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Version of You (Hotch x Fem!Reader) — one shot
Call 1-800-799-7233 if you think you are in danger/a victim of domestic violence, or visit this website for resources, live chat, and more (for the USA). This is a link to the wikipedia page that has international resources.
(I wanted to put that first because this fic deals with an abusive relationship and some scenes show the abuse. If you relate to any this, please seek help via the resources above. I want desperately to say my DMs are open, but for my own mental wellbeing, I have to let you know that the resources that I give above are about all I can do to help. You’re welcome to DM me if needed, but please know that it might take me a minute to reply, and I still will point you in the direction of resources that can better help you. I love and support and am with every single one of you, but I can only do so much through a screen xx.)
This is 100% a comfort fic, but I am safe and okay, I promise 💛 (Truthfully, this was really therapeutic to write.)
Small note: mental and verbal abuse is depicted here, not physical (though it does come close), but I wanted to remind you that just because abuse isn’t physical doesn’t mean it’s not harmful or real. Mental and verbal abuse is still abuse.
Summary: Hotch helps you find the courage within you to end your abusive relationship for good.
Warnings: depiction of an abusive relationship, verbal/mental abuse, violence (domestic and otherwise), angst, happy ending
Hotch Masterlist
Aaron is stunned and disappointed to find you’re still at your desk when he walks out of his office at the grand hour of 8 p.m.
You don’t even hear his office door open or close, but you do hear his footsteps on the stairs. By the time he reaches your desk to say goodnight, you’re already attempting to cover up any traces of emotion on your cheeks.
But Aaron is a profiler. On top of that, though, he’s one of your best friends. He’s known you for six years now, and given how much time the BAU members spend together on cases, he’d argue he knows every single person here better than they know themselves.
You’d agree. You hardly know who you are anymore. But somehow, Aaron knows. Aaron can see.
“What’s wrong?” He asks, already setting his bag down, already pulling a chair over, already sitting next to you.
You’re ready to tell him it’s nothing, to tell him to get home to Jack, that it isn’t important — but it is.
You’ve been with your current partner for almost eight years. Anyone would hear that and ask if marriage is on the horizon, or children, or something of the sort. But not Aaron. Because Aaron can see the pain in your eyes.
Truthfully, he’s seen that pain in your eyes for the past two years. Maybe more.
But recently, it’s gotten worse. A lot worse.
You’re on a “break” with your partner. Whatever a “break” even means, because you still receive phone calls and texts from them all day. You send the calls to voicemail unless you absolutely aren’t doing anything, and the texts you reply to with one word.
Going home is fine because your partner is gone — for now. Work called them away, so you’re home alone for at least another three days, but you expect they’ll want you to pick them up from the airport.
You’ve never longed for a case the way you’re longing for one right now.
This “break” has been easiest because your partner has been gone. You know if they were here, it wouldn’t have been a break at all.
“It’s made me realize that I...I want a break. A real break.”
“You want to break up,” Aaron says it for you, knowing you’re too afraid.
Your hesitant nod confirms this for him. “I do. I think I really do.”
Aaron has known the relationship hasn’t been the healthiest. You don’t open up about your personal life that much at work — you never have — but it has always been telling that you never go out for drinks with the team. And when you did, you’d have to answer texts every ten minutes. Your partner never accepted an invite to join the team for drinks or dinner, but would often get angry at you for being out, as if you hadn’t tried to invite them.
Raised voices, broken glass. Not a single hand was ever laid on you. No, instead, it was a wine glass your mom gifted to you when you graduated college when your partner was angry that you had gone out for drinks with the team after a difficult case. A coffee mug you gifted your partner for their birthday faced the brunt of their anger when you didn’t reply to a text message fast enough — because you were parking your car in the garage. Plates, picture frames. A coffee table once, three years ago. It had been a house warming present.
But they’ve never hurt me, you always argue — only with yourself. No one knows the truth, that you clean up after their outbursts, that you’re grateful to have some knowledge of first aid so you can tend to your cuts from the broken glass, or so that you could stitch up your partner’s hand with ease, because hospitals are expensive and the excuses you’d have to fabricate even more so.
They always apologize. Which is true. Apologies are frequent in your house. Sometimes verbal, sometimes in the form of flowers either on your desk at the BAU (that only Hotch seems to notice with a sad smile) or left on the counter at home. Sometimes, rarely, a fancy dinner and some gift, usually a necklace.
“If you need any help at all,” Aaron says, looking you in your eyes, carefully, intently. “I’m here. For anything.”
“Thanks,” you murmur. Your stomach rumbles loudly in the silence, making you chuckle awkwardly.
“Hungry?” He jokes, but is half serious. “I was planning to get something on the way home, if you’d like to join.”
You think it over for a moment. Your mind immediately jumps to say no because you think your partner is home...but they aren’t.
“Sure,” you say. “Why not. What’s on the menu?”
You gather your things and Hotch waits patiently, rattling off some ideas for food to eat until one grabs your attention.
Your phone buzzes with a text. Where are you?
Aaron notices your change in posture with a sigh. “Is that them?”
You nod slowly. “Asking where I am.” You quickly type back, Still at the BAU.
The reply is almost immediate, as always. Just checking. Love you.
Relief washes over you as you type back, Love you too.
Aaron doesn’t like what he sees. The panic that surges through you just from a text message, making you stand up straight, hold your breath, clench your jaw. Then the relief that relinquishes you when a reply comes and it isn’t negative for once. The sudden changes, the way your emotions are yanked back and forth. He hates it.
But he doesn’t mention it. Instead, he says, “Ready?” And waits for you to smile.
+++
Hotch really doesn’t mean for dinner with you to turn into somewhat of a routine. But it does.
It’s brought more smiles to your face than Hotch thinks he has ever seen in the past six years. And for that, he doesn’t regret the dinners.
Neither do you, until the worst thing that could possibly happen ends up happening one night, three weeks since the first dinner.
Your partner is going out with friends, so you think you’re in the clear to get dinner with Aaron. And when your partner asks where you are again, you say you’re still at the BAU. You were, but you and Aaron were in the elevator to leave when you sent that message.
The two of you grab dinner at one of your favorite spots, at a table outside because the weather is perfect, the sky is clear, and stars are beginning to show. It’s magical. Until it’s a nightmare.
“Well, well, well.”
The voice sends shivers down your spine. They’re supposed to be out with friends.
Aaron automatically stands, shoulders squared and face set. He’s wearing his gun, and you are, too, but you’d never use it on your partner. You can’t say the same about Hotch, though, and that terrifies you.
“Babe,” you say with a smile, and Hotch tenses, hearing the pet name fall so easily form your lips. “What are you doing here? I thought you were going out with your friends?”
Your partner crosses their arms over their chest. “And I thought you were still at work.”
“We are,” Hotch speaks up, startling you. “We’re discussing a case.”
Your partner looks around, raising their eyebrows. “I don’t see any papers.”
“Because we went digital five years ago,” Hotch replies coolly. “But aside from that, a federal investigation is none of your business.”
You swallow thickly, waiting for your partner’s reply.
But to your surprise, they only nod. “I understand, sir. I was only checking.”
Hotch holds back a scoff, but instead returns the nod. “If you’ll excuse us.”
Your partner holds their hands up in surrender. “Of course.”
“I’ll see you at home,” you say quickly. “Love you.”
“See you at home,” they reply, making you frown as they turn and walk away.
When you look back at Hotch, you nearly scream. It takes everything in you not to make the hugest scene right there, outside this nice restaurant, underneath these stars.
Your phone buzzes. One hour. Do not be late.
“Y/N—”
“Don’t,” you say quietly. “Just. Don’t, Hotch.”
+++
The next day, you knock on Hotch’s office door, twenty dollar bill in hand to pay him back for your dinner last night. You left in a hurry and didn’t get to pay. Thankfully, at least, arriving home with forty minutes to spare saved you from an even worse reaction from your partner.
“For dinner last night,” you mumble, sliding the twenty across Hotch’s desk. “Thank you.”
As you turn on your heel to leave, Hotch calls out to you. “I’m sorry.”
You sigh. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not,” Aaron says, making you turn back around. “I hope you’re...alright.”
You’re so very far from being “alright” that you almost laugh. Instead, you shrug. “It’s been worse.”
“Did they hit you?”
You’re too shocked to move. “What? No! Why the hell would you even say that?”
“Because I’ve been worried about you.”
“They have never laid a hand on me,” you snap. “Ever.”
“But they’ve come close,” Aaron says gently. “You know they have.”
You only scoff. You feel hurt. Insulted, even, that he would assume something like that. Your relationship with your partner is rocky, of course, but never physical abuse rocky. Never that bad.
But has it come close?
Sure, maybe you’ve felt the wind off a beer bottle when it grazed by your head on its way to the wall. Maybe you have had to duck to avoid getting glass to the face. Maybe.
Maybe they have come close. Closer than you want to admit.
But they’ve also loved you. Held you while you cried. Rewarded you after you cleaned up the broken glass. Left you flowers and jewelry and love notes.
They love you. Don’t they?
“It’s fine,” you whisper, blinking back the stubborn tears that have jumped to the front of your eyes. “They love me.”
“Love isn’t violent,” Aaron replies gently. “Love shouldn’t make you as terrified as I saw you when you left last night.”
“I know,” you choke out. “But I don’t know what to do.”
Hotch is rounding his desk and gathering you in his arms before the first tear slips down your cheeks. He holds you while you cry, letting you get it all out.
“We’ll figure it out,” he whispers, resting his chin on top of your head. “Don’t worry.”
+++
It all comes to a head a few nights later when your partner springs a question on you. The question.
There, standing in the bathroom, you’re too stunned to speak.
“What d’you say, baby? Let’s get married, you and me.”
You don’t reply. You toss the makeup wipe in your trash can, flick the light in the bathroom off, and walk out into the bedroom.
“Baby?” They ask.
You’re facing the dresser, halfway to setting out a pair of pants for work tomorrow. “I...I can’t.”
“What?” Their reply is immediate and angry. “What are you talking about?”
“I can’t,” you repeat, refusing to change your answer. “No.”
By the time you turn around, they’re standing up from the bed, arms crossed over their chest. “What did you just say to me?”
“I said no,” you say firmly. “I’m not marrying you.”
“And why not?”
“I—”
“Are you seeing someone else?”
“What?”
“Your boss? Are you fuckin’ him?”
“No!”
“Then why won’t you marry me?”
“Because I don’t want to!”
You’ve never raised your voice back at your partner. They’ve always been the one to raise their voice, and you stayed silent, tried to talk them down, be the quiet voice of reason.
But not anymore. You’ve had enough.
“You don’t want to?” They scream. “It’s been eight years and now you don’t want to. You’re fucking him, aren’t you?”
“I’m not,” you say through gritted teeth. “But I don’t want to be with you anymore.”
“Baby…” They sigh, stepping closer, lowering their arms. “Why not?”
“Because,” you reply slowly, backing up. “Just because.”
“That’s not a good enough reason and you know it.”
“It’s good enough for me,” you say. You step to the side and keep backing out into the hallway, getting ready to run if need be.
“Where are you going?” They all but growl. “What’s wrong with you?”
You’re scaring me, you want to scream, but you don’t. “I’m fine.”
“You’re fine? Well I’m for damn sure not fine, I’m heartbroken,” they seethe. You see the tell-tale signs that they’re about to get angry — angry enough to start throwing things. You realize in a moment of horror that a paperweight is within their reach.
And they reach for it.
“Don’t,” you murmur, freezing when their fingers wrap around the glass. “Put it down.”
“Why?” They ask, calm as ever. “Don’t you want to see what you’ve just done to my heart?”
You shake your head slowly. “No. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, no!” Your reflexes have gotten better since being at the FBI, and you duck right in time. The paperweight crashes against the wall behind you, shattering, denting the wall, and covering the couch in fine pieces of broken glass.
“See what you’ve done!” Your partner screams. “This could’ve been easy! You could’ve said yes!”
You spot your car keys on the counter next to you, and when they turn their back to you to grip at their hair, you slide the keys off and into your pocket.
I have to get out of here. It’s a thought that you never have. Normally by now you’d be vacuuming up the glass on the couch, apologizing every five seconds, pouring them a glass of whiskey or a beer or something. But not now. Not anymore.
You’re a few steps from the door when your partner notices. “Where the fuck are you going?”
“Nowhere,” you freeze. “Go take a shower. Cool off. I’ll clean up this mess and then we can talk about this again, okay?”
They almost don’t accept your offer, but after a second, they nod. “There better be a beer waiting on me when I get out.”
“Of course,” you smile.
Your smile makes them suspicious, but they turn and head into the bedroom without another word.
Shaking, you turn to the closet to grab the vacuum, turning it on and beginning to suck up the glass off the couch.
But when you hear the shower curtain pull closed, you escape, leaving the vacuum running.
+++
It’s pouring down rain, you aren’t wearing any shoes, and you’re knocking on your boss’s front door. Can your life get any more pathetic?
When Aaron opens the door, he’s practically hauling you inside and out of the rain.
“What’s wrong?” Aaron asks, already leading you down the hall toward the bathroom. “You’re shivering, we need to get you out of these clothes — you aren’t wearing shoes, fuck, Y/N, what happened?”
“They asked me to marry them,” you choke out. You aren’t even crying. You haven’t cried yet at all. “I said no. They almost hit me.”
Aaron feels a dangerous surge of anger course through his body. “Did they hit you?”
You shake your head, and it turns into a full-body shiver.
“Okay,” Aaron says, taking a deep breath to ground himself. “Okay, let me get some clothes for you. Do you want to take a shower?”
You shake your head again.
“Okay, that’s okay. I’ll be right back.”
You sit, shivering, on your boss’s toilet for a few minutes before he returns with clothes. A t-shirt and pair of sweatpants of his. Old ones, he says, they don’t fit him anymore. You smile slightly when you realize the shirt is from his college, the sweatpants from his law school. No wonder they don’t fit him anymore.
“I’m sorry I didn’t call,” you say. “I—I think I left my phone there.”
“It’s okay,” Aaron shakes his head. “Don’t worry about that. Just get changed and get warm. Do you want some tea? Anything?”
“Just some water, please,” you murmur. “Thank you.”
“No problem,” he smiles.
After he leaves, you change out of your wet clothes and into his shirt and sweatpants. You carefully hang your wet shirt and shorts over the edge of the bathtub, hoping that’s okay.
You venture out of the bathroom and follow the noise into the kitchen where you find Aaron putting up dishes.
“Hey,” he murmurs, straightening up. “Do you want ice with your water?”
“Um, sure.”
The sound of ice clinking into the glass makes you flinch, and you’re grateful Aaron’s back is turned away from you.
“There you go,” he hands you the glass.
“Thank you.”
You sip it quietly while he goes back to putting up the rest of the clean dishes in the dishwasher. Once he finishes, your heart is still racing, now with guilt from coming here unannounced. What if he was on a date? What if Jack was here?
“The guest room is all yours,” Aaron says softly. “If you want to talk about it, I’m here.”
You nod slowly. “I don’t know what to do.” You pause, rubbing your thumb over the condensation on the glass. “But I told them I’m not marrying them. But I...I didn’t tell them I was leaving. Or where I was going.”
“Good, that’s good.”
“No,” you shake your head. “It’s not. They’re gonna be mad. I can’t— Oh my god, I can’t go back. Not alone, they’ll—”
“Hey,” Aaron shushes you, walking around the counter to get to you. “Don’t worry about it right now. We’ll figure it out. I’ll go with you. You won’t be alone.”
“Thank you.”
+++
The next morning, you and Aaron head into the office early so you have time to grab your go-bag and change into your work clothes that you left in there.
Thank God for having a job like this where it’s normal to have a few changes of clothes, a toothbrush, deodorant, and anything else you need in a duffle bag under your desk.
You and Aaron are the first people in the BAU, so you’re able to grab your bag and head to the bathroom to change without any questions. Once you return, you stuff the bag back under your desk and sit down, ready to bury yourself in reports for the day.
But before you can, Hotch calls you into his office.
“What’s up?” You ask when you step into the doorway.
“We didn’t eat breakfast,” he says, and that’s when you notice the two coffees and muffins sitting on his desk.
“Oh,” you chuckle. “I completely forgot.”
“Me too,” he smiles. “Here, sit.”
The two of you eat the breakfast in silence, but somehow you don’t mind it. You’re not in much of a talking mood, anyway.
Rossi arrives next and stops by Hotch’s office, not at all surprised to find the two of you eating together, though he does join with his coffee a few minutes later. The silence vanishes with Rossi, leaving laughter in its wake as he tells old stories about Hotch.
When the rest of the team arrives, they follow the noise to Hotch’s office, and soon you’re surrounded by your family. Your real family.
Once eight-thirty rolls around, you all begin to disperse, back to your respective spaces to start working for the day, and everything feels normal.
And then, in a matter of seconds, it isn’t.
The second your eyes land on your partner standing down in the bullpen, you fall to your knees, scaring the shit out of Hotch.
“What happened?” He blurts, kneeling down to you. “Are you okay?”
“No,” you shake your head. “No, no, no...No, Hotch, they’re out there.”
Hotch doesn’t need their name. The fear on your face is enough.
About this time, you hear Derek’s voice growing in volume. The most you can make out is, “Put...down…!” And that’s when your blood runs ice cold.
You pat your right hip, hoping, praying, your weapon is magically there, even though you know it’s not. You put it in the safe when you got home last night. You didn’t have time to grab it before you ran out and drove to Hotch’s place. You left it there, in the safe, because you never think twice about it since it’s locked away.
But now…
“Don’t do this, man,” Derek yells. “Put. It. Down.”
“Where is she?” Your partner yells. “Tell me where she is!”
“I’m not telling you shit until you put the gun down,” Derek says, firmly. You’re frozen in place, on the floor next to Hotch’s desk as you listen.
“They have my gun,” you whisper to Hotch. “I didn’t think they— I don’t know how they knew the code, I change it every week, I thought—”
“Hey, hey, don’t worry,” Hotch shushes you. “You stay here. Do not move. Try to get under my desk if you can.” He pauses. “There’s an extra pistol underneath. I want you to grab it just in case.”
You nod, but then a memory of last night grips you. “No! You can’t go out there!” You hiss, gripping Hotch’s arm.
Outside, you hear Emily’s voice adding to Derek’s, trying to talk your partner down. It’s a scene out of a horror movie. Straight from your worst nightmare.
“They already feel threatened by you, they’ll just shoot you the second they see you.”
“Not when they already have five guns on them.”
“Let me come with you,” you offer.
“No. Absolutely not.”
“Aaron, I have eight years of experience talking them down. I know what I’m doing.”
Hotch doesn’t like that you’re right.
“Are you sure?” He asks.
You nod. You’re shaking all over, but you still nod.
“Okay. Crawl over and grab the pistol from my desk. Tuck it in your waistband, on your back. Go now.”
You stay low as you crawl over, finding the pistol strapped underneath his desk on the right side. Once it’s tucked in your waistband, you stand, facing the window. Hotch stands too, with his back to the blinds, and thank God they’re closed.
“Is she in there?” You hear your partner scream. “Is she with him?”
“Shit,” you mutter. “Shit, shit, shit, they’re gonna fucking kill me.” You hate that the possibility is very real. They have your gun. They could shoot you the second they see you. You’re not wearing any protective gear.
“No,” Hotch replies. “I’m not letting that happen.”
“Come out here, you lying bitch!”
Hotch looks ready to kill your partner himself.
“Babe?” You call out, putting on a false tone, the same one you always use when talking them down. “Babe, what are you doing here?”
You step into the doorway, feeling another frozen chill of fear shoot straight down your spine. They look crazed. Insane, even. Worse than you’ve ever seen, worse than last night, worse than the last eight years.
“Don’t babe me,” your partner seethes, but the gun is still trained on Derek.
You know it makes no sense, but you want them to turn the gun on you. Not Derek. Derek can’t be hurt because of you, not like this.
“Put the gun down,” you say, trying to stay calm and sweet, the way you usually have to be at home.
“I’m not listening to a damn thing you say,” your partner yells, and then the gun turns on you. “There he is.” The gun isn’t aimed at you. It’s on Aaron.
“Put it down,” Aaron’s level voice floats through the terror roaring in your ears. “I won’t ask again.” He shifts and you realize then that he has his own weapon trained on your partner.
“You won’t need to. Come out from behind my fiancé you coward.”
“She’s not your fiancé,” Hotch says. “And you won’t shoot her.”
“Want to bet on it?” Your partner lowers the gun slightly, now pointing it straight at your chest. Strangely, you don’t feel any panic surge through you. It’s telling. That even now, your head is telling you, they won’t hurt me, they never hurt me before.
“Don’t do it,” Derek yells. “I will shoot you, man. Don’t do it. You have six guns pointed at you right now. Do you really want to do this?”
The metal of Aaron’s pistol bites into your lower back when you shift on your heels. Your arms are frozen by your side, too afraid to reach for the gun.
“Put it down,” Rossi yells.
“You’ve got five seconds,” Derek adds. “Don’t make me get to one. Five. Four.”
Your partner’s fingers twitch on the trigger. Aaron catches the movement. Nods once when Derek says three. And on two, Derek pulls the trigger before your partner can do it first.
A broken scream rips from your chest when the bullet lodges itself in your partner’s side, your gun clattering to the ground. Derek steps forward and kicks the gun further away, out of reach.
Hotch lifts you around your waist and pulls you back into his office, kicking the door closed with his foot.
You’re numb to everything as he sits you down on the couch, wrapping his arms around you as you finally sob, letting out every scream that you’ve been holding in.
+++
Your partner is taken to the hospital to be treated for the gunshot wound.
Hotch tells you they won’t stand a chance at being acquitted, too many charges looming over their head already without the addition of domestic violence. You hardly hear his words, but you nod like you do.
He takes care of you while the commotion outside struggles to calm down. A blanket is wrapped around your shoulders, you hug a pillow to your chest, sniffling every few minutes as fresh tears cascade down your cheeks. Spencer brings you a mug of steaming tea that you barely manage to thank him for. Hotch thanks him properly for you before softly shutting his office door.
For months, you’ve been thinking about leaving them. For so long, you’ve wondered what life might be like without them. Now, you don’t know a thing.
You don’t know what to do. Where to go. Will you have to testify in court? If you do, will you have to talk about the...abuse? The abuse that you can barely bring yourself to label blatantly as abuse even though Aaron, your brain, everyone screams at you that that’s what it is — abusive behavior.
When you were a teenager, and even in your early twenties, learning about signs of abusive, unhealthy relationships, you never thought you’d end up in one. You thought surely you’d recognize the first signs and get out of there.
But instead, you did exactly what they said most people do. You brushed them off. You thought, oh, they just love me deeply, that’s all. They want what’s best for me, that’s all. They want me to be safe and protected, that’s all.
And that’s lovely, but there’s a difference. Between caring and controlling.
You never thought the difference would be so hard to see.
“Come on,” Aaron’s soft voice pierces through your thoughts. “Let’s get you out of here.”
You blink. “Where?”
“Wherever you want to go,” he replies gently. “Your apartment?”
Immediately, you shake your head. But then you pause. Because aside from your apartment and the BAU, you have nowhere else to go.
“Would you be comfortable going back to my apartment?” He asks. “I understand if it’s uncomfortable. I’m sure Garcia or Prentiss would be happy to let you stay with them, and I’ll gladly send them home with you.”
As much as you love Garcia and Prentiss, you strangely feel more comfortable with Aaron. After all, Pen and Emily don’t— or didn’t know about your partner’s behavior. Only Hotch knew.
“If you don’t mind, I’m...I’m okay with your place.”
“I don’t mind at all,” he smiles. “The guest room is yours for as long as you need.”
That makes you smile, though the expression feels foreign on your lips. “Don’t you have to stay?”
“It can be dealt with tomorrow,” he replies. “The paperwork will still exist tomorrow at eight a.m.”
“Okay,” you accept defeat. “Can I take this blanket?” You don’t like the idea of this weight leaving your shoulders.
“Of course,” he says.
You fall asleep in the car.
You didn’t mean to, but you were exhausted. And by the time you woke, Aaron had already carried you into his apartment. Startled, you gripped his arm a little too tight, but he shushed you carefully, letting you know you’re safe, he just didn’t want to wake you because you were sleeping so soundly.
He set you down on the guest bed where you tried and failed to get some rest last night, but now, you sleep like a baby.
+++
Months after the incident, the guest room at Aaron’s apartment has become your temporary home.
You still haven’t been back to the apartment you owned with your partner — even though their name is on the lease, not yours. You went once with Aaron to pick up your clothes and anything else important, but it was a quick trip. You were desperate to get out of there.
Aaron didn’t like what he saw. The broken glass, the dents in the walls. The way your body language changed immediately. Your unwillingness to return there is fine by him.
It’s a slow, uphill battle as you begin to heal. Your partner still sits in jail, awaiting their trial date. You know you might have to testify, but you know your team might have to be there as well, so that makes you feel better.
Aaron has been incredibly respectful of your space. You were the one who brought up the idea of carpooling to work, one of you driving every other day, to save on gas for the both of you. He had assumed you wanted to drive on your own and always have your car — which is true, but you didn’t mind riding with him.
He’s the only one your terrified brain doesn’t seem to be scared of.
And you’re not complaining. You’re grateful to feel a small ounce of safety after feeling every sense of unsafe for the past eight years.
+++
Your ex-partner’s trial comes and goes in the following three months. You did testify, along with the rest of your team, the verdict is guilty. Life in prison.
You wept on the steps of the courthouse from the sheer relief of it all.
“They’ll never hurt you again,” Aaron had told you and you didn’t believe him for one second.
Still now, as you know for a fact they are sitting in a prison cell, you have a small fear. But you think you always will.
You continue “rooming” with Aaron — that’s the best way you can think to put it — and you’ve come to really enjoy the weekends when Jack comes over. At the start, Aaron would try to take Jack out to the park to give you time alone, or you’d go spend some time with Penelope, but after a while, you started staying. And after a little while longer, Jack started warming up to you, and expecting your presence.
One weekend, you hear Jack and Aaron playing in the living room while you’re in Aaron’s office, trying to get some work done. And halfway through signing your name on a piece of paperwork, you hear Jack “whispering” to Aaron about you.
“Do you like her?” Jack whispers, but it definitely comes across as more of a soft shout.
Aaron’s eyes widen, and he presses his index finger to his lips. “A lot,” he says, but you don’t hear him — though you were straining pretty hard.
“Me too,” Jack giggles. “Is she your girlfriend?” He teases, poking his dad with his Lego sculpture.
Aaron pokes his son back with his own design. “No, buddy, she isn’t.” Again, you can’t hear him, but Jack’s question made your heart hammer in your chest.
You know you’ve had some feelings begin to develop because truthfully, they were blooming months ago, back when you began having dinner with Aaron. But then everything happened, and you still loved your ex, and things got too complicated.
Now, though, seven months out from the start of it all, the feelings are still there.
Aaron hasn’t made any moves, so you’ve kept silent. You don’t know how much of his good deeds are simply out of his own kindness. And you certainly don’t want to mistake it for something it’s not.
But kids pick up on things adults try hardest to hide.
You continue with your paperwork, listening to them continue to play.
It’s not until after Jack goes home to Hailey that his question is brought up, and it’s only because Aaron asked what was bothering you.
“It’s alright if you don’t want to talk about it,” he says. “But I’m here if you do.”
He’s always here. That’s what made you have a crush on him in the first place, years ago. He’s always there for anyone who needs him.
“I heard you and Jack earlier,” you start. “When he asked if I’m your girlfriend.”
Aaron sighs. “I’m sorry. I think it’s just confusing for him because to him, living together equals relationship since all he’s known is me and Hailey—”
“I’d like to be,” you interrupt his nervous rambling. “If that’s something you’d like, too.”
He blinks a few times, then smiles. “You…” He pauses. “Are you sure?”
“Aaron, I’ve liked you for so long and never said anything—”
“I’ve liked you for so long and never said anything,” he counters. “You’re serious?”
“Very,” you whisper.
When he kisses you, it’s what you’ve longed for all this time. It’s exactly what you’ve been yearning for. It’s exactly the kind of love you know now that you deserve.
Recovery has been messy, and will continue to be messy for some time, but you’ll have Aaron next to you every step of the way. Always.
#aaron hotchner#aaron hotchner x fem!reader#aaron hotchner x reader#aaron hotchner x you#aaron hotchner one shot#aaron hotchner angst#aaron hotchner fluff#tw domestic violence#tw abuse#criminal minds#version of you song fic#criminal minds songfic#aaron hotchner songfic#version of you#hotch x fem!reader#hotch x reader#hotch x you
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Merry Christmas hope your having a wonderful day!! I'm having a crisis and need some advise. i finished school after doing 2 very different things. I got a degree as a camera operator and then i was like nah i can't do this my whole live so i did a study in outdoor sports where I'm currently working as teacher. but again I'm like nah. I mean i like both but i think is just don't want to be done with school jet and now I'm thinking about doing something completely different jet again. But i figured out i was trans a year ago and i have kind of pushed it back in the closet. Now i don't know what to do because both studies are mostly done by men and i got a job as a teacher because they needed a woman but turns out that's not the case for me and i think I'm like finding a way out by doing another study but now I'm having doubts and i don't know what to do or how to go about it, cut my hair so thats done but now im lost
thanks, merry christmas to you as well!
first, congrats on finishing school! I haven't done that yet haha. 😅 tbh I'm in somewhat of a school crisis of my own, debating on whether I should continue studying art or move to something else... :/
but we're talking about you here! quick disclaimer, I don't think I'm that equipped to give Big Serious Life Advice, so please don't take whatever I suggest as gospel or anything lol.
I would say an important thing is to take your time and not rush into anything. that goes for both school/career stuff and gender stuff. if you can, take your time and feel yourself out, try to figure out what you really want/need. if you have a journal (or really just like.. notebook paper or an empty document on your computer) writing about it might help—getting all the thoughts rattling around your skull on paper where you can look closer at them is helpful for me, at least.
If you really feel like you want to go back to school & you are able to do so, I think you should do it. Maybe you can try talking to an advisor or whoever to help you find what you want to do. (I think I'm planning on doing that myself come next fall!)
As far as gender stuff goes, if you haven't explored that very much, you should probably start doing that. It can be overwhelming,, but if you take your time and go slow it can also be really fun! If you want information there are many blogs on here, and several youtube channels as well (I recommend Jammidodger, he was the first trans youtuber I watched & is very informative!) and the rest of the internet haha.
If you haven't yet, you could also try out different pronouns/names online to see how they fit & how you feel about them. There are even websites where you select/input pronouns and names and they generate sentences and stuff to give you a feel for it, though I can't think of any specific ones right now. (I didn't use them much myself.)
If there are any lgbtq+ groups/communities in your area, it could be really helpful to reach out to them for advice and community. My own queer journey was helped a lot by my joining the gay club at my college, and when my egg cracked I had a trans friend right there that I could talk to about it! ^u^
That's all I've got right now, sorry if it's vague and/or not especially helpful. 😅😅 If you have any more specific questions or anything feel free to send another ask in and hopefully I can help you out!
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oh no
I’ve started a blog. A blog! A blog. It’s really come to this. :(
I must be having a mid-life crisis - I did, after all, just turn 27, so what does that make this particular one? Somewhere in between a quarter-life and a mid-life crisis, since I hope I will live past 54, but a quarter-life crisis implies I’d live to 108, and dear god take me out before then.
I am constantly in crisis, so this is nothing new. If you know me, which you do since I gave you the password to this stupid thing, you know that I am rather panicky in nature and I am always freaking out about one thing or the next. Recently the thing I’ve been panicking about most is dying. Lately I think about death every day: when’s it gonna happen? How? Will it hurt? Will it be quick? Will it be embarrassingly undignified, like if I were to you know, get caught in the elevator door and squished to death as it rises to the third floor of my temp job? Will I be murdered by a Tinder date, and will the case be covered on a crime podcast, only for a young true crime junkie to finally crack after years of searching for my body? What happens after? Will I be able to haunt all of you like I want to? Will I be reincarnated as a caterpillar (my eyebrows suggest as much) or maybe something horrible, like an inanimate object, a stapler? What if I die before I learn all my lessons? What if there’s NOTHING!!!!!!!!!!!!
Yes, I called a therapist, and yes I have an appointment. But I figured I needed something to quell the ongoing existential crisis that has been rattling around in my head for the past year or two, which is getting louder and louder like a quarter in the dryer. Scrolling mindlessly through Twitter isn’t cutting it.
Anyfuckingways. Back to the matter at hand! This will be a cooking blog, where I document my attempt to learn and excel at the art of cooking, and you will just have to deal with that. My biggest inspiration for this, other than the loss of my sense of self, is that I have become so busy and so broke that any cooking skills I might have once had (which weren’t really skills, but more like doubling the amount of garlic in any given dish) have gone out the window. For the past 5 months since I moved to Los Angeles, I have been surviving on Trader Joe’s frozen meals and the occasional Chipotle kid’s meal, if I wanna feel fancy. Did you know you can get a substantial amount of food and a free drink for $5 at Chipotle? You just have to pretend you’re buying it for your son, who’s in the car, and who would really like a tiny side of sour cream if you don’t mind!
All this is to say that I am trying not to slip back into depression after I spent all my money to move across the country, away from my friends, family, and elder dog, and I failed to get a writing job after I graduated from screenwriting school, and now what. I need something to keep my mind occupied in the short and long term (since I’m almost done with Succession season 2), and what is better than FOOD to heal all emotional wounds? I want this to be my own little Julie and Julia adventure, but I’ll be curating recipes and quotes and inspiration from my own favs, like Deb, Melissa Clark, Anthony Bourdain (obviously). I’ll post links, photos, and articles related to food as well as my own endeavors, which I hope will start off as humorous and end up glorious. I have no intention of anything to come of this, but I will not complain if I become famous or fall in love with one of my followers - the two most plausible outcomes, clearly.
I’m really into the idea of having a hobby that is purely for YOU; it’s anti-capitalist and quite romantic to me! I’m obsessed with the hustle, and the side-hustle (I’m a Capricorn!! Shut up!!!) and I have made a big commitment to making my foremost passion (writing, film) into a (huge) paycheck (someday). But right now my SOUL hurts and I need to do something about that. Sydney sent me a beautiful New Yorker piece by Toni Morrison, in which she says “you are not the work you do; you are the person you are.” I’ll leave it at that. I’m going to go peruse cooking websites for a recipe for my next post that looks hard but is deceivingly simple so I can trick you all into thinking I’m a natural.
xx
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Luna’s Holiday, That Book, and Davina McCall.
I’ve been without my pooch for almost a week - but I’m looking forward to our reunion on Friday. In her absence, I’m rattling around in this house with nobody to talk to, so I’m taking a breather from my work and my book to write an important blog. Yes, that’s allowed. And I’ll come back to That Book in a moment.
It’s mental health awareness week, so I wanted to share my two penneth. In the hope that it might help someone… and maybe even help people to understand.
People often scoff when I tell them that I let Luna watch Coronation Street, but, truth be told, that’s one of the few shows that raise awareness of mental health. Also, Luna absolutely loves the meerkats. And the cat in the opening titles. Quite recently a popular male character took his own life, but the story was handled in a very sensitive way. Some people lambasted the storyline, saying that he’d not exhibited “signs” of being depressed - but that’s exactly what the story was trying to highlight. A lot of people with depression don’t wear their feelings on their sleeve. They’re not going to come into work every day and start sobbing at their desk, they’re more likely to be quiet, affable - and crack the occasional joke. To the outside world they’re as happy as the infamous Larry, without a care in the world - because they can’t talk about their problems or bring themselves to talk. It’s STILL a huge stigma in men of a certain age, and it really shouldn’t be. We’re told to “man up” or “cheer up” or “shut up and get on with it” when that’s the last thing one should do. A gentleman of a bygone era might tell you they cycled fifty miles to work every day, in a blizzard, with a broken leg - therefore people of today should do the same thing.
Back to Corrie; I always identify with characters who suffer with anxiety and depression. Yes, I saw the signs in the weeks leading up to the character’s suicide. The crestfallen stares into the middle distance… hiding away in the house… putting bills to one side in the hope they’ll go away…
Thankfully, I’ve not lost any friends as a direct result of depression - but a few friends have gone off the radar over the years. Especially in the past year. One minute you’re exchanging messages or amiable chat and then, suddenly, it’s almost like a switch goes and no matter how much you try and reach out or attempt to be affable, they become very standoffish and matter-of-fact. It would be easy to file such people under “rude” or “cold” but so many people are fighting private battles that we know nothing about.
For the record, if I’ve ever been aloof with anyone I can only apologise. And if anyone ever wants to open up about their struggles then I am always here to lend an ear. Social media can be a very cold place at times, and it’s easy to simply ignore people - but I think it’s important to think how you’d feel if you were constantly ignored by someone who cares for you and only wants to be kind.
In the past few years a couple of things have consumed my life. My dog and my book about my dog. The eagle-eyed amongst you might spot a link there...
In 2016, when I set up my crowdfunding page, the plan was to write a book based on life with my dog. Now this isn’t an excuse, because I don’t need an excuse... but sometimes in life things don’t go to plan. I had absolutely no idea that I’d be forced to sell my home the following year, and all the palaver that entailed. Let’s be honest... most days I could barely afford to eat properly and I owed family/friends around £5,000 so when my bank loan fell through, the only possible way of getting people off my back (and enjoying an occasional meal) was to sell my home. But that was my own fault for spending too many years working for a pittance and spending beyond my means.
It’s important to have a “nest egg” and now, if I fell into financial hardship again, I wouldn’t have that “safety net” and it’d be game over.
In the days after I emerged from that gruelling home sale and being “between homes” my anxiety had reached dizzy new heights... I was being asked “Where’s this book?” Or “How’s this book coming along?” And I tried to explain that things had gone off the rails…
Until this very day, and despite sending a number of updates out to the backers - I don’t hear from someone for months and then they pop up with “How’s the book?” Or “This book better be good!” or “Yawn! Still waiting for this book!”
Such pressure always works wonders for my anxiety.
No, I can’t blame people for being curious or even vexed, but my mental well being had to come first. The book is already way over budget, so to those who donated less than £20 - you’re getting an absolute bargain. Perhaps I should split the book into two books (it’s big enough) but I simply can’t afford to publish two editions, so people will get one lengthy book.
I’m not J.K Rowling, or someone who’s being paid to write novels. So I don’t have the luxury of saying; “Today I can sit in my office and write for 10 hours.” Last week I had to juggle the book with Luna, two websites, two logo designs and delivering 800 magazines in four days.
If I was constantly popping up on social media, posting photos of my lunch, I’d understand people getting rattled about me not writing the book. It’s just irksome when, after getting up in the morning and working through until 2 or 3am, I post something [unrelated to the book] on Twitter or Facebook only to receive a dig about not writing the book. Yes, I know it’s probably “banter” but at times it comes across as passive aggression.
Yes, I’m on it. The book consumes me 24/7.
Luna’s been in Southwold since last Friday (at least one of us gets a holiday) as I found juggling the book, the dog, and multiple work deadlines was probably going to drive me to a breakdown.
Taking Luna to Southwold for a holiday while I remain home in Cambridgeshire might sound excessive. But there are few places I trust with my dog… and it actually worked out less expensive (plus I get a very brief bit of sea air too). There’s no way I can afford a holiday myself - so this was the best compromise.
Also, when I get comments like; “Try having kids!” or the extended remix… “Try two kids, three dogs, and the ex wife!” I generally shake my head.
Guys, this isn’t Top Trumps.
Anxiety and depression is utterly exhausting, and when you’re alone with a high maintenance dog, people constantly on your back about something and work deadlines then, at times, things can just get a bit much.
For years I’ve had “Where’s my money?” and now it’s “Where’s my book?” so, rest assured, there’s not a soul on this Earth who wants this book out sooner than me. It’s not going to be out in time for Comic Con on the 25th, but I still have high hopes for going to print at the end of May/ early June.
If often feels like I’ve become second to the book. I’m sure if I was hospitalised, I’d wake up in my bed to hear someone say; “Right, time to crack on with that book!”
God forbid anything should happen to Luna. “At least now you can focus on the book...”
So please, before you feel the need to give me stick about the book, ask yourself a question; Is this comment really necessary?
I’ve reached a point now where I don’t actually care if this book is loved or loathed. I’ve poured my heart and soul into it, and that’s really all I can do.
I just want to say a huge thank you to everyone who’s just trusted me enough to get on with it in peace. Even if it receives negative feedback, it’s been the most therapeutic endeavour of my life, and has, quite possibly, saved my mind. Perhaps my life. Every day I thank God for blessing me with a sense of humour.
Oh, and please spare me any complaints about the language. There’s nothing in there that the average 12-year-old hasn’t heard in the playground. I never, ever, swear on social media, and if a word is used (very sparingly) it’s only for comedic effect.
Finally, Davina McCall…
Early last year I was asked to appear on This Time Next Year, with Davina McCall. To this day I don’t know why, but I was selected from hundreds of people… application form, telephone interview, Skype meeting that was recorded and sent to the bigwigs at ITV… and suddenly I was sitting on the sofa, in front of a live studio audience, with Davina McCall.
The second series has just aired on ITV, but I filmed for the third series, which is presumably coming later this year. However, my interview isn’t being broadcast. They film around 100, but with only six episodes per series they can only broadcast around 30 interviews.
Davina’s lovely, and we chatted a bit about Luna and how my anxiety has held me back in life. Although coming through those doors to face the live studio audience was perhaps the most terrifying experience of my life. I was on last too - so I sat in the green room for about five hours before walking out to meet Davina.
At the time I was battling to clear my debt while wishing to keep my home, get the book out, etc… but from the beginning the producers wanted to focus more on my [lack of] love life. In the end it became something that I wasn’t entirely comfortable with… and I think me finding a girlfriend within the year would have been a very tall order. What with everything else.
Also, on reflection, I hope looking back at the interview wasn’t awkward for Davina, because she told me how she met her husband on a dog walk… and at the time they were still together. Like I said earlier; sometimes “life” just takes us to places that we never expect. Still, it was a once-in-a-lifetime experience, and I’m thankful for the opportunity.
In summery; Please try to reach out to someone today. It’s especially easy for single people to fall off the radar and be forgotten about. Talk to them. Invite them for coffee. Go on a dog walk together. They won’t bite! Unless they have a particularly “bitey” dog.
Something as simple as sending a message saying “How are you?” takes seconds (unless you have particularly large fingers) and could even save a life. Sure, you could say “It’s not my problem” or “Someone else will do it” but if everyone took that stance then the suicide rate would go through the roof.
Above all; be kind. It won’t cost you anything.
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Fevered
Author: kpopfanfictrash
Pairing: You / Baekhyun
Rating: PG
Warning: Descriptions of Lupus
Word Count: 6,926
Summary: Lately, it seems that all your time is spent in and out of hospitals. A dreary place, even in the best of times. Until you meet him. [Genre: fluff]
For Maddie, the bravest girl I know 💕
The concept of language is a strange one.
Syllables, letters, phrases which, once strung together, form meaning. Not just any meaning – they become something. Something tangible, intangible, felt or seen. Words oftentimes become more than the thing itself. If you’ve never experienced death, how are you told? Through words. If you’ve never seen a country before, how is it explained? Through articles, websites, books and research.
Oh, there are other ways. I can show you a photograph, send you a video, make a facial expression or movement but overall – our first instinct is to explain. We reach for words like a shield, a crutch, a leg to stand on. Words are the face we show the world, the mask we wear when we don’t know how to be seen.
Words only go so far, though. I can tell you the name of my disease. I can say I have systematic lupus erythematosus and you’ll return the words I give you with blank, confused eyes. You’ll look instead at my body, trying to spot the malformity. Trying to see where I’m hurt, calculate mentally if I’m living or dying. You’ll ask yourself am I treatable, am I curable, will I die?
I know all this, since those were my first questions as well.
The answers were, in order: yes, no and yes, again.
I remember my eyes widening, until my doctor looked up and said, “We all die, Y/N. My job is to prolong that moment as long as possible.”
It was a lot to think about, at the age of seventeen. But then again, most of the time I don’t feel my age. That’s another place where words fail me. The word for how old I am is seventeen but I’ve lived with realities, concepts that most seventeen-year olds are blissfully ignorant of. Instead of attending Homecoming, I spent the night of September 25th bed-ridden in the hospital. My kidney was inflamed and the doctors didn’t know why. Didn’t know how to stop the pain, just to treat it.
Or more recently, the Christmas tree lighting ceremony, one I couldn’t attend because of severe fatigue and joint pain. I remember feeling like I was drowning, each breath a marathon and I remember tears pricking my eyes as I turned to face the couch. Burying my head in scratchy fabric and wishing I would die. I instantly took it back, although I wondered if there’s some sort of moratorium on how many times I can think things like that. How many times I can feel sorry for myself, before someone upstairs says ‘enough.’
It’s moments like that when I feel guilty, because at least my disease is treatable. There are others I’ve met here who aren’t. With Lupus, the first year after diagnosis is the worst. I’m smack dab in the middle of my twelve-month hell, still struggling to gather my symptoms under control. I’m in and out of the hospital a lot, due to a variety of pains and maladies.
One time it was my esophagus which was swollen, weighing me down with acid reflux and heartburn. Another time it was the anti-inflammatory drug’s I was taking which caused a stomach ulcer, turning into a rupture. Sometimes I’m stuck here for days, sometimes it's just a few hours. A mix of check-ups, treatments and daily tests which become a blur. One day turns into the next, one bed bleeds into another.
It’s all the same, a long wash of words and bleach – only broken by the continual change of seasons. Today it’s winter. The Christmas tree lighting ceremony was three weeks ago, it’s now the afternoon of December 21st. Everyone around me is abuzz for the holidays, excited by the prospect of friends, of family and I’m just sitting here wondering if I’ll get to go home at all.
At least today I’m off the IV. For a few hours, until the nurses are able to affirm my vitals are stable. I take the opportunity to get myself dressed. To pull on a fuzzy, navy sweater and my favorite jeans, slip out into the hall.
The wing is busy, like it usually is during the winter. Busy enough that no one notices my exit. No one but my day nurse, who smiles and winks, pointedly looking the other way. She knows I’ve been going stir crazy. Knows there’s no immediate harm in me getting a cup of coffee. I know that someone would get me the cup, were I to ask but sometimes I just need to be in control of myself.
Not a doctor, not my parents, not my pills or surgeries or treatments.
Just me.
My steps are soft walking through the halls. There’s a staircase behind the children’s wing where I like to sit. No one really comes down this way, since the stairs are narrow and there are better ways to get down. It’s where I sit now though, wanting just a few minutes to myself.
My room is quiet. This is true, but it’s the wrong kind of quiet. It’s the absence of noise, the presence of waiting. The slow tick of time, long moments of uncertainty and confusion. Buzzing machines, coughing patients. Rattling breath and beeping monitors. Here is different, here there's actual peace.
The snowflakes drift down outside my window. Falling to the ground in lazy patterns, landing on the pane before being licked away by the heat. I stare past them, wondering if each is truly unique. If each one has its own pattern, its own shape. They melt away before I can see. I sit this way, nose inches away from my window when the door opens behind me.
I don’t move. Not at first.
Instead I sit, wondering which is worse: if the person walks past, sees me here and I don’t look – or if they walk past, I turn and we make eye contact. In the first, they might think me rude for ignoring them. In the second, they’d see my face.
A throat clears, loud in the stairwell. No longer having an option, I turn.
He’s looking straight at me, brow perplexed by my presence. I don’t recognize him, which is odd – I’ve been here so often this year. He only looks this way for a moment before moving, bouncing haphazardly down the steps. The boy comes to a stop and I see he looks about my age – maybe a year or so older. His hair is blonde and sticks up in the back, though his eyes are a soft, warm brown. He’s dressed all in pink, scrubs from the pediatric ward which mark him as a volunteer.
I’m suddenly glad I don’t have my IV in. Besides being around my age and dressed the way he is, the guy is also very, very cute.
A smile breaks out across his face. “What are you doing?” he asks, gaze moving past to the falling snow. “Trying to catch a snowflake? Best of luck, hard to do inside.”
I push myself upwards, dusting my hands off on the seat of my pants. “That’s not what I was doing,” I frown.
“No?” His eyes meet mine. “Then what?”
I open my mouth, and the first words I think of are the truth. But this sticks in my throat, caught in hesitancy and fear. He’s cute. This guy is cute, healthy and very obviously works here. I’m sick.
Instead of answering, my gaze moves sideways.
“Are you visiting?’” he prompts, forcing my eyes to his.
Mutely, I nod. The lie happens before I can think about it, before I can clarify or take it back. My cheeks are red, I feel their feverish flush upon my skin. Noticing, the guy slowly reaches out to the window. He lets his hand acclimatize for a moment before abruptly pulling away.
Softly, he brings his hand to my forehead.
My eyes widen, staring at him. If anything, I think my fever increases.
He smiles at my response. “I’m Baekhyun,” he says by way of introduction, cold fingers still pressed to my forehead. “It’s nice to meet you. Sorry about the hand, you looked kind of flushed.”
“Y/N,” I supply, still staring. “I’m Y/N.”
“Nice to meet you, Y/N.”
A moment passes, though it feels like longer and I gently remove myself from his grasp. “Thank you,” I say quietly. “I’m feeling better.”
Baekhyun’s grin widens. “Are you? Amazing! I’ll put this on my resume. December 21st,” he nods, brow furrowed. “I touched a girl’s forehead and cured her if fever. Thanks,” he smiles. “With this, I’ll definitely be accepted to college as pre-med.”
“You’re a senior?” I ask, scanning his features. Senior year is the last before university, same as me. Baekhyun looks older than that, though maybe it’s just the way he holds himself. The way he speaks now – full of life and confidence.
Baekhyun nods happily. “Yep. Just finished applying to colleges, so I’m hoping this volunteer thing puts me over the edge. Not that I don’t enjoy it,” he adds, shaking his head. “I love emptying bedpans and copying paperwork.”
I laugh without meaning to. “Sounds exhilarating.”
Baekhyun grins back. “It’s not the most fun thing in the world but hey, everyone starts out at the bottom. I’m happy to do it,” he adds earnestly, “if it means I can help others later.”
I stare back, bewildered. “You want to be a doctor?”
Baekhyun nods. “More so than anything else.”
“Oh,” I exhale, looking away.
Baekhyun pauses. “I’ll admit,” he sounds as though he’s struggling not to laugh. “That’s the first time anyone has ever been disappointed hearing that.”
“Sorry,” I flush. My eyes lift, wandering the curve of his jaw, the gentle slant to his eyes. “It’s just I know the doctors here. I see them enter and see them leave, and I see them heavy with the toll of the day. Everything,” I sigh, echoing what my doctor once said, “is just a prolongation of death.”
“Hm.” Baekhyun’s lips purse. “I see.”
He continues to look though, long enough for me to grow self-conscious. “What is it?” I ask, hand rising automatic to my face.
“Nothing.” Baekhyun shrugs, tucking his shirt into his scrubs. “It’s just – I understand your point of view. I understand, but I guess you just never know what year will be someone’s best.”
I blink back at him. “What?”
“You know,” Baekhyun grins, hands falling to his sides. “That year when someone figures out their purpose, discovers a cure, writes a favorite book – it could happen at any time, any year. It’s my goal to make sure people reach that point.”
I stare at him for a long moment, then cock my head. “Hm,” I turn. My steps are light on the stairs, the only sound in otherwise silence.
Baekhyun laughs, and I hear his footsteps follow. “What is it?” he asks, catching up slightly breathless.
I look up, surprised he followed. Surprised to find him looking at me that way, alight with interest. “Well,” I push open the door. “I guess I never thought about that.”
Baekhyun grabs the door, holding it open as I step outside. “For someone who sees the weight of the doctors so clearly,” Baekhyun smiles, bending closer. His irises are warm, honey gold. “I’m surprised.”
“By what?” I ask, face startlingly close to mine.
Baekhyun arches a brow. “Why do you think those doctors keep coming back, day after day? Why do you think they continue to enter?”
I shrug.
“Because,” he smiles, “We’re all narcissistic, egotistical god complexes with a fervent desire to save. And every time we do, it’s worth the pain.”
Though he’s half-joking, there’s a note of truth to his words. Being a doctor is painful, yes. Seeing people hurt, injured, dying is hard, yes. But there are moments of light. Moments of blinding, brilliant light which bring a joy unlike any other occupation.
“I suppose you’re right,” I allow.
The words feel like sandpaper, though. My heart races, both at Baekhyun’s proximity and the sweeping want in my veins – because I want what he speaks of. I want to not wake up and wonder if each morning is the day I return to these halls. If each day is the day my medicine fails, or stops being enough. If I’ll fall asleep in my own bed that night or the hospital. Baekhyun’s words are hopeful, but it’s a hope I’m not accustomed to.
My eyes flick to his. “Thanks,” I smile, taking a step around him.
Baekhyun’s hand touches my wrist, and I look up. “Who are you visiting?” Then his eyes widen. “I’m so sorry, that was intrusive. You don’t have to answer.”
I look down at his slender fingertips, wrapped around my skin. He touches so casually, as though he doesn’t know the fever which racked my frame yesterday. The rash still spread beneath my shoulders. He acts as though he doesn't know even now, my joints ache. He touches me like this because he doesn’t know.
If Baekhyun knew I was sick, I know exactly how he’d react. Pity first, staining his gaze like tears. Brimming to overflow in stammered apologies and words. He’d take a step back, hurried and unconscious. As though to create a bubble, a space where my disease can reside untouched.
My gaze finds his face. “My sister,” I say, though I have none.
Baekhyun nods. “Well. I hope I don’t see you again.” He winces. “That’s not what I meant. I meant to say I hope to see you again – but then I caught myself. How awful, to wish to see you again in a hospital. Ah,” Baekhyun’s hand falls from my arm, expression pained.
Though I try and stop myself, I can’t help but smile. Now it’s Baekhyun who looks feverish. I wish my hands were colder, so I could return his favor. Instead, I smile. “We might see each other outside the hospital,” I take a step around him. “Who knows?”
As I walk away, my heart pounds. It races through my veins, spiked with adrenaline. There’s no medical cause for it, no reason but Baekhyun himself – whose chuckle follows me as I turn a corner. Whose smile burns, pressed against my mind. As I pass the next window, I have a sudden feeling of affirmation.
At least some snowflakes must be one of a kind. For I cannot imagine another like Baekhyun.
I’m discharged later that day. Just the usual paperwork and scheduling before I’m sitting in the passenger seat, watching my mom drive the two of us home. I lean my head against the window, recalling the touch of his skin upon my brow. It’s enough to not hear my name called several times.
“Y/N!”
On the third attempt, my mom’s voice breaks through and I jerk around. “What?” I ask, eyes wide and confused. “What?”
My mom frowns, looking at the road. “You weren’t answering. Please,” she exhales, gaze soft. “Answer, if you can hear.”
Guilt enters my stomach and I nod. What may seem like a small annoyance is cause for real worry. There’ve been days, there’ve been mornings when I was too sick to answer. If my mom needs to turn around right now, she needs to know.
“Sorry,” I mutter, leaning my head against the pane. “I was thinking of something else.”
My mom’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh? Like what?”
I shrug, remembering Baekhyun’s face. His smile. His dark eyes, turning lighter at the center. “Nothing.”
“Nothing?” My mom arches a brow. “Or no one?”
My head whips around so fast, I crick my neck. “What?” I ask, vaguely alarmed. “Why would you ask me that?”
My mom chuckles at my reaction. “Oh, honey. I know you’re bummed about missing the Christmas tree lighting ceremony with your friends. You don’t have to hide that sort of thing from me – I know it’s hard.”
Exhaling, I slide down further in my seat. “Oh.” I nod, looking out the window. “Right, that.”
It seems as good an excuse as any. I don’t want to tell my mom the truth – not about this. Normally, I tell her everything. For a mother and daughter, we’re actually quite close. Not with things like this, though. Not with boys and my disease and the messy intersection of both. It’s never been a problem before this, since prior to today, I never really gave it much thought.
Okay, that’s not true.
I thought about it a lot, but never had a reason to voice my fears out loud. Every teenager feels insecure. It’s wired in our DNA, bred into our make-up. Every teenager is surprised when they first discover they’re not alone in this. The moment they first see that other girl has a pimple. Or the guy, slouched like he doesn’t give a shit, is concealing an awkward surprise popped up at the beginning of Trigonometry.
With my disease though, I’m truly alone. At least in my world, I am. There’s no one sick like I am – not my friends, not my family. None of them truly know what I go through. My disease makes me alien, foreign and the thing about feeling alone is you imagine it will always be that way. It’s hard to think of someone understanding, hard to imagine someone wanting to. I know my mom does, my dad does – but that’s only because they must. Only because I’m they’re daughter and they’re stuck with me.
My friends try and understand, to the extent that they can. They understand I can only eat certain things, that I stay out of the sun and spend a lot of time in the hospital. They understand my symptoms, but not my disease. These things could be true of many things besides Lupus, though – if I were a vampire, for instance. They also have a strict diet, tend to avoid sunlight and they too, spend time around bags of blood.
My friends don’t understand being sick – not in the way that I am. It’s hard to truly empathize. I say this because I remember. I remember before getting sick, remember feeling the same way. There was a guy in sophomore year who was in a coma, which I felt sad about, but also relieved. Relieved that it wasn’t me, and then instantly guilty for thinking that. Experience is a funny thing, in retrospect.
Staring out my window, the snow has lessened. It’s just a flurry now, barely sticking when we pull into our driveway. Turning off the car, my mom looks over. “Okay,” she grins. “Look! You were worried about being home in time for the holidays, and here we are!”
I glance at the yard. “Yep,” I manage to smile. “Home, sweet home.”
“Anyways,” my mom pulls her key from the ignition. “I thought we’d go Christmas shopping tomorrow. How does that sound?”
“Great, mom,” I unbuckle my seat belt. “Really,” I add, since it does sound nice. It sounds nice but it also sounds like another loud, festive place where if I faint – it would be highly embarrassing.
I’m sure my mom sees but doesn’t comment, reaching instead to grab her bag. I know full well what she wants to say, what she’s thinking. She wants to say I can’t forget to live. I can’t let my disease win. This, of course I counter by saying I’m not letting my disease win – merely letting it score a point.
Ultimately, I know I’ll end up agreeing – which is why I don’t argue. Instead I unbuckle my seat belt and slip out of the car. The wind is cold and I wrap my coat tight enough to bruise. I’m thinner now, thinner than I once was. Some people at school had the indecency to point this out, speaking to me as though it’s a compliment.
“Oh, Y/N,” a girl named Susie crooned. “That crop top looks so good on you. I wish I could pull that off, but look,” she exhaled, pinching the non-existent fat around her waist. “Love handles. You’re so lucky.”
I almost didn’t know how to respond. “Yes,” I said dryly, narrowing my gaze. “So lucky. Want to trade places?”
It was then that she blushed, stammering something about needing to meet friends as she walked away. Her words still echo in my mind, though. As I enter my home and remind myself it’s true – I am lucky. I’m lucky, my disease can be controlled. Lucky, I’m home before Christmas. Lucky, to have parents who support and love me.
Lucky, lucky, lucky.
I tell myself this all the way to my room, tell myself as I shut my door.
The next morning dawns bright and clear, the snowstorm of yesterday come and gone. It deposits four inches on the ground overnight, vanishing without a trace. The sky overhead is bright, not a cloud as we drive out to the mall. My dad chooses to sit this trip out, bringing his newspaper higher when my mom asks him to come. In response he grunts something about cooking dinner for three – and that it'll take all day.
When I laugh, dropping a kiss to my dad’s forehead, he squeezes my hand in response. He’s been resolutely normal throughout all of this, something I can’t thank him enough for. Before my disease, there’s no way he would have come on this shopping trip. Had he joined in, I’d know it’s because I’m sick. Not that I blame my mom – she worries, which manifests externally. Each of them have their own way of coping.
“Plows came early,” my mom notes, scanning the road ahead.
Nodding, I fiddle with my mittens on my lap. “Yep.”
Instead of continuing the conversation, my mom turns up the volume. Music filling the car and I start to sing. My mom joins in – voice horribly off pitch, making me giggle. Taking my mind off the day ahead, until we enter the mall. I fall silent, retreating within myself as we drift between stores. I touch but don’t buy, gaze tracing each item with a strange sort of detachment. I don’t know what to ask for this Christmas. Don’t know, because what I truly want is at once too simple and impossible.
After nearly an hour, my mom glances over. ‘Here,” she sighs, pushing money towards me. “Why don’t you get some coffee?”
Nodding, I close my hand around the bills. “Okay, I will.”
Oakbrook mall is outdoors – which is fun in the summertime, overall sucky in winter. Today is no exception, the wind gusting while I make my way to the Starbucks. Wrapping my scarf tighter, burying my head into my coat. As I enter the shop, a bell chimes, the sound lost on everyone but me, who stands directly beneath it. The shop is crowded, I allow the sound of laughter to wash over me as I step inside.
Letting the door fall shut behind me, I join the line. Pulling out my phone and scrolling through various apps, waiting for the register to open.
“Hey.”
I jump, startled by his voice. Turning around, I find Baekhyun. Standing with his hands buried deep in his pockets, grinning from ear to ear.
“Well,” he shakes his head, smile uncontainable. “What do you know? We meet again.”
“Baekhyun?” I don't know why I ask. I know that it's him.
“It’s me,” Baekhyun smiles, stepping closer. “I’m here to buy you coffee. If that’s okay?” he adds, glancing sideways.
Before I can stop myself, I nod. “That would be nice.”
A half-smile lifts his lips. Baekhyun doesn’t speak, content to just stand there. Body beside mine, while I let his warmth wash over me. Our arms don't touch, but it’s enough for me to feel him. Enough for his heat to wrap my frame, blaze straight through me. I keep glancing over, catching myself before our eyes can meet.
Baekhyun steps up to the counter. “One medium, dark roast coffee. Room for cream and sugar. Y/N?” he asks, glancing back over his shoulder.
“I, uh – same,” I blink.
Same? I’ve never had dark roast in my life. Hell, I don’t even drink regular coffee – when I say I'm getting coffee in the hospital, it’s really just an excuse to get hot chocolate. At Starbucks I always get the most sugary, unthinkable drink imaginable. A s’mores Frappuccino recently, one with extra whipped cream and double the chocolate.
Baekhyun raises an eyebrow but nods, paying for both cups. When they’re handed to him, he heads towards the table containing cream and sugar. Looking up, he pauses half a second before holding out a cup.
I take it gingerly, staring uncertainly at the lid.
Baekhyun starts to laugh at my expression. “You don’t normally drink coffee like this, do you?”
Shaking my head, I try and keep from blushing. “No.”
Baekhyun laughs, one hand covering his mouth. “Why did you ask for my order, then?”
Shrugging, I reach past him. Grabbing at least four sugars to dump in my drink. “I thought I’d try something different,” I mutter, adding a generous dose of half and half to stir vigorously. After taking a small sip, my nose wrinkles.
“Well?” Baekhyun watches my expression. “What’s the verdict?”
I raise my cup to eye level. “This would be better with chocolate.”
Baekhyun laughs out loud, delighted by my answer. “A sensible opinion.” After placing a single packet of sugar into his cup, Baekhyun raises it also to his lips. “Ah,” he sighs, inhaling. “Heaven.” Then he drinks
I watch, visibly appalled. “To each his own.”
Turning away, I notice how warm the shop has become. Lifting a hand to my brow, it comes back damp with sweat and suddenly alarmed, I pull off my other mitten. Touching my brow once more, watching the same thing happen. It’s suddenly hard for me to breathe, though I previously attributed this to the stuffiness of the shop and being so close to Baekhyun.
Maybe not.
My dizzinessis is growing, full-on fever blooming and I swallow, turning back to face Baekhyun. “Baekhyun,” I mumble, hands fisted tightly around my coffee. “I need to go.”
He seems confused. “Right now?”
I nod, quicker than I meant to. “Yeah, I – I uh, promised my mom I’d be right back. I don’t want her to worry.”
Though Baekhyun seems uncertain, he nods. “Okay. Will you –"
I’m already backing away though. His words ring in my ears, utterly distant and it’s hard to think of anything but the nausea. Pain lancing through me, as I push open the door. I’m aware that I’m running – or moving as fast as I can, given how badly my head spins. How much my legs drag, stumbling. When I finally find my mom in Macy’s, I grab awkwardly at her coat. “Mom,” I shake my head. “Mom.”
One look, and my mom’s arm is tightening around me. “Let’s go,” she mutters, supporting me as we walk from the store. “It’s okay, let’s go.”
It’s hard to breathe, and I close my eyes for the rest of the ride home.
The next day, I return to the hospital.
“Just in case,” my mom says, practically shoving me into the car. This, despite the fever having broke mere hours after returning home. “Better safe than sorry,” she chirps.
My eyes narrow and I let her see – I hate when she uses that phrase.
Staring out the window, I allow myself to be driven. I still feel weak. More than slightly, if I’m being honest with myself. Though the fever is gone, it’s taken something from me. I couldn’t make it through one conversation. Couldn’t get through one conversation with the boy I like before this damn disease interfered.
Now, I sit before my doctor. Now, I can’t breathe, because the word immunosuppressants is being tossed around. My mom debates with her while I sit here, motionless on the doctor’s table before them. Wondering if I get a say, if I get the opportunity to say no. To say I’m scared, that my first bedmate in this hospital was on immunosuppressants and it was horrible to watch. Things didn’t work out so well for her.
I know not everyone is the same and this doesn’t mean they wouldn’t work for me but still – I bury my face in my hands.
No one notices.
It’s eventually decided we’ll keep my current treatment as is for now. It’s too soon to see if switching the drugs would make things better. I’m feeling okay, so the doctor agrees I can go home.
It's as we leave that I see him. Baekhyun. December 23rd, and he’s sitting alone in the middle of the pediatrics wing. Cross-legged on the floor, as a six-year old climbs all over him. She’s screeching with glee, and Baekhyun grabs her to tickle her ribs.
It’s strange, watching him this way. As I drift past, blending in behind my mom, I’m aware that I'm frowning. Baekhyun doesn’t have the bubble most people do. He knows these children are sick, knows they’re not well and yet – he tickles her. There’s no room between him and the girl, no separation his skin and hers.
Outside, I wait for my mom to go get the car. Staring out into space, still puzzling over Baekhyun when he steps beside me.
“So,” Baekhyun raises his brows. “I thought we weren’t going to meet at the hospital anymore.”
Just the corner of my mouth lifts. “Hoping isn’t the same thing as reality.”
“No,” Baekhyun agrees, staring out at the parking lot. “It’s not.”
He falls quiet. Silent for so long that I look sideways. “Is there something wrong?”
Baekhyun’s looksback at me. “Y/N,” he says, taking a deep breath. “Will you go out with me?”
I’m momentarily taken aback. “I – what?”
Baekhyun smiles, sticking his hands in both pockets. “I’m scared I wasn’t direct enough. You left so quickly the other day, I couldn't get the words out. Which is why I’m asking now – do you want to go to the movies with me tonight?”
“Tonight?” I squeak. “I – uh.”
My mom’s car comes into view. I can practically hear her words, driven into my body. Don’t be afraid, don’t let my disease win. Contrary to her opinion though, I have this nagging uncertainty inside me. The one which sees her optimism and knows it's misplaced. Baekhyun only knows a certain version of myself. He thinks I’m healthy. Thinks I’m a doting sister, normal high schooler who goes shopping with her mom, who waits for cars outside hospitals.
Baekhyun doesn’t know the true Y/N. He doesn’t know about the tubes, the tests, the constant barrage of doctors. He doesn’t know the weight on my shoulders, the uncertainty I face every time I enter these doors. Baekhyun enters the hospital voluntarily, it’s his job to do so. I enter because I must, because I have to – a very distinct separation
The true Y/N is someone no high schooler wants to deal with – not unless they’re also sick.
I turn from him. “I wish that I could,” I hesitate, not daring to meet Baekhyun’s gaze – I can’t do that, or I’ll cave. “I’m going out of town tonight. For the holidays,” I add.
Though Baekhyun’s face falls, he nods. “Alright. I understand.”
My mom’s car pulls up to the curb, and I tug my coat tighter. “Bye,” I say quietly, not looking back at him. “Happy holidays, Baekhyun.”
Baekhyun nods, his eyes following mine as I walk away. “Happy holidays,” he says softly.
Allison: You’re coming with tonight, right? [4:56 PM]
Rolling over in bed, I check my phone. Exhaling at my best friend’s text.
Y/N: coming to what? [4:58 PM]
Allison: the movies!! Remember, we talked about this before school let out? I miss you. Please come :( [5:01 PM]
I sit for a second, debating. On the one hand, I’m very comfortable right now. Which is rare. On the other – it’s been so long since I’ve seen my friends. The next two days I’ll be spending with family, so this is the one time I’d get to see Allison and the rest. Releasing a breath I didn’t know I was holding, I type back.
Y/N: Okay, fine. What time? [5:03 PM]
Allison: YAY! Movie at 7:30 PM. Don’t be late [5:05 PM]
Rolling over, I stare up at the ceiling. For some reason, Baekhyun’s words come to mind. You never know what might be your year. I am alive. I am here – this could be my year. Smile breaking over me, I look at my phone. I can do this. Just because I was sick yesterday doesn’t mean I will be today.
I push aside my covers.
The movie isn’t great. This turns out to be a good thing, since Allison and I spend most of the time laughing in the back. Quoting lines before they happen, giggling about how cliché the dialogue is. Our friend Robbie cackles, so loud that people start to shush us below. Ariel throws popcorn at them, and we’re very nearly kicked out. By the end, I’m unable to control myself. Unable to help, as Allison leads me outside. Helping not because I’m sick, but because I’m laughing so hard, it’s difficult to stand upright.
It’s nice, feeling alive again. In the lobby everyone lingers. Talking until it gets too late and people start to disappear to their cars or parents. I’m one of the lame ones whose mother drove them. It’s easier this way, since I never know when I’ll faint. Allison is the last to leave. She waits as long as she can before checking her phone. “Ten thirty,” she blanches. “I have to go, or my parents will kill me.”
I nod, giving her a hug. “It’s fine,” I smile. I mean it. “Go on. My mom is nearly here.”
Grinning, Allison pushes her hair behind one ear. “This was fun,” she sighs. “I missed you.”
Fighting back my answering smile, I nod as well. “I missed you, too.”
After one more hug, she’s gone. Waving before disappearing between cars. I’m left staring after, until a familiar blond head comes into view. The sight makes my mouth go immediately dry.
Baekhyun stares. His eyes are wide, hands stuck deep in his pockets and I know that he’s seen me. Know that he’s seen when he looks down at his watch, then back up as though calculating when I could have arrived, how long is left to the day and whether there’s still enough time for me to drive to my family’s house. I watch it click for him. Watch realization dawn, hurt clear across his features.
Baekhyun swallows, and I watch him turn – and upon seeing this, something inside me snaps. “Baekhyun!” I call, unable to keep myself from running. My heart pounds against my ribcage, hand waving frantically. “Wait!”
He’s already walking though, already shoving his way through the crowd. He must have driven, since he’s heading straight for the parking lot. Tugging keys from his jacket pocket to click hastily.
“Baekhyun!” I call. I’m gaining on him. He’s not running, clearly not wanting to give me the satisfaction – but I’m flat out sprinting. Heart pounding, breath shallow as my vision swims. “Baekhyun,” I gasp, grabbing his elbow to face me.
Baekhyun reluctantly meets my gaze. “Y/N,” he says, mouth a thin line. “It’s okay. You don’t have to explain.”
“But I do,” I blurt, eyes wide. “This isn’t what it looks like.” As I speak, I start to cough. Fuck. I need to tell him, need to say something – but my body is weak. I’m still tired from yesterday, stressed from the long day and everything just refuses to cooperate.
Baekhyun doesn’t seem to notice, looking past. “It’s really okay, Y/N. You don’t want to date. That’s fine, you could have just said that.”
I’m shaking though, world spinning. “No, no – it’s not that.”
“Oh?” Baekhyun’s gaze cuts to mine, suddenly angry. “Then what?”
“I,” I swallow stepping forward.
I think I mean to touch his arm, think I try to make him see but somehow, I miss. My hand slides through air, feet losing balance beneath me. I’m aware I’m falling, aware I’m dropping when Baekhyun’s eyes widen. I think he says something, but I can barely hear. Can barely hear anything besides the beating of my own heart.
Thud. Thud.
Then black.
I awake to steady beeping.
I’m still drowsy, which is reassuring in a way it probably shouldn’t be. Slowly, I crack open an eye. This immediately shuts – an then opens once more but still, the hallucination holds.
Baekhyun sits in the armchair beside me.
Groggily, I push myself up. Slowly scanning the room, taking in my usual hospital bed. Smelling the rubbery, bleach scent of the floors. Feel the rough, cloth nightgown beneath my fingertips. The IV threaded through the vein in my right hand. All of which is normal – except for Baekhyun. He sits sprawled out, legs collapsed and mouth open. Every so often he snores, a gentle noise to which I raise my eyebrows.
I’ve woken up like this a million times, but never with anyone here but my parents. My mom is nowhere to be seen though, just Baekhyun.
It’s then that his eyelids flutter, and he sees me looking. Baekhyun jerks upright. “Y/N,” he gasps, gaze sleepy. He scoots forward, hands reaching for mine. “You’re okay.” Baekhyun’s eyes are bloodshot, scanning my face. “I mean, I knew that you were, the doctors said so. It just – I wanted to see for myself.”
I can't think of anything to say. It all seems like a dream. A strange, weirdly comforting one where I stare down at his hand, clasped in mine on top of the bedspread. “What – what are you doing here?”
Baekhyun exhales. “I was there when you fainted, Y/N,” he explains. “I called the ambulance. Your mom and I drove with you to the hospital. She’s talking to the doctor now,” he adds, with a glance at the door. “I can get her if you’d like.”
“No,” I shake my head, staring at his hand. “It’s okay.”
Baekhyun seems to relax, gaze softening. “Why didn’t you tell me?” His voice is quiet.
Rather than look directly at him, I stare at the sheets. “I didn’t want,” I hesitate, trying to think of how to put this. “I didn’t want you to take a step backwards.” When Baekhyun doesn’t respond, I look upwards. “I didn’t want you to give me that look, the one people get when they know I’m sick.”
Baekhyun’s gaze remains steady. “Y/N.” His voice is low, intense. “Am I taking a step back?”
I shake my head. No.
“Am I looking at you differently?” Baekhyun’s thumb brushes my own.
I look at his fingers, wrapped in mine. It’s the first time I’ve held my breath like this. The first time someone has held my hand this way, clasped as though they’re afraid to let go. My gaze lifts to his. “No.”
“Then,” Baekhyun exhales, leaning forward. “Will you believe me when I say I like you?”
Unthinkingly, my tongue wets my lips. “Why, though?”
Baekhyun arches a brow. “Why?”
I nod. “Why do you like me?”
When he leans back, Baekhyun takes my hand with. He settles this onto his lap, over his knee. “When we first met, I thought you were selfless. Visiting your sister, feeling so deeply. When I saw you shopping, I thought you were cute. Funny, down to earth. When I saw you again that day at the hospital – I couldn’t help myself. I wanted to know more about you.”
I blush, continuing to look at our hands. “And now?”
“And now,” Baekhyun slowly lifts my hand, kissing the back of it. “I think that you’re even braver than I thought. I think you’re more selfless than you let on. And I want to know you even more than I did before.”
I look up, shocked by his confession. The beeping on my ECG monitor quickens. “You do?” I whisper, unable to speak louder than that.
Baekhyun nods. He leans forward, eyes centimeters from mine. “I do.”
I can’t breathe, can’t focus with his lips so close. “What are you –?”
Baekhyun kisses me. His lips are soft, gentle and the air in my lungs stutters. Catching once, twice before I press myself forward. Letting his hands drift up my arms, pressing me to him. Then he moves away, just enough to see me. “Y/N. You being sick doesn’t change how I see you. Doesn’t change how I feel about you. I like you. You.”
Me.
Warmth floods my chest, one that has nothing to do with fever. Nothing to do with the hospital or the machines or the strange sense of peace as I lean slowly forward.
“Kiss me again,” I smile.
#noonanet#kwriterskollection#kpoptrashtag#baekhyun fluff#baekhyun fanfiction#baekhyun au#baekhyun#byun baekhyun#exo fluff#exo one shot#exo fanfiction#exo#baekhyun one shot#exo baekhyun
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