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loving-daisy · 2 months ago

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Snitches and Potions | Severus Snape x Reader

loving-daisy masterlist

summary: Merlin knows that he didn't even have to lift a finger because Y/N Black would always choose Severus Snape in a heartbeat

words: 11.3k

────────── ♱ · 𓆩🤍𓆪 · ♱ ─

Severus Snape sat in the stands, his black eyes fixed on the emerald blur darting across the sky. Y/N Black, his best friend, was captaining the Slytherin Quidditch team for the second year in a row, and as their Seeker, she was ruthless—fast, strategic, and relentless.

He knew her well enough to see past the composed mask she always wore. The way she clenched the handle of her broom just a little tighter and the sharpness in her turns. She wanted to win and she wanted it badly.

Sirius Black, her older brother and his tormentor, was in the Gryffindor stands, shouting her name in a mix of taunts and encouragement.

The contrast between them was stark.

While Sirius played for Gryffindor’s team with reckless, cocky confidence, Y/N’s approach was different. She was focused, calculating, and played to win rather than to show off.

Snape wasn’t usually one for Quidditch, but he had never missed a match she played in. He would never admit it, but watching her chase the Snitch, defying gravity with a smirk on her lips, was one of the few things that made Hogwarts bearable.

A flash of gold appeared near the Gryffindor goalposts, and without hesitation, Y/N shot forward, her broom slicing through the air. Snape leaned forward instinctively, heart pounding despite himself.

“Come on, Black,” he muttered under his breath, gripping the fabric of his robes as she closed in on the Snitch.

The Gryffindor Seeker, a wiry seventh-year, was just a few feet behind her, pushing his broom to its limit. But Y/N was faster. Snape had seen her fly countless times, had even watched her practice in secret when she thought no one was looking.

He knew her style. She didn’t lunge blindly for the Snitch. She was patient, calculated.

And then, just when it seemed like the Gryffindor Seeker might overtake her, she swerved at the last second, forcing him to adjust. That split-second hesitation was all she needed.

With a sharp dive, she stretched out her gloved hand, her fingers closing around the Snitch.

The stadium erupted into noise, but Snape barely heard any of it. His eyes were locked on Y/N as she straightened up, wind whipping through her hair, her triumphant smirk unmistakable even from a distance. She held the Snitch high as the Slytherin stands exploded in cheers.

Across the pitch, Sirius Black groaned, throwing his head back dramatically. “Bloody hell, Y/N! You’re supposed to be a Gryffindor at heart!” he yelled, though there was a grudging sort of pride in his voice.

Y/N turned her broom sharply toward the Gryffindor stands and, without missing a beat, flipped her older brother off.

Severus let out a rare chuckle, shaking his head.

That was Y/N Black. She was unapologetic, sharp-tongued, and effortlessly brilliant.

He found himself smirking as she landed, her teammates swarming her in celebration.

Part of him wanted to go down there, to congratulate her before the rest of Slytherin stole her attention. But instead, he simply watched from his spot in the stands, arms crossed, as she basked in her victory. She didn’t need his words to know he was proud. She would just know.

As Y/N landed, her teammates swarmed her, shouting, clapping her on the back, and ruffling her hair. She barely acknowledged them, her sharp eyes scanning the crowd instead.

Then, without a word, she pushed past them.

“Oi, where’s she going?” one of the Chasers muttered.

“She’s probably off to rub it in her brother’s face,” another laughed.

But they were wrong.

Y/N wasn’t heading for Sirius. She wasn’t even acknowledging the rest of Slytherin’s celebration.

She was walking straight toward the stands, straight toward him.

Severus Snape sat frozen for a moment, his arms still crossed, before hurriedly schooling his expression back into indifference. His heartbeat, however, betrayed him.

Y/N reached him, standing just in front of where he sat, her broom still clutched in one hand, the Snitch resting in the other. She tilted her head at him, her smirk sharp and teasing.

“You gonna congratulate me, or are you too busy sulking about whatever it is that you sulk about?” she taunted, breathless from the match.

Snape rolled his eyes. “As if I care about Quidditch.”

Y/N scoffed. “Oh, please. I saw you watching me.”

She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice. “You always do.”

Severus’s grip on his robes tightened, but he didn’t deny it. Instead, he exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “You fly like an idiot. One wrong move, and you could’ve broken your neck.”

“Ah, so you were worried,” she teased, grinning.

“Hardly,” he muttered, but there was no venom behind it.

Y/N studied him for a moment before extending her hand, the one holding the Snitch. His brow furrowed in confusion as she placed it in his palm.

“A souvenir,” she said, shrugging. “For sitting through an entire match just for me.”

Severus stared at the Snitch in his hand, then back at her. His fingers curled around the cool metal, and for once, he didn’t have a sharp remark ready.

Y/N grinned, clearly pleased with herself. “Come on, Snape. Walk with me before the team kidnaps me for some over-the-top victory party.”

And just like that, she turned, expecting him to follow.

With a sigh, one that was far too fond for his liking, Severus tucked the Snitch into his pocket and stood, trailing after her.

As they walked away from the roaring Slytherin crowd, Severus fell into step beside her, hands shoved into his robes. The Snitch sat in his pocket, its tiny wings twitching now and then, but he ignored it.

Y/N strode forward with that effortless confidence of hers, broom over one shoulder, head held high like she owned the castle. And in some ways, she did.

She was a Black, a Slytherin, a bloody brilliant Seeker. Everyone either admired her, feared her, or wanted to be her.

And yet, here she was. Choosing to spend her post-victory moment with him.

They reached a quieter corridor, the distant cheers fading behind them. Y/N finally exhaled, tilting her head back against the cool stone wall. “Merlin, I thought that match would never end.”

“You made quick work of it,” Severus muttered, leaning beside her. “Wasn’t even a challenge, was it?”

She smirked, eyes glinting. “Not even close.” Then, nudging him with her elbow, she added, “You enjoyed it, admit it.”

He scoffed. “I tolerated it.”

Y/N rolled her eyes but let it slide. Instead, she turned to him fully, studying him with an unreadable expression.

“You know,” she mused, “you’re the only one I actually wanted to talk to after that match.”

Severus swallowed, caught off guard. “Why?”

“Because you don’t treat me like I’m some bloody trophy,” she said simply.

“Everyone else is off celebrating me—but you just… I don’t know.” She paused, as if searching for the right words. “You see me. Not just the captain, or the Seeker, or ‘Sirius Black’s little sister.’ Just me.”

Severus felt his throat go dry. He looked away, unsure what to say to that.

Y/N didn’t push him for an answer. Instead, she grinned, leaning closer. “So, since you’re such a dedicated fan now, you coming to my next match?”

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “If I must.”

She laughed. It was bright, unapologetic, and it was the kind of laugh that made even his cold, guarded heart warm just a little.

“You must.”

Y/N pushed open the door to an empty classroom, stepping inside like she owned the place. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows against the stone walls, the only sound the faint echo of the ongoing celebration down in the dungeons.

Severus followed, closing the door behind them. “Skipping the victory party entirely, then?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Y/N tossed her broom onto an abandoned desk and hopped up onto another, swinging her legs.

“Please. If I stay any longer, they’ll shove Firewhisky down my throat and make me listen to Mulciber’s tragic attempts at flirting.” She smirked. “I’d rather be here.”

Severus leaned against the opposite desk, arms crossed. “With me?”

“With you.” Her voice was softer now, less teasing.

He didn’t know what to say to that, so he looked down, pulling the Snitch from his pocket and watching it twitch in his palm.

Y/N’s eyes flicked to it. “Like it?”

Severus huffed. “You forced it on me.”

She tilted her head. “But you haven’t given it back.”

He hesitated, fingers tightening around the Snitch. The truth was, he liked having it. A reminder that, out of everyone in that bloody Quidditch pitch, she had chosen him to share her moment with.

Y/N grinned, clearly pleased with his silence. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

Rolling his eyes, Severus flicked his wand at the candles, dimming them slightly. The atmosphere shifted into a quieter and more intimate setting. The usual playful edge between them softened, replaced with something unspoken but heavy in the air.

She watched him carefully, then sighed, leaning back on her hands.

“You know, for someone who ‘doesn’t care about Quidditch,’ you sure looked invested today.”

Severus exhaled sharply.

“I wasn’t invested—”

“You were leaning forward in the stands.”

“I was watching.”

“You muttered something under your breath when I went for the Snitch.”

“That doesn’t—”

“You were worried about me.” Her voice was light, teasing, but there was something searching in her gaze.

Severus clenched his jaw. “…You could have broken your neck.”

Y/N’s smirk faltered just slightly. “But I didn’t.”

“That’s not the point.”

She studied him for a long moment, then hopped down from the desk, stepping closer.

“Sev.” Her voice was softer now, almost careful. “You do care.”

He swallowed hard. It was infuriating, the way she could see right through him.

“…You’re so annoying,” he muttered.

She grinned. “And you love it.”

Severus refused to dignify that with a response, but he didn’t move away when she plucked the Snitch from his hand, rolling it between her fingers before throwing it back at him. Severus put it back in his pocket.

Silence settled between them, warm and heavy.

After a moment, Y/N smirked. “So, since we’re skipping the party, what do you suggest we do?”

Severus glanced at her, at the flickering candlelight dancing in her eyes.

“…Stay here,” he said finally. “Talk. Until they give up looking for you.”

Y/N hummed in approval, tossing the Snitch lightly into the air before catching it again. “Sounds perfect.”

And so they stayed.

Severus sat on the edge of the desk, arms crossed as he fixed Y/N with a sharp look. “Have you even read the new Advanced Potions textbook yet?”

Y/N, who had settled comfortably into the chair beside him, legs draped lazily over one armrest, snorted.

“No, Severus, I thought I’d just wing it on my N.E.W.T.s.”

He sighed dramatically, pulling the book from his bag and flipping through the pages with an irritated sort of reverence. “Then you haven’t noticed the absurd number of errors in it.”

Y/N quirked an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Errors? In the Slughorn-approved textbook?”

Severus scoffed. “Slughorn wouldn’t notice an error if it exploded in his face. Which, frankly, some of these might.”

He jabbed at a particular page with his finger. “Here. Draught of Living Death. Ridiculous instructions. If you follow them as written, the potion will be unstable and potentially lethal.”

Y/N leaned forward, peering at the text. “It says to stir counterclockwise seven times.”

“Exactly.” He flipped a few more pages aggressively. “And this one—Babbling Beverage? Why in Merlin’s name would they suggest stewing the rat spleens first? That ruins the consistency completely.”

Y/N grinned, resting her chin on her hand. “You really love this stuff, don’t you?”

Severus paused, caught off guard. His fingers, which had been poised to flip to yet another grievous offense, hesitated over the pages.

“…It’s logical,” he said finally, shrugging as if it didn’t matter. “Precise. Potions do what they’re supposed to if you follow the right process.”

Y/N studied him, something unreadable in her gaze. Then, she reached out and plucked the book from his hands.

“Oi—”

“Relax, Sev,” she drawled, skimming through the pages. “If you hate this version so much, why don’t you just rewrite it yourself?”

He blinked. “What?”

“You already know what’s wrong with it. Fix it. Make notes, change the instructions, do whatever you do with your creepy little personal experiments.” She smirked.

“Merlin knows you’d probably make a better textbook than this rubbish.”

Severus stared at her, lips parting slightly in surprise.

“…You might actually be onto something,” he admitted.

Y/N laughed, tossing the book back at him. “A rare moment of brilliance, I know.”

He rolled his eyes but tucked the idea away, running his fingers over the cover thoughtfully.

Maybe she was right.

Y/N smirked as she watched Severus flip furiously through the pages of the textbook, muttering to himself.

“This is completely wrong,” he grumbled, tapping the page with the tip of his wand. “They’re telling students to add crushed asphodel before the infusion of wormwood. That completely alters the reaction time. If anything, it weakens the potion instead of enhancing it.”

Y/N continued to rest her chin in her palm, watching him with amusement. “And what would you do instead, Professor Snape?”

Severus shot her a glare, but his irritation was undercut by the slight twitch at the corner of his lips. “I’d start with finely ground asphodel. Not crushed, because consistency matters. Then, let it steep after the wormwood infusion. That way, the properties mix properly instead of counteracting each other like whatever idiot wrote this thinks they should.”

Y/N whistled. “You really do think this book is a personal insult, don’t you?”

“It is an insult,” he snapped, flipping to another page.

“This is supposed to be advanced potion-making, not first-year-level incompetence. Look at this. Elixir to Induce Euphoria. The instructions say to stir clockwise the entire time. That’s idiotic. You need to alternate clockwise and counterclockwise to balance the infusion properly, or it’ll be too volatile.”

Y/N couldn’t help but grin.

There was something fascinating about the way he spoke when he got like this. It was sharp, passionate, as if the entire world should care about potion-making as much as he did.

“I have to say, this is the most passionate I’ve ever seen you about anything that isn’t glaring at my brother.”

Severus sighed dramatically. “If I didn’t have to waste my time dealing with him, I could actually focus on things that matter.”

Y/N chuckled. “So potions matter to you, then?”

He hesitated. “…Obviously.”

She tilted her head, watching him thoughtfully. “Then why don’t you make your own notes? Your own version of the textbook? You know more than half the idiots who’ll be using this, anyway.”

Severus was silent for a moment, his fingers tapping lightly against the cover. Then, slowly, he reached into his bag and pulled out a battered old notebook, its pages filled with scribbles, corrections, and improvements in his precise, slanted handwriting.

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “You’ve already started, haven’t you?”

Severus cleared his throat, flipping through the notebook as if he hadn’t just been caught red-handed. “I just thought it would be useful to have the right information written down. For myself.”

Y/N smirked. “And for anyone smart enough to steal your book.”

He scoffed. “As if I’d let anyone get their hands on it.”

She grinned. “You’re a genius, Sev. You know that, right?”

He faltered for just a second, gripping the book a little tighter. “…Hardly.”

But Y/N just shook her head, leaning back. “Well, I think so.”

Severus didn’t respond, but he didn’t argue, either.

Instead, he went right back to ranting about the next mistake in the textbook. This time, something about a disastrous bezoar dosage and Y/N just listened, secretly enjoying every second of it.

Severus was mid-rant about improper bezoar usage when he noticed Y/N staring at him, a slow grin tugging at her lips. Her head still rested on her palm, her elbow propped lazily on the desk, eyes bright with amusement.

He faltered. “What?”

Y/N’s grin widened. “Nothing. Just enjoying the show.”

His brows furrowed. “I’m not performing.”

“You are,” she teased, tapping her fingers against her cheek.

“A very passionate, very angry performance about the dangers of incompetent potion-making. Quite riveting, actually.”

Severus rolled his eyes, closing the textbook with a sharp thud.

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet, here you are, ranting to me instead of to your cauldron in the dungeons,” she pointed out.

He exhaled sharply, leaning back against the desk. “Because you actually listen.”

Y/N’s expression softened slightly. “Of course, I do.”

A beat of silence passed between them. Severus shifted uncomfortably under her gaze, not used to being looked at like that. Like he was worth listening to.

“…You’re staring,” he muttered.

“Observing,” she corrected.

He scoffed. “And what, exactly, are you observing?”

She tilted her head, studying him like he was a particularly interesting puzzle. “Just that you get this look when you talk about potions.”

He narrowed his eyes. “A look?”

“Mhm,” she hummed, lips curling. “Like the rest of the world disappears, and it’s just you and whatever ridiculous mistake you’re trying to fix.”

Severus hesitated, unsure how to respond to that. He’d never thought about it before. But the way she said it made his chest feel strangely tight.

Y/N smirked at his silence. “It’s kind of nice, you know. Seeing you actually care about something.”

He huffed, looking away. “You make it sound as if I don’t care about anything.”

“Well,” she mused, “besides potions, glaring at Gryffindors, and being thoroughly unimpressed with everyone else…”

She tapped her chin. “No, can’t say I’ve seen you care about much else.”

He shot her a flat look. “Hilarious.”

She grinned. “I try.”

Another pause. The candles flickered, casting soft shadows across the old classroom.

Then, Y/N’s voice was quieter, more thoughtful. “I like when you talk about potions.”

Severus glanced at her, caught off guard by the sincerity in her tone.

Y/N shrugged, still watching him. “It’s nice hearing you talk about something that makes you happy.”

He opened his mouth, but no words came. Because no one had ever said that to him before.

After a moment, he cleared his throat, looking back down at his notebook.

“…It’s not happiness,” he muttered. “It’s just—logic.”

Y/N just smiled knowingly. “If you say so, Sev.”

And despite himself, Severus didn’t argue.

Severus sat back against the desk, his fingers drumming lightly against the cover of his notebook.

After a moment, he sighed and said, almost begrudgingly, “You played well today.”

Y/N blinked, then grinned. “Was that a compliment from Severus Snape? Merlin, I must be dreaming.”

He rolled his eyes, but there was the faintest hint of amusement tugging at the corner of his lips. “Don’t get used to it.”

“Oh, I definitely will,” she teased, leaning back in her chair. “Go on, say it again. Just so I know I didn’t hallucinate it.”

Severus huffed, crossing his arms. “I’m not repeating myself.”

“Pity,” she sighed dramatically. “Would’ve been nice to have it burned into my memory forever.”

He shook his head, but his gaze lingered on her, something softer in his usually sharp eyes.

“You were impressive,” he admitted after a moment. “Even Slughorn wouldn’t stop talking about how Slytherin finally has a proper Seeker.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Slughorn, huh? What about you? Were you impressed?”

Severus scoffed. “I’m always impressed by competency. And considering the rest of the team is mediocre at best, it’s fortunate you know what you’re doing.”

Y/N laughed. “High praise, coming from you.”

He glanced away, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “It was… entertaining. Watching you completely humiliate Gryffindor.”

Y/N smirked. “So that’s what you enjoyed.”

“Obviously.”

She chuckled, shaking her head. “Well, I am the best.”

Severus rolled his eyes. “Now you’re pushing it.”

Y/N only grinned, nudging his knee with her foot. “Admit it, Sev. You liked watching me play.”

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “If I admit it, will you finally stop pestering me?”

“Maybe,” she teased.

Severus exhaled, looking at her for a long moment before shaking his head. “…You were good.”

Y/N’s grin widened. “Knew it.”

He shook his head again, but despite his best efforts, he couldn’t quite hide the small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at his lips.

Severus pulled his hand from his robe pocket, the small golden Snitch resting in his palm. The tiny wings fluttered weakly against his fingers, as if reluctant to leave his grasp.

“I believe this belongs to you,” he said, holding it out to Y/N.

She looked at it, then at him, and instead of taking it, she just smirked and leaned back in her chair. “Keep it.”

Severus frowned. “What?”

“Keep it,” she repeated, her voice softer this time. “So you’ll always remember me.”

His fingers curled slightly around the Snitch as he processed her words, his dark eyes flickering with something unreadable. “…Why would I need something to remember you by?”

Y/N grinned. “Because, Sev, someday I’ll be famous. Hogwarts’ best Seeker, a legend in the making. And when that happens, you’ll want to say you knew me first.”

He scoffed, but there was no real bite to it.

Severus looked down at the Snitch in his palm, the tiny wings brushing against his skin. He could have argued. He could have insisted she take it back. But instead, he closed his fingers around it and slipped it back into his pocket, letting the weight of it settle against him.

“…Fine,” he muttered. “I’ll keep it.”

Y/N smiled. “Good.”

And for the first time that night, Severus didn’t have a single complaint.

The next morning, the Great Hall buzzed with the usual morning chatter, but Severus barely paid it any mind. He sat at the Slytherin table, absently picking at his breakfast, still adjusting to the idea of carrying a Snitch in his pocket. Her Snitch.

And then, like clockwork, Y/N slid into the seat beside him, nudging his shoulder with hers. “Morning, Sev.”

He huffed, not looking up from his plate. “You’re awfully cheerful.”

“I did win a match yesterday,” she reminded him smugly, grabbing a piece of toast. “And, you know, got a very rare compliment from a certain grumpy Potions prodigy.”

Severus rolled his eyes. “I’m beginning to regret it.”

“Oh, don’t be like that.” She smirked, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. “Did you sleep well? You and your new prized possession, I mean.”

He stiffened slightly, but kept his expression neutral. “It’s just a Snitch.”

“My Snitch,” she corrected, taking a bite of her toast. “Did you put it somewhere safe?”

Severus exhaled through his nose, reaching into his pocket and subtly showing her the small golden sphere resting in his palm before tucking it away again. “Satisfied?”

Y/N grinned. “Very.”

He shook his head, turning his attention back to his breakfast, but he didn’t push her away when she leaned comfortably against him.

Narcissa Black sat gracefully across from them, her sharp blue eyes scanning Y/N with mild curiosity as she stirred her tea.

“You weren’t at the victory party last night.” It wasn’t a question. It was an observation, one laced with subtle judgment.

Y/N smirked, casually buttering her toast. “Oh, you noticed?”

“Of course, I noticed,” Narcissa replied, arching a perfectly shaped brow.

“You were the star of the match, and yet, no celebratory gloating? No basking in the glory of your own success?”

She tilted her head slightly. “Very unlike you, cousin.”

Severus huffed quietly, hiding his amusement behind his goblet of pumpkin juice.

Y/N shrugged. “Didn’t feel like it.”

Narcissa’s eyes flickered between the two of them before landing back on Y/N. “You did disappear rather quickly after the match…”

Y/N smirked. “What can I say? Had better company.” She nudged Severus with her knee under the table, earning an unimpressed glance from him.

Narcissa’s gaze sharpened, her lips curving slightly.

“I see.” She rested her chin on her hand, watching Y/N with something between amusement and suspicion.

“So, instead of celebrating with your adoring fans, you spent your evening somewhere, locked away with Severus.”

Y/N gave an exaggerated sigh, placing a hand on her chest. “Oh, forgive me, dear cousin, for prioritizing meaningful conversation over drunken debauchery.”

Narcissa rolled her eyes. “Please, you love the attention.”

“True,” Y/N admitted easily. “But I love annoying Sev more.”

Severus scoffed, not looking up from his plate. “How fortunate for me.”

Narcissa observed the two of them for a moment, then smirked. “Well, I do hope he made it worth your while.”

Y/N’s grin was immediate. “Oh, he did.”

Severus stiffened, glaring at her. “Don’t say it like that.”

Narcissa chuckled, sipping her tea. “Interesting choice of company, Y/N.”

Y/N just leaned back, perfectly unbothered. “Best choice, actually.”

Severus didn’t say anything but under the table, his fingers curled around the Snitch in his pocket.

“Anyways…Sirius came looking for you yesterday. Something about introducing you to his best mate, Potter. I think he fancies you,” Narcissa said, her tone light, but her gaze sharp as she watched Y/N’s reaction.

Y/N snorted, tearing off another bite of toast.

“James Potter? Fancies me? Please, Cissy, don’t insult my intelligence.”

“I’m serious,” Narcissa pressed, twirling a strand of blonde hair between her fingers.

“Sirius wouldn’t shut up about it. He kept saying how he thinks you and Potter would ‘get on brilliantly.’”

Severus, who had been silent up until now, suddenly gripped his fork a little too tightly. His jaw tensed, but he said nothing, staring at his plate as if it personally offended him.

Y/N sighed dramatically.

“And yet, somehow, I doubt James Potter would be terribly interested in me, given the way he practically worships Evans.”

Narcissa waved a hand dismissively. “Yes, well, maybe he’s expanding his options. You are the Black everyone actually likes, after all.”

Severus scoffed, finally breaking his silence. “Potter is an arrogant, brainless git. You’d sooner find a Kneazle getting along with a Manticore than have an intelligent conversation with him.”

Y/N smirked at his tone. “Aw, Sev, that almost sounded jealous.”

His scowl deepened. “I don’t get jealous.”

Narcissa raised an eyebrow at him, her lips curling into a knowing smirk. “Right. And yet, you look like you’re about to hex your plate into oblivion.”

Severus set his fork down with deliberate care, clearly restraining himself. “I simply find it unbelievable that anyone would subject themselves to Potter’s presence willingly.”

Y/N chuckled, nudging him with her elbow.

“Don’t worry, Sev. If I ever lose all sense of self-respect and go anywhere near James Potter, you’ll be the first to know.”

His expression didn’t soften, but the tight grip on his robes loosened ever so slightly.

“See that you don’t,” he muttered.

Narcissa just smiled behind her teacup, watching them both with interest.

“As if Potter has a chance…” Y/N scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Did he really think I’d choose him over Severus? He’s literally a bully, just like that Gryffindor of a brother of mine.”

Severus, who had been gripping his goblet a little too tightly, stilled at her words. His dark eyes flickered to her face, searching for any sign that she was joking. But she wasn’t. She had said it so casually, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Narcissa, however, only hummed, looking thoroughly entertained. “Oh? So you are choosing Severus, then?”

Y/N smirked.

“Obviously.”

She leaned into Severus slightly, her shoulder pressing against his. “Why would I waste my time with a Potter when I already have the best company?”

Severus swallowed hard, his face carefully blank but his fingers twitched slightly against the table. He knew better than to read into her words, but for the first time that morning, the tension in his shoulders eased just a little.

Narcissa’s smirk widened. “Interesting,” she mused, tilting her head.

“You’re lucky, Severus.”

Severus huffed, finally recovering enough to roll his eyes. “If that’s what you want to call it.”

Y/N grinned, resting her chin on her palm. “It is.”

And despite himself, Severus didn’t argue.

Narcissa took a slow sip of her tea, her smirk never wavering.

“Well, that settles it, then. I suppose I’ll have to break the tragic news to Potter—he never stood a chance.”

Y/N chuckled. “Oh, please do. And be sure to tell Sirius that I’d rather hex myself than date his insufferable best mate.”

Severus let out a quiet breath, his fingers still curled around his goblet.

“Speaking of your Gryffindor brother,” Narcissa continued, setting her cup down with a soft clink, “he was in quite the mood when I saw him last night. Apparently, he’s rather upset that you’re still spending all your time with Severus instead of ‘better company.’”

Y/N rolled her eyes, stealing a piece of fruit from Severus’ plate.

“Right, because his definition of ‘better company’ consists of Potter and Lupin and that other friend of theirs. No, thanks.”

Severus sneered at the mention of them, his grip on his goblet tightening again. “Black should concern himself with his own miserable existence and stay out of yours.”

Y/N smirked, popping the fruit into her mouth. “Agreed.”

She turned to Severus, nudging him with her knee. “But if he ever tries to drag me to the Gryffindor common room, do me a favor and curse me unconscious, yeah?”

Severus gave her a flat look. “I’d do it regardless.”

Y/N laughed, completely unbothered, while Narcissa shook her head in amusement. “You two are ridiculous.”

“And yet,” Y/N said, resting her head on Severus’ shoulder, “you’re still sitting with us.”

Narcissa merely smirked, watching the way Severus stiffened at the sudden contact, his ears just barely tinged red. “Oh, I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

Once Narcissa had finished her tea and had her fun at their expense, she stood gracefully, smoothing out her robes. “Well, I’ll leave you two to… whatever this is.” She shot Y/N a knowing look before glancing at Severus with the same amused expression. “Try not to let her get you into too much trouble, Severus.”

Severus merely scowled, but Y/N grinned. “No promises.”

With a quiet chuckle, Narcissa turned and left the Great Hall, her blonde hair swaying as she went.

The moment she was out of earshot, Severus finally spoke, his voice quieter than before.

“You didn’t have to say that.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Say what?”

Severus shifted slightly, his fingers brushing over his pocket where the Snitch still rested.

“That you’d choose me over Potter,” he muttered, almost like he didn’t believe it.

Y/N rolled her eyes, propping her elbow on the table and resting her chin on her palm. “But I would.”

He frowned, clearly skeptical. “It’s not a competition.”

“Well, if it were, you’d win.”

Severus looked at her then, really looked at her, as if trying to find the punchline in her words.

But there wasn’t one.

Y/N was being completely serious.

“…Why?” he asked after a beat.

Y/N tilted her head, her gaze softening just a fraction.

“Because I actually like spending time with you, Sev.” She nudged his knee under the table, smirking. “And because you’re my favorite.”

Severus swallowed, looking away as a faint redness dusted his pale cheeks. He wasn’t used to being anyone’s favorite.

“…Idiot,” he muttered, but there was no venom in his voice.

Y/N grinned. “That’s me.”

And for the first time that morning, Severus let himself relax, the weight of the Snitch in his pocket grounding him as he sat beside the only person who had ever truly chosen him.

After finishing breakfast, Y/N and Severus stood from the Slytherin table, grabbing their books and making their way toward the dungeons for Potions class.

Severus walked beside her, his usual scowl in place, but Y/N could tell he wasn’t actually annoyed. If anything, he seemed more thoughtful than usual, his fingers idly drumming against the spine of his Potions textbook.

Y/N bumped her shoulder against his. “What’s with the brooding? Thinking of new ways to make Potter’s life miserable?”

Severus scoffed. “I don’t need to think of new ways. He’s miserable enough just existing.”

Y/N laughed. “That’s fair.”

They arrived at the dimly lit Potions classroom, where students were already filing in. Slughorn, ever the enthusiastic professor, was scribbling today’s instructions on the blackboard.

Y/N and Severus slid into their usual seats at the back, setting their books down.

“Another partnered assignment today,” Y/N observed, glancing at the board. “Think Slughorn will have the audacity to separate us?”

Severus smirked slightly, his dark eyes flickering toward the front of the room. “He wouldn’t dare.”

And, as if proving his point, when Slughorn finally addressed the class, he didn’t even bother reassigning partners.

“Excellent, excellent! You may stay with your current partners,” Slughorn announced. “Today, we’ll be brewing a Draught of Peace! A rather delicate potion. One mistake and it won’t work at all.”

Severus rolled his eyes as Slughorn droned on about the potion’s properties. Y/N, meanwhile, leaned toward him, grinning. “Bet I’ll finish mine before you.”

Severus raised an eyebrow. “You can’t even cut ingredients properly.”

“That’s slander.”

“That’s fact.”

Y/N huffed but still smirked as she flipped open her textbook.

“Fine, Professor Snape, you do all the chopping, and I’ll handle the brewing.”

Severus sighed as if this was the greatest burden in the world, but he didn’t argue. He never did when it came to her.

And so, as the rest of the class struggled, Y/N and Severus worked seamlessly, the usual banter filling the space between them as they brewed yet another flawless potion—together.

As usual, working with Severus was effortless. While other students fumbled with their ingredients, misread instructions, or hesitated over their cauldrons, Y/N and Severus moved like a well-oiled machine.

Severus meticulously chopped the ingredients, his precise, practiced movements ensuring uniform slices. Y/N, despite her usual teasing, took the brewing process seriously, stirring at the exact pace and adding the ingredients only when Severus nodded in approval.

“Steady,” he murmured as she carefully poured in the powdered moonstone.

Y/N smirked. “You act like I’m about to botch the whole thing.”

“Because you would,” he replied dryly.

Y/N gasped in mock offense. “Rude.”

Severus merely shook his head, a rare, almost amused look flickering across his features. “Just keep stirring.”

They continued working, the soft bubbling of their potion filling the space between them. Around them, students groaned in frustration as some had cauldrons emitting faint purple smoke, while others had turned a worrying shade of green.

Slughorn made his way around the room, peering into cauldrons and offering words of encouragement (or, in some cases, looks of deep disappointment). When he reached their station, he beamed.

“Ah, exquisite work, as always!” he declared, clapping his hands together. “Perfect color, perfect consistency. Well done, well done!”

Severus merely inclined his head, while Y/N grinned. “Naturally.”

Slughorn chuckled. “I daresay, the two of you make quite the brilliant team. Perhaps I should have you brewing for me.”

Y/N nudged Severus. “Hear that, Sev? We’re brilliant.”

Severus scoffed, but his lips twitched slightly. “I am brilliant. You’re just lucky you sit next to me.”

Slughorn let out a hearty laugh. “Oh, you remind me of myself in my youth, Severus! Such confidence, such talent! If you ever have any interest in pursuing Potions beyond Hogwarts, I would be more than happy to offer guidance.”

Severus gave a polite nod. “Thank you, sir.”

Slughorn turned to Y/N. “And you, Miss Black. Remarkable work as well! Though I must say, I’m quite surprised you didn’t celebrate your Quidditch victory last night.”

Y/N shrugged, glancing at Severus briefly. “Didn’t feel like it.”

Slughorn raised an eyebrow.

“Ah, well. More dedicated to your studies, I see! Excellent priorities, my dear.”

He gave them both a final pleased nod before moving on to the next station.

As soon as he was out of earshot, Y/N turned to Severus. “See? Brilliant team.”

Severus exhaled, shaking his head as he began cleaning up their workspace. “Don’t let it get to your head.”

“Too late.”

And for the rest of the class, while their classmates struggled, Y/N and Severus sat back, their potion already perfected—just as always.

Severus sat with his quill resting idly between his fingers, his gaze flickering between his parchment and Y/N as she leaned over to copy his notes.

She didn’t even bother asking anymore. She just slid his notebook closer, turned her own to a blank page, and began copying down his meticulous handwriting with lazy, fluid strokes.

Severus should have been irritated. Should have snapped at her to take her own notes, to pay attention instead of relying on him.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he watched as she absentmindedly chewed the end of her quill, her brows furrowing slightly in concentration. A few strands of her dark hair fell forward, brushing against the parchment, and every so often, she tapped her fingers against the desk in an offbeat rhythm.

She had done this a hundred times before. Stealing his notes, ignoring her own half-written ones, leaning just a little too close without realizing it. But for some reason, today, Severus couldn’t look away.

“Sev,” Y/N suddenly said, not looking up, still writing.

He blinked, straightening slightly. “What?”

“You’re staring.”

His grip on his quill tightened. “No, I’m not.”

Y/N smirked, finally glancing at him from beneath her lashes. “You are.”

Severus scoffed, shifting in his seat, his expression settling back into its usual scowl. “You’re copying my notes. I’m simply making sure you don’t ruin them with your atrocious handwriting.”

Y/N gasped in mock offense, pressing a dramatic hand to her chest.

“Atrocious? Excuse me, I happen to have flawless handwriting.”

Severus snatched his notebook back, flipping it shut.

“It’s a disgrace.”

Y/N laughed, resting her chin on her palm as she gazed at him, entirely unbothered. “Then I guess you’ll just have to keep taking notes for me forever.”

Severus rolled his eyes, but his lips twitched slightly. It was just enough for Y/N to catch.

─ ♱ · 𓆩🤍𓆪 · ♱ ──────────

The Slytherin common room was quiet that night, the usual chatter of students fading as most had either gone to bed or were off doing Merlin-knows-what in the castle. The fire crackled softly in the dimly lit space, casting long shadows across the stone walls.

Severus and Y/N sat side by side on the emerald-green sofa closest to the fireplace, books open on their laps.

Well, Severus was reading. Y/N was halfheartedly flipping through her textbook, occasionally tapping her fingers against the spine, clearly bored.

After a few minutes of silence, she let out a dramatic sigh, tilting her head to look at him.

“Sev.”

He didn’t look up from his book. “What?”

“I’m bored.”

Severus exhaled sharply, still not looking at her.

“Then go to bed.”

Y/N ignored that completely and shifted to rest her head against his shoulder.

“Nah. This is fine.”

Severus stiffened for half a second before forcing himself to relax. It wasn’t the first time she’d done this, leaning against him like it was the most natural thing in the world, but it always caught him off guard.

“You’re distracting,” he muttered, eyes still on his book.

“I’m existing,” she corrected, smirking against his shoulder.

“Exactly.”

Y/N chuckled, and the sound was warm, familiar. She didn’t move away, though, and after a moment, Severus found himself leaning into it.

They sat like that for a while, the only sounds being the flickering of the fire and the occasional turn of a page.

“I’m stealing your notes again tomorrow.”

Severus sighed, closing his book. “Of course you are.”

And when she smiled, drowsy and content, Severus simply shook his head.

The common room grew quieter as the fire burned lower, casting flickering shadows across the walls. Severus had long since stopped reading, though his book remained open in his lap.

Y/N had gone still beside him, her head slipping from his shoulder. He glanced down just in time to see her shift, curling up slightly as her head now resting against his lap.

Severus tensed.

His breath hitched, his entire body going rigid as if moving even an inch would somehow wake her. But Y/N didn’t stir. She simply exhaled softly, her face peaceful, her arms tucked beneath her head as she settled deeper against him.

For a long moment, Severus just stared.

Her hair spilled over his robes, the firelight casting a warm glow on her features.

She looked… comfortable. Completely at ease.

He should wake her up. Tell her to go to bed.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he swallowed hard and carefully set his book aside. His fingers twitched as if debating whether or not to move, to touch her, but he quickly clenched them into fists, keeping them at his sides.

Merlin, she was infuriating.

Did she even realize what she did to him? How she invaded his space so easily, so effortlessly, like she belonged there?

Severus exhaled sharply through his nose, forcing himself to lean back against the sofa. He couldn’t (wouldn’t) wake her.

Not when she looked like that.

So, instead, he sat there, unmoving, his heartbeat entirely too loud in his ears. And as the fire crackled beside him, Severus Snape did something he never allowed himself to do.

He let himself enjoy the moment.

Severus hesitated. His fingers hovered just above Y/N’s hair, as if touching her would shatter the quiet, fragile peace of the moment.

But she was there, asleep on his lap, her breathing slow and even. The firelight cast soft golden hues across her skin, making her seem almost unreal like something delicate and untouchable.

Severus exhaled, then, before he could think better of it, finally let his fingers brush against her hair.

It was soft. Softer than he expected. His movements were tentative at first, barely there, but when she didn’t stir but simply nestled deeper against him, he let himself continue.

He didn’t know why he did it. He had never been one for tenderness, never the type to comfort or soothe. But with Y/N, it felt natural.

His fingers threaded through her hair again, and his breath caught when she shifted slightly, a faint hum escaping her lips.

Severus stilled, his heart hammering against his ribs. But Y/N only sighed in her sleep, her body relaxing further against him.

His hand lingered for just a moment longer before he withdrew it, resting it tensely on the armrest.

This was dangerous.

She was dangerous.

Because if she kept doing this, kept looking at him like that, touching him like it meant something, falling asleep on him like he was someone safe, he wasn’t sure how much longer he could pretend he didn’t want her.

And that terrified him more than anything.

────────── ♱ · 𓆩🤍𓆪 · ♱ ─

The wind was crisp as Y/N and Severus made their way down the cobbled streets of Hogsmeade, the chatter of students filling the air.

It had been a few weeks since that night in the common room—since Y/N had unknowingly ruined Severus with her presence, her warmth, the feeling of her hair slipping through his fingers.

And now, here they were, walking side by side, the snow crunching beneath their feet as Y/N tugged on his sleeve.

“Come on, Sev,” she said, linking her arm through his as if it was the most natural thing in the world. “You walk so slowly.”

Severus stiffened at the contact, his breath catching for just a fraction of a second.

She was touching him again.

And not just touching but rather clinging. As if she belonged there. As if she didn’t even have to think about it.

Y/N didn’t seem to notice his internal crisis, though. She simply grinned, leaning slightly into his side as they made their way toward Honeydukes.

“I don’t know why you even agreed to come,” she teased, nudging him with her shoulder. “You hate sweets.”

“I don’t hate them,” Severus muttered, keeping his gaze firmly ahead, pretending that the warmth of her arm against his wasn’t distracting him.

“I just don’t see the point in wasting my money on sugar when I could buy something useful.”

Y/N gasped dramatically. “Excuse me? Sweets are useful. They’re essential, actually.”

Severus rolled his eyes, but he didn’t pull away.

He should have.

But he didn’t.

Because Y/N was still holding onto him, and Merlin help him, he liked it.

The second they stepped inside Honeydukes, Y/N all but dragged Severus through the shop, pointing at various sweets with an excited grin.

“Oh, you have to try these,” she said, grabbing a handful of Chocolate Frogs.

“And these—” She tossed a few Sugar Quills into her basket.

“Oh! And definitely these.”

Severus sighed, crossing his arms as she piled more and more sweets into her basket.

“You do realize I never asked for any of this.”

Y/N grinned, completely unfazed. “That’s the best part. You don’t have to ask. I just know what you need.”

Severus scoffed. “And what exactly do I need?”

“Sugar.”

Severus rolled his eyes. “I—”

Before he could finish, Y/N grabbed a small chocolate and unwrapped it. Then, before he could protest, she held it up to his lips.

“Open,” she ordered.

Severus stared at her, unimpressed. “You cannot be serious.”

“Oh, I’m very serious.” She wiggled the chocolate in front of his face. “Come on, Sev. Humor me.”

Severus pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling sharply. This was ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.

And yet…

He begrudgingly parted his lips just enough for her to pop the chocolate into his mouth.

Y/N beamed.

“See? Not so bad, right?” she teased, watching him closely.

Severus chewed, his expression unreadable. Then, after a long pause, he muttered, “It’s fine.”

Y/N gasped. “Fine? This is premium chocolate, Severus. Premium.”

Severus just shook his head, swallowing the chocolate. “Idiot.”

Severus sighed, already regretting every life choice that had led him to this moment. But when Y/N lifted the next treat to his lips, he didn’t resist.

By the time they left Honeydukes, Y/N had practically stuffed half a dozen different sweets into Severus’ mouth. Each time grinning triumphantly whenever he reluctantly accepted them.

Now, as they strolled back through Hogsmeade, Y/N happily munching on a Sugar Quill, Severus still tasted the remnants of chocolate and caramel on his tongue.

“I don’t know why you’re acting like you hated it,” Y/N teased, bumping her shoulder against his. “You ate everything I gave you.”

Severus shot her a flat look.

“You shoved it in my mouth. What was I supposed to do? Spit it out?”

Y/N smirked. “You could’ve said no.”

Severus scoffed. “Like you’d listen.”

She grinned. “Exactly.”

They walked in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the cold winter air crisp against their skin.

Then, suddenly, Y/N stopped in front of a small tea shop, peering through the frosted windows. “Oh, let’s go in here for a bit. It’s freezing.”

Severus followed her gaze, immediately recognizing the shop. Madam Puddifoot’s.

His face twisted in disgust. “Absolutely not.”

Y/N turned to him, raising an eyebrow. “Why not?”

“Because,” Severus muttered, glaring at the couples visible through the window, “this is practically a breeding ground for lovesick imbeciles.”

Y/N burst out laughing. “You would say that.”

Severus crossed his arms. “I refuse to set foot in there.”

Y/N, still grinning, hummed thoughtfully. “Alright. How about The Three Broomsticks instead?”

Severus hesitated, eyeing her warily. “And what’s the catch?”

Y/N linked her arm through his again, smirking. “No catch. Just butterbeer. And maybe, maybe, I’ll stop feeding you sweets for the day.”

Severus exhaled through his nose, pretending to be completely unaffected by the way she clung to him so easily.

“…Fine.”

Y/N beamed. “Good choice, Sev.”

And just like that, she pulled him along once more, her arm still wrapped around his.

The Three Broomsticks was warm and bustling with students escaping the cold. As soon as they stepped inside, Y/N led Severus toward a small table near the corner, away from the loudest groups.

She let go of his arm (much to his dismay, though he’d never admit it) and slid into her seat.

“I’ll order for us,” she declared before he could argue, already making her way to the counter.

Severus sighed, rubbing his temples. He should’ve known letting her drag him here would mean losing every battle.

A few minutes later, Y/N returned with two steaming mugs of butterbeer, setting one in front of him.

“There,” she said proudly, sliding into her seat. “A drink and a break from my relentless generosity. You should be thanking me.”

Severus rolled his eyes but accepted the mug anyway. “I didn’t ask for your generosity in the first place.”

Y/N smirked. “Quit your whining, Snape.”

Severus huffed but took a sip of his butterbeer. It was warm, sweet, and undeniably comforting, not that he’d ever say that out loud.

They sat in comfortable silence for a while, the warmth of the tavern settling over them. Every now and then, Severus found himself watching her like how her fingers curled around her mug, how she tapped her nails idly against the wood, how her lips pursed slightly as she took a sip.

It was maddening.

She was maddening.

Y/N suddenly looked up, catching him mid-stare.

Severus immediately looked away, clearing his throat.

“What?” he muttered.

Y/N tilted her head, eyes gleaming with mischief. “You were staring.”

Severus scoffed. “I was not.”

“Liar.” She grinned, leaning forward slightly. “See something you like, Sev?”

Severus choked on his butterbeer.

Y/N burst into laughter, her eyes shining with amusement as he coughed into his sleeve.

Severus opened his mouth but before he could, a familiar voice interrupted them.

“Well, well, well. What do we have here?”

Y/N turned in her seat, her smile vanishing as she spotted the person standing beside their table.

Sirius Black.

And behind him—Potter, Lupin, and Pettigrew.

Severus clenched his jaw, already bracing himself.

“Didn’t expect to see you here, little sister,” Sirius drawled, his lips curled in amusement. “And with him, no less.”

Potter elbowed him. “Guess she has questionable taste.”

Severus scowled, but before he could snap back, Y/N spoke first.

“If you came all this way just to be annoying, then congratulations, you’ve succeeded,” she said flatly, leaning back in her chair.

Sirius chuckled. “Oh, come on, Y/N. You could be sitting with anyone—and yet, here you are, stuck with old Snivellus.”

Severus’ fists clenched under the table, his face carefully blank.

Y/N, however, just laughed.

“You’re so predictable, Sirius,” she said, shaking her head.

“You think I care what you lot think?” She gestured between them lazily.

“If I wanted to sit with idiots, I’d let you all join us. But I’d rather not lose brain cells, thanks.”

Sirius raised his brows, clearly surprised by her sharpness.

Lupin sighed, giving her a wary look. “Y/N, you really don’t—”

“I do,” she interrupted, her tone unwavering. “Now, if you don’t mind, we were in the middle of something.”

Sirius scoffed, but Potter pulled at his sleeve. “Leave it, mate. Let her sit with her pet snake if she wants.”

Y/N’s eyes flashed dangerously. “At least he’s not an arrogant, self-obsessed git,” she shot back.

Potter’s smug expression faltered.

Sirius let out a low whistle. “Damn. Didn’t realize you hated us that much.”

Y/N crossed her arms. “I don’t. But I hate this. The way you always think you can tell me what to do. Who to be around.”

“Sirius… I’m not you,” she murmured. “I never was.”

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Fine. Whatever.” He turned to leave, pausing only once. “Don’t come crying to me when he betrays you.”

With that, he walked away, the others trailing behind him.

A heavy silence hung in the air.

Y/N sighed, rubbing her temples. “Merlin.”

Severus, who had been deadly quiet through the entire exchange, finally spoke.

“…Why did you do that?”

Y/N looked at him, confused. “Do what?”

“Defend me,” he muttered, his voice oddly unreadable. “Against them.”

Y/N frowned. “Severus, I’d defend you against anyone.”

The words were so simple, so obvious to her. But to him…

Severus stared at her, something unreadable flickering behind his dark eyes.

And then, slowly he reached for his mug again, taking a long sip of butterbeer to cover the unbearable warmth spreading through his chest.

“…You’re an idiot,” he muttered.

Y/N grinned. “Maybe. But I’m your idiot.”

Severus scoffed, rolling his eyes.

But he didn’t argue.

Severus watched as Y/N slumped back in her chair, exhaling a tired sigh.

He frowned. “What’s wrong?”

Y/N twirled the handle of her butterbeer mug between her fingers, her gaze distant.

“I was just thinking…” She hesitated, then let out a humorless chuckle. “I wonder how long I have before my father pushes me to some pureblood boy.”

Severus stiffened.

Her words settled between them, heavy and unspoken.

It wasn’t surprising, really. It was expected for someone like Y/N, from a prestigious family like the Blacks. Arranged marriages, strategic unions, keeping the bloodline pure.

But no lie, the thought of Y/N being forced into a life she didn’t want, with someone she didn’t choose made his stomach twist uncomfortably.

He swallowed, his voice carefully neutral. “…Do you have anyone in mind?”

Y/N scoffed. “As if it’ll matter. It’s not like I’ll get a choice.”

She tapped her nails against the table, sighing again. “I’m sure my father already has someone lined up. Probably some arrogant pureblood twat who thinks he owns the world.”

Severus’ grip on his mug tightened. Of course he does.

“You don’t have to do it,” he said quietly.

Y/N gave him a knowing look. “You know that’s not how it works, Sev.”

He clenched his jaw. Of course it isn’t.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then, with a wry smile, Y/N nudged his foot under the table.

“Unless you want to marry me, Snape.”

Severus nearly choked on air.

Y/N burst out laughing at his reaction, but there was something in her expression like she was only half joking.

Severus forced himself to breathe.

“You really need to stop saying things like that.”

“Why?” she teased. “Does it make you nervous?”

Severus huffed. “It’s infuriating.”

Y/N grinned. “Good.”

But as she took another sip of her butterbeer, Severus noticed how her fingers curled slightly tighter around the mug. How her smile, bright and teasing as always, didn’t quite reach her eyes.

And he hated that.

Hated that she felt trapped.

Hated that, no matter what she wanted, the world would still try to dictate her fate.

Without thinking, he muttered, “I’d rather it be me than one of them.”

Y/N stilled.

Slowly, she set her mug down, her eyes meeting his.

“What did you just say?”

Severus hesitated. He hadn’t meant to say it. Hadn’t even realized he’d said it aloud.

But now that he had…He didn’t take it back.

Y/N blinked at him, and for the first time, there was no teasing, no laughter.

Severus exhaled sharply and looked away.

“Forget it.”

Y/N, however, did not forget it.

Instead, she just kept staring at him, something unreadable in her gaze.

Something dangerously close to hope.

Severus’ breath caught in his throat.

He turned to look at her, but Y/N was already staring at him with her eyes unwavering.

“No,” she said, voice quiet but firm.

“Tell me, Severus. Because I swear… if I heard whatever it is that I think I heard, then…”

She swallowed, her fingers curling against the table.

“I’d give it all up.”

Severus’ heart stopped.

For a moment, all he could hear was the low hum of The Three Broomsticks around them—the chatter of students, the clinking of glasses, the distant sound of rain beginning to drizzle outside.

But right now, none of it mattered.

Not when she was looking at him like that.

Like he was something worth choosing.

Severus exhaled sharply, forcing himself to speak.

“Y/N… don’t say things like that.”

“Why not?” she challenged, leaning closer.

“Because it’s impossible? Because you think I wouldn’t do it?” Her voice softened, gaze searching his.

“Because you don’t want me to?”

Severus clenched his jaw, his hands tightening into fists beneath the table.

Of course he wanted her to.

But she was a Black. She had a future already planned—one that had nothing to do with him.

But then, she was here.

Offering, choosing him, despite it all.

“Y/N… if you say something like that, you can’t take it back.”

Y/N gave him a small, lopsided smile. “Good. Because I wouldn’t want to.”

Severus hated how much that affected him.

Because the truth was—if things were different, if the world wasn’t what it was…

He’d choose her, too.

Slowly, cautiously, he reached across the table, his fingers barely brushing against hers.

“Y/N…” His voice was quiet, unsteady.

“You don’t know what you’re saying.”

But she only turned her hand over, letting her fingers lace through his.

“Sev,” she murmured, “I do.”

Severus stared at their intertwined fingers, his breath unsteady.

She wasn’t letting go.

Did she understand what she was saying? What she was offering?

Giving up her family’s expectations—for him? Throwing away a life of power, wealth, and status because of a quiet, half-spoken confession he hadn’t even meant to say?

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

His grip tightened slightly around her hand, his voice barely above a whisper.

“You’d really do that?”

Y/N exhaled, something relieved in her expression.

“I’d do it in a heartbeat.”

Severus felt something in his chest ache.

“I don’t want you to regret it,” he murmured.

“I won’t,” she said immediately. “But you have to tell me, Sev… if I gave it all up—my family’s expectations, the stupid arranged marriage—if I walked away from all of it…”

She hesitated, then asked, softer, “Would you want me?”

Severus inhaled sharply.

The answer was yes. Of course it was yes.

But admitting it and saying it aloud would make it real.

And if he let himself have this, let himself believe that someone like her could choose someone like him…

“I—” His voice faltered, thick with something he couldn’t name. “Y/N, this isn’t fair to you.”

Y/N let out a soft, exasperated laugh. “Severus, I’m the one making this choice. And I’d choose you. Every time.”

Severus felt his world tilt.

Every time.

He looked at her then and for the first time in his life, he let himself want.

Slowly, hesitantly, he raised their joined hands, pressing his lips lightly against the back of hers.

It was the smallest, softest thing.

But Y/N inhaled sharply, eyes widening because she knew. She knew what it meant.

Severus pulled away just slightly, his lips barely brushing against her skin as he whispered, “Then I’d choose you, too.”

Y/N’s breath hitched.

He held her gaze, his fingers still curled gently around hers, his lips still tingling from where they had touched her skin.

Y/N swallowed, her voice barely above a whisper. “Say it again.”

Severus exhaled shakily. He didn’t need to ask what she meant.

“I’d choose you,” he murmured.

Her grip on his hand tightened, like she was trying to ground herself. And then, without thinking, Y/N surged forward, wrapping her arms around him.

Severus stiffened but only for a second. Because as soon as he processed what was happening, he melted into it.

His arms hesitated before slowly wrapping around her, his hand coming up to rest on the back of her head, fingers threading through her hair.

She smelled like fresh strawberry milk and ink and something inherently her, something warm and safe and entirely forbidden.

“I meant it, Sev,” she whispered against his shoulder.

“I don’t care about any of it. I just—” She pulled back slightly, her hands gripping the front of his robes.

“I want you.”

“Y/N…”

She shook her head.

“No, don’t try to push me away again. You want me too, I know you do. So tell me, Severus Snape—do you want me enough to fight for this?”

He would burn the entire world if it meant keeping her.

His grip on her waist tightened as he exhaled, slow and deliberate.

“Yes,” he murmured. “I’ll fight for it.”

Y/N’s lips parted slightly, eyes searching his. “You mean it?”

Instead of answering, Severus did the one thing he’d never allowed himself to do.

He leaned in, slowly and carefully, giving her a chance to pull away.

She didn’t.

And when their lips finally met, it was soft and tentative, like the two of them were still learning how to have this, how to believe in it.

But then Y/N sighed against his mouth, her hands threading into his hair, pulling him closer and suddenly, there was nothing hesitant about it.

Severus kissed her like he’d been waiting for this moment his entire life and didn’t know if he’d ever get it again.

Because maybe he wouldn’t.

Maybe the world would take this from him.

But not today. And maybe not ever.

Today, she was his. Tomorrow, she’ll be his.

Severus tightened his grip on her waist, searching her face as if trying to make sense of her words.

“You know you’ll get disowned for being with a half-blood,” he muttered.

But Y/N only laughed. A soft, amused sound, like the thought of it didn’t bother her in the slightest.

“At least my mother would have the pleasure of blasting my face off that stupid family tree,” she said, rolling her eyes. “She’s been dying to do it for years, anyway.”

Severus frowned. “Y/N—”

“No, Sev.” She reached up, brushing a strand of his dark hair away from his face.

“I mean it. My family doesn’t control me. Not my mother, not my father, not Sirius—no one.” Her voice softened as she cupped his cheek.

“I choose you.”

Severus inhaled sharply.

He had spent his whole life being a second choice. An afterthought. Someone people tolerated but never chose.

But Y/N… she wasn’t hesitating.

“Do you know what you’re saying?” he whispered, barely trusting his voice.

Y/N smiled. Smirked, actually. “I do.”

She leaned closer, eyes flickering between his lips and his gaze.

“Now, are you going to keep questioning my life choices, or are you going to kiss me again?”

Severus let out something between a sigh and a laugh before giving in.

He kissed her.

And this time, there was no hesitation, no second-guessing.

Because, for once in his life, someone had chosen him.

As if she hadn’t just turned his world upside down, Y/N pulled away, settled comfortably beside him, and asked,

“So, tell me about that new potion you were working on.”

Severus blinked. “What?”

She smirked. “You were ranting about it last week, remember? Something about stabilizing the Wolfsbane formula? I was listening, you know.”

Severus stared at her, still reeling from everything that had just happened. The kiss, the way she had chosen him so effortlessly. And now, she was acting like it was just another normal afternoon between them.

But that was Y/N Black. She had always been like this. Unshaken. Unbothered. Acting like she hadn’t just kissed him like she meant it.

And Merlin help him, but Severus loved that about her.

He let out a slow breath, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”

Y/N just grinned.

Severus rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t hide the faint smirk tugging at his lips.

“Fine. If you must know…” He turned slightly, getting into his usual lecture mode. “The problem with the Wolfsbane Potion is its volatility when stored improperly. The key is stabilizing the aconite concentration without diminishing its effects—”

And just like always, Y/N listened.

She leaned her head against his shoulder, eyes half-lidded in quiet interest, and let him speak.

And for the first time in his life, Severus felt like someone truly wanted to hear what he had to say.

They had been deep in conversation—Severus explaining the intricacies of potion stabilization, his voice passionate, his hands gesturing slightly as he spoke.

And then, out of nowhere, he said—

“And did you know, for the longest time, I have had my eyes on you and you don’t even realize that I’m so in love with you.”

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat.

She turned to him, eyes wide, searching his face for any hint that he was joking. But Severus was dead serious.

His dark eyes held hers, unwavering, like he had needed to say it. Like it had been clawing at him for years. And for once, he didn’t look like he regretted speaking.

Y/N opened her mouth, then closed it again, completely caught off guard.

“You—” She let out a breathless laugh.

“You just say things like that in the middle of a potions discussion?”

Severus smirked slightly, but his voice was softer when he said, “I suppose I do.”

Y/N shook her head in disbelief, a grin tugging at her lips. “Sev—”

“I mean it.” His fingers twitched where they rested against the table.

“I have for a long time.”

Y/N’s chest ached.

Slowly, she reached over, threading her fingers through his.

“Then it’s a good thing I’m so in love with you, too.”

Something in Severus’ expression softened.

He squeezed her hand.

“Good,” he murmured.

Severus furrowed his brows as Y/N suddenly pulled away, tilting her head at him with a knowing smirk.

“Where’s my Snitch, Sev?” she asked.

Severus hesitated for a moment before reaching into the pocket of his robes, fingers brushing against the small, familiar golden ball. He had carried it with him every day since she gave it to him, unwilling to part with something so hers.

Wordlessly, he handed it back.

Y/N took it with a quiet hum, running her fingers over the cool metal before pressing it open with ease.

Severus watched as the delicate wings fluttered, revealing a small folded note inside. His stomach tightened—he had never opened it before. He hadn’t even realized there was something inside.

Y/N didn’t say anything. She simply pulled out the note, unfolded it, and turned it around for him to see.

Severus’ breath hitched.

There, in her familiar handwriting, were three simple words:

“I choose you, Severus Snape.”

His heart stopped.

And then it raced.

His lips parted slightly as he stared at her, eyes searching hers for any sign of hesitation.

But she only smiled, pressing the Snitch back into his palm.

“Keep it for me, won’t you?” she murmured.

Severus swallowed hard, fingers curling tightly around the Snitch, holding onto it like a lifeline.

He had never been given something so precious before.

And now, he swore he’d never let it go.

“…Always,” he whispered.

End.

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thelovehypothesis · 6 months ago

Text

Between the Pit Walls and the Heartbreak

(part 2.1) (part 2.2)

Franco Colapinto x fem-engineer!reader

+3k words

a/n’s: full credit to @afterglowsainz go read their fic “don't smile” its amazingggg and so this is my take on the fic because I loved the concept and have two versions of part 2 for this! hope you like it.

warnings: angst!

Summary: Two hearts, one racetrack, and a love that no team principal can control. When love collides with ambition, can they find a way back to each other?

You stood at the other edge of the Williams garage, watching as Franco climbed out of his FW46 for what felt like the hundredth time that week. Every step he took felt heavier than the last, every glance between the two of you loaded with words left unsaid. It was different now, and both of you knew it.

When Franco signed with Williams to finish the 2024 season, your heart became a battlefield of excitement and dread. You were his race engineer, the one who knew him better than anyone else on the grid, the one who stayed up late going over data with him, strategizing, and pushing him to be the best. You had been with him since F3, a time when your paths crossed because of your families. They had been friends for years, and your parents had pulled some strings to give you a chance to prove yourself as a young race engineer, even funding the early stages of your career.

At first, people doubted you. They thought you were only there because of your family’s connections, but you quickly silenced those voices. You stayed up late, crunching data, analysing telemetry, and refining strategies for Franco’s races. You weren’t just there by luck; you were good—really good. Your talent quickly shone through, and soon enough, bigger teams were offering you positions. You could have taken those offers, stepped into a more high-profile role, but you never did. You stayed with Franco.

Because you loved him. You had fallen in love with him.

It had started subtly—a glance here, a shared laugh there. You weren’t just his engineer; you became his confidante, his friend, and eventually, you found yourself falling for him. He looked at you after each race win like you were part of his victory, not just a cog in the machine. Your bond deepened as you moved with him from F3 to F2, and every time a team came knocking with an offer, you turned them down. They could offer you prestige, money, and opportunities, but they couldn’t offer you Franco.

He was the reason you stayed. Every lap he completed felt like your own heartbeat; every podium, every victory was something you shared with him. It was more than just work—it was love.

But everything changed when he signed with Williams.

-The Call

The moment Williams confirmed Franco as their new driver for the remainder of the 2024 season, everything changed. You had been publicly by his side for over two years, a relationship that everyone in the paddock knew about. Your love story wasn’t a secret—far from it. Fans followed your every move, your Instagram was full of pictures of you two at races, on vacations, and even behind the scenes in the paddock. You had been his race engineer since F3, and people saw your partnership as an unbreakable duo both on and off the track.

When you were reassigned to Alex Albon’s car, it wasn’t just a professional shift; it felt personal. The move should have been a tremendous opportunity in its own right—working with a driver as talented and respected as Alex was no small feat—but it was hard to see it as a win when it meant being separated from Franco. The paddock was buzzing with speculation about how the change would affect your relationship.

But the hardest blow came in a private meeting with James Vowles, the team principal. He sat the two of you down, his tone serious, and made it clear in no uncertain terms: there could be no personal distractions. He acknowledged the public nature of your relationship, but made it clear that professionalism first, always. There was no room for messy relationships that could compromise team integrity, that moving forward, there needed to be boundaries. Williams was entering a critical phase, and the last thing they wanted was for emotions to compromise performance.

James’s words echoed in your mind long after the meeting ended. “It’s nothing personal, it’s about keeping the team focused. We’ve all seen how relationships can become distractions in this sport. We need to keep things professional, especially now that Franco is in F1.”

You had expected some tension when the move was announced, but not like this. You weren’t just any race engineer—you had stood beside Franco for years, helped him rise through the ranks. Your love had grown through the late-night data reviews, the shared victories, the quiet moments after race weekends when it was just the two of you. To be told that this love, something that had been a part of your lives for over two years, was now considered a “distraction” was gut-wrenching.

Franco was the one who made the call, though. “It’s for the best,” he’d said, voice breaking just a little. You could see how much it hurt him to say it, how his voice faltered for just a second, but you also knew he was trying to protect both of your careers. He couldn’t afford to let emotions get in the way now, not when he was on the brink of making a name for himself in Formula 1. And you didn’t want to be the one to hold him back, either. So you agreed, even though it felt like your heart was being torn in two. You could see the conflict in his eyes, but the weight of the moment crushed any objections you might’ve had. You didn’t want to be the reason he failed to thrive in F1. And so, with a single nod, you agreed to end it.

It was a quiet breakup—no big fights, no yelling, just an excruciating silence that followed you like a cloud for weeks. You’d kept things under wraps so well that even the fans didn’t catch on immediately. But they were observant; they always were. It wasn’t long before they noticed the subtle changes. Your Instagram went private, the photos of you two celebrating F2 podiums together disappeared, and though you still posted about the races, the personal connection that had once been there was gone.

Speculation began to swirl in the background, but you never confirmed or denied anything. You let the fans talk, let the rumours grow, because addressing them would only bring more pain. And in the paddock, Franco became just another driver. Professional, distant, and cold in a way you hadn’t expected. You couldn’t stand it.

You threw yourself into your work with Alex, who was a consummate professional, always supportive, but even he noticed the toll it was taking on you. “You don’t have to pretend, you know,” Alex had said one evening after a particularly long debrief session. “It’s okay to feel hurt.”

But admitting that hurt felt like a betrayal of everything you’d tried to hold together. So you buried it deeper.

As the season progressed, the distance between you and Franco only grew. He was focused on his races, and you were determined to be the best engineer you could be for Alex. But no matter how hard you tried to push Franco out of your mind, he was always there. You saw him every day, heard his voice over the radio, watched him in the garage. It was torture, and you couldn’t escape it.

There were moments when he would catch your eye from across the paddock, and for a split second, it felt like old times. But then reality would crash down, and you would remind yourself that things were different now. You weren’t his engineer anymore. You weren’t his anymore.

And yet, despite everything, you couldn’t bring yourself to move on. You still loved him. The offers from other teams continued to pour in—teams that saw your potential, that recognized your talent. Mclaren, Aston Martin, even Mercedes reached out, but you turned them all down. How could you leave when Franco was still here? You had built your career with him by your side, and even though your relationship was over, you couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.

But you knew it couldn’t last. Eventually, you would have to make a choice.

—The Wall Comes Down

It wasn’t until Suzuka, late in the season, that Franco finally broke the silence between you two. The garage was quiet, most of the crew gone, but Franco lingered by his car, his eyes darting toward you as if summoning the courage to speak.

“Can we talk?” His voice was low, tentative, and you wanted to say no, you didn’t want to have this conversation. You had spent the last few months trying to bury your feelings, to focus on your work and pretend that everything was fine. But the look in Franco’s eyes told you that he wasn’t going to let you walk away this time.

“We shouldn’t,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Please” he pleaded and you found yourself nodding while he guided you to his driver's room.

He didn’t waste time with pleasantries. “I hate this. I hate that we don’t talk anymore.”

You crossed your arms, trying to guard yourself against the emotions surging within. “We don’t talk because you made that choice, Franco.”

His jaw clenched, a flash of frustration crossing his face. “It wasn’t my choice—it was the team’s.”

You shook your head, feeling the sting of unshed tears. “But you agreed to it. You agreed to break up with me like it was just another strategy call. Like we were something you could let go of as easily as a bad qualifying lap.”

“I did it for us,” he said, voice rising. “For our future. You know how cutthroat this world is—how many careers get destroyed because of personal issues. I didn’t want that for you, or for me.”

You stepped closer, lowering your voice. “Don’t lie to yourself. You did it for you. You were scared, Franco. Scared that if things went wrong between us, it would ruin your big shot in F1.”

He looked away, the weight of your words hanging between you like a wall neither of you could cross. After a moment, he finally spoke, his voice softer now, broken. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I was scared. But that doesn’t change how I feel.”

“And how’s that, exactly?” you asked, unable to stop the bitterness from creeping into your tone.

“Look I know I messed up,” Franco said, his hands shaking as he spoke. “I thought breaking up was the right thing to do. I thought it would keep us both focused, but… I can’t do this anymore. I can’t pretend anymore.” He paused for a moment. “I still love you,” he said, and the words hit you like a punch to the gut. You had been waiting for them, hoping to hear them for months, but now they only made you angry.

“You can’t just say that and expect everything to go back to normal,” you said, shaking your head. “It doesn’t work that way.” You looked away, the pain of his words hitting you harder than you expected. “You made your choice, Franco. You chose your career over me. You can’t just come back now and expect everything to go back to the way it was.”

“I didn’t choose my career over you,” he said, stepping closer. “I thought I was protecting us both. I thought I was doing what was best for you. I know I hurt you. I know I made the wrong call, but I’m trying to fix it now. We can still be friends.”

“No,” you said firmly, taking a step back. “I didn’t need protecting,” you said, tears welling up in your eyes. “I needed you to trust me. To trust us. But you didn’t. And I..I…I can’t just be your friend, Franco. Not when I’m still in love with you.”

The silence between you stretched out, the weight of your confession settling in. Franco’s face fell, and for the first time, you saw genuine regret in his eyes.

“I didn’t realise…”

“You didn’t want to realise,” you corrected. “You thought it would be easier to just put distance between us, to make things ‘professional,’ but that’s not how feelings work. You can’t compartmentalise everything.”

He reached for your hand, but you pulled away. “I need space, Franco. I can’t do this anymore.”

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Finally, Franco nodded, his shoulders slumping in defeat. He looked at you, his eyes full of regret, and for the first time, you saw how much this had been hurting him too. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

He turned around and you watched as he walked away, your heart breaking all over again, but you knew it was for the best. Some things just couldn’t be fixed with a pit stop.

-The Offer By the time the season neared its end, you received the call you’d been avoiding for months. Red bull was offering you a position. They wanted you to join their engineering team, and the offer was too good to ignore. Prestige, a hefty pay raise, and the chance to work with another driver—a new start.

You took the job. You had to. Staying with Williams, staying near Franco, was suffocating you. And the moment Franco found out you were leaving for Red Bull? It broke him in a way you hadn’t expected.

-The End of the Season

The season wrapped up in Abu Dhabi, and the celebration felt hollow without Franco by your side. You watched from a distance as he soaked in the cheers from the crowd, the flashes of cameras capturing the culmination of a year of hard work. He had grown into a formidable driver in F1, and you couldn’t help but feel pride for him, even if you had been reduced to just another observer.

You had kept your distance for months, determined to stay professional despite how much it hurt. But as the night went on and the paddock grew quiet, you found yourself lingering. The afterparty was in full swing, but you couldn’t bring yourself to join in. Instead, you found a secluded spot near the pit garages, letting the sound of the distant laughter and music wash over you as you replayed the season in your mind—every moment you had spent avoiding Franco, pretending like your heart wasn’t breaking every time you saw him.

“Hey.” His voice startled you, pulling you from your thoughts.

You turned around, and there he was—Franco, standing there, his eyes filled with something you hadn’t seen in a long time. Regret. Pain. Love.

“I’ve been looking for you all night,” he said softly, stepping closer. He was still in his race suit, unzipped to his waist, a reminder of everything that had changed, and yet, everything that still felt the same.

“You found me,” you replied, your voice barely above a whisper. You hadn’t seen him this close in what felt like forever. His presence stirred up emotions you had tried so hard to bury, but here they were, bubbling up to the surface.

“I didn’t think you’d stay.” He ran a hand through his hair, looking uncertain, a far cry from the confident driver everyone saw on the grid. “I thought you’d already be gone.”

You shook your head, unable to find the words. There was so much you wanted to say, but where would you even begin?

Franco took another step toward you, his eyes searching yours. “I miss you,” he said, his voice breaking just a little. “I know I messed up. I thought I was doing the right thing, for both of us, for our careers. But I was wrong. I can’t keep pretending that everything’s okay without you. It’s not. I’m not.”

Your heart clenched at his words, but you had been carrying the weight of this heartbreak for so long that it felt almost impossible to let it go. “Franco, we—” You paused, trying to gather yourself. “We made a choice. You made a choice.”

“I know,” he said quickly, his voice desperate. “I know I made the choice, but it was the wrong one. I thought we could just focus on our careers and put everything else aside, but I can’t do it anymore. I can’t pretend like you’re not the most important thing in my life.”

You swallowed hard, trying to hold back the tears that were threatening to spill over. “I thought I could handle it too,” you admitted. “I tried to be professional. I tried to focus on my work with Alex and push everything else away, but it’s been… it’s been hell.”

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, his voice cracking as he stepped even closer, so close you could feel the warmth of his body next to yours. “I thought I was doing what was best for us, for you. I thought if we stayed apart, we could avoid all the complications, but I didn’t realise that losing you was the biggest mistake I could make.”

Tears blurred your vision, and before you could stop yourself, you closed the distance between you and wrapped your arms around him. He pulled you into his chest, holding you tight as if he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go. You could feel his heartbeat against your cheek, steady and strong, and for the first time in months, you felt like you could finally breathe.

“I missed you so much,” you whispered into his chest, your tears soaking into his race suit.

He held you tighter, his hand gently stroking the back of your head. “I missed you too,” he whispered back, his voice thick with emotion. “Every day, I missed you.”

You pulled back just enough to look up at him, and in that moment, all the walls you had built up around yourself came crumbling down. The hurt, the anger, the distance—it all melted away, leaving just the two of you standing there, raw and vulnerable.

And then he kissed you.

It was soft at first, tentative, like he wasn’t sure if it was okay. But then, as you kissed him back, it deepened, all the months of pain and longing pouring into that one kiss. It was a kiss that spoke of everything you had been through together, everything you had survived. It was a kiss that reminded you why you had fallen in love with him in the first place.

When you finally pulled away, both of you were crying. His forehead rested against yours, his hands still holding you as if he couldn’t bear to let go.

“I love you,” he whispered, his breath shaky. “I never stopped loving you.”

You let out a soft sob, nodding as you wiped the tears from your cheeks. “I love you too, Franco. I never stopped. But we can’t just pick up where we left off. It’s been months. We’ve both changed, and... I’m still so hurt.”

Franco's face crumpled with regret, his eyes filled with desperation. “I know I messed up. I don’t want to rush anything. I just want to be with you again, even if it takes time. We can take it slow. I’m willing to do whatever it takes, just—please. I can’t lose you again.”

You shook your head, your heart breaking all over again, but this time, for a different reason. “Franco, I don’t think you understand. It’s not just about time or taking it slow. I’ve been trying to heal, trying to move on from everything. You hurt me, and I can’t go back to that place.”

He swallowed, his voice shaky. “But we can try—can’t we? We can figure it out together. I’ll make it up to you, I swear.”

You looked down, your hands trembling as you tried to steady yourself. “It’s not that simple. I’ve accepted an offer, Franco.”

His brow furrowed in confusion. “An offer?”

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself for the next words. “Red Bull offered me a position, and I took it. I’m going to be Max Verstappen’s new race engineer.”

The shock on Franco’s face was immediate, his body stiffening as he processed what you said. “Red Bull? Max’s engineer?” His voice was barely above a whisper, disbelief clouding his expression.

You nodded, fighting back the tears threatening to spill over again. “This is my chance, Franco. My career—this is everything I’ve worked for, and I can’t let it slip away because of what we used to be.”

His lips parted, but no words came out. The pain in his eyes was unmistakable, but so was the understanding. He took a step back, realising that he had already lost you, not because you didn’t love him, but because too much had changed.

“I… I didn’t know,” he finally whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

You swallowed hard, your throat tight as you spoke. “I didn’t plan for it to happen like this. But this is what I need to do, for me. I need to move forward.”

Franco stood there, silent, his eyes fixed on the ground as he tried to absorb the reality of your words. “So… this is it?”

You wiped away the last of your tears, your heart heavy but resolute. “I think it has to be. I’ll always care about you, but I can’t keep holding on to something that’s hurting me. You have your future, and I have mine.”

He looked up, his gaze searching yours one last time, as if hoping for a miracle. But when he saw the finality in your eyes, he nodded, defeated. “I understand.”

It was the hardest thing you’d ever done—walking away from Franco when you still loved him. But this wasn’t just about love anymore. It was about you, your dreams, and your future. And for the first time in a long time, you were choosing yourself.

Without another word, you turned and walked away, the sounds of the paddock fading into the background as you stepped into the unknown, leaving behind the man who had once meant everything.

But you didn’t look back. Not this time.

--- THE END ---

hope you liked it, part two is on its way.

Lots of love, Em!

#franco colapinto #franco colapinto x reader #franco colapinto x you #franco colapinto fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 fanfic #williams f1 #formula one x reader #f1 x reader #f1 x y/n #lando norris #lando norris x reader #charles leclerc fanfic #lando norris x y/n #franco colapinto smau #franco colapinto imagine #f1 2024

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lilacgaby · 8 months ago

Text

title: saved.

pairing: childhoodfriend!katsuki x reader

when all hope failed you two, a twist of fate saved your futures.

alt. ending to this imagine | standalone(?)

note: my sincerest apologies to everyone <3 please accept my heartfelt apology (if i @/ed you it's especially dedicated to you)

katsuki held your hand taut in his, looking for a way, any way, to save you.

he couldn't find one, but he fought to. he was fighting the feeling of grotesque horror that came over him at the sight of your wound, your pain, the smell of your blood.

it was too much.

but he pushed through. he pushed through for you, he had to. he saw how your forced your eyes open, he felt the squeezing of your hand trying to keep yourself there with him.

upon inspection, the wound was piercing your lungs more towards the left-mid side of your body. his prayers now became answered, as a hero with a shattering quirk came running up to him.

they decided the best and quickest force of action would be to shatter the base of the beam, and fly you to urgent care where a team would be waiting.

he could do it, he had to. katsuki pondered, now moving over to address you, with slightly glazed over eyes. "babe, i- i have you. just hold on." you squeezed his hand in acknowledgment.

the plan was set into action, he tried to ignore the sounds of your guttural pain. the whimpers are sounds of choking are ones that'd haunt him for years, he was certain.

as he blasted over the city, little regard for his own injuries, he only had you on his mind.

he let out a sigh of relief as he saw the hospital come into view. the team waiting with a stretcher outside like he'd planned.

"we're here baby, you can rest now. i got you."

"you saved me." is all you said before finally letting your eyes shut. your body went limp with sleep and not death as he feared, the slightest rising of your chest comforting him as they got you on the table.

they immediately rushed you in and got to work, he wasn't able to see because a team was called out just for his wounds as well.

they treated him for a minor would on his arm, a pathetic excuse of an attack that only managed to land because you were on his mind. he laid in the bed, red eyes still alert and ready.

his exhaustion caught up to him, he fell asleep without knowing, only waking up to his mom shaking his shoulder. "hey kid, wife's asking for your dumbass. hurry it up." being the words that greeted him that day.

"whatever hag." he muttered under his breath as he jumped out of bed, directed to your room immediately.

you were still a bit out of it, drugged with pain relief medication. but still, with a dopey smile you greeted him. "kats' you're here."

he let out a smile for the first time in hours, he took your hand in his, his thumb over your heartbeat. "yeah, i am."

while your recovery wasn't fast, you were allowed home after three days. you'd likely never be the hero you once were, but the alternative was death so it's not what you were worried about.

the fight had left you with a hole in your body, your lungs now only at half capacity. katsuki was there every step of the way for you,

the entire ordeal even made him rise in the ranking, so his frequent absences were rewarding in multiple ways.

he'd take on most of the chores around your large home now, even hiring a maid for weekdays when he'd be gone. he was now clingier than ever, asking about you every hour, sending you texts and voicemails chatting about his day and asking of yours.

when you finally were well enough to make your redebut as a hero? he was ecstatic, though it was clear from the fact that he'd never let you patrol without him that he'd be stuck like glue to you for eternity.

he'd be proud of you for this, so eternally faithful to you that he asked to renew your vows for your anniversary this year, excited to gift you the new ring he had made for you.

everything you'd do in the day he'd find a way to be apart of. from laying his head in your lap as your watched shows, sitting by you as he paid for you nails, lugging behind you as you insisted on buying groceries even though the maids were on top of that, putting his arm around your neck whenever you stood by him.

but it's not like you minded,

after all, what's a princess without her knight in shining armor?

(tags: @that-one-fangirl69 @boyfie-hater @miliswrld @pretty-sparkle-bomb @prettyinpikk @rengokuswife2 @unk0wn-us3rr @keylozinzazane @kanvis @rhas-writes @h3ll0-kitti @yuckiman @kovu-bunnbunn @teacakes06 )

#pleaseee don't wish my pillow hot it was actually very hot these past days #bakugo #bakugo x reader #bakugo x y/n #katsuki bakugo x reader #bakugo katuski #bakugo x you #katsuki x you #mha x you #bakugo drabble #bakugo oneshot #bakugo angst #katsuki bakugo mha #katsuki x y/n #katsuki x reader

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nameless-jamie · 3 months ago

Text

YOU'RE LATE, IDIOT

Glimpse Into the Future - Jamie Tartt x fem!PA reader

Masterlist

TW: cursing, kissing, emotions, childbirth

Jamie Tartt was fucking furious.

The second his number went up on the board, signaling his substitution, his blood boiled. He had just found his rhythm, the game was still wide open, and suddenly he was being benched?

For what? A tactical change? Bullshit.

He stormed off the pitch, barely acknowledging the applause from the crowd. His eyes locked on Roy Kent, who stood by the dugout, arms crossed, face unreadable.

Jamie ripped off his sweat-soaked jersey as he approached. “What the fuck is this, Roy?” he snapped. “I ain’t injured, I ain’t tired, I—”

“Shut up,” Roy interrupted, voice firm but oddly… expectant. “Get your arse to the hospital.”

Jamie blinked. “What?”

Roy exhaled sharply, stepping closer, his expression almost gentle. “Y/N’s in labour, dickhead.”

Everything stopped.

Jamie’s ears rang. His heartbeat pounded. He swore the world tilted beneath him.

“What—now?” His voice came out hoarse.

Roy nodded. “Her water broke before the match. She told us not to tell you ‘cause she didn’t wanna mess with your focus, but it’s happening. You’re about to be a dad, mate.”

Jamie’s breath hitched.

He should’ve been worried, should’ve been panicking, but all he could think was—

She’s having our baby. Right now. Without me.

His feet moved before his brain caught up. “Car. Now. I need a car.”

Before he could bolt, Will grabbed him by the shoulders. “Wait, Jamie, mate—you’re still in your kit—”

“Don’t give a fuck,” Jamie blurted, already pushing past him.

Roy whistled. “Oi, someone drive his dramatic arse before he sprints there himself.”

“I got it,” Coach Beard said, already heading toward the parking lot. “Let’s go, Tartt.”

Jamie barely heard him. His head was spinning, his body running on pure adrenaline.

As he rushed past the rest of the team, Dani called out, “Tell her we love her!”

“Tell the baby we say hi!” Sam added.

Jamie waved vaguely, not slowing down.

He had one job now.

Get to her. Now.

Jamie nearly tripped over his own feet as he burst into the hospital room, his heart hammering in his chest.

Y/N was propped up in bed, looking exhausted but radiant, her hair messy, cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling with relief the second she saw him.

And in her arms—

Jamie froze.

Everything else disappeared.

The tiny bundle against her chest shifted, a small hand peeking out from the blanket.

His baby.

Their baby.

Jamie swallowed hard. “Oh, fuck.”

Y/N let out a breathy laugh. “Nice entrance, Tartt. That's the first thing your baby's going to hear from you.”

Jamie stumbled toward her, his hands shaking. “I—I wasn’t—Roy pulled me from the match—”

“I know.” She smirked, though her eyes were glassy. “I told them not to tell you until after, but apparently Roy doesn’t listen to me.”

Jamie huffed out a disbelieving laugh, running a trembling hand through his sweat-damp hair. “You—you did all this without me?”

Y/N softened. “Barely. He came fast.”

He.

Jamie’s breath hitched. “We—we had a boy?”

Y/N nodded, shifting slightly to reveal the tiny, pink-faced baby nestled against her.

Jamie just… stared.

“I—can I—?” He couldn’t finish the sentence, too overwhelmed, too in awe.

Y/N smiled. “Of course, Jamie.”

Carefully, she shifted the baby into his arms, guiding his hands until he was cradling their son against his chest.

Jamie Tartt, Premier League footballer, man who had scored impossible goals under unimaginable pressure—

Had never been this scared in his life.

But then—

The baby yawned, his tiny fingers twitching against his skin, and just like that—

Jamie melted.

“Oh, fuck, he’s so small,” he breathed, his voice thick with emotion.

Y/N let out a tired laugh. “That tends to happen with newborns.”

Jamie ignored her, completely enraptured. “He’s perfect.”

His son squirmed, making a tiny noise, and Jamie’s heart cracked wide open.

He bent his head, pressing the gentlest kiss to his forehead. “Hey, baby. I’m your dad.”

Y/N’s breath hitched, watching the scene with watery eyes. “He already loves you, you know.”

Jamie scoffed, but his throat was tight. “Yeah, well. I love him more.”

Y/N smiled, reaching out to squeeze his hand. “You’re gonna be a great dad, Jamie.”

Jamie looked at her, his best friend, the love of his life, the mother of his child—

And he knew, without a doubt, that he would spend the rest of his life proving her right.

The next day, Jamie had barely gotten Y/N and the baby settled when the entire fucking team stormed into the hospital.

Dani, Sam, Colin, Isaac—everyone was there. Even Roy had shown up, grumbling about how he “didn’t give a shit about babies” but still sticking around.

Y/N rolled her eyes. “You lot are ridiculous.”

Isaac folded his arms, feigning offense. "You really thought you could pop out a baby and we wouldn’t show up? Come on, love, we’re family."

Y/N huffed out a laugh, shaking her head. "You are ridiculous."

Jamie, who was still holding their son like he was the most precious thing in the world, grinned. "She’s right, y’know. Bunch of dramatic pricks."

That earned him a round of Oi's! and Fuck off, Tartt's!, but he was too busy looking down at his baby boy to care.

Dani leaned in, beaming. "Oh my goodness, he is so beautiful."

Sam placed a gentle hand over his heart. "He looks just like you, Y/N."

Jamie scowled. "Oi, what’s that supposed to mean? You sayin’ my kid ain’t got my genes? That's my boy!"

Y/N smirked. "They’re saying he’s cute, Jamie. Unlike someone when they’re pouting."

The boys burst into laughter as Jamie groaned, tilting his head back dramatically. "Unbelievable."

Roy's gruff voice cut through the noise of the team. All of them were just arguing about who gets to hold Baby Tartt first, and the entire room went still.

Jamie blinked. "Wait—what?"

Roy sighed heavily, looking deeply inconvenienced as he held out his hands. "I said give me the kid, Tartt."

Silence.

Everyone stared.

Jamie hesitated. "You wanna hold him?"

"Do I look like I wanna hold him?" Roy grumbled. "No. But if I don’t, you lot will keep looking at me like I’m some heartless bastard. So pass him here before I change my mind. I'm his godfather after all."

Jamie exchanged a glance with Y/N, who was barely holding back a smirk.

"Alright," Jamie murmured, carefully placing the baby in Roy’s massive hands. "But you drop my baby, mate, I’m legally allowed to kill you."

Roy snorted. "Shut up, Tartt."

And then—

The impossible happened.

Roy Kent—grumpy, growling, perpetually pissed-off Roy Kent—looked down at the tiny, squirming baby in his arms… and his face softened.

Like actually softened.

Like genuinely softened.

"Well," he muttered, adjusting his hold. "He’s alright, I s’pose."

Isaac gasped. "Did Roy Kent just—"compliment"—a baby? Jamie Tartt's baby even."

"I heard it too," Jan said. "Mark this day in history."

Even Ted, who had FaceTimed in to see the baby, grinned. "Well, shoot, Roy. Didn't know you had it in ya. Big ole' softy."

Roy grumbled something about everyone shutting the fuck up, but the way he looked at the baby—like he was something worth protecting—didn’t go unnoticed.

Jamie sat beside Y/N, wrapping an arm around her as they watched Roy, Dani, and Sam argue over who got to hold the baby next.

"See?" Y/N whispered. "Told you they’d all love him."

Jamie exhaled softly, pressing a lingering kiss to the side of her head.

"Yeah," he murmured. "But they don’t love him more than I do."

Y/N smiled. "Obviously. You’re his dad."

Jamie grinned, looking down at the tiny baby who had already stolen his entire heart.

"Damn right I am."

#jamie tartt #ted lasso #ted lasso show #jamie tartt x reader #jamie tartt x y/n #jamie tartt x you #afc richmond #jamie tartt imagine #roy kent #sam obisanya #Jamie Tartt x PA

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newobsessionweekly · 1 year ago

Text

A heartbeat away

Crossover 911 x The Rookie

Evan “Buck” Buckley x paramedic!Bradford!reader Tim Bradford x paramedic!sister!reader

Fandom: 911, The Rookie Summary: The tense relationship between your brother, Tim, and your boyfriend, Buck, comes to a head when a catastrophic car accident leaves you critically injured. Forced to confront their differences and work together to save you, both men come to terms with their shared fears and love for you. Angst Warnings: ANGST, Descriptions of injuries, blood, trauma, strong language, emotional conflict, intense arguments, vehicle accident, and hospital scenes, fluff at the end cuz my heart was breaking for my babies, not proofread yet?

Requested: No

Words: 3k

You finish restocking the medication kit, methodically checking each item against the inventory list. The firehouse is alive with its usual buzz, the sounds of laughter and banter mixing with the occasional clang of metal or hum of machinery. You adjust the last of the syringes in their slot and close the kit with a satisfying snap. This place, with its organized chaos, has become your second home.

Just as you’re about to put the kit back in its place, you glance up and see Tim and Lucy entering the fire station. Tim’s tall frame is rigid, his posture tense, while Lucy walks beside him, her hand intertwined with his in a gentle but firm grip. Her presence is calming, a subtle yet powerful reminder of why he’s here. Lucy’s eyes scan the firehouse with curiosity, taking in the new environment with an open mind. Without a second thought, you drop what you’re doing and rush over to them.

“Hey!” you call out, your voice filled with excitement and relief.

Tim’s stern expression softens slightly when he sees you, and Lucy’s face lights up with a warm smile. You reach them and wrap your arms around both of them in a tight hug, feeling the tension in Tim’s body as he slowly relaxes into your embrace.

“Thank you for coming,” you whisper, before you pull back, looking into Tim’s eyes, then turn to give Lucy a quick, grateful squeeze.

Tim grumbles, crossing his arms over his chest. “You owe me for this,” he mutters, his tone a mix of reluctance and protectiveness.

Buck strides over behind one of the firetrucks and his face lighting up when he sees you standing next to your brother. His blue eyes twinkle with warmth, and he wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you close for a quick kiss on the cheek. His touch is comforting, grounding you amidst the tension.

“Hey, Tim. Good to see you,” he says, extending a hand towards your brother.

Tim nods curtly, his posture stiffening even more. “Buckley,” he acknowledges, ignoring Buck’s outstretched hand.

You lean in and whisper, placing a gentle hand on his arm. “Give him a chance, please. Buck’s really changed,” you plead, your eyes searching his for any sign of softening.

Tim’s jaw tightens, his gaze remaining hard. “We’ll see about that,” he mutters.

You motion to the table where lunch is set up, inviting the officers to join you. As everyone sits down, Bobby walks over, wiping his hands on a towel. His authoritative presence is softened by a friendly smile spreading across his face.

“Sergeant Bradford. Good to see you here. How’s the force treating you?” Bobby asks, extending his hand to your brother.

Tim shakes it, his grip firm and unyielding. “Busy, as always. How’s it going here?” he replies, his tone polite but distant.

“Same old, same old. Always something to keep us on our toes,” Bobby replies with a chuckle, glancing around at his team bustling about.

“See? We're all just doing our best out here,” you add, hoping to bridge the gap. You reach for Buck’s hand under the table, giving it a reassuring squeeze. He squeezes back, his thumb gently stroking the back of your hand.

Tim softens a bit, nodding. “Yeah, I guess. Still don’t trust Buck though,” he says, his voice gruff but slightly less hostile.

The firefighter, taking mock offense, raises his hands in surrender. “Hey, I’m right here!” he exclaims, a playful grin on his face.

You laugh and playfully nudge your brother's shoulder. “Tim, give him a break. He's not so bad,” you say, leaning your head against Buck’s shoulder for a moment, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

Tim looks at you seriously, his eyes softening as he meets your gaze. “I'm here because I love you, and I want you to be happy,” he says, his voice sincere.

“And Buck makes me happy. Can't you at least try to see that?” you plead.

The Sergeant sighs, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “I'll try. But it's going to take more than a lunch break to convince me,” he admits, his tone grudging but slightly more open.

Buck, with a sincere expression, leans forward slightly, his eyes meeting Tim’s. “Fair enough. Just know that I'm not the same guy who stole that firetruck."

Lucy, nodding in agreement, adds, “Yeah, Buck's grown up a lot. We all have.”

Your brother smirks, a hint of a challenge in his eyes. “We'll see. Just don’t give me any reason to pull out the cuffs,” he says, a slight teasing edge to his voice.

Buck grins, reaching across the table to shake Tim’s hand. “Deal. I'll be on my best behavior,” he promises, his grip firm and sincere.

You smile gratefully at your, squeezing his hand over the table. “Thanks, Tim. It means a lot to me."

Tim’s expression softens as he looks at you, his eyes filled with brotherly concern. “Yeah, well, anything for you. Just don’t make me regret it."

As you stepped out of the ambulance onto the freeway, the first thing that hit you wasn't the rain, but the sheer chaos unfolding before you. Cars were strewn across the asphalt like toys in a child's playroom, their twisted metal frames bearing witness to the violent collision that had brought them to this sorry state.

The rain pelted down relentlessly, transforming the freeway into a shimmering river of asphalt and water. Puddles had formed in the potholes, turning them into miniature lakes that reflected the flashing lights of emergency vehicles like twisted mirrors.

And there, in the center of it all, was Tim, a lone figure amidst the chaos. His uniform was soaked through, the rain plastering his hair to his forehead as he barked orders at his officers, directing traffic with the precision of a seasoned officer.

But despite the controlled chaos Tim was orchestrating, there was an air of urgency that hung heavy in the air. It was as if the storm itself was a living, breathing entity, threatening to swallow everything whole if you didn't act fast.

Buck, your fearless firefighter, was already in the thick of it, his focus unwavering as he followed Bobby's orders in extracting victims from the mangled wreckage. You followed his lead, weaving through the sea of twisted metal and flashing lights with the ease of someone who had seen it all before.

But just as you thought you had the situation under control, your eyes fell upon a lone blue sedan at the far end of the pileup. The driver was slumped over the wheel, unconscious and vulnerable. Without hesitation, you rushed towards the car, your heart pounding in your chest like a drumbeat of impending doom.

"I'm gonna check that car!" you shouted over the din of the storm, your voice barely audible above the roar of the rain.

"Be careful, okay?" Buck's words were a whispered plea, lost in the chaos of the moment.

With a nod of determination, you wrenched open the door and slid inside, the rain-soaked interior a surreal sanctuary amidst the wreckage outside. The driver lay motionless, a ghost in the machine, and you wasted no time in assessing his condition.

Just as you began to work your magic, the sound of screeching tires and blaring horns shattered the relative calm. Before you could react, another car, blinded by the rain, crashed into the sedan with terrifying force.

The impact sent shockwaves rippling through the air, followed by a deafening explosion that seemed to swallow everything in its path. Pain exploded through your body as you were thrown forward, your head colliding with something hard and unforgiving.

Darkness enveloped you quickly, swallowing you whole as consciousness slipped away.

In that moment, as you teetered on the edge of oblivion, you couldn't help but wonder if this was how it all ended. Alone, in the pouring rain, surrounded by chaos and uncertainty.

Buck and Tim both turned at the explosion, horror etched on their faces. The sight of the blue sedan engulfed in flames, with you inside, was a nightmare come to life. Buck’s heart seized, a cold dread gripping him.

“Y/N!” Tim’s voice was raw, a mix of fear and rage, as he started to sprint towards the blazing car.

Buck grabbed his arm, yanking him back with a force fueled by desperation.

“Bradford, stay where you are and do your job. I’ve got her.”

Tim’s eyes were wild, burning with fury. “The hell I’m gonna stay behind. That’s my sister!”

“And she’s my everything! I won't lose her because of you!” Buck’s voice cracked, matching Tim’s intensity as he locked eyes with him. “If you want to help, you need to trust me and listen to me! This is my job and I know how to do it!”

Tim hesitated, torn between his instincts and his training. His heart pounded in his chest, the image of you trapped in the car searing into his mind. With a reluctant nod, he followed Buck, and they moved as one, sprinting toward the flames.

The heat was almost unbearable, a suffocating blanket that seared their skin, but they didn’t hesitate. Buck grabbed a crowbar, his muscles straining as he pried at the door. His thoughts were a chaotic whirl of fear and determination. He couldn’t lose you. Not now. Not ever.

Tim smashed the remaining glass with his bare fists, ignoring the shards that tore into his skin. His mind was a turbulent sea of rage and helplessness. This couldn’t be happening. Not to you.

“Stay with me, Y/N,” Buck muttered, his voice a desperate prayer as he wrenched the door open.

Tim reached in, his hands trembling slightly as he carefully but swiftly pulled you from the wreckage. “She’s breathing.”

“We need to move her, now!” Buck’s tone was urgent, his eyes scanning the flames that threatened to consume the car.

Together, they carried you away from the burning wreck, laying you on a stretcher that Hen had ready. Your breathing was shallow, your skin pallid against the backdrop of rain and fire. Hen immediately went to work, her hands steady despite the chaos.

“I've lost her pulse.” Hen said urgently. “We need to get her to the hospital now. There might be an internal bleeding and something more serious than a concussion.”

As the other paramedics loaded you into the ambulance and Hen began performing CPR, the adrenaline and fear between Buck and Tim transformed into anger.

“This is your fault!” Tim shouted, his face inches from Buck’s, rain mixing with tears of frustration and fear.

“My fault? You’re the one who—”

“I told you to watch her!”

“And I did! Until you—”

“Hey, hey! Stop it!” Lucy’s voice cut through their argument as she and Eddie rushed over. She grabbed Tim’s arm, her grip firm, while Eddie stepped between your boyfriend and your brother, a calm but authoritative presence.

“Calm down,” Lucy ordered, her tone brooking no argument. “This isn’t helping.”

“She’s my sister! I can't just stand by!” Tim’s voice cracked, his usual composed expression shattered.

“And she’s also one of ours,” Eddie interjected, his voice steady and firm. “This isn’t going to help her right now. She needs you.

But their attempts to calm the two men seemed futile. They continued to argue, the stress and fear bubbling over until Bobby intervened.

“Enough!” Bobby’s voice cut through the chaos. “Both of you, to the hospital. Now. You can fight all you want later, but right now, she needs you both to be there for her.”

The weight of his words sank in, and finally, the two men nodded, albeit reluctantly. As the ambulance sped away with you inside, Buck and Tim followed closely, their hearts heavy but united in their concern for you.

The hospital waiting room was a stark contrast to the chaos of the freeway, yet it felt equally suffocating. Sterile white walls seemed to close in on Buck and Tim as they sat in opposite corners, their bodies tense with worry and guilt. Neither dared to meet the other's gaze as if the mere sight of one another would ignite another fiery argument.

Tim's mind was a whirlwind of conflicting emotions—fear for his sister's life, anger at Buck for not protecting her, guilt for not doing more to protect you, his little sister, from harm. He clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms as he struggled to contain the storm raging within him.

Buck's heart felt heavy in his chest, his eyes were red-rimmed from tears he refused to shed. He couldn't shake the feeling of helplessness that gnawed at him, the overwhelming sense of failure. He was supposed to protect you, to keep you safe, and he had failed miserably.

He replayed the events of the accident over and over in his mind, each moment etched with painful clarity. He should have been faster, stronger, better. But now all he could do was wait, his hands trembling with the desperate need for redemption.

Hours crawled by like an eternity, each passing minute stretching into infinity as they waited for news about your condition. They both knew the longer they waited, the slimmer the chances of a positive outcome became. But still, they clung to hope like a lifeline, unwilling to let go.

Finally, your doctor entered the waiting room, and both men shot to their feet, their hearts pounding in their chests. The doctor's expression was grave as she scanned the room, her eyes finally settling on Tim and Buck.

"Are you family?" she asked.

Both men nodded eagerly, a flicker of hope igniting in their hearts.

"How is she?" Tim's voice cracked with emotion, his hands trembling with anticipation.

The doctor hesitated, her eyes flickering with sympathy. "She's stable, but her condition is still critical," she began, her words hanging heavy in the air. "We're not sure when she'll wake up, or what the extent of her injuries might be."

The words hit Buck and Tim like a punch to the gut, leaving them reeling with a fresh wave of despair. They exchanged a wordless glance, their eyes filled with a shared anguish that transcended their grudges.

"We've moved her to a private room," the doctor continued, her voice softening with empathy. "You can visit her, one at a time."

Buck and Tim nodded numbly, their minds a blur of conflicting emotions.

"I'll go first. I'm her brother," Tim insisted, his voice a low growl.

"And I'm her boyfriend. I have every right to be with her too," Buck shot back, his eyes blazing.

"Look, I'm not—"

Their voices started to rise, tension thickening the air once more. Before things could escalate further, Lucy stepped in, her tone authoritative. "Enough. Stop it, both of you."

She turned her attention back to the doctor, silently apologizing for their behavior "I think it would be best if they both went in together. For everyone's sake."

The doctor sighed, clearly exhausted from dealing with more than just medical emergencies today. "Fine. But if you disturb the other patients or cause any more scenes, I will kick you both out. Understand?"

They both nodded, subdued for now, and followed the doctor to your room. Inside, the sight of you lying so still in the hospital bed was like a punch to the gut. Tubes and wires connected to machines that beeped rhythmically, a stark reminder of your fragile state. Tim and Buck rushed to opposite sides of the bed, each grabbing one of your hands.

Buck leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead, tears streaming unchecked down his cheeks. "I'm so sorry, baby," he whispered, his voice breaking.

Tim held your hand gently, his tough exterior cracking as tears welled up in his eyes. "You better wake up, sis," he murmured, his voice a choked whisper. "I need you to be okay."

Both men took seats next to your bed, their eyes never leaving your face. Tim's usual grumpiness returned, masking the deep fear and guilt that gnawed at him. Buck wiped at his tears, trying to stay strong for you.

After a moment of heavy silence, Tim spoke, his voice gruff but sincere. "Look, Buckley... I'm sorry for what I said. For the fight. For everything else I said since you started... dating. I am scared for her every shift and I took it out on you."

Buck nodded, tears still glistening in his eyes. "I'm sorry too. Look... I know I'm not a saint, I've done a lot of things that I regret. But I've changed, she changed me. I want and I will be a better man for Y/N."

Tim sighed, his shoulders slumping. "I know, I saw that. I was just... terrified. I’ve seen a lot, but nothing scared me more than seeing her like this."

"She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I’d never forgive myself if something happened to her because of me."

Tim's expression softened, a rare look of vulnerability crossing his features. "She’s always been the strong one, you know? Always looking out for me. She was 9 when I left home and she was always looking out for me, even if she didn't understand what war was. Ever since I joined LAPD, she thought I was this superhero and even then Y/N was taking care of me like she was the one 15 years older. And now... I couldn't take care of her."

"And now we look out for her," Buck corrected Tim, his voice steady with conviction.

They sat in silence for a while, the only sound the steady beeping of the heart monitor. The room was filled with a shared sense of purpose, the bitterness between them dissolving in the face of their mutual love for you.

"Let's make a deal," your brother said quietly. "No more fighting. We focus on Y/N and getting her through this."

Buck nodded, a faint smile breaking through the sadness. "Deal. For her."

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topherwrites · 2 years ago

Text

- start of a silver fox

summary - back from deployment, you notice a change in your boyfriend's appearance. pairing - jake seresin x (fem!)reader word count - 1.4k rating - no smut, but 18+ anyways, mdni! content warnings & tags - age gap (reader is in her early twenties, jake is in his early thirties) / fwb to lovers / no use of (y/n) / vague allusions to sex / mentions of nudes / mentions of masturbation / no actual smut / mentions of death (sorta) / lmk if i missed anything! a/n: saw these recent photos of glen ➙ became possessed ➙ wrote this. reblogs, comments, and likes super appreciated!

Jake is back after three long months on deployment, a fourth of your relationship — not counting the first couple months when you were ‘just hooking up’. This is your first welcome back. Having texted extensively with Nat’s girlfriend, Sasha, you were given a pretty good lay of the land by her, informed of what to expect.

Homecoming day has arrived, and excitement has consumed your entire body, making your limbs buzz.

Awaiting his arrival on the pier, your foot tapping out a nervous rhythm, you stand in the back, allowing spouses and children to be the first in line. You’re just the girlfriend, the one almost a decade younger than him, the one you know his friends assumed wouldn't be around long. You assumed you wouldn't be around long. Jake is a charmer, and when he set his sights on you, you assumed it would be a one-night stand, a fling at most.

But one night turned into two and then three, which turned into nearly three months of falling asleep and waking up next to him. Most days you’d get a text the second he was done with training, the buzz of your phone always kicking up your heartbeat.

At first, you’d just meet him at The Hard Deck for drinks, then dinner at sit-down restaurants — the preambles to him fucking the shit out of you growing longer and decidedly less casual. Post-coital, he’d sling an arm around your waist in an attempt to keep you from slipping out, waking up with that same soothing weight on you. Eventually, he casually mentioned that you could keep some of your stuff at his place — for convenience, he said. He tried slipping the suggestion under the radar, pre-coffee on a Saturday morning. Bleary-eyed and half-asleep, you barely processed his words, absent-mindedly humming in response.

Then you saw the half-cleared-out drawer — which you later learned was a measure in order not to spook you. Like a full drawer would make you wise to his intentions, like he was trying to acclimate you to the idea of commitment, to a relationship with him.

You remember the feeling of placing spare clothes in that drawer; a spare bra and sweatshirt. Jake watching you from the doorway, trying to not act too pleased in response.

You liked him, his company and his laugh and his baffling love of Taylor Swift that he blamed on his nieces. The man under the bravado wormed his way into your brain.

Though, you could appreciate how he looked puffed-chest and cocksure. Near equally competitive as you are. The first game night you spent with his friends meant you both were banned from ever being on the same team again. Pictionary, trivia, One-Night Ultimate Werewolf — you mopped the floor with them. The rule wasn't entirely the case of sore losers, you can acknowledge the fact that you two were immediately, freakishly in sync. Ultimate Werewolf may have ended in tears of betrayal being shed.

And that's how things progressed for a while, falling deeper while avoiding acknowledging the fact that you were in a relationship. Afraid to say the words and make things complicated. Near everyone in both your and his life were trying to push you both to just trust it. Have a little faith in one another.

One minute you were his girlfriend in all but name, and then you were just his girlfriend. A confession on his couch in the midst of rewatching Veep, ‘Relax, cow eyes’ the soundtrack to everything falling into place.

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Once officers start filtering off the ship, your mind blanks in anxiety. Around you, tears are shed, and poster board is ditched in favor of tight hugs. Laughter and children squealing background noise. You scan the crowd, the sun beating down on you, searching for the handsome shape of Jake Seresin. People come and go, giving you a better view of the naval officers, till you finally spot yours moving towards you. He weaves through the throng with ease, standing before you in a matter of seconds.

A smile stretches your face, eyes squinting from both happiness and the sun. You scan him, categorizing any minute change. Gray. A small streak above his right ear. Your nerve endings light up like a Christmas tree, the sensation doubling at the slight hint of age. Reaching out, your fingers run across his scalp, nails tracing back, playing with the hair that has decided in his relatively brief absence to go gray.

He doesn't shy from your touch, his lashes fluttering at the sensation, an intimate moment playing out in public. Though no one is probably taking notice, wrapped up in their own reunion. He does seem to be a hint abashed at your attention.

He breaks the quiet, “Hey, sweetheart.”

The sound of his voice, clear and unobstructed by distance, rushes through you. Fuck. You're trying to suppress the blatant arousal coursing through your system, keep it out of your voice. Words startled, voice pitched, “You've gone gray.”

Despite your age gap, it’s never been your thing, your Tinder age range has only ever been set 3 years older — but seeing Jake in the flesh, and with a few more grays, is making you muster every ounce of self-control so you don't fuck him in the parking lot, ride him in the backseat of his truck. He probably wouldn't enjoy getting dishonorably discharged.

He hefts his duffle over his shoulder, free hand taking your own to lead you to the car — his truck that he handed the keys over to, something in his gaze when he told you to not let the battery die. Maybe a way for him to feel connected to you, maybe a reassurance that you'd be around when he got back. Your board is still in the bed, having taken up surfing in the mornings since your time was no longer being occupied by Jake slowly fucking you into the mattress.

“I already had grays, I'm just… grayer now.” His pace is quick. It's clear that he's itching to get home. Your boots stamp on the pavement as you practically skip behind him, content with his hand in yours. He looks at you out of the side of his eye, eyebrow raised, “And I wonder why that is.”

“That suspiciously sounds like an accusation.”

“Those photos…” He stops at the teal-striped Ford, throwing his duffle next to your surfboard. Crowding you against the side of it., his voice dropping, “I was opening my mail in the mess, ‘bout gave me a heart attack.”

You’d sent them on a whim — a well-researched whim, you didn't need some random desk jockey finding out your taste in lingerie. But you had missed Jake and wanted him to miss you in return. And what better way to make the heart grow fonder than with scantily clad pictures of your body?

“Well? Did you like them?” You know he liked them, it was a whole production to take them, but even if it wasn't — he’s a man, and you were in lingerie. You looked hot, are hot, present tense. An indisputable fact. And he’s not reserved with telling you and showing you that, but you can't pass up a moment to hear it voiced to you, not after how long he’s been gone.

“I think I have carpal tunnel.”

You snort out a laugh as he exaggeratedly shakes out his hand, clenching and unclenching his fist for your amusement. Eyes skating along your features, he huffs, “Add that to the long list of ailments you've inflicted.”

Letting your fingers lightly trace down his biceps, you press your body even closer to his, perhaps a touch too scandalous for a parking lot in broad daylight. A coy reply rolls off your tongue, “I keep you young.”

“You're going to send me to an early grave.”

Rising to your toes, you brush your lips against his, holding back from full contact. You feel his breath stall in his chest, desperate for it. His hands settle on your waist, squeezing, his face awash in anticipation. He’s beautiful.

Your palm stroking the side of his head, you brush the hair away from his face, pinky skimming the top of his ear. You single out the silver strands between your fingers, silky soft as ever. He’s real and yours — home.

“Ditto. Might as well invest in matching plots, right?”

Broad shoulders shaking with laughter, he brushes his nose against yours. Palms cupping the side of your face, thumbs sweeping across your cheeks, he stops waiting. A long-awaited kiss pressed to your lips, neither one of you able to keep the smiles off your faces.

e/n: thank you for reading!

#jake seresin #jake hangman seresin #jake seresin x reader #jake seresin x you #jake seresin fic #top gun fandom #top gun fanfiction #top gun maverick #top gun maverick fic #my writing

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thatgenericwriter · 9 months ago

Text

Panic! at the Party || Jake Peralta

Parining: Jake Peralta x gn! reader

Summary: reader works at the precinct and has anxiety so when the team goes to Holt's party.... it gets a little overwhelming

Warnings: mentions of an anxiety attack

Word Count: 1.5k

P.S. takes place during season 1 episode 16 "The Party"

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You are excited to see what Captain Holt's home looks like and what his husband is like. You weren't excited about the number of people you have to be around.

Terry's compulsive need to make sure everything went perfectly tonight wasn't helping. You can feel yourself becoming more anxious by the second. You had only been at the party for 20 minutes but it felt like a lifetime.

You are practically glued to your boyfriend's side. Jake can tell that you are struggling but is proud that you have made it this far. He is trying his hardest to keep the conversations he has to a minimum as not to make Terry mad and to keep you calm.

When Kevin came up to Jake, however, you knew you were going to have to find another way to keep your anxiety at bay. And exactly as you predicted Jake completely forgot you existed.

Without Jake, you have to talk to everyone who approaches you. By the fourth person, you are ready to leave. You are desperately searching for Jake or anyone from the precinct. Gina and Rosa are surrounded by people asking Gina questions, Amy and Terry are fighting in the kitchen, and even Scully and Hitchcock are being social.

You can feel your panic rise, suffocating you. You can't stop yourself from pacing the library and your hands won't stop fidgeting. You try and calm yourself the best you can and yet you feel tears starting to fill your eyes.

The sound of your name being called pulls you back into reality. Turning around you find the last person you wanted to see standing there, Kevin. Your brain goes into overdrive, panic sweeps your entire body in a rush.

You feel vomit rising in your throat, tears threatening to spill from your eyes. He's speaking to you, but you can't focus on the words. All you can hear is the sound of your own rapid heartbeat ringing in your ears.

Quickly throwing out an apology, you turn and practically sprint out of the room searching for anywhere to hide. You swing open the coat closet, only to find Boyle making out with a woman.

You quickly slam the door and look around for somewhere else. You spot the stairs and make a beeline for them. You spare a quick glance around before stepping over the chain and making your way upstairs.

You throw yourself into the closest room, barely acknowledging that you are in a bedroom, before spotting an open door leading to a closet. You slam the door shut behind you and make yourself into a tight ball in the corner.

Trying desperately to stop the tears raining from your eyes, you steady your breathing the best you can. After a few minutes, the tears have stopped but you can still feel the anxiety eating away at you.

Just as you are about to grab your phone from your bag and call Jake, the door to the bedroom swings open. Your body goes ridged, praying that it's not Holt or Kevin coming to yell at you about being in a no-go party zone.

Instead, you're met with the voice of...Amy? Before you can even wonder why she was also in Holts's room with you, other voices joined hers.

Jake? And Terry? 'What the fuck is happening?' At this point, Terry is yelling at Jake and Amy and you have squeezed yourself farther into the corner, fearing being caught and yelled at by him as well.

Zoning out you subconsciously pull your legs closer to yourself, slowly rocking back and forth. You are vaguely aware of shuffling feet and the door opening again. But you're only pulled from your suffocating thoughts when you hear your name mentioned.

"And what about that y/n person? I barely said three words to them before they practically ran away from me." Your stomach flips. Kevin had just told Holt that you were rude to him. 'What if he hates me now? He has to right? I mean I did hurt Kevin's feeling enough that he complaining about me to Holt! What if he fires me? What if--'

"What! Do you know where she went?" You were expecting him to sound stern and uncaring, but he was actually worried about you. So were some other people apparently.

You hear a door open and the sound of shuffling feet again. "Peralta? Santiogo? Sargent? What are you doing in our bathroom?"

"Were we hiding in your bathroom? Yes. But you can yell at us later, I'm more concerned about y/n right now." Jake's words make you feel even worse. Having people worry about you made your stomach flip and the tears returned to your eyes.

'God, I'm so pathetic. People shouldn't have to worry about me at a party. They should be having fun. I should have stayed home.' These thoughts plague your mind. Tears freely falling down your cheeks as you quietly sob into your hands.

"Did they look anxious? Were they fiddling with their fingers, or looking around nervously? Anything like that?" You vaguely listen to the conversation happening outside the closet. More focused on keeping your sobs quiet.

"I guess they were fiddling with their hands a lot. Their eyes were a little glossy... oh." You hear Jake curse then you hear shuffling feet and people murmuring.

"Did you see where they went?" Jake asks Kevin hopeful for at least a general area of where you could be. All hope was lost, however, when Kevin replies with a sorrowful no.

"They would go somewhere without people. If they had gone outside I would have gotten a text at least letting me know, but I don't have any messages from them. So that means they are still in the house somewhere."

Your heart starts beating faster. You should have known Jake's detective skills would kick in. It was only a matter of minutes before they found you.

"They would have gone somewhere dark and quiet, like a closet, but in a place no one would look..." You hear footsteps getting closer to your hiding spot. You pull your body closer to yourself with each step, your heart pounding excruciatingly loud in your ears.

The door slowly opens revealing a very concerned looking Jake. "Hey, sweetheart." He crouches down to your level and gently pulls your face towards him. "It's okay now sweetie. I'm here for you."

He softly whips the tears off your cheeks with his thumbs before giving you a loving kiss on your forehead. Helping you stand up before giving you a bone crushing hug.

"I'm sorry." Jake hugs you even tighter at your words, his heart shattering. "No no no sweetheart. There is nothing you need to apologize for. I should be apologizing to you for abandoning you when you needed me."

Jake slowly releases you from his grasp and leads you out of the closet and into the Captin's bedroom, where you reluctantly meet the eyes of Holt and Kevin. Before you can apologize profusely to both of them Holt begins to talk.

"I also need to apologize to you y/n. I should have told Kevin about your anxiety before the event and tried to help you." Tears brim your eyes once more, but not out of anxiety, out of the feeling of being loved.

Kevin meets your eyes and you watch as his features soften at the site of your tear stained face.

"I am also sorry." Everyone turns to face Kevin, peering at him questionably. "I have been trying to push everyone Ray works with away. I was worried that he would be treated poorly once again because of his race and his sexuality. But now I see how much you care for each other."

He turns to look at everyone before making eye contact with Holt. They seem to have a silent conversation before both of them nod their heads and start heading for the door.

"Come on everybody do not keep standing in our bedroom like some common pervs." Holt's voice instantly makes us rush out of the room and follow them.

Standing awkwardly on the stairs you wait and watch as Holt and Kevin quickly usher everyone out of their house until only the squad remains.

"Finally, now the real party can begin," Holt gestures for all of us to join them as they walk out of the door to the house, "it feels a little stuffy in here. Let's go somewhere a little more...fun?"

"Raymond is always telling me about the little bar you guys go to after work. I think it is time for me to discover what makes it so great,"

You beam at them, and all feelings of anxiety leave your body as you exit the house. You feel Jake grab your hand and you smile up at him watching as a smile creeps its way onto his face.

He leans down and pecks your lips making your smile grow impossibly bigger.

"I love you."

"I love you more."

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Author's note: hey guys its been a while that's because I have fallen extremely ill twice now in the span of like a month like so ill that I couldn't physically move without being in extreme pain and being so constantly dizzy that simply moving my head in anyway would cause me to be on the verge of throwing up and not being able to walk because the room was constantly spinning......anyways I'm back and I'm writing and I SWEAR THAT IM GETTING TO THE REQUESTS but this has been literally like one paragraph away from being done for like 2 months so I'm posting this first

#x reader #jake peralta x reader #jake peralta #brooklyn 99 #brooklyn nine nine #x gn reader #gender neutral reader

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theonottsbxtch · 7 months ago

Note

Ok so… 🌧️☁️🔥 - Lewis Hamilton.

Could u base it off the trend, dark curls and water colour eyes.

Thanks Queen

WATER COLOUR EYES | LH44

an: this is totally not based off of nico rosberg, no why would it be? also this was written in an hour and is NOT proof read.

summary: lewis' and his teammate have been treading a thin line between love and hate, so when one of them gets into an accident. surely it changes everything.

wc: 4.3k

warnings: car crash

The air in the garage was thick with the familiar scent of oil and rubber, the rhythmic thrum of engines in the distance like a heartbeat. You were stood at the far end, methodically reviewing your race notes, eyes tracing over each figure with sharp precision. Focused. Composed. Untouchable.

But you could feel him there—he was always there, lingering just on the edge of your awareness, never saying anything but always watching. The weight of it made your jaw clench, your muscles tighten in a way that annoyed you more than you’d cared to admit.

Lewis was leaning against the wall across from you, arms folded, his posture lazy and deliberate, like he had all the time in the world. You could hear him breathing. You didn’t have to look up to know he was wearing that same infuriatingly relaxed expression, the one that somehow made you feel like he was waiting for you to slip up.

Minutes passed, neither of you speaking, the silence between you thick with something unspoken, but heavy. The team buzzed around you two, but your world was much quieter—tense, a slow-burning friction that had been there since the day you had both signed on.

Finally, you chose to break the silence, not out of need to acknowledge him, but to break the weight pressing down on your chest. "Do you ever plan on doing something useful?"

Lewis didn’t answer right away. Instead, you heard the soft shift of his weight as he stood straighter, footsteps crossing the short distance between you, slow and measured. You didn’t look up. Not yet.

"Are you always this charming before a race?" His voice was calm, casual, the subtle bite behind his words only evident to someone who knew how to listen for it.

You exhaled slowly, setting your notes down on the table in front of you. Only then did you meet his gaze, your cerulean eyes locking onto his, steady and unwavering. His eyes were dark, tension brewing within them, and the way they met yours now—unapologetically, searching for something—only made your guard go up further.

"I’m focused. Maybe you should try it sometime," you replied, your tone even, though every word was a small act of defiance.

A slow smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, but it wasn’t a friendly one. It was the kind of smile that said he was amused by you, that he liked getting under your skin.

"I am focused," he said quietly, his voice dropping an octave. "Just not on what you think."

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Lewis didn’t like that they were racing today, there was far too much rain. Every practice session since they had gotten to Zandvoort felt wrong, every time he got into the cockpit of the car, he wanted to get back out.

The race was chaos—engines roaring, tires screaming as they hurtled through corner after corner at breakneck speed through the rain. Every move had to be precise, every decision calculated, and he was good at it. No distractions, no second-guessing.Even though he didn’t want to race today, Lewis lived for this.

But today, besides the race, something else was off. He hadn’t been able to get you out of his head. Even as he fought for position, his mind wandered—always back to you. To the way your eyes flashed when she spoke to him, the way you never backed down, never let him in. You were supposed to be teammates. Rivals. So why the hell couldn’t he stop thinking about you?

He shook it off, pushing harder, focusing on the track ahead. But then he saw it.

Your car, just ahead in the pack, spun out. It happened so fast—a sudden twitch, then a violent swerve. His breath caught in his throat as your car skidded sideways, slamming into the barrier with a sickening crunch of metal.

Time slowed. Everything else—the race, the other drivers, the screaming radio in his ear—faded away. All he could see was your car, mangled and still, smoke rising from the wreckage.

"Bono, is she okay?" he breathed, panic clawing at his chest.

He was supposed to keep driving, follow protocol, and wait for the safety car. But he couldn’t. Lewis’ hands moved on their own, wrenching the wheel to the side, veering off the racing line. The pit radio crackled, Bono’s voice screaming at him to stay focused, to stay in the race, but he didn’t care. He slammed the brakes, pulled the car to a halt on the side of the track, ripping off his steering wheel in one swift motion.

Before anyone could stop him, he was out. Feet pounding against the asphalt, he sprinted toward your car, every second stretching painfully, his heart pounding in his ears. His mind was racing, filled with worst-case scenarios he couldn’t shut out. You had to be okay. You had to be.

As he reached the wreckage, marshals were already swarming the scene, but he shoved past them, his pulse roaring in his veins. The front of your car was a crumpled mess, the cockpit barely visible under the bent metal and debris. He could see your helmet, your still form inside, and the sight made something twist violently in his chest.

"What the fuck happened?!" His voice was raw, frantic, his hands reaching for the cockpit, trying to pry it open. "Someone help me for fucks sake!"

One of the marshals grabbed him, pulling him back, but he fought against it, his whole body trembling with the need to see you, to know you were okay.

"She’s unconscious—" one of the medics started, but he couldn’t hear the rest. His world had narrowed down to you and the sound of his own ragged breathing. He’d never felt fear like this before, not on the track, not anywhere. It gnawed at him, made his hands shake as he stood there, helpless.

His mind screamed at him. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not to you.

When the medical team finally got you out, he saw your chest rise and fall—shallow, but steady. Relief hit him like a wave, but it wasn’t enough. He needed to hear your voice, needed to see you open those damn eyes and tell him off like you always did. He needed you to be okay.

"She’s breathing," one of the medics reassured him as they loaded you onto a stretcher, and he nodded, but it felt like a hollow victory. Lewis wasn’t supposed to care this much. He wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

But as they carried you away, all he could think was that he’d break every rule, throw away the whole damn race, just to hear your voice again.

︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶ ୨♡୧ ︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶

The quiet hum of the air conditioning did little to settle the nerves that still buzzed under your skin. You sat on the edge of the small cot in your driver’s room, staring blankly at the wall. Your body ached—nothing broken, they’d told you, but the crash had rattled you more than you had wanted to admit. Your helmet sat discarded on the floor, and the sound of the accident still echoed in your head, the screech of tires, the crunch of metal.

There was a knock at the door, sharp and insistent. You knew who it was before you even heard his voice.

"You in there?"

You closed your eyes for a brief second, already bracing yourself for the confrontation you weren't ready to have. He hadn’t left you alone since the crash—hovering around the medical tent, pacing outside your room. You’d heard him through the walls, arguing with the team, demanding updates. He was relentless. But you didn’t want his concern. You didn’t need it.

The door creaked open, and Lewis stepped inside without waiting for an invitation. Typical. He always pushed his way into your space, never asking, never giving you a chance to breathe.

"You shouldn’t be here," you said, your voice low, your eyes still fixed on the floor. You didn’t have the strength to look at him, not yet. Not when your emotions were too close to the surface.

"I was worried," he said, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it, and that only made you angrier. "I needed to see for myself that you were okay."

You laughed, a bitter sound, shaking your head. Finally, you forced yourself to look up at him. His usually confident posture was gone; he looked tense, his shoulders tight, his dark eyes clouded with something you didn’t want to name. Guilt? Regret? You didn’t care.

"You were worried," you repeated, your tone mocking, though the anger bubbling inside you was anything but playful. "Since when do you care about me, Hamilton? You’ve made my life hell from the second I signed with this team."

Lewis flinched at her words, but didn’t move, didn’t back down. "I—" He stopped, searching for something to say, something that wouldn’t make it worse. But you didn’t want to hear it.

"You don’t get to be scared for me." You stood up, your body protesting with every movement, but you ignored the pain. Your emotions were a live wire, snapping and sparking in the small room. "Not after everything you’ve done. The comments, the looks, the way you treat me like I’m just some obstacle in your way."

His jaw tightened, his eyes darkening, but you weren't finished. "You’ve been trying to tear me down since the day I got here. You’ve questioned my skills, doubted my place on this team, made me feel like I don’t belong every single chance you get." You took a step closer, your voice rising, cracking with the intensity of everything you’d kept bottled up. "So don’t stand there now and pretend you care. Don’t act like I’m something worth worrying about."

He didn’t move. He just stared at you, his face a mask of tension, like he was holding something back—something he wasn’t sure how to say. His eyes flickered, just for a second, and you saw it: the same fear you’d felt when your car slammed into that barrier. It confused you. It infuriated you.

"You think I wanted this?" His voice, rougher now, cut through the thick silence. "You think I planned to be this way with you? I don’t—" He ran a hand over his face, exhaling sharply. "I don’t know how to do this. How to deal with you. Because you—"

"Because what?" you snapped, cutting him off. "Because I’m a threat? Because you can’t handle the fact that I’m as good as you? Better, even?"

"Because you scare the hell out of me!" he shouted, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. The room fell silent, his confession hanging in the air between you, raw and jagged.

Your heart pounded in your chest, the admission hitting you harder than you wanted to admit. But you didn’t let it show, couldn’t let him see how his words affected you.

"You scare me," he repeated, his voice quieter now, like he was admitting something to himself as much as to you. "The way you drive, the way you push yourself—you’re fearless, and it’s terrifying. And today—" His voice cracked, and he looked away for a second, composing himself. "Today, when I saw you crash, I thought—I thought I’d lost you."

Your breath caught in your throat, but you swallowed the emotion rising there, forcing yourself to stay strong. To stay angry.

"You don’t get to care about me," you said again, quieter this time, but with the same fire. "Not when you’ve spent months trying to break me."

Lewis opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out. For a moment, you just stood there, the distance between you feeling both impossible to cross and too close. The tension, the unspoken things that had been simmering beneath the surface for so long, it all hovered between you, crackling like electricity.

Finally, he took a step back, his gaze falling to the floor. "I’m sorry," he said, his voice rough, but sincere.

You didn’t know what to say. Part of you wanted to scream at him, to push him further away, to tell him that his apology wasn’t enough. But another part of you —a part you weren’t ready to confront—was scared by how much you’d wanted to hear him say it.

So instead, you stayed silent, watching him leave, your heart still racing, your mind reeling from everything that had just been said—and everything that hadn’t.

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving you alone in the stillness of the room. Your body felt heavier now, the adrenaline from the confrontation seeping away, leaving only the dull ache of exhaustion and the weight of his words lingering in your mind.

You scare me.

You ran a hand through your hair, still trying to make sense of it all. He was the one who had made your life hell, the one who pushed every button, who treated you like you didn’t belong. And now, he was saying he was scared? That he cared?

You paced the room, the silence gnawing at you, your mind spinning in circles. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. You were rivals—always had been. He was the enemy on your own team, the one who made you want to scream every time he walked into the room. But today, when he stood there, looking at you like he was terrified of losing you, it had felt… different.

There was a part of you that had wanted to stay angry, to keep that fire burning between you. It was easier that way. Safer. But another part—the one you hadn’t let yourself acknowledge until now—was starting to unravel, slowly, painfully, as if everything you thought you knew about him was coming undone.

You sighed, sinking back onto the cot. Your body ached, but it wasn’t just the crash. It was everything else—the confusion, the pull you felt toward him, the tension that never seemed to leave you two, the way he looked at you like you were both his greatest threat and something he couldn’t tear his eyes away from.

You don’t get to care about me.

You had meant it when you said it. But now, alone with your thoughts, you wondered if you had been pushing him away because you didn’t want to admit the truth to yourself. That maybe, just maybe, you didn’t want him to stay away. Not anymore.

Before you could second-guess it, you stood up, heart pounding in your chest. You weren't sure what you were going to say, weren’t even sure why you were doing this, but your feet carried you out of your room and down the hall. His room was just a few doors down, the quiet hum of the team in the background doing nothing to settle the storm raging inside you.

Your knuckles hovered above the door, hesitating for just a moment before you knocked, your heart in her throat.

It opened almost immediately. He stood there, still in his race suit, his room a mess and his eyes shadowed with the same exhaustion you felt. He looked surprised to see you, but there was something else there too—something raw, vulnerable, that made your chest tighten.

Neither of you spoke at first. The silence stretched, thick with the weight of everything that had been left unsaid. Finally, you broke the tension, your voice quieter than you intended.

"I shouldn’t have said what I did."

Lewis didn’t respond right away, just watched you with those sharp eyes that always made you feel like he was seeing straight through your defences.

"I didn’t mean it," you continued, forcing yourself to hold his gaze. "I mean… you didn’t deserve that. You cared, and I shouldn’t have thrown it back in your face."

He looked down, exhaling softly. "I’ve given you plenty of reasons to hate me," he said quietly. "I get why you reacted the way you did."

For a moment, neither of you moved. You were about to say something else, but then he looked up again, and the intensity in his eyes made your heart skip a beat.

"It’s foreign to me," he said, his voice low, his words deliberate. "Liking someone like you. Someone I’m not supposed to like."

Your breath caught in your throat, the air between you suddenly feeling too thick, too charged. The heat from the room, from him, seemed to close in around you, making it hard to think straight.

"You drive me insane," he continued, stepping closer, his voice rougher now. "You challenge me in ways no one else does. And I hate it. But I also…" He stopped, his eyes locking onto yours, his next words barely more than a whisper. "I can’t stop thinking about you."

You swallowed, your heart hammering against your ribs. The tension that had always been between you shifted, growing heavier, hotter, more intense. You could feel the pull, the unspoken thing that had been simmering beneath the surface for months.

Your throat was dry, your body betraying you. "You’re not supposed to care about me," you whispered, but there was no anger left in your voice. Only confusion, and something you weren't ready to admit yet.

He took another step closer, close enough now that you could feel the warmth radiating off him, close enough to hear the slight hitch in his breath.

"I know," he said, his voice husky, eyes flicking between yours and your lips. "But I do."

Your pulse thundered in your ears as his words lingered in the air between you, charged and crackling like static. Every second felt stretched, like time was holding its breath, waiting for what would happen next. The tension between you had always been palpable, always simmering just beneath the surface, but now, it was unbearable—thick, electric, like the split second before a lightning strike.

You knew you should say something, break the moment before it went too far. You should push him away, remind him of all the reasons this couldn’t happen, why they couldn’t cross this line. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. Instead, you found yourself frozen in place, the walls you’d built up around him crumbling. His eyes were locked on yours, dark and intense, and you felt something inside you shift, like a wire snapping loose.

Your breath hitched as you leaned in, just the smallest movement, enough to close some of the distance between you. Your heart was hammering in your chest, and you could feel the heat radiating from his body, the space between you shrinking until it felt like the air itself was suffocating, pressing you together.

And then, he moved.

His hand came up slowly, hesitantly, his fingers brushing lightly against your cheek, his touch feather-soft, like he was testing the moment, unsure if you’d pull away. Your skin tingled where his hand touched, sending a shiver down your spine, and for a brief second, neither of you moved. His thumb gently grazed your jawline, and the touch was so tender, so unexpected from him, that it made your chest tighten.

When you didn’t flinch, didn’t retreat, something shifted in him. The tension snapped like a taut string, unravelling all at once. He closed the gap between you in a heartbeat, and before you could think, before you could process what was happening, his lips were on yours.

The kiss wasn’t soft. It was urgent, messy, like he’d been holding back for far too long and couldn’t control it anymore. His lips pressed against yours with a hunger that matched the heat between you, a raw, desperate energy that made your knees weaken. It wasn’t gentle; it wasn’t careful. It was a release—months of pent-up frustration, confusion, anger, and something else that neither of you had been willing to acknowledge until now.

Your body responded instinctively, your hands moving to his chest, gripping the fabric of his suit as if it were the only thing keeping you grounded. His body was warm, solid beneath your touch, and you could feel his heart racing just as wildly as yours. You pulled him closer, needing more of him, needing this as much as he did.

The kiss deepened, and his hand slid from your cheek to tangle in your hair, pulling you even closer. Your mouths moved together in a rhythm that was both frantic and intoxicating, as if you were both trying to make up for all the time you’d spent fighting this. Every brush of his lips, every shift of his hands made your pulse spike, your senses overwhelmed by the intensity of it all. You could taste the desperation in his kiss, feel the tension still lingering in the way his body pressed against yours.

You weren't sure how long you stayed like that, tangled in each other, caught in the whirlwind of your own undoing. But when you finally pulled apart, gasping for air, your foreheads pressed together, and for a moment, neither of you moved. Your breaths came heavy and uneven, the world spinning around you as you tried to catch up to what had just happened.

Your mind was a haze of emotions—confusion, relief, frustration—and yet there was something undeniable settling deep inside you, something you couldn’t push away anymore.

You felt the warmth of his breath against your skin, and your heart was still racing, but now, instead of fear or anger, there was something softer, something that scared you just as much.

"I’m still angry with you," you whispered, your voice barely more than a breath. But there was no heat behind your words now, just the faintest trace of a smile tugging at the corner of your lips, like you couldn’t quite hold it back.

He let out a soft, breathless laugh, the sound vibrating between you as he brushed a thumb along your jawline, his touch lingering, as if he didn’t want to let go. His eyes softened as they met yours, the usual sharpness replaced by something you weren't used to seeing in him—vulnerability.

"I wouldn’t expect anything less," he murmured, his voice low, rough with the aftermath of what had just passed between you. His thumb traced slow, lazy circles against your skin, sending a fresh wave of warmth through you.

His forehead still rested against yours, and the air between you was thick with the unspoken things that hung in the balance. You could feel his breath mingling with yours, could still taste the remnants of his kiss on your lips. The tension hadn’t disappeared—it had merely shifted, becoming something new, something more dangerous. The line between you was gone now, blurred beyond recognition, and you didn’t know how to navigate it.

His other hand came to rest on your hip, the touch firm, possessive, pulling you just a fraction closer. Your body responded before your mind could catch up, and you didn’t stop it this time. You didn’t want to.

His lips hovered just above yours, teasing, tempting, and for a moment, it felt like the entire world had fallen away, leaving only the two of you. You could feel his breath, hot and heavy, his eyes searching yours for permission—for something more. And in that moment, you realised that you wanted it, too. Wanted him.

the end.

281 notes · View notes

kiwriteswords · 7 months ago

Text

Between Almost and Always

AN: This one got away from me! I meant for it to be, like...a few thousand words, but now we're at over 10k...so...

Other Writing | Ao3

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Female!Reader

Word Count: 14.2k !!

Rating: Mature

Tags/TW: Canon-typical violence, canon-typical themes, angst, fluff, kinda fade-to-black smut, read-between-the-lines-smut, happy ending...but it takes some time to get there!

Summary: You and Aaron Hotchner share a bond that runs deeper than either of you dares to acknowledge. Caught between the demands of the BAU and the unspoken pull toward each other, you both struggle to balance your feelings with the fears that keep you apart. As fate and duty continue to intervene, Hotch's silent sacrifices and your unrelenting hope create a tension that neither time nor distance can dissolve, leaving you both to wonder if love will ever break through the almosts and become an always.

The BAU had been your home for as long as you could remember. The team wasn't just a collection of brilliant minds and seasoned agents—they were your family. Together, you moved through darkness, confronting the most twisted parts of humanity. You learned to trust each other with more than just your lives; you entrusted one another with your secrets, your flaws, your fears.

And then, there was Aaron Hotchner.

Hotch was more than just your boss; he was the still center of the storm that raged around you all. He was the steady force that pulled you back when the horrors of the world threatened to consume you. You could always find him standing in the eye of the chaos, unyielding and calm, eyes that spoke of experience, wisdom, and a profound sadness he rarely allowed anyone to see.

But with you, he was different.

From the start, there was something unspoken between you—a magnetic pull that neither of you dared to acknowledge, yet both of you felt with every fiber of your being. It was in the way his eyes lingered just a heartbeat too long, the softening of his voice when he said your name and the brief touches that seemed to hold entire conversations in their warmth.

In quiet moments, when the rest of the world faded, you’d find yourself stealing glances at him, and he'd catch you, the corner of his mouth lifting ever so slightly as if you were sharing a secret no one else could understand. You knew there was something more—something that danced just beyond the reach of words, beyond logic and reason. A bond that went deeper than friendship, stronger than mere attraction. Yet despite the simmering undercurrent, despite all the things you never said, the timing was never right.

Hotch had always been a man of unwavering principle. After Haley’s death, he’d sworn to himself that he would never let his personal life interfere with his work. The guilt he carried from losing her was a shadow that darkened even his brightest moments. It wasn't just the fear of losing someone he cared about—it was the dread of watching the life he touched crumble under the weight of his own demons. He vowed to protect those he loved by keeping them at a distance, believing that his presence was a curse rather than a gift.

But you slipped through his defenses, inch by inch. You, with your unwavering loyalty, your quiet strength, your ability to see straight through his carefully constructed walls. You were the one who saw the Aaron behind the Agent, the man behind the mask. The way you looked at him—like he was not just the leader of your team but a man worthy of being loved—made something inside him soften, something he thought he'd lost long ago.

And maybe that was why he yearned for you. Because you made him believe in a life, he thought was no longer possible for him. You made him dream of stolen moments in a world that wasn’t constantly closing in on him, of lazy Sunday mornings and the warmth of a hand that never let go.

But he was afraid. Afraid that the darkness within him would eventually touch you, hurt you, consume the light you brought into his world. He convinced himself that walking away was the only way to protect you, even if it meant tearing himself apart.

There was an unspoken understanding between the two of you—a silent thread that bound you to Hotch from the moment you joined the BAU. It was the kind of connection that didn’t need words, a gravity that even the team couldn’t ignore.

JJ, ever the quiet observer, would offer you soft smiles of encouragement, always ready to be your confidante if you ever chose to cross that invisible line.

Morgan, on the other hand, would tease with that trademark grin of his, throwing out playful jabs to lighten the weight of the tension, hoping his humor might just snap the taut string between you and Hotch.

Penelope, never one to miss the signs of a budding romance, was less subtle—her eyes practically sparkling with mischief each time she saw you together.

But it was Reid’s comments that surprised you the most; when even he, with his logical mind, started to speak of soulmates and fated bonds, you knew the connection between you and Hotch wasn’t just something in your head—it was written all over your lives for everyone to see.

It was Seattle, but it could have been anywhere. The rain fell in that relentless way it does in the Pacific Northwest as if the sky itself was unburdening its sorrows. The case had been brutal, a sickening reminder of the cruelty humans are capable of, and though you were all seasoned in darkness, this one had taken a toll on the team.

The unsub had left behind a trail of devastation, each victim a silent cry for help that no one had answered in time. You’d felt it gnaw at your spirit, the failure, the grief, the knowledge that no matter how hard you fought, you couldn’t save them all. The team had dispersed after the long hours of paperwork, retreating to their rooms, each of them carrying the weight in their own way.

But you and Aaron Hotchner—you never went to your rooms. You both sought out the solace of the hotel bar, that quiet space where the world could blur at the edges, where reality was softened by the amber glow of dim lights and the low hum of meaningless conversation. You sat side by side, both of you holding drinks you barely touched, more for the comfort of their warmth than the promise of their escape.

Hotch looked different in the dim light—more human somehow, less like the unshakeable leader who never flinched in the face of terror. The lines etched in his face seemed deeper, the shadows under his eyes more pronounced. He was a man who carried the world on his shoulders, and tonight, it was almost too much to bear.

You’d been through enough with him to know that silence was sometimes the best language, that the quiet between you could speak volumes. You didn’t need to fill the air with words because everything you could have said was already there, in the spaces between your breaths, in the way your hands rested on the bar, inches apart but worlds away.

Then, in a voice that was softer than the rain outside, you said, "Aaron."

It was the first time you’d called him that—not Hotch, not sir—just Aaron. His name felt like an invocation, a secret on your tongue, like you were stepping across a line that you could never uncross. His name tasted like honesty, like the beginnings of something that had been simmering for so long you’d almost convinced yourself it was only in your imagination.

In this moment, you knew everything you wanted to say--all of those stolen looks, touches, and feelings that were so powerful between you two--was written all over your face. Written so clearly not even a profiler was needed to decipher your looks. Yet, here he was, the best known to man.

He turned to you, and in his eyes, you saw a flicker of vulnerability, a glimpse of the man beneath the armor, the man who had been shaped and scarred by his past. For a heartbeat, the world seemed to pause; the weight of a thousand unspoken words filled the air between you.

"Sometimes, I think about how different things might be if I wasn’t who I am," he said, his voice barely a whisper, like he was afraid the confession might break something sacred between you.

He wasn't just talking about the job; he was talking about the man he had become because of it. The man who had lost his wife, who carried the guilt of her death like a second skin. The man who was both the protector and the prisoner of his own choices. You knew what he meant because you had seen it in his eyes so many times before, that yearning for a life untouched by tragedy, a life where he could love without fear, without the shadows of the past lurking in the background.

You opened your mouth to tell him that none of it mattered to you—that you’d take him as he was, battle-scarred and beautiful, that you’d hold every shattered piece of him and never let go. You were ready to say that you didn't need him to be anything but himself, that you’d seen all his flaws and loved him not despite them, but because of them.

But then, his phone buzzed, its vibration cutting through the fragile moment like a knife. You saw the shift in his eyes, the way the warmth turned to a kind of resigned acceptance. It was Jack, his son, his anchor to the real world. Jack was the reason Hotch still fought and still believed in goodness even when everything around him suggested otherwise.

He looked at you, and in his gaze, there was a depth of regret that you felt in your bones. An apology for the life he couldn’t lead, the words he couldn’t say. An unspoken I wish things were different, echoing louder than any spoken declaration ever could.

You forced a smile, swallowing the ache in your throat. "Go," you said gently. "He needs you."

And as he stood to leave, his hand brushed yours, a touch so fleeting yet so full of longing that it nearly undid you. It was the softest of goodbyes, a promise wrapped in sorrow. You watched him walk away, the rain outside blurring into streaks against the window, and all you could think was that love wasn’t supposed to feel like this—like reaching out in the dark, only to find that the light you’d longed for had slipped through your fingers once more.

You were left sitting there, alone in the bar that smelled faintly of smoke and regret, with the knowledge that sometimes the cruelest thing about love is knowing it exists but remains just out of reach. You knew, even then, that no matter how many almosts there were between you, fate would always find a way to keep you apart.

Because Aaron Hotchner was a man bound by duty and sacrifice, and you were a dream he could never quite allow himself to have.

From that quiet night in the Seattle hotel bar, time seemed to stretch out like a thin, fraying thread—pulling taut with every stolen glance, every touch that lingered just a second too long. You and Hotch fell back into the rhythm of your work, the familiar dance of chasing monsters and saving lives. Yet, something between you had shifted, a barely perceptible change that echoed louder than words.

In the weeks and months that followed, you found yourself noticing the small things—how Hotch would watch over you during tense moments in the field, his eyes always tracking your movements as if to ensure you were safe. The way his hand would brush against yours as he passed you a file, the touch so brief and unintentional, yet burning like a brand. There were times, in the quiet of the bullpen, when you’d look up from your desk to find him already watching you, his gaze softening in a way that he never let slip when anyone else was around.

You tried to convince yourself that you were imagining it, that you were reading too much into the way his voice grew softer when he spoke to you, or the way he always seemed to stand just a little too close. But then there were moments that shattered that illusion—like when your laughter would ring out in the middle of a tough day, and his eyes would light up, his guarded expression slipping for a fraction of a second, as if you were the only thing in the room he could see. The unspoken words hung between you like stars on a cloudy night, visible yet just out of reach, a constellation of almosts that never entirely formed a complete picture.

And through it all, you both remained silent, bound by your own hesitations, afraid to name what was so painfully obvious. For Hotch, the shadows of his past and the weight of his responsibilities were chains that held him back, making him believe that to love you was to invite disaster into your life. He buried his feelings under layers of duty and self-sacrifice, convincing himself that he was doing it for your sake, that by keeping his distance, he was somehow protecting you from the darkness that seemed to follow him wherever he went.

So you carried on, both pretending that the universe hadn't already decided for you—that fate hadn't already entwined your lives in a way that neither of you could untangle. And yet, as much as you tried to ignore it, there were those fleeting moments when the world seemed to fade away, and all that was left was the space between you—the space that felt like both a chasm and a promise, waiting for one of you to be brave enough to cross it.

It was in that aching silence that the night at Rossi’s found you, once again surrounded by your team, the people who could see more clearly than you could what was hidden in plain sight. And though you tried to bury the truth, to tuck your feelings into the corner of your heart where they couldn’t hurt you, you knew. You both knew. The gravity that pulled you toward each other was unyielding, relentless—a force that neither time nor circumstance could weaken, even if it was never enough to bring you fully together.

The evening at Rossi’s had a kind of stillness that only follows a storm. The team had just closed the book on a case that left its mark, one of those that burrowed under your skin and lingered in your thoughts long after it was over. The shadows of the day seemed to melt into the twilight as the sun dipped low, painting the sky in hues of amber and rose. Fireflies blinked like tiny lanterns, and the warm breeze carried the scent of pine and summer grass.

The team was scattered across Rossi’s backyard, laughter ringing out beneath the string lights that swayed gently in the evening air. You were there, surrounded by your found family, your laughter rising above the hum of cicadas, infectious and free, as Garcia told some outrageous story that made you double over with mirth. Your joy was like sunlight breaking through the clouds, and for a moment, the weight of the world seemed lighter.

Aaron Hotchner stood on the outskirts of the gathering, a glass of whiskey cradled in his hand, his eyes fixed on you. He didn’t join in the laughter, but his expression had softened, the hard edges of his face smoothed out by the glow of the setting sun. There was something in the way he looked at you—something almost tender as if he were memorizing the way you threw your head back when you laughed, the way your eyes crinkled with genuine delight. At that moment, he wasn’t SSA Aaron Hotchner, leader of the BAU; he was just a man standing at the edge of a life he wished he could have.

Morgan, always the perceptive one, followed Hotch’s gaze, shaking his head with a knowing smile. He stepped closer, clapping a hand on Hotch’s shoulder, breaking the spell for just a second.

"Man, you’re hopeless," Morgan said with a chuckle that was both amused and sympathetic. "We all see it. You look at her like she’s the only thing that matters. When are you gonna do something about it?"

Hotch’s eyes never left you, but the smile that touched his lips was small and tinged with sadness—a bittersweet acknowledgment of everything he wanted but couldn’t have. His voice was quiet, almost resigned, as he finally spoke. "I can’t, Derek," he said, his words heavy with a truth he could never quite shake. "She deserves more than the life I can offer her right now. She deserves someone who can give her the world, not a man whose world is constantly at risk of falling apart."

The admission was laced with more than just sorrow—it was drenched in regret, a painful awareness that his love for you would never be enough to protect you from the darkness that seemed to follow him wherever he went. Hotch knew better than anyone that love wasn’t just about wanting someone; it was about knowing what you could give them in return. And he feared that all he had to offer was a life shadowed by danger, weighed down by the ghosts of every case that stole another piece of his soul.

Morgan opened his mouth to argue, to tell him that love didn’t wait for the perfect moment or the perfect person, but he stopped himself. He knew that when it came to matters of the heart, Aaron Hotchner was a fortress of caution and restraint, too afraid to let the cracks show, too afraid to believe he could have something beautiful that might one day break.

And you—you didn’t hear the words exchanged between them, but you felt the gravity of Hotch’s gaze, that unguarded moment when his eyes met yours across the yard. It was the kind of look that pierced right through the armor you both wore, a silent confession in the space between heartbeats. He looked at you like you were the axis his world revolved around, like every laugh, every smile you gave, was a flicker of light in his otherwise dark universe.

Your breath hitched at the intensity of his stare, and for a split second, you thought that maybe—just maybe—he might finally cross the line he’d drawn so carefully between the two of you. But then, as always, you saw that familiar wall go back up, the flicker of vulnerability snuffed out by the burden of his unspoken promises and his own fears.

You turned away, laughter still ringing in your ears, but your heart was heavy with a sadness that you couldn't quite shake. You knew he was holding back not because he didn’t care but because he cared too much. And it ached, that knowledge—that you were both standing in your own way, two people reaching out from opposite sides of a canyon that life and circumstance had carved between you.

As you walked away, you felt the weight of his gaze on your back, a tether that pulled at you even as you drifted further apart. You wanted to turn back, to tell him that you didn’t need the world or some perfect life. All you needed was him—flawed, guarded, and broken in all the ways that mattered. But you knew he wouldn’t believe you, wouldn’t let himself believe that he could be someone’s happiness without also being their ruin.

And so, you let the moment pass, another almost in a series of almosts, knowing that sometimes love wasn’t about grand gestures or perfect endings. Sometimes, it was about the quiet moments in between, the ones where two souls recognized each other even when they were too afraid to meet halfway.

After that evening at Rossi’s backyard, the dynamic between you and Hotch seemed to settle into an unbearable kind of stillness, a delicate balancing act of emotions held just beneath the surface.

He’d let his guard down for a fleeting moment, letting you glimpse the ache he tried so hard to hide, only to pull it back up as if regretting that he’d ever let it slip.

You went back to the familiar routine of the BAU, solving cases and chasing unsubs, but something between you both had shifted—like a door that had been cracked open only to be slammed shut again. Each day felt like another opportunity slipping away; another chance lost to the silence of everything that went unsaid. The weight of his unspoken words hung in the air, suffocating, and you could feel time pressing in on you like a vice, the years ticking by with no promise of change.

You tried to convince yourself that maybe this was all it would ever be—glances that lingered too long and conversations that always stopped just short of the truth.

So when a kind, reliable man came into your life, someone who was willing to build a future without hesitation, you let yourself be swept into the idea of a relationship that wasn’t built on waiting.

You told yourself you couldn’t spend your life pining for a man who stood so close yet always seemed miles away, a man who looked at you like you were his entire world but still refused to reach out and hold it.

And with that, you let go—at least on the surface—even though a part of you would always belong to the moments you’d shared with Aaron Hotchner, the almosts that could never quite become enough.

The day you started seeing someone new was the day you felt the invisible thread between you and Hotch snap—an agonizing, almost audible break in the connection that had always existed between you.

You hadn’t planned on it happening like this, hadn’t intended for your heart to be caught between what could never be and what felt like a practical choice. But you were in your late twenties, and the ticking clock of your life seemed to grow louder with each passing year. You wanted a family, stability, a love that wasn’t constantly waiting in the shadows, and when he came along—a man who was kind, steady, and good on paper—you thought, maybe this was what you needed.

The team noticed almost immediately. You’d see their eyes dart toward Hotch whenever you mentioned your new boyfriend, a flicker of sympathy crossing their faces as if they knew what was happening but didn’t dare voice it. You tried to ignore it, tried to convince yourself that you were doing the right thing, that this man who wasn’t Aaron Hotchner was exactly what you needed to build a life you could actually count on.

But Hotch—he changed in a way you never expected. The warmth that used to live in his eyes when he looked at you vanished, replaced by something colder, something that felt like stone. He started keeping his distance, treating you with the same detached professionalism he gave to the world outside of the BAU. The touches that once lingered were gone, the secret smiles erased as if they’d never existed. He barely spoke to you unless it was about a case, his words clipped and precise, stripped of any softness.

It was a cruel irony, really. The more you tried to move on, the further he pulled away, until it felt like the bond you’d shared—the bond that had carried you through late-night stakeouts and whispered conversations in empty corridors—had disappeared entirely. It was as though the universe had taken back every promise it had silently made between the two of you.

One evening, you caught him watching you across the bullpen as you spoke on the phone with your boyfriend, your voice soft and your laughter genuine, or at least you tried to make it sound that way. You could feel Hotch’s gaze burning into you, a raw, aching sadness in his eyes, but there was something else too—something darker, twisted with regret and jealousy.

He turned away before you could meet his gaze, his jaw clenched, the tendons in his neck tight with restraint. And later, when you tried to approach him, to bridge the widening chasm between you, he was cold, distant in a way that sliced right through you. His answers were short, his tone indifferent, as if you were just another colleague, just another piece in the puzzle he had to solve.

“Hotch,” you said one evening when the distance between you became too much to bear, when you needed to understand why he’d turned his back on you so completely. “Why are you shutting me out?”

He looked at you then, his eyes hardened, his face a mask of stoic control, but there was a flicker of something beneath the surface—something that looked like hurt. "I'm not shutting you out," he said, his voice a low rumble. "I respect your choice. You made it clear that you’re moving on, and I’m just...following your lead."

The words stung more than you thought they would, like a slap to the face disguised as an apology. You wanted to scream that it wasn’t about moving on—it was about not being able to wait forever, not being able to live in this limbo of almosts and what-ifs--That you were tired of loving a man who wouldn’t allow himself to be loved back.

How could you move on when he could never take the leap of faith to even admit he felt what you were feeling so deeply inside.

But you couldn’t say those things to him. Because deep down, you knew that your new relationship was a compromise, a safety net you’d cast beneath your heart to keep it from breaking any further. This man you were seeing—he was everything you thought you should want. He was stable, he was kind, he was willing to build a future. But he wasn’t Aaron Hotchner.

And maybe that was the cruelest part of it all—knowing that no matter how hard you tried to move forward, your heart would always circle back to him, to the man who stood just out of reach, the man who’d chosen duty and sacrifice over a chance at happiness. The man who watched you from the shadows, yearning for a love he could never let himself have.

You turned away, feeling the weight of his gaze on your back, the ghost of what you could have been haunting every step you took. And as you walked out of the bullpen, you couldn’t shake the feeling that with every step you took towards a life without him, you were leaving a part of yourself behind—the part that knew, no matter how good on paper anyone else might be, they would never be Aaron Hotchner.

The offer came quietly, slipped into Hotch's hands like a whisper of a storm—an undercover mission, months long, treacherous, the kind that could pull a person so deep into darkness that they might never find their way out. It was the sort of assignment that made sense for a man like him, a man who thrived on control and strategy, who was willing to sacrifice anything and everything to keep the world safe, even if it meant losing pieces of himself in the process.

You heard the news from someone else, the rumors swirling through the BAU like a slow poison. Hotch hadn’t come to you, hadn’t even asked for your opinion or told you he was considering it, and that omission cut deeper than any of his words ever could. When you finally confronted him, it was late in the evening, the bullpen mostly empty, and the quiet hum of the building seemed to amplify the anger simmering just beneath your skin.

"You’re really going to do this?" you demanded, your voice trembling more from hurt than from anger. "You’re considering risking your life on a months-long mission without even telling me? Without asking how I feel about it?"

He looked up from his desk, surprise flickering across his face before it quickly hardened into that mask of stoic control he wore so well. "It’s my job," he said simply, his tone cold and clipped as if that were all the explanation you needed. "I don’t need anyone’s permission to do my job."

"That’s not the point, and you know it," you snapped, the frustration boiling over now, your hands shaking. "This is about you making a decision that could get you killed without even thinking to talk to me about it. Do I really mean that little to you?"

For a moment, something vulnerable flashed in his eyes, a crack in the armor that you almost thought might break open, but then he shut it down, shut you out. His face hardened, and when he spoke, his words were like ice—sharp and cutting, each one landing like a blow.

"You have someone else in your life now," he said, the bitterness in his voice barely concealed. "Why would my decisions matter to you? You made your choice to move on, to be with someone who can give you what I can’t. I’m just following your lead, remember?"

You stared at him, disbelief turning to anger, your voice trembling with the force of emotions that you could no longer hold back.

"My choice?" you repeated, the words laced with bitterness and hurt. "How can you stand there and talk about my choice when you never even gave me the chance to choose you? You kept me at arm’s length, Aaron. You decided from the start that I didn’t get a say in this—in us. Every time I got close, you shut me out before I could even show you that you were the one I wanted."

The raw honesty in your voice cut through the air, and you could see the moment the truth of it struck him, a flicker of pain crossing his face, but he said nothing. He just stood there, silent, letting the distance grow between you like he always had, because it was easier to act like he was protecting you than to admit that he was protecting himself.

"You need to stop looking at me like I’m something I’m not," he continued, his voice steady but softer, almost as if he were pleading with you to understand. "I’m not the man you want me to be, and I’m done pretending like I could ever be enough for you. I’m going on this mission because that’s where I belong—in the field, doing something useful. And maybe when I’m gone, you’ll finally stop waiting for something that was never going to happen."

You stood there, stunned, the sting of his words ringing in your ears. It was like he’d taken everything between you—all the almosts, all the shared glances and whispered moments—and tossed it aside, reducing it to nothing. He was pushing you away, cutting the ties that bound you both, but not because he didn’t care. He was doing it because he cared too much because it was easier for him to hurt you now than to let himself believe in a future that could never exist.

"Fine," you said, your voice cracking despite your best efforts to hold it together. "Go on your mission, Aaron. If it’s so easy for you to walk away, then maybe you’re right. Maybe I was wrong about everything."

He flinched at that, just barely, a shadow of pain flickering across his face before he forced it away. He gave you a stiff nod, his jaw clenched so tight you thought it might break, and then he looked at you with those dark eyes that used to hold a world of unspoken words, now empty and closed off.

"It’s better this way," he said, but the words sounded hollow, even to him. "For both of us."

He turned back to his desk, the finality of it crashing down between you like a wall that could never be scaled. And in that moment, you knew—you knew that he’d made up his mind, not just about the mission but about the two of you. The bond that had once felt unbreakable was now shattered, the pieces scattered like ash in the wind.

As you walked away, your vision blurred with unshed tears; you couldn’t shake the image of him sitting there, rigid and unmoving, the weight of his own choices pressing down on his shoulders. You knew that this wasn’t just a job to him—it was his way of escaping, of punishing himself for wanting something he thought he didn’t deserve. And maybe, in the end, it was easier for him to go on that mission, to risk his life in a world of shadows, than to face the light of what he could have had with you.

And as he watched you leave, he knew he was making the only choice he thought he could live with—the choice that meant hurting you now to save you from the heartbreak he was certain he’d cause later. So he resolved to go on that mission, to bury himself in the danger and the darkness, where feelings didn’t complicate things and yearning for something he could never have didn’t make him feel so much like a man who’d lost his way.

In the aftermath of the confrontation, the tension between you and Hotch became palpable--especially leading up to his departure--a crackling silence that echoed through the bullpen.

The rest of the team felt the shift immediately; they had seen the glances that used to pass between the two of you, the unspoken words that lingered in the air, and now, the cold distance that had replaced it was impossible to ignore.

Morgan was the first to approach Hotch. He found him in his office, staring out the window as if searching for answers that would never come. “Hotch,” Morgan said, his voice softer than usual, no trace of the teasing smirk he usually wore when talking about you. “You know you’re screwing this up, right? Whatever you think you’re doing to protect her, all you’re doing is pushing her away. And from what I’ve seen, she didn’t want protection—she wanted you.”

Hotch didn’t turn around. He kept his gaze fixed on the horizon, his shoulders tense, jaw clenched. “It’s not that simple, Derek,” he replied, his voice a low rumble of frustration and resignation. “I’m not the man she needs. She has someone who can give her a real future, not just a life spent waiting for me to come back in one piece. She deserves more than this.”

Hotch was just as surprised to hear his honesty come out to Morgan, as Morgan was surprised to hear the vulnerability pour out of Hotch.

Morgan let out a slow breath, shaking his head. “Man, you’re lying to yourself if you think this is for her sake. You’re afraid of getting hurt, of losing something else that matters. But you can’t live your whole life like that, Hotch. You’re gonna lose her either way if you keep this up.”

Down the hall, hours later, there was a different conversation happening with you. As you sat there in the break room, the warmth of Garcia’s hug lingering on your shoulders, doubt started to creep into your thoughts like a slow-moving fog. You bit your lip, your fingers tracing the rim of your coffee cup, trying to steady the swirl of emotions that threatened to pull you under.

“Maybe he’s right,” you said quietly, your voice barely above a whisper, the words tasting bitter on your tongue. “Maybe I’m just fooling myself. What if I’ve been making something out of nothing this whole time? What if he never felt the same, and I’m just… delusional?” You laughed, but it was a hollow, shaky sound that betrayed the insecurity you’d been fighting to keep at bay. “I feel like I’m going crazy, holding onto every little look and touch like they mean something when maybe they never did.”

JJ’s eyes softened with understanding, and she reached out to cover your trembling hands with her own. “You’re not crazy,” she said firmly, her voice leaving no room for doubt. “I’ve known Hotch for a long time, and I’ve seen him shut everyone out, even when he didn’t have to. But with you—it’s different. He lets you in more than he ever has with anyone else. He cares about you in a way he doesn’t know how to handle.”

Emily, who had been listening quietly until now, leaned forward, her expression a mix of frustration and compassion. “Hotch isn’t the kind of guy to wear his heart on his sleeve,” she said, her tone sharp with conviction. “He’s terrified of getting close to someone and then losing them. But trust me, we’ve all seen it—the way he looks at you, the way he lights up when you walk into a room, even if he tries to hide it. He’s not fooling anyone but himself.”

Garcia nodded fiercely, her eyes blazing with determination. “Honey, you are not crazy,” she insisted, shaking her head. “He has feelings for you, and we all know it. He’s just too stubborn and scared to admit it to himself, let alone to you. That man looks at you like you’re the reason he keeps breathing. If he’s pretending he doesn’t care, it’s because he’s protecting his own heart, not because there’s nothing there.”

You felt the tears welling up, but this time, they weren’t just from the hurt. It was the relief of knowing that maybe—just maybe—you hadn’t been imagining things. That all those lingering glances, the stolen moments, the softness in his eyes when he thought no one was looking, they were real. You weren’t crazy, and you weren’t alone in this.

“But what if he never lets himself admit it?” you asked, your voice breaking, the vulnerability laid bare before them. “What if I’m just waiting for something that’s never going to happen?”

JJ squeezed your hand a little tighter, her smile gentle but determined. “He’s afraid, yes, but that doesn’t mean he’s lost to you. He’s hurting, and he’s hiding, but deep down, he feels it too. Sometimes, the right thing is the hardest thing to do. But he’s worth fighting for, and you are worth more than settling for half-truths and what-ifs.”

Garcia nodded in agreement, and Emily reached out, her hand warm on your shoulder, grounding you. “You’re not crazy for loving him,” Emily said softly. “He’s just scared of letting himself love you back. But one thing’s for sure—we’re not letting you give up on yourself, and we’re not letting you give up on him without a fight.”

You took a shaky breath, nodding, the tightness in your chest easing just a little. Because if they could see it—if the people who knew Aaron Hotchner better than almost anyone else believed in his feelings for you—then maybe, just maybe, there was still hope. Even if he was too afraid to see it, even if he was about to walk away, you weren’t as alone in this as you thought.

Hotch left quietly, like a whisper that faded into the darkness before you even realized he was gone. One moment he was there, stoic and silent in the bullpen, his eyes never quite meeting yours, and the next, he was just...gone. There was no goodbye, no last look, no chance to say what you’d been holding onto for so long. Just an empty desk, a hollow ache in your chest, and the knowledge that he’d chosen to walk away without a word.

You found out from Rossi, of all people, his expression grim yet resigned as he broke the news that Hotch had accepted the mission. The words felt like they echoed in slow motion, each syllable another crack in the fragile hope you’d clung to. Hotch had left for the dangerous undercover mission without telling you, without even giving you the courtesy of a goodbye. The hurt was immediate and sharp, slicing through the fragile shield you’d built around your heart.

He hadn’t come to see you, hadn’t given you a chance to plead with him to stay, and you knew why. Deep down, you knew that if he saw you one last time if he let himself look into your eyes filled with all that unsaid love, he wouldn’t be able to leave. He was running from the feelings he couldn’t control, from the bond that scared him more than any danger in the field ever could. He was a man who would rather face death head-on than confront the possibility of losing you.

But knowing his reasons didn’t dull the pain. It hurt like hell, like a betrayal you couldn’t shake. It felt like he’d taken the easy way out, choosing the mission over you because that was simpler because that was what he knew how to do. It felt like he was giving up on everything you’d never quite let yourself believe in.

That night, when you sat across from your boyfriend, the man who had tried so hard to make you happy, you felt a heaviness in your chest that you couldn’t ignore. He was everything you thought you should want—steady, dependable, willing to build a life with you without hesitation. But he wasn’t Aaron Hotchner, and that truth settled into your bones like the weight of something that could never be lifted.

“I can’t do this anymore,” you said, the words heavy with exhaustion and resignation, your voice cracking under the strain of holding yourself together. “It’s not fair to you, and it’s not fair to me. You’re a good man, and you deserve someone who loves you the way you deserve to be loved.”

He looked at you, confusion and sadness clouding his eyes, and though he tried to mask it, you could see the hurt there. “I thought we were building something real,” he said softly, the disappointment lacing his words. “Was it always him?”

You opened your mouth to deny it, to say that it wasn’t about Hotch, but the words died on your lips because that would have been a lie. Even though Hotch had walked away, even though he had chosen his mission over you, your heart was still tangled up in him, in the idea of what the two of you could have been if he’d just let himself believe in it.

“I don’t know how to love someone halfway,” you admitted, tears brimming in your eyes. “And I’m sorry, but my heart is somewhere else, with someone who might never let himself love me back. I didn’t want it to be like this, but it is, and you deserve more than I can give you right now.”

He gave you a small, sad smile, nodding as he accepted the truth, even though it clearly hurt. “I hope he’s worth it,” he said quietly, a hint of bitterness in his voice, and you couldn’t blame him for that.

As he walked away, leaving you alone in the quiet of your apartment, you felt the full force of your heartbreak crash over you. Hotch was gone, and you were left holding onto pieces of a future that never came to be. All you had now were memories, unspoken words, and the hollow ache of knowing that, in the end, he chose to walk away when you would have chosen him every single time.

The night Hotch left for the mission, Rossi insisted on driving him to the airport. It was late, the kind of late that makes the world feel hollow and deserted, and the car ride was quiet, punctuated only by the soft hum of the engine and the distant lights flickering by. Hotch had barely spoken a word since they left the office, his hands gripping the envelope in his lap like it was his lifeline, even though he knew he would never allow himself to deliver it.

Rossi watched him out of the corner of his eye, his seasoned gaze taking in every detail—the way Hotch’s jaw was clenched, the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers trembled ever so slightly around the edges of that letter. Rossi knew his friend too well, knew that look on his face wasn’t about the danger of the mission ahead but about the danger of something much closer to home.

“Don’t suppose you’re planning on actually giving that to her, are you?” Rossi asked, his voice soft but pointed, breaking the silence with a tone that brooked no argument.

Hotch’s eyes flickered over to Rossi, a flicker of surprise quickly masked by his usual stoic expression. “It’s not for her,” he said quietly, his voice laced with a kind of resignation that came from making hard choices. “It’s better this way. She’s better off without knowing.”

Rossi let out a slow, frustrated sigh, shaking his head as he pulled the car over to the curb just shy of the airport’s main entrance. He turned in his seat to face Hotch, his eyes sharp and filled with a kind of exasperated compassion. Without a word, Rossi reached over and plucked the letter from Hotch’s hands so smoothly that Hotch didn’t have time to react.

“Dave, don’t—” Hotch started, but Rossi cut him off, holding the letter up between them.

“You think you’re protecting her by keeping this to yourself?” Rossi asked his voice a low growl, softened only by the underlying empathy in his eyes. “You think walking away with all these words stuck inside you is some noble sacrifice? All you’re doing is making sure she never knows how much she meant to you. You’re making sure she never gets the chance to choose you.”

Hotch’s defenses crumbled just a little, his face tightening as he swallowed hard. “I’m doing what’s best for her,” he insisted, the words sounding hollow even to his own ears. “If I give her that letter, if I say these things out loud, it’ll only make it harder for her when I’m gone. It’s my job to keep her safe—even from me.”

Rossi leaned in closer, his eyes boring into Hotch’s, unwavering. “You’re a damn fool, Aaron,” he said, his voice softer now but no less fierce. “She’s not some damsel in distress who needs you to protect her from the truth. She’s strong, and she’s got a right to know how you feel. And if you walk away from this without giving her that chance, then you’re not protecting her—you’re just protecting yourself from getting hurt.”

Hotch opened his mouth to argue, to say something—anything—that might justify the fear that kept him chained to his own doubts. But he couldn’t. All he could do was watch as Rossi tucked the letter into the inside pocket of his jacket, his expression unreadable yet determined.

“Dave,” Hotch sighed, his voice cracking under the weight of vulnerability he could no longer mask.

“No,” Rossi replied simply, shaking his head. “I’m not letting you get on that plane with unfinished business. You can be mad at me all you want, but someday you’ll thank me for this. She deserves to know that you loved her enough to be afraid and that you were man enough to admit it.”

Rossi’s words hung heavy in the air between them, and for the first time in a long while, Hotch didn’t have a comeback. He didn’t have the strength to fight the truth he had been running from—the truth that he was terrified to lose something he never really had the courage to hold onto. And in that moment, as he watched Rossi’s car pull away, he knew that this mission wasn’t about risking his life for the job; it was about trying to outrun the love he was too afraid to face.

As Rossi drove off, he knew exactly what he had to do. He would wait until the time was right, and when Hotch was safely away, he would give you that letter. He would give you a chance that Hotch had never allowed himself to take—a chance to understand the truth that had always been hiding behind his stoic gaze, the truth that he loved you too much to let you see him break.

The mission was supposed to take months, long enough for everyone to settle into the idea that Hotch would be gone and that life at the BAU would continue without him. But something went wrong in the field--something unpredictable and chaotic that pulled him out of the operation sooner than expected.

The whole team was gathered around the screen at the BAU, watching in real-time as events unfolded like a nightmare they couldn’t wake up from.

You watched in silence, your heart lodged in your throat as Hotch risked his life in a split-second decision to save the mission’s integrity.

You knew he was trained for this, that he was capable of facing danger head-on, but seeing it happen right in front of your eyes, seeing the bullets fly and the chaos ensue with Hotch at the center of it—it tore something inside you apart.

Your hands clenched into fists, nails digging into your palms as a mixture of fear, anger, relief, and heartbreak churned within you. You hated that you still cared so much, hated that watching him put himself in danger made you want to scream at him, to tell him he had no right to scare you like this after everything he’d done.

When it felt like the scene from a horror movie had ended on the scene, and Hotch was declared safe, a wave of relief swept through the room, followed immediately by a heavy silence.

The rest of the team exchanged glances filled with sympathy and understanding, but you couldn’t look at them. You couldn’t look at him. You turned away, biting back the tears that threatened to spill over, feeling betrayed by your own heart.

Hotch returned to the BAU not long after, weary and haunted, but alive. And when he stepped back into the bullpen, his eyes searching for you, you couldn’t bring yourself to meet his gaze. The hurt and betrayal were too raw, too fresh. He tried to speak to you, to offer some kind of explanation or apology, but you turned on your heel and walked away, leaving him standing there with the words dying on his lips.

Rossi watched the scene unfold with a frown, his hand brushing against the letter still tucked away in his jacket. He’d thought the mission would last long enough to give Hotch the chance to come to his senses, to see the truth he’d been too afraid to confront. But now, as he watched the unspoken agony between you and Hotch, he knew that the letter might be the only way to bridge the chasm growing wider by the day.

The tension between you and Hotch was suffocating as you stepped onto the jet for your first case back together. The team tried to maintain a semblance of normalcy, their conversations forced and awkward as they pretended not to notice the icy silence between you and Hotch. But the pain was palpable, hanging in the air like a storm waiting to break.

As the jet cut through the sky, the two of you could barely put your differences aside long enough to discuss the case. Every exchange between you was clipped, your voices low and sharp, each word laced with unspoken accusations. Hotch’s usual calm demeanor was replaced by a tightly controlled frustration, and you could feel your own anger boiling over, fueled by the fear and hurt of watching him almost die and then come back as if nothing had changed.

When he snapped at you over a minor detail, something in you broke. “You don’t get to do that!” you said, your voice rising despite the presence of the team. The pain in your voice was unmistakable, the hurt you’d been holding back finally spilling out. “You don’t get to act like everything’s fine and then snap at me like I’m the one who’s out of line. Not after what you put me through, not after you left without a word.”

Hotch’s eyes flashed with something between guilt and anger, his own control starting to crack. “I’m doing my job,” he said, his voice clipped and colder than you’d ever heard it. “We have a case to solve, and I need you to focus.”

The words stung, cutting deeper than any blade. “Focus?” you said, incredulous, your voice trembling with barely contained emotion. “I watched you almost get yourself killed, Hotch! I watched you risk your life without a second thought, and now you expect me to just sit here and act like none of that matters? Like you leaving didn’t tear me apart?”

The rest of the team exchanged uneasy glances, shifting uncomfortably in their seats. Morgan looked like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how to, while JJ’s eyes were filled with empathy for both of you. Emily stared down at her hands, biting her lip, and even remotely through a screen, Garcia seemed to have lost her usual words of comfort.

Hotch opened his mouth to respond, but whatever he was about to say died on his lips. He couldn’t meet your gaze, couldn’t face the truth of what he had done--the loss of your trust, the pain--and that made you even angrier. The silence between you was thick--heavy with all the words left unsaid, the accusations that neither of you was brave enough to voice.

Rossi had been watching everything unfold, his gaze steady and knowing, his years of experience seeing straight through the walls both you and Hotch had built. He’d seen the way you fought on the jet, the way your voices trembled with hurt and frustration, each word a thinly veiled cry for something that neither of you knew how to reach. He knew that you were both hurting in ways that went beyond words, that the love and the pain you shared were tangled together like a knot neither of you could untie.

He’d hoped that Hotch would find the courage to say the things he’d written in that letter, that seeing you again and almost losing his life would finally push him to confront his feelings. But as the days went by and the distance between you grew, Rossi knew that the time had come to step in. He could see that Hotch’s stubbornness and your heartbreak were tearing you both apart, and he could no longer stand by and watch.

One evening, after the team had returned to the BAU from the case, Rossi found you alone in the dimly lit kitchenette. You were leaning against the counter, staring into your coffee cup like it might hold some kind of answer to the mess your heart was in. The rest of the building was quiet, the hum of the lights the only sound in the room. This was the moment—private, away from the eyes of the team—when Rossi knew he had to act.

He approached you slowly, his footsteps soft against the tile floor. You looked up as he entered the room, your eyes red-rimmed and tired, and for a second, you tried to force a smile. But Rossi knew better; he saw right through it.

"Y/N," he said gently, his voice softening with the kind of understanding that only years of watching lives unravel could bring. "I think it’s time you knew something. Something he should have told you himself."

You furrowed your brow in confusion, but before you could ask, Rossi reached into the inside pocket of his jacket. He pulled out the letter, the envelope worn from where his fingers had traced over it time and time again, waiting for this moment. He held it out to you, your name scrawled across the front in Hotch’s precise, careful handwriting.

Your eyes widened as you took in the sight of it, your heart suddenly pounding in your chest. "What is this?" you whispered, though you already had a sense of what it might be, the truth of it hovering just beyond your grasp.

“It’s from him,” Rossi said quietly, his gaze never leaving yours. "He wrote it before he left on that mission. He never meant for you to see it, but I think you need to. You need to know what he’s been holding back all this time."

Your hand shook slightly as you reached out, taking the letter from Rossi. His fingers lingered for just a moment as if transferring not just a piece of paper but the weight of all the unspoken words that Hotch had never been able to say. You could feel the letter’s weight, heavier than you ever imagined a piece of paper could be.

Rossi’s voice was low, almost a whisper, as he said, “Read it, Y/N. It’s time you knew the truth he’s been too afraid to tell you.”

You stared down at the envelope, your fingers trembling as you traced the letters of your name, written by the man who had torn your world apart—the man you still loved, even after everything. The rest of the world seemed to fade into the background as you turned the envelope over, slowly breaking the seal, your breath catching in your throat.

And as you began to unfold the letter, your heart racing with every inch of paper revealed, you knew that whatever was written there would change everything between you and Aaron Hotchner—forever. The truth that had been hiding in the darkness was finally coming to light, and you braced yourself for the impact of words you’d been waiting to hear all along.

The world seemed to fall away as you stared down at the letter in your hands, the one that Hotch had written in a moment of unguarded honesty. His handwriting, precise and steady, almost mocked you with its calmness as you unfolded the paper, knowing that the words on it held the power to either heal or shatter you all over again.

Your hands shook slightly as you began to read, your eyes scanning the lines that laid his soul bare. The letter was filled with the words he could never bring himself to say—the truth he’d hidden behind layers of stoic professionalism and self-sacrifice. He wrote about how he had fallen in love with you so completely that it terrified him, how every time he saw you smile, it felt like the light was breaking through the darkness that had wrapped itself around his life.

He admitted that he had left not because he didn’t care but because he cared too much. He was afraid that if he stayed, he would put you in danger, that the chaos of his world would consume you, and he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if anything ever happened to you because of him. He wrote that he was a coward for not letting you in, for not giving you a chance to love him back, and that leaving was the only way he thought he could protect you from himself.

But the most painful confession was how much he regretted not being brave enough to stay. How every day away from you felt like he was living half a life, pretending to be fine while his heart was still tethered to you. He poured out all the vulnerability he’d never let himself show, the raw edges of his love and fear, and by the end, you could barely see the words through the blur of your tears.

You felt your heartbreak and heal all at once, the anguish of his departure mixed with the overwhelming relief of knowing that you hadn’t imagined it, that he did love you—he always had. And yet, there was still anger, still hurt that he could be so selfless and so selfish all at the same time.

You felt reactive, but you knew this moment needed privacy, a space where you could let the raw hurt and anger spill out without holding back. That’s why you found yourself standing in front of Hotch’s apartment door, your heart pounding in your chest, the letter clutched tightly in your trembling hand.

You had rehearsed what you were going to say, how you would confront him for all the pain he’d caused, but the moment he opened the door, everything you’d planned to say disappeared in the face of his shock. He stood there, eyes wide and startled, his hair disheveled, looking as though he’d been caught in the middle of a moment he wasn’t ready for. When he saw the letter in your hand, his face went pale, and you saw something crack in his expression—fear, regret, the realization that there was no more running from this.

“Why?” you demanded, your voice shaking with the weight of everything you felt. You stepped into his apartment without waiting for an invitation, your eyes blazing as you faced him. “Why would you write all of this down, admit that you love me, that you were too afraid to stay, and then just leave? How could you walk away when you knew how much it would hurt me?”

Hotch looked like he’d been punched in the gut. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out at first. He looked down at his hands, then back at you, his eyes glistening with a vulnerability that broke through his stoic facade. “I—I didn’t want you to read that letter,” he said finally, his voice raw and unsteady. “I thought if you never knew how I felt, you could move on, be happy without me holding you back.”

You let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head, feeling the tears you’d held back for so long start to spill. “You still don’t get it, do you?” you said, your voice cracking with a mix of anger and heartbreak. “You never gave me a choice, Aaron! You decided what was best for me, like I was some kind of problem you needed to solve, without ever asking me if that’s what I wanted. You left me here, broken, thinking that I wasn’t enough for you, that you didn’t care, when all along you were just too scared to let me in!”

Hotch’s face crumpled as he took a step toward you, his hands shaking slightly as he reached out, only to stop himself.

“I thought I was protecting you,” he said, his voice almost a whisper, filled with the kind of pain you’d never heard from him before. “I thought if I stayed, if I let myself love you the way I do, that I’d put you in danger, that I’d ruin everything good in your life. But I see now that I was wrong. All I did was hurt you.”

You looked at him, your eyes blazing with hurt and love all at once. “I was ready to fight for you, Aaron,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper, each word trembling with the force of your emotion. “I was ready to take on the risk, the danger, all of it, because I loved you that much. And you never even gave me the chance to choose you back.”

Hotch’s breath hitched, and you saw his eyes fill with unshed tears. For the first time, his stoic mask slipped completely, and he looked like a man laid bare, all his defenses shattered. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “I thought I was doing what was best for you, but all I did was run away from the one thing that mattered most. I didn’t trust myself to be the man you deserve, and I was a coward for that.”

The apartment felt too small, the walls closing in around the two of you as you stood there, your heartbreaking and mending all at once. You wanted to yell at him, to shake him and make him see just how much he’d hurt you, but you also wanted to reach out and hold him, to tell him that you understood, that you were just as scared as he was.

“Aaron,” you said, your voice shaking but steady, your eyes meeting his. “You don’t get to make these decisions for me. You don’t get to push me away to protect me. I don’t know if I can forgive you yet, but I know that I want to make that choice myself. I want to decide if this is worth the risk if you are.”

He nodded slowly, his gaze never leaving yours, his expression raw and pleading. He felt tension both leave his shoulders, but a new weight appear.

“I promise,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper, filled with the kind of vulnerability he never let anyone see. “No more running. No more hiding. I’ll fight for this, for us, if you’ll let me. I don’t want to lose you again.”

You took a shaky breath, feeling the gravity of his promise settle into your heart. The anger and hurt were still there but softened by the truth of his words. “I’m not saying it’ll be easy,” you said softly, the tears still glistening in your eyes. I’m not saying I’ll forgive you right away. But if you’re willing to stay and fight for this—for us—then maybe we still have a chance.”

Hotch let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, a small, tentative smile breaking through the pain in his eyes. He reached for your hand, and this time, you didn’t pull away. His fingers curled around yours, trembling slightly as if afraid this was all a dream that might slip through his grasp.

And as you stood there in the quiet of his apartment, your hand in his, you knew that whatever happened next, you were finally on the same side, facing the fear, the risk, the uncertainty—together. The story between you and Aaron Hotchner was far from over; in fact, it had only just begun.

As the words between you and Hotch settled into the quiet of his apartment, a heavy silence filled the space—not the kind that was strained or uncomfortable, but the kind that wrapped itself around you like a blanket, pulling you both closer to a truth that neither of you was ready to let go of. There was something fragile in the air, something tender that neither of you dared to name, but you both knew it was there. It was the moment you’d both been waiting for, even if you’d never admitted it to yourselves.

You were still standing so close to him, your hand resting in his, and for once, neither of you pulled away. The soft light from the lamp in the corner cast shadows across his face, highlighting the vulnerability in his eyes and the quiet desperation that said he didn’t want this moment to end. He was holding onto you like you were his lifeline, like letting go meant he’d lose more than he could bear.

Hotch took a shaky breath, his thumb brushing gently across your knuckles, his touch so tender it almost broke you all over again. "Stay a little longer," he whispered, his voice barely more than a breath, the vulnerability in his words laying everything bare. "I know I have no right to ask, but please... just stay."

Your heart ached at the rawness of his plea, and you couldn’t bring yourself to leave, not yet. You nodded slowly, letting out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. "Okay," you said softly, your voice laced with the same longing that echoed in his eyes. "Just a little longer."

Without a word, he led you to the couch, and the two of you sat down, closer than you’d ever been before. Hotch’s arm rested along the back of the couch, his fingers brushing the fabric near your shoulder as if he was afraid to reach for more but couldn’t bring himself to pull away. You turned toward him, your knees almost touching, and for the first time, the distance that had always seemed insurmountable between you felt like it was finally closing.

He looked at you with such intensity, such quiet longing that it made your chest tighten. Slowly, hesitantly, he reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering near your temple as if memorizing the way you looked at this moment. "I never thought I could let myself have this," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, his eyes searching yours like he was afraid of what he might find.

You felt the tears well up in your eyes again, but this time they were softer, a mixture of relief and sadness and everything you’d kept locked inside for so long. You placed your hand over his, holding it against your cheek, and closed your eyes for a moment, just feeling the warmth of his touch, the way his thumb traced gentle circles against your skin.

"I’m here now," you whispered, your voice breaking slightly. "I’m here, Aaron. And I’m not going anywhere—not unless you make me."

For a moment, it was as if the world outside had ceased to exist, and it was just the two of you in that small, quiet space. Hotch’s forehead touched yours, the breath between you shared and steadied, and in that touch, there was more intimacy than any words could convey. You could feel the rise and fall of his chest, the way his breathing matched yours, and you knew he was holding onto this moment as if it were a lifeline.

He closed his eyes, his voice so soft and broken that it almost didn’t reach you. "I don’t deserve this," he murmured, his lips just inches from yours, not in a kiss but in a closeness that held more promise than any kiss ever could. "I don’t deserve you."

You opened your eyes, meeting his gaze with a determination you hadn’t felt in so long, your voice trembling but sure. "Maybe you don’t," you said, a hint of a smile breaking through your tears. "But I’m giving you the chance to prove me wrong."

Hotch let out a breath that was almost a laugh, a sound so soft and genuine it made your heartache. He pressed his forehead against yours, his hands coming to cradle your face with a gentleness that you didn’t know he possessed like you were the most precious thing he’d ever held. "I’m not going to let you down again," he promised, his voice raw and filled with something that felt like hope. "I’ll fight for this—for us."

The two of you stayed like that; the world narrowed down to the space between your breaths, the gentle touch of his hands against your skin, and the unspoken promise of everything that lay ahead. You didn’t need to say anything else, didn’t need to break the silence with words that could never capture what this moment meant. You just held each other, the two of you finally, truly, being—no masks, no walls, just you and Aaron.

Neither of you wanted to let go, but you knew you had to eventually. So, when you finally pulled back, his hand still lingering on your cheek, you let out a soft sigh. "I should go," you said, your voice gentle, though your heart ached at the thought of leaving.

He nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving yours, his thumb brushing one last tender stroke across your cheek. "I know," he said, his voice filled with the quiet acceptance of a man who had found something he didn’t want to lose. "But not too far, okay?"

You gave him a small, tearful smile, your fingers wrapping around his for just a moment longer. "Never too far," you promised.

And as you stood up, reluctantly letting go of his hand, you both knew that something had shifted between you, something irreversible and true. You weren’t sure where this would lead, how much more pain or healing lay ahead, but for the first time, you both believed in the possibility of something real—something worth fighting for. And that was enough.

As fate would have it, just as you and Hotch finally seemed to find solid ground, the world pulled you back into the chaos that had always been your reality. A big case came barreling in like a storm, sweeping the entire BAU into its relentless grip. The details were brutal and time-sensitive, and there was no room for hesitation as you all packed your bags and headed off to the next city to face yet another battle in the war against darkness.

You and Hotch barely had a moment to catch your breath, much less to explore the fragile new beginning you’d carved out in his apartment. The case consumed you both, the demands of the job dragging you into late-night briefings, endless strategy sessions, and the exhaustion that came from running on adrenaline and sheer determination.

But through it all, there was something different in the way he looked at you—something softer, something that made your heart skip a beat even in the midst of chaos. There were stolen glances across the conference room, fleeting touches that lingered a second too long when no one was watching. It was like you were both holding onto a secret, a promise whispered between the cracks of what had always been left unsaid.

It was late—long past midnight—and the case was at a standstill for the night. You were in your hotel room, staring at the ceiling, mind racing with the pieces of the puzzle that didn’t quite fit together when a soft knock came at your door. You knew it was him even before you opened it, your heart pounding as you turned the handle to find Hotch standing there, looking more unguarded and raw than you’d ever seen him.

He was still in his suit, but his tie was gone, the top buttons of his shirt undone, and he looked like he’d been carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders for too long. He met your eyes, his own filled with something that looked like vulnerability like fear and longing tangled into one.

“Can I come in?” he asked, his voice low and almost hesitant like he was afraid you’d turn him away.

You nodded, stepping aside to let him in, your pulse thrumming in your veins. Hotch walked in slowly, closing the door behind him, and for a moment, he just stood there, looking at you like he wasn’t sure if he should say something or stay silent.

"I thought I could do this," he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. "I thought I could keep it professional, keep my distance. But every time I look at you, every time I see you put yourself in danger for this job, it terrifies me. And I can’t keep pretending that I’m not in love with you."

The words left you breathless, your mind reeling, and before you could even think, you closed the distance between you, reaching for him like he was the only solid thing in your world. His hands found your face, his touch gentle but desperate like he was afraid you might disappear if he didn’t hold on tight enough.

"Aaron," you whispered, your voice trembling with all the emotions you’d kept bottled up for so long. "You don’t have to keep pretending anymore. I’m here. I’m right here."

And then his lips were on yours, and it was like the world stopped spinning. The kiss was soft at first, tentative, almost like he was afraid to believe it was real. But then it deepened, all the years of longing and restraint shattering in an instant, replaced by a raw, desperate need that neither of you could hold back. His hands slipped into your hair, holding you to him like he was afraid to let go, and you felt his breath hitch against your lips.

You broke the kiss just long enough to whisper his name, to look into his eyes and see the love and fear and desire that mirrored your own. "Stay with me," you said, your voice so soft, almost a plea.

He didn’t answer with words; he didn’t have to. He kissed you again, harder this time, more certain, his hands trailing down your sides as he pulled you closer. It was a kiss that spoke of everything you’d both been too afraid to say, everything that had been locked away in silence for so long. He poured himself into it—all the loneliness, the longing, the love he’d kept hidden.

You moved together in a blur of tangled limbs and whispered words, the unspoken promises and all the almosts finally becoming something real. You couldn’t recall at what point whose clothes ended up on the floor first or how it felt like it took no time for your skin to feel on fire under each brush of Hotch’s fingertips against your skin.

Hotch’s touch was reverent, almost worshipful, as if he was memorizing every inch of your skin, the way you felt beneath his fingertips. His eyes never left yours, even as he kissed a trail down your neck, his breath warm and shaky against your skin.

When he finally laid you down on the bed, his movements were slow, almost hesitant, like he wanted to savor every second, like he couldn’t quite believe you were really here with him. You reached up, brushing your fingers against his cheek, guiding him closer, and he let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

As he hovered above you, his forehead pressed to yours, you could see the vulnerability in his eyes—the love and fear and hope all tangled together. "I’ve never let myself have this," he whispered, his voice rough with emotion. "But with you, I can’t pretend anymore."

You pulled him down into another kiss, softer this time, filled with the tenderness that had always been between you, even when you were too afraid to acknowledge it. And then you were lost in each other, in the feel of his hands on your skin, his lips trailing fire across your body, the way he breathed your name like it was a prayer.

It was as if his hands and body knew you already--knew exactly how you ticked.

When he finally sank into you, it was with a sigh that seemed to echo in the quiet room, a moment so full of love and longing that it brought tears to your eyes. You moved together, slow and gentle, the world outside fading away until there was nothing left but the two of you, the rhythm of your breaths and the way his eyes held yours like you were the only thing that mattered.

It wasn’t just about desire—it was about finding each other in the dark, about all the broken pieces of yourselves fitting together in a way that finally made sense. It was about love, pure and simple, the kind of love that had always been there, waiting for the right moment to unfold.

When the morning light filtered through the curtains, you woke up wrapped in his arms, your head resting on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. For once, Aaron Hotchner looked at peace, his eyes soft as he watched you, his fingers tracing gentle patterns on your back.

"Good morning," he said, his voice still rough from sleep, a small, tender smile playing at his lips.

"Good morning," you whispered back, feeling the warmth of his smile settle over you like a blanket.

He brushed a strand of hair from your face, his eyes filled with something that looked like wonder. "I don’t want this to end," he said softly, his voice filled with an honesty that took your breath away. "I’m done pretending, done pushing you away. I want this—I want you."

You leaned up and pressed a gentle kiss to his lips, your smile growing as you pulled back just enough to look into his eyes. "I’m not going anywhere, Aaron," you said. "Not anymore."

And as you lay there in each other’s arms, the promise of everything you’d both been too afraid to dream of was finally within reach. No more running, no more hiding. Just the two of you, facing whatever came next—together.

When the case was finally over, thee unsub was in custody, and the tension that had bound the team so tightly for the past few days had begun to loosen. You and Hotch had done your best to remain professional throughout the investigation, maintaining a careful distance despite the undeniable connection between you. Every stolen glance and fleeting touch during the case had only reminded you of the night you’d shared together, the secret that seemed to hang in the air between you.

Now, as the jet hummed quietly on the journey back to the BAU, the rest of the team settled into their seats, some rifling through case files while others engaged in quiet conversation. There was a sense of relief in the air, the kind that came after a job well done, but you could still feel Hotch's gaze on you, lingering with something softer, something unspoken that only the two of you understood.

Hotch was sitting directly across from you, his posture as calm and composed as ever, but the way he was watching you betrayed the quiet storm of emotions he was trying to keep in check. He shifted slightly, then cleared his throat, drawing the attention of not just you but everyone around.

Your name slipped from his lips, steady but tinged with a hint of vulnerability that made your pulse quicken. "I was thinking," he said, his voice a little softer than usual, his eyes locked on yours, "when we get back, maybe we could have dinner sometime." He paused for a fraction of a second, his gaze never wavering. "A real dinner. You know, a date."

There was a split second of silence before Morgan let out a low whistle, his face breaking into a wide, knowing grin. He leaned back in his seat, folding his arms over his chest as he shook his head in amusement. "Well, damn, Hotch. I didn’t think you had it in you," he said with a teasing smile, his eyes twinkling with genuine happiness for the two of you. "Took you long enough, man."

JJ and Emily exchanged quick glances, both smiling like they’d just witnessed something monumental. JJ’s smile grew wider, and she gave you a look that was equal parts supportive and relieved. "It’s about time," she said, her tone gentle but filled with a knowing warmth. "I think we’ve all been waiting for this."

Even Reid, who had been lost in a book just moments before, looked up with a surprised but pleased expression. "Statistically speaking," he said thoughtfully, tilting his head slightly as he processed the scene, "the odds were always in favor of you two ending up together. It’s good to see that probability playing out."

You couldn’t help but laugh softly, a mix of embarrassment and joy coloring your cheeks. Hotch, who rarely let his guard down in front of the team, surprised you again by not hiding his smile—a real, genuine smile that lit up his face and made the corners of his eyes crinkle.

"So," he said, his voice lower now, meant just for you even though the whole team was listening. "Is that a yes?"

You nodded, unable to suppress the smile that spread across your face. "Yes," you said softly, your eyes meeting his with a warmth that spoke of everything unspoken between you. "It’s a date."

Hotch’s smile widened just a touch more, and you saw a flicker of relief in his eyes, a quiet kind of joy that made your heart swell. It was such a simple thing—a date—but it felt like a promise, a beginning, a chance for something real outside the chaos of your lives.

As the moment settled between you, the jet full of your colleagues who had become your family, Morgan let out another chuckle. "Just remember, Hotch," he said, grinning as he looked at both of you, "we’ll all be expecting a full report."

Emily smirked, giving you a playful nudge with her elbow. "And we’ll be rooting for you guys," she added, her eyes sparkling with genuine happiness. "All the way."

You felt a warmth spread through you, not just from the support of your team but from the quiet certainty that you were finally on the same page with Hotch. This was more than just a fleeting moment; it was the start of something that neither of you was willing to let slip away this time.

As the jet continued its journey through the sky, you could feel the shift in the air, a sense of hope that was shared by everyone in that small space. It wasn’t just about the kiss you’d shared or the night you’d spent together. It was about a future, a chance for happiness that you both finally believed in.

And it all began with a date, a new beginning that held the promise of everything you’d both been too afraid to dream of—together.

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