sweetpeterparker

[sweetpeterparker]

Imagine Me And You

Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader

Synopsis: you and Peter have feelings for each other but can’t act on them since he’s your friends ex-boyfriend

Masterlist

“Is it weird to date your ex’s friend?” Peter typed into his laptop and waited for the results to come up. He was so engrossed in reading the responses that he didn’t hear you and Ned come up to the table he was sitting at.

“What are you looking at?” You asked as you plopped down beside him. Peter quickly slammed his laptop shut and hopped you hadn’t seen his screen.

“Oh, uh. I was just taking an “Am I Gay?” Quiz.” He lied with a causal shrug.

“Aw. Did you pass?” You asked with a teasing smile.

“Aced it.” Peter said with a click on his tongue.

“I knew you would. That’s my boy.” You laughed and patted his back.

“I love when you call me your boy.” Peter said jokingly.

“So no one cares that I’m here?” Ned asked when no one had acknowledged his presence yet.

“Do you? Then maybe I should call you that more often.“ You replied and leaned towards Peter. A blush painted Peter’s cheeks while Ned rolled his eyes to the ceiling.

“Maybe you should. But I’d like anything you called me.” Peter answered.

“Oh yeah? Even when I called you fart ass boy the entire bus ride home from DC?” You asked him.

“Okay. I didn’t love that.” He admitted, making you both laugh.

“You did it to yourself, mister.” You shrugged. “Should’ve waiting until you were alone to rip ass.”

“I thought it would be silent.”

“Aw. We all think things.” You said and teasingly patted his back again. You stared into each other’s eyes for a moment because no one wanted to be the first to look away.

“Can you guys stop?” Ned complained. “I feel like I’m watching straight American Heartstopper. And it sucks.”

You and Peter exchanged a look before scooting away from each other. There was always an awkwardness that followed when the unspoken feelings between you and Peter were spoken about. It’s not that neither of you wanted it enough to make the move. It was the boundary that neither of you knew if it was okay to cross.

Luckily, MJ came to the table and broke up the uncomfortable silence Ned had created. She sat down with a smile on her face but it slowly dropped when she sensed the tension among the three of you.

“Real weird vibe here guys.” MJ said out of the corner of her mouth.

“Sorry. That was my fault.” Ned said with a raise of his hand.

“Usually is.” MJ shrugged. “Anyway, a friend of mine is having an art show this Friday and they need more bodies in the room. Would you guys want to come?”

“Sure. I’ll go.” You told her.

“We’ll come. As long as there is some kind of greasy food or ice cream happening after.” Ned answered for him and Peter.

“Cool. I’ll tell her the five of us are coming.” MJ said as she pulled out her phone to text her friend.

“Five?” Peter asked.

“Oh, yeah. I forgot to mention that I invited Liz. Sorry, Peter.” MJ replied, making everyone look at Peter. The only one Peter cared to look back at was you. His face flushed an embarrassed pink as he shrugged his shoulders.

“I have no problem with it.” He said. “We’re cool now. And we’re all friends. It’s fine that she’s invited.”

“Yeah, but we haven’t hung out as a fivesome since you guys broke up.” Ned pointed out. “This would be the first.”

“Don’t say fivesome.” MJ said warningly.

“The breakup was almost a year ago.” Peter shrugged. “I’m sure it will be fine if she comes.”

“Okay. Five of us it is then. No one better bail on me this time. I don’t want a repeat of that time everyone ditched and I had to see Lego Batman by myself with Ned.”

“I haven’t cried that hard in a movie theater before I saw it and I haven’t cried that hard since.” Ned shook his head as he blew out a breath.

You were hardly listening as you stared off into the distance, the reminder of the reason you and Peter couldn’t be together causing you to check out of the conversation. Peter looked over at you and tried to catch your eye but failed. It twisted your stomach in knots every time you thought about what having feelings for Peter would do to your friendship with Liz. As much as you liked him, you could never betray her. So instead, you pushed it down and didn’t dare to meet his eye.

On Friday night, you and Peter stood outside the art studio, both on the phone. You were anxiously waiting for someone else to show up so you didn’t have to be alone with him any longer.

“You’re not coming?” You asked in disbelief.

“I know. I hate to miss the show.” MJ groaned. “But I’m having an allergic reaction.”

“You are? From what?”

“Not sure.” MJ said quietly, making you roll your eyes to the sky.

“You got that damn crab Rangoon from that place on the corner again, didn’t you?” You asked angrily.

“I cannot resist it. I am only human.”

“A human with a shellfish allergy.” You reminded her.

“Those are optional.” She insisted.

“They’re not. I’m coming to your dorm to take care of you.” You sighed and went to hang up.

“Don’t worry about me. Liz is here.” MJ informed you, making your freeze.

“Hey. I’m taking care of her tonight.” Liz called loud enough for you to hear. You looked over your shoulder at Peter before returning to the phone call.

“Do you need any help? Last time MJ ate those things, she puked so much I almost called the Coast Guard out of fear.”

“I think I’ll be okay. Besides, taking care of her is good practice for the NCLEX.” Liz replied.

“The what?”

“Nursing exam.” She chuckled. “Don’t worry. I got her. And don’t worry about me either, okay? I want you guys to have fun tonight.”

The kindness in Liz’s voice when she said the last part made you want to ask her exactly what she meant by that. You didn’t have time to ask before you heard MJ retching and quickly hung up the phone. You thought about what Liz had said before walking back to Peter.

“MJ bailed.” You told him.

“What?” Peter laughed in surprise. “This is her friend’s show. Did she say why?”

“You know why.” You sighed.

“That damn crab Rangoon.” He huffed and stamped his foot.

“She can’t stay away.” You shrugged. “What about Ned? Is he on his way?”

“He’s not coming either.”

“What? Why not?”

“He said he remembered that he didn’t want to and is playing The Sims instead.”

“Of course he is.” You grumbled and shoved your hands in your pockets. Peter recognized that you were cold and unzipped his jacket. He went to place it around your shoulders but then hesitated. You’d been distant during the week and he wasn’t sure his jacket was something you’d want.

“Is Liz almost here?” He asked as he slipped his arms back through his coat.

“No. She’s taking care of MJ. We’re really lucky to have a friend who’s becoming a nurse. One of us is always getting sick from something stupid.” You replied, making Peter smile. He and Liz really were cool now, but he much preferred having an evening alone with you.

“Oh. Cool. Just us tonight, then.” Peter said as a blush painted his cheeks. You looked up at him sadly and shook your head.

“I think we should go home, Peter.”

“What? Why?”

“Because.” You whined. “We can’t hang out just you and me.”

“We can’t?” He asked as his heart started to sink.

“No.” You insisted. “If it’s just the two of us, then it’s like a date.”

“Oh. And you wouldn’t want to be on a date with me.” He nodded his head and looked at the ground so you wouldn’t see how much that stung him.

“It’s not that I don’t want to…” You trailed off, making him look up at you with curiosity. You looked into his eyes and smiled sadly.

“We can’t. You know that.” You said quietly.

Peter knew that you were thinking about Liz. It’s not that he didn’t care if he hurt Liz by going out with you, it’s that he felt like he knew her well enough to know she’d be okay with it.

“So then let’s not make this a date.” Peter said to break the silence. “Because I don’t see any reason why the two of us can’t hang out alone. Let’s ditch this art show and go do something no two people on a date would ever do.”

“Like what? Take the LIRR to Long Island?” You asked him.

“Absolutely not.” Peter said in disgust. “I was thinking we could get some non-date food and then do a non-date activity.”

“I wouldn’t say no to a pizza right now.” You said coyly, starting to warm up to his idea. Peter smiled happily before holding out his arm. You hesitated for a moment and then took it, allowing him to lead you to the closest pizza shop.

It was tiny, dimly lit, and hardly the scene of a date, making it the perfect spot. You and Peter ordered and when he reached for his wallet, you put your hand over his.

“I got this, baby girl. Your money isn’t good here.” You told him before paying the man behind the register.

“Smart. Because if this was a date, I’d pay.” He said and tapped the side of his head. You laughed at him before getting your pizza. The two of you sat down across the table from one another in the back of the restaurant. The only other patron was shirtless and eating a calzone with two hands, so you had your privacy.

“So. What would two people not on a date talk about?” Peter asked between bites of his pizza.

“Hm. I don’t know.” You thought. “Shit from a butt?”

“Hmm. That’s a really good option.” He nodded his head. “But let’s keep thinking.”

You playfully rolled your eyes at him and took a bite of your food. You had initially panicked over it just being the two of you tonight but that quickly fell away when you remembered how easy it was to be around Peter. As long as it stayed a non-date, your guilt would be at bay.

“We haven’t hung out just us in a long time.” Peter said, as if reading your mind.

“Yeah. It’s been over a year, I think.” You realized. “We went to that arcade that also sold purses and knives.”

“And hot dogs.” He added. “Remember I tried one and got a terrible nose bleed?”

“I remember that.” You chuckled. “I was so scared you were gonna bleed out in front of me. I think I gave you a tampon to put up your nose.”

“You did. And it was surprisingly very comfortable up there.”

“That was a fun night. We were out so late too. I had an early morning class the next day but I didn’t care. I didn’t want the night to end.” You said without thinking.

“Neither did I. That’s kinda how I’m feeling now. I didn’t realize how much I missed spending time with you one on one.”

“Aw, Pete.” You smiled and put your hand on top of his. “I missed it too.”

“You guys are a cute couple. Reminds me of me and my boyfriend.” The other man in the restaurant smiled at the two of you as he got up to leave. His comment brought the two of you back to reality and you quickly moved your hand. You looked to the side as Peter pretended to be busy with his napkin. Your reminiscing had landed you in date territory and you needed to pivot out of it quickly.

“The pizza is good.” Peter said to break the awkward silence that had settled.

“Yeah. I can feel a pimple forming on my chin and I haven’t even finished it yet but it’s pretty good.” You agreed without meeting his eyes. You finished your slices with small talk between bites before leaving the shop.

“Want to walk around a little? I need some movement to digest that thing.” Peter offered as he patted his stomach.

“Sure. Just, leave enough room for Jesus, okay?” You laughed awkwardly as the two of you started to walk down the sidewalk.

“Sure.” Peter chuckled and kept an appropriate amount of space between the two of you as you walked. The other sidewalk users that you had to maneuver around eventually caused you to get closer. Your hand bumped Peter’s a few times too many before you folded your arms and rubbed them up and down.

“Are you cold?” He asked you.

“A little. This damn Shein jacket is probably made out of candy wrappers and recycled Build-A-Bear skin. The wind goes right through it.” You grumbled and pulled the fake leather jacket tighter around your body.

“What an odd combination the seamstress chose.” He chuckled. “But it looks good on you.”

“Thanks.” You turned your head to give him a shy smile. Peter only let you walk a few more paces before placing his jacket over your shoulders. You gave him a grateful smile before slipping your arms through the sleeves. You knew Peter tended to run hot so you didn’t have to worry about him getting cold.

“I was going to give it to you back at the art show but I wasn’t sure if you’d want it.” He confessed to you.

“Why wouldn’t I?” You played dumb.

“I don’t know. You’ve been a little distant this week. And a little jumpy tonight. Is everything okay?”

“Yeah. I’m fine.” You replied in a tone that convinced no one. Peter stopped walking so you did too. He took a step towards you and put his hand on your shoulder.

“You know you could tell me anything, right?” He said in a tone so gentle your knees almost collapsed. You looked down at his hand and then into his eyes. You wanted to tell him that you liked him and that it was killing you to not be able to be with him the way you wanted, but the words didn’t come out.

“I’m okay.” You said instead. “Let’s just keep walking. It keeps me warm to stay moving.”

Peters wasn’t fully satisfied but he knew you got cagey when you were pushed so he let it go. You ended up walking to the pier of the Long Island Sound and stopped to looked at the water.

“Wow. It’s actually kinda pretty at night. You can’t see how brown it is.” You commented as you stared at the rippling waves. Peter was too busy looking at you to see what you were talking about.

“Yeah. Very pretty.” He said in a soft voice as he watched the setting sun illuminate your side profile. You both stayed like that for a moment in comfortable silence.

“The sun is going down. You want to watch?” Peter offered. You were about to say yes when a heavy feeling hit your chest.

“Watching the sunset is a date activity.” You said quietly.

“I know. That’s why you’re gonna watch the sunset and I’m gonna go over there and watch those pigeons fighting over an Elf bar.” Peter pointed to a bench a few feet behind you to let you know where he’d be.

“Okay.” You laughed. “Don’t have too much fun.”

“No promises.” He called back as he walked to where the pigeons were. You watched him over your shoulder as he sat down on the bench and felt your heart ache. He gave you a little wave before pointing at the sky, making you turn around. You longed to go over and sit next to him and watch the sunset together, but you couldn’t do that. If he had dated anyone else but your friend, you could. But everything was complicated so you stayed where you were.

“How was it?” Peter asked as he joined you on the pier once the sun had fully dipped under the horizon.

“It was beautiful. You would’ve liked it.” You told him. “It was one of those nights when the sun looks really red and the sky is orange. I know you like those.”

“I do. But don’t worry, I secretly watched from behind you.” He admitted. “But it doesn’t count as watching it together because we were socially distancing.”

“Good. I wouldn’t want you to miss it.” You said as you stared into his eyes. He stared back and raised his hand to tuck a piece of hair behind your cheek, but quickly put it down. You gave him a tight smile before tossing something into the water.

“What was that?” He wondered.

“My pizza crust. I was throwing it to the whales.” You replied. Peter looked back and forth between you and the water for a few times to see if you were serious.

“There are no whales in this water.” He said finally.

“Then what have I been throwing bread crumbs at for the past ten minutes?”

“I have no idea since whales don’t eat breadcrumbs in the first place.”

“Well something was popping out of the water to eat the crumbs.” You pointed out.

“In the Long Island Sound? It was probably the Babadook or something. Let’s go before it comes out and gets us.” He said and put his hand on the small of your back to lead you away. Your face went hot at the contact and you had to give him a look. He rolled his eyes slightly and dropped his hand.

“I know, I know.” Peter said sarcastically. “I dated your friend for three months almost a year ago so you and I cannot do anything that would suggest there was a romance between us. But I put my hand on Neds back too, by the way.”

“I know. That’s why you passed that “Am I Gay?” quiz this week.” You teased him. Peter laughed lightly but you could tell he was upset about something.

“What’s wrong?” You asked him, making him stop in his tracks. He looked at you with his big brown eyes and you felt that old familiar ache in your heart.

“It’s not the I regret dating Liz. She’s a great girl.” He began.

“I know.” You nodded, shocked that you were actually talking about this forbidden subject out loud.

“I cannot tell you how much I regret dating a friend of yours.” He continued, making butteries erupt in your stomach.

“Oh.” You said quietly. He looked to the side but you continued to stare at his face. He looked upset and had his usually blush splashed across his face.

“Peter.” You said softly and went to put your hand on his face. He quickly snapped out of his mood and threw a smile on.

“You know what I’ve been thinking about lately?” He asked.

“What?” You wondered, confused by the sudden change in emotion.

“Those little squishy oatmeal cookies with the cream in the middle. You know what I’m talking about?”

“Not the answer I was expecting, but okay. Oatmeal creme pies?”

“Yes!” He exclaimed. “Those were so good. They’ve been on my mind all week.”

“Let’s stop in and get some. I’m sure they have them.” You laughed and pulled him into the nearest corner store.

“Really? You want one?” He asked excitedly as you walked through the door together.

“No, but I can’t think of anything less romantic than watching you down one of them right now.”

“Oh, baby, you’re about to watch me down three of them right now.” Peter held up three fingers as he practically skipped to the snack aisle. You laughed and followed him to help him look. He didn’t find them in that aisle so he went around the corner to check the next one.

“How much do you think this is?” He asked as he came back to the aisle you were in with an orange cat in his arms.

“Put him down.” You ordered. “That’s the manager.”

“Fine.” Peter sighed and gently let the cat go. “Now I kinda want one of these giant protein cookies.”

“No way. Those taste like straight up sand and butt.” You warned him.

“At the same time?” He wondered. “Or is it like very sand forward with a butt aftertaste?”

“You think you’re so funny, don’t you?” You playfully narrowed your eyes as you turned to him.

“I do actually, yes. Thank you for noticing.” He replied and took a step closer to you.

“The only thing I noticed is that eyelash that’s been sitting on your cheek all night. I want it.” You said and reached up to take it off his face. He gently caught your wrist and moved it away, bringing you closer to him in the process.

“Get away from me.” He laughed. “That’s my wish. Not yours.”

“Come here. Please, let me get it off your face. It’s been bothering me since the pizza place. I’ll do anything. I’ll buy you all the sand cookies you want.” You offered as you tried with your other hand to hold his face still. Peter had wrapped his arm around your waist now to better maneuver you away from his face as you struggled to get the eyelash.

“That is not what I want.” He said in response to your cookie offer.

“Hey guys.” A voice came from down the aisle, making you both freeze before untangling yourselves from each other.

“Liz.” You smiled in surprise and hastily fixed yourself. “What are you doing here?”

Peter gave her a small wave but said nothing. Her face was calm and if anything, delighted to see the both of you. Meanwhile, your heart was pounding in your chest and you felt guilt like never before.

“I’m just getting some Pepto for MJ. She only has the cherry kind and she said it-“

“Reminds her too much of her ex.” You finished her sentence. “I know. Is she okay?”

“She’s doing better. I think she’s learned her lesson this time. She’s not gonna eat them again.” Liz answered. You all were silent for a moment before bursting out laughing.

“That was a good one, Liz.” You said once your laughter died down.

“Thank you.” She smiled. “So, how was the art show?”

“Oh, we didn’t end up going. We got food instead.” Peter replied. Your heart started to pound again in fear of how that sounded to Liz.

“Oh yeah? Where?” She wondered.

“Just some random little pizza place. The pizza was like $2 and it tasted like the price. I bought my own, by the way. I mean, I bought his too, but only because I already had a five dollar bill out.” You quickly explained. Liz laughed at how you stumbled over yourself but didn’t make any sign of being upset with either of you.

“Wow. Thank you for all the details.” She said teasingly.

You felt about ready to explode by that point. Liz appeared calm and happy, the exact opposite of how you were feeling inside. You felt like you were betraying your friend right in front of her eyes and you didn’t understand why she wasn’t calling you out for being a bad friend yet.

“Peter, can you go get me a clear Gatorade?” You asked Peter.

“Oh, yeah, sure. Bye Liz.” He waved again before leaving the aisle.

“I don’t think they make a clear Gatorade.” Liz said once you were alone.

“They don’t. I just wanted to get rid of him.” You told her.

“Oh, smart.” She chuckled. “So, did you guys have fun tonight?”

“It was okay. It was a pretty uneventful hang out with a friend.” You said with extra emphasis on the “friend” part.

“Really? It seemed like you were having fun when I saw you guys.” She said with surprise. She didn’t sound angry which didn’t make sense to you.

“Fun? With Peter? No way. We’re only hanging out because everyone else bailed. I’d never hang out with him alone otherwise. And I never will again, just so we’re clear.” You assured her. Liz looked at you for a while before smiling softly.

“Hey, you know that red sweater you let me borrow last semester?” She asked you.

“Oh, yeah. The one with the big buttons.” You recalled.

“You know how after I wore it a few times, you told me to keep it?” She continued.

“Well, yeah. I thought it was cute but it never looked right on me. But it looked great on you. I wanted you to have it.”

Liz smiled when you said exactly what she was hoping. She put her hands on your shoulders to make you look at her.

“You can keep my sweater. It looks much better on you. And it was never mine to begin with.” She said in a soft tone. You caught on to what she was saying and looked over at the drink section where Peter was still searching for the nonexistent drink.

“Liz. I can’t.” You shook your head and looked down at the ground.

“If you don’t like him and I’m reading all the signs wrong, then l’ll drop it. But if you’re holding yourself back from being with him because of me, then both of you need to cut it out. Because it’s fine with me.”

“It is?”

“Of course it is.” She insisted. “Peter and I barely dated. And we broke up for a reason. We didn’t work as a couple and that’s okay. It doesn’t mean he’s off limits from you or any other girl. I think you should go for it.”

“But he’s your ex-boyfriend.”

“And you’re my best friend. I want you to be happy.“ She said with a friendly squeeze of your shoulders. You gave her a sad smile and then pulled her into a hug. She hugged you back tightly as Peter watched curiously from a distance.

“I appreciate you caring about my feelings. But it’s not necessary.Now, go get him.” Liz said once you pulled out of the hug. Peter came back and joined you in the aisle with a smile.

“Here you go.” Peter said as he handed you the bottle of clear Gatorade.

“What the hell?” You whispered in disbelief at his find.

“I better get back to MJ. But call me if you guys get sick from that pizza.” Liz waved goodbye and left to make her purchase.

“What were you guys talking about?” Peter asked once the two of you left the store with your items.

“My old red sweater.” You told him to put it lightly.

“The one with the big buttons? I remember it. You always looked pretty in it. How come you don’t wear it anymore?” Peter wondered. For once, you allowed yourself to enjoy the compliment from him without feeling guilty. You stopped walking and Peter followed suit and stopped with you.

“Because it was never mine to begin with.” You smiled fondly at him and slipped your hand into his. Peter smiled back at the unexpected gesture but his smile slowly faded when he realized he didn’t know what you were talking about.

“Am… am I supposed to know what that means?”

“I think you know what it means.” You said as you took a step closer to him. Peter looked to the side and in confusion and still had no idea what you were talking about.

“I’m confused. Did you steal it or some-“

You cut Peter off by grabbing his shirt to pull him into a kiss. Once Peter’s initial surprise wore off, he put his hands on your face to kiss you back. You wrapped your arms around his neck and pressed yourself into him, kissing him until you ran out of breath. When you pulled away, Peter had a shy smile on his face as he pressed his forehead against yours.

“What made you change your mind about us?” He asked you in a timid voice. “And don’t say the red sweater because I still don’t understand what that meant.”

“I just realized we’re a good fit. And I didn’t want to hold myself back anymore.”

“So does this mean I can take you on a real date sometime? One where I buy your pizza and watch the sunset next to you?” Peter asked hopefully.

“It does. I’d really like that.” You answered coyly, making him smile.

“Does this also mean if you and I break up, I’m allowed to date Ned?” Peter asked jokingly.

“Don’t push it, mister.” You warned him.

“I won’t.” He held his hands up in defense. You started walking down the street again, this time hand in hand.

“Oatmeal creme pie?” Peter offered as he leaned the box of Oatmeal cookies towards you.

“Why thank you.” You said and took one. “Clear Gatorade?”

Peter accepted your offer and took a large sip of the Gatorade you’d been drinking. He winced at the flavor and looked at the bottle.

“What’s wrong?” You asked him.

“Ugh. This Gaterade is gross.” He grimaced. “Oh my God. This isn’t Gatorade. This is magnesium citrate.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s the stuff you drink before a colonoscopy to, you know, clear yourself out.” Peter said with obvious discomfort.

“What?” You exclaimed and grabbed the bottle to read it for yourself. Sure enough, the neatly empty bottle was what Peter said it was.

“If you think about it, this is kinda the perfect way to end our non-date.” Peter said to try to make you feel better. You gave him a look before pulling out your phone.

“Hey Liz.” You said into the phone. “Funny story.”

Taglist 🏷️

@thebookwormlife @imanativeofswlondondahling

@whatareyouhidingpeter @takenbyheartstrings

@imyourliquor-youremypoison @andreasworlsboring101

@peterparkoure

@justcallmehitgirl @jackiehollanderr

@emmamarshmellow @unbelievableholland

@sovereignparker @every-marveler-ever @undiadeestos @eridanuswave​ ​

@solarxmoonchild @canyouevencauseicant

@quaksonhehe @lovelessdagger

@thesuitelifeofafangirl @marshxx @nooneinvitedfascistbarbie

@maybemona

@alexxcorona113 @lethal-wisdom

@pandaxnienke

 @officialsimppage @itsemohours

@freakofmusic25 @tomholland85

@olixerwxxd @leilanixx

@whereismytelephone @so-very-asleep

@spideyspeaches @hihiweezing

@mathletemadison  

@dhtomholland @insomniac-nerd-posts-things @prancerrparkerr

@hallecarey1 @adayasgeorgia @blackwidowisthebest @imawhoreforu

@ciarahollands

@nellabellaa @pinklxmonade @boogywoogywoogy @wordsarelife

@starboyshoyo

[sweetpeterparker]

ꫂ ၴႅၴ Children Get Older.

Father figure!Hotch x BAU!reader

main masterlist

Summary: A case suddenly escalates into a national emergency, demanding the team’s full attention. But what truly turns heads, especially your boss’s, is the fact that you and Spencer showed up at the exact same time…both impeccably dressed.

Words: 3,9k.

Warnings & Tags: fem!reader. mentions of crime and all the typical stuff from the show. father and rebellious daughter type relationship. the reader has a romantic thing with spencer. temporarily located in the first season. so bittersweet. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).

Based by this request.

Note: This reader is really my favorite because everything is SO bittersweet but profound (or maybe I just have daddy issues).

The sound of your heels against the cold tile echoed, like they didn’t quite belong here. Like you didn’t. Not in the way you usually did. You had never entered the BAU like this before, not at midnight, not with your coat still hanging open from the rush, not with perfume clinging faintly to your wrists instead of gunpowder and antiseptic soap.

Your dress was simple, but nothing about it felt subtle here. It was the color of deep wine or dusk, something rich and a little out of place under the sterile overhead lights. The hem brushed just below your knees, swaying with every step, and the faint shimmer of your stockings caught the fluorescents, slicing light into motion like glass. Your heels clicked too loudly. Your hair was still pinned up from earlier in the evening, soft tendrils falling loose around your ears in the kind of way that didn’t happen after ten hours in the field. You hadn’t meant to draw attention. But looking like someone with a life—someone alive—had become, suddenly, the loudest thing about you.

You looked like you’d come from somewhere warm. Somewhere beautiful. Somewhere untouched by death, statistics, and blood-spattered timelines. You looked like you’d been smiling an hour ago.

And beside you, Spencer Reid didn’t look like Spencer Reid.

He looked like a stranger. Or worse, like someone carved out of another time entirely. His charcoal-gray suit was sharply cut and perfectly tailored, the lapels pressed so crisp they caught the light when he moved. The tie was navy, barely patterned, and knotted neatly. His hair had been combed back, almost too carefully, and though a few soft strands had fallen forward in the hours since dinner, the effort lingered. There was no cardigan. No messenger bag. No stain from whatever he’d been eating in the car. Just clean lines and a quiet kind of elegance that made you blink. That made you wonder if this was how he’d always looked, beneath the layers of stress and coffee and unspoken grief.

His cheeks were still flushed from the wind outside, or maybe from something else, and there was the faintest sheen of sweat at his temple, the kind that only comes from trying too hard not to look nervous. His hand had hovered at the small of your back when you stepped out of the taxi. He didn’t touch you. Not really. But it was close enough to count. Close enough to remember.

You shouldn’t have looked so coordinated. Your outfits were almost absurdly in sync, like two halves of a photograph you didn’t remember posing for.

You shouldn’t have arrived together.

And yet, here you were.

Morgan looked up first. His eyebrows lifted in a slow arc, and the corner of his mouth twitched with something between amusement and surprise.

“Well, damn,” he muttered under his breath, straightening from where he leaned against the edge of the table. “Did we interrupt a red carpet?”

You gave him a quick smile, tight and too rehearsed, but it was the best you could manage. Your pulse had already started to race. The lights felt too harsh overhead, your coat suddenly too warm. You were acutely aware of the echo of Spencer’s footsteps behind you. Of the way your coat didn’t quite cover the sheen of your dress, the soft gleam of your stockings. The faint scent of velvet seats and perfume still clung to you both like memory.

Then your boss looked up.

He didn’t speak right away. He just stared.

And somehow, that was worse.

His gaze was steady, clinical. The kind of look that catalogued everything, quietly, ruthlessly. You saw the moment it all clicked for him: the matching formality of your clothes, the way your heels clicked in sync with Reid’s shoes, the slight sheen still on your cheeks, and the exactness of your timing.

“You’re late,” he said, voice even but clipped at the edges.

“Traffic,” you answered quickly, sliding into your usual seat with more care than usual, trying not to grimace as the heels pressed awkwardly into your feet. “We came straight here.”

We.

The word hung in the air like smoke. You regretted it instantly.

Spencer spoke, his voice calm but a little too careful. “I didn’t check my phone until the curtain dropped. We left as soon as I saw the alert.”

Curtain.

There was no pretending after that.

Morgan raised a brow, his smile deepening with something bordering on mischief. He leaned toward Elle with a low nudge. “You two were together?”

The silence that followed felt immense.

It wasn’t shame, not exactly. You weren’t embarrassed that you’d been on a date with Spencer. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was how it might look. How easily it could be twisted into something frivolous, something that would undermine every hour you’d bled for this job. You weren’t naïve. You’d seen how fast reputations could unravel in this building. Especially yours.

But then, blessedly, like a shift in air pressure, JJ’s voice cut in.

“Abduction in D.C.,” she said, her tone brisk and grounding. “It escalated. Press picked it up before we did. We’re dealing with a national alert now. Local PD’s maxed out.”

The air in the room snapped back into focus.

You opened your mouth to offer—“I’ll go with Reid”—but Hotch didn’t even let the words land.

“No.”

Just that. Calm. Final.

“You’re riding with me.”

The words dropped like a stone in water.

The room went still.

You blinked. “Of course.”

Your voice sounded thinner than you meant it to. You didn’t look at Spencer, but you felt his glance, quick and quiet and full of something that might’ve been concern. Might’ve been guilt. Might’ve been nothing at all. But Hotch had already turned his back to the room, gesturing toward the board, the abduction photos clicking into place under the projector like it was just another night.

And maybe it was.

The briefing dissolved into motion. Chairs scraped back. Files passed from hand to hand. Radios crackled with incoming dispatches, and JJ was already at the computer, fingers flying, coordinating with local law enforcement like it was muscle memory. Hotch stood at the head of the table, halfway through assigning tasks, his voice clipped, focused, and all business. The fluorescent lights buzzed above, merciless and sterile, like they could see right through your dress.

You peeled off your coat slowly, trying not to draw attention. Draped it neatly over the back of your chair, smoothed down the skirt of your dress with a palm that trembled just slightly. As if that might make you blend in again. As if you hadn’t walked in here smelling like perfume and velvet and memory.

But attention was already circling. Like blood in the water.

Morgan leaned closer across the table, his grin stretching wide, just shy of playful and all kinds of dangerous.

“So,” he said under his breath, but loud enough for Spencer to hear. “Curtain dropped, huh? Is that a euphemism I should start using?”

You didn’t even look up from your file. You didn’t need to. Your ears were already burning, and the papers in your hands might as well have been blank.

“Grow up, Morgan,” you muttered.

Beside you, Spencer’s shoulders tensed, not dramatically, but enough for you to feel it. That subtle shift in the air when someone’s spine straightens. You didn’t dare glance at him.

But Morgan chuckled, undeterred. “Just saying, you two clean up real nice. Coordinated and everything. Matching cheekbones, matching guilt. What was it—opera? Ballet?” He looked directly at Spencer now. “Don’t tell me you actually rented a tux.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “The Phantom of the Opera.” His voice was perfectly calm. Almost professorial.

You risked a glance at him. He wasn’t flustered, just answering like he was reciting a trivia fact. One hand tucked into his lap, the other holding his file a little too tightly.

Morgan’s grin widened like a kid on Christmas morning. “Damn. You were on a date.”

You turned to him sharply, ready to shut it down, but Elle beat you to it.

“Back off.”

Her voice wasn’t loud, but it cut clean across the room like a scalpel. Everyone nearby flinched, just a little.

Morgan blinked, caught off guard. “Whoa—what?”

“She’s allowed to have a night out,” Elle said coolly, glancing at you without any trace of judgment. “We all are. You show up in leather jackets and sunglasses half the time, and no one bats an eye.”

“That’s style, baby,” Morgan said with a hand to his chest, mock-offended. “It’s different.”

Elle rolled her eyes. “It’s posturing.”

You couldn’t help it, you cracked a smile, even as your heart was pounding. You were still clutching your folder like it might keep you grounded. But inside? You felt twelve years old. Like someone had walked into your middle school dance and announced your crush to the whole gym.

Morgan lifted his hands in surrender, though his grin hadn’t faded. “Alright, alright. I’ll let it go. For now.”

But not before he turned and tossed one last jab in Spencer’s direction. “Better be one hell of a date, boy genius.”

Spencer blinked, tilting his head like he was analyzing the question. “Statistically, it was a highly above-average evening.”

That made Morgan laugh. Elle sighed.

You, on the other hand, wanted to slide under the table and live there forever. Your face felt hot. Your chest was tight, like you couldn’t quite take a full breath. Your shoes pinched in all the wrong places, and suddenly you remembered that you still had lipstick on, not much, but enough to make you feel like you were playing dress-up in a world where no one else had bothered to pretend.

Then Elle leaned toward you, dropping her voice low enough to keep it private.

“Ignore him,” she said. “He’s just jealous you got asked out by someone who doesn’t think with his biceps.”

You let out a small, involuntary snort.

“I wasn’t exactly asked,” you mumbled. “It kind of just…happened.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Still counts.”

You felt the corners of your mouth twitch, the smallest flicker of a smile beginning to settle.

But before the moment could soften into comfort, Hotch’s voice returned, low, sharp, and undeniably focused.

“Let’s drive. It’s not far.”

Everyone snapped back into motion.

“Morgan, JJ, you’re with local PD at the first crime scene,” Hotch continued, already sliding folders across the table. “Reid, Elle, I want you on victimology. Lock in the timeline before we land. Gideon’s already at the scene.”

Then his eyes found you. Not accusing, but…measuring. Always.

“You’re riding with me. Don’t be late again.”

There it was. Flat as pavement. A warning. A reminder.

You straightened a little too fast. “Yes, sir.”

Then he turned.

And—god help you—you rolled your eyes the second he gave you his back.

Not dramatically. Not even on purpose. It was a knee-jerk reaction, the kind you used to give teachers in high school when they singled you out for whispering during announcements. The kind that came with being a little too honest, a little too tender, and a little too much of a tall child still learning how to carry herself in a room full of giants.

Spencer saw it. Of course he did. And when your eyes met briefly across the table, his lips twitched. Barely. Like he was fighting the same laugh you were.

˚₊‧꒰ა ✦ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

The silence inside the SUV wasn’t just silence; it was pressure. It curled at the base of your neck, settled behind your eyes, and pressed down on your ribs like a weight. Every sound was amplified: the steady hush of the tires rolling over wet asphalt, the dull whine of the defroster, and the uneven rhythm of the windshield wipers dragging slow arcs across glass. Even your own breathing felt too loud in your ears.

You sat stiffly in the passenger seat, coat folded across your lap like something ceremonial, like armor you didn’t get to wear properly. Your fingers threaded tightly through the sleeves, twisting the fabric in anxious spirals, holding yourself together because no one else would. Your knees were close together. Your back was too straight. You looked like a little girl on her first ride-along, and you hated that you felt like one.

Hotch hadn’t said a single word since pulling out of the lot.

He hadn’t looked at you. Not once.

The shadows in the cabin moved in waves, broken only by the glow of passing streetlights strobing across his face, illuminating the sharp line of his jaw, the tension wound tight across his brow, and the way his hands sat on the wheel: firm, controlled, and white-knuckled.

You risked a glance sideways. His grip on the steering wheel hadn’t shifted once. The leather creaked faintly under the pressure. His suit jacket pulled taut over his shoulders every time he made the smallest correction in the lane. His mouth was set in a line that might have been neutral to anyone else, but you’d known him long enough to recognize the tightness around the corners. The anger sitting just behind the professionalism.

You cleared your throat. Soft. Careful.

“It wasn’t what you all think.”

He didn’t answer. Just let the words hang there, like they weren’t even worth acknowledging.

You turned toward the window again. The city blurred past in streaks of soft red and sharp blue, car lights caught in the fog, storefronts half-glimpsed like memories you weren’t ready to touch.

You tried again.

“We didn’t mean to be late. We came straight from the theater. We didn’t even—”

“I didn’t ask,” he said, his voice flat and clipped.

That landed like ice in your stomach.

The words weren’t cruel. They weren’t even angry. They were worse: detached.

Like you’d become an item on a list. Something to be managed.

You felt the sting rise in your chest, like something just behind your ribs trying to escape. You didn’t let it. You never did.

Still, you couldn’t stop yourself from saying, quietly:

“You didn’t have to separate us like that.”

Now he glanced at you. Briefly. The kind of glance that could slice paper.

“I didn’t separate you,” he said. “I assigned you to ride with me.”

You laughed under your breath. It wasn’t amusement. It was the brittle sound of someone who’d finally learned the game.

“Right. Because that just makes so much sense.”

Hotch didn’t bite.

Instead, he let the weight of silence return, and then, calmly, “Optics matter.”

You turned your head fully toward him now. Your jaw clenched.

“I’ve done this job longer than most agents my age. I’ve been shot at. I’ve cracked cases your senior agents couldn’t even see. And still, I walk into a room with a man, and suddenly it’s a question of optics?”

The corner of his mouth twitched. Not a smile. Not a frown. Just pressure.

“This job doesn’t allow for blurred lines. Not when a child’s life is at stake. Not when the press is circling. Not when local PD already thinks we’re arrogant.”

You leaned forward slightly, voice lower now, sharper.

“Then say that’s what this is about. Don’t pretend this is about professionalism.”

He didn’t flinch. He rarely did.

But he did say, after a beat, “I think you’re too close.”

There it was. The hammer behind the silence.

You looked away again. The pain in your throat bloomed quietly, an old ache. A familiar one.

Too close. Too emotional. Too much.

You didn’t bother defending yourself anymore. You just stared out at the rain-slicked streets and said, “You always say that when you don’t know what to do with me.”

The GPS chirped: Turn left in 500 feet.

The SUV slowed. The rain outside thickened, a quiet percussion against the roof. Up ahead, the scene had already unfolded: police cars, flashing lights, and yellow tape strung like veins through the neighborhood.

As Hotch slowed to a crawl near the curb, his voice broke the silence again. Lower. More careful.

“You’re not incompetent.”

You turned to him, surprised.

“You’re one of the best agents I’ve ever worked with.”

That…did something to you.

It hit you differently, not because of what he said, but because of how he said it. Not performative. Not a lecture. Just truth. Quiet and earned.

You didn’t say anything. You weren’t sure you trusted your voice.

Then he added, almost like an afterthought:

“But you still walk into rooms like I’m waiting to catch you messing up.”

You froze.

Because that was true. You did. You always had. Even now, in velvet and heels and perfume and competence, you were still waiting to be told you didn’t belong.

Your hand hovered at the door handle. You didn’t move yet.

“You’re still treating me like I’m a kid,” you said softly. “Still assuming I don’t know how to separate my heart from my head.”

Hotch looked at you again, steady.

“I don’t think you’re a child. But I think you care deeply, and you’re still so young. Sometimes that looks a lot like risk.”

You nodded. Just once. Like a truce.

Then you pushed the door open.

Rain touched your skin in cool kisses. The street was alive with sound: radios crackling, officers calling out, and puddles splashing under boots. You moved through it like someone waking up from a heavy dream.

You didn’t look back.

˚₊‧꒰ა ✦ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

The case board, like everything else in that dim-lit war room, carried the weight of grief in glossy paper and red string. Photos of the victim’s cul-de-sac were thumbtacked in precise lines, each one overlapping the next like a patchwork of unanswered questions. The little girl’s school portrait was slightly crooked at the center of it all, smiling, gap-toothed, in pink overalls that didn’t know tragedy yet. Coffee-stained maps, crime scene close-ups, and scatterings of Post-it notes curled at the corners, breathing like paper lungs with every breeze from the overhead vents.

But for the first time in hours, no one was looking at it.

Jason Gideon sat perched on the edge of the table, thumbing through a file with the same surgical boredom he often reserved for bureaucratic idiocy or stale bagels in the break room. He didn’t lift his eyes as he spoke.

“You should let Haley talk to Jack about romantic things.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy. It was sharp.

Hotch lowered his coffee mug a fraction, his expression tightening. “Excuse me?”

“You’re not built for it, Aaron,” Gideon replied, finally glancing up. “You’ve got the romantic instincts of a broken vending machine.”

Hotch set the mug down, deliberately. Not slammed, but placed. Firm enough to make the porcelain clink against the tabletop. His spine straightened just slightly, his jaw settling into something defensive. The silence stretched. And then—

“They’re not kids,” Gideon went on, voice even, bored in that precise, surgical way only he could master. “They’re adults. Brilliant ones. Emotionally strange, yes. Bad at eye contact. Worse at asking for what they want. But adults.”

And then he stopped.

Because the elevator dinged.

And there you were.

The rain hadn’t touched you much, just enough to mist your coat and add a sheen to your cheeks. Your trench coat was belted tight, but the skirt of your dress peeked out in whispered hints: navy tulle and sequins catching light like small galaxies orbiting your ankles. Your heels clicked softly on the tile, deliberate but light, like you hadn’t quite landed back on Earth yet. And beside you, Spencer Reid looked like someone from a teen romance movie.

He stood beside you in quiet proximity, his fingers tucked awkwardly into his pockets, like they didn’t know where else to go. His cheeks were flushed in that unmistakable Reid shade—half embarrassment, half awe—and he was trying so, so hard not to look at you too much. Failing, but trying.

Your boss’s eyes narrowed just slightly. He didn’t need to hear anything to know. The signs were all there. The angle of your shoulders, relaxed in a way they never were on case days. The way you leaned toward Spencer, not out of necessity but comfort. The way his eyes darted between your face and the case board like he was trying to remember he had a job. You were backlit by crime scene photos and exhaustion, and yet somehow, you still looked like something out of a dream. Still half-sparkle, half-storm.

“I gave him those tickets,” Gideon said, voice dry, like he was confessing to leaving the milk out overnight.

Hotch blinked, caught off guard. “You what?”

“I had two. Thought he could use a night off. I didn’t think he’d grow a spine and ask her.”

“You didn’t think she’d say yes,” Hotch corrected.

Gideon tilted his head. “I underestimated her ability to understand that it was a date and that they shouldn't invite the rest of the team.”

Now you and Reid stood shoulder to shoulder in front of the board, murmuring over the floor plan of the victim’s bedroom. Your heads tilted inward as if the rest of the room didn’t exist. Your hand rose to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear, and he, watching the motion, forgot to pretend he wasn’t staring.

God, he seemed enchanted by you.

Hotch’s voice was low now. “He’s young.”

“He’s twenty-four,” Gideon said. “And she’s twenty-six.”

“Exactly.”

“And how old were you when you married Haley?” he asked, voice sharper now.

He didn’t reply.

“Twenty-five,” Gideon filled in anyway. “She was twenty-four. Neither of you had ever seen a dead body before your honeymoon.”

“That’s not the same,” Hotch muttered.

“No,” Gideon agreed. “It’s not. They’re smarter. More damaged. But smarter.”

Hotch crossed his arms. His eyes hadn’t left you. “There are rules.”

“There are exceptions,” Gideon corrected. “And discretion.”

“She leads with her gut,” Hotch said stiffly. “She makes decisions based on instinct, not logic. And she’s—” He hesitated. The word lingered in his throat like a stone. “She’s soft.”

That was the one that stuck.

Gideon turned to him fully, gaze hard and unsparing. “Too soft for what? Empathy? A genius and a night of not talking about death? Or is it just too soft for you, Aaron?”

Hotch didn’t answer.

Because now, across the room, Spencer was laughing at something you’d whispered. Not loudly. But in that rare, cracked-open way he reserved for very specific moments. He bent toward you without meaning to, and you reached up without thinking, fixing his crooked tie with two quick fingers.

The air between you changed then. Tensed, warmed, softened. Something passed between your eyes. Something whole and quiet. Something no one in the room had permission to name.

“They’re opposites,” Hotch said finally.

“And that’s why it works,” Gideon said, calm as ever. “She acts. He calculates. He sees patterns. She breaks them.”

He said nothing.

He just stood there, watching.

Arms folded. Jaw set. Like a father at the edge of a dance floor he didn’t want to admit was safe.

And beside him, Gideon shook his head softly.

“You trust them in a hostage negotiation,” he said, almost amused, “but not in a cab together?”

Still, Hotch said nothing.

But his eyes didn’t leave you.

Not when you brushed a wrinkle from Reid’s shoulder.

Not when he smiled at you like it was involuntary.

Not when you looked like you already belonged to each other, like whatever had happened between the curtain and the taxi door hadn’t ended when The Phantom of the Opera did.

Because maybe you had grown up.

And maybe Aaron hadn’t noticed until now.

[sweetpeterparker]

ꨄ The underlying variable — S.R

nerdy!fem!reader x nerdy!s2!Spencer Reid

Spencer brings home a case, and you offer a theory without even meaning to. Not every profiler wears a badge — some of them solve murders in their pajamas with a cup of tea and a raised eyebrow.

word count: 865.

warnings & tags: casual mentions of BAU casework, criminal behavior, profiling. Established relationship, intellectual flirting (kind of), slice of genius life.

author’s note: I loved playing with the idea that not every profiler works at the BAU, because some of them are barefoot in their boyfriend’s hoodie, solving murders with a casual hypothesis. For the fellow nerds: the theory reader throws out is loosely inspired by overfitting and spurious correlation in statistics. Basically when you force new data to fit a pattern you think should work, but it doesn’t, because you’re misreading the actual cause of success. I just dressed it up in domestic genius fluff.

Spencer’s pacing the kitchen like the floor is a crime scene.

One hand is flicking open and closed at his side, and the other is stabbing rhythmically at a bunch of spring onions on the cutting board. He’s supposed to be making dinner — he said he wanted to, insisted, in fact — but it’s becoming increasingly clear that the stir fry is a secondary concern to whatever case he brought home with him.

You’re on the couch in the livingroom, laptop balanced on your thighs, working through some code. You’re half listening to him talk to himself while sipping tea and highlighting an article with your free hand. It’s comforting, in a way. The sound of Spencer thinking.

“They’re not evolving,” he mutters. “If they were evolving, we’d see an increase in confidence. Planning. Control. But instead it’s the opposite. Everything’s getting more frantic. Less clean. There’s slippage.”

You glance up. “You mean they’re getting sloppy?”

Spencer startles a little. “Yes,” he says, turning halfway toward you. “But they shouldn’t be. That’s the part that doesn’t make sense.”

You hum, tapping your finger against your lip. “Maybe they’re not evolving. Maybe they peaked already. Like… they’re trying to recreate whatever the first successful attempt was, but they’re not getting the same result.”

Spencer narrows his eyes. “You think the first crime was a template?”

“Could be,” you murmur. “I’ve seen people screw up their models trying to force new data to fit their favorite curve. When something works once, it feels repeatable. But if they don’t know why it worked, if they don’t understand the underlying variable, then repeating it just creates more noise.”

You look back at your laptop, rereading the same line twice.

Behind you, the cutting board goes still.

When you glance up again, Spencer is staring at you, blinking like you’ve just slapped him with a statistics textbook.

“What?”

He sets the knife down with exaggerated slowness. “You just explained it.”

You tilt your head. “Explained what?”

“The signature inconsistency. The unsub isn’t growing or devolving. They’re looping. Trying to recreate an original high… like-like a behavioral addict. That’s why the timeline looks off. They’re not escalating or evolving. They’re chasing something that already happened.”

You blink. “Huh.”

“Huh?” he echoes, incredulous.

You shrug. “I didn’t realize you were talking about actual case. I thought you were just theory pacing.”

Spencer stares at you for a beat. “You just solved a behavioral riddle that’s had four people on my team arguing for two days.”

You raise an eyebrow, setting your mug down. “Well, maybe they should take more math classes.”

He walks toward the couch, hands on his hips, a crooked smile playing at the edge of his mouth.

“You’re terrifying,” he says.

You smile sweetly. “You’re welcome.”

He sinks down beside you, ruffling his hair with one hand. His glasses slide down his nose just slightly, and he doesn’t bother fixing them.

“I think we should hire you.”

You snort. “Me? No thanks. The BAU is full of people who carry weapons and emotionally repress their trauma. I’ll stay here in my cozy corner with my tea and my control datasets.”

“But you’d be amazing!”

“Spence. I’d cry if someone aimed a paperclip at me.”

He laughs, genuinely, and leans his head on your shoulder.

“I’m serious,” he says into your sleeve. “You’d be the smartest person there. I could finally have someone to talk to who understands predictive modeling without needing a whiteboard and a TED Talk.”

You nudge him gently with your elbow. “I’ll make you a deal. You keep cooking dinner, and I’ll keep solving cases from the couch.”

He groans and sits up again, kissing your cheek as he stands. “Deal.”

You go back to your screen, but he doesn’t make it far before turning around again, wooden spoon now in hand.

“You really think they don’t understand their own variable?”

You shrug. “I think they had a moment of success, maybe they stumbled into it. Something about the victim, the location, their emotional state, perhaps. They don’t know what made it click. They just want to feel that power again. So they recreate everything they think was part of it, and they get more desperate when it doesn’t work.”

He looks at you like he’s imprinting your words into his brain. “That… tracks.”

You grin. “I do this for a living, you know.”

“I know,” he says dramatically. “And I still get surprised.”

You raise your eyebrows. “I could say the same about you.”

Spencer grins, then spins back toward the kitchen, energized now, like the spark’s been reignited.

You don’t say anything else. You just go back to your work, comforted by the sound of oil sizzling in the pan and the soft rhythm of him muttering new possibilities to himself while dinner simmers.

It’s quiet again. Comfortable, warm, real.

He hums softly to himself as he moves around the kitchen, then says suddenly, “Do you want rice or noodles?”

You glance up. “Noodles.”

“Good. Because I we are out of rice.”

You roll your eyes, and he shoots you a sheepish grin.

Genius or not, some things never change.

[sweetpeterparker]

mysteries of our disguise revolve

clark kent (superman 2025) x f!reader

summary: you’re just the new intern at the daily planet—anxious, invisible in your books, and falling for the man who, disguised, saves the world between coffee breaks. he could catch the sky if it fell. but for some reason, he keeps choosing to catch you.

word count: 22.4k (i know it’s a lot but it’s worth it)

warnings/tags: +18 mdni, angst, banter, fluff !!!, clark has a savior complex, friends/coworkers to lovers, intern!reader, slow-burn office romance, lots of feelings and introspection, miscommunication, the reader’s sort of a sensitive and insecure gal at times, clark picks the reader up, mentions of reader's hair, both of them are very awkward at times, idiots in love (proceed with caution), declarations of love, p with plot, fingering (f receiving), handjob, oral (m and f receiving), whiny clark kent !!!, cum swallowing, p in v, missionary, happy ending.

a/n: first time writing for clark kent!!! to say i’m nervous would be the understatement of the century. i finally got to watch superman last week, and let me tell you: i’ve been obsessed with it <3 i walked out of the theater and pretty much ran home to start writing this fic. so yes, this one’s completely self-indulgent. i just got carried away by the feelings and couldn’t stop writing, hence the length lol. i really hope you enjoy this story. if you do, likes, reblogs and comments mean the world. and feel free to scream in the tags—i’ll be screaming too 🫂

Sometimes, you truly wished you didn’t have a brain.

It sounds ridiculous, worded like that. You know for a fact you’re not the first person to want a quiet mind, to dream of a day when you’re not held hostage by your own intrusive, spiraling thoughts. You take a look around and realize there are much bigger problems out there in the world.

Scratch that—right here, where every few days, some inexplicable, monstrous creature appears out of the blue and starts tearing through everything that gets in its way, like Metropolis is a giant city made of Legos.

And yet, you can’t help but drown in self-doubt. The worst part is how suddenly it all hits you. There’s no warning or mercy. One moment you’re fine—functioning, even laughing—and the next, something inside you flickers and dies. The illusion of confidence crumbles, and you're left looking for the broken pieces, wondering when you’ll finally figure out what’s wrong with you. 

If only there were a way to cut it out, the rot, and replace it with something clean. Something shining. Something better.

The day you’re accepted for an internship at the Daily Planet, you stare at your reflection in the bathroom mirror and try to tell the girl in the fogged glass something that sounds like hope:

It’s going to be okay. You’re capable of this. Just show them your potential.

But the voice in your head isn’t convinced. It places an imaginary hand on your shoulder, deceptively gentle, until its fingers dig in, cold and burning all at once. It leans in, just behind your ear, and hisses the thought you’ve been trying to avoid: 

It’s only a matter of time before they realize they could’ve chosen someone better.

Just so much for a girl in her twenties.

You squint at the girl on Jimmy’s phone.

She’s beautiful. Blonde. The kind of effortlessly pretty that feels unfair. If you didn’t know her from these selfies, you would’ve thought she was some kind of model. Tall, blue-eyed, glowing with confidence. She even looks like the type of person who’d throw a tantrum if someone accidentally stepped on a cat’s tail.

Picking at your nails, your eyes flick from the screen to Jimmy. Then back again. Jimmy. Blonde girl. Jimmy. Blonde—

“She’s super pretty,” you say finally, handing the phone back to him over the desk divider.

He stands up with a smug little shrug, grinning as if he’s about to accept an award. “What can I say? Ladies just seem to love me.”

At that moment, Lois passes by right on cue, bracing herself on your desk and leaning toward Jimmy with a certain look that usually comes before total verbal destruction. “I’m still trying to figure out why,” she mutters dryly. “Guess I know what my next article’s gonna be about.”

A giggle catches in your throat, too fast to stop, and you mask it with a fake cough.

Jimmy eyes you like you’ve betrayed his loyalty. “You’re supposed to be on my side. Proximity makes us allies.”

“I’m sorry. I just can’t resist a good joke,” you mumble, lifting your hands in mock surrender, earning an exasperated sigh from him.

Lois high-fives you without missing a beat. “You can always change seats.”

With a scoff, he declares, “Traitors. Both of you.”

As he launches into a dramatic defense of his dating history, Lois unwraps a candy bar, taking a bite before giving voice to her thoughts. “Honestly, I don't know why Clark gets away with disappearing for an hour and a half during lunch. I miss one deadline, and I’ve got Perry breathing down my neck.”

“Ever heard of this revolutionary thing called… privacy?” Jimmy asks her, raising his eyebrows in her direction.

She rolls her eyes, gesturing with the candy bar. “If I find out he’s out there eating real food while the rest of us are surviving on vending machine snacks, I’m suing.”

You're about to jump in with an equally sarcastic remark when the elevator dings.

The doors quietly slide open, and there he is.

Clark Kent. Carrying a cardboard tray of four coffees, his tie slightly crooked and hair looking like the wind styled it for him on the way in. There's a coy tilt to his smile, like he knows he’s late but hopes this peace offering makes up for it.

“Hey,” he says warmly. “Thought we could all use a little caffeine. Fuel for the hardest part of the day.”

Lois lifts her chin. “Look who finally decided to rejoin society.”

Balancing the tray in one hand, he straightens his glasses. “I brought bribes.” He hands hers over first, the corner of his mouth quirking up. A second later, Jimmy’s follows, and he gives Clark a quick pat on the back.

Then, to your complete surprise, Clark holds one out to you. No matter how many times he does it, you still get excited by his thoughtfulness.

You blink owlishly. Your name's neatly written on one side of the cup with a permanent marker, just above your order: two creams, two sugars. He still remembers your order and has never gotten it wrong. You take it calmly, like it might vanish if you move too fast, struggling to fight the smile wanting to break free. “Thanks, Clark.”

He bows his head, scratching the back of his neck, and looks up to meet your pleased gaze, studying how your expression softens. “You know there's a legal limit to how many times you can say thank you in a day, right? Pretty sure you’ve already gone over it.”

No clever, witty comeback comes to mind, so you turn back to your monitor, hoping the screen hides the heat crawling up your neck. Still, you can’t help whispering a very soft, “Thank you,” just before Clark turns on his heel and walks away.

He pauses for a split second, long enough to glance over his shoulder. His eyes land on yours again briefly, like he’s trying to find a hidden answer in your features, and he gives the smallest nod, almost imperceptible, continuing toward his desk, the hem of his coat swaying with each step.

Your heart flutters in your chest as you chew on your bottom lip, twisting your ankles together beneath the desk to keep from fidgeting, hoping you’re playing it cool.

“Jeez,” a familiar voice mutters nearby. Jimmy’s shaking his head, arching a knowing brow. “You’re down bad.”

“Shut it.”

“I swear to God, if you’d just admit it—”

You lob a yellow highlighter at him, managing to hit him squarely on the shoulder with a satisfying thwack. He opens his mouth to protest, but you cut him off with a pointed finger. “Keep your voice down. There’s nothing to admit. I’m just happy I have something to sip while I work. That’s all.”

Spinning lazily in his chair, he folds his arms behind his head like a painting of a man at peace. “I’ve got to hand it to you—it’s adorable, watching you try to lie to me. I’ve been sitting across from you for what, a month now?”

A faint line appears between your brows, and you catch the highlighter as he tosses it back your way.

He grins. “I’ve grown familiar with all your faces, young lady. And that dreamy look? The puppy eyes? That little tight-lipped smile?” He props his chin on his hand, his voice descending to a murmur. “Yeah. Those aren’t for public consumption. That’s VIP treatment.”

Fighting Jimmy is pointless. He’s the kind of guy who never loses an argument—mostly because he talks over you until you forget what your point even was.

He just doesn’t get it. You can find someone attractive without liking them, right? It’s just a stupid crush. A stupid work crush, to be precise, which is significantly worse than a normal one, because now the object of your hopeless affection walks past your desk on a daily basis like it’s nothing.

At some point, you stop being sure if you're trying to convince Jimmy or yourself.

Your brain whirs back to your very first day at the Daily Planet. You remember being led around by a chatty woman from HR, who kept smiling at you with what appeared to be feigned sympathy. She pointed out the break room, the vending machine, and in the end brought you to your new, empty desk right across from a redheaded guy who immediately stood and extended a hand.

“James Olsen,” he commented. “Welcome to hell.”

Before you could respond, he waved Lois over from a few desks away. “Lois, come meet the new intern.”

You told them your name, attempting to seem casual while subtly folding your arms across your chest like a human shield. You didn’t mention you already knew who they were, or the fact that you’d read Lois’s columns like gospel. Some things were better kept to yourself.

Then, along came Perry White. The Perry White. It only took you one glance at the man to recognize him: the iconic gruff editor-in-chief with a permanent scowl and a cigar that looked surgically attached to his mouth. He stomped over, barely glancing your way.

“Where’s Kent?” he grumbled, words muffled by the cigar between his lips.

Lois and Jimmy exchanged a look. Silence. Apparently, no one felt like volunteering information.

Kent, as in Clark Kent. The name alone triggered something weird in your stomach. He was the guy who somehow landed exclusive interviews with Superman like it was no big deal, most of which you’d devoured in one sitting.

In the nick of time, as if he’d heard his name from afar, Clark entered through the elevator, brushing his fringe to the side with one hand. Slung over one of his shoulders was a worn satchel bag, and in the other, he carried a cardboard tray, loaded with steaming coffee cups. He spotted Perry and made his way over, towering over pretty much everyone in the immediate vicinity.

“I know, I’m late again. Sorry, Perry,” he apologized, already reaching into the tray. “Maybe a hot coffee will help start your day?”

Perry grunted, took a cup, and walked away without another word. Clark contemplated him as he got farther and farther away, and once he was gone, turned back to the rest of you with a quiet exhale. “Really glad I bought an extra one today.”

Only two cups of coffee remained. He handed Jimmy and Lois theirs, then scanned the tray, his brows snapping together. His gaze landed on you, standing just a little behind the group, hands clasped awkwardly in front of you. That was when it hit him.

“Oh, I’m—” he stammered, fixing his posture. “I didn’t know there would be someone new. I’m so sorry, I would’ve brought you something too.”

“This is the new intern,” Jimmy supplied casually, taking a trial sip of his drink. “Started today. Doesn’t bite, probably. Has a name and everything.”

You offered a nervous little smile, giving Clark your name.

Clark repeated it under his breath, as if he was trying to memorize it. His attention flicked back to the empty tray, later returning to you. “Next time, I’ll make sure to bring you one. What do you usually get?”

Shaking your head, you tried to wave it off. “No, really, it’s okay. You don’t have to—”

But Clark shook his own head right back, stubborn and visibly determined. “I insist.”

Jimmy leaned in, elbowing him. “No, for real—he insists.”

Lois smirked into her cup. “He's going to agonize over this all day.”

Clark’s ears reddened as he cast a glance at you again. “Just... let me know. So I get it right.”

Ultimately, you ended up telling him your order: two creams, two sugars. He nodded seriously, and repeated it: “Two creams, two sugars.”

“Better write it on your arm or something,” Jimmy interjected, sitting down on his chair. “In case it comes up in your next Superman interview.”

The next morning, you were late. Disastrously, embarrassingly late. Not just five-minutes-past-start-time late. More like why-even-bother-showing-up late.

You burst through the front doors of the Daily Planet like a fugitive fleeing a crime scene, lungs clawing for air, sweat clinging to your lower back and pooling around your temples. The last ten blocks had been a blur of dodged pedestrians and half-choked apologies, and every eye in the office felt like it had turned your way.

Avoiding eye contact, you slid into your seat. It was only your second day, and already you’d earned a reputation: the intern who can’t be punctual. What would be next? Forgetting your name? Accidentally setting the printer on fire? Calling Perry “dad”? You were so far inside your own head you barely registered the beverage sitting on your desk.

A lone paper coffee cup. You froze.

It was from the café around the corner, the same one Clark brought coffee from yesterday. An orange Post-it was stuck to the side, curling slightly at the corners, your name written just beneath it.

Hope you have a good time here. The handwriting was clean and tidy, with no signature, though you knew who had written it.

Your fingers brushed the cup tentatively, and the warmth seeped into your fingers, anchoring you in a moment that felt strangely tender. It was a small gesture, but it had found you when you were at your most unravelled, and somehow, that made it hit harder than it should have.

Glancing up, you noticed Clark was already seated at his desk, typing with ease. When your eyes met, he didn’t look away, just lifted a hand in a soft wave.

Before you could even process it, Jimmy bent over the partition, nodding at the cup. “Wow,” he uttered, pressing a hand to his chest. “On day two? Must be nice to be his favorite.”

“Excuse me?”

“Next thing you know, he’s bringing you lunch and rescheduling your dentist appointments.”

“It’s just coffee,” you retorted, but your hands didn’t loosen around the cup, clutching it like it contained the secret to world peace.

“Observe: the flustered intern in her natural habitat, attempting to rationalize a clear romantic gesture—”

“Don’t you have any photographs to take?”

His nose crinkled. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep your tragic office romance off the record. For now.”

To shut him up, you took a long sip, and immediately burned your tongue. Of course. When you glanced over again, Clark was observing you with mild alarm, eyes wide, like he wasn’t sure if he should intervene. But then he returned to his screen, his shoulders just a little stiffer than before, and you looked back down at the cup. The note.

You weren’t saying that was when the crush started. But it sure didn’t help.

Fast forward to the present day, your fingers have been levitating over the keyboard for an embarrassing amount of time, the blinking cursor taunting you like it knows. You just hope nobody’s noticed the light leaving your eyes as you spiraled into a memory that felt much warmer than the air-conditioned newsroom.

You turn your head to the left for what you swear will be the last time today, though deep down, you know that’s a lie. A practiced one at this point. Clark is already typing, posture relaxed but focused, forearms braced against the desk. He’s moved his chair today, and the faint movement of the muscles beneath the back of his white shirt makes you blink hard, as if that might reset your brain.

“Perv,” Jimmy interrupts your thoughts in a sing-song voice, not even bothering to look up from his computer.

You jab the side of his ankle with your shoe.

He hisses, eyes squinting shut. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

You don’t. What frightens you the most is that perhaps he has clocked you right. Straightening in your chair, you roll your shoulders back like you can shake it off. Crushes pass. This one will as well. Maybe by the time your internship’s ended.

Taking a sharp breath, you decide you need to get back to work. You can’t afford another mistake just because Clark Kent exists in the same room as you.

An email lands in your inbox. It’s one of many, the kind you handled almost without thinking twice. The task in it was far from difficult: skim the article, fix the typos, clean up the formatting, and make sure the version that goes online looked as polished as something with your name near it should. Routine. Safe.

At first, you don’t even flinch. You’re wearing headphones, the world on mute, until Jimmy taps your shoulder and motions for you to take them off. The moment you do, the noise rushes in. You register the low hum of tension in the room, and then comes the voice of one of your coworkers, shouting across the bullpen that an unedited version of an article had been published.

Silently, heads begin turning to find the culprit. And still, you don’t let yourself panic. Not until you hear the title.

Beneath the Streets, Above the Skies: The Creatures We Can’t Explain.

It’s yours.

Goddammit.

Your stomach flips as you scroll through the now-public piece on the Daily Planet’s website. It’s all there: the all-caps notes left by the writer mid-draft, barking out instructions to a future editor.

[FIX THIS. TOO WORDY.]

[DELETE — USE STAT FROM EARLIER DRAFT?]

[MAYBE CHOOSE A STRONGER QUOTE HERE.]

You’d sent the wrong version. Drafts mixed up, tabs blurred together, one careless attachment. And worst of all? You weren’t the one to catch it. By the time someone did, it had already been up long enough to embarrass the paper.

The article is eventually pulled, of course, but it had already been read by others.

A few people come to your rescue, trying to comfort you with those well-meaning phrases that sting more than they soothe.

It’s fine. Happens to the best of us.

Don’t beat yourself up over it.

It’s just one article.

Lois, in a moment of impossible generosity, offers to buy you an entire chocolate cake if it’ll get you to smile. She says it with a lopsided grin, trying to lighten the mood, but you can see it in her face, the silent sympathy. The confirmation that… yes, it had been bad.

What makes it worse is that it confirms what you already suspected about yourself: you’re not good at this. The little voice in your head, the one that is usually subdued by the clack of keyboards, is now screaming. You can hear going insane it in the spaces between your thoughts and heartbeats.

You had one job. You’ve been here for over a month, and you still managed to screw it up.

Panic blooms in slow, suffocating waves, rising behind your ribs and poisoning your bloodstream. You walk to Perry’s office on numb legs that barely feel like they are attached to the rest of your body. Your name had been called moments before. Knocking once, you step inside, your back flat against the cool surface of the door.

He doesn’t even look up right away. Just keeps reading something on his screen. “Something bothering that young brain of yours?” he asks without turning. “Because if you’re not going to be focused, I need to know. I don’t do hand-holding. This could’ve been a disaster.”

Your heart pounds so loudly you’re surprised he doesn’t pause to comment on it. When he finally decides to spare you a glance, it isn’t anger you’re met with. He looks tired, and even irritated, that he has to explain these things to you at all.

“Don’t be sloppy. I don’t like sloppy. Got it?”

Fervently nodding, you say, “Yes, sir.” You might grant him a smile, or perhaps something close enough to one, anyway. Then you leave, holding yourself together, and storm out of his office.

The newsroom is all windows and noise, impossible to disappear into, but taking the elevator isn’t a viable option at the moment. The stairwell, by contrast, is dim and forgotten, since no one uses it unless the elevators break down. That makes it a perfect place for you to hide.

You sit on the concrete steps and fold in on yourself, allowing yourself to cry. Sweaty palms pressed to your face, tugging at your hair like it might anchor you in your body. Silent sobs wrack your chest, and tears slip down your face, pooling at the edges of your mouth, making their way towards your chin and neck. Your knees draw to your chest, and you let yourself dissolve into shuddering breaths.

You aren’t just crying over the article, or the look Perry gave you, or the shame you saw in every pair of eyes that passed your desk.

You’re crying because at some point, without you even noticing, you’d let yourself believe that maybe—maybe—you were starting to belong here. That maybe you weren’t a complete fraud. It turns out it doesn’t take much to unravel those thoughts. Just one mistake. One article. One email you should’ve double-checked.

A couple of minutes pass, and you hear the door being opened and then shut. You’re too far gone by then: cheeks damp, fingers gripping your knees, shoulders drawn tight toward your ears. The sound of someone’s footsteps approaching you makes your stomach lurch, and instinctively, you swipe at your face, trying to clean yourself up with the heel of your palm as if that could erase the fact you’ve been crying.

You hear it. His voice.

“…Hey.”

Clark.

You rub your eyes, keeping your gaze fixed on a chipped bit of concrete near your foot, your throat too raw to answer.

There’s a pause. You don’t even hear him move, yet you feel him there, not close enough to crowd you, but not far enough either. He waits. It’s his thing, apparently.

Before you can stop yourself, you speak. “I’m fine,” you croak, too quickly. A reflex.

He doesn’t reply right away. A beat slides, and he mutters, “Didn’t ask.”

That earns a weak exhale from you. Not exactly laughter, but akin to it. You rest your forehead on your knees, and because you can’t help it, because it’s bubbling up and there’s nowhere else for it to go, you start talking. More like rambling, actually.

“I was tired, and I was trying to finish it fast, and I thought I’d already attached the right file, and—” You stop, inhaling sharply. “God, I’m pathetic.”

Clark still says nothing. You risk a glance in his direction and find him standing just a few steps down from you, one hand loosely resting on the railing.

You interpret his demeanor as an invitation to go on. “It’s so stupid. Everyone’s supposed to make mistakes. That’s what they say. But this doesn’t feel like a mistake. It feels like confirmation. That I shouldn’t be here. That I’m playing pretend, and now everyone can see it.”

It’s only a matter of time before your voice cracks, and you suck in a breath like it might steady you, but it only makes your chest hurt.

Gently, without needing to say anything, he sits down beside you, leaving just enough space so you don’t feel boxed in. You feel the warmth radiating off his body even through the distance. A comforting kind of heat.

“I didn’t want anyone to see me like this,” you croak. “It’s miserable.”

“It’s not.”

You shake your head, and the tears come back again for a second round, your whole frame shaking. More tears. You thought you were done.

That’s when you feel it. The hesitant pressure of his hand between your shoulder blades. He doesn’t move it, just lets it rest there, warm as you continue to cry your heart out. You’re pretty sure he must think you’ve gone mental. Once he notices you’re not backing away from his touch, he begins rubbing your skin in small, slow circles. No pressure. No expectation.

Eventually, after long minutes of trying to even your breath, you shift toward him on instinct, and he opens his arms, enveloping you. You fold into the space he makes for you, still trembling, trying to convince yourself this isn’t humiliating. His chest is solid against your cheek, and he smells like cologne and paper and something sweet you can’t quite place.

You don’t ask why he came. You believe you already have your answer. Lois probably saw you bolt. Maybe Jimmy sent him. Maybe he drew the short straw.

It turns out you say it out loud, because Clark speaks gently into your hair. “No one sent me.”

You choke on your own saliva.

“I just noticed you’d been gone for a while,” he adds. “That’s all.”

Pulling back a little, just enough to look at him in the eye, you find his expression to be unreadable in that Clark Kent way. “I didn’t even realize I was gone that long,” you admit.

He smiles, barely. “I know.”

A long silence hangs in the air between you. Not uncomfortable, but thick with things unsaid.

Then he asks, almost like he already knows what you’ll respond next: “Why are you so hard on yourself?”

You laugh, though it comes out watery and bitter. “I don’t know how else to be.”

He watches you for a moment. The world outside the stairwell feels a thousand miles away.

“I think,” Clark begins carefully, “you hold yourself to this impossible standard. You think if you slip up, everyone will rub it in your face.” You stare at him, swallowing hard. “But no one’s waiting to punish you,” he explains. “They already like you. I already—” He stops himself mid-sentence. “You don’t have to earn that every second.”

His hand is still on your back. You don’t know what you’re supposed to say to that, so you just sit there with him. With yourself, and with everything you’re carrying. The silence lingers, suspended in time, and you can’t help but sniff after all that crying. You’re certain your eyes must be far beyond puffy and red-rimmed, your face blotchy, and you don’t even want to think about what your mascara’s looking like right now.

“Was it—” You hesitate, keeping eye contact. “Was it a lot? That I hugged you?”

Clark’s brows bump together in a scowl. “What do you mean?”

“I mean—” You gesture vaguely between your chests. “It was a full, like… torso-on-torso kind of hug. Which feels very much like a panic-hug. And I’ve only been working here a month, and you’re… you.”

His smile widens, carving those charming, endearing hollows into his cheeks. “I don’t mind.”

“Yeah, but I do. You probably have, like, policies about emotionally unstable interns clinging to you.”

“If there’s a policy, I haven’t read it.”

“Figures. Of course, you read everything except the employee handbook.”

Playfully surrendering, he snorts. “Guilty.”

There’s a beat. He looks like he’s considering something as those blue eyes of his map your face.

“Want to hear something that’ll make you regret hugging me at all?”

You scratch your nose. “Sure?”

“What do you call a dinosaur with an extensive vocabulary?”

“…No.”

He grins, too pleased with himself. “A thesaurus.”

“Oh my God.”

“I warned you.”

“No, but—a thesaurus?”

“What do you mean? It’s a classic!”

“I should’ve hugged Perry instead. Or the janitor. Literally anyone else.”

“That hurts. I opened my arms to you.”

“I did the arm-opening,” you shoot back. “You were just conveniently located.”

He’s chuckling, but his expression softens again when he sees you swipe under your eyes. You try to smile. You try. And it almost works, until your voice comes out small again. “I just didn’t want to mess up. I wanted to be good at this.”

“You are. Messing up doesn’t make you less good. You’d never say that to another human being.”

You look at him. The way he says it makes you understand he believes it. You’re not used to that. Most people say things like that with ifs and buts tacked on. Clark doesn’t. He just lets the truth sit there between you. Pressing your lips together, you gape at your lap, and then back at him.

“…Okay,” you whisper.

“Okay,” he echoes.

A pause.

“Wanna hear another one?”

“Clark, please—”

“What do you call fake spaghetti?”

“I don’t even want to think about that one.”

“An impasta.”

You groan louder, forehead tipping dramatically against his shoulder. “Just fire me already.”

Clark giggles, not moving an inch. “Can’t. I’m just the delivery guy.”

“Of terrible puns?”

“Of coffee and emotional support.”

You laugh, this time for real, short and soggy and kind of breathless. In this tiny stairwell, with your head spinning and your chest still aching, this had been exactly what you needed.

By the time you’re both standing again, your eyes feel like they’ve been rubbed back and forth with sandpaper. You wipe at your face with the sleeve of your cardigan, though Clark hands you a tissue without saying anything. You take it, thanking him while intending to fix your appearance in the reflection of his glasses.

“You always carry tissues with you?”

“A man needs to be prepared.”

He doesn’t rush you, although both of you know that eventually you have to go back. “Ready?” he asks gently.

You nod like a liar, returning to the office. Jimmy spots you the second the door to the stairwell opens. He stands near the copy machine, holding a mug shaped like the Daily Planet’s globe, and raises his eyebrows like he’s seeing something scandalous. Lois leans out of her cubicle and gives Clark a slow look, then swings her gaze to you.

“Well, well,” she murmurs, wrapping a loose strand of hair around her finger. “We thought you’d fled the country.”

Jimmy snorts into his coffee. “I must confess I’ve never tried stairwell therapy. Sounds very promising.”

Clark clears his throat, cheeks just slightly pink. “She was just upset. That’s all.” Inching toward you, he whispers into your ear, “You sure you’re okay?”

You nod, and this time, it’s not entirely a lie. Your chest twists a little: not from embarrassment, but from the warm way everyone seems to be looking at you. You sit back at your desk, and Jimmy passes you a couple of snacks wordlessly, winking at you.

Lois throws a scrunchie at your head, giving you a thumbs up. “Fix your face,” she says. “If you cry again, you’ll dehydrate and die. And I don’t have time to explain that to Perry.”

Your throat tightens again, but for entirely different reasons.

You like Lois.

You really, really do.

She’s sharp-tongued and sharp-minded, the kind of journalist who could scare a senator into answering a question they’ve been dodging for a decade. She doesn’t soften herself to fit the room. If anything, the room adjusts to her. You admire that. You admire her.

You trust her, too, in the weird way you trust people after you decided not to trust them at all.

Which is why it catches you off guard, the quiet pinch in your chest when you see her standing next to Clark, cackling. And him, tittering the way he does when he’s truly listening, the corners of his eyes crinkling just barely behind his glasses.

They look like puzzle pieces that have known each other forever.

In your defense, this was all supposed to be a harmless observation. You’re standing next to the copier, waiting for it to spit out your stack of edited pages.

All of a sudden, the copier beeps, and you jerk away.

“Hey.” Jimmy materializes out of nowhere behind you, nearly making you drop your stack. “You okay?“

You force a laugh, too high-pitched. “No, I was just…thinking. That Clark and Lois would make a good couple. Like, objectively. They’re very…compatible.”

Jimmy blinks.

Then blinks again.

Then tilts his head as if you’re announcing you’re moving to Mars. “What—why would you say that?”

You stare at him, and the weight of what you’d just admitted out loud hits you like a train.

“I’ve picked up this terrible habit of saying my thoughts out loud,” you half-whisper, burying your face in the warm papers you’ve just printed. “You didn’t need to know that.”

“Hold on, hold on.” Jimmy steps in front of you, looking way too interested. “Back up. You think Clark and Lois are compatible?”

The copier makes an unholy crunching noise, and you yank the paper tray open, because you don’t want to meet his demanding gaze. “I meant it like…as a neutral statement,” you lie, badly. “A purely objective, journalistic observation. A general public-interest…thing.”

“Like you’re a neutral third-party scientist, observing the wild mating rituals of the office?”

“Exactly.”

“You’re so not a neutral third party. That might be the worst save I’ve ever heard.”

“Give me a break.”

“No, seriously, this is interesting. Tell me more about this neutral thought process. Was it before or after you began looking at Clark like he personally invented gravity?”

“Drop it, Jimmy.”

Jimmy looms closer the copier, puffing out his chest, looking way too smug for someone who sometimes accidentally deletes half his own files. “Listen. I love Lois. Everyone loves Lois. But Clark and Lois? No way.”

You glanced at him. “What do you mean ‘no way’? They’re…they’re them.”

“You said it yourself. I’ve seen Clark, a grown man, blushing when someone compliments his tie. You think Lois has time for that?”

You don’t answer right away. Your gaze drifts back to Clark, who’s now scribbling into his notepad while Lois steals the last bite of his muffin, and you force yourself to avert your attention from that scene. What you believe to be the truth sits heavy in your stomach, even as you joke around.

Because here’s the thing: this isn’t Lois’s fault. You’d fight anyone who said a bad word about her—so why does it still sting? Why does some ugly voice in your head start listing every way you fall short in comparison? This profound ache that you feel isn’t about her, not really. It’s about you: about how you always seem to be two steps behind the version of yourself you’re supposed to be.

Comparison is a cruel game, especially when the other player doesn’t even know she’s on the board.

Jimmy nudges your arm, the teasing gone a little softer. “Hey. Don’t overthink it.”

You’re fiddling with an old bracelet that dangles from your wrist. “You’re only about thirty years too late.” Gathering your pages, holding them a little too tightly, you take a step back. “I should get back to work.” You choose that to be your response, given it’s easier than saying I don’t want to feel like this, or I wish I didn’t care, or I think I’m falling for him, and I don’t know how to stop.

And because the alternative is staying here and letting Jimmy be right.

Again.

They arrange the plan casually, almost in passing. Someone mentions something about finally clocking out, someone else brings up the bar a few blocks away from the building, and then Lois chimes in with, “We’re all going, no excuses,” unwilling to take no for an answer.

And somehow, that settles it.

The sun dips low as the office empties, everyone spilling into the street with sleeves rolled and voices louder than they’ve been all day. You walk a step behind Jimmy, who’s listing the bar’s drink specials like he’s memorized them for a play he forgot to audition for.

The night has that kind of electricity. The possibility of being something good. Memorable.

The bar’s noisy in the comforting way only post-work places could be: the hum of old songs, clinking glasses, the rise and fall of casual arguments about baseball, or film, or whether Perry White had once owned a parrot (Jimmy swears yes, Lois says no, and Clark just answers “I’m afraid I have no parrot knowledge”).

You don't mean to drink your first cocktail that fast. You just... forget to pace yourself, but it helps, giving you permission to just exist. Laugh at Jimmy’s impressions. Pretend you’re not glancing at Clark more than you should.

The group is gathered near a back booth when Clark slips away. You only notice because it’s like a light flicks off inside you. When you spot him through the bar window—outside, on the sidewalk, phone pressed to his ear, fingers pushing through his hair—you follow without thinking.

You don’t hesitate, slipping through the crowd and nudging the door open, letting it swing closed behind you.

He half-turns at the sound, catching you in his peripheral. A tiny smile lifts the corner of his mouth. He raises a single finger as if to say: One sec. So you lean against the wall beside the door, letting the cool air cling to your skin, internally cursing yourself for not putting on your coat before going out.

“Okay, Ma. Yeah, I’ll give him a call tomorrow. No, I promise, it’s fine. Yeah. Yeah, love you too. Sleep tight,” he says into his phone, ending the call and tucking the device into the pocket of his black slacks. “Sorry. That was my mom. Sometimes she calls without checking the time first. She gets all excited.”

You smile, your mouth twitching. “That’s… adorable.”

He shrugs, glancing down at his feet, almost bashful. “She’s always worried I’m working too much.”

“Well, are you?”

His eyes find yours, and for a second, he doesn’t answer. At long last, he retorts, “Maybe.”

You study him—the way his posture seems to be at ease out here, how the line of his shoulders relaxes in the quiet. There’s something about him that always feels held back, as if he’s managing himself carefully, like he’s afraid of taking up too much space.

Which is funny, considering how much space he’s been occupying in your thoughts lately.

“Are you annoyed?” you ask.

His smile fades. “What?”

“You seemed… I don’t know. Off.”

“No,” he says, seemingly caught off guard. “Not annoyed.” You nod slowly, unsure if that’s a real answer or the kind people give when they don’t want to be asked twice. “I just needed some air. That’s all.”

You let that sit between you. Let the quiet stretch a little. The last thing you want is to pry, but there’s something you want to know. It seems that lately you always want to know more with him, even when you’re afraid of the answers you might receive.

Next thing you know, your brain, being the traitor it is, decides now would be the perfect time to blurt: “So, uh… are you and Lois a thing?” It comes out too fast and loud, way too sincere. You immediately want to grab the words midair and cram them back into your mouth.

Clark straightens so quickly it’s like someone snapped a rubber band on his arm, his jaw clenching. “What?” The pitch of his voice cracks up a little, like his vocal cords haven’t gotten the memo that he’s supposed to be cool and composed.

“You and Lois?” you repeat, trying to style it as harmless curiosity. You throw in a half-shrug that feels more like a full-body spasm. “I mean… it’s not a crazy question. She’s Lois Lane. Beautiful woman, insanely good hair. I’d date her.”

“She’d eat you alive.”

“Yeah, but it’d be an honor.”

“Lois and I are just friends. Really good friends. We’ve been through a lot together, but… it’s never been like that.”

Looking down, you nod in agreement, peering at your heels. Did they always have that much shine? You shift your weight, unsure where to put your hands. “Great,” you reply. “I wasn’t trying to make things weird. It’s just—people talk, you know? Office gossip. Background noise. Someone had to ask.”

Clark cocks his head to the side, his forehead creasing. “Someone?”

“Yeah. I was just the unfortunate soul selected by the people. Took one for the team.”

He smiles then. “The team.”

“Yeah. Julie from Sports. And, uh… Carl.”

“Caro?”

“Yeah,” you say, faking confidence. “He’s new. Big into Hawaiian shirts. You’d remember him if you’d seen him. That dude’s hilarious.”

“Right.” He huffs out another quiet laugh, gesturing vaguely toward the bar. “Wanna go back inside?”

You shake your head. “Actually... I think I’m heading home.”

“Oh. You sure?”

“Certainly. I’m just tired. It’s been a long week. Brain soup.”

“I get that,” he says, softer now. But he doesn’t move. “Do you want me to call you a cab?”

“Relax. I can get one myself. Last time I checked, I still owned a phone.”

He still doesn’t budge. “Or… I could walk you home.”

“You really don’t have to.”

“I know.” He’s already turning toward the door. “Wait here. I’ll grab our stuff.”

And just like that, he disappears inside, the door swinging shut behind him with an almost faint thud.

The moment he’s gone, you let your head fall back against the bricks and close your eyes. It hadn’t been in your plans to ask about Lois. Actually, you hadn’t planned for any of this. You just saw him step outside and followed like gravity stopped being theoretical.

But sometimes, he looks at you like he sees something you don’t, which is the part that terrifies you.

The door creaks open behind you. You straighten quickly, trying to shake off whatever expression you were wearing. Clark has your bag slung over one shoulder and your coat draped carefully over his arm. He looks absurdly responsible.

“You really didn’t have to do all that,” you say as he hands everything over to you.

“Too late,” he replies. “Chivalry wins again.”

You walk the first few blocks in companionable silence. The city has started to go quiet, and even though the night is soft, your brain isn’t.

Then, because the world is poetic when it’s inconvenient, your heel catches a crack in the pavement and you go down like a cursed fairytale. “Shit—damn it!”

“Whoa—got you,” Clark huffs, catching you just in time. His hands are at your waist, strong and certain, and you hate how easily your pulse betrays you.

You wince. “Ankle. Ow.”

He guides you down to sit on the front steps of a random building, pursing his lips. He crouches, eyes scanning your foot like he’s searching for something under the skin. “Probably just a twist. You should be alright.”

“How do you…?”

“What?”

“How do you know it’s not swelling?” you ask, scrutinizing him. “You barely looked. Didn’t even check it properly.”

“Just… a hunch, I mean—” His mouth opens, then closes, and then opens again with a whole new sentence. “Look, I didn’t hear anything snap, so... unless your bones are stealthy...?”

“That’s not exactly how ankles work.”

“I mean, you haven’t turned purple. That has to be a good sign.” He laughs, tight and awkward, and you snort despite yourself. His hand rakes through his hair. “Sorry. Just trying to be optimistic.”

“You sure you weren’t a paramedic in a past life?”

“Oh, no. I’d be terrible at that.”

Still, you watch him a second longer. He looks... nervous, like he’s afraid he said too much.

He kneels with his back to you. “Here. Get on.”

“Excuse me?”

“Piggyback. Let’s not make it a thing.”

“It’s already a thing. A humiliating one.”

“Let me reframe it: this is me being chivalrous, and you being temporarily horizontal.”

“That is not how that word works.” You sigh, dramatic. “Fine. Just… please, don’t drop me.”

As you climb onto his back, his hands reach back to catch the backs of your knees, and when his palms find skin—warm where your skirt’s ridden up slightly—it short-circuits something in your chest. It’s not even overtly intimate. It’s just… contact. Unflinching contact. You feel it like a current, a hot spark that rushes up your spine and settles somewhere inconvenient.

“Have I already mentioned this is embarrassing?” you mutter, resting your chin lightly against his shoulder.

“You say that like I’m not honored.”

“I’m a grown woman. You’re carrying me like a backpack.”

“You are basically a human backpack,” he quips back. “And kind of a noisy one.”

You smack his shoulder gently, making him laugh. You let your eyes drift closed for a second, his back is broad under your touch. You become aware of how safe it feels, how easy it is to trust him.

“Clark?”

“Hmm?”

“You didn’t even blink when I said I hurt my ankle. Like you already knew it wasn’t serious.”

He pauses. “I had a feeling.”

You lean back slightly to see his face, though the angle mostly gives you a view of his glasses and the top of his cheekbone. “You’re weird.”

Smirking, he glances sideways just enough for you to catch it. “Takes one to know one.”

You let it drop, at least out loud. But your brain doesn’t. It files this away with the other strange Clark Kent moments—the way he sometimes seems to flinch at distant sirens, or how you’d swear he once turned around because someone two desks over whispered his name.

By the time you reach your apartment, your ankle has started throbbing again, a dull ache radiating up your calf. Clark shifts slightly to let you down as you fumble for your keys.

You aren’t exactly drunk, but your head definitely feels funny. “Here we are,” he says, and you slid off his back and onto the ground like a sack of potatoes with a master’s degree.

“Thanks,” you mumble, trying to stand in a way that suggests grace and control. “You can, um. You can go be normal now.”

He sticks his hands in his pockets. “I was normal before.”

“That’s debatable.” You finally open the door, triumphant, but instead of going in, you linger in the doorway, facing him. “Thanks for the rescue. Again. I’ll see you Monday?”

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Goodnight.”

He doesn’t move, and neither do you. Your fingers tighten around the doorknob.

There’s an unexpected pull in your chest. The way his collar is rumpled. The way his hair curls behind his ears. The way the night had been soft, and the sidewalk felt warmer when he walked beside you, and—

An unbeatable desire to kiss him invades your whole being. You want to touch his jaw and feel the shape of his mouth and know what it would be like to exist under his hands. To be held by Clark Kent.

He finally steps back, appearing reluctant. “You might want to put some ice on it. Maybe take something for the pain?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And give me a call if it gets worse.”

“Only if I want to be carried again.”

“Happy to oblige.”

And then—finally—he walks away. You close the door behind you, pressing your forehead to the wood, heart knocking hard against your ribs.

You’re beyond head over heels.

Another Monday at the Daily Planet. It’s 8:56am, and as the elevator doors open with a cruel little ding, you carefully step out, checking your surroundings.

Everything looks the same—the hum of all those computers, some colleague having a hard time with the copier, Perry barking out unintelligible orders in the distance—but you are not the same. Not since last Friday.

Your ankle’s still a little sore, you haven’t been sleeping well, and Clark Kent could be somewhere in this building, existing like a real person with real hands and a real mouth you definitely didn’t imagine kissing at least ten times this weekend.

You weave through desks, praying for invisibility, when—

“Morning, sunshine,” Jimmy sing-songs from his chair, already halfway through a bagel, a smile plastered on his face. “How’s the foot?”

“Clark told you,” you say flatly.

Jimmy gives you a look, his eyes going round with faux innocence. “Who, me? No! I just assumed you mysteriously developed a limp and Clark suddenly discovered how to piggyback people from years of quiet farm strength.”

“I cannot believe he told you.”

“Oh, come on. It’s adorable.” Jimmy leans back in his chair, using his feet to make it spin. “You? Carried through the city like a Victorian maiden? I wish I had footage. I’d set it to music.”

“I hate you.”

He stops spinning to point his bagel at you. “You say that, but I think you secretly love being the main character.”

“Do I look like someone who enjoys attention?”

“Not attention in general. Just his.”

You don’t dignify that with a response. Mostly because he’s not wrong, and your face is already betraying you. Sliding into your chair, you pretend to focus on your monitor like it contains NASA launch codes.

Maybe if you don’t look up, you’ll avoid—

“Morning,” Clark says gently, materializing beside your desk. You look up, and there he is. Soft smile. Soft eyes. Probably soft everything.

You panic and blurt the most neutral, irrelevant thing your brain can conjure: “Did you see that viral video of the goose chasing the guy through Centennial Park?”

Clark blinks. “I haven’t.”

“Crazy stuff. Nature’s relentless.”

“...Okay.”

You clear your throat, willing yourself not to combust.

“Anyway,” Clark continues with his inquiry, “I just wanted to check in. How’s the ankle doing?”

“Fine! Yep. Great. I can do five jumping jacks. Not that I have, but I could.”

He raises his eyebrows, visibly amused. “That’s good to know.”

“Cool,” you reply, cringing on the inside. “Cool, cool, cool, cool.”

And then you both just stand there, marinating in awkward silence. Eventually, Clark raises a hand in greeting and excuses himself to his desk, not before placing your usual coffee next to your keyboard. You thank him without managing to meet his eyes.

Your fingers hover near the cup, though you don’t pick it up right away. The warmth radiates against your skin. You’re aware of everything—your pulse, your breath, the tight flutter in your chest.

You try to return to your work. Really, you do. It’s just that your thoughts don’t seem to line up in a straight line today, and somehow English doesn’t even feel like your mother tongue anymore.

Then Jimmy slides a folder across your desk. “Perry wants you to proofread this by noon. No pressure. Except all the pressure.”

You sigh, taking a sip of coffee and trying to remember how to be a functioning adult. You’ve got a job to do, feelings to repress, and exactly three hours until lunch.

Later that day, after a full shift spent second-guessing every adjective you typed and rereading all those drafts like they were confessionals, you finally make it home.

Shoes abandoned by the door. Work shirt flung somewhere in your hallway. The glow of your laptop waits on the coffee table, your latest half-thought article still open, the cursor blinking, mercifully patient.

You settle into the couch with a sigh and think: this, at least, is something.

And then—you notice it. A crucial absence.

Your charger.

Still plugged in beneath your desk at the Daily Planet like it’s mocking you. Of course. Of course the universe wants you to suffer. As you reach for your phone, ready to spiral, it buzzes in your hand.

Jimmy Olsen.

You answer blandly. “If this is about that goose video again—”

“Relax. It’s not.” He speaks as if he’s chewing something. “Although, side note, there’s a new edit where the goose honks to the beat of Eye of the Tiger and—anyway. That’s not why I’m calling.”

“Then what, Jimmy?” You drag a hand down your face, dreading every second of the call.

“You left your charger here—”

“Don’t even get me started on that.”

“—but I already gave it to Clark.”

Silence. Heavy, jagged silence.

“You what?”

“Gave it to Clark. Figured he could drop it off, since he already knows where you live.” He pauses, then adds, in the world’s most audible smirk: “Wink wink.”

“You didn’t actually wink just now, did you?”

“Oh, I did, physically. With both eyes.”

“Jimmy—”

“You’re welcome. He said he was heading that way anyway.”

The line clicks dead. You stare at your phone for a moment longer, and then, because there’s nothing else to do, you stand.

You wander to the balcony, scanning the street in search of a man you know very well. There’s no way you’re mentally or emotionally prepared for this. Murmuring something unspeakable, you dart to the bathroom mirror. It’s too late to fix anything. Nevertheless, you splash cold water on your face, wiping under your eyes and blinking at your reflection like that’ll make you look alive.

Three polite, measured taps on your door have you looking at the doorway with utter fear, and that’s when you consider faking your death.

In the end, you open the door. Clark’s wearing a big coat that makes his shoulders look broader than human decency allows, holding your charger like it’s something precious.

“Hey. Delivery service. Courtesy of Jimmy Olsen.”

You draw in a long breath. “Thank you. I—I’m sorry you had to do that. He really didn’t need to drag you into—”

He shakes his head before you get to say more. “It’s no trouble. I was happy to.”

You step back, thumb tapping the edge of the door. “Do you wanna come in for a minute? I mean, you don’t have to. Obviously. But if you want water or—tea? Bad tea. That’s all I’ve got.”

He smiles, stepping inside as if he were trying not to track in mud. “Water’s perfect. Thanks.”

You leave him in the living room while you hunt down a clean glass, and as you pour, you curse yourself for the mess of dirty dishes on the counter. Once you come back, he’s not moving. Just standing by the couch, staring. At your laptop.

“I didn’t mean to meddle in your stuff,” he says gently. “But… were you writing something?”

You make your way around the couch. “Oh. Yeah. No. It’s nothing.”

He sits after getting rid of his coat, seemingly not believing your words. “Can I ask what it’s about?”

Placing the glass on top of the table, you take a seat beside him, your knees folding under you, fingers worrying at the seam of your pants. “It’s kind of dumb.”

“I doubt that.”

“It’s just—something I started on Saturday night. I don’t know. It’s not an article, really. Not for the paper. Just… thoughts. About Superman. Or not him exactly. More about what he means to people.”

He says nothing. So you keep going.

“I guess I’ve been thinking about why people need something to believe in. Like a… structure. A symbol. Something to hang all their hope on. And for some people, that’s Superman, even if he’s flawed. He gives people permission to believe the world isn’t doomed.”

You pause. “And Perry would throw it in the trash if he ever came across it,” you add, bitterly. “So. Doesn’t matter.”

Clark’s gdoesn’t tear his gaze away from you. “I’d like to read it.”

You blink. “What?”

“If you’re okay with it,” he says, nodding toward the laptop. “I’d really like to.”

Hesitating for a second longer, you eventually slide the laptop in his direction. He adjusts on the couch as he leans forward, careful with the device, treating it as something delicate.

“Brace yourself for excessive metaphors.”

“Oh, I love metaphors. The more excessive, the better.”

And so he begins to read.

You try not to stare. At him, at the screen, at anything. You focus on the ticking of a clock you didn’t even know had batteries, wondering if Clark will also think that what you wrote is too silly. Too emotional or abstract. Perhaps he'll want to know why you were writing about Superman in the first place.

There’s a sudden shift in his demeanor. It’s subtle, barely anything. His shoulders drop a fraction, and when you take in the full sight of him, he’s grinning, reading all the way through.

“This is good,” he says, still concentrated on the screen. “Really good.”

“You don’t have to say that just to be nice.”

He shakes his head once, firm. “No—I mean it. The structure’s clean. You build your argument gradually, but it doesn’t drag. Your transitions are solid. And your tone—” He glares at you now. “—it’s vulnerable without tipping into sentimentality. There’s conviction in it, but you don’t preach. It feels like a conversation.”

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. “It’s not finished yet,” you manage eventually, voice tight. “I still have to go over the middle section. I think I wasn’t that clear once I got into the part about collective memory—”

“Even so. You’re onto something. If you let me, I’d love to help you get it in front of Perry.”

Your eyes bore into his, edging closer to where he’s located. He looks entirely sincere. A sharp pressure envelops your chest, and you want to thank him for his kindness, but what comes out instead is a hoarse: “Really?”

“Really. We could try and talk to him one of these days.”

Before you can stop yourself, you lean in and hug him.

You don’t even think about it—your body just does it, and then you’re flushed against him, arms around his neck, your face tucked against the warm fabric of his coat. He smells like paper and some brand of laundry detergent you don’t recognize.

He hugs you back, and it’s not one of those loose, polite things. His arm curves around you like he means it. You close your eyes, just for a second, just long enough to remember what it feels like to be held like that.

“I keep doing this,” you utter, voice hushed by how near he is. “Randomly hugging you.”

“I don’t mind it. Not at all.”

When you pull back, you’re still half in his space, breathing a little faster than usual. The relief is short-lived.

You ask for the antidote to the ache that keeps you up at night, something to quiet the want that only he seems to understand. “Can you please do it?”

“Do what?”

Does he want you to say it?

You stare at him, and something in your stomach dives. “Please, kiss me,” you plead, your voice barely rising above the hush of breath between you, and yet it seems to echo in the small apartment. Your cheeks feel burning hot, but you don’t, can’t, won’t look away. Not now. Not with him so close you’re convinced your skin might start fusing with his.

That seems to shake something in him. It might be the first time you’ve seen him truly stunned. His lips part slightly, eyes flicking from yours to your mouth, trying to make sense of the fact that this is real. That you want this from him.

One hand lifts reverently and settles along your jaw. The pads of his fingers cradle the hinge of it like you’re beyond fragile, afraid of pressing too hard. His thumb barely skims the corner of your mouth, and you perceive a jolt going down your spine.

His touch is featherlight, but his breathing is not. It’s affected, perhaps as much as yours. “You really want me to?”

You nod. Or try to. It comes out more like an eager lean into his palm, your body already answering before your mouth does. It’s been too long since you’ve been touched this way, like you mattered.

Your thighs press against his, knees brushing the outside of his, as if you were nearly straddling him. When your hands move instinctively to his chest, you see it: the first button of his shirt undone. The faint rise and fall beneath it.

You glance up, asking without words. He doesn’t back away, and you press your fingertips lightly there. His pale skin feels smooth to the touch, and his heartbeat flutters beneath your fingertips, stuttering out of rhythm.

He wants this as much as you do. The human body doesn’t lie. It can’t. It doesn’t pretend to want something it doesn’t crave.

“I do,” you insist, the words catching faintly at the back of your throat, transfixed in a whirlwind of emotion. “I need you to do it.”

A shallow breath leaves him. There’s a thin, glowing ring of blue circling his pupils, his gaze so dark it nearly swallows the light. His other hand slides around to the nape of your neck, achingly gentle.

Clark pulls you in, and his lips meet yours.

At first, it’s a series of tender collisions, just the press and lift of mouths, as if he’s testing the shape of you against him, trying to memorize it in pieces. One kiss. Another. And another. They don’t last long because they don’t need to.

It’s when you tilt your head and open your mouth to him that he gives in. That’s all it takes.

He deepens the kiss instantly, as if he’s been waiting for that signal all along. His mouth claims yours with an urgency that feels both new and inevitable. His lips are plush, cool with mint, probably the vague trace of chewing gum still clinging from earlier.

Your hands fist the fabric of his shirt like a lifeline, his glasses knocking into your nose once, twice. Your body shifts, and then you’re fully perched in his lap, thighs spread over his. His arms adjust around your waist, steadying you there, holding you like he can’t bear the idea of you leaving. One of his hands slides to your lower back, while the other, still at your neck, traces along your jaw, then behind your ear, fingers tangled in your hair.

Sighing into him, your breath gets caught in the cavern of his mouth. The world gets smaller, somehow quieter. Just the sound of his breath mixing with yours, the thud of your pulse in your ears, the heat pooling between you like a live wire.

And even through it, he never stops being gentle. He doesn’t rush it. Doesn’t push too hard, though his body trembles beneath you every time he elicits a new sound out of you.

At some point, your lungs scream for oxygen, having grown unaccustomed to the sheer indulgence of kissing for several uninterrupted minutes. You pull back only enough to press your forehead to his, gasping his name. You’re kissed raw, lit from the inside out, and the only thing anchoring you is the reassuring pressure of his arms, still wrapped around your frame.

Your lips linger over his, and when you open your eyes, you find his still closed. Neither of you speaks for a moment. His thumb traces a distracted path across your lower back.

Then:

“You should start forgetting your charger more often,” he murmurs, voice a little raspy.

That alone has you focusing on evening out the creases of his shirt with your palm, mostly to avoid combusting. “I swear it wasn’t on purpose.” His finger gently lifts your chin, coaxing you to meet his gaze. The quiet ache of tenderness in his eyes nearly does you in. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

The words you’ve been actively trying to cage in for months fall out of your mouth without permission, but you don’t regret them. “I like you.”

He gathers you tighter against his chest. “Well, I can’t say I’m not flattered,” he says, teasing, that crooked half-smile already returning. A laugh bubbles out of him—but it’s giddy, boyish. You cut him off by covering his mouth with your palm.

“Don’t make fun of me. I’m trying to have a moment here.”

He gently peels your hand away, lacing your fingers with his instead, and brings them to rest against his chest. “I’ve probably been dreaming about this since your first week at the office,” he admits.

You glance up and notice his glasses have slipped down the bridge of his nose. Carefully, you push them back up with a fingertip. “I was always looking at you, you know,” you confess, quieter now. “Couldn’t help it.”

“You talk like I didn’t bring you coffee on your second day,” he teases, brushing his nose against yours. Leaning back just enough to take you in, his eyes sweep slowly across your face. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.”

The words melt straight into your spine, and before you can think better of it, you surge forward and kiss him again. He meets you without hesitation, and when you break away, you leave a trail of humid kisses across his cheeks, down the line of his jaw, until your mouth finds the curve of his neck.

“I think my kissing might be a little rusty,” you croak into his skin. “Could probably use some improvement.”

“You’re kidding? It was fantastic. What are you—oh.” A beat. Then: “Oh. Sure.” He’s grinning like an idiot now, draping an arm around your waist. “I mean, I can help you with that. Practice makes perfect.”

“How noble of you, Kent.”

Your first kiss (kisses, plural—you lost count around the third) marks a shift in the fabric of everything. You’d seen it coming, even gave yourself a pep talk in the mirror that morning.

But then Clark sets a coffee on your desk, just as he always does, and says, “Hope you have a really good day today,” and suddenly your pep talk is useless. You’re smiling like someone who knows something others don’t. Because you do.

Together, you find a rhythm. You don’t talk about what this is—yet—but something’s shifted. No overt PDA. Not even flirtation, not really. Just… little things. Things that no one else clocks. The way he passes you a folder with an unnecessary brush of fingers. The way he saves you a chair in meetings and pulls it subtly closer to his, so that your knees bump under the table.

It’s the kind of thing that would be completely invisible to anyone else, but to you, it’s everything. It’s a love letter made of glances and millimeters, what you replay at night before bed, giggling at your ceiling like a fool.

Weeks pass in a blur of late nights and whispered conversations in elevators, and work has never been this motivating. Even Perry has stopped looking at you like you’re one bad coffee spill away from being escorted out by security.

One of Clark’s articles makes the front page—again—and when Jimmy sees it, he promptly rolls up the newspaper and smacks Clark in the arm with it. “Alright, headline hero. At this point, you’re just showing off.”

Clark ducks his head with a laugh, caught mid-fumble with his bag, a coffee, and what looks like three different folders sliding out from under his arm. You want to help him, but instead you just stand at your desk, watching like an idiot, warm with the kind of affection that makes your hands feel too light.

Lois arrives like she’s been summoned by sarcasm. She chews the end of a pen and corners Clark against his desk, watching him try to stack his chaos. “You know, Kent, I find it fascinating. You always seem to be conveniently nearby when Superman’s handing out interviews like candy on Halloween.”

He doesn’t look up, adjusting his monitor as if that could save him. “What can I say? Maybe I’m his type. We haven’t kissed yet, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

She narrows her eyes. “Don’t try to be clever with me. What do you give him? Why does he only let you interview him?”

“Have you considered he just… likes my writing?”

“So now you’re accusing him of bad taste?”

Jimmy slides into frame, palms raised. “Okay, okay. Time’s up, guys.” He puts both hands on Lois’s shoulders with exaggerated care. “You, my friend, are tense. Breathe. Maybe try yoga. Or tequila.”

Blowing air through her cheeks, she finally peels away, muttering, “I just wish Superman would leave his favoritism aside.” Before heading to her desk, she gives Clark one final, mysterious look.

Jimmy drops into his own chair dramatically, putting his feet over his desk. “Well, at least I tried.”

The day presses on. When lunch rolls around, you’re still grinning. You spot Clark at his desk, half-eaten sandwich in one hand, the other scrolling through something on his monitor, glasses barely askew. You approach with your hands clasped behind your back, adopting a mock-serious tone.

“Mr. Kent.”

His eyes flick up, and he swallows a bite too quickly. “Oh. Hi. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

You tilt your chin toward the newspaper near his bag. “Just wanted to congratulate you on the article.”

He lowers his voice until it’s almost inaudible, cheeks going faintly pink. “Thank you, baby. I would've hugged you the second I saw it, but, you know…”

“To celebrate… I was thinking dinner? I could make homemade pasta.”

“Gosh, I’d love that. Your place?”

“Yeah.”

“I wish I could kiss you right now,” he murmurs, gaze soft and so full of feelings it nearly unmoors you. “You look beautiful today.”

It hits you in the ribs, the way he says it. You offer him your fist. “Fist punch?”

His smile is half laughter, half reverence. He bumps your knuckles with his own, his fingers linger a beat longer than necessary.

As night folds in around your apartment, you’ve been stirring the sauce for the past twenty minutes, though it’s been done for at least ten. The smell of garlic and basil lingers in the air, the wine is uncorked, and the candles you lit—just two, nothing too obvious—are dripping lazy wax trails down their sides and onto the counter.

Your phone buzzes where it’s propped upright beside the sink.

Clark: Hey, I’m so sorry. Something came up. Can we rain check dinner? Promise I’ll make it up to you.

You just stand there, wooden spoon in hand. No call or explanation. Just the same vague apology he's given you three times now, each time with a different flavor of excuse. Each time with the same effect: you, left waiting with something you didn’t mean to take so personally.

There’s an answer teetering on the edge of your tongue. You even type, It’s alright! :-), with the smiley face and all, mostly to seem breezy. Effortless. But your thumb pauses, then backspaces slowly until the message disappears, and you leave him on read. Not as a form of punishment, but because you don’t know what else to reply.

You try to be patient. Try to be the kind of person who shrugs things off, who doesn’t take a rain check as anything more than bad timing. The problem’s that you’re not wired that way: you feel too much. You think too much.

Turns out, keeping your brain from imploding is the hardest part. You’ve even been practicing it lately, this thing of not jumping to the worst-case scenario. Telling yourself not everything is a sign, and that people get busy and have lives.

The thing’s that your brain has a voice of its own. A mean one, which sounds an awfully lot like yours.

Maybe he kissed you because he felt like he had to.

Maybe he doesn’t know how to say it, but he’s changed his mind.

Maybe he never wanted something serious, and you’re the only one building stories out of crumbs.

Dragging your feet back to the living room, you sit down in the nice pair of clothes you’d chosen for the occasion, and blink at the empty coffee table. As your body sinks into the couch cushions, the fatigue of disappointment sinks deeper than any full day at the Daily Planet. The TV throws shadows on the walls, some sitcom playing to an invisible audience.

And when your eyes finally close, you let sleep take the shape of mercy.

The pasta incident, when the spaghetti went cold and your heart even colder, wasn’t the last time he left you waiting.

Almost two weeks later, it plays out again.

The door clicks open an hour and a half past when he said he’d be here. You don’t greet him. Instead, you remain in the kitchen, back precisely angled away from the entrance, pretending to be focused on dinner even though it’s gone cold.

Clark’s footsteps are calculated, a careful shuffle across the living room carpet, testing the silence. He pauses just inside the kitchen's threshold. “Hey, honey,” he says, a little too bright, a little too loud, his greeting threading through the stillness. “Sorry I’m late. There was something I had to take care of.”

You crane your neck slowly. His hair is damp, curling at the edges, exactly as it does after sweating. His shirt is inside out, rumpled, the collar a crumpled mess. His cheeks are flushed, a deep, uneven red, and his chest rises and falls in quick, shallow breaths, as if he sprinted the last few blocks. He looks utterly disheveled.

You don’t ask where he’s been. Not yet. “Your shirt's backwards,” you retort instead, the words flat, neutral.

Startled, he bows his head, looking down and letting out a short, forced puff of air as he rubs the back of his neck. “My bad. I didn’t even notice.” His eyes, meeting yours, hold a flicker of surprise, quickly veiled.

“Yeah. You seem… in a rush.”

He doesn’t contradict you, just watches, completely tongue-tied, his posture subtly tightening. You drop your gaze back to the casserole dish—stuffed eggplants, roasted earlier in the day—and put it back into the oven, hoping it’ll survive the fifth reheat of the night.

Behind you, you feel him inch closer. A familiar warmth spreads across your back as his body presses gently against yours. His arms wrap around your waist, his hands resting lightly on your stomach, chin settling onto your shoulder while he brushes his lips against your cheek. “You’re quiet.”

You lift your shoulder in a half-shrug. “And you’re late.”

His hold around you tightens, rocking both your bodies back and forth before spinning you around to face him. His eyes, filled with longing, seek yours. “I missed you.”

If only that could be enough. You wish you could live off the sound of his voice and the weight of his hands on your body, letting his presence fill all the empty spaces, though you can’t help craving the one thing he won’t grant you: clarity.

Clark kisses you hungrily, a low, frustrated sound catching in his throat the moment you open to him, your tongue clashing with his. His cold hands glide up your back, slipping beneath your shirt to find bare skin, and you gasp as his fingers knead your lower back, the swift curve of your spine.

In one seamless motion, he lifts you onto the counter, and the kiss evolves into one heated and consuming, more of a desperate embrace. It's almost like he’s trying to make up for every second he’s missed, every moment of absence now erased by the force of his presence. Your fingers tangle in the damp hair at his nape, giving it a firm tug. That has him groaning against you, stepping further in between your knees, pressing flush against you.

His kisses deviate, trailing south, turning sloppy. "It’s been two months since our first kiss," he rasps against your throat, lips dragging over your damp skin, leaving open-mouthed kisses and a trail of heat.

For a moment, you let yourself vanish into him, surrendering to the overwhelming sensation, the promise of fleeting oblivion. You swallow hard, a whine bubbling up in your chest as his hips grind into yours with rhythmic pressure.

A sharp sizzle coming from the oven cuts through the haze.

You stiffen, hands finding his chest, pushing against him, breathless. "The eggplants."

He lets out a dazed breath, his forehead still resting against your clavicles before you manage to slide off the counter. You crack open the oven just in time, a cloud of smoke puffing out.

Plating the food, you meticulously avoid his gaze. The comfortable intimacy of moments before has been shattered. “You could’ve let me know you’d be arriving this late.”

“I told you—”

“I know,” you cut in. “Something came up.”

He exhales, planting hands on his hips. His body remains a few feet from you, a physical barrier building. “Okay. So you’re mad.”

“I’m not mad.”

“Disappointed, then?”

“Clark, it’s not even about tonight.”

“Then what is it about?”

You hesitate, picking up both your plates. Then: “Where were you?” The silence that follows stretches too long, and he merely stands there, observing you “Right.”

“I don’t want to fight.”

“I’m not fighting. I’m just… tired.”

He takes a single step closer, his brow furrowed. “You don’t believe me.”

You glance at him, quietly. “Should I?”

That hits him like a slap. “I told you I liked you, that I care about you. About us. I’ve shown you that.”

“But then you vanish,” you say in rejoinder, voice trembling. “You show up looking like you’ve just escaped a fire. You don’t answer calls. You don’t explain anything. Don’t you think that drives me crazy?”

“I’ve been telling you—”

“Clark, it’s not about you saying it! It’s about me believing it. And you don’t exactly make that easy.”

“The real problem here is that you don’t trust me.”

“You think I want to be like this? You think I like doubting people when they’re kind to me? Well, I’m sorry,” you snap, the words coated in sarcasm, a desperate defense. “Would you like me to book a therapy session mid-dessert?”

“Maybe you should,” he agrees—and the moment he does, his shoulders slump, a quiet wave of regret washing over his face.

Biting your tongue, you carry your plates to the table, placing them down on the wooden surface. He stays in the kitchen, breathing hard.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, softer now. “I just— I don’t know how to do this when you already assume I’m going to leave.”

“I’m not assuming,” you say, barely a whisper, sitting down at the table. “I’m just preparing for what usually happens.”

“You’re staring at me like I’m about to vanish.”

You blink, wounded by his accuracy. “Because people do. They do that.”

“I’m not people!” he exclaims, suddenly louder, cracking with what you perceive as frustration. His fists clench at his sides, knuckles white, though he remains rooted in place. "I’m me. And I’m standing right here, aren’t I?"

“For now. Who knows if something else will come up?”

Something cracks in him then. He exhales a sharp sound of utter defeat. His blue eyes dart around the kitchen, looking everywhere but at you, like he suddenly doesn’t know where to put his hands. With a jerky motion, he turns abruptly and moves to the couch, grabbing his bag, and after a quiet clink, he places the set of keys you gave him—your apartment keys— on the table.

He doesn't look back at them. Or at you. “Okay,” he mutters under his breath. “Okay.”

“Clark—” you start, a desperate plea forming in your throat.

“Thank you for the food,” he says, slinging the bag over his shoulder. “I’m sure it’s great.”

Then the door clicks again, and he’s gone.

The Daily Planet office, once a source of nervous excitement, now feels like the perfect stage for an excruciating play, where every creak of a chair, every muffled phone call, and every far-off laugh from the newsroom, feels amplified.

One day bleeds into the next. Two become three. Three into four. Time unspools in quiet, colorless strands, and you and Clark don’t speak.

You develop a radar for him. The way his broad shoulders appear in the periphery of your vision when he walks past your desk. The clean scent that lingers for a moment too long in the air after he’s been near. The rustle of his coat, the click of his shoes.

Each tiny signal sends a fresh jolt through you, a cocktail of longing, hurt, and a futile sense of hope that he might just look at you differently.

He never does. His gaze, when it lands anywhere near your orbit, can be described as nothing more than fleeting. His profile, when you cast him a quick glance, is unreadable, stony. He still places your usual coffee beside your monitor. The one you haven’t asked for. The one you don’t touch.

It’s the careful avoidance of two people who know too much about each other, and yet, not enough.

Jimmy, bless his usually boisterous heart, is the first to notice the shift. The absence of his jokes feels heavier than any of his previous teasing. He watches you some mornings when you walk in—does a quick, puzzled double take—then looks away with a frown you’re not supposed to catch.

Your new routine includes staying late at the newsroom. Not because you’re more productive, but because being alone in the office feels better than being alone in your apartment. You stare at the same document for hours while words blur and sentences unravel in front of you.

But when your mind finally stills, it drifts to the article. The one you wrote about Superman. The one Clark urged you to show Perry.

You’d written it during a different time. A better one. It had come from a place of awe, from a belief that Superman was more than a shiny cape and strength—that he was what Metropolis aspired to be: a symbol of better days, of striving, of hope.

Now, hope feels like a language you’ve forgotten how to speak.

Today, you don’t believe in hope. You believe in a man who held you like he meant it, once, and can’t meet your eyes now.

Nevertheless, you print the article, not really knowing why. Maybe because it’s the only thing in this building that still feels like it belongs to you.

Gathering the pages, you breathe in, hold it, let it out. Outside Perry’s office, you linger for a full minute before knocking.

His office is its usual chaos: tottering stacks of newspapers, coffee cups in varying states of decay, and the smell of old cigar smoke clinging to the walls like wallpaper.

“Well, don’t just stand there,” he grunts. “What’ve you got?”

You step inside slowly, article in hand, your grip faltering slightly as you set it down on his desk. “I know this isn’t what I was assigned, but I’ve been… working on something for the past weeks.”

He squints at you. “You been using our electricity for your side projects?”

“No! I—I wrote it at home. I swear.”

He huffs, puts on his reading glasses, and begins scanning the first page. You try not to stare at him, but it’s impossible. Your eyes cling to every twitch in his jaw, every slight narrowing of his eyes.

His face gives away nothing, and you brace for the worst. That it’s too sentimental. Too soft. Too young.

Finally, he leans back, lifting his chin and pinning you with a piercing look. “Do you like it?”

You blink owlishly. “Why are you asking me?”

“Because I want to know.”

“It’s not up to me,” you deflect. “You’re the one who decides if it runs.”

“I know that. But you wouldn’t bring me something you didn’t believe in. So I’ll ask again: are you proud of it? Do you think it belongs in the columns of this paper?”

For a moment, your throat closes up. You hadn’t realized how deeply you’d buried your own opinion. You’d been so focused on disappearing, on not making noise, not taking up space—especially this week—that you forgot to consider what you thought of your own work.

Perry’s looking at you like he’s not going to breathe until you answer.

So you speak, nodding in agreement, and right after adding, “I believe people will find it comforting.”

“Then you know what comes next.”

Your confidence may not be at its best, neither is your hope, but this is enough. At least to keep writing, to walk back to your desk.

It’s enough to make it to tomorrow.

Sleep won’t come.

You’ve tried everything: writing until your hand cramped, scrolling endlessly, even lying on the floor like a starfish, begging the ceiling to knock you out. Meditation felt like self-punishment tonight. Silence only made the memories louder.

So you call him. Once, twice, but you’re met with nothing else than his voicemail. You don’t leave a message. What would you even say? Hi, I know you said you cared about me and then walked out of my apartment looking like you were breaking from the inside out, but I miss you and I can’t breathe right now, and can you please just—

You decide to hang up, tossing your phone onto the couch and flicking on the television. Static. Infomercials. Cartoons. Some old film from the 1940s.

And then—Lois Lane’s voice. The screen flickers to life, showing a live, chaotic feed. A shaky handheld shot from a rooftop shows a scene near Metropolis General Hospital. A glowing creature, a blur of silver and blue and fury, throws what looks like an empty city bus like it’s paper. A streetlamp explodes and sirens scream in the distance.

It all makes you wonder where Superman is.

He’s not flying in for a rescue, not beaming reassuring smiles, not waving at kids from the sky. He’s in the dirt, bloodied at the temple, gritting his teeth as he lifts a half-crushed ambulance off the street.

You sit up straight, your heart climbing to your throat.

Lois’s voice crackles through the footage: “—been a difficult few weeks for Metropolis’s hero. Fans online have pointed out the change in his demeanor: less smiling, more… focused. Almost withdrawn. We’ve reached out to the authorities—”

It’s physically impossible for you to hear the rest because you’re entranced watching him. He’s moving like someone who hasn’t slept in days. Fighting like he doesn’t care if he gets hurt.

You can’t look away.

The camera pans wildly as Superman lunges forward, slamming his shoulder into the creature’s ribs with a sound that resembles crumbling concrete. There’s a fresh gash across his cheekbone, his hair disheveled, not in the windswept, magazine-cover kind of way, but genuinely messy: flattened in places, curling in others, soaked with sweat.

For the first time, you’re not watching Superman. You’re watching someone else. Someone who looks like—

No. No, that would be insane. The idea is so preposterous, your mind rejects it, but the seed of recognition has been planted. It can't be. Not him.

Once again, Lois’s voice cuts through the footage, her tone sharper now, edged with that reporter’s concern she usually hides under cool professionalism.

“Superman was spotted fighting alone for nearly half an hour before backup arrived. And while officials say the Justice Gang is expected to contain the situation soon, many are asking the same question: what happens when Superman is no longer invincible? What happens when he burns out?”

Staring at the screen, you contemplate his eyes flickering up for a second—just a second—like he’s heard something above the noise. And they’re blue. The exact kind of blue that’s filled your mornings for the last three months.

Your breath stutters. The camera angle shifts. This time, it shows his jaw flexing as he takes another hit, wiping the blood from his lip with the back of his hand.

You’ve seen that gesture. Too many times. “No,” you whisper out loud. “No, that’s not possible.”

You’re already moving, with your heart in your mouth. You don’t even know what you’re reaching for at first, until your hand brushes something at the back of the drawer beneath your TV. It’s a pair of old prescription glasses you never quite got used to, the ones you always said gave you headaches.

Holding them up, you hover them in front of the TV, and your world rearranges itself.

There he is.

Clark.

Clark, with that same square jaw, that same tilt of his mouth when he’s gritting through something.

Clark, who stammers when he’s nervous, who brings you coffee even when you won’t drink it.

Clark, whose shoulders you could rest your whole weight on—not only because he’s strong, but because he’s been carrying the sky for so long and somehow still made room for you.

Clark, who sat next to you on the stairwell that day when you felt like quitting.

Clark, whose kindness never felt performative, who looked at you like you were worth listening to even when you were barely making sense.

Clark, who vanishes into smoke and ash and headlines. Who leaves through the fire escape and returns hours later. Who smiled at you across the office like it meant something, and maybe it did, maybe it always did—but now you know the cost of that smile.

If you lower the glasses, he’s Superman again.

If you lift them… it’s the Clark you know.

They’re the same man. Two halves of a single truth.

“Oh my God,” you whisper again, this time not out of disbelief, but something much deeper. Something hollow and shattering.

Lois’s voice keeps going, but it’s background noise now, a murmur beneath the ringing in your ears.

You sit back on the couch, eyes locked on the screen, heart thudding like a trapped bird. Every memory starts to rearrange itself, clicking into a terrifying, undeniable pattern. His sudden disappearances. The uncanny way he knew you weren’t hurt that night at the bar. The tension in his voice each time he apologized for being late. The way he’d always kiss you like it was the last time he’d ever get to.

The truth has slipped through a crack you never saw until now, and there’s no unseeing it. He was lying to you, but not in a cruel way. He was just trying to protect you.

The monster finally goes down in a shuddering collapse of concrete and bone. The camera shakes violently, jolting as dust swallows the scene, and then steadies just in time to catch Superman—or Clark—landing hard on one knee.

Green Lantern, Mr Terrific and Hawkgirl all converge around him, bruised and dust-streaked, checking in on each other. But your eyes won’t leave his face. There’s a scratch across his brow along with many others. His mouth twitches into a faint smile as the crowd outside the hospital begins to clap, nodding at them. He doesn’t need to say anything, at least not right now.

For one suspended second, his gaze falls directly into the camera lens, and it’s not the kind of look meant for press or headlines or statues carved in his honor. It’s private, and heavy, and it feels like he’s looking straight into your apartment, straight through the screen.

Straight through you.

Lois’s voice snaps back into focus: “Metropolis, you can rest easy tonight. For now, Superman and the Justice League have subdued the threat.”

You press a hand to your mouth, the glow from the television casting his silhouette across your walls, larger than life, yet so impossibly familiar now it almost hurts to look.

He steps away from the others. Sirens flash red against his suit, casting ripples of color through the smoke. A few children break from the crowd, darting past yellow caution tape, their small arms wrapping around his legs in awe-struck gratitude. He kneels momentarily, accepting their hugs with the kind of gentleness that breaks you open.

You can’t hear what he says to them, but it softens their faces. One of them gives him a flower. Another just holds his hand.

Then, without fanfare, he lifts off the ground, launching himself into the sky. The wind kicks up rubble, camera crews duck, the picture shakes, and he vanishes into the sky like he was never really there.

Gone.

You stare at the empty space he left behind on the screen, breath snagged in your lungs.

“Where are you going?” you mumble, reaching for the screen. “Where are you—”

The muted clatter of ceramic on concrete interrupts your rambling.

Slowly, you turn your head to your balcony, afraid of what you’ll find. Out past your window, a potted lavender plant lies cracked and wilting. Clark’s standing there, just outside the glass. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice muffled, wincing is he gestures to the shattered pot at his feet. “I didn’t calculate the landing right.”

Rooted to the floor, as if your feet have been sealed to the carpet, you stare at him through the glass as if he’s a hologram. A turbulent mixture of strange feelings clashes inside you, and you fight them back, stepping to the side as you open the window. His boots scuff against the floorboards, dragging slightly as he steps inside

At first, he can’t seem to bring himself to look at you directly. He paces around the living room, running his hands through his hair, sighing like someone who’s rehearsed this moment a thousand times and still doesn’t know where to begin.

“Clark—”

“This is why I disappear all the time,” he blurts, abruptly stopping in front of the television. “Why I cancel our plans. Why I show up late, or leave before I’m supposed to, or text you lame excuses like ‘Sorry, got held up’ when I’m halfway across the planet.”

It’s hard to make the connection. The leap between the man who fumbles with his tie and tells bad puns over takeout, and the mythological figure on screen who bends steel and outruns storms, whose every move seems broadcast across the globe.

They’re two versions of a whole you never imagined could overlap. And yet… it makes sense, somehow. Of course Clark would be Superman. A man so genuine, so generous, who expects for nothing and finds the way to see beauty in rusted scraps and broken things—who better to carry the weight of hope?

“I should’ve told you sooner. God, I meant to. I wanted to, I swear. I was going to, that night after I read your article. You were sitting there, talking about Superman like he was some kind of miracle and I just—” He breaks off, shaking his head. “It got too easy to pretend I could have both. Be with you. Protect you. Keep it all going without having to risk what we had.”

Interrupting him now would feel like an act of pure cruelty. You see the disoriented anguish in his gaze, the way his fists clench and unclench with each passing second, how desperately he seems to need to unburden himself.

You wonder what would’ve happened if, instead of crashing onto your balcony and shattering a pot in the process, he had simply returned to his own apartment. Would the love you hold for him feel so present in any other scenario?

“I know this is a lot to process, but I came to understand something about you.” His voice holds such certainty it frightens you, because lately it feels like everyone else can decipher what’s happening to you except for yourself. “You think you’re just this temporary thing, because you don’t see yourself the way I do. That’s why you’re always bracing for things to fall apart.”

You want to explain yourself, to give a reason for your not-at-all-desirable behavior, but you realize you can’t in this moment. Not when honesty radiates from him like heat.

In the blink of an eye, he’s holding your hands in his, his grip gentle yet firm, and he brings them to his lips to press a short, tender kiss to the back of them.

“I can’t seem to make sense of it. I’ve tried. But it’s been impossible for me to find a single reason why you should believe that about yourself.” You brush a tentative finger along his injured cheekbone, stopping just before you swipe dried blood, though he still offers a soft smile. His gaze is so profoundly tender you wonder if this is the first time you're truly contemplating the depth behind them.  “I’m in love with you. And if I could show you your reflection through my eyes for one day, you’d understand why you’re the first thing I think about when I wake up and the last thing before I fall asleep.”

You never thought this type of experience could be granted to you. The belief that such moments were reserved for certain people feels now demystified. Perhaps no other moment in your life could’ve prepared you for this.

Of all the unrealistic scenarios you'd concocted over the years, mostly in your adolescence, when fantasies of a pure and overwhelming love did nothing but numb you, you never would’ve imagined someone would love you in this way, declaring their love for you so sincerely.

The need to get rid of the blood on his face gnaws at you, and you find yourself gently tugging him towards the kitchen, neither of you saying a word. You search for a clean dishcloth in some forgotten drawer, holding it under the faucet for a few seconds. Once it’s dampened, you press it softly against the bruised areas on his lip and cheek.

He tries not to move, placing both hands flat on the counter behind you, caging you with his whole frame. This scene reminds you of the last time you were both here, the day that marked two months of seeing each other.

A day to forget, actually, because it devolved into a complete disaster.

“I got used to living with this voice in my head that sabotages me. I don’t know when it started. Part of me thinks it’s always been there. Sometimes it’s quieter. Other times, it’s so loud I can’t think straight. But I’ve never been able to shut it up completely.”

You take a shaky breath, putting down the cloth once it’s no longer useful. Clark doesn’t pull away, nor does he move closer. He remains right where he is, poised, his entire being waiting for what you’ll say next.

“I never feel like I deserve the good stuff that happens to me. I wish I did. God, I do. Perry even said he’s publishing the article I wrote and I still have to convince myself he’s not just doing it out of pity—”

His eyebrows lift, and he can’t help but cut you off. Wait—really? He’s publishing it?” A broad, genuine smile blooms on his face, almost illuminating the dimness of your apartment.  “That’s amazing!”

“Thank you. I was planning on telling you, but—you know.” Your gaze drifts to the symbol on his suit, and you trace it with a tentative finger, the synthetic material feeling utterly strange under your touch. “The thing is I overthink everything. Always have. And I don’t know if you’ll think I’m crazy or exhausting or whatever, but I can’t control it. I wish I could. So every time you went away, when you started canceling plans or looking at me like you were somewhere else entirely, I got scared.”

So this is what it feels like to truly open your heart to another soul.

“I thought that voice was right, and that you were pulling away because you regretted it because you’d realized I wasn’t worth the trouble. And maybe you just didn’t know how to tell me, since we work together, and we share the same friends. Plus, things between us have been—” Once again, your words tangle, and you internally blame the raw emotionality of the moment.  “I can’t get away from myself, Clark. But other people? They can walk away. And I thought that’s what you were doing.

There’s a pause, and his advice seems to be: “Don’t trust your brain.”

“What do you mean—”

“Don’t believe everything it tells you. I mean it. If you need me to tell you I love you, I will. If you need me to tell you how beautiful and sweet you are, I’ll do that too, and happily. Because I want to help you. It’s not like I can spare you from those thoughts—believe me, I would’ve if there were a way. The least I can do is make you realize that voice in your head isn’t always right.”

Some things cannot be put into words, and you simply have to act in their name. You kiss him, your arms finding their way around his neck, pulling him as close as possible as you smile against his lips, trying not to generate any pressure where he’s hurt as you say, “Shit, I love you so much.”

It’s incredible how one can transition from immense sadness to something that must closely resemble the deepest tranquility ever known to humankind. He holds your face between his hands, his thumbs caressing your cheeks with such fondness it could make you sick. You don’t know how someone can look so happy and so overwhelmed at once. “Say that again.”

“I love you.”

“Again. Please.”

You kiss him between each word, letting them stretch longer and deeper until your mouths can’t bear to part. “I. Love. You.”

He tilts your face toward his, his hand cradling the back of your head as if he’s afraid you’ll float away. “Please tell me your brain’s not saying anything right now.”

“It’s been surprisingly quiet.”

“Then let’s keep it that way.”

You make a strangled noise as the kiss turns fierce, not knowing exactly where to put your hands. There’s so much you want to do, so much of him you want to touch and skin to trace with your fingers. That simmering desire had grown between you both, never quite breaking through the surface. Not because you didn’t one want it, but because you'd asked him to hold back.

Remember that tiny voice in your brain? The mean one? That one had told you several times that you had to wait a certain amount of time before sleeping with him. Because if you didn’t, if you got too close too soon, he might realize he wasn’t into you. Physically speaking. And you had done just that: waited.

But now, all patience shatters. There’s no room for cautious stretching of things anymore, not when the man you love, the one you’ve been pining for months, stands before you

He doesn’t get the hint when you kiss back or when your teeth nip at the skin of his throat, not until you take his hands, which are resting politely on your lower back, and push them lower, guiding them up to cup your ass through the layers of clothing.

You hear the way he breathes out, a grunt caught somewhere between surprise and shock, as you shift even closer and speak softly over his lips. “I want to do it. Tonight.”

“Are you sure? Because we could totally—”

“Clark, stop being such a gentleman.” You tug him toward the couch and fall back onto it, kicking your shoes off without grace or ceremony, your heart gallops with anticipation as you stretch out, swallowing hard.“I’d like you to touch me, then I’d like to return the favor, and then I want you to fuck me. In that specific order,” you admit. So as not to lose the habit, you whisper the word that never fails to soften his expression: “Please.”

You notice the impressive bulge straining at the front of his suit, and he nods his head in earnest, one of his large hands pushing your thighs open. “Yeah. I can do that.”

Electricity now runs through your veins, each part of you igniting under his hands as he touches you. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t rip your clothes off or fall into cliché. He wants to take his time with you, grazing the soft curve where your neck meets your shoulder. As his hair slips through your fingers like silk, you clutch at him, sighing into his touch. Your eyes flutter open to ask him: “Does the suit stay on?”

“Well, that depends,” he replies, lifting his head and meeting your wanting gaze. “Does it—turn you on?”

A low fire spirals in the pit of your stomach, your chest heaving with a shaky inhale. “It’s certainly doing the job.”

“So first you write about Superman like a professional journalist…” he trails off, his palm smoothing his palm over your stomach to undo the button of your jeans with ease, lowering the zipper of your jeans millimeter by millimeter, “... and now you get wet for him?”

Wiggling your hips to help him peel off your pants more easily, you gape at the ceiling momentarily. “I’m sorry. Do my inappropriate thoughts bother him?”

“I actually believe he’d very pleased, to be fair,” he murmurs, settling on the couch beside you. His hand returns, slower this time, tracing over the cotton that clings to your heat. “You see, he’s a simple man. Safe to say he’d really like you.”

Clark teases his thumb to your clit through the cotton and your back arches from the couch. “Clark, I—”

“I’ll go slow.” He presses his lips against yours briefly, running the length of his nose along yours, your skin buzzing where it brushes his. “Do you trust me?” You nod, unable to speak, struggling to keep your eyes open. He presses against you again, this time with purpose. Slow, deliberate circles over your clit, his free hand curling around your waist to keep you steady as you writhe beneath him, holding you down to the earth. “Then relax. I’ve got you.”

You weren’t a virgin, but he’s making you feel like one. Or maybe something even more tender than that, like you’re being touched properly for the first time in your life. Every graze of his fingers sends heat crawling under your skin, his ministrations alone having you whimpering into his neck, tugging at his hair.

“Take them off,” you beg, your hips bucking up to meet him, chasing his hand every time he attempts to pull away, needing more. It’s more of an instinct at this point.

He doesn’t make you ask twice, your underwear being gone in a flash and ending up dangling from one foot. He parts your folds, and you see his eyes darken with unfiltered awe, staring for a beat longer than expected. “Jesus,” he mutters, almost to himself. “You’re gorgeous

Clark spreads your slick across your swollen flesh, his long fingers reverent in their exploration, never faltering. When he circles your clit again, raw and bare now, you jolt, the pleasure pulsing bright and fast, like you’re going to blow up at any given moment.

He seems to enjoy watching you squirm, listening to the whimpers torn from your throat. “You’ve got no idea how hot you look right now,” he pants beside your ear, voice ragged and affected by the noises he keeps pulling out of you. His own hips grind lazily against your thigh, the pressure of his cock unmistakable, rock hard behind the fabric. “I want to see you come.”

“Just—keep doing whatever you’re doing,” you gasp, clinging to his arm and biting back a moan when he kisses you languidly. A new wave of warmth runs under your skin, and you swear you can feel your blood rushing south. “Clark, I’m—don’t you dare stop.”

Your words spur him on, and he tightens the circles, faster now, his other hand closing around your inner thigh for leverage. That ache in your belly sharpens to a desperate pressure, and your whole body looms into him as if drawn to gravity itself.

“Oh my God—Clark—” You grip his shoulder, nails scrapping against the harsh material of his suit. It’s too much and not enough, and every time he flicks just right, you’re launched impossibly higher. You’re a panting mess, legs starting to tremble as pleasure coils tight in your gut.

“Come on, you’re almost there,” he encourages you, kissing your sweaty forehead. “You’re doing so good. Let go, baby.”

You break. It starts at your core, deep and volcanic, spreading like a spark catching on dry leaves. Your thighs clamp around his hand, head thrown back as the orgasm ripples through you, crying out his name with a sound borderline raw and unrestrained. He doesn't stop until your hips stop jerking and your back settles against the couch again, twitching with aftershocks.

You’re left gasping, eyes blurry, vision haloed in white. “I—” you try to speak, but your voice fails, coming out broken. Instead, you let out a sigh. “Jesus.”

He presses a kiss to your shoulder, then slowly works his way up to your mouth.  “I came as well. Mentally.”

A disbelieving laugh bubbles out of you, and you swat at his face, covering your eyes with your forearm. You’re about to sit until you feel his breath ghost across your belly, shoving your shirt further up. You rake your hand through his fringe, brushing it back, hissing when his lips graze the patch of skin just above your clit. “Are you—”

“It’d be stupid not to take the opportunity.” He finds your legs and places them over his shoulders, effortlessly dragging your body to the edge of the couch, kneeling by the carpet and between your thighs, his large hands framing your hips.

Clark licks a broad stripe up your folds, collecting your arousal on his tongue, and you cry out, shoulders slumping forward from the overstimulation, still sensitive from your first orgasm. Yet he peers up at you with feigned innocence, kneading the flesh of your thighs. “I can stop if you want me to,” he says, a husky edge to his usual tone.

“Don’t want you to,” you purr, guiding his mouth to where you need him the most. “Make me feel good.”

Devotedly, devastatingly even, he takes your words to heart, lapping at your clit with careful, coaxing pressure, sometimes flicking with the pointed tip of his tongue, sometimes flattening it to trace languid strokes. He groans at the taste of you, sinking a finger into your heat and making you clench instinctively around the intrusion.

“It’s tight in here,” he ponders aloud, not sparing you a single glance, much more preoccupied with the way you’re squeezing him. “We’ll have to see if I’ll fit.”

You mean to laugh, but it comes out as more of a sob the moment he adds another finger to the equation, and you can hear every single squelching sound your cunt makes in response to his movements.

“God, it feels—” Your voice cracks as his lips seal over your clit again, drawing firm circles around it, the pacing of his digits inside you forcing you to alternate your attention. “So good, Clark. You’re being so good to me.”

It’s not that you’re just saying these things out of pocket. You’ve noticed he likes it, likes being praised. Not only in this context, where he has his head buried between your legs, but it usually happened whenever he did something right, and you would be there, praising him, telling him he’d done a great job.

His pupils would dilate a little, and he’d always shut you up with a kiss, but he can’t right now. He seems to be destined to hear and acknowledge your words, nearly rutting into the edge of the couch the more you say. His desperation sets something alight in you, and it only makes you want to explore that side of him even more.

“If you make me come again, I’ll suck your cock,” you mumble, dragging your nails lightly along his scalp. You don’t miss how his shoulders stiffen through the suit, and he pushes his face deeper into your core. “I can’t wait to have you in my mouth,” you add, smiling through the haze.

“What’s got you this chatty, huh?” He pumps his fingers deeper, faster, a relentless rhythm designed to shatter your composure. His teeth scrape along the inside of your right thigh, seemingly enjoying the noise that reverberates in your chest as he bites gently on it. “You have Superman right here with you and all you do is talk.”

Three of Clark’s fingers stretch you out and you can’t no longer think straight. Neither can you breathe, having utterly forgotten how consonants and vowels combine to form words.

This, it seems, is precisely what he intended: to have you reduced to a writhing, desperate mess that can’t stop mewling his name over and over. The questions, the teasing, all of it is obliterated by the rising tide of pure sensation as your world narrows to his touch and everything it means.

When you tell him you’re close, the ache coiling tight in your belly for the second time in the night, every nerve in your body lights up. He’s a man on a quest, who whimpers in unison with you the more your breath staggers.

He asks you to come on his tongue, because he wants to know exactly what it tastes like. Because he simply must. He’s been fantasizing about this, he confesses, about touching himself thinking of you, about how soft your skin looked in your work clothes, about—

Your orgasm tears through you, fast and overwhelming, and you cling to his shoulders, riding out the tremors. His fingers remain deep inside you, and he curves them to hit that sweet spot one last time before you tell him it’s too much. His hair is mussed where your fingers yanked it, his chin glistening with your essence, and you tug him closer to kiss him, tasting yourself in the aftermath.

Somehow, without even breaking the kiss, he manages to peel the suit from his body, letting it fall in a heap beside your shoes on the floor. All that’s left is the snug fabric of his underwear, and the sight of him nearly steals the breath from your lungs.

You trail a hand down his abdomen, fingertips brushing along the faint trail of hair beneath his navel until they meet the solid outline of his cock. You palm him softly through the fabric, feeling the twitch of need under your touch.

Now that he’s bare before you, no more slouchy coats hiding him away, you take in the rest of him. The defined lines of his chest, the softness at his waist, the tension coiled in his thighs. It takes everything in you not to outright stare, not to drool, although your mouth waters anyway.

By the time he’s lying back on the couch, you’ve taken his place, kneeling between his legs. He laces his fingers behind his head, muscles taut like he’s trying to anchor himself there, to stop his hips from jerking up on instinct.

You start slow, teasing. Your fingers wrap around his shaft, stroking him lazily as your lips press hot kisses to the tip. You circle your tongue around it, dipping into the slit just to hear what kind of sound you can pull from him.

He exhales like he’s in pain. Beautiful, tortured pain. You hesitate for a split second, uncertain—was that too much?

“Do it again,” he breathes, voice wrecked, his chest rising in uneven pulls of air. “Please… that—Jesus, that feels really good.”

And you want to please him. You want to give him everything, so you do it again.

The head disappears past your lips. He groans as you sink down a few inches, his hips tensing immediately, and you hum in satisfaction at the sharp hiss he lets slip. You take more of him, then a little bit more, until you’re jerking the rest of him off with your hand, saliva slicking your chin, your throat fluttering and eyes stinging every time he brushes the back of it.

Swallowing around him, your nails scratch the line of dark hair that leads below his navel. There’s nothing delicate about this. Not right now, not when he’s chanting your name like a prayer, not when you’re dizzy from the taste of him. His breathy moans echo in your ears, more intoxicating than anything else you’ve ever heard.

At some point, you glance up, and the eye contact nearly undoes you. Clark looks ruined, entirely entranced. His brow is furrowed tight, a deep crease between his eyes that might’ve read as frustration if you didn’t know better.

To some stranger, he might even appear to be angry. His jaw is clenched, lips parted as if he’s struggling to form coherent thoughts. His hips tremble under your palms, twitching like every nerve in his body is firing at once. He’s holding himself still with impossible effort, his thighs taut, hands clawed into the couch cushions to stop from thrusting up into your mouth.

“Perhaps—” His voice is hoarse, and he swallows hard. “Perhaps we should stop.”

You slow your pace but don’t let go.

“I don’t want to finish yet,” he groans, neck strained, his composure cracking under the tension. “Not this fast. I want to last. I want—” He cuts himself off with a hiss when you press a wet kiss to the flushed head again, pulling back the foreskin. “God, I just want more time with you like this.

You keep your hand wrapped around him, dragging your palm slow and tight from base to tip, letting your thumb swirl over the sensitive slit. His hips twitch again, betraying how close he really is.

“But can’t Superman come twice?” you ask, tilting your head to the side. He blinks, dazed, not fully registering the meaning of your words at first. You give him another firm stroke and watch his brows knit in pleasure. “It’s been a hard day.”

“Baby, I swear—”

“Didn’t you save an entire hospital tonight?” you whisper, leaning in to mouth at his hipbone. “Kept it from collapsing?”

“Yeah,” he grunts. “Yeah, I—yes.”

“Then you deserve it.”

“But twice?”

“You heard it right. Once in my mouth, just like this, and then again inside me.”

Clark makes a sound that’s somewhere between a gasp and a whimper. His arms collapse from behind his head, hands flying to his face, shielding himself from how hard words just hit him.

“Oh my God,” he mumbles, palms pressed to his eyes. “You can’t say things like that.”

“Why not?” you inquire, jerking him a little faster now. “You’re blushing.”

“I’m not—” he lies, breath catching when your lips part around his cock once again, still not getting used to the feeling. “I just—I’m so close.”

One of his hands finds your hair, smoothing it back from your face with a gentleness that makes your heart ache. He cups the back of your head as if he’s holding something sacred, brushing his thumb along your temple as his other hand clenches the couch cushion.

“You’re unreal,” he murmurs, eyes locked on your movements, still stroking your hair. “You don’t—you don’t even know what you do to me. You’re gonna be the death of me.”

Your hand tightens around his base just a little, urging him closer to the edge. He grits his teeth, unable to hold on any longer.

“I’m sorry—be careful, I’m gonna—”

He empties his load into your mouth, hips stuttering in jerky thrusts. His entire body tenses beneath you, trembling as the pleasure crashes through him, head tipped back against the couch. Clark comes for what feels like ages, pulse after pulse of heavy release filling your mouth, and you take it all, letting the salty taste land on your tongue and flood your senses.

Shortly after, everything moves in a blur. Clark insists that the couch isn’t ideal for what’s about to happen. Something about angles, support, long-term consequences for your spine. You, naturally, insist you’re perfectly fine where you are.

In the end, the one with super strength settles the debate. Which is to say: he wins. He lifts you effortlessly into his arms and carries you to the bedroom like it’s the most obvious solution. The couch had been fine. Serviceable, even, but it was time for an upgrade.

Now, sprawled across your bed, you kiss beneath the warm press of blankets. Pre-cum smears over your stomach, leaking from him in needy dribbles as he hovers above you, holding his weight on his forearms, cradling your face between his hands.

His voice is low.  “Just to be clear. We’re not using a…?”

“Condom?”

He nods, cheeks flushed. “Yeah.”

“I told you you could come inside me.”

That stuns him into silence. “Are you sure? Want me to—go buy some?” he manages, faltering a little.

“Some?” you echo, amused. Your gaze dips down his body, landing on the leaking head of his cock, his hips twitching as if straining to stay still. “I’m on birth control,” you murmur.

He blinks, his Adam’s apple bobbing. You can almost hear the gears in his head grinding, trying to decide whether or not you’re serious.

“I mean it. It wasn’t for sexual purposes in the beginning. I’ve been on the pill for years. But if it makes you uncomfortable—”

“What exactly makes you think I don’t want this?”

“Say that to your face. You’re looking at me like I just proposed a blood pact.”

Huffing a breath, he pulls back enough to meet your eyes. “So… we’re doing it. Like this.”

“Yes.”

“Bare.”

“Would you like to see my birth certificate?”

He lets out a strangled laugh, one hand sliding down to part you gently. His fingers glide through your folds, collecting your slick to lube himself up. Just as he’s about to wretch your entrance, he pauses, brows drawn tight. “Ready?”

“I’ve been ready since we left the couch.”

“You can’t be joking when I’m this close to being inside you.”

“Clark,” you plead, lifting your hips. “Please, just—”

He pushes in.

At first, it’s just the tip. The stretch is instant, unavoidable, and you throw your head back, nearly knocking into the headboard.

“Easy,” he grits out. “Be careful.” His thighs tremble where they cage you in, and he slides in another inch, groaning through clenched teeth.

“Th-that’s—fuck—” Your mouth hangs agape briefly before you shut it again. You can’t even think, eyes landing on where your bodies meet, and his whole frame looks huge on top of you, the sight alone making you whimper. “Clark, please—”

“Wait.” He stills, tearing his gaze away from you, squeezing his eyes shut. “I need a second.”

“Want me to kiss you?”

He lifts his head slightly. “Are you the devil?”

You bite your lip, fingers digging into the muscles of his lower back. “What are you doing? Counting?”

“To a million.” He buries his face in your neck, forehead damp against your skin, feeding the rest of himself into you in shallow thrusts, and the final stretch burns as he bottoms out. “You’re impossible sometimes,” he growls against your skin, groaning as you clench around him. “Jesus, you’re still so tight. I don’t even—I don’t know how to move.”

A desperate sound slips from your lips when his mouth brushes behind your ear. His hand strokes up your thigh, bending you slightly beneath him, folding you open. “You’re so big.”

His arm trembles beside your head. A bead of sweat trails down his temple as you comb your fingers into his hair. “Don’t say that,” he pants.

“Why not?”

“Because—” he pulls back, just the head left inside, “—you’re playing with fire.” And then he slams his hips forward, hard, drawing a strangled cry from your throat. “I usually like how you always have something to say, but right now? I just want to fuck you. If that’s okay with you.”

It’s official: your long, unplanned celibacy ends here. Courtesy of Superman himself.

As if he’s learning you by heart, each thrust is measured and unhurried, his hips rolling into yours with a careful intent and setting their own tempo, savoring the way your bodies fit, the subtle give and take of your curves.

Your breath hitches when he finds it: that angle, that precise, exquisite spot inside you, and your legs instinctively tighten around his waist in response. A groan slips from him when your walls flutter around him in gratitude.

He starts to unravel. His body writhes against yours with an instinct he hadn’t dared show before now, his muscles working as he moves deeper, hungrier, shedding the last vestiges of his gentle restraint. You press your chest to his, fingers splayed across the flex of his back, memorizing the slope of his spine, the tremble in his arms as he struggles to hold himself back. Every sound he makes, every choked whimper, every whine he later tries to mask, you trap in your memory like precious treasure.

The moment he buries himself to the hilt, you swear you’re going to snap in half. The fullness is dizzying, and you cry out his name in a quiet plea. His lips graze your cheek, his hand smoothing your hair as he whispers something you can’t quite catch, lost in the roar of blood in your ears.

It’s not rushed at all. He’s learning you second by second, mapping your responses, and each time he shifts the angle or tilts your pelvis just so, it steals another moan from you. He knows now. Where to press, where to grind, where to thrust until your feet curl and your throat aches from trying to hold in the sounds.

“Clark,” you mewl, voice torn and trembling. A strand of his hair, dark and damp, sticks to the shell of your ear. He shifts to kiss you there and then stills, forehead resting against yours.

“I thought I’d lost you,” he chokes out, the words raw and fragile in comparison to your heated skin.

The confession pierces you with more precision than anything else tonight. Your body is still pulsing around him, hips still twitching and asking for more, but your heart stutters, aching with sudden clarity.

You don’t know if he means that night you stopped talking, the agonizing silence between you. If he means the days you went quiet and he watched from afar. You cradle his face in both hands, your thumbs tracing the sharp lines of his cheekbones, forcing him to peer down at you. His pupils are blown, his mouth swollen from all the kissing, and you feel a pang in your chest because he’s never looked so vulnerably human.

“You didn’t. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

His throat bobs, and pushes in again, quivering, a silent affirmation of your words.

It’s like something breaks open inside him. The last of his control gives way.

His thrusts get rougher, more insistent, his mouth finding yours mid-moan, and you kiss him through the frantic rhythm, through the way his hand slides between your sticky bodies to circle your clit, hoping to make you fall apart. He needs this—needs you to come around him, to feel you clench and call his name and prove to him you’re his. That you chose him. That you’re still here. That you're real.

You’re close. So close that the precipice looms. “Don’t stop,” you gasp, clawing at his shoulders, needing something to hold onto.

“I won’t. I won’t—” His groan catches in his throat, escaping as a raw whisper. “You feel so good. You’re perfect. Can’t believe you’re letting me do this to you.”

The pressure builds so fast it becomes borderline unbearable. Heat coils in your belly, every muscle taut as a bowstring, straining toward release.

“I—Clark—I—” Your body arches, back lifting off the bed.

“Come on,” he begs, short of breath, his hips grinding relentlessly. “Come for me. I want to feel you.”

And when it hits, it crashes. Your orgasm blindsides you, flashing behind your eyelids, and your mouth falls open in a silent scream, body trembling violently under him as incandescent pleasure tears through you like a searing current. Your walls spasm around him, squeezing, and he cries out a primal sound of absolute abandon before surging forward with a final thrust and spurting his release inside you.

It’s messy. It’s beautiful and overwhelming and glorious.

He collapses, half on top of you, still deeply buried, his body spamming in unison with yours. You’re both left shaking and sweating, but in the most magnificent way.

Clark plants a series of tender kisses to the valley between your breasts, the soft underside of your jaw, the corner of your mouth. “I didn’t know it could feel like this,” he murmurs, awe coloring every syllable.

You press your nose to his hairline, drawing in the scent of him. “Me neither,” you reply, contentment curling in your chest.

He simply stays there, wrapped around you, his weight a comforting anchor. The moment stretches and neither of you dares speak too loud for a while. It’s the kind of silence that means everything.

Eventually, he lifts his head just enough to meet your gaze. His lashes are damp, a quiet sigh leaving him, and with an almost reluctant pull, he finally shifts, easing himself out of you. The sudden emptiness is palpable, an ache that makes you want to reach for him again, but he’s already moving, surprisingly graceful as he rises. He glances around your bedroom, then towards the bathroom.

“Want me to get a towel?” he asks, gesturing vaguely between your legs. “A wet one, ideally.”

You blink, chest lifting with a giggle. “Oh, right. Yeah, bathroom cabinet, bottom shelf.” You watch him disappear, the absurdity of the moment deeply endearing. He emerges a moment later, a small hand towel clutched in his fist, already damp, and he kneels back between your legs, cleaning you.

The warm cloth against your skin sends a fresh shiver through you, but it’s his focused, unselfconscious tenderness that melts your insides. He looks up, an apologetic grimace on his face. “I just realized I don’t exactly have a change of clothes on me.”

You trace his jaw, the curve of his ear. “Well, I mean,” you muse, a playful smirk tugging at your lips, “we could always see how you look in my pajamas. I’m sure my oversized college sweatshirt would be… form-fitting.”

“I don't think you’re ready for that sight.” He pats your inner thigh, then rises, tossing it to the side. “Come on. Let’s get into bed.”

You slide under the blankets, the silk against your bare skin a welcoming sensation. He joins you immediately, the mattress dipping under his weight, and pulls you close, your bodies spooning, limbs tangling. His arm finds its way around your waist, his hand splayed flat against your stomach. Your fingers twine with his, and your leg hooks over his, pressing your hip to his.

There’s a moment in which you turn your head on the pillow, meeting his eyes in the dim light. He now lies on his side, facing you, one hand tucked beneath his head.

“I love you,” you say again, the words unbidden.

A smile spreads across his face, lighting up his tired eyes. He pulls you impossibly closer, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, then looks down at you. “You know those people who use songs as their alarm?”

“What does that have to do with what I just said?”

“They say you should always choose a song you’ll never get tired of. I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of hearing you say those words.”

“That… was a weird route to get there.”

He kisses the tip of your nose, lingering on your lips shortly after. “I’m just saying. You could say it every day. Every hour. And I’d never get sick of it.” His thumb strokes your hand and you melt into him, every molecule of your being sighing in tranquility. “By the way,” he says, his tone sounding hesitant, “I told my parents about you.”

You pull back, just slightly, enough to stare up at him, your eyebrows shooting to your hairline. “Wait. What?”

“It was like a week ago.”

“We weren’t even speaking.”

He lets out a small, sheepish chuckle. “I know. But I still thought about you all the time. My mom scolded me through the phone for not telling you the truth sooner.” His nose crinkles, probably remembering the call. “They said they’d really like to meet you someday.”

“So, our first trip together is going to be… Kansas?”

“Smallville,” he corrects proudly. “What can I say? I’m a traditional guy.”

“Well, to be a ‘traditional guy,’ you haven’t even asked me to be your girlfriend yet.”

“Oh. Right. I guess I—”

“Are you going to?”

“I—would you want to?”

You laugh, pulling him into a kiss. “You’re such a dork.”

When you break apart, he’s smiling—really smiling, the kind that lights up his whole face and carves deep dimples into his cheeks.

“So is that a yes?”

“Yes, Clark. I’ll be your girlfriend.”

“Okay. Good. Because I’m already very emotionally invested.”

At that moment, you snort into his chest. Sleep begins to pull at your limbs, heavy and soft, and your eyes flutter closed without resistance. His arms tucks your head beneath his chin, his breath steady against your hair, and for the first time in what feels like forever, your mind is quiet. No anxious spirals. No fear of him vanishing now that you’ve let your guard down. Just stillness.

Maybe it’s true, what the wise ones say: you’re never too much in the hands of the right person.

Somehow, it feels even truer in his.

dividers by: @bbyg4rlhelps <3

[sweetpeterparker]

i never was the good samaritan

clark kent (superman 2025) x f!reader

anon’s ask: “imagine him [clark] with literally polar opposite black cat. but they match so well.”

summary: a stupid bet between two coworkers with allegedly opposite morals. if all’s fair in love, war, and corporate life, then who’s willing to be kinder for a month?

word count: 13k

warnings/tags: +18 mdni, fluff, comfort and angst at times, banter, feels, grumpy!reader x sunshine!clark, enemies/coworkers to lovers, kind of jealous!clark if you squint, sort of slow-burn office romance, dramatic love confessions bc i love them, miscommunication, tiny mention of reader’s hair, making out, dry humping, happy ending.

a/n: first of all, I wanted to thank you for all the support on my recent post !!! i feel like this is kind of a disaster because i finished it using the last two brain cells i had left, so if you come across shitty writing, please just nod along. anyway, i really hope you enjoy it. i’d love to know your thoughts on it. likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated. and to the anon who shared this idea with me: THANK YOU SO MUCH!!! <333

The worst kind of days are usually preceded by rain.

That’s something a scientist might say, though you’re no scientist yourself. You’re a journalist; therefore, your profession has absolutely nothing to do with science. Either way, you’re pretty certain there must be at least one expert out there who would agree with you.

You had checked the weather app on your phone the night before, hoping that somehow, by the time morning came and you had to get ready for work, the weather would clear up and a warm beam of sunshine would follow you on your way to the office.

When your alarm goes off at 7:30 a.m., with sleep still blurring the edges of your sight, you notice the soft patter of droplets on your bedroom window, and you can already tell those gray clouds portend a series of unfortunate events that will unfold during this rainy Wednesday.

Rain is no good. For different reasons, listed down below:

a) You don’t own a car, nor do you know how to drive one.

b) The boots you were gifted on your last birthday, the ones you use for the days when the city feels underwater, are supposed to be water-resistant, though they’ve betrayed you on several occasions.

c) It’s only a matter of time before your hair swells up because of all the humidity.

The worst thing is that some people, other human beings who breathe the same air as you, seem to enjoy these days. For motives you’ll never be able to comprehend, they look forward to them, gushing about the apparent charm and appeal of drizzle. Perhaps the government could use that eagerness to spot potential future criminals.

Lazily, you pull on several layers of clothing: a plain t-shirt, a sweater, and your trench coat. You choose a darker pair of jeans so that any rain-soaked patches won’t make you look like you’ve peed yourself, which has happened before. The temperature has dropped drastically while you were sleeping, and now every room in your apartment feels cold and uninviting as you gather your things.

You know for a fact that the second you step out of this building, you’ll feel like absolute crap. But you can’t stay home and avoid your responsibilities, because it turns out you certainly enjoy having Wi-Fi and food on your stomach at the end of a long day.

And those are things you wouldn’t be able to afford if you didn’t work, because they cost money. Lots of it. So, in the end, you have no option left but to be a functional adult and go to work, contributing to the lovely city of Metropolis by writing articles for a living.

This doesn’t mean that you hate your job. In fact, you love it. You love writing, for it’s the only thing that’s stayed constant in your whole life ever since you were a kid.

The culprit for your attitude is the rain. It makes you insufferable to be around. You're no stranger to your own moods. You do realize rainy days turn you into someone more volatile.

Yet clear skies are no different. You’ve been in a mood for… forever, actually. For the past year, at least. That’s what Jimmy and Lois say. 

By the time you make it to the subway, the train you should’ve taken to be on time is already gone, your scarf smells funny, and Matthew’s standing there, just an inch away from your face.

Oh, good ol’ Matthew. A guy, maybe a couple of years older than you, who’s been trying to get your name, number, or even email address for the past few months. You see him every morning as you leave for work, and despite not succeeding in his task, he doesn’t seem to plan on giving up.

“Hi, beautiful.”

You glance to your left, not even bothering to turn your head to face him. “Matthew. If it isn’t another day of smelling your breath way too early in the morning.”

He ignores the part about his breath. Instead, he replies, “I remember telling you that you can just call me Matt.”

“That’s strange, because I remember telling you I’d never do that.”

It surprises you that he still thinks you’re playing hard to get, given it’s been four months and you’ve made it more than clear that you have no interest in him.

He grins, his hands in his pockets. “I don’t believe I’ll ever get your sense of humor.”

“Of course you won’t. It’s reserved for highly clever individuals.”

“Gosh, you’re so mean.” This time, he stares ahead, sighing. “Have I ever told you I’m a sucker for these kinds of days?”

One of your eyelids begins twitching. “You’re kidding me, right?”

“You don’t like the rain?” His eyes sparkle with what could be described as amusement. “You know, opposites attract. It’s just inevitable.”

This is the kind of interaction you’re forced to endure before you’ve even had breakfast. You wish for the next train to derail and hit you with all its might.

As you set foot in the Daily Planet’s lobby, the rain has evolved from harmless drizzle to complete downpour, the wind unhinged, having spent the last ten blocks trying to steal your umbrella from your own hands. It is now useless, along with your drenched coat and suspiciously squishy socks.

You’re the last one to manage to squeeze into the elevator, which is beyond packed. As you maneuver inside, you accidentally jab a woman’s leg with your umbrella handle, and she mutters something under her breath. Something that sounds a lot like a swear.

“Sorry,” you murmur, avoiding all possibilities of making eye contact with her, although you feel her unfaltering gaze the full thirty seconds it takes to reach your floor.

Holding your bag and umbrella to your chest, you make your way through the maze of desks, nodding your head at those who greet you. You peel off your coat, hanging it from the back of your chair, observing the tiny droplets that start to drip onto the carpet below. You search for your notebook, digging it out and letting out a breath of relief when you notice none of the pages have been damaged by water.

It’s only when you finally sit down that you let yourself close your eyes for a moment, folding your arms over your desk and resting your forehead against them. You can’t deny you feel miserable. You should’ve called in sick.

You feel the warmth of someone standing close to you, and you don’t need to look to know who it is. You’d recognize the scent of his cologne or the sound of his footsteps anywhere, though you really hope that doesn’t sound as weird out loud as it does in your head.

“Turn around, Kent. We’re closed today,” you mumble with your face still pressed to the desk, voice muffled into the crook of your arm.

“You look like you’ve just got out of the shower,” Clark shoots back, the faint hint of a smile in his tone.

That’s when you decide to stop hiding, straightening your back to squint up at him. You should’ve kept your head down: he looks perfect. His hair is neat, his suit unbothered by the rain. You huff when you notice your reflection on his glasses. “How are you… dry?”

“I used my umbrella. They do serve a purpose.”

“Well, mine—” you snap between gritted teeth, ducking under your desk to retrieve the ruined thing and holding it up to shove it into his face, “—has decided to stop functioning properly today.”

He lowers your hand, his forehead crinkling. “Have you been nice to him?”

“Him? Are you personifying my umbrella?”

“I have a spare at home. If you want it, I could bring it tomorrow,” he suggests, changing the subject, and he can’t quite look you in the eye without averting his gaze.

This is where you draw the line. Forcing yourself to act politely, you say, “Thank you, but I don’t need it. I’ll fix mine. I’m sure it’ll probably stop raining in a couple of hours.”

A crack of thunder rattles the windows. Behind you, Jimmy nearly jumps to his feet, startled, drawing in a long breath.

“You okay, buddy?” Clark asks.

“Sure,” Jimmy answers, tugging at his shirt collar. “I’ve never been better.”

Clark raises his eyebrows at him, not convinced, but chooses not to press him. He shifts his weight from one foot to another and clasps his hands behind his back, returning his focus to you. Sometimes, he stares at you in such a way that makes you feel you’re being examined under the lens of a microscope. “Have you already had breakfast?”

“No.”

“Want me to—”

You cut him off before he goes any further. “Clark, I’m fine. Save your kindness for someone who truly wants it.”

His lips form a straight line, and without saying anything else, he jams his hands into his front pockets, walking away to his own desk. Maybe the tone you used wasn’t the appropriate one, but shortly after, you shake that feeling of guilt off.

On nights when you can’t sleep, or on certain days when your eyes keep finding their way back to him when they shouldn’t, you often wonder how he can always seem willing to help. Is it performative? Would he like to be voted as the best employee of the century?

But deep down, you know the reason behind his infinite generosity. It has a name, which starts with an S and rhymes with man.

Let’s put a pin on that. You’ll get back to that later.

“You’re gonna turn that poor man into a villain,” Jimmy says, his voice barely above a whisper. You have to crane your neck to get a look at his face, and even so, you stifle a laugh at his expression. He seems genuinely worried. “I mean it. He’ll have an identity crisis, and it’ll be awful.”

“I think you forget he’s a grown man.” You flick your fingers across the keyboard, checking your inbox. “Don’t worry, Jimmy. He’ll survive.”

“You’re vile.”

You spin around in your chair, scoffing. “Come on! Me? Vile? For not worshipping the ground he walks on like everybody else?”

Jimmy throws his arms out, seemingly defeated. “That’s because he’s the nicest guy to ever exist!”

“I just don’t want him to be nice to me. That’s all.” You scrunch up your face, your jaw tightening. “I don’t hate him, but that doesn’t mean I have to like him.”

It’s hard to explain your relationship with Clark, especially to Jimmy, who’s been his best friend for a while and would go to the moon and back for him. He raises his palms, bowing his head. “I feel like a child of divorce.”

“What a weird use of that concept. We were never together.”

“Well, almost.”

“No.”

“Technically, you went on one date.”

Returning your attention to your computer, you rejoice without emotion, “Unlike him, I did show up to the restaurant.”

That appears to be enough to shut him up, and he goes back to work.

The rest of the day unfolds quite easily. Nothing remarkable happens, at least not until you’re on your lunch break, sipping from your water bottle as Lois helps you polish the wording on an article you’ve been working on for a week now. Without knowing when, you two had fallen into a routine where you became each other's proofreaders.

You’d started the draft on paper for some reason you can’t remember. She scribbles in the margins next to your older notes from days ago, biting the end of her pen as she frowns at one word you’ve underlined.

You’re about to finish your salad when something exciting finally occurs on this rainy Wednesday’s workday.

One of the interns is carrying what looks like an entire week’s worth of paper and folders to Perry’s office, and he’s aiming to do it in a single trip. You watch as the tower teeters dangerously, and then, since it was bound to happen, it collapses.

You can’t say you didn’t see that coming. Why didn’t he think twice before trying to carry a stack almost as tall as Clark?

It’s like conjuring him with a thought. One second, the mess exists, and the next, Clark’s kneeling beside the flustered intern, helping him collect the disaster, a gentle smile on his face. Chaos, you've noticed, seems to have a way of summoning him.

“I’m such an idiot,” the boy breathes, rising to his feet.

“Hey, no big deal,” Clark retorts, patting him on the back. “I’ve been on a good streak lately, but this happens to me weekly. Perry won’t mind as long as you get them to him in one piece.”

Clearly enamored with Clark, the intern nods fervently and hugs the papers to his chest before hurrying off and disappearing.

You finish chewing a particularly salty piece of lettuce, and afterwards, because you don’t always let your better judgment catch up to your mouth, you hear yourself saying, “Doesn’t he get tired of playing the part of the upstanding citizen?”

The room goes dead silent. You’ve seen this happen in movies, the uncanny stillness where you could hear a pin drop. At first, he doesn’t move. His mouth hangs slightly open, his cheeks adopting a sudden flush. But the moment he seems to come back to real life, he can’t do anything but blink at you, appearing embarrassed. “Excuse me?”

If Lois’ panicked expression is anything to go by, things aren’t going that well. “Hey, guys, why don’t we—”

“I was just thinking out loud, Kent,” you interrupt her, dumping your empty salad container and closing the distance between you. “I can’t wrap my head around someone acting like they’re on stage all the damn time.”

“You really think I wake up every day and put on an act?”

“I don’t know, you tell me.” You take another step, practically looming over him. “I wonder if your modest decency will ever run out.”

His nostrils flare with each of your words. In that split second, you realize you haven’t been this close in a while. “Maybe if you tried being decent for more than five minutes, you’d see it’s not an act. It’s only called being nice.”

If Jimmy hadn’t materialized out of thin air to separate you, you believe your noses would’ve touched. “Are you seriously fighting?”

“We’re not fighting,” Clark shoots back.

“It certainly looks like it,” Jimmy says.

“Hold on, don’t interrupt the office sweetheart.” You poke Clark’s chest with your finger, feeling nothing but hardness. “I’d love to know more of your thoughts on my attitude. Would you do me a favor and lecture me after work?”

“Well, starting with that sarcasm of yours—”

“I have an idea!” Lois chimes in, and the three of you turn around to see her. She’s smiling. “Jimmy, I need your approval first.”

“Yes, m’lady. I live to serve.” He bows theatrically and makes his way to her. She puts her hands around her mouth and whispers something in his ear, and an almost cartoonish grin stretches across his face.

He covers Lois’ forehead with his palm. “We must protect your brain. It’s one of the last treasures we have as a country.” Then he flicks his eyes again to Clark and you, enjoying himself, and the sight alone makes you feel uneasy.

You’re starting to believe that in the same way bad days follow rain, terrible plans are always preceded by Jimmy’s smirk.

“Will you let me do the honors?” he asks Lois, and the instant she gives him a thumbs-up, he steps forward. “It’s become clear that you have strong opinions about kindness, or the lack of it. Which is why we’re proposing a bet, starting now. It’s called the Good Samaritan Challenge.”

Clark narrows his eyes. “The what?”

“The Good Samaritan Challenge, pal. Are you even listening?” Jimmy repeats, jutting out his hip. He quickly tells Lois to bring a whiteboard, and she’s off like a shot. “Whoever is objectively kinder during the next thirty calendar days wins.”

“That’s ridiculous,” you say under your breath.

Lois elbows you playfully as she comes back with the whiteboard. “Is it?” She raises her brows, handing the board to Jimmy.

He grabs a marker, draws two columns, and writes your name on one and Clark’s on the other. “Here’s the thing. You’ll both try to be the better person for a whole month. Lois and I, as the judges, will track your good deeds. But no cynical motives, alright? It all has to come from the heart.”

Clark seems to be weighing his options when you speak again. “What are the stakes?”

His shoulders look visibly tense. “Wait, you’re agreeing to this?”

“Depends on what each of you wants as the prize,” Lois answers in response to your question, resting her elbows on her desk and propping her chin upon her palms.

You glance at Clark. “If I win, I get an exclusive interview with Superman. You’d have to get it for me, of course, since you’re the only one who’s ever spoken a word to him.”

It's no coincidence you're asking to meet with Metropolis's biggest hero. You watch him flinch, tongue-tied, as he clears his throat and rubs the back of his neck.

Again, you know exactly what you’re asking for, and the reason why.

“And what about you, Clark?” Lois asks.

His lashes flutter together as he considers any possible answer. “You’d have to proofread all my articles for three months,” he explains, fully facing you. “I’m guessing you won’t mind the extra work.”

“Don’t get too excited, because it won’t happen.”

“It will.”

“It won’t.”

“Trust me, it will.”

“Shut up.”

“Guys?” Jimmy intervenes, waving the marker.

“What?” You and Clark answer in unison, and you roll your eyes at him.

Trying to hide his smile, Jimmy concludes, “Shake on it to seal the deal.”

You extend your hand immediately, scrutinizing him with undivided attention. He spares Lois and Jimmy one last look before taking it, his grip firm.

“Your hands are so sweaty.”

“What? No!” you reply, your nose wrinkling. “Yours are.”

“Yeah, sure.”

Leaning in, you murmur your next words low enough so only he can hear them: “You better get ready for that interview.”

He chokes on his own words. “You’re—”

“I have so much to ask him.” You’re genuinely grinning now. “So much to ask you.”

May the games begin, and let the kindest person win.

The café door chimes as Lois steps inside, scanning the crowded morning scene for you among the swarm of people.

It’s the day after the bet began, and you still have fifteen minutes before the clock strikes nine. She spots you and heads your way, placing her bag on the chair beside you and reaching into her coat pocket, but then she notices the coffee already waiting on the table.

“I took care of it,” you say, pushing the cup toward her.

Looking visibly pleased, she wraps her hands around it, sitting down by your side. “Wow. Is this your first act of kindness for the day?”

“I thought an old man was lost on the subway, so I tried talking to him. He must’ve thought I was trying to steal his wallet.”

Lois exhales a small laugh, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “This could be fun, you know?”

You slouch deeper into your seat. “Right now, I care about winning. I can have fun in other ways.”

“You could even see where it goes,” she says casually, not missing a beat.

“Where does what go?”

She shrugs, as if the answer’s obvious. “The thing with you and Clark. It’s—”

“Okay. Stop right there,” you warn, holding up a hand. “You go any further and I’m taking your coffee back.”

Taking a long sip, she shuts her eyes close, then opens them again, her brows snapping together. “I’m just saying that the two of you might finally learn to get along. Think of poor Jimmy and me.”

Your gaze lands on her cup, half-wishing you’d saved a few sips of your own drink instead of downing it in the blink of an eye before she arrived. Your hand instinctively searches your bag for some chewing gum.

She studies you in silence, leaning back. “Is this about that failed date you had? You hate him for standing you up?”

You tilt your head, clicking your tongue once your fingers brush the last piece of gum you had left. You unwrap it, popping it into your mouth. “First of all, I wouldn’t consider that a date,” you say, lips pressed into a slight frown. “And why do you guys keep saying I hate him? That’s a strong feeling.”

There’s palpable hesitation in her speech. “This is starting to sound a lot like gaslighting.”

“Last time I checked, I wasn’t a man.”

She crosses her legs, setting her cup on the table. “Ha ha. You’re so funny.”

“Don’t be sarcastic. Leave that to me, will you?”

“You do realize you have a talent for dodging questions.”

“It’s part of the full package,” you say, standing up and grabbing your belongings. Lois shakes her head in your direction, blowing out her cheeks, and you decide to give in. “Look, I’m not a resentful person. This isn’t about that night. We don’t get along because we’re too… different.” You offer her your hand and smile when she takes it, helping her up. “He finds beauty in everything, doesn’t think twice before trusting someone. I’d never be able to do that.”

Lois drops the subject. On your way out, after dropping a generous tip into the glass jar by the register, you hold the door open for her.

“I could get used to this,” she says, and your mouth twitches, giving her a half-smile.

At the Daily Planet, you both head toward the elevators, and as Lois steps inside, Clark appears behind you, looking agitated.

“Hey,” he greets you, straightening his glasses with one hand and gesturing toward the elevator. “After you.”

The fucker.

You mimic his gesture. “No, please. After you.”

“I said it first.”

“Too bad.”

“Guys…” Lois tries without much luck.

Clark’s voice is still thick with sleep when he speaks. “Would you please be a darling and go first?”

“Tell you what,” you say, inching closer and toying with the end of his tie, inspecting the fabric. “Nothing would make me happier than walking in after you.”

You don’t know if you’ve exhausted him or if he just doesn’t want to be late, but he eventually sighs and steps inside. You position yourself beside Lois, and she ends up squeezed between the two of you.

“Morning, Lois,” Clark says.

“Morning, Clark,” she manages, stealing a glance at you. “You know, someone surprised me with coffee today.”

His mouth snaps shut, and he tugs at the sleeves of his suit. “That’s my thing.” He turns on his side, staring at you. “What’ll be your next move? Will you start wearing glasses as well? Just to make sure we match.”

“Oh, please. I’m not copying you.” The doors open and you’re first to exit, tipping your chin up. “It’s called being nice.”

“I am nice,” Clark blurts, trailing after you. “In fact, I’m nicer than you.”

“I wasn’t aware of this competitive side of yours.”

“Let’s just say I had time to think about it last night.”

“You thought about me before falling asleep?” You let out a feigned gasp. “That’s so cute!”

Jimmy appears in the frame to throw an arm around each of your shoulders. “I could hear your voices from the bathroom.”

You detach yourself from the two men, pointing your index finger at the shorter one. “I bought Lois coffee and let Clark go first in the elevator. Write that down on the board.”

“You basically forced me.”

“Drop it, Clark.”

Well, how about this way? I love that you get cold when it's seventy-one degrees out. I love that it takes you an hour and a half to order a sandwich. I love that you get a little crinkle above your nose when you're looking at me like I'm nuts. I love that after I spend the day with you, I can still smell your perfume on my clothes. And I love that you are the last person I want to talk to before I go to sleep at night. And it's not because I'm lonely, and it's not because it's New Year's Eve. I came here tonight because when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.

You muffle a squeak against the cushion you’ve smashed to your face. You could watch When Harry Met Sally a hundred times, and a hundred times this scene would get you. You could quote it word for word, the moment he finally confesses his love for her.

And then they share a loving kiss. They live happily together after, as in all the rom-coms you like to revisit once in a while. You’re certain there must be tears shimmering in your eyes, for they sting just enough. The more you think about it, the more convinced you are that no one will ever love you like that.

It’s undeniable that this belief has turned you into a bitter individual. You used to have hope. You weren’t like this before, when you were younger. At least not a few years ago, when the idea of loving someone and being loved in return still seemed like a thing you could attain if you worked hard enough for it.

Adulthood, in your experience, has been plagued by hostility and disillusionment. Were it possible, you’d have a word with the you from ten years ago, the one who believed that by now she’d be in love and planning a future with a man worth her time.

But you’d only laugh at her in the same way that an adult laughs when an infant talks about unicorns and talking animals. Because she, or you, for that matter, probably doesn’t know you spend most of your nights alone. And since the news would make her cry, you’d also have to hug her.

The last time you attempted to open your heart to somebody else was a little over a year ago, and it didn’t turn out well.

The day you started working at the Daily Planet, since both of your eyes functioned perfectly, you developed an instant crush on Clark Kent. The real question, you thought, was who wouldn't? He was the most handsome man you'd ever seen, and still is to this day. Maybe that's the saddest part of the whole thing.

Your crush wasn’t just about his looks. You were drawn to his clumsiness, the cadence of his voice, and the way he’d ask if he could be of help. He’d buy you coffee first thing every morning without fail, back when you still accepted it. It would be steaming, and he'd always say, "Be careful. It's really hot." You thought you’d never grow tired of hearing those four simple words.

He made terrible jokes during lunch, and you were the only one who’d laugh, solely because he was the one telling them. If you struggled to navigate the newspaper’s website, he’d come up behind you, lean close, and explain each step patiently. His hand would find its place on your desk for balance, his warm breath would graze your skin, and you wouldn’t listen to a word he said.

There were even days when you pretended not to know how the printer worked. It was a treasure to have him that close, and Clark never questioned it. He was always there, and he’d never make you feel stupid for needing his help.

Around three months in, Lois started asking more questions about your personal life. “So… do you have a boyfriend?”

“Oh, no,” you said, downing what remained of your water bottle. “I’m single.”

“Great, because you know who else is single?” She made a short pause. “Clark.”

Her words of encouragement were the final push. You asked him out, and it was the most ungraceful ramble of your entire life. The memory still plays out in your head, a vivid reel of your voice shaking and your eyes fixed on the floor as you stumbled over each word.

It happened during one particular Thursday afternoon, while the two of you were standing by the printer. “I was thinking that tomorrow we could go out, just the two of us. If you want. I mean—if you’re not busy or—”

He gapes at you, his answer nearly written all over his face. At last, he smiles, and then says, “I’d really like that.”

You knew you'd spend the next twenty-four hours in a state of total anxiety. The world as you once knew it had changed for good. You used some of the money you were saving up to buy a dress you felt pretty in. In a moment of madness, you'd even used some of your savings to buy a dress you felt pretty in.

Ten minutes early for your reservation that Friday, you sat alone at the restaurant. You couldn't bring yourself to order, instead staring at your phone, terrified of the blank screen.

With every swing of the door, your heart tightened in your chest. Each new face that entered, you desperately hoped it would be Clark and not a stranger.

Fifteen minutes passed, which later bled into twenty, and then thirty agonizing minutes had gone by. There was a waitress, a girl perhaps younger than you, who kept circling by your table.

“Still waiting for someone?” she asked.

Suddenly, you felt embarrassed. “He should be here any minute now.”

At some point, your stomach had begun to rumble, and that was the exact moment you read his name on your phone, answering so fast you nearly dropped it. “Clark?”

The line crackled with static, and you could barely hear him over a tumultuous roar. “I’m so sorry,” he said, nearly shouting and sounding breathless on the other end of the line. “There’s this thing I have to take care of—I can’t—”

“Are you okay?” you asked, starting to worry. “Where are you?”

“I wish I could explain, but—” A sudden rush of air swallowed his words. “I won’t make it tonight.”

Your eyes scanned the restaurant, taking in the sea of couples laughing over dinner. “Okay. That’s fine. Thank you for letting me know.”

“I’m—” he began, but to your surprise, the sentence was cut short by the call ending.

Utterly defeated, you clutched your phone, observing as his name faded from your lock screen with every passing second. You remained seated for another five minutes, trying to conjure a believable excuse for the waitress before you left.

She ended up returning to your table. “Will you be ordering anything tonight?”

It seemed she didn't need much to grasp what had happened. When you got home, you peeled off the dress, folded it carefully, and put it back in the store bag. To keep from seeing it, you hid it under the couch, then collapsed onto the cushions, letting out a contained breath.

I should’ve stayed home, you told yourself. Your bed wouldn't have stood you up, neither would your couch or your phone. You opened social media, searching for a distraction, something simple, like videos of dogs trying to talk with their overreacting families.

What you found was starkly different from your initial vision. It was a video of Superman, flying high in the sky while holding a phone to his ear. Seconds later, the phone tragically slipped from his hand, plunging into a river below. The video had millions of views and had been posted less than an hour ago. The comment section was full of users drawing their own conclusions.

d1stalker: GET OFF THAT DAMN PHONE 😭how is he literally flying and talking at the same time? multitasking king

elysianymph: i’d love to know who he was talking to… a girl can only dream

dayapad: guys don’t worry IT WAS ME ON THE OTHER END 🥀 he’s safe now. just tucked him in and we’re about to watch a movie (i scream as they drag me back to my room in the asylum)

redgie-69: now he needs to do an ad por iphone or sth. superman get that bag !!!

Unable to stop yourself, you clicked the video again, pausing and rewinding it. The wind was a deafening roar in the background, and you couldn't make out half of what the bystanders were saying. With the line cutting and his phone falling into the river, the video's timestamp was a perfect match for the time he had called you.

Realization hit you like a freight train. Fuck. That was Clark. Clark was… Superman.

A whirlwind of feelings coexisted within you, but none was strong enough to snap you out of the trance you were in. You kept watching those fifteen seconds over and over again, replaying the memory of the call and his exact words.

There had always been something about him that was slightly off, and not precisely in a bad way. You'd always chalked it up to him being dorky and a little shy, traits you didn't mind in the slightest. But now, after that footage, you couldn't bring yourself to simply unsee it.

You recalled a specific incident that had taken place a few weeks ago. Jimmy, insisting Clark would be the perfect actor for a Superman biopic, had reached to pull off his glasses. With grace, Clark had swatted his hand away, claiming they were too fragile to be passed around like a toy.

You knew better, knew exactly why he reacted the way he did. And, God help you, did that make you like him even more?

That night, you sent him two text messages, having momentarily forgotten he wouldn’t be able to read them.

I think I understand why you didn’t show up tonight.

And shortly after:

I saw the video. You look good in blue.

By the time Monday came around, you’d already picked ‌all your nails. You arrived at the office earlier than usual, and his desk was still empty, but you kept checking the elevator every time it stopped at your floor.

He was nodding good morning at someone when you saw him, and you didn’t hesitate. You strode straight up to him, took his hand between yours, and whispered: “We need to talk.”

“Uh—hi?”

“Now.”

You led him down the hall and into the break room, closing the door behind you once the two of you were inside and turning the lock.

“Is everything—”

“You’re Superman,” you said, not even bothering to mince your words.

Clark looked like he’d seen a ghost, pure anxiety brewing in his eyes. You could imagine the gears turning in his head as he remained silent, lost in thought.

“Cat got your tongue?”

His gaze darted to every object in the room but you. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t lie to me. I saw the video, Clark. You called me while flying, and you dropped your phone midair.”

He was breathing differently now, as if he was attempting to calm himself.

“Does Jimmy know? Lois?”

That question made him look up. “No,” he said. “No one knows, except… well, you. I didn’t want you to find out this way.” His eyes bore into yours, his mouth set in a hard line. “I’m sorry I stood you up, but I heard this explosion on the east side, and I couldn’t ignore it.” Clark’s face reddened the more he said. “And then I dropped my phone. I went back for it later, but I couldn’t find it.”

Recognition settled over you at his words. “I’m not mad at you,” you assured him, giving a nod. The way his brows knitted burned a hole through your heart. “Would you maybe want to reschedule our date?”

The silence between you deepened, making your smile fade off of your face as the tension in the room thickened.

“I—I mean, if that’s something you still want,” he managed, the tone of his voice betraying him. “I don’t know if—I mean, I do want to, but—I wouldn’t want things to be complicated for you and me.”

Were you being friend-zoned? “Right.”

He runs a hand through his hair, getting more notoriously verbose by the minute. “It’s just that, now that you know, I don’t want to put you in danger. And I’m not sure it’d be fair to ask—”

“Okay,” you cut him short. “So what you're saying is that we should just leave it, then.”

“Wait—”

“We can just stay colleagues, if that’s easier.”

He seemed taken aback by your resoluteness. “Is that what you want?”

It wasn’t, but either way, you smiled. “Yes. That’d be better. We shouldn’t ruin what we have.”

You could’ve sworn he was just about to contradict you, but nothing came out of his mouth. Reaching for the door, you unlocked it, and he didn’t seem to be planning on following you. You cast him a glance over your shoulder before saying, “I promise I won’t say anything.”

Having fled the break room, you thought you might feel better, more professional even, but as you sat back down at your desk, your insides were turning into knots.

When Lois and Jimmy showed up beside you, eager for updates, you gave them a breathy laugh, which was meant to sound casual. “Guys, there wasn’t a date to begin with.”

“What?” Lois whispered harshly. “Why not?”

“He had to go to Kansas,” you explained, the lie feeling foreign on your tongue. “His parents needed him there, so he left Friday evening.”

“Is everything okay now?” Jimmy asked.

“Oh, yeah. It wasn’t a big deal. But we talked, and we agreed to stay friends. It’ll be for the best.”

Lois studied you a second longer than necessary, her gaze narrowing as if she could hear what you weren’t saying. You assured them both you were fine, that there was no drama between the two of you, and that this was the smartest, most mature decision you and Clark could’ve made. You just hoped they would believe you.

What shocked you the most was that he’d looked so nervous, maybe even more than usual. If he hadn’t wanted to go out with you, he could’ve just said so when you asked him out. But Clark, always the sweetheart, probably hadn’t wanted to hurt your feelings. It was funny, considering he’d managed that anyway.

Was it stupid to think he might’ve liked you back? Maybe you’d been seeing things that weren’t actually there. Maybe you’d overanalyzed every smile, every gentle gesture, every moment your world seemed to spin faster just because he was in the same room as you.

It made sense: someone who wants to be loved will look for it everywhere, even in places it doesn’t exist.

From that moment on, you stopped looking for his eyes when he walked past your desk. You declined his offers to grab you coffee because his gentleness felt like charity, and you wanted no part of it.

Back to the present. Enough of your sad memories. The credits of the movie are still rolling, but you shut the laptop, getting up and stretching. In the bathroom, you brush your teeth while staring at your reflection, and once you’re in bed, you pull the covers all the way up to your chest.

You’re choosing the fantasy you’ll think about tonight to fall asleep when you hear the rhythmic sound of your neighbor’s headboard rocking against the wall.

You’d run into her in the elevator earlier today, and she’d mentioned her long-distance boyfriend was coming over for the week. You hear her laugh, then his, alongside other noises you won’t try to dissect.

The walls in this building are paper-thin, and on any other occasion, you would’ve grabbed the first thing within reach to knock on the wall. But you won’t do that tonight, not because you can’t, but because you don’t want to. You stare at the ceiling, thinking they deserve these kinds of moments after being apart for so long.

Plus, it’s only a week. Just because you’re not getting laid doesn’t mean the rest of the world should stop having sex out of pity, so you turn onto your side, pull the covers up over your ear, and decide to sleep. It turns out that kindness can also sound like silence.

It’s been two weeks since the bet started, and you’ve come to discover that complimenting people is a good way to earn points, especially if you deliver them in public for everyone to hear.

“Lois, I love your blazer,” you say as she walks past your desk one morning.

She stops mid-stride, smiling at you. “Thank you. It’s thrifted.”

You’ve also made a habit of stapling Jimmy’s copies before he gets to them. “I think somebody wants to win,” he notes, watching you finish his stack.

“You would too if interviewing Superman was on the line.”

“Well, you better keep it up, because you’re still behind.”

Safe to say you take that personally. Later that day, Lois gives you a point when she catches you holding the door open for nearly ten people in a row. Clark earns another when he finds someone’s missing phone after searching for fifteen straight minutes.

Just to be clear, you were also looking for it. He just happened to be the one who found it first. But yes, you’ve been trying lately, and Clark notices.

Though today you’re moving more slowly because of a headache that has settled behind your eyes. You spend most of the morning at your desk, head bent while typing out emails, but you’re forced to look up when a cup of coffee lands beside your keyboard.

Your first instinct is to say no. Politely, of course, because of the bet. You haven’t accepted anything from him in a long time.

He places something else down: an aspirin. “It’s 2025. We have advanced medicine to ease your suffering.”

“Are you that desperate to win?” you ask, resting your chin on your palm.

Clark snorts. “What would you like my answer to be?”

You drop the subject, accepting both things and picking up the coffee. “If I kindly take this coffee, would that earn me a point?”

“That wouldn’t make any sense.”

“Then I don’t want it.”

“Half a point?”

“We’ve got a deal.” You take a trial sip, tasting its flavor and muffling a satisfied sound. “God, it’s really good. Thanks. How much was it?”

He shakes his head. “Forget about it.”

“Hey, no. I want to pay you for it.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I can hear you,” he says, walking backwards and away from you.

“Asshole.”

“What did you just say?”

“That you look nice today,” you admit instead, folding your hands on your lap. “I like your shirt.”

It’s a plain one, honestly. Nothing special, but it still looks good on him. He glances down at his clothes, the corners of his mouth lifting. “How nice of you to say that. You don’t look so bad yourself.”

So apparently, you and Clark are starting to get along.

It’s easier if you hide behind the bet, because you can be decent to each other while racking up points. What’s so bad about it? Yet you can’t ignore the fact that you kind of enjoy being like this with him, despite the whole challenge finishing in less than two weeks.

Clark: Don’t forget Jimmy’s birthday tomorrow.

You groan around a mouthful of apple, cursing your poor memory

You: Fuckkkkkkkkkkkkkk

Clark: I knew it. See, I’m that nice. I could’ve chosen not to tell you.

You: That would’ve made you a prick

Clark: You’re right, but now owe me one.

You: I could bake him a cake… or cupcakes??? Idk

Clark: I’d go with the cake. Just imagine Lois and Jimmy giving you ten points for it.

Pressing your thumb against your mouth, you gnaw at it, holding your breath as you type a message.

You: We can make it five and five if you help me

You put your phone down, covering it with a cushion, but the moment it buzzes again, you snatch it back.

Clark: Sounds fair, though I’ve never baked anything from scratch before.

You: I’ve got the perfect recipe

Clark: Are we having dinner as well? I could bring some takeout.

You can’t help but re-read that text too many times.

You: Sure, whatever you want

Clark: Chinese?

You: Yuppp but please hurry up because I’m starving

He asks for your address, and twenty minutes later, he’s knocking at your door, a plastic takeout bag swinging from one hand. He loosens his tie the moment he’s inside, shrugging off his coat and rolling up his sleeves

“So…,” he trails off, pacing around the living room, “you’re in charge tonight.”

You suggest eating first, otherwise, the food will go cold. While you set the table, Clark turns on the TV and lets it run in the background. As expected, you mostly talk about work. Does this count as a date? You’re not sure.

The first thing you ask him to do is to preheat the oven, and he obeys without a word. Your kitchen isn’t big enough for two people, and if anything, Clark’s towering height only makes it more difficult. His elbows constantly bump yours, and he apologizes every single time.

While you handle the measuring of ingredients, he takes the whisk. It seems the Man of Steel has no coordination when it comes to baking. He’s hyper-focused on not pouring the whole bottle of vanilla extract, tongue peeking out slightly as he pours. You can’t resist the temptation, so you give in to it and blow a puff of flour into his face.

His right profile is now covered in white, and he blinks rapidly, nudging his face against his shoulder. “It got in my eye.”

“It didn’t. I’m right here, remember?”

Wide-eyed and frozen in place, Clark stares at your head. “What’s that on your hair?”

“There’s nothing on my—”

He dips his fingers into the flour bag while you aren’t looking and flicks a pinch at you. A malicious laugh bubbles in his throat as he takes in the sight of you, frowning and crossing your arms.

“Now we’re even,” he says, waggling his eyebrows.

Afterward, you pour the liquid batter into a prepared pan, smoothing the top. You put it into the oven, finding Clark scraping the bowl with a spoon, licking it with pure contentment and savoring the remnants. There’s a small dot of batter near the edge of his mouth, which he doesn’t seem to notice.

“Clark, there’s—” You point to your own mouth, hoping he’ll mimic you.

But he doesn’t get the hint, putting down the bowl instead. “What?”

You sigh, taking a step toward him and wiping your thumb across the corner of his plump lips. He stops breathing in that moment, and so do you. You clean your finger on the edge of a dirty kitchen towel, then ask, “Can you wipe the counter while I make the frosting?”

He looks astonished. “I can—Sure. I’ll do it.”

Neither of you utters another word for a couple of minutes, focusing on your respective tasks. After testing that the cake was done, you take it out of the oven, unmolding it onto a rack to cool.

Clark plops down on the couch, covering his eyes with his forearm. “We can’t decorate it yet, right?”

“No. We have to wait, or the frosting will melt.”

“I’m so tired,” Clark says, yawning, and then his contagious yawn makes you do the same.

“I didn’t realize it was this late.” You sit on the opposite side of the couch, unlocking your phone. “I’ll put an alarm. We can take a twenty-minute nap, and then we finish it.”

His eyelids are already drooping, and he murmurs, “Just twenty minutes.”

You struggle to find a comfortable position to fall asleep in. Normally, you’d stretch out fully, but now you can’t, and you blame the giant sitting next to you. By the time you drift off, you swear you can hear him snoring just a little.

The alarm went off twenty minutes later, but neither of you stirred. You only woke up to switch sides, blocking the intrusive light from the curtains. Your eyes opened just long enough to see Clark, still in the same position as before, his mouth slightly parted and his hair a beautiful mess.

The cake.

“Clark!” You bolt upright, almost jumping to your feet. You touched his shoulder, shaking him. “Wake up. We overslept.”

He rubs his eyes, huffing. “What time is it?”

“We have… twenty minutes before we need to leave.”

Both of you get to work. Clark retrieves the frosting from the fridge and tries to help you spread it on the cake, but it ends up looking less like a smooth layer and more like a lumpy hill.

“Oh, God. I hope the cake isn’t dry.”

“It looks good,” he says, admiring it from a distance. “At least from here.”

You melt some dark chocolate in the microwave. It’s surprisingly thick, and you grab a fork, trying to write Happy Birthday Jimmy across the top. The letters are wobbly and melted into one another, but it’s the thought that counts. You grab the single birthday candle you always saved for such occasions, placing it in the center.

Clark hovers just behind your shoulder. “It’s… definitely abstract.”

You glance down at your clothes from the night before, realizing you didn’t even get a chance to shower. “Shit. Do I smell?”

His expression softens, his gaze landing on your head. “You don’t, but you still have flour on your hair.” He brushes his fingers through your hair with the delicacy you’d expect from a man like him.

The pad of his thumb grazes your hairline, and your breath catches in your chest. He pulls back abruptly, grasping what he’s doing a second too late. “There you go.”

Scrambling to get ready, you transfer the cake to a cardboard pastry box, securing it. “Okay, subway. Now.”

As Clark and you rush through the station, you clasp the cake box in your hands. The platform’s already crowded with people. You steal a quick glance at Clark, catching the ghost of a smile on his lips.

“I asked you if you had a boyfriend like, ten times, and you always said no.”

It’s a pity you recognize that voice. Matthew appears at your side, glaring at Clark, his eyes darting from him to you. The look on his face is one of total disappointment.

“He’s not—”

“I’m sorry, who are you?” Clark asks, subtly stepping forward to angle his body between the two of you.

“Matt.” He extends his hand in offering, but Clark silently refuses to take it, staring at him. “I just—sorry, dude. I had no idea she was taken.”

You wave your hand at them. “Hello. I’m right here.”

“Honey, you’ve never mentioned him before,” Clark says, draping his arm around your shoulders.

How smooth. “Well, honey, I must’ve forgotten,” you rejoice, leaning into his solid frame, playing the part of the loving girlfriend.

The screeching noise of the train marks the end of that conversation as the doors slide open. Just before the rush of people floods the car, Clark grabs your hand, tugging you inside, and Matthew’s left standing behind on the platform.

Even after finding two empty seats, he doesn’t let go of your hand, and neither do you.

“May I ask who that guy was?” His eyes gloss over the cake box above your legs.

“A not-so-secret admirer. He’s asked me out a few times, but hasn’t had much luck.”

“He seems persistent.”

“Trust me. He is.”

“I hope you don’t mind what I did back there,” he says, lowering his voice. “I thought it was the right thing to do.”

“It helped.” You squeeze his hand before gently dropping it. “Thank you.”

You make it to the office just before nine, taking the stairs because the elevator’s far too packed. Now it’s Clark’s turn to carry the cake, and he trails after you with precise steps.

To say Jimmy’s thrilled at the surprise would be an understatement. The corners of his eyes crinkle as he opens the box. “Holy crap! You baked this?”

“Yes,” you both say at once.

“I love it so much!” He takes the cake out of the box, looking at it from a different angle. “Can someone please take a picture of me with it? I feel like I’ve just met my firstborn.”

Lois materializes out of nowhere, trying to analyze the situation. “Why are you two wearing the same clothes from yesterday?” She lets a beat slide, then adds: “And why did you arrive together?”

“Well—the thing is—”

“It’s a long story,” Clark jumps in.

“But we have all the time in the world,” Lois shoots back.

And that’s how you know you’re trapped.

Only a week before the bet ends. There’s a guy with too much gel in his hair lingering a few feet from your desk. You’ve seen him around. He’s one of the new hires who writes for the newspaper’s column on culture and arts.

You’ve been expecting him to approach you for ten minutes now. When he finally does it, you see a confident smile tugging at his lips. “Hey, I’m Ethan,” he introduces himself, cocking his head.

“Nice to meet you, Ethan. I’m—”

“I know,” he interrupts you, squinting a little as if he’s embarrassed by his own enthusiasm. “Okay, that sounded weird, but what I meant is that I know your name.” he wraps his arms around himself, taking a deep breath. “I was wondering if you’d like to grab a drink sometime.”

That’s not what you expected. He’s a handsome guy, charming even, but—

This is the kindness challenge, and you're supposed to be all friendly and polite, at least for another full week.

You plaster a practiced smile on your face. “Sure. Why not?”

He asks for your number, and you rattle it off in a monotonous tone. As he heads off, you catch Clark in the distance across the bullpen, sitting at his desk. He must have used his super hearing because he doesn't tear his gaze away from yours, and you feel as if all the oxygen in the world has been sucked out of the building.

Hours later, you’re in the break room, pouring coffee into your favorite mug, the one with a tiny kitten curled on the front. Clark walks in, closing the door behind him after he sees there’s no one else there.

“You want some coffee?” You ask him while stirring your coffee.

He stays quiet for ages. “What’s the deal with that new guy?”

“You mean Ethan?”

“We’re using names now.”

“He asked me out,” you continue to explain, lifting the mug to your lips. “And I said yes.”

“Why?”

“It's just a drink, Clark. I’m being nice. That’s the whole point, remember?”

“I had no idea being kind involved bar hopping with strangers.”

Why is he acting like this? “Jealousy doesn’t look great on you.”

“I’m not jealous. I just—” He runs a hand through his hair, tugging at the dark locks. “You don’t know him. Nobody does.”

“He seems nice.”

“Everybody seems nice if you only exchange two words with them!”

You grind your jaw. “Why are you assuming the worst? Why does the idea of me going out with someone bother you so much?”

Clark doesn't answer immediately. “You can do whatever you want,” he says, his tone shifting to a pained one. “I'm just asking you to be careful.”

“You don't need to worry about me. I can take care of myself.”

Pride claims a full point from both of you.

You’re nodding along to another of Ethan’s stories from his college days, your eyes fixed on the rim of your glass.

It’s not that he’s boring, but for some reason, you’re unable to pay attention to anything he says. He’s talking about some phenomenal frat party he attended during senior year, which you can’t even relate to, because you’d never liked them.

He gulps down his drink, grinning. “I’m not letting you speak, am I?”

“Well—”

“Tell me something about yourself.”

You take a look around the bar, which is dim and cozy. The bartender hasn’t stopped mixing cocktails behind the counter. You shift your attention back to Ethan, lifting your eyebrows. “I’m currently stuck in a kindness challenge at work.”

You can’t blame him for seeming confused. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Lois and Jimmy had this brilliant idea that Clark and I should compete to see who’s nicer. He’s the guy with—”

“The glasses, I know. You’ve already mentioned him.” Ethan rolls his eyes, sighing at the same time a forced smile flashes across his face.

You can tell he’s bothered. Have you really been talking about Clark this much on a date with someone else? “Sorry.”

He gives a dismissive wave of his hand, waving it off. “And how’s the bet going?”

What an awfully complex question. You toy with the straw you were given with your drink, pressing your lips together. “Pretty much okay. We baked a cake last week.”

He chuckles. “You know what’s funny? I thought you two were dating at first.”

You tear your eyes away from the straw. “What?”

“I’d see you together all the time,” he says with a shrug, resting an arm on the back of the booth. “Then someone told me you hated him or something, and I had to shoot my shot.”

You hear him laugh, and he must expect you to do the same, but you don’t. “Hate him?” you echo his words. “I don’t hate him. Who said that?”

“I… don’t remember now. Does it matter?”

“Well, of course it does. Your source is wrong.”

“Yeah. I figured that around the fifth time you found a way to bring him up tonight.”

In a rare moment of clarity, a stark contrast to the bar's dark interior, you look down at your hands. Shutting your eyes, and behind closed lids, you can only picture the face of a man who isn’t here, who isn’t the one sitting across from you.

This isn’t where you’re supposed to be.

Pushing back your chair, you reach for your purse. “This won’t work,” you murmur, putting on your jacket. “You’re a nice guy, really. You’re not the problem. I shouldn’t have come tonight.”

Even though he calls your name as you make your way to the door, you don’t go back. Outside, driven by instinct, you fumble for your phone in your pocket. Since you’ve never felt this determined before in your life, you decide to call Clark.

It rings twice before he picks up, and when he does, his voice sounds groggy. “Hello?”

“Were you sleeping?”

“Sort of.”

You throw your head back, giving yourself a face palm. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Clark assures you, the rustle of sheets reverberating through the line. He must be tossing around in bed, given the hour. “Is everything alright?”

For a moment, pressure wells in your chest. You glance both ways down the street, half-expecting to stumble into him. “I just wanted to say something.” You exhale, pressing the phone further into your ear, as if you could merge it with your skin. “I don’t hate you.”

He offers no immediate response. After a while, he says, “What?”

“I don’t hate you. Not in the slightest.”

“You’re scaring me.”

“I needed you to know it.” Each of your words feels thick in your mouth, heavy like sand. “I wouldn’t be able to hate you.”

Judging by the background noise on his end, you guess he must be out of bed and pacing now. “I don’t hate you either.”

“It’s not the same. I already knew it.”

“Right,” he laughs, and the sound fills the line. You can almost imagine the dimples in his cheeks. “Wasn’t your date today? How did it go?”

 “Let’s just say there’s a section of the bullpen I’m not allowed into anymore.”

“Oh. That bad?”

“He said I talked a lot about you, so you tell me.”

The last time you two spoke in person, you had stormed out of the break room. He’d sounded jealous, a fact he fiercely denied, and his attitude had finally gotten to you. Maybe it was that time of year when you got a bit paranoid, but the thought hit you: you could die at any minute. Living in a city full of unknown threats and creatures, were you seriously going to spend the rest of your life keeping everything bottled up?

Yet, as if reading your very thoughts, he asks: “Would you like to come over?”

“Like… now?”

“Right now.”

You don’t need to be told twice. You hail the first cab you find on the streets of this Saturday night, counting down the minutes until you arrive at his apartment.

Fifth floor. Apartment C. Clark opens the door to you, and the mere sight of him steals your breath. He isn’t wearing his glasses. A pair of gray sweatpants sits low on his hips, along with a navy blue shirt stretched across his chest.

The only thing you can bring yourself to say is: “Hi.”

He invites you in. You hear the door clicking shut behind you as you put down your purse, turning around to face him. You clear your throat, staring deep into his eyes, and you notice he still hasn’t said a word.

“I spent almost ten minutes thinking about what to say to you. I even came up with what I thought was a great speech. It made sense in my head, but I can’t… remember it now,” you explain, swallowing the lump in your throat. You’re nervous, so freaking nervous you feel dizzy. Has he always been this tall?

“You don’t need a big speech,” Clark says, inching forward.

“I wanted to give you one, like they do in movies.”

“Then, just—come up with one right now.”

As if it were that easy. You press your hands to your face for a moment, imploring some god above for the courage you so desperately needed.

It doesn’t have to be well-structured. Doesn’t have to have perfect grammar. It just has to come from the heart and be true, and you couldn’t be more certain of what you feel for him.

“I would’ve dated you, you know? Even after finding out about the whole Superman thing, I would’ve risked everything, because it didn’t change the way I felt about you. It hasn’t changed it. I feel the same I did yesterday, and the day before that, and a year ago,” you blurt, edging closer to him. “I can’t imagine existing in a world where I’m not madly in love with you.”

You can't read the look on his face. His shoulders are rigid, his gaze giving nothing away as he studies you, and you find yourself wondering what exactly he’s thinking.

“I’ve tried putting it all behind me. I’ve tried starting over. For God’s sake, I went on a date with a man I didn’t even like! Just because you looked so… frustrated about it, and I thought maybe it was worth it.”

The past month’s blur of events rewinds in your mind. Your feelings, which you had tried to quiet and smother for so long, have come roaring back to life stronger than ever. You believe this must be love: that force you can try to extinguish and contain, but one that always burns through, because it is as real as the blood in your veins and the bones in your body.

“I can’t keep pretending I’m not dying to kiss you every time I see you at work. I feel like I’m in hell whenever you’re near me, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. I can’t let you go, Clark. I don’t want to, but I swear I’d make the effort if you asked me to. I’d try, just for you.”

All the cards, including the ones you were keeping to yourself, have been laid out. You yearn for Clark Kent. You need him in your life, in any way he’s willing to offer himself, with those eyes of his that now look at you like you’ve gone nuts.

You’ve learned that there will always be something wrong. That’s how things work, at least for the alive-and-kicking ones. And you know for a fact that love won’t save you. Clark’s love, in this case, won’t assure you anything. But you’d much rather navigate those complexities with him by your side.

A flush creeps up his face, and he inclines his face. “I’d never ask you to walk away from me. Understanding you has been one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to endure, which sounds absurd considering we speak the same language,” he says, and you can’t help but let out a laugh at that. “I mean it, and not just as Clark, but also as Superman.”

“You’re saying I’m hard to understand?”

“I’m saying that there’s so much you don’t say. I have to translate every look and sigh. I believe I’ve developed a whole new dialect just to make sense of you—”

“I feel like you’re using this as an opportunity to roast me.”

“—but loving you is the easy part, and you don’t even realize it.”

Your heart hammers unpleasantly inside your chest. “Clark, I thought you wanted us to stay friends.”

“I thought that’s what you wanted.”

“But you said it. Kind of,” you argue, your forehead creasing.

He holds out his arms, stifling his laughter. “You didn’t let me explain! I panicked. I didn’t know what to say. You know how I get when I’m nervous.”

You’re left standing there, beyond stunned. “So this whole time… we could’ve been together?” You make a brief pause, falling silent. “I was so mad at you. So fucking—”

“Hey, hey, hey.” Clark takes hold of your chin, angling your head backwards so your eyes peer directly into his. “Stop doing that.”

“Doing what, exactly?”

“Complaining about the past. We’re here now. We can make it up to each other.”

You sigh, and he hunches over to rest his forehead against yours. His stare carries so much, but you can’t look away. “I think I remembered my speech.”

“We’ve already moved past that.”

“I could still deliver it—”

You’re cut off by Clark’s mouth on yours. He kisses you with the intensity of a starved man, and you freeze, caught off guard and barely moving your lips, until he guides your arms around his neck, and that’s when your body catches up. His own hands find their sacred place on your waist, clutching the fabric of your sweater.

This is the aftermath of months of pent up-frustration. His tongue presses insistently against yours to seek entry. Ever so gently, he corners you against the nearest wall, and your head nudges a frame that ends up clattering to the floor. It’s not enough to get Clark off of you. He shoves it aside with his shoe, further pressing you into the wall.

“I don’t want to fight anymore,” he gasps between kisses, holding your cheeks as his nose bumps into yours.

“We won’t,” you say, dizzy from all the kissing. “I promise.”

It turns out that his lips can’t seem to leave yours for long. “And please don’t go on any more dates with new hires.”

You roll your eyes, running your fingers through the short hair at his nape. “I told you it went horribly.”

“Still.”

“You’re unbelievable.” Your mouth crushes onto his once again, your pulse quickening with every second his hands are on you. You then whisper against his lips, “It’s always been you. You can stop worrying about other men.”

He blows out his cheeks, shaking his head. “Golly, this isn’t fair.”

“What isn’t?”

“I just—love you so much,” he mumbles, pecking your lips, “and you’re so beautiful, and there’s so much I want to do with you. I want to do everything—”

“We’ll take our time.”

“I know, I know.” He grazes the skin of your neck as he pulls you in for another kiss. “But touching you, kissing you… it feels too good to be true.”

A small chuckle escapes you, and you caress his cheek. “Alright, Romeo. You’ve done enough talking.”

When you come back to your senses, he’s got you all sprawled across the couch, his touch insistent yet careful. You’re struggling to remain still the more acquainted he becomes with your body. He digs his fingers into your waist, your hips, the sides of your thighs, leaving a trail of all the places where he’s been.

He’s kissing down your jawline the moment your mind conjures up an important question. “Clark?”

“Tell me.”

“Let’s say that, hypothetically, I spend the night here.”

“…Hypothetically.”

“Exactly. Would you have a spare toothbrush in that case?”

He lifts his head from your neck, the corner of his eyes crinkling. “You’re marking territory.”

“Hey. I said hypothetically. And I care about dental hygiene.”

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” he says, your head squeezed between his forearms. He ducks down to kiss you. “I do have a spare toothbrush. Don’t worry about that.”

You resume the make-out session after that. You sink deeper into the cushions as he shoves your sweater further up your chest, just enough to ghost his fingertips along your bra, eliciting a choked whimper out of you. The sound seems to spur him on because he pulls off his own shirt, allowing you to get a better look at his stomach.

The words die on your lips, and you draw a pattern over his pecks, then up to his biceps, ending in the happy trail that leads to what remains hidden beneath the tent on his sweatpants.

“You’re getting ahead of yourself,” he breathes, pining your hand above your head. “I thought you were the one who said to take our time.”

“I’m gonna combust and you haven’t even touched me properly yet,” you admit, gaping at his lips as he hovers over you, teasing you. “Imagine the state I’m in.”

That makes him smirk, and he slides a thick thigh between your parted legs, pressing it to your center. You throw your head back, cursing. “You like that?”

You nod, watching him through hooded eyes. “Please.”

“Please what?”

“Fuck, Clark. Do something. I need—”

Upon the coffee table next to the couch, your phone starts ringing, and Uptown Girl by Billy Joel fills the living room.

The spell breaks, and you hide your face into the crook of his neck. “I hate my life.”

“Ignore it.”

“I can’t. I know who it is,” you say, reaching your arm without looking. Eventually, you drag the phone out of the purse, and show the screen to him. “It’s Lois. She must be calling to ask how the date went.”

“Text her instead.”

“Clark, I can’t—just don’t make a sound, okay? I have to take this, or else she’ll keep calling.”

You accept the call without noticing your voice has gone up an octave. “Hi!”

“Hey! You didn’t text me about the date, so I figured I’d just call you.”

“Sorry, I must’ve forgotten.” You gulp down as he rolls your sweater over your head in one swift motion, and you slap his shoulder when he almost makes you drop your phone. “It was… average.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

“We didn’t have much in common,” you continue, drifting your attention to the ceiling to try and stay composed. “He was—oh.”

Clark’s kisses have now migrated to your chest, his fingers sneaking beneath your back to unclasp your bra. He doesn’t break eye contact as he takes hold of your breasts in his hands, and you squirm under him.

Lois’ voice breaks through, sounding distant. “Are you okay?”

“Y-yes. I’m here, sorry. We didn’t even talk that much. I left quite early.” You mouth a ‘stop’ to him, holding the phone away from your ear, but he just smiles at you.

“Dammit, that sucks. Are you home now?”

“I was—Clark!” You yelp as he closes his mouth around your right nipple, scraping his teeth against the hardened peak. He looks at you with a horrified expression, and your whole frame stiffens.

“…Clark?” Lois repeats, and she gasps. “Are you—is Clark there? CLARK KENT?”

“IhavetogoI’msosorrybyeloveyouuuuu,” you push out the words quickly in one breath before hanging up, dropping the phone to the floor. “You’re a prick. What the hell was that?”

“I’d put it into silence mode if I were you.”

“That wasn’t fair.”

“What’s not fair is that you’re still wearing clothes.” He sits on his knees to unbutton your pants and yank them to your ankles, his eyes dark with want. Then he does the same to his own, until all that’s left are your underwear and the hardness confined inside his briefs, which presses against you the moment he leans down.

You begin kissing him as he lays on top of you, holding himself up on his forearms so as not to crush you with his weight.

“When did you become a horny teenager?” you ask, biting back a moan as he aligns himself with you, both of you still clothed. You know there must be a damp spot on your panties at this point from how wet you are.

“Always been one around you,” he replies huskily, slipping his hands under your thighs to tug you even closer. As he grinds his hips into yours, his jaw clenches, his breath damp against your skin. “Can I—is this alright?”

“Yeah, yeah.” You shift to give him more space between your legs. “It’s nice.”

The temperature in the room is borderline unbearable. Clark rocks into you in earnest, muttering sounds next to your ear. Some you catch, but some are so low that they are swallowed by the way he murmurs your name.

“I feel stupid doing this,” he grits out, pressing his lips to yours, his brows knitting. “I wish I could do more for you, but—I can’t. I need this. You feel—”

Shushing him, you roll your hips up to meet his mid thrust just right, whimpering when his tip catches against your entrance through the sticky fabric. He shivers, making a strangled noise.

“Oh, God—”

“Clark—”

“I swear—”

You cut him off with a kiss, sucking on his tongue. “Do you want to be inside me?”

He’s panting against your mouth, pupils blown. “What?”

“You heard me.”

He flattens his palms on the back of your thighs, his fingernails scraping gently. “I mean, of course I—yes, I’d love that,” he says, laying heavy stress on the ‘love’ part. “But I’d like to make you come like this first.”

A grin curls your lips. “Great. We’ve got four days until the bet’s done. Each orgasm equals ten points.”

That night, you have sex with Clark Kent for the first time, and it’s the best sex of your life.

He earns forty points in the span of an hour and a half.

The day the challenge started, the sky was falling apart, rain had laughed in your face, soaking you from head to toes, and Clark had offered you a spare umbrella, which you declined.

But today, four weeks later, the sun couldn’t be shining brighter, you get to work right on time, and Clark brings you coffee and a pastry for breakfast at the office.

You’re in the break room. He drags a chair across the floorboards so that he can sit next to you. Neither of you are working, though after a month of constant fighting, a short period of ten minutes of peace feels like the real prize after all.

The memories from that first day feel almost laughable now in your mind.

I was just thinking out loud, Kent. I can’t wrap my head around someone acting like they’re on stage all the damn time.

You really think I wake up every day and put on an act?

I don’t know, you tell me. I wonder if your modest decency will ever run out.

Maybe if you tried being decent for more than five minutes, you’d see it’s not an act. It’s only called being nice.

Glancing to your side, you find him scrolling through something on his phone. There’s a slight crease between his brows as he reads, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. You smile before you can stop yourself.

He must feel your attention on him because he catches you staring. A smile spreads across his face too. “What’s got you like this?”

You shake your head, feeling the rising to your cheeks. “Nothing,” you say, taking a sip of your coffee. “I was just… thinking.”

Across the room, Jimmy and Lois hover protectively over the whiteboard where they’ve kept track of every good deed you’ve performed. She attempts to speak, but he shushes her, looking at the two of you over his shoulder.

“Did you two do this on purpose?” he asks, capping his marker, and neither of you know what he’s talking about. It’s only then that Lois and him step aside to reveal the final score.

You lean forward, scrutinizing the numbers on the board. “We’re… even?”

Pursing his lips, Jimmy runs a hand through his hair. “I can’t believe this. There was supposed to be one winner, as in any other game.”

You raise your hands. “Clark should win. He's been preparing for this his whole life.”

“I’m sorry, but no,” he objects, crossing his arms over his chest. “You did some really nice things for the sake of the challenge. You deserve it more than me.”

“But you—”

“She wins!” Clark concludes, standing up to clap for you, encouraging Lois and Jimmy to do the same.

After the round of applause is over, you take a bow, wiping imaginary tears from under your eyes. “I never thought this could actually happen,” you say, glaring at Clark. “My partner in crime, you made this possible.”

“We’ve created a monster,” Jimmy whispers, loud enough for you to hear it, and tugs on Lois’ sleeve. “Alright. Now I feel uncomfortable.”

“You two… are disgustingly… cute!” she chirps, being dragged outside the room.

Arms clasped behind his back, Clark puffs out his chest, looming closer. Behind his glasses, his eyes flicker with mischief. “Congratulations. You can have that exclusive interview with Superman anytime you want.”

“So I finally get to meet him? What an honor.”

“Does tonight work for you? At my place. He told me he’s dying to have a word with you.”

“I see.” You twist his tie around your fingers. “Will you be there?”

“Of course. I’m the mediator.”

Before he can say anything else, you pull him forward by the tie, kissing him. He cradles your face in his big hands, his nose brushing yours lovingly as he trips over his own feet to close the door. You warn him about someone eventually walking in, but he just answers, “We can make it quick.”

To be fair, you like this new version of yourself, the one who’s been making an effort to be nicer.

The one who’s irremediably in love with Clark.

dividers by: @bbyg4rlhelps <3

[sweetpeterparker]

adore you

pairing: aaron hotchner/fem!bau!reader w.c. 3k a/n: written for @mggslover's 1k celebration event, congrats baby! i initially wrote 5k, hated it, and basically rewrote all of it but i swear i still had fun writing this. i hope you enjoy <3

summary:

Weird. You're acting like my boyfriend. - God Is a Freak, Peach PRC Your boss has essentially become your best friend. What the hell does Derek mean he looks at you a certain way?

c.w.: fluff! friends to lovers, age gap ofc, feelings realization, reader is oblivious and tipsy but is a consenting party

read below or on ao3 here <3

“So, you and Hotch, huh?”

You had just finished putting your coat up, stepping through the massive entryway of Rossi’s mansion, when Derek approaches you with that familiar shit-eating grin and hands rubbing together like he’s scheming something.

You blink up at him, confused. “Yeah… he gave me a ride.”

He rolls his eyes, shaking his head but still wearing that smile that made you want to lovingly punch him. “Yeah, I saw that. I meant, you and Hotch aren’t…?”

You squint at him, because you really aren’t sure what he’s hinting at. Also, a glass of wine has been calling your name since you started getting ready and Derek is very much in the way of that. Hotch was always annoyingly punctual, and today was no different because you were honestly about to open up a bottle when you heard his car pull up in the driveway. “We aren’t what?”

“Sweetness. You’re really trying to tell me you and Hotch aren’t together?”

You choke on your spit, coughing so loud in your fist that it echoes down the entryway and gathers the attention of Rossi and Hotch at the end of it. You wave them off when they both give you equally alarmed and concerned looks while Derek laughs heartily, like the asshole he is.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” you hiss at him, slapping him on the shoulder as he nearly makes himself tear up from laughing.

Derek puts a somewhat apologetic hand on your arm as he steers you to the kitchen and pours you a glass of red, finally. “Hey, I see the way he looks at you, I just wanted to make sure I’m up to date on everything.”

And that catches your attention.

Your chest still aching from your coughing fit, you give him another perplexed look. “What? He looks at me the same way as he looks at everyone.”

Derek’s face morphs into a nervous, almost uncomfortable one as he starts slowly backing away into the living room, as if you were an unpredictable dangerous animal. “I think I’m gonna… look for Garcia.”

And then he turns on his heel and is out of the kitchen before you can blink, leaving you with your lone glass of wine and the sounds of laughter emanating from the patio.

You’re still so fucking confused, because you and Hotch were only friends. In fact, you can almost consider him your best friend with the way you two are spending so much time together, even on the weekends.

One late night spent in his office to work on reports that were due the next day that you had procrastinated on and ordering Chinese food eventually turned into a habitual thing, now spending the last hour of the workday every night in his office. Then, he started inviting you to the park to play with Jack who had apparently been asking for you, then staying for dinner because Hotch was not eating the way he should’ve been and him and Jack didn’t deserve to eat pizza rolls with mac and cheese every night.

It's been a couple of months and now, you can honestly say you two are nearly attached at the hip. You’ve tried to tone it down for the office, because you knew you would get teased, and clearly you were right.

But dating Hotch? Honestly, the thought had never occurred to you.

You’ve been single for over a year and you were okay with that, because at least the job kept you busy. And you know for a fact that Hotch hasn’t even thought about dating since Beth moved a couple of years ago.

The sudden thought of Beth, her pretty blue-green eyes and perfect hair, causes a sour taste to form in your mouth. You had never met her, having only technically heard good things about her, but every time you thought of her or someone mentioned her in passing, you felt… upset.

For no reason.

When you glance at Hotch from where he’s talking with the rest of the team on the patio, you catch his gaze for a brief second before he’s turning his head back around to chuckle at something Rossi says.

You feel your heart start to race, your blood rushing through your ears, because what the fuck did Derek mean when he said Hotch looks at you a certain way? You were telling the truth when you said you’ve only noticed him looking at you platonically and nothing more.

Sure, Hotch was conventionally attractive, handsome even. You guess he hit all your boxes in a guy; tall, capable hands, and pretty brown eyes. He was a good boss, a good man, and was always putting other people first before even thinking about himself. He had an intense sense of justice, loves children, and would do absolutely anything for his team and even beyond for Jack.

He has a nice laugh once you break down his walls. For all he’s meticulous at work, his house is absolutely chaotic and it takes you nearly an hour sometimes to get him and Jack ready for a soccer game. He doesn’t prefer to cook but he seems to enjoy it more when you’re in the kitchen with him, laughing at his technique and groaning about the lack of certain utensils.

The sudden realization that you like Hotch, your boss that is older than you by 20 years, hits you like a ton of bricks. You nearly snap the stem of your wine glass, something like panic and mortification climbing up your throat before you could help it.

It’s fine, you’re fine. It’s normal to have a crush on someone you spend time with on a regular basis and is conventionally attractive. You can deal with that.

But the absolute possibility that Hotch doesn’t want you romantically was very real. In fact, it had to be the only possibility. You were younger and less experienced, both romantically and professionally. The only reason that he’s been spending so much time with you was because you needed guidance and reassurance as the newest member of the team.

He doesn’t look at you any differently than the others. That’s it. Derek has no idea what he’s talking about.

You take a shuddering deep breath, quickly composing yourself because, hello, you work with profilers. Which meant you couldn’t avoid or hide from Hotch tonight, no matter how much you wanted to.

When you make your way out to the patio to join the others with a full glass of wine and you spot the only space left in the circle was between Spencer and Penelope, you internally thank whatever God was out there. The sound of them talking over each other about something inane was oddly comforting as your eyes met Aaron’s from the other side of the circle.

His eyes appeared golden from the numerous fairy lights strewn across Rossi’s backyard, making his face appear softer and younger. You’re not sure how it took you this long to realize he was so handsome.

He raises his eyebrows at you, silently asking if you were okay because, somehow, he’s grown to learn your facial expressions like the back of his hand, which means he most likely will catch on to you having a silly juvenile crush on him.

You give him a weak smile, raising your glass slightly before taking a large gulp of it. You’re glad that Rossi is Rossi and that he doesn’t spare any expenses when he throws his parties, the strong cherry flavor refreshing compared to your cheap boxed wine you’re used to. You don’t even remember what you were celebrating tonight, or if you were even celebrating anything at all and this was just another much needed get together after case after case.

You catch something soft in Hotch’s eyes that makes your chest pang painfully as he raises his own glass of whiskey before taking a sip. No one else has noticed, too enthralled by their own conversations, so the intimacy of the private moment doesn’t escape you, in fact making you even more anxious.

It was going to be a long night.

-

You are absolutely going to give Derek an earful on Monday morning.

It’s entirely his fault that you’re not enjoying Rossi’s party to the full extent, his words swimming in your mind.

Now, you’re psychoanalyzing and second-guessing everything Hotch does.

You had made sure to walk alongside Penelope on the way to the large round table for dinner, somewhat consciously as you continued to avoid Hotch but also because she was rambling about the show you suggested she watch. Spencer was on the other side of you, interjecting whenever he could, and you made a mental note that Hotch was still on the other side of the circle between Rossi and Tara.

So imagine your surprise when, after you tear your attention away from Spencer’s ramblings and back to Penelope, you’re met with Hotch’s pretty eyes and woodsy cologne instead.

“Oh, hi,” you say, hoping he doesn’t hear the shakiness that’s suddenly overtaken your voice as that familiar panic starts to crawl up your throat. This wasn’t going to be good.

“’Hi.” The corners of Hotch’s lips quirk up, eyes softening, and what the fuck is going on. “Can I sit next to you?”

You swear you’re going to have a heart attack. This man cannot be healthy for you. “Oh, yeah, sure.”

And then he’s pulling out your chair for you.

And it’s not anything new—he pulls your chair out for you all the time, in the conference room, in his dining table when you made not-pizza rolls, and even at restaurants the afternoons after Jack’s soccer games. You’ve never thought anything of it, but tonight, after your impeccably timed realization, your brain feels like it’s going to implode.

He’s just being a gentleman, that’s all.

“Thank you,” you manage out, heat starting to come to your face. Before Hotch, no one’s ever pulled your chair out for you. It’s nice.

Hotch doesn’t say anything, because of course not, just scoots your chair in closer to the table before he takes his seat on your right.

And he’s sitting really fucking close to you.

Have you always sat this close to each other before? You must have at least once during those late nights in his office, poring over case file after case file.

Not only could you feel the heat of his body just from sitting next to him, but his arm kept brushing up against your bare one while he ate, because of course you had to sit on the left side of a left-handed person. Every brush of the sleek fabric of his green button-up against your bare arm sent shivers down your spine despite the summer air, making you shift uncomfortably in your seat.

His hand kept brushing against yours as you ate and your eyes are drawn to how large his hands are as he handles his fork and the thickness of his forearms, having had rolled up his sleeves earlier. If you searched closely, you could find scars scattered over them through the dusting of hair, undoubtedly from his time on the job.

You don’t realize you’re staring at his Rolex and the way it glints underneath the lights, until Hotch is suddenly leaning into you. “Are you okay?”

Jesus Christ, hearing that smooth voice speaking lowly in your ear, breath warm as it fans over your cheek, causes all of the air in your lungs to escape. Has his voice always been that smooth, attractive?

When you risk a glance at him, conversations around the table slowly fading into the background, his face is merely inches from yours. His brows are pinched in concern and lips are pressed into a flat line. There’s something dancing in his eyes that you couldn’t quite put a finger on.

You clear your throat. “Sorry, I think the wine is just getting to me.”

He chuckles low underneath his breath. “Good thing I’m driving.”

And then he’s knocking the back of his hand against yours, the briefest brush of skin that causes electricity to zing up your spine, and then he’s back to listening intently to Derek and Emily’s bickering over who cheated at the last game of charades.

At this point, you think Hotch is able to read your mind. Why else would he be touching you, be sweet on you, if not to torture you?

You try to wrack your brain through these past couple of months, trying to find whether Hotch touching his hand to yours has happened before or any other sign that he actually is attracted to you. You come up short.

You chalk it up to him loosening up from his whiskey. He’s already moved onto water, because he was your ride, after all, so maybe this was a fluke. A one-off.

But it’s not a one-off. In fact, you think you’ve honestly died and gone to Heaven after suddenly tripping and breaking your head open in the entryway after Derek spoke with you. If you didn’t know any better, you would think you were actually on a date with Hotch, sans the rest of the team.

He must have noticed your distracted mood, because he’s making sure you’re included in almost every table conversation by glancing at you and giving you a smile that has started to make something flutter in your stomach. He’s participating minimally like usual, content to listen, but whenever he has a comment or thought he wants to share, he’s leaning in and sharing it with you.

He's leaning in to top of your wine, reaching over the table to get more of those green beans you like, and once even knocking his knee against yours underneath the table when you looked especially lost in thought while staring at your plate.

And then when the team has moved into the living room for charades, Emily wanting payback against Derek, it somehow gets even worse.

You’re quick enough to be the first to volunteer to not play due to there being an odd number of players, thus requiring Hotch to play. Everyone cheers teasingly, because Hotch is always quick to volunteer himself out of games, content to watch.

You blame the copious glasses of wine you’ve consumed and the decadent filling dinner, warmth thrumming through your entire body, when you poke at Hotch’s considerably firm bicep. “Show us what you got, old man.”

There are resounding oohs and aahs from the rest of the team. Something fuzzy settles in your chest when Hotch rolls his eyes good-naturedly at you and stands up from where he had sat next to you on the couch to JJ’s team.

You continue to nurse your wine, pleasantly buzzed, as you are thoroughly entertained by your team’s antics. Emily and Rossi argue at least 3 times, Penelope gets significantly close to having a private meeting with HR, and Hotch continues to stare at you.

Or at least, you think he’s staring at you. The alcohol has started making you second guess things even more than you already were. Because for some reason, despite JJ sitting on the other side of the living room and being on a team with her, he moved to sit in the empty spot next to you after the first round.  

He’s definitely participating in the game, even in second place behind Penelope and Derek, but you swear you feel his eyes on you now more than ever.

It’s distracting as you try to follow the game and guess along with everyone else. This time, the right side of him is nearly molded against your left side, pressing into you so hard that you’re starting to sweat from how much body heat he’s radiating.

When you glance at him to try and catch his eyes, he meets your gaze steadily. His hair is starting to come undone, a few strands falling against his forehead, and his dimple seems to have made a permanent appearance from how much he’s pretending not to laugh at his team’s antics.

It’s nice to see him enjoy himself—a flush rising up his neck and shoulders relaxed. Although you understand he has a certain image he maintains for his team, it’s become familiar to you.

By the time it dwindles close to midnight, there’s a chorus of yawns around the group. Penelope’s the first to call it, stumbling to grab a hold of Derek’s arm and dragging him with her out the door to drive her home, ruining your initial plans to catch a ride home with her instead of Hotch. After that, everyone starts to say their goodnights and exchanging hugs despite the chance you may get called on a case as early as tomorrow morning.

“You ready to go?” Hotch leans to whisper in your ear, his breath fanning over you again and causing heat to rise to your face.

“Absolutely,” you exhale, clutching the water bottle that Hotch retrieved for you in the middle of the game, hoping the breathiness in your voice could be blamed on how late it was.

When you get to Hotch’s car, heart full and warm after spending another wonderful evening with your makeshift family, he opens the passenger side door for you.

You think you’re going to lose your mind if he keeps this up. How are you supposed to stop having a crush on Hotch when he keeps doing things that justify that crush?

“Do you need to stop anywhere for anything? Are you hungry?”

You blame it on the wine despite the fact you’ve been drinking nothing but water for the past hour, thanks to Hotch silently getting you and only you a water. Your body and tongue feels loose, inhibitions naturally decreased, and it’s not your fault. It doesn’t matter if the soft lights of the driveway highlight the sharp angles of his face or the way his woodsy cologne has infiltrated your senses.

“Weird, you’re acting like my boyfriend or something.”

The silence that ensues is deafening. Your brain takes forever to catch up with you, but then you’re suddenly struck with humiliation and dread. You mind starts to race, as best as it could, when you realize that you may have just royally messed up the best job you’ve ever had and the best group of people you’ve ever met.

Before you can backtrack and say that you were just joking, Hotch carefully says “Do you want me to be?”

“What?” Wow, you really can’t hold your alcohol well, why did you drink so much wine?

And then Hotch is stepping closer, into your space, and you’d be worried that the rest of the team was going to see if the car door wasn’t shielding you from view from the front of the house. You get a whiff of whiskey on his breath again, but when you meet his eyes, there’s not a hint of the same full body dizziness you feel.

“Was I not being direct enough?” There’s amusement sparkling in his eyes, eyebrows raised. He looks like he’s politely trying to hide a fond smile. He’s teasing you.

This Hotch is the one you’ve grown to become familiar with over the past several months. Charming and unafraid to tease you when you’re away from prying eyes. Hotch is a private person, always has been, so it’s not a surprise that him essentially torturing you tonight was his version of being direct.

“You’ve been flirting with me?”

Hotch ducks his head bashfully to chuckle. It’s ridiculously endearing and you want to tug him closer and touch him all over. “I’ve been trying to flirt with you all month so I’m guessing I didn’t do a very good job.”

You stare at him as if he grew a second head, suddenly feeling much more sobered up than 5 minutes ago. Clarity sluggishly comes to you. The various invitations to spend the night or go out to dinner without Jack comes to mind. The touching had steadily increased, but you had assumed it was just due to Hotch getting more comfortable around you.

For a profiler, you weren’t very good at noticing what was happening right in front of you.

Hotch may be a ridiculously patient person, clearly since he’s been content to flirt with you for apparently a month while you didn’t notice, but you were not. You knew what you wanted. The wine still thrumming through your veins just gave you that little extra push.

You place your palms on his chest, relishing in the subtle firmness you can detect through his shirt, and you wonder if that’s his heart you feel thumping erratically or your own. “I promise I’m not that drunk and am fully aware of what is going on right now.”

Hotch hums and places his hands on your hips, the heat of him searing through the fabric of your dress. His eyes briefly flit to your mouth before back up at you. “I’m not sure if I believe you.”

Instead of providing a snarky response, and because you know Hotch wouldn’t make the first move since you did have some to drink, you finally lean in to close the distance between you two to kiss him.

It’s soft, chaste in a way that makes you feel pleasantly warm all over, the barest tendrils of electricity tugging at the pit of your stomach. The intensity of how much you like him, how much you adore him, nearly barrels you over, but Hotch’s grip on you tightens, steadying you. His lips only slightly move against yours, as if briefly testing the waters, but it does nothing to quell the sudden desire slowly twisting inside of you.

When he pulls back, chest only marginally heaving, you instinctively chase after him. He chuckles again, low and comforting, as his hands come up to hold you still by the shoulders. It shouldn’t feel as nice and soothing as it does. “I should take you home.”

“Are you coming with me?” You sincerely hope that Hotch doesn’t question you and your boldness tomorrow. Again, not entirely your fault.

“I’ll walk you to your door, how about that?” As if he already wasn’t going to do that.

On the drive back to your apartment, the tight ball of panic and uncertainty in your chest quickly unfurls and is replaced by affection, tenderness, and promises of the future. Hotch’s hand, large and protective, doesn’t leave your thigh the entire way home.

You make a mental note to send Derek a gift card and thank you note on Monday.

[sweetpeterparker]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐱𝐞𝐜𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐫 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: a series of young women are being murdered in your town, and you — the host of a true crime podcast — are determined to investigate the case yourself, even if it means constantly getting in the way of a team of profilers and putting yourself in danger once or twice.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐭𝐰: spencer reid x podcast host female!reader, criminal minds typical violence, case details, mention of sexual violence, abduction, addiction, and drug use, season 2 bau team 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 9.7k 𝐚/𝐧: lemme know if you want to be added to the taglist! $orry for the longer break before posting the last part. (final part — august 10)

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝟑/𝟒

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executioner — an official who carries out a sentence of death on a condemned person.

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previously...

“That belonged to Maggie,” you said. “Maggie Baker.”

Charlie didn’t move. The ticking of the clock in your room became unbearably loud, deafening even, yet neither of you could bring yourselves to speak and drown it out. He wasn’t blinking either—his eyes, for the first time in months, looked alive, wide open instead of half-lidded and fogged by sleep.

You looked back down at the little bunny. You remembered that same keychain clipped to Maggie’s backpack when she came over for tutoring sessions and set it on your desk while she pulled out her notebooks and school notes. You remembered it clearly, because when you complimented the cute plushie, she said it was made by her grandma.

"I..." Charlie began, his voice hoarse, the words barely understandable. "I... I found it."

You locked eyes with him again, a tight pressure forming in your chest, like something heavy had rolled straight over it.

"You found it," you repeated hollowly.

You remembered how, just earlier that day, you’d tried to reach into his pocket, convinced you’d find drugs. And how he had thrown you the pill bottle—how he had preferred to admit to being an addict rather than owning up to carrying that specific item.

No wonder, when it had belonged to a victim of a serial killer. A killer whose identity remained unknown.

"You found it and carried it with you all this time," you said. A while ago, you'd taken a deep, full breath and you were still speaking on that same air, not daring to inhale again, your voice quiet and razor-sharp. "You think I'm that stupid? That belonged to Maggie, and even if you didn’t know that, the last thing you’d carry around in your pocket for months would be a little plush bunny. You wouldn’t be rubbing it between your fingers like a fucking rosary."

Charlie stepped toward you. You immediately stepped back, clutching the keychain tighter. You couldn’t tear your gaze away from the man in front of you, whose features were suddenly beginning to blur, like you didn’t recognize him anymore. Like it wasn’t your friend who had walked out of that bathroom, but someone else entirely.

"You ran. That day we checked out that station together. You didn’t go inside because you couldn’t, you panicked completely. And then when you saw the cops, you ran." You began listing, while he slowly shook his head, side to side, the movement growing quicker and quicker. His eyes were shining with something manic. Then another detail came to you and your whole body tensed, your mouth opened wide. "And the next day you asked me if I saw a chair at the crime scene. And I asked, what chair? Because there wasn’t one. It had already been removed before I got there. But it had been there for a while. Investigators confirmed the victims were killed right at that spot. So how did you know about the chair?"

“Don’t,” Charlie choked out. “Don’t play detective right now, you really don’t know anything—”

"I know enough," you cut him off.

You could’ve gone on—brought up his panic attack when Mr. Benson mentioned Maggie in the store. But that didn’t matter anymore. Maybe the full truth wasn’t stretched out in front of you in all its clarity, but the feeling in your gut and the fear, the fear of being found out written all over his face were enough.

Enough to know you couldn’t stay alone with him in that tiny room a moment longer.

You didn’t bolt, but you moved toward the door—and he moved after you immediately. That’s when it truly hit you.

Maybe you should have bolted from the start.

As you reached the door, so did his hand, slamming it shut the second it cracked open. Your forward momentum collided with the wood just as his chest collided with your back. Pressed against it, you hissed in pain and tried to push yourself away just enough to grab the handle again, not an easy task with someone literally clinging to your back, trying to pull you away.

“No, wait, please,” Charlie begged, reaching around your elbow to block your grip on the handle. You could feel the adrenaline and fear coursing through him, overpowering you. You wondered who else he had overpowered like this. You groaned, from panic and pain. “You can’t do this to me, you can’t tell anyone—you said you’d help me—”

“Because I didn’t know you were a murderer!”

Saying it out loud somehow gave you enough strength to drive your elbow into him hard enough for him to stumble back. You managed to get the door open just enough to slip through, but couldn’t shut it. Charlie rushed after you with clenched jaw and that determined look in his eyes that made you truly afraid. You sprinted down the upstairs hallway toward the stairs. He grabbed your arm more than once, still shouting some desperate pleas, but your sympathy had vanished, replaced entirely by survival instinct.

Jumping down two steps at a time, all you wanted was to get out of the house, somehow put distance between you and him so you could call the police. But your foot missed a step, and you slipped. You went flying sideways, landing on your left forearm, which exploded with a searing wave of pain.

“Hey, what’s going on here?” a male voice sounded in front of you.

Still lying on the floor, you lifted your head enough to see someone’s shoes. But it only took the voice and those shoes to recognize Danny. A breath of pure relief escaped your lips.

“He’s the one who’s killing the women,” you managed to say, as loud as your screaming arm would let you.

Actually, the next few hours were a complete blur. What stood out most clearly in them was Danny.

Danny, who managed to hold Charlie until the police arrived and who kept up his role by taking you to the hospital, where it turned out your arm was broken and you were, understandably, in a fair amount of shock.

Because, well — it wasn’t every day that someone you’d considered a friend turned out to be possibly involved in the murders haunting your town.

Well. Actually responsible for them.

It still hadn’t sunk in. Especially now, when the adrenaline had worn off and your logical thinking started to kick back in. Suddenly, you had so many doubts, but you weren’t sure if you should trust them, maybe it was just that part of you that didn’t want to believe you’d spent so much time with someone capable of so much.

Spent time with him. Trusted him, to some degree.

Everything felt so unreal. Sitting on the hospital bed with your arm freshly wrapped in a cast, for a moment you had trouble remembering how it even got there. Or what had happened to you. Only focusing on its weight helped ground you in the situation you were in. It hurt, but you had to stay present.

Danny and your mom — who had arrived at the hospital just before they put the cast on — had both stepped out of the room. You’d had to reassure them maybe twenty times that it was okay to leave you alone for a moment, whether it was to go to the bathroom or grab something from the vending machine, before they finally did, both clearly feeling guilty about it.

Anyway, they left like two minutes ago at most, and you’d already sunk into your thoughts and flinched in surprise when you sensed someone’s presence by your side. You stared with wide eyes at Reid’s face, his slightly soaked clothes, wet hair, and a few droplets on his glasses, suggesting it had been raining outside.

“Oh, I’m so glad you’re here,” slipped out instead of a greeting.

His eyebrows lifted in genuine, yet somehow warm, surprise.

“Really?” he asked.

You nodded eagerly, pulling your back away from the headboard.

“Yes, you’ll be able to tell me what’s going on with Charlie. Did you question him? It’s been, like...I don’t remember how long I’ve been here, but you must have. What did he say? Do you think it’s really him?” you bombarded him with frantic questions.

You completely missed that subtle shift in his expression, The earlier warmth fading as he gave a small nod to himself, as if lost in thought. But then his attention was back on you, and at your questions, he gave you an apologetic look.

“You know I can’t tell you anything.”

“But he’s my friend! I mean, you know, he was for such a long time. And I… I was the one who discovered it, now I just want to know if I was right,” you explained, looking into his eyes with a pleading gaze. Reid slightly pushed out his lower lip. You thought you might have had some effect on him, but not enough for him to reveal anything. “Please. Just between us. Was it really Charlie…this whole time?”

He held your gaze for a moment longer, visible hesitation on his face, then sighed softly and reached into the pocket of his blazer for a glasses cloth. He removed his glasses and began to wipe the lenses, still silent, still not answering, his expression unreadable and his brow slightly furrowed. Finally, he looked back up at you, lips pressed into a thin, apologetic line.

“How are you feeling?” he asked gently.

You stayed quiet for a moment; the shift in subject drew a disappointed, discontented scoff from you. You leaned back against the bed again, shifting your arm in its cast.

 “Absolutely wonderful. First, I find out my friend is a drug addict, then probably also a serial killer, and then I break my arm trying to run away from him. Oh, and now no one wants to tell me anything about him.”

 “I understand the frustration,” Reid said with a kind of emphasis, ignoring your immediate eye-roll. “But nothing’s certain at this point. Charlie’s still being questioned, and I...I don’t want to tell you something that will make you feel worse, only for it to turn out to be untrue. And we can’t forget that, technically, I’m not supposed to be telling you anything at all.”

If his decision had been driven by empathy, you couldn’t feel it at all. What truly made you feel worse was the lack of knowledge. So you clenched your jaw, avoiding his gaze.

“Then why are you even here?” you asked.

Reid stayed silent for a moment, and when you finally looked back at him, you noticed his brows had drawn together in confusion.

“To check if you’re alright…?” he said, his tone uncertain, like he was guessing the answer to a riddle.

“Was it an order?”

“What? Do you really think I wouldn’t have come if it weren’t an order? I— I just, you know, got worried,” he blurted out a little chaotically, his brown eyes focused on you with a sincere expression, resisting the urge to blink as if that might disrupt him. Before you could say anything, he glanced to the side and added, “Your parents are coming. I’ll leave you with them, but… you can call me if you feel like you need to. I hope your arm heals quickly.”

Reid gave you a fleeting, parting smile before, true to his word, he left. By your parents as he had called them, he of course meant Danny and your mom. What surprised you most was how you hadn’t even flinched at the term. How it didn’t sit wrong with you or spark any discomfort. Your gaze lingered a moment longer on the retreating agent, your mind still turning over his words, until you were gently forced to shift your attention to a cup being handed your way.

“Tea for you, and a snack bar. You should eat something while we wait for the discharge papers,” your mom said. Her tone was stiff, but her eyes were filled with concern and fear. She had warned you before that digging into the case might draw the killer’s attention. And yet, it turned out that doing nothing might have still put you not exactly in his crosshairs, but uncomfortably close.

You knew they were holding back from talking about Charlie while still in the hospital—everything was too fresh, too unclear. You took the snack bar from her with your good hand. She was still holding the tea for you. Your eyes dropped to the wrapper.

“Oh, wait, I’ll do it,” Danny offered, taking it from you and opening it.

You looked up at him, the faint smile on your lips touched with the sadness of the entire day, yet still breaking through was a deep gratitude. Who knew what might’ve happened if he hadn’t shown up at your house at that exact moment, just to pick up the tiles for the bathroom floor in their lake cabin.

“Thank you, Danny,” you said with a sincere nod. “Thank you for everything.”

⚡︎

All night long, raindrops pounded loudly against your window, and every so often, a flash of lightning lit up the sky, but it wasn’t the storm that kept you from sleeping.

It was that room. The one where you'd been talking before you started to run, before he came after you. The door you both crashed into. The bed where Maggie’s stuffed toy had fallen. The desk where his pills still sat.

That small plush Maggie had gotten from her grandmother.

Murder itself is hard enough to grasp, but what you couldn’t understand at all was why he had taken that from her. Sure, criminology had plenty to say about serial killers and their tendency to collect trophies. Items belonging to their victims, or even parts of them. It was about asserting control, treating it as proof of their success. But that specific bunny keychain was nothing if not a symbol of Maggie’s humanity, her gentleness, her youth.

You couldn’t understand how he had carried it with him for months after killing her, looked at it, and each time remembered the life he took.

Your stomach twisted every time the thought came back to you. The avalanche of thoughts didn’t stop, ticking forward like the hand of a clock counting down to morning.

Did Charlie even know Maggie? You hadn’t been friends with him before you started working together, so you couldn’t be sure. She was younger than both of you, only a little older than his younger brother, Conrad You knew you should look into it if you wanted to keep recording podcasts about the case, but you just couldn’t bring yourself to do it. Talk to his family? His friends? Technically, you were one of them too, were you supposed to interview yourself? What could you even say about Charlie, list off his suspicious behavior? You weren’t even sure he was guilty, maybe you didn’t want to be. Just one question kept echoing in your mind.

Why her?

A stupid question. You might as well have asked why all the other women.

But for some reason, it was Maggie who stayed with you that night. Maybe because of the bunny. Proof that had literally been found in his pocket. Undeniable.

The day before, you’d known what you were going to face the next morning. Then again, perhaps you had been slightly surprised. You had expected the whole team of profilers— not just three of them standing at your doorstep. Maybe you had overestimated your role as a witness. It was Elle, a blonde woman named JJ, whom you hadn’t yet had a chance to speak to, and, over their shoulders, Reid, towering above them.

“Hi. How’s your arm?” the blonde woman asked gently, very gently.

You knew what this conversation was going to be about, so any kind of small talk felt redundant. You just wanted to get to the point and learn something. She must have seen it in your expression, so she hadn’t intended to drag the pleasantries out forever either. They wanted to move the investigation along. So she nodded slightly, understanding. “We’d like to talk to you.”

 “I figured,” you muttered.

You were completely alone in the house. Your mom had insisted on staying, but you convinced her it wasn’t necessary. Truthfully, you needed the time to yourself. You were also sure she’d be sending you text messages checking in regularly, and that at some point Danny would show up for some completely random item that would just be an excuse to check how you were doing.

Of course, you let them all in. The two women stepped across the threshold first, followed by Reid, who slowed down for a fraction of a second just before you. You hadn’t taken him up on his offer and called, though you had seriously considered it at one point. When you couldn’t sleep for what felt like hours and your fingers somehow curled around your phone, but you pushed the impulse down. It was the middle of the night. You were certain his offer hadn’t included the middle of the night. You passed each other in the doorway, and you had the feeling he might have seen the dilemma in your eyes—the one you’d faced only a few hours earlier.

But you couldn’t read what was in his gaze aside from a greeting. You had to turn your attention to the others and brace yourself for the conversation ahead.

"I know you want to talk about Charlie," you began before any of them had a chance to speak. "And what happened yesterday."

 Elle drew in a shallow breath and nodded.

 "Among other things, yes, but we’ve more or less heard about that from the officers you spoke to yesterday. The ones who were first on the scene. We also have a few additional questions, and it’s completely normal if you don’t want Agent Reid to be present for this conversation. He can always step out, if that’s what you prefer."

 Your eyebrows lifted in genuine confusion. You shook your head slightly from side to side.

 "What? Why? He can stay."

 "Maybe we should all sit down," JJ suggested.

You were in the living room, arranged for receiving guests and ready to be turned into a very practical yet cozy interview room. You took a seat in the red armchair with the high backrest, the kind you could sink into. They settled on the matching sofa, lined up like three ducklings in a row.

“So we’re most interested in learning about Charlie’s behavior lately. Since Maggie Baker’s disappearance,” JJ began.

 “Since Maggie’s disappearance?” you caught on suspiciously. “Not since the discovery of the first body?”

 “We’re more focused on how he changed after Maggie went missing.”

You watched them closely. You knew they were professionals, and there had to be a very logical reason and explanation behind it. But you couldn’t figure it out while also reaching back in your memory.

You took a breath. You wouldn’t have mentioned it if you were certain Charlie hadn’t hurt anyone. But you weren’t.

“I know he was using drugs,” you said cautiously, swallowing hard. Elle narrowed her eyes slightly. “I can’t say for sure how long it’s been going on, but something strange started happening with him a while ago. After Maggie disappeared.”

“Do you know what kind of drugs?”

Here, you hesitated carefully, but then remembered they’d literally caught you at the crime scene a week ago, and if that didn’t land you behind bars, possession probably wouldn’t either.

“I took them from him and hid them in a drawer in my desk. I can go get them—”

"Spencer, could you?" JJ turned to the man sitting beside her, whose eyebrows lifted in surprise at the assignment.

He quickly looked at you.

 "Is that a problem...?"

"My room’s upstairs," you said, the corner of your mouth twitching involuntarily. He was really asking you for permission to do his job.

None of the women spoke again until the sound of his Converse on the stairs faded. Only then did JJ lean toward you over her knees, already armed with another question.

"Did Charlie know Maggie personally? And if not, can you think of any circumstances where they might have crossed paths, gotten to know each other, or even just been in the same space? We know she volunteered at the shelter, maybe there—"

"No," you cut in, confidently. "No, he totally didn’t go to places like that, but... it’s a small town. It’s not hard to bump into someone or be around them. They definitely knew each other by sight, like everyone does here."

"How long have you two known each other?" Elle asked this time.

"Well, we went to school together here, but really… about a year. Since we started working together. He used to help me a lot with the podcasts."

"Has he ever acted in a way that made you feel uncomfortable?" The question was spoken slower, more gently. "If not toward you directly, then maybe something he said or did in front of other women? Can you think of anything like that?"

Your forehead wrinkled completely as you shook your head no even before truly thinking about it.

"No, never, no."

"Did he often react to things aggressively, was he impulsive?"

"No," you repeated. Both women’s eyes were watchful. You felt like they didn’t believe you, or thought you were hiding the truth, either from them or from yourself, or maybe trying to protect your friend. You shook your head more firmly, reinforcing your words. "No, really. Ever since he started using, it was the opposite, mostly apathetic. He barely talked."

"But he did act aggressively at times," Spencer's voice suddenly cut in.

All of you turned your heads toward him—he was standing on the last step of the stairs, pausing there just long enough to say it. Then, eyes fixed on you, he walked closer.

"When I was at your shop and he didn’t seem to be in a good mood, he sharply asked if I was buying anything..."

"That’s because we had just had a fight," you clarified. "It was more directed at me than at you."

Elle looked at Reid with a thoughtful expression, then slowly shifted her gaze to you.

"So, he did act aggressively at times."

You shot him a visibly frustrated look—one he didn’t hesitate to return. You drew in a breath and slowly let it out, reminding yourself that, from his perspective, it probably did look that way and he wasn’t lying. Even though you were doing everything in your power to stay objective—after all, you wanted this case solved too—somehow, subconsciously, you were trying to defend Charlie.

Or maybe you were just trying to give him the fairness that everyone, even the worst kind of monster, deserved.

“I need some air,” you announced, wiping your hand nervously against your pants.

Elle and JJ exchanged glances, but it wasn’t a request, you simply got up and headed for the door, accidentally bumping your arm in a sling against the frame. The world spun. You stopped for a moment, clenching your eyes shut and waiting out the wave of pain without so much as a sound. Only then did you step outside.

It had rained the night before, and the clouds still held a soft gray hue, covering the sun.

You had meant it. You really did need some air. You felt lighter the moment the autumn breeze hit your cheeks. You had planned to walk around the house and sit in the garden on one of the chairs, but you gave up on the idea.

You’d have to go back inside soon anyway, and honestly, you didn’t care anymore. So you simply sat down on the grass under the living room window, on the front side of the house. Right next to a garden gnome figurine riding a goose.

The grass, of course, was damp, instantly soaking through your pants. Oh well. In a way, it was refreshing.

You hadn’t been keeping track of time, not really paying attention to anything other than the chaos in your own head. At some point, a figure loomed over you, and even without looking up, you knew exactly who it was.

"I see you’ve made a new friend," Reid began.

You looked up at him, lifting your chin. There was a small, worried smile playing on his lips. You glanced sideways at the garden gnome to understand what he meant and found yourself smiling too, despite everything.

“Well, my last one is currently in custody, so I had to find a replacement,” you muttered, pulling your knees to your chest and hugging them with your good arm. “It’s just a coping mechanism. The joke. I don’t actually think it’s funny,” you clarified.

“Yeah, I figured,” Reid nodded.

He sat down on the grass as well.

“It’s—” you tried to warn him.

“Wet,” he finished, his eyes closed behind his glasses.

“You came here to make sure I don’t jump the hedge and run away from the interview?”

“I mainly came to talk. Which doesn’t exclude keeping an eye on you so you don’t jump the hedge and run away. Though that wouldn’t really make sense in your current position, you’re not our suspect.”

“I know I��m not. But the questions you were asking me…” You shrugged, simply showing that you hadn’t quite expected them. Then you bit the inside of your cheek, glancing at him from the corner of your eye, probing, pleading. “You suspect Charlie. Otherwise you wouldn’t be keeping him in custody, and that makes sense, because you have every reason to suspect him. After yesterday. But you don’t actually think it’s him, right? The Executioner.”

Reid parted his lips, clearly searching for some middle ground, an evasive answer. You raised a finger in front of his face, stopping him from speaking. “Just say yes or no. I have the right to know, don’t you think?”

He sighed, staring straight ahead. The street in your neighborhood looked deserted, like something out of an apocalyptic movie, their black SUV the only car parked in the driveway.

“We don’t believe he’s the Executioner,” he said finally, quickly adding, “Which doesn’t mean we think he’s innocent.”

“I figured,” you nodded. When you stepped outside and went over the questions those two women had asked you, it had all started to come together. You swallowed hard. “You think… you think Charlie killed Maggie.”

"Well..."

"Just say yes or no," you asked.

 "Yes."

You didn’t gasp in horror, didn’t even move. You had asked him for a simple answer so you could accept it. Raw, unvarnished truth, without speculation or cushioning. You looked away. For a moment, the two of you just sat there in silence. You forced yourself to picture Charlie as a faceless perpetrator, the kind whose name the public never learns, just a blur of crime scene photos and news reports. A stranger.

"But Maggie was killed the same way as the other victims," you noted. You knew the case inside there was no way you could have missed it.

Reid shifted slightly in his seat. You could see the conflict on his face, whether he should be telling you any of this. Technically, he shouldn’t. But in practice, you were already more entangled in the investigation than you were ever meant to be. And beyond that, you weren’t just a witness anymore, or just someone who happened to live in a town haunted by murders.

He knew you by now. Enough, maybe, to trust you.

For a brief moment, he pressed his lips together more tightly, carefully choosing his words.

“You’re probably aware that there are certain details about a crime. The crime scene, the motive…that the police keep strictly to themselves,” he began.

You nodded to show you were following.

“To avoid situations where someone confesses to a crime they didn’t commit.”

“Yes, exactly. And in this case, with this whole investigation, our ace up the sleeve was the fact that Maggie’s murder was different from the others.”

Though Spencer was speaking in a calm, matter-of-fact tone, it felt like you were listening to a slowed-down podcast episode and couldn’t speed it up no matter how hard you tried. Without taking his eyes off you, he finished, “The later autopsy led us to believe that she didn’t die from electrocution like the others. It was done to her after she had already died from another cause.”

Your brain was both racing and completely blank at the same time. You blinked slowly. A breath.

“So, if I understand correctly, you think Maggie’s killer staged it to make it look like the Executioner’s work. So no one would connect it to him.”

Reid didn’t nod, but the confirmation was in his eyes.

You parted your lips, but didn’t speak just yet. Only let out a sigh. Thinking of it as the work of some nameless perpetrator had helped at first, but in the end, everything led back to Charlie.

“Why would he do that? Why would he kill Maggie specifically?”

Reid looked at you in silence, as if asking whether you really wanted to know.

Your face was tense, unyielding. He had to tell you.

“The autopsy also showed that Maggie was the only victim who was sexually assaulted before she died.”

Surprisingly, the fact didn’t shock you all that much. It was tragic—of course it was—and you felt for Maggie with all your heart. But at the same time, it made far too much sense in light of the questions Elle and JJ had been asking you. Had he ever made you feel uncomfortable.

Once again, you tore your eyes away from your interlocutor, fixing them instead on your legs in front of you, which now seemed like they belonged to someone entirely different, someone foreign. You bit into the inside of your cheek, hard.

You pictured the plush toy that had fallen out of Charlie’s pocket. You’d had mixed feelings from the beginning about whether he could’ve been behind all of this. But taking into account the version Reid had just presented to you…

You pressed your healthy hand to your eyes, feeling the pounding in your head. 

At some point, you felt a faint touch on your shoulder. Surprised, you lifted your eyelids and glanced to the side, seeing his hand on your shoulder—resting there lightly, barely noticeable. You swallowed.

“You think I really wouldn’t have noticed?”

That my best friend was a rapist and a murderer?

You surrounded yourself with criminal cases, always felt certain that you’d notice if something bad was happening around you. You thought of yourself as smart, observant. But really, you were just plain blind.

“It’s always like that,” Spencer assured you softly. “Parents don’t know their child is killing, a wife doesn’t know what her husband keeps in the basement. But no one blames them for not knowing, no one wants to suspect someone close to them is…”

“A monster,” you finished automatically.

Reid only nodded.

You rubbed your eyes again. Looked like the headache wasn’t going to leave you that day. But despite his presence, you knew what you had to do.

“I think we have to go back,” you said.

He pulled his hand from your shoulder abruptly, as if only just now realizing it had still been there.

“Yeah. You’re right. We probably should.”

He got to his feet first, offering you his hand, since standing up with a broken arm was surprisingly hard. You took it with a grateful, somber smile that quickly faded.

You took two steps before letting go of him, your arm falling stiffly to your side. Reid shoved his into the pocket of his gray blazer. Neither of you commented on the fact that both your pants were completely soaked, but somehow it seemed to ease the crushing weight of the atmosphere just a little.

The rest of the conversation with the women went much more smoothly once you knew what kind of information they were looking for and what theories and conclusions they were leaning toward in general. When their SUV pulled out of the driveway and you closed the door behind them, you waited exactly three seconds before bolting up the stairs.

Your podcast and blog had been dead for a while. You hadn’t been able to bring yourself to talk about a case that had become so personal to you, but after the conversation in the garden, you decided you weren’t going to stay silent anymore just because your friend had ended up among the suspects.

You talked about every update in the Executioner case you could find, distancing yourself from it as much as you possibly could. You were an objective podcaster digging into the smallest details and hidden information—not a resident of the very town in question, whose voice trembled when she said the name of the victim she used to tutor.

The one who had died at the hands of your friend.

You set your laptop aside and lay down on your back on the bed. You’d been so absorbed in working on the podcast that you hadn’t noticed the day passing by outside the window, the darkness settling in.

Only then did you realize your mom had sent you a few worried messages asking how you were feeling. You replied that you were fine.

⚡︎

Charlie remained in custody for another two days. Officially, no one knew his stance on the case, but from a phone call with Reid (one of several), you learned that he stayed silent. He didn’t deny anything, didn’t defend himself—he simply refused to say anything.

Speaking of your conversations with a certain familiar profiler, they usually took place at night. You couldn’t sleep. Every time you closed your eyes and your mind went quiet, an impulse told you to reach for your laptop and scroll through forum threads or even the comment section under your podcast.

People were sharing their thoughts on the arrest of the suspect allegedly connected to the case, murders in Fairview, which were gaining more and more media attention.

As usual, various made-up theories surfaced. For example, Charlie was a real nutcase and apparently once breaded his sister’s cat.

Charlie was allergic to cats and didn’t have a sister.

The morning was quiet. You’d maybe gotten three hours of sleep, and you were up before your alarm even went off, feeling like you hadn’t slept at all. Getting dressed was a struggle with one arm still in a sling, but you managed. You had to drag yourself out early that day to drop off a few documents at work related to your medical leave. Your boss was in a rough spot, suddenly losing two employees like that, but what could any of you do?

Brushing your teeth in the upstairs bathroom, you stared at the phone resting on the edge of the sink. You’d sent Reid a link to the cat-buttering theory. The day before, he’d forwarded you a horribly written article about the case in general, criticizing its factual inaccuracies and comparing it to your podcast. It made you feel a bit better about the last episode you published.

With your nose buried in your phone and still waiting for a reply from Reid, you walked down the stairs, making your way through the house you’d lived in since childhood without even looking around. You just wanted to grab something from the fridge that required the least possible amount of preparation…

“Oh shit, sorry,” slipped out of you when you ran straight into your mom and Danny.

Making out in the middle of the kitchen like a pair of horny teenagers.

You froze in place, feeling like a parent who had walked in at the worst possible moment. But it wasn’t just the fact that two adults were engaging in perfectly normal human behavior that hit you (or them, as they pulled apart, clearly embarrassed). It was more the fact that, even though they’d been friends for quite a while, and had worked together for just as long—and Danny, especially recently, had become someone close and important to you too—they had never officially dated.

"Good morning, sweetheart," your mom blurted out, stepping two paces away from the man and leaning her elbow on the kitchen island in the most awkward way possible, only to quickly lift it again, as if realizing exactly how awkward it was.

Danny, upon seeing you, briefly wiped his face, brushing against the three-day stubble on his chin, and looked at you nervously, as if guilty. You were tempted to say, chill, dude. Sure, they had caught you off guard — you weren’t denying that — but you weren’t the kind of daughter who made a scene over her parents’ new partners for no reason. Especially not when that partner was Danny.

You remembered how both of them were there for you at the hospital after you broke your arm, and you thought your mom honestly couldn’t have done better.

“I just dropped by to... I left my level here,” he explained.

You snorted a laugh and turned to the fridge, like you’d meant to from the start. With a mozzarella string in your mouth, you looked back at them, eyes glittering with dry amusement.

“You do realize you’re making it more awkward by acting like I didn’t just see all of that?”

That light, teasing edge in your voice made your mom’s shoulders visibly relax. She gave you a half-smile. “Don’t get cocky. And for the record, he really did come for the level.”

 “And was looking for it in your mouth?” you mumbled under your breath, trying to open a juice bottle with one hand.

 “I’ll help,” Danny offered immediately.

Behind his back, your mom shot you a murderous look for your earlier comment, and you responded with an innocent smile. You glanced at your phone, just checking to see if you’d gotten any messages.

“Do you want me to drive you to work?” your mom asked as you were already holding a glass of juice, and Danny had just been met with a grateful look.

You were about to say it wasn’t necessary and that you’d drive yourself, when suddenly you remembered. Your arm. Right. Considering how much it had hurt when you broke it, it was surprisingly easy to forget about it.

"I could just take her on my way," Danny spoke up.

Even just his eyes told you it was more than a friendly offer, iit felt more like a personal duty. With everything that had happened lately. Your neighbor Keasy’s disappearance, your injured hand, not knowing whether the killer was still out there or not, neither he nor your mom would let you take public transport, let alone walk.

“Oh, that would be so sweet of you, Dan.”

“It’s nothing, really. Just let me actually find that level first…”

He tossed you the keys to his red pickup so you could get inside while he took a quick look in your garage.

You climbed into the truck parked in your driveway, your attention mostly on your phone — on the comments under some random article titled What’s New in the Fairview Murders? KILLER CAUGHT?, and once again checking to see if Reid had replied.

Which was stupid, really, since it was morning and he, like the rest of the team,  was probably buried in work.

It would’ve made more sense, that impatience, if you’d actually asked him something urgent.

But maybe you just liked whatever this was between the two of you. Maybe it filled a space you hadn’t even known was there. Lately, most of your life revolved around the case. Details you couldn’t talk about with your mom or Danny, both disapproving of your need to dig into all of it, and obviously not with Charlie either, for obvious reasons.

You’d ended up a little isolated in all of this. Plus, you two just really got along.

You were pulled out of your thoughts by the sound of the pickup’s back door opening. Danny tossed in the level he'd mentioned more than once, along with a coil of copper wire. Ever since he'd started helping your mom renovate the lake cabin, he’d been stopping by for increasingly weirder things.

He buckled his seatbelt and started driving through your neighborhood, sneaking glances at you from the corner of his eye. He sighed.

“You know, I really feel like I should ask you this,” he said after a moment. You were passing a group of teens on their way to school, walking in a tight cluster. That’s how it had looked in town ever since they found Maggie’s body. She’d been in high school too.

You only then realized Danny had said something to you. You looked at him, confused. Just hearing Maggie’s name always pulled you into that state. The snowball effect, one thought leading to another until you landed on Charlie, and the BAU’s suspicions…and your own.

“Do…do you feel okay about me and your mom…you know, dating?”

You were speechless for a second, then let out a small involuntary snort.

 “You’re asking for my permission now?”

“Well… it’d be weird to phrase it like that, but kind of? I know she’s been alone since your dad—” he made a vague gesture with his hand, letting the silence speak for itself. “And this might be a whole new situation for you. I just want to know where you stand on it.”

Turning off your phone and setting it down on your lap, you looked at him seriously.

 “You’re both adults. And single. My opinion really shouldn’t stand in the way of… whatever. But if you really want to know…Danny, you know I like you. I’m actually rooting for you two, seriously.”

He took his eyes off the road for a moment to look at you, and something warm and grateful flickered in his gaze. You offered a faint smile to show you truly meant it, already starting to lower your eyes back to your phone, only to accidentally bump it against something. A photograph of a woman, pinned to the dashboard. Somehow, you'd only just noticed it now.

"I think I recognize her," you blurted out, almost involuntarily.

The man shifted his gaze toward you, his eyes unreadable. The presence of the photo didn’t surprise you. Everyone in town knew Danny had once had a wife who had passed away. It looked like a school yearbook photo; the woman appeared young, with a wide smile and curled blond hair. Her features were fairly ordinary, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that you’d seen her somewhere before.

You met his eyes and, embarrassed, pressed your lips together. You had just been talking about his new relationship, and now here you were, bringing up his late wife…

“Yeah, that’s possible,” Danny replied with a slight nod, distant somehow. You couldn’t blame him for tensing up a little, it made sense, talking about this. “You were about five when she passed. Maybe you managed to remember her somehow.”

“Maybe,” you murmured, thoughtful. You tried to push your memory. If you remembered her from childhood, surely there had to be one specific memory tied to her, right? “Sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No, no, that’s okay,” he reassured you. He had already parked in front of the store, but because of the direction the conversation had taken, you held off on getting out. “You know, cancer took her over fifteen years ago. I’ll always miss her, but it’s not… you know, an open wound anymore.”

“Cancer,” you repeated, genuine sympathy in your voice. “I didn’t know. I realize it’s a bit late for this, but… my condolences.”

Your words seemed to amuse him. His whole face lit up ever so slightly, the corners of his mouth creasing with a faint smile. “Sorry, it’s kind of funny. I was actually planning to stop by the cemetery, and here you are, offering condolences.”

You gave a slight, somewhat forced smile, unsure how to respond. You didn’t feel entirely at ease in the conversation, or particularly comfortable. You were just about to thank him for the ride and politely excuse yourself when he added, “Would you maybe like to go there with me?”

Your hand froze mid-motion.

“To the cemetery? Now?” you repeated blankly.

To visit his late wife? It was…odd, probably, but you weren’t sure if it was appropriate to say no in a moment like that. Thankfully, you had an excuse. You let out a vaguely apologetic sigh and lifted the documents you were supposed to deliver at work.

 “Sorry, it’s kind of important.”

"It won't take long," he pointed out. "I'll wait for you, we’ll go together, and then I’ll drive you home. How else would you get back?"

You were speechless for a moment, your mind blank. Danny was watching you expectantly, maybe even a bit insistently. You opened your mouth to casually decline the offer, but something stopped you. A flicker of hesitation, a strange uncertainty about why you didn’t want to go. Was it just because it felt… odd? Visiting the grave of someone’s wife, especially someone you considered a kind of older friend, wasn’t inherently unusual. Maybe it just caught you off guard. Maybe there was something in the way he asked, in that unfamiliar look in his eyes, that sparked a strange discomfort in your stomach.

You shook your head slightly, forcing a smile.

 “I was gonna go grab some groceries, and my mom’s supposed to meet me there. We were gonna head back together,” you explained.

 It wasn’t even true, but the moment the excuse popped into your head, you decided to commit to it. There was no real reason to lie to Danny. This was Danny. Your mom’s longtime friend, someone you’d always felt you could trust. You hated lying to him, especially as you watched him nod with understanding.

 “But maybe another time,” you added more brightly. “We could go with my mom too, if that’s okay with you.”

Danny stared ahead for a moment, one hand resting on the steering wheel, the flannel sleeve of his shirt slipping back just enough to show a broad, dark-haired forearm. Then he glanced at you again, lips smiling, but his eyes didn’t quite follow. Or maybe you only imagined that. “Sure. Didn’t mean to push.”

The car suddenly felt too quiet. You gave your head a small shake, trying to shrug off the weird feeling as the moment to get out arrived. You finally reached for the door handle.

“Thanks so much for the ride, Danny.”

“No problem. See you around.”

You walked into the store and, out of some strange curiosity—an urge to know—you discreetly glanced outside to see whether his car at the intersection turned toward the cemetery. It had. You scoffed at yourself, not knowing where this sudden suspicion was coming from. Maybe the whole situation with Charlie had made you overly sensitive. Not everyone was who they said they were.

Everything went according to plan, and after a moment you stepped back outside, calling your mom to meet up in town. She wasn’t answering for now, so you walked slowly with your phone pressed to your cheek. Fairview was shockingly empty that day, the sidewalk covered in light orange leaves, the day bright and sunny. It was morning. Most kids were in their first or second period at school. For obvious reasons, police cars had been crossing through town even more often lately, and the watchful eye of law enforcement made people more likely to stay at home, if they could.

It was, then, unsettlingly quiet, and the sound behind you reached your ears far more clearly, enough to make you flinch slightly on the spot. You turned around to see a boy on a bike. He was right behind you, and you barely managed to jump aside before he could hit you. As he passed, he turned his head to look at you. You were about to yell at him, but then he turned fully, and you recognized him. Conrad. Charlie’s younger brother.

That alone was enough to shut you up.

“Are you there?” your mom’s voice came through the phone like through a barrier. “Honey?”

 “Yeah. Yes, I’m here,” you said quickly.

You kept your eyes fixed on Conrad. He was supposed to be in school. Of course he wasn’t. As Charlie’s brother, he was a suspect in the murders. Or rather, in one murder and a rape, but only you and the police knew that part.

Of course he wasn’t going to school because of all that.

You sighed and turned your attention back to the call with your mom.

*

"It's really nothing. I'm just glad I could help in some small way. I can't even imagine what you're going through."

With the bag in hand, you stepped into your neighbor Elena’s house. You knew where the kitchen was, so you headed there, intending to put the groceries away. You wanted to take as much off her plate as you possibly could.Her daughter Keasy had gone missing a few days earlier, and there was still no news. No progress. It was as if she had sunk into the ground.

Elena was tightly wrapped in a long cardigan, her face ashen. The look she gave you held no gratitude for the groceries, though it seemed like she wanted it there. She simply couldn’t bring herself to feel anything but despair. Anyway, you simply wanted to help in any way you could. You left your groceries behind and chatted for a while, though really, it was you trying to keep the conversation going, just so some sound would fill that empty house, if only for a moment. You drank the tea she offered, told her she was welcome to visit you anytime, and then it was time to leave.

Your houses were separated by a street, and just as you were about to cross it, your phone rang. You raised it to your ear, glancing both ways even though traffic in your neighborhood was practically nonexistent.

"Hey, just wanted to make sure our meeting is still on," Spencer blurted out the moment you picked up.

Thrown off, you slowed down your pace. You had indeed made plans to meet at your place at a specific time andyou were the one who invited him  but the conversation with Elena had completely made you forget about it. A bit guilty, you quickly replied:

 "Still on? Yeah, I hope so. Unless something came up on your end and you’re calling to say so?"

"No," he denied right away. This conversation was somehow funny. Both of you replying to each other at machine-gun speed. Where had all that nervousness suddenly come from? The magic of a phone call? "No, nothing came up, luckily. So… yeah. I think I’ll be at your place in fifteen minutes. Unless something came up on your end and you want to reschedule..."

You let out a small laugh and said no, absolutely nothing came up. You were already standing at your front door, but with one hand in a cast and the other holding your phone, you couldn’t reach into your pocket for the key. So you just stood there, you weren’t in a rush to go inside anyway. Still with the phone to your ear, you asked:

 "You remember the address?"

"Yeah, I’m fine."

"I’ll send it to you just in case. So you don’t get lost—" you pressed your lips together when you realized how dumb that sounded. "Right. Your brilliant memory. Please accept my deepest apologies for doubting it."

You heard a quiet laugh on the other end of the line.

"The deepest apologies have been accepted."

A certain silence settled between you, full of anticipation, as if each of you was waiting for the other to speak. You slightly moved the phone away from your face so he wouldn’t hear your breathing. You were about to see each other anyway, so you could simply say a quick goodbye and end the call. Your gaze drifted absentmindedly to your shoes, and suddenly you froze, noticing something you hadn’t seen before.

 "I-I have to go," you said into the phone, as if in a trance.

Without adding anything else, you hung up and shoved the phone into your pants pocket.

On the doormat lay a small rectangular cardboard package, tightly wrapped in tape. You hadn’t ordered anything recently. Maybe it was for your mom? She often ordered things online, mostly for use on the construction site. Special screws or bolts, maybe.

You bent down to pick up the package. When you shook it, it didn’t seem like there were any screws or other small pieces inside, not a single sound came from within. But when you lifted the box, you noticed what was written on its thin side panel.

Your name.

First, you froze in place before you began, without giving it much thought, to unwrap the package right then and there. The key slipped from between your fingers and clinked against the doormat; it was hard to open the cardboard box and tear the tape off its sides using only one hand, while holding the whole thing under the same arm.

Finally, you sighed in defeat and bent down to pick up the damn key, stepping inside and shutting the door behind you with a slam.

Your legs carried you to the kitchen on their own, where you used a knife to slice through the tape on the sides. If you had found something like this on your doormat a year ago, your reaction would have been much more composed. Now, it was impulse that drove you, a whole avalanche of uneasy feelings that effectively crushed your reason down to its foundation.

The contents of the box were so perfectly fitted that they didn’t spill out onto the kitchen island. Freeing them took considerable effort. It was a cassette. There was something else inside. A note, really. A piece of paper with a message written in red marker.

Play this in the next episode or. Play this in the next episode or. Not even a colon at the end to hint at wicked intent, a threat. Suggestions leave room for uncertainty. Whoever sent it had no doubt about what would happen if you didn’t include it in the episode.

Strange, how you analyzed it like that when your body couldn’t even move.

Even without a signature, you knew who the sender was, and you knew he wasn’t stupid enough to leave fingerprints. Still, you picked up the cassette using a kitchen towel, carrying it upstairs like something that smelled foul. Whoever you asked for advice would tell you to inform the investigators immediately. But you knew they would immediately confiscate the tape, not letting you have a single look at it.

You had to know what was on it. He’d sent it straight to you. You had to.

You walked over to the tape recorder sitting on the windowsill, buried under a pile of your papers, and wrapped your one good arm around it, pulling it to your chest as you moved it onto your desk, not much cleaner. You inserted the cassette.

The recording began with crying.

Terrified and exhausted—but it wasn’t the only sound. Right after came a sigh, irritated and bored.

“Once again, from the top. Interrogation of Rebecca Young, 00:14. The subject refuses to testify…”

You stood frozen, bent over the tape recorder, as if being closer to it might help you understand what was going on. It didn’t.

The man’s voice sounded distorted. Someone was definitely using a voice modulator. The woman’s sobs were laced with fatigue, suggesting the scene had been dragging on for a long time. 

Rebecca Young? The name rang a bell, but you couldn’t place it. What kind of recording was this? It sounded far too real to be a prank.

“What’s your name?” came the question again.

Silence followed, not complete silence, though. You could hear the woman’s labored breathing, still broken up by sobs, slowly start to calm. More like she was forcing herself to, rather than actually finding composure. A loud swallow. A trembling reply “Rebecca Young,” she said.

You straightened up.

That wasn’t Rebecca Young, or whoever she was being made to pretend to be. That was Keasy. Your missing neighbor.

The recording kept playing, and you listened to it without any physical reaction, simply standing there with your whole face and body tense. Somewhere in the distance, the doorbell rang. You were aware of it, but the thought of stopping the recording and going downstairs to open the door didn’t even cross your mind. Some things were important, and others were more important.

“Do you admit that your statements were false?”

Keasy sniffled. The pauses between her answers were long, it was clear she was using the last of her strength to think, trying to come up with a response that would satisfy her captor. One that might determine whether she survived. This particular pause dragged on, until she finally whimpered in resignation.

“I-I don’t know, I don’t know what you mean, I don’t know what statements—”

“Your statements about Robert Taylor. You claimed he raped and killed you, which was a false accusation. Do you admit that you lied to damage his reputation and his family?”

Another long pause, Keasy’s heavy breath, and then a desperate scream “Yes! I admit it, yes, I admit it!”

"Finally," the man muttered

That was where the recording ended. It wasn't interrupted or cut off midway. He simply turned it off calmly. When its final second passed, there was only you. No thoughts. And the doorbell ringing again.

Your legs carried you down the stairs on their own, your good hand opened the door on its own, just like your eyes met Reid's gaze on their own. A gaze that, in a split second, shifted. From somewhat nervous but generally positive to fully alarmed.

 Based solely on the expression on your face.

“What happened?”

tags: @mgg-lover4eva @jp600fox

@garcialuvs

@imadisneyprincessiswear

@esposadomd

@elle-greenaways-wife

[sweetpeterparker]

HEYYY!! Godspeed on your semester <33!! You got this. 🫶🏼

Fic idea: Reader is Reid’s roommate and is pretty laid-back (easily mistaken for a slacker because they don’t take on rigorous tasks often) and stumbles across a stumped Reid who’s trying to solve a case. Very casually Reader makes an insane prediction, and Reid learns that they’re basically a genius… who doesn’t really know they’re a genius?? (Because when they think “genius” the reader usually thinks of nerdy and scrawny people like Reid)

I hope that makes sense vro 💔💔

Baby you have been in my inbox for a MONTH i am so sorry i hope you like it 🥀

Lazy

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader words: 1.2k warnings: Language summary: You, a chronically underachieving genius accidentally solve an active FBI case over takeout and crime scene photos. Spencer Reid blurts out an "I love you" before sprinting out the door in mismatched socks. a/n: fluffity fluff in the end for a little bit hehe <3

Truth be told, you hated that word. Lazy. You preferred efficient. Your 9-to-5 was soul sucking, much like any other 9-to-5, so you did the only thing you could to make sure this job doesn't eat you alive— the bare fucking minimum.

A report due by 5? Alright, it'll be on the desk at 5, not a minute sooner, and not a minute later. A task needs doing? Oh, it'll be done. Flawlessly, in fact. But that's it. No fanfare, no extras, exactly what is required, nothing more. Meetings? You speak only when necessary. Deadlines? Met to the second. No matter how convoluted the problem or the task, you found the cleanest, simplest way through.

You did just the right amount, never showed your true potential, and it never raised any questions. If you asked your coworkers, they'd say you were a joy to be around. With your social capital? You were never getting fired. It was the perfect ruse.

But when you reached home with takeout, took your shoes off at the end of the day, you left your job along with them at the doorstep of your house. 5-to-9 is your time. And no one was taking that away from you. Alright, maybe one person was taking that away from you. But truth be told, you didn't really complain.

Spencer Reid was an enigma. Living with him was never dull, be it because he was actually, quite literally, the best flatmate a person could ask for in all thinkable ways, or because he challenged you the way you liked best— intellectually. Today was apparently a latter kind of day.

"Reid-o. What's got you all worked up?"

"Reid-o?" he asked, looking up from the papers strewn about his desk.

"Term of endearment. You didn't answer my question."

The first thing you noticed after coming home was the pair of Converse that were clearly taken off in a hurry and left there haphazardly. The living room smelled of the strongest espresso in all of land, like a truck of coffee had decided to explode in your house, of all places. The room was relatively dark, except for the lamp burning over the desk where he was huddled over. He was so engrossed in whatever he was doing that he hadn't even noticed you come home. Ergo, he was stressed.

A heavy sigh, one hand running through his hair. You made a mental note of his stress level: medium-high. A few more hours of this and he’d either fall asleep at his desk or start quoting obscure philosophers.

"It's this case," he admitted finally, his voice sounding almost defeated. "I have been poring over the case files and the crime scene photos, and the interviews for hours, and I have basically no pattern or connection between any of the victims. So, how was your day?"

"Better than yours," you scoffed, "Can I have a look?"

“I thought you hated this stuff.”

“I hate paperwork and bureaucracy. Big difference.”

He hesitated, then pushed the files toward you, still half sceptical. “They’re all women, different ages, different occupations. Killed two days apart. Same method, no evidence left behind, nothing to tie them together. We’re missing something.”

You skimmed through the reports, flipping through pages with zero urgency. You tapped your finger on the crime scene photos, brows slightly furrowed at the gore; they were crime scene photos, after all. But you kept your focus on just the crime scene. Just the way it was staged. You tapped your finger on the last photo, humming thoughtfully.

“How did he get in?” you asked.

Spencer sighed again. “We don’t know. That’s part of the problem. No signs of forced entry, no tampering, no secondary footprints, nothing on any of the security footage. Just the victims entering their homes alone, like normal.”

“No delivery men, no dates, no door dash?”

“Nothing. Clean. Like no one else was ever there.”

You tilted your head, squinting at the arrangement of one of the living rooms. “Alright. So, let’s say the footage is legit, no one else enters or leaves the premises. The simplest explanation?”

He gave you a look. “Occam’s Razor?”

“Exactly. The simplest explanation is that no one entered because they were already inside.”

He blinked. “You’re saying the unsub was—”

“Already in the house. Yeah.”

“That would mean... he snuck in before the victims got home. Hid. Waited. Killed them. Then left... somehow.”

“Without triggering a single alarm or camera. Meaning either the cameras were looped at just the right time— which you’re saying they weren’t— or he never walked past them to begin with.”

Spencer stood now, pacing a little. “But how? Every entry point was covered.”

You leaned back into the couch, arms crossed. “Then maybe we’re not thinking three-dimensionally enough. You need to look at the architectural plans. House blueprints. Vents, crawlspaces, dumbwaiters, hell, even hollow walls. If he’s getting in and out without being seen, it’s because he’s not using the doors. Or windows.”

Spencer froze mid-step, then slowly turned to you, eyes wide.

“Holy shit,” he whispered. “Oh my god.”

“What? Did you get something?” you asked, sitting up a little straighter.

Spencer blinked, still stunned, like the gears in his mind had just snapped into overdrive.

“The houses, every single one of the victims’ homes, were renovated within the last year,” he said, more to himself than to you, “That’s why we didn’t consider construction anomalies. We assumed standard layouts, but what if— what if they all used the same contractor?”

You raised an eyebrow. “You think the unsub is the person who remodeled their houses?”

“Or someone connected to the company. Maybe he installed hidden access points, crawlspaces, false walls, and vent systems wide enough to move through. Places where someone could hide for days.”

He rushed back to the files, flipping through them like a man possessed. “This would explain everything— the lack of evidence, the absence of footage, the precision in timing...”

He looked up suddenly, eyes shining like the sun just rose inside his skull.

“Did you know you’re a genius?”

You smirked, stretching your arms behind your head. “I have my days.”

“No, no, I’m serious.” He was talking fast now, gathering files, tugging his coat from the back of his chair. “You just cracked the entire case with, like, three questions.”

"Guess I've lived with you long enough for it to rub off on me, huh?"

He laughed at that, face serious for a split second. “You’re incredible.”

That actually made your stomach flip. “Yeah, well, that makes two of us.”

“I gotta go,” he muttered suddenly, stuffing folders into his messenger bag hurriedly like he was trying to stop them from escaping, “Hotch needs to see this now. But, oh my god, I love you so much right now.”

And before you could even react, he leaned over, pressed a quick, distracted kiss to your cheek, and bolted out the door, his shoes half on.

You sat there, stunned.

“…Cool,” you mumbled, touching your cheek where his lips had been a moment ago.

[sweetpeterparker]

like the holding of hands, like the breaking of glass ⏾

requests | masterlist

pairing : spencer reid x fem!bau!reader

w/c : 1,7k

warnings : emotional distress, anxiety, brief mentions of alcohol, comfort after trauma

summary : the BAU’s latest case hits reader hard. during a night out with the girls, she can’t help but spiral, and there’s only person she can think to call. spencer.

a/n : this isn’t my best work…however, i’ve had this idea stuck in my head for WEEKS

It’s past 12am when you check your watch. Damn it, you were going to miss the bus home.

The girls dragged you out - Emily and Penelope insisting on having a drink or two.

It’s not that you don’t like their company. You do. They’re your closest friends, and you knew they were doing it just to cheer you up. But somewhere between Penelope’s reenactment of a text conversation between her and Derek, Emily’s teasing laughter and JJ’s urge to fix you up with some guy at the bar- you realise you’re not really there.

Not fully.

You swirled the drink in your hand, watching condensation bead down the glass, the chatter of the bar dull and distant. Every so often, Penelope tries to pull you in - a gentle nudge to your shoulder or a “you okay” tossed casually over the music. You brush it off, smiling and offering something noncommittal. But the weight in your chest doesn’t lift.

The case is still there - still on your mind. Like a splinter you couldn’t quite dig out. It shouldn’t have hit you so hard, that’s what you reminded yourself. Cases which involved children sat heavy on your body.

Every laugh feels a little too sharp, every light a little too bright. You feel… untethered.

Excusing yourself under the pretense of freshening up, you gather your things - weaving through the crowd to find a quiet space. You don’t even bother to search for the bathroom. The exit door is looking way too pretty.

Once you’re out and the door clicks shut behind you, your shoulders sag for the first time throughout this horrible day.

You breathe in the cool night air, letting it sting your lungs, grounding you in a way the bar never could. Out here, the laughter, the music, and the clinking glasses faded into a dull hum, leaving you and just the ache pressing against your ribs.

Your fingers tremble as you dig your phone out of your bag. You stare at the screen, debating. You could call a cab, walk 30 minutes in the cold to the subway station or whatever motion of getting home alone.

Though you really don’t want to be alone. Especially tonight.

You scroll down your contacts, finding his name. Spencer. The one contact that feels like a lifeline.

It only rings once before you hear his voice, soft and warm despite the late hour.

“Hey” Spencer says, his voice wrapping around you like a warm blanket.

You press the phone closer to your ear, throat burning as you tried to speak. “Hey- Spence, I’m sorry- Is this bad time? Did I wake you up?”

There’s a brief pause on Spencer’s end, and then his voice came back steady, calm. “No, you didn’t wake me. I was just about to head to bed”

You swallow hard, the tightness in your throat refusing to loosen up. “Listen, I’m not… I’m not really okay. I’m- I’m outside this bar on 9th”

“I’m on my way, sweetheart” He said without hesitation. “Send me your exact location”

You blink against the sudden sting of tears, heart hammering. “Spence…”

“Shh, I’ll be there in ten. Just hang tight, okay?”

You nod even though he can’t see you. “Okay”

You’re still leaning against the cool brick wall, phone tucked away, when footsteps approach you.

“Hey, you okay? We’ve been looking for you” JJ’s voice breaks through the night air.

“Yeah, just a little tired. I’m waiting for a cab” you said, forcing a smile.

JJ’s eyes search yours, as if she’s trying to figure out what’s wrong. Whatever it is, she won’t say anything tonight. “You sure? We can all leave together”

“It’s fine, really it’s fine. I’m fine, JJ” you stammer. “Thank you. I’ll call if anything happens”

She nods, giving you a small reassuring smile. “Okay, just don’t stay out too long”

As she walks back toward the bar, you exhale - a broken sound echoing through the air. The only thing that mattered was that Spencer would come.

And a few minutes later, headlights sweep across the pavement- Spencer’s familiar car pulling up.

You’re walking before you know it, slow steps fighting the urge to just run into his arms.

The drivers door opens, and Spencer steps out, cardigan hanging loose over his shirt, hair a little tousled as if he’d just woken up. The second your eyes meet, his entire expression softens. As if he was holding back his breath too.

“Y/N” he says, closing the distance in a few strides - one hand hovering as if to give you the chance to pull away. When you don’t, his arms wrap around you, and you melt against him, forehead finding the familiar space between his chin.

You don’t trust your voice. So you don’t speak. He doesn’t push you any longer, because he knows what it’s like. And he knows you better than anyone. Better than himself. He knows you need reassurance now.

You don’t speak, but you let out a tiny sigh - barely audible. For the first time all night, your lungs expand without stinging.

“Let’s get you home, sweetheart.” Spencer murmurs, voice vibrating against your temple. He guides you towards the car, opening the passenger door for you before circling back to the driver’s seat.

The moment you’re settled in the passenger seat, Spencer reaches over - buckling your seatbelt with practiced care before starting the car.

For a while, there’s only the steady hum of the engine and the soft rush of tires on the wet asphalt. You keep your gaze fixed on the window, city lights smearing into gold and white streaks.

You don’t realise your hands are clenched in your lap until Spencer’s bigger and warmer fingers cover them, gently prying them open. He keeps one hand on the steering wheel, and the other over yours, thumb tracing slow circles.

Tears are blurring your vision once again, and you try - god you try to force them down. But they make their way down your cheeks. They don’t go unnoticed by Spencer.

His thumb moved to your face, brushing away fresh tears before they can fall any further.

He wished these damned red lights turned green soon. Spencer wanted nothing more than to wrap you up in his arms and hold you until you’ve let everything out.

“Shh, I’ve got you. You’re safe, you’re alright” He murmurs, glancing at you briefly before turning back to the road.

Something about his words undoes you. Maybe it’s his tone. Or the fact that he doesn’t tell you to stop - doesn’t offer platitudes to make you stop. A shaky breath escapes your lips, your chest tightening as another cry breaks free.

“I’m sorry- I didn’t mean-” you hiccuped, trying to frantically wipe your tears.

Spencer squeezes your hand, the motion strong enough to stop your frantic movements.

“None of that, sweetheart. You don’t have to apologise for this, not with me” He reassured you.

It only makes your tears fall faster, shoulders shaking as you try and fail to swallow another sob.

“Breathe for me, angel” Spencer soothes, his thumb continuing its lazy circles on your hand. “I’ve got you, I’ve got you”

You focus on the cadence of his voice, on the weight of his hand around yours, until the worst of it ebbs into quiet, trembling sniffles.

By the time he pulls into his driveway, your body feels wrung out, heavy with exhaustion. Spencer kills the engine and unbuckles your seatbelt, leaning over just enough to murmur, “Come on, let’s get you inside.”

You follow him out of the car, hand still in his, not quite trusting your legs to keep moving on their own. The world feels muffled, and neither of you speak in the elevator. Spencer only shifted his hand so you could slot your fingers more securely through his, while pressing a kiss on your temple.

Inside, the warmth of his apartment greets you. Spencer unbuttons your coat, wanting to peel off the damp chill of the night. His hands linger just for a second at your arms, rubbing slightly to coax some warmth into your skin.

You let him guide you to the couch, body moving on autopilot as he crouches down to untie your shoes, slipping them off and placing them near your coat.

“Sit, I’ll be back in a second” He said, before disappearing into the kitchen. You could hear him shuffling around with the kettle.

Spencer returns a moment later, a steaming mug in hand. He sets it gently on the coffee table before settling beside you, knees brushing yours. He studies your face for a beat, taking in the redness around your eyes, the tremor in your fingers. His chest tightens. Not with pity, of course not. It tightens with the ache of wanting to shoulder just a fraction of what’s weighing you down.

Without a word, he slips an arm around you, pulling you to his chest. You let yourself sink in his embrace, his scent filling up your nostrils.

The tears come again, unbidden. Spencer tightens his hold, pressing his cheek into your hair.

“I’ve got you” he murmurs, voice steady but quiet enough that it’s just for you.

He rubs soothing circles along your arm, holding you until the sobs turn into sniffles and you’re not shaking any longer.

“Talk to me, sweetheart. What’s going on?”

You blink, swallowing hard. You knew he’d ask you eventually - there wasn’t any reason for you to be surprised.

“I don’t know- I don’t know where to begin, Spence”

“It’s okay” he replies, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Start anywhere. I’m listening”

So, you tell him. Little by little, you let the words tumble out - the case, the girl, the helplessness that wouldn’t let you breathe. How you couldn’t get the image of the little kids in the morgue. Spencer listens without interruption, his steady presence making you feel warmer.

When the last words leave you, he gathers the blanket from the couch and drapes it over you both. You feel yourself sink deeper into his arms, exhaustion seeping through your bones.

Spencer presses a kiss to your temple, whispering, “You’re safe, sweetheart. I’m right here”

Your breathing slows against him, and you close your eyes for the first time all night.

Later, when Spencer realises you’ve fallen asleep - he’ll carry you to bed. Cover you with his duvet, and kiss your cheek lovingly before he slips beside you.

He thinks you can’t hear him when he says,

“I love you. Sleep well”

But even in your semi comatose state, you think you feel it. And you smile.

[sweetpeterparker]

History reveals itself. | s.r.

★ previous (i) | part ii | next (iii)

★ to SERIES MASTERLIST here

summary: one of your students goes missing and you don’t know who else to consult in but your boyfriend and his team.

word count: 6,6k

what to expect: spencer reid x history professor!reader, post prison!spencer, criminal minds typical violence (abduction, murder), angst, deadbeat parents, hotch is kind of a meany (he means well though), grief and symptoms (not eating or sleeping, depression), teeny tiny cliffhanger? sorry if your name is aurelie, English is not my first language.

a/n: hope I’m not super annoying but pic credit to @reidgif once again, thank you<3

──── ᝰ.ᐟ

You have been pacing in your office for a good part of the hour. Your carpet must already be worn out, as your shoes burned a circle into the fabric.

Calling the president of the university didn’t help; he was dead set on suspicion. Her parents were out of town and made it clear that they thought it was just another one of her antics.

But you were sure. Aurelie Rothchild was missing and something bad must have happened to cause her disappearance, no matter every insistence that she was a runaway.

You knew taking her under your wing was a risk—you had read her resume, after all—but despite everyone warning you that she was trouble, you fought for her to have a place at this university because, maybe, you saw yourself in her. And you hadn’t regretted it.

She had fought hard as well to be deserving of your belief in her, never missed a lecture and even asked you to start independent studies on one of your topics.

So her missing almost a week of classes made you suspicious and when you went to her dorm to see if she was there, your fears were confirmed by her roommate, who told you she had left once, in the middle of the night, and never returned.

There was so much guilt on your chest, so much responsibility you shouldn’t feel, but you couldn’t fight. There was no way you would go back to pretending she was just another dropout.

A half-baked plan was already forming in your mind when your phone rang. Spencer’s name on your screen, underlining the time, made you stop your pacing.

You didn’t realize how late it had gotten.

He left you no time to greet him before his panicked voice came through the receiver. “Is everything okay? I’m in your apartment, but you’re not here. Can you talk? If not, click the—”

“Spencer, I’m safe. Something just came up at work.” You interrupted his worried ramble, though your voice sounded emotionless and unconvincing even to your own ears.

There was a heavy sigh of relief on his side of the line. Maybe you got lucky and his relief overshadowed your lie. “You scared me. Do you know how long it will keep you?”

“No, it—” The thought came so quick and involuntarily that it made you stop mid sentence. What if he will just try to convince you like everyone one else?

Another followed just as quick. Were you really considering that? This was Spencer you were talking about. Hell would freeze over before he would discourage your caring nature.

He would probably even jump to involve his team.

You could hear Spencer’s frown in his voice as he said, “Are you sure everything is alright?”

“One of my students is missing.” You blurted. If you did it quick, there was no time to overthink. Like a band-aid. “I’ve been trying to get the university to pay attention, but everyone is chalking it up to her being overwhelmed and falling back into her old ways. They all think she ran off, but I…”

“You have a feeling.”

A sigh leaves your mouth and your shoulders slump a little. “Yes,”

You braced for impact and were met with a gentle touch.

“I can ask the team to look into it.”

Called it.

Tears threatened to rise to the surface, but you pushed them down. All the anger and frustration fell off your shoulders and you felt the strong urge to hug Spencer and never let him go. His way of disarming you without undermining your feelings should be studied. “Is that possible? You weren’t invited in.”

“If it involves a team-member, the team doesn’t care about the protocol, love.”

“I’m not a team-member,” you laughed softly. “And I don’t want you to lose your jobs because of a hunch.”

“You might as well be after the Lenard Phillips case. And don’t worry about our jobs, we’ve gone against protocol a few times and the authorities can’t be mad at us for too long for allaying the number of UnSubs in town.”

“Right, you’re the FBI’s favorite child.”

The smile on Spencer's face was evident as he said, “You got that right. Do you want me to pick you up?”

“No, that’s alright. I’m already on my way to the car.”

The previous anxiety was almost forgotten. Almost. But the nagging feeling that crawled up the back of your neck tried to warn you that something wasn’t right.

—

Spencer watched the headlights of your car turn into the parking lot, greeted you with a hug and kiss when you stepped out of your car, before offering to carry your bags.

In the kitchen, he gestured to your favourite cup on the table, steam rose over the rim.

You didn’t move to take it, instead, you shifted your weight from one foot to the other lightly. “Did you talk to the team?”

He looked at you for a second, not answering; he was afraid that his answer would set you off and he would like to avoid an argument at this hour. Or ever, if he was honest. “Yes, I called Hotch.”

That wasn’t all, you could tell. “But…?”

“We are not meeting with them today.”

“What? Spencer, we have no time to waste—”

“No time is being wasted, love. The team is working on it, but you need to take your mind off of this so you can help us find her tomorrow. You need to rest.” His voice made it clear that he wasn’t going to back down when it came to your health.

“How do you expect me to just take my mind off this? My student is missing. I can’t just go to sleep now.” You crossed your arms over your chest.

To Spencer, you looked petulant and in any other situation, he would’ve found it adorable, but he wasn’t going to let you be reckless with your body. “I know you think you would do more good at the station right now, but you wouldn’t. You need the sleep to fully have the energy to help. I promise you that we will go to the station first thing tomorrow and that we will find her, but you’re not going to be much help if you're sleep-deprived.”

You felt yourself get defensive at his words, but maybe it was the exhaustion, the fact that you were glad that someone was standing up to you, or his big, brown, worried eyes that made you back down with a nod.

Spencer almost looked surprised at your fast backing down and that alone made it worthwhile.

As you lay down on your bed an hour later, Spencer was already asleep. You had taken a shower as a ruse to get some time alone and by the slightly crooked glasses perched on Spencer’s nose and the book on his chest, you could tell he tried to stay awake.

You took the glasses off carefully and slid a bookmark between the pages of the book, placing both on your nightstand so you didn’t have to lean over and potentially wake him.

The night was spent with you restlessly tossing and turning. The room was too hot, your blanket was itching, the pillow you bought a few weeks ago was suddenly too hard. Your thoughts were spinning themselves into tornadoes that were sucking any other thought into their vortex until all you could think of was the gruesome pictures your mind fabricated.

After almost two hours of lying awake, you decided to get up.

Silently, you stood, careful not to wake Spencer, and took the book from your nightstand with you.

The floorboard of your hallway creaked a little under your bare feet, but you could still hear your boyfriend’s gentle breathing to confirm that he was still asleep.

Your spot by the window was shimmering in the shine of the moon and you propped up a pillow against the backrest. The book you had brought sat unopened on the windowsill, while you watched the few passersby. A drunk couple giggling quietly to themselves, a tired-looking man who you suspected was on his way to his night shift.

After about ten minutes, you heard the floorboards creak for the second time. Spencer stood in front of you, rubbing his eyes and his hair a mess. “Can’t sleep?” He yawned.

“No,”

He sighed and took his place next to you. “Can I do anything?”

You repeated your earlier statement. “I don’t want to sleep knowing she doesn’t have it.”

“Love—”

You shook your head sternly. “No, don’t—I don’t want a lecture on the importance of sleep right now, Spence. I want to know that I’m doing everything I can to find her.”

Spencer learned a long time ago not to argue with you twice about the same topic. You knew yourself, even if you tended to over-exertion and right now you just couldn’t sleep. No statistic would make you go back to bed.

So he did the only thing he knew would help you.

“Okay,” He stood and walked to the kitchen to make something to drink. “Let’s play chess and you tell me everything you know about Aurelie.”

You wanted to protest, Spencer needed the sleep, too, but you knew that he was at least the same amount of stubborn as you were.

A breath puffed from your nose, but you followed your boyfriend into the kitchen and told him everything you knew about her habits, hobbies and what brought her joy while strategically placing one wooden figure in front of the next. Most of the things you said weren’t necessarily key pieces that helped with finding her, but even just talking about her helped soothe the fear of not doing enough.

You ended up playing well into the early hours of the morning and Spencer won, to no one’s surprise.

—

The grounds of the FBI academy were more familiar to you than you would like them to be. You had always hoped Spencer would take you to the place he disappeared to every day and give you a tour, but now, every time you saw the edifice, you just saw pictures of gallons of blood.

Getting through security was easy with Spencer by your side and he did the honors of clipping the visitor's badge to your sweater.

“So this is the elevator, huh?” You asked as you stepped inside the metal box. “You always tell me you’re gonna lose me here when we’re on a call.”

Spencer smiled. “Yeah, that’s the one.”

The ride up the many floors seemed to take hours, but when the door opened with a ping, you realized it had merely been seconds.

A tiny tour was granted to you as you walked through the bullpen area, with Spencer pointing left and right to tell you whose desk belonged to which profiler. Then he led you up the stairs and to the conference room at the end of the long platform.

The entire team was already waiting for you at the round table.

You and Spencer sat down next to each other after a brief greeting and Penelope started to recall what they knew so far, with Hotch taking over after a few minutes.

His voice must’ve been just the right amount of bass, for your head tipped onto Spencer’s shoulder. He inwardly flinched, but his body stayed still so he wouldn’t wake you, thinking you did it on purpose (though he was slightly confused by the sudden display of public affection). But as he turned to look at you from the corners of his eyes, he saw that your eyes were softly closed, and you were breathing in soft puffs of air.

The sleep caught up with you at last, sneaking up on you in a conference.

He smiled down at you. You needed the sleep after staying awake all night, worrying. As Spencer adjusted to make the angle more comfortable for you, his chair squeaking a little and he stopped short, but luckily, you were out cold. The noise drew the attention of someone else, though.

“Didn’t know you had that kind of game, pretty boy.” Morgan whistled.

Spencer shushed him with a frown. “Be quiet. She—” He snapped his mouth shut, almost having slipped up about how you haven’t slept much last night. He wasn’t supposed to know your sleep schedule, as you were barely acquainted work colleagues. “She probably had a difficult time sleeping under the circumstances.”

Morgan gave him a strange look, smug and full of skepticism.

“We’ll have to interview her,” Rossi suggested, pulling their attention away from your sleeping form. None of the other profilers seemed to find the scene odd or just chose to stay professional. “She might have seen something she isn’t aware of being important.”

Hotch nodded, flipping through the pictures. “JJ, could you set up the room, please?”

She nodded and walked out the door.

Spencer frowned. He didn’t like the sound of putting you into the dark, cold room. “The interrogation room? Why wouldn’t you just question her in your office?” His voice was still quiet and airy, despite his anger.

“The isolation might have positive effects on her memory. It could trigger more somber recollections.”

The youngest profiler gritted his teeth. He knew that it was standard procedure, and if it had been any other person, he would agree without a second thought, but it was you, and he never wished for you to have to tap into those memories.

They took his silence for agreement and Hotch went on, “I will set up in my office. Call me when you’re ready.” He glanced at you on Spencer’s shoulder before leaving the room.

Spencer woke you up with much dismay, but he knew you would hate the time passing by without you being able to do anything.

He said your name quietly, and nudged your shoulder carefully.

“Hm?” You groggily asked, lifting your head to look around. Spencer wasn’t sure if you knew where you were. You looked adorable.

“You fell asleep.”

“Oh,” you rubbed your eyes, your voice was slightly slurred, the embarrassment prominent in your body language. “What did I miss?”

He smiled at you softly. “Hotch wants to ask you a few questions about Aurelie, if that’s okay with you?”

“Of course,” you stood, and Spencer followed.

JJ caught you on the steps and suggested leading you to the place while Spencer jogged up the steps to their boss’s office.

He didn’t even wait for him to answer his knock before saying, “Let me question her. She might be more forthcoming to a familiar face.”

“You’re allowed to come in, but I’m leading the questioning.” Hotch’s tone didn’t allow protest; his eyes even less.

Everything in Spencer wanted to tell his boss that he was to only one who could ask the right questions without triggering your defenses.

But he took a breath and as his chest fell again, he nodded. He knew that arguing would just lead to him having to stay outside.

“Good,” Hotch replied, a hair less harshly, and made his way to the interrogation room, Spencer trailing close behind.

The view of you on the other side of the table was a horrid one for Spencer. All the people who sat opposite him at this table were rarely good and he didn’t want his brain to associate you with them.

Both of them sat down and Hotch started the recording.

“We do this to figure out how the UnSub chooses his targets, as a way to trace back to potential triggers. That could be a negligent parent, a high school incident, rejection in any form. We call this—”

“Victimology, I know.” You cut in. You swear that your intention was not to come across as rude, but one of your students' lives was on the line and he was playing teacher? “Can we start talking about Aurelie, please?”

You saw Spencer wince a little at your tone. An apology had to wait, though.

The unit chief just continued like he hadn’t heard your tone at all. “What can you tell me about Aurelie? Everything that comes to mind, please.”

“She’s from New York, her parents from France, she’s turning twenty-one in three weeks.” You started listing off other personal facts about your student. Like her parents’ names, jobs, her former schools, all of her friends at university. “Her parents are quite rich, but they have always neglected her. They were always under the impression that she wasn’t as bright as her brother.”

Hotch nodded, taking note of the things he deemed important.

“What was she like? In lectures and outside the classroom?”

You thought for a moment. “I didn’t see her much outside of lectures or independent studies. But in class, she was always taking notes and when her friends tried talking to her, she always shushed them. She worked hard to prove herself to those who doubted her. I always tried to tell her that there are people who do believe in her and that they don’t need her to prove anything.”

The last part, you mumbled a little more quietly and saw, out of the corner of your eyes, that Spencer’s hand had twitched closer to yours on the table.

“Did she have any trouble with other students? Rivals, enemies, people who hated her for working so hard?” The stoic profiler continued.

You shook your head. “Her biggest enemies were her parents; they always tried to talk her out of going to college. But I’m sure many students were jealous of her intellect. That is kind of inevitable in these institutions. No one voiced it particularly loudly, though.”

“Could you tell me more about her f—”

“I’m sorry,” you interrupted with a deep breath. “I’m sure you know what you’re doing, but wouldn’t it be more helpful to go to the university and ask the students there? They know more about her than I do.” You tried to keep your tone calm, but patience was a thin rope to thread on and your was wearing thin.

Hotch frowned hard. “You asked us to investigate this matter and this team is trying their best to help. All we ask of you is that you trust us to know what we are doing.”

“I do, and I’m really grateful for your time and effort, but…” You swallowed and tried to find diplomatic words and then decided against voicing your feelings. “May I take a moment?”

A nod from Hotch was all the permission you needed, and you turned, walking out of the room.

Spencer sighed as the door snapped shut. “This is hard on her, Hotch.”

“I understand that, but whether she realizes it or not, she is slowing the progress down. I want to find the victim, but she is not helping right now.”

“I’ll talk to her.” Spencer stood, the chair scraping against the floor with an uncomfortable screeching sound.

As he walked the long corridor of the building, he found you sitting with your knees to your chest on a bench in the waiting area. He approached you quietly.

“You might have to sit this one out,” Spencer said gently, crouching in front of you. “We can find her without you having to put yourself through this torture.”

“Yeah,” You swallowed the urge to fight to stay involved; it wouldn’t do anyone good. “It’s just…All I can think about is Aurelie in a basement, hurt and scared and every moment I’m not actively looking for her feels like another moment closer to her.” You choked around the word death. “I want to find her now, not ‘as soon as possible’.”

Spencer reached out and placed a hand on your knee. “I know it might not seem like it, but you telling Hotch all about her is you helping. Passively, but helping. You just need to take care of yourself for this to have full effect.”

“I will,” you mumble, placing your chin on your knee. “I think I’ll go for a walk to clear my head and see if I can continue with the interview.”

“Do you want me to come with you?”

You shook your head, letting your feet down on the ground and sitting upright. “I want to be alone right now. I won't stray far from the station. Promise.”

A crease formed between Spencer's eyes and he worried his lower lip. “Okay, but be careful, please. There is a person out there who abducted one of your students. I doubt that it is a pattern, but you can never be careful enough.” He stood to help you up.

Taking Spencer’s outstretched hand, you let him pull you up on your feet. “I’ll stay in the parking lot.”

He watched you walk off, the worried look on his face not waning. You weren’t reckless; he knew you wouldn’t try to find Aurelie on your own accord, but his mind couldn’t help wandering to the possibility that the UnSub had it out for you. He was prone to think of the worst-case scenarios.

Shaking his head, he walked back to the team, but his eyes strayed to the window every few minutes.

You returned fifteen minutes later to resume your interview with Hotch, just to find him and Spencer talking somewhat heatedly.

“—you know the statistics, Reid.” Was the only thing you caught of Hotch's speech.

Your boyfriend scoffed, which you found to be quite unusual for him. “Yes, of course I know, but—”

“What statistics?” You interrupted as you approached them.

Both men turned to you, but only Spencer looked startled. “You don’t want to know the statistics.”

The shape of his mouth betrayed the pet name he was tempted to add out of habit and to let you know that it wasn’t you he was mad at.

“I can decided that for myself, Spencer.”

He sighed and relented. (Don’t look at him like that, it was terribly hard not to give in when you were this demanding.) “Hotch was just reminding me that the statistics of finding an abducted person alive after seventy-two hours are not in our favor.”

You tried hard not to snap at the unit chief, but he was not making it easy for you to like him at this point in time. “Right, but there is a small percentage, right?”

Spencer nodded.

“Then let’s proceed with the interview instead of mulling over probabilities.” You said and turned to walk towards the interrogation room without so much as a glance over your shoulder.

As Spencer tried to follow you, his boss stopped him once more. “I think it’s best if you stay outside this time.”

It was safe to say that he was not happy with his boss’s decision, but he dipped his head obediently. Arguing would only waste time they didn’t have.

So he chose to watch from the small room behind the one-way mirror as you answered Hotch’s questions about your missing student.

By the way you never seemed to find a good position to sit in, always shifting, crossing your legs, then uncrossing them, he could tell that you were still worked up and tried to keep it down. It was a way for your body to put the adrenaline into something other than yelling.

Your nail polish was chipped and the plastic film on the table was slowly peeling off.

It felt wrong to watch and profile you without your knowledge, so Spencer left the room after a while to get himself and you a coffee from the cafe. God knows he needed one.

The interview went on for about ten more minutes and when you stepped back into the conference room, there was a to-go carton cup of coffee on your designated place at the roundtable.

Your sour mood warped a little, giving way to a warm feeling blossoming in your chest.

As you took a sip, you knew who it was from. No one but Spencer had ever bothered to remember your go-to order.

—

It took hours until they caught a break in the case and Spencer was torn between being an agent and being your boyfriend.

You had been refusing to leave the station even though you were tired beyond comprehension, so Spencer got you a pillow and blanket and refused to tell you anything until you lay down on the slim couch that stood in one of the offices.

“One of her friends at college told us she has been leaving the dorm late at night,” Spencer murmured softly. The blinds had been pulled shut, the door closed. A small red desk lamp was dipping the room into a soft yellow light. “We were able to locate the café she frequented, as well as her car.”

Truly, you tried to listen, even had the decency to feel embarrassed about your lack of liveliness when it came to the news of being closer the saving your student, but Spencer’s voice and your exhaustion mixed into a sleepy cocktail. Your eyelids felt like they were being weighed down by stones. “Mhm. Good,” was the only reply you could muster up. “Good, I’ll—I’ll just take a short nap, then help.”

Spencer laughed quietly, brushing your hair back from your forehead. “We’ll find her, lovely, I promise. Sleep. I will wake you when we know more.”

He brushed a kiss to your forehead and stood, for you had already fallen asleep.

Standing up from his kneeling position next to the couch, he gave one last look over his shoulder—a fond smile on his lips—before quietly twisting the door handle and stepping into the garish light of the hallway.

Hotch and Rossi were discussing the news, leaning over the picture of the suspect.

“Found anything?” Spencer asked, sitting down in the chair to Rossi’s right.

The Italian shook his head. “Nothing new. Morgan and Emily went to the night café to question the bartender. We were just discussing some detail before we followed them.”

Exhaustion was a veil in the room, but they all had a reason for wanting to find the missing girl.

Hotch had a bleeding heart beyond the stoic facade, Rossi had a daughter whom he saved with every UnSub they caught and Spencer would never sleep again if it meant persevering your happiness.

It took a call from Emily to confirm that Aurelie had left the shop without any escort for something to click for Spencer. The pictures of Aurelie’s car glaring at him, as if they were mocking his late realization.

“I think I know what we’ve been missing.” He stood and walked towards the board of pictures.

“What is it?” Hotch frowned.

Spencer pointed at the car that they had found in a garage. “We know now that Aurelie wasn’t abducted in the café and we have CCTV footage of her driving along a remote highway.”

A nod from the older men.

“We overlooked an important detail. Her car was found in a garage almost ten miles from the road she was last seen on, but we estimated her time of abduction to be around three in the morning. There is no way she could’ve driven the vehicle to the location before she was taken.”

“So the abductor must live somewhere in that area.” Hotch’s tone was questioning, as if he didn’t quite get the point the younger man was trying to make.

Spencer nodded slowly. “Sure, that’s a probability. Or we are dealing with two offenders. One drove Aurelie to the second location while the other disposed of the car.”

“That’s a little far-fetched, kid,” Rossi said.

“I know, but it’s the first theory we had in the last couple of hours and it’s not improbable.” Maybe it was wishful thinking, but Spencer clung to it, anyway.

Hotch sighed, rolling his shoulders. “Reid is right. Let us not waste time on realism, but let's ensure we follow every hunch we have. We will search the area of Aurelie’s last whereabouts for remote homes. Rossi, call Morgan and Emily to inform them of our plans.”

Spencer nodded, “Can I do something before we leave?”

—

You woke up to a letter on the table and the clock read 8:49 am.

Good morning (or afternoon, I certainly hope you got that much rest and didn’t wake up in the early hours, but I doubt your brain would let you sleep that long),

we found a lead and are following it. You looked so peaceful, I decided against waking you; you need all the rest you can get. I hope you don’t find it in yourself to be too mad at me for it. Just knock on Garcia’s door, she’ll tell you everything you need to know.

Spencer.

The words were formal, which made it clear that Spencer hadn’t been alone when he wrote them, but you knew him well enough to read the care placed between the lines.

Stretching, you stood and shook out the blanket and pillow before folding them up and making your way to Penelope’s office. It wasn’t hard to locate; her nameplate on the door was ornamented with colorful gemstones made from plastic.

Her cheery voice greeted you from the other side as you knocked, “Enter, oh fortunate one!”

You breathed out a laugh and did as she said.

“Hey, Spencer told me to come to you when I woke up.” You divulged.

“Oh! Yeah, yeah. Get over here, I don’t bite.” She smiled attentively, waving you over. “Well, I might occasionally, but you’re safe.”

You would never get used to her bluntness, you decided.

The pictures on her computer weren’t really inviting, but you approached her desk with hesitant steps nonetheless. “That our case?”

Penelope looked confused for a second, but quickly realized what you were talking about as she followed your line of sight. Quickly, she clicked them away.

“Just some background research, nothing you should worry your pretty brain about.” She tapped her fluffy pen against her nose and slithered to another screen on her chair. “So, moving on. They went back to where Aurelie was last seen to check the houses in the area, but my treasure of knowledge say all the residents checked out, but,” She dragged out the last word for dramatic effect. “Our boy genius came to the, well, genius conclusion that we are dealing with two creeps. Yay, what a joy! Don’t ask me how he got there, it’s above my pay grade. Anyway, thanks to that piece of the puzzle, they were able to stitch together a profile of our two guys that they gave to the bartender in the night café, yada yada.”

She had a way of speaking that was incredibly difficult to follow with a half-awake mind, but you tried your best. “They recognized someone from the description?”

Nodding, she clicked open a tap on her computer. “No name, but they gave a very detailed description of the men, too, and I found one of them in the system.”

“Which means they’re pursuing him now?”

Another nod.

“Is there anything we can do to help?”

“Oh, lovely, you are not gonna like what I’m about to tell you.” The technical analyst grimaced. “We just wait until they call.”

You frowned. “Well, that sucks.”

“Tell me about it. Jumping to their whistle is like my whole job description.” She laughed at her joke. “You know, my Morgan would say ‘you love it, baby doll’.” She deepened her voice at the last part.

It was hard for you to understand how she could be so cheery, knowing that her friends were out there, in danger that you probably couldn’t comprehend. “Is there seriously nothing we can do?”

“Nope,” she popped the p. “Sorry, honey.”

You decided to wait at Spencer’s desk, combing through his books and papers to pass time.

Penelope’s frantic footsteps came about twenty minutes into waiting. “They got him, they’re on their way back now.” She called from behind the railing.

The use of the singular pronoun didn’t escape you, but you were too busy hoping that they were all safe for it to stick out as an important detail.

You jumped up and looked at her hopefully. “Did they say if they got her?”

“No,” she said, but something was off about her tone. “Sorry, they didn’t say anything. But I’m sure everything will be okay.”

Your nerves made you overlook all the warning signs.

The clicking of your heels on the ground was the only sound in the room as you paced and chewed your nails down to the quick. You begged the universe to have mercy with Aurelie, just this once.

It felt like hours had passed, but it could’ve been minutes—your feeling for time was impetuously fleeting with every second that you didn’t know if Aurelie or Spencer were uninjured—when the team finally came back.

Spencer had a small cut on his over his left eyebrow, Morgan was clutching his side, but otherwise they were in good condition and standing in front of you with full numbers.

But all of the relief fell silent when you saw the look on Spencer’s face. As you saw that there was no familiar university student among their ranks.

One look at Spencer was enough for you to know; she didn’t make it. Aurelie was dead, fallen victim to a person who didn’t know about the way she fought, the way she laughed, the way she loved, and yet had the privilege to say goodbye to her. He probably didn’t even take it.

Your knees cracked against the ground with a sickening sound. “No,” your voice was thin, almost just a breath carried away with the wind. The word repeated in your head until it was bordering on a scream that never came.

Ten words weighed down your chest, pressed onto your ribcage until you were sure you heard it crack open. She could have been alive if I had called Spencer sooner.

Anger followed soon after; she might be alive if her parents and the authorities of the university had listened to you. If they had just a shred of care for Aurelie. But they didn’t and she was dead. A sob clawed at your throat, but it wouldn’t come out.

Spencer crouched down behind you, pulling you back up even as you clawed at his arms to let you go.

“I know,” he said, pained. “I’m so sorry.” Your name leaves his mouth like he’s ending a prayer, reverent and full of exertion, like that small word holds the way of the future.

You wept into his shoulder while yours were shaking, your hands clutching his button-up. Spencer closed his eyes—your pain was his, and he couldn’t bear to see your bloodshot eyes, to read the plea for an alternate reality in which Aurelie had made it in them.

The team paid you respect by leaving you as alone as the open room allowed it, but Spencer could see pitying looks thrown over their shoulders.

He was just glad you couldn’t see them.

Gentle coos and brushes of hands calmed you after a few minutes, but the look on your face was far from okay. You looked numb to it all, now that the tears had stopped coming.

Hotch gave the green light for Spencer to take you home without much effort being put into convincing him. One look at your curled-up form was enough. Spencer had given you her pendant necklace, which you were clutching close to your chest.

The drive to his apartment was silent; you didn’t even reach for the aux.

You busied yourself with tending to Spencer’s cut when you got home. He insisted on being fine and tried to talk you into going to bed, but soon gave up and submitted to the fact that the attempt was fruitless.

He was fully aware that you caring for him was a way to not only distract yourself, but a way for you to know that you were still good for protecting someone you loved.

So he let you tap the wound with a wet cloth as you sat on the bathroom counter and didn’t even wince when you pushed too hard by accident.

Just watched you, the dried streaks of tears on your cheeks, watched them meet under your chin. He watched your lips and fingernails, bitten with worry, probably from when he was in the field.

After a while he couldn’t stand it anymore and took your hands in his.

“How did she die?” You asked quietly, looking at the necklace on the counter next to you.

“Love,” he wasn’t sure if telling you was a good idea, especially because the details might be too much for your grief-stricken brain right now. He wished he could tell you that the threat was out of the way. “I will tell you at some point, I promise, but not now.”

Your fingers curling around his were the only answer he got.

He stepped back a little, pulling your hands with him in hopes of animating you to hop off the counter. “Let’s go to bed, angel.”

The only reaction he got was a weak tip of your chin, but it was enough. He matched your pace to the bedroom, helped you out of your clothes into your pajamas and shook out your pillows.

Once you were finally curled up under your sheets, he flipped the light off and slid under the blanket as well.

It took you about two seconds to hide your face in his chest and release all the pain and guilt through tears into his shirt.

And although he hated to see you cry, he was glad to see you feel.

—

“I’ve been feeling quite sick,” Spencer said into the phone the next morning, faking a cough and not even bothering to make it sound convincing. “I don’t think I can come to work for a little.”

On the other end of the line, Hotch’s tone was understanding and Spencer was aware that he probably caught the lie with little strain. “Take as much time as you need.”

“Thank you.” For so much more than wishing him health.

“And Reid?” Hotch said just before he could hang up.

“Yes?”

“Chamomile tea doesn’t just help with throat pain.”

No, it’s supposed to help with depression, too. Spencer thought, swallowing.

He glanced away from the bird he was watching from the window to look at your curled-up form on his couch. You were facing the backrest and there was a stack of books on the table, next to an untouched bowl of food he cooked two hours ago.

“I know. Thank you.” He mumbled to the phone before excusing himself and ending the call.

The phone quietly clattered on the table as Spencer placed it on the surface.

With a sigh, he made his way to the couch and sat down, picked up one of the books and continued reading out loud. His hand was gentle as it stroked your back.

Your head rested on his lap after an hour of reading.

At hour three, he heard your breathing slow and knew, after twenty-one hours and thirty-four minutes, you had fallen asleep for the first time since Aurelie’s death.

He would have to find a way to tell you that one of the men got away later.

──── ᝰ.ᐟ

thank you so much for reading!! reblogs, comments and feedback are always appreciated 𝜗𝜚

🏷️ @kisses4reid @its-jennarose @misacc08 @herondale-lightworm @esposadomd @starsmoonn @cup1d5bow @reidsjuno

[sweetpeterparker]

A Special World

Aaron Hotchner x fem!BAU!wife!reader

Summary: While you're on maternity leave, an agent with something to prove temporarily fills your place in the BAU team. Derek, Morgan, and JJ don't like her, but for a different reason than why your husband fires her.

Warnings/Word Count: pregnant!r, r is talked down to, protective!Hotch, one suggestive part, fluffy! 2.5k+ words, requested

A/N: This is my first time writing Hotch, so apologies if he's OOC!

“I could have worked for another week,” you insist.

Aaron clicks his tongue with a mix of exasperation and tenderness as he places a glass of water and your favorite snack on your nightstand. He straightens, then leans forward, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. As he moves, his hand brushes along your stomach, each touch a clear expression of love and care.

“You’re on maternity leave,” he reminds you. “For my sanity as much as your health.”

Sighing, you purse your lips to request a kiss. Aaron obliges, though he shakes his head. Not leaving for work with Aaron after years at the BAU feels strange. Still, you’re excited for this next chapter.

“I need to go,” Aaron murmurs against your lips. “Your replacement is coming in early.”

“She has a name, Hotch,” you remind him when he stands. “Emerson Dempsey, remember?”

“I’ll remember it when I have to. Call me if you need anything.”

“Ah, Derek beat you to that offer,” you joke, pulling the comforter up to your chin. “He’s in my speed dial now.”

Aaron glares at you for a moment, then breaks. He kisses you once more, lays his hand flat on your bump, then leaves. You have four weeks left until your due date, but your doctor convinced you to start taking it easy now. Looking around your empty bedroom, you realize that you don’t remember how to do that.

“Morgan, JJ, Reid,” Hotch calls. “This is Special Agent Emerson Dempsey. She’ll be assisting us for a few months.”

“It’s an honor,” Emerson gushes, reaching forward to shake JJ’s hand. “I’ve heard so many amazing things about the BAU and SSA Hotchner.”

“SSA Hotchner?” Derek repeats, his brows raising as he smiles at Hotch, who only clenches his jaw tighter and shakes his head.

“Oh, right,” Emerson giggles, lifting her hand to cover her mouth. “He told me I could call him Hotch.”

“Singular syllable names are easier to remember and faster to exclaim in the heat of the moment,” Spencer explains. “Many of history’s most well-remembered leaders have names or sobriquets that consist of three of fewer syllables.”

“Hotchner: lady-killer is one too many,” Derek jokes.

“Boys,” JJ interrupts. She shakes her head, then looks at Hotch. “Where would you like us to begin today?”

“We’ve got a new case,” Hotch explains, showing a file folder. “Close to home for once. Six men have gone missing in Woodbridge in the last two weeks.”

“Could be a Cinderella killer,” Emerson interrupts.

“That’s-“ Hotch trails off, then gestures for Spencer to speak.

“We can’t make that kind of assumption based on such limited evidence. If there is a connection between victims, an overlapping woman in their shared histories or a common location, then we could pursue that line of investigation. As it stands, however, it could just as likely be Bigfoot. Or perhaps the Woodbooger has migrated north.”

“Woodbooger?” Emerson repeats under her breath.

“That said,” Hotch says, refocusing the group, “we need to take a look at the evidence Woodbridge PD sent, then we can go up there.”

He leads the others toward the conference room, his blinks growing longer as Emerson matches her steps to his, talking rapidly about how excited she is to be on a real case with the real BAU.

“I miss Mrs. Hotchner,” JJ complains.

“She’ll be gone for at least ten weeks,” Spencer reminds her. “Following childbirth, the female body-“

“That’s enough,” JJ and Derek exclaim together.

“It is funny, though,” Derek muses.

“Childbirth?” JJ wonders incredulously.

“What? No. The fact that Dempsey has a crush on Hotch.”

Spencer and JJ stop then, looking through the open door at Hotch and the team’s newest – and most temporary – member. She lays her hand on Hotch’s bicep, batting her lashes at him when he steps back.

“I thought his wife leaving would make him miserable,” Spencer mumbles. “Seems I was wrong.”

“If Pretty Boy can see the crush…” Derek trails off and whistles under his breath. He leads the others into the conference room, then unlocks his phone under the table. The first message he sends to you is answered with a laughing emoji, the second with assurance that you’re okay. He gets yelled at by Hotch before he can tell you that your replacement isn’t so different from you. In one way, at least.

“Can you show me exactly where the shoe was found?” Agent Dempsey inquires.

The officer assisting her points toward a cone fifteen yards away, then begins walking.

“Your wife says hello,” Derek says as he approaches Hotch’s side.

“Stop texting her,” Hotch grumbles. “We’ve got a job to do.”

“And Dempsey is doing it,” JJ points out from Hotch’s other side. “She’s good.”

“Good enough,” Hotch argues.

“She’s asking questions, but not the right ones,” Spencer agrees, seeming to spawn at Derek’s side – though Derek will never admit to flinching. “Without inquiring as to the men’s habits, their reasons for being at the sites from which they were abducted, we’re not going to make any progress in identifying the unsub.”

“Agent Hotchner asks the right questions,” Derek pouts.

“My wife is preparing to give birth,” Hotch reminds him firmly. “I understand that you miss her. I don’t understand much that goes on in your head, but this I do get. Try to work with Dempsey, give her some direction, and let’s get back to Quantico.”

“Hey!” Emerson calls, jogging to reach the team. “So, I talked to the officer that found the fifth’s victims shoe and his wallet. Apparently the guy was known to jog in this area every morning, but the shoes aren’t running shoes, and it was approximately four hours after his usual run time.”

“Interesting,” Spencer muses.

“Is it possible that the scene is staged?” JJ suggests. “He was taken from somewhere else, but his belongings were abandoned somewhere he was seen regularly?”

“That’s exactly what I was thinking!” Emerson squeals, taking JJ’s hand quickly before turning toward Hotch. “Do you want me to start mapping their average daily routes so we can find clues about where they may have encountered the, uh, the unsub?”

“That will take too much time and manpower,” Derek argues. “And if this guy got through the abduction with both shoes and his wallet, it’s unlikely we’ll find evidence anywhere else.”

“Sure,” Emerson replies, her shoulders dropping.

“Reid, go with Emerson back to the station and find out where these men frequented,” Hotch decides. “JJ, Morgan, you’re with me.”

“Thank you, Hotch!” Emerson calls after him.

“Yes!” Derek agrees, clutching his hands before his chest. “Thank you, Hotch! Thank you for being born and blessing our eyes with that strong jawline and heartbreaker stare!”

“Does- did she even ask who she was covering for?” JJ inquires. “She does know this is temporary, right?”

“I’m not sure,” Hotch grumbles as he opens his car door. “But she may need a reminder that out ream is established, and she’s not here to make a place for herself.”

“I’ll give it to her!” Derek offers excitedly.

“No, I’m in communications, it should be me!” JJ argues from the backseat.

“What next?” Hotch deadpans. “Going to fight over who gets to order in the McDonald’s drive-thru?”

“I know that was supposed to be a blow about us acting like kids,” Derek murmurs, “but I could go for some fries.”

Hotch ignores him and pulls the gear shift down into drive.

You’d get me French fries, right? Derek texts you.

“Leave my wife alone,” Hotch says, his eyes still on the road.

You’re going to get in trouble, you reply at the same time.

“Okay, that’s just creepy,” Derek whispers.

A week and a half into your maternity leave, Derek texts you (again) to tell you that the disgruntled gym manager who was abducting clients planning to cancel their membership has been arrested. Then, he mentions that Aaron isn’t in a great mood and they’re on their way back to the office.

Immediately, you leave your comfortable position on the couch, pause your movie, and begin getting ready. If you can do something small to brighten Hotch’s day, then you’ll do it. Today, that includes picking up lunch from his favorite restaurant and visiting him at the office. If Derek, Spencer, and JJ will give you privacy, that is. The BAU is your family, but their interruptions aren’t always well-timed, as your pre-marital history with Hotch demonstrated. Dating in the department was probably stupid, but something about the danger of getting caught kept the romance alive for about two weeks before Penelope walked into Hotch’s office without knocking. You were perched on the edge of Hotch's desk with your head dropped to kiss the base of his neck. Since then, you’ve had to set incredibly specific boundaries, but you still love the overbearing friends you’ve made.

An hour after Derek’s first text, you’re told they’re back at the office and pick up lunch for everyone. You enter the elevator with food and drinks, feeling a sense of coming home. You don’t miss the stress or pace, but you can’t deny missing the team.

“Who are you?” a female agent demands when you step into the BAU bullpen.

You step back in surprise, your brows furrowing at her forwardness. She stands from the usually empty desk at the far edge of the office and crosses her arms across her chest, her intricately manicured nails tapping her sides as she lifts a well-shaped brow.

“This is a restricted area,” she snaps. “You need a special visitor’s badge to get in here.”

“I have a badge,” you reply.

“Okay, listen, sweetheart,” she restarts, dropping her hands to her hips. “This isn’t just the FBI, we’re not just cops. This is the BAU, the behavioral analysis unit.”

Your lips part, but you can’t get a word in. Behind the woman, whose badge you can’t read, Derek stands from his desk. His eyes meet yours, but rather than replying to your clear question of who is this and why is she in my way? Derek just smiles and rushes in the opposite direction.

“Can I interrupt you?” you request. “Agent…”

“Special Agent Dempsey,” she answers. “And I’ve already explained why you shouldn’t even be here. This is no place for a civilian, especially one like you.”

Derek nearly runs into Hotch when he pulls his office door open.

“What are you doing?” Hotch asks, looking at Derek’s raised fist.

“I was coming to get you,” Derek explains.

“My wife is here,” Hotch already knows. Somehow.

“Yeah,” Derek says, smiling brightly. “Lead the way boss.”

Derek and Hotch enter the bullpen, both able to hear Emerson ranting about something. When they pass Spencer’s desk, you come into view. Derek slaps Spencer’s shoulder too hard, wide-eyed as he watches Hotch’s jaw tick.

“… This is no place for a civilian, especially one like you,” Emerson snaps.

Your patient smile falls before you ask, “What does that mean?”

“I’m not going to answer any question from a civilian who isn’t even supposed to be here!”

“I’m trying to tell you-“

“What are you not understanding?” Emerson interrupts you. “This is the BAU, the best of the best, not an open house for a stupid, pregnant-“

“Dempsey!” Hotch yells, stepping forward into your sight.

Her shoulders drop immediately, a flirty smile appearing on her face as she straightens her hair. “Hotch,” she replies sweetly. “I was just trying to tell this-“

“Get out,” Hotch demands.

“But-“

“You just talked down to a senior agent,” Hotch seethes, ignorant of Spencer, Derek, and JJ watching behind him. “I’ve fired agents for far less. But you made the mistake of talking down to my wife.”

Emerson’s eyes widen, her fingers spread against her pants, and she swallows harshly. She glances toward you, then fixes her big, suddenly teary eyes on Hotch. “Sir, I’m so sorry.”

“I don’t want an apology,” Hotch snaps. “I want you out of my sight.”

Emerson nods rapidly as she pulls her bag out of a desk drawer. She presses the down button on the elevator, chewing her bottom lip as she waits for the doors to open.

“One more thing,” Hotch calls. He waits until she turns to say, “You were right about one thing: we’re the best of the best.” The elevator doors open, and he concludes, “You never would have fit in.”

She looks down at her shoes, rushes onto the elevator, closes the door, and disappears. As soon as the elevator indicator changes floors, Derek jumps from Spencer’s desk and thrusts his hands in the air, Spencer smiles and waves excitedly at you, and JJ sits back, sighing in relief.

“I feel like I interrupted something,” you muse, looking at Hotch.

He doesn’t reply as he takes the items from your hand to place them on Emerson’s now-empty desk.

“That was your replacement,” Derek offers.

“She was terrible,” JJ adds. “We missed you.”

“Oh.” You take Hotch’s hand when he turns back toward you. “Sorry.”

Hotch shrugs, then tips his chin so his nose presses into your hair above your ear. “What are you doing here?” he whispers.

“I brought lunch,” you reply, fighting shivers when his hand moves beneath your bump.

“Thank you. I missed you, too.”

“There’s food for everyone,” you tell Derek, aware of his eyes on you.

Within seconds, Derek and JJ have wrapped you in a hug. At the center of the office, you feel even more at home than you anticipated feeling.

“How’s my niece treating you?” JJ asks as she steps back.

“Nephew,” Hotch murmurs.

“The betting pool thinks differently,” Spencer says. “Current odds are about 7-2 in favor of baby girl Hotchner.”

“Simplified?” you inquire.

“Of course.”

Hotch leads you to your desk, encourages you to sit, then pulls up a chair to sit with you and the others.

“Should you have fired my sub?” you ask Hotch.

“Absolutely,” he answers while Derek, Spencer, and JJ say, “Yes.”

“She ran out of here with her tail between her legs, Hotch,” you point out. “You need help.”

“We need competent help that doesn’t talk down to anyone. Especially not you.”

You nod, twisting the straw in your cup. “I was going to say she was pretty… then she opened her mouth.”

“Pretty?” Derek repeats. “You see yourself in the elevator reflection?”

“Easy,” Hotch warns.

“Need help with anything?” you offer. “I can do whatever you want from here.”

Hotch hooks his foot around the base of your chair and pulls you forward, your knee slotting between his legs.

“Maternity leave,” he reminds you lowly.

“He do that to you when people make fun of you, Spencer?” Derek stage whispers.

“Not historically, no,” Spencer replies.

“Shut up,” Hotch says. “I’m in a firing mood right now.”

“I didn’t say anything!” JJ interjects.

You direct Hotch’s hand from your knee to your stomach, smiling when his eyes soften as your baby kicks. Then, three more hands join his. Your baby is coming into a special world.

[sweetpeterparker]

mystery girlfriend

( synopsis ) — when a random woman pops up in the bau looking for hotch, no one really knows who she is until accidentally stumbling upon a moment they definitely shouldn’t of had seen.

( warning ) — implications, nothing really happens in detail though. just a needy hotch! this is a reupload. no bot this time, got lazy :[.

( taglist ) — @cherrygirlfriend @jclolz22 @pittsick @voidsuites @bluestrd @b1tchyr1ichy [to be added]

No one truly knew much about Aaron Hotchner's personal life following his divorce from Haley. He was notoriously private, reserved even among close colleagues.

Unlike Morgan, who wore charm like cologne, Hotch never flirted, never hinted at a workplace crush, never so much as entertained office gossip.

The general consensus was that he simply went home to an empty apartment and a quiet, solitary routine. But that couldn't have been further from the truth.

Each evening, Aaron returned home to you. His radiant, warm hearted girlfriend. You met him at the door with that bright, effortless smile, wrapping your arms around his neck, pressing a soft kiss to his lips, grounding him in a peace he rarely found elsewhere.

It wasn't something he broadcasted. His relationship with you was his own.. private, meaningful, and not something he felt compelled to share with coworkers. Especially not Morgan.

That privacy, however, came crashing down on a rare paperwork heavy day. The team was still at their desks, buried in reports, when the elevator doors opened and you walked confidently into the bullpen. All heads turned as you made your way over to the first familiar, looking face, Emily Prentiss.

"Hi," you greeted with a kind smile, a paper bag in hand. "I was looking for Aaron? I'm dropping off his lunch."

Emily blinked, clearly caught off guard. "Hotch?" she repeated, brows raised. "His office is just over-" But before she could finish, Hotch was already descending the steps from his office, eyes only for you.

"Hey, sweetheart," he murmured, his hand settling instinctively on the small of your back as he gently ushered you away from the now very curious stares of his team.

"Not so fast, Hotch!" Morgan called out behind him, followed closely by Emily, JJ, and Reid. "You're not going to introduce us?" Emily added, a playful glint in her eye.

"No," Hotch replied without missing a beat, smoothly guiding you into his office and closing the door behind you, shutting out the murmurs from the bullpen.

You laughed softly, leaning against his desk, still holding the lunch bag. "Work got you all grumpy?"

"Not work," he said, stepping closer with a faint smile. "Just them." He took the bag from your hand, setting it aside before pressing a lingering kiss to your lips.

You giggled against his mouth, looping your arms around his neck as he steadied himself with a hand on the desk behind you. "Thank you for lunch," he whispered.

"Of course." You reached up to wipe a smudge of your lip gloss from his mouth, making him chuckle as he playfully nipped at your finger.

"There's pasta, some greens, and I slipped in a snack cake. Just in case," you added with a grin.

"A snack cake?" he teased, raising an eyebrow. "What am I, ten?" Still smiling, he moved around to his chair and sat down. "Why don't you stay with me while I eat?"

You followed, walking around the desk and settling onto his lap. His arm wrapped securely around your waist, hand resting warmly against your stomach as he tilted his head to press a kiss just beneath your ear.

You smiled at first until the kiss lingered, deepened, his mouth moving deliberately against your skin. You squirmed slightly, breath catching.

"Aaron?" you murmured.

He didn't answer with words, just a hum of affirmation as his other hand pulled you closer.

"Turn around," he murmured, voice low and coaxing.

You obeyed, as you always did, shifting to straddle his lap. His hands found their place on your hips, then lower, as his lips sought yours once more with increasing urgency.

Outside the office, Spencer's voice broke the stunned silence. “Guys... maybe we should get back to work."

The rest of the team stood frozen, eyes wide and cheeks red, as they quickly realized that Hotch had, for once, forgotten to close the blinds.

All of them staring just long enough to see Aaron's hand slip somewhere it definitely shouldn't have in a federal building.

"I didn't see anything," JJ said quickly, turning around.

"Yep, back to work, back to work," Morgan muttered, practically jogging away.

Emily just blinked, then slowly followed, shaking her head. "Well. That explains the mystery girlfriend."

[sweetpeterparker]

i just stumbled across a spencer reid x reader series where she’s a professor and one of her students go missing so she has to ask Spencer and the bau for help

but before i could read it the page refreshed and I can’t find it :(( do any of you know whose story that is?

[sweetpeterparker]

secrets in the bureau

Aaron Hotchner x bau!reader ✩ 6.5k words

summary: you and Aaron are really good at hiding your relationship, or are you? or 5 times the team suspects you're together and 1 time they know for sure.

cw: fluff, typical criminal minds violence and topics

an: ahhh first hotch fic everrr, gonna have to write more cm stuff to get characterisations down but this feels like a nice first go

1.

"...so what do you think?" you ask, looking at Aaron – Hotch, technically, it is working hours – from across his desk. He glances up from his notes, the corner of his mouth twitching upward, an amused glint flickering in his eyes.

"You know the answer is yes, honey. Why are you even asking?"

"It's good manners," you say, your smile tugging wider as you inch forward in your chair, the toe of your shoe brushing his under the desk.

The truth is, you're both long past the need for politeness in these matters. If you want to stay over at Aaron's place, he's rarely, if ever, given you a reason to think he wouldn’t want you there.

He shifts in his chair slightly, setting the file aside to give you his full focus. The look he gives you is equal parts exasperated and soft, which is just how he loves you: half amused by your formality, half undone by it.

“You could come over unannounced and I’d still find a way to make it feel like I’d planned for you to be there all day,” he says, voice low and steady, like everything with him is. “You know that.”

You do. You know it in the way his fridge is always stocked with the oat milk you like, even though he won't touch the stuff. You know it in the extra toothbrush in his drawer, the way your laundry ends up folded at the foot of his bed after a weekend, neatly nestled between his dark t-shirts and pressed slacks.

Still, you like asking. You like that you can.

Hotch watches you for a beat, the silence stretching warm between you. Then he leans back in his chair, a slow breath leaving him like he's reluctant to shift back into Unit Chief mode, but he does because he’s nothing if not disciplined.

"You know something else, too," he says, eyes flicking down toward the folder on his desk before sliding back to meet yours.

You tilt your head, curious, a smile still ghosting on your lips. "What’s that?"

"That your break is over," he says, holding out the file across the desk, tone smooth but with the tiniest lilt of playfulness only you would catch. “And you need to go back to work.”

You glance at the file, then back at him, lifting a brow like you’re considering the offer. He’s in full supervisory mode now, except for the way he’s watching you too closely, his expression too fond.

You lean forward slowly, drawing it out, your hand hovering just short of the folder. "I think I’ll be alright," you murmur, feigning confidence, "my boss seems to have a soft spot for me."

The moment your fingers brush the edge of the file, he pulls it back with the smallest shake of his head, his mouth twitching again at the corners. Not quite a smile, not quite not, either.

"That might be true," he says quietly. "But don’t push your luck."

Aaron holds your gaze for a moment longer. Then, as if he just can’t help himself, he pushes up from his chair and rounds the desk in one fluid, practiced motion. You track him with your eyes, but your body stays still, waiting.

He stops in front of you, close enough that the scent of his cologne settles into the air between you. With that same maddening composure, he places the file in your lap, fingers brushing your thigh just enough to make your pulse skip.

“You’re not above paperwork,” he says softly, but the words are barely finished before he leans down and presses a quick kiss to your lips.

It’s the kind of kiss that feels like it costs him something to keep it brief.

But you aren’t finished. You tilt your face up before he can pull away fully, catching his jaw with your fingertips. You press back into him, just a little longer, a little deeper. His breath hitches, hands tightening against the arms of your chair like he’s not sure if he’s supposed to stop or pull you closer.

Hotch barely has time to blink before the knock comes.

You spring apart like teenagers caught in the act, both of you straightening instinctively—him taking a full step back, you smoothing the front of your shirt as you rise from the chair, face composed but pulse racing. You know you're standing too close, close enough that the air still feels warm between you, and for a second, neither of you moves.

Then the door creaks open.

Emily leans halfway in, eyes flicking from Hotch to you. She's not smirking, not yet - but her brow does lift, just enough to say: Interesting.

You clear your throat lightly, stepping aside as if you hadn’t just been kissing your boss at his desk. “Thanks for going over that file with me, Hotch,” you say, voice clear, maybe a little too deliberate. “Really helped.”

 “Of course. Let me know if you need anything else.”

Emily’s gaze lingers on you for a moment longer. “JJ’s rounding everyone up in the conference room.” she says lightly.

You nod, making your way to the door with a quick “Got it,” and Emily steps back to let you pass. She waits a beat, then glances back over her shoulder at Hotch.

“Everything alright in here, sir?” she asks, the barest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth now. 

Hotch’s expression doesn’t shift. “Just going over case material.”

Emily hums noncommittally, clearly unconvinced but not pushing it. “Right. Very thorough, I’m sure.”

You catch the look she shoots you as you walk side by side down the hallway. You don’t say anything, and neither does she. But you know she knows. Or at least suspects.

2.

The case, as a lot of them are, is long and hard.

Cruelty that sinks into your bones and stays there, no matter how many hours you spend scrubbing it out under fluorescent lighting. You found the unsub and you brought him in, but no one really feels like they won.

The jet is quiet on the way home, lit only by the occasional blink of overhead lights and the low hum of the engines beneath your feet. You sit in the back corner by yourself, turned toward the window, cheek pressed lightly against your knuckles. It's dark out, nothing but clouds and sky and your own reflection staring back at you, tired and smudged at the edges.

At first, it was the usual: Morgan with his headphones in, head nodding slightly to some beat no one else can hear. Reid halfway through a dog-eared paperback. Emily curled sideways with her jacket for a pillow, Rossi sipping quietly at a scotch.

Aaron sat at his usual spot, paperwork spread neatly across the table in front of him. His pen scratched steadily for a while, methodical as ever. But even that faded eventually.

Now it’s just you and him.

Everyone else has drifted into sleep, slumped shoulders, legs stretched awkwardly into aisles, exhaustion settling over the cabin like a soft blanket. You hear Reid murmur something in his sleep and shift, but otherwise, the silence is heavy. Restful.

You’re so deep in thought you don’t hear the soft creak of leather as Aaron rises from his seat. Don’t notice the subtle hush of movement as he crosses to the kitchenette. The sound of a mug being set down, water pouring, the paper rustle of a teabag unwrapped – all of it folds into the white noise of the flight, lost beneath the whirring engines and the thick fog in your mind.

He moves the way he always does, like he knows time will wait for him. Like even gravity might hold off for a second, if he asked it nicely.

When he finally comes back, you only register him when the cushion beside you shifts under his weight. The faint scent of chamomile and citrus drifts upward, followed by the gentle clink of ceramic placed on the small table in front of you.

You blink, slow, as you turn your head.

Aaron’s watching you – not with concern, exactly, but something gentler. Something steadier. A softness in his eyes that no one else on this plane ever gets to see. You’re not sure they’d believe it if they did.

He glances at the tea, then back to you.

“I thought it might help,” he says, voice low, barely threading through the quiet.

You look down at the mug then back at him. “Thanks,” you murmur. Your voice is hoarse. You hadn’t realized how long it had been since you spoke.

There’s a beat of silence before he speaks again, even more gently this time.

“You alright?”

You nod instinctively, but then shake your head, just once.

“I don’t know,” you admit.

He doesn’t say anything right away. Just reaches over, his hand brushing against yours. When your fingers curl around his, his thumb sweeps across the back of your hand. He doesn’t ask for more. He never does. He just holds you like that, quiet and steady.

You both sit there for a while, the silence stretching long again.

You sip the tea slowly, the heat grounding, the taste comforting. His shoulder rests against yours, warm and solid, and neither of you moves away.

“I hate that it still gets to me,” you say finally, not looking at him. “You’d think I’d be used to it by now.”

His hand squeezes yours.

“I hope you never do,” he says, quiet but steady. “The day this stops getting to you is the day you’ve lost the part of yourself that makes you good at this, sweetheart.”

You don’t respond, but your grip tightens slightly around his, and he feels it. You know he does.

The tea is still warm in your hands when your eyelids start to slip. You don’t fight it. Not when his shoulder is right there, solid and warm.

You’re barely awake when he leans in, the press of his lips to your temple so light it could almost be imagined. But it’s not.

So you sleep.

-

When you wake, the world feels dim and weightless, the hush of descent in your ears, cabin lights low but brightening gradually. You blink against the dry air and shift slightly, realizing two things in the same breath.

Aaron is no longer beside you.

And you're warm. Too warm, actually.

You glance down to find his suit jacket draped across your front, heavy and crisp and unmistakably his. It’s folded in that way he does everything: precise, considered, like the act of keeping you comfortable matters more than anything else. The scent of him clings to the fabric – clean laundry, faint spice, and something uniquely his that you could pick out of a crowd without trying.

You’re reaching to smooth it over your lap when movement draws your attention. He’s walking back to the front of the jet, toward the files he’d left abandoned hours ago. The light overhead catches against the curve of his jaw, the familiar line of his shoulders. And just before he sits, he turns.

His eyes find you instantly.

You hold it for a second, that look, storing it somewhere behind your ribs where all the quiet, important things live.

Then you catch motion from the corner of your eye.

Spencer’s awake, sitting sideways in his seat a few rows ahead, blinking blearily behind his glasses. His book is open in his lap, but it’s clear he hasn’t read a word in a while. He’s looking between you and Hotch, his brows slightly furrowed, like he’s working a problem he doesn’t have all the variables for.

Thank god his genius brain takes a few minutes to start up after a nap.

You straighten a little, clearing your throat and nudging the jacket higher on your lap like it’s perfectly normal for your boss’s clothes to be draped over you mid-flight. Then you turn to Spencer with the airiest voice you can muster:

“Spence, what have you been reading?”

It works, somewhat.

He blinks, focusing on you as his brain shifts tracks. “Oh. Um.” He lifts the book like he’s only just remembered it’s there. “It’s a comparative analysis of the evolution of moral frameworks in isolated societies. There's this fascinating case study–”

You smile, nodding as you listen, letting his words fill the space. It’s enough to distract him, at least from whatever observations he was starting to piece together. And it's more than enough to keep your thoughts from drifting back to the warmth still lingering on your skin, or the weight of that kiss you’re still not entirely convinced you didn’t dream.

From the corner of your eye, you catch Aaron settling back in with his files, expression calm but unreadable again.

3.

It starts with a lull in the afternoon, one of those rare moments in the bullpen when the cases are filed, reports are done (mostly), and the coffee's gone lukewarm but no one wants to get up to fix it. The low hum of keyboards and the occasional rustle of paper fills the air, a kind of peace, however temporary.

You're halfway through your third report of the day, pen uncapped and mouth twisted in concentration, when Morgan leans across the short wall of your desk, drumming his fingers lightly against the divider.

"So, what’s the deal with you?" he asks, casual but too pointed for it to be offhand.

You blink at him, glancing up from your paperwork. "Clarify, please."

He grins like he’s been waiting for you to bite. “I’m just saying. We’ve known each other how long now? Three years? And I don’t think I’ve ever seen you even flirt with anyone.”

“Maybe I’m just selective,” you say without looking up, though the smirk tugging at your mouth threatens to betray you.

Emily’s head pops up from the other side of her monitor like a meerkat. “Selective or nonexistent? Because Morgan has a point. You’re attractive, smart, not a serial killer—what gives?”

Across from you, Reid glances over with a tiny frown, clearly confused as to how this became the topic of conversation. "Are we ranking coworker eligibility now?"

“No,” you say, “we are not. They are.” You gesture at Morgan and Emily with your pen. “And I don’t date because I’m too busy.”

“Too busy?” Emily echoes, incredulous. “Come on, you make time for what matters.”

You give a noncommittal shrug and flip a page in the file you’re reviewing. “Maybe nothing’s mattered enough.”

Morgan huffs. “You’re telling me no one’s even caught your eye lately?”

You barely have to think to keep your expression neutral, your tone light. “Nope.”

There’s a rustle of movement behind you, a door opening at the far end of the bullpen. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Hotch stepping out of his office, file in hand, brow furrowed with that familiar look of concentration he always wears when he’s mid-thought. He glances around the room, then straight to you, like instinct. Like muscle memory.

You don’t meet his eyes, but you feel the moment he finds you. You feel it like a current, like the way your shoulders relax half a degree before you can stop them.

“Really?” Morgan presses, watching you too closely now. “No one?”

You glance up, keep your voice calm. “You ever try scheduling a date between a cross-country manhunt and a twelve-hour flight delay?”

“You think we haven’t?” Emily snorts.

Hotch’s footsteps pause just outside the group’s periphery, and you feel him hovering there — listening. You’d bet money on it.

“Well,” you say, flicking your pen across the page as if it’s just any other day, “I'm perfectly happy as I am now.”

Hotch moves finally, continuing toward the conference room, his voice low and even as he passes.

“Briefing in ten.”

He doesn’t look at you as he says it, not directly, but his hand brushes the back of your chair lightly. So lightly it might’ve gone unnoticed by anyone who wasn’t already watching too closely.

You don’t move. Just nod. “Got it.”

The moment he’s out of earshot, Morgan narrows his eyes at you. “That was weirdly… cordial.”

“Maybe he’s just in a good mood,” you reply, deadpan.

Emily mutters, “Which would be weirder.”

But they let it drop, mostly because the briefing’s about to start, and because the day’s quiet never lasts long. Still, Morgan gives you one last look before turning toward the conference room.

4.

The morning sunlight filtering through Aaron’s bedroom is soft and pale. It falls in golden streaks across the sheets, the hardwood floor, and the line of his bare shoulder where the covers have slipped down during the night.

You shift slowly, your leg sliding along his under the covers, your face still tucked into the space just below his collarbone. His hand is still resting low on your back, thumb tracing lazy circles against your skin like he’s mapping you in his sleep.

“Are you awake?” you whisper, voice thick with sleep.

“Mmm,” Aaron murmurs, the sound rumbling through his chest and into your cheek.

You smile, eyes still closed. “Five more minutes, Handsome?”

“That’s fine,” he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice even before you feel him press a kiss to your temple. “You got it.”

You shift again, curling closer, and he chuckles quietly at the way you practically climb on top of him. He smells like sleep and shampoo and the detergent you’ve secretly switched his sheets to without telling him — because the old ones smelled like hotel soap and starch. These smell like home.

“God,” you mutter, “can’t believe we have to work today.”

Aaron hums, his hand still steady on your back. “We can’t be late again.”

“We won’t be, you’re so dramatic.”

“We won’t be,” he repeats, more teasing now. “Yeah, right.”

You lift your head, finally, meeting his sleepy brown eyes and a smug smile. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet here you are,” he says, tugging you forward by the back of your neck, slow and easy, until your lips meet his.

The kiss starts soft – sleepy and unhurried – but quickly deepens, his hand sliding up under your shirt, the weight of it grounding you. You sigh into his mouth, shifting to press him deeper into the pillows, and he lets you, his other hand sliding along your waist like he’s not ready to let go yet either.

Eventually, unfortunately, he does pull back, eyes flicking open again.

“If we don’t stop, we’re going to be very late,” he says, voice low and a little ruined now.

You kiss the edge of his jaw in retaliation. “That sounds like a you problem.”

He groans, but he’s already sitting up, scrubbing a hand through his hair. 

He tosses you a look over his shoulder and leans down for one last kiss, slow and deliberate, before he gets up and heads to the shower. He pauses in the doorway, looking at you swaddled in his sheets like you’ve been dropped there by some vengeful sleep deity.

“I’ll be ten minutes.”

You whine softly, rolling over dramatically. “You’re abandoning me, cruel man.”

“You’ll survive, honey,” he says, smirking as he disappears into the bathroom and flicks on the water.

You stay in bed for another few minutes, eyes closed, completely content. You can still feel the press of his lips on your neck, still smell the citrus of his aftershave lingering in the sheets.

And then his phone rings.

You groan again, dragging yourself upright. The screen lights up—JJ.

Your heart skips, just slightly.

You let it ring out.

A few seconds later, your phone buzzes on the nightstand. You don’t even look before answering.

“Hey,” you say, clearing your throat. “What’s up?”

“We’ve got something,” JJ says. “Need everyone here, as soon as possible.”

“Okay. I’ll be ready in fifteen.”

“Thanks. I already tried Hotch, but he didn’t answer—can you try calling him?”

You blink. “Oh—yeah. I’ll, um… I’ll let him know.”

There’s a pause. Just long enough.

JJ’s voice is too casual when she says, “Thanks.”

And then, just as you’re about to hang up, you hear it.

“Honey?” Aaron’s voice, muffled but unmistakably clear, drifting out from the steamy bathroom. “Do you know if I left my belt on the—?”

You fumble to hang up the phone.

Too late.

There’s a beat of silence on JJ’s end. You can practically hear the way her eyes narrow.

You clear your throat again, face hot. “I—um. I’ll pass it along.”

“…Sure,” she says slowly. “See you soon.”

Sure enough, when you get to the office later that morning, JJ barely glances up from her folder.

“Morning,” she says sweetly. “You two sleep well?”

You don’t answer.

Aaron – your ever-collected, ever-disciplined Aaron – freezes just long enough to give the entire game away.

JJ just smiles.

And keeps reading.

5.

You’re hunched over a map of the city, elbows on the edge of the conference room table, red and blue pushpins scattered across the surface like confetti from a very grim party. Spencer leans over your shoulder, pointing at the area just north of the river.

“I’m telling you,” he says, tapping the map with the end of his pen, “the pattern holds if you factor in the population density from the census before the most recent one. It’s consistent with a comfort zone radius, even if it doesn’t look like it at first glance.”

You nod, squinting at the outline of streets and intersections. “So the unsub’s older, maybe? Operating off memory instead of current data? That would explain the anomaly in the last dump site.”

“Exactly. I mean, he might even be—” Spencer pauses, leaning closer, voice dropping conspiratorially. “—using a mental map that hasn’t updated since he lived here, assuming he moved away and came back. Like visiting old haunts.”

You raise an eyebrow. “That’s depressingly poetic.”

He grins. “A lot of serial killers are.”

You’re just about to reply when the conference room door swings open harder than necessary.

Hotch.

His expression is tight, jaw clenched, eyes sharp and tired in that dangerous way that means he’s too deep in it. His gaze sweeps over the map, the markers, and then the two of you. His eyes linger on the way Spencer’s leaning in, innocent enough, but close..

“Is this part of the profile?” he asks, voice clipped.

You blink, caught off guard. “What?”

“The conversation,” he says, straighter now. “Does it have anything to do with the case? Because if not, maybe we can stay focused.”

Spencer pulls back immediately, blinking. “We were just discussing—”

“I’m not interested in discussion. I want results.” Hotch doesn’t raise his voice – he never really does – but the tone alone is sharp enough to make Spencer recoil slightly. You feel your spine stiffen automatically.

“We are working,” you say, slower now. “We’ve been narrowing the comfort zone down to two square miles. The pins—”

“I don’t want excuses,” he cuts in. “If you’ve got something, put it on the board. Otherwise stop wasting time.”

Then he turns on his heel and walks out, the door snapping shut behind him like a slap.

The silence he leaves in his wake is thick. You glance at Spencer, who’s looking down at the map like it just personally betrayed him.

“Okay,” he says quietly, “that was… intense.”

“Yeah,” you mutter, pressing a palm to your forehead. “He’s been like this all day.”

It’s not a lie. The second the briefing started, Hotch had been on edge, pacing too much, correcting people mid-sentence. You knew the case was getting to him, and you knew what it meant when he got like this – when his control frayed and he lashed out not because he was angry, but because he was terrified of making the wrong call. Of losing someone.

But knowing that didn’t make it easier to be on the receiving end.

Especially not in front of everyone else.

You’re still rubbing your temple when Morgan appears beside you.

“Hey,” he says, nudging your shoulder. “You got a second?”

You nod, rising slowly as Spencer gives you an apologetic look and turns back to the map. Morgan leads you out of the conference room and down the hall, away from the rest of the team.

When he stops, he crosses his arms and leans against the wall like he’s gearing up for a talk. You groan internally.

“I know that look,” you say. “And I don’t like it.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Then stop making me use it.”

You fold your arms, mirroring him. “What?”

“You know what,” he says. “Hotch is being a dick. To everyone. And I know he’s stressed, I know this case is brutal, but it’s getting in the way.”

“I agree.”

He tilts his head. “Okay, so talk to him.”

You blink. “What? Why would I—”

“Because he listens to you.”

Your stomach flips. You hope to God it doesn’t show on your face.

“I’m not magic, Morgan.”

“No,” he says, voice low but pointed. “But you’re the only person he hasn’t completely snapped in half yet.”

You snort. “He just bit my head off in there.”

“Yeah,” he says slowly, “but he look too happy with himself after.”

You roll your eyes, trying very hard not to let your expression crack. “That’s a stretch.”

He just gives you a look. The kind that says don’t bullshit me, I have eyes.

You stare at him, exasperated. “Why does everyone assume I can fix it just because I—”

You stop yourself before you say love him.

Morgan doesn’t blink. “Because you calm him. He has a soft spot for you”

You sigh, slumping against the wall beside him. “Fine. I’ll talk to him. But no promises.”

He smiles, finally, clapping a warm hand to your shoulder. “I’ll take it.”

You wait until he disappears back into the conference room before you head down the hallway, toward the local precinct’s makeshift office where you know Hotch has holed himself up.

You’re already rehearsing what you’ll say: something about how his tension is bleeding into the team, how he needs to remember they’re on his side, how he can’t fix this case by destroying himself from the inside out.

But when you reach the door, it’s cracked just slightly – and inside, you see him.

Elbows on the desk. Head in his hands. Shoulders tight.

You stop. Because for a second, he doesn’t look like the man who barked orders ten minutes ago. He looks… tired. Scared. Like all of this has sunk too deep under his skin.

You raise your hand, knock softly.

His head lifts instantly. The second he sees it’s you, something in his face softens. He sits back slowly, composing himself, but it’s too late. You’ve already seen the unraveling.

You step inside and close the door gently behind you.

“Hi,” you say quietly.

He looks up at you, exhausted. “If you’re here to tell me I’m being an asshole, you don’t need to. I already know.”

You blink. Then let out a slow breath. “Okay. Well, that saves me a speech.”

He leans back, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I didn’t mean to snap at you. Or Reid. Or anyone.”

“I know,” you say gently, stepping closer. “But they don’t.”

He nods. Doesn’t argue. Just looks at you like maybe your presence alone is enough to let him breathe again.

After a beat, he says, quieter: “I’m afraid we’re going to miss something. That someone’s going to get hurt. And I’m pushing too hard because I don’t know what else to do.”

You step in front of him now, between him and the desk, and crouch just enough so you can meet his eyes. Your hand slides over his where it rests on his knee.

“Then let us help you,” you say. “Let me help you.”

His eyes search yours, and for a second, there’s nothing but the space between your breaths. Then he nods, barely.

You squeeze his hand once. “Come back in. Apologize. Let’s get this guy.”

His lips twitch, just slightly. “You’re bossy when you’re right.”

“And I’m always right,” you reply, and lean in to press a fleeting kiss to the corner of his mouth.

It lingers a second too long.

You pull back and then you hear it.

A cough. Somewhere behind you.

You turn just in time to catch Rossi in the doorway, brows lifted, a coffee in each hand.

He arches an eyebrow. “This is cozy.”

You freeze.

Hotch just sighs and mutters, “Dave...”

Rossi grins. “Learn to lock a door, Aaron.”

He winks and disappears down the hallway before either of you can respond.

You look back at Aaron.

He looks like he’s aged ten years in ten seconds.

“He already knew, didn’t he?”

“Yeah, honey.”

+1.

The call comes in fast. Too fast.

One minute you’re clearing a low-rise apartment complex with Morgan and Emily on your six, the next, there’s shouting, an unexpected backdoor escape, a scuffle, the unsub slipping through hands you thought were ready to catch him. You see the knife before anyone else does.

You don’t think. You move.

And then–

White-hot pain.

It's sharp and sudden, flaring across your side as the unsub lashes out and the blade sinks in just beneath your ribs. You hit the ground hard, knees scraping against cracked linoleum, and your breath punches out of your lungs before you can even process the impact.

You hear shouting again – Emily’s voice, Morgan’s, someone barking for medics – but it’s all underwater now. Muffled. Warped. The adrenaline is already fading, replaced by a nauseating chill that starts at your fingertips and crawls inward.

You press your hand to the wound and it comes away slick.

Shit.

Morgan’s face looms above you next, eyes wide, voice sharp. He’s pressing down on your side with both hands, trying to slow the bleeding.

“Stay with me,” he says. “Don’t you dare close your eyes, you hear me?”

You want to answer. Want to reassure him. But your lips feel slow, and your mind is already spinning sideways.

Then there’s another voice. Quieter, rougher, but sharper than a knife through fog.

“Aaron—she’s hurt bad.”

You don’t see him at first. You only feel the way Morgan shifts to let someone else take his place, the way the air changes as Aaron drops to his knees beside you, one hand immediately replacing Morgan’s at your side.

He’s pale. Jaw locked so tight it looks painful. But his eyes, his eyes are wild. 

“Hey,” he says, too calm, too quiet. “Stay with me.”

You blink up at him, trying to smile. “Wasn’t... planning to go anywhere.”

His expression cracks. Just barely.

You feel his hand slide up, cupping your cheek like you might vanish if he blinks.

“You’re going to be fine,” he says, but it doesn’t sound like a promise. It sounds like a plea.

Your fingers twitch, reaching for him. He catches your hand like it’s instinct, like he was already halfway there.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

Aaron shakes his head once, fierce and immediate. “Don’t. Don’t do that.”

But you’re already fading, the pain morphing into something floaty and distant. You don’t know when the medics arrive. You don’t hear the sirens. You just feel Aaron’s hand in yours, tight and shaking slightly.

And the last thing you register before your world goes black is the sound of his voice – no longer calm, no longer careful – shouting your name.

-

You wake up to beeping.

Soft, steady, mechanical. A rhythm that feels like it’s been there forever, lulling you in and out of something thick and dark.

It takes a minute before your eyes crack open.

The hospital ceiling is blurry, too white, and the lights overhead are too bright. Your mouth is dry, your throat worse.

You shift, barely, and that’s when the pain comes.

Dull but deep. A throb just under your ribs, blooming out slow and insistent like a warning bell. Your face twists in a grimace, and a sound escapes your throat before you can stop it.

Instantly – instantly – there’s a hand on yours.

Not a nurse. Not a doctor. Not one of those brisk, impersonal touches meant to check your vitals and vanish again.

No. This is different.

This hand is warm. Familiar. Fingers wrapping around yours like an anchor.

You blink again, and your vision clears just enough to see him.

Aaron.

Slumped forward in the hospital chair, suit jacket discarded on the back of it, tie loosened but still intact. There’s stubble on his jaw, more than usual, and deep bruises under his eyes, like sleep gave up on him days ago. His hand is clasped in yours like he never left your side.

Because he didn’t.

He feels your fingers twitch and bolts upright, the chair screeching slightly beneath him.

“Hey,” he breathes, and it sounds like the first time he’s spoken in hours.

You try to smile. It’s weak. Pathetic, probably. 

“Hey,” you rasp.

His eyes flick over your face, wild with relief and something else, still settling behind his ribs.

“You scared the hell out of me,” he says, voice thick.

You squeeze his hand—or try to. “I scared me.”

That gets a half-laugh out of him. It’s broken, but it’s there.

You take a shallow breath, testing your lungs. “What happened?”

“You lost a lot of blood. The knife missed anything vital, but barely.” He swallows hard. “You were in surgery for two hours. They had to give you a transfusion. You’ve been out for almost a day.”

Your brows lift slowly. “Wow. Overachiever.”

Aaron exhales, shaking his head. “You’re unbelievable.”

You’re quiet for a second, watching him. The tightness in his shoulders, the rawness in his voice. You reach for him again, slower this time.

“I’m okay,” you say softly, your fingers brushing over the back of his hand.

Aaron doesn’t move at first. Just watches you like he’s still waiting for the other shoe to drop, like if he lets himself believe it, the universe will punish him for the audacity.

You blink at him again, taking in the state of him now that your vision’s steadier. The wrinkled shirt, the undone top button, the half-drunk cup of coffee sitting cold on the bedside table. The dark smudges under his eyes make him look so sad.

“You haven’t left,” you murmur.

It’s not a question.

Aaron shakes his head once. “Didn’t want to.”

You arch a brow. Or try to — it feels more like a flutter of effort than expression. “Aaron... have you even gone home? Or... showered?”

His silence is damning.

“Have you slept?” you push, and your voice cracks halfway through, too dry, too rough.

“I don’t want to leave you here by yourself,” he says simply.

“Aaron.” You pause until he meets your eyes again. “I’ll be fine. Just for an hour. Go... sort yourself out.”

His jaw twitches. “What if you sleep and wake up again and I’m not—”

“Then I’ll be annoyed for five minutes and then I’ll fall asleep again,” you cut in. “Seriously. I don’t need a guard dog.”

He doesn’t look convinced.

So you lean your head back against the pillow and muster your most unimpressed tone: “If you don’t go, I’m going to ask Rossi to make you.”

As if summoned, there’s a knock at the door and a familiar head peeks in.

Rossi.

Followed by Morgan. Then JJ. Emily and Reid right behind. Garcia’s holding a bouquet that’s half her height and bright enough to sear through the fluorescent lighting.

“You rang?” Rossi says with a knowing look, already striding toward the bed.

Aaron stands stiffly, caught in the headlights.

“Perfect timing,” you murmur, letting your gaze flick toward Hotch. “Rossi, can you do me a favour?”

Rossi crosses his arms. “Of course.”

“Make him leave for, like... forty-five minutes. An hour. Long enough to eat and shower. Or sleep. Whichever comes first.”

Aaron huffs through his nose, not quite a protest, but not agreement either. Rossi doesn’t wait.

“You heard the patient,” he says, already taking Aaron by the elbow like it’s a done deal. “Come on. I’ll even buy you real coffee.”

“I’m not—” Aaron starts, but Rossi just tightens his grip.

“You’re not doing anyone any favors walking around looking like that. She’s safe. We’ve got her.”

And somehow, it’s that —the weight of trust in Rossi’s voice— that finally gets Aaron to nod. He squeezes your hand once more, like he’s leaving behind something vital, and then lets go.

“I’ll be back,” he says.

“I know,” you whisper, and you mean it.

Once he’s gone, the rest of the team crowds in, careful and gentle.

JJ brushes a hand down your arm and gives you a smile that’s equal parts motherly and relieved. “You scared the hell out of us.”

“Join the club,” you rasp, eyes flicking toward the IV in your arm. “Ten out of ten. Would not recommend.”

Morgan chuckles and drops into the chair Aaron vacated. “You still managed to take the guy down. Stab wound and all.”

“I just slowed him down. You all did the rest.”

“You gave us the opening,” Emily says softly. “That’s more than enough.”

Garcia sets the flowers down by the window and nudges the edge of your blanket with uncharacteristic caution. “When you’re better, I’m throwing a movie night. And you’re not allowed to say no.”

“I’ll be there,” you whisper. 

Emily clears her throat and tips her head toward the door, where Aaron disappeared minutes ago.

“For what it’s worth...” she says carefully, her voice low and sincere, “we’re really happy for you both.”

JJ nods, smile gentle. “Seriously. It’s not exactly shocking.”

“We’ve seen the way he looks at you,” Garcia adds, her voice half a stage whisper, half delighted confession.

“You should’ve seen him when they wheeled you into surgery,” Morgan murmurs. “He looked ready to rip the whole ER apart just to stay with you.”

Your heart trips a little. You shift your gaze to the doorway, even though he’s long gone from sight.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” you say softly. “It just... did.”

“No one ever means to fall,” Rossi says from the hallway, returning with two coffees in hand. “The good ones just catch you.”

You smile again. This time, it doesn’t hurt quite so much.

“Thanks, guys.”

JJ squeezes your arm again. “Rest. We’ll be here when you wake up.”

And as you drift back down into the syrupy quiet, surrounded by the warmth of your team and the promise that he’ll be back —soon, always— you believe it.

[sweetpeterparker]

bad blood / scott miller x reader

summary: set after twisters. when scott initiates a lawsuit against javi and his new business partners, they choose to take you on as their attorney—no matter that you and scott were once high school sweethearts, that you still have his ring in your closet, or that things between you ended catastrophically six years past. this is business. no need to go down memory lane… right?

content warnings: f!reader, alcohol use, language, offscreen parental death, one open door scene (unprotected piv), couple angst, riggs is his own walking red flag, questionable legal ethics

word count: 21.6k (sorry, guys 😬)

author’s note: here it is! i tried to rein in the length, but clearly i failed ✌🏼 shoutout to @/hederasgarden and @/sailor-aviator for giving scott his fandom-approved surname. on a final note, i am not a lawyer, i took one (1) business law class in college, so don’t take my word on any of this and definitely don’t do stuff with your ex while he’s the opposing party in a case you’re working (but if it’s david corenswet, i meannnn… should anyone be blamed?)

PRESENT DAY OKLAHOMA CITY

Well-meaning, and with typical Arkansan practicality, Tyler Owens leaned back in his chair and said, “Javi, you need to chill out, man.”

Immediately, you knew it was the wrong thing to say.

“What makes you think I’m not? It's not like my entire livelihood is on the line or anything, so why would I not be chilled out?—Dammit!”

“Actually, lose the tie,” you suggested, having watched him fumble for the last five minutes. You were sure it was nerves that did it, not a lack of dexterity.

Javi sighed and let the two ends hang pathetically around his neck. “I thought I was supposed to wear one…”

“I think that’s only for court,” Kate put in, “like with an actual judge and stuff.”

“Maybe in the 1970s,” remarked Tyler under his breath. Javi glared. “Bro, it’s gonna be fine.”

“We should be out there, tracking tornadoes!” There was a mounted television in the little waiting area, playing a 24-hour news channel on mute. Javi gestured at the weather report. It was March, and Tornado Alley was looking active, “robust,” as the weatherman put it… not that your clients would know firsthand, seeing as they were stuck in a high-rise in the city instead of out in the fields of Sapulpa County. Kate and Tyler were watching the radar images with twin expressions of restless longing. Javi yanked the tie from his neck. “That son of a bitch knew exactly what he was doing, tying us up in meetings at this time of year.”

“Yeah, he did,” you replied. “I know it’s inconvenient as shit, but believe me, I’m going to do everything I can to get you back out on the field. There’s no reason for all three of you to be here. I mean, it’s the modern age: some of this could be a Zoom meeting.”

 “You think we’re gonna Zoom in the middle of a storm?” Tyler quipped. Kate turned to him with a chastising look.

She was clearly just about as done as her other two partners, but a lot more level-headed about the fact that they were being sued for everything they had. Which you appreciated. Suits between friends and former business associates had a tendency to turn into mud-slinging wars, and there was nothing you hated more than a client stuck in denial. Kate was the opposite. She was cool-headed, calm. A happy medium between Tyler’s annoyed outrage (“who does this guy think he is!”) and Javi’s frustrated melancholy (“guys, I’m sorry, this is all my fault”).

Right now, Javi was sinking well into the latter.

“Just remember we’re here for you, Javi.” Kate rubbed a soothing hand across his back. “All the way. We know this is personal.”

“Yeah, which means it’s gonna get ugly. I hate the thought of our company going under because I had shitty taste in business partners, you know?”

“Well, you don't anymore. That’s character growth,” Tyler pointed out. “Now, I’m no legal expert, but as far as I can see, he’s got no legs to stand on—”

You held up a finger. “Uh, that’s not entirely true…”

“—and he’s going to come out of this looking like a complete and total tool. Which he is! If he wants to spend all this time and boatloads of his uncle’s money on a belligerent witch hunt, then so be it.”

“You mean our time, our money,” said Javi.

Kate looked at you. “If this ends up going to court, is it likely he’ll win?”

You sighed. “Okay, listen.” You sat on the coffee table. There was no avoiding the sight of three pairs of eyes with varying degrees of hopefulness trained on you, hanging onto your every word. Javi you had known before, but after a brief acquaintance, you’d decided that you liked Kate and Tyler too, had even spent an hour or two watching Tornado Wrangler videos on YouTube, and, while storm chasing seemed, well, kind of unhinged, their enthusiasm was contagious. They were passionate, not in a purely thrill-seeking or overly scientific way. They actually cared. And you wanted them to win. “The whole point,” you explained, “is that we’re trying to avoid this going to trial. If you’re looking to cut down on the cost to your bottom line—not to mention how this could drag on for literal years—it’s best to reach a settlement before this ever sees the inside of a courtroom. Either way, things are going to get a little worse before they get better. But the point is a clean break, right? When all this is over, StormPAR will never have any sort of claim over you. You’ll be free to chase storms, build your doo-dads—”

That got you a trio of chuckles. Good, let them think you were a meteorological idiot; all the better to make them feel like a united front.

“—and it’ll be like Scott and Riggs never happened.”

“Sounds good to me,” Tyler said, that steely determination from his old rodeo days coming through.

Kate gave a nod. “No matter what, we’ll be okay”

Javi put his hand on your knee. “Thank you… for everything. I know this has gotta suck for you too.”

“Who, me?” you asked, feigning ignorance. “I’m fine.”

“Mm-hm…”

“Do I not look fine?”

“You look great,” Kate said honestly.

“Miller’s gonna shit his pants.”

“Tyler!”

“Hey, we’re up,” your assistant announced, her fingers not pausing for a second as she typed on her phone. Abby may have the social skills of a polar bear, but her organizational skills were top-notch and you relied on her predatory instincts. Plus, you were sure that her geometrically perfect French bob had magical powers.

Signaling for the others to follow, you made your way down a hallway bordered by walls banded in frosted glass, the sound of typing and muffled phone calls familiar and yet not. This was enemy territory. Having you meet here instead of at the offices of Conway & Fine was a calculated move.

Before entering the conference room, you took Tyler by the elbow. “Please just… try to behave yourself.”

Me? He pointed at his face.

“Yes, you! Don’t provoke him—as a matter of fact, don’t even look at him—don't piss him off unless you want to make this a hell of a lot worse for everyone. Capisce?”

“I’ll be the picture of civility.”

You shot him a skeptical look.

“I’ll be a gentleman!”

You glared. “Tyler Owens, I’m holding you to that.” Adjusting your power suit, you put on your best Professional Face. “Alright guys, it’s showtime.”

Through the glass, your eyes landed on Scott. The temptation to bolt left you breathless, though you couldn’t say whether you wanted to run towards or far, far away. You wouldn’t. You were all too aware of the people standing behind you, counting on you, while Scott himself had been a stranger to you for the last few years.

You owed him nothing; this was simply business, you reminded yourself.

Simply business.

He turned his head and spotted you, and kept his eyes on you as you opened the door.

TEN YEARS AGO PARK HAVEN, PENNSYLVANIA

You’d been working on the same calculus assignment for the last three-quarters of an hour, the sound of rain lashing against your window doing nothing for your frazzled nerves.  While math was by no means your obvious strong suit, you would have finished by now if you hadn’t spent most of it staring at the wall beneath your windowsill, bouncing your leg, tapping your pencil compulsively against the edge of your AP textbook and imagining all the ways in which your life could go horribly, unfixably wrong. An outcome that now seemed likely.

“You still have time, sweetheart,” your mom tried to say at dinner that night. She smiled at you and patted your hand. “It’s only March.”

“Exactly—it’s March!” you’d wanted to say, but bit your tongue. There wasn't any point; your mom would always believe you were capable of walking on the moon, which was lovely, you guessed. Or it would be, if all your classmates weren't overachievers and if a lot of them hadn't already received acceptance letters and stuck pennants to the inside of their lockers for all the rejects to see.

It was hopeless… you should’ve gotten an answer by now.

Tossing the book and papers away, you buried your face in your hands and tried to hold it together. The sleeves of your sweatshirt emanated a woodsy, clean smell, kind of like rain in a forest, and you breathed in deep to let it ground you.

Slowly, the intensity of the storm outside faded to background noise, no longer angry, insistent—it was only rain after all, only weather. You sniffed, feeling silly, and snuggled into the navy-blue sweatshirt, wrapping your arms around your knees. The gold lettering read NICHOLS ACADEMY ATHLETICS. On you, it was practically a dress, and you’d been living in it all week, ignoring Mom’s teases about how “you’re going to have to wash it at some point!” while your dad watched you pass by, saying nothing, only flipping the page of whatever biography he was reading, not wanting to comment or so much as reference your boyfriend of two years, who played center field on Nichols’s prize baseball team and from whom you’d stolen the sweatshirt after a date at the park.

Try as you might, your dad had never warmed up to Scott, but you thought it had more to do with an objection to Scott’s father rather than to Scott himself. The whole family’s trouble, he said once, prompting a fight that ended with you slamming your bedroom door and not speaking to him for two days, until your mom laid down the law and said she wouldn't have that sort of tension around the house.

He didn’t get it. Scott wasn't like his father—if anything, you saw the way his jaw tensed whenever he heard rumors (whispered, unless intended to get a rise out of him by a school rival) about the private club scenes, the drinking, the reckless gambling, the other women. Of course your straitlaced dad assumed the apple wouldn't fall too far from the tree, but you knew Scott. You trusted him. And, fine, so you were seventeen, but you knew you wanted to spend the rest of your life with him—it happened, didn't it?

Granted, this was why that damned letter was so important. It was the perfect plan… so long as Scott got into MIT, which seemed like a given, and you into Harvard, the culmination of four years of meticulous planning and candle-burning work. But what if it didn’t happen? Could your relationship survive the time and long distance? As much as you hoped so, you didn’t want to find out.

Out of nowhere came sharp rap at your window. Startled, you looked up to see a familiar face peering through the rain-lashed glass, and automatically you sprang to your feet. “Scott! What the hell were you thinking!” you hissed, mindful of your parents, probably in bed at this hour. He paused halfway through the window, pretending offense.

“Wow, okay, here I thought I was making a big romantic gesture…”

“You’re soaking wet! You could’ve fallen and broken your neck!”

As you lowered and latched the window behind him, trying to be as quiet as possible, he defended, “I’m a tree connoisseur. If anything, I’m a that-tree connoisseur and she’s never let me down before. Literally. Sturdy branches on her.”

He had a point there. The tree directly outside your bedroom window had played makeshift ladder to him over the last couple of years—not that your parents were any the wiser. If your dad knew, he’d go straight to the nearest hardware store and buy the ax himself. (What he would do with that ax, having never done a day’s manual labor in his life besides recreational fishing, was beyond you.)

You shook your head, watching Scott drip all over the hardwood. God, he was stunning.

And there was a chance you might lose him forever in a few months.

You felt the sting in your throat and behind your eyes. “I’ll go get you a towel,” you said, averting your face and turning towards the ensuite so you could get a few seconds to yourself. He caught you by the wrist and spun you into his body.

“Wait a minute, kiss me first,” he demanded, a cocky grin on his face. You managed to see a flash of it before his lips met yours. You closed your eyes in spite of everything, melting into the kiss, into Scott, because it was as easy as breathing and just as pointless trying to resist.

His cheeks were cold, his mouth warm. Coaxing. The pressure of his hands on your waist like an anchor in the storm. He was perfect for you. How could you belong with anyone else? It was impossible.

His tongue brushed your bottom lip, and it was a move so practiced, so instinctive, so perfectly well-known, that it made the fear swell in your chest again. You held onto the front of his rain-drenched hoodie, breaking the kiss. Your breathing was ragged. You felt you could burst.

“You’re insane,” you tried to cover, burying your head in his chest. “My dad will kill you if he catches you.”

He took a step back and tilted your face up, gently, by the chin. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you replied.

“Tell me.”

Instead of answering, you made your way to the bathroom and got a towel out of the linen closet. You could feel Scott’s questioning gaze, but he waited, rubbing the towel across his head, brows knitted together as you hesitated, still trying to hedge. “I just—we have that exam next week and I’ve fallen behind on calc and I think I’m going to have to start over on my AP Civ end-of-the-year project, and my mom—”

“Your mom’s great,” Scott interjected.

“Why, d’you want her?”

He pursed his lips. As soon as you said it, you knew that it had sounded kind of bitchy.

“Fine, okay. She’s great, she’s just… trying to help.”

“Is this about Drexler getting her Harvard letter? Because it’s only—”

“It's only March. Yeah. That’s what Mom said. But I’m cutting it close, right? Some people got their letters in December, Scott—December!” You looked down at your feet. “I’m not going to get in.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Well, it sure feels like it!”

“C’mere.”

“No.” You shook your head.

“Come here,” he insisted, tossing the damp towel onto your bed and holding your arms loosely, his hands stroking up and down. No matter how much you held onto the scent-memory of him on his Nichols sweatshirt, nothing compares to the real thing. He made everything better; and if not, he made everything feel like it could get better, because he was Scott Miller, and the world bent to his charm or else. “You’re going to get in,” he said, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “They’d be crazy not to have you.” And the thing was, despite being utterly convinced only two minutes before that the worst was inevitable, you wanted to believe him, wanted to convince yourself that everything would settle into place as it should.

Scott dipped his head to brush his lips against yours, a deliberate barely-there sweep that made your eyes flutter closed and your arms lace around the wide breadth of his shoulders. Scott’s hands traveled down your back, pressing into your hips until you were flush against the length of his body. You felt him smile as he let you deepen the kiss, and the little rumble of his almost-laugh pinged all the way down to your toes, warming you from the inside the way only Scott could.

As his mouth moved down to your jaw and then the side of your neck, you slid your hands down his chest and then stopped, feeling something other than the hidden planes of his stomach through the fabric of his dark hoodie. You pulled away. Scott’s face had frozen into a look of mild panic and his hands wrapped around your wrists, holding them loosely, which only made the alarm bells ring louder in your head. That was not the sort of face he would make if he was hoarding old receipts.

“Scott?” you asked. He looked away, exhaled, and let your wrists drop with a resigned expression. You reached into his pocket, pulling out a sheet of white letter paper folded into quarters, carefully and with Scott-like precision. “What…” you began, glancing at him briefly and opening the sheet.

At the top, in cardinal red: Massachusetts Institute of Technology.

You might have gasped. At the very least, one of your hands flew up to your mouth. “Oh my God… Scott…”

“We don’t have to talk about it now.”

“Scott! This is from MIT! You got in?”

“It's really not a big deal.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, his shoulders curved slightly inward.

Not a big deal? “Scott, shut up! You got in!” you exclaimed, aghast.

“You’re not upset?”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” You set the letter down to the side, knowing he’d want to keep it—that so much as folding it and putting it in his pocket so he could make the ten-minute run to your house in the middle of a downpour must have been a minor sacrifice on your account. Because he wanted to tell you. Because he wanted you to be the first person other than his mom to hear the good news. “We’ve talked about this. This is your dream school, babe.”

“Yeah, well, it feels kinda shitty celebrating now.”

“Stop.” You reached up and gave him a peck on the lips, stroking his cheeks, resting your forehead against his. “I'm so freaking proud of you. You’re going to be the best, most kick-ass engineer.”

You looked into his eyes so that he’d know it was true, and for a moment you could tell he was letting himself feel the achievement—his shoulders relaxed, he caressed your hands gratefully, but there was something about his smile that signaled not all being well.

“I heard Mom talking on the phone with my uncle today,” he confessed.

“Your uncle Riggs? Down in New Orleans?”

“Yeah. She doesn't want me to know, but I heard her talking about college and…”

You placed your hands on his chest. “Is it that bad?”

He didn't like talking about it but you knew his father had made a few bad investments lately, and from your own dad, who had confided it to your mom in secret one night—not that he saw you lurking outside the kitchen, drawn by the mention of the name “Miller”—you were aware that he had made a truly catastrophic impulsive bet with some Swedish businessmen he’d been trying to impress. Add to that the drawn look on Mrs. Miller’s face whenever you saw her, and the overly sympathetic way your mom referred to “poor Pamela,” and you had enough evidence to assume that Scott’s father had royally fucked up this time. 

“They’ve been talking about selling the house,” he said with a dark look. “I think my parents are going to split up… for good this time.”

“Oh, Scott…”

“So who knows? I might not be able to go to MIT anyway—even with this.”

“Are you okay?” you asked, aware that nothing got his back up more than pity. But you had to ask.

He shrugged. “It is what it is.”

This was a side of him you’d never learned how to handle, not even after two years of dating. For all that he was an expert at making you feel like the world was yours for the taking, when it came to his own struggles, he was a tightly closed book. Instead of admitting when he was hurt or disappointed, he resorted to indifference and the kind of dark humor that could put you in a bad mood if you weren't careful.

Right now, all you wanted was for him to know that you were there for him. Nothing you could say or do would make Ray Miller grow practical common sense or an ounce of familial consideration—you weren't even sure that he knew your name, despite being Scott’s long-term girlfriend; he was hardly ever home, and never present even on the occasions when he was. But you could state the obvious, just in case he’d doubted it for a second.

“Hey, I love you,” you said to him.

“I love you, too,” he replied. “Now, no more shop talk—why do you think I risked my neck climbing up here?” And just like that, the matter was closed, the dark look disappeared, replaced by the telltale lowering of his dark lashes as he dropped another kiss at the side of your neck, his arms tightening around you, turning you so that the backs of your knees hit the edge of your bed.

“And here I thought your intentions were pure,” you replied, trying to downplay the butterflies in your stomach.

“Darling, there’s no such thing… especially when it comes to you.”

“What an idealist,” you rejoined, then fell quiet when he kissed you again. Without missing a beat, he lowered you onto the bed, hands gliding beneath your sweatshirt with apparent purpose. “Scott,” you protested, “my parents are across the hall.”

“So we’ll be quiet. Or we’ll get caught. What's the worst that could happen?”

“Um, you flying headfirst out that window?”

He pretended to think about it, then, by the warm glow of your bedside lamp, you saw his mouth quirk into a smirk before he dove towards your lips, eyes twinkling. “I don’t know about you, but that sounds like a price I’m willing to pay.”

PRESENT DAY OKLAHOMA CITY

“The damages your client is seeking are absolutely unreasonable. I would even say they border on the ridiculous—and, quite frankly, even frivolous!”

“Frivolous! Your client founded his new company with StormPAR assets—”

“His assets!”

“—accumulated during his tenure as a business partner to my client. Assets which came out of the pocket of Mr. Riggs as well, might I remind you!”

“We were equal partners!” Javi exclaimed, no longer able to keep his temper in check. You supposed the moment you snapped at Mr. Rankin, Javi figured the gloves were off.

Maybe instead of worrying about Tyler, you should've worried about yourself.

Rankin stabbed a finger at the files stacked in front of him. “Exactly, and Mr. Miller deserves to be compensated for the financial losses incurred from your breach of contract.”

Javi balked. “What, I can’t decide to leave my own company?”

“You can do whatever the hell you want, just not with my money,” Scott said in a dangerous monotone. For the last half-hour you’d been trying not to look at him, focusing instead on his middle-aged bespectacled lawyer, but to say you weren't losing your shit would be disproven by the Montblanc you’ve been fidgeting with since the meeting began. When he wasn’t glaring daggers at his former business partner, you could feel the power of his gaze, daring you to meet his eyes again.

“Oh, you mean your uncle’s money?”

“Javi.” You touched his hand in warning.

“You weren't turning your nose up at my uncle’s money when you were trying to found StormPAR.” Scott gibed. In your periphery, you saw Kate rubbing her left temple.

“Me? I thought we were partners, partner.”

“Like you give a shit! You jumped ship, Javi—you jumped ship, set up shop with the opposition, then hired my ex-girlfriend so you could get away with robbing us blind!”

You gritted your teeth. “Mr. Rankin, control your client.”

“‘Control your client’?” Scott spat out, leaning forward and turning the dial up to ten. “What the hell is wrong with you? What are you even doing here?”

“My job, Mr. Miller.” This time you did risk staring him in the face, ignoring the play of light on his cheekbones, the shape of his lips, the triangle of exposed skin at his throat that you used to know so well. “I work for StormLab. You might find my presence objectionable, but that’s neither here nor there as long as my clients choose to keep me on retainer. If you don't like it, you’re free to leave and we can negotiate with Mr. Rankin directly.”

He said nothing. Scott was never at a loss for words unless he was well and truly pissed, the force of his intelligence diverted into barely suppressed anger. You could've heard a pin drop in that conference room. His hands were on top of the table, tense, almost shaking, and the rise and fall of his chest was visible even to you. Against your will, your brain threw up images of those same hands holding yours, threaded through your hair, brushing gently against the small of your back; those same arms drawing you close; the same mouth smiling.

You cleared your throat, shuffled a few papers around, and once again addressed the general room and Mr. Rankin. “Now, if you turn to page 16, you’ll see that Mr. Rivera is willing to formally sell his share of StormPAR for less than he’s entitled—if both Mr. Miller and Mr. Riggs agree to desist in interference with StormLab, which, need I remind you, was founded two-thirds of the way with assets entirely independent from the former. If this action’s purpose isn’t frivolous, then Mr. Owens and Ms. Carter should be removed from this suit.”

“Like hell,” Scott interrupted, prompting Javi to fire back with:

“What, you think we’re not good for it? I’ll have you know—”

“You expect me to believe you started your little company on the merits of an NWS salary and a fucking YouTube channel?”

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Tyler lean forward, ready to pounce. Rankin muttered, “Language,” and pushed his eyeglasses up his nose. You knew he was a personal friend of Scott’s uncle—you could also tell that he would rather be out on the golf course than in the middle of this friend-divorce and embarrassing squabble, one where his input seemed superfluous and his counsel went unheeded even by his client.

Scott went on, full of accusation. “You used StormPAR money, didn’t you?”

“If you want to request any financial disclosures…” you began.

“We’re talking.”

Bitch. “No, you’re berating,” you shot back.

Javi put his hand on your wrist. “It’s fine. Yeah—I guess if you want to look at it that way, if I was making a living off StormPAR and taking Riggs’s money, then yeah, technically my share of StormLab exists because of what we had.”

“Javi.”

“No. Fair’s fair and all that. I don’t want any part of it anymore. Hell, you can have it. But come on, man, don’t pretend you’re doing any of this because you’re broke. Even if I gave you half of whatever StormPAR’s worth, it wouldn’t make a difference. You’re mad that I left. I get it. Let’s settle this, you and me. Leave Kate and Tyler out of it.”

“You stole our data!”

Now, that couldn't stand. “He made the executive decision to share data with Mr. Owens’s team.” Sure, it was a technicality but it was a true technicality.

“Bullshit!”

You sighed. “Are we getting anywhere here, Rankin?”

The lawyer glanced down at his watch and shook his head almost mournfully. “It’s not looking likely.”

“Wonderful.” You stood up, gathering your things and motioning for Kate, Tyler, and Javi to do the same. “Well, we’re all very busy people and clearly meeting in-person is counterproductive. Shall we agree to make this a video call next time? My clients have places to be.”

“I’ll bet they do,” Scott mocked, staring not only at Javi but at his new partners for probably the first time all afternoon. “How’re your investors doing, by the way, knowing you’re getting sued for infringement, breach of contract and fiduciary duty…”

You wanted to strangle him. In a voice that matched him venom for venom, you turned to your assistant and said, “Did you get that on record, Abby? Please, keep going,” you urged Scott, “you might just win us a dismissal.”

After a moment of charged silence, you told your clients: “We’re done here.”

“You’ll be hearing from me,” said the reluctant Mr. Rankin.

You snatched the chrome door handle from Tyler. “Boy, am I looking forward to it.”

Outside, you didn’t stop until you’d turned the corner into another section of the office, not wanting to be within eyeshot of Scott when you gritted your teeth and let the mask of cool indifference fall.

“Well, that went…” Tyler trailed off, leaning against the metal doorframe of Copy Room 3. The smell of toner and ozone was strangely comforting, bringing you back to your professional self now that Scott and his stupid, handsome-as-ever face were out of view. That, and you were noticing that Tyler Owens in a corporate-adjacent setting didn’t sit well with you; you couldn’t decide whether it was the outdoor tan or the in-your-face belt-buckle that gave it away. Regardless, he seemed too big for the confines of a downtown law office.

“It went like a garbage fire,” you confirmed, “which means about as well as I expected.”

Kate crossed her arms. “So we’re going to court, then.”

“I’m going to keep pushing for him to drop StormLab from the suit.”

“That just leaves me,” Javi remarked, downcast, but still willing to take one for the team.

“I mean, Javi, dear, you did abandon the partnership without ironing out all the kinks first.”

“How was I supposed to know I needed to hire a lawyer?”

“Um, literally everyone knows you’re supposed to hire a lawyer,” said Tyler, “especially if you’re dealing with someone like Textbook Type A over there.”

Javi ran a hand down his face, then shook his head. “What can I say? I-I thought he was my friend.”

“I know.” You clapped your hand on Javi’s shoulder. I understand. “But sometimes all that does is make it worse.”

After a bit more commiserating you parted ways with the three, hanging back with Abby to touch base on a few points and clear up the rest of your schedule, which included a deposition in an hour-and-a-half and witness prep at 4:30. Understandably, you were in the mood for none of this and wanted nothing more than to retire to your apartment with a glass of red and a bowl of popcorn as big as your head à la Olivia Pope, but alas… you were trying to make junior partner.

No rest for the wicked and all that.

You released Abby for a late lunch and made your way to the bank of elevators after a brief pit stop at the restroom, side-eyeing the fancy automatic taps and the whiff of something hotel-like emanating from the vents. You’d have to tell the office manager at Conway & Fine to up your game.

Fishing your phone out of your bag, you pushed the elevator button and began scrolling through a frightful amount of emails—there were intraoffice communications and check-in requests from clients, a few items of junk not caught by the email filter, the latest newsletters from PennAlumni and the Oklahoma Bar Association, as well as an invitation to an old mentor’s golden anniversary celebration. You were in the middle of responding to this when Scott sidled up next to you, giving no indication other than the familiar scent of his cologne and the tap of shined leather shoes against the polished tile. Of all the bad luck…

“So what is this, some kind of a decade-old revenge plot?” he finally asked, disconcerting you with the fact that he was standing so close to you that you couldn't glance at his expression without craning your neck. “Maybe I should’ve expected it from you, but Javi? I didn't know he had it in him.”

“Go away, Scott. This is business.”

“Really, is that what you want to call it? He could've hired anyone.”

“Well, he chose to hire a friend.”

“Right…” A laugh. Dry, cynical. “And what's your excuse?”

You stared at the light above the door, willing it to flash green and put you out of your misery. “Believe it or not, my taking this case has nothing to do with you. Forgive me if I thought you could be a fucking adult about it—clearly I was wrong.”

Ding!

You walked into the elevator without looking back. As parting words went, you thought they passed muster. Except, instead of being a regular person and taking the next car, Scott followed you in, ignoring the outrage written plain on your face.

You looked at him as if to say, “Do you mind?” It was obvious that he didn't. Whatever composure he’d lost in the conference room had been regained now that it was just you, and him, and the shared knowledge that you would have avoided being alone with him if you could.

He stood next to you, towering. As the floor number inched downward from 22, you were all too aware of his presence: the Scott smell of him, the warmth of his body, and the brush of his dark linen jacket against your arm. You wished you handed discarded your own in the restroom; you needed armor, and while Scott had donned his as soon as he was able, he had caught you unawares, expecting him to play fair even when all the evidence of the last two hours had told you that “fair” was no longer in his vocabulary.

As if to illustrate the point, you felt him lean in, his voice the closest it had been in over six years. “You always did love making a show of taking the moral high ground. How’s the view, sweetheart? You must love getting the chance to look down on me for change.”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Not bothering to contain your disgust, you stepped away from him, clutching your bag in a white-knuckle grip. For a moment you felt struck by lightning. There was a time when you knew the planes of his face better than your own—the slope of his nose, the variations of blue in his eyes; you knew the shade of his hair in every light; how to tell a false smile from the true. But this Scott… the one with the shuttered expression, the see-if-I-care set to his shoulders, “how’re your investors doing, by the way”… It wasn’t like those things came out of left field—Scott had always been capable of a certain amount of pride, petulance, vindictiveness, even. But it was like the best parts of him had been filed away, or else hidden so deep that you couldn't find nary a sight of them when you looked into his face. “What happened to you?”

You saw his jaw clench. “If you want to know, then you shouldn’t have left.”

8…

7…

6…

You took a breath. “That whole last year—you pushed me away and you know it.”

Instead of answering your honesty in kind, Scott hitched up his sleeve so he could glance at the time on his fancy Swiss watch, a present from Good Old Uncle Riggs on the event of his graduation from MIT. “Yeah, well, you made it easy.”

4…

3…

2…

The doors opened onto a vast lobby. Incredulous, you kept waiting for him to take his words back, to apologize, to so much as glance at you, damn it. When you saw there wasn't any point, you swallowed the knot in your throat, stepping out of the elevator car and feeling twenty-one all over again.

This time, he didn't follow you. He leaned against the back handrail, not reacting even when you mustered every remaining ounce of dignity to say, “Go fuck yourself, Scott.” Then you turned on your heel and walked away.

TEN YEARS AGO PARK HAVEN, PENNSYLVANIA

Once more on your bedroom floor. Scott sat at your back, his arms wrapped around you and his head bent over yours. “Hey, listen to me… we’ll make it work. I’ll call you every day.”

“With a full slate of classes? That doesn't make any sense.”

“I don’t care if it doesn't. Hey,”—he kissed your temple—“it’s you and me. That doesn’t need to change”

“You say that now…”

“Don’t you trust me?”

“Of course I do.” You sighed. “It’s the hot nerds I don’t trust.”

You felt him laugh. “You’re a hot nerd.”

“Stop it.” But you smiled anyway, probably for the first time since you’d opened the rejection letter from Harvard. Concerned, your mom had called Scott while you were holed up in your room, ugly-crying into the bedspread, and it was enough to make you regret having been so bitchy about her the week before. She really had been trying to help… not that it mattered now that Harvard had given you the hard pass.

It wasn’t like you had no other options—you’d have been crazy not to line up a contingency plan or two. But Harvard had been your dream since you could remember caring about college. It was your castle in the sky, the thing that kept you going through four years of grueling hard work, a neverending grind of AP and Honors classes, student clubs and extracurriculars. And still it wasn’t enough.

“We regret to inform you…”

Well, not as much as you regretted it.

As if reading your mind, Scott wrapped his arms a little tighter, his tone light when he said, “UPenn’s nothing to scoff at, you know. You’re upset because you got into an Ivy League?”

“An Ivy League in Philadelphia,” you protested.

You didn’t add “and not the one I wanted” because you knew, objectively, that he and your parents and Ms. Andersson, your favorite teacher, were all right. You were incredibly lucky to have gotten into the University of Pennsylvania—the campus was beautiful, it was close to home, and, like Harvard, it boasted its own fair share of Supreme Court Justices and legal luminaries. It wasn’t like your future was in complete and utter shambles. You would still have everything you wanted… except Scott.

You felt him shrug behind you. “So what? It’s just a five-and-a-half-hour drive—or an hour-and-a-half by plane if we’re desperate.” You shifted so you could shoot him a funny look. “I might have googled it,” he admitted, “right after you told me you got in.”

“Of course you did…” The fact that he had started making plans without waiting on Harvard made you feel better; it meant he had every intention of making it work and maybe you were the downer, seeing the situation as near-hopeless when, really, there had to be couples who didn't let physical distance stop them from being together.

Glass half-full. All you needed was a little faith, a little more optimism.

“At least we’ve got the whole summer,” you said, trying to implement this new, sunnier outlook.

You felt Scott stiffen.

“What?” You turned around properly, anchoring your hand on the side of his neck. You had a minor panic when he wouldn't look at you, and at the guilt written on his brow. “Tell me,” you said.

“Uncle Riggs wants me to spend the summer down in NOLA—something about getting to know me better. I think he must’ve worked it out with Mom. She’s finally put the house up for sale, doesn't want me around when strangers start traipsing through and asking about whether or not she’ll throw in the vintage furniture for an extra few grand.”

At last, after years of painful back and forth, the Miller divorce was imminent. True to Scott’s prediction, “poor Pamela” had hired an attorney and filed paperwork on the very week he climbed through your window. So far his dad had been uncharacteristically passive, perhaps figuring he had put his family through enough, or else fearful of the very same Marshall Riggs who had been summoned from the rafters to come through for his sister after a period of long estrangement.

It was Riggs who had retained Pamela’s ace divorce attorney, Riggs who agreed to pay most of Scott’s tuition. Spending a few months with him seemed like the least he could do. You were disappointed. But you understood.

“When do you leave?”

“Two weeks after graduation.”

“So we have a month,” you said. “That’s thirty days.”

“More like twenty-six… and three quarters.” He smiled the same wistful sort of half-smile that was on your face, and you kissed him, savoring the familiar taste of mint on his mouth from the gum he chewed out of habit.

“Then let’s not waste a second,” you answered back.

He placed a kiss on your forehead. “I love you.”

When he said it, it sounded like a promise that everything would be all right, and in spite of your worries you chose to believe him.

PRESENT DAY OKLAHOMA CITY

For the last ten minutes you’d had trouble hearing Kate’s voice clearly over the phone, but you figured it was to be expected since she was calling from the middle of nowhere (at least to your urban- and suburban-bred estimation), and really, after almost three months of similar experiences, you’d grown tired of plugging your ear and saying, “Kate? Kate? You’re breaking up!”

On the upside, your cognitive skills had to be getting a real workout from filling in the weather-induced gaps in your conversations. Case in point:

“—bad luck with the last two, but I—feeling—building in the east—”

“Yeah, her Spidey Senses are tingling!” you heard Javi yell in the background.

Kate laughed. “Go away!”

“Ask her if she caught the livestream!” Tyler said, no doubt from the driver’s seat.

It sounded like she had you on speakerphone, so you spoke to him directly. “Ty, need I remind you that I have an actual job.”

“Ouch! Did you hear that?—thinks we don’t have real jobs!”

“I did not—”

The clarity improved, and you could hear the sound of car doors slamming and voices cracking jokes in the background, which usually meant they’d returned to Kate’s mother’s farm in Sapulpa, where StormLab kept a satellite office in Cathy Carter’s barn. It was makeshift, but what you saw of it during one of Tyler’s Facetime calls had a rustic charm completely at odds with the glass-and-chrome offices where Herb Rankin worked.

Actually, now that you gave it a moment’s thought, not even Herb Rankin fit into his office.

“Listen to her, the Big City Bigshot slumming it with the rednecks,” Tyler went on, earning a few spirited hoots and howls from the other Wranglers.

“Kate is from New York!” you objected. You waved an arm in the middle of your dim-lit apartment as if anyone could see you, vaguely aware that you were holding a pair of chopsticks and had probably sent a strand of shredded cabbage flying behind your couch.

This assertion was too much for Javi to bear. “Excuse me! Kate is OK to the bone, New York’s just where she keeps her apartment.”

Kate laughed as she said something you couldn’t catch, then Tyler’s voice came, audibly close to the phone. “Hey, that reminds me, where’re you from, again?”

“Pennsylvania.”

“That is not a Philly accent.”

You were about to say that not everyone in the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania sounds like Rocky Balboa when Javi replied, “That’s ’cause she’s from the fancy part of Pennsylvania—but we don't hold that against her.”

“Gee, thanks.”

Tyler asked, “Wait, you’re not billing us for all this shit-talking, are you?”

You let out a snort, picked up your phone, and held it close to your mouth. “You know, maybe I should, Arkansas.”

At first you couldn’t work out what the hell was going on when Tyler broke out in “It's the spirit of the mountains… and the spirit of the Delta… it's the spirit of the Caaapitol doooooome,” but by the time the other Wranglers pitched in, with all the gusto of a drunk karaoke night despite being stone-cold sober, you understood that you had been treated to a rare and hopefully never-to-be-repeated rendition of one of the state songs of Arkansas. A short while later you hung up, cheeks sore and still laughing to yourself. The silence in your apartment was deafening by comparison.

Sometimes, you called them just because you lacked company. There wasn’t much to report on the Rankin front—as much as you had tried to negotiate on Javi’s behalf for a less hostile resolution, Scott insisted on keeping Kate and Tyler in the suit and seemed determined to take their tiff before a judge if his terms weren’t met.

Even Rankin seemed fed up.

Maybe it was a bad idea, maybe it was the two glasses of wine you’d had with dinner or the post-ballad high. Maybe you wanted to be the one to make StormLab’s problem go away. Whatever the reason, after you put the dirty dishes in the sink, you found yourself calling the one person you swore you’d never speak to ever again.

For good measure, as the dial tone rang you poured yourself another glass. When he answered, you nearly choked.

“Can we talk?” you managed to ask, swallowing down a mouthful of Syrah. There was a long silence on the other end. You didn't know if he had your number saved, if he knew who had called him, or whether he’d recognized the sound of your voice. You remembered that the last thing you had said to him was “go fuck yourself,” and added it to the mental list of why maybe you shouldn't have called him after all.

Tyler’s impulsiveness seemed to be as contagious as a rash.

Scott answered: “Not without my lawyer present.”

Okay, fair. Play stupid games, win stupid prizes. He sounded clipped, like he’d rather be lowered into a tank of leeches than be on the phone with you. You were reconsidering the wisdom of your actions when he asked, “What do you want?”

Your eyes darted around the living room. Thinking on your feet wasn't new to you, it couldn't be, in your profession. But a part of you knew you’d taken a stupid gamble in pressing the call button, and now that the die was cast, you had to make it count.

You opted for the aggressive approach.

“Rankin says you're being uncooperative.”

You could feel the animus on the other end. “No, he didn't.”

“It was implied. No one wants to keep drawing this out, Scott. So, come off it. What is it that you’re actually looking to get out of all this?”

If he opted to tell you to go fuck yourself, you figured it would be fair play. This really was business, and not having to look him in the eyes made it easier to feel the rush of adrenaline that came with making a risky move in the name of work. You knew that technically, and in the strictest interpretation of the word, reaching out to another lawyer’s client crossed the line into inappropriate, but you were also a couple years beyond green. If you could cut out the middleman and get Scott to come to the table in a serious way, it would all be worth it. And Rankin could go back to playing 9 holes without losing face in front of his old school mate Riggs.

You waited for Scott’s response with bated breath.

“I want StormLab run into the ground.”

The answer came as no surprise but his tone did. Dark, intense, almost as bad as one of the nights he snuck into your room after a fight with his dad. It was the one and only time you’d ever heard him say he hated his father—his lack of control, his thoughtlessness, his inability to keep his word. Afterward he’d pretended he never said it, or rather, he was careful to never bring it up again, but you knew he had meant it.

And he meant it now. He wanted to take StormLab down. He’d succeed over your dead body. Javi and the others were counting on you.

You moved the phone to your other ear. “Right, well… that's not gonna happen, so any other alternatives?” You could feel he was about to end the call, so you tacked on, “Wait, just… hear me out, okay? Forget about Tyler and Kate—this isn’t about them, really, this is about StormPAR. Compromise on this one thing and you have a better chance of being compensated for what went down last year. You and Javi can just… move on with your lives. On paper it's about money, right? Riggs’s investment? So let’s settle this as soon as possible.”

“You and me?”

“And Rankin,” you added, your conscience getting the better of you.

There was a pause before Scott repeated, “You and me.”

“I don’t…”

“That’s my final offer.”

Alarm bells of a different sort rang in your head. On the phone was one thing, but in person, alone? Could you really sit across from Scott and keep your cool?

You had to. More than that, you wanted to prove to yourself that you’d grown up since you were twenty-one, that you were assured and confident and could handle messy things like sitting across from your ex. There were many things you regretted from that time; the one you regretted most was a reluctance to stand up for yourself. What was Tyler always saying? You don’t face your fears, you ride them. Frankly, you still weren't sure what the hell he meant by that, but it sounded a lot like “put your money where your mouth is.” At some point you had to choose to take action.

“Okay, fine,” you said. “When and where?”

“You busy tonight?”

You scoffed, casting a glance at your open laptop and the piles of paperwork lying on top of the coffee table. “I’m busy every night.”

“Perch. In an hour. Don’t be late.”

THREE YEARS AGO PARK HAVEN, PENNSYLVANIA

As a rule you’d been avoiding your hometown for the last three years, ever since your breakup with Scott. It was easier to stay in Oklahoma, where the possibility of running into someone who knew the Millers or would ask “are the two of you still together?” was slim. After your father died, you started to regret being such a coward. So much lost time… although your mom kept telling you that your dad understood the need to have your own life and never held it against you.

You held it against you, and all the more when your mom decided to downsize and move in with a friend.

After requesting two weeks off you got on a plane to Philadelphia and drove south to Park Haven to help her pack. You stayed up late, wore holiday pajamas, filled your hand with paper cuts, and inhaled about four pounds of dust in the attic. It was nice to spend time with your mom. All the old grievances seemed minor in comparison with the massive changes that lay ahead. Always one for sentimentality, sorting through boxes full of clothes, keepsakes, and old mementos put your mom in an especially chatty mood, and you soaked everything in, not having realized before how little you knew about your dad. He was so reserved in life, so buttoned-up, with clear expectations of himself and others that you were surprised to learn about his stint in an amateur dramatics troupe, the year he tried his hand at playing the alto sax, his fear of geese.

“Geese?” you asked your mom.

“Yes, geese. Those fuckers are vicious!” Having never heard your mom swear before, you froze while elbow-deep in a box of photographs dating back to the 70s. All she did was shrug and finish the rest of her margarita while lightbulbs flashed on her navy blue Rudolph sweater. “What do you want me to say? Parents have secrets, too.”

“Well, I think this parent went a little hard on the tequila,” you said.

Your mom plucked a faded Polaroid from the box. “You know… he didn’t look it, but your dad was actually a lot of fun. We both were. Then… life gets in the way, you start caring about PTA meetings and getting the HOA off your back…”

“Fuck the HOA.”

“Right on! Can’t say I’ll miss any of those jerks.” She sighed, and with a little shake of her head, put the Polaroid back in the box. “Sometimes I worry—” She stopped herself and glanced at you nervously.

“What?”

“Sometimes I worry that you think about us, about your dad and me, and that you don’t see us as having ever been in love. Especially after you and Scott—”

“Mom,” you warned.

“I know, I know, me and my big mouth.” She held up her hands, chuckling to herself. Normally you’d seize the opportunity to change the subject, but you were thinking a lot about how you could’ve been a better daughter, all the times you shut the door in their face because you didn’t want to feel scolded or uncomfortable, because you weren’t interested in what they had to say.

Your mom was trying to respect your privacy. The least you could do was not leave her with the impression that you thought she had a “big mouth.”

You reached across the box and touched her arm. “That’s not what I meant.”

“All I mean is… I know you’re not dating.”

“How do you know that?”

She grinned. “Mothers have their ways. I just don’t want you giving up, is all. If Dad and I weren’t the model marriage—”

“What are you talking about?” you asked. “Half of my friends have divorced parents. And even if you were divorced, the whole ‘nuclear family or you’re a failure to society’ thing is so five-decades-ago.”

“Well, good! Because I was happy—I want you to know that. Maybe it wasn’t the sort of romance people write songs about—God knows your dad had his faults. He wasn't perfect. No one is. But when you love someone… it’s less about keeping score and more about what you build. Together.”

She looked off to the far wall, where their wedding portrait sat propped in its frame, ready to be wrapped in old newspapers and put away. You turned around and looked at it, too—at your mom’s curly updo and poofy skirts, the sleeves that looked like pool inflatables, at least to your modern eyes, at your dad before his hair went gray, the sheepish smile on his face like he couldn’t believe he’d gotten away with the steal of the century.

You’d gotten so used to its presence in the living room that you couldn’t remember the last time you gave it more than a passing glance.

Lit by an alternating flash of blue and purple lights, your mom’s face was cast in an otherworldly glow. Then the spell was broken, and she was your mom again in an ugly Christmas sweater, smiling fondly at an old memory to which you weren’t privy. “For some reason, we brought out the best in each other. That mattered to us more than anything we ever did wrong.” And that was that, a twenty-nine year marriage summed up in a few sentences.

You said, “I guess that does sound romantic… in a super-practical, boring, construction-analogy sort of way.”

She laughed and threw a wadded-up newspaper at your head.

“Dad never liked Scott,” you said after a while, rolling the ball between your hands.

“What makes you say that?”

You threw her a pointed look. Her expression said, Oh, alright.

“He wasn’t disapproving, exactly. He was worried about you. Who wouldn’t be? Your first boyfriend, your first love… I don’t think he was quite ready to see his teenage daughter all head over heels over some guy on the baseball team. And the Millers, well… they had their issues, as a family. Maybe your dad didn’t want you becoming collateral damage. But, oh sweetie,”—it was her turn to touch your arm, Rudolph’s nose squished against the cardboard—“it was never about Scott. When you told us you were engaged, we were so pleased for you! And then a few months later… just like that…”

You swallowed the knot in your throat. How much time would have to pass before you could think of Scott without a tidal wave of sadness hitting you square in the chest? Collateral damage, that was one way of putting it. “I guess Dad was right, after all.”

“He never said ‘I told you so,’” your mom pointed out, “and he never would’ve wanted to.”

You squeezed her hand. “Yeah, I know.”

A phone call from your mother’s friend Rose prompted a break in packing. She went into the kitchen to discuss sideboard dimensions, and you went upstairs, where you were slowly going through your childhood bedroom and putting things in boxes marked Keep and Donate, or else in bags to be discarded when trash day rolled around.

You were almost finished, the walls empty of medals and photos, the corkboard of mementos lying in the recycling bin outside. Already it felt like a bedroom that had belonged to someone else, and while you were sad to know that, after the house was sold, you would never step foot in it again, the process of taking things down one at a time had given you a sort of detachment. There were items, like the snowglobe your friend Tash gave you when she got home from a skiing trip in the Alps in the seventh grade, that you had once thought you could never do without. But now Tash lived in LA with her wife and kids, and you hadn’t spoken much since high school except for a few text messages now and then.

You’d decided to keep the globe but you knew it would live in a box in your closet, a relic rather than an everyday part of your life in Oklahoma.

Speaking of closets, you tackled the wardrobe next, marveling at how many items would be considered “trendy” now that the fashion cycle had taken a turn—or God forbid, “vintage.” There were stuffed animals shoved into the top shelf, your old 50 State quarter collection, debate club certificates, a landscape picture from your senior year mock trial, and a shoebox falling apart at the seams.

You took it to the stripped bed with shaking hands, knowing you’d been dreading this most of all but that it had to be done, so why not now.

After you broke your engagement off with Scott, you’d gone home to lick your wounds. This was before you found a job, before you decided to move to Oklahoma on the literal toss of a coin, knowing only that you couldn't stay in Pennsylvania and that you needed a fresh start. Left with no other options, home had been your best bet, even though the weeks spent living with your parents and avoiding their worried questions had seemed at the time like cruel and unusual punishment. When you moved out you had left something behind, hidden beneath seashells and baubles and silly notes you had passed during class, movie stubs, train tickets, an inexplicable piece of gum, the collar that had once belonged to Clover, your old childhood dog.

You lifted a school ribbon and found it: a blue velvet box with a golden clasp. Your heart pounded in your ears. You took a deep breath, let it out again before lifting the lid… and there it was, glinting in the light of late afternoon.

“Honey, Rose wants to know if you’d like to join us for dinner at her place!”

Box, ring, and all tumbled onto the hardwood. Though you were alone, your mother calling to you from the bottom of the stairs, you felt incredibly guilty. “I’ll be right down!” you yelled back. You got on your hands and knees and slipped the ring back in its cradle.

It felt dangerous somehow, like a live grenade. But you couldn't get rid of it. When you went back home at the end of the month you packed it at the bottom of your suitcase and it’d been living with you ever since, moved from closet to closet, unseen but never quite forgotten.

PRESENT DAY OKLAHOMA CITY

The jewel twinkled in your hand, an oval diamond surrounded by small clusters and set in a ring of yellow gold. It was one of a kind. Scott told you he found it at an antique jeweler’s who dated it to the summer of 1880; it was a genuine Victorian piece, and for nearly four months it had been your most prized possession.

The same foolhardy impulse that made you call Scott and agree to meet him made you dig it out of your closet, right after you spent twenty minutes agonizing over what to wear and the state of your hair. This isn’t a date, you kept reminding yourself. If anything, it might be a trap. He was, after all, Marshall Riggs's nephew.

Letting your lesser sense win out, you slipped the ring on your finger and watched it catch the light. It truly was a beautiful ring. And it was sentimental, as though its selection revealed a hidden truth about Scott.

Its weight on your hand, present and comfortable, calmed your racing thoughts and the nerves roiling in your belly. You kept it on as you dressed and got ready, then chalked it up to a desire for punctuality when you rushed to the elevator, through the lobby, and into your waiting Uber still wearing it. The driver’s presence snapped you out of your momentary lapse in sanity. They were chatty, and the more you talked about work and the weather and what you liked doing in the city, the sillier it felt to be wearing your ex-fiancé’s engagement ring. Before getting out, you stuck it in the pocket of your linen duster… which was also, admittedly, kind of a stupid thing to do.

(You blamed Tyler for all of it.)

Located at the top of a fifty-floor high-rise, Perch was a bar and restaurant with full views of the city and a James Beard Award-winning chef. The atmosphere was relaxed and unfussy, the lighting unobtrusive, and the cocktails reasonably priced. At the door, the vest-clad host directed you through the assemblage of diners and beyond a decorative glass partition to the tables reserved for business meetings, minor celebrities, and men who didn’t want to be seen with their mistresses. Scott was there in rolled-up shirtsleeves. You watched from a distance as he rubbed his stubbled cheek and his pointer finger came to rest at the seam of his lips.

You would not stare at his mouth or let your eyes linger anywhere on his person. This was business, goddammit.

But hell if he didn’t look good. You hated that after all this time you still found him maddeningly attractive.

“Seriously?” he asked, casting a pointed look at the portfolio in your arms.

“Well, this isn’t a social call.”

“By all means.” He gestured at the seat in front of him, mockingly formal. You glanced at the coupe waiting on your side of the table, a cheerful yellow with a perfect white foam on top and a twist of lemon peel. “I took the liberty of ordering your usual.”

You sat down and set the portfolio to one side, adopting an air of casual indifference. “Actually, it’s not my usual anymore.”

“Really?”

“But thanks anyway. So, from previous conversations with Javi—”

“What is this mythical new usual?”

“Are you kidding?” you balked, narrowing your eyes.

“No, I’m just curious.” He propped his chin in his hand. Maybe lying had been a petty move on your part but you’d be damned if he forced you to backtrack and you came out of this looking a fool.

“I hate to be the one to tell you this, but at some point you’re gonna have to learn to live with uncertainty. Anyway—”

“You don’t have a new usual.” Scott smirked. “It’s still a gin sour and you’re just being difficult.”

“Difficult… Wow, okay! We”—wagging your finger in the space between you—“are not together anymore, so these mind games you’re trying to play are highly inappropriate and also kind of a dick move—”

“A dick move!” he repeated.

“Yeah, a dick move! Which I know is, like, your whole personality now—”

“Is it?” he laughed.

“—but I’m trying to settle this like an actual grown-up and all you’ve done for three months is make that very difficult for everyone involved!”

He rolled his eyes. “This is such a fucking boring conversation.”

Incensed, you had the fleeting thought to throw your drink in his face, but people only did that in soap operas. “You were the one who wanted to do this in person!” you fired back, shrill and drawing the attention of a server who promptly beelined to a different table and pretended not to hear. Which only made you wonder what sort of clientele frequented her section.

“And you were the one who called me,” Scott pointed out, “not the other way around.”

His being right made you even angrier. You had thought you were prepared, that magically you’d be able to have a civil conversation that settled the matter in a way that left you with your pride intact and StormLab the clear winner on the side of good. Clearly, you’d miscalculated. “You know what… fuck this.” After downing half your cocktail in a single gulp, you gathered the portfolio in your arms and made to stand before deciding that, actually, you wanted to get a few things off your chest first so that abandoning your PJs would be worth it. “I am so over this whole… fucking… stupid… mess. I’ve had actual divorces that were easier to mediate, Scott. Whole marriages—and not short ones either! Just take the fucking shares! Please… take the shares and go back to Riggs and leave us all the hell alone. We’re tired, okay? This is just… so unbelievably tiring. And fuck you, by the way—yes, it’s still a gin sour.” You finished yours, figuring that if Scott was paying, you might as well.

And now I’m ready to leave, you thought.

But Scott had other ideas.

“You spoken to your mom lately?”

“What?” You gaped at him, wondering if you were losing your mind. Was he? Was there a dimensional shift happening that you weren’t aware of?

“Pardon the observation,” Scott went on, “but you don’t seem… well.”

“Are you being for real right now?”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

And how else could you mean it? was on the tip of your tongue. But the look on his face made you stop. No bullshit, no smug provocation. He was serious. Somehow, that was more unsettling than when he was fucking with you. It brought back too many memories.

“I was sorry to hear about your dad.”

He looked you straight in the eyes when he said it. You wanted to burrow into a hole in the ground—into him, if you were being honest. It didn’t matter how many years had gone by. A part of you was still twenty-seven and glancing at the door wondering if maybe, just maybe…

“Oh, I’m gonna need another one of these,” you whispered to yourself, stunned back into a seated position. The server came around and eyed your empty glass, asking meekly if you would like anything else. “I might as well,” you answered, sounding patently glum. All the while Scott kept a neutral expression, even waited until you had another drink—and a glass of water—in front of you, giving the server a soundless thanks before she scurried away.

Probably off to the kitchen to tell her coworkers about the crazy lady at B25.

“I thought about showing up to the funeral, actually,” added Scott when you had regained most of your composure. “But I didn’t know if I’d be welcome. Mom, being a firm believer in Emily Post, thought it’d be better if we skipped it. She sent flowers, though.”

“She what?”

“She sent flowers. Your mom never said?”

You shook your head. She must’ve been trying not to upset you. But you had been upset anyway, thinking about how Scott should’ve been there, how you had always expected him to show up and make things better.

All this time you had used his absence as yet another example of how little you must’ve mattered in the end. Which made no sense, because you were the one to break things off—and yet, that entire winter’s morning, you had bargained with yourself that if he showed up through those chapel double doors you would forget everything and beg him to take you back. It was too late for that. But knowing that he’d thought about going loosened a painful knot in your chest that you weren’t aware you even had.

You cleared your throat. “How’s your mom, by the way?”

“She’s doing all right. She’s part of a sewing circle, believe it or not.”

“Please tell me that isn’t a euphemism.”

“God, I hope not.”

You smiled involuntarily, picturing Pam Miller in her sweater sets and pearls. “I’m glad she’s doing okay. Your dad…?”

He picked up his drink, a Macallan on the rocks. It was his uncle’s drink, too. “I haven't heard from him in years. Guess neither of us ever saw the point.”

“Scott—”

“How’d you and Javi become an ‘us’ anyway? He never said.”

Fair enough. It made sense that he wouldn’t want to talk about his dad, let alone with you. But talking about Javi? When an hour ago he had admitted to wanting to bankrupt Javi’s company?

“I’ll be on my best behavior for the next”—he looked down at his watch—“fifteen minutes. Promise.”

“I don’t know, I think it’s better if we table all the personal talk,” you hedged.

“Better for whom?”

“Better for my clients. And better for me, too. We’re not friends.”

“We’ve never been friends,” Scott pointed out.

“Exactly. So why lie and pretend like we are?”

“Call it a term of this negotiation.”

“Scott…” Already this night was going nothing like how you’d planned. Your defenses had all the strength of a thin paper bag; he was in front of you, all dark-haired, blue-eyed, 6’4” reality and you weren’t unaffected. You wanted to keep talking to him, make the moment last… and all the more because you knew it had to end at some point. Scott would never be yours—not again. You’d made your peace with that a long time ago. But he has a right to know. Maybe if you could convince him that there was no grand conspiracy against him, he would be more amenable to Javi’s offer.

This is business, you reminded yourself. Redirect, bring it all back to StormLab.

“Fine,” you decided, settling in to tell the story of how you and Javi first met. “It happened maybe a year after I moved to Oklahoma City… I was out with a new friend and she took me to this bar after dinner to meet a bunch of people, one of whom was Javi. We get to talking, he tells me all about this new company he’s starting with a friend of his, says it’s a lucky coincidence or maybe fate having a twisted sense of humor because—”o

You broke off. You hadn’t considered how to broach this particular detail in the story. Obviously, Javi had no idea at the time how messy your backstory with Scott was. He had only thought to poke fun at his friend and seemed delighted to have solved a long-standing mystery for himself.

“So you’re the girl!”

“Come again?”

“The girl, you know. He has a picture of you in one of his old notebooks from college. What a small world!”

“What?” Scott prompted. You felt your face heating up and took a sip of water to hide it. You couldn't well omit the rest having already begun, but the knowledge that Scott had kept a photograph of you, whether by accident or otherwise, made you flustered then and it flustered you now.

You settled for: “He said he recognized me, and that he thought we might have a friend in common. Obviously, he meant you. He was dating one of Christa’s friends at the time—”

“Rachel.”

“Yeah. So he’d show up, be around… You know how Javi can be.”

“Like a persistent terrier.”

“Sounds like your kind of business partner.”

Scott looked away.

Not wanting to push things further in that direction just yet, you explained, “I work a lot, so it’s hard for me to make friends. Javi seems to make them wherever he goes. It’s nice having people like that in your life, to open you up, remind you there’s more to all this than billable hours and senior partner tracks. But we never talked about you. Not until this whole thing happened.”

“What thing did he say happened?”

Tread carefully now. Scott was watching you intently—if you said the wrong thing it might start a new argument between you and make his relationship with Javi a hell of a lot worse. In polished business-speak, you recited: “Just that you had a fundamental disagreement about the direction of the company.”

Your reward was a skeptical laugh.

“Also, that he might have left you on the side of the road during a tornado… which he feels bad about, by the way.”

“Not bad enough.”

“Scott, you can’t really want to ruin him, can you? I mean, this is Javi we’re talking about.”

“That’s not part of this discussion.”

“Okay?” you shot back. “I don’t remember agreeing to that condition.”

“You’re still at this table.”

“And that can easily be fixed!”

“All right, calm down.” Maybe it was you in danger of starting another fight. Scott, holding up his hands in a show of good faith, said, “I thought we were playing nice here, being civilized, acting like adults… What else have you been up to?”

“You want to know about my life?”

“Like I said, I’m curious. And seeing as this is a momentary parley, I plan on making the most of it.”

Again, you took in his face in search for any signs of subterfuge and found none, only the barest hint of levity in his eyes at your willingness to argue. It reminded you of the old days, when Scott would delight in teasing you for the sole purpose of seeing what your reaction would be. “Fine. But it’s going to be quid pro quo,” you demanded. “Call it a term of this negotiation.”

His mouth curved into a smile. Then he held out his hand across the table and waited for you to take it before saying, “Term accepted, counselor.”

In the end, playing nice with Scott turned out to be a lot easier once you’d established a few ground rules, mainly the stipulation that either of you could say “pass” if you weren’t willing to answer a question.

You went through the whole gamut of discussing your first jobs after college, gossiped about the old Park Haven crowd, the who-married-who and the who-got-divorced of it all. It turned out that, like you, Scott hadn’t returned to Pennsylvania much in the last few years. StormPAR kept him traveling through the Great Plains for most of the spring and summer, and during the rest of the year he lived in New Orleans, where Riggs and his mother lived. You got the sense that his life revolved around work, and that StormPAR, while not the be all and end all of his professional fate, had been an important part of it until Javi called it quits. You figured this explained, in part, why he took the loss so personally, and though you kept your thoughts to yourself you lamented that his one attempt to branch out for himself and away from his uncle—if you could call taking a major investment from Riggs “branching out”—had gone badly.

Either way, by the end of the evening you felt you’d been a little hasty in believing the old Scott had left the building for good. You exited Perch in higher spirits, glad to see that the night was clear and that the air felt good on your cheeks. When he asked if you were getting a car, you shared your desire for a long walk and he responded with mild horror until you explained that you didn’t live far. “Maybe twenty minutes? Thirty at most.”

“I’ll walk you home,” he insisted. You didn't argue because you were secretly pleased. The only thing you had to guard against was the urge to take his arm as you used to do. You felt giddy with it, which you were sure had to be the alcohol, but it was also the fact that Scott was here, in the flesh, that you were cracking jokes and sometimes even pulling smiles from his otherwise deadpan expression. You’d forgotten how that could make you feel like you’d won the jackpot.

“I’m sorry, I know you’re going to take this the wrong way,” you prefaced while walking backwards on the sidewalk, “but I have a really hard time imagining you as a storm chaser.”

“Excuse me!”

“I mean…” You stopped and full-body gestured. “I mean, look at you!”

“What?”

“Even your slacks are pressed!”

“Objection, why are you studying my slacks like a degenerate?”

“Don’t make it weird,” you replied, and fell into step beside him, if only to keep him from seeing that you were embarrassed by the implication that you might’ve been checking him out. “All I meant to say was—”

“That I don’t look like a rugged adrenaline junkie? Maybe ‘Rodeo Clown’ is more your thing these days.”

“Don’t—Tyler’s actually quite decent, you know.”

“But you knew exactly who I was talking about.” Scott snapped his fingers as if to say, Gotcha! as you ruefully shook your head. Something about Tyler Owens tended to evoke a Neanderthal-like competitiveness in certain men—Scott, being competitive by nature, fell for it all too easily.

“This is me.” You pointed at your building. It was a relatively new construction with climbing greenery and pop-out balconies where you’d lived for a year-and-a-half after a not inconsiderable raise, and the reason why you worked sixty hours a week.

“Can I come up?” Scott asked.

You whipped your head so hard that your temples throbbed. “That’s…” A no good, awful, terrible, ill-conceived, perilous idea?

Scott seemed to find your distress highly entertaining. “Jesus, would you relax?” he said. “I’m not asking to tuck you in—unless, if there’s someone—”

“There isn’t,” you hurried to say.

“Oh? How come?”

The knowledge that the man with whom you were formerly engaged was inquiring as to the current state of your love life with all the breeziness of do you have the time? was enough to make you believe in karmic punishment. “Like I said, I’m busy,” you managed to eke out, which only made him lift his shoulders as if to say, Then, what’s the big deal?

Scott Miller was good at that, getting his way.

“Fine,” you caved. “But only for ten minutes! Fifteen, tops!”

“Scout’s honor.”

In the elevator car you stuck your hands in your pockets, searching for your keys only to find the cold hard metal of your engagement ring. You looked guiltily at the oblivious Scott, who was staring at the floor display with a contented expression and was none the wiser about your having worn it earlier in the night like some kind of weirdo. Should you give it back? At the time he’d wanted nothing to do with it, but was keeping it the proper thing? Was it good for you to even have it?

At last you found your keys at the bottom of your purse. You opened the door, trying to remember how well you’d tidied after dinner as he walked in, inspecting everything. You watched as his gaze traveled over the open-plan kitchen and living area—the work files, magazines, and old mail stacked on various side tables; the midcentury beechwood couch you got for a steal at a secondhand warehouse when you first moved; the shelves, filled with books and framed photographs and trinkets you’d brought from home; and the view from your window, which wasn’t nearly as spectacular as the one from Perch, but it faced west, and if you were home during golden hour you could see the other buildings lit orange and gold.

“Yeah, this is exactly how I pictured it,” Scott mentioned at last.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know, it’s just… you,” he answered. Your stomach turned to knots. He made you feel seen like nobody else could, not least of which because you’d let him back when you were younger and less guarded. Your heart kicked wildly in your chest, urging you to go to him, go to him, explain everything, get him back, because he was the one. Then Scott looked away, pointing at a sad fern that sat on a pedestal next to your mounted TV. “You still can’t keep a plant alive worth shit.”

“Rude,” you fired back, grasping at levity in order to shove the other thoughts away.

Scott drifted back to your bookshelves, seeing a few paperbacks he must’ve recognized from your old room at Park Haven. “And yet you keep trying. Do you actually use any of these?” he inquired, motioning towards the half-dozen board games you kept piled on an open top shelf. There was Clue and Monopoly, Candy Land, Sorry!, Scrabble and Life.

“Sometimes,” you replied, “when I have friends over. Which hasn’t happened much this year, if I’m being honest.”

“Let’s play.”

You laughed. You didn’t believe him. He pulled one of the boxes out and took it to the coffee table and all you could do was stare, incredulous, as he took his jacket off and rolled up his sleeves, actually sitting on the floor and looking expectantly at you to join him.

“You want to play Life with me?” you challenged. “Doesn’t that seem a little…”

“And you call me uptight.” He waved you over, determined not to take no for an answer. “Come on, hotshot, live a little.”

Despite your better judgment, and after a moment’s panicked hesitation, you lowered yourself next to him. He still smelled the same, like rain and sandalwood and pine. You wanted to curl into his side and feel the rise and fall of his chest beneath your ear, like you’d done on the nights he spent hidden away with you in your room. You had never gotten to live together; all you had were countable memories of waking up next to him and thinking, One day… one day we’ll have this every day.

As he set up the board, all you could do was stare at his hands.

SIX YEARS AGO NEW ORLEANS

Marshall Riggs greeted with you a double-kiss at the door, one on each side of your cheeks. Then he held you at arm’s length so he could look you up and down. “Would you take a look at that,” he said to Scott, “pretty as a picture! I suppose this is the part where I welcome you to the family?”

It was midsummer in Louisiana, on the hotter side of balmy and with the cicadas out in force. Shortly before you graduated Scott traveled to Philadelphia and asked you to marry him. Saying yes had been a no-brainer. You were in love, had put up with four years of distance and near-breakups, and now here was the culmination of all your compromise, communication, and hard work. For a second there you’d thought it would end badly; you were both in highly-intensive undergrad programs, there was only so much you could hash out over phone and video calls, and you were young. The question of “do we really want to make a life-changing decision at twenty-one?” had crossed your mind. But upon further reflection you realized that the answer was yes—had always been yes. And Scott seemed to agree.

In the absence of his father, “meeting the family” entailed paying court to his Uncle Riggs, a man you had spoken to a few times, at holiday parties and summer outings hosted by Pam, now settled in New Orleans and much happier than you’d known her before. But all those other times, you’d met Riggs as Scott’s girlfriend. Now you were his fiancée, with a fancy law degree and a diamond ring and everything, and while you would’ve preferred keeping your distance you knew this was important to Scott—that Riggs was important to him.

So you put on a smile and indulged the old man. Do it for Scott, you said to yourself. You’ve come this far. No point faltering while you were at the winning stretch.

You bowed your head. “Thank you for having us, Mr. Riggs.”

“Please, just Riggs,” he laughed. “Or Marshall—but only my ex-wives call me that.”

You soon found he had a way of twinkling his eyes that made you feel like you were sharing a joke. As he pointed out the features of his home—the old tapestries, the mural commissioned by Candice, his second ex-wife, the wall he knocked down because he wanted to “open up the space”, and his plans to expand the front garden, which, as it was, made the house look like it was in the middle of a tropical rainforest—he regaled you with stories about the people he knew, going off on tangents and bringing it back to the topic at hand. He was genteel and witty, and though he carried himself with Southern indifference there was no doubt he had power: he cocked his head, and a woman in an apron appeared with a tray of mint juleps; Scott held onto his every word; and when you were led into a dining room that might’ve fit forty or fifty at least, it was taken as a matter of course.

He pulled out your chair and sat you at his right hand because it was “the place of honor,” and Scott smiled encouragingly. You were doing so well.

You only wished that you could feel it.

“So, you want to be a big-deal attorney,” Riggs announced, digging into a perfect roast chicken. “What kind? Criminal?”

“Oh, no,” you replied. “Civil all the way. I’ve got a few offers but I want to shop around, make sure I’m making the right first move.”

“The right first move!” He pointed his knife at you. “I like that. By any chance, are you a chessplayer, sweetheart?”

“Can’t say that I am. My family are more into board games, really. Colonel Mustard in the library with the candlestick?” you explained.

He got a kick out of that. But he was partial to chess. “Opening moves—if you look at the big picture, they don't seem all that important. But well, in that case, why the hell’re there so many of ’em? Napoleon Opening, Greco Defense, Bled Variation, Balogh Defense… Sometimes how a thing starts dictates how the rest of it’ll unfold, from midgame all the way down to the end. If you're gonna do something, might as well do it right the first time or so I always say. Don’t I, boy?” He turned to Scott for confirmation.

“Yes, sir.”

“Yessir…” Riggs chuckled, spearing a roasted sprout. The ends of his bolo tie shifted on his neck. A turquoise the size of an acorn sat between his collar, and he was dressed to the nines—for your benefit, the guest of honor’s.

Nevertheless, there was something of the austere in his eyes. You couldn’t shake it when he put down his fork and sat back, looking from you to Scott, nodding like a king about to give his blessing to a pair of kneeling courtiers. “Pretty as a picture…” he repeated. “Look at you both—young, on the cusp, and none too hard on the eyes, if I do say so myself. A real golden couple on our hands! To opening moves”—he raised his glass—“may we always know when to make the right one.”

You raised your glass to be polite.

Scott leaned across the table. “Before you ask, yes, he is always like this.”

His uncle laughed, clapped him on the shoulder, and called for “champagne! To my nephew and his beautiful bride!”

As the night wore on, you convinced yourself that any discomfort was all in your head. You worked your way through three dinner courses, all impeccably cooked, and by the time the doberge was served you decided that you had judged the man too harshly. Sure, he was old-fashioned, but he was also jovial, polite, and he clearly doted on Scott.

“How nice it is to spend some quality time,” he remarked when Scott left the table, saying Pamela was on the phone. She wanted to know what plans you had for the rest of the week, whether you were still on for the garden fête on the 25th, and what dates you were considering for your engagement party, whether that would be here or in Pennsylvania, but I really do think you’d better do it here.

“I’ll just be a few minutes,” he said to Riggs, leaving you alone with his uncle. Now he had focused all of his attention on you, the full glare of his eye-twinkle and magnetic allure. He wasn’t a handsome man; it wasn’t about his looks—which were well past their prime—but about the knowledge that he could get almost everything he wanted simply by wanting it.

“It’s a shame we never did this sooner,” he went on. “Why do you think that is?” You shifted guiltily. The truth was, Riggs had always made you a bit uneasy. He had a reputation as a difficult man—ruthless, exacting, guileful, hard to please, and he liked doing business in the gray, always legal but never quite on the up-and-up.

Over the last four years, you may have avoided him on the grounds of self-righteous principle, but you couldn't admit to that if you were trying to leave a good impression.

You hedged, “I’m afraid law school doesn't leave much time to spare.”

“Very true… Not that I would know—it was always too much book learning for me, I’m a man of action,” Riggs explained, sipping his whiskey and looking happy as a clam. He had polished off two slices of cake earlier, but only because we’re celebrating. “Now, my nephew… he’s a bit o’ both, isn’t he? Either way, he’s got too much of his mother in ’im.”

You frowned, wanting to say a word in defense of Pamela. Riggs waved you off. “Don’t mind me, I’m just a silly old man with too many opinions. It tends to rub people up the wrong way—don't think I haven't noticed!” Another laugh, another narrowing of the eyes that could have been humor but which you felt like a lightning strike down your back.

He knows and you’re making something out of nothing struggled for dominance within your head, and still he kept on talking, forcing you to pay attention and leave the question unresolved.

He pointed in the direction where Scott had gone. “That nephew of mine—I don’t have any children of my own, did you know that? It never happened for me. Four wives and nothing to show for it—imagine that! But that boy… good thing his father never knew what to do with ’im—smart as a whip he is, and like a dog with a bone once he’s got an idea in his head. That part I’d say he got from me,” he said with a chuckle, wagging his finger in the air. He gave your hand a few avuncular pats and then kept it there, meaty and warm.

“I can see that you love ’im… I can see that you really love ’im. What bright, young, sensible girl wouldn't? You should see him ’round the office! He breaks hearts left, right, and center wherever he goes—a real catch, my secretary always says, and she’s been with me since Scott was yea-high. He’s got his mother’s looks, which I’ll say not to sound too self-serving, heh!” A slight tug on your wrist. You kept your objections to yourself, saying, He’s just a strange old man. As your discomfort grew, stretched to its very limits, he removed his hand and was back to being an innocuous grandfatherly man again. He seemed a little sad, wistful, even. Almost frail.

“I don’t know what I would do without him,” said Riggs, staring at his empty plate. “I really don't. Oh, here! before I forget—I have something for you.” He reached into the inner pocket of his cream suit jacket, extracting a long envelope which he slid across the table with a paternal expression, his gaze warm. You began to object, and, “Go on, now!” he insisted. “I don't hold with false modesty! Nothin’ but a waste o’ time in my book. Open it! Call it a graduation present to help you get started. Scott said your old man was taking some time off from his job, feeling under the weather.”

You opened the flap to find a check with more zeros on it than you could’ve reasonably imagined, payable to your name and typewritten in official font.

“Mr. Riggs, this is…” Your hands shook, you felt too hot in the enclosed dining room. Where was Scott? What was taking him so long? You slid the check in the envelope and tried to push it back to Riggs’s side of the table. “There is no way I can accept this,” you said. “It’s too much money, and while I appreciate the gesture—”

“Nonsense! It’s my pleasure and I won’t hear no can’ts or won’ts about it! I want you to know how well Scott’s been doing here since he finished school. He’s flourishing, all my business associates love him. I can’t possibly make do without him now.”

“I don’t understand,” you said, a pit growing in your stomach.

Once more Riggs pinned you with that twinkle in his eye. “I think you do, a smart girl like you. A man should sow his wild oats while he's young. I had a pretty young wife when I was his age. Marjorie, her name was. My first. It's true what they say—you never forget your first… By God, she was beautiful! and we had all these plans… so many plans! Dreams, really. But mine were always just a little too big for her, you understand, and at first that didn't matter much—we were in love. But then… the kids never came, and Marjorie had too much time on her hands—at the very least, she had more time on her hands than I did, that’s for sure! That gets to a woman sometimes.

“I know you won't have that problem, big city lawyer and all,” he said to you, as if in you he had the fullest confidence and he was speaking about other, less distinguished women. “But really, even if Marjorie’d been an ambassador to the United Nations she’d still have had a compunction about something or other… Ambition’s a hard pill for most folks to swallow.

“Now, you seem like a nice girl… really, I like you plenty! But let’s talk facts here for a minute. You are not the girl for Scott—not when he’s trying to become the man that he’s trying to become. The boy’s got the instincts of a killer. Really! All I’ve gotta do is stand back and look at him! But you, my dear, you’re nothin’ like him. You’ll never be. For most of my life, I thought the perfect woman would be someone to ‘balance me out,’ as they say. It’s taken me almost fifty years to find out that ain’t nothin’ but bullshit made up by Hallmark or whoever to sell us some cards. There ain't no use fighting one’s true nature. You and Scott are doomed to fail—if not now then in five years, if not in five then in another ten! You’ve seen the cracks, haven't you? He’s not the boy you met in Park Haven. He’s becoming his own man. He doesn’t need you anymore.”

You were almost too stunned to speak. Between the casual misogyny, the callous worldview, and the envelope that lay between you on the table like a coiled snake, you felt like you had left reality—there was no way this conversation could be taking place with Scott just in the other room.

“Let me get this straight,” you began, willing your voice not to shake, “you’re offering me money to break up with Scott because you think I’m not good enough for him?”

“No, no, no!” Riggs drew in close to you and took both of your hands, his face earnest and pained. “You’re getting this all wrong. I’m not some mustache-twirling villain trying to thwart the course of true love! You’re a wonderful girl, I’m sure Scott’s been very happy with you. But everything has its season. The time for moons and Junes and Ferris wheels is over. You can leave him to me now.”

“With all due respect, you’re out of your mind!” You slid your chair back, making an angry scrape along the tile. Riggs closed his grip around your hands.

“Sittdown before you wreck the boy’s life.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Did Scott ever tell you about his old man? How he squandered the family fortunes and left him and Pamela all but bankrupt? Now, me, I’d have done the decent thing—put a pistol to my head for all my sins—but the man has his pride, though I don’t know where-all he gets it from. You see Pam now, up in her French colonial sunning her face and drinking cocktails like the belle of the ball?” He pointed to his chest. “I did that. Scott’s shiny new diploma from M-I-T? Right again! Now, I don't believe in somethin’ for nothing. Everything in this here world has its cost, sweetheart. Everything. I have invested in that boy—not just money, but my blood, sweat, and tears! I won’t abide a loss. I won’t abide it.”

“Scott isn’t an investment,” you shot back. “He isn't yours to own.”

“And yet it would seem he’s worth more to me than he is to you. If he marries you, he and Pam won’t see another cent from me even if I have to drive past them through the gutter. I’m telling you I would throw my own sister out on the street for him—my own flesh! Can you say the same? Could Scott? Would he choose you over his poor, silly mother? Now, I highly doubt that.”

The crazy thing was, he seemed genuinely aggrieved by this predicament of his own making. In his face you could see him imagining the scene—him in his black town car, driving past Pam. And yet he remained immovable. Either you gave up Scott or he would make good on his threat.

It was callous, immoral. I have invested in that boy.

The sound of Scott’s shoes came up the hallway. Riggs folded the check into your hands and said, “Don't make a scene. Think about it.”

“What did I miss?” Scott stopped to kiss the top of your head before resuming his seat. You felt nauseous, your hands clammy around the paper you hid in your lap. To you, Scott seemed like he belonged in another world, another time—a Before-Time.

As you tried not to cry, Riggs smiled at him broadly and said, “Oh, nothing much. But I have a little present for you.”

He pulled a box from the bottom of his seat, crimson leather and beautifully stitched. Scott lifted the lid. Inside was a silver Patek Philippe, the watch he would wear when you saw him six years later, sitting across from you at a conference table with a strange coldness in his eyes. He showed it to you, beaming with pride, and while you couldn't remember what canned response you gave, you did recall that he pulled Riggs into a hug, and said, “Uncle, you really shouldn’t have…”

PRESENT DAY OKLAHOMA CITY

For nearly an hour you and Scott sat on the floor of your living room, playing at marriage and midlife crises and how many babies you would have, which on any other occasion would have made you hysterically laugh or, as Javi said on the night you met, remark upon the universe’s odd sense of humor.

But you were strangely levelheaded. If anything, you felt slightly out-of-body and yet entirely in your body, if that made sense.

You were aware of every piece put on the board. You watched the spinner turn in a rainbow of colors, the clack of the spokes sounding faster and faster before it slowed and then drew to a stop. You felt the couch cushions at your back. Scott’s shoulder brushed against yours sometimes, when he reached for one of the tiny bright pegs that went on top of the tiny bright cars. It felt like you were inside of a dream, and because dreams didn’t matter and had no consequences unless you let them, you started to ease into surrealism.

You played the game, and gradually your body began to relax. This was familiar to you—Scott taking it way too seriously, you poking fun at the furrow between his brows, the way you alternated between cold-hard strategy and chaotically negligent gameplay just to see a reaction flicker across his face. He stretched his legs out beneath the table, threw an arm across the seat-edge of the couch; sometimes, you would recline further back and your neck would touch his arm. You did it a few times, feeling embarrassed at first. But when you saw he didn’t mind, you let your head fall back, waiting as he picked a card.

Something was building beneath your skin. You felt restless, and a little reckless. Despite the law you laid down at the restaurant, you couldn’t stop your gaze from lingering. It lingered everywhere: on the hollow of his throat, the shape of his nose, the play of light across his cheeks, his mouth, the spaces where his white shirt gapped between the buttons and you could see his bare chest underneath. Oh, you’re in trouble… you said to yourself, and yet it didn’t matter. You didn’t care. This was a liminal space, a void where you could be honest and unafraid of the truth.

Even when Scott caught you looking, all he did was look back. He let the tips of his fingers touch yours when sliding a card from your hands, knocked his knee against yours. There was a time—or maybe you imagined it—when you felt his hand stroke your shoulder and you almost did something out-of-line. Because there was a line, blurred, but it existed; you kept within the bounds because you knew it was the sole condition to prolonging this state, so you bought owner’s insurance and traded in stocks, changed careers, had twins, repaid a loan (with interest) and made your slow and steady way to retirement at Countryside Acres.

At the end of the game, after all the remaining play money had been counted, it was Scott who said, “Looks like I win,” and all you said was, “Why am I not surprised?”

Then you glanced at the clock. “It’s late.”

“And we haven’t killed each other. How’s that for a détente?” Scott began putting all the parts away, pulling the pegs out of the cars first, sticking each one inside its appropriate little plastic bag. You would’ve thrown them straight in the box and not had a care in the world about it, but you liked that he did.

It was a Scott thing—patient, methodical, kind of annoying, and mostly well-intentioned. You sat back and watched him do it.

“Wow… they teach words like that at MIT?”

“They tried it out with our class—apparently, word was going ’round that STEM nerds lack empathy.”

You smiled. “Now where would they go and get an idea like that?” His eyes flicked down to yours. Having finished, he went back to reclining against the couch, one arm draped over his bent knee.

His gaze on your skin felt like a physical touch, and when it stopped at your lips, a shock of heat went through your body, from the crown of your head down to your toes. You watched him swallow. The urge to kiss him was vicious, urgent and unrelenting, and when you saw his mouth part, his tongue emerging to wet his lips, you thought, Now now now, but then Scott stood so fast he almost upset the table.

“I should go,” he managed to say, his voice ragged. He sought sightlessly for his discarded jacket, found it lying over the top of the couch, and he couldn’t escape fast enough. Frustration rolled off him in waves.

“Scott!” You scrambled to your feet. You might have touched the very edge of his sleeve, but he held up his hand to stop you coming any closer.

“This was a mistake.”

You went stock still. The spell was broken—this was no longer the dreamworld where nothing mattered, this was the Real World. The one where everything had been broken, not least of which because of you, and it was all a mistake. Calling him had been a mistake, meeting him had been a mistake, thinking that you could control anything you felt about him had been a mistake.

And now there was this: Scott raking his hands through his hair, turning in the middle of the room, almost a decade’s worth of anger and disappointment and confusion and, why not, maybe a little hatred thrown into the mix.

“You never trusted me!” he threw in your face. “And I mean never—even when we were in high school, especially not in college—”

“Why are you talking about college?” you demanded, your voice rising to meet his.

“Every time I called, it was like you were expecting me to tell you it was over. Every girl I so much as spoke to when you came to visit—”

“I was eighteen! What the fuck do you want me to say? That I was insecure and kind of an idiot? Yeah, no shit! I thought we’d moved past that!”

“No, we didn’t move past it because it never changed! Maybe it stopped being about other women, but then it was about work, about the time I spent shadowing at my uncle’s company. Do you have any idea how exhausting it was to keep having to convince you that I was all in? And what, somehow we went from that to ‘you’ve changed, Scott, I don’t think I like who you are anymore, Scott’—?”

“What the fuck? I never said that!”

“The night we had dinner at my uncle’s—the night you left! And again in the elevator—”

“Can we not do this?” you plead. “I thought we weren’t going to do this. We agreed!”

“Well, maybe I'm changing the terms.”

“Then this ends right here.”

There was silence. You knew it was coming, and yet it still hurt like a freight train hitting you square in the chest when he looked you in the eyes and said: “What else is new?”

You flinched. You felt your whole body recoil, your eyes sting. Your fault. The one who couldn’t stand up for herself, couldn't commit, who ran at the first sign of trouble. You and Scott are doomed to fail. Riggs had laid down his vision for the future and you had believed him, had chosen to believe him more than you had ever believed in Scott, or in yourself.

You’re not the girl for him. You’re nothing like him.

Hadn’t you always told yourself the same in the darkest recess of your mind? Hadn’t you, in truth, been just a little bit relieved when you packed your things and moved back to Park Haven, play-acting ended, no more trying, no more waiting for the other shoe to drop?

“I’m sorry.” Scott took an immediate step towards you. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that.”

“Yes, you did,” you shot back with more vitriol than you intended.

“Don’t do that—don’t pretend to know how I fucking feel.”

“You forget, Scott. I know you.”

“I thought the whole point was that you didn't! That I was so… unrecognizable!”

“Well, you are!” you exclaimed, shouting again. “Suing Javi? Trying to take down his company? Being Riggs’s, what, fucking loyal dog—”

“Oh, spare me the hysterics…”

“Did you say it?” you cut in. “Did you really say you didn’t care about that town full of people?”

Scott froze. You watched his jaw clench, and you knew in that moment that he'd been counting on Javi’s discretion on that score.

If your intention had been to preserve any goodwill between them, that was all going up in flames now. Hell, after tonight, you and Scott might be incapable of being in the same room together, let alone working towards a peaceful resolution to a civil suit.

“You weren’t there,” he ground out. “There were other things going on.”

“Did you say it, Scott?” It was obvious that he had. The shame kept him from saying another word when you finally stepped around the coffee table. “But God forbid I say a word against Marshall Riggs, the undoubted patron saint of Tornado Alley. I'm sure his real estate empire only exists so he can share his considerable wealth with the downtrodden and needy!”

“What do you want me to fucking say? Do you want me to apologize for who my family is? I'm sorry if you find my uncle objectionable, but he is the only reason I ever made something of myself—you ever consider that? I’d be nothing without him—nothing! You think my father could have lifted a finger? Riggs is the only reason Mom and I made it through that summer. I owe him everything! So he makes business decisions you don't agree with—”

You scoffed.

“—but Javi knew exactly where all that money came from. He wasn't duped, I didn’t trick him… he made a choice. He made a choice! And then, what, Kate Carter comes along and he grows a fucking conscience? Give me a break…”

“And where the hell is yours! You think I give a shit what Marshall Riggs does? I care about you, you fucking idiot! Are you really going to stand there and tell me you’re happy? That it… that it feels good to know you’re suing your best friend, that you seemingly have no other friends, that you’ve hitched yourself to your uncle and the most you can say is you’re doing it out of obligation? You used to want more for yourself, Scott!”

He laughed at that. Rubbing his hand across his mouth, he regarded you with a derisive humor.

“Tell me, how’s the trust fund going? Your dad—he was always a pretty shrewd investor, right? and your mom’s family… they’ve got those boutique hotels along the eastern seaboard, the ones that get their pictures in the magazines and all over social media? It’s pretty easy to talk about wanting more for yourself when your father didn’t sink your family prospects on a deck of cards. I do what I have to do. Not that you’d ever understand.”

Money—had it been this big of an issue the whole time? Had you ignored it all the years of your relationship? Money… and jealousy of your father, Scott’s resentment towards his. You felt so blind, so stupid. The “cracks” Riggs had referenced had been there all along, and instead of talking about them you had stuck your head in the sand, worried that if you said the wrong thing all your insecurities would be proven right. That Scott would leave.

Scott… Did you ever stop to consider the damage that leaving him alone with Riggs might cause?

“You only think you can’t make it without him,” you dared to say. “But he doesn’t care about you.”

“What, not like you do?”

“No,” you affirmed. “Not like I do.”

Scott frowned at you. He appeared almost childlike, vulnerable. A boy calling “no fair!”, probably with Riggs’s voice in the background saying, Life isn't fair. “You don't get to do that. You don’t get to do that after all this time… you—you fucking left!”

“He offered me money. Did he ever tell you that? How he tried to buy me off to leave you? You talk about my trust fund, and it’s true—I grew up lucky, but we never had Marshall Riggs Money. There’s rich and then there’s capital-R Rich, the kind you only get when you’ve turned being a ruthless son-of-a-bitch into an art form.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Yes, you do. I can see it in your eyes—you know I’m telling the truth. I never liked him. What's more, he could tell I didn't like him, and he couldn't have that… no, not Riggs. He’d gotten used to you being his right-hand man and he wasn’t about to lose you. So he waited until you left the table—”

“I’m not going to listen to this.”

“—he waited until you left the table,” you repeated, almost toe to toe. You forced yourself to continue, even in the face of Scott’s patent distress. You couldn't live like this, not anymore. Keeping secrets, taking the biggest share of the blame. “‘If he marries you, he and his mother won’t see another cent from me even if I have to drive past them through the gutter,’” you recited. “Those were his words. I’m not lying to you—I wouldn't, not about this.

“He was never going to let us be together. Obviously, I didn’t take the money, but he was dead serious about his threat. And I was angry. I thought if only you’d stood up to your uncle before, if you weren’t blind to what he really was, I would never have been put in that position. So I took it out on you. I blamed you. And I said things…”

You faltered, remembering the night you returned to the hotel. You couldn’t stay, not with Riggs’s check in your pocket and the memory of his hand gripping your wrist. But Scott didn’t understand. He didn't know what had made you so upset, why you were throwing your clothes into your suitcase and talking about flights and returning his ring and about how it was time you stopped pretending. And, yes, you took to heart what Riggs had implied about other women. You weren’t picky. You weren’t careful. You just had to leave.

You were ashamed of it now. The knowledge of how you’d acted lodged in your throat like a stone you couldn’t swallow down. Scott remembered it, too. His eyes flickered this way and that, recalling, wondering how much of it was true.

“I said things to you that I wish I’d never… that I still think about, and I still regret, because I love—” Your voice broke. You placed your hands over his chest, then cradled his face, willing him to believe you, willing yourself to be brave. “I still love you, Scott. I love you. I should’ve told you the truth, but I thought I was doing the right thing.”

“No… you left,” he said weakly, bracing his hands around your wrists.

“I know I did… I know, but he can’t have you.” You kissed his mouth, once, twice, as many times as he allowed, and all the while you said the things you should’ve said that night in New Orleans. “I won’t let him have you… not this time… not again.”

Scott turned his head and the heat of his tongue met yours.

One second he was all coiled tension and the next he was all over you, walking you back towards the couch, kissing a trail down your neck, one hand tangled in your hair while the other was already up your skirt matching his strokes to the curl of his tongue. He laid you down on the couch, settling between your thighs, and even clothed the weight of him felt familiar—the pass of his hand up and down your leg, the way he liked to tease you by wandering just close enough to where you wanted before pulling away, distracting you with a searing kiss or a shallow roll of his hips.

In the past, there were times when he would draw it out for hours, taking you to the brink and back until you were sure you wanted to curse him.

At a friend’s New York wedding, he made you come three times before he entered you, and you weren’t too proud—now, with the real Scott on top of you, all over you, soon to be in you if there was any justice in the world—to admit that you had replayed that night in your head sometimes when you were lonely. When a bad day at work or an ill-advised night of drinking too much ended with you trying to chase sleep on the heels of an orgasm that was never as satisfying as the ones you got with Scott.

Even when you managed to make yourself come—really come, that full-bodied electricity-followed-by-deep-silence feeling—you had been all too aware of his absence. What was the point, you had wondered, if you couldn’t curl up next to him or listen to the steady flow of his breathing or hear him sigh into your neck when he wrapped his arms around you and went to sleep? What was the point if, upon waking, you wouldn't have Scott and his early-morning voice, the clarity of his eyes, the smell of the coffee he made in his stupidly expensive espresso machines? (God, you missed that coffee.)

It was Scott… it was only ever Scott.

The couch was a perilous place to be doing any of this. You weren't sure that he fit in it, for one, and for another, you were mildly worried about the potential costs of fixing a broken midcentury piece of furniture. Oh, well, you thought, life’s too short. Not bothering to undress, you pushed aside articles of clothing, hands bumping into each other, scraps of fabric pushed aside, belt buckle rattling as it landed on the floor, until finally he surged into you, gripping the side of the couch and burying a curse against your neck as you stretched around him.

He slid a hand below your hips and fixed the angle. The sex was hurried, messy and it had nothing of grace; it was imperfect and rather cramped, really, but all that mattered was how he felt. He felt like home. As you came, he entwined his fingers around yours, and then he finished, trembling, prolonging a wave of pleasure that took your breath away.

Don’t go, you want to say into his heaving chest.

Somehow, he turned you on your side so you could stretch along the couch. He wrapped his arms around you, stroking feather-light touched along your arm as his breathing slowed. You felt tired, hollowed out, but not in a bad way. In a quiet-before-the-storm way, when you can smell water in the air and the breeze picks up, and the world sits on the cusp of being new.

“I miss you,” he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I miss you too.”

After that, there was a silence so long it made you think he’d dozed off, but then he spoke again, painfully honest and a little scared. “I don't think I can do what you need me to do. I’m not… that’s not who I am anymore.”

“I think you are,” you said back. “I think he’s who you’ve always been.”

THREE WEEKS LATER

You were enjoying a rare weekend off from work. Figuring you could do with some real time off the clock, you’d let the office know you’d be holding all work calls and emails until Monday. Abby’s eyes had nearly popped out of her skull in a rare show of feeling, but after the emotional turmoil of the last few months, you knew you needed to walk around the city, have a massage, touch some grass, maybe eat a pint of ice cream in front of a frothy period drama—a true-blue staycation.

The morning after you and Scott slept together, you’d agreed that it was in everyone’s best interest to let things be. He needed time to think about a few things, and regardless of your shared history, you were still Javi’s lawyer. You distracted yourself by doubling down on other cases. It helped that dealing with Mrs. Richardson-Burkhardt and the four Barone siblings was as eventful as watching an HBO television series—between the scathing one-liners and last-minute twists, there was little bandwidth left over to think about Scott.

And yet you always managed.

For better or for worse, Scott had always been good at making you hope for things. Even when you wanted to err on the side of caution, expect the worst and thus avoid disappointment, just the fact that he loved you made you feel like anything was possible, like you could make things happen.

“We brought out the best in each other. That mattered to us more than anything your father and I ever did wrong.”

At a department store downtown, you watched across the way as a young couple studied a tray of rings at the jewelry counter, diamonds sparkling in the light. The woman grabbed her partner’s arm and pointed at one of the selections as if to say, “That one!”, and for a moment they were in perfect sync. The salesman offered up the band with elaborate flourish, the groom-to-be took his bride’s hand, slipped the ring on her finger, and they admired it together, the play of white gold on her black skin.

The woman beamed. So did he.

“Looks like we have ourselves a winner,” the pleased salesman declared.

After lunch and an overpriced iced coffee, you arrived home with a gift for the Travises’ golden anniversary party, a pair of gold-accented crystal champagne glasses you hoped would survive the flight. It would be nice to see your mom again, to reunite with your old college friends, and revisit old haunts.

The thought of going home no longer filled you with dread—for which, even if nothing came out of your night with Scott, if he decided that upending his life was too much for him to handle right now, you would always be grateful. For years, your idea of a worst nightmare was running into him and having the truth spoken aloud, plainly, and for both of you to hear. Nothing will ever be as bad as this, you told yourself.

But it was a half-lie. Not seeing him again would be worse.

Already, you felt his absence like a hollow in your chest.

On the kitchen counter, you saw that your phone began to ring. “Javi, how’s the weather looking?” you asked, putting him on speaker as you poured yourself some water.

 “She’s a fickle mistress, I’ll tell you that! Hey, I just wanted to let you know… Scott called this morning. He says he’s dropping the suit.”

“Oh?”

“You don’t sound too surprised. Any of that you're doing?”

“No,” you replied, picking up your phone, “that’s all Scott. I haven’t spoken to him in weeks, actually.”

“Well, he sounded different. Still Scott, but a shorter stick up his ass, if you know what I mean. Anyway, I know a part of how everything went down was my fault—business is business, as my Ma always says. I sold him my share of StormPAR, which means I also have to pay back some of the money we took from Riggs. That’ll hurt like a—well, you know… I’m not the guy’s biggest fan these days. But if I don’t have to hear the name Marshall Riggs ever again, I’ll count myself lucky and say it’s a price well-paid.”

“And Scott?” you ventured to say.

“Honestly, I think he’s done with the whole thing. Sounds like he’s closing up shop, which makes sense. He’s a damn good engineer but kind of hopeless as a chaser.”

You laughed. “Yeah, I guess I can see that. Are you okay?”

“Me, or me and Scott?”

“Both.”

To Javi’s credit, he took a few moments to actually think about it. “Yeah, I’m good. You know me… I never stay down for long. Man with a thousand plans. Me and Scott? Man, I don’t know about that one… I did leave him by the side of the road. Ruined one of his immaculately pressed shirts.”

You snorted. “God forbid.”

“Yeah, God forbid. Listen, if it were up to me, I’d just let bygones be bygones. Life’s too short, you know. Shit happens… I don’t want to be a guy who burns bridges over money.”

“Yeah, I get that.”

“What I mean to say,” Javi spoke over a sudden burst of wind, “is that if Scott ever wants to give me a call, I’ll answer. You can even tell him I said that.”

“Me?” You set your glass down with a clatter, heat rising to your face.

“Yeah, you! I’m not an idiot, hotshot, that history’s not gone ancient yet.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Mhm… Anyway, the wind’s picking up. Kate’s off reading her dandelions.”

“You know, I kinda wish I could see her doing that…”

“Watch out, we might make a chaser of you yet!” Javi crowed.

You shook your head, said, “I wouldn't hold my breath,” but you were smiling. The sun streamed through your open windows and anything was possible.

Once Javi ended the call, you stared at your phone, wondering… And then you decided to be reckless one more time. Call it a calculated risk, you thought instead. You held the phone up to your ear and listened to it ring. The dial tone sounded a few times, and then it stopped.

He’d answered.

“Scott, it’s me,” you said, trying to relax the thrumming in your heart.

There was a pause and then you heard his voice: “Did Javi tell you?”

“Yeah, we just got off the phone.”

“Open your door.”

You made a face, glancing at the screen and holding it against your ear again. “What?”

“Open your door, UPenn!”

You dashed to the entryway, patting your hair, blotting your face, wondering if your shirt was wrinkled. When you pulled the door open, you saw Scott in full view, in the middle of the day. Not wearing white. The blue of his shirt brought out his eyes, which looked tired but less burdened, too.

He seemed lighter, if not happy then trying to get there.

“Thought I’d skip out on being a sore loser this time.” He gave a half-shrug.

“I don’t know, Miller… from here it doesn't seem like you're losing.”

He smiled at the floor, almost shy. And when he looked into your face you saw the boy you fell in love with at Nichols Academy, the one who took baseball too seriously, who loved Hemingway and your mom’s apple crisp, the one who sang bad Sinatra and got into fights and thought James Watt was something of a god. It was like the worst of the last few years had gone away, leaving only space for something new to grow, to be built—together.

“All I want is you,” promised Scott, taking you into his arms.

You stuck your hand in your pocket, extracted the ring you’d kept there for almost a month like a talisman, like a good-luck charm, and held it up to Scott. He stared at it, and then at you, with something like shock.

Something like awe and wonder.

“Don’t you know? You've always had me.”

And in that hallway, Scott Miller, a man who’d never cop to having a romantic bone in his body, spun you around and kissed you and wouldn’t have cared if your neighbor at Apartment 424 had noticed or if one of his investors appeared. Maybe there was something to Tyler’s corny catchphrase, after all: If you feel it, chase it—no matter the odds, no matter the obstacles in your path, because feeling it was purpose and inspiration and direction when you lost your way.

It took you a while, but you understood it now.

[sweetpeterparker]

summary: A case brings Spencer back to his public high school where he reunites with his favorite high school professor and his daughter.

Bonus: Derek finds out he wasn’t the first one to call Spencer pretty boy. 

word count: 1564 words

Spencer was pretty sure that when people talked about high school reunions, this wasn't what they meant. His team, the Behavioral Analysis unit, burst through the doors of his Las Vegas public high school, quite literally as people on a mission. It was after school hours, so the halls were mostly empty, but the few students who remained gawked at the team as they passed. It wasn't just the fact that they were in all suits–Spencer was the exception in his typical collared shirt and sweater vest–it was the air that they carried themselves with. Spencer had yet to fully dissect it.

As they parted their way through the halls, Spencer tried to take it all in. Everything was the same but also different somehow. He figured there weren't any significant external changes, given that he had an eidetic memory and nothing seemed particularly new, so he largely attributed these feelings to the fact that he was here with his team. If only they could have been there a decade ago when he was verbally harassed and shoved into lockers by a bunch of bullies for simply existing. Those kids had spent more time making his high school experience a living nightmare than actually studying. Objectively, he knew that the things he'd hated about this place were long gone and belonged with a life that he had left behind, but it wasn't that easy to fight off painful memories. He felt Morgan's arm wrap around his shoulder. "Look, I know this is hard for you, kid."

"I can handle it." It wasn't a lie. He might have had his own monsters in this place, but now he needed it to solve a case. Some part of him was holding onto the hope that using it to save a life would help him put those monsters to rest.

The team stopped in front of a classroom door. Spencer smiled at the name on the plaque. That class had once been the only good thing he could take from school. Hotch, who had been leading the troop, allowed Spencer to step up. There were usually strict rules when it came to agents who had a stake in a case, but since the man that they were seeing was neither a suspect nor a witness, rather a simple consultant, he decided to risk giving the youngest some liberty. Spencer knocked on the door.

"Who is it?" A boisterous voice called.

"FBI," Spencer answered.

"Come in."

One by one, the members of the team entered the classroom, trailing behind Spencer. When the older man's eyes landed on a certain genius prodigy that he had known all those years ago, a grin tilted his lips.

"Well, well, well. If it isn't my favorite student." The team watched in surprise as the man hugged their boygenius and he accepted it gingerly. There were very few people whom Spencer accepted physical touch from. One of the pitfalls of having an eidetic memory and a background in science was that he knew a lot more about germs than the average person and had a stronger phobia of them, too. All that to say that if Spencer hugged you, you were someone important to him.

"Everyone, this is Mr. F/N L/N, he was my calculus teacher in high school. Mr. L/N, these are my team members at the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI: agents Rossi, Hotchner, Prentiss, Jareau, Morgan, and Greenaway.

"A pleasure to meet you all." He turned to Spencer, giving him a prideful look. "FBI, huh? I always knew you would go on to do big things, kid." Hearing those words meant a lot to Spencer. Although he hadn't had a father, he had been very fortunate to have a few great men as his mentors. Gideon, Rossi, Hotch, Morgan, and a few teachers who had helped him find his way in school when he was always so much younger than his classmates. 

"Yeah, well you were definitely a big part of that. You were without a doubt the best teacher in this school."

“Oh, gosh. Don't boost his ego even more. His very loving and tired family keeps pushing for him to retire, but he won't budge.” All eyes turned to the doorway where you stood. They watched as you sauntered into the room with a confident stride, making your way over to stand next to your father.

"Well, if I don't carry the education system, who will?" He joked. 

You rolled your eyes. "You and your philanthropy."

"What are you doing here, anyway?"

You pretended to be offended. "Can't a girl drop by to visit her favorite father?"

"I wasn't aware that there were more of us."

"Hate to break it to you," you sighed. "Actually, mom sent me here to gather evidence that you are overworking yourself. The bribe is thirty bucks, so either double the offer or pose for photos. Give me a super exhausted look," you instructed, pulling out your camera.

"As much as I'd love to help you scam your mother, I think it would be better if we did it when we weren't standing in front of some of the country's officials," he nodded toward the people who had witnessed this entire spectacle. "Ladies and gentlemen, this is my very sarcastic daughter, Y/N. Y/N, you remember–"

“Pretty boy,” you completed for him with a smile at the boy in question.

Spencer choked, bracing himself for the inevitable as Derek snorted, a sly smirk forming on his lips like a movie villain’s signature. “No way! Why didn’t you tell us that you already had a reputation as a pretty boy, Reid?”

“'Cause I didn't," he cleared his throat, trying to brush his embarrassment off.

“Uh, yeah, you did. Pretty then, pretty now.” The remark might’ve been a bit flirty, but you couldn’t help it. He was just as cute as before.

"So you went to school together?" the gorgeous blonde who you'd overheard Spencer refer to as Agent Jareau asked.

“Oh, no. I wasn’t a genius like Spencer here, so I was in middle school. Plus, I went to boarding school from eighth grade and beyond. I was the baby of the family, a straggling, wild lastborn who couldn't help but rebel, so my parents had me shipped off. It was basically military school.”

“It was an arts school.” Your dad informed the team. “And she begged to attend." 

“Same difference. Anyway, since we were the same age, we sometimes hung out when he had extracurriculars and my dad held me hostage while he graded papers. Not literally, of course,” you held your hands up, feigning a dramatic need to clarify. "I know you lot are the FBI, so it goes without saying that my father is an upstanding, law-abiding citizen."

Your father pressed an exasperated hand to his forehead. "I previously failed to mention that she was born without a single serious bone in her body."

"Haha."

"Did you end up pursuing it? Art, I mean?" Spencer asked.

A huge smile spread on your face the way it always did when someone asked you about your passion. "I did. I'm the youngest curator at my gallery." As you rattled off the name, the others nodded in acknowledgment, but you saw Spencer's eyes widen slightly. "Wow. That's the most prestigious gallery in Las Vegas," he murmured.

You nodded, impressed by the fact that he knew that. But you quickly remembered that even though young Spencer's passions had always been mathematic and scientific, his interests had always been broader. Even as a kid he had been well-versed in films, literature and art. It made you happy to see that nothing had changed. 

A chorus of wows and congratulations launched at you from the team–FBI agents, for what it was worth, weren't as frightening or stoic as you had imagined. Or maybe that was just something special about this particular bunch.

Morgan wiggled his eyebrows. "Will you look at that? Reid's also the youngest member of the BAU. You two have so much in common."

Reid shot him a disgruntled look that he laughed off. 

Hotch, clearly the regulator, brought the conversation back on track. "Your parents must be so proud." He offered you politely. "I wish we were here under more pleasant circumstances, but this is official business.”

“And on that note, I’ve got to go because I have a meeting in an hour." You announced.

You reached over and hugged Spencer. Surprising the team again, he didn't hesitate to hug you back.

“It was good to see you, Spence." 

"Likewise."

"Don't be a stranger," you told him, reaching into your purse and pulling out one of the business cards that you usually only handed out on formal occasions. You passed it to him. "It has my number on it. If you have some extra time in Vegas, hit me up and we'll hang out."

"Yeah. I'll, uh, do that," He muttered.

You didn't fail to notice the smirks being exchanged between his team members. Even your father had a tilt to his lips.

"Alright, bye, guys! Bye dad!"

Once you were gone, your father retraced back to the matter at hand. “So how can I help?”

The rest of the team returned to business, but Spencer couldn't stop thinking about you and the card burning a hole in his pocket.

[sweetpeterparker]

I had this idea while watching CM i just know you’re THE person to ask!! So i’m picturing established relationship with later seasons Reid and reader sees a pic of early seasons maybe his FBI badge or smth ? And she’s like gosh i wish i met you sooner and Spencer thinks she wouldn’t have liked him back then and she’s like bitch ???? i have this feeling that people started to find him more attractive after the prison trauma and i just want to give some love to early seasons reid like baby i would have smashed u in season 1

badge — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: established relationship, post!prison spencer a/n: hii !! loved this idea sooo much <3 because yes ! i would've literally thrown myself at s1 spencer

Spring cleaning.

It was something you had insisted on, and Spencer was reluctantly going along with it. You loved his apartment, with its cozy clutter and towering bookshelves, but there was a fine line between charmingly lived-in and needing intervention. Currently, you were seated cross-legged on the floor beside one of his many bookshelves, sorting through stacks of old files, loose papers, and, of course, more books than any person could reasonably own.

Spencer was across from you, carefully removing each book from the lower shelf so he could dust beneath them.

You pulled out a well-worn novel, only to find four more identical copies tucked behind it. You held one up, raising an eyebrow. “Why do you have five different versions of the same book?”

Spencer barely glanced up from his task as he answered, “They’re all different special editions. That one—” He gestured vaguely toward the book in your hand. “—has annotations from the original editor. The one next to it has a foreword by a critic I like, and the third has alternate chapter endings that were cut from the final draft.”

You shook your head, amused. Only Spencer would need multiple copies of the same book. Flipping through the pages, you noticed scribbled notes in the margins.

“I haven’t read that one in ages,” Spencer admitted, suddenly abandoning his dusting to scoot closer to you. His knee bumped against yours as he leaned in, his fingers gently taking the book from your hands. He opened it to a random page, and his expression softened as he traced his old annotations with his fingertip.

A small, nostalgic smile tugged at his lips.

You watched him. His hair had fallen into his face again, obscuring his eyes as he focused on the text. You reached out, brushing the unruly strands behind his ear. He barely seemed to notice, too absorbed in the book, but his free hand caught yours, lifting it to his lips to press a quick, absentminded kiss to your knuckles before returning to his reading.

You bit back a laugh.

Of course.

You had come here to clean, and now Spencer was going to reread an entire novel instead. By the time you finished unloading the second shelf, he’d probably be done with it. You reached for a file that had been tucked between stacks of books on the second shelf. Curious, you opened it slowly, peeling back the cover to reveal its contents and then you froze.

"Oh my god."

Spencer, still absorbed in his book, didn’t even glance up as you carefully pulled out what you’d just discovered.

His old FBI badge.

You stared at it, lips parting in amusement. The photo showed a younger Spencer, his hair meticulously gelled to the side, so much more tamed than the unruly curls he had now. It was shorter, too, neatly styled in a way that looked almost foreign compared to the man currently sitting on the floor beside you, lost in his reading.

You didn’t even realize Spencer had finished his book until you felt the faint tickle of his hair against your cheek as he leaned over your shoulder, peering at what you were holding.

“What are you looking at?” he asked, voice warm.

You grinned, twisting to face him as you held up the badge. “Your old FBI badge.”

Spencer blinked at it for a second, processing, before his eyes widened slightly. “Give me that,” he said immediately, reaching for it but you’d predicted that reaction, and you yanked it out of his reach with a laugh.He didn’t even try to fight you for it, just slumped back with a sigh, though the faint pink tinge creeping up his neck betrayed his embarrassment.

“You looked so cute,” you teased, scooting backward just enough to keep the badge safely away. But Spencer wasn’t having it. In one swift motion, he hooked his hands around your ankles and dragged you forward until you were knee-to-knee with him again.

"No, I didn’t," Spencer insisted as he stared at the badge held between you.

"You totally did," you grinned, tracing the edge of the picture with your fingertip. Spencer had stopped looking at the badge entirely, his gaze instead fixed on you, the way your lips curled in amusement, the softness in your expression as you studied him.

"Your lips are still all pouty and pink," you murmured, tapping the photo where his mouth was set in a firm, professional line. Then you glanced up, only to find real Spencer mirroring the expression, his own lips slightly pursed.

"See?" you teased, meeting his eyes.

Spencer shook his head, but there was no real annoyance in it, just fond exasperation. "I wish I’d met you sooner," you said softly, your thumb brushing over the badge before your gaze flickered down for a second.

He stared at you like you’d just spoken in riddles. "You wouldn’t have liked me back then," he muttered.

Now it was your turn to look at him in disbelief. "Spencer, you look adorable," you insisted, holding the badge up again for emphasis.

"Adorable," he repeated flatly, as if that only proved his point, like adorable was code for not worth liking.

So you doubled down. "Attractive. Handsome. Pretty. Hot," you added, each word punctuated with a pointed look.That finally cracked him. A smile tugged at his lips, and he shook his head, but his ears had gone pink.

"Spencer," you pressed, bumping your knee against his, "there’s no way I would’ve missed out on that." You jabbed your finger at the photo for good measure.

He chuckled, finally tearing his gaze away from the badge to focus on you instead. His fingers brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his touch lingering just a second too long to be casual.

"Don’t deflect," you accused, pointing a finger at him.

"I’m not deflecting, I’m reprioritizing," he countered, but the way his thumb traced your jawline betrayed him.

You pouted, hard, and Spencer’s eyes flickered down to your lips like he was physically restraining himself from kissing the expression right off your face. (Which, given the way his fingers twitched against your skin, he absolutely was.)

"I’m serious, Spencer," you insisted. "I would’ve literally asked you out the first second I saw you."

Spencer raised an eyebrow. "You stuttered for six seconds straight when I asked you out," he reminded you, grinning when your mouth fell open in embarassement.

"That—! That was different!" you spluttered, swatting at his shoulder. "You caught me off guard!"

"Mm-hmm." His grin widened.

"Point is—" You waved the badge between you like a white flag, refusing to let him derail you further. "—I would’ve adored you, Spencer. Any version of you."

Your voice softened at the end, and just like that, his teasing expression melted. He exhaled a laugh, shaking his head like he still didn’t quite believe you, but when he leaned in to press his lips to your forehead, the badge forgotten between you, it was answer enough.

(And if he stole the badge back when you were distracted by his smile? Well. You’d let him have that one.)