet. Too still.

“What is it?” Emily asked, her voice cutting through the silence.

He really didn’t want to look up, but he still did anyways.

He gestured faintly with the envelope, his voice quiet, flat, as though detachment might dull the edge of it. “Haley’s filing for divorce.”

He paused, his gaze drifting back to the envelope, as though it might explain itself if he stared hard enough. Then he spoke again, his voice even quieter this time, almost resigned. “I’ve been served.”

Before anyone could respond, he turned on his heel, the envelope still clutched in his hand like a foreign object he didn’t know what to do with. He walked out, back through the glass doors, the weight of their closing behind him louder than it had ever have been.

You stared after him, your hand falling away from where it had hovered, wanting to reach out but knowing better.

You didn’t want to drink anymore.

And him?

Somewhere beyond those glass doors, Hotch kept walking, as though forward motion might somehow keep him from falling apart entirely.

The envelope burned in his hand, and every step felt heavier than the last, carrying him into a night that suddenly felt colder and far too empty.

Because now, it was real.

---

Phi’s Corner: Did I just waste 5 hours of my life discovering that Tumblr only allows 1,000 text blocks max and had to re-edit everything? Yes, I did. Because I’m a sucker for distanced one-liners, and the universe clearly hates me. Also… did you catch the little countdown? Hehe. I’m evil. Oh, and for the record - I am Mrs. Lee’s #1 stan. Don’t forget it.

taglist: @beata1108 ; @c-losur3 ; @fangirlunknown ; @hayleym1234 ; @justyourusualash ; @khxna ; @kyrathekiller ; @lostinwonderland314 ; @mxblobby ; @person-005 ; @prettybaby-reid ; @reidfile ; @royalestrellas ; @ssa-callahan ; @softestqueeen ; @theseerbetweenus ; @todorokishoe24

#aaron hotchner #hotch #criminal minds #hotch x reader #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotch x reader #criminal minds x reader

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dazzlingjaeyun · 7 months ago

Text

xᴍᴀꜱ ꜱᴘᴇᴄɪᴀʟ – ᴊᴜɴɢᴡᴏɴ ⊹˚꙳⁺⋆₊･*❅

coworker!jungwon x fem!reader

୨୧ genre: fluff, coworkers to lovers (?) | words: 1.5k | cw: a little angst but trust the process!! ୨୧

₊☃️‧₊˚❄️˚₊‧🌨️˚ ⋅

of course you'd be the one to organize your company's christmas celebration. and of course, out of all the people who could have teamed up with you, it just had to be jungwon.

the sweet, bubbly coworker, the sunshine of the team, who got along with everyone but you. you'd thought about it again and again but you couldn't pinpoint a specific moment when things might have gone wrong between you.

from the beginning, you'd been nothing but kind to him, and at first he had been the same. but somewhere along the way, something must have happened that made his responses shorter, his tone sharper and his presence around you rare.

it honestly made you sad. you hadn't just admired his work, you'd genuinely liked him as a person. he was someone you'd looked forward to seeing around in the office, until one day, he wasn't. he seemed to be the kind of person everyone felt comfortable to be around. just not you.

maybe that was why you hesitated as you stood in front of his office, telling yourself you would knock after mentally counting to three – except you had already counted to three at least five times and still hadn’t moved.

just as you raised your hand to finally knock, the door swung open, revealing the man in question who almost ran into you before he could stop himself.

"um... you need anything?" he asked, the cool tone of his voice contrasting his otherwise soft appearance.

he was wearing a loose sweater instead of his usual button-up shirt, his bangs softly falling over his eyes as he blinked at you in confusion.

you snapped out of it only when he awkwardly cleared his throat and took another step back to create a bigger distance between you.

"no, i was gonna," you started, only to hesitate again, not quite sure anymore what you had even come for. he raised an eyebrow, his expectant gaze making you feel like your silence was nothing but a big waste of his time.

"about the christmas event," you finally continued, "i was thinking we could, like, start to plan? or maybe decorate, i already bought everything. only if you have time of course! if not, i can totally do it alone and–"

"now is perfect," he interrupted, a little softer but still firm.

"yeah, no worries, i'll just let you know when–" you started, not having expected him to actually agree until his words finally settled in. "wait, what?"

the corners of jungwon's lip twitched slightly, almost as if he'd start to smile, but he didn't.

"i said now is perfect," he repeated. this time, it wasn't only his words that surprised you, but the sudden softness in his voice, almost the way he'd used to talk to you before whatever had happened.

you blinked at him, your expression blank, as he just wordlessly pushed past you and lead the way to the conference room.

by the time you caught up with his fast steps, he was already inspecting the boxes of decorations you'd hauled in earlier.

"do we really need all this?" jungwon asked without looking at you, as he carefully pulled out a garland and eyed it.

"absolutely!" you said defensively

absolutely not. you'd bought way too much stuff, a lot that you knew you wouldn't necessarily need but your childish side had told you otherwise.

as jungwon stepped on the small ladder and started putting up the garlands, you rummaged around in one of the boxes untily your eyes landed on the bottle of glitter that you'd (unnecessarily) bought to decorate pinecones with.

jungwon glanced at you from the corner of his eye once he stepped off the small ladder to grab another garland.

"careful with that," he said causually before turning around again to attach the next garland.

"duh," you replied as you kept on struggling to open the bottle, "careful is my middle name."

with one final tug, the lid popped off abruptly, the sudden pull causing at least half of the glitter to land in your lap and all over your blouse.

jungwon turned around as he heard the 'plop' and let out the tiniest chuckle at the sight of you half covered in glitter.

"and i was gonna say you might ruin your shirt with it," he said with amusement.

"too late," you murmured back, putting the now half-empty bottle on the floor and trying to rub the glitter off your shirt with a tissue – only to smear it even more.

jungwon hopped off the small ladder with a sigh, quickly pulled his sweater over his head to reveal the black tshirt he was wearing underneath, and handed you the sweater.

"you can wear that, or you can walk around like a shiny ornament for the rest of the day," he said when you hesitated to take it.

you took it, waiting for him to give you a reassuring nod and quickly went to the restroom to get rid of your glittery blouse and pull on his sweater instead.

when you went back to the conference room, jungwon shot you a quick look, his expression softening a little at the sight of you in his clothes.

the two of you continued to decorate and plan and you started to feel more comfortable as time passed and your conversation flowed more easily.

you didn't even realize how much time had passed until a sudden loud whistle of wind drew your attention to the windows. outside, the snowfall was so heavy that you could barely see beyond the endless flurry of white flakes.

you exchanged a quick glance with jungwon and grabbed your phone to check the time, only for it to ring with an emergency weather alert.

"guess we're stuck here for now?" jungwon asked after reading the message on his own phone.

you shrugged with a sigh, "i guess."

"i'll go make tea, you want some?" he asked, waiting at the door and heading to the kitchen after you nodded.

when he came back just moments later, his fingertips softly brushed against yours as he handed you the cup. you were both sipping in silence, the only sound the whistle of the wind and the steady hum of the heater, until your thoughts slipped out.

"what did i do that made you hate me?" the words rolled off your tongue before you could stop them.

jungwon looked up from his mug in surprise. he blinked at you for what felt like an eternity, until he finally replied, "i don't hate you? never did."

your eyebrows creased. "well, certainly something went wrong. else you wouldn't be like, i don't know. like this."

jungwon sighed, taking a long sip of his tea and staring at the half-empty mug in his hand.

"it's not that i don't like you," he began, adding an almost inaudible, "it's the opposite, actually.

"i guess, i felt–" a loud click interrupted him, followed by sudden silence as the heater in the corner stopped humming.

"great," you mumbled, instinctively tightening your grip around the warm mug.

"we can go back to my office, it should be warm there," he said, standing up and walking toward his office without another word.

he sat down on the small sofa in the corner and motioned you to sit next to him.

"y/n, you're great... at what you're doing," he added the last part awkwardly. "you didn't know they started comparing us? saying you're more efficient, more likeable. that you're the better version of me, basically."

your eyes widened slightly at his words. "who says that?"

"doesn't matter," jungwon replied quickly, "but i guess... it made me feel insecure. i know it's childish to let it out on you, but..."

he stayed silent for a while, before continuing, "no, actually i don't have any excuses. i never meant to make you feel uncomfortable or like i hate you. i like you, really. like, a lot."

you looked at him in surprise, and for a moment, you didn't speak. the snow outside was relentless, the chill creeping into the room despite the warmth of his office and the sweater he'd lent you.

“you’re cold,” he said suddenly, noticing the way you’d pulled down the sleeves to cover your hands fully.

you shook your head, but he frowned, standing up and pulling a blanket out of one of his drawers. "i keep this here for when i stay late. here," without giving you a chance to argue, he shifted closer to you and pulled the blanket over both of you, his arm naturally settling around your shoulders.

only the gesture and his closeness – so close you noticed the soft scent of his shampoo – was enough to send a rush of warmth through you.

“better?” he asked, his voice tender.

you nodded, leaning into him just slightly.

the two of you sat like that for a while, and you just let him hold you close, his fingers tracing soft circles on your shoulder

“jungwon?” you asked, breaking the silence.

“hm?”

“i like you, too."

his arm tightened around you, just slightly, but enough for you to notice. he tilted his head down to look at you, his eyes searching yours.

“yeah?” he asked softly, the corners of his lips curlig up into the faintest smile.

“yeah."

part five of my xmas special. tap here to get to the other members!

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roosterforme · 1 year ago

Text

Covering the Classics Part 14 | Bob Floyd x OC

Summary: Once again, Anna can't seem to get what she wants from Kevin. Bob realizes she needs a break, and the last thing he wants to do is leave her alone. He convinces her to go somewhere he knows she will be safe.

Warnings: Angst, Kevin is a dick, bruises on Anna's arm, adult language, 18+

Length: 4900 words

Pairing: Robert "Bob" Floyd x Female OC (this story is part of the Beer Boy/Sugar and Jake/Jessica universe)

Covering the Classics masterlist. Check my masterlist for more!

Of course this would happen. On the day when Anna was supposed to meet Bob, one of her colleagues from the English department actually wanted to chat in the lounge. Dr. Lukas was usually quiet, but today he wanted to have an in depth conversation about Anna's Classics lecture and whether or not she would mind if he sat in.

"Please, stop by any time. I would love to get some feedback from you." If she was going to stay in San Diego and try for tenure, she may as well get friendly with someone who'd been at the university for longer than she'd been alive. When she finally excused herself to drop the stack of quizzes she printed in her office before heading to Chippy's, she felt a little sadder.

Would she be able to stay here indefinitely? Could she give up on her manuscript and get something just as fulfilling out of her job teaching here? She wanted to have both. Something about being with Bob and knowing he was falling for her made her feel like she could have both. Her manuscript and her job. The best thing about her old life and one of the best things about her new life in California.

Lost in thought as she took the elevator back up, she turned down the hallway to her office and almost screamed when her door came into view. She froze up, somehow unable to decide if fight or flight was her best option. But it didn't matter. He saw her. He was already walking her way. Once again, he had the upper hand in this scenario. Even when she tried to catch him off guard, he managed to surprise her just as much.

And now a truly devastating thought occurred to her. Kevin knew where she worked. He had taken it upon himself to figure that much out. But what if he knew more than that?

"Anna," he said with a smile as if he was greeting an old friend and not his estranged wife he spent years taking advantage of. "I've been waiting for you."

A chill ran down her spine as she tried to push her shoulders back to her tallest height, and she knew he could tell she was nervous. "Waiting for what, Kevin?"

"Well," he started blandly, "you thought it was okay to interrupt my work event, so I decided I would do the same."

Her stomach felt like it sank to her feet. She needed to find a way to send him packing before she could attempt to leave the building. "I actually have plans tonight, so..."

He laughed in response. "You mean the nerdy guy with glasses? Yeah, I already sent him packing. Your plans are with me now."

"What do you mean you sent him packing?" Did Bob try to stop by her office rather than waiting for her at Chippy's? When she took her phone from her pocket to text him, Kevin snatched it from her fingertips.

Anna was completely alone with him right now, and he was scowling down at her. "I said your plans are with me. I'll hold onto this if it's going to be a distraction for you."

When she crossed her arms over her chest, she could feel the tender bruises on her arm where he grabbed her at his conference. She shouldn't have gone there, and now she didn't know what to do. When Kevin pocketed her phone, she asked, "Would you like to sit in my office and talk?"

"No," he replied calmly. "I think we should go back to your apartment on Monroe Avenue to chat."

There was no use in denying the fact that he just named her street, so she didn't even try. "I think I'd rather chat here."

"And I think I'd rather chat about your manuscript somewhere more private," he snapped even though nobody was around. Then he pulled a USB drive from his pocket, and Anna wanted to lunge for it on his open palm. "We can discuss how you're going to split any profits with me."

Before she could even make a decision about reaching for it, Kevin's fingers closed around it again. He already knew where she lived, and if he actually had her writing with him, she needed to try to play by his rules. "Fine," she told him, trying to keep her voice from shaking. "But only if you give me back my phone."

He nodded once. "As soon as we get to my rental car which is parked a block and a half away."

She could make it that far. She kept her eyes on him as she unlocked her office door, dropped off her quizzes for the following day and locked up again behind her. Then she followed a few steps behind Kevin as he walked down the stairs, out of the building and along the sidewalk, not stopping until he got to a silver Lexus.

"Phone," Anna said, realizing that Bob was going to think she stood him up at this point. That idea made her more upset at the moment than anything Kevin could do to her. She held out her hand and Kevin placed it on her palm. She saw some missed calls from Bob, but she didn't want to piss Kevin off any further at the moment, so she dropped it into her bag.

When they were both inside the rental car on the very short drive to her place, Kevin said, "So, Anna, how do you like living in California?"

"It's better than New Jersey," she retorted immediately.

Kevin snorted. "What's the saying? A New Jersey eight is a California three? I'm surprised you got that poor guy to sleep with you. And I'm surprised you can go out in the sun here without getting a blistering sunburn all over your freckles."

Anna sat there quietly, counting her blessings. She really only had three of them. Friends, a job, and her own apartment. "Are you going to give me that USB drive?" she asked when they were close to her place.

"If you sign some paperwork for me. You seemed keen on waving some bullshit from your lawyer in my face yesterday, so I'm sure I can get you to take a look at what I brought with me."

She hated him and his tone of voice, but mostly she hated the idea of him inside her apartment with her. She took a deep breath as she eventually unlocked her door and let him follow her into her tiny studio.

"Nice place," he said, clearly mocking everything he saw.

"Is it any shock to you that this is all I can afford, Kevin?" she snapped.

"I guess my medical degree is worth more than your arts PhD, huh? God bless medical school."

"You paid for it with my dime," she hissed, barely in control of her emotions now. She could see a smile spreading across Kevin's lips, and she knew she desperately needed to get a grip.

"You were a pretty good wife in some respects," he said, laughing at the look on her face. "But now you've become a pain in my ass. And the little stunt you pulled yesterday at my conference was enough to make me want to find you and let you know how it's going to be from here on out. Okay, Anna?"

When she didn't respond, he pulled that little USB drive from his jacket pocket along with a single folded up piece of paper. He smoothed it out before handing it to her.

"Go ahead and sign that for me, and you can have what you want." That little bit of plastic was back on his palm, and she was almost afraid to take her eyes off of it to read the document. But when she did, she found it was drafted up by his lawyer. He wanted half of any money she made through her writing. The idea of it made her want to throw up.

"And what if I don't agree to this?" she whispered.

"Then I keep it. I don't personally need it as badly as you seem to, so I'd think about how generous I'm being if I were you."

"Why are you like this?" Anna nearly shouted. "Why?"

And that's when Kevin snapped. "You tried to intimidate me!" he hollered. "At my own conference! After my keynote introduction! Do you really think I'm going to let that fucking slide?" Her lips were quivering as she pressed them together, but he just continued. "You're such a bitch, Anna. And apparently someone called Alyssa after they saw you there! She thinks we're already in the process of getting divorced!"

"We could have been by now! But you won't let me go with what's mine!"

But Kevin just yelled over her, and Anna briefly wondered if her neighbors could hear them. "You like your new job? Teaching reading comprehension to adults? I hope you still like it when I do everything in my power to get you fired!"

Tears filled her eyes, and her ears were ringing from his voice. When her apartment door flew open and hit the wall, she thought she had imagined it. But even her imagination couldn't perfectly conjure up Bob Floyd in his Dungeons & Dragons shirt and jeans, cheeks red with anger while his blue eyes flashed behind his glasses.

He was on Kevin immediately, taking him by surprise. Anna fleetingly took note of Kevin's shocked expression before Bob slammed him into the wall next to her bed. She gasped as Bob's forearm met Kevin's neck. "Don't yell at her," he said in that voice she loved so much. But he was gruff and angry right now, and Anna's heart pounded erratically as he added, "You don't get to yell at her like that."

"Who the hell do you think you are?" Kevin grunted, but Bob had him pinned firmly in place. "You're just some guy she's fucking."

Anna wanted to vanish into thin air. The way Kevin tried to make her sound disgusting in front of Bob made her skin crawl with shame. But all Bob did was glance back at her and calmly ask, "Are you okay?"

When she nodded, he turned back to Kevin and pushed him a little harder against the wall, and that's when Anna jumped to action. "Don't hurt him, Bob. Please, just let him go." She was shaking, terrified that after months and months, Bob would get himself in trouble over her. "He's not worth it."

When Bob loosened his hold, he stood firmly in place just inches in front of Kevin with his back to Anna. She had never felt protected like this in her life. Kevin pointed at her over Bob's shoulder and barked, "The deal is off the table."

"Just leave!" she begged, hands shaking relentlessly now. She needed him to go. She really needed both of them to go so she could have a panic attack in peace.

Kevin shoved past Bob and headed for the door, and Bob locked it behind him. Then he turned to look at her, and she had nowhere to go as she sank down onto the floor next to her mattress and started to cry. Bob was there in an instant, and Anna was too tired to fight it when he collected her into his arms. She crawled into his lap, wrapped her arms around his neck and just cried until she was done. His hands were firm and solid against her back, and then he whispered, "Are you sure you're okay?"

She nodded against his neck, inhaling his clean scent. "It's my fault he knows where I work. It's my fault he knows where I live," she hiccupped. "I shouldn't have tested him like I did."

He just hummed and rubbed her back, his fingers tangling in her long hair. "Nothing Kevin decides to do is anyone's fault but his own. Now let's get you out of here."

Anna pulled away from him and swiped at the tears on her cheeks as she asked, "What do you mean? Where am I supposed to go?" She gestured around her tiny living space, but Bob's eyes remained on her face. "This is where I live."

"I'm not leaving you here," he whispered softly. "If he knows where you live and where you work, I don't think you should be here or on campus alone."

"He's mostly harmless," she insisted softly.

Bob just looked sad as he sighed and started to stand. "He was screaming at you, Anna. And I don't like that. Will you please come with me?"

He was holding out his hand as she looked up at him. "Where?"

"My house. You can stay with me."

------------------------------------

Bob watched as Anna collected some of her things. She looked so flustered, shoving clothing, toiletries and her computer into a backpack and a tote bag. She handed them to him and walked around her little apartment in a bit of a daze.

"I'll bring the food from my fridge for my lunch and some quarters for the laundromat," she muttered before chewing on her lip. Bob reached out and took her gently by the hand as she tried to walk past him, and she looked up at him with wide brown eyes.

"Anna, I have plenty of food. And a washer and dryer."

She took a few deep breaths and said, "But I can't just use all of your stuff. I can take care of myself."

"I know you can," he replied immediately. "But you need a break. My house is quiet. There are books and groceries. You can do your laundry. Let's go."

This time she nodded and let him lead her toward the door, but Bob accidentally kicked something across the floor and looked down to find a white USB drive hit the wall next to her bed. "Oh my god," she gasped, releasing his hand and lunging for it. She was kneeling and looking up at him as she whispered, "Kevin dropped it."

Bob's brow furrowed. "What's it from?"

She looked so hopeful now as she stood. "I think it might have my manuscript on it."

"Oh," Bob said in surprise. "Let's get out of here and check it." Anna's hand was back in his the whole way down the stairs, and when he held the door open for her, he pulled her a little closer. "What kind of car was he driving?"

"It was a silver Lexus sedan," she told him, and Bob started looking around at all of the parked cars. "I really don't think he would hang around. I'm telling you, he's an asshole, but he's harmless."

Bob wasn't going to risk it, even though Anna seemed excited now. He opened the passenger side door of his truck and helped her climb in before setting her bags at her feet. Then he walked to the end of the block, looking everywhere for something that could be Kevin's car. When he finally climbed into his truck and started the engine, he drove a slightly convoluted route back to his place, watching for any flash of silver paint.

"Thanks for looking out for me," Anna said softly as he pulled up to the curb in front of his house. "Even after everything."

He wanted to tell her that he would take care of everything if she would let him, but he didn't want to let his feelings overwhelm either of them. "You don't have to thank me for anything. Let's get inside and I'll make dinner while you check that USB drive."

Bob was thankful that Suzanne's door was closed, otherwise he would have had to explain to her why Anna was holding his hand and carrying her overnight bags. As soon as they were in his living room, he made sure his door was locked up tight while she scrambled to get her computer out. She sank down onto the couch and inserted the USB drive, glancing up at him with hopeful eyes. Then her face went expressionless when she looked at the screen.

"It's blank." That didn't sound surprising at all to Bob, and he sighed in relief as she said, "I thought this might be the case." She pushed her computer onto the couch cushion and stood saying, "Will you let me make dinner for you?"

He laughed softly and shook his head. "I already told you that you need a break." He plucked a collection of poems by Emily Dickinson from the top of his book shelf and handed it to her. "Read this. I'll tell you when it's ready."

"Thanks," she whispered, accepting the book from him.

Bob left her in the living room, making a mental list of things he needed to take care of as he peeled some carrots and preheated the oven to cook some chicken breasts. It would only take him a minute to make up the futon in the extra bedroom. He would pack two lunches for tomorrow instead of one. He also needed to call Jessica.

He wished he had something fancier to send Anna to work with, but he did have everything he needed to make sandwiches and fruit salads, and he had some packs of salted peanuts and cans of ginger ale. Once the chicken was in the oven, he slipped out the back door onto his patio, glancing at the street behind him for a silver Lexus while he called Jessica.

"I know, I know," she said when she answered. "I was supposed to send you the notes from D&D, but Jake took me out to dinner. We're on the way home now. I'll send it before bed."

"Hey," he replied. "No, I actually need to ask you to do something else."

"Anything," she replied easily, and Bob was so thankful for his friends.

"If you agree to do it, I need you to not ask a lot of questions at the moment."

"Sure," she told him so casually, his heart literally swelled.

"Anna is staying here with me for a while. Can you pick her up in the mornings on your way to work? I can get her after I leave base in the afternoon, but since you're heading into the city anyway-"

"Yeah. No problem. I can get her around 8:30 or 8:40," she told him. If she was surprised by his request, she didn't show it.

"Thank you, Jess," he said. He added, "I haven't given up," before he ended the call. He made an additional mental note that he needed to pull the weeds in Suzanne's vegetable garden, and then he headed back inside.

--------------------------

Somewhere in the romantic throes of Emily Dickinson, Anna passed out on Bob's couch. She woke up with the book tucked under her chin and his kind face in front of hers. His eyes were so sincere as he said, "Dinner is on the table, and I got the extra bedroom ready."

"Okay," she said as she sat up, still in a daze over everything that happened today. She was proud of herself for not getting her hopes up about what was on the USB drive, but it still hurt to know Kevin was such an ass after all this time. Then as soon as she sat down with Bob and took one bite of the magic carrots he cooked, her brain turned to complete mush. "Oh my god." She took two more big bites, practically moaning over the taste of a hot meal, and she hadn't even gotten to the chicken yet.

"It's nothing fancy, but it's getting late, and I can tell you're tired," he said as he cut up his food.

"Bob," she whispered, looking at him in awe. "This tastes like you went to culinary school."

He blushed bright pink, and Anna desperately tried not to think about how rosy his cheeks had been after he made her orgasm twice. "I'm glad you like it," he muttered, taking a bite and then clearing his throat. "I hope you don't mind, but I called Jess and asked if she could pick you up on her way to campus tomorrow. I would take you myself, but it would add at least 45 minutes to my ride to base in rush hour traffic, and I don't want you waiting for a bus alone."

Anna almost dropped her fork. She couldn't remember the last time someone looked out for her wellbeing like this, because it had never happened before. "Thanks," she whispered. She didn't know how many times she could say that word to him, but she meant it each time she did. And once again he was acting like what he was doing was simply part of his normal existence. Like he helped poor, hungry college professors all the time. Before she bit into the chicken, she asked what had been on her mind earlier. "Why did you come to my apartment anyway?"

He was blushing again as he adjusted his glasses and fumbled his fork. "Uh, well I was running early, so I stopped by your office. Kevin was there, jiggling the doorknob, trying to see if you were inside. He told me he was going to take you back to New Jersey so he could keep track of you."

"Like hell he is!" she snapped. "I'm not going anywhere with him!"

Bob scratched the back of his neck and said, "Yeah, well, as soon as I walked away to see if you were actually already at Chippy's, I just got a weird feeling. When I couldn't find you, I drove to your place. Kevin really rubbed me the wrong way."

The perfect man was sitting across from her, and Anna had to just sit there and eat her delicious chicken while she tried to process things. But then Bob asked, "Why was he there anyway?"

Anna looked up at him like a deer caught in headlights. She knew she needed to be honest with him if she ever had a hope or a prayer, so she said, "I may have figured out he's at a huge conference in Carlsbad until next week. And I may have gone up there and tried to get him to sign over my manuscript."

"Are you serious?" he asked, looking at her like she had two heads. "Anna. You went alone?" She nodded and he said, "I know you think he's harmless, but he looked up your workplace and your address. He tracked you down."

"Yeah," she said softly. "But I tracked him down first."

He sighed deeply. "The difference between you and him is that you wouldn't do anything maliciously but he would. Promise me you won't do something like that again."

The fact that he was worried about her was enough to make her agree, because if Bob Floyd cared about her, then she owed it to him. But also Kevin really got under her skin with his demanding behavior. She knew now that going up to Carlsbad was a bad idea, but she wanted to keep fighting as long as she could. She owed that to herself.

"Let me clean up," she said, standing once she had eaten every speck of food on her plate, but Bob was already shaking his head.

"I'm just going to dump everything in the sink and deal with it tomorrow. Why don't you go up and take a hot shower? You can use anything you find in my bathroom."

Anna wanted to argue with him, but there was such a bone deep ache inside her, and she knew a steamy shower would help alleviate it so she could try to sleep. Once again she thanked him, and once again he told her he didn't mind one bit.

-----------------------------

Bob ended up not only washing all of the dishes and pans but wiping down the entire kitchen, too. Just knowing that Anna was in his shower was making his skin tingle. He thought about being in there with her, but it turned into something more than a sexual need. He just wanted to protect her, kiss the freckles on her shoulders and tell her she could stay here as long as she wanted to. If she simply never left, she could read all of his books and recommend more and more.

With a soft groan, he dragged himself up the stairs once he heard her turn the shower off. He made it to the landing in front of the bathroom door just as she walked out. "You have amazing water pressure," she told him with a little smile. "The shower in my apartment is a tiny stall with terrible water pressure."

Bob wanted to reply, but all he could do was stare at her. She was wearing a tank top and some worn flannel pants, and her damp hair was freshly combed. The sweet smelling steam wafted out, hitting him in the face as he realized that the deep red shade of Anna's wet hair was absolutely, indisputably his favorite color. He never wanted her to go back to her tiny apartment. She didn't even have a real kitchen there. Her bed was on the floor.

Anna cleared her throat and said, "I hope you don't mind, but I made a little spot for some of my stuff on your bathroom counter. You can move it if you want."

"It's fine," he muttered, once again wanting things he shouldn't. But now that he knew exactly how awful Kevin was, it was going to be impossible not to dream that maybe someday Anna would be free. Maybe she'd choose him.

"Okay," she whispered, jerking her thumb toward his extra bedroom. "I'll just get in bed then."

"What?" Bob asked as she took a step away from him. "No, you can sleep in my bed. I'll sleep on the futon." It might kill him to think about her laying on his pillow, tangled up in his sheets, but his bed would be much more comfortable.

"I can't do that," she told him, taking another step. "Not after everything you've done for me."

Before she could make it through the doorway, Bob hooked his arm around her waist and pulled her toward his bedroom. "I insist."

"Bob," she said with a little laugh that melted away into a needier voice as she went along with him. "I'm only going to sleep in your bed if you're there, too."

Fuck. He wanted it so badly, he was automatically nodding in agreement. Anna's lips parted softly, and she sucked in a breath. He steered her toward the bed, and that's when he saw it. He grunted, his steps coming to a halt as he ducked his chin down a little bit so she met his gaze.

"Why is your arm bruised?"

Her lips were pressed in a thin line as she looked up at him wordlessly. Just when he thought she wasn't going to respond, she whispered, "He never did anything like it before, but he grabbed me pretty hard yesterday. I... made him really mad."

"He has no right," Bob growled. "I don't care what you did to him, he should have kept his hands off you."

"But my manuscript is so important to me, and I want it back."

"Anna," he said, cupping her soft cheek in his hand. "Your manuscript isn't worth more than you."

Her eyes fluttered closed, and she nodded. Her long lashes were still resting on her cheeks as she whispered, "I'm ready for bed."

Bob's heart was skipping around in his chest as he kissed her forehead. "Go ahead and climb in. I'll be right there."

He watched as she pulled back the bedding and slipped in between the sheets. After he grabbed some gym shorts and a clean undershirt, he ducked out of the room and into the bathroom. Anna's pink toothbrush and her purple comb were next to the sink. There was some face wash and toothpaste and a bag of makeup. He had to take a minute to pull himself together. He needed to be able to share a bed with her in approximately five minutes.

He brushed his teeth and did all of the necessities before changing into what he was planning on wearing to sleep. He was trying his best to keep his feelings at bay, but it felt like he had I LOVE ANNA written across his forehead when he slipped back into his bedroom. She was clearly emotionally exhausted, but she looked spectacular laying there waiting for him.

When he paused in the doorway, she lifted up the covers on his side of the bed, and Bob carefully folded up his glasses before climbing in next to her. He flicked off the lamp on his nightstand. Neither of them said a word, but when his hand bumped hers beneath the covers, he felt her lace their fingers together. And a few minutes later, Anna was curled up along his side, sound asleep.

----------------------------------

This whole week is a whirlwind for Anna, but at least ending up in Bob's bed when it's time to go to sleep is a high point. Kevin must be destroyed. Thanks @beyondthesefourwalls

PART 15

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@sweetwhispersofchaos

@cruelmissdior

@sagittarius-flowerchild

@angelbabyange

@eternallyvenus

@sgt-barnesveins

@kmc1989

@libbyaller

#bob floyd x oc #robert bob floyd x oc #bob floyd #robert bob floyd #bob floyd imagine #bob floyd fic #bob floyd fanfiction #robert floyd imagine #robert floyd fanfiction #robert floyd #robert floyd fic #robert floyd x oc #top gun imagine #top gun maverick imagine #top gun fanfiction #top gun maverick fanfiction #roosterforme #covering the classics

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theshiniestgemstone · 3 months ago

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nurse gideon- fem!reader x gideon gemstone

They happen every Monday. Budget meetings, weekly itineraries, event updates. They’re long. They’re boring. They’re usually held in the big conference room where the fluorescent lights buzz just loud enough to make Gideon want to claw his ears off.

And this morning? He’s struggling to keep his eyes open.

Like, really struggling.

He’s slouched in one of the high-backed chairs, arms crossed, head tilted just enough to look like he might be paying attention, but he’s not. Not really. He’s hearing about sound equipment costs and youth group bake sale returns like he’s underwater. Every so often he catches Eli shooting him a look from the head of the table, like boy, you better pull it together.

He could, if he would.

But between his sick wife and an even sicker baby, he hasn’t slept more than two hours in a row since Friday night. He spent Saturday on the nursery floor with a warm bottle in one hand and a damp rag in the other, rocking their feverish little girl until the sun came up. Sunday morning, you told him to stay home and rest, but he couldn’t do that, he had to preach. So he threw on a blazer, downed two coffees, and somehow made it through both services without passing out.

You called him your hero afterward.

Right now, he feels more like roadkill.

Someone’s saying something about next month’s men's retreat. Gideon blinks slow, half-expecting to hear your voice from the baby monitor, even though he’s nowhere near home. His fingers twitch on the table. He could swear he still smells your shampoo, that soft lavender one you use when your sinuses are bad.

He misses you.

And the baby, of course. Even if she did sneeze directly into his open mouth yesterday.

“Gideon.”

He jerks upright like someone lit a fire under him.

Eli’s looking at him now, brows raised. So is Judy. So is Jesse, who looks way too amused for a man who once fell asleep snoring during a meeting about Easter service planning.

“Sorry,” Gideon says quickly, running a hand down his face. “Didn’t sleep much this weekend. Ruthie and Y/N are sick."

Jesse chuckled, leaning back in his chair like he’d just been waiting for the setup. “And here I thought that pacifier was for you.”

Gideon blinked, then looked down at his lapel. Sure enough, a bright pink binky was clipped there like a badge of honor. Glittery, with a tiny butterfly on the handle. He sighed, barely having the energy to unclip it. “Why is parenting so difficult?”

“Because God has a sense of humor,” Judy offered, sipping her coffee with zero sympathy.

“And because your daughter inherited your lungs,” Kelvin added from across the table. “I could hear her screaming from the gym, bro. Thought someone was dying.”

“She was dying,” Gideon muttered, tugging at the knot in his tie. “Of injustice. Because I wouldn’t let her lick the thermometer.”

Eli, still stone-faced at the head of the table, exhaled slowly through his nose. “Maybe we let Gideon head out early today.”

“Thank you,” Gideon breathed, standing like a man three decades older than he is. “I think I’m starting to hallucinate. I thought one of you said ‘youth group retreat’ earlier, and for a second I remembered peace.”

“That was me,” Kelvin chimed in cheerfully. “I also said ‘group rate at the cabins.’”

“I take it back. There is no peace,” Gideon said, and Jesse lost it laughing.

Eli gave him a small smile as he passed. “Tell that sweet wife of yours we’re keepin’ her in our prayers. And bring Ruthie by when she’s better.”

“She’s banned until she’s not contagious,” Jesse added quickly, holding his hands up. “I just got over something, and I’m not risking it again. That kid’s got bio-weapon strength mucus.”

“I’ll pass that along,” Gideon said dryly. “She’ll be honored.”

And then he was gone, binky stuffed into his pocket, blazer half-on, walking out of the conference room like a man with a singular mission: get home, crawl into bed, kiss his wife, survive toddlerhood.

#gideon gemstone #gideon gemstone x you #skyler gisondo #the righteous gemstone #gideon gemstone x reader #gideon gemstone x fem reader #the righteous gemstones #gideon gemstone fanfic #fanfic #the righteous gemstones x reader

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bratzkoo · 3 months ago

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our three year plan pt. 2 | wonwoo

Author: bratzkoo Pairing: chaebol heir! wonwoo x chaebol heiress!/ nurse! reader Genre: angst, fluff, eventual smut Rating: PG-15 to NC-17 Word count: 3k~ Warnings/note: wonwoo's pov that i wanted to write so treat this as chapter 1.2

summary: you think your life is ruined when your parents announced that you’re marrying the heir of a tech chaebol; jeon wonwoo. so you offered him a plan, pretend to be in love until you can fake a catastrophe to break the engagement.

jeon wonwoo thinks his life just got better when his parents announced that he’s marrying the heiress of the medical group. his long time crush and basically the woman of his dreams. so when you offered him your plan, he’s going to use it to make you fall in love with him

masterlist | prev. part | next part

The first week of cohabitation passed in a strange dance of politeness and careful boundaries. Y/N and Wonwoo established routines that minimized awkward encounters—she took early morning showers, he preferred evenings; she often worked night shifts, he was typically gone before dawn for early meetings. When their paths did cross, conversation remained cordial but superficial.

Wonwoo cooked dinner most evenings he was home, leaving covered plates in the refrigerator with neatly written reheating instructions when their schedules didn't align. Y/N found herself oddly touched by this thoughtfulness, though she reminded herself not to read too much into it. This was, after all, a business arrangement.

On Friday morning, Y/N was enjoying a rare day off when her phone chimed with a message from Wonwoo:

My parents are expecting us for dinner tonight. 7 PM. I can pick you up at 6:30.

Reality crashed back. Of course their arrangement would include family obligations. She texted back a simple confirmation, then spent the next hour staring at her closet, suddenly aware that she had no idea what to wear to dinner with her fake future in-laws.

Another text from Wonwoo arrived as if he'd sensed her dilemma:

Casual elegant is fine. My mother appreciates understated sophistication. Don't worry too much—you'll impress them regardless.

Y/N wasn't sure if she should be grateful for the guidance or unnerved by his perception. She settled on a simple navy dress with subtle gold accessories—professional enough to show she took the dinner seriously, but not trying too hard.

At precisely 6:30, Wonwoo's Tesla pulled into the driveway. Y/N had expected him to honk or text, but instead, he came to the door, knocking politely as if he were picking her up for a real date rather than a performance for his parents.

When she opened the door, she was momentarily taken aback. Gone was the casual Wonwoo she'd grown accustomed to seeing around the house. In his place stood the corporate heir in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit, his usually tousled hair styled neatly, his round glasses exchanged for contacts that somehow made his gaze more intense.

"You look nice," he said, his eyes briefly taking in her appearance with what seemed like genuine appreciation.

"So do you," she responded automatically, then caught herself. This wasn't a date; there was no need for compliments.

The drive to his parents' estate was mostly silent, but as they approached the imposing gates, Wonwoo cleared his throat.

"Before we go in, we should discuss how we met."

Y/N blinked. "We've known each other since childhood, haven't we? Through family connections?"

"Yes, but that doesn't explain how we fell in love," Wonwoo pointed out. "They'll want the story. My mother especially."

Love story. The words hung between them, a reminder of the lie they were about to perform.

"What do you suggest?" Y/N asked.

Wonwoo's hands tightened slightly on the steering wheel. "The closest to the truth is usually the most convincing. We reconnected at the tech-medical conference last year. The one your father keynoted."

Y/N vaguely remembered the event—a three-day bore of corporate networking that her father had insisted she attend. "I don't recall seeing you there."

Something flickered across Wonwoo's face. "I was there. We even spoke briefly during the reception." At her blank look, he added, "You were more focused on the doctor from Johns Hopkins who was discussing rural healthcare initiatives."

The specificity of his recollection surprised her. "You remember that?"

"I notice things," he said simply. Then, returning to the matter at hand: "We could say we reconnected there, kept in touch, and realized there was something more than friendship."

It was as good a story as any, Y/N supposed. "Alright. The conference it is."

As they pulled up to the house, Wonwoo reached into his pocket and withdrew a small velvet box. "One more thing."

Y/N's heart skipped uncomfortably. "Is that—"

"An engagement ring," he confirmed, opening the box to reveal a stunning platinum band with a modest but flawless diamond. "My mother will expect it."

When Y/N hesitated, he added gently, "It was my grandmother's. It seemed better than something impersonal from a jeweler."

The sentiment behind the gesture caught Y/N off guard. Using a family heirloom for their fake engagement felt wrong somehow, more deceptive than she'd anticipated.

"Wonwoo, I can't wear your grandmother's ring for this."

"Why not?" His voice was soft, his expression difficult to read in the dim car interior.

"Because it means something to you. It's... too real."

Wonwoo was quiet for a moment, then said, "Maybe that's why it's perfect. The more authentic elements we include, the more convincing our story will be."

His logic was sound, yet Y/N couldn't shake her discomfort as he took her left hand and slid the ring onto her finger. It fit perfectly, as if it had been made for her. The weight of it felt foreign, intimidating.

"Ready?" Wonwoo asked, his hand lingering over hers for a moment before he pulled away.

Y/N took a deep breath. "As I'll ever be."

"So, Y/N," Mrs. Jeon said as they settled in the dining room, "Wonwoo tells us you reconnected at last year's innovation summit. How romantic."

Y/N glanced at Wonwoo, who gave her the smallest encouraging nod. "Yes, though I must admit I was quite focused on the presentations. Your son had to be quite persistent to get my attention."

Wonwoo's eyebrows rose slightly at her improvisation, but he recovered quickly. "Y/N was the only person there more interested in the actual innovations than the networking opportunities. It was... refreshing."

The warmth in his voice sounded so genuine that Y/N almost believed it herself.

"And now here we are," Mr. Jeon said, raising his wine glass. "To new beginnings and stronger alliances."

The business-like toast reminded Y/N of the true nature of their arrangement, grounding her. This wasn't about romance; it was about corporate synergy.

Dinner proceeded with surprisingly little interrogation. The elder Jeons seemed content to discuss business matters, occasionally drawing Wonwoo into the conversation but largely ignoring Y/N except for perfunctory questions about her family.

It wasn't until dessert was served that Mrs. Jeon turned her attention fully to Y/N. "Wonwoo mentioned you work as a nurse? How... unusual, given your background."

The slight pause conveyed volumes of judgment. Y/N felt Wonwoo tense beside her.

"I find direct patient care deeply fulfilling," Y/N replied evenly. "There's something irreplaceable about being on the front lines of healthcare."

"Surely there are more appropriate ways for someone of your position to contribute," Mrs. Jeon suggested, her smile not reaching her eyes. "Board work, perhaps, or fundraising."

Before Y/N could respond, Wonwoo cut in. "Y/N's practical experience makes her uniquely valuable. In fact, her insights have already helped shape some of our medical technology initiatives." He turned to her, his expression softening. "Her perspective is precisely why she's so important—to the company and to me."

The declaration, delivered with such conviction, momentarily stunned Y/N. It was a masterful performance, supportive yet plausible within their fabricated narrative.

"How sweet," Mrs. Jeon murmured, clearly unconvinced. "Still, once you're married, priorities naturally shift. Children, social obligations..."

"We're in no rush for children," Wonwoo stated firmly. "And Y/N's career is as important as mine. That's non-negotiable for both of us."

The tension around the table thickened. Mr. Jeon cleared his throat. "Perhaps we should discuss the engagement announcement. We're thinking next month's charity gala would be an appropriate venue."

Y/N barely registered the rest of the conversation as Wonwoo and his parents discussed event details. Her mind was caught on Wonwoo's defense of her career—delivered with such natural conviction that even she had momentarily forgotten it was part of their act.

Later, as they drove home in silence, Y/N finally spoke. "Thank you. For what you said about my nursing."

Wonwoo kept his eyes on the road, his profile illuminated by passing streetlights. "I meant it."

"You did?"

He nodded. "Just because our engagement is arranged doesn't mean I don't respect what you do. My grandfather was saved by a dedicated ER nurse once. I understand the value."

It was the most personal thing he'd shared with her, and Y/N wasn't quite sure how to respond. "Still, thank you. Your mother clearly had other ideas about a suitable daughter-in-law."

"My mother has many ideas," Wonwoo said with a slight smile. "Fortunately, this is our arrangement, not hers."

The "our" lingered between them, a reminder of their strange alliance. Y/N twisted the ring on her finger, still uncomfortable with its presence.

"I can get you a different ring if that one bothers you," Wonwoo said, noticing her gesture.

"No," Y/N said quickly, surprising herself. "It's beautiful. I just... I'm not used to it yet."

As they pulled into their driveway, Y/N realized this was true of more than just the ring. She wasn't used to any of this—the house, the pretense, the strange intimacy of sharing space with a man who was simultaneously a stranger and her supposed future husband.

"My mother will call you tomorrow," Wonwoo said as they entered the house. "She'll want to schedule lunch, probably with your mother too. To discuss wedding plans."

Y/N groaned. "Already? We just got engaged."

"In their minds, we've been together for months," he reminded her. "And big weddings take planning."

The reality of their situation hit Y/N anew. This wasn't just about living together and attending occasional family dinners. There would be an actual wedding—a ceremony, vows, everything.

"I need a drink," she muttered, heading for the kitchen.

To her surprise, Wonwoo followed, reaching into a cabinet she hadn't explored to produce a bottle of expensive scotch and two glasses. "I think we've earned this."

They settled at the kitchen island, the warm amber liquid burning pleasantly down Y/N's throat. "I'm starting to think three years isn't going to be as simple as I imagined."

Wonwoo swirled his drink thoughtfully. "Nothing worth doing ever is."

"Is that what this is? Worth doing?" Y/N challenged, emboldened by the scotch and the surreality of the evening.

"For me, yes," Wonwoo said simply, his eyes meeting hers with unexpected intensity. "Is it for you?"

The question hung between them, heavier than it should have been. Y/N broke eye contact first. "It's necessary. That's enough."

Wonwoo nodded slowly, accepting her answer without pressing further. They sat in companionable silence, sipping their drinks, until Y/N's curiosity got the better of her.

"Why did you agree so easily? To my plan?"

Wonwoo considered his glass for a long moment before answering. "Let's just say it aligns with my own interests."

"Which are?"

A smile played at the corners of his mouth. "Three years is a long time, Y/N. You'll figure it out."

There was something in his tone—a certainty, almost a challenge—that sent an odd shiver down Y/N's spine. Before she could pursue the matter, her phone chimed with a text from Seungcheol:

Emergency at the hospital. All hands on deck. Multi-car pileup on the highway.

Y/N was on her feet immediately. "I have to go. There's a major trauma situation."

Wonwoo stood as well, concern evident in his expression. "Do you want me to drive you?"

"No time. I'll call a taxi." She was already heading for the stairs to change into scrubs.

"I can be ready in two minutes," Wonwoo called after her.

Y/N paused, surprised by the offer. "You don't have to do that."

"I know I don't have to." Something in his voice made her turn back to look at him. "But I want to. Partners help each other, fake or not."

The sincerity in his expression gave Y/N pause. Maybe there was more to Jeon Wonwoo than she'd initially assumed. "Okay. Two minutes."

As promised, Wonwoo was ready and waiting when she rushed back downstairs in her scrubs. They drove to the hospital in focused silence, Wonwoo navigating Seoul's late-night traffic with calm efficiency.

When they reached the emergency entrance, Y/N unbuckled her seatbelt, then hesitated. "Thank you."

"Text me when you're done," Wonwoo said. "I'll come get you, no matter what time."

It was such a simple offer, yet somehow deeply touching. "You don't need to wait up. I can—"

"I'll come get you," he repeated firmly. "Be safe."

Y/N nodded, strangely affected by his concern. As she rushed toward the ER doors, she caught sight of Seungcheol waiting for her, his expression changing from relief to confusion as he noticed the Tesla pulling away.

"Was that Jeon Wonwoo?" he asked as she approached.

"He gave me a ride," Y/N explained, already focusing on the chaos of the emergency department ahead. "What's the situation?"

Seungcheol studied her for a moment longer before switching to professional mode. "Five critical, twelve moderate injuries. Two ORs running simultaneously. We're assigned to Trauma Bay 3."

Y/N pushed all thoughts of Wonwoo and their complicated arrangement from her mind as she entered the familiar controlled chaos of the emergency room. Here, at least, she knew exactly who she was and what she was meant to do.

Yet even as she worked alongside Seungcheol with their usual seamless coordination, a small part of her remained aware of the unfamiliar weight on her left hand—the grandmother's ring that she hadn't thought to remove before rushing out.

Seven hours later, exhausted but satisfied after a successful mass casualty response, Y/N stumbled out of the hospital into the pale light of early morning. She had texted Wonwoo that she was taking the subway home, not expecting him to actually come at 5 AM after a single text.

Yet there he was, leaning against his car in the parking lot, two cups of coffee in hand.

"I said I'd come get you," he said simply, offering her one of the cups. "No matter what time."

Y/N accepted the coffee, too tired to argue and secretly grateful not to face the subway. As she slid into the passenger seat, the events of the previous night—the dinner, the ring, their conversation—seemed dreamlike compared to the visceral reality of her hospital shift.

"How was it?" Wonwoo asked as they pulled away from the hospital.

"We saved everyone," Y/N said, sipping the coffee—prepared exactly as she liked it, she noted. "One patient was touch and go for a while, but pulled through."

Wonwoo glanced at her, genuine admiration in his expression. "What you do... it matters. Real, immediate impact. That's rare."

The simple acknowledgment of her work's value touched Y/N more than she expected. Her parents had never understood her choice to practice nursing rather than pursue administration or medicine. To have Wonwoo, essentially a stranger, recognize it so easily was unexpectedly validating.

They rode in comfortable silence, Y/N fighting to keep her eyes open as exhaustion caught up with her. By the time they reached the house, she was half-asleep, roused only by the gentle stop of the car.

"Come on," Wonwoo said softly. "You need rest."

He walked beside her to the door, close enough to catch her if she stumbled but not touching her. The consideration in the gesture wasn't lost on Y/N, even in her fatigue.

Inside, she headed straight for the stairs, pausing at the bottom to look back at him. "Thank you. For the ride. And the coffee."

Wonwoo nodded. "Get some sleep. I'll be quiet when I leave for work."

Y/N started up the stairs, then turned back again, a question that had been nagging at her finally surfacing. "Wonwoo? At the conference last year... why do you remember me focusing on that rural healthcare presentation? We barely spoke."

A shadow of something—vulnerability?—crossed his face before he composed it into his usual calm expression. "Like I said, I notice things. Especially things that matter."

Before she could process his answer, he disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Y/N with the distinct feeling that there was much more to Jeon Wonwoo than their arrangement had led her to believe.

In her room, she removed the engagement ring, studying it in the morning light. Beautiful, valuable, with history and meaning—yet ultimately a prop in their elaborate performance. As she placed it carefully on her nightstand, Y/N wondered if she was making a terrible mistake.

Three years was indeed a long time to pretend. What if the lines between pretense and reality began to blur? What if this arrangement cost her more than just her freedom?

What if Jeon Wonwoo had ulterior motives she couldn't begin to fathom?

These questions followed her into sleep, where she dreamed of warm eyes behind round glasses and a voice that said, "I notice things. Especially things that matter."

Especially you, the dream voice added, though the real Wonwoo had said no such thing.

Across the hall, in his own room, Wonwoo sat at his desk, adding another entry to his journal:

Day 8 of Our Three Year Plan.

She still doesn't remember me from the conference, but that's alright. I remember enough for both of us. The way she challenged the speaker about resource allocation. The passion in her voice when discussing patient dignity. The fact that she was the only person in a room full of executives who cared more about outcomes than optics.

She wore my grandmother's ring today. It looked right on her hand, just as I knew it would.

Three years is a long time, but I've waited longer than that already. I can be patient for what matters.

And she matters. She always has.

He closed the journal, unaware that across the hall, Y/N was dreaming of him, the first cracks already forming in the wall she'd built between their arrangement and her heart.

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witchpassing · 2 months ago

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my sister, @empress-em-kaldwin, has requested that i make a small announcement on her behalf: as of tonight, she is retired from the craft of writing.

i will not expand here on her reasons for doing so, as i wish neither to put words in her mouth nor infringe upon her privacy, but i will say this much: it is my opinion, as one who loves her dearly, that the course of action she has chosen is for the best.

what she has already shared remains publically available via her blog, and will remain so for the foreseeable future; works hosted elsewhere on the web will, similarly, remain as they are.

to those who have found catharsis in my sister's body of work, i offer my condolences and my gratitude. attached to this post are her notes on how she planned to conclude there is no allegory. there is no more to come after this, and there never will be.

thank you, and goodnight.

Morgana backfills current events. Fascist administration is actively self-cannibalizing and will lose control of the press soon, which will be the last straw. Multiple demihuman holdouts across the country are experiencing great success, except the ones who tried nonviolence. Time passes. The administration loses its grip due to main incompetence, and as the chain of command shatters the officer responsible for besieging St. Clotilde's decides to push into the compound as a vanity project. The firefight claims twenty U.S. infantry and six of the private security team, including, as graphically as possible, Val and Lito. The push ends as news breaks that there's been a mass shooting in the Cabinet Room and the administration no longer meaningfully exists. The opposition party steps in immediately to restore order, offering pardons to nonviolent demihuman resisters and "fair trials" to others. Insert a direct reference to the theft of homes historically experienced by people displaced to and subsequently returned from concentration camps. The St. Clotilde's fighters hold conference. Sophie says she's leaving the country to hop train cars in Europe and maybe reconnect with her heritage in Ukraine. Director Lynn, via Isperia, announces his choice to comply with the new administration to reintegrate the hospital into society to continue what he sees as his medical mission. Emily thinks about disappearing into a quiet life with Cordelia. Cordelia indicates lucid understanding of the tragedies they've undergone and a clear unwillingness to accept a return to the previous status quo, again citing the lifetime of abuses Emily has faced. Thus encouraged, Emily and a large portion of the St. Clotilde's team shake hands, exchange contact information, and disperse into the city to continue a program of violent resistance. End. If I were writing this again, I'd be more careful to introduce people longer before killing them, and I'd include an arc about Emily continuing as a camgirl during the siege.

#none of my usual tags quite seem appropriate here do they

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sunderwight · 2 years ago

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SVSSS AU where Shen Yuan transmigrates as usual, except it's to find that his system is freaking out because it's been several years since Luo Binghe was supposed to show up at the sect trials to start his plot but so far there's been no sign of the protagonist, the Protagonist Halo Features aren't working correctly, and there's another transmigrator who arrived earlier, somehow hacked into the system, and erased its ability to track or punish him before disappearing into parts unknown (it was Airplane).

So Shen Yuan, now Shen Qingqiu, reasons that anyone who was trying to interfere with the plotline had either rescued or killed Luo Binghe while he was still young. Hoping for the former (but braced for the latter) he uses what scant knowledge the novel provided about Luo Binghe's origins, plus his new skills and some of the sect resources available, to track down Luo Binghe.

Turns out, in this version of events, some "random benefactor" showed up and gave Luo Binghe's mother some life-saving medicine. So she didn't die. But her health remained poor and Binghe never left her side, instead doing as much of her work as he was able to. So teenaged Binghe is basically a seemingly average, run-of-the-mill servant.

Shen Qingqiu is like "well this is pretty easy to fix actually" and approaches Luo Binghe as a wise immortal master type, says he sees Binghe's potential, and offers to take him on as a disciple. Luo Binghe is thrilled and kind of gobsmacked, but won't abandon his mother. Not a problem! Shen Qingqiu figured he wouldn't, so he offers to make arrangements to have Mama Luo comfortably set up in one of the villages at the base of the mountain. Sure, having her be alive and letting Binghe visit and write to her would be a deviation from the usual tragic backstory, but not a huge one! Shen Qingqiu is ready to mark this problem solved (and start dealing with all the other problems it creates for him) but the system is weirdly unsatisfied.

Turns out that even though Shen Qingqiu has found Luo Binghe (and a few discreet tests confirm that he has some sort of seal in place, and what are the odds of some other random orphan found on the Luo river, raised by a kindly-but-ill laundress, and named "Luo Binghe" exists in the same region?), the system still can't detect the Protagonist Halo Feature. The stupid glitching thing can't recognize the protagonist without it, so it keeps insisting that Shen Qingqiu locate him, even when he's kneeling right there and performing the tea ceremony for his initiation!

It's really annoying!

Especially since this means that the system won't actually safeguard Luo Binghe from harm. Which means it's up to Shen Qingqiu to make sure that his little white lotus disciple lives long enough to become the ruler of everything. This is easier said than done! Between the skinner demon side quest, and the demonic invasion, and various other side missions to build up the protagonist's potential, Luo Binghe is constantly getting into trouble and Shen Qingqiu keeps getting poisoned or injured trying to drag him back out of it in one piece!

Matters come to a head at the Immortal Alliance Conference (as they so often do). Shen Qingqiu is not planning to yeet Binghe, of course. Like this there's no guarantee of survival, and the system isn't even demanding it of him (because it still doesn't recognize the protagonist), but it seems to be demanding they turn up for the event anyway. Shen Qingqiu is a nervous wreck and fighting the urge to hover, because as expected, there is still a demonic invasion. Except this time Mobei Jun is there, and so is a mysterious cloaked figure who seems to be searching for something.

As soon as Shen Qingqiu claps eyes on the figure, the system chimes happily.

Protagonist Halo successfully located!

Turns out, part of Airplane's hacks involved stealing the halo and reassigning it to himself. Except that means that narrative destiny still wants him to hit certain plot beats, so he's been busily conquering the demonic realms -- in MBJ's name of course -- and mostly doing the bare minimum to satisfy the requirements while evading the system's efforts to regain contact. But now he's gotta go get Xin Mo somehow, except the minute Shen Qingqiu spots him so does the system.

The system, which immediately reassigns Airplane as the protagonist, and orders Shen Qingqiu to throw him into the Endless Abyss.

Which is like, better this rando than Binghe, so okay, but Mobei Jun is not cooperating plus the mysterious hooded stranger also seems pretty resistant to the idea (Airplane is NOT a heavenly demon, Protagonist Halo or no he's still actually a relatively squishy human cultivator, and he does not want to go into the hell pit), and between one thing and another Airplane manages to fall int the Abyss with Luo Binghe.

Not ideal. Which is to say, Shen Qingqiu is emotionally devastated and almost convinced that Luo Binghe has died for real and that Mysterious Halo Thief is going to come out somehow in a few years and chop off all his limbs, and Mobei Jun is extremely distressed because the man he intends to marry just fell into the Endless Abyss, and that seems like a difficult thing to somehow Evil Vizier your way out of.

The other peak lords arrive to keep Mobei Jun from killing Shen Qingqiu, and so everyone just kind of despairingly returns to their separate corners of the universe to wait and see what will happen.

Meanwhile, down in the Endless Abyss, Luo Binghe has unlocked his heavenly demon blood and is now constantly trying to kill Airplane. But thanks to the transferred protagonist halo it just doesn't work. The system interferes and creates a last-minute unlikely survival route for Airplane every time. They eventually reach an impasse where Airplane can't die but only Luo Binghe is strong enough to actually fight most of the creatures in the Abyss, and all this "fighting" between the two of them (generous description) keeps attracting big monsters.

So, Airplane offers a deal. He knows things about this place. Including how to get out. If Luo Binghe helps him fend off the monsters, then he'll help Luo Binghe survive and escape as well. He even offers to help him get away from Shen Qingqiu and make a place for himself in the demon realms! Luo Binghe tries to kill him again for that, so he drops that line of attempted bribery really quick and switches tactics. He knows more things! Things about Shen Qingqiu's past! Secrets he'll share if Luo Binghe helps him!

Is this the start of a beautiful new friendship?

No.

Turns out Luo Binghe and Airplane have exactly the correct combination of shared traits and differences to find one another mostly intolerable. But not intolerable to the point of not being able to manage teeth-clenched teamwork. By the time they get out of the Endless Abyss, Luo Binghe never wants to hear about cup noodles or tax collection or Mobei Jun's tits ever again, and Airplane feels much the same about anything at all to do with Shen Qingqiu (and either Shen Qingqiu is a fellow transmigrator now or else Luo Binghe has inserted a shockingly vivid delusion over the scum villain he wrote). But they're both alive and in joint custody of an evil sword.

Unfortunately, due to the bickering and the complexities of Shang Qinghua's sketchy memory for his own plots, it takes them even longer to get out of the Abyss than it took PIDW Luo Binghe to manage on his own.

And, uh. Well.

They don't find things in great shape, considering how they left them...

#svsss #bingqiu #moshang #long post #scum villain's self saving system #not totally sure where I'd go with the rest of this #but might add more if I think of it #airplane: oh boy can't wait to get back to my peaceful and stable demonic empire and my king #luo binghe: oh boy can't to get back to my peaceful and stable qing jing peak and my shizun #everything once peaceful and stable: *on fire*

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amethystarachnid · 3 months ago

Note

Hey this is my first ever request. I hope you'll write it. Can i ask for tony stark & y/n's wedding with natasha, bruce, steve, thor and happy (no other characters plz) as their friends and help them with the arrangements and its just so chaotic and fun since planning, shopping and to the actual ceremony. Y/n is nice, friendly and grateful for their help and tony keeps sassing around and sneaks in between just to kiss y/n and the avengers see it and tease him about it 😙 and fluffy and funny things like that

please 🥺🥺🥺❤️❤️❤️

CHAOS & CONFETTI

⤷ ANTHONY “TONY” E. STARK

ᯓ★ Pairing: Anthony “Tony” E. Stark x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: fluff, romance, some action

ᯓ★ Word count: 6.4k

ᯓ★ Summary: what the ask said

ᯓ★ TW(s): nothing I think?

ᯓ★ Love is in the air - Valentine's Day special game

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Holiday Special

ᯓ★ MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

The ring on your finger still feels surreal. Even after a week of wearing it, you catch yourself staring at it when you think no one's looking. The moment Tony got down on one knee, there was no hesitation in your answer. You said yes before he even finished the question. He grinned like he’d just hacked the Pentagon and pulled off the ultimate prank, and now, somehow, you’re planning a Stark-level wedding with… well, the Avengers.

That’s probably your first mistake.

Tony, of course, insists on making it a “team effort,” because as he says it, “What’s the point of having a super squad if you can’t weaponize them for cake tastings and table arrangements?” You tell him that sounds like a terrible idea. He kisses your forehead and says, “Exactly. It'll be memorable.”

You should’ve known then.

It starts on a Tuesday morning. You’re sitting on the couch in the common room of the tower, scrolling through Pinterest and wondering if it's physically possible to have too many fairy lights at a wedding. Tony walks in, grabs a handful of almonds from a bowl like it’s popcorn, and announces, “All right, my brilliant, beautiful fiancée. I have assembled the wedding planning task force.”

You lower your phone. “You did what?”

He gestures dramatically toward the door.

One by one, they enter.

Natasha, looking vaguely amused but sipping black coffee like she’s preparing for a long day. Bruce, already carrying a clipboard, wearing a kind expression that says, I’m going to pretend this is going to go smoothly. Steve follows, nodding politely, trying very hard not to look panicked. Thor enters last, in full Asgardian armor because he "wasn't informed this was a casual event." Happy peeks in from the hallway, clearly trying to sneak away, but Tony pulls him in like he's the final piece of some ridiculous Avengers puzzle.

You blink.

“This is your task force?”

Tony beams. “Dream team, baby.”

Happy raises a hand. “I’m only here because he promised me donuts.”

You sigh, rubbing your temples. “Okay. Let’s do this.”

The first meeting is held in the main conference room — the same one used for life-or-death mission briefings and SHIELD-level security threats. Now it's got swatches of fabric and floral samples spread across the table like war plans. You watch as Natasha neatly organizes everything while Steve attempts to color-coordinate swatches with a look of deep confusion. Bruce starts sketching layout options on his tablet. Thor is poking a bouquet of peonies, asking, “Are these the Midgardian ones that smell like roasted goat, or am I thinking of another?”

Tony stands at the head of the table, arms folded like he’s directing a military operation. “All right, let’s break it down. We’ve got catering, decor, venue, music, guest list, cake, bachelor party, bachelorette party—”

“You’re not planning the bachelorette party,” you cut in.

Tony winks. “Only a few ideas. Flamethrowers. Helicopters. Flamethrowers on helicopters.”

Natasha hums. “I volunteer as tribute to veto everything he just said.”

Bruce raises his hand like a concerned science teacher. “Should we maybe start with something simple? Like... theme?”

Steve nods quickly. “Themes are good. I like themes. Patriotic ones, maybe. Red, white, and—”

“No,” you and Tony say at the same time.

Thor slams a fist onto the table, nearly toppling a centerpiece. “There should be fireworks! Endless fireworks!”

Happy sighs. “If this turns into another interdimensional incident, I’m not putting it on the insurance report.”

You stand slowly, trying not to laugh. “Guys. One thing at a time.”

The next few hours are a blur of chaos.

Natasha is shockingly good at organizing people, and quickly takes the reins on logistics. She starts grilling you for decisions like she's interrogating a HYDRA agent. “Color palette. Pick three. No more.” You sputter and try to point to a mood board. She slaps it out of the way. “Those are four colors. Cut one.”

Bruce is quietly mapping out seating charts, but keeps asking you if anyone has a “history” with anyone else. “I just don’t want to seat Thor next to someone who might cause an incident.” He glances at Thor, who is now drinking coffee straight from the pot. “Again.”

Steve is surprisingly passionate about tuxedo fittings and insists on a classic, timeless look. You think he’s just relieved to be dealing with suits and not high-tech weaponry. He draws some concept sketches that actually look like Vogue covers.

Meanwhile, Happy is trying to figure out how to get food trucks onto the tower’s helipad, and Tony is now suggesting that the cake should be a life-size ice sculpture of the two of you, filled with champagne.

You look over at Bruce, who looks like he aged ten years in an hour.

By day three of planning, things have escalated.

Natasha is now your maid of honor by default because she scares everyone else into submission. She's made a spreadsheet so color-coded it could qualify as modern art. You love her.

Thor has taken over flower selection and is sending crates of Asgardian flora to Earth. You walk into the living room to find a bouquet that’s pulsating with blue light. It might be sentient.

Steve is still holding out hope for a marching band.

Happy has started asking you both if you’d rather elope.

Bruce is designing a stress-free “meditation zone” for the reception, complete with bean bags and aromatherapy diffusers. It smells like lavender and impending doom.

You and Tony, of course, are having the time of your lives.

Every evening, you collapse onto the couch with him, both of you exhausted and grinning. He pulls you into his lap, your legs draped over his, and kisses your cheek. “Best decision I ever made,” he murmurs.

“You mean proposing?”

“No, bringing in Thor. Did you see the flowers? That bouquet tried to bite Steve.”

You laugh and rest your head on his shoulder. “This is insane.”

He looks at you like you hung the stars. “Yeah. But it’s our kind of insane.”

The next big challenge? The tasting.

You arrive at the test kitchen where Natasha has scheduled three catering options. Bruce brings a whiteboard with notes on allergies, dietary restrictions, and approximate quantities based on caloric intake. Thor eats an entire tray of appetizers before anyone can stop him.

“Are we allowed to bring mead?” he asks.

“Only if you don’t set the table on fire again,” Steve mutters, reaching for a napkin.

Tony's contribution is hiring a celebrity chef just to impress you. The guy barely makes it through the first course before Natasha pulls him aside and quietly tells him that if he adds foam to anything again, she'll relocate his kneecaps.

By the end of the tasting, you’re so full you can barely move, and Happy is asleep at the table. Bruce is analyzing your reactions with the seriousness of a nuclear scientist. “You smiled more with Option B. It could be the truffle oil.”

Tony grabs your hand and kisses the back of it. “Whichever you pick, we’ll serve it in floating platters. I already have prototypes.”

“I don’t need floating food, babe.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You say that now.”

As the weeks go by, the chaos only deepens. You find Thor stringing up lights with Steve, both of them arguing over voltage. Natasha and Happy somehow become co-DJs when you veto Tony’s playlist filled entirely with AC/DC. Bruce builds a drone-based photography system, and Tony insists it wear a tiny tux.

But in the middle of all the madness, you find the sweet parts.

Steve brings you tea one afternoon, gently telling you to take a break. Natasha helps you pick out your dress — no nonsense, no drama, just her calm voice telling you that you look powerful. Bruce lets you cry on his shoulder when you get overwhelmed. Thor, for all his dramatics, leaves little hand-written notes with weird Asgardian blessings around the tower. Happy gives you a thumbs-up every time you pass him, like he’s reminding you that you got this.

And Tony?

He’s always there.

When you’re too tired to think, he carries you to bed. When you’re stressed about table settings, he makes you laugh until you can’t breathe. He doesn’t care about the flowers or the suits or the menu. He just wants to marry you.

“Even if the cake explodes and Thor sets the band on fire,” he says one night, tangled up in bed with you. “As long as you say I do, it’ll be perfect.”

You smile, heart full.

“Deal.”

---

The planning doesn’t slow down. If anything, it ramps up to levels you didn’t even think were possible. Every day feels like some kind of mission briefing gone horribly off-track, and yet, somehow, you’re still moving forward. You try your best to keep things under control, to be nice and grateful because, honestly, they’re all putting in a ridiculous amount of effort. Even Happy, who is definitely pretending he wants nothing to do with it but still shows up every day with a new logistical solution.

Tony, however, is a menace.

He loves the chaos. Feeds off it. While you’re trying to go over the finalized guest list with Bruce and Natasha, Tony is in the corner trying to convince Thor that it would be hilarious to have fireworks shoot out of the cake when you cut it. Thor is all in. Steve is not.

“I’m not stopping you,” Steve says, flipping through his list of responsibilities. “But I will say, if you set fire to the cake, I’m not going to be the one explaining it to Y/N.”

Tony leans back in his chair, arms crossed behind his head. “She loves me. She’ll forgive me.”

You glance up from your notes. “You sure about that?”

Tony smirks. “Eighty percent.”

Happy sighs heavily. “I don’t get paid enough for this.”

Dress shopping gets scheduled for the following week, and Natasha is fully in charge. You don’t argue. She’s efficient, has good taste, and knows how to make a decision. She also immediately bans all men from the process.

Tony hates it.

The moment he hears about it, he whirls around from his latest wedding-related disaster (arguing with Bruce over whether AI-controlled serving trays are really necessary) and looks betrayed. “Wait. I’m not invited?”

Natasha doesn’t even look up from her tablet. “No.”

Tony gestures to himself. “But I’m the groom.”

“That’s exactly why.”

He turns to you, desperate. “Babe.”

You try to keep a straight face, but the pout he’s giving you is so ridiculous that you have to look away. “You’ll be fine.”

“I won’t be fine. I’ll be suffering.” He groans and leans dramatically against the counter. “I can’t believe you’re leaving me with these guys.”

“You’ll survive.”

He watches as Natasha gives you a rundown of the appointments. “Fine. But I will be sneaking in at some point.”

Natasha doesn’t even blink. “I will have you thrown out.”

On the day of, you make sure to kiss Tony before you leave, which is the only reason he lets you go without more whining. Natasha, to no one’s surprise, is the best possible person to take dress shopping. She’s brutally honest, efficient, and knows how to keep the process from feeling overwhelming. She even lets you pause for snacks in between appointments, which automatically makes her your favorite person for the day.

Some dresses are immediate no’s. Some are contenders. Some are almost perfect. But then, after a few hours, you put one on, and the moment you step out of the dressing room, you know. The fabric is soft, the fit is perfect, and when you catch sight of yourself in the mirror, your heart stumbles in your chest.

Natasha raises an eyebrow. “That’s the one.”

You turn, studying yourself. “You think?”

She nods. “You look dangerous in that dress.”

You laugh. “That’s not exactly the goal.”

“No, but it’s a bonus.”

You let out a slow breath. It’s real now. The ring on your finger, the wedding planning, the future you’re about to have with Tony. The idea of marrying him never scared you, but seeing yourself in a wedding dress makes it all feel even more real. You grin. “Yeah. This is the one.”

Back at the tower, Tony is pacing like an impatient child waiting for a present. Every time someone walks into the common room, he turns, hopeful. When it’s not you, he groans.

Steve is on his third cup of coffee, watching with mild amusement. “You could do something productive.”

Tony scoffs. “I am being productive. I’m preparing to be emotionally supportive.”

Happy flips through a magazine. “You’ve done nothing but sigh dramatically for the last twenty minutes.”

“I’m really good at sighing dramatically.”

When you finally get back, arms full of shopping bags, Tony practically launches off the couch. The moment you step through the door, he’s there, kissing you before you can even say hi. He cups your face, tilting his head as he presses soft, lingering kisses against your lips.

Natasha rolls her eyes. “She was gone for five hours, Stark.”

Tony ignores her. “Did you miss me?”

You laugh, arms winding around his neck. “A little.”

He grins. “What’d you get? Show me.”

“Absolutely not.”

His grin fades into something comically devastated. “Why are you so mean to me?”

Thor, who has just walked in, claps a hand on Tony’s shoulder. “Do not despair, friend Stark. The element of surprise is a most sacred Midgardian wedding tradition.”

Tony groans. “You’re all conspiring against me.”

Steve smirks. “And?”

Tony glares at him.

In the following weeks, things only escalate. The wedding planning moves forward at full speed, with each Avenger handling their own responsibilities. Natasha keeps everything running smoothly. Bruce finalizes logistics. Thor continues to be overly enthusiastic about everything. Steve tries to be the responsible one but ends up getting dragged into nonsense anyway. Happy threatens to quit at least once a day, but never actually does.

And Tony?

Tony sneaks kisses every chance he gets.

You could be reviewing seating charts, and suddenly he’s there, pressing a kiss to your temple. You could be talking to the florist, and he’ll dip in, dropping a quick peck on your cheek before disappearing. You could be mid-conversation with Natasha about final headcounts, and suddenly his arms are around your waist, lips grazing the side of your neck.

It doesn’t go unnoticed.

Steve groans every time it happens. “Do you have to do that?”

Tony smirks. “Yes.”

Natasha just raises an eyebrow. “At least try to be subtle.”

Thor, who clearly finds the entire thing entertaining, simply nods in approval. “Affection is a most glorious thing.”

Bruce sighs. “Can we get through one meeting without this?”

Tony grins. “Doubt it.”

You’re not exactly helping. Every time he sneaks a kiss, you let him. Maybe even encourage it. He makes you laugh, makes you feel loved, makes even the most ridiculous parts of planning fun. The stress never lasts long when he’s around.

One night, after a particularly long day of decisions, you find yourself curled up with him on the couch. The tower is quiet. Everyone else has gone to bed. It’s just the two of you, warm and comfortable.

Tony presses a kiss to your forehead. “You still having fun?”

You nod. “Yeah. It’s a lot, but… it’s good.”

He smiles, fingers trailing down your arm. “I’m proud of you.”

You blink. “For what?”

“For handling all this. For putting up with me. For making this whole thing feel like an adventure instead of a chore.”

You tilt your head, studying him. “You do realize I’m marrying you, right? The chaos is part of the package.”

He grins. “Damn right it is.”

You curl closer, resting your head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. “I can’t wait.”

His arms tighten around you. “Me neither.”

The wedding is getting closer. The chaos is getting bigger. But in the middle of it all, it’s just you and Tony, making something beautiful out of the madness.

---

The wedding is a few days away, and everything is supposed to be settling into place. Most of the big decisions have been made. The dress is hanging safely in a protected, no-Tony-allowed section of the tower. The guest list is finalized, the seating chart approved by both Bruce and Natasha, the menu confirmed, the flowers—despite Thor’s best efforts—mostly Earth-based and non-sentient.

Tony has started counting down the days with a marker on the fridge like a child waiting for Christmas. Every morning he puts a red X over the date with the flair of a man who’s waiting for his reward at the finish line.

You’re excited. You’re happy. You’re also exhausted.

Between fitting appointments, final walkthroughs of the venue, constant emails, and all the little decisions that never seem to end, your brain feels like it’s been stuffed with confetti. Pretty, yes. Useful, no.

But you manage. You stay kind, patient, grateful, because these people—this mismatched, chaotic, wildly dramatic little team—have thrown themselves into your wedding planning like it’s a top-priority mission. You love them for it. You love Tony for dragging them into it. You love everything about how personal and messy and strange this whole experience has been.

Until it breaks.

It starts with a phone call. You’re halfway through checking the RSVP confirmations when your phone rings. Natasha’s name flashes on the screen. You answer without hesitation, still scribbling notes with your other hand.

“Hey, what’s up?”

She’s quiet for a second. Then, “The venue’s flooded.”

You stop writing. “What?”

“There was a pipe burst. Something about a pressure valve and a broken sprinkler system. Water damage everywhere. They’re saying it’s unusable for at least two weeks.”

Your stomach drops. You feel the blood drain from your face.

“But—we’re getting married in four days.”

“I know. I’m already calling around for backups.”

You try to stay calm. Try to be rational. It’s just a place. A building. There are other buildings. But this wasn’t just avenue. It was the venue. The one that made your eyes light up when you walked in for the first time. The one that made Tony say, “Yup, this is it,” before you’d even gotten past the lobby. The one where you’d imagined everything—your walk down the aisle, your first dance, the way the light would hit the stained-glass windows as you said your vows.

Gone.

You thank Natasha. You hang up. You sit there for a few minutes, just breathing.

When you go to tell Tony, he’s mid-conversation with Happy and Bruce about generator backups and emergency lighting in case of a power outage. He looks up when he sees your face.

“Hey,” he says, all warmth and confidence. “What’s wrong?”

You open your mouth. You try to speak. Nothing comes out.

Happy excuses himself quietly. Bruce gives you a concerned look, then leaves too. Tony walks over, brows furrowing.

“Talk to me.”

“The venue,” you say, voice shaking. “It’s ruined. A flood. Natasha’s trying to find something else but… there’s no way it’ll be the same.”

Tony is quiet for a second. Then, “Okay. We’ll fix it.”

You nod, but it doesn’t help. Not really. You stay composed until later, when everything’s done for the day and you’re back in your room. The moment the door closes behind you and it’s just you and Tony, your knees buckle.

He’s there before you hit the floor.

You don’t even realize you’re crying until you’re in his arms, shaking and breathless and broken in a way you didn’t expect to be. It’s not just about the venue. It’s the stress and the exhaustion and the feeling of watching something you’d planned and dreamed about slip through your fingers days before it was supposed to become real.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, burying your face in his chest. “I’m sorry, I just—I held it together all day and I didn’t want to ruin it for anyone and now I—”

“Hey, hey, hey.” His voice is soft, grounding. He pulls you into his lap on the bed, arms around you like steel. “You don’t have to apologize. Not to me. Not ever.”

You clutch at his shirt, your tears soaking into the fabric. “I just wanted it to be perfect.”

Tony kisses your forehead, your temple, the top of your head. “It will be perfect. Not because of the venue. Not because of the cake or the flowers or anything else. Because I’m marrying you. And that’s the part that matters.”

You try to breathe. Try to calm down. It takes a while.

He doesn’t rush you.

He just holds you, letting you cry it out. When you’re finally able to sit up and look at him, your eyes are puffy and your nose is stuffy and you feel like a mess.

He brushes your hair out of your face and smiles. “Still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

You laugh wetly. “Liar.”

He grins. “Only a little.”

He helps you into bed, wraps you in blankets, orders your favorite food without asking. You eat in bed, curled against him, your hand in his, your heart aching but not quite as broken as it was before.

You fall asleep in his arms, exhausted.

The next morning, he’s gone when you wake up.

You blink blearily, expecting to find a note or maybe a text. Instead, you get Bruce knocking gently on the door with a mug of coffee and a nervous smile.

“Tony wants you on the roof.”

“The roof?”

He nods. “Just go. Trust me.”

You throw on some clothes and make your way up, still rubbing sleep from your eyes. The elevator opens, and you step out into—

Magic.

The roof has been transformed.

There’s a platform built on the far end, draped in soft white fabric, like a makeshift altar. Rows of sleek chairs line the area, facing the skyline. Twinkle lights hang overhead, and flowers—real, Earth-approved ones—spill from every corner. There’s a soft breeze, the scent of roses and something faintly citrusy in the air. The city stretches out behind it all, breathtaking.

And standing in the middle of it, wearing a suit and a grin and holding a cup of coffee in each hand, is Tony.

You just stare.

“What is this?”

“Your new venue,” he says, walking over to hand you a cup. “It’s got a hell of a view.”

“You—how?”

He shrugs. “Told Friday to run a logistics sweep. Got some contractors up here overnight. Bruce handled power. Natasha blackmailed the city into expediting a permit. Thor brought a truck full of flowers. Happy made sure nobody fell off the roof.”

You’re speechless.

He looks proud. A little smug. Mostly just happy. “It’s not the original plan. But I figured... why not get married right where we fell in love?”

You blink. “We fell in love on the roof?”

“Kind of. First time I realized you were the one? You were yelling at me up here after I blew up the north wall during that party. You looked incredible, even covered in plaster dust. Told me I was reckless and stupid. Then kissed me before storming off.”

You laugh. “I remember that.”

“I never forgot it.”

You look around again. It’s beautiful. It’s not what you planned. It’s better.

Tony takes your hand. “Say yes.”

You smile through the tears starting to form again. “I already did.”

“Say it again.”

“Yes.”

He kisses you, right there in the morning light, on the roof of the tower, surrounded by the strange, beautiful life you built together. And you know—no matter what else goes wrong, no matter what chaos the next few days bring—this is the part that matters. This is the part that will last.

And somehow, it’s perfect.

---

Tony starts complaining the moment the bachelor and bachelorette parties are mentioned.

“Why do we have to split up?” he whines, slumped dramatically across the couch like it’s the worst news he’s ever received. “We’re getting married. This is the opposite of the point.”

You’re sitting beside him, casually going through a list of last-minute tasks. “Because that’s how it works, babe.”

He lifts his head. “That’s how it used to work. Back when people thought it was cool to black out in Vegas and wake up with a hangover and a questionable tattoo.”

“You’re not getting a tattoo.”

“I might,” he says, then quickly backpedals when you raise your eyebrows. “Okay, I won’t. But still—what if I just... come to yours? I could wear a wig. No one would know.”

You laugh, leaning over to kiss his temple. “You’ll survive one night without me.”

“Bold of you to assume.”

But despite all his theatrics, he agrees. Mainly because Natasha tells him she’ll tase him if he ruins the plan, and Steve says something about “tradition” in that annoyingly calm voice of his. Bruce promises it won’t be wild, just a chance to relax, unwind, and have fun before the big day. Happy says nothing, just sighs in quiet resignation because he knows he’ll be dealing with the fallout either way.

You and Natasha plan your night first. You’re not interested in strippers or weird party games. You want good food, good drinks, and your friends. She books a private space at your favorite rooftop bar, the one with the soft lighting and the killer mocktails, because she knows you’ve been trying to cut back a little during wedding prep. She invites only the closest people—Bruce is obviously excluded, and Tony’s already been banned—but she manages to wrangle in a few of your girlfriends from outside the tower. It’s the kind of night you’ve been too busy to even consider having lately.

Tony sees you before you leave. He doesn’t say much. Just stands in the doorway of your shared closet, arms folded, watching you get ready with a pout on his face.

“You’re going to be gone for hours.”

You give him a look in the mirror. “You’ll be fine.”

“I don’t know what to do with myself.”

“Steve’s literally picking you up in fifteen minutes.”

“That’s not comforting.”

You walk over and smooth your hands over his chest. “We’ll both have fun. Then we’ll meet back here and tell each other everything. Deal?”

Tony leans down to kiss you slow, sweet, and just a little smug. “You’ll miss me.”

“I always do.”

He lets you go with another kiss and a dramatic farewell. “If I die of boredom, tell my AI children I loved them.”

Natasha is already waiting by the elevator when you step out. She gives you an approving look. “Looking good, bride-to-be.”

“You too,” you say with a grin. “Ready to party?”

“Let’s cause minimal but memorable chaos.”

Your night is perfect. It’s everything you need it to be. Laughter, drinks, a killer view of the city. Your friends are loud and affectionate, spilling stories about your past, sharing toasts that are equal parts hilarious and heartfelt. Natasha orders food like you’re feeding an army and refuses to let anyone lift a finger, even the servers.

You catch up with people you haven’t seen in months, soak in their excitement and support, and for the first time in weeks, you feel like a human being again instead of just a stressed-out checklist machine. Natasha gets you to dance—badly—on the patio, hair blowing in the wind, drink in one hand, the other raised to the sky like you're invincible.

The night flies.

Meanwhile, Tony’s version of a bachelor party is exactly what you'd expect.

Steve insists on something classy. “A night of celebration, not debauchery,” he says with conviction.

Thor brings the opposite energy. “There must be mead! And feasting! And perhaps a minor battle!”

Bruce sighs. “Please no battles.”

They settle on something in the middle: a private lounge downtown, secure and quiet but with excellent food, a vintage liquor selection that Tony personally curated, and enough space for Thor to swing his arms dramatically without hitting anything fragile.

Tony pretends to sulk for the first hour. “She’s probably having more fun than me,” he mutters into his drink.

Steve rolls his eyes. “She’s with Natasha. That means at least three emergency escape routes and zero felonies.”

Tony lifts his glass. “To functional chaos.”

Despite himself, he ends up enjoying the night. Thor tells dramatic stories that may or may not be true. Steve manages to get a little tipsy, which is both rare and hilarious. Bruce brings out a toast so heartfelt that Tony actually gets quiet for a minute after it. Happy mostly drinks and keeps a watchful eye on the rest of them like a chaperone who gave up on enforcing the rules but still doesn’t want anyone to die.

There are gifts, mostly joke ones. Thor gives him a ceremonial Asgardian dagger and declares it a wedding token. Steve presents him with a framed photo of the team, signed like it’s a yearbook. Bruce gives him a box labeled “for emergencies only,” filled with calming teas and a card that says don’t blow anything up in neat handwriting.

At one point, Tony slips away to the balcony and checks his phone. He doesn’t message you—he promised not to—but he stares at your contact photo for a while, smiling like an idiot.

Back at your party, you’re sitting with Natasha on a velvet bench, sipping water and watching the skyline.

“You doing okay?” she asks.

“Better than okay,” you say. “This was perfect. I didn’t think I needed it, but I did.”

She nods, eyes flicking to your face. “You love him.”

You look at her. “Of course I do.”

“Good. Because if you hurt him, I’ll end you.”

You laugh. “He said the same thing about you.”

She smirks. “Smart man.”

Eventually, the party winds down. People hug you goodbye, kiss your cheek, tell you they can’t wait for the big day. Natasha rides back with you, quiet and content, until the elevator doors open and you both step into the penthouse.

Tony is already waiting.

You don’t even say anything. You just walk straight into his arms. He smells like whiskey and something expensive, and he wraps around you like he’s been waiting all night for this.

“Miss me?” he mumbles into your neck.

“Always.”

He pulls back to look at you. “Did you have fun?”

“So much.”

He grins. “Me too. Don’t tell Steve.”

You press your forehead to his. “We’re getting married tomorrow.”

He exhales slowly, like he still can’t quite believe it. “Yeah. We are.”

And for a moment, in the quiet, it’s just the two of you again—no planners, no checklists, no chaos. Just love. Raw, overwhelming, and real.

You fall asleep wrapped around each other, wedding on the horizon, the city quiet outside the windows. Whatever comes next, you’re ready.

Together.

The morning of the wedding is clear and warm. Not too hot, not too cold, and not a cloud in sight. It’s like the universe knew you needed one day to go exactly as planned. The whole tower is buzzing with activity—hairdryers, zippers, camera clicks, and Bruce muttering to himself as he tries to figure out how to tie a bowtie.

You’re tucked away in a private suite upstairs, surrounded by soft music and the quiet murmur of Natasha and a few close friends. Your dress is hanging from a rack, safe and perfect. You’d kept it hidden for so long that just seeing it now makes your heart jump.

Natasha walks up behind you with a coffee. “You nervous?”

You take a sip and nod. “Yeah. But also no. It’s weird.”

“Good weird?”

“The best kind.”

She grins. “He’s been pacing downstairs since dawn.”

You smile. That sounds right.

Downstairs, Tony is pacing. In a tux. With the sleeves already half-rolled because “this is a wedding, not a hostage situation.” Steve is trying to get him to calm down. Happy gave up and is just watching from the corner like a man who’s seen some things.

“I just don’t want anything to explode,” Tony mutters, adjusting his cufflinks again. “That’s not unreasonable, right?”

Steve raises an eyebrow. “No. But I think you’re more likely to explode than anything else.”

“I’m holding it together.”

“You’re not.”

“I’m emotionally stable,” Tony says. Then he turns and yells, “WHERE’S THE FLOWER GUY?”

Bruce appears in the doorway with a box of tissues. “Thought you might need these.”

“I’m not crying.”

“Yet.”

The rooftop looks stunning. Twinkle lights, soft flowers, sunlight hitting the city skyline just right. Thor is waiting in the front row, wearing something that might be armor but also might be a tux. No one’s sure. Natasha is in her seat, legs crossed, sunglasses on, looking like she runs the world.

Then the music starts.

Tony’s heart skips a beat.

And then you’re there.

Walking toward him, dress flowing, eyes locked on his. Everything else fades. The noise, the nerves, the people. It’s just you. Every step is one closer to forever, and Tony’s face—usually smug, snarky, or smugly snarky—softens completely. His eyes shine.

“You’re late,” he whispers when you reach him.

“You’d wait,” you whisper back.

“Forever.”

The ceremony is simple. Funny. Sweet. Bruce officiates because he’s the only one calm enough to speak without breaking into tears. He keeps it short. He says, “I’m not going to make a speech, because let’s be real, this is already the most emotionally overwhelming moment in this tower’s history.”

Everyone laughs. Even Natasha.

Vows come next. Yours are heartfelt. You talk about love in chaos, about finding peace in Tony, about the way he made you believe in things again.

Tony’s are half promises and half jokes. He swears to never leave a project unfinished. He vows to keep kissing you every morning, even if you’re grumpy. He says he’ll always let you have the last slice of pizza, even if it hurts.

“And I promise,” he says, voice catching a little, “to love you when things are good, when they’re bad, and even when I’ve accidentally set something on fire.”

“Again?” you murmur.

He grins. “Probably.”

You kiss. The team cheers. Thor yells something in Asgardian that no one translates. You think it’s something like “long may they party.”

The reception is chaos in the best way.

Food everywhere. Laughter. A playlist that bounces from soft romantic to complete dance-floor anarchy. Tony spins you around on the dance floor like he’s waited his whole life to do it. He steps on your dress. You step on his foot. You both laugh so hard you forget the choreography you didn’t practice.

Steve gives a speech that’s so sincere you almost cry. Then Thor follows with a toast involving a large mug, the phrase “battle love,” and a story about two trolls who fell in love during war.

Bruce tries to restore balance with a nerdy but touching tribute. Happy just nods from his seat and raises his glass, the most heartfelt gesture from him yet.

Natasha hands you a shot and says, “To surviving the planning. May the marriage be easier.”

At one point, you catch Tony sneaking extra slices of cake behind the display. He holds one out to you with a wink. “Marriage is about sharing.”

You take the bite. “It’s also about not stealing the desserts before the official cutting.”

“Same thing.”

You laugh, leaning against him as the music swells.

By the end of the night, your feet hurt, your face aches from smiling, and you’re more in love than you’ve ever been.

The next morning, you wake up next to your husband.

It’s weird and wonderful to think of him that way. He’s already awake, lying on his side, head propped on his hand.

“Morning, Mrs. Stark.”

You roll over and smile. “Hey, husband.”

“You want coffee, or do we open gifts first?”

You blink. “You want to open presents before caffeine?”

Tony shrugs. “Some of them are suspiciously shaped. I have questions.”

You end up dragging a giant pile of gifts into the living room and dumping them on the floor. It’s like Christmas, except the tags say things like “To the newlyweds” and “Open in private, for legal reasons.”

The first few are sweet. A framed painting of your wedding venue, pre-flood, from Bruce. A handmade quilt from one of your old college friends. A gorgeous bottle of rare wine from Happy with a note that says “Don’t drink this unless it’s been a really long day.”

Then it gets... less sweet.

From Thor: A polished Asgardian fertility idol. It’s very detailed. You both stare at it for a while.

Tony nods. “So we’re having a conversation with HR later.”

From Natasha: A small black box. Inside, several tasteful but unmistakable... accessories. She’s labeled each with helpful instructions. One is labeled “for stress relief.”

You laugh so hard you fall over. Tony takes one look and says, “I have questions, but also, respect.”

From Steve: A thick book titled Marriage: A Field Manual. Inside, he’s made notes in the margins. Actual notes. With diagrams.

Tony flips through it. “Did he annotate a marriage guide?”

You lean over. “Is this a strategy section?”

“Oh my god, he included tactical retreat advice.”

From Bruce: A gift certificate for couple’s therapy. You blink at it. Then open the card. Prevention is better than reaction, he wrote. Also, it comes with a free massage session.

Tony nods. “Okay, not mad.”

The best one might be from Happy. It’s a plain envelope. Inside is a photo of Tony, asleep at his workbench, drooling on a half-built gadget. The caption reads You’ve come a long way, kid.

Tony goes quiet after that. Just holds the picture and smiles.

Later, you find a small box hidden behind the others. There’s no name, just a tiny tag that says for when you remember why you did this.

Inside is a tiny hourglass. The sand flows so slowly it takes a full hour to drop. There’s no note. But you don’t need one.

Tony wraps an arm around you, holding you close on the floor.

“You know,” he says, “for all my griping... this was kind of perfect.”

You rest your head on his shoulder. “Because you married me?”

“Exactly. And because Thor didn’t accidentally blow something up.”

“Yet.”

He kisses your forehead. “I like being your husband.”

“You’re good at it so far.”

“I plan to get even better.”

You close your eyes, content and warm and more loved than you ever thought possible.

And as the sunlight pours through the windows, filling the room with soft golden light, you realize this is only the beginning.

And it's already everything.

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