certaimromance

[certaimromance]

are you @always4tuesday or i am crazy????

no, that's patricia (yes, that's me)

[certaimromance]

your blog is so adorable and from what i've read your fics are so so so good!!! i can't

thank uuu, i’m glad you like it ♡ and omg the vibe of your blog is IMMACULATE, i love it so much

[certaimromance]

i wrote this on those days when everything feels strange, big and too personal, i hope it helps you if you are feeling or have ever felt the same way <3

𝜗𝜚 Every Shade.

Boyfriend!Reid x Avoidant!reader

series mastelist | main masterlist

Summary: Your perfect boyfriend says a fun fact about the standards of beauty, and suddenly his words hit you harder than they should.

Words: 6k.

Warnings & Tags: fem!bau!reader. mentions of insecurities, beauty canons, serial killers, death and the reader wearing makeup. established relationship. spencer being an inexperienced boyfriend. lack of communication but happy ending. hurt/comfort. angst?. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).

Note: I can seriously think of my inexperienced boy being a foolish or careless boyfriend even without meaning to be, so enjoy this!

Spencer Reid never thought of himself as the careless type of boyfriend. In fact, before you, the very idea of being someone’s boyfriend had never seemed possible, let alone something he could do well. He had always been more comfortable with facts, numbers, and patterns. Relationships had always been a different kind of mystery to him, one he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to solve. But when you came into his life, something shifted. He couldn’t explain it, but he felt an overwhelming desire to be not just a partner, but a good one. A thoughtful one. A boyfriend who paid attention to the details.

He knew your favorite coffee order without you ever having to tell him. He knew the exact shade of blue that made your eyes sparkle in a way that made him catch his breath and the way you furrowed your brows in concentration when you were diving deep into thought. He noticed the little things, like the way your fingers gripped the edge of your sleeve when you were lost in a difficult problem or how you would laugh softly at jokes you didn’t find funny just to make others feel comfortable. Every habit, every subtle movement, every fleeting comment you made was something he absorbed like a sponge, collecting the pieces of you that made you you. And it made him feel closer to you, more connected than he ever thought was possible.

But it wasn’t just the light moments he noticed. Spencer also understood the weight of your darker days, the ones where the world seemed to shift into shades of gray, where the air held a bite that wasn’t harsh but still cut through you. He knew when the seasons teetered between autumn and winter and how those melancholic in-between days clung to your spirit. On those days, the ones where you wore your sadness like a cloak without ever saying a word, he was there. He noticed when your smile didn’t reach your eyes, when your usual energy seemed dimmed. So, without fail, he would show up with a steaming cup of hot chocolate, a soft blanket, and arms that enveloped you like a cocoon. He would be your shelter, your quiet refuge from the world, without needing any words to fill the silence.

He loved knowing you this well, loved that he could anticipate your needs before you even voiced them. It made him feel closer to you, like he had earned a place in the most hidden corners of your heart. And to Spencer, there was no better feeling in the world.

He knows you; he sees you. He does it.

That morning, in the quiet hum of your office, was one of those moments where your boyfriend’s watchful eyes made all the difference. The soft glow of your desk lamp illuminated your face, casting a warm, golden light that contrasted against the coolness of the winter air outside. Before you, your makeup bag lay open, a chaotic yet familiar spread of tools—brushes, tubes, powders—all of them scattered like tiny pieces of armor you would need for the day ahead. You were preparing for the press conference, the one where you would stand in for JJ during her maternity leave. The pressure felt immense. It wasn’t just any press conference; it was the moment you had to prove you could handle the spotlight, the cameras, and the ever-watchful public eye. The weight of one of your best friends’ trust sat heavy on your shoulders, but it was a weight you were willing to carry.

As you smoothed foundation over your skin with careful, practiced strokes, you felt the weight of Spencer’s gaze on you. It wasn’t intrusive, never demanding, just there, steady and grounding, as if his attention alone could keep you tethered. He had a way of watching you that made you feel both seen and safe, as though he was quietly committing every little detail of you to memory.

Still, you glanced up, unable to resist.

And there he was.

Leaning against the wall, arms loosely crossed, his expression was unreadable, but his eyes—those deep, knowing eyes—told you everything. He was looking at you like you were the most fascinating thing in the world, his quiet reverence sending a warm, familiar hum through your chest. It made your pulse stutter, your breath catch just slightly.

Because, oh God, how much you loved feeling his eyes on you.

You swallowed, dragging your focus back to the mirror. Focus. Get it together. You’ve got this. JJ had entrusted you with this press conference, and you weren’t about to let doubt creep in, not now.

But from the corner of your eye, you caught movement.

Derek Morgan, leaning casually against his desk, arms crossed, wearing that signature smirk of his. It wasn’t just amusement playing at the edges of his mouth; it was something more entertained, more knowing. His gaze flicked between you and Spencer, and you could practically hear the teasing remark forming before he even opened his mouth.

You sighed. Here we go.

“What?” you asked, arching a brow as you reached for your concealer. “Never seen someone put on makeup before?”

His grin only deepened. “Nah, I’ve seen plenty,” he said, raising an eyebrow as if he were admiring a work of art. “I’ve just never seen someone prepare for a press conference like they’re getting ready for a red carpet event.”

You rolled your eyes. “Some of us like to be prepared. Looking good is part of that.” You injected confidence into the words, though if you were being honest, they felt a little hollow. Today, it wasn’t just about looking good, it was about feeling in control.

And right now, with nerves curling tight in your stomach, you weren’t sure you did.

Morgan’s smirk didn’t waver. He nudged your boyfriend with his elbow, dragging him into the conversation. “Come on, kid. Tell her she doesn’t need all that makeup.”

You looked up, expecting his usual reassuring smile, that soft look he reserved for moments when he knew you were nervous or self-conscious. You could always count on him to calm your racing thoughts, to tell you that you were perfect just the way you were. The kind of reassurance that made everything feel lighter.

Instead, Spencer glanced at you with that thoughtful frown he always wore when his mind was spinning through facts. “You know…” His voice was calm, detached even, like he was about to drop some piece of knowledge that he thought might help. “It’s weird, but studies show that people tend to take you more seriously when you fit the ‘beauty standards.’ You know, like…if you’re wearing makeup or have certain features that are seen as desirable, people will listen to you more in meetings.”

The mascara brush froze mid-air.

Oh.

The words landed harder than they should have, knocking the breath from your lungs in a way that felt almost embarrassing. Because this was Spencer, your Spencer, the one who had seen you at your worst, who had kissed you sleepy and messy in the morning, who had traced your bare skin in the dim light of your bedroom.

And yet, here he was, stating facts about beauty standards like they were nothing more than statistics. Like they didn’t mean anything.

You forced out a weak laugh, trying to brush it off, trying to tell yourself that he hadn’t meant it the way it sounded. But the sting was already there, curling under your skin, settling deep in your chest. Was that how he really saw things? That your worth—your professional worth—was tied to how well you conformed to something so shallow?

That you weren’t enough without it?

You searched his face, hoping to find something, some flicker of understanding, some sign that he realized how his words had sliced right through you. But he wasn’t looking at you like a man who had just shaken your foundation. He was looking at you like a scientist reciting an interesting fact.

Like it wasn’t personal.

But God, it felt personal.

“You’re lucky you’re pretty, boy,” Derek said, messing with Reid’s hair, trying to break the tension, but the words didn’t quite hit the mark.

You tried to focus again, returning your attention to your makeup, but the weight of Spencer’s comment lingered in the air. Your hands felt unsteady as you finished applying the mascara, the brush shaking slightly with each stroke. Your voice felt tight as you responded, trying to keep it light, but your words tasted flat, like you were trying to cover up a bruise that wasn’t yet healed.

“That’s…interesting,” you said, your tone carefully neutral, though the insecurity that was now flooding through you was anything but calm.

“Yeah,” he said, still looking at you, his voice slightly absent. “And if you’re a woman, studies show that you’re more likely to be taken seriously in a professional setting if you wear makeup or—” His gaze seemed to soften, but it didn’t feel comforting. It just made you feel like there was something more he wasn’t saying. “Not that you need it, of course.”

You could feel your heart rate pick up as you tried to smile, but it didn’t feel natural. His words had drilled into you, chipping away at the small pieces of confidence you’d carefully built up this morning. The idea that your worth, in part, was tied to your appearance, to how well you matched up to some standard that was beyond your control, weighed on you like a heavy cloak. You thought about the days you’d come to work with little makeup, or none at all, when your boyfriend had seen you without the polished facade, the times when he had seen you just woken up or coming out of the shower. Did he see you as less then? Did he notice the imperfections when you were stripped of all that? Did he like you less when he saw you naked, unpolished, and unguarded? Were you enough for him in those moments? Did he still see you the same way? Or was there a shift, a moment when he realized that maybe, just maybe, you weren’t quite as perfect as the women he read about in his studies, the ones with their perfectly symmetrical faces, their natural makeup, their flawless skin?

“And, you know,” He added, still looking at you and Morgan like he couldn’t stop talking, “there’s this whole thing about how people with higher cheekbones are considered more attractive, and—”

You felt your breath catch. The fun facts about beauty standards kept coming, one after the other, each one a reminder of the ways you didn’t measure up. How the curve of your jaw wasn’t quite sharp enough, how your cheekbones weren’t as high as the models in the magazines, how you didn’t quite fit the mold your own boyfriend was talking about.

He wasn’t intentionally trying to make you feel insecure; he wasn’t even really paying attention to how you were really reacting, but somehow, his words echoed in your mind, like a chorus of doubts rising to the surface. Maybe you had been too focused on doing your makeup to feel like yourself today. Maybe you had gotten too used to hiding behind this mask to feel comfortable with who you really were underneath. Maybe you were pretty, but not pretty enough. Never enough. Never like a model.

You forced a laugh, trying to shake off the unease. “Yeah, I guess I’m just trying to keep up with all the standards, huh?” You said, your voice tight, and then quickly added, “But I’ll be fine. It’s just a conference, right?”

Something inside you was mentally begging him—pleading with him—to say something else. Something real. Something that had nothing to do with studies or statistics or the way the world decided who mattered more. Tell me I’m beautiful. Tell me none of that matters. Tell me I don’t have to measure up to a standard I’ll never fully reach.

But all he gave you was a weak smile, the kind he always gave when he thought everything was fine. He said, “You’ll do great. You always do,” as if that was enough.

But it wasn’t. Not this time.

Not when your heart was filled with doubts and insecurity, and all you really wanted was to feel seen. To feel like you were more than just the sum of your appearance.

“Thanks,” you said, the word small and insignificant, slipping from your lips like it didn’t matter at all.

Spencer didn’t notice the shift. He turned his attention back to his notes, his mind already back on its analytical track. He was already gone, lost in his thoughts, unaware of the storm that had stirred inside you.

And as you sat there, in front of the mirror, your perfectly applied makeup reflecting back at you, the weight of the silence between you grew. You had done everything right. You had made yourself look the way you were supposed to. But somehow, sitting next to the person who should have made you feel the most seen, you felt more invisible than ever.

The mask was still in place, but it didn’t feel like protection anymore. It felt like a cage.

The women’s bathroom buzzed with quiet energy, the soft murmur of conversation from the stalls, the clatter of makeup brushes on porcelain, and the steady trickle of a faucet someone had forgotten to turn off. Overhead, the fluorescent lights flickered faintly, casting everything in an unforgiving, almost surgical glare. Too bright. Too harsh. Every pore, every smudge, every slightly overfilled section of your eyebrow…ugh, why did it look so weird today?

You squinted at your reflection, lips pressed into a tight line, as if sheer force of will could stop the growing wave of insecurity curling around your ribs. Your hair was shining after so many new products, your foundation was patchy in places, and your eyeliner was untouched. You should have been focused and methodical, getting ready like you always did. Instead, your hands were unsteady, your thoughts tangled in something that had absolutely no right to be taking up this much space in your brain.

But it was.

Because Spencer Reid and his dumb fun facts had lodged themselves deep into your psyche, turning what should have been a normal morning into an existential crisis. The same babbling you used to love to hear now sounded like a nightmare. The same guy you had fallen in love with and loved to be with all day was now the one you had been avoiding looking in the face for more than three seconds.

On the counter was one of the magazines you had bought the other day, with a model looking back at you with her impossibly perfect cat eyes and flawless skin. Today you tried the same look. It hadn't worked. It looked good on her, perfect. On you? You looked like a raccoon trying to do a winged eyeliner tutorial while riding a roller coaster.

Suddenly, Emily’s voice sliced through the fog of your spiraling thoughts.

“Okay,” she said, her tone edged with concern and authority, “what the hell is going on?”

You startled slightly, mascara wand freezing midair. When you looked up, she was leaning casually against the counter, but her eyes—dark and sharp as ever—were anything but casual. She scanned you like a crime scene: the half-done eye makeup, the tense set of your shoulders, the way your lips were pressed into a thin, nervous line. You must’ve looked like you were trying to solve an advanced math problem, not get ready for a briefing.

You cleared your throat, forcing out the lie you hoped would be enough. “Nothing.”

Emily blinked slowly, unimpressed. “Right. Because people always look like they’re about to throw up when nothing is wrong.”

Damn profilers.

From across the room, Penelope was perched dramatically on the edge of the sink, legs swinging, a swirl of floral perfume and bubblegum. She blew a perfect pink bubble, let it pop, then gave you a long, knowing look as she chewed.

“Mmmhmm,” she hummed, cocking her head. “That’s the ‘I’m having a silent breakdown but don’t want to talk about it face.”

You tried to scoff, but it came out weak. “I don’t have a face for that.”

Penelope arched an eyebrow. “Oh, honey. You absolutely do.”

“She’s right,” Emily deadpanned, crossing her arms. “It’s your second most common expression. Right after, I’m internally screaming but pretending everything’s fine.”

You let out a breath—sharp and tired—and pressed two fingers to your temple like that would somehow press the thoughts out of your head. But they didn’t go. They never really did.

“I just…” You trailed off, mascara wand still clutched in your fingers. Your eyes dropped to the cluttered counter: a foundation bottle left uncapped, brushes scattered, and a smudge of lipstick on a tissue like a failed experiment. “Do I look good?”

The silence that followed was brief but pointed. You could feel both women scan you with clinical precision: your rumpled hair, eyeliner started on one eye but not the other, and foundation patchy where you’d tried to blend too quickly. But it wasn’t just about that. They knew it. You knew it.

Emily gave a dismissive wave. “Why are you even asking? You know you look good.”

But the question still hung heavy in the air.

You set the mascara down with a quiet, deliberate click. A tiny sound, but final. “Spencer said something,” you murmured, your voice thinner than you wanted it to be. “A couple of days ago.”

Both women immediately stilled.

“About beauty standards,” you continued, eyes fixed on the magazine lying facedown on the counter, a model’s perfect eyes staring back in judgment. “He was talking about how people take you more seriously if you look a certain way. If you’re conventionally attractive. He was just rattling off facts—like he always does—but…it stuck.”

Penelope’s eyes narrowed as she popped her gum again. “Ugh, that boy and his fun facts.”

You tried to laugh, but your stomach was turning like someone had twisted it into a tight knot and pulled. The memory clung to you: his voice so casual, so neutral, dropping that stupid statistic like it meant nothing. But it hadn’t felt like nothing. Not to you.

Emily straightened. She wasn’t amused. Not even a little. “He said that to you?”

You nodded slowly. “Not to me. He was just…talking. He probably didn’t even realize what he said. But now I’m in here, halfway through my makeup, spiraling over whether my eyeliner’s straight enough to be ‘taken seriously’ by the world.”

You gestured helplessly at the mirror, at your own reflection: smeared foundation, uncertain brows, the ghost of winged eyeliner clinging to your lid. “And I know it sounds ridiculous, but I can’t stop thinking about it. Like…if I don’t pull it together, if I don’t look perfect, it’s not just that I’ll feel bad. It’s that no one will listen to me.”

Emily’s jaw tightened. “That’s bullshit,” she said flatly.

Penelope raised one hand and placed it dramatically over her chest like she’d been mortally offended. “The biggest load of bullshit.”

You let out a huff of air, something like a laugh, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Yeah, well. My brain didn’t get the memo.”

Penelope stood up then, with unusual seriousness softening her expression. “Sweetheart, let me tell you something. You could walk into that room with mascara running down your cheeks, wearing nothing but a coffee-stained hoodie, and people would still shut up and listen when you talk. Not because of how you look. But because you’re brilliant. And terrifying. In the best possible way.”

You swallowed, feeling something tighten in your throat. “No, but—”

“No buts,” Emily cut in. “Spencer Reid might be a genius, but sometimes he forgets how real people work. Especially the ones he cares about.” Her voice softened, just slightly. “But don’t let one stupid comment rewrite everything you already know about yourself.”

That startled a real laugh out of you.

Penelope nodded enthusiastically. “Exactly! I adore that lanky little weirdo, but he says a lot of things without thinking about how they land. That doesn’t mean he sees you any differently. It just means he’s a socially awkward nerd who needs to learn when not to share his random knowledge with his girlfriend.”

You allowed yourself a deep exhale, some of the weight on your chest easing, if only a fraction. It felt like the first time all day you could breathe without feeling like you were suffocating under the pressure of everything you couldn’t say.

Emily’s voice, soft and steady, broke through the stillness. “You don’t need to prove anything to anyone,” she said, her gaze unwavering. “Not to Spencer. Not to the world. And definitely not to some arbitrary beauty standard that doesn’t know a damn thing about you.”

The calm conviction in her words settled over you like a warm blanket, soft and grounding, and Penelope added her own brand of comforting chaos. “But if finishing your makeup makes you feel good, babe, then go ahead and slay.” She flashed a wink, her smile wide and dazzling. “We’ll be right here, hyping you up, always.

You looked between them, their unwavering confidence in you, the way they stood on either side like a protective barrier between you and your own insecurities. The knots in your stomach loosened, just a little.

You finished your makeup with steadying breaths and Penelope’s steady stream of compliments in your ear like a lifeline. The eyeliner wasn’t perfect. The foundation still sat weird in that one spot near your chin. But it didn’t matter as much now. Or at least, you were trying really hard to make it not matter.

By the time you stepped out of the bathroom, the usual BAU morning chaos was in full swing, agents weaving in and out of the bullpen, papers rustling, and the echo of hurried footsteps down the hall. You fell into step behind Garcia, letting her take the lead as you clutched the folder to your chest with slightly sweaty palms.

And then you felt it. The subtle shift in the air that told you he was there before you saw him. Spencer.

He was already seated at the table, elbows propped up, flipping through the preliminary case file, his usual air of quiet concentration surrounding him. He lookedd so much like himself: cardigan slightly too big, curls falling just messy enough to look endearing, the corner of his mouth tucked between his teeth as he scanned the papers. So familiar. So impossibly distant.

You didn’t let your eyes linger.

Instead, you angled yourself toward the projector, using the task of setting up the slideshow like it required your full, undivided attention. Which it absolutely did not, but the alternative was accidentally making eye contact and seeing something in his expression you couldn’t handle. Confusion, guilt, or worse: nothing at all.

“Morning,” he said quietly. It was the tone he used when he wasn’t sure if he had permission to exist in the same space as you.

You responded too fast, your voice too sharp, too clipped. “Morning.”

There was a brief silence. You could feel his eyes on you, like a gentle tap on the shoulder you were determined to ignore.

And then, mercifully, Hotch walked in, his presence slicing through the tension. “Let’s get started,” he said, already flipping through the case file as he moved to the head of the table.

The team fell into their usual rhythm, a buzz of motion, chairs scraping back as people shifted into place. You slid into your seat at the front of the room, clicking the remote to bring up the first slide, and forced your voice into something steady, something professional.

“We’ve got three victims, all found in rural areas surrounding Baltimore. All women, ages 25 to 30, all brunette, similar build. There are signs of overkill, stab wounds well beyond what would be necessary to cause death.”

You moved through the slides with practiced precision, your voice even, your focus razor-sharp. You didn’t stumble, didn’t hesitate, and didn’t once let your gaze flicker to Spencer’s side of the table. You spoke to Hotch. To Rossi. To Emily. To Penelope and Derek. Even to the wall. Anywhere but him.

Only once did your composure crack, a tiny hiccup in your breath when you mentioned the geographic profile. It was something Spencer had taught you when you were still new, something he’d spent hours drilling into you, showing you how to see patterns in the chaos. And there it was, his head lifting ever so slightly, his mouth parting like he wanted to remind you of something. Maybe a fact you’d forgotten. Or just to remind you that he was still there, somewhere, waiting to bridge the gap between you.

You forced yourself to keep going.

When you finished, Hotch gave a brief nod. “Good work. Let’s move out in twenty.”

The team’s energy shifted, moving from the quiet tension of the briefing room to the familiar post-briefing buzz. Chairs scraped back, papers shuffled, and voices rose as people began to file out. But you stayed behind, pretending to organize the files in front of you, keeping your hands busy, keeping yourself from fleeing. The paper felt like the only thing in the room that didn’t carry the weight of unspoken words.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Spencer pause in the doorway, his silhouette outlined in the harsh fluorescent light. He lingered, hesitant, unsure.

“Hey,” he said, his voice almost tentative, like he wasn’t sure if he had the right to speak to you in this moment. “Can we—”

“I have to double-check something with Garcia,” you cut in before he could finish, your words not unkind but firm, like a wall going up between you.

It wasn’t a lie. Not exactly. But it was enough.

You moved past him without waiting for a reply, your heels clicking sharply against the tile, the sound too loud in the stillness of the room. Your heart hammered in your chest, the echo of his voice a distant thing you weren’t ready to face. Not yet.

Maybe never.

You didn’t see him at first. You didn’t want to. The hallway of the precinct was quiet, almost too quiet, the soft hum of fluorescent lights above and the distant murmur of voices in the bullpen nothing but a dull backdrop to your pulse, racing in your ears. You had taken the longer route on purpose, weaving through empty hallways, hoping to lose yourself in the disarray of the building. You could feel the thick weight of the morning press down on your chest: the meeting, the case, the pressure to be perfect. You just needed a moment of stillness, a second of quiet.

But fate had a funny way of ruining plans.

The moment you turned the corner, you saw him. Spencer. Standing there, just a few feet away, shoulders slightly hunched as if he were bracing himself. His posture was that familiar mix of awkwardness and intent focus, like he was trying to decide whether to speak or stay silent, but there was something different about him today. His hair was messier than usual, curls sticking out in odd directions, and his fingers were twitching by his side, nervous. Almost like he was unsure of himself.

Your stomach dropped.

You tried to keep walking, tried to push past him, but the sound of your shoes clicking against the linoleum slowed as you drew near, the silence hanging heavy.

“Hey,” he said, soft and tentative, like he was trying not to scare a wounded animal.

Your body tensed. You didn’t respond right away, hoping maybe if you didn’t acknowledge it, he’d take the hint and let you slip away again, untouched. Unspoken to. Unseen.

No such luck.

“I was hoping we could talk,” he tried again, more gently. “Just for a second.”

Your grip on the folder tightened until the edge of the paper cut into your palm. “I’m kind of busy,” you muttered, finally, still not looking at him.

“You’ve been saying that a lot.”

You exhaled slowly through your nose, half a breath, half defeat. “Maybe because I am,” you murmured, eyes flicking down to the paperwork you clutched like a shield. “The profile’s not ready, the press is waiting, and if I don’t finish the summary, Hotch is going to breathe down my neck in fifteen minutes.” The words came out sharp and mechanical, like a rehearsed excuse. But your heart wasn’t in it. Not even close.

Spencer was quiet for a moment. You could feel the weight of his stare, not sharp, not demanding. Just there. Lingering. Like gravity.

“I did something,” he said finally, his voice thin and breaking at the edges. “Didn’t I? Something that hurt you.”

Your shoulders stiffened. The chill rolled in again, slow and insidious, sinking down through the fabric of your clothes and into your bones. You wanted to say no. Wanted to pretend it didn’t matter, that you weren’t affected. But your body betrayed you. Your jaw clenched. Your breath hitched.

“It’s nothing,” you said, but it cracked on the way out, barely held together by habit.

He took a careful step closer. You felt it. The shift in the air, the static tension that danced between the inches that separated your bodies. “No, it’s not nothing,” he said softly. “Tell me what I said. What I did.”

You could hear the ache in his voice, that rare, tender vulnerability he only let you see. It scraped at you, raw and irritating, because he sounded like he cared. Because he did. And that made it worse. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t try to reason his way in with statistics or logic. He just stood there, steady and open, letting you feel every inch of his presence.

“I know something’s wrong.” Spencer said. “You didn’t sit with me on the jet. You didn’t even look at me.”

The words made you flinch, just slightly. You hadn’t expected him to notice. Or maybe you had. Maybe you wanted him to.

“I know we don’t show affection at work. That’s always been our rule,” he continued, quieter now, more broken. “But you always touch my hand. Or bump your knee into mine. You always steal a sip of my coffee, even when it’s gross. But this morning…you didn’t even look at the muffin I brought you.”

You closed your eyes. Just for a second. Just long enough to feel the guilt clawing at your chest. He’d noticed. Every small absence. Every little shift.

Finally, you turned. Slowly. Your gaze fell to the floor in front of his shoes, worn at the edges and slightly scuffed. Just like him. And then you looked up. Just barely. Just enough to catch the way he was standing. Shoulders slightly hunched, hands limp by his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them anymore. Like he didn’t know how to reach you.

And he didn’t.

Because part of you didn’t want to be reached.

Not yet.

“It’s just…” You swallowed. “It’s what you said the other day. When Morgan made that joke about my makeup.”

Spencer blinked, clearly trying to remember. “What did I exactly say?”

“You said people get more attention when they see someone pretty,” you said, each word carefully even, like if you didn’t control your voice, it would crack.

His brows furrowed. “I said that people tend to respond more favorably to those who fall within conventional beauty standards and that it has an unconscious effect on—”

“I know what you said,” you snapped, sharper than you meant to. The echo of your own voice in the empty hallway made your stomach twist. “You don’t have to repeat it like a textbook.”

That made him flinch, just barely, but enough.

“I didn’t mean it about you,” he said quickly. “I was just talking. I always talk too much, you know it.”

You gave a humorless laugh, turning your back to him, your arms crossed tight over your chest.

“That’s the thing, Spencer. You didn’t mean it. And you didn’t even realize how it sounded. You just threw it out there, like a fact. Like I wasn’t sitting right next to you, like I’m not already trying to compete in a world that picks apart every inch of me the second I walk into a room.”

“I didn’t think—”

“No. You didn’t.”

Your voice cracked this time, and you hated it. Hated the sting in your eyes, the tightness in your throat. You weren’t supposed to feel like this, not over something so small. But it wasn’t small. Not to you. Not when it was coming from him.

He stepped closer again, like he couldn’t help himself, and you stepped back just as fast.

“Please don’t,” you said quietly.

He froze.

“I know I’m not the only girl in the world,” you said, not looking at him. “And I’m not asking to be. But when you say things like that, even casually, it feels like I’ve already lost a race I didn’t know I was running. Like I’m not even in the frame.”

There was a long pause. Your boyfriend’s voice, when it came, was barely above a whisper.

“You’ve never been out of frame. Not for me.”

You shook your head, blinking hard, trying to will away the heat behind your eyes. “I’ve spent the last two days wondering if I’d be worth more to you if I looked different.”

That hit him like a blow. His mouth opened, closed, and opened again.

“I’m sorry,” he said finally. “I didn’t know. I didn’t think. But please believe me when I tell you…I see you. All the time. You’re someone I—” He stopped himself, teeth catching on his bottom lip. “You’re the only person I can’t stop seeing.”

Something in your chest pulled tight, twisted cruelly.

You stared at a fixed spot on the floor. The tiles blurred a little around the edges. You didn’t know what to say to that, not when your chest felt too tight, not when your emotions were running just beneath your skin, raw and humming.

“I don’t always think before I talk,” he continued, carefully. “Sometimes I share things like facts and research like they’re harmless, like they’re neutral. But I forget that facts aren’t neutral when they land on people I care about.”

That made you glance up at him. Just for a second.

He looked like he meant it: brows drawn, hands loosely curled at his sides, eyes locked on yours with that intense kind of focus he reserved for unsolvable puzzles and people he couldn’t let go of.

“I think you’re beautiful,” he said, and there was no rush in it. No grand gesture. Just a quiet truth. “Not when you’re all put together. Not just when you wear makeup. Not just when you smile.”

You blinked. The air in the hallway seemed to still.

“I think you’re beautiful when you’re tired. When you’re pissed off. When you’re sitting at your desk covered in crime scene dust and snapping at Morgan because you haven’t eaten in twelve hours.” A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I think you’re beautiful even when you’re covered in blood, cursing at your vest because it rubbed your ribs raw…even if that sounds weird.”

A quiet laugh broke out of you, not a full one, but a cracked, genuine thing that caught you off guard. You shook your head, eyes misty despite yourself.

“Spencer…”

He stepped forward slowly, careful not to close the distance unless you let him. “You never needed to change anything. Not for me. Not for the world, either. But if you ever forget how amazing you are, I’ll remind you.”

You didn’t answer right away. Your throat was too tight. But your hand reached out, just barely brushing against his. Not quite holding. Just…touching.

It was enough.

His fingers closed around yours, warm and hesitant.

“Okay,” you whispered.

And for the first time in days, the storm inside you quieted, not gone, but calm. Manageable. Because he didn’t just see you. He saw through everything you tried to hide…and stayed.

Friendly reminder ❤︎ : you are beautiful and "standards" are bullshit that don't matter, even if we sometimes feel like they do.

Take care and be kind to yourself, xoxo.

[certaimromance]

𝜗𝜚 Every Shade.

Boyfriend!Reid x Avoidant!reader

series mastelist | main masterlist

Summary: Your perfect boyfriend says a fun fact about the standards of beauty, and suddenly his words hit you harder than they should.

Words: 6k.

Warnings & Tags: fem!bau!reader. mentions of insecurities, beauty canons, serial killers, death and the reader wearing makeup. established relationship. spencer being an inexperienced boyfriend. lack of communication but happy ending. hurt/comfort. angst?. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).

Note: I can seriously think of my inexperienced boy being a foolish or careless boyfriend even without meaning to be, so enjoy this!

Spencer Reid never thought of himself as the careless type of boyfriend. In fact, before you, the very idea of being someone’s boyfriend had never seemed possible, let alone something he could do well. He had always been more comfortable with facts, numbers, and patterns. Relationships had always been a different kind of mystery to him, one he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to solve. But when you came into his life, something shifted. He couldn’t explain it, but he felt an overwhelming desire to be not just a partner, but a good one. A thoughtful one. A boyfriend who paid attention to the details.

He knew your favorite coffee order without you ever having to tell him. He knew the exact shade of blue that made your eyes sparkle in a way that made him catch his breath and the way you furrowed your brows in concentration when you were diving deep into thought. He noticed the little things, like the way your fingers gripped the edge of your sleeve when you were lost in a difficult problem or how you would laugh softly at jokes you didn’t find funny just to make others feel comfortable. Every habit, every subtle movement, every fleeting comment you made was something he absorbed like a sponge, collecting the pieces of you that made you you. And it made him feel closer to you, more connected than he ever thought was possible.

But it wasn’t just the light moments he noticed. Spencer also understood the weight of your darker days, the ones where the world seemed to shift into shades of gray, where the air held a bite that wasn’t harsh but still cut through you. He knew when the seasons teetered between autumn and winter and how those melancholic in-between days clung to your spirit. On those days, the ones where you wore your sadness like a cloak without ever saying a word, he was there. He noticed when your smile didn’t reach your eyes, when your usual energy seemed dimmed. So, without fail, he would show up with a steaming cup of hot chocolate, a soft blanket, and arms that enveloped you like a cocoon. He would be your shelter, your quiet refuge from the world, without needing any words to fill the silence.

He loved knowing you this well, loved that he could anticipate your needs before you even voiced them. It made him feel closer to you, like he had earned a place in the most hidden corners of your heart. And to Spencer, there was no better feeling in the world.

He knows you; he sees you. He does it.

That morning, in the quiet hum of your office, was one of those moments where your boyfriend’s watchful eyes made all the difference. The soft glow of your desk lamp illuminated your face, casting a warm, golden light that contrasted against the coolness of the winter air outside. Before you, your makeup bag lay open, a chaotic yet familiar spread of tools—brushes, tubes, powders—all of them scattered like tiny pieces of armor you would need for the day ahead. You were preparing for the press conference, the one where you would stand in for JJ during her maternity leave. The pressure felt immense. It wasn’t just any press conference; it was the moment you had to prove you could handle the spotlight, the cameras, and the ever-watchful public eye. The weight of one of your best friends’ trust sat heavy on your shoulders, but it was a weight you were willing to carry.

As you smoothed foundation over your skin with careful, practiced strokes, you felt the weight of Spencer’s gaze on you. It wasn’t intrusive, never demanding, just there, steady and grounding, as if his attention alone could keep you tethered. He had a way of watching you that made you feel both seen and safe, as though he was quietly committing every little detail of you to memory.

Still, you glanced up, unable to resist.

And there he was.

Leaning against the wall, arms loosely crossed, his expression was unreadable, but his eyes—those deep, knowing eyes—told you everything. He was looking at you like you were the most fascinating thing in the world, his quiet reverence sending a warm, familiar hum through your chest. It made your pulse stutter, your breath catch just slightly.

Because, oh God, how much you loved feeling his eyes on you.

You swallowed, dragging your focus back to the mirror. Focus. Get it together. You’ve got this. JJ had entrusted you with this press conference, and you weren’t about to let doubt creep in, not now.

But from the corner of your eye, you caught movement.

Derek Morgan, leaning casually against his desk, arms crossed, wearing that signature smirk of his. It wasn’t just amusement playing at the edges of his mouth; it was something more entertained, more knowing. His gaze flicked between you and Spencer, and you could practically hear the teasing remark forming before he even opened his mouth.

You sighed. Here we go.

“What?” you asked, arching a brow as you reached for your concealer. “Never seen someone put on makeup before?”

His grin only deepened. “Nah, I’ve seen plenty,” he said, raising an eyebrow as if he were admiring a work of art. “I’ve just never seen someone prepare for a press conference like they’re getting ready for a red carpet event.”

You rolled your eyes. “Some of us like to be prepared. Looking good is part of that.” You injected confidence into the words, though if you were being honest, they felt a little hollow. Today, it wasn’t just about looking good, it was about feeling in control.

And right now, with nerves curling tight in your stomach, you weren’t sure you did.

Morgan’s smirk didn’t waver. He nudged your boyfriend with his elbow, dragging him into the conversation. “Come on, kid. Tell her she doesn’t need all that makeup.”

You looked up, expecting his usual reassuring smile, that soft look he reserved for moments when he knew you were nervous or self-conscious. You could always count on him to calm your racing thoughts, to tell you that you were perfect just the way you were. The kind of reassurance that made everything feel lighter.

Instead, Spencer glanced at you with that thoughtful frown he always wore when his mind was spinning through facts. “You know…” His voice was calm, detached even, like he was about to drop some piece of knowledge that he thought might help. “It’s weird, but studies show that people tend to take you more seriously when you fit the ‘beauty standards.’ You know, like…if you’re wearing makeup or have certain features that are seen as desirable, people will listen to you more in meetings.”

The mascara brush froze mid-air.

Oh.

The words landed harder than they should have, knocking the breath from your lungs in a way that felt almost embarrassing. Because this was Spencer, your Spencer, the one who had seen you at your worst, who had kissed you sleepy and messy in the morning, who had traced your bare skin in the dim light of your bedroom.

And yet, here he was, stating facts about beauty standards like they were nothing more than statistics. Like they didn’t mean anything.

You forced out a weak laugh, trying to brush it off, trying to tell yourself that he hadn’t meant it the way it sounded. But the sting was already there, curling under your skin, settling deep in your chest. Was that how he really saw things? That your worth—your professional worth—was tied to how well you conformed to something so shallow?

That you weren’t enough without it?

You searched his face, hoping to find something, some flicker of understanding, some sign that he realized how his words had sliced right through you. But he wasn’t looking at you like a man who had just shaken your foundation. He was looking at you like a scientist reciting an interesting fact.

Like it wasn’t personal.

But God, it felt personal.

“You’re lucky you’re pretty, boy,” Derek said, messing with Reid’s hair, trying to break the tension, but the words didn’t quite hit the mark.

You tried to focus again, returning your attention to your makeup, but the weight of Spencer’s comment lingered in the air. Your hands felt unsteady as you finished applying the mascara, the brush shaking slightly with each stroke. Your voice felt tight as you responded, trying to keep it light, but your words tasted flat, like you were trying to cover up a bruise that wasn’t yet healed.

“That’s…interesting,” you said, your tone carefully neutral, though the insecurity that was now flooding through you was anything but calm.

“Yeah,” he said, still looking at you, his voice slightly absent. “And if you’re a woman, studies show that you’re more likely to be taken seriously in a professional setting if you wear makeup or—” His gaze seemed to soften, but it didn’t feel comforting. It just made you feel like there was something more he wasn’t saying. “Not that you need it, of course.”

You could feel your heart rate pick up as you tried to smile, but it didn’t feel natural. His words had drilled into you, chipping away at the small pieces of confidence you’d carefully built up this morning. The idea that your worth, in part, was tied to your appearance, to how well you matched up to some standard that was beyond your control, weighed on you like a heavy cloak. You thought about the days you’d come to work with little makeup, or none at all, when your boyfriend had seen you without the polished facade, the times when he had seen you just woken up or coming out of the shower. Did he see you as less then? Did he notice the imperfections when you were stripped of all that? Did he like you less when he saw you naked, unpolished, and unguarded? Were you enough for him in those moments? Did he still see you the same way? Or was there a shift, a moment when he realized that maybe, just maybe, you weren’t quite as perfect as the women he read about in his studies, the ones with their perfectly symmetrical faces, their natural makeup, their flawless skin?

“And, you know,” He added, still looking at you and Morgan like he couldn’t stop talking, “there’s this whole thing about how people with higher cheekbones are considered more attractive, and—”

You felt your breath catch. The fun facts about beauty standards kept coming, one after the other, each one a reminder of the ways you didn’t measure up. How the curve of your jaw wasn’t quite sharp enough, how your cheekbones weren’t as high as the models in the magazines, how you didn’t quite fit the mold your own boyfriend was talking about.

He wasn’t intentionally trying to make you feel insecure; he wasn’t even really paying attention to how you were really reacting, but somehow, his words echoed in your mind, like a chorus of doubts rising to the surface. Maybe you had been too focused on doing your makeup to feel like yourself today. Maybe you had gotten too used to hiding behind this mask to feel comfortable with who you really were underneath. Maybe you were pretty, but not pretty enough. Never enough. Never like a model.

You forced a laugh, trying to shake off the unease. “Yeah, I guess I’m just trying to keep up with all the standards, huh?” You said, your voice tight, and then quickly added, “But I’ll be fine. It’s just a conference, right?”

Something inside you was mentally begging him—pleading with him—to say something else. Something real. Something that had nothing to do with studies or statistics or the way the world decided who mattered more. Tell me I’m beautiful. Tell me none of that matters. Tell me I don’t have to measure up to a standard I’ll never fully reach.

But all he gave you was a weak smile, the kind he always gave when he thought everything was fine. He said, “You’ll do great. You always do,” as if that was enough.

But it wasn’t. Not this time.

Not when your heart was filled with doubts and insecurity, and all you really wanted was to feel seen. To feel like you were more than just the sum of your appearance.

“Thanks,” you said, the word small and insignificant, slipping from your lips like it didn’t matter at all.

Spencer didn’t notice the shift. He turned his attention back to his notes, his mind already back on its analytical track. He was already gone, lost in his thoughts, unaware of the storm that had stirred inside you.

And as you sat there, in front of the mirror, your perfectly applied makeup reflecting back at you, the weight of the silence between you grew. You had done everything right. You had made yourself look the way you were supposed to. But somehow, sitting next to the person who should have made you feel the most seen, you felt more invisible than ever.

The mask was still in place, but it didn’t feel like protection anymore. It felt like a cage.

The women’s bathroom buzzed with quiet energy, the soft murmur of conversation from the stalls, the clatter of makeup brushes on porcelain, and the steady trickle of a faucet someone had forgotten to turn off. Overhead, the fluorescent lights flickered faintly, casting everything in an unforgiving, almost surgical glare. Too bright. Too harsh. Every pore, every smudge, every slightly overfilled section of your eyebrow…ugh, why did it look so weird today?

You squinted at your reflection, lips pressed into a tight line, as if sheer force of will could stop the growing wave of insecurity curling around your ribs. Your hair was shining after so many new products, your foundation was patchy in places, and your eyeliner was untouched. You should have been focused and methodical, getting ready like you always did. Instead, your hands were unsteady, your thoughts tangled in something that had absolutely no right to be taking up this much space in your brain.

But it was.

Because Spencer Reid and his dumb fun facts had lodged themselves deep into your psyche, turning what should have been a normal morning into an existential crisis. The same babbling you used to love to hear now sounded like a nightmare. The same guy you had fallen in love with and loved to be with all day was now the one you had been avoiding looking in the face for more than three seconds.

On the counter was one of the magazines you had bought the other day, with a model looking back at you with her impossibly perfect cat eyes and flawless skin. Today you tried the same look. It hadn't worked. It looked good on her, perfect. On you? You looked like a raccoon trying to do a winged eyeliner tutorial while riding a roller coaster.

Suddenly, Emily’s voice sliced through the fog of your spiraling thoughts.

“Okay,” she said, her tone edged with concern and authority, “what the hell is going on?”

You startled slightly, mascara wand freezing midair. When you looked up, she was leaning casually against the counter, but her eyes—dark and sharp as ever—were anything but casual. She scanned you like a crime scene: the half-done eye makeup, the tense set of your shoulders, the way your lips were pressed into a thin, nervous line. You must’ve looked like you were trying to solve an advanced math problem, not get ready for a briefing.

You cleared your throat, forcing out the lie you hoped would be enough. “Nothing.”

Emily blinked slowly, unimpressed. “Right. Because people always look like they’re about to throw up when nothing is wrong.”

Damn profilers.

From across the room, Penelope was perched dramatically on the edge of the sink, legs swinging, a swirl of floral perfume and bubblegum. She blew a perfect pink bubble, let it pop, then gave you a long, knowing look as she chewed.

“Mmmhmm,” she hummed, cocking her head. “That’s the ‘I’m having a silent breakdown but don’t want to talk about it face.”

You tried to scoff, but it came out weak. “I don’t have a face for that.”

Penelope arched an eyebrow. “Oh, honey. You absolutely do.”

“She’s right,” Emily deadpanned, crossing her arms. “It’s your second most common expression. Right after, I’m internally screaming but pretending everything’s fine.”

You let out a breath—sharp and tired—and pressed two fingers to your temple like that would somehow press the thoughts out of your head. But they didn’t go. They never really did.

“I just…” You trailed off, mascara wand still clutched in your fingers. Your eyes dropped to the cluttered counter: a foundation bottle left uncapped, brushes scattered, and a smudge of lipstick on a tissue like a failed experiment. “Do I look good?”

The silence that followed was brief but pointed. You could feel both women scan you with clinical precision: your rumpled hair, eyeliner started on one eye but not the other, and foundation patchy where you’d tried to blend too quickly. But it wasn’t just about that. They knew it. You knew it.

Emily gave a dismissive wave. “Why are you even asking? You know you look good.”

But the question still hung heavy in the air.

You set the mascara down with a quiet, deliberate click. A tiny sound, but final. “Spencer said something,” you murmured, your voice thinner than you wanted it to be. “A couple of days ago.”

Both women immediately stilled.

“About beauty standards,” you continued, eyes fixed on the magazine lying facedown on the counter, a model’s perfect eyes staring back in judgment. “He was talking about how people take you more seriously if you look a certain way. If you’re conventionally attractive. He was just rattling off facts—like he always does—but…it stuck.”

Penelope’s eyes narrowed as she popped her gum again. “Ugh, that boy and his fun facts.”

You tried to laugh, but your stomach was turning like someone had twisted it into a tight knot and pulled. The memory clung to you: his voice so casual, so neutral, dropping that stupid statistic like it meant nothing. But it hadn’t felt like nothing. Not to you.

Emily straightened. She wasn’t amused. Not even a little. “He said that to you?”

You nodded slowly. “Not to me. He was just…talking. He probably didn’t even realize what he said. But now I’m in here, halfway through my makeup, spiraling over whether my eyeliner’s straight enough to be ‘taken seriously’ by the world.”

You gestured helplessly at the mirror, at your own reflection: smeared foundation, uncertain brows, the ghost of winged eyeliner clinging to your lid. “And I know it sounds ridiculous, but I can’t stop thinking about it. Like…if I don’t pull it together, if I don’t look perfect, it’s not just that I’ll feel bad. It’s that no one will listen to me.”

Emily’s jaw tightened. “That’s bullshit,” she said flatly.

Penelope raised one hand and placed it dramatically over her chest like she’d been mortally offended. “The biggest load of bullshit.”

You let out a huff of air, something like a laugh, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Yeah, well. My brain didn’t get the memo.”

Penelope stood up then, with unusual seriousness softening her expression. “Sweetheart, let me tell you something. You could walk into that room with mascara running down your cheeks, wearing nothing but a coffee-stained hoodie, and people would still shut up and listen when you talk. Not because of how you look. But because you’re brilliant. And terrifying. In the best possible way.”

You swallowed, feeling something tighten in your throat. “No, but—”

“No buts,” Emily cut in. “Spencer Reid might be a genius, but sometimes he forgets how real people work. Especially the ones he cares about.” Her voice softened, just slightly. “But don’t let one stupid comment rewrite everything you already know about yourself.”

That startled a real laugh out of you.

Penelope nodded enthusiastically. “Exactly! I adore that lanky little weirdo, but he says a lot of things without thinking about how they land. That doesn’t mean he sees you any differently. It just means he’s a socially awkward nerd who needs to learn when not to share his random knowledge with his girlfriend.”

You allowed yourself a deep exhale, some of the weight on your chest easing, if only a fraction. It felt like the first time all day you could breathe without feeling like you were suffocating under the pressure of everything you couldn’t say.

Emily’s voice, soft and steady, broke through the stillness. “You don’t need to prove anything to anyone,” she said, her gaze unwavering. “Not to Spencer. Not to the world. And definitely not to some arbitrary beauty standard that doesn’t know a damn thing about you.”

The calm conviction in her words settled over you like a warm blanket, soft and grounding, and Penelope added her own brand of comforting chaos. “But if finishing your makeup makes you feel good, babe, then go ahead and slay.” She flashed a wink, her smile wide and dazzling. “We’ll be right here, hyping you up, always.

You looked between them, their unwavering confidence in you, the way they stood on either side like a protective barrier between you and your own insecurities. The knots in your stomach loosened, just a little.

You finished your makeup with steadying breaths and Penelope’s steady stream of compliments in your ear like a lifeline. The eyeliner wasn’t perfect. The foundation still sat weird in that one spot near your chin. But it didn’t matter as much now. Or at least, you were trying really hard to make it not matter.

By the time you stepped out of the bathroom, the usual BAU morning chaos was in full swing, agents weaving in and out of the bullpen, papers rustling, and the echo of hurried footsteps down the hall. You fell into step behind Garcia, letting her take the lead as you clutched the folder to your chest with slightly sweaty palms.

And then you felt it. The subtle shift in the air that told you he was there before you saw him. Spencer.

He was already seated at the table, elbows propped up, flipping through the preliminary case file, his usual air of quiet concentration surrounding him. He lookedd so much like himself: cardigan slightly too big, curls falling just messy enough to look endearing, the corner of his mouth tucked between his teeth as he scanned the papers. So familiar. So impossibly distant.

You didn’t let your eyes linger.

Instead, you angled yourself toward the projector, using the task of setting up the slideshow like it required your full, undivided attention. Which it absolutely did not, but the alternative was accidentally making eye contact and seeing something in his expression you couldn’t handle. Confusion, guilt, or worse: nothing at all.

“Morning,” he said quietly. It was the tone he used when he wasn’t sure if he had permission to exist in the same space as you.

You responded too fast, your voice too sharp, too clipped. “Morning.”

There was a brief silence. You could feel his eyes on you, like a gentle tap on the shoulder you were determined to ignore.

And then, mercifully, Hotch walked in, his presence slicing through the tension. “Let’s get started,” he said, already flipping through the case file as he moved to the head of the table.

The team fell into their usual rhythm, a buzz of motion, chairs scraping back as people shifted into place. You slid into your seat at the front of the room, clicking the remote to bring up the first slide, and forced your voice into something steady, something professional.

“We’ve got three victims, all found in rural areas surrounding Baltimore. All women, ages 25 to 30, all brunette, similar build. There are signs of overkill, stab wounds well beyond what would be necessary to cause death.”

You moved through the slides with practiced precision, your voice even, your focus razor-sharp. You didn’t stumble, didn’t hesitate, and didn’t once let your gaze flicker to Spencer’s side of the table. You spoke to Hotch. To Rossi. To Emily. To Penelope and Derek. Even to the wall. Anywhere but him.

Only once did your composure crack, a tiny hiccup in your breath when you mentioned the geographic profile. It was something Spencer had taught you when you were still new, something he’d spent hours drilling into you, showing you how to see patterns in the chaos. And there it was, his head lifting ever so slightly, his mouth parting like he wanted to remind you of something. Maybe a fact you’d forgotten. Or just to remind you that he was still there, somewhere, waiting to bridge the gap between you.

You forced yourself to keep going.

When you finished, Hotch gave a brief nod. “Good work. Let’s move out in twenty.”

The team’s energy shifted, moving from the quiet tension of the briefing room to the familiar post-briefing buzz. Chairs scraped back, papers shuffled, and voices rose as people began to file out. But you stayed behind, pretending to organize the files in front of you, keeping your hands busy, keeping yourself from fleeing. The paper felt like the only thing in the room that didn’t carry the weight of unspoken words.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Spencer pause in the doorway, his silhouette outlined in the harsh fluorescent light. He lingered, hesitant, unsure.

“Hey,” he said, his voice almost tentative, like he wasn’t sure if he had the right to speak to you in this moment. “Can we—”

“I have to double-check something with Garcia,” you cut in before he could finish, your words not unkind but firm, like a wall going up between you.

It wasn’t a lie. Not exactly. But it was enough.

You moved past him without waiting for a reply, your heels clicking sharply against the tile, the sound too loud in the stillness of the room. Your heart hammered in your chest, the echo of his voice a distant thing you weren’t ready to face. Not yet.

Maybe never.

You didn’t see him at first. You didn’t want to. The hallway of the precinct was quiet, almost too quiet, the soft hum of fluorescent lights above and the distant murmur of voices in the bullpen nothing but a dull backdrop to your pulse, racing in your ears. You had taken the longer route on purpose, weaving through empty hallways, hoping to lose yourself in the disarray of the building. You could feel the thick weight of the morning press down on your chest: the meeting, the case, the pressure to be perfect. You just needed a moment of stillness, a second of quiet.

But fate had a funny way of ruining plans.

The moment you turned the corner, you saw him. Spencer. Standing there, just a few feet away, shoulders slightly hunched as if he were bracing himself. His posture was that familiar mix of awkwardness and intent focus, like he was trying to decide whether to speak or stay silent, but there was something different about him today. His hair was messier than usual, curls sticking out in odd directions, and his fingers were twitching by his side, nervous. Almost like he was unsure of himself.

Your stomach dropped.

You tried to keep walking, tried to push past him, but the sound of your shoes clicking against the linoleum slowed as you drew near, the silence hanging heavy.

“Hey,” he said, soft and tentative, like he was trying not to scare a wounded animal.

Your body tensed. You didn’t respond right away, hoping maybe if you didn’t acknowledge it, he’d take the hint and let you slip away again, untouched. Unspoken to. Unseen.

No such luck.

“I was hoping we could talk,” he tried again, more gently. “Just for a second.”

Your grip on the folder tightened until the edge of the paper cut into your palm. “I’m kind of busy,” you muttered, finally, still not looking at him.

“You’ve been saying that a lot.”

You exhaled slowly through your nose, half a breath, half defeat. “Maybe because I am,” you murmured, eyes flicking down to the paperwork you clutched like a shield. “The profile’s not ready, the press is waiting, and if I don’t finish the summary, Hotch is going to breathe down my neck in fifteen minutes.” The words came out sharp and mechanical, like a rehearsed excuse. But your heart wasn’t in it. Not even close.

Spencer was quiet for a moment. You could feel the weight of his stare, not sharp, not demanding. Just there. Lingering. Like gravity.

“I did something,” he said finally, his voice thin and breaking at the edges. “Didn’t I? Something that hurt you.”

Your shoulders stiffened. The chill rolled in again, slow and insidious, sinking down through the fabric of your clothes and into your bones. You wanted to say no. Wanted to pretend it didn’t matter, that you weren’t affected. But your body betrayed you. Your jaw clenched. Your breath hitched.

“It’s nothing,” you said, but it cracked on the way out, barely held together by habit.

He took a careful step closer. You felt it. The shift in the air, the static tension that danced between the inches that separated your bodies. “No, it’s not nothing,” he said softly. “Tell me what I said. What I did.”

You could hear the ache in his voice, that rare, tender vulnerability he only let you see. It scraped at you, raw and irritating, because he sounded like he cared. Because he did. And that made it worse. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t try to reason his way in with statistics or logic. He just stood there, steady and open, letting you feel every inch of his presence.

“I know something’s wrong.” Spencer said. “You didn’t sit with me on the jet. You didn’t even look at me.”

The words made you flinch, just slightly. You hadn’t expected him to notice. Or maybe you had. Maybe you wanted him to.

“I know we don’t show affection at work. That’s always been our rule,” he continued, quieter now, more broken. “But you always touch my hand. Or bump your knee into mine. You always steal a sip of my coffee, even when it’s gross. But this morning…you didn’t even look at the muffin I brought you.”

You closed your eyes. Just for a second. Just long enough to feel the guilt clawing at your chest. He’d noticed. Every small absence. Every little shift.

Finally, you turned. Slowly. Your gaze fell to the floor in front of his shoes, worn at the edges and slightly scuffed. Just like him. And then you looked up. Just barely. Just enough to catch the way he was standing. Shoulders slightly hunched, hands limp by his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them anymore. Like he didn’t know how to reach you.

And he didn’t.

Because part of you didn’t want to be reached.

Not yet.

“It’s just…” You swallowed. “It’s what you said the other day. When Morgan made that joke about my makeup.”

Spencer blinked, clearly trying to remember. “What did I exactly say?”

“You said people get more attention when they see someone pretty,” you said, each word carefully even, like if you didn’t control your voice, it would crack.

His brows furrowed. “I said that people tend to respond more favorably to those who fall within conventional beauty standards and that it has an unconscious effect on—”

“I know what you said,” you snapped, sharper than you meant to. The echo of your own voice in the empty hallway made your stomach twist. “You don’t have to repeat it like a textbook.”

That made him flinch, just barely, but enough.

“I didn’t mean it about you,” he said quickly. “I was just talking. I always talk too much, you know it.”

You gave a humorless laugh, turning your back to him, your arms crossed tight over your chest.

“That’s the thing, Spencer. You didn’t mean it. And you didn’t even realize how it sounded. You just threw it out there, like a fact. Like I wasn’t sitting right next to you, like I’m not already trying to compete in a world that picks apart every inch of me the second I walk into a room.”

“I didn’t think—”

“No. You didn’t.”

Your voice cracked this time, and you hated it. Hated the sting in your eyes, the tightness in your throat. You weren’t supposed to feel like this, not over something so small. But it wasn’t small. Not to you. Not when it was coming from him.

He stepped closer again, like he couldn’t help himself, and you stepped back just as fast.

“Please don’t,” you said quietly.

He froze.

“I know I’m not the only girl in the world,” you said, not looking at him. “And I’m not asking to be. But when you say things like that, even casually, it feels like I’ve already lost a race I didn’t know I was running. Like I’m not even in the frame.”

There was a long pause. Your boyfriend’s voice, when it came, was barely above a whisper.

“You’ve never been out of frame. Not for me.”

You shook your head, blinking hard, trying to will away the heat behind your eyes. “I’ve spent the last two days wondering if I’d be worth more to you if I looked different.”

That hit him like a blow. His mouth opened, closed, and opened again.

“I’m sorry,” he said finally. “I didn’t know. I didn’t think. But please believe me when I tell you…I see you. All the time. You’re someone I—” He stopped himself, teeth catching on his bottom lip. “You’re the only person I can’t stop seeing.”

Something in your chest pulled tight, twisted cruelly.

You stared at a fixed spot on the floor. The tiles blurred a little around the edges. You didn’t know what to say to that, not when your chest felt too tight, not when your emotions were running just beneath your skin, raw and humming.

“I don’t always think before I talk,” he continued, carefully. “Sometimes I share things like facts and research like they’re harmless, like they’re neutral. But I forget that facts aren’t neutral when they land on people I care about.”

That made you glance up at him. Just for a second.

He looked like he meant it: brows drawn, hands loosely curled at his sides, eyes locked on yours with that intense kind of focus he reserved for unsolvable puzzles and people he couldn’t let go of.

“I think you’re beautiful,” he said, and there was no rush in it. No grand gesture. Just a quiet truth. “Not when you’re all put together. Not just when you wear makeup. Not just when you smile.”

You blinked. The air in the hallway seemed to still.

“I think you’re beautiful when you’re tired. When you’re pissed off. When you’re sitting at your desk covered in crime scene dust and snapping at Morgan because you haven’t eaten in twelve hours.” A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I think you’re beautiful even when you’re covered in blood, cursing at your vest because it rubbed your ribs raw…even if that sounds weird.”

A quiet laugh broke out of you, not a full one, but a cracked, genuine thing that caught you off guard. You shook your head, eyes misty despite yourself.

“Spencer…”

He stepped forward slowly, careful not to close the distance unless you let him. “You never needed to change anything. Not for me. Not for the world, either. But if you ever forget how amazing you are, I’ll remind you.”

You didn’t answer right away. Your throat was too tight. But your hand reached out, just barely brushing against his. Not quite holding. Just…touching.

It was enough.

His fingers closed around yours, warm and hesitant.

“Okay,” you whispered.

And for the first time in days, the storm inside you quieted, not gone, but calm. Manageable. Because he didn’t just see you. He saw through everything you tried to hide…and stayed.

Friendly reminder ❤︎ : you are beautiful and "standards" are bullshit that don't matter, even if we sometimes feel like they do.

Take care and be kind to yourself, xoxo.

[certaimromance]

goddddd, loved the tall child part 2!!!! love some hurt. would love to read more about this universe!!

thank uuu🩷 so glad you like it! i was really hesitant to post it because i thought maybe it's been too long since the first part

but yes, i’m planning a lot more of them because writing that kind of angst is what I love most, i LOVE the tension and purity in this father x rebellious child figure

also, you can send me a request if you have an idea! i love to read the interpretations of the story and what you would like to see!! like, if you're watching an episode and want to know what it would be like if this reader were there, let me know

[certaimromance]

this was HIGHLY REQUESTED, so please love it very much

ꫂ ၴႅၴ Tall Child II.

Father figure!Hotch x BAU!reader

part one | series mastelist | main masterlist

Summary: Returning to work after such a long absence is never easy, but trying to understand your boss without failing is even worse.

Words: 3,3k.

Warnings & Tags: mentions of crime and the reader's old shoulder injury. angst WITH open ending. hotch being a father figure. the reader having bad thoughts and the team not being a good team with her. father and rebellious daughter type relationship. temporarily located in the first season. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).

Note: Helloo Tall Child lovers, I hope you like this and that it will be a sequel according to your expectations. I'm sorry for the delay, but the complexity of this relationship made my job difficult, as I never thought of writing more with this reader in the first place, and I was very surprised that you liked it so much.

So I'm pleased to tell you that I've made an exclusive list with this reader because I'd love to explore more of this through other seasons and situations not necessarily canon, feel free to send your request if you have specific ideas with this reader!

Six weeks later.

The air in the BAU was colder than you remembered, not just in temperature but in feeling; it was a sterile, impersonal chill that clung to your skin like mist. Every echoing footstep in the polished corridors seemed louder, like the walls themselves were holding their breath. It wasn’t just the recycled air hissing through the vents or the fluorescent lighting that buzzed too harshly overhead. No, this cold ran deeper. It had taken root inside you during those long, suffocating weeks locked away in your apartment, when the silence had pressed in on all sides and the world had narrowed to four walls and the weight of your own thoughts. This was the cold of absence. Of isolation. Of walking back into a life that had kept moving without you.

You stood at the entrance, your badge clipped to your belt, your go-bag slung over one shoulder. From the outside, it looked like you were fine. Recovered. Rested. As focused and willing to work as ever. But on the inside, you were still picking up pieces.

The place hadn’t changed, but you hadn’t expected it to. Reid’s desk was just as you remembered: clean, almost painfully so, every file color-coded and aligned with obsessive precision. The chessboard still sat in its usual spot off to the side, pieces mid-game, like he was still chasing the perfect strategy that might finally let him beat Gideon. Across the bullpen, the computer screens all flickered in perfect rhythm, except for Morgan’s, which pulsed in shades of bright pink. You didn’t need to see her to know Garcia was up to something again, probably testing out some new system or just trying to annoy him in that way only she could pull off. The coffee pot sputtered and hissed in the background, steady and familiar, its bitter scent weaving through the air like it never left.

And then, your gaze landed on the far wall: Hotch’s office. The door was closed. Blinds drawn. The same as always, and yet now it felt heavier somehow. Imposing. Like, just the sight of it pulled your shoulders tighter. You found yourself wishing he wasn’t there. Wishing you could walk in without that cold knot twisting in your stomach.

Damn, you weren’t supposed to be afraid of him now.

A few heads turned when you stepped in. The room didn’t go silent, but it shifted. You felt it, eyes lingering just a second too long, hushed words dying mid-sentence. And then JJ was there, walking toward you with that soft, careful smile people wore around broken things like you.

“Hey,” she said gently, arms opening without hesitation.

You let her pull you into a hug. Her perfume was the same as always. So floral and grounding. You closed your eyes for a second, just enough to feel the safety in it. But it passed quickly.

“You look better,” she added softly. You didn’t say thank you.

She said better, not good.

Morgan and Elle came next, their footsteps steady, familiar, grounding in a way that almost made your throat tighten. “There’s the prodigal agent,” one of them said with a crooked smile—maybe him, maybe her—you weren’t paying close enough attention to tell. Your focus was locked on their faces, not their voices. Their smiles were genuine, warm even, but just behind them, something else flickered. Worry. Maybe guilt. Maybe both. It was there in the brief glance they exchanged when they thought you wouldn’t notice, in the way Elle’s arms crossed just a little too tightly over her chest, in how Morgan’s usual swagger was tempered by something quieter.

But Reid was the hardest to face. He hovered, hesitating, unsure if he should say something or just let it go. In the end, he gave you a small, tentative smile and an awkward “Hi,” as if six weeks hadn’t passed. As if he hadn’t been the reason your stomach still twisted with guilt every time you closed your eyes.

You nodded and whispered, “Hey.” That was all you could manage.

But then came the moment you had been both dreading and aching for so long it had carved itself into the rhythm of your days. The soft creak of the door swinging open sliced through the low hum of conversation like a knife. You didn’t need to look to know it was him. The measured, deliberate sound of his polished shoes crossing the bullpen floor was unmistakable, as familiar as it was unsettling. Each step seemed to echo louder than it should have, like the room itself tensed in his presence.

And there he was. Aaron Hotchner. As composed and unreadable as ever, every inch of him radiated quiet authority. His presence hit like a pressure drop in the atmosphere, pressing down on your chest and making the space around you feel impossibly large and impossibly small all at once. Like suddenly, you didn’t know where to stand. Like suddenly, you weren’t sure if you even belonged in that space anymore. Like suddenly, you were a child who had been punished for bad behavior.

You had imagined this moment a hundred times.

None of them felt like this.

He didn’t say anything at first. He stood there, just a few feet away, arms folded, that familiar, unreadable expression settling over his face like a mask. The same one that used to make your pulse quicken, that used to leave you guessing, second-guessing yourself.

But not this time.

This time, you didn’t flinch. You met his stare head-on, feeling the weight of his gaze like a hand around your throat—but you refused to shrink. Not again. You’d spent too long folding yourself into smaller and smaller shapes, twisting and bleeding just to fit into the narrow mold of what he expected, of what he trusted. And for what? For this? For distance and doubt? No more. That part of you—the desperate part—was dead and buried. Or if it wasn’t yet, you were damn sure going to kill it. You lifted your chin, defiance burning in your chest like a second heartbeat, daring him to look at you and still pretend you were invisible.

“I’m back,” you said, voice low but steady. “Just like the paperwork says.”

Your boss studied you for a moment longer than necessary, his gaze flicking to your shoulder—the one that still bore the memory of your injury, the phantom weight of everything you’d lost—before settling back into that cold, distant mask of his. That unreadable expression he wore so well, the one that used to make you feel safe because it meant he was in control. Now, it just made you feel small. Disposable.

And for a moment—just one cruel, flickering moment—you almost believed that he’d step forward. That he’d close the distance. That he’d reach out and gently touch your shoulder, like he used to when things were too heavy, too hard. You almost believed he would look you in the eye, say your name like it meant something, and tell you he was sorry. Sorry for the silence. Sorry for the coldness. Sorry for the suspension. Sorry for treating you like a child.

You almost believed he would say he trusted you. That he still saw you, still believed in you, even if it was a little. That he understood why you did what you did. That you weren’t broken. That he didn’t think of you as a liability or a ticking clock counting down to another failure.

You almost believed he would tell you it was going to be okay.

But it didn’t happen.

He just looked away. Not with malice. Not with cruelty. But with distance. Like someone turning from a photograph that had faded in time. And you felt the sting of it—quiet, precise, brutal. Not just the rejection of your role, but the absence of something far deeper.

It wasn’t the pain of being forgotten.

It was the pain of never being seen.

“We’re glad to have you back,” he said, his voice the same steady, measured cadence it had always been.

But it wasn’t the words that stung; it was the way they landed. Clinical. Safe. Like a statement recited for formality’s sake rather than spoken from any real feeling.

Not I’m glad.

We’re glad.

That single word change twisted like a knife in your chest.

“Right,” you said, the word escaping before you could hold it back. Your eyes burned with something you refused to let spill over. “Glad to be back, I guess.”

Hotch didn’t flinch. Of course he didn’t.

There was a long silence between you two. He studied you, just like before, but this time it felt colder. Like he was looking for something you didn’t have anymore.

You couldn’t stand it. You turned away quickly, your body betraying you as your chest tightened and your breath quickened. You were better than this. You were stronger than this.

The case came in shortly after: a triple homicide in Maryland. The kind of case that had all the hallmarks of a nightmare: brutal, violent, unsolved. You didn’t think you were ready for fieldwork. In fact, you didn’t think you could even look at another case without feeling like an imposter, like a stranger in your own skin. The idea of diving back into it, back into the chaos, felt overwhelming. But you didn’t have a choice. There were no other options. And Aaron was too careful now to give you the responsibility of leading your partner again. Not after everything that had happened.

“Morgan leads. JJ, handle media. Reid, consult with the coroner. Elle, talk to the families.”

And then, without a single glance in your direction, he turned to you and said, “You’ll assist.”

No lead. No profile. No responsibility. Just…observe.

Support.

The word echoed in your head, bruising you in places you hadn’t even realized were tender. Support. As if that was all you were good for now. The sharp ache of betrayal twisted inside your chest, but you couldn’t—wouldn’t—let it show. You didn’t argue. Not out loud. But it burned. Every cell in your body screamed in protest, but you held it in, forced it back down where no one could see.

On the jet, the silence between you and Hotch was like a thick fog, heavy and suffocating. You sat across from him, your hands folded in your lap, your eyes glued to the window as the world outside blurred by. But you could feel him. You could feel the weight of his eyes on you, though he didn’t meet your gaze directly. He kept glancing at your shoulder, the one that still bore the ugly scar of your injury. His eyes flicked there so many times, and each time they quickly darted away, as if caught between something you couldn’t tell.

And it wasn't just him. The whole team had noticed it, the little looks they gave you when they thought you weren't looking, the way their conversations were interrupted when you walked into a room, and they automatically faked their best smile at you. You could feel the tension in the air, like they were all waiting for you to sink or swim, to show you still had something to give.

In the field, you did your job. You fell into the motions like muscle memory: keeping your voice calm, your observations sharp, and your hands steady. You kept your face neutral, even when the case began to grind you down, piece by piece. But every decision Hotch or Gideon made went through Morgan. Every suggestion you made was quietly nodded at but never acted upon. You could almost hear the quiet hum of judgment in the air every time you tried to assert yourself. You were invisible.

It was like walking through fog. You were there, but no one could see you. No one really saw you.

You were present but unseen. You were nothing more than a shadow, drifting through the motions.

And, of course, back at the hotel it was the same. You kept to yourself, retreated into the quiet of your room, away from their pitying stares. The team trickled in, chatting amongst themselves, but you didn’t join them. They didn’t expect you to. Instead, you made a lie about being tired and about having a headache, and you hid behind it.

So you sat on your bed instead, the room dimly lit by the glow of a muted TV. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the faint hum of the electronics and the occasional shuffle of your own restless thoughts. The takeout boxes sat untouched on the desk, still sealed in their flimsy plastic containers. Your service weapon rested next to your badge on the nightstand, a weightless echo of a dream that no longer seemed to matter.

The knock came at 10:43 p.m.

You hesitated, fingers frozen over the blanket, eyes flicking to the door. Part of you considered ignoring it, pretending you didn’t hear, pretending the world outside wasn’t so close. But something in your gut told you who it was.

With a sigh that felt too heavy for such a small sound, you stood up and moved toward the door, your movements stiff and reluctant. You opened it, and there he was: your lovely boss. Standing there, holding a white takeout bag with the same purposeful, composed demeanor he always had.

“I figured you didn’t eat,” he said, his voice soft, as if offering something much bigger than just food. His hand extended toward you, the scent of it wafting up with the slight steam still rising from the dish. “Chicken teriyaki. No onions.”

Your heart clenched, hard and sudden. Of course he remembered.

He always remembered.

It was the smallest things, the details he’d tucked away in his mind, that made your chest tighten like this, like a dam about to crack. You took the food from his outstretched hand, your fingers brushing his briefly, and stepped aside to let him in, but he didn’t move.

He just stood there, his posture stiff, his eyes avoiding yours in that way that felt both respectful and…uncomfortably distant.

It felt less like your boss checking in and more like a parent standing awkwardly outside a teenager’s door, unsure if they were about to be let in or shut out.

“You didn’t have to,” you muttered, voice almost a whisper, as if you were apologizing for the inconvenience. You weren’t sure why it came out that way, it wasn’t him you were apologizing to. Not really.

“I know,” he replied, his voice calm, careful, as though he were trying to measure every word. He stood there for a long moment, looking at you but not really seeing you, his gaze flickering between your eyes and the ground.

Then he shifted slightly, glancing at the takeout bag in his hand. “There’s also a dessert, but you should eat the real food first.”

His words felt like they were layered with more than just concern for your well-being. It was the way he said it, like he was directing you, guiding you—not as a colleague, not as a boss, but as someone who felt responsible for making sure you didn’t fall apart.

And then, you knew it.

You weren’t a grown adult in his eyes right now. You were someone he had to take care of, like a child who didn’t know how to care for themselves anymore.

“You still don’t trust me,” you said finally, voice low but steady. It wasn’t a sharp edge, not a challenge.

Hotch’s eyes flicked to yours, then dropped again—quick, involuntary. Like the words hurt to hear, even if he’d been expecting them.

He exhaled slowly through his nose. “That’s not true.”

“Then why am I stuck on the sidelines?” you asked, and this time the question came harsher, more bitter than you intended. You didn’t mean to sound wounded, but the words carried it anyway. “Why am I the one just…watching? Observing, while everyone else is doing the job I’ve trained my whole damn life to do?”

His silence came fast and thick, and it stretched too long, long enough to confirm what you already suspected. The answer, when it came, landed like a blow.

“Because I need to know you’re okay,” he said, quiet but firm. “Before I put someone else’s life in your hands again.”

Ouch.

You flinched. Not dramatically, just enough for him to see it. Just enough for you to feel it ripple through your spine like heat. The air in the room shifted, charged and sharp, like an old scab torn open.

“I thought you said this wasn’t personal,” you said, hating the way your voice cracked around the edges.

“It’s not,” Hotch said, voice tight.

You stared at him. Really stared. The lines around his eyes are deeper now. The tension in his jaw, the stiffness in his shoulders, was like this conversation was another weight he didn’t know how to carry.

“Sure feels personal.”

There was a flicker of something behind his eyes—guilt, maybe, or regret—but it passed too fast to name. He didn’t deny it. Didn’t try to spin it.

Instead, he said quietly, “You scared me that day.”

You froze.

He wasn’t looking at you now. He was looking past you, somewhere far away. Like he was remembering it. The day it all went sideways. The weight of the call he had to make to the ambulance. The fallout. The blood and your tears.

“You scared all of us,” he added, softer now. “But me the most.”

The confession hit harder than you expected. Not because he was admitting fear, but because he still couldn’t look at you when he said it. Because even after all this time, all this effort, it still felt like he hadn’t let go of that fear.

“I know I made mistakes,” you said, your voice quieter now. Controlled. Trying to be steady, even as your throat tightened. “I know I lost control. I know I…crossed lines.”

You stopped. Breathed. Tried to gather the rest of it.

“But I’m not—” You hesitated. The word was right there. Lodged between your teeth.

Not broken.

You weren’t even sure you believed it anymore.

Hotch finally looked at you, really looked, and when he spoke, it was softer than before. “I know. That’s why I approved your return.”

You searched his face, looking for judgment or disappointment. But what you saw instead surprised you.

Tiredness. Not just the kind that came from stress or long nights of cases but the kind that came from caring too much and not knowing how to show it without screwing everything up.

It disarmed you.

“I didn’t mean what I said,” you murmured, almost ashamed. “About Reid. About your kid. Or you.”

He nodded, just once. Small. Measured.

“I know,” he said. “But it still touched a nerve.”

That landed harder than any reprimand. No raised voice. No lecture. Just the simple truth of it, that what you said had stuck to him like shrapnel.

The silence that followed was quieter now, less tense, less heavy. Something between you was shifting. Mending, maybe.

“I’m not broken,” you said suddenly, with more force than you expected. The words tumbled out before you could second-guess them. “I’ve been hurt. I’ve been…off. But I’m not broken.”

Hotch looked at you for a long moment, then nodded slowly.

“I never said you were.”

“You acted like it.”

He sighed, eyes dropping again. “Maybe I was afraid.”

Your brow furrowed. “Of what?”

He hesitated. Then, quietly: “That if I pushed you harder, I’d be the one who broke you.”

The breath caught in your throat.

“I didn’t think you were weak,” he added. “I just didn’t want to watch you fall apart.”

Your chest ached.

“I already did,” you said.

“I know.”

He turned to leave, then paused at the threshold.

“I’m glad you’re back,” he said finally, without looking at you. “Even if it doesn’t feel like it yet.”

And then he was gone, leaving the door open just a crack behind him.

Just in case you needed to follow.

[certaimromance]

Spencer Reid x Avoidant!reader.

A series of stories with the same reader. ₊˚⊹ᰔ

Avoiding conflict and any kind of confrontation that isn't strictly part of your job is your specialty, but that all goes out the window when you put your eyes and heart into your coworker...because there was no one with more conflict and confrontation on the horizon than Spencer Reid.

main masterlist

Warnings & Tags: fem!bau!reader. mentions of crimes, injuries and suggestive themes. friends to lovers. two idiots soo in love (almost all the time). this series goes through all the seasons of the show and even before or after it, beware of spoilers and read it as you want, there is no correct order (except the chapters that have the same name, they are connected).

Status: In process.

Feel free to send your request if you have specific ideas with this reader! ➳ ♡

Coworker!Reid x Avoidant!reader

♥︎ cupid walks right ⸺ comfort (1,6k):

You've been hiding your attraction to your coworker for a long time, until a few pictures of him kissing a celebrity in a pool unleash emotions you can't control.

Boyfriend!Reid x Avoidant!reader

♥︎ (+18) in pink sheets ⸺ fluff (3k):

After spending the first night with Spencer, doubts arise about the nature of your behavior at work from now on. How could you not make it obvious that you two had already passed all the bases?

♥︎ every shade ⸺ hurt/comfort (6k):

Your perfect boyfriend says a fun fact about the standards of beauty, and suddenly his words hit you harder than they should.

Husband!Reid x Avoidant!reader

♥︎ collateral damage ⸺ angst (3,7k):

When you accompany your husband to an interrogation, the last thing you expect is to learn that the woman who ruined your lives has gotten what you've always wanted: a baby.

[certaimromance]

aww this is so so sweet🩷 thank u so much

𝜗𝜚 The Liar Next Door.

Spencer Reid x Neighbor!reader

series masterlist

Summary: Just when Spencer's walls came down and he seemed ready to try to get back to his old self with you, all his lies started to catch up to him.

Words: 8,2k.

Warnings & Tags: this is part of a series, check the masterlist to make sure you are in the correct chapter. mention of injuries, violence, alzheimer, prison, scars. hurt/comfort. angst. painter!reader. post prison reid with almost all his past traumas. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).

Note: I’M BACK!!! this chapter is an up and down. I had not been able to upload it soon because I started college a month ago and disappeared :( sorry in warning for this but know that I have all the intentions of writing this entire series (we are close to the end) and one or two extras.

It was late afternoon, the weak light of the sun filtering through the blinds, casting long, muted shadows across the sterile walls of the nursing home room. The low hum of the fluorescent lights buzzed above Spencer, filling the silence that seemed to stretch endlessly between him and his mother. He sat on the edge of the bed, his hands clenched tightly around the fabric of his pants, eyes fixed on the floor. It had been a quiet drive here, the kind of silence that felt suffocating, as if every word he didn’t say weighed heavier than the ones he might have spoken. The air was thick with the unsaid, and he was doing his best to stay composed, not letting his emotions break through the dam he had built. But it was hard. Harder than he thought it would be.

The room smelled faintly of antiseptic, a cold, clinical scent that made it seem a world away from the warmth of the apartment they had been in just half an hour before. Diana lay on the bed, the sheets pulled tightly around her frail body; her face had softened with time, the confusion that had once been there seemed to have faded. Her eyes, though clouded, still had that glimmer of recognition, just a brief glint mixed with weariness.

For a moment, just a moment, she smiled.

“Spencer,” she murmured, her voice quiet, gentle. “When is she coming?”

His heart skipped a beat, the weight of the moment settling over him like a stone in his chest. He swallowed hard, trying to keep his face neutral and hiding the fear.

“Who, mom?” He asked, his voice soft, careful, like he was walking on fragile ground.

“Your girlfriend,” she said, her lips curving slightly, like she was letting him in on some long-forgotten secret. “I thought she was coming with us. Did she stay at your apartment?”

Oh. Oh. Oh.

His stomach twisted sharply, a deep, sinking weight pressing against his ribs. His breath stalled for a moment, his thoughts tangling together too quickly to process.

You.

She was talking about you.

Spencer had braced himself for a lot of things when he came here—his mother forgetting his name, mistaking the year, slipping in and out of moments of clarity—but not this. Not you. He hadn’t anticipated her remembering so clearly, especially when so much else had slipped through the cracks. The painful fog of her mind seemed to distort everything else, but not this. It cut through the haze and made this day feel heavier than the others. He had hoped, selfishly, that time had blurred those memories, softened them enough that she wouldn’t ask, that she wouldn’t bring it up. He didn’t want to face it, not now, not like this.

Because he didn’t want to tell his mother.

Didn’t want to tell her that he had let you slip away. That the space between you had grown too vast, too heavy to ignore. That no matter how much he missed you—God, how he missed you—it had been his choice. His decision. That he had shut himself off from the one person who had made him feel again, and now he didn’t know how to undo it.

He didn’t want his mother to see it, to know how much it hurt. She was already fragile, already carrying so much. What good would it do to make her worry about him, too?

His throat felt tight and dry.

“Mom, she’s not—” The words faltered, caught somewhere between truth and cowardice.

She’s not coming.

She’s not mine.

She never was.

But Diana’s mind was already drifting, slipping past his hesitation like water through cupped hands. She lifted a trembling hand, her fingers curling slightly, reaching for something unseen. When she spoke again, her voice was soft and reverent.

“I like her,” she murmured. “She’s good for you. She made tea for me the other day.”

The other day, just half an hour ago. But he didn’t dare correct her.

“She should come,” Diana continued, her words slowing, like she was savoring them. “I want to meet her. I want to see her. I want to see how she looks with you.”

Spencer felt his heart twist painfully in his chest.

His mother wanted to see how you looked with him.

As if you were his. As if nothing had broken the illusion of what you two once could be. As if the dreams he had clung to at night weren’t haunted by regret.

As if, in another life, in another version of himself, he had dared to try, to take your hand, to say the words he swallowed back every time you stood too close, every time your eyes softened just for him.

As if he had never hurt you.

And damn, how he wished that were true.

He wanted to tell his mother that it wasn’t as simple as she thought. That he wasn’t whole enough to be good for you. That he had made his choices, and this loneliness was something he had earned.

But he couldn’t.

So instead, he forced himself to breathe, to move past the crushing weight in his ribs.

“I’ll tell her,” he said softly, his voice barely audible.

One.

The lie settled on his tongue like lead.

It was small and fragile, but it was the only thing he could offer her. The truth was too cruel, too sharp-edged. It would do more harm than good.

Diana sighed, her eyelids growing heavier as she sank deeper into the pillows.

“I hope she’s here soon,” she murmured sleepily. “I miss having someone new around. The people here are boring. They don’t talk like her. They don’t bring me good tea.”

Spencer swallowed hard, watching her drift off. His mind swirled, too clouded with guilt and pain to find clarity. He wanted to apologize to her. He wanted to beg for forgiveness, to say how sorry he was, how much he wished he could turn back time. How much he wished he could stop lying to her and to you.

But the words never came.

Instead, he just sat there, watching his mother fade into sleep, helpless to undo the things he had done. He couldn’t change the past, couldn’t make it right. All he could do was wait and pray for something he didn’t know how to fix.

Like the genius he was, he should have known this was inevitable.

Spencer must have sensed, deep down, that all his carefully constructed plans to keep his distance were bound to unravel. It wasn’t a question of if, but when. No amount of logic, no amount of calculated restraint, could have changed the truth: he was never going to be able to keep you at arm’s length.

Three years now. Three years since the first time he saw you, standing in the hallway, struggling under the weight of moving boxes, your determination burning through the exhaustion that must have been settling deep in your bones. Three years since the day your cat had decided, without hesitation, that he belonged to him, weaving between his legs like a creature who had known him forever. But you? You were barely more than a passing blur in his periphery, a fleeting presence in that moment. And yet, somehow, some way, that moment had been the start of everything.

Three years since the first time you had smiled at him—really smiled—and caught him completely off guard. Since the first time your laughter had made something inside him stumble. Three years of small, stolen moments that shouldn’t have meant as much as they did, of soft conversations that chipped away at his walls before he even realized they were crumbling. Three years of standing too close but never quite touching, of understanding each other in ways that had nothing to do with words.

You two had always been honest with each other. Brutally so. It wasn’t about grand confessions or sweeping gestures, but about the quiet things, the ones most people never thought to share. Spencer told you about the way the starlings moved outside the jet window, their flight patterns shifting like liquid shadows against the sky. He told you how the new sugar you had bought threw off his usual coffee ratio, how the slight imbalance left a persistent irritation in the back of his mind all day. And you told him about the stranger in the grocery store who had baffled you with their nonsensical conversation, about the dream that clung to you like smoke, never quite clearing.

You told each other things that wouldn’t matter to anyone else but mattered because they were yours.

That was what made keeping a secret from you impossible.

Three months, four weeks, and two days. That’s how long he had carried the weight of it, letting the guilt press into his ribs, burrow under his skin. He had convinced himself that he could do it, that he could hold this piece of himself away from you, shielding you from something he couldn’t even shield himself from. But every time he tried to create distance, every time he held himself back, you knew.

And that was the worst part; you always knew.

You saw through him in ways no one else did. You could read the minute shifts in his voice, the way his breath caught in his throat when he was on the verge of saying something but swallowed it down instead. You could feel the hesitation in his touch when he pulled away before he ever had the chance to reach for you. He should have known you wouldn’t push, that you would let him come to you in his own time.

But that didn’t mean you weren’t waiting.

And then, in a blink, it all unraveled.

He didn’t even know what it was that broke him, whether it was the exhaustion, the guilt, or the unbearable weight of the space he had tried to put between you, but suddenly, the walls he had fought so hard to keep standing collapsed beneath the pressure of it all. He was tired. Tired of pretending he could bear it alone. Tired of pretending that keeping you at a distance was anything other than a losing battle.

And in your arms, he shattered. Completely.

You held him without hesitation, without fear, without resentment. No demand for an explanation, no pressure for him to speak before he was ready. Just warmth. Just presence. Just you. And that was enough.

When the elevator doors slid open on your floor, you stepped out first, as you always did, effortless, as if the very air around you had shifted to accommodate your presence. For a moment, you paused, your figure outlined by the soft glow of the hallway lights. You took a small breath, the kind that felt like it belonged solely to this moment, before turning back to him. In that fleeting second, your gaze met his, unreadable, layered with something that lingered beneath the surface, too subtle and too deep to fully understand. And then, as if some quiet understanding passed between you, a small, knowing smile tugged at the corner of your lips, soft, intimate, and strangely familiar, like a secret that had always been shared between the two of you, even in silence.

“I buy a new coffee,” you said softly, your voice a steady thread in the quiet of the place. The words slipped through the silence, warm and inviting. “I think you might like it.”

Spencer didn’t respond right away. He simply nodded, the weight of your words sinking deeper into him as he followed you down the hall. His mind was still racing, trying to catch up with the unraveling of everything he had kept inside. His breathing was uneven, each inhale a struggle to process what had just been said, what had just happened. His throat was tight, like if he even tried to speak, the words would crumble and fall apart before they could ever reach the surface.

And yet, you didn’t press. You didn’t ask or rush him. You just walked beside him, as you always had, so steady, patient, and present. It was as if nothing had changed, and yet, in some indescribable way, everything had.

When you reached his door, you unlocked it with a familiar motion, but before stepping inside, you glanced back at him, that same quiet smile still playing on your lips.

“I buy jello too,” you said, your tone light and casual, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. But the words sank into him like a slow, steady pain, unraveling him all over again.

God.

Jello had been one of the few things that kept him sane in prison, the only thing that made those long, endless days feel the slightest bit normal. Every afternoon, when the guards slid his tray through the slot, his eyes would instinctively search for it. That small plastic container, that bright, artificial sweetness that reminded him there was still something predictable in a world that had taken everything else away. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

And now, standing in this dimly lit hallway, you had just offered it to me so simply, so effortlessly after he broke down crying in your arms because you knew it would make him feel better.

You didn’t eat jello. He knew that. He had known it from the very first time you had wrinkled your nose at the idea, passing it over without a second glance. And yet, you still bought it. Every time you went to the store, it ended up in your cart, tucked between the things you actually did like. A quiet, unspoken gesture. A habit formed not out of necessity, but out of something deeper, something neither of you had ever needed to say out loud. Just like how he always made sure to have your favorite tea stocked in his cupboard, even though he never drank it himself. Even though he barely thought about it until he saw the box sitting there, waiting for you, like a quiet promise he never had to voice.

That was what you did for each other.

And maybe that was why his breath hitched, why his throat tightened, why his fingers curled slightly at his sides as if he could physically hold himself together. Because this wasn’t grand or dramatic, it wasn’t some sweeping declaration. It was simple. Thoughtless. Ordinary. Just jello.

But oh God, it was your jello. And anything that had you included was automatically the most special in his world.

Before he could find the words, before he could even begin to process the weight of it all, a sudden blast of music erupted from somewhere above, the sharp clatter of electric guitar cutting through the quiet like a sudden explosion. The pounding rhythm of the drums followed, shaking the ceiling just slightly, a chaotic contrast to the moment he had been drowning in only seconds before.

Instinct kicked in before logic had the chance to catch up.

He tensed, his body moving on its own as he instinctively stepped closer to you, angling himself between you and the unseen source of the noise—ready to shield, to take a hit, to react to a threat that wasn’t even there.

He realized it a second too late.

But you didn’t say anything. Didn’t acknowledge his automatic reaction, didn’t call attention to the way his body had gone rigid, the way his breath had caught in his throat. Instead, you just sighed, shaking your head with quiet amusement as if this was all so normal.

“That’s the niece of our neighbor,” you explained easily, your voice grounding him in a way he hadn’t even known he needed. “He loves rock music.”

Spencer let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, dragging a hand down his face as he tried to shake the lingering tension from his body. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.” You glanced toward the staircase at the end of the hall, tilting your head slightly as if you could see the scene unfolding upstairs. “Don’t get too attached, though. It’ll be gone in a minute.”

Right on cue, the music cut off abruptly, replaced by the muffled sound of a door opening and a voice too distant to make out, but unmistakably scolding.

A second later, you grinned. “His uncle always shuts it down in the best part of the song.”

This time, Spencer’s laughter came without hesitation, rolling from his chest in a way that felt natural, effortless. It wasn’t the strained, tight laugh that he’d forced out in uncomfortable moments before. This was real, soft, and unburdened, a ripple of relief that escaped him without effort. He hadn’t even realized how badly he needed to laugh, to truly laugh, until it happened. The tension in his shoulders loosened, and for the first time in what felt like a long time, something inside him relaxed. It was the sound of something heavy lifting, an unspoken weight easing off of him because of you.

You shifted, and the air between you changed again, this time with a quiet, concerned tone in your voice. “It’s cold,” you said, glancing up at the door behind you, the hallway a little dimmer, the night pressing in on all sides. “You should go inside.”

Without you?

He hesitated for a moment, looking at you, the weight of everything still swirling inside him, pulling at the edges of his thoughts. “Can you…can you go with me?” he asked, the words coming out softer than he’d intended, as if they were a plea he hadn’t known he needed to make.

It was a question that carried more than just the invitation to walk through his door. It was an invitation for you to stay, to be there, to share in the quiet, in the simplicity again.

He needed that. He needed you.

But you hesitated anyway. Just for a moment, but it was enough for Spencer to feel the weight of it. And for a split second, he wondered if he had crossed a line, if his request was too much. You had been a constant in his life since the start, but this…this felt different because this wasn’t the start, this wasn’t the past, and now that you were far away, even if you were just a few feet away from him.

You glanced away briefly, and the small, fleeting flicker of doubt in your eyes was quickly replaced by something unreadable. You licked your lips, the soft sound barely noticeable, and then took a small step back, your hand resting lightly on your doorknob.

He held his breath, waiting for the rejection, the inevitable pull back to reality where things could never be back to simple between the two of you.

But then, slowly, you turned your gaze back to him, and he saw the hesitation there, the conflict, even if you didn’t voice it. Your lips parted, but you didn’t speak at first. Instead, you studied him, your gaze soft and calculating, as if weighing the possibility of crossing a line neither of you had ever dared to approach. Even though you’d been to his house countless times, lying in his bed, moving around in your socks as if it were your own, something about this moment felt different.

“I don’t know if I should,” you finally said, your voice small, unsure. “You…You’ve been through a lot tonight. Maybe it’s better if you just have some time to yourself, you know? To breathe. To think.” Maybe it's better if I give you space so that tomorrow morning you don't want to push me away again.

Spencer could feel the sting of your words, but it wasn’t rejection. It was caution. You were worried about him and about yourself. He wanted to reach out, to tell you that he didn’t need space, that he needed you more than anything, but instead, he just nodded slowly, his heart sinking a little with the weight of your words.

“I get it,” he said, his voice quieter than usual. “I just…I don’t want to be alone right now.” The truth slipped out before he could stop it, and even as he said it, he realized how vulnerable it made him feel. Like he was unraveling again, exposing himself in ways he hadn’t prepared for.

Ouch.

You looked at him, your eyes softening, a delicate understanding in them. His words hung between you, raw and vulnerable, and for a moment, everything felt suspended in time. He didn’t want to be alone. And there, in the quiet of that admission, something shifted, it touched you. The hesitation in your expression melted into something gentler, more certain.

With a small sigh, you stepped forward, closing the door of your place with a soft click. “Alright,” you said, your voice low. “I can stay a moment.”

The relief that washed over him was almost overwhelming. It was like the air had cleared, like the heavy, uncertain tension between you had finally been lifted. He hadn’t realized how tightly he’d been holding his breath until now, when you’d said yes.

“Thank you,” he whispered, his voice thick with gratitude.

You didn’t say anything in return at first. Instead, you simply walked beside him as he led the way down the hallway, your footsteps echoing softly in the quiet.

When you reached his door, he hesitated for a moment, his hand on the knob. It felt like one more decision, one more choice to make. But when he turned the handle and stepped inside, he felt your presence beside him, a steady reassurance that everything was somehow okay, that this fragile moment between you wasn’t going to break, that everything could be a little better again.

The apartment was quiet, bathed in the soft light of the lamps casting long shadows on the walls. He moved toward the thermostat, fingers hovering over the controls as he turned the heater up. The hum of the system started, and the air slowly began to warm around you, but it wasn’t enough just yet. And in solution, you moved to draping a thick, soft blanket over the couch.

Without a word, you sat down, and he did the same, your body curving into the corner as you pulled the blanket around both of you, like a protection. It was quiet, the warmth of the room slowly filling the space, but now, with the soft, cozy fabric surrounding you both. This wasn’t the first time you two shared a blanket, but somehow, it feels so different. There was something new in the way you adjusted the blanket, your hands smoothing it over his legs, over your own, and in the way his heart reacted to that.

“You didn’t have to…” Spencer started, his voice quieter now, the words hesitant. He didn’t know how to explain what he was feeling, or if it even made sense. But you didn’t need him to finish.

“It’s nothing,” you said, the words light, but carrying with them an unspoken understanding.

Maybe to you, this was nothing. But to him, this was everything.

The warmth of the blanket wrapped around you both, the heater slowly humming in the background as the cold of the hallway faded into nothing. It was quiet now, comfortable in its stillness, and yet…there was something else in the air, something fragile, like the breath you both were holding, unsure how to bridge this space between comfort and vulnerability.

You shifted slightly, drawing the blanket closer, a subtle move to find some warmth. Spencer’s hand, resting by his side, brushed against yours again, and in that fleeting touch, you both seemed to share the same unspoken thought.

The room was quiet except for the faint hum of the heater and the subtle rustle of the blanket as you both made yourselves comfortable. You sat just a little closer now, the air between you less strained, more familiar. And, as if sensing that shift, he took a slow, deep breath, releasing the tension that had coiled itself so tightly around him.

“You don’t have to stay,” he murmured, the words slipping out more gently now, as though they didn’t carry the same weight of need they had earlier. “You could just…go home, if you want.”

Two.

But the words didn’t feel like an invitation to leave. They felt like a question—Are you still okay with this?

You shifted again, pulling the blanket tighter around both of you, your eyes drifting down to where it covered you both. There was something in the way his words didn’t quite reach his eyes, a wariness that had lingered in the way he held himself.

“I can stay a bit.” You said quietly, feeling cold.

As you adjusted the blanket around your shoulders, you felt a slight movement in the fabric next to him. Spencer moved, turning slightly to copy you, just enough so that his side was facing you. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but the movement caught your attention and made you pay attention. The blanket had shifted around him, and when you moved enough, you saw it: a thin, faint scar across his lower abdomen, a line of pale skin against the heat of his body that still looked reddened.

It was a silent thing, easy to miss if you didn't look closely, but once you saw it, you couldn't ignore it. The scar was irregular, almost as if it had been carved, and for a moment you forgot to breathe. It was a deep, painful-looking mark, the kind that spoke of more than accidents or misfortune, the kind that had a deliberate intent to do as much damage as possible. You shuddered to think that there was a story behind it, a moment in his recent past that you didn't know about.

Your hand froze in the blanket, and your eyes roamed over the visible part of the scar without wanting to. You didn't want to make it obvious, you didn't want to pry, but the instinct was there. What had happened to him to have such a mark on his skin? Who had been able to hurt him?

Spencer shifted again, his hand unconsciously clenching the blanket and pulling down his shirt, as if he could feel your gaze and wanted to avoid it as much as possible. The change in his posture was immediate: cautious, cautious, but you didn't intend for him to feel exposed. It was an instinct, just a fleeting glance, but you couldn't pretend that it hadn't awakened something inside you and that your doubts hadn't increased.

You turned your attention back to the blanket, pretending to concentrate on adjusting the fabric around the two of you, giving him space, a chance to recover and decipher the moment in his mind. But you couldn't forget the scar. It wasn’t the first time you had seen the evidence of his dangerous world: the bruises, the small cuts, and the scrapes that came with the territory of his work. You’d grown accustomed to them over time, an unspoken part of the routine. But this…this was different. It was the first time that this paralyzing fear of what he had been through appeared.

Finally, after a moment of silence that seemed to stretch longer than it should, he broke the quiet with a soft sigh, one that trembled just slightly. “I didn’t mean for you to see it…” He trailed off, clearly aware of the shift in the air between you two.

You swallowed, your throat suddenly dry. “It…it happened when you were away?” You asked softly, the words careful, measured.

Spencer hesitated, but then he nodded. A single, small movement, but it felt heavier than it should have.

Your heart cracked at the confirmation.

“Someone hurt you,” you whispered, barely able to say the words.

More than someone.

More than one time.

More than a scar.

He exhaled slowly, his fingers twitching against the fabric covering his lap. “I’m okay,” he said, the words automatic, rehearsed. As if he had told himself the same thing so many times it had become muscle memory.

Three.

“It’s old,” he added, trying to brush it off, to pull the conversation away from the depth of it.

Four.

But you shook your head, your fingers tightening around the blanket. “But someone hurt you.” Your voice wavered, the realization settling deeper, making your stomach twist. “And I—”

“It doesn’t matter,” he interrupted, sharper now, but there was no anger in it. Just exhaustion. Just the kind of weariness that came with carrying something too heavy for too long.

Five.

The words were sharp and final, but they only made the ache in your chest worse.

“It matters to me, Spencer.”

That made him pause.

For the first time since you’d noticed the scar, he truly looked at you. His brows drew together slightly, confusion flickering in his eyes. You could see the way his walls were still up, how he was balancing on that edge between wanting to push you away and not having the energy to fight you on this, to tell you the whole truth.

You took a breath, your voice quieter now, but no less firm. “I spent all this time thinking you were just… fuck, I thought you were away because you wanted to be. That you didn’t call me in three months because you didn’t want to. That you were busy with your conferences, too caught up in whatever was keeping you occupied.” You let out a shaky breath. “I never thought for a second that you were—that someone was hurting you this bad.”

For a long moment, Spencer didn’t say anything. His eyes flickered with something you couldn’t quite place, a flash of emotion that he quickly shuttered behind a wall of indifference. He looked away, his jaw clenching as if he was bracing himself for something. Bracing himself for your disappointment, for your pity, or whatever it was he thought you might feel. He didn’t want to let you in any more than he already had, didn’t want to reveal the broken pieces of himself he’d hidden so carefully.

But you wouldn’t turn away. You couldn’t.

“It’s not your fault,” he murmured, his voice softer this time, almost apologetic, though it was clear he wasn’t apologizing for what had happened. It wasn’t the kind of apology you had hoped for, the kind that acknowledged the depth of the hurt. No, this was the kind of apology he gave when he was trying to make himself smaller, trying to protect you from the mess of his life. “You know how…how my work is.”

“You told me it was a simple conference,” you said, your voice shaking slightly, the emotion choking you. “I never thought it was dangerous.” You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat growing, making each word feel heavier than the last. “If I had known—”

You stopped yourself, the weight of the words heavy on your tongue. Spencer looked at you then, his gaze searching, as if he was expecting you to finish, to say what you couldn’t bring yourself to say out loud. But you couldn’t. Not just yet. Not with the fear of how it would sound.

“If I would’ve known,” you began again, your voice barely above a whisper, the words almost breaking as you spoke them, “I would’ve never let you go that morning.”

The admission hung between you, thick and heavy. The idea that if you’d known, you would have stopped him from leaving. That you would have made sure he was safe. But it didn’t matter now, did it? The damage was already done, and all you had left were these words, these feelings that couldn’t undo the hurt he’d endured.

He shook his head slowly, the movement almost imperceptible, as though the weight of your words was something he wasn’t ready to accept. “You wouldn’t have stopped me,” he said softly, almost as if trying to convince himself. He reached out instinctively, his hand hovering close to your cheek, as though he needed to connect with you, to reassure himself you were still there, still with him.

“I would try,” you said, your voice small but determined.

“No,” he said, his voice a little firmer, though there was a flicker of pain in his eyes.

You frowned, feeling the knot in your stomach tighten. “Then I would’ve done something different,” you said quickly, the words rushing out of you in an attempt to fill the silence. “I would’ve hugged you more. I would’ve kissed you—”

You trailed off, the words surprising even you as they left your lips. You hadn’t meant to say it, but now that you had, you could feel the sudden weight of vulnerability pressing down on you. You avoided his gaze, suddenly embarrassed, your eyes flickering to the clock on the wall as if it could somehow distract you from the sudden shift in the air between you.

“I—” Spencer began, his voice faltering, surprised by your words. “You what?”

“Nothing,” you said quickly, cutting him off. You stood up, the movement feeling abrupt, as if the sudden need to distance yourself was the only thing you could think to do. The warmth of the blanket that had wrapped around both of you now felt like an echo, leaving the couch cold and empty as you stepped away from it.

Six.

“I should go home,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “It’s almost Mittens’ dinner time.”

As you turned to leave, you felt the sudden emptiness of the space between you, the weight of the conversation hanging in the air. The thought of leaving felt too final, too much like running away from everything you had just shared. But the words were already out, and you didn’t know how to take them back.

“Wait,” Spencer called out, his voice soft, yet desperate, as if he was trying to hold onto something that was slipping away.

You paused, feeling his hand close around your wrist, gently pulling you back. The contact was warm and grounding, but it only made your heart beat faster. His fingers wrapped around you with a kind of quiet urgency, a need to keep you close.

You turned to face him, and in that moment, the silence between you both felt more intimate than anything you’d shared before. He looked at you, his eyes filled with something you couldn’t quite read. The air between you felt charged, like everything you hadn’t said was suspended, just waiting to break free.

“What?”

“I should’ve done this that morning,” he whispered, his voice barely audible, almost as if saying it out loud made the feeling more real, more vulnerable.

His gaze flickered down to your lips, a fleeting second that felt like an eternity, then returned to your eyes, searching, unsure. His thumb brushed the edge of your cheek—soft, almost tentative—as though he was uncertain of your response, like he was afraid to cross a line, even though the air between you both was thick with the unspoken tension. You could feel the warmth of his touch radiating through you, gentle but hesitant, as if he wasn’t sure he had the right to be this close, to share this kind of intimacy with you. His breath hitched slightly in the charged silence, and in that moment, everything else seemed to fall away.

You held your breath, caught in the delicate web of uncertainty, wondering if this moment would slip away like all the others before. But instead of retreating, he closed the distance slowly, cautiously, like he was waiting for you to stop him, to tell him you didn’t want this. The uncertainty between you both was thick, suffocating, and yet neither of you moved.

And then, his lips brushed yours.

It was so soft, barely a touch, like he was testing the waters, unsure of what he would find there. The kiss was fleeting, almost apologetic, as if he was waiting for a signal from you, a sign that it was okay to continue. His hand remained on your cheek, trembling just slightly, and you could feel it—his hesitation, his fear of what this could mean, his fear of falling too fast. But despite the uncertainty, there was something undeniably tender in the way he kissed you. So tender, it made your heart ache, and you realized he was touching you as if you were made of glass, as if he was terrified of breaking you.

Some part of him wants to protect his heart from falling to the floor because he was finally brave enough to kiss you. You, the girl next door, his girl next door.

You stood there, frozen for a heartbeat, as his lips lingered, unsure, almost apologetic, on yours. The hesitation in his touch stirred something inside you, something deep, something aching. But then, it was as if everything inside you shifted. The restraint you had been holding on to snapped, the weight of everything unspoken suddenly lifting.

You kissed him back.

At first, it was a small, hesitant movement, a soft press of your lips against his, but it was enough. It ignited something in both of you, an uncontrollable surge of need, of longing that had been building in the silence between you for far too long. His hand slid up your cheek, cupping the back of your head, pulling you closer, his fingers threading through your hair, desperately trying to keep you from pulling away.

You let go, abandoning all caution, all restraint.

Your arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer with a force that surprised even you, and suddenly, everything was frantic, wild—your lips crashing against his, the kiss deepening, deepening with each passing second. His hands roamed down your back, pulling you flush against him, and you could feel the hard press of his chest against yours, the heat of him seeping into every part of you. The world outside of this moment faded, as if it no longer existed. There was only him, only the press of his lips, the insistent pressure of his body against yours. The heat between you both was intoxicating, endless, and you couldn’t get enough. You moved against him, desperate to feel more, to lose yourself in him.

His breath came faster, more ragged, his chest rising and falling beneath yours as if he couldn’t get enough air, as if this kiss was the only thing keeping him grounded. You could feel the tremors in his hands as they moved across your skin, as if he were trying to memorize the feel of you. His pulse thrummed under your fingertips, and you matched the frantic rhythm of his heart with your own, a frantic, insistent thrum in your veins. There was no more hesitation, no more restraint, only the raw intensity of wanting, of needing, of surrender.

Suddenly, his lips left yours, trailing slowly across your cheek, the lightest of touches, but enough to send shivers down your spine. His breath was hot against your skin, and you could feel the heat of his lips moving along the line of your jaw, sending your heart into overdrive. His hand tangled in your hair, fixing it, holding you in place, but it felt so natural, like he had always known how to touch you, how to hold you. You could feel the weight of his touch, and in that moment, you realized how easily he had fit into your life, into your heart.

For a moment, time seemed to stop, the world outside fading away completely. The only thing that existed was the press of his lips against your skin, the soft caress of his hands, the heady rush of his touch. In that instant, everything you had ever wanted, everything you had ever needed, was right there, with him. It felt like a homecoming, like you had been waiting for this moment your entire life, like you were finally where you belonged.

But amidst the rising intensity, as his lips returned to yours, there came an unexpected sound—a soft, insistent meow, breaking through the silence between you.

You broke the contact for a split second, a brief breathless pause, but Spencer didn’t pull away. His lips lingered on yours, just a breath away, as if begging for permission to continue. You hesitated, staring into his eyes, the heat between you both undeniable. You could still hear the soft meows, now more insistent and louder.

“Do you hear that?” You asked, your voice strained, trying to focus on anything other than the maddening desire coursing through you.

Spencer’s lips curled into a half-smile, his breath still shallow. “Mittens.” He didn’t move away, his hand gently cupping your face, his thumb tracing the curve of your jaw. “She’s just…really patient, huh?”

You laughed softly, but it was a nervous sound, almost guilty, as your body swayed closer to his again. “She’s always patient until it’s dinner time,” you murmured, your lips brushing against his as you leaned in again, just wanting to feel him.

You kissed him again, deeper this time, as if the world had narrowed to just the two of you. Your hands found their way to his chest, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as you tugged him closer. He responded in kind, his hands sliding down your back, pulling you toward him like he couldn’t bear the space between you.

But then, the persistent meows pierced the air again, louder this time, more demanding. The moment wavered as the sound broke through, sharp and unavoidable. You groaned in frustration, pulling away just slightly, your forehead resting against his.

“She really won’t stop, will she?” You sighed, the tension hanging heavy in the air.

Spencer chuckled softly, brushing a lock of hair from your face, a playful glint in his eyes. “Nope, not unless she gets what she wants.”

You both lingered there, caught between laughter and longing, the pull of each other still so strong, but the loud insistence of your cat’s demands impossible to ignore. Spencer’s teasing smile remained, but it was softened by the heat of the moment, and he leaned in closer once more, brushing a kiss to your forehead, a light, affectionate touch that made your heart flutter.

“How about I take care of her?” he offered, his voice low and warm, still thick with desire. “You stay right here.”

For a brief moment, you considered protesting, but the look in his eyes, the way he was still so close, still so present, made it impossible to resist.

“Please,” you said with a mock pout. “I’ll just…I’ll wait right here.”

Spencer smirked, his hand lingering on the small of your back as he finally stepped away, his touch lingering just a moment longer. “Don't go, we still have a lot to talk about,” he murmured, pressing a final kiss to your forehead before he reluctantly turned toward the door.

When he stepped out of the room to take care of your cat, you leaned back against the couch, your heart still racing, the lingering warmth of his touch keeping you grounded in the moment. The soft hum of the apartment around you was the only sound, the quiet intimacy of the space suddenly feeling more alive than ever before. Everything felt like a fever dream.

A giddy smile threatened to stretch across your face, and you bit your lip, trying to contain it before your cheeks started to ache. You leaned back against the couch, fingers brushing absentmindedly over the fabric as you tried to ground yourself, to catch up with the whirlwind of emotions surging through you.

Your gaze wandered across the room, landing on a familiar sight, his old glasses, the ones you always sighed over whenever he wore them. They sat on the coffee table beside the couch, slightly askew, as if he had taken them off in a rush. Without hesitation, you leaned forward, intending to pick them up and insist that he put them on, maybe tease him about how they made him look like the professor he always denied being. A small, playful joke, something to bring you both back down to earth after the intensity of the moment you had just shared.

But as you reached for them, your fingers brushed against the corner of a magazine underneath, disturbing a small pile of papers tucked inside. They looked carelessly placed, slightly crumpled, as if they had been hastily shoved there, meant to be dealt with later.

You hesitated.

Spencer was meticulous, he never left things out of order, especially not papers. Maybe he had just been distracted. Maybe they were notes for work, something he had meant to file away. The rational part of you told you to leave them alone, to respect his privacy. But something about the way they were shoved under the magazine, almost hidden, made your stomach twist with unease.

Still, your instinct to tidy up overrode your hesitation. You lifted the top sheet, intending only to smooth them out, maybe stack them neatly so they wouldn’t get damaged. But the second your eyes flicked over the bolded title at the top of the page, your breath caught in your throat.

Therapy Program for Ex-Convicts.

Your fingers stilled.

A strange, creeping sensation crawled up your spine as you skimmed the first few lines, your pulse suddenly too loud in your ears. Your brain tried to rationalize. Spencer was a genius, after all. Maybe he was consulting on something, researching for a case, or assisting with a rehabilitation program. That had to be it. Didn’t it?

Frowning, you flipped through the pages, your eyes darting over the text, searching for something—anything—that would explain why he had these documents. The words blurred together in your frantic state, but certain phrases leapt out at you, lodging themselves in your mind like thorns.

Emotional reintegration into society.

Post-incarceration trauma.

Hypervigilance, social withdrawal, dissociative tendencies.

You swallowed hard, your chest tightening as you read on. The descriptions felt disturbingly familiar, too familiar. The nightmares. The way he sometimes seemed distant, detached, lost in a world you couldn’t reach. The way he flinched at unexpected touches or sounds, how he sometimes went quiet mid-conversation, as if a thought had gripped him so tightly he couldn’t escape it.

And then, at the bottom of the page, you saw it.

Spencer Reid.

Your breath hitched. The room suddenly felt too small, the air too thick. Your hands trembled as you scanned the document again, desperately looking for context, for an explanation that didn’t exist. Notes were scribbled in the margins, about his sessions, about his struggles. About him.

Spencer…your Spencer, an ex-convict?

The words didn’t make sense. They didn’t belong in the same sentence. They felt wrong, impossible, like you had stumbled into someone else’s story. But the more you read, the more the pieces started to fit together in a way that made your stomach churn.

He had been in prison.

Not for a case. Not for a mission. Not for anything that could be easily explained away.

For himself.

Seven.

The weight of it crashed down on you, cold and suffocating. How? When? Why hadn’t he told you? How had you not noticed?

Your mind reeled, flipping back through every interaction, every hesitation in his voice, every unanswered question you had brushed aside. The distance, the way he sometimes looked at you like he was waiting for something to break, had it been this all along? Had he been carrying this secret all along since he came back?

Your grip on the papers tightened as a deep, unfamiliar ache bloomed in your chest.

He hadn’t told you.

He had lied to you.

Your thoughts were cut off by the sound of Mittens’ soft meow. The sudden noise startled you, and you dropped the papers back onto the table, as if you had just been caught red-handed. Panic swelled in your chest, but you didn’t have time to compose yourself before you heard his footsteps approaching. You quickly glanced down at the table, pretending to be focused on anything but the storm of emotions tearing through you.

Spencer walked into the room, his arms holding your cat, looking for all the world like the same man you had just kissed. But something about him was different now, his eyes no longer held that same warmth, that same comfort. They were guarded, clouded with something you couldn’t quite place, something darker that now seemed to hang over him like a shadow.

He set Mittens down carefully, his movements precise, practiced, like he was forcing himself to act normal.

“She’s had her dinner,” he said casually, his voice light, easy. Too easy. He took a step closer, stopping just short of the couch, but you saw it, the way his eyes flickered, the way his entire body tensed the moment he saw the papers on the table.

His breath hitched, barely noticeable, but you felt it. His lips parted slightly, and for the briefest second, there was something raw in his expression: guilt.

“Now she’s happy.”

But you weren’t.

And there were seven lies in total.

Extra note: Don't hate me, this chapter is divided into two parts so as not to make it one extremely long chapter and not allow you to digest the emotions <3 the next one will be published soon, I promise, and I send you a hug because this was very strong.

Tag list ❤︎ ︎: @burningwitchprincess @withloverosse @fairiesofearth @pleasantwitchgarden @ximensitaa @lover-of-books-and-tea @cherryblossomfairyy @cherrygublersworld @i-need-to-be-put-down @dibidee

Send me an ask or comment here if you would like to be added or removed!

[certaimromance]

omg i'm so honored to be there and for your words, thank you so much for that and for reading me! this really brought a big smile to my face😭🩷

and yesss, i think the same, the algorithm fails us but i'm glad to see so many new writers to read

what is with this new wave of short ass drabbles with porn and zero plot what happened to yearning?? what happened to build up?? what happened to the character being absolutely down bad for reader?? what happened to the 10k words fics?? screaming crying and throwing up i miss it

[certaimromance]

honey, are you okay?

yes, i am <3 i think you are the same person who sent the message before, and i want to tell you and everyone who wondered what happened to me that, as i have commented once (and i added to my guidelines as a warning so that no one worries), i entered university, and basically that has caused me to have less and less time to write here because my career is very demanding, and i give all of me to keep up with it :(

i really love writing, and i dedicated a lot of time to it when i was on vacation and decided to start here, but i can't do the same anymore. i hope you understand and don't think that I have abandoned you just because i'm not around so much anymore

anyway, thanks for the concern! i hope you are well too🩷

[certaimromance]

Omg, i think im going insane because you finally are going to post a part 2 of tall child.

i love you so much, you have no idea

hiii🩷 it’s finally HEREE!! so sorry for the delay, i hope you like it anyway and know that i love you too for remembering one of my favorite readers

[certaimromance]

Father figure!Hotch x BAU!reader

A series of stories with the same reader. ₊˚⊹ᰔ

Those who didn't really know Aaron Hotchner believed that his first child had been Jack, but the few who really knew him knew that he was much more complex than that…because you existed long before.

main masterlist

Warnings & Tags: fem!reader. mentions of crimes, injuries and family problems. lots of angst (almost all the time). rebellious father/daughter type relationship. this series goes through all the seasons of the show and even before or after it, beware of spoilers and read it as you want, there is no correct order (except the chapters that have the same name, they are connected).

Status: In progress.

⁠Feel free to send your request if you have specific ideas with this reader! ➳ ♡

Season One

♥︎ tall child I ⸺ angst (2,7k):

No matter how hard you try to impress him, Agent Hotchner never seems to be satisfied with your work. And it all comes crashing down when you decide to confront him.

⤷ ♥︎ tall child II ⸺ hurt/comfort (3,3k):

Returning to work after such a long absence is never easy, but trying to understand your boss without failing is even worse.

Season Thirteen

♥︎ chasing ghosts ⸺ angst (2,7k):

Everything in your life is finally under control and almost perfect, but somehow chasing the ghost of Aaron Hotchner is still an obsession.

[certaimromance]

ꫂ ၴႅၴ Tall Child II.

Father figure!Hotch x BAU!reader

part one | series mastelist | main masterlist

Summary: Returning to work after such a long absence is never easy, but trying to understand your boss without failing is even worse.

Words: 3,3k.

Warnings & Tags: mentions of crime and the reader's old shoulder injury. angst WITH open ending. hotch being a father figure. the reader having bad thoughts and the team not being a good team with her. father and rebellious daughter type relationship. temporarily located in the first season. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).

Note: Helloo Tall Child lovers, I hope you like this and that it will be a sequel according to your expectations. I'm sorry for the delay, but the complexity of this relationship made my job difficult, as I never thought of writing more with this reader in the first place, and I was very surprised that you liked it so much.

So I'm pleased to tell you that I've made an exclusive list with this reader because I'd love to explore more of this through other seasons and situations not necessarily canon, feel free to send your request if you have specific ideas with this reader!

Six weeks later.

The air in the BAU was colder than you remembered, not just in temperature but in feeling; it was a sterile, impersonal chill that clung to your skin like mist. Every echoing footstep in the polished corridors seemed louder, like the walls themselves were holding their breath. It wasn’t just the recycled air hissing through the vents or the fluorescent lighting that buzzed too harshly overhead. No, this cold ran deeper. It had taken root inside you during those long, suffocating weeks locked away in your apartment, when the silence had pressed in on all sides and the world had narrowed to four walls and the weight of your own thoughts. This was the cold of absence. Of isolation. Of walking back into a life that had kept moving without you.

You stood at the entrance, your badge clipped to your belt, your go-bag slung over one shoulder. From the outside, it looked like you were fine. Recovered. Rested. As focused and willing to work as ever. But on the inside, you were still picking up pieces.

The place hadn’t changed, but you hadn’t expected it to. Reid’s desk was just as you remembered: clean, almost painfully so, every file color-coded and aligned with obsessive precision. The chessboard still sat in its usual spot off to the side, pieces mid-game, like he was still chasing the perfect strategy that might finally let him beat Gideon. Across the bullpen, the computer screens all flickered in perfect rhythm, except for Morgan’s, which pulsed in shades of bright pink. You didn’t need to see her to know Garcia was up to something again, probably testing out some new system or just trying to annoy him in that way only she could pull off. The coffee pot sputtered and hissed in the background, steady and familiar, its bitter scent weaving through the air like it never left.

And then, your gaze landed on the far wall: Hotch’s office. The door was closed. Blinds drawn. The same as always, and yet now it felt heavier somehow. Imposing. Like, just the sight of it pulled your shoulders tighter. You found yourself wishing he wasn’t there. Wishing you could walk in without that cold knot twisting in your stomach.

Damn, you weren’t supposed to be afraid of him now.

A few heads turned when you stepped in. The room didn’t go silent, but it shifted. You felt it, eyes lingering just a second too long, hushed words dying mid-sentence. And then JJ was there, walking toward you with that soft, careful smile people wore around broken things like you.

“Hey,” she said gently, arms opening without hesitation.

You let her pull you into a hug. Her perfume was the same as always. So floral and grounding. You closed your eyes for a second, just enough to feel the safety in it. But it passed quickly.

“You look better,” she added softly. You didn’t say thank you.

She said better, not good.

Morgan and Elle came next, their footsteps steady, familiar, grounding in a way that almost made your throat tighten. “There’s the prodigal agent,” one of them said with a crooked smile—maybe him, maybe her—you weren’t paying close enough attention to tell. Your focus was locked on their faces, not their voices. Their smiles were genuine, warm even, but just behind them, something else flickered. Worry. Maybe guilt. Maybe both. It was there in the brief glance they exchanged when they thought you wouldn’t notice, in the way Elle’s arms crossed just a little too tightly over her chest, in how Morgan’s usual swagger was tempered by something quieter.

But Reid was the hardest to face. He hovered, hesitating, unsure if he should say something or just let it go. In the end, he gave you a small, tentative smile and an awkward “Hi,” as if six weeks hadn’t passed. As if he hadn’t been the reason your stomach still twisted with guilt every time you closed your eyes.

You nodded and whispered, “Hey.” That was all you could manage.

But then came the moment you had been both dreading and aching for so long it had carved itself into the rhythm of your days. The soft creak of the door swinging open sliced through the low hum of conversation like a knife. You didn’t need to look to know it was him. The measured, deliberate sound of his polished shoes crossing the bullpen floor was unmistakable, as familiar as it was unsettling. Each step seemed to echo louder than it should have, like the room itself tensed in his presence.

And there he was. Aaron Hotchner. As composed and unreadable as ever, every inch of him radiated quiet authority. His presence hit like a pressure drop in the atmosphere, pressing down on your chest and making the space around you feel impossibly large and impossibly small all at once. Like suddenly, you didn’t know where to stand. Like suddenly, you weren’t sure if you even belonged in that space anymore. Like suddenly, you were a child who had been punished for bad behavior.

You had imagined this moment a hundred times.

None of them felt like this.

He didn’t say anything at first. He stood there, just a few feet away, arms folded, that familiar, unreadable expression settling over his face like a mask. The same one that used to make your pulse quicken, that used to leave you guessing, second-guessing yourself.

But not this time.

This time, you didn’t flinch. You met his stare head-on, feeling the weight of his gaze like a hand around your throat—but you refused to shrink. Not again. You’d spent too long folding yourself into smaller and smaller shapes, twisting and bleeding just to fit into the narrow mold of what he expected, of what he trusted. And for what? For this? For distance and doubt? No more. That part of you—the desperate part—was dead and buried. Or if it wasn’t yet, you were damn sure going to kill it. You lifted your chin, defiance burning in your chest like a second heartbeat, daring him to look at you and still pretend you were invisible.

“I’m back,” you said, voice low but steady. “Just like the paperwork says.”

Your boss studied you for a moment longer than necessary, his gaze flicking to your shoulder—the one that still bore the memory of your injury, the phantom weight of everything you’d lost—before settling back into that cold, distant mask of his. That unreadable expression he wore so well, the one that used to make you feel safe because it meant he was in control. Now, it just made you feel small. Disposable.

And for a moment—just one cruel, flickering moment—you almost believed that he’d step forward. That he’d close the distance. That he’d reach out and gently touch your shoulder, like he used to when things were too heavy, too hard. You almost believed he would look you in the eye, say your name like it meant something, and tell you he was sorry. Sorry for the silence. Sorry for the coldness. Sorry for the suspension. Sorry for treating you like a child.

You almost believed he would say he trusted you. That he still saw you, still believed in you, even if it was a little. That he understood why you did what you did. That you weren’t broken. That he didn’t think of you as a liability or a ticking clock counting down to another failure.

You almost believed he would tell you it was going to be okay.

But it didn’t happen.

He just looked away. Not with malice. Not with cruelty. But with distance. Like someone turning from a photograph that had faded in time. And you felt the sting of it—quiet, precise, brutal. Not just the rejection of your role, but the absence of something far deeper.

It wasn’t the pain of being forgotten.

It was the pain of never being seen.

“We’re glad to have you back,” he said, his voice the same steady, measured cadence it had always been.

But it wasn’t the words that stung; it was the way they landed. Clinical. Safe. Like a statement recited for formality’s sake rather than spoken from any real feeling.

Not I’m glad.

We’re glad.

That single word change twisted like a knife in your chest.

“Right,” you said, the word escaping before you could hold it back. Your eyes burned with something you refused to let spill over. “Glad to be back, I guess.”

Hotch didn’t flinch. Of course he didn’t.

There was a long silence between you two. He studied you, just like before, but this time it felt colder. Like he was looking for something you didn’t have anymore.

You couldn’t stand it. You turned away quickly, your body betraying you as your chest tightened and your breath quickened. You were better than this. You were stronger than this.

The case came in shortly after: a triple homicide in Maryland. The kind of case that had all the hallmarks of a nightmare: brutal, violent, unsolved. You didn’t think you were ready for fieldwork. In fact, you didn’t think you could even look at another case without feeling like an imposter, like a stranger in your own skin. The idea of diving back into it, back into the chaos, felt overwhelming. But you didn’t have a choice. There were no other options. And Aaron was too careful now to give you the responsibility of leading your partner again. Not after everything that had happened.

“Morgan leads. JJ, handle media. Reid, consult with the coroner. Elle, talk to the families.”

And then, without a single glance in your direction, he turned to you and said, “You’ll assist.”

No lead. No profile. No responsibility. Just…observe.

Support.

The word echoed in your head, bruising you in places you hadn’t even realized were tender. Support. As if that was all you were good for now. The sharp ache of betrayal twisted inside your chest, but you couldn’t—wouldn’t—let it show. You didn’t argue. Not out loud. But it burned. Every cell in your body screamed in protest, but you held it in, forced it back down where no one could see.

On the jet, the silence between you and Hotch was like a thick fog, heavy and suffocating. You sat across from him, your hands folded in your lap, your eyes glued to the window as the world outside blurred by. But you could feel him. You could feel the weight of his eyes on you, though he didn’t meet your gaze directly. He kept glancing at your shoulder, the one that still bore the ugly scar of your injury. His eyes flicked there so many times, and each time they quickly darted away, as if caught between something you couldn’t tell.

And it wasn't just him. The whole team had noticed it, the little looks they gave you when they thought you weren't looking, the way their conversations were interrupted when you walked into a room, and they automatically faked their best smile at you. You could feel the tension in the air, like they were all waiting for you to sink or swim, to show you still had something to give.

In the field, you did your job. You fell into the motions like muscle memory: keeping your voice calm, your observations sharp, and your hands steady. You kept your face neutral, even when the case began to grind you down, piece by piece. But every decision Hotch or Gideon made went through Morgan. Every suggestion you made was quietly nodded at but never acted upon. You could almost hear the quiet hum of judgment in the air every time you tried to assert yourself. You were invisible.

It was like walking through fog. You were there, but no one could see you. No one really saw you.

You were present but unseen. You were nothing more than a shadow, drifting through the motions.

And, of course, back at the hotel it was the same. You kept to yourself, retreated into the quiet of your room, away from their pitying stares. The team trickled in, chatting amongst themselves, but you didn’t join them. They didn’t expect you to. Instead, you made a lie about being tired and about having a headache, and you hid behind it.

So you sat on your bed instead, the room dimly lit by the glow of a muted TV. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the faint hum of the electronics and the occasional shuffle of your own restless thoughts. The takeout boxes sat untouched on the desk, still sealed in their flimsy plastic containers. Your service weapon rested next to your badge on the nightstand, a weightless echo of a dream that no longer seemed to matter.

The knock came at 10:43 p.m.

You hesitated, fingers frozen over the blanket, eyes flicking to the door. Part of you considered ignoring it, pretending you didn’t hear, pretending the world outside wasn’t so close. But something in your gut told you who it was.

With a sigh that felt too heavy for such a small sound, you stood up and moved toward the door, your movements stiff and reluctant. You opened it, and there he was: your lovely boss. Standing there, holding a white takeout bag with the same purposeful, composed demeanor he always had.

“I figured you didn’t eat,” he said, his voice soft, as if offering something much bigger than just food. His hand extended toward you, the scent of it wafting up with the slight steam still rising from the dish. “Chicken teriyaki. No onions.”

Your heart clenched, hard and sudden. Of course he remembered.

He always remembered.

It was the smallest things, the details he’d tucked away in his mind, that made your chest tighten like this, like a dam about to crack. You took the food from his outstretched hand, your fingers brushing his briefly, and stepped aside to let him in, but he didn’t move.

He just stood there, his posture stiff, his eyes avoiding yours in that way that felt both respectful and…uncomfortably distant.

It felt less like your boss checking in and more like a parent standing awkwardly outside a teenager’s door, unsure if they were about to be let in or shut out.

“You didn’t have to,” you muttered, voice almost a whisper, as if you were apologizing for the inconvenience. You weren’t sure why it came out that way, it wasn’t him you were apologizing to. Not really.

“I know,” he replied, his voice calm, careful, as though he were trying to measure every word. He stood there for a long moment, looking at you but not really seeing you, his gaze flickering between your eyes and the ground.

Then he shifted slightly, glancing at the takeout bag in his hand. “There’s also a dessert, but you should eat the real food first.”

His words felt like they were layered with more than just concern for your well-being. It was the way he said it, like he was directing you, guiding you—not as a colleague, not as a boss, but as someone who felt responsible for making sure you didn’t fall apart.

And then, you knew it.

You weren’t a grown adult in his eyes right now. You were someone he had to take care of, like a child who didn’t know how to care for themselves anymore.

“You still don’t trust me,” you said finally, voice low but steady. It wasn’t a sharp edge, not a challenge.

Hotch’s eyes flicked to yours, then dropped again—quick, involuntary. Like the words hurt to hear, even if he’d been expecting them.

He exhaled slowly through his nose. “That’s not true.”

“Then why am I stuck on the sidelines?” you asked, and this time the question came harsher, more bitter than you intended. You didn’t mean to sound wounded, but the words carried it anyway. “Why am I the one just…watching? Observing, while everyone else is doing the job I’ve trained my whole damn life to do?”

His silence came fast and thick, and it stretched too long, long enough to confirm what you already suspected. The answer, when it came, landed like a blow.

“Because I need to know you’re okay,” he said, quiet but firm. “Before I put someone else’s life in your hands again.”

Ouch.

You flinched. Not dramatically, just enough for him to see it. Just enough for you to feel it ripple through your spine like heat. The air in the room shifted, charged and sharp, like an old scab torn open.

“I thought you said this wasn’t personal,” you said, hating the way your voice cracked around the edges.

“It’s not,” Hotch said, voice tight.

You stared at him. Really stared. The lines around his eyes are deeper now. The tension in his jaw, the stiffness in his shoulders, was like this conversation was another weight he didn’t know how to carry.

“Sure feels personal.”

There was a flicker of something behind his eyes—guilt, maybe, or regret—but it passed too fast to name. He didn’t deny it. Didn’t try to spin it.

Instead, he said quietly, “You scared me that day.”

You froze.

He wasn’t looking at you now. He was looking past you, somewhere far away. Like he was remembering it. The day it all went sideways. The weight of the call he had to make to the ambulance. The fallout. The blood and your tears.

“You scared all of us,” he added, softer now. “But me the most.”

The confession hit harder than you expected. Not because he was admitting fear, but because he still couldn’t look at you when he said it. Because even after all this time, all this effort, it still felt like he hadn’t let go of that fear.

“I know I made mistakes,” you said, your voice quieter now. Controlled. Trying to be steady, even as your throat tightened. “I know I lost control. I know I…crossed lines.”

You stopped. Breathed. Tried to gather the rest of it.

“But I’m not—” You hesitated. The word was right there. Lodged between your teeth.

Not broken.

You weren’t even sure you believed it anymore.

Hotch finally looked at you, really looked, and when he spoke, it was softer than before. “I know. That’s why I approved your return.”

You searched his face, looking for judgment or disappointment. But what you saw instead surprised you.

Tiredness. Not just the kind that came from stress or long nights of cases but the kind that came from caring too much and not knowing how to show it without screwing everything up.

It disarmed you.

“I didn’t mean what I said,” you murmured, almost ashamed. “About Reid. About your kid. Or you.”

He nodded, just once. Small. Measured.

“I know,” he said. “But it still touched a nerve.”

That landed harder than any reprimand. No raised voice. No lecture. Just the simple truth of it, that what you said had stuck to him like shrapnel.

The silence that followed was quieter now, less tense, less heavy. Something between you was shifting. Mending, maybe.

“I’m not broken,” you said suddenly, with more force than you expected. The words tumbled out before you could second-guess them. “I’ve been hurt. I’ve been…off. But I’m not broken.”

Hotch looked at you for a long moment, then nodded slowly.

“I never said you were.”

“You acted like it.”

He sighed, eyes dropping again. “Maybe I was afraid.”

Your brow furrowed. “Of what?”

He hesitated. Then, quietly: “That if I pushed you harder, I’d be the one who broke you.”

The breath caught in your throat.

“I didn’t think you were weak,” he added. “I just didn’t want to watch you fall apart.”

Your chest ached.

“I already did,” you said.

“I know.”

He turned to leave, then paused at the threshold.

“I’m glad you’re back,” he said finally, without looking at you. “Even if it doesn’t feel like it yet.”

And then he was gone, leaving the door open just a crack behind him.

Just in case you needed to follow.

[certaimromance]

bringing this back because the second part will be uploaded soon (probably this week🥳)

ꫂ ၴႅၴ Tall Child.

Father figure!Hotch x BAU!reader

Summary: No matter how hard you try to impress him, Agent Hotchner never seems to be satisfied with your work. And it all comes crashing down when you decide to confront him.

Words: 2,7k.

Warnings & Tags: fem!reader. mentions of crime. reader was injured (nothing serious). angst WITHOUT happy ending. hotch being a father figure. soo much angst (yes, again). father and rebellious daughter type discussion. temporarily located in the first season. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).

Note: This was painful to write, so I loved it (I literally wrote it with I Bet On Losing Dogs by Mitski in the background).

Anyone who knows you knows that your lifelong dream was to help make the world a better place.

And from your day one at the BAU, you felt like your wildest dreams had come true. You were saving lives, reassuring victims, and helping to bring to justice those who tormented them so they could never do it to anyone else again. You were making a real difference in the world, even if you weren't the caped superhero you wanted to be as a kid.

But, as they say, nothing's perfect. And your job had more contradictions for your mental and physical health than there were fingers on your hands to count. The long and unstable schedule, the few hours of sleep, nightmares about the atrocities you saw, no social life outside the team...and of course, the constant disappointment you felt from Aaron Hotchner, your boss.

From day one, you had worked tirelessly to prove yourself. You craved the approval of your superiors, the respect of your colleagues. The job was demanding, yes, but you wanted to show that you could not only handle it but thrive under the pressure. And you had earned the trust and admiration of everyone around you, except for him.

Agent Hotchner was an enigma to you. There was something about him that both intrigued and intimidated you. He was always so calm, without showing much emotion, without so much as a smile for you. He was a wall you couldn't break through no matter how hard you tried. You had tried so hard to impress him, to make sure he saw your dedication, your work ethic, but you always seemed to fall short. His approval, or lack thereof, hurt more than anything else. You had gotten used to it by now, but it didn't make it any easier.

And now, here you were, in his office, watching him scrutinize your medical diagnosis. He had just glanced at the report from the doctor that had followed you back from the Utah case. Your shoulder, a minor injury, but one that could’ve been avoided if you hadn’t thrown yourself headfirst into the danger in the way you did.

Finally, after several moments of awkward silence, you dared to speak. “What do you think? I am practically at my best.”

Deep down, you knew you were lying through your teeth and that you were not well with an injured shoulder, a concussion, and several bruises, but you refused to say so out loud. You were a brave girl, and he should know.

Hotch looked up from the report in his hand and stared at you. It was the kind of look that made your hair stand on end and gave you a feeling that something was wrong.

“No, you're not.” He sighs and closes the folder before walking over to the desk you were sitting behind. He leans against it as he looks at you, arms folded across his chest. “You disobeyed a direct order during the case. You abandoned your partner.”

“I didn’t abandon Reid,” you replied, your voice sounding more defensive than you intended. You straightened in your chair, wincing slightly as your shoulder protested the movement. “I simply suggested he wait behind me. And it worked, didn’t it? He saved the victim, and I stopped the unsub.”

Teamwork, as you liked to call it.

“It paid off this time,” he said, his voice low but firm. “But that doesn’t excuse disregarding protocol. You put yourself and your partner in unnecessary danger. That’s not the kind of decision-making we can afford here.”

Oh no, here comes the usual chatter you didn't want to hear this time. Normally, you would be quiet, listening and nodding at his every word, but this time there was something different. You just longed for congratulations. Was it really so difficult for him to tell you once that you did something right?

You stiffened in your chair, the ache in your shoulder suddenly more pronounced. “With all due respect, I evaluated the situation and made a hard decision. I’m not some rookie who doesn’t know how to handle themselves in the field.”

Even as the words came out, you felt very nervous. You didn't know if it was the drugs they gave you in the hospital to fight the pain or if it was just your shyness leaving your body completely for no reason.

“I’m not questioning your skills,” he replied sharply. “But you’re not operating at one hundred percent, and that affects your judgment. You’ve been pushing yourself too hard for months—longer, maybe. And now you’re injured. You need time to recover and think about this.”

God, no.

“I don’t need time; I need to work,” you shot back, frustration lacing your tone. This job was your lifeline, your purpose. Without it, who were you?

“You know we work as a team. A unit. And when one part of the unit breaks down, there are consequences.” His voice wasn’t just firm; it was unyielding, like a warning. The way he said it almost felt like he was speaking to a child—a reprimand you didn’t want but knew you had earned. “No one is above the team, not even you.”

You didn't know if it was the way he said it or the words he used, but it was like the straw that broke the camel's back, and you were tired of putting up with the situation. This was the first time you had made a decision on your own, the first time you had not discussed your ideas with the team only to have them ignored and then spoken louder by someone else. Finally, you had acted, and even that was wrong.

You were tired, fucking tired of being ignored and judged much more harshly than the rest.

A bitter laugh escaped your lips, barely audible but heavy with frustration. The ache in your shoulder seemed to flare as if your body was responding to the tension in the room. “And what consequences are you thinking of, sir?” you asked, your voice dripping with sarcasm. There was no hiding the venom now. “What’s worse than not being valued even when I do my job?”

His gaze turned hard as if your tone had cut him deeper than any physical injury could. He didn’t take kindly to disrespect, especially from someone who had otherwise followed his orders without question. You saw the shift in him, the quiet fury simmering beneath his usually controlled exterior. If you were anyone else, the conversation would have already escalated. But you weren’t anyone else. You were someone he knew far too well.

“Don’t use that tone with me,” he bit back, his voice low and steady but carrying a weight that made your stomach twist. There was no mistake now—this wasn’t just about the case. This was more personal. “You are suspended. Your gun and badge on the table. Now.”

Oh, oh, oh.

The words hung in the air between you like a guillotine, sudden and final. The room seemed to close in on you, the breath in your chest catching in surprise. You didn’t know if it was the shock or the disbelief, but your mind struggled to grasp the magnitude of his command. Suspended? Your world was spinning.

You opened your mouth to speak, to argue, but the words caught in your throat, leaving you with nothing but a hollow sound of confusion. “What? Why?”

“Agent, you disobeyed a direct order and endangered yourself and your partner,” he said firmly. “I don’t take your actions lightly. Suspension is not a punishment—it’s a consequence. You need time to heal, both physically and mentally.”

The idea of being sidelined was incomprehensible. The thought of doing nothing—being stuck in your apartment, forced to be still—felt suffocating. No. You couldn’t accept it.

“This is ridiculous. I did my job! I stopped the unsub! Reid saved the victim because I made the right choice!”

You saved a life, even if it meant risking a little of your own. You did save it.

“And what happens next time?” Hotch shot back, his voice rising slightly. “What happens if your judgment falters again because you’re running on empty? What if next time, it’s Reid who doesn’t come back?”

Then, silence.

The thought of Spencer getting hurt turned your stomach and made you question your actions. If anything happened to him, you would never forgive yourself…His life did matter, a lot.

“Gun. Badge. Now.” Your boss talks again. He gestured toward the desk.

Your fingers trembled, betraying you as you reached for the gun on your hip. The cool metal felt foreign in your hands, like something that had never truly belonged to you. Your mind screamed for you to stop, to stand your ground, to fight this. But your body, exhausted and broken, refused to cooperate.

You opened your mouth to speak, but your voice cracked before you could get the words out. “I…I didn’t mean…I just…”

Finally, with a shaky breath, you placed your gun on the desk. The thud it made as it landed felt like the sound of everything you had worked for being shattered in front of you. You could feel the sting of unshed tears burning in your eyes, but you wouldn’t let them fall. Not here. Not in front of him.

It didn’t matter what you said. It never seemed to matter, not with him. You had tried so hard to be the one who did everything right, to be the one he could rely on, and yet all you had earned was this—this cold, final judgment. He wasn’t just your boss in that moment; he was the embodiment of everything you had tried to prove yourself against. A reminder that, no matter what you did, it still wasn’t enough.

The words spilled from your mouth before you could stop them, the bitter taste of them already familiar. “You think I’m weak, don’t you?” The tone you had intended to be defiant came out more like a desperate plea. “You think I can’t handle this, that I’m just some liability?”

He didn’t flinch at your outburst. His gaze softened, but just barely. “No,” he said, his voice surprisingly gentle but firm. “I think you’re pushing yourself too hard. You’re not weak. But you’re hurting, and I can see it. You need time to recover.”

The words hit you like a slap, unexpected and unwelcome. You shook your head, a bitter laugh escaping your lips as you tried to fight back the burning in your chest. You refused to let the tears well up, to let them gather where he could see them. Not here. Not now. Please, not now.

“I don’t need time,” you said, your voice sharp, biting. But underneath the defiance was something raw and desperate, a quiet plea that you couldn’t fully suppress. “I need to be here. I need to do my job. I need to save lives.”

The last part came out as a whisper, as though saying it too loudly would shatter the fragile conviction you had left. You felt like you were slipping, like the ground beneath you was crumbling, and all you could do was cling to this one thing—the job. The only thing that made you feel like you mattered.

“The only life you need to save now is yours,” he said, his voice quieter but still heavy with authority.

You froze, the weight of his words pressing down on you like a crushing tide. Your stomach churned, and you fought to keep your composure, to keep from lashing out, even though every part of you wanted to scream. He didn’t understand. He couldn’t.

A bitter, trembling laugh bubbled up from your throat, unbidden and full of venom. “If it had been Reid or Morgan, you wouldn’t be doing this,” you snapped, the accusation like a raw wound exposed to the open air.

For the first time, something flickered in his eyes—anger, hurt, or something you couldn’t quite place. His jaw tightened, his posture stiffening, and when he spoke, his voice was sharper than before, each word deliberate and cutting.

“No,” he said, the firmness in his tone slicing through the room like a blade. “Because they would never have done this.”

The silence that followed was deafening. It slammed into you like a tidal wave, drowning out every other sound. His words rang in your ears, echoing in the hollow space left behind by your crumbling defenses.

They would never have done this.

Your chest tightened, a deep ache settling in your ribs, and for a moment, you felt like you couldn’t breathe. The accusation hung in the air, heavy and unforgiving. He wasn’t just saying you’d made a mistake—he was saying you were the mistake. That you weren’t good enough. That you never would be.

“Is this because I’m a woman?” you asked, the words coming out sharper than you intended. There was a bitter edge to them, a question that had been gnawing at you for far too long. “Because Elle is too, and even she has more, or is it because of my age? Reid is younger, and you never doubt him.”

“It’s not about any of that,” he said finally, his voice low and tight. But it wasn’t reassuring. It only sounded like an evasion, like he was brushing your concerns aside, and it made your chest ache all over again. “It’s not about your gender or your age.”

“It’s about me,” you said, the words like glass shards scraping at your insides. “It’s about how you don’t trust me.”

For the first time, you saw a flicker of something in his eyes—something almost like guilt, but it was fleeting, disappearing as quickly as it had appeared. He opened his mouth, but the words he spoke next were measured, controlled. Too controlled.

“No,” he said, his voice so steady it almost hurt. “That’s not it.”

You stared at him, heart racing, hands trembling, as the truth wrapped around you tighter than you ever thought possible. His words weren’t just dismissing your feelings—they were rejecting everything you had ever believed about your worth, about why you were here, in this moment, fighting so desperately for something you couldn’t even name.

But this time, it was different. You weren’t going to back down. Not anymore.

“Then what is it?” You whispered, voice breaking, tears finally threatening to spill. “What is it, Hotch? What is it about me that isn’t enough?”

“It’s not about you,” he said, but his voice lacked the certainty it usually held. “It’s not about trusting you…It’s about protecting you.” His gaze softened just enough for you to notice, but it only made the pain worse. “I can’t lose…I can’t let you lose yourself.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. You were trembling, your pulse racing in your ears, but now there was only a terrible stillness. You swallowed, trying to push down the bitterness that rose up in your throat.

“You don’t get to make decisions for me,” you snapped, barely holding back the frustration that bubbled to the surface. “You don’t get to decide what’s best for me. You don’t get to act like you’re my father, making me follow some imaginary line, keeping me under your control. If you want to raise someone, you already have a baby at home.”

The moment the words left your lips, you saw it—just the faintest flicker of hurt in his eyes. The barest flinch. But it was enough to make you feel the weight of your accusation like a stone, sinking into your chest. The silence that followed was thick with it, suffocating, and you could feel the air growing heavier between you.

“I’m not your dad,” he said, the words low, the icy calm of his voice unmistakable. There was no anger in it, just a hollow, painful truth. But the sting of it was sharp enough to leave a mark.

You blinked, the sharpness of his response cutting through you like a blade. You wanted to fight back, to lash out with everything you had, but something stopped you. Instead, your voice came out quieter, almost hollow as you whispered, “I know…Do you know that?”

And then, just like that, you turned away, your breath ragged in your chest. You didn’t wait for his answer, didn’t wait for anything. You couldn’t stand the ache that had taken root in your chest, the fear that had begun to take shape in the corners of your mind.

And the door slammed behind you.

[certaimromance]

friendly reminder that all stories with “next door” in the title are part of this series!!!! 🩷 you have to read them in order to understand it and have a better experience

𝜗𝜚 The Next Door; a series.

Spencer Reid x Neighbor!reader

Playlist (updates with the chapters) ♡♬₊˚.

Finding your person is never easy, especially when they live in the apartment next door and have a life as complicated as Spencer Reid's...especially when he disappears for three whole months and comes back a different person.

Warnings & Tags: painter!reader who has a cat. located in season 12 (very out of canon, with many changes). mentions of drugs, jail and injuries. suggestive themes. friends to lovers. angst. hurt/comfort. two idiots obviously in love. lack of communication.

Status: In progress.

I. The Boy Next Door

II. The Girl Next Door

III. The Other Boy Next Door

IV. The Ghost Next Door

V. The Other Girl Next Door

VI. The Liar Next Door

VII. The Other Liar Next Door

Extras:

The Love Next Door (Pre-Series)

Tag list ❤︎ ︎: @burningwitchprincess @withloverosse @fairiesofearth @pleasantwitchgarden @ximensitaa @lover-of-books-and-tea @cherryblossomfairyy @cherrygublersworld @i-need-to-be-put-down @dibidee

Send me an ask or comment here if you would like to be added or removed!

[certaimromance]

this is INSANE, that's all

ꫂ ၴႅ Dark Sense.

Aaron Hotchner x Widow!reader

Summary: Staying in touch with the victims' families was very unprofessional, and Aaron knew it, but you were different...very different.

Words: 5,6k.

Warnings & Tags: mentions of crime, violence, blood, serial killers, death, and trauma. implied intimacy but nothing explicit. angst with happy ending???. very dark. i don't know how to classify this, sorry. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).

Note: Sometimes I remember that the series is a raw world, and these things pop into my mind, just like in my first post here (this story is like the sister of that one).

Anyway, my favorite part of writing Hotch is playing with his professionalism and making him kowtow to the reader, I'm soo guilty.

Aaron Hotchner was incapable of turning a blind eye to those in need. It wasn’t just in his nature to help, it was in his bones, woven into the very fabric of who he was. He would slip a few bills into the hands of the homeless on his way to work, never thinking twice about it, never stopping long enough to be thanked. He worked late because he couldn’t bear the thought of a desperate family sitting in their living room, waiting for a call that might never come. He listened when no one else did. He noticed things other people ignored. The tired shake in a mother’s hands as she clutched a picture of her missing child. The slight quiver in a father’s voice when he insisted that his son would never run away. The way a survivor flinched at an unexpected noise, lost in a memory they couldn’t outrun.

He felt it all. Carried it with him.

Aaron was the kind of man who would stand before you and protect you from whatever came, no matter the cost. He didn't hesitate because he already knew the danger. He had spent years staring into the eyes of monsters, standing in rooms filled with pain, learning firsthand how quickly the world can turn cruel and take everything from you. So when he met you, when he saw your hands clenched into fists to stop their trembling, your wedding ring dancing on your finger and how tightly you clung to it, your eyes darting to the door as if you were ready to run at the first slip, he knew.

Knew what you had survived. Knew what still haunted you. Knew that you were like him.

But more than that, he cared.

He cared about your safety, about the story behind each of your scars, both the ones that could be traced with fingertips and the ones buried too deep for anyone else to see. He cared in a way that was quiet, careful, and measured. Never forceful. Never reckless. He cared in the way he called when he had no reason to, in the way he lingered just a moment longer than necessary after saying goodbye. He didn’t see you as something to be owned or discarded. He never saw you as broken, only as someone who had survived something unspeakable.

He saved you when no one else would, when no one else even tried. Even when he shouldn’t have.

Because your case had long gone cold. Because by all accounts, you were supposed to be just another file in an old cabinet, another story time would eventually forget. There was no reason for him to keep checking in, to keep calling, to keep showing up.

But he did.

Because walking away wasn’t in his nature.

Because somehow, you had become another name, another face, another story that stayed with him long after the rest of the world moved on. You lingered in his mind late at night when the office was empty, when his tie was loosened, and the only sound was the quiet hum of the city beyond his window. You were there in the moments between cases, in the spaces where silence crept in, in the pause before he reached for another file, another life to try and piece back together.

And without meaning to, without wanting to, he fell in love with you.

It was not rational. It wasn't planned, let alone professional. But Aaron Hotchner had never been the kind of man to hesitate when something really mattered, and especially tonight, as he stood soaked to the bone, clutching a bouquet of flowers like a lifeline, he knew that seeing you again, after weeks without being able to do so, meant more than anything.

When he arrived at your house, the street was practically flooded. The rain was relentless, and the wind was even worse. Water pooled at his feet as he stepped out of the car, soaking his shoes and the bottom of his suit, but he didn't care or even think about it. He climbed the stairs two at a time, breathing fast and with a strong pulse in his ears.

His fingers tightened around the bouquet of roses, deep red like the color of longing, before she knocked on the door. Once. Twice. Again. Each tap carried a certain amount of anxiety.

And then, after a couple of moments, the door opened.

You stood there, illuminated by the soft light inside, your eyes wide with disbelief. For a moment, neither of you moved. You looked at him, his wet hair plastered to his forehead, his soaked clothes clinging to his body in a way that only emphasized the serene strength of his body. He stood in the doorway, breathless, as if he had run a marathon just to get to you. And yet he looked exactly the same: calm, determined, steadfast, even in the midst of a storm that seemed to have no end. But his eyes told a different story, revealing his fatigue.

His lips parted to speak, but words never came.

Instead, you did what you did every time he appeared. Without thinking, you threw yourself into his arms, wrapped your arms tightly around his neck, and pulled him in. His body stiffened in surprise for a split second before he wrapped you in a tight, desperate embrace, as if he couldn't get enough of you, as if he'd been holding his breath too long and could barely catch his breath. Your body collided with his with an urgency that took your breath away. The bouquet of roses fell from his hand and landed forgotten at your feet as you pressed your lips to his with a ferocity that seemed to ignite something deep inside you both.

He took a step into the house and closed the door behind him, but you clung to him without breaking the kiss. His hands went to your waist and pulled you close. The warmth of your body contrasted with the coldness of the rain-soaked world outside. Your hands tangled in his sodden hair, pulling him to you as if you were afraid that if you let go he would disappear, that he would slip through your hands like the storm. But it didn't. It was solid, it was real, it was here after more than two weeks without seeing him or having more than the occasional message.

The kiss deepened, messy and desperate, as if neither of you had ever tasted anything as sweet as the desperate need in the other. His lips moved with a gentleness that belied the urgency of the moment, as if he was savoring the feeling of being close to you after what seemed like an eternity of longing. His hands slid from your waist to your back, pulling you tighter, the weight of everything he had been carrying lifting, if only for a moment, because you were here. You, with your warmth and your presence, and your smile that always seemed to bring him peace.

When you finally pulled away, just enough to breathe, just enough to look into his eyes, the quiet between you was almost overwhelming. Your foreheads pressed together, your breaths mingling, the rain still pouring outside but somehow irrelevant now. You could hear the beating of his heart, steady and strong against your chest.

“You’re here,” you whispered, your voice trembling just slightly, as if the reality of it was still too much to comprehend.

His hand gently brushed your cheek, and he spent his time watching you, pleased by the emotion you always showed when you saw him. It didn't matter if it was a few hours, days, or weeks. You were always happy to see him, and that was more than he ever had before.

“I’m here,” he murmured, his voice low, rich with the weight of everything that had come before.

“So…are you mine for the whole night, or just for a little while?” you asked, your voice teasing despite the depth of the moment.

His smile was slow, knowing, like he had already anticipated the question. The corner of his mouth lifted just slightly, but there was a warmth in his eyes that told you everything you needed to know.

“All night,” he whispered, his hand slipping to the back of your neck, pulling you closer once more when you didn’t say anything. “You’re not going to ask why?”

“No, you’re here. That’s all that matters to me.”

After hours of maintaining his composed, unreadable expression at the office, Aaron finally allows himself to smile, really smile. He can’t help it. No matter how late he is, no matter how much weight he carries on his shoulders, you always meet him with love. A soft smile, a gentle kiss, arms that wrap around him like home. And just like that, the tension in his mind unravels, the chaos quiets. You are the one thing in his life that doesn’t demand anything from him, only that he be here, with you. And God, he loves you for it.

Later, the two of you lay sprawled across the couch, bodies tangled in the quiet warmth of the dimly lit room. The world outside ceased to exist. No ringing phones, no pressing cases, no ticking clock counting down the hours. Just this. Just you and him, breathing in the same steady rhythm.

Your fingers moved in slow, absentminded circles along his arm, tracing the contours of muscle and scar, memorizing the shape of him as if you hadn’t done it a hundred times before. Your touch was featherlight, soothing, lulling him into something dangerously close to peace. He exhaled, his chest rising and falling beneath your cheek, his presence solid and steady in a way that made your own heart slow to match his.

It was then that your fingers stilled, catching on something out of place. A faint smudge of color near the sleeve of his shirt, small, almost unnoticeable, but there. You frowned, eyes narrowing as you brushed your thumb over the fabric, feeling the slight texture where the stain had dried into the fibers.

A soft green, uneven at the edges, like a marker dragged hastily across the material. It wasn’t just a stray speck of lint or a shadow in the dim lighting, it was something left behind, a remnant of a moment you weren’t there for.

Your brows knitted together as curiosity flickered to life. “Is that…marker?” You murmured, tilting your head, your thumb still absently tracing over the stain as if doing so would erase it.

Aaron’s gaze shifted down, but it was brief, almost distracted. He sighed, clearly familiar with this particular problem. “Jack forgot to put his pencils away,” he replied with a hint of resignation, but there was an undercurrent of amusement in his tone, as if this wasn’t the first time something like this had happened.

A smirk pulled at the corner of your lips as you raised an eyebrow. “And you decided to join him? Maybe color a little?” you teased, the light in your eyes showing that you weren’t entirely serious, but you couldn’t resist the playful jab.

He shot you a flat, unimpressed look, but there was a faint twinkle in his eyes, an amused, almost endearing reaction that made your heart skip. “I leaned on the table without realizing it was there,” he muttered, his voice laced with the smallest hint of self-awareness, though he didn’t seem all that concerned.

“Mhm.”

Instead of continuing the banter, you shifted slightly, moving just enough to be able to better examine the mark on his shirt. Your fingers continued to glide over the fabric with delicate precision, feeling the slight texture of the stain as it caught the light. The motion was almost automatic now, like second nature, as you gently explored the fabric, your focus entirely on it, all the while feeling the warmth of his skin underneath. Your gaze met his again as you noticed the faintest hint of tension in his jaw.

“Give it to me. I can wash it,” you said, your voice soft yet insistent.

He opened his mouth to protest, likely preparing to tell you it wasn’t necessary, but you didn’t give him the chance to finish. Your hands were already moving, deftly unbuttoning his shirt, each button undone with practiced ease as if you’d done this a hundred times before. The buttons slipped through your fingers, one by one, the fabric slowly parting as you worked, your gaze never leaving his.

“Take it off,” you said, your voice no longer giving room for argument. There was something in the way you said it, so matter-of-fact, like it wasn’t the first time you’d seen him in this state, so comfortable with his presence that you barely gave it a second thought.

Your hands were already at his shirt buttons, nimble fingers undoing them with an ease that betrayed the number of times you had undressed him before. Each button came undone in smooth, practiced motions as you focused intently on your task. Your movements were calm but decisive, the familiarity between you two almost palpable. You weren’t rushing, just taking your time, as if this moment, this quiet act of care, meant more than the rest of the world outside the door.

As you worked, you felt the soft warmth of his skin beneath the fabric and the faint scent of his cologne, which always seemed to linger just enough to remind you he was real. With each button you undid, the shirt fell open a little more, exposing his toned chest and the barest hint of scars, memories of battles fought and won. He didn’t say anything at first, but you could feel his body relax under your touch, as if he was allowing you to take care of him in a way that meant something, even if it was just this small act of removing his shirt.

When you finished with the buttons, you pulled the fabric away from his chest slowly, almost reverently, before folding it over in your hands.

You pushed yourself off the couch, the soft creak of the cushions signaling your departure. “There should be something in the closet for you,” you murmured, your voice low and soothing, carrying the promise of comfort. You glanced over your shoulder, offering a fleeting smile before turning your attention back to the task at hand. “One of my biggest sweaters, maybe. They should be comfortable enough.”

Aaron didn’t argue, and that silence, the unspoken understanding between you, was more than enough. It was a kind of quiet harmony that neither of you needed to vocalize.

You moved toward the hallway, the faint sound of your footsteps echoing softly in the stillness of the house. The familiar hum of the refrigerator and the soft creak of the floorboards beneath your feet seemed to fill the space around you as you made your way to the laundry room. There was something soothing in the routine of it, the sound of detergent splashing against fabric, the gentle scent of clean linens in the air, the calmness of the house in contrast to the chaos outside.

You grabbed the bottle of detergent, your fingers brushing over the cold plastic as you opened the cap. The scent of lavender and citrus mixed in the air, a comforting, familiar smell. You poured the detergent into the washing machine, the liquid pouring slowly into the drum with a quiet rush, followed by the fabric softener, which added a hint of sweetness to the mixture. You moved mechanically, carefully setting everything in place, but all the while, your thoughts were elsewhere, back on Aaron, back on the space between you two that always seemed to be filled with unspoken words.

And then, without thinking—without meaning to—you reached for his shirt.

It was instinct. Something deeply ingrained in you, a reflex you hadn’t even realized was so natural. You didn’t hesitate as you lifted the shirt up to your face, bringing it closer. The soft cotton still held the faintest traces of him, the warmth of his skin, the scent of his cologne that lingered just below the surface. His scent, unique and comforting, was so familiar to you that it almost felt like home.

You inhaled deeply, your eyes fluttering closed for a moment, allowing the warmth of his essence to wrap around you. It was steady, constant, like the grounding presence he always had in your life. You could taste the remnants of his day on the fabric, the tension of the office, the exhaustion from the long hours, all wrapped up in this simple piece of clothing.

Without meaning to, your lips curled into a soft, almost imperceptible smile, allowing yourself to savor the warmth that always came when you were near him. That fleeting moment of peace before you turned away, shaking off the quiet contentment like it was something fragile. You made your way back toward the living room, but the second you stepped through the doorway, everything inside you came to an abrupt, screeching halt.

Aaron’s figure was unmistakable even with his back to you, his posture relaxed as he stood near the couch, adjusting the sleeves of a sweater he had slipped on. A thick, moss-green sweater that seemed to cling to him in a way that made your chest tighten, a memory rushing forward, uninvited, like a phantom you couldn’t escape.

Your breath caught in your throat, sudden and sharp, as the sight of him in that sweater sent a wave of coldness crashing through you. It was as if ice had replaced your blood, freezing you to the spot. Your stomach dropped, like you were plummeting without a safety net, and a heavy weight pressed into your chest, making it harder to breathe.

No.

It couldn’t be.

You couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. All you could do was stare at the figure before you, stare at that sweater, the one that had once been from someone else before things had become messy. Before everything had turned sideways.

It was a sweater you knew too well. The one that had been worn by someone else, in a life you tried not to remember. You had buried it in the back of your closet, hoping never to see it again, but here it was. And here your new life was, wearing it without a second thought.

Aaron, sensing the silence hanging heavy in the room, turned slightly. His brow furrowed, confusion flickering across his face. He looked down at his wrist, as if noticing the way the sweater fit him, a subtle quirk to his lips as he shrugged. “I found this in the closet,” he said casually, his voice light. “It’s a bit big to be yours.”

The words, so simple, so innocent, landed like a slap in the face, pulling you deeper into the darkness of your thoughts. The world felt distant now, muted, and the room was suddenly too small. You didn’t register him taking a step closer until his hand reached out, a reflexive gesture to touch your wrist, to close the distance between you in the familiar way he always did.

It was the motion that broke you. The simple act of him reaching for you—the one thing that used to make you feel safe—only served to send a jolt of panic through your body. Without thinking, you jerked back, the movement instinctual and sharp, as if you had been burned.

The change in him was immediate. The warmth in his eyes evaporated, replaced by a flicker of concern. His whole body stiffened, and he stopped dead in his tracks, his hand still hovering in the air, suspended as if unsure of what to do next. His expression, once open and warm, now darkened with confusion and something else, something unreadable.

You swallowed, fighting the panic that rose in your chest, forcing yourself to find your voice. It came out as a whisper, barely more than a breath. “Take. That. Off.”

Your words hung in the air, cutting through the tension. There was no softness now, no playfulness or teasing. Just something sharp and brittle, like glass breaking under too much pressure. The command was not a request but a demand. Your tone, quiet as it was, carried an edge that made the room feel even more suffocating.

And then, slowly, deliberately, Aaron moved. His hands, shaking ever so slightly, grasped the sweater’s edge, and with quiet care, he lifted it over his head. The fabric slid from his body with the softest of sounds, his movements so controlled that it was clear he understood the fragility of what he was doing. He was stepping through a door that had been closed for too long, and now, the weight of it was heavy in the air, like something had cracked open.

Your lungs felt constricted as you watched him, each inhale too sharp, too shallow, like the air was being sucked out of the room. The sight of him there, the sweater in his hands, felt like a cruel joke, a memory that refused to stay buried. It shouldn’t be here. Not in this room. Not on him. Not now.

The words came quietly, but their weight was absolute, the finality of them hanging in the air like an unspoken truth that neither of you could escape. “This was his.”

The phrasing wasn’t a question but a statement, an acknowledgment of the past that you both knew too well. That sweater had once belonged to someone who wasn’t here anymore. To someone who had worn it with the same ease, the same confidence, but whose presence now existed only in the space between memories and nightmares.

Your throat tightened painfully, and for a long moment, it felt like you couldn’t speak at all. The words felt like they had to claw their way up through the rawness of your throat, but you managed. Just barely. “Where did you find it?”

Aaron let out a slow exhale, his voice rough when he finally spoke again. His hand ran through his hair in that familiar motion, but his gaze flickered briefly toward the bedroom, as though the very sight of the closet stirred something in him. “It was in the closet,” he said, his voice softening as he recalibrated. “I thought…I thought it was yours.”

You barely heard him after that, your focus narrowing entirely on the sweater, now held loosely in his hands. It wasn’t just a sweater. It was his sweater. The thick, soft fabric had once wrapped itself around a body you would never feel again. It had carried the scent of another man—the warmth of cologne, the lingering trace of late-night coffee, and the faintest hint of pages from books he would never finish reading. It had been a part of his mornings, his life, and your secondary role in it. And now, that same sweater was in Aaron’s hands, worn by a man who had never known him, never hurt you like him, yet somehow was standing here, holding the remnants of a life that no longer belonged to you.

The irony of it made your stomach churn. The bitter edge to it cut deeper than you expected.

“You shouldn’t have found that,” you whispered, the words barely more than a breath, as if speaking them aloud would shatter what little control you had left.

Aaron’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, his eyes darkening with a silent intensity that made the room feel even more suffocating. “You never told me you kept anything,” he said, the words softer but carrying an edge nonetheless. “I thought it was all evidence.”

A humorless laugh, harsh and bitter, slipped from your lips, and you barely recognized the sound. “Would it have mattered?”

He didn’t respond immediately. He didn’t need to. The truth hung between you, unsaid but understood. Of course it wouldn’t have mattered.

You both knew how this story ended. How it always had. Aaron had been the one who stood before you, the lead agent on the case, the one who had delivered the words that had changed your world into new pieces. “We’re doing everything we can,” they had said. “We’ll find him. We won’t stop searching.”

But then, the time had passed, and the cold reality had set in. There were no more answers. No more leads. The case had gone cold. The search had stopped. And all that had remained were the shattered pieces of the life you had once had and the painful, bitter knowledge that it was real.

Aaron exhaled, his breath slow and measured, as if trying to steady something inside himself. The weight of the past settled between you like a ghost, an unseen force pressing against the silence, making the air feel heavier, thicker. His posture had changed—his shoulders slightly hunched, his stance less certain than before. He was trained to navigate difficult conversations, to read between the lines, but this—this—was uncharted ground.

“I didn’t know,” he said finally, his voice quieter now, tinged with something heavier. Something almost apologetic.

You forced yourself to meet his gaze, even though it hurt. Even though it felt like looking at him would pull you deeper into something you weren’t sure you could handle. Your voice was steady, but the edges of it were raw. “You didn’t ask.”

Something flickered in his expression. Guilt, maybe. Regret. You weren’t sure.

But it didn’t matter.

Because the truth was, none of this changed the reality you had lived with for years. It didn’t change the fact that your husband was gone. That Aaron had been the one to close the case. That he had been the one to look you in the eye and tell you the words you never wanted to hear. No new leads. No new evidence. Nothing left to find.

And now, somehow, whether by accident or some cruel twist of fate, he had reached back into the past and pulled a piece of it into the present, wrapped it around his body like it was just another sweater, unaware of the wreckage it would leave behind.

Your hands were shaking now.

You hated that.

He was still watching you, his gaze sharp, calculating but not in a cold way, in the way of someone who was trying to understand, who was weighing the right thing to say against the wrong one. But there wasn’t a right thing. Not here. Not in this moment.

“I need a minute,” you murmured, your voice barely more than a breath.

Aaron hesitated, his jaw tightening as he weighed his options. The part of him that was wired to protect, to stay, to make sure you were okay, fought against the part that understood you needed space. That you needed air.

“I don’t want to leave you like this,” he admitted, his voice low, careful.

You shook your head, already taking a step back. “Please.”

A beat.

And then, finally, with a slow nod, He set the sweater down. His movements were careful and deliberate. He placed it on the arm of the couch instead of the table, as if some part of him knew dropping it too carelessly would only make this worse. Then, without another word, he turned and stepped away, leaving the room.

The second he was gone, your breath hitched, and you pressed a hand to your mouth, squeezing your eyes shut against the sting building behind them.

You had spent years making peace with the past. Years learning to live with the silence, with the unanswered questions, with the knowledge that some things would never be really resolved. You had accepted the emptiness, the lack of closure, and the scars in your skin because what other choice had you been given?

But now, as you stared at that old, worn sweater, the last tangible piece of the man you once loved, you felt something shift inside you.

Something fragile.

Something unraveling.

Because maybe the past wasn’t done with you yet.

Aaron didn’t leave.

Not completely.

His presence still clung to the space, lingering in the air like the ghost of an unspoken truth. You could hear him in the other room: the quiet rustle of movement, the barely-there sound of his breath. He wasn’t hovering, wasn’t pressing, but he was close enough that you could feel the weight of him, steady and unmoving. Close enough that his absence wasn’t absence at all.

You needed the space. The moment to breathe. To gather the shattered pieces of yourself before facing him again.

And then, after a while, he returned.

He stepped into the room without a word, his silhouette cast long in the dim light. He didn’t demand an answer, didn’t pry, just stood there, hands in the pockets of his still soaked coat, gaze unreadable. The sweater—the damn sweater—was gone now, discarded somewhere out of sight, but its presence still lingered. You could still see it in your mind, could still feel the weight of it, heavy as the silence between you.

“I didn’t mean to blindside you.” His voice was quiet, careful. A thread of something softer wove beneath the words, regret, maybe. “That wasn’t my intention.”

You inhaled slowly, dragging air into lungs that felt too tight, too full of everything you weren’t ready to say. Exhaled even slower. Your emotions were raw, skin too thin, but you forced yourself to meet his gaze.

“I know.”

He would never mean to hurt, he wasn’t—

No. He was a good man.

Aaron shifted slightly, his stance easing, not quite casual, but open in a way that felt deliberate. Like he was offering you something, whether you wanted it or not. “If you want me to…I can look into it again, in the case.”

Your breath caught.

“I still have contacts. Still have ways of finding things other people can’t, my team can.” His voice was steady, unwavering. There was certainty in it, the kind that made it clear he wouldn’t stop unless you asked him to. “If you still want answers, I can help.”

Your fingers curled into your palms.

For years, you had chased answers. Drowned in them. You had lived inside the unknown, inside the waiting, inside the silence of a house that never felt really yours. Every silence, every shout, every blows, and every tear. Everything fell on you every time you sat with your head down, waiting for what never came.

And then, one night, the wondering had stopped.

Because you knew.

Your husband was dead.

The air in the room felt too thin, pressing against your ribs like a vice. You swallowed hard, shaking your head. “No.”

Aaron’s brows furrowed slightly. “Are you sure?”

You nodded, the words heavy on your tongue, thick with something you couldn’t name. “The case is cold. It has been for years.” Your voice was quieter now, softer, but no less certain. “I can’t…I can’t live through that again.”

His gaze held yours, searching, reading you in the way he always did, like he could pull apart every flicker of emotion, every unspoken thought, and lay them bare.

But he didn’t push. Didn’t argue. Didn’t judge you.

And after a long beat, he just nodded. “Okay.”

It should have felt like relief. Like the closing of a door that had been left open for far too long.

But it didn’t.

Because Aaron wasn’t just anyone. He wasn’t an outsider to this. He had been part of it, had been the one to stand across from you years ago and tell you that the case was over. That they had done everything they could. He had been the one to look you in the eye and say, I’m sorry.

And now, here he was.

Still offering to help. Still trying to find the truth.

A slow, unsteady breath escaped you. “I’m tired.”

His expression softened, just slightly. “I know.”

You hadn’t meant to say it, but it was the truth. You had spent so long carrying this weight alone, so long trying to hold together the pieces of something broken beyond repair. It had taken everything in you to bury it, to build something new from the wreckage of your old life.

And now, for the first time in years, someone was offering to help. Someone was offering to know. The thought of it should have terrified you. Should have sent you spiraling.

But instead, as Aaron took a step closer—slow, hesitant, but steady—you felt something else entirely.

Warmth.

Not understanding. Not yet. But warmth.

His hand lifted, fingers brushing against your cheek again, just as gentle as before. He wasn’t asking for anything. Wasn’t demanding the truth.

He was just here.

And somehow, that was enough.

You exhaled shakily, tilting your face into his palm, eyes fluttering shut. “Aaron…”

It wasn’t a question. Wasn’t a plea.

Just his name.

And somehow, it carried more weight than anything else.

His breath was warm as he spoke, his thumb brushing softly over your cheek. “I’m here.”

You didn’t know who moved first. Didn’t know if it was him or you, or if it even mattered at all. But then his lips were on yours, slow and sure, careful in a way that made your chest ache. And the weight of everything else faded into the background.

For the first time in a long, long time, you let yourself forget.

Just for a moment.

Just long enough to ignore the voices whispering in the back of your mind.

And the agent Aaron Hotchner didn’t hear the wind whispering, over and over again—

She did it.

[certaimromance]

sometimes i dream about a tall child part 2

IT DOES EXIST 😭 it's just that it's half written, and i've never been able to finish it without blocking myself, but i promise you right now that my next post will be that one