ive-been-worse - Tumblr blog

ive-been-worse · 6 days ago

Text

Boyfriend Services

pairing - remus lupin x fem!reader

summary - remus is not your boyfriend, but he sure acts like he is

warnings - fluff, lots of teasing, slightly suggestive at the end I guess, oblivious remus and reader, drinking, sirius has a little splinter, reader has hair long enough for a ponytail and it's mentioned she's wearing a skirt once

a/n - have been spending my breaks at work writing this and now that it's finished I need something new to work on, oh noo

wordcount - 5.8k

Remus had been on the same page of his book for the last fifteen minutes, staring at the words but not actually reading them. Across from him, Sirius was slouched in an armchair, flipping absently through a magazine, and James lay sprawled out on the rug, tossing a rubber ball into the air, catching it without looking.

It was a rare, quiet night, the kind that didn’t happen often anymore. Just the three of them, hanging out and each doing their own thing, and Remus thought, rather optimistically, that maybe he’d actually be able to finish his book.

Then his phone buzzed against the armrest.

He sighed before even looking at the screen, already knowing what it was about.

‘Can you come get us? We’re a little drunk. Actually, we’re a lot drunk.’

A second later, another message popped up.

‘Lily says hi. Mary is singing. Marlene is threatening to fight a bouncer for funsies.’

Remus scrubbed a hand down his face. “I have to go pick up the girls,” he announced, already reaching for his jacket.

James and Sirius exchanged looks, their smirks identical.

“Ah, yes,” Sirius drawled, tossing his magazine aside. “The ever-dedicated boyfriend service strikes again.”

“Not her boyfriend,” Remus muttered, shoving his arms into his jacket.

“Yeah, yeah, tell that to literally anyone else,” James said, pushing himself up onto his elbows. “So, remind me—who always goes to pick her up when she’s drunk?”

“That’s just being a good friend,” Remus countered, shoving his feet into his trainers.

“Oh, absolutely,” Sirius said. “And who, without fail, delivers her coffee every morning like a personal barista?”

Remus sighed. “She’s incapable of making coffee without nearly setting something on fire.”

James grinned, stretching like a cat. “Right. And who, without hesitation, gives up his hoodie the second she even looks like she might be cold?”

“That’s—” Remus paused, narrowing his eyes. “That’s what friends do.”

“Sure,” Sirius said, nodding sagely. “And I suppose all of this is entirely platonic? Completely devoid of any feelings whatsoever?”

Remus grabbed his keys. “That’s exactly right.”

James sat up properly, grinning in that insufferable way he did when he knew he was right about something. “Mate, if you were any further in denial, you’d be living in Egypt.”

Sirius gasped dramatically. “Prongs, that was actually a good one. I’m proud.”

“Thank you, thank you,” James said, bowing from his position on the floor.

Remus rolled his eyes, flipping them both off as he headed for the door. “Mock all you want, but I’d rather she get home safe than let her stumble into some dodgy cab with a questionable driver.”

James clutched his chest. “He’s so noble.”

Sirius sniffled. “It’s beautiful, really.”

Remus slammed the door behind him.

Sirius turned to James. “He’s in love with her.”

James nodded. “Hopelessly.”

Sirius stretched, settling back in his chair. “D’you reckon he’ll figure it out before she does?”

James snorted. “Not a chance.”

.・。.・゜✭・.

The pub was packed, bodies spilling out onto the pavement, the sound of laughter and bad karaoke carrying over the buzz of traffic. Remus parked as close as he could without the risk of getting towed and sighed, already bracing himself for whatever chaos awaited him inside.

Finding them wasn’t hard.

Marlene was standing on top of a booth, arms spread like she was about to deliver a sermon, while Lily and Mary cheered her on. You sat curled up in the corner of the booth, head resting against Lily’s shoulder, scrolling absentmindedly on your phone.

You looked up at him as he apprached and grinned. “Oh, our knight in shining armour has arrived.”

Marlene gasped, almost toppling from the booth. “A knight! Have you come to sweep me off my feet, good sir?”

Remus sighed. “I have come to take you all home before you get banned from yet another pub.”

Mary scoffed, throwing an arm around Marlene’s legs to keep her steady. “First of all, that bouncer deserved to be told off. Second, we weren’t banned, we just aren’t welcome back for a while.”

“Tomato, tomahto,” Lily muttered, rubbing at her temples.

Remus rubbed a hand down his face. “Alright, everyone up. Let’s go.”

It took ten more minutes, one near fistfight (Marlene again), and a lot of herding, but eventually, everyone was packed into his car.

And then the real trouble started.

Marlene took it upon herself to be the DJ, insisting on playing the most dramatic breakup songs she could find, which led to Lily passionately singing along despite not being in any kind of breakup.

Mary, sitting in the front seat, took it upon herself to be the in-car commentator.

“She’s feeling this one, Remus. Look at her. That’s a woman in pain.”

“I’M IN LOVE WITH YOUUUUU,” Lily belted, clutching your arm like she was singing to her lost love.

Remus sighed. “Lily, you’ve been dating James for three years.”

“She’s just being supportive,” you giggled, head lolling against the window.

Mary sighed wistfully. “Women supporting women.”

Lily turned to Marlene and pointed. “Play Driver’s License next.”

“No,” Remus said immediately.

You laughed, head tipping back against the seat. “You’re such a buzzkill, Moony.”

“Yeah?” Remus glanced at you in the rearview mirror. “And yet I’m still the one you lot call when you need a ride home. You know, Lily could ask James once in a while.”

“We’d be safer driving drunk than with James behind the wheel. Also, we love you,” Marlene declared, dramatically reaching forward to pat his head, missing entirely and smacking the side of his face instead.

“Brilliant. Thank you for that.”

Marlene just grinned, utterly unrepentant.

One by one, he dropped them off. Marlene first, then Mary, then Lily, who made him promise to tell James she loved him before dramatically throwing herself out of the car.

Finally, it was just him and you.

The silence, after all the chaos and the near accident that was you climbing over the console and into the passenger seat, was almost jarring.

He glanced at you as he pulled onto your street. You were watching the streetlights blur past, face lit up soft and golden, that faraway look in your eyes that told him you weren’t ready for the night to be over yet.

Turning to him, your lips slightly parted as if you were debating saying something.

Finally, you sighed. “I don’t really feel like being alone yet. Or going to bed.”

Remus didn’t even hesitate. Without a word, he turned the wheel and made a left instead of a right, turning back onto the main street to drive to his own flat.

“Little warning, Sirius and James are there,” he said.

You grinned. “You don’t think they’ll be mad about you bringing home a stray?”

“First of all, you’re hardly a stray,” he said dryly. “Second, if you bring food, they won’t care.”

Gasping dramatically, you leaned over to him. “Remus John Lupin, are you suggesting we stop for snacks?”

“I’m suggesting you stop for snacks, since you’re the one who always convinces me to do this.”

You beamed, triumphant. “McDonald’s.”

“You just at least a bottle of wine and probably a lot of questionable cocktails, and you want chicken nuggets?”

A offended hand found it’s place over your heart. “Do not speak ill of the nugget.”

Remus huffed a laugh. “Fine. Nuggets it is.”

He pulled into the drive-thru, you practically bouncing in your seat as you rolled the window down before he even stopped.

“Hi! Can we please get a twenty-piece nugget?”

Remus raised an eyebrow. “Just twenty?”

You turned, eyes wide with betrayal. “I don’t need your judgement right now, Remus.”

He snorted. “Make it forty,” he told the drive-thru speaker.

The poor teenager working the late-night shift barely sounded fazed. “Sauce?”

“All of them,” you declared. “And also add two large fries, please.”

By the time you pulled up to his flat, you had already broken into the bag, happily munching away on soggy french-fries.

Sirius and James were waiting when you walked in, both looking up from the couch with matching grins.

“You brought food,” James said, delighted.

Sirius held out his hands. “Come to me, my sweet, greasy love.”

You smirked, holding the bag just out of reach. “Hmm. I don’t know. Remus drove. Maybe he should get first pick.”

Sirius turned on Remus immediately. “I always knew you were her favourite.”

Remus sighed. “It’s too late for this.”

“Wrong,” Sirius said, digging into the bag. “It’s the perfect time for this.”

Curling up on the couch next to Remus, you cradled a nugget in one hand, the other wrapped around his arm as you settled in.

And honestly? He didn’t mind.

.・。.・゜✭・.

Sirius and James left sometime around three in the morning, after Sirius nearly fell asleep mid-sentence and James started talking about how he could "definitely beat a bear in a fight" if he "had a solid plan and at least three days of preparation." Remus shoved them both toward the door with a tired sigh, making sure James had his shoes on the right feet and that Sirius actually took his keys with him.

Now, it was just the two of you.

You were slumped on the couch, a half-eaten nugget still clutched in your hand, your head lolling against the back cushion. Your eyes fluttered open when Remus sat down next to you.

He nudged your knee. "C'mon, let's get you to bed before you fall asleep with that thing in your hand."

You blinked down at the nugget. "I wasn’t finished with it."

Remus plucked it from your fingers and set it in the box before pulling you to your feet. "You can finish it in the morning."

Your legs wobbled, and before he could even react, you tripped over your own feet and practically collapsed against his chest.

"Alright, that’s enough of that," he muttered, hooking an arm around your waist and steering you toward his bedroom. "You’re a hazard."

You giggled sleepily, resting most of your weight against him. "You take such good care of me, Moony."

"Someone has to," he said, half-carrying you down the hallway.

The second you saw his bed, you practically melted. You fell face-first onto the mattress with a happy sigh, kicking off your shoes but making no move to change out of your going out clothes.

Remus sighed. "You need to change."

"Mmm, don’t wanna."

"Yeah? Well, you can’t sleep in a sequin skirt."

You groaned dramatically into the pillow. "Ugh, fine. But you have to help me."

Remus raised an eyebrow. "You’re really making me do this, huh?"

You peeked up at him, smiling innocently. "Please?"

With a long-suffering sigh, he moved to his dresser, opening the bottom drawer—your drawer.

That realization hit him like a brick to the chest.

He had an entire drawer of your clothes at his flat.

T-shirts, sweaters, pajama shorts—hell, even a pair of fuzzy socks you always insisted were "the superior socks."

And somehow, he had never really thought about it. Never thought about how that probably wasn’t a normal friend thing.

Shaking the thought away, he grabbed one of his old sweaters you had claimed as your own and a pair of soft shorts before turning back to you. "Alright, sit up."

You did so, though sluggishly, letting him pull your shirt over your head. He didn’t let himself linger, keeping his movements brisk as he slipped the sweater over you. The skirt came next, and he averted his eyes as he guided the shorts up your legs.

When you were finally dressed in sleep appropriate clothes, you flopped back onto the bed, snuggling into the pillow with a sleepy hum. "So comfy."

Remus huffed a laugh, pulling the blanket over you. "Yeah, yeah."

You cracked an eye open. "Aren’t you getting in?"

He hesitated. Maybe he had let James and Sirius get into his head after all. Since when did he care about sleeping next to you? "I was gonna sleep on the couch."

You frowned, reaching out to grab his wrist. "Remus, if you think I’m letting you sleep on that lumpy couch just because I took your bed, you’re dead wrong. Get in."

It wasn’t like he hadn’t slept beside you before. It had happened plenty of times—movie nights, late-night study sessions that ended in accidental naps.

So he sighed and gave in, sliding under the covers beside you.

The second he settled, you curled into his side, throwing an arm around his middle and burying your face against his chest.

And that—that wasn’t something friends did.

Remus swallowed, heart hammering just a little too hard as he let himself relax against you.

"Night, Moony," you mumbled sleepily.

He closed his eyes.

"Night, love."

.・。.・゜✭・.

“This is agony. Pure, unfiltered agony.”

Sirius was sprawled across the couch like a Victorian child on his deathbed, his injured hand held aloft as if it were something far more grievous than a tiny splinter in his palm.

"You’ll live," you muttered, perched on the armrest, tweezers in hand. "Hold still."

"Hold still, she says. As if she isn’t actively torturing me."

"You are so dramatic," Remus said, not looking up from his book.

James, lounging on the floor again, smirked. "I dunno, Moony. Looks pretty serious. Might have to amputate."

Sirius gasped. "Not helping, Prongs!"

You sighed, brushing your hair back as you leaned in, squinting at the tiny sliver of wood embedded in his skin.

It fell right back into your face.

You huffed in frustration, pushing it back again, only for it to slip forward once more.

Remus reached out without even looking up from his book, gathering your hair in one hand and twisting it into a ponytail with an ease that could only come from far too much practice.

He secured it with the hair tie you always kept around your wrist, giving it a gentle tug to make sure it held.

"Better?" he asked absently.

You blinked, momentarily caught off guard before nodding. "Uh, yeah. Thanks."

Remus hummed in response, eyes still scanning the page in front of him.

It took him exactly three more seconds to realize the room had gone dead silent. He looked up.

James and Sirius were already smirking, which was expected but never a good sign.

What was not expected was the rest of the room.

Lily, Marlene, Mary, and Mary all sat watching him with varying degrees of amusement and satisfaction, as if he had just proven some long-running theory correct.

Mary, taking a slow sip from her drink, arched an eyebrow. "That was interesting."

Marlene snorted. "Oh, so interesting."

Lily and Mary exchanged looks, trying — and failing — to suppress their grins.

Remus frowned. "What?"

James sighed dramatically, shaking his head. "Hopeless. Absolutely hopeless."

Remus turned to you for support, but you were just staring at him, expression unreadable.

"Can I just say," Sirius said, voice far too pleased, "watching you do that was infuriatingly domestic."

Remus felt a warmth creep up the back of his neck. "What? It’s not weird. I’ve done it before."

"Exactly," Lily said, eyes twinkling.

Remus opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

Because, well.

They weren’t wrong.

And that was a problem.

Because if everyone else could see it—if it was that obvious—then maybe, he wasn’t as subtle as he thought.

And maybe, just maybe…

He wasn’t as platonic as he thought, either.

.・。.・゜✭・.

Later that night, the group spilled out onto the pavement, shoving and laughing as they made their way toward Remus’ car. The plan was simple: pub, drinks, and probably more poor decisions than anyone was willing to acknowledge.

The second they stepped outside, Sirius bolted for the passenger seat.

He didn’t make it.

Just as he reached for the door handle, Remus grabbed the back of his jacket, yanking him to a halt with practiced ease.

"Oi!" Sirius squawked, flailing as he stumbled back. "What the hell, Moony?"

Remus didn’t answer. He just reached past him, pulled the door open, and—without even looking—gestured for you to get in.

You grinned, sending Sirius a smug look as you slid into your usual spot.

Sirius threw his hands in the air. "This is blatant favoritism!"

"Yeah, and?" Remus said flatly, shutting the door behind you.

Sirius turned to the group for backup, waving a dramatic hand at the car. "Do you see this? She always gets to ride shotgun! It’s never my turn!"

"You’re not wrong," Marlene mused, crossing her arms.

James snorted. "Yeah, but it’s also never going to be your turn, mate."

Sirius gasped, clutching his chest like he’d been personally betrayed. "Et tu, Prongs?"

"Look, Pads," Lily said, biting back a laugh. "You can either sit in the back like a good boy or walk to the pub yourself."

Sirius whirled back to Remus. "This is so unfair. I called it!"

"You ran for it," Remus corrected, shoving his hands into his pockets. "And that’s where you went wrong."

Dorcas smirked. "You should know by now, Black—calling it doesn’t matter."

Sirius huffed, eyes narrowing. "You all suck."

"Cool," Mary said. "Get in the car."

With much grumbling, and one final glare in your direction, Sirius finally relented, dramatically throwing himself into the backseat.

As Remus slid into the driver’s seat, you shot him a look. "That was a little mean."

He just shrugged. "He’ll live."

From the back, Sirius groaned. "I won’t live. I’ll never recover from this injustice."

James clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Tough break, mate."

.・。.・゜✭・.

The pub was packed as usual, the dim lighting and rowdy chatter filling the air with a familiar buzz. Remus had already claimed his usual spot at the table, perched in the corner with Sirius and James, both of them in their own little world, arguing over something Remus was sure related to sports. You had, of course, wandered up to the bar to order the next round for everyone.

Remus watched you from across the room, the way your head tipped back in a laugh, your eyes catching the light as you exchanged words with the bartender. His gaze was a little more than casual, his thoughts drifting in a comfortable haze. He always liked watching you, particularly when you were in your element, laughing, talking, just being... well, you.

But then, his attention snapped to focus when he saw a man sidling up to you, too close for comfort. The guy was grinning like he’d just hit the jackpot, his breath a little too close to your ear as he leaned in, probably to say something that was meant to be flirtatious but came off as a bit off.

Remus’ muscles tensed immediately.

You shifted uncomfortably, visibly inching away from the man, but he didn’t seem to get the hint. Your polite smile was beginning to falter, a hint of unease flickering in your eyes. That was all Remus needed to see. Without another thought, he pushed himself out of his chair and made his way over to you.

He wasn’t sure what exactly made him move so quickly—maybe it was the protective instinct kicking in, or maybe it was the fact that the guy was making you uncomfortable, and that was something he wouldn’t stand for.

As he approached, the man didn’t even notice Remus’ presence until he was right there, standing between you two. Remus didn’t say a word at first, but he subtly placed a hand on the counter next to you, creating a barrier between you and the man. The guy glanced at him, then looked back at you, confusion in his eyes as if he couldn’t figure out what just happened.

“I think she’s had enough of your company,” Remus said, his tone easy but firm, the kind that brooked no argument.

You blinked at him, a little surprised, but relieved. "Oh, hey, Remus."

The guy let out a quiet huff, clearly not pleased with being interrupted, but Remus didn’t care. He didn’t even look at the man, instead keeping his focus on you. "You good?"

You gave him a grateful smile, though there was still a trace of tension in your shoulders. "Yeah, I was just trying to get the drinks sorted, but…" You trailed off with a small sigh. "Some people don’t take the hint."

Remus nodded, his expression softening as he gave you a quick once-over to make sure you were really alright. His hand on the bar tightened for a second before he stepped back, allowing the man to sulk off into the crowd, clearly outmatched.

As the guy retreated, Remus turned to you, eyebrow raised, as if to say Well?

You exhaled slowly, letting the tension roll off your shoulders. "I think I’m fine now. Thanks." Your smile was genuine, though a little shy.

“No problem,” he said with a small nod. “You’re always welcome to call on me for a rescue mission.”

Your grin widened. "I’ll keep that in mind."

A few steps behind, Sirius and James had been watching the entire exchange, both of them wearing identical, knowing smirks.

Sirius leaned toward James, his voice just loud enough for Remus to hear as he returned to the table, carrying the tray of drinks you had ordered. “There it is.”

James, his gaze lingering on Remus, nodded with a grin. “Yeah, he just can’t help himself.”

Sirius leaned back in his chair, his grin only widening as he shot Remus a look.

Remus didn’t bother to engage. He just shook his head, taking a swig from his new drink, trying to ignore the persistent smirks from his friends. The truth was, he didn’t really care. You were safe, and that was all that mattered.

You took a sip of your drink, then shot a look toward Sirius and James. "You guys are awful."

James held his hands up in mock defense. "We’re just here to witness greatness. You know, like when someone becomes a knight in shining armor."

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “Please. I don’t need you two bringing it up all night.”

Sirius pouted. "Ah, come on, it’s cute."

Remus, from across the table, rolled his eyes. He was alright with them mocking him all they want, but he didn’t want you to have to endure it as well. "Can you let it go?”

The two of them just grinned at each other knowingly.

But Remus couldn’t help the way his chest felt just a little warmer as he glanced at you, still sipping your drink and trying to ignore the teasing from his friends.

He’d protect you, of course. That was easy. What he hadn’t anticipated was how much more complicated this was becoming.

.・。.・゜✭・.

It was one of those rare, easy afternoons when the group of friends were all gathered at Sirius' place, the kind of lazy Saturday that was long overdue. James and Sirius were already in the middle of a heated round of Just Dance, their movements wildly exaggerated and completely offbeat. You and Remus were seated on the couch, taking the position of amused spectators.

“Come on, Moony, you’re next,” Sirius called over his shoulder, grinning as he wiped sweat off his brow after a particularly dramatic move.

Remus shook his head, arms folded across his chest. “No chance. I have no desire to make a fool of myself in front of all of you.”

You snorted. “As if you don’t already do that on a daily basis.”

“Oi, that’s a low blow,” Remus shot back, raising an eyebrow. “You sure you want to go there?”

“I’m just stating facts,” you quipped, grinning as you gave him a teasing look.

“You’re just mad I’m better at trivia than you,” Remus smirked, leaning back into the cushions.

“Please,” you scoffed. “You only win because I let you. This is the same reason you won’t play Just Dance—it’s all about your fragile ego, isn’t it?”

“Oh, we’re bringing up ego now, are we?” Remus shot back, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Let me guess, you’re some sort of dancing queen, huh?”

“I’d wipe the floor with you,” you said, giving him a playful side-eye.

Sirius, overhearing the conversation, turned to James, who was still trying to keep up with the overly energetic moves on the screen. “I’m pretty sure Remus is just scared he’ll lose to you. He knows he’s got no rhythm.”

“Rhythm?” Remus raised an eyebrow. “You’re calling me out for not having rhythm? Have you seen you two dance? It’s like watching a pair of drunk flamingos try to navigate a minefield.”

James laughed, not missing a beat. “Hey, at least we’re trying! You’re over here acting like you’re too good for it. You’ve got no excuse, mate.”

“Fine,” Remus grumbled, tossing his book aside. “But if I embarrass myself, I’m blaming all of you.”

You threw your hands up in mock surrender. “We’ll take full responsibility for your impending humiliation.”

As the game began, you danced with all the enthusiasm you could muster, putting on a surprisingly good show. Remus, reluctantly, followed suit, stepping into the designated space with all the grace of a confused moose. It didn’t take long before Sirius was practically throwing himself into the performance, determined to win.

Then it was your turn again, and Sirius was having none of it. His moves were exaggerated, clearly intended to throw you off, and, with a dramatic flourish, he ended up winning the round. He let out a victorious whoop, grinning widely.

“Take that!” Sirius laughed, pumping his fist into the air. “Who’s the champion now?”

You shot him a mock glare, shaking your head. “You’ve had your fun. Enjoy it while it lasts, Pads.”

“Well, I won’t say no to some well-deserved praise,” Sirius smirked, and before you could protest, he added, “You know, maybe you should just give up now. We all know you don’t have the skills to beat me.”

“Alright, that’s enough,” Remus said, his voice calm but firm. “Don’t push it, Pads.”

Sirius looked at him, blinking in surprise. “What, you’re going to defend her now?” he teased, but Remus didn’t bite.

“No, I’m just saying—stop,” Remus said, his tone low, eyes flicking between Sirius and you. “Only I get to make fun of her. Got it?”

The room went silent for a moment. Sirius stared at him, a slight frown on his face, as though weighing his words carefully. Then, in a move that surprised everyone—including Remus—Sirius stood up and clapped his hands together.

“Right. I’ve had enough of this,” he said, his voice suddenly serious. “You two are so obviously hopeless that I can’t even look at you without wanting to throw something.”

Before anyone could react, Sirius grabbed Remus by the arm and pulled him toward the hallway.

“What the hell—” Remus protested, though his voice was more confused than angry.

“Nope. Not happening,” Sirius said with a grin. “James! Get in here! I need backup!”

James, who had been leaning against the wall with an amused grin, snapped to attention at the command. “On it!” He quickly moved toward you, grabbing you with surprising gentleness. “Time for an intervention.”

You blinked, caught completely off guard. “Wait, what are you—?”

Before you could finish the sentence, both James and Sirius had shoved you and Remus into the bathroom and locked the door behind you.

“Oi!” you shouted, banging on the door. “What’s going on?!”

From the other side, you heard Sirius’ voice, full of exasperation. “We’re not letting you two out until you finally figure it out. You’re both being ridiculous.”

“You can’t be serious,” Remus called back, his tone slightly panicked. “Let us out!”

“Not until you two finally get over yourselves and make out,” James yelled from the hallway.

You blinked at Remus, utterly speechless. “They can’t be serious… right?”

Remus let out a groan of frustration, running a hand through his hair. “Unfortunately, I think they are.”

You gave him a sheepish smile. “Well… seems like we’re stuck here until they get bored.”

His eyes softened slightly as he looked at you. “Yeah, guess so.”

The two of you stood there for a few moments in the tiny bathroom, the silence hanging between you. Outside the door, you could hear Sirius and James laughing, clearly enjoying the chaos they’d caused, but you and Remus were left in an awkward limbo.

“So,” you started, trying to break the tension, “what exactly is going on here? What are they on about?”

Remus sighed, leaning back against the sink. He seemed hesitant, like he wasn’t sure how to even begin explaining, but eventually, he rubbed the back of his neck. “You know how they always tease me about… well, us?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, but that’s nothing new. They tease you about everything.”

“True,” he muttered, looking uncomfortable. “But lately, they’ve been—well, they’ve been noticing... things. Little things, I guess.” His eyes flicked to yours, then away. “Like the way I treat you... and the way you treat me.”

You blinked, confused. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Well,” he started slowly, clearly unsure of how to phrase it, “Sirius and James—they’ve noticed that I do... well, things for you. Like... I look out for you a lot more than I do anyone else. And you do the same for me. They started calling it... ‘boyfriend services,’ I guess.” He winced at the words as though they left a bad taste in his mouth.

“Boyfriend services?” you repeated, trying not to laugh. “And what exactly does that entail?”

Remus ran a hand through his hair again, clearly uncomfortable. “You know... like when I make sure you get home safe, or how I always make sure you have something to drink, or how I keep an eye out for you when we’re out and about. And you, well… you do similar things for me. It’s like… I don’t know. They see it as us giving each other the ‘girlfriend and boyfriend treatment,’ except, neither of us is actually calling it anything.”

You stood there, processing this for a moment. “Wait… so you’re telling me we’re both just doing these things for each other because we’re, what, friends? Or is there more to it than that?”

“Well, it’s kind of funny,” you said with a small, teasing smile. “All this time, I’ve been wondering when you were going to finally ask me out, and here we are, locked in a bathroom with your friends demanding we ‘make out’ because we’re already acting like a couple.”

Remus blinked, looking at you like you’d just said something utterly absurd. “Wait… you—you were waiting for me to ask you out?”

“Yeah, well,” you shrugged, a little sheepish now, “I thought it was pretty obvious.”

Remus’s face turned a shade darker, and for a moment, he seemed speechless, as if the world had suddenly spun out of his control. “You… you’d actually be okay with that? With me? With—” He faltered, his voice cracking slightly. “I mean, I don’t want to make things awkward, or—”

You held up a hand, cutting him off. “Remus,” you said, your voice soft but sure. “It’s only awkward because we’re making it awkward. I wouldn’t mind the girlfriend title at all.”

The words hung in the air, a heavy silence between you two as you watched his face shift from stunned confusion to something much softer, something vulnerable. His lips parted as if he had more to say, but nothing came out. For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

Finally, he let out a breath and stepped closer, his hand tentatively reaching for yours. “You really mean that?”

You nodded, your heart beating faster now. “Yeah. I do.”

Remus smiled, but it wasn’t the usual cheeky grin you were used to. It was different, softer—like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. “Well… I guess that makes two of us then.”

Before you could respond, there was a sudden banging on the door.

“Oi!” Sirius shouted from the other side. “Enough of this sappy stuff! We’ve had enough of the ‘will-they-won’t-they’. Kiss already!”

You shot a look at Remus, who was clearly trying to hide his smirk behind a hand. “I think they’re getting impatient,” you said with a dry laugh.

Remus just shook his head. “Those two are insufferable.”

With that, he leaned in, slowly, his breath warm on your face. His hand gently cupped your cheek, and for a split second, it felt like the world had come to a halt. Then, with a soft, tentative smile, he kissed you.

The kiss was gentle, hesitant at first, as if both of you were testing the waters. But the longer it lasted, the more natural it felt, until the world outside of the bathroom ceased to exist. It was just the two of you, finally figuring things out.

And, of course, the moment was interrupted by loud knocking and shouts of “We can’t hear you over here, make it louder!” from Sirius.

Remus groaned into the kiss, pulling away for a brief moment, his forehead resting against yours. “I swear, when I get out of here, I’m going to kill them.”

You chuckled softly, your fingers still resting lightly on his chest. “You’ll have time for that later,” you teased, a playful grin tugging at the corners of your mouth as you leaned in to kiss him again.

His lips quirked into a smile before he kissed you back, his grip tightening around your waist.

The loud thuds from outside the bathroom door grew more frantic, with Sirius's voice ringing through the wood, “Oi! We’re not letting you out until we hear more action in there, Moony!”

You pulled away from Remus, shaking your head with a laugh. “They’re relentless.”

Remus grinned, his eyes gleaming with a mix of affection and exasperation. “You have no idea.”

“Remus,” you said, your tone teasing as you stepped back just slightly, “I think they’re enjoying this a bit too much.”

He sighed dramatically, his hand still resting on your waist as he glanced toward the door. “If I wasn’t so in love with you right now, I’d be plotting my revenge on them. This is absolutely ridiculous.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, a soft sound that made his heart skip a beat. “Well, looks like you’re stuck with me for now, love,” you said, your voice low and playful. “And, as much as I’d like to torture them, I’m pretty sure they’ll never let us out unless we give them exactly what they want.”

Remus gave you a look, his eyes narrowing in mock suspicion. “Are you trying to say that we’re going to have to... satisfy them?”

“Hmm,” you hummed, pretending to consider the suggestion.

Remus smiled at you, the tension that had been building up between you two melting away into something simpler, sweeter. “You know, I think I can handle that.”

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The person I reblogged this from is awesome as fuck.

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ASMR videos being popular and sought-after has to be the world's biggest prank against me. I fundamentally refuse to believe any of that is enjoyable. Hearing it turns me into an animal that needs to attack you so hard for Making those noises inside my ears.

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Something's Blooming [Aaron Hotchner x Florist!Reader]

Florist!Reader Masterlist|| Main Masterlist [I need to update this, sorry!]|| Ao3||Word Count: 4k|| AN: Requests are very much open for florist!reader <3 Tags/Warnings: Female!Reader, Florist!Reader, Non-BAU!Reader, pre-relationship, Sassy!Reader, Flirty!Reader, flirting, Jack Hotchner, Shy!Hotch (kinda), pining!hotch, yearning!Hotch, Hotch's POV, 5+1 Summary: 5 times Aaron Hotchner visits your flower shop and the 1 time you visit Quantico.

It was almost 11 p.m. when Hotch found himself driving down that side street.

He told himself it was on the way home.

It wasn’t.

But still--

After thirty-six hours straight of blood, concrete, and case files, he needed something...different.

Something quiet.

Something warm.

And as he turned the corner, eyes scanning out of habit more than purpose, he saw it.

The flower shop.

Your flower shop.

Lights still on.

Even now.

He slowed at the curb. Blinked.

No one else was on the street. The windows glowed golden from the inside, soft and warm and alive in a way the rest of the world didn’t feel right now. He could make out movement--

Just a flicker.

You, probably.

Maybe closing up.

Maybe still working.

Maybe completely unaware that you were the only thing in a four-block radius keeping him from drowning in the aftermath of the case he just closed.

And then he was parking.

Just a wellness check, he told himself.

He stepped out of the car, loosened his tie slightly, and approached the door, knocking lightly against the glass.

It opened before he even pulled his hand back.

You stood there barefoot, in black leggings and a paint-stained tank top with a cardigan slipping off one shoulder, surrounded by chaos: buckets of blooms, a half-finished arrangement on the counter, shears tucked behind your ear, and glitter--glitter--on your cheekbone.

And still, somehow, you looked like a daydream.

Your eyes lit up the second you saw him.

“Well, well,” you said, arms folding playfully as you leaned against the doorframe. “Didn’t expect the FBI at my door tonight. Should I be worried?”

Hotch almost smiled. “Just a…friendly check-in.”

You looked up at the clock on the wall, “At eleven o’clock?”

“I was in the area.”

You raised a brow. “Doing what, profiling the after-hours produce aisle at Trader Joe’s?”

His lips twitched.

You stepped aside. “Come on in, Agent. If you’re going to pretend this is a normal social visit, you might as well stay long enough to commit to the bit.”

He followed you in, taking in the scent of fresh lavender and eucalyptus, the low hum of music playing from somewhere in the back.

“You always work this late?” he asked, glancing at the scattered flowers, the open order book, a cup of tea gone cold on the counter.

You twirled one of the stems between your fingers. “Weddings. Receptions. One very demanding bridezilla with opinions about peony symmetry.” You looked up at him. “But it’s good work. Soulful. Messy. Honest.”

Hotch watched the way you moved--

Fluid, easy, magnetic in a way he hadn’t realized he’d been craving until he stood in front of you again. Like you were the kind of person who knew exactly who you were, and didn’t apologize for it.

“Long case?” you asked, noticing the lines around his eyes, the fatigue in his posture.

He nodded. “Long everything.”

“Yikes,” you said softly. “Want to touch a flower? It might heal your soul.”

He raised a brow.

You grinned and held out a single bloom--

White scabiosa, delicate and strange and stunning.

“No pressure. But I highly recommend it.”

He took it without hesitation.

You looked at him for a beat--

Really looked, like you were reading something behind his eyes.

“I’m glad you stopped by,” you said, quieter now. “Even if you’re pretending you didn’t mean to.”

Hotch met your gaze, feeling that flutter of something unfamiliar and unshakable lodge itself under his ribs.

“Yeah,” he said, fingers grazing the edge of the flower. “Me too.”

You turned away then, humming as you returned to your arrangement.

And as he stood there, still holding the soft white bloom, surrounded by half-lit petals and the faint scent of jasmine in the air…

Aaron Hotchner realized he was in very real danger of falling for a free-spirited florist who wore glitter after dark and made the whole world feel softer just by existing in it.

II.

Hotch hadn’t stopped thinking about you.

Not since that late-night “wellness check.”

Not since the scabiosa in his cup holder.

Not since you smiled at him like he was more than a man in a suit with blood on his hands.

He thought about your shop--

Warm light spilling onto the sidewalk, jazz humming faintly from the back room, your bare feet dodging rose stems like it was just another Tuesday. He thought about your laugh. Your voice. The way you said, "pretend you're not pretending."

So when Jack looked up from his math worksheet two nights later and said, “Teacher Appreciation Day is coming up--we’re supposed to bring something nice,” Hotch paused mid-sip of his coffee and said, very casually:

“What about flowers?”

Jack perked up. “Like, real ones? Not drawings?”

“Real ones,” Hotch said, already pulling out his phone. “I know a place.”

So that’s where they went the following morning before school drop off.

Your shop looked different in morning’s daylight.

Still charming. Still cluttered with artfully organized chaos. But now it felt more alive--

Sunlight dancing through the front windows, making the dust in the air shimmer like magic.

The door jingled as Hotch pushed it open, his hand gently resting on Jack’s shoulder as they stepped inside.

You appeared from the back, clipboard in hand, hair piled on your head in that same effortless twist, a pencil behind your ear and--of course--a tiny smear of dirt across your cheekbone.

“Back so soon?” you asked with a grin, catching sight of him. “And this time, you brought reinforcements.”

Jack looked up at you, a little wide-eyed. “Hi.”

You crouched slightly, lowering the clipboard. “Hey there. I’m guessing you’re the brains of this operation?”

Jack blinked. Then grinned. “Probably.”

You laughed--warm and bright--and extended your hand. “I’m the flower boss. But don’t worry, I’m a fun boss.”

Jack shook your hand, completely charmed.

Hotch watched the exchange with something heavy and light all at once sitting in his chest.

“So,” you said, straightening again and turning your attention back to the pair of them, “what’s the occasion? Hot FBI dad and his small, charming accomplice?”

“Teacher Appreciation Day,” Jack said. “I want to get something for Ms. Wyatt. She likes purple.”

You nodded solemnly, tapping your chin. “Purple’s a bold move. I like it. Let me show you what we’ve got.”

You beckoned them to follow you through the shop, your voice trailing behind like music.

Hotch didn’t say much at first. He watched.

Watched as you crouched beside Jack in front of a bucket of lisianthus, letting him smell them. Watched as you explained the difference between lavender and lilac with actual enthusiasm. Watched as Jack started to talk to you--really talk--and you listened like every word he said mattered.

And then Jack asked, “Do you like working with flowers?”

You tilted your head. “I do. They’re soft, but they’re not weak. Some of them grow wild and stubborn and beautiful--just how I like ‘em.”

You looked up--just for a second--and met Hotch’s eyes.

Your smile deepened.

Jack chose a small, vibrant bouquet of lavender lisianthus, white veronica, and soft mint-scented geranium leaves. You wrapped it in craft paper with a piece of twine and a tiny card, and handed it over like it was a treasure.

Jack beamed. “Ms. Wyatt’s gonna cry.”

“She better,” you said. “Or I want it back.”

As you walked them to the door, you reached out and brushed a tiny leaf from Jack’s sleeve.

“Thanks again,” he said, pausing in the doorway. “For being so kind to him.”

You shrugged one shoulder, a little mischievous. “Well, you keep showing up at my shop like some tall, broody plot twist…figured I should be nice to the supporting cast.”

You winked at Jack. “No offense.”

Jack whispered, “What’s a plot twist?”

“Ask your dad in the car,” you grinned. “It’s probably a very long answer.”

Hotch opened the door, hand resting on the small of Jack’s back, and turned back just once to look at you.

You were already heading back to the workbench, one hand reaching for a bloom, your hair bouncing slightly as you moved--

Completely yourself.

And it hit him again:

You were a wildflower.

Unruly. Gorgeous. Rooted in chaos and beauty.

And he could not, for the life of him, get you out of his head.

III.

The meeting was already dragging.

A mid-morning bureaucratic roundtable with Erin Strauss and two other higher-ups, including the Director himself, all droning on about funding optics, interdepartmental appearances, and the upcoming annual FBI charity fundraiser.

Hotch sat with his hands folded on the table, posture perfect, expression unreadable. On the inside, he was timing how long it would take to break out a window and escape.

“…It would reflect well to have full attendance from the Behavioral Analysis Unit this year,” Strauss was saying, flipping through her folder with a sigh. “High-profile. Press-worthy. Symbolic.” She couldn’t even hide the distaste for Hotch’s team, “After the year you’ve had…”

“And tasteful,” the Director added. “No nonsense. We're still recovering from that guest speaker mishap in ‘09.”

Strauss didn’t even look up from her agenda. “And someone needs to arrange centerpieces. Something understated. Professional. Neutral. Nothing weird.” She waved her hands in the air, practically rolling her eyes as if finding a florist was below her.

She said the word with disdain, as though a rogue sunflower arrangement had personally insulted her.

One of the admin staff in the back reached for a notepad. “We can place an order with one of the vendors we used last year--”

Hotch cleared his throat.

Everyone looked at him.

Strauss blinked, looking at him over her glasses. “Yes, Agent Hotchner?”

“I’d recommend not using the vendor from last year,” he said, calm and precise. “Half the table arrangements were wilted by dinner service.”

The room blinked again.

He looked toward the Director. “If I may--I know a florist. Small business, local. She’s talented. Professional. Excellent attention to detail.”

There was a brief silence. Strauss lifted one eyebrow in that way she did when trying to find the hidden trap.

“A florist?” she repeated.

Hotch nodded. “She owns her own shop. I’ve worked with her before.”

Technically true.

So did stopping in three times in two weeks under vague excuses.

“She’s efficient,” he added. “Creative without overcomplicating things. And reliable.”

The Director nodded thoughtfully. “Send her business info to the event planning team.”

Strauss sighed and made a note, clearly having run out of energy for caring. “Fine. As long as no one puts glitter on the tablecloths.”

Later, when Hotch was back in his office, wading through a backlog of paperwork with the lights low and his tie already loosened his desk phone rang.

Unfamiliar number.

He answered anyway. “Hotchner.”

Silence for half a beat.

Then:

“Aaron. Hotchner.”

His brow lifted.

Your voice.

Dramatic. Breathless. Accusatory. Entertaining.

He leaned back in his chair, a smirk tugging at his lips before he could stop it. “Speaking.”

“You ambushed me.”

He blinked. “Ambushed?”

“Do you know what it’s like to have two men in suits--full-on Men in Black suits--walk into your flower shop at 10:12 a.m. on a Thursday morning and ask to speak with the proprietor?”

His smirk widened. “I might have an idea.”

“They had folders,” you went on, faux-horrified. “Clipboards. Credentials. They used the words ‘logistics’ and ‘event security’ in the same sentence. Do you know what my barista neighbor across the street thinks is happening right now? He thinks I’m laundering money. Through roses.”

Hotch chuckled, low and soft. “I’d say that’s your own fault for making illegal arrangements look so good.”

“You’re enjoying this.”

He didn’t deny it.

You exhaled loudly on the other end of the line. “Tell me the truth. Did you set me up?”

“I made a professional recommendation,” he said smoothly, eyes flicking back to the invoice he’d been signing. “What happens after that is out of my hands.”

“They said the order could be significant,” you said, your voice shifting into something almost uncertain now. “Like…dozens of centerpieces. Greenery. Floral structures. Possibly multi-room staging.”

Hotch leaned forward slightly, resting his elbow on the desk. “Will it be a big purchase?”

“…Yes,” you admitted. “Very. Like…I’m going to have to move things around in the walk-in cooler just to hold it all. Which, I mean, fine. I’ve been saying I’d reorganize that thing since Valentine's Day. But still.”

He could hear it--

That hint of hesitation behind your normally easy, free-spirited tone. That flicker of is this too much?

“You’ll be perfect,” he said, firm but soft.

You paused.

“Yeah?”

He nodded, voice low. Certain. “I’ve seen what you do. And I know how seriously you take it. This is a good thing. You deserve it.”

You were quiet on the other end for a second. Then:

“Damn it.”

Hotch raised a brow. “What?”

“I wanted to find a reason to be annoyed with you. You know, hold it over your head a little. But you’re being supportive and kind and--ugh--encouraging, so now I’m just grateful. And weirdly flustered.”

Hotch leaned back again, smile hidden in the way he exhaled through his nose.

“You’ll live,” he said.

“Barely.”

He picked up his pen again, still smiling. “Let me know if you need anything.”

“I need a budget allowance to hide flowers with symbolic meanings that subtly insult all your supervisors.”

“You’ll have to call up the phone number they left for that one.”

You sighed dramatically. “Fine. But I’m absolutely putting glitter in at least one arrangement.”

He let out a quiet, real laugh at that. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” you said, your voice warm now--flirty and fond, like a grin against the receiver--“you keep coming back.”

Hotch paused.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I do.”

IV.

The fundraiser had come and gone without him.

He’d been pulled into a case two states over--

Something fast-moving and grisly, the kind of thing that swallowed days and nights whole. Strauss hadn’t been pleased when he told her he couldn’t make the event, but he hadn’t had time to care.

The case wrapped late the night before, and by the time he made it back to D.C., there was a buzz in his inbox--

Emails floating around the Bureau, some from higher-ups, some from administrative staff, and one very surprised message from the Director himself.

“These arrangements--where did you find this florist?”

“Elegant but understated.”

Even Rossi patting him on the back, as he always heard everything through the grapevine, “Nice recommendation. Even Erin approved.”

Which was a feat. A miracle, really.

Hotch hadn’t even seen them in person. But he didn’t need to. He could picture it clearly: your touch in every detail. Your precision. Your charm. Your little flourishes that somehow made even the most rigid Bureau decor look alive.

So on the drive home, exhausted and a little frayed, he found himself turning off his usual route.

And pulling up to your shop.

The bell over the door jingled softly.

It was late--not closed-late, but near it.

Golden-hour light stretched long across the floor, casting a honeyed glow across scattered petals and buckets of green. A soft indie song played somewhere in the back, low and melodic, wrapped in the scent of eucalyptus and something faintly citrus.

You appeared from behind the workroom curtain, an empty vase in one hand and your hair pinned up messily, like you’d been too busy to care but somehow still managed to look painfully good.

The second you saw him, your lips curved up.

“Well, well. The missing man of the hour.”

Hotch stepped in, letting the door swing shut behind him. “I heard you made quite the impression.”

You raised a brow. “Oh? Did your boss weep openly at the sight of hydrangeas?”

“No reports of tears,” he said. “But there was definite approval. Which, for her, is practically euphoric praise.”

You chuckled and walked toward the counter, setting the vase down and dusting off your hands. “So you came to confirm the rumors in person?”

“I came,” he said, slow and measured, “to thank you.”

Your smile softened--

Just a little.

“Well, that’s very gentlemanly of you.”

He stepped closer to the counter.

You leaned against it.

The space between you crackled with something unsaid--

Something that had been brewing for weeks now, layered in between teasing glances and “accidental” run-ins, masked by professionalism and distance and goddamn restraint.

“I missed seeing them,” he said, voice quiet now. “The flowers. What you created.”

You tilted your head. “You came all this way after a case…to see my leftovers?”

“I came,” he said again, eyes fixed on yours, “because I wanted to see you.”

That stopped you.

For a second, your cool, breezy exterior faltered. Not in a panicked way. Not in fear. Just…surprise.

Something warm slid behind your ribs.

“You could’ve just called,” you offered, voice teasing--

But not deflecting.

“I thought about it.”

“And?”

He gave a small, amused breath. “Didn’t feel like enough.”

You leaned forward slightly on your elbows, your bracelets clinking softly against the wood. “You always this charming when you’re sleep-deprived?”

“Only when I’m talking to someone who makes Bureau directors write glowing reviews.”

You grinned. “So you’re here to woo me with flattery.”

“No,” he said simply. “I’m here because I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

There.

A card on the table.

You blinked, lips parting.

Hotch didn’t move any closer. He didn’t have to.

“I don’t usually do this,” he said, his tone lower now, more deliberate. “But there’s something about you.”

You exhaled, slow. “Dangerous words from a man who deals with unsub psychology.”

“And yet,” he said, mirroring your words from before, “I keep coming back.”

You laughed softly, but your voice dropped too. “Yeah. Me too.”

And there it ws.

A beat.

A stretch of quiet.

Neither of you moved to close the gap--

But you didn’t have to.

It pulsed between you, just enough to make your fingers twitch, and you heart race and your breath catch in a way that said: not tonight…but soon.

“I should close up,” you said, voice gentle.

Hotch nodded, eyes lingering. “I should let you.”

But neither of you moved right away.

He looked at you like he was memorizing something.

And when he turned to leave, you called out behind him, light but deliberate:

“Next time, don’t wait for a Bureau-level excuse.”

He paused in the doorway, one hand on the frame.

“I won’t.”

It wasn’t anything official.

At first.

Hotch had just…stopped by once after work.

No excuse, no case.

Just that same warm shop light pulling him in off the street and the way your voice lifted ever so slightly when you saw him.

Then it happened again.

And again.

Sometimes at night--

When your hair was messier, your apron slung loose, music playing faintly in the background. He'd lean against the counter, coffee in hand, and listen to you talk about blooms like they were people, alive and moody and magical. Or your customers like they were long-lost friends in the story of your life. All of these colors that made up you.

Sometimes, it was early.

Just after opening.

He’d bring coffee--

Your coffee, specifically.

Nonfat milk, one pump of mocha, a touch of cinnamon. He’d noticed it once, scribbled on the side of a cup near your register. Ordered it without asking.

He never stayed long in the morning. Just long enough for you to tease him about his tie or the furrow in his brow or how unnaturally good he looked in a suit before 8 a.m.

And every time he left, you’d call after him, voice flirty and sing-song:

“Thanks for the caffeine, Agent. Come back when you miss me.”

He always did.

Three weeks into this…whatever it was, he thought he was subtle.

Until the evening that Rossi caught him in the Quantico parking garage.

Hotch had just slid behind the wheel, engine rumbling when he saw Rossi standing at the edge of the exit lane, arms folded across his chest.

Hotch narrowed his eyes.

Rossi raised a brow. “You do know your house is to the right, yeah?”

Hotch blinked. “What?”

“At the light,” Rossi said, stepping closer. “You keep turning left.”

Hotch stared. “You’re tracking my turns?”

“I’m a profiler,” Rossi said with a shrug. “I notice patterns. You’ve been turning left out of the Bureau at the same time nearly every night for the past couple of weeks.”

Hotch’s jaw tightened, just slightly. “Maybe I’m taking a different route.”

“You’re not,” Rossi said, far too casually. “You’re making a detour.”

Hotch didn’t respond.

Rossi’s eyes narrowed. “Wait a second. Left puts you on 608. Which goes right through Old Town. Which means--”

Hotch turned away, reaching for his sunglasses.

“Oh my God,” Rossi said, the realization hitting him like a freight train. “It’s the florist.”

Hotch said nothing.

“You’ve been visiting the florist.”

Hotch sipped his coffee. Slowly. “She makes good coffee.”

“She doesn’t make the coffee, Aaron.”

Silence.

Rossi’s grin widened, wolfish and deeply entertained.

“This whole time, I thought you were being cryptic about a new case, but no. You’ve been...what? Casually haunting her flower shop like a silent romantic ghost?”

Hotch glanced at him flatly. “Are you done?”

“Not even close. What’s her name? No--don’t tell me. Let me guess. Something stunning. Unique. One of those names that belongs in a book.”

Hotch rolled his eyes and pulled out of the parking space.

Rossi watched the car ease toward the exit, windows down.

“She’s got you bad, Hotch!” he called after him. “Next thing I know, you’ll be showing up in a boutonnière!”

Hotch didn’t even flinch.

Just turned left.

Again.

Hotch didn’t expect you to stroll into Quantico like you owned the place.

But you did.

He was halfway through reviewing a case file, pen tapping absently against the margin, when a knock sounded once against his office door--

And then it opened before he could answer.

And there you were.

Waltzing in like you’d done it a hundred times, clipboard in one hand, sunglasses perched on your head, a little smudge of pollen on your forearm, and that same damn smile that always made his thoughts scatter.

You looked at him like he was exactly the person you’d come to find.

His brow lifted, slow and deliberate. “You know most people wait for permission.”

You shrugged, leaning against the inside of the door with a grin. “Where’s the fun in that?”

He stood, a mix of amusement and surprise tugging at his mouth. “What are you doing here?”

“Apparently,” you said, glancing around his office like you were appraising it, “I’m the Bureau’s favorite florist now.”

“Is that so?”

“Oh yes. I’m doing weekly arrangements for half your departments. Including your very charming, very…emotionally distant boss.”

Hotch huffed under his breath. “Strauss.”

“Mmhmm.” You wandered further in, crossing the room like you owned the air between you. “I walked past her office earlier. She nodded at me. It was almost a smile. I think that counts as federal-level affection.”

Hotch gave the faintest smile. “She is rather fond of a well-composed bouquet.”

You tilted your head. “Or maybe she’s just jealous of my access to her most brooding agent.”

That earned a pause.

Hotch stared at you for half a second too long.

And then, “You came all the way up here just to flirt?”

“Oh, Agent,” you purred, tapping your fingers on the edge of his desk. “If I made a stop every time I wanted to flirt with you, I’d need a badge.”

Hotch stepped around the desk slowly, leaning his hand on the edge near yours.

“You’re unbelievable,” he said, voice low.

You smiled wider. “And yet…you’re not asking me to leave.”

He said nothing.

Didn’t move.

Just let the air thicken, let the pause stretch between you.

The tension pulsed like electricity.

“You planning on behaving today?” he asked quietly.

You leaned in just slightly. “What gave you the impression that I ever behave?”

He exhaled through his nose--

One of those barely held-in laughs.

You glanced down at the file on his desk. “Is this one of those murder-y cases, or are you free for coffee?”

“I have ten minutes,” he said, voice raspier now.

“Perfect,” you said, already spinning on your heel. “Meet me in the lobby. I’ll buy. FBI discount, you know. One wink at the front desk, and they practically roll out a red carpet.”

“Of course they do,” he murmured as you reached the door.

You paused before leaving, glancing over your shoulder.

“Oh--and Aaron?”

“Yeah?”

You let your eyes rake over him with unmistakable heat. “This whole authority figure, stern jaw, badge and brooding thing? Works waaayyy too well on me.”

You were gone before he could answer.

And when he looked down, he realized you’d left a single bloom on his desk--

A blush-pink carnation tucked beside the file.

Yearning, he remembered distantly from one of your flower lessons.

Of course.

Of course you did.

Tag List: @zaddyhotch @estragos @todorokishoe24 @looking1016 @khxna @rousethemouse @averyhotchner @reidfile @bernelflo @lover-of-books-and-tea @frickin-bats @sleepysongbirdsings @justyourusualash @person-005 @iyskgd @hiireadstuff @kcch-ns @alexxavicry @Sweethotchlogy @softtdaisy @stilestotherescue @midnghtprentiss @thebestqueenoftheworld @superlegend216

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ive-been-worse · 10 days ago

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Part SEVEN of Simon Riley and his single mother god bless <3

Part One - Part Two - Part Three - Part Four - Part Five - Part Six

A few more months went by -- broken up by a couple of deployments, but easily the best months of Simon's life. He started sleeping over, every once in a while, sleeping with you. Going to bed with you in his arms after a full day, a full life? It was almost too much. Too good.

He should have known it couldn't last.

Charlie turns five in January. The cold outside is bitter and biting, but there's no snow on the ground just yet, so when he asks to go play outside, it's not that difficult for him to convince you that it's a good idea.

"Please, Mum, it's my birthday," Charlie tells you, eyes wide and pleading. "Simon'll take me, you won't even have to go out there. Just want to go to the slides for a little bit, please."

Your eyes shifts to meet Simon's, and he gives you a small grin. You know he'd do anything for Charlie, Charlie knows it too. Even Emma, the little baby who's getting bigger every day it seems, probably knows it.

Half an hour and a short walk later, and Simon has Charlie at the park where all this began. He goes down the slides a few times like he wanted, then moves to the swings for a bit. It's freezing, but he's having a blast, and so is Simon.

These little moments are getting easier with time and practice. It feels like his heart is expanding, widening to bring in you and your children, the flesh pulled taut but still sturdy, capable of holding all of it.

Until it snaps.

It happens so fast. Charlie always has seemingly boundless energy, but it's been kicked up a notch this afternoon with the excitement of his birthday. He runs wild around the deserted park, laughing and playing, hardly stopping to think as he climbs one of the narrow sets of steps that lead up towards the slides. He makes a detour this time, wanting to try the monkey bars. Simon keeps a watchful eye on him, but the boy isn't paying enough attention, and slips as he tries to navigate the high bars.

He falls to the ground, hard, and Simon hears the unmistakable snap of bone breaking. Charlie starts wailing, piercing and immediate, and Simon does a quick assessment, trained enough to keep his head even as his heart races.

There's no blood, no visible injuries besides his left arm, bent in a way it isn't supposed to go.

"You're all right, Charlie," he says quietly, carefully picking him up, making sure to keep his arm stable. "Going to get you taken care of, hear me?"

It's a quick walk back to your house, followed by a quick drive to the hospital with you and Emma in tow. Charlie's crying sets off the baby, and you're quietly weeping too, trying to tend to Charlie, and Simon navigates the streets with a clenched jaw, certain that he's destroyed everything.

Once everyone is inside the hospital, it's another quick blur of doctors and nurses poking and prodding Charlie, followed by an x-ray that confirms the clean break in his upper arm. The boy is sedated so the bone can be set, and then, while you wait for him to wake back up and while Emma finally calms, there's a stretch of silence.

Finally, you look up from the hospital bed to Simon, studying him with a frown, before saying, "You've been very quiet."

When Charlie hit the ground, Simon felt like he'd gotten the wind knocked out of him himself, and he hasn't been able to catch his breath since. It feels like the sadness, the constant weariness he'd felt for as long as he can remember, that emptiness that you'd filled so perfectly, was clawing its way back inside him. Like it never left, and you were just a pretty distraction but not something he could ever really have.

After a moment of strained silence, he mutters, "I ... fuck, I'm so sorry, love. So sorry. I shouldn't have let him on those fucking bars, I should have --"

"Stop," you tell him, your voice low too as Emma dozes in your arms. "Are you blaming yourself for this?"

"My fault," he admits. "I was the one watching him."

"Simon, don't ..."

He wants to apologize again, but he doesn't want to make you feel like you need to comfort him, but there's no way he can put on a neutral face right now ... he tries to take a deep breath, tries to finally catch it but it eludes him again.

"It's not your fault," you tell him firmly. "Accidents happen. He's a tough kid, he's going to be all right."

"He shouldn't have gotten hurt, not on my watch," he insists.

"Do you honestly think there's something you could have done differently? That you willingly let him do something unsafe?"

He racks his brain -- the logical part of him knows that it's not right. He's always careful with the children, and if he'd thought that Charlie could have gotten hurt like this, of course he would have stepped in. But the panic still rises persistently in his chest, flashing him images from a future in which you stop being understanding, where you understand how dangerous he is, how unworthy of everything you've given him. He's seconds away from being alone again, and it would be worse now that he knows what it's like to be loved.

"Simon."

Your voice is firm, solid and strong like it was that very first day when he heard you command Charlie to stop messing around on the playground. Charlie was too young and headstrong to listen then, but Simon wants, more than anything, to listen.

"It's not your fault," you tell him again. "Stop. It's not your fault."

You wrap your free arm around him, your grip firm, and he takes a shaky breath, then another. His eyes find Charlie, still out cold, and he shakes his head, but you give him another squeeze.

"It's not your fault."

That night, Charlie goes home with a sling, drowsy but no longer in pain. He asks Simon to carry him inside, and when he does, he asks him to stay, his good arm slung around his shoulder while Simon carefully cradles the one in the sling.

"Can it still be my birthday tomorrow?"

"It can be your birthday all month long," you tell him, putting Emma down on the floor with some toys.

After you make sure both your children are good for the moment, you pull Simon to the hallway, close enough to keep an eye on the kids but far enough away to speak privately.

"Are you ok?"

"Not the one you need to be asking."'

You give him a pointed look, one he knows by now means that you want him to stop being strong or stoic or whatever else and just be honest.

"I'm ... nervous," he confesses. It feels like a weak word to describe what he's feeling, but it's in the right arena, at least.

"About what?" you ask.

"That I ... that you'll want me to leave."

Your eyes widen, and you shake your head immediately, pulling him down for a hug. Your hands stroke his back and his hair, struggling to pull him even closer, and you start whispering to him. More of what you said earlier -- it was an accident, it wasn't his fault, just an accident.

What cuts through though, like a lightning rod through whatever storm is going on inside him, is when you say, "I don't ever want you to leave."

He pulls back, troubled eyes meeting yours.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, Simon. I love you. Don't leave."

It's the first time you've ever said it. You've danced around it before -- "Charlie loves you, the kids love you, we love having you around" -- but never as plain as this. He's done the same, told you in actions every day, in promises to take care of you, but actually saying the words ...

"I love you too," he says. "More than anything."

Charlie's birthday does, for the most part, last the whole month. Simon slowly starts to feel the air come back into his lungs, breathing a little easier every time Charlie acts like himself. When the boy slips, every once in a while, and calls him Daddy, or when Emma grips his hair in her chubby little fist. When you tell him that you love him, with words or kisses or promises ...

It's another lesson. Another piece of evidence that, despite everything he's ever believed about himself, he has value even when he's not perfect.

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ive-been-worse · 10 days ago

Note

The BAU team meeting Hotch’s younger gf who looks like she walked off the front cover of a magazine & she’s so bubbly and has a really comforting energy! How would they react????

The satisfying little clicks of heels against the marble floor wasn’t enough to gain any of their attention usually, but accompanied by the delicately enchanting chimes of true laughter and sweet smell of baked goods—eyes were immediately lifting to investigate to the scene.

“Thank you so much!” An incredibly sweet, honeyed voice gushed genuinely, “here, all of these are meant for my boyfriend but I’m sure he won’t even notice.”

The team traded immensely interested looks as they surveyed the scene, Anderson (who was uncharacteristically blushing a bright flustered cherry red) was being handed a chocolate chip muffin by—wow—a startlingly gorgeous young women who was dressed in inviting soft colours and had a large sweet smile on her face that served to emphasise her lovely appearance.

“My day just got a hundred times better.” Derek grinned, swivelling his chair sideways to speak to the rest of his team while barely taking his eyes off you.

“You’re telling me.” Emily’s mouth hung open a little as she leaned forwards on her elbows to look at you more closely.

“Behave.” JJ scolded before her brief look of reprimand melted under Emily’s pointed stare, “she’s looks so sweet I just wanna eat her.”

“She has a boyfriend.” Spencer reminded them.

“What—?”

“Pretty boy—you and—“

“Oh—oh, no!” Spencer flustered, sputtering out the gulp of his coffee he had in his mouth (JJ handed him a napkin with a mothers readiness). “Not—I would be absolutely honoured—and—and, for lack of a sensical phrase, over the moon, to have a romantic relationship with a woman such as her but—no, unfortunately. She—she said a few moments ago that has a boyfriend.”

“Ah.” Emily blinked, a slow almost sheepish smirk on his lips, “I wasn’t really listening to what she was saying, just watching her lips move.”

“Preach sister.” Derek leaned forward for a fist-bump which Emily easily gave, both of them nodding in solidarity.

“Hello!” They all startled heavily as your gentle, happy voice chimed now much closer to them and mouths dropped subtly at just how beautiful you looked up close.

“Well hello sweetheart.”

“H-hi.”

“Hi gorgeous.”

“Hello!”

You blinked at them, an adorable giggle leaving you at the onslaught of greetings that came all at once. “Hi! You wouldn’t happen to know where Aaron Hotchner’s office is would you?”

“Hotch?” Emily furrowed her brows at you curiously and then seemed to forgot about, well, any of anything she was thinking as your bubbly smile and sparkling eyes turned her way and you gave a cheerful ‘yep!’ “Um—just, up those stairs, the first door at the top.”

“Thank you very much.” You told her, voice as sweet as the packet of fizzy haribos hidden in her desk. “It was lovely meeting you all, we’ll probably be better acquainted later on.”

With a sparkly mischievous twinkle in your bright eyes and another adorable giggle, you took off in a small spin that sent the enchanting mix of your perfume and the baked goods wafting over to all of them and they all watched, entranced, as you climbed the steps to their boss’ office.

After several seconds of dazed silence, Spencer gasped.

“Boyfriend—“

“Yeah I wouldn’t mind being her boyfriend either.” Derek murmured. “At all—really, no sweat off my back.”

“Hotch.”

JJ’s mouth dropped open as she realised where Spencer was going with his train of thought, rolling back in her chair as they pointed at him in realisation.

“Oh my God!”

“Hotch—hotch, is her boyfriend..?” Spencer sounded extremely confused, mouth falling open and closing repeatedly.

“Huh?”

“Reid, you are having a giggle.”

“No, he’s right.” JJ confirmed, mouth open and eyebrows raised. “She said she was here to see her boyfriend and she’s gone to see Hotch. . 2 plus 2 equals. .”

“. . An incredibly brokenhearted Derek Morgan.” Derek’s own mouth dropped open, craning his neck to see what was going on in the office of his boss before realising that Hotch had shut the blinds. Derek gasped, that sneak.

“And a flummoxed Emily Prentiss.”

“But she’s so—“

“Yeah.”

“And he’s like—“

“Literally!”

“Well, the last few months Hotch has been incredibly more relaxed, in fact his percentage of smiles given has gone up from a measly 30% to almost 84%, his laugh quota has reached high yet levels than I’ve ever known it to be. I had also noted that every Thursday he never goes home as late as he usually retires for the day and with this new revelation of a relationship—I assume this correlates to their date nights.”

“It does.”

Everyone turned in their chairs quickly to face their boss who now stood outside his office a faintly amused smile curving up his lips, at his side was you and you were wearing an amused and loving smile, eyes practically sparkling after Spencer’s speech on your boyfriend’s behaviour as they flickered up to said boyfriend beside you who looked down at you with soft, fond eyes.

“So you figured out my secret.” You grinned at them all, taking in Spencer’s red cheeks and Emily’s flabbergasted, dazed stare. “I’m Y/N, Aaron’s girlfriend!”

“Doesn’t that just crush a man’s hopes and dreams.” Derek pouted quietly to himself, straightening up in alarm when his boss’ intense eyes zeroed in on him.

“Honey, this is JJ—“ The blonde gave a warm, welcoming smile and a wave, “Spencer,” said genius gave a tight lipped awkward smile, hands flailing awkwardly and cheeks a burning fiery red, feeling this pulse thump when they smiled back directly at him, “Emily and Derek.” Both of the aforementioned gave waves with half flirty-ish smirks and half genuine smiles.

The door to Rossi’s office opened and when he stepped out and saw you beside Aaron he smiled happily, walking towards you both.

“Ah, Y/N!” He took you into an embrace, kissing both of your cheeks. “You get more beautiful every time I see you, is this big brute treating you right?”

“Always, Dave.”

He patted you on the shoulders, smiling, before turning to Aaron who was rolling his eyes at him fondly.

“Let’s keep it that way.”

“Rossi!” Emily’s astounded voice exclaimed, “you—know Y/N—you knew about this—“

It was Dave’s turn to roll his eyes as he continued walking to descend down the stairs, tutting at her disappointedly.

“You thought I wouldn’t?” He countered, “who do you think encouraged him to go for it?”

You laughed at that and your boyfriend smiled down at you fondly, looping an arm around your waist—seemingly forgetting he was in his place of work and needed to keep up the facade of stone cold, emotionless boss.

“What—Rossi—get back here—“ Derek leaped up from his seat and trailed after the older man.

“What, you gonna come watch me take a leak?”

“If it means we get some answers!”

“Shoo parassita.”

All you could do was laugh again, smiling up at your boyfriend as his arm tightened around your waist and he pulled you closer into his side. You were very happy with your decision to come and deliver baked goods to him.

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ive-been-worse · 10 days ago

Text

You Belong Among the Wildflowers [Aaron Hotchner x Florist!Reader]

Masterlist [I need to update this, sorry!]|| Ao3||Word Count: >2k|| AN: I worked as a florist for five years and it was some of the most fun and some of the most beautiful moments I got to witness. I thought this would be a fun meet!cute! I will be making its a series, so please send your requests in for Florist!Reader persona! Tags/Warnings: Female!Reader, Florist!Reader, Non-BAU!Reader, meet cute, mentions of Haley Hotchner, flirtation, first encounter, Reader is JJ's college friend, mentions of Hotch's upbringing. Summary: When Hotch is in need of a good florist, he meets you, JJ's old college friend, who leads him to believe that maybe flowers couldn't fix everything, but they sure as hell didn't hurt.

Aaron Hotchner didn’t believe flowers could fix everything.

But they sure as hell didn’t hurt.

It was something he picked up early—

Something he never really learned so much as absorbed.

His mother, a quiet woman with tired hands and soft smiles, used to say she wished someone would bring her flowers just once. Her voice never wavered when she said it, never sharp or demanding—

Just wistful.

A woman too often let down by a man who never came home with more than excuses and stale breath.

Aaron made a promise then, maybe only to himself, that if he ever loved someone, really loved someone, he’d bring them flowers just because.

He kept that promise with Haley.

He would come home from Quantico, exhausted and wired from the field, and there she'd be, soft and sleepy with her hair up and an old sweatshirt on.

He always brought her something: white tulips in spring, sunflowers in summer, dahlias in the fall.

When cases kept him too long, he'd send them instead. Sometimes with a note, sometimes without. It became tradition—

A silent ritual that kept their connection grounded no matter where he was or what horror he’d seen.

There was never not a vase filled with some sort of colorful bouquet displayed in their home together.

And even with work. Flowers were a lovely…band-aid to place on he larger bureaucratic problems.

When Gideon poked Garcia’s buttons the wrong way--

A bouquet and an apology, courtesy of Unit Chief Aaron Hotchner wanting a smooth sailing ship.

When JJ had Henry--

He remembered her saying she liked lilies, so he sent her lilies from the team.

There wasn’t a birthday or special occasion he didn’t have marked on his planner that didn’t have a corresponding floral delivery from his usual place sent out.

And when Haley died, there wasn’t much he could do but exist.

The BAU gave him time, but even time felt like a betrayal. The world kept spinning while his had stopped.

But there was one thing he could do: plan her funeral.

And pick the flowers himself.

White roses.

Classic. Clean. Grieving.

He stood in the flower shop for over an hour, staring at arrangements, feeling too much and too little at once. The florist—an older woman with a warm smile and no questions—had guided him gently, like she knew when to step forward and when to give him room to breathe.

He came back to her year after year after that, always requesting simple, elegant designs. She never asked why. He always appreciated that.

But now, standing outside the darkened storefront on a crisp weekday afternoon, Aaron realized she was gone.

The sign had been flipped to Closed for weeks.

A paper notice taped crookedly to the door read: Thank you for over 30 wonderful years.

Just like that.

It shouldn’t have caught him off guard.

People retired.

Shops closed.

But somehow, he felt... untethered.

Like this small corner of familiarity in his life had vanished, and with it, another thread connecting him to Haley.

He had been trying to order something for Jessica—

Haley’s sister.

It was her birthday. And while their relationship had always been complicated, especially with Jack involved, he didn’t want the day to go by without a gesture. Flowers had always been the language he was fluent in.

He mentioned it offhandedly in the bullpen the next morning—something low-key, muttered as he sifted through files.

JJ perked up immediately. “Wait—are you serious? You’re trying to find a florist?”

He gave a short nod, not looking up.

“You’re in luck,” she said, tapping her pen against her notepad. “One of my best friends from college owns a flower shop not far from here. You’d love her designs—they’re beautiful.”

She smiled, a little too brightly, eyes dancing in a way that made him suspicious.

He arched an eyebrow. “Am I missing something?”

JJ laughed. “Okay, fine. She’s gorgeous. Like—flirtatiously elegant, painfully feminine, one of those women who makes it look effortless. But she’s smart, and she runs a really impressive business. And she's good, Hotch. Seriously. Her arrangements have personality. You’d appreciate the detail.”

“I’m only looking for—” he began, but JJ held up a hand.

“I know. But just give her a call. Or better yet, stop by. Tell her I sent you. She’ll take care of you.”

He sighed, already knowing JJ wasn’t going to drop it. And truthfully? He missed the ritual.

The weight of a vase in his hand.

The soft brush of petals when he leaned in to read a card.

He missed the peace of it—

The stillness it gave him.

Maybe flowers couldn’t fix everything.

But maybe, just maybe, they could start something new.

The bell above the door jingled softly, delicate and old-fashioned—

Charming in a way that made Hotch instinctively lower his voice and straighten his posture, like the shop itself demanded a kind of reverence.

It smelled like summer mornings and memory.

Sweet, green, earthy.

The air was cooler inside, heavy with moisture and the subtle perfume of fresh-cut stems.

Every surface had something blooming or trailing: lush peonies and garden roses in glass vases, eucalyptus spilling from galvanized buckets, tiny pots of violets arranged like a tea party on a shelf by the window.

And then there was you.

You were at the counter, bent slightly over a worktable, hands delicately threading wire through a bouquet of ranunculus and sweet pea.

Your fingers moved with practiced elegance—

Intentional but light, as though the flowers were something sacred.

You wore a linen apron over a dress, a pair of delicate gold hoops catching the light when you turned to see who had come in.

JJ hadn't exaggerated.

You were beautiful in that way that didn’t feel real at first.

Soft around the edges, like you'd stepped out of a memory or an old film. But the mischief in your eyes was immediate, sparking to life the moment you took him in.

“Let me guess,” you said, lips curving into a smile as you stepped out from behind the counter. “JJ sent you?”

Hotch blinked. He hadn’t even said a word yet.

“I can always tell,” you added, folding your hands in front of you with a playful tilt of your head. “It’s the suit. Very FBI but emotionally repressed gentleman in need of a good centerpiece.”

That got the corner of his mouth to twitch. Barely. But it was there.

“Guilty,” he admitted, taking a step closer. “I’m Aaron Hotchner.”

“JJ’s boss,” you echoed like it meant something—

Like she'd mentioned him before. Then you extended your hand, which he took with a polite firmness that faltered slightly the moment your fingers brushed.

Your touch was cool, confident.

A stark contrast to the warm tilt of your grin.

You introduced yourself with your first name, gesturing loosely to the shop. “Welcome to my little kingdom.”

He looked around again, letting himself take it in now—not just the flowers, but the way they were arranged. Every display felt curated but not staged. Wild, almost, but intentional. Like you trusted the flowers to speak for themselves and only nudged them into poetry.

“It’s impressive,” he said, his voice softer than usual. “Peaceful.”

Your expression shifted for just a moment, something fond and knowing crossing your face. “That’s what I aim for. Flowers should feel like exhaling.”

There was a pause, comfortable and quiet, before you asked, “So, what are we celebrating, Agent Hotchner?”

“It’s Jessica’s birthday. My son’s aunt. She’s done a lot for our family, especially after… a loss.” His tone remained even, but the weight in his words lingered.

You didn’t press. Your smile softened with understanding.

“Got it,” you said gently. “So something warm. Grateful. Nothing too romantic, but still thoughtful.”

He nodded, a little surprised at how quickly you’d read the situation.

“I can do that,” you assured him, already moving to gather a few stems in your hands. “Now, do you trust me, or do you want to pick the flowers yourself?”

Hotch hesitated.

“I used to,” he said. “Pick them, I mean. For my wife. It became a tradition. I knew what she liked. But it’s been a while.”

You stopped what you were doing, the bouquet held loosely in your hands.

“I’m sorry,” you said. Not with pity—

Just sincerity.

He inclined his head. “Thank you.”

“Well,” you said after a beat, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, “if it helps, I think people always know more about flowers than they realize. It’s just about memory and emotion. Pick one thing you remember her liking, and we’ll start there.”

Hotch thought for a moment. Then: “She liked lilies. The white ones. But they were always too delicate.”

“Casa Blanca lilies,” you murmured, nodding. “Gorgeous, but yes—temperamental. They bruise just from being looked at wrong.”

He huffed out something close to a laugh, and you caught it—

Your eyes flicking to his in quiet delight.

You held up a peachy, cream-tipped rose. “This might be a better choice for today. It says thank you, without screaming ‘I love you.’”

He studied it for a moment, then nodded. “Perfect.”

And as you moved behind the counter to wrap the arrangement, Hotch let himself breathe in again.

The scent of flowers.

The sound of soft music playing from somewhere in the back.

It was easy-listening classic rock. Something he would listen to in the car. It was…comforting.

The easy rhythm of your presence.

You worked quickly, but never rushed.

Hotch watched from his spot at the counter as you wrapped the bouquet in delicate cream paper, folding it just so before tying it with a deep green ribbon that matched the stems.

Every movement was graceful, intentional.

It reminded him of the way people worked when they loved what theydid—

Not for performance, but for the sake of making something beautiful.

You slid the arrangement across the counter and offered a soft, plesed smile.

“There,” you said, “peach roses, cream spray roses, stock flower for fullness, a little waxflower for texture, and just a touch of eucalyptus—because I have to sneak it in somewhere. It smells clean. Calm. And it says I see you. Thank you.” You tapped the corner of the paper gently. “In flower language, anyway.”

Hotch studied the bouquet, nodding with quiet approval.

“It’s perfect.”

You tilted your head at him, brows raised. “You sure? Not too showy? Not too much?”

He gave the smallest shake of his head. “No. It’s...thoughtful. She’ll like it.”

You smiled, but it softened when you noticed he lingered—

Not quite ready to leave.

So you said gently, “It’s nice, you know. That you still do this. For her.”

Hotch didn’t look away from the bouquet as he replied, “Sometimes I think gestures are all we have. Something tangible. When words aren’t enough.”

You leaned your forearms on the counter, chin tilted toward him. “That’s exactly what flowers are. Tangible emotion.”

There was a pause.

Comfortable.

Heavy, but not unpleasant.

He reached for his wallet, and you gently waved him off.

“I’ve got it.”

Hotch blinked. “You don’t have to—”

“I know I don’t have to,” you said with a teasing lilt. “But you’re JJ’s friend, and more importantly, I want you to come back.”

That pulled his eyes to yours again—

Steady, searching.

You held his gaze, playful but earnest. “What? Even emotionally repressed gentlemen need a flower source. Besides, you’ve got good taste. I can always use a muse.”

He hesitated, but nodded. “Alright. I’ll come back.”

Your grin widened. “Good. Maybe next time for yourself.”

Hotch raised an eyebrow, and you shrugged.

“Nothing wrong with buying yourself flowers. I do it all the time.”

His voice was low, faintly amused. “Somehow, I think it suits you better.

That earned a laugh from you—

Light.

Genuine.

Ringing through the quiet shop.

And as Hotch turned to leave, bouquet in hand, you called after him: “Tell Jessica I said happy birthday. And that her brother-in-law has surprisingly excellent flower game.”

He paused in the doorway and glanced back at you. “I’ll be sure to pass that along.”

Then he was gone, the bell chiming softly above him as the door shut.

But something lingered. That scent, maybe. Or the quiet flirtation. Or the unspoken I hope you come back that lived between the petals.

And for the first time in a long time, Hotch found himself already thinking about what arrangement he’d need next.

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