His collar’s still open.

You glance up. “Your tie’s suffering today.”

He doesn’t look at it. “So am I.”

You laugh. That soft, surprised kind of sound that always knocks something loose in his chest.

And then—like you’re not throwing a grenade into the space between you—you say, “I’ve never learned to tie one.”

He looks at you, really looks.

You’ve shared a bed. Slept wrapped around each other. You almost kissed on Christmas Eve. You haven’t talked about it since.

He should say no. Should fix it himself and tell you it doesn’t matter. That the knot isn’t important. That proximity isn’t safe.

But—

Fuck it.

“Come here,” he says.

You unfold and step around the desk, leaning on the surface in front of him, your socked feet between his dress shoes. Closer than you ever should be in daylight, in this office, with the blinds open and the door unlocked. The tie changes custody as he lays the fabric across your hands. 

He watches you, ducking his head a little as you drape the tie around his neck with careful fingers. Watches the way your lower lip catches between your teeth when you try to remember how it starts.

You’re not going to get it. So he reaches for your hands.

Fuck it.

His palms cover yours, guiding.

“Start here,” he says, voice low. “Wide end over the narrow.”

You follow, quiet, obedient (for once) in a way that makes his breath catch.

“Now under. Back around.”

Your fingers tremble—so slightly he might be imagining it.

“Up through the loop. Pull tight.”

He feels the brush of your knuckles against his chest. The way your breath hitches as the knot forms, awkward and imprecise, right over his heart.

It’s not about the tie.

It never was.

Your hands are still in his.

Don’t do it, a voice in his head warns. It’s too close. Too much.

But your eyes are on the knot like it matters. Like the very act of tying it is something special and notable. Like the space between you means something beyond what it is.

“I’m going to forget tomorrow,” you tell him, a small smile on your face. 

He hears himself say, “Then I’ll show you again.”

He lets go of your hands without looking at your face. If he does, he might do something insane.

Something real.

You straighten, slow, measured. Perhaps you know you’ve crossed something neither of you is willing to name, at least not right now. You return to your chair, feet tucking up under you. 

The space between you pulses.

Aaron fixes the knot with surgical precision and doesn’t speak for the rest of the hour.

+++

The apartment is quiet.

Too quiet.

Jack’s at Jess’s for the night, which means the place feels hollow in a way Aaron can never quite adjust to. Like all the breath and life has been sucked out of the walls.

He turns on a single lamp in the corner of the living room. Doesn’t bother with anything else.

His tie’s still looped neatly around his neck. He doesn’t know why he hasn’t taken it off yet.

He stands in front of the hall mirror, loosening the knot—your knot—with slow fingers. It’s crooked. A little messy. A touch too tight. Truthfully, he didn’t want to fix it as thoroughly as he usually would. 

He stares at it as he tugs it loose.

And suddenly he’s back there—your fingers under his collar, your hands guided by his, your voice low and a little nervous when you said, “I’ll forget by tomorrow.”

He told you he’d show you again.

He meant it.

Aaron hangs the tie over the hook by the door. He straightens and smooths it with a hand that lingers too long.

Get a grip.

It was nothing. It had to be nothing.

Just a moment. Just muscle memory and proximity and the normal kind of charged silence that happens when two people are pretending an ill-advised sleepover never happened. When two people are still pretending a kiss didn’t almost happen on Christmas Eve. Knowing you probably read him better than anyone, except maybe Dave. Pretending that you don’t sleep at his place. Knowing you say beside him on the couch in his office earlier today with your knee pressed to his while reviewing a profile you both could’ve formulated with your eyes closed.

He pinches the bridge of his nose.

He shouldn’t have said come here.

He shouldn’t have touched your hands.

He definitely shouldn’t be thinking about doing it again.

But God—he is.

He’s already halfway through the mental calculus: could he pretend to forget how to tie it himself? Claim a hand injury? Ask you to do it for a future court appearance, just to see if you’d press that close again?

He exhales sharply. Disgusted with himself.

You’d never—

You wouldn’t want that. Not from him. Not unless it was a joke, a fluke, a half-step toward something you’d never let fully materialize. It’s not like you meant anything by it. Not like you leaned in the way he thinks you did.

Get it together, Hotchner.

He moves to the kitchen. Opens a beer. Doesn’t drink it.

His tie—your knot—is still hanging by the door.

And no matter how many times he tells himself it didn’t mean anything, he knows he’s lying.

Because when he closes his eyes, your hands are still in his.

+++

You shouldn’t have said anything.

Of course you shouldn’t have said anything.

You were just sitting there, knees tucked under you in his office, the two of you tossing ideas back and forth like you always do, the comfort of it so routine you didn’t even notice until he took his tie off. And then it was like—like your brain was hijacked. Like something cracked open under your ribs and something stupid crawled out.

“I’ve never learned to tie one.”

What kind of schoolgirl bullshit is that?

What, were you hoping he’d… what? Offer? Teach you?

(He did.)

You press the heels of your hands to your face and groan. Out loud. Because you deserve to feel the full brunt of how mortifying that moment was.

And then, he invited you closer.

He sat right there in front of you, tie in hand, eyes soft in a way they shouldn’t be, and said, Come here.

And you went.

God. You stood there with your fingers curled around his collar like you were helping him get ready for work in the morning. Like it was intimate. Like it was yours.

And then he took your hands in his.

Just—like it was normal. Like it was nothing.

You open the fridge, close it again. You’re not hungry. You’re not anything except embarrassed. And you keep trying to convince yourself that it didn’t mean anything. That he was being polite. That he saw right through you and decided to humor your moment of idiocy the same way he humors Penelope’s wardrobe commentary or Spencer’s unsolicited trivia.

He was just being kind.

That’s what he does.

That’s all it was.

…Except he told you he’d show you again.

And he fixed the knot afterward, sure. He didn’t even say thank you. Just did it, clinical and efficient and like he was trying to make it not linger.

But still. You felt something.

You’re not crazy.

+++

“I just need to know they’ve healed,” you say, your thumb brushing the edge of a raised scar. Your voice doesn’t shake, not anymore. 

He blinks, opens his eyes. You don’t look up yet. You’re focused.

“I need to know that you’re okay.” Your voice drops to a very honest whisper. “That you made it.” 

He goes very still beneath you.

And maybe it should surprise him, how easily you say it. How calmly. But it doesn’t. Not really.

He watches your face instead. The way your fingers move with care, not fear. Like he’s not made of something broken. Like he’s not fragile. Like he’s worth touching, worth learning by hand.

Your fingers stop at the one just under his collarbone—the worst of them, aesthetically speaking. 

It’s jagged and more raised than the rest, an angry, twisted line that still hasn’t calmed after all these years. The scar is gnarled, extending far deeper than you can see. 

“This one,” you whisper, “was the one they were worried about long-term.”

He nods. “The most nerve damage. I couldn’t feel anything around it for weeks. There are still numb spots.”

You don’t flinch. You press your palm flat over it. Like you’re grounding it. Like you’re taking it into yourself.

He watches you in silence.

You move lower, shifting the blanket to trace another.

“I’ve never seen this one,” you murmur, fingers ghosting over the thin, raised scar between his ribs on the right side.

“Slotted right through,” he says. “Didn’t hit anything vital. Barely.”

You lean in and press a kiss to it.

Your hands move again, lower, reverent. The one just under his ribs makes you pause. You run your fingers over it, feeling the knotted scar tissue underneath. 

From where Foyet dug. 

You can feel the anger, the hatred for the man who met his righteous end at Aaron’s hand. 

He sees it on your face and answers before you can ask.

“That one was from the second hit. I was already down.”

Your throat tightens, but you say nothing.

Not yet.

There’s another, just to the left of his belly button. Smaller. Cleaner. But still angry. Still personal.

“That one was from the smaller knife,” he says, almost too softly. “It wasn’t serrated. Easier to heal.”

Your hand shakes. You steady it. He’s never talked about this with you, never talked about the attack, not really.

You look at him. “Thank you for telling me.”

His eyes are wet. “You don’t need to know all this.”

You shake your head. “I do. Because I was there. Maybe not in the room. But I was there.”

He reaches up, cups your cheek.

“You were,” he says. “I remember your voice. In the hospital. It was the first thing I really registered.”

You blink fast. Press your lips to the center of his chest—over his heart. The one that’s still bruised, still vulnerable. Still fighting.

“You let me take care of you,” you whisper. “And then you shut the door.”

“I thought I was protecting you.”

“I know,” you say, voice steady. “But I didn’t need protection. I needed you.”

He closes his eyes, breath catching.

“I want to know all of it,” you add. “Not because it’s easy. But because it’s you.”

There’s something unbearable in his face when he opens his eyes again. Not grief. Not shame. But something almost like awe.

“You’re not afraid,” he says.

“I am,” you reply. “But not of you.”

He draws you down to him—carefully, gently—and you settle over his chest, still tracing every mark. Every piece of him that once broke open and healed under his own relentless will.

You glance up at him. “Do they still hurt?”

“Sometimes,” he admits. “Not sharp. Just… stiff. Tight.”

Your palm shifts slightly, following the curve beneath his ribs.

“Is there… permanent nerve damage?” you ask. “Are you still on medication? For your heart?”

His gaze sharpens—not defensive, just startled. He nods, once. “Beta-blocker. Low dose. And yeah. There’s numbness. Some phantom pain. Mostly in my ribs, but there are other parts I still can’t feel at all.”

“Where?”

He takes your hand and presses it to his side, under his arm, where his vest velcros together. “Here. I can’t feel this at all.” His hand guides yours to tap, to prod. You spread your fingers over his skin, the pads of your fingers bridging the scar tracing the curve of his ribs.

“The scar tissue is beyond saving,” he says, pulling your hand to another healed wound under his sternum. “I can’t feel any of it beyond the psychosomatic itch.”

“How much is internal?” Your fingers trace the scar, this one preternaturally smooth, no ridges or imperfections at all on its surface. 

He shrugs. “They’re not sure. They checked it on ultrasounds on my last follow up to clear me for Pakistan but they’d really need a contrast MRI for all of it.” 

You hum. Understanding. 

“I’m okay,” he says. 

Physically, you believe him. 

Your fingers return to his collarbone, remembering the internal stitches. There’s a companion on the other side of his chest, a relatively shallow slice on his pec. That one has healed pale and smooth. 

His shoulder has a thin, aged line bisecting the curve of it, interrupting the canvas of lean muscle. You look up with a question. 

“Coat hanger. I was twelve.”

That doesn’t really answer your question. You keep your eyes on him. 

“My father was…” He pauses, his jaw working. “He had a temper.“

You take a breath, passing over the scars, the new and the old, with your thumb. 

You’re not cataloging weaknesses. You’re asking about his life. The one you share. The one he’s lucky enough to live.

You press a soft kiss to the scar beneath his sternum. Not to soothe. To see him.

“Okay,” you murmur, laying your cheek just over the spot you kissed. You can feel the steady thump beneath your skin. “I just wanted to know.”

His fingers brush your temple, his thumb tracing under your eye, slow and grateful. “You already do.”

But he realizes—he hadn’t thought about it like this before.

About the way you carry it. That night. That aftermath.

You weren’t there. But you felt it all. You watched him stagger back from the brink. And you never looked away.

So when you shift—when you rise up slowly onto your elbows and then your knees, straddling him with quiet reverence—he watches you like he’s seeing something holy.

You’re not rushing. Not trying to fix anything.

You just want to be close.

You curl your fingers into the shirt you wear—his, one he loaned you ages ago that somehow stayed yours—and push it up over your chest, then higher, over your head. And when you lean in, you press your lips to each wound, one by one, deliberate, your skin against his. 

He shudders.

Not because it hurts.

Because it doesn’t.

Because there is nothing clinical about your touch. Because you’re not reducing him to the pain. You’re honoring it. Reframing it. Offering something back.

When you finally look up, your voice is almost a whisper. “Let me take care of you.”

He’s already breathless. He nods.

Not because he needs it.

Because he wants it.

Because your offer doesn’t feel like pity.

It feels like truth.

You kiss him again—this time at the hollow of his throat—and his breath catches.

There’s nothing hurried about it. No frantic need, no sharp edges. Only presence. Only the warm, quiet urgency of here, now, still. Your mouth brushes the underside of his jaw, and his hand slides from your hip to your waist, grounding himself in the feel of you.

“You’re so gentle with me,” he murmurs, like it’s the strangest miracle in the world.

You look at him, half-smiling. “Of course I am.”

You stay like that for a while, skin to skin. Still wrapped around each other, but the intimate heat between you has cooled into something quieter. Not less intense—never that—but steadier. Like embers instead of flames. Like something that lasts.

Your cheek rests against his shoulder, and his arm curls around your back. His breathing has slowed. So has yours.

Neither of you speak.

It’s not silence. Not really. It’s something softer. Like the space between words when you already understand each other. 

His hand strokes slowly up and down your spine, not for your benefit or his—just because. Because you’re here. Because he is. Because the world went on turning, and you both made it back.

Eventually, you lift your head.

Not far. Just enough to look at him. His hair is a little messy. His lips have a little color. There’s a furrow between his brows that hasn’t smoothed entirely, like he’s still afraid this might vanish if he looks too closely.

You touch his face. Thumb across his cheek. Feather-light.

“You okay?” you ask, quiet.

He blinks. Nods. “I’m—” He stops. Tries again. “Yeah. I am.”

You raise an eyebrow. He sighs.

“I don’t always know how to believe that this is real,” he says. “That you’re here. That we’re allowed to be like this. After everything.”

“You don’t have to believe it,” you murmur. “You just have to feel it.”

He closes his eyes. Presses his forehead to yours.

“I do,” he says. “More than I ever thought I could.”

Your fingers curl in the space just above his heart. His hand covers yours.

His voice is rough. “You were the only part of it that ever made sense.”

You don’t answer. You just lean in and kiss him—soft, lingering. Nothing more than the press of lips, the exhale between two people who understand each other down to the bone.

When you pull back, you’re smiling. So is he.

You both shift—still tangled up, but comfortable now. Content.

And later, when sleep begins to pull you under, you tuck your face against his neck and whisper, “You’re not alone anymore.”

He doesn’t answer with words.

But he holds you tighter.

And you feel it all the same.

+++

His expression doesn’t change, but there’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes. His eyes dart out his window, and back to you before he speaks. “I think we’re well past ‘favors,’ don’t you?”

“Maybe,” you hedge playfully, stepping closer. You take a breath. “I think I’m going home—to mine—after we’re done today.”

Aaron’s brows lift, just a fraction, and he sits back a little. Not surprised, exactly. Just… not what he wanted to hear.

“Just for tonight,” you add, keeping your tone light. “I need to refresh my go bag, and I have a mountain of laundry that’s threatening to unionize. And—honestly—I’ve been a terrible landlord to myself. It’s time to make sure the fridge hasn’t turned into a crime scene.”

That gets a smile out of him, but it’s the kind he hides behind his hand, his knuckle brushing his mouth as he nods. “Makes sense,” he says. Then, quieter, “Still. That’s going to be a weirdly empty bed.”

You pause in the doorway, caught a little off guard by how much that hits you.

“I know,” you say, gentler now. “I’m already kind of regretting it.”

He doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask you to stay. Just watches you with a softness that says he understands even if he doesn’t like it. “Call me when you get in?”

“Yeah,” you nod. “I’ll call.”

There’s a quiet beat where neither of you moves. 

It’s just a night. A little reset.

His eyes trace you, up and down. You feel it like a touch and you desperately wish you weren’t at work right now. 

Finally, he meets your eyes. “Don’t let your fridge kill you.”

You laugh. “No promises.”

+++

The lock sticks the same way it always has. You really should call the locksmith about that. 

The joys of home ownership…

You shoulder the door open with a little grunt, balancing your dry cleaning in one hand and go bag in the other, full of dirty clothes. You already know the lights won’t be on—your place doesn’t greet you the way Aaron’s does. No lamp left lit for ambiance, no faint smell of dinner, no Lego minefield in the hallway.

But still. It’s yours.

You kick door closed behind you with your foot and set the dry cleaning over the back of the couch, the plastic crackling as it settles. Your eyes catch on the shirts near the back—two of Aaron’s, pressed and perfect. You don’t remember offering, exactly. Just noticed them hanging in the back of the car and said you were headed to the cleaners anyway. He’d smiled at you like you were handing him something priceless.

You pull your phone from your back pocket and sit on the arm of the couch, thumbing open your messages. One new text.

Messages Alpha Bravo Hotel (1)

7:02pm Let me know when you get in.

You hit call instead of replying.

He answers on the second ring. “Hey.”

“Hey,” you echo, softer than you mean to. You look around the house like it’s something you’re seeing for the first time. “I’m home.”

“How’s it look?”

You let out a breath through your nose. “Mildly abandoned.”

Aaron chuckles. “You’ll whip it back into shape. You always do.”

“I don’t know about always,” you tease, but he’s not wrong. You’ve been meaning to do this for a while—handle your business. It just… took a little extra inertia to actually leave. Aaron has been almost too accommodating, but you’ve been washing and wearing the same clothes for like two weeks now. 

“I put two of your dress shirts over the back of the couch,” you add. “They survived my dry cleaning ladies.”

“You didn’t have to—”

“I know.” You smile at the wall. “It’s fine. They were already on the hanger.”

“Thank you,” he says, low and earnest.

There’s a small beat of silence. Not uncomfortable, just… full.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you say, and this time, you mean it. “I need the night. It’s overdue.”

“I figured,” he murmurs. “You’ll let me know if you need anything.”

You nod, then realize he can’t see you. “I will. Kiss Jack for me?”

“Already down, but I’ll tell him you said goodnight.”

Your chest tightens, just a little. “Okay.”

You end the call with one of those soft little goodbyes that doesn’t feel like a goodbye at all, and then you stand, hands on your hips, scanning the room.

Right. Mission mode.

You head for the bedroom, tossing your go bag onto the bed to dig through later. You start sorting the mess in your hamper—field clothes, civilian stuff, the stuff that lives in the gray space between—and build a neat pile of everything that needs laundering. You already know the work boots are by the door, caked with Virginia clay. You’ll scrub those down last.

Halfway through your first load of laundry, you crack open a beverage, and start loading the dishwasher. You wipe down the counters. You clean out the fridge and take out the scary trash. You make a mental list of groceries and strike the ones that will rot in less than a week. You hum to yourself as you fold throw blankets and stack your mail and paperwork into a “deal with it later” pile.

It feels good. Like ownership. Like competence. Like stepping off a cloud and getting your shit together, one tidy domestic act at a time.

Still, when the last load spins up and the apartment finally starts to smell like something pleasant and warm, you drift back to the couch and tap open your phone.

No new texts. You draft one. 

10:23pm Mission accomplished. 

He replies right away. 

10:23pm Any insurgents in the fridge?

You smile. 

10:24pm Some horrifyingly militant leftovers. Handled with extreme prejudice. 

The TV is still on—some movie you half-watched for background noise now rolling into late-night cable filler. You squint at the screen and don’t bother reaching for the remote. It’s white noise now.

You sit there in the blue wash of it, one leg tucked up under you, your phone resting loosely in your hand.

You miss him.

Not in the sharp, gut-pulling way you used to, back when every goodbye felt like an open-ended question. Not like when he was in Pakistan. This is different. Softer. Less lonely, but still hollow around the edges.

Just a night, you remind yourself. A reset.

This should be a once weekly thing, you figure. A calibration. 

Still—your home feels too quiet without the sound of him turning pages beside you. Without the clink of his glass on the nightstand. Without the soft weight of his arm sliding around your waist sometime around 3am.

You glance at your phone again when it buzzes.

11:16pm Still awake?

You smile. He’ll probably get after you if you fall asleep on the couch out here. 

11:17pm Barely.

11:17pm Couch?

You huff. Predictable. 

11:18pm Guilty. I’ll move.

There’s a pause. Then—

11:20pm You don’t have to. 11:20pm Just don’t let it break your neck.

You laugh quietly.

11:21pm You’ll owe me a shoulder rub if it does.

11:21pm Deal.

You reply fast, without thinking. 

11:21pm I miss you.

The breath you draw feels bigger than you expected. Like your lungs forgot how much room they honestly can take up.

You curl further into yourself, the edge of the throw blanket tucked beneath your chin.

11:22pm I miss you too.

The little dot bubbles appear for a second. Then then they vanish.

But right now, this—the quiet, the stillness, the soft virtual thread connecting you across two different spaces—is enough.

You don’t need him to say anything else. He already has. You make your way to the bedroom. Tuck yourself in. Try not to feel too cold without your human space heater. 

The hum of the dryer fades. You let your eyes drift closed.

You’ll see him tomorrow.

You let it hold you.

And finally, you sleep.

+++

The house is quiet. Jack’s been asleep for over two hours and appears to be staying asleep. 

Aaron is on top of the covers, reading glasses pushed into his hair, one hand resting absently on the page of a book he hasn’t touched in fifteen minutes.

Your side of the bed is empty.

He’d thought it might be nice—just one night. A chance to sleep diagonally. Stretch out. Catch up on rest without worrying about kicking you in his sleep.

But now that the house has settled and there’s nothing left to do, he misses you with a quiet sort of ache.

Not a wound. Just… an absence.

His phone buzzes on the nightstand.

Messages Second (1)

10:23pm Mission accomplished. 

He smiles before he even opens it. He replies promptly. 

10:23pm Any insurgents in the fridge?

You answer immediately. Of course you do.

10:24pm Some horrifyingly militant leftovers. Handled with extreme prejudice. 

Aaron huffs a soft laugh, thumb hovering. He could say more. Could ask if you folded the throw blanket like you always do or if you left it in a pile on the couch. Could ask if you opened the window like you used to, even though the house always runs cold. Could ask if you miss him too.

He forces himself to put the phone down before his thumbs enable something stupid. He picks up the team midpoint evals again. He asked Dave to take yours, Reid’s, and Morgan’s, as he missed anything of merit over the summer. 

The added repetition of “conflict of interest” clanging around in his skull doesn’t help. At least his absence is a good enough excuse to avoid evaluating you for now. 

He can’t focus on JJ’s written input, as tidy as it is, distracted by the silence. He gets up and wanders to the kitchen. He putters around, straightening random items and generally stalling, unwilling to go back to the lifeless stillness of his bedroom without you in it. 

Soon enough, he runs out of things to mess around with, to organize, to clean out of the fridge. 

Is there anything else he can reset while you’re gone…? 

It doesn’t look that way. 

He returns to the bedroom, feeling more than a little silly that his evening has been so thoroughly derailed by one night away from you. 

He looks at his phone. Picks it up. Looks at your contact photo. Feels silly. 

He types. 

11:16pm Still awake?

He stares at it. He’s suddenly thrilled they didn’t have texting when he was in school. He would have been in deep shit. 

11:17pm Barely.

His lips quirk in a smile. 

11:17pm Couch?

11:18pm Guilty. I’ll move.

He pictures you for a moment, in your comfiest clothes, watching something inane or interesting enough to be background noise, but not so interesting that it will keep you up. You do better than he does on the couch, but that bar isn’t high. 

11:20pm You don’t have to. 11:20pm Just don’t let it break your neck.

11:21pm You’ll owe me a shoulder rub if it does.

11:21pm Deal.

11:21pm I miss you.

11:22pm I miss you too. 

He starts to type—something about seeing you tomorrow, something about how the house always feels off when you’re not in it. But then he stops.

Because you already know.

You know what he’d say. And more importantly, you know the part of him that wouldn’t.

So instead, Aaron sets the phone down, turns out the light, and closes his eyes.

You’re not here tonight. But you’re in every piece of his quiet, every pocket of stillness he used to fill with silence and now fills with you.

+++

“Hey, kid?” Derek asks. 

“Hm?” You keep your eyes on the road. 

You see him eye you from the passenger seat. “Care to read me into the changes to your music taste?”

Your brows knit together, knowing exactly what he’s talking about. “What changes?”

“Uh…c’mon.  Supertramp?”

You snort. “I happen to like Supertramp.”

“This album came out in 1979.”

“And? People do listen to music that came out before they were born, you know.” You can hear the touch of playful defensiveness in your voice. Unfortunately, so does Derek. 

“No,” he replies, and his tone can only mean one thing: he’s going in for the kill. “- people listen to their parents’ music because they’re raised on it. Or they listen to whatever was on the radio when they were in high school. Reid told me the music, like, imprints on your psyche or something, I don’t know.” He pauses. “This is neither.”

He’s got you there. It’s not even conscious at this point. You hadn't even realized how natural it was to turn on his music until Derek pointed it out. It’s just... what you do now. You sigh, trying to find a plausible reason you’re listening to undeniably Hotch-coded music and actually enjoying it. You decide to split the difference between truth and obscurity.

“It’s the guy,” you tell him, folding in a kind of embarrassed ruefulness to your admission. “He likes 70s and 80s music, so I’ve just gotten used to having it in the car.”

Derek sits back, satisfied. “So, he is older.”

“Older than me? Yes.” You laugh. “But old? No.”

“I mean, Jesus, kid. Talking Heads? Supertramp? INXS?” Derek laughs. “This guys got you bad.”

You shrug, not bothering to hide your smile. He’s not wrong. If you butter Derek up before he finds out ‘this guy’ is Hotch, maybe he won’t be so hard on him. “Maybe.”

You let him change the station to 90s old school and settle in for the rest of the drive. 

+++

You get out of the car when you get into fleet parking at Quantico, spotting the rest of the team on the sidewalk. 

“Hotch!” Derek calls. You startle a little. 

I’ve been made. 

Your whole body goes stiff for the briefest moment before you force yourself to move, to exhale, to pretend your cover isn’t about to be completely blown. You’re hoping your short-circuit wasn’t obvious to anyone else, but it’s not like it matters now anyway.

Aaron’s head turns, his gaze flicking between you and Derek, clocking the shifty look on your face in a split second before schooling his expression into something unreadable. But you catch it—that tiny glimmer of amusement in his eyes. He knows exactly what’s happening. And he’s going to let you sweat.

Derek’s voice is raised, carrying across the lot. “There’s someone else with questionable taste in music.” He throws a thumb back at you. “I had to endure Supertramp on the way home just now. Singing along, too.”

Thank God. That was way too close. 

Emily’s expression turns smug as you join the little group. “Oh, really?” She sings. “Is your not-boyfriend a Supertramp fan? How old is he anyway? Supertramp even pushes my limits.”

You sigh, playing at exhaustion. “Give it up, would you?”

“Never!”

You roll your eyes, smiling good-naturedly. 

It would be normal for you to look at Aaron, right? Let’s go with yes. 

When you turn your smile on him, there’s a small, amused look on his face. “I’m not sure I’d call Supertramp questionable, but…” He shrugs. “I’m biased.”

Derek scoffs. “Of course you’d say that. You’re the target demographic.” He claps you on the shoulder, his face breaking into a megawatt smile again. “Look at you, so happy.”

You roll your eyes again. “I’m always happy,” you tell him without a hint of irony. 

He shakes his head. He knows better. “Yeah, but look at that!” He pokes at one of your cheeks, pulled up in a smile. “That's a real one. Haven’t seen one of those in a while.”

“Derek!” You push his hand away and duck, inadvertently getting closer to Aaron, your back still to him. 

“That’s not fair - you can’t hide behind Hotch.”

“Can’t I?” You ask, looking over your shoulder at the man in question. 

Aaron just shakes his head fondly at the both of you. “That’s enough. Let’s get these reports started and head home.”

“Traitor,” you mumble under your breath as you pass him. 

You hear his amused huff behind you and you can almost feel the eye roll. You have half a mind to tell him if he keeps doing that, his face will get stuck that way, but you refrain. 

+++

“Were you really listening to my music in the car?” He asks. He lounges on the end of the bed, his head propped by a hand. 

You stay on your path, shoving your jeans back into your semi-permanent duffle bag on what has become your side of the bed. “Maybe.” You shrug, cheeky in the extreme. “Maybe I like it. Maybe it reminds me of you.”

He watches you with an ineffable fondness in his eyes and the curve of his mouth. ”You threaded that needle very nicely today.”

“Oh, which one?” You ask, straightening. “The one where I didn’t call you old or the one where I didn’t say anything damning.”

He laughs and pats the comforter next to him. You lay out next to him, your feet hanging off the side. You mirror and face him, propping your chin on your hand. When he speaks, his eyes have dropped to your lips. “The second one.”

You hmm sagely in agreement, considering him with a mock-critical air. You lean in, close enough that your breath grazes his skin, and he meets you halfway—only for you to pull back at the last second, inviting him to chase you.

He follows, but you’ve set the trap too well. With no leverage left, he loses balance, catching himself with a quiet laugh before settling onto his elbow once more.

"Tease," he says, his smile lingering at the edges of his breath.

"Yours, though."

And just like that, he melts. The humor in his expression softens into something unbearably gentle. It’s a gift to see him like this—unguarded, full of quiet smiles, his feelings written plainly across his face. His gaze traces over you, drinking you in. It doesn’t take much, you’ve found, to find the little soft bits hiding under the armor.

You just have to love him out loud. Which, turns out, isn’t hard at all.

Slowly, his free hand finds your jaw, his thumb brushing over your cheek, his fingers warm where they nearly reach the back of your neck.

“What?” You ask, nearly soundless. 

He shakes his head, taking a breath before he speaks. “Non sequitur, maybe.”

“Shoot,” you prompt. He makes one more pass with his thumb, letting his hand fall back to the linen once more. 

“I was thinking about how the songs Something and Layla were both written about the same woman--“

“Patty Boyd,” you interject. 

He doesn’t hesitate. “Very good.” He grins at you, and you glow at the praise. “It is no surprise to me, knowing you, that one person inspired two of, in my opinion, the greatest love songs of all time.” The easy confidence with which he delivers this insight draws a deep breath from you, as if to make more space in your chest. 

That aside, you’re unwilling to fully process the extent of that compliment. “Too bad Clapton only liked the chase.” 

“His loss.” He shrugs with one shoulder. “Holding onto what you were chasing is the best part.” 

Your face heats, and you find yourself unable to look him in the eye. The duvet is suddenly the most interesting piece of fabric you’ve ever seen. He says it like he’s been holding onto you from the moment you let him. 

His knuckle taps the underside of your chin, coaxing your gaze back to him. You can feel his breath against your lips, the warmth of his palm ghosting over your skin.

"I love that you listen to my stupid music in the car."

"It’s not stupid," you say, barely above a whisper, your eyes half-lidded, distracted.

He’s waiting. Holding the moment between you, letting it breathe and take up space. Giving you the chance to close the distance first. But you don’t. Because you want him to chase you.

And he does. His hand slides to the back of your head, and then he pulls you in, closing the space with the kind of certainty that makes your breath catch.

+++

You laugh, nudging your toes against his shin. “Who were we trying to fool?”

He rolls his head on the pillow to face you, and even though you can’t see his expression clearly in the dark, you feel his smile.

“I have no idea,” he says. “Pretty sure everyone but us knew.”

You hum, grinning. “We knew. We just didn’t communicate. And we hid a lot from each other..”

Aaron chuckles. “You mean me trying to hide my morning semi every time you rolled into me?”

You choke on a laugh, turning your face into the pillow to muffle it.

He reaches over, finds your hand in the dark, threads your fingers together easily.

“What about you?” he asks, voice low, teasing. “You seemed awfully composed for someone sleeping next to a very available man.”

You snort. “Available, my ass.” You pause, squeezing his hand. “I had to manually override my attraction every night. I had a whole system.”

“Oh yeah?” he teases, his thumb stroking idly over the back of your hand.

You nod solemnly, even though he probably can’t see it. “Remind myself how comfortable you were with me. How safe you made me feel. How much I didn’t want to ruin it by jumping you in my pajamas.”

Aaron laughs quietly, squeezing your hand.

You turn your head to face him again, feeling the weight of the moment settle a little differently.

There’s a pause.

Then, quietly, “What would you have wanted me to do?” His voice is almost shy—almost.

You blink into the dark, your chest tightening a little at the question.

You could lie. Brush it off.

But it’s Aaron. And you don’t want to lie to him anymore. About anything.

You breathe out, slow. “I wanted you to reach for me,” you whisper. “Even just once.”

Another beat of silence.

“I would have met you halfway,” you add, softer still.

Aaron holds you close, your forehead tucked against his arm, your hand still laced in his.

The air between you is warm now, dense with things unsaid.

His thumb strokes lazily over your knuckles once, twice.

Then he says it—low, a little hoarse, like he’s not even sure he should be asking, “After you met me halfway…”

A pause. A breath.

“…what would you have wanted me to do?”

You lift your head, just enough to see the faint outline of his face in the dark.

He’s watching you.

Your heart thuds heavy in your chest.

You lean in closer, your voice barely a whisper against his skin:

“I would’ve wanted you to kiss me.”

Aaron’s breath catches.

“And touch me.”

You slide your hand up his chest—slow, exploratory—fingertips tracing the muscle, the warmth, the life under your touch.

“Here,” you murmur, your palm flattening over his heart.

Then lower—drifting down his stomach, your nails dragging lightly through the fine trail of hair below his navel.

“And here.”

Aaron makes a low, broken sound in his throat, tightening his hold on you.

You smile against his skin—small, secret.

“And I would’ve let you,” you add, bolder now.

You lift your head from his chest, find him looking at you—soft, open in that quiet way he only ever is with you.

You reach for him, fingers brushing lightly over his cheekbone, the bridge of his nose, the curve of his mouth.

And you whisper, because it feels like something sacred:

“I would’ve wanted you too.”

Aaron catches your hand, kisses your knuckles, your wrist, the inside of your palm.

“I know,” he says quietly.

You watch him for a long moment, feeling the weight of the years you waited for this—waited for him—press against your ribs.

“Its cheesy, maybe, but—“

“No,” you coax. “Say it.” 

“I wanted to make love to you,” Aaron says softly, threading his fingers through yours, cradling your hand against his chest. “Not just fuck you—though that absolutely has its merits—”

You laugh, a breathless, stunned sound, and he smiles against your skin.

“But for our first time,” he murmurs, voice deep and sure, “I would have wanted something slow. Something gentle. Something to savor.”

You swallow hard, heart kicking against your ribs.

“Show me,” you whisper.

Aaron’s hand tightens in yours—gentle but sure.

He shifts over you, the mattress dipping with his weight, his body so warm, so familiar now.

“I would’ve kissed you like this,” he says, voice a roughened thread of promise.

And then he does.

He kisses you slowly, reverently—lips soft but firm, coaxing your mouth open with his, savoring every tiny sound you make, every little hitch in your breath.

His hands roam your body like he’s memorizing you from scratch—smoothing over your hips, your waist, the curve of your ribs.

You sigh into his mouth, arching into him, desperate for more but willing to let him set the pace.

Aaron pulls back just enough to look at you—eyes dark, tender, hungry.

“I would’ve undressed you,” he murmurs, sliding the hem of your shirt up, kissing every inch of skin he reveals.

You whimper, threading your fingers into his hair, guiding him without urgency.

“And then,” he says, voice a little rougher now, “I would’ve taken my time making you come.”

Your breath catches, hips tipping up into him automatically.

Aaron smiles against your belly, teeth scraping lightly at your skin.

“I would’ve touched you here,” he whispers, slipping his hand between your thighs, cupping you over your underwear—warm, steady, sure.

Your voice breaks over his name, half-laughing, half-crying from the tenderness of it.

“And here,” he adds, sliding one hand up to cradle your breast, thumb brushing lightly over your nipple.

“You’re killing me,” you gasp.

He chuckles low in his throat. 

“Not yet,” he promises. “I would have taken my time getting to know you, this way. And I would have enjoyed every second. Just like I have so loved getting to know you every other way.”

He slides your underwear off and you kick them off, knowing you’ll find them later. 

He kisses his way back up your body—your belly, your ribs, your throat—and when he finally lines himself up, pressing the blunt head of his cock against your entrance, he pauses.

“And then I would have asked.”

One hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek.

“You sure?” he murmurs, even though he knows the answer.

You nod, voice shaking with how much you want him, “Yes. Please.”

Aaron pushes into you slow—so slow—filling you inch by inch until you’re gasping, clinging to his shoulders, completely wrung out by how good it feels.

How right it feels.

He groans against your mouth, turning his head to press his cheek to yours. 

“You feel like home,” he whispers, voice breaking.

He moves slowly inside you—every thrust deep, careful, intimate. You breathe him in, your lips pressing to his cheek, his temple, the corner of his mouth. Your hands trace his shoulders, come to rest on either side of his face, holding him to you. 

His hand glides up your thigh, hiking your leg higher around his waist, opening you for him even more. 

He’s so deep it almost aches—but in the best way.

His forehead presses to yours again, breath ragged, but his voice steady.

“I would have found all the places to kiss you,” he murmurs against your mouth, “that make you make all these beautiful noises.”

He drags his mouth down your throat, finding the sensitive skin just below your jaw and kissing you there—slow and hot.

You whimper.

“Like that one,” he says, smiling against your skin.

He rolls his hips deeper, grinding just right, and you let out a soft, broken moan before you can stop it.

“And I would have found these places,” he whispers, voice tight, “the ones that make you fall apart for me.”

Your nails dig into his back, clinging to him.

He thrusts deep again, perfectly angled, and you gasp—high, desperate.

“Fuck,” you manage, trembling.

“Yeah,” he breathes against your cheek, rolling into you again. “Just like that.”

He stills—buried all the way inside you—and you pull in air like your lungs forgot how to work, the feeling so overwhelming you don’t know how to breathe through it.

Aaron kisses your temple, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth.

“I would have filed that away,” he says softly, almost smiling through the strain.

“Because—”

He pulls back just enough to look at you properly, his eyes dark and so full of love you could drown in them.

“—I always want you to feel this good.”

Your breath hitches, and a soft, wordless sound falls from your lips, wrecked and open.

Aaron’s hand strokes down your side.

“I would have asked about that, too,” he murmurs. He rolls into you. “Feel good?” 

You nod frantically, unable to find words at first—only gasps, broken sounds.

“Yes,” you finally whimper, voice cracking with how much you mean it.

Aaron’s face softens—almost a grimace, almost a smile—like he can’t quite contain it, like your pleasure is the best thing he’s ever been given.

He rocks into you again, slow and devastating.

“Good,” he whispers against your skin. “You deserve it.”

Aaron kisses you again—soft, deliberate—his hand still firm on your thigh, keeping you open for him.

He pulls back just enough to whisper against your mouth, “I would’ve taken my time with you.”

You make a broken sound, half plea, half surrender.

He smiles against your skin, a little strained now from the effort of holding back.

“I would’ve told you,” he murmurs, “how long I wanted you. How long I waited. How much it fucking killed me every time you fell asleep next to me and I couldn’t touch you.”

You gasp, clutching at him, feeling every word like a blow against your ribs.

“I would’ve told you,” he says again, his hips grinding down in a rhythm so devastatingly deep and slow it has you seeing stars, “that I didn’t just want your body. I wanted you.”

You sob, hips jerking up into his without rhythm, desperate to keep him, to feel more.

Aaron braces himself on one elbow, his hand sliding up to cup your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheekbone like you might slip away otherwise.

“I would’ve made you come slow,” he says, voice breaking slightly, “over and over until you believed me. Until I was certain you knew how much I loved you.”

You whimper, clutching at him, your body trembling from the slow burn building too high, too fast.

He thrusts deeper, grinding down just right, and you cry out—wrecked and clinging to him.

“And then,” Aaron breathes, his voice so low it’s almost a growl, “I would have asked you…”

Another slow, devastating roll of his hips.

“Where you wanted me to come.”

You exhale against his throat, nails scraping down his back.

He stills for a second—buried so deep inside you—and pulls back just far enough to look at you.

His breath is short, wrecked. His body trembling with restraint.

“And you would have said—”

He breaks off, waiting, holding you wide open on the edge.

Waiting for you to finish it.

You can barely breathe. Barely think.

But you know the answer.

You always knew the answer.

You press your forehead to his, voice breaking into a whimper:

“Inside. I would have said inside.”

Aaron’s whole body shudders.

He groans, low and wrecked, kissing you hard, hips grinding into you again, desperate now, pushed right to the edge.

“Together, baby,” he rasps against your mouth. 

And when you come apart under him, sobbing his name, clenching around him so tight it feels like you’re pulling him into your soul—

Aaron follows you right over the edge, burying himself deep as he spills inside you, gasping your name like a prayer.

He presses his forehead to yours, still inside you, still tangled in every part of you, murmuring against your lips.

“I love you. I love you. I love you.”

You kiss him back, breathless and broken and perfect.

“I love you,” you whisper.

+++

You hum. You don’t mind being woken like this. His hand glides slowly across your stomach, tugging you closer until your back fits against his chest, until his mouth can brush the edge of your jaw. He smells like heat and sleep and skin. His chest rises and falls behind you, warm and steady.

You shift your hips—just a little. Just enough to feel him hard against you. His breath stutters.

“Oh,” you say, teasing. “Is it your birthday or something?”

He groans softly. “That’s not why—”

You turn in his arms, slow and easy, and kiss him before he can argue. You let your hand trail up his side, over the familiar curve of his shoulder. He presses his forehead to yours.

“You don’t have to—”

“Stop talking,” you murmur. “I want to.”

You press two fingers to his shoulder and he turns, rolling onto his back, and kiss down his chest, over the line of old scars, reverent in your touch. You take your time. 

When you finally settle between his knees and reach for him, he tries to help, reflexively, but you swat his hands away with a firm, “Absolutely not.” His boxer briefs are easy work. 

Your eyes glint with challenge. “Hands to yourself. Birthday rule.”

He groans, dropping his head back to the pillow, but he listens.

You hum in satisfaction and begin slowly, your lips and tongue dragging up the base of his cock with slow, warm purpose. One hand cradles his balls, rolling them gently, while the other spreads across his hip, thumb tracing circles just beside his lowest scar.

When you finally take him into your mouth, you don’t rush. You let him feel the heat of your mouth, the plush drag of your lips, the tongue pressed to every sensitive place you know by heart. You go slow, deliberate. He twitches under your touch.

When you glance up, he’s watching you like he can’t believe it.

You smile around him, and then sink deeper. You choke—just a little—and pull off to catch your breath, spit slick and shining on your chin. Then you go back in, adjusting your angle until your nose presses to his stomach. The stretch is obscene. 

He’s panting now, his hands gripping the sheets, fingers curling into the fabric as if it’s the only thing grounding him.

You pull back with a gasp, hand stroking him in time with your breath. You lick your lips, smile wickedly, and whisper, “You’re not allowed to help, but you’re allowed to come.”

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, voice strangled.

You press your lips to his tip, then take him again—deep and slow, tongue pressed flat, letting gravity help. He groans when your throat tightens around him. He’s already so close, and you know it. You moan softly, letting him feel it.

He breathes your name like a prayer.

“Come back up here,” he says after a while, voice raw. “Please.”

You crawl up his body and straddle his hips, forehead to his. His hands—finally allowed—grip your waist, grounding himself.

“I want to feel you,” you whisper. “I want to make you feel good.”

“You do,” he says. “You always do.”

When you sink onto him, he swears. Low and guttural. The stretch is divine, the fullness exquisite.

You release a shuddering breath as your ass meets his thighs, as deep as he can go without moving.

“Aaron,” you breathe, pulsing around him. “You feel so fucking good.”

His hands grip your hips tight, and to his credit, he doesn’t move—doesn’t help—even though it clearly kills him.

You ride him slow, controlled. His hands roam your body like he’s trying to memorize it all over again. Your rhythm is steady, the pace unhurried.

His head tips back, throat exposed, eyes fluttering shut as your hips roll in a slow, devastating rhythm. His hands trace your thighs, your waist, your face, as if he’s trying to commit every curve to memory. You rock together like you were built to.

When you lean down to kiss him, his hands cradle your face like he might fall apart with it.

“Happy birthday,” you whisper. “Time for your other present.”

He blinks. “What’s that?”

You smile, eyes dark and steady. “Take what you want.”

And he does.

He pulls you close, still connected, and shifts, caging you under him. 

You kiss him again, soft and reverent, before shifting your knees higher, drawing them up beside his ribs. He holds you close, pressing a kiss to your cheek. 

The first thrust is deep—maybe a little too deep—and he pauses when you make a noise, one hand moving to your face. “Okay?”

You nod, eyes fluttering. “Don’t stop.”

He thrusts again, deeper still, and you feel it spark up your spine like fire licking at the base of your skull. You tighten around him, pulse pounding, fingers clawing at his shoulders.

“Fuck, baby,” he murmurs. 

“I need you to come inside me,” you whisper. “Please. I need it. I want to feel it.”

He groans like you’ve knocked the wind from him. “Jesus. Okay.”

But he gives it to you—every inch, every thrust, every broken, whispered vow—until the world falls away and all that’s left is you, shaking and splintered in his arms, coming so hard it draws his orgasm right out of him.

And when you collapse, boneless, breathless, he holds you close, whispering your name like it’s sacred, telling you how much he loves you. 

When you’re curled up together, breath slowing, his lips brush your shoulder.

“What did I do to deserve you?” he asks softly.

You smile against his chest. “You made it to forty-three.”

+++

It’s just after four in the morning when you stir again. There’s a weight pressed along your back—familiar, steady. A kiss lands at your shoulder.

Aaron shifts behind you, murmuring, “It’s still my birthday.”

You laugh quietly, already half-aware of what he wants. “That excuse only works once.”

He kisses your spine again. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

“You’d better.”

And he does.

You open your legs without protest, still drowsy, letting him ease you onto your back. He kisses your stomach, the inside of your thigh, working his way down with unhurried reverence.

“You’re insatiable,” you murmur, your eyes closed.

He smiles against your skin. “And you love it.”

Then his mouth is on you.

Slow at first. Luxurious. Like he’s savoring dessert after the best meal of his life. His hands hold your thighs open as he licks you open, firm and steady, tongue dragging up and over your clit in languid strokes. He groans when you twitch, when you moan, like he can feel your pleasure in his own chest.

“You’re so pretty like this,” he murmurs, breath warm. “Waking up in my bed, coming on my mouth.”

Your fingers curl in his hair as he sucks your clit, breathing softly against you. It starts slow, but builds fast—his tongue working you with aching precision, fingers sliding inside, curling just right. You whimper, thighs trembling, breath catching.

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t let up.

He holds you steady while you come, messy and unrestrained, gasping his name into the pillow as your body arches off the mattress.

Only then does he crawl up your body, kissing your stomach, your ribs, your breastbone.

You straighten him out before he can say a word, guiding him onto his knees as you rise. 

“No more birthday excuses,” you whisper. “This one’s for me.”

You turn away from him, planting your knees on the bed, hands gripping the headboard.

You look back over your shoulder. “Hold on.”

He groans when you guide him inside you again—slow, sweet, the stretch a familiar ache.

And then you move.

You rock back on him, slow and steady, your body doing the work, his hands holding tight to your hips. You fuck yourself on him, taking exactly what you need. 

His hand anchors at your hip, fingers digging in as you push back onto him, your rhythm desperate, needy. He watches the way you take him—messy, greedy, slick with both of you. The headboard creaks as you use it for stability and leverage. If he had any blood left in his brain, he’d be a little concerned. 

“Fuck,” he groans, voice shredded. “You’re—God—so fucking wet.”

You whimper, breath catching as he thrusts up into you, meeting you in the middle. 

“You like using me like this?” he says, his voice low. “Hm?”

You gasp, your reply lost in a cry as he buries himself deeper, grinding into you.

“So pretty,” he mutters, hand sliding down to where you’re stretched around him. “Gripping me so fucking tight, baby—like you never wanna let me go.”

Your whole body tightens at the sound of it, your orgasm crashing hard through you—legs shaking, breath caught, vision white-hot.

“Fuck, that’s it, sweetheart—just like that.” He hisses between his teeth. 

“Yes—yes, Aaron—please, I need—”

That’s all it takes.

He growls your name, pace snapping as he presses as deep as he can go, spilling into you with a long, shuddering breath. His hands don’t leave you—one still at your hip, the other at your good shoulder. 

When you both finally still, chests heaving, your eyes meet again in the mirror off to the side. Your chest is still against the mattress, your knees spread and hips low. 

You smile.

He grins back—a rare one.

“Best fucking view I’ve ever had.”

He softens inside you slowly, his breath still a little unsteady against your neck as he lowers you both to a position more comfortable, pulling you back into his chest. Neither of you speaks right away. There’s just the sound of your breathing, the quiet hush of the early morning light filtering in through the sheer curtains, and the occasional creak of the cooling bedframe above you.

Aaron’s arms wrap around you, protective and loose. One hand traces idle patterns over your stomach, then slides down to your thigh. He presses a kiss to your shoulder. Then another. Slower.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

You nod, cheek pressing against his bicep. “Better than okay.”

He exhales through his nose, a soft, amused huff. “Good.”

There’s a long stretch of silence. You can feel how warm his skin is against yours, how safe he makes you feel even now, in the aftermath of something so intense. He smells like sex and sweat and skin, but beneath that—just him. That scent you know by heart. Clean and warm and home.

You twist a little, just enough to look at him over your shoulder. He meets your gaze, soft-eyed and pink-cheeked, and you press a kiss to his jaw, then his temple.

“We should shower,” you say, eventually. A gentle tease.

He groans quietly, nuzzling into your hair. “Five more minutes.”

“You’re already getting sticky. And it’s almost five anyway. We’d be up in an hour or so anyway.”

“I’ll take the stickiness if it means I get to keep you like this for a little longer.”

You smile into his arm and let your eyes drift shut again. Let yourself breathe in the calm. The steadiness. The reality of him still wrapped around you, even now.

+++

The water’s already running by the time you wander into the bathroom, warm steam curling at the edges of the mirror. Aaron’s at the sink, toothbrush in hand, hair still a little wild from where your fingers tugged it last. He glances up at your reflection as you come up behind him, pressing your chest to his back and wrapping your arms around his waist.

You murmur into his skin, “You’re gonna pretend we didn’t almost break the bed as y0u stand here and waste water?”

He smirks, toothbrush still in his mouth. “I’m choosing to focus on how impressively well it held up, actually.”

You snort and nudge your nose into the curve of his shoulder. “You gonna write a review?”

He spits into the sink, rinses, then leans forward to meet your eyes in the mirror. “Five stars. Would absolutely recommend.”

You give his waist a playful squeeze and press a kiss to his spine before stepping past him into the shower.

The heat is immediate—welcoming, soft. You tilt your head back under the stream, eyes closed, letting the water soak your head, your shoulders, your already buzzing skin. When you blink them open again, Aaron’s there—pulling the door closed behind him, stepping in close like he can’t stand the idea of being more than a breath away.

“Is it too hot for you?” You ask.

He shakes his head. “Enjoy your scalding water. I’ll stay over here until my turn.”

You’re both warm from the water, but it’s his hands on your hips that make you flush.

He kisses your shoulder, your neck, the spot just behind your ear. “You’re glowing.”

You laugh under your breath. “That’s condensation.”

He hums. “Nope. That’s all you.”

You reach for the body wash, and he takes it from you before you can uncap it. “Let me.”

You raise an eyebrow, teasing. “So now you’re helping?”

His eyes twinkle as he lathers his hands. “Birthday exception.”

His hands are soapy and slow and far too thorough, sliding over your arms, your back, your stomach, then lower. You swat his hands away when they wander. “It’s a delicate ecosystem. Not happening.”

He smiles like he’s not even pretending to be innocent. “Didn’t say it was.”

But his hands linger just a little longer than they need to.

He steps back as you finish your routine. Every so often, he reaches out—brushes your hip with his knuckles, steals a kiss between rinses.

Eventually, you switch places, and it’s your turn to wash him—fingers dragging through his hair, down his chest, over each scar with careful reverence. You kiss one, then another, and he exhales through his nose, steady and fond.

“I could stay in here all day,” he murmurs as you reach for the conditioner.

“Your skin would prune.”

“I don’t prune,” he replies in a deadpan. 

You laugh and slide your arms around his neck, conditioner forgotten. “I think you’re drunk on orgasms. You’ve had like twelve.”

“I think I’m in love with you.”

That slows you, just a beat. But not because it’s new. Because it still feels like something you never get tired of hearing.

You kiss him slow, water falling around you both, warm and easy and whole.

Then, when your fingers skate too low again and he groans into your mouth, you smirk, pulling back. “Okay, now we’re getting out. You’ve had enough birthday privileges for the morning.”

He chases your lips for one more kiss. “Speak for yourself.”

+++

Around 6:45, the kitchen smells like coffee and toast and the faintest trace of lavender soap. You’re barefoot in one of his old, stretched out FBI waffle knit shirts, sleeves pushed up as you hover over the pan, spatula in hand. Aaron’s at the counter, pouring two mugs of coffee, eyes following your every move like you’re a miracle on legs.

“You gonna stand there looking like that all day?” you tease over your shoulder.

He leans on the island, sipping slowly. “Just trying to commit this to memory.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Science?”

“Visual recall. Helps in high-pressure situations.”

You laugh, shaking your head as you slide scrambled eggs onto two plates. “Sure. This’ll really help you the next time someone pulls a gun on you.”

“Absolutely. ‘Hold on, sir, I just need to picture my girlfriend in my t-shirt making eggs—okay, I’m centered.’”

“Girlfriend?” you echo, grinning as you set his plate down in front of him. “Since when did I agree to that?”

He smiles into his mug, but you can see real fear as he worries he overstepped. “What would you prefer? Partner? Companion? Love of my life?”

You press a kiss to the crown of his head as you walk by. “I’m partial to problem you can’t live without, but sure. Love of your life works.”

He actually chokes on his coffee a little.

You take a bite of toast, completely innocent. “Eat your breakfast, birthday boy.”

But Aaron is watching you again, eyes tracking the slow movement of your mouth, the curve of your thigh as you shift your weight.

“I thought you said I wasn’t allowed to start anything. This isn’t fair.”

You shrug, unbothered. “I’m just eating toast.”

He sets his mug down. “You’re doing it very provocatively.”

You lick a crumb from your lip, gaze locked with his. “Again. Toast.”

Aaron clears his throat, clearly fighting a smirk. “You’re gonna get us in trouble.”

“You are dangerously suggestible after sex and caffeine,” you counter. “Not my fault you can’t stop picturing me naked on the counter.”

He looks at said counter. Then at you. Then back again.

You follow his line of sight and shake your head with a quiet laugh. “No. Aaron. You’re forty-three now. You will throw out your back.”

“Not if you bend over,” he mutters, completely betrayed by his own mouth.

You’re already backing toward the sink with your plate. “If we don’t eat, we’ll die.”

“If I’m not inside you in the next five minutes, I’ll die.”

You blink slowly. “That’s dramatic. And also—fine, but after eggs. Protein.”

He watches you sit beside him, legs brushing under the table, and hums in surrender.

“For the record,” he says, biting into toast, “you’re a very dangerous creature.”

You smile sweetly. “I know.”

+++

You don’t even make it through half the eggs.

One moment, you’re laughing into your mug, barefoot and loose-limbed at the edge of the counter—and the next, Aaron’s behind you, hands warm on your hips, mouth against your neck like he’s been holding back for a full calendar year.

“You didn’t finish your breakfast,” you murmur, your voice already a little breathless.

His nose brushes behind your ear. “I found something better.”

Your hands slide across the counter for balance, spine arching into him as he palms your hips and crowds your space. You’re still in his shirt, loose and tempting, and it’s the only thing between you. The hem rides up as he nudges your thighs apart with his knee.

“Right here?” you ask.

Aaron’s voice is low, wrecked. “Right here.”

He lifts the back of your shirt and moves your underwear to the side. His fingers trace over your hips, dipping to test how ready you are for him. When he finds you soaked, his breath catches.

“Jesus,” he mutters, pressing his fingers inside you slowly. “You’ve been wet this whole time?”

You nod, head dropping forward. “Since you kissed my neck in the bathroom. Maybe before.”

His free hand splays across your lower back, anchoring you, and when he curls his fingers just right, you gasp.

He exhales like it hurts. 

You tilt your hips back. “I thought I was your birthday present.”

His laugh is quiet, tight. “Best one I’ve ever gotten.”

He pulls his fingers from you and presses the tip of his cock to your entrance, pushing just enough to make you squirm. He groans softly as you open around him, slow and slick, taking him ease.

He grips your hips, pulls you flush, and the moan you let out when he bottoms out echoes softly off the kitchen walls.

“Fuck,” he says, and the sound of it, the restraint in his voice, makes your knees wobble.

The first thrust is slow. The second deeper. He pulls you back into every one, letting the rhythm build, letting you feel every stretch, every grind of hips to ass. His hand finds your clit, stroking lazy circles with the same control you’re rapidly losing. He's sensitive to your plight, knowing you’re wrought out and sore. The pressure is gentle, almost teasing. 

“Aaron—” you gasp, voice trembling. “Oh my god—”

He leans forward, chest brushing your back, mouth against your ear. “Let me feel you come, sweetheart. Right here, like this. Let me have it.”

“I literally don’t think I can.” You laugh through it, unable to catch your breath.

His hand slides up your back, his fingers wrapping around the back of your neck. “You can.”

It takes you off guard. You shatter in his hands.

He groans at the feeling of you clenching around him, your whole body rocking as he holds you through it, fucking you through the waves until his own orgasm breaks loose with a curse muffled into your shoulder. He thrusts deep one last time and stills, shaking, fingers digging into your hips like a man drowning.

You’re both panting when he finally pulls out, and you reach for a paper towel with a half-laugh, half-gasp. You manage to catch at least some cum as it drips. The rest will have to be swiffered at some point, you suppose. 

“Guess we’re microwaving the eggs,” you say.

Aaron presses a kiss to your shoulder, utterly debauched. “I’ll never look at this counter the same way again.”

+++

You’re both sprawled on the sofa, skin warm and flushed, still in the half-dressed aftermath of breakfast-turned-counter sex. The TV’s on, low and aimless, playing something neither of you are really watching. You’ll have to leave for work soon, but it is nice to wake up early enough to pretend you have a life. 

“I’ve never been fucked this many times on my birthday,” he admits. “It’s kind of nice.”

You glance at him, smug and glowing. “Guess you’ll have to raise your expectations.”

He smiles, dazed. “They’ve never been higher.”

You snuggle into him as he puts his feet up. His hand is on your back, slow and steady. He traces idle shapes along your spine. You lie half on top of him, cheek against his sternum. For a moment, neither of you speak.

Then, softly, “Was this your best birthday?”

He hums. “That’s a dangerous question.”

You smile, holding yourself up with a hand on his chest. “Why?”

“Again. I’ve never been fucked stupid before eight in the morning.”

You laugh into his chest, your whole body warm and soft. “So… top five?”

He laughs, low and gravelly. “Top one.”

You shift enough to glance up at him. “Be serious.”

“I am.” His hand slides up your back, curling gently at the nape of your neck. “Though… there was one when I was twelve. My dad took me to a football game in DC.”

You smile. “That’s sweet.”

“Mmm. He had his moments.” He presses a kiss to your temple. “This still wins.”

The two of you settle deeper into the couch, your bodies a warm, satisfied tangle of limbs and shared air. You listen to his heartbeat. He traces another lazy circle between your shoulder blades.

After a long moment, he says, “I didn’t know it could be like this.”

You lift your head slightly. “What?”

“This,” he murmurs. “You. Us. All of it.”

You nuzzle into him again, voice quiet. “Yeah. Me either.”

And that’s it. No need to say more.

+++

“Oh my god,” you say, squinting at yourself. “I look like I lost a fight.”

The two of you finally get it together, making the final preparations for work. You‘ve paused on the way to button your slacks, noting the shadowing of your skin where Aaron held your hips. 

Not to mention the war zone that’s your neck and chest. A turtleneck will have to do today. 

Thank God it’s November.

Aaron leans out of the bathroom doorway, studying you with a kind of amused reverence.

“You look incredible.”

You narrow your eyes at him, but there’s no heat in it. “I look like I’m going to need a scarf. And possibly a cape.”

He smirks. “Good thing it’s November.”

You toss a wadded pair of socks at his head.

+++

The BAU bullpen is quiet for once—between cases, between briefings, between any real need for anyone to be here past five. But Aaron’s still at his desk, flipping through an after-action report.

Dave doesn’t knock. Just leans one elbow on the doorframe and sips from the travel mug he never seems to refill. “So,” he says. “Big plans?”

Aaron doesn’t look up. “For?”

Dave tilts his head. “Don’t insult me.”

Aaron sighs. “Dinner.”

“Need wine recommendations?”

Aaron doesn’t look up. “No, but thank you.”

“You sure?”

He does look up then. “It’s handled,” he says.

Not by me, he doesn’t say. 

Dave raises both hands. “Fair enough.”

+++

Emily’s more direct. She corners him in the elevator around 4:30, pressing the button for the parking garage with a pointed look.

“You’re leaving on time. Either the world is ending or someone has plans.”

Aaron’s mouth lifts at one corner. “Maybe both.”

“Dinner?” She asks. 

“Dinner.”

“With?”

He raises a brow. “Someone I like.”

Emily snorts. “I’ll pretend I don’t know exactly who that is.”

“You don’t,” he says, and the corner of his mouth lifts. “You only suspect.”

Emily tilts her head, grinning. “You deserve to be spoiled.” She pauses. “Happy birthday, Hotch.”

+++

You’re still fixing your eyeliner in the bathroom mirror when you hear the front door unlock. You snuck out a little early with Spencer, your inbox nearly empty and your desk clear. 

“Hey,” you call.

“Hey,” he calls back, his voice lower, softer—already taking off his work costume, in more ways than one. You hear him set his keys down, take off his shoes, walk into the bedroom, slide the closet door open and closed again. The quiet rhythm of domesticity.

A minute later, he appears in the doorway behind you.

He’s changed into the shirt you picked out—slate blue, crisp collar, cuffs rolled twice to the fullest part of his forearm. You haven’t gotten to the tie yet, but it’s already draped around his neck.

You smile at him in the mirror. “Happy birthday.”

And it has been a happy birthday indeed. Following your spirited morning, Garcia brought him a cupcake. 

His reflection softens. “Thank you.”

He leans into your space, hands finding your waist, and presses a kiss to the back of your shoulder. You let your eyes flutter closed for a second. His thumb traces the fabric of your dress.

“You look beautiful.”

You look at him in the mirror, lips tugging into a grin. “I haven’t even put on shoes.”

“I don’t think shoes are going to affect the outcome.” His lips wander down your shoulder, his eyes still on yours in the mirror. 

You laugh quietly and turn to face him, looping the tie over his collar. “We have a reservation in thirty minutes.”

“I know.” He straightens and lets you work in silence, watching you with open affection. “I still want to enjoy this part.”

“The getting-ready part?”

“The standing-close-to-you part.”

“You think you’re slick, huh?” Your eyes flicker to his and he tips forward. You make a little noise and gesture to your lips. “It’s not transfer-proof. And it’s sticky.”

“How do you feel about reapplying?” He asks. His eyes track between your eyes and your mouth. 

“Thirty minutes,” you remind him. “And I was trying to spare you.”

He shakes his head a little, taking your face in his hands. “You could wear paint thinner and I’d still want to kiss you.” 

You hum, your hands rising to his wrists as he closes the distance, pressing a light, barely-there kiss to your lips. It’s the practiced action of a man who was married to an avid lip-gloss wearer for much of his life. 

With a scoff, you tell him, “You can’t threaten reapplication and then kiss me like someone who cares about the integrity of my makeup.”

He tips back, considering you for a moment. “Alright.”

He leans in like he’s done it a hundred times—but there’s something different this time. Slower. Weightier. Like he’s savoring it.

His mouth moves with devastating precision, barely parting yours, just enough to draw a breath from your lungs that you didn’t know you were holding. His hand curves around your jaw. His thumb grazes your cheek. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t push. Just lets the moment stretch out, unrushed and infinite.

When he finally pulls back, you’re blinking up at him, a little dizzy, a little dazed. 

You clear your throat. “Much better.”

It comes out thin. He smiles.

His tongue sneaks out as you return to his tie. “What is that, cherry?”

+++

You stop just outside the restaurant, tugging lightly at his hand.

Aaron turns, brows lifting slightly in question—but whatever he was about to say disappears the second you reach out and kiss him. You’ve learned your lesson—the only thing left on your mouth is a soft lip stain. 

You curl your fingers in the lapel of his jacket and press your mouth to his like you’ve been waiting all day. 

(You have.)

He kisses you back immediately, like his whole body already knew what to do.

(It did.)

When you finally pull back, his hand is still at your waist, and he’s looking at you like you just gave him the world.

You lean in, close enough for your lips to almost brush his again.

“If you try to pay for your own birthday dinner,” you murmur, “I will break your kneecaps.”

His breath catches. A beat.

“You’re stunning when you threaten me, you know.”

You smirk. “I’m serious.”

“I know.”

+++

You take a sip of your wine, settling deeper into the booth. The lighting’s low, the food’s impeccable, and Aaron looks good—tie loosened just a little, watch catching the low light. He’s watching you like he always does, quiet and focused, giving you every bit of his attention.

You smile at him over the rim of your glass. “Okay,” you say, voice low, “tonight there’s a rule.”

He tilts his head, curious. “A rule?”

You nod. “No kid talk, no work, no serial killers.”

His mouth twitches. “Tough sell for two profilers.”

“Maybe.” You give him a look. “But it’s your birthday. Let’s pretend we’re boring civilians for one night. Just two people, out on a date, ordering fancy steak and pretending we didn't work last Saturday ”

He laughs softly, eyes warm. “Alright. Just two people, then.”

A comfortable quiet settles between you. You let it last until the second course arrives—something decadent and shareable—and then he glances at you with that thoughtful, patient sort of look that usually precedes something meaningful.

“You know,” he says, voice quiet but steady, “I’ve said this before, but last year… I didn’t think we’d get here.”

You meet his eyes.

“Not because I didn’t want to,” he clarifies. “Because I didn’t think I deserved it. You. Any of it.”

You let that settle. It’s true—this isn’t the first time he’s said something like that, but he means it differently now. 

“Last year,” he continues, “I was still clawing my way out of everything. Haley. Foyet. The job. You and I were circling each other so carefully.”

You smile faintly. “We were very professional.”

His brows lift. “Painfully.”

“Terrified,” you add.

“Both of us.”

You nod, looking down at your fork, then back up at him. “It’s better now.”

“It is,” he agrees, softly. “Because of you.”

Your hand finds his under the table, squeezing gently. And then—

“How are you?” he asks.

You pause.

“I mean really,” he says. “Not work, not logistics. Me. How am I doing with… everything?”

You know what he means. Trust. Rebuilding. All the cracks and silences from the past year, still healing.

You take a breath.

“You’re doing well,” you say honestly. “There’s still stuff that will just take time. Still moments where I get mad all over again, or remember something I haven’t let myself think about in months.”

He nods, already bracing.

“But.” You squeeze his hand again. “You show up. Every day. You listen. You don’t flinch when I’m upset. You let me be honest without getting defensive. That matters.”

His jaw shifts, emotion surfacing and settling again. “I want to earn it back. All of it.”

“I know.” Your voice softens. “And I can feel that.”

The silence between you is heavy, but not uncomfortable. It hums with sincerity, with work being done even here, even in the middle of a birthday dinner.

You lean in. “So tonight,” you say, “Just me. Just you. Just this.”

He lifts your hand to his mouth, kissing your knuckles gently. “Thank you.”

“You earned it,” you say.

And you mean it.

+++

You step into the apartment, laughing under your breath about the older couple who eavesdropped shamelessly on your dessert conversation that was definitely a little edgy for public consumption. 

Aaron flips on the lamp in the living room and you watch the warm glow catch on his jaw, the soft, aging lines of his smile. He’s relaxed in a way you wish you could bottle.

You toe off your heels by the couch and dig gently in your bag. “I have something for you.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Another thing?”

You shrug. “Couple things. Small.”

You hand him the first, wrapped in thin, matte paper.

He opens it carefully, and when he sees it—just a slip of brown leather, stiff with craftsmanship—he stills. A bookmark. 

The letters are uneven. “I love you, Dad,” stamped into the leather on one side, “Happy Birthday!” in the same uneven hand on the other. 

You watch him read it once, then again.

“Jack wrote it,” you say, voice soft. “I had it pressed. You don’t have to use it—but I thought maybe…”

“I’ll use it every day.” His voice is quiet. Weighted. “Thank you.”

You pass him the second, tucked in a flat box.

It’s a photo. Framed in simple silver. From Christmas last year—before the couch, before anything changed. Penelope snapped it while the team exchanged gifts. Jack’s in your lap on the floor, all teeth, and you’re smiling up at Aaron. He’s in the background, sitting on the couch, out of focus, his face turned slightly toward you.

You don’t say anything. You don’t have to.

He looks at it for a long time before speaking.

“I remember this,” he says, voice low. He puts the photo down, wraps both arms around you, and breathes you in.

You ruck his dress shirt out of his pants and slide your hands under his shirt, over his back, and rest there.

“Good day?”

You can feel him nod. His voice resonates in his chest, humming against your ear. “Yeah. Good day. Great day.”

“I’d really like to do you—again—for your birthday,” you murmur into his collarbone.

He chuckles against your cheek, delighted and maybe a little hopeful. “Yeah?”

You lean back to look at him. “But the best gift I could give you is eight-to-nine hours of sleep.”

Aaron groans. “That’s cruel.”

You grin. “It’s responsible. We’ve gotta save something for next year.”

He presses a kiss to your forehead. “Even when you’re responsible, I’m in love with you.”

You grab his hand, twine your fingers through his, and head toward the bedroom. “Good. Because I’m still in love with you, too.”

+++

You wait. She lets the silence marinate for a moment.

“Dad was never more pleased than when Haley moved out,” Jess says finally. “Swear to God, I think he opened a bottle of wine.”

You blink. “Seriously?”

“Oh yeah. He made it weird, actually. Haley was actually kind of offended by how fast he took her side. I think he said ‘That’s great, Princess. I’m proud of you.” She shakes her head, a little rueful, a little mournful. “Haley was always his little princess.”

You lean back against the sink, facing her. “Aaron’s never said much.”

“He wouldn’t.” Jess shifts her weight, jaw tight. “But it’s always been bad. There was a question of whether he’d come to the wedding. Skipped Jack’s baptism. The closest he ever got to a compliment was saying Aaron’s suits looked expensive and he probably worked hard for the money to buy them, which is kind of backhanded, and he didn’t even say that to his face.”

“Jesus,” you mutter.

“Aaron was a problem teenager, by all accounts,” Jess admits. “Little too smart, little too angry, little too rough around the edges. You know the type.”

You raise your eyebrows.

She smirks. “Oh, please. You know exactly the type and you can definitely imagine it.”

You smile despite yourself.

You can, in fact, imagine it. Aaron, developing that patented scowl, double lines between his brows, shaggy hair, downturned mouth. Scruffy, scruffy, scruffy. A far cry from your buttoned up lover writing FY12 budget notes in his office.  

Jess shrugs. “I didn’t always get Aaron or agree with him, but he tried. He showed up. He did the work. He was good to my baby sister, even when they didn’t see eye-to-eye.” She throws up her hands. “I mean, they were good together for like 20 years. He’s practically a brother to me. And still, nothing was ever good enough for my dad.”

She sets the dish towel down, then adds, “I guess it shouldn’t have surprised me when Haley started seeing Joseph, and Dad was thrilled.”

Your brow furrows.

“I mean,” she continues, voice lowering, “it was pretty obvious it started before they split. But Dad didn’t care. If anything, he looked relieved. Like that made it easier to cast Aaron as the villain—like it gave him permission to stop pretending he’d ever wanted it to work or that there were two sides to the divorce.”

You stare at her for a second. “Does he still feel that way?”

Jess laughs, dry. “It got worse. He couldn’t wrap his head around witness protection. Hated that no one could call her, was absolutely incensed that Haley’s call to Mom had to reset her protection and anonymity. He thought, and I still don’t know if it was a joke, that the Bureau was lying to him, like Aaron personally ordered her disappearance. Even implied some things that didn’t age so well after—well.” Her mouth twists. You cringe.

Jesus.

Roy Brooks, in all his sanctimonious grief and confusion, even suggested witness protection was a cover story—that Aaron had somehow orchestrated his own ex-wife’s murder and hidden it under federal authority…

Aaron’s been shouldering that kind of venom in silence. That’s suddenly a thousand times more infuriating.

You swallow the heat crawling up your throat.

If Aaron ever said one unkind thing about that man, you’d understand it now.

But he hadn’t. 

“Didn’t send a card while Aaron was recovering, just kept asking when Haley was coming home. Like it was an extended business trip she could control.”

You blink. “He really hated him that much?”

Jess picks up her wine again. “He needed to. Otherwise, he’d have to admit Haley made her own choices—and that some of them were wrong. Dad likes his villains clean. And Aaron was always easy to blame. It’s not like he’d argue with him.” She shrugs. “And Haley could do no wrong.”

You snort. “It’s not like Aaron disagrees that it’s his fault.” 

Jess’s mouth twists again.

You let out a slow breath. “What about your mom—Kathleen right?”

Jess nods and shrugs. “Mom never liked him, but she kept it to herself. Mostly.”

“And Aaron’s mom?”

“She can’t stand them,” Jess says bluntly. “But Evelyn loved Haley, despite everything. She was always polite to my folks, at least on the surface.” She sighs, waving a hand. “They’re super old school, so even the Catholic-Protestant thing was an issue.”

You nod. “So tomorrow might get…tense.”

Jess laughs, dry. “If we’re lucky, it’ll stay at tense.”

You nod again, more solemn now.

Jess glances over. “Aaron’s gonna be okay. But he’s gonna be… quiet. He’ll swallow a lot of shit that he shouldn’t have to, because it’s Jack’s day. And because he still thinks he has to make up for everything. He knows it’s impossible but he’s going to try.”

You don’t speak.

She takes a sip of her wine. “So if you see him slipping into that old ‘stand up straight and show me some respect boy’ mode, maybe remind him he doesn’t have to perform anymore. Not with you and me. And it’s bad for Jack.”

You nod. “I will.”

Jess presses a hand to your shoulder. “Thank you.”

She rinses her wine glass and sets it gently in the drying rack. The kitchen’s quiet again, just the soft tick of the old clock above the door. She grabs her coat off the back of the chair and shrugs it on with practiced ease.

“I’ll see you at Dave’s tomorrow,” she says, adjusting the strap of her purse.

You nod, walking her to the front door. “Thanks again for talking through everything.”

Jess smiles, small but sincere. “Thanks for listening.”

She opens the door, hesitates, then turns back just long enough to pull you into a tight hug.

“Love you,” you say against her shoulder.

“Love you too.” She squeezes once more before stepping back onto the hallway. “You staying here tonight?”

You glance back into the apartment, toward the soft light spilling from the crack beneath Aaron’s bedroom door. “Might as well. I’ll be here early anyway.”

Jess adopts a familiar look—sardonic, fond, just the edge of knowing.

“Remember our chat this summer?”

You groan. “Shut up.”

She grins. “Alright. Tell me you’re sleeping in the guest room and I’ll stop.”

You narrow your eyes. “Goodnight, Jess.”

She backs down the hall, waving with wiggly fingers. “That’s what I thought.”

You close the door behind her, lock it, and lean your forehead against the wood for just a second. With a sigh, you lean back, set the alarm, and head toward the bedroom. 

When the door closes, Aaron asks, turned on his side in bed, already under the covers. “Do I want to know what that was about?”

You shake your head with a light, humorless laugh, leaning against the door. “No.” 

He raises an eyebrow. “Jess teasing you again?”

You give him a look. “You know she’s got a sixth sense for it.”

Aaron smiles faintly. “She’s not wrong.”

You roll your eyes, push off the frame, and start pulling off your sweater. “That’s enough.”

He watches you for a beat. The playfulness fades. “Something’s bothering you.”

You don’t answer right away. Just slide your jeans off, fold them over the chair. The silence stretches too long.

Aaron speaks again, quieter this time. “It’s about tomorrow.”

“It’s not nice to profile me at home, you know.”

You exhale. Sit on the edge of the bed, back to him, the humor fizzling out of you. “Jess told me some things.”

“About Roy?”

You nod. “About what he’s said. About Joseph and Haley and you.”

Aaron doesn’t respond. Not at first. Then, “He’s not wrong.”

You freeze.

Aaron’s voice is steady, but it’s too even. “If I’d quit the BAU, if I’d stayed home more, if I’d been a better husband and father… Haley might still be alive. Jack wouldn’t have nightmares. You and his last remaining daughter wouldn’t be picking up pieces. So yeah, maybe Roy’s an asshole, but he’s not wrong.”

You move to him before he can sink any further. He turns toward you under the covers, a matter-of-fact pull nagging at the side of his mouth. 

You don’t say anything at first. Just climb into bed and slide into his space. You cup his jaw in one hand and press your forehead to his, close, firm. 

“Don’t,” you say, voice steady. “Don’t do that.”

His breath catches, almost startled by your tenacity.

You press your other hand to his chest, over his heart, the heel of your palm warm through the thin fabric of his t-shirt.

“You didn’t deserve any of it,” you whisper. “They’re entitled to a little bit of upset given the circumstances, but what I just heard is absolute bullshit.”

He leans into your touch like it’s the only thing keeping him out of the mental boxing ring.

Your thumb drags gently over his cheekbone, and when you brush his hair back from his forehead, he closes his eyes—like that’s the part that guts him. The way you touch him like he isn’t breakable, or like it’s okay if he is.

“I don’t think I know how to stop blaming myself,” he admits. “I’ve never really tried.”

You shift, pull him into your arms the way he’s pulled you into his so many times before. “I know.”

His head drops to your shoulder, and you run your fingers through his hair, slow and gentle.

He’s quiet. His arms around your waist are tight, like maybe if he lets go, he’ll float away.

“You’re safe,” you murmur into his hair. “You’re not alone. You’re here with me.”

He breathes out against your collarbone, a shudder of air that ghosts across your collar.

You shift again and guide him down so he’s half curled into your chest, your hand tracing soothing patterns across the plane of his back. It’s muscle memory, sure, but it’s also a promise. 

No one’s going to hurt you here.

“I’ve got you,” you say. “I’ll have your back tomorrow.”

His fingers curl into the fabric of your shirt, his voice so quiet it barely disturbs the air.

“I know.”

You press a kiss to the crown of his head.

“I’m always gonna be there,” you murmur, voice low against his hair. “To hold you up, to bail you out, to distract and deflect,” you continue with a wry smile, “and to keep you from decking your ex-father-in-law in front of our friends and family.”

Aaron makes a noise that’s almost a laugh, half-asleep. “Appreciated.”

“But,” you add, “I might need your help tomorrow.”

He lifts his head just enough to look at you, brow furrowed. “Why?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Because after everything you just said, if he so much as looks at you wrong, there’s a very real chance I’ll do something that gets me cited in a professional conduct review. Or get the cops called. That would be bad press, probably.”

That gets a real, quiet laugh out of him. He leans up, presses his forehead to yours.

“Don’t,” he says gently. “You’re more important to Jack than my ego.”

You smirk. “Fine. But if he tries anything, you better stand behind me.”

+++

The smell of garlic and something roasted hits you the second you step through the front door. It’s comforting, over-the-top, and deeply Rossi. The man never hosts anything without attempting to feed twenty-five people with the energy of a Sicilian grandmother possessed.

You and Aaron are carrying bags—cake boxes, favor bags, juice pouches for the kids, a bottle of red for Dave, because of course.

“Rossi!” you sing. 

Dave turns from the stove, flicking a towel over his shoulder, already smiling. “There you are.”

You step up and kiss his cheek. “Thank you for hosting. Again.”

He waves a hand like you’ve said something ridiculous. “Please. Any excuse to feed my beloved children carbs.”

You grin. “You ready for an entire class of kindergartners to descend on your backyard like locusts?”

He lifts a hand to his temple, mock-solemn. “I’m sure Vietnam was quieter.”

Aaron sets the cake box down on the counter and raises an eyebrow. “You know you don’t have to go all in, right?”

Rossi shrugs, already pulling out a tray of tiny meatballs from the oven. “Maybe not. But what’s the point of having a house this size if you’re not using it to make people feel at home?”

You glance around the kitchen—the spread already forming, the balloons bobbing in the dining room, the open sliding doors framing the backyard.

“Mission accomplished,” you say.

Dave shoots you a wink. “Wait ‘til you see what I did with the bounce house.”

Aaron groans softly behind you.

“Where should I put these?” You do your best to hold up a finger with your gift bag hanging on it.

Dave points with his nose at a table in the corner of the dining room. “Over there. Spencer and Emily dropped theirs off yesterday.” 

That catches your attention. You pause, looking at Dave with a question in your eyebrows. He shakes you off, and you decide it’s not all that important, after all.

+++

You find Aaron standing just inside the door, straightening the cuff of his quarter zip like he’s preparing for court. His posture’s already gone stiff. Composed.

You ease up beside him, careful not to crowd.

“First group of parents are here,” you say gently.

He nods but doesn’t look at you.

You watch him for a second, mindful of the merry, nosey band of profilers outside on the deck. “You ready?”

He exhales through his nose. “As much as I ever am.”

You fold your arms loosely. “You don’t have to perform for me, you know.”

“I’m not.”

You tilt your head.

Aaron smiles—tired, thin. “Okay. Maybe a little.”

You take a breath, watching the way his shoulders square like armor. “You can be the grieving ex-husband today. You can be the Unit Chief. You can be whoever the hell you need to be out there. But underneath that, I want you to remember this: You’re Jack’s dad. Jack is happy. He’s thriving. And that’s because of you.”

His mouth tics, just slightly. “Because of you, too.”

You shake your head. “You’ve been his foundation since day one. You’re his father. And a damn good one.”

Aaron looks at you then. Really looks at you.

You step closer. Lower your voice. “Let them say what they want. You’re doing your job and he wants for nothing.”

His throat moves as he swallows. “Thank you.”

You bump his elbow lightly. “We’re gonna get through this.”

He nods. “Together.”

You offer a smile. “Now let’s go celebrate that weird little kid.”

Aaron huffs a real laugh. He opens the door for you. “After you.”

+++

You’re handing out paper plates when you catch sight of the sedan pulling into the driveway. The tires crunch across Rossi’s immaculate gravel. You glance over your shoulder—Aaron’s by the grill with Dave, but the line of his spine has gone straight, tension humming off him like static.

Before you can move, Jess notices too. She sets down the plate of watermelon with a small, resigned sigh. Wipes her hands quickly on a dish towel.

“I’ve got it,” she says under her breath, and you nod, letting her go.

She crosses the yard as Roy and Kathleen climb out of the car. Kathleen carries a gift bag. Roy looks like he’s bracing for a blow.

Jess meets them halfway down the walk, her face smoothing into something polite. Not warm exactly—but familiar. 

A familiar mask for parents…

“Hey,” she says, taking the gift bags, keeping it casual. “Thanks for coming.”

Kathleen smiles first—tentative, a little too careful. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

Roy’s nod is short. Barely there.

Jess presses on, stepping in to give her mother a quick, perfunctory hug. “Jack’s been counting down for weeks. He’s gonna lose his mind when he sees you.”

Kathleen brightens. “He’s such a sweet boy.”

Jess smiles. It’s genuine—but there’s something guarded in it too.

You stay on the porch, watching, waiting, letting Jess do this on her terms.

She turns slightly, gesturing back toward the house. “Come on in. Everyone’s out back. Cake’s in about twenty minutes if we can get them out of the bounce house.”

Roy snorts quietly, almost like it’s beneath him to find that funny.

Kathleen murmurs something about how nice Dave’s house is as they pass through the gate to the backyard. Jess holds the latch for them, waits until they’ve made their way inside, then lingers a beat before following.

You catch Aaron’s eyes across the patio. He lifts his chin once—subtle. A question.

You nod back. Handled.

+++

You’re still on the deck when a second car pulls into the driveway—a practical, smart navy SUV. Aaron, beside you now, stiffens for half a second before letting out a breath.

You follow his gaze.

A woman steps out, pulling her purse over her shoulder. She's striking and tall-ish—in her late sixties or early seventies, thick, dark grey and brown hair pinned back neatly, familiar warm brown eyes sharp as a scalpel. There's grace in her movements, something careful but utterly unselfconscious and confident. She opens the back door of the car, moving and balancing a big, wrapped box. 

It’s odd, but her manner of approaching objects and interacting with the world is instantly recognizable. 

You don't need to ask.

You can see it—the unmistakable resemblance between her and Aaron. The jawline, the brow, the set of her shoulders, the brown in her eyes and hair.

You head down the steps before Aaron can move, meeting her halfway across the drive.

“You must be the one I've heard so much about,” she says, voice conspiratorial and textured with humor. She offers a hand, still balancing her gift. “Evelyn West-Hotchner.”

You introduce yourself in kind. 

Her handshake is firm, her smile small but not cold. There's weight behind it, like she's assessing you, but not in a cruel way, just... carefully. Even though his father was the lawyer, Evelyn clearly established some habits that bled into Aaron’s temperament. 

Aaron steps forward, the faintest smile on his face.

“Mom,” he says, and it’s softer than anything you've heard from him all day. Almost boyish. “This is—” he hesitates, stumbling over your name, “—my work partner.”

Evelyn glances between the two of you. Her gaze sharpens—and then softens, all in one breath. There’s something knowing in her look that makes heat crawl up the back of your neck.

“Work partner,” she says. “Right.”

She winks, lightning fast. 

Suddenly you feel... exposed. 

She pats Aaron’s cheek once, fondly, before reaching up to wrap him in a full-bodied hug that crumples the last of the tension in his posture. He leans into it like he’s wanted to for hours.

You look away, giving him the privacy of it, but not before catching the ghost of a smile on his face—the real kind.

When they part, Aaron clears his throat, straightens his jacket unnecessarily. You’re half-tempted to elbow him in the ribs.

Evelyn chuckles and links her arm through Aaron’s like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Alright. Let me see my grandson.”

+++

The party is in full swing. Jack is somewhere in the yard wielding a foam sword. Derek’s helping tie balloons to the fence. Dave is doing…something you’ll probably have to address later. 

You’re refilling your drink at the patio table when you catch it—a shift in the air that’s almost imperceptible, unless you’re already looking for it.

And you’re looking for everything. 

Kathleen steps onto the deck, cradling her glass of lemonade. You can see the resemblance between her and Jess in the thin autumn sunshine, the features the two women shared with Haley. 

Evelyn stands by the railing, looking like a Chico’s catalog model, her hand resting lightly on Aaron’s shoulder before he drifts off to check on Jack. She says something you don’t catch, warm and encouraging. 

The two women clock each other immediately.

You hover near the snack table with your plate, pretending to be very interested in an assortment of celery sticks and carrots.

“Evelyn,” Kathleen says, smiling just a little too hard. “It’s been so long.”

Evelyn turns slowly, her own smile sharp as a tack. “Kathleen. How good to see you. You’re looking... well.”

There’s a fractional pause before Kathleen replies, syrupy sweet, “Well, you know how it is. It’s all smoke and mirrors after a certain age.”

Evelyn’s eyes twinkle dangerously. “Of course. But some of us hold up better than others, don’t we?”

You blink. Holy shit.

Kathleen tips her head like she’s accepting a compliment. “Well, you know. Healthy habits and all that. I do my best to stay away from alcohol, you know. Good for the skin.” 

You tense. This is outright verbal warfare, couched in plausible deniability and pleasant tones. 

Kathleen continues. “I’m sure it’s so good to see Jack after so long between visits.” She sips her lemonade like she’s just mentioning the weather.

Evelyn doesn’t miss a beat. “Of course! I try to get over here as often as he’ll let me. He’s such a good boy. And so resilient. You know, it really makes a difference—having a stable, loving home.”

You almost choke on a baby carrot.

Kathleen’s smile freezes, cracks at the edges. “Yes. I imagine it must.”

There’s so much verbal gunpowder in the air you’re amazed the grill hasn’t spontaneously exploded.

You glance down at your plate. Stay quiet. Stay still. 

Blend into the vegetables.

Evelyn tilts her head, voice dropping just enough to feel like velvet and a blade at the same time. It’s weird hearing that tone leave her mouth, when you’ve heard it from her son so often. “It’s good for children, I think. Having people around them who don’t need to be reminded what love looks like.”

Kathleen’s grip tightens minutely around her glass. “That’s certainly one way to look at it.”

Evelyn hums, noncommittal. “I suppose we all live with the choices we make.”

Kathleen’s lips flatten, but she recovers smoothly. “Yes. Some of us more comfortably than others.”

Before anything else can detonate, Jack shrieks from across the yard, waving his foam sword, and Aaron’s laugh floats over the patio, pulling Evelyn’s attention away.

You watch her glide toward Jack like she hadn’t just verbally eviscerated another grown woman with the poise and grace of a state-trained assassin.

Kathleen retreats toward the drink table with a polite, brittle smile plastered across her face, the cracks in it visible if you know where to look.

Aaron materializes beside you after a moment, hands tucked into his pockets, face schooled into neutrality. Still, when you glance at him out of the corner of your eye, you catch the glint of deep, private amusement.

You murmur, low enough that only he can hear, “They are insanely good at that. Holy shit.”

Aaron’s mouth twitches like he’s trying very hard not to laugh.

“Told you,” he says under his breath. “You can’t teach it. You have to survive it. Southern women, and all that.”

You glance at him, wide-eyed. “And she raised you?”

He shrugs, the movement dry and unbothered. “She did, yes. Does that surprise you?” 

“No,” you say, laughter in it. “Not at all.” 

After a beat, he adds, voice even drier, “She also raised Sean. So do with that what you will.”

You have to bite your lip to keep from laughing out loud. Aaron’s expression is almost smug. You’re just happy he’s not outwardly anxious.

You bump his hip lightly with yours. “I like you both, so I guess I’ll take the favor.”

The moment between you and Aaron lingers for another heartbeat, then gently dissolves as Jack lets out another shriek, tearing across the lawn with Derek in hot pursuit, laughing.

Aaron steps down into the yard with Dave, both of them corralling kids toward the cake table.

You start to follow when Derek peels off from the chaos, falling into step beside you, hands stuffed into his pockets, posture almost relaxed.

 “Got a second?”

You glance at him, instantly suspicious of the tone. “Depends. Am I about to regret giving you one?”

He grins. “Nah. Just curious.”

You tilt your head. “Dangerous.”

He chuckles, but his gaze flickers toward the patio—toward Evelyn standing coolly by the door, and Kathleen stiff by the drinks table, and Roy sitting with arms crossed and a face like he’s been sucking lemons for three days.

“Anything I should know about this very chilly Hotchner–Brooks weather system?” he asks, voice still casual, but his eyes sharp.

You exhale slowly, adjusting the plate of cupcakes in your hands. “Short version? It’s not new.”

Derek nods. “Figured.”

“They’ve never liked Aaron,” you say, voice lower now. “Not really. Not even before... everything.”

Derek’s mouth tightens a little. “Got that much.”

“They think he ruined Haley’s life and she didn’t deserve him and his family is new money Catholic trash blah blah blah.” You wave your hand dismissively, adding with a lighthearted, “I mean sure, but don’t be rude about it.” You sober up. “Then, when she died...” You shake your head. “There wasn’t a lot of grace left over.”

Derek hums under his breath, something low and dark. “Man never stood a chance.”

You smile tightly. “Not with them, no.”

He walks a few steps with you in silence, letting the weight of it settle.

Then, a little lighter, nudging you with his elbow, “You doing okay?”

You glance at him. “Yeah,” you say honestly. “It’s Jack’s day. That’s what matters.”

Derek grins, bright and conspiratorial. Something, though, is hidden behind it. “Damn right.”

You both pause for a second. 

He continues, a little softer, sincere beneath the humor. “You’re doing great with this. With the suspension and with Jack, you know. Really.”

You reach out, softly pushing your fist against his shoulder. “Thanks, Derek.” 

He smiles. After a moment, he jogs off after Jack, and you follow a few steps behind, weaving through the thicket of kids and parents gathering around the cake table.

You catch up to him near the drinks cooler, nudging him lightly with your elbow. You’re not done yet.

He glances at you, arching an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

You lower your voice a little. “You okay?”

Derek shrugs, casual. Too casual. “Yeah. I’m here, aren’t I?”

You watch him for a second. The set of his jaw. The way his hand tightens briefly on the neck of his beer bottle.

He sighs. “Look. I’m still not thrilled with some people right now.” 

He doesn’t have to say it. Aaron. JJ.

“But today’s not about that,” he says. “It’s Jack’s birthday, and it’ll be Henry’s in a month. And you’re here. So... I’m here.”

You nod, the truth of it settling between you without needing a lot of words.

“And,” Derek adds, his voice softening a little, “earlier this week was good.”

You tilt your head. “Yeah?”

He smiles—a real one this time. “Yeah. Dinner. Talking. You... reminding me not everything’s broken just ‘cause it feels like it.”

You bump his shoulder lightly. “We do what we can.”

+++

“This is lovely,” Kathleen says, glancing around the yard. “You’ve put so much care into it.”

You offer a small smile. “Jack deserves a good birthday and a little fun treat for doing so well in his first month of school. And the decorating is all Dave. He’s been a lovely host. Jack loves it here.”

Kathleen nods. “He seems happy.”

“He is,” you say simply. “He’s surrounded by people who love him.”

A pause. Then, in a careful voice, she says, “That matters a great deal. Especially now.”

You nod, taking notes from Evelyn to keep your face mindfully placid. “It does.”

Kathleen lets her gaze linger on the yard. “I sometimes wonder what Haley would think—seeing all of this. How things have turned out.”

You study her expression for a moment. It’s not exactly accusatory, but it’s loaded with something—grief, maybe, or something a little less flattering.

You offer her something honest. Call it a show of good faith. 

“I was lucky enough to be close to her after we met a few years ago.” You fold your hands in front of you, looking down at them. “We talked a lot. I know the divorce was difficult for her, and I know Aaron wishes it had gone differently.”

You can’t really help yourself. For better or worse, it’s always your instinct to defend and give him credit with people who don’t like him all that much. 

Derek comes to mind…

Kathleen’s mouth tenses slightly. You don’t press. You don’t need to. The silence does the work for you.

After a beat, she murmurs, “She didn’t always open up easily.”

You nod once. “When she did, she was…” You search for a word. “…very clear.”

There’s another beat of quiet. Kathleen doesn’t ask what Haley said. Maybe she doesn’t want to know.

She glances back toward the yard. “Well,” she says finally. “It’s a beautiful day. You’ve made Jack’s birthday very special.”

You smile gently. “That was the goal.”

She nods, then drifts back toward the drink table, her expression unreadable.

+++

Evelyn takes a sip of her tea, delicately readjusting her barrette with her other hand. “Denial is unbecoming of you, Aaron.” 

He snorts. “We’re well past that, thank you.” 

“You are so welcome.” 

“Mhm.”

…”So when’s the last time she spent a night at her place?”

“Mom!” 

“What?” She looks convincingly shocked. “We’re all adults here. We can have sex with other consenting adults.” She crosses herself. ”It’s not like you had a white wedding the first time, God bless you.”

Aaron puts a hand over his eyes. “We are not having this conversation.” 

“I think it’s remarkable,” she says, unbothered, “that you’re treating this exactly as you did when you were seventeen. That’s something.”

Aaron huffs a sigh and ignores her. “Thank you, Mother. Very insightful.”

“I’ll leave you alone, now.” 

Aaron raises his eyebrows and tips his head, his mouth tight. “All I ask.” 

As luck would have it, you approach with a smile and a laugh. “Evelyn, I really hope you’re getting your digs in.”

“Oh, I always have some sage advice for my oldest, most beloved, responsible, and level-headed child.” She leans in as if to ruffle Aaron’s hair, and he ducks out of the way in a move that’s more seventeen than forty-three.

“Jesus—Mom, please.”

“Not Jesus,” she says lightly, straightening her barrette again. “Just me.”

Aaron mutters something about the grill and heads off, a little too quickly to be casual. You watch him go, amused, while Evelyn takes another sip of her tea.

“I thought he’d grow out of the brooding silence thing,” she says, almost to herself. “Guess not.”

You smile. “Yeah, I’ve picked up on that.”

Her eyes flick toward you, steady and kind. “You’re good with it. Better than most.”

“Some days,” you admit. “Other days, I think about throwing something at him.”

That earns you a soft laugh. “Good. He needs that. He’s not nearly as mysterious as he pretends to be.”

You glance toward the grill, where Aaron’s already leaning in like he’s debriefing Rossi instead of checking on burgers. “I figured,” you say.

Evelyn hums. “I know my son. He’ll withdraw, he’ll sulk, he’ll convince himself he’s a burden.” She waves her hand dismissively. “But he listens to you. He told me so.”

Your throat tightens at that, though you cover it with a smile. “I try not to let him get away with too much.”

“Keep it that way,” she says simply, and there’s a spark of approval in her eyes.

+++

Jack darts up, sword in hand. “Grandpa, did you see? Uncle Derek says I’m the fastest knight in the yard!”

Roy chuckles, ruffles Jack’s hair, then glances past him to Aaron. “Well, you always did like playing soldier.”

“And such a brave knight you are, Jack,” Aaron says, a smile on his face. 

Roy takes a slow sip, eyes sharp. “Gets that from Haley. She was always quick on her feet. Knew how to take care of herself.”

Aaron hums, noncommittal.

“Funny thing,” Roy adds, like he’s reminiscing. “Haley always said she was raising two kids. One of them just happened to wear a suit to work.”

+++

You and Jess step out onto the deck. 

“…Haley always said she was raising two kids. One of them just happened to wear a suit to work.”

Aaron doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. His shoulders sit tighter, his silence the only answer.

Roy tips the bottle toward him, almost like a toast. “Guess she didn’t know how right she was until the end.”

Aaron’s face is neutral, but you’ve been around him long enough to know how much force it takes to keep it that way.

Jess doesn’t hesitate. “Dad,” she says, bright and breezy, cutting across the tension like a knife through butter. She hooks her hand through his arm before he can press the point further. “Come meet the Holts—they’ve been dying to hear your take on Nationals' playoff roster.”

Roy blinks, caught off guard, but she’s already steering him toward the crowd.

You move in the opposite direction, brushing your hand against Aaron’s elbow. Your voice is pitched casually, for him alone. “Dave says the grill’s getting away from him. You should go check.”

Aaron exhales, long and quiet, then gives the faintest nod. His brown eyes are warm and full of gratitude when he looks back at you. 

You wink at him, lightning fast. 

+++

Aaron slips back to your side, past the chaos, to where you’re stacking paper plates at the buffet.

“Hey,” he says, voice low.

You glance up. “Hey.”

He lingers, posture half-relaxed, half-braced. “Thanks. For earlier.”

You raise a brow. “For what? Being functional and polite?”

He huffs a small laugh, shaking his head. “For… running interference.”

“Yeah, literally, actually zero problem,” you say, blunt as ever. “I don’t know why it would be a problem.”

Something like relief tugs at his dimple. “Mostly I’m just happy you don’t want to kill me anymore.”

You give him a flat look. “I don’t want to kill you anymore… right now. It’s still on the table, please don’t misunderstand me.”

Aaron nods, the faint smile still threatening at the corner of his mouth. “Got it.”

From across the yard, Dave leans against the deck railing, arms crossed, sipping his wine like he’s watching a play. His eyes flick between you and Aaron, a smirk tugging at his mouth.

+++

The yard is a disaster—the bounce house half-collapsed as it deflates, streamers and balloons wilting off the fence and deck railing, decorative lettuce looking similarly limp on the table. 

Evelyn and Aaron work together, getting the gifts and leftover party favors into the trunk of Aaron’s SUV. 

The view is only a little inspiring as you sit back with Jack in one of Dave’s Adirondack chairs, the birthday boy melted entirely to your chest, his head on your shoulder and breath sticky against your collar. His little hand rests on your bare upper arm, fingers twitching a little as he dreams (just like his dad). 

You close your eyes against the waning sunshine for what feels like the briefest of moments before you’re startled by a shadow. 

Evelyn Mae West-Hotchner. A formidable shadow, indeed. 

She crouches beside you and you’re impressed by the lack of cracking in her knees. She has her son beat, there. Her hand rises, fingers gently raking through Jack’s hair. 

“He doesn’t let just anyone touch his kid, you know.”

“Hm?” 

“You both think you’re very cool and subtle.” She tips her head in a startlingly familiar manner. “Trust me. I know.” 

You stare at her placidly, your eyebrows rising only a touch. 

“Mom.” Aaron’s flat, halfhearted chastizing doesn’t make it very far. 

Evelyn sighs, long-suffering, and stands, brushing her hands on her pants. “Yes, darling?”

“Stop harassing my friends, please.” 

She looks back at you with an eyeroll.. Get a load of this guy. “Friend. Right.” 

“Mom.” 

Your head lolls to the side. “Aaron, it really is incredible how you can sound 30 years younger with one single syllable.” 

You can almost hear him swallow something snarky. 

“Can you get Jack in his car seat please?” 

“Mhmm.” You straighten gingerly, supporting Jack’s head as you stand, Evelyn’s hand at your elbow. You turn to her, briefly. “Thank you.”

“Please don’t encourage her,” Aaron says. 

You snort, passing him with the lightest of shoulder checks. “Be nice.” 

His response is hardly louder than a breath and dripping with sarcasm. “No.”

Reaching the car, you pour Jack into his booster seat and get him buckled. He stirs a bit and you dip down into his eye line.

“Did you have a good birthday, bud?” 

He nods, sleepy. “Thank you for the party.” 

You bite back a smile, opting for something crooked and small. “Of course.”

+++

“Alright, baby. It’s just you and me,” Evelyn says as she watches you disappear behind the car. “What is the deal? Actually.” 

Aaron sighs.

“Uh oh.” 

The sigh turns into an annoyed huff. “We’re friends.”

“Right. And I’m the Attorney General.” 

“Dad got close, once.” 

“Yeah. And so am I. So fess up.” 

Aaron’s mouth twists. “I’m being very patient,” he says, finally, clipped and precise.

“...About?”

“I… made…. several mistakes. So, I’m being patient.”

She chews on that for a second. “That’s good. It builds character.”

“I’ve done plenty of character-building, thank you Mother.” 

“Clearly not enough, if you’re making so many… meaningful mistakes.” 

Aaron bites his tongue. “Fair.” 

She pats his arm and reaches up to kiss his cheek. He doesn’t move.

“Okay, be good. Please keep me updated when your patience is rewarded or runs dry.” 

“Goodbye,” he replies, dry. “Drive safely.”

“You too,” she says, sliding into her car. She rolls down her window as the door shuts. “Be good, okay?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

You join him as Evelyn backs out of the driveway, waving as she disappears around the hedge. 

“You good?” 

“Mhm.” 

You peer at him. “You lying?” 

“Mhm.” 

“I’ll see you at home.”

+++

“I was thinking about something,” you murmur.

You’re curled against Aaron’s side on the couch, your head resting comfortably in the crook of his shoulder. His arm is around you, fingers tracing gentle, lazy circles along your upper arm. You close your eyes, feeling the rhythm of his heartbeat through his shirt, steady beneath your palm.

He tips his head slightly toward yours, speaking softly. “Yeah?”

You pause, gathering yourself. You shift a little so you can see him better, lifting your head from his shoulder. His fingers still briefly, giving you space.

“I realized something a while ago,” you begin. “Something about us.”

Aaron watches you carefully, patient and attentive. His hand settles warmly at your waist, thumb gently brushing the soft fabric of your shirt. You’ve had a lot of these conversations, lately, catching up on years of repression and inside thoughts that can now find their voice. 

“I fell in love with you twice,” you say quietly, meeting his eyes with steady sincerity. “Once before Haley died. And once after.”

His breathing stills for a brief moment. “Twice?”

You smile, faintly. “Twice.”

He’s quiet, processing. You can feel him working through it, the weight of your words settling between you. His thumb resumes its gentle motion.

You continue softly, holding his gaze. “I know… a part of you died with her. I know it made you different.” You lift a hand, tracing the line of his collar absently, fingertips brushing the warmth of his neck. “I wanted to know the Aaron that came back to us. The Aaron who was left and rebuilding right in front of me.”

His throat moves as he swallows. He lifts his hand, gently cupping your jaw, thumb stroking lightly along your cheekbone. “I wasn’t sure who that was for a long time. Still feel like I’m trying to figure it out most days.”

“I know,” you whisper. Your eyes soften, meeting his steady gaze. “And you don’t have to know. But I wanted to. And when I did…” You breathe out slowly, thumb brushing softly over the side of his throat. “I fell again. Maybe harder, definitely deeper. More permanently.”

Aaron tilts your chin gently upward, leaning down to kiss you softly. It’s tender, brief, yet somehow impossibly full. When he pulls back, his eyes search yours carefully. “Most people would’ve given up after the first time.”

You lean into his palm, smiling slightly. “No one’s ever accused me of being reasonable.”

He chuckles softly, pressing another lingering kiss to your forehead. “Fair point.”

You’re quiet for a long, comfortable minute, absorbing each other’s warmth.

Aaron’s voice is softer when he finally speaks. “Did you like me better before or after?”

You glance up, teasing gently. “Fishing?”

He smiles faintly, dipping his head in acknowledgment. “Maybe.”

Your fingertips lightly trace the back of his hand, thoughtful. “I loved the version I met—the husband, the father, the leader. You were steadier, more sure of yourself. But I think it’s fuller now, deeper.” Your voice lowers, sincere and gentle. “You’re more… real now. More vulnerable. I had to fight harder for you, felt like I had to protect you sometimes, in some ways. It made it stick.”

He nods slowly, eyes dropping to your joined hands. “I didn’t make it easy, did I?”

You shift slightly to kiss his jaw. “Not even a little.”

He exhales, leaning into your touch. “Thank you for staying.”

You pull back just enough to catch his gaze again, voice firm. “I never even considered leaving.”

Aaron hesitates, eyes deep with memory. “I thought about telling you to. To go to LA and never look back.”

Your fingers brush through the hair at his temple, gently, carefully. “I know. But you didn’t, and it didn’t work out anyway.”

“I couldn’t,” he murmurs, leaning closer. He brushes a soft kiss against your cheek, then another at the corner of your mouth. “Even when I thought I should, I never could.”

“Good,” you whisper against his lips, pressing softly into another slow, deep kiss. It’s warm, sure, and grounding. When you finally pull away just enough to breathe, you rest your forehead lightly against his. “Good news for both of us.”

Aaron lets out a quiet laugh, warm breath fanning across your cheek. “Very.”

You settle closer again, head back on his shoulder, feeling his arms slide around you with a familiar ease. You take a slow, quiet breath, focusing on the warmth of his embrace, the steady, quiet strength in it. Aaron’s arms aren’t bulky, but they’re solid—muscle and tendon wrapped neatly beneath the soft cotton of his sleeves. There's a wiry resilience to him, a lean strength forged by a decade and a half of unending vigilance.

You close your eyes, letting yourself linger there, memorizing how it feels to be held exactly this way. There's warmth, yes, but it’s more than that—it’s safe. It feels like stepping inside after standing too long in a hard rain, or clean air and cold water after a run. The privilege of being close to him is a new phenomenon, a welcome one, but new nevertheless. 

His thumb traces a gentle, absent-minded arc against your shoulder blade, and you shift slightly, pressing closer, needing the quiet comfort more deeply than you anticipated.

Aaron’s touch is careful, always careful, but never hesitant. You know the weight of his arms, the steady strength he offers so willingly, and you’ve learned to trust it. Being held by him feels like coming home. You’re allowed here, you’re welcomed, sheltered by this quiet, steady man whose gentleness is all the more profound for how sparingly he shows it. In these quiet moments, he lets you have all of it.

Eventually, Aaron breaks the silence, thoughtful and quiet. “Twice, huh?”

“At least,” you murmur into his shoulder, smiling.

He chuckles softly, squeezing you gently. “Guess I’ll have to keep being interesting.”

“You’re plenty interesting,” you reassure him, eyes slipping closed. “I promise.”

He kisses the crown of your head again, holding you a bit tighter. “Good.”

+++

+++

He’s running his hand slowly along your thigh—absent, content. You’re both quiet. 

“How did we resist this for so long?”

Aaron’s hand stills.

“I ask myself that at least once a day now,” he says, brushing your knee with his thumb.

You look up at him. “Was it really that complicated?”

He tilts his head like he’s thinking about it. “Not always. I think it was just fear.”

That makes you laugh—soft, surprised. “You too?”

He glances at you, amused. “You think I wasn’t scared?” 

You nudge him. “You’re scary. You’re not supposed to be scared.”

“Only on paper. I’m always scared.”

You rest your cheek back against his chest. “We waited too long.”

Aaron’s hand stills where it rests on your thigh. He lets out a soft breath. “I almost did something about it,” he says, “before Haley died.”

That pulls your gaze. He’s not looking at you, but he’s not avoiding you. He’s just… somewhere else, reaching back.

“It was just a flicker,” he says. “Something I pushed aside before it could turn into something I—well. I thought… maybe it would pass. Maybe it was projection, or loneliness, or transferrence. I wanted to be sure it wasn’t, and I never quite got there.”

You stay quiet, fingers lightly curled around the edge of the throw blanket.

“Then after she died,” he says, “there wasn’t space for anything else. Not if I wanted to do it right. I couldn’t give you that. Not then.”

You nod. You remember.

“And then almost as soon as I could think about anything else, I wasn’t brave. Then, we had to handle Emily,” he says, quieter now. “I almost said something.”

“But you didn’t,” you murmur.

 He shakes his head. “And then I left.”

Silence stretches. You don’t fill it.

“The timing was never right,” he says. “There was always something we were waiting on, trying to get through, maybe.”

You tilt your head against his shoulder, watching his profile in the soft light. “But you thought about it.”

His voice catches just slightly. “Always.”

You run your fingers down the length of his arm. “So, was it just self-doubt? Because that was always my hangup.”

He looks at you, finally. There’s no shame in it—just truth.

“I didn’t just lose her,” he says. You know he’s talking about Haley. “I lost the blueprint. I didn’t know who I was supposed to be.”

You wait. He doesn’t need prompting. He just needs space.

“There’s no manual for what comes after,” he says. “Going from near-absent parent to single dad. From ex-husband to widower. I grew into adulthood with Haley; we left childhood together. I didn’t know how to grieve someone I’d already let go of once. I hadn’t seen Jack in months, except in the videos Sam sent.”

You brush your fingers across his hand, let them settle there.

“I didn’t know how to keep going, either,” he says. “There was bereavement leave, then I was working. Trying to be a father. Trying not to fall apart in front of him. And I was failing at all of it.”

Your voice is soft. “You weren’t failing.”

He shakes his head, not to argue, but to go on. “But you were there.”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

He looks at your hand resting on his. “You came by with takeout. From wherever the team had been. You didn’t hover. You didn’t ask for anything. You just dropped it off and left. Or stayed, if Jack asked.”

You remember those nights. The silence, the way he never said more than two words, and you never expected him to.

“You and JJ came over one Saturday when I was on leave,” he says. “Cleaned out the fridge, restocked it. Spencer reorganized the bookshelf and made a game of it for Jack. You straightened the pillows on the couch and did two loads of laundry. I had clean sheets for the first time in two weeks.”

You smile, just barely. “We wanted to help.”

“I didn’t see it then,” he says. “Not really. I couldn’t. I was underwater.”

“I know,” you say.

“But I do now,” he murmurs. “You kept us human.”

“It was the right thing to do.”

His eyes go soft.

“You didn’t have to know how to do any of it,” you add. “You just had to make it to the next day. That was enough.”

“I used to think,” he says, “that if I stopped and looked too closely at anything, I’d break apart.”

“Even if you do, I’m not going anywhere,” you say.

Aaron kisses the side of your head. “Good,” he murmurs. “Because I already want you in all of it.”

There’s a long silence after that. 

You breathe with him, tucked in, steady. And then, because it’s you, and because the moment feels just vulnerable enough to crack open a smile—

You shift slightly in his arms and say, light, casual, “So… do I live up to the hype?”

Aaron doesn’t even blink.

“You’re fishing,” he says immediately, deadpan.

“Are you going to indulge me?”

“I might.”

You wait, lifting an eyebrow. He watches you for a second like he’s not sure whether to be exasperated or amused.

Then, without looking away, “You’re steady, even more than I thought you were,” he says. “Smart, the same. Better with Jack than I am, more than half the time. You make everything easier without making it feel like I’m being managed. And you make me feel like I’m still myself, even on the days I don’t quite know who that is.”

You blink. It’s more than you expected—but exactly what you wanted out of any answer.

Then he adds, with a wry twist of his mouth, “And you’re irritatingly right about most things.”

You grin. “Now that I believe.”

He hums. “Figures.”

Your smile gentles and you look at him some kind of way. A little puzzled, a little disbelieving, like you’re still catching up to the reality of it all.

He clocks it immediately. “What?”

You shake your head, voice soft. “It’s just… it hasn’t quite sunk in yet that I can kiss you whenever I want.”

Aaron’s hand slides up your side—slow, familiar—settling gently along your jaw. His thumb strokes just under your cheekbone.

“That’s true,” he says, warm.

You lean into his touch. “Are you having as hard a time as I am with that or—”

He kisses you. Slow and hot and sure, completely indulgent.

When he finally pulls back, he lingers close enough to feel your breath on his mouth.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice low. “I am.”

Your fingers curl into the collar of his shirt, anchoring yourself as his hand slips beneath the hem of yours, warm against your skin.

It’s charged. 

His fingers skim your ribs and it feels both completely known and entirely foreign—like your body recognizes him before your mind can catch up to the fact that you’re allowed to want this now. That it’s real. That it’s yours.

His mouth drags down to your jaw, then your throat, open-mouthed and slow, and it makes you tremble—just a little.

He notices.

“What is it?” he asks, breath brushing your skin.

You shake your head, laughing a little. “Is it weird that you still make me nervous even though you’ve literally seen me naked and been in me and eaten me out?”

Aaron laughs, genuine, low in his chest. “No,” he says, “not weird.” He leans back just enough to meet your eyes. “Why nervous, though?”

You bite the inside of your cheek. Shrug. “You’re you.”

Aaron doesn’t respond right away. His hand shifts, fingers dragging lightly along the side of your neck, thumb pressing under your jaw, finding your pulse.

“You’ve always inspired butterflies,” you say again, softer this time. “Even when I didn’t want you to. Especially when I didn’t want you to.”

He watches you—eyes dark, unreadable for a moment. Then his voice drops low, intimate, a little rough around the edges.

“I used to sit across from you on the plane,” he says, “and make myself look at the case file just to avoid staring at your mouth when you chewed your pen cap.”

You blink. “What?”

He shrugs, a little guilty, a little smug. “You always did it when you were thinking hard. You’d chew the side of it, then prop it against your lip.”

You’re speechless for a second. And then you laugh. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not,” he says, all mock solemnity. “It was… distracting.”

You bury your face in his chest, laughing into his shirt. “God. You.”

“I’m just saying,” he murmurs, mouth close to your ear now, “you don’t exactly have a monopoly on butterflies.”

You glance up. “Yeah?”

Aaron leans in until your noses brush. “Yeah.”

This time when he kisses you, it’s slower. Like he’s letting himself sink into it. Into you. Like this has been building for years and finally has somewhere to go.

(It has.)

You sigh into the kiss, fingers twisted tight in the collar of his shirt.

When you finally pull back, breathless and flushed, your forehead rests against his.

“I think,” you whisper, “this is going to kind of fuck me up permanently.”

Aaron watches you for a beat, thumb brushing lightly along your jaw.

“Good.”

+++

Aaron takes the stairs two at a time. He hasn’t been back long enough for this space to feel normal again, but it doesn’t feel as foreign as it did three days ago. The desk is still as pristine as the day he left, thanks to you. The note is still there, stuck to the side of his broken monitor, the photos still slipped into the frame.

Your handwriting.

His throat tightens.

Because despite everything—despite his absence, despite his lies—you never erased him.

Three days ago, when he stood here, he looked at these images and let the guilt tear through him. Let himself sink into self-recrimination, into the choices that led him here. He saw them as consequences.

Now, they feel like a revelation.

Three days ago, he stared at the photo of Jack in the museum, and all he saw was his own failure. His absence. The fact that you had stepped in where he should have been. The exhaustion in your face, the weight you carried without complaint.

Now, he sees something else.

You took him. You. You chose to be there.

Even when you had every reason to wash your hands of him, of his family, of his mistakes—you still showed up for Jack. You still loved his son, even when you were hurting.

Three days ago, he looked at Emily’s picture and thought only of the time he spent pretending she was gone, the months of unbearable weight he forced you to carry alone.

Now, he wonders how many times you sat with that post-it, tracing the smudged ink, memorizing the location of an empty grave. Had you planned to visit? Had you already? Had you stood at that empty plot and let yourself grieve something that was never real?

His stomach twists. He swallows hard.

And then—he looks at the last one.

The Fourth of July.

A few days ago, he let the sight of it splinter something inside him, let it rip through his chest like shrapnel.

But now—now it’s proof of how much time he wasted.

Had you loved him then?

Had you sat beside him on those deck steps, his arm around you, your shoulder tucked against his, smiling for JJ’s camera when he wasn’t watching—had you been feeling it, too? If you had been looking at him like that, if you had already been his before he ever left—then what the fuck was it all for?

Yesterday took his blinders off, that’s for damn sure, and underneath he realized what a shitty unreliable narrator he is in the story of his own life. How embarrassing.

He thought he was doing the right thing. Thought he was being respectful, professional—hell, for a year he tried to fill in for Jenny, to be a mentor to you, before he gave up. Thought he was holding himself back because he had to, because it was the honorable thing to do.

How foolish you two have been. Him, especially.

He exhales slowly through his nose, pushing aside whatever’s trying to surface, and starts sorting through the materials he’ll need to prepare for the hearing.

He hears your voice carry up from the bullpen—warm, familiar. The tension in his shoulders eases before he even registers the meaning behind it. He'd worked for months without your voice unadulterated by static, without your presence.

Then, Emily’s voice.

“Where were you last night?”

His ears sharpen. He drags his eyes up toward the doorway, taking a few steps and moving just close enough to hear without making his presence known.

The moment he catches your exasperated groan, he smothers a smile.

Oh, this is going to be good.

He leans against the wall by the door, well out of sight, notes in-hand, listening as you attempt to dodge Emily’s line of questioning. Your protests are weak at best. Emily, naturally, doesn’t buy a second of it. Penelope arrives with an unsurprising lack of discretion.

The moment Emily catches the hickey, Aaron bites down on the inside of his cheek to keep his expression neutral. The last thing he needs is to walk out there looking smug, but Christ, the thought is tempting.

“I’ve been dead for ten months. The least you can do is tell me who you’ve been fucking since then.”

Aaron nearly has to turn away to compose himself.

Emily Elizabeth Prentiss. Never change.

He’s going to have to endure this conversation at some point. He knows that. But God help him, he isn’t above leaving you to fend for yourself this time. He’s earned it.

However. Your defensive, snarky response makes the decision for him. He takes pity on you, calling out for you across the bullpen in a manner he hopes is professional enough to pass.

Without another word, you abandon two of your dearest friends and take the stairs two at a time.

You shut the door behind you and exhale sharply through your nose.

“You’re an asshole.”

His mouth twitches. He’s still holding back a smile when he sits down, flipping open the file he abandoned.

“Was that fun? Did you enjoy that?”

He lifts his eyes to yours, schooling his face into something almost stern—but the effort is visible. You know him too well to be intimidated. The Van Halen shirt doesn’t help. He, like you, didn’t think anyone would be here today.

“Immensely,” he says, pen scratching against paper.

You cross your arms. “So, did you actually have something for me, or was that just a power move, sir?”

And that’s when he makes the mistake of looking up at you again.

His gaze lingers just a second too long.

A flash, seared into his mind—your eyes on him, the way you tipped your head back against the pillow last night, the sound of his name in your mouth, breathless, blissed-out—

It’s involuntary, the way heat lances through him.

Your eyes flicker with something when you catch the look in his.

He tilts his chin down, voice low, colored with amusement but not mistaking the weight behind it. “Don’t start something you can’t finish, darling.”

Your throat bobs. He watches the reaction hit, subtle but unmistakable.

Good. Noted.

Aaron moves on like nothing happened, flipping open a file, though the corner of his mouth twitches just slightly as he hands it to you. “When we get back, we’ll have to follow up with that coroner. His report is incomplete.”

You flip through the file, setting it down. “I’ll add it to the list. If we get our jobs back.”

He huffs a quiet laugh through his nose. “We’ll get our jobs back. We always do.”

You arch a brow. “Yeah, you, maybe.”

He stands, offering you space in the box on his desk. You toss in your academic case files and statement notes for the Doyle case, then follow him down the hall and up the stairs to Strauss’s office.

Aaron keeps half a step ahead of you as you turn in their credentials, always a little too conscious of how Strauss observes you, how she sees you as an extension of him. It’s always irritated him, that assumption.

You are your own person. Your own professional.

He’s just grateful you haven’t been dragged further into his mistakes.

As you step out of her office, you fall into step beside him. You don’t put space between you. That alone is more than he expected.

You stop by his office and the photos on his monitor go in the box, discarding the post-it with Emily’s plot location. He watches as you crumple it, tossing it lightly into the trash.

Your voice is quieter when you say, “I tried not to disturb too much when I was up here.”

Something about it strikes him. Like you feel like you’ve been caught. Like you think you shouldn’t have touched anything at all. Like you’re worried you shouldn’t have been up here, should have left his office to fall dusty and stale while he was gone.

His gaze follows the post-it where it lands. His chest tightens.

“I don’t mind,” he says. He looks at you, something softer in his expression. “It’s your office, too.”

Something flickers in your features, but you don’t speak.

He lets it sit between you, unspoken.

What’s mine is yours.

He follows half a step behind as you head down the stairs in silence.

Emily’s in the kitchen, emptying the coffee pot. Without looking, she calls, “I am going to figure out who you’ve been sleeping with.”

Aaron is almost positive you’re about to pull something to throw at her. Then, Emily turns. Sees him. Sees you.

And freezes.

“Oh my God, Hotch. I didn’t—” She cuts off, her gaze darting between the two of you.

Your face betrays nothing. You take Aaron’s elbow, steering him toward the door.

Emily is still frozen in place. Aaron waits for her to speak. Waits for the inevitable. Instead, you just hold her gaze.

And on your way out—

You flip her off.

+++

Aaron unlocks the door and lets you inside first. He watches you toe off your shoes and head straight for the bathroom off his bedroom, as if Emily is still chasing you. The second the door shuts, he exhales, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose.

He’s never been happier to be home.

He takes his time in the kitchen, keeping his hands busy. The apartment is quiet, save for the distant sound of water running. He takes a sip of coffee, lingering by the counter.

You come back into the living room newly clean. You’re wearing that same threadbare shirt from before, and a pair of jeans. You’ve only been out of his sight for fifteen minutes, but after the desert, every second is too long. He missed you.

Haley’s voice echoes in his head. You sweet, silly man.

You flop onto the couch, and before he can stop himself, he’s already moving toward you, handing you a fresh cup of coffee before sinking onto the cushion beside you.

The second he’s settled, you scoot into his side, tucking beneath his arm like it’s second nature.

His chest goes tight.

God, I missed this.

“So,” you say, your voice casual.

He glances down at you, raising a brow.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea to change the routine we had before you left for Pakistan.”

There it is.

You say it like a fact, like it’s about practicality, but he knows what you mean. He hears the words beneath it.

I want to spend time with you. I want to be here with you and Jack.

Aaron hums, lifting his mug. “I agree. It would be hard on Jack.” It’s a weak excuse.

You nod, but there’s something small in your voice when you admit, “I’d miss you. And I already missed you, and I’m sick of it.”

His chest clenches.

He doesn’t let himself think—he’s done too much thinking—just presses a kiss to your temple, lingering for a second longer than he needs to.

“I’m sick of missing you, too.” He nuzzles into the space just beneath your ear, his breath warm against your skin. You used his body wash. It does something to him.

“And I am not done with you yet.” His fingers ghost over your hip, tapping lightly over the marks he left there last night. They did, in fact, move from little pressure marks to dark, shadowed, perfect impressions of his fingers. He’d feel bad, maybe, if you hadn’t grinned at them like a prize this morning, stretching and twisting in front of the mirror, tracing over them with your fingertips.

“Oh my god, you did!” You twist, craning to see, and the sight alone nearly brings him to his knees. He watches you in the mirror, the way your brows lift in something close to delight, the way your lips part as you shift your weight, testing the ache.

Then, a slow grin as you straighten, tilting your chin up, running your hands over your skin, mapping out the places where he claimed you.

There’s something almost reverent in the way you touch them, the way you admire his handiwork in the mirror. A quiet appreciation that sends a pulse of heat straight through him.

You pull at the collar of his shirt, revealing your chest along with your throat. Red and purple bloom in impressive, but not worrisome, swatches. You press a fingertip to one, watching the color shift, the tender skin giving under your touch. “Holy shit.”

Aaron steps in behind you, his hands resting lightly at your waist. He bends to kiss the exposed line of your throat, just under your jaw, his voice low and amused against your skin. “Sorry,” he murmurs, dragging it out. “I got excited.”

Your breath catches, but you barely hesitate, firm and authoritative. “Do not apologize.” Your voice drops, almost like you’re talking to yourself, like it’s dawning on you in real time. “That’s so hot.”

Aaron groans. Fuck. He agrees.

The way you inhale sharply now, as his fingers trace absently over the bruises he left behind, makes his pulse jump. His grip tightens, just slightly, and he leans in, letting his lips ghost over your jaw, over the curve of your cheek, murmuring low against your skin—

“I could spend all day admiring my work.”

Your breath stutters, just for a second. “You should.”

His restraint fractures. Just a little.

“…And that’s convenient.” Your voice is a little rough, a little teasing. “I’m not done with you, either. And I wouldn’t want all your hard work to go to waste.”

His coffee is forgotten.

Aaron sets the mug aside, tipping your chin up with his fingers, his touch featherlight, like he’s savoring the moment before he indulges. His breath skims over your lips, the tension between you thrumming, electric, but there’s something else too—something softer, something that’s been waiting too long.

“I love you.”

Before you can respond, he closes the space.

It’s slow, deliberate, the kind of kiss that leaves no room for questions, that lingers with the weight of everything unspoken.

And then—

The sound of keys in the lock.

You barely pull away before he chases your lips again, stealing one last kiss before sighing against your mouth and standing to his feet.

The door swings open, and Jack barrels inside, his backpack slipping from his shoulders.

“Dad!”

Aaron barely has time to brace himself before Jack launches that tiny body into his arms. He lifts him effortlessly, catching him and swinging him up in one smooth motion. Jack’s arms lock around his neck, small fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.

The momentum fades, but Jack clings to him just as tight. You press your fingers to your lips, still tingling, watching as Jack clings to his dad, all arms and laughter and unfiltered joy.

And Aaron holds him. Just holds him.

The relief is staggering.

For five months, he imagined this moment, feared that it might not be the same, that Jack might feel the distance, that he might—

Jack pulls back just enough to look at him, his little hands pressing against Aaron’s cheeks. His face scrunches up immediately.

“Your beard is scratchy.”

Aaron laughs, pressing his nose to Jack’s cheek until he shrieks with laughter. “Do you like it?”

Jack wrinkles his nose in an exaggerated grimace. That’s answer enough.

But then, his attention shifts.

The moment he registers you standing nearby, his face lights up. Jack gasps, immediately squirming out of Aaron’s arms before launching into yours.

Aaron watches as you catch him without hesitation, tucking him against you like he belongs there.

He does.

Jack sends his dad a wary glance. “Dad’s beard makes him look funny.”

You suppress a smile, leaning in conspiratorially. “He doesn’t really look like himself, does he?”

Jack shakes his head, giggling.

Aaron huffs, exaggerating his betrayal. You’ve damn near stolen his son, and now you two are ganging up on him. But he watches the two of you, warmth curling in his chest. For a second, he lets himself picture it—something permanent, something real.

Jack already adores you. That much is undeniable.

You press a kiss to Jack’s head before setting him down, sending him off to put his backpack away. He watches as you collect the coffee mugs from the living room and disappear into the kitchen, giving him and Jess a moment.

It’s another small thing, but he notices.

You do that a lot.

Give him space when he needs it, without being asked.

His gaze flicks to Jess, who’s watching you, too. She’s been a lifeline, the closest thing Jack has had to a mother since Haley, steady and loving in a way Aaron will never have the words to thank her for. But she’s his aunt, not his mother. And as much as she loves Jack, that was never her role to fill.

And then, there’s you.

The thought sneaks up on him before he can stop it.

Jack has never looked to Emily like this. Or JJ. Or Penelope. But is that because of who they are? Or because of who he is?

Aaron swallows. His worst quality, Emily once said, was that he trusts men more than women. He’d dismissed it at the time, not because he thought it was untrue, but because it was something he didn’t want to be true. Had it still been true, in the end? Maybe. Maybe not.

But there’s a difference between trust and expectation.

He has never expected the women in his life to raise his son. He has always expected that of himself. And yet—you have always been here. You, with your steady hands and your quick wit and your deep, unfaltering well of patience for Jack’s questions. You, your steady attendance at every soccer game and your ease in his home. You, who never once stepped into Haley’s space but have built your own.

His fingers flex at his sides. He lets out a slow breath.

Jack has already decided. He made his choice months ago, when he started asking for you before bed, when he ran to you first after soccer games, when he looked up from his drawings and said, This one’s for you.

God he’s an idiot. If he hadn’t been such a fool, maybe he would’ve realized sooner.

Aaron barely has time to catch his breath and process the thought before Jess is pulling him into a tight embrace, wrapping him up like she’s anchoring him in place.

He lets himself sink into it.

It’s been too long.

She’s the closest thing he has to a sister, and he’s missed her, more than he let himself acknowledge before now.

“Welcome back,” she murmurs against his shoulder.

“Thanks, Jess.” He swallows, voice thick with something he doesn’t name. “For everything.”

She huffs a little laugh, shaking her head as she pulls back just enough to look at him. “Don’t be ridiculous.” She squeezes his arms, her touch warm and familiar. “It was so special, getting all this time with him. It flew by.”

Aaron nods, his chest tight. “It means a lot.”

Jess just scoffs, swatting at his shoulder. “Of course it does.” Her tone softens as she tips her head. “You don’t owe me anything, Aaron. You know that.”

He does.

But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to say it.

Before he can, Jack comes barreling back into the room, all but vibrating with excitement. “Dad, Dad, Dad, you missed so much!”

Aaron grins, crouching to meet him at eye level. “Yeah?” He braces himself as Jack launches forward again, throwing his arms around his father’s neck.

Jack barely gives him a second before pulling back, eyes wide with the enormity of all the things he has to tell him. “Okay, okay, so first—” He holds up a small hand, like he needs Aaron to focus. “Camp was so cool. There was a lake and a zipline and a huge bonfire and my counselor’s name was Jungle Jim—all the counselors had funny names.”

Aaron nods, completely enraptured. “Jungle Jim, huh? Sounds like a good guy.”

Jack nods so hard his honey brown hair bounces. “Yeah, and then after that, we went to the museum—the little one with all the planes on the ceiling!” He grabs Aaron’s hand like he needs him to understand. Aaron can hear your voice in his description of the Udvar-Hazy Center. It’s not like it’s a catchy name or anything.

“I got to stand under the Blackbird, Dad. The real one.”

Aaron’s throat goes tight. He knows.

Jack is still going. “And then I started school, and I got to pick out my own backpack and my teacher is Ms. Vasquez, and she lets us read the big kid books if we want to, and my best friend is Colin, and guess who else is in my class?”

Aaron shakes his head, smiling. “Who?”

Jack takes a dramatic pause. “Sophie.”

Aaron lifts a brow. “Sophie from soccer?”

Jack nods solemnly. “We’re friends at school now, too.”

Aaron pretends to be impressed. It is an accomplishment for a five year old. “That’s a pretty big deal.”

Jack beams. “I know.” Then, his eyes widen again, like he’s just remembered something crucial. “Oh! And I made a rocket in art class.” He twists toward Jess. “Auntie Jess, can I show him my rocket?”

She laughs. “Of course, buddy. I think we put it on the shelf in your room.”

Jack gasps. “Be right back!”

Aaron watches as he takes off down the hall, his little feet pattering against the floor.

Jess nudges his arm. “You good?”

Aaron exhales, still looking toward the hall, the sounds of his son rustling through his things drifting back toward them.

The ache in his chest is bittersweet. Five months is a long time, especially for a five (almost six) year old. He missed so much. Jack looks different, like he’s turning into a little person, in that way children do.

But Jack is here. He’s here, and he’s happy, and he still clings to Aaron’s hand like a lifeline. Or, at least he would, if he wasn’t retrieving a rocket.

Aaron nods. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Yeah, I’m good.”

He lets himself believe it.

+++

Later, after Jack disappears into his room and Jess takes her leave, Aaron finds you in the bedroom, propped up against the headboard with your laptop.

He crosses the room, stretching out across the bed to reach you.

You glance up, startled when he cups your face in his palm and presses a soft kiss to your lips.

When he pulls back, there’s something wide and unguarded in your gaze.

His brow furrows slightly, his lips curving just at the corner. “What?”

You hesitate. “I just—” Your fingers slip into his hair at his temple, your nails scraping lightly against his scalp.

A shiver runs down his spine before you even finish your thought. He is, unfortunately, touch-starved. The softest of your attentions set his nervous system alight.

“I don’t usually get what I want.”

It isn’t dramatic. You don’t say it like you’re expecting pity. But he feels it anyway, the weight of it settling deep.

Because he knows. Because he’s never been someone to get what he wants, either.

But this—you—no.

You will want for nothing, he decides. Not while he’s here. Not while he can help it.

His throat works around a swallow as he takes your hand in his, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to your palm. Then, with quiet certainty, he folds your fingers closed over the touch, like he’s sealing something in place.

His voice is low, steady. “Well… we’ll work on that.”

You try not to smile.

You fail.

Aaron brushes a thumb over your knuckles before shifting, glancing toward the door. “We’ve got LEGOs in Jack’s room when you’re done here.”

You hum, fingertips trailing along his scalp. “Oh, not to keep you, but while you’re here…” You draw him forward again, brushing your lips against his. “I’ll make you a deal.”

His mouth is still on yours when he murmurs, “Mm?”

You lean back slightly, appraising. “Shave the beard to appease your son, but keep the hair long.”

His breath leaves him in a quiet huff the second your fingers wind into the shorter strands at his nape.

Then, you tug. Sharp, deliberate. Heat jolts straight down his spine, molten and immediate, like a struck match catching on kindling.

Jesus.

His jaw clenches, his grip tightening where his hand still rests on your thigh. He knew he likes being pushed around a little but this is another level. And now he’s fully, achingly hard in an instant.

You did that. So easily.

He schools his expression, but it’s a difficult endeavor. His voice is lower, rougher when he asks, “What did I say about starting things you can’t finish?”

Instead of answering, you grin, all smug satisfaction. Then, without warning, you kiss him again—slow, filthy, all tongue, a deliberate tease against the ache you just put there. And with a pointed little shove, you push him away.

He’s drawn back to you like a magnet, heat still thrumming under his skin, but you hold him back with a single finger in the middle of his chest.

Your voice is light. Sweet. Too swwet.

“To not to?”

Aaron exhales through his nose, forcing restraint back into his bones. But it’s a process. His jaw shifts, his hands flex, and most inconvenient of all—he’s still fucking hard.

Fantastic. Very family friendly behavior, here.

He clenches his jaw as he stands, thinking of Virginia traffic code.

He reaches for the door.

He adjusts, subtle but necessary.

+++

By the end of the evening, Jack’s bedroom is littered with an entire fleet of LEGO vehicles. Some are perfectly intact, displayed proudly on the shelf. Others are in various states of disrepair, casualties of playtime, waiting to be rebuilt.

You sit near Jack on the floor, ankles crossed, helping Jack reassemble a downed ally—he fell off the shelf and his wing detached. The two of you move in sync—your voices low, easy, familiar.

With a lack of difficulty that soothed his anxieties about his age, Aaron also sat on the ground, leaning against the doorframe, feet extended, ankles crossed, just like you. His feet move from side to side—an adaptation, as he’s unable to bounce his knee from here.

Aaron lets himself breathe.

Dinner had been a quiet affair—sandwiches and vegetables, eaten on the floor of Jack’s room. He didn’t fight it. He figures he’ll be a pushover for the next few days at least, making up for lost time.

And God, he has missed this. Missed home.

“Alright, bud. Time for bed.” He pushes off the doorframe, gathering the empty plates as Jack lets out an exaggerated sigh, flopping onto his back in protest.

You barely look up, your voice both light, almost sing-song, and authoritative. “We had a deal, Jack.”

Jack grumbles, but doesn’t argue. The finished LEGO creations go onto the bookshelf, the rest tucked neatly back into their bin. You don’t even have to think about it. You know where everything belongs.

Aaron returns a few minutes later, wearing a soft white shirt and a pair of sweatpants. He lingers in the doorway, watching you tidy up with Jack. The way you are with him is easy.

You’ve been here. You’ve been in his space. More than that—you’ve made it your space, too. Not in a way that replaced him. Not in a way that erased him. In a way that held him, even in his absence.

It strikes him suddenly, painfully, how much of Jack’s life he’s already missed. How many bedtimes. How many Saturday mornings. How many moments like this—quiet and easy and full of the kind of love that doesn’t need to be spoken to be understood.

Jack doesn’t hesitate with you. Doesn’t second-guess his place in your world. It’s natural. Effortless.

He leaves, tearing himself away to handle the plates and tidy the kitchen a little, clearing the sink and filling the dishwasher to run overnight. He returns to his son’s room. You’re just shoving the lego bin under the bed, on your knees, bent at the hip, an arm bracing you. He really does his damnedest to keep his eyes off your ass. It’s really hard.

You toss Jack’s pajamas from the drawer, and he catches them with a little smile. “Get those on, little bug. Dad will be back in to read you a chapter, okay?”

Jack nods, but before you can stand, he tugs at your hand, pulling you closer.

“Are you sleeping over?” His voice is quiet. Careful.

Aaron feels the breath catch in his chest.

Your eyes flick up to him before answering. “I think so, but I’m not sure.” Then, with a smile just for him—just for him—you add, “I think we should ask Dad if that’s alright.”

Jack immediately twists in your arms, looking at Aaron with wide, expectant eyes. “Daddy, can we have a sleepover?”

Aaron’s heart lurches.

Two sets of doe eyes look up at him from under lashes. Jack’s little body is tucked against yours, your arms wrapped around him like you belong there—like you always have.

And the thing is—you do.

Aaron’s lips tug into a smile, fond and familiar. “Yeah, we can have a sleepover.”

“Yes!” Jack breaks free of your hold and takes off down the hall.

Aaron doesn’t even have time to react before you’re moving, standing fluidly, closing the space between you.

“Sleepover?” you murmur, tilting your head up at him.

His hands find your waist, settling there without thought. “Mhmm.” He presses a kiss to your temple, lingering for just a moment before pulling you in fully.

And he could stay like this. He wants to stay like this.

But Jack returns in a flurry of footsteps, all energy and excitement, and you slip out of Aaron’s arms before he can protest, crouching to catch him as he launches himself at you.

The warmth in Aaron’s chest is almost unbearable.

Jack tucks himself against you, his tiny hands gripping your shirt as you pepper his cheeks with kisses. He dissolves into giggles, wiggling against you before you set him back on his feet and steer him toward the bed.

He scuttles under the covers, barely waiting for you to tuck him in before he mumbles, “I love you.”

You smile, smoothing his hair back from his forehead. “I love you, too.”

Aaron watches, something raw pulling at the edges of his heart.

He doesn’t question it anymore.

With one last kiss to Jack’s forehead, you straighten and slip past Aaron, disappearing down the hall.

Aaron settles onto the bed beside his son, feeling the quiet weight of home settle into his spirit. Jack curls against his side without hesitation. Aaron picks up the book—one he doesn’t recognize. Another thing he missed.

He exhales, adjusting the weight of it in his hands, and starts to read.

Through the open door, he can hear the soft rustle of blankets, the sound of you curling up in his bed. The quiet comfort of your presence in his home.

“...’My father thought the cat was talking just to hear itself talk.’” Aaron reads. He moves the book so Jack can see his face. “Like Uncle Dave, maybe?”

Jack laughs.

Jack’s eyelids grow heavier with every word as Aaron continues to read the short chapter. Aaron’s voice drops into something softer, steadier, something he hopes will keep this moment here.

He flicks off the hallway light and murmurs, “Since the grown-ups don’t have work in the morning, we’re all gonna sleep in.”

Jack hums sleepily turning over under his NASA comforter, the little rockets shifting on the fabric.

Yeah, sure.

The door clicks shut behind him, and for a moment, Aaron just stands there, watching you in the dark.

You’re curled beneath his sheets, eyes closed, chest rising and falling in slow, even breaths. He doesn’t want to wake you if you’ve already drifted off—but before he can slip quietly into bed, your voice reaches him through the dark.

“Aaron?”

His restraint frays at the edges. Always does when you say his name like that. Like it belongs to you.

He moves without thinking, reaching for you in the dark. The second your fingers lace through his, some of the tension eases from his spine. “Yeah?”

You hesitate. Then, with a sigh, you squeeze his hand, like you’re making a decision. “I still don’t like it, but I understand it.”

It takes him a beat to process what you mean.

Emily.

Relief cuts through his chest, sharp and swift. You don’t have to forgive him—not yet, maybe not ever—but you understand. And for now, that’s enough.

“I hated lying to you,” he murmurs, settling onto the mattress beside you, feeling the warmth of your body just inches away. “I think it was the hardest thing I ever had to do.” He exhales, lets the honesty settle between you. “If there had been any other way…”

He trails off. You know. Of course you know.

Then, you shift closer, tucking yourself against his chest, and fuck—he barely holds in the sigh that threatens to leave him. The weight of you against him, the warmth of your breath against his throat, the way you fit against him—it settles something inside him. Eases something so deep he didn’t even realize it was still aching.

God, he missed this.

His capacity for denial must be legendary, wrapping you up in his arms like this in the spring, rationalizing it as something friends do.

What a moron.

You sigh, your breath warm against his collarbone. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I know.”

He takes a breath.

“There will always be things I can’t tell you.” His forehead brushes against yours, and you nod, understanding before he even finishes the thought. “But I swear—I will never let you believe something like that again. If you ask me a question I can’t answer, I’ll tell you. If you ask me if you know everything I know, I’ll be honest about that, too.”

It feels like a vow. Maybe it is.

Then, softer, “I will be as open as possible about the things I can’t be open about.”

Your fingers drift up, brushing lightly over his jaw, tilting his face slightly so you can see him even in the dim light.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

And Aaron can’t help it. He kisses you.

The warmth of your kiss spreads between them, slow at first, then deeper, hungrier. His fingers trace down your spine, his body pressing closer, seeking you without thought.

Then, you break apart, foreheads still pressed together, panting slightly in the darkness.

Torture.

Aaron closes his eyes, pressing a slow kiss to the corner of your mouth. A promise. A prayer.

“What do you want?” His voice is rough, low, loaded. He doesn’t need to ask. He already knows. But he wants to hear you say it.

He drops down to your throat, dragging his lips along your skin, sucking just under your jaw. Your breath catches—then you roll your center against his thigh, slotted between your legs.

His fingers dig into your hip.

Fuck.

He wasn’t expecting that.

Your lower lip disappears into your mouth, and your body shifts again, dragging your core over his thigh.

“Fuck.” It’s a whisper, but it wrecks him.

His eyes darken, his fingers tightening their grip before he shoves up into you, his thigh pressing right there—he feels the heat of you even through the fabric. Your body shudders.

His voice is pure gravel. “What—” He grips your ass roughly, increasing the pressure as you grind down onto him, panting into his skin. “—do you want?”

He already knows the answer.

But, God, he needs to hear you beg for it.

You could probably come just like this. He can feel it, the way your body rocks in smooth, deliberate rhythm, the way your slick soaks through your underwear onto his sweatpants, marking him. But that’s not enough. Not yet.

Your voice is tight, near breathless. “I need you.”

He doesn’t stop guiding your hips against him, doesn’t let you slow. He lets you use him, lets you chase it, watching as your breath stutters every time your clit drags against him just right.

“I think I’ll keep you right here,” he mutters, his voice thick, possessive. His grip tightens at your hips, a sharp tug in time with his leg rising just enough—

You gasp, biting your lip to hold back the cry. And he grins. “Until you’re begging for my cock.”

Jesus. Where’d that one come from?

Never in his life has he been so bossy or crass in bed. Maybe you just bring it out of him.

He feels your breath hitch, feels the way you clench around nothing at the words alone.

It worked. Noted.

“Aaron, please.” It’s a whisper, but it’s shattered. You drop your head to his shoulder, grinding harder against him, desperate for more.

With every pass, your own thigh brushes the hard line of his cock. He inhales sharply, his jaw locked, barely keeping himself from rutting up into you like a desperate man.

You’re so wet—he can feel you through the fabric, soaking him, making a mess of him.

His own restraint is slipping.

He presses down with his hands, up with his thigh, watching as you writhe against him, lost in it. The sounds you’re making—stifled whimpers against his collarbone—fuck. He can’t get enough.

“I need you,” you gasp, your fingers threading into his hair, your hips rolling fast and even.

He exhales a rough laugh, breath hot against your skin. “You’re gonna have to do better than that.”

Your body jolts as his lips brush your ear, breath hot, teasing. His voice drops, thick and sinful.

“I want to watch you come right here.” He slows his movements, just slightly, and you whine. “I want you to know I don’t even have to touch you to make you feel good.”

Your fingers tighten in his hair, your panting breath loud in his ear. “I already know that,” you tell him, breathless. “You’re the only one who’s gotten me off almost every night for the last four years.”

His whole body freezes.

You’re shitting me.

A sharp roll of your hips. “And you didn’t lay a hand on me until last night.”

Fuck.

Something feral slams through him, something raw and consuming.

How many nights had you been thinking of him? How many times had you slipped your fingers between your legs, touched yourself, had you fallen apart with his name on your lips?

And he’d been suffering all alone, unaware that you had wanted him just as much.

His grip bruises at your waist. His restraint fractures.

“Fuck, I love you,” he breathes, kissing your forehead, his lips at your temple, at your cheek. He needs to consume you, needs to make up for every second. “I love you.”

You’re close. He knows it. Feels it. Instead of letting you have it, he slows—just to watch you break.

You freeze.

Your breath catches. Your lips part. Your eyes meet his in the dark, pupils blown.

And then—your body shudders.

Your orgasm snaps through you, your muscles locking up, your breath leaving you in a silent cry. The sight of you like this, undone and desperate in his arms, is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

Aaron watches. Burns it into his mind.

Before you’ve even caught your breath, he rolls, pinning you beneath him, devouring your lips in a slow, lazy kiss.

Your whole body trembles. He relishes it.

His hands slide up your torso, tugging your shirt up and over your head, leaving you bare beneath him.

Then, his gaze drops lower.

The dark, wet spot on his sweatpants. Your arousal. Soaking him.

His brows pull together, his lower lip caught between his teeth. He swears—his cock twitches.

You start to shift away, reaching for your discarded shirt, but no—he’s not letting you go anywhere.

His hands drag you across the bed, pulling you flush against his hips. He feels the heat of you, feels your arousal against his skin as he presses into you from behind.

You barely muffle a gasp behind your hand as he grinds against you, his touch smoothing over your spine, your lower back, before finding your nipples.

He rolls them between his fingers, slow, knowing, drinking in every shudder, every gasp.

“Please,” you whimper.

He leans down, his chest flush against your back, his breath hot at your ear. You roll your hips, seeking him, needing him, but he resists.

His fingers trace lower, finally slipping between your legs. And when he feels how wet you are, how ready—he groans, his forehead pressing to your shoulder.

You’re practically dripping for him.

He swears he whispers your name. Maybe he’s not even aware of it. Your body answers before your lips do—you tip your head back, offering yourself up.

He takes your jaw in his hand, guiding you upright, his lips grazing your ear. “What do you want?”

Your breath shudders. “I want you inside me.”

He inhales sharply. “Are you sure?” His lips trail along your throat, teasing, savoring, while his other hand palms your breast, kneading, rolling.

“Yes. Please.” You huff, realizing too late—he’s made you beg for it after all. “Fuck me, Aaron. Goddamn you.”

His lips curve into a smirk against your skin. “Be nice.”

His fingers part you, guiding his cock between your pussy lips, teasing. Your breath catches, sharp and wanting.

His jaw tightens. The urge to sink into you all at once, to take, to claim, is nearly unbearable.

You spread your legs further, desperate, and he releases his grip on your jaw. The second he does, you fold forward onto your forearms, pushing back against him—impatient.

Aaron exhales through his nose, fighting the heat rushing through him.

He drags the head of his cock through your arousal, watching the way you tremble, feeling every desperate shift of your hips, every sharp breath, the way your body reacts to every little movement.

He’s never had this extreme of an effect on anyone before. You are so wet, so warm, so ready. His restraint is already in shreds, and you haven’t even taken him yet.

You shift, offering, pleading without words. You drop even more, the curve in your spine deepening, pressing your chest to the mattress.

You’re waiting for him.

Needing him.

The base of his spine tightens, heat licking up his nerves. He presses the thick head of his cock against your entrance, just barely sinking in. You shudder—just the barest stretch, and you’re already trembling.

The air leaves his lungs in a single, wrecked breath as he sinks into you, slow and deliberate, savoring every second of it. You’re hot, tight, gripping him like you never want to let go.

You muffle your moan into the duvet, twisting the sheets between your fingers, and his stomach clenches at the sight. His fingers tighten on your hips.

Control. Hold it.

He moves shallowly at first, letting you adjust, dragging out the stretch, the burn. One hand sweeps down your spine, tracing the curve of you, the arch of your back. You’re soft beneath his touch, so goddamn perfect.

“Aaron.” It’s a demand.

You push back against him, taking him all the way, all at once, until your ass meets his thighs.

His jaw locks as your body clenches around him, drawing him impossibly deeper as he instinctively opposes your push with his own. Your breath catches, breaking into a quiet cry, and the sound alone is enough to push him to the edge.

Jesus. Jesus.

He barely holds back the desperate thrust that burns through him, every nerve ending screaming for more.

You whimper. “Please. I need you.”

Fuck.

He snaps.

His hips slam into yours, a sharp, perfect rhythm. Each stroke pulls a helpless sound from your throat. He’s relentless, snapping forward with enough force to drive you into the mattress, holding you exactly where he wants you.

Mine.

The slick, obscene sound of you taking him is nearly enough to finish him then and there.

“You feel so good.” His voice is ruined, torn at the edges. “You take me so well. You’re perfect.”

Bracing yourself, you reach between your legs. He beats you there, circling your clit with his middle finger, already slick. You rest your hand on top of his, guiding his touch.

Your belly tightens, pleasure coiling low. He groans when he feels you clench around him.

“You’re gonna make me come again,” you gasp, breathless, laughing through it.

His pace doesn’t falter. “Good.”

You’re already close—he can feel it in the way you tighten around him, in the way your legs shake, barely able to hold yourself up.

Your body seizes around him, walls fluttering as you break apart beneath him, coming so hard you can’t even make a sound, fucking yourself on him as he meets you in the middle.

God, you’re beautiful.

Aaron watches you shudder, watches you lose yourself, and he knows—this is it. He’s never coming back from this.

From this angle, he can see everything—the way you arch, the way your cum coats his cock, gathering at the base. The visual alone is almost too much. It is too much.

Jesus. Can’t keep that up.

He pulls out and you somehow surprise him again—though why he expects you to do anything else at this point is beyond him. You turn, rising to your knees, capturing his mouth in a kiss so devastating, so shattered, it nearly brings him to his knees.

Aaron falls back on his heels, and you follow, straddling him, sinking down with a satisfied sigh.

His fingers dig into your hips as you roll against him, and fuck, he can’t hold back anymore. He meets every slow, deliberate grind of your hips with a sharp thrust, pushing deeper, deeper, as deep as you’ll let him go.

Your hands frame his face, breath shared between parted lips.

“I—fuck—I need you,” he groans. “Please.”

You tilt your forehead against his, meeting his gaze, voice thick with something unshakable.

“You have me.” Your movements shift, slow and deliberate, rolling your hips in a way that sends his head spinning.

“You’ve always had me.” Then—you tip his chin up, tugging at his hair, whispering against his throat— “Take what’s yours, Aaron.”

Fuck.

Aaron has spent years keeping a tight grip on his thoughts, regulating, controlling, stuffing them down into places where they couldn’t hurt him. Couldn’t betray him. Couldn’t leave him open and bleeding for you to see.

Now, you’re speaking to him like you’ve crawled into his head and made a home there.

Take what’s yours, Aaron.

The words could’ve come from his own goddamn mind. The nights he forced himself to be content with just the sound of your voice over the phone, with the ghost of you in the space beside him, with the ache that never fully went away.

Like you already knew. Like you’ve known all along.

A shudder rips through him.

His fingers curl tighter against your skin, reverent, possessive, like he’s trying to imprint this moment into his memory.

He’s still half-convinced he’s dreaming.

But if he is—then fuck it. Let him. Because in this dream, you’re looking at him like he’s the only thing you’ve ever wanted.

You’re in his arms, around him, over him, guiding him home with your hands in his hair, your lips against his throat, your body wrapped around him like you were made for this, like you were made for him.

“You’ve always had me.”

His breath stutters.

Christ.

He thought he was being watched before, but this? This is like you’re reaching inside him and dragging out every thought he’s ever had, every desire he’s ever buried, every single miserable, lovesick fantasy he’s ever tried to convince himself wasn’t real.

Something in his chest breaks—sharp, clean, final.

He doesn’t even realize he’s moving until your back hits the mattress, until he’s over you, inside you, surrounding you.

He sinks into you again, deeper this time, his forehead pressed to yours. Your body welcomes him, clings to him, takes him like he belongs to you.

He locks an arm around your lower back, cradling you, holding you against him. He moves slow, steady, deep, like he’s memorizing the feel of you, like he’s savoring every second. Desperate sounds spill between you. You breathe together, perfect, in sync.

He kisses you, but neither one of you can keep it up for long, too breathless, too lost. His voice breaks against your skin. “Can you come again?”

You nod, frantic, already teetering on the edge.

His hand slips between you, thumb circling your clit with perfect, practiced precision. He’s been paying attention—he knows exactly what you need.

“Can I cum inside you?” The question rips out of him before he can stop it, raw, desperate, betraying just how far gone he is.

You don’t hesitate. You don’t tease, don’t hold back, don’t make him suffer for it. You just kiss him, like the answer was never in question, like it was always his to take.

"I told you to take what’s yours, didn’t I?"

It hits him harder than the first time.

Because if there was even a fraction of him still holding back, still clinging to the fear, still thinking he needed to ask—

You just took that last piece of resistance and shattered it. He chokes out a groan, gripping you tight, his fingers digging into your hips, his vision blurring at the edges.

Do you even realize what you’ve done? Do you know what it means?

How long he’s wanted this—wanted you—how many times he’s had to bite down on his own desires, force himself to be careful, to be restrained, to keep his hands off what he thought wasn’t his?

But you’re telling him otherwise. You’re telling him he never had to hold back. That you belong to him, that you always have.

And fuck—he can feel it, feel it in the way your body clenches around him, pulling him deeper, like your body is demanding he give you everything, all of him.

He doesn’t stand a chance.

“You’re mine,” he growls, his voice ruined, and it’s not a question, not a request, It’s a claim.

Your eyes lock with his, and then—you shatter. Your body locks up, then breaks apart around him, dragging him under with you.

His vision whites out. His breath stops. He’s spilling inside you, filling you, his body seizing, his name caught somewhere between your lips and a sigh.

It’s perfect. He never stood a chance.

You sigh into the corner of his mouth, your fingers trailing gently down his spine. “Yours.”

Aaron groans softly, pressing his face to your neck, catching his breath.

You whisper it again, and this time—this time, it doesn’t feel like an echo. “All yours.”

+++ september 23rd, 2011

Jack, ever the gift, sleeps late the next morning, so Aaron has more time than he expected.

You’re draped over him, warm and pliant, the soft weight of your body grounding him in a way he never realized he needed. His fingers trace slow, absentminded circles on your back. He listens to your breathing, the small shifts of your body as you settle deeper into him, and he thinks—

This is what he was missing.

This right here.

Not the sex. Not the intimacy of last night, though Christ, that was something. But this. The weight of you against him, the simplicity of waking up together, the comfort of shared space. The easy silence.

He missed it, and he didn’t even know how much.

He exhales, deciding if he keeps putting it off, he won't do it. “Can I tell you something?”

You hum, lazy and content, your fingers mapping out the scars scattered across his chest, tracing each ridge and valley. “Of course.”

Aaron pauses, his thumb sweeping over your spine. “I can’t believe you’re not more upset with me over Emily.”

There’s a beat of silence. He feels the shift in your breathing before you answer.

“I just understand it, you know?” you say, your voice soft. “You explained yourself rather elegantly, and now I’m over the initial shock of it, I’m fine. Also,” you add, tilting your head to look at him, “it’s a rule, right? If you have a secret, keep it to yourself. Second best, tell one other person. There is no third best.”

His brow lifts, a small, almost-smile tugging at his mouth. "Jenny got to you."

There's something fond in his voice, something aching. He misses her, more than he lets himself acknowledge most of the time. A colleague, a friend, someone he'd worked with and respected deeply, someone he once shielded from danger. The invocation of her rule—Gibbs’s rule—moves him in a way he wasn’t expecting, a bittersweet echo of a friendship lost too soon.

You tip your head in an admission of guilt.

That easy flicker of humor fades as you sit up, shifting just enough to meet his eyes fully. The warmth remains, but your expression turns serious. “It’s the Pakistan bullshit that got to me.”

His throat bobs as he swallows. "Yeah." He presses a kiss to your temple, but his jaw tightens almost immediately. He debates, just for a moment, whether to leave it at that. Whether to let it sit, let it dissolve into the quiet of the morning, now that you're not shutting him out anymore.

But that would be dishonest. And he owes you more than that.

So he exhales, slow and deliberate, and admits, "I still don't feel great about that."

Neither do you, if the way you burrow into his neck is anything to go by. He feels your breath against his skin, your fingers flexing slightly where they rest against his chest. He almost wishes you’d yell at him, rather than soften against him like this.

“Why didn’t you tell us?”

Your voice isn’t harsh, but it isn’t gentle, either. It’s careful. Measured. The way you are when you want the truth, when you need to hear it plainly. You've heard it with local law enforcement, with witnesses, with unsubs. Hell, you've even turned it on Derek.

He better understands why people tend to answer you promptly.

Aaron sighs, his hand tightening against your back. He’s rehearsed this conversation a dozen times, sitting alone in various desert locales, running through every possible way he could explain himself. But now that you’re here, warm and real in his arms, none of it feels right. He can’t give you something practiced, something mechanical—he has to be honest, completely and utterly, or he risks losing you for good.

“There wasn’t a good time to tell you when I found out I got the assignment,” he starts, carefully, deliberately. “And then I kept putting it off and putting it off. The longer I waited, the more difficult it became.” His jaw tightens. “It was selfish of me. I couldn’t face telling you, especially when I didn’t know how long I would be gone.”

You shift again, tilting your head, and Aaron already knows you’re about to press deeper.

“Got it…or chose it?”

Aaron releases you to drag a hand down his face, sighing. It’s humiliating, to lay it out like this, to admit he deliberately chose to put an ocean between you because he couldn’t bear to look you in the eye and lie. He could justify it, sure—he just did, he will—but he still feels like a coward. "God, I’m an idiot."

“So…you chose it?”

He nods, stiff and wildly uncomfortable.

There’s silence for a second, but he doesn’t let it linger. He needs you to know, to understand why he did what he did, why, in his mind, the only way to atone was to suffer the way you did. Why he thought distance was the answer, when all it really did was make everything worse.

“When I got the list of options, for all of us,” he starts, his voice quieter now, “it had been two months since Emily. It was so fresh, and I couldn’t mourn with you—share it in the same way.” He pauses. “I didn’t know how long it would take to find Doyle, and I knew I couldn’t keep up the lie when I had to look you in the eye every day.”

You study him, quiet for a moment. Then, understanding. “You needed an out.”

Aaron nods, relief threading through his chest at how quickly you seem to understand—how you seem to get why he made the decision, as flawed as it was in theory and practice at the time. “I needed an out.”

You let that sit between you, but it isn’t long before your face twists slightly. “…Pakistan?” You pull a face.

He almost smiles at your incredulity—Pakistan? Like he had his pick of cushy field office assignments and went out of his way to choose the hardest, most isolating option. And, well—he kind of did. But it wasn’t that simple.

Effectively reading his mind, you continue. “Not… Atlanta, or Chicago, or…” You grasp at field offices. “…San Francisco? Like, rural Pakistan isn’t hell, but you can see it from there.”

“You could say the same about San Francisco,” he mutters. He knows it’s a bad joke before the words even finish leaving his mouth. "Sorry."

He takes another breath, forcing himself to sort through his reasoning the way he had back then. It felt so logical at the time. The distance was necessary. But it wasn’t just distance. He needed to be somewhere out of reach, somewhere he couldn’t be pulled back from easily. And yet, he also needed to be somewhere he could leave at a moment’s notice if Doyle resurfaced. Pakistan checked both boxes.

“Distance was a necessity,” he starts, voice low, measured. “But so was accessibility. Pakistan was an option that was both distant and inaccessible.” He pauses, knowing there’s more, but debating whether to say it.

"And the per diem and hazard stipend didn’t hurt,” he adds, glancing down at you. “Jack has quite a bit from the settlement for Haley, but I was able to pad it.” It’s not a particularly romantic thing to say, but he trusts you with it—trusts you with all of it.

Money is usually a tasteless topic, but in his mind, there’s an inevitability to this conversation, to all conversations like this. One day—God willing—you’ll be inextricably involved in his life, his family, his home. His finances. The future he pictures always has you in it. So why shouldn’t he tell you the truth?

Hazard pay and deployment stipends are tax-free. And 2.5% of his salary. Every day.

He more than doubled his income for the year in the four months he was gone.

He continues. “I felt like—I felt like I could—”

“—Provide?” you finish for him.

He nods, swallowing. “Exactly.” It had been a way to justify the decision, another factor to make it seem rational, selfless, necessary. “I could justify it.”

And yet, even now, saying it out loud, it feels like an excuse.

For a moment, he thinks that’s the end of it. That you’ll let it settle and move on, that you understand enough now to put it to rest.

But you lift your head, eyes fixed on the scar under his collarbone rather than his face, and he knows you’re not done.

“You told Derek you were coming home,” you say. There’s no accusation in your voice, just quiet observation. But it makes his stomach sink all the same. “You talked… to Derek.”

He should have seen this one coming. His fingers stutter against your back, for the briefest moments.

There is a certain insult to injury, from where you’re standing, that he talked to Morgan about coming home—someone with whom he has a wildly complicated relationship, and by no means a communicative one, typically—and didn’t tell you. He also didn’t explicitly direct Morgan to tell you, to warn you.

In hindsight, Morgan would have been the best option to break the news, to prepare for the shock of it. He loves how close you are to Derek. He couldn’t have handpicked a better ally, a more steadfast companion, a more committed protector. Failing to purposefully and explicitly direct Morgan prohibited him from sharing anything that could endanger OPSEC, including his trip home, put both of them in a tough spot.

There’s another stab of guilt. Hopefully you weren’t too upset with your dearest friend.

You press on, softer now, more careful. “And you and I had our calls, too, of course. Scheduled. Predictable. I know you tried, Aaron. I know you did.” You swallow, and when you look at him, there’s something raw and unguarded in your gaze that makes his throat go tight. “But it wasn’t enough, and I don’t think I even knew why at the time.”

He doesn’t speak. He can’t, not yet. He just listens, his chest tightening with every word.

“Every time I had that phone, it was an echo of you, but you weren’t really there,” you say, voice quieter now. “I could ask how you were, but I knew you couldn’t tell me.” You sigh, like you’re steadying yourself. “I could hear your voice, but I couldn’t feel you. It was like I was watching you walk across that tarmac all over again, every time we said goodbye.”

He remembers the first call you had after he left. How your voice had sounded the same—familiar, warm—but something about it had felt off, like a song played at the wrong tempo. He thought he could adjust, could fix it somehow. That if he stayed steady, if he was just consistent, ‘generally fine,’ you’d be okay. You’d both be okay.

Aaron shifts you on his lap, his hold instinctive, steadying. He needs you close for this—for you to hear him, to see him. His hand settles on your thigh, thumb smoothing back and forth in an unconscious attempt to soothe, to ground.

“And that’s not really fair to you,” you say, your voice softer now, but no less firm. “I can’t imagine what it was like to be out there alone. I knew they were monitoring the calls. You were following protocol with everything.” Your mouth twists, something bitter catching in your expression. “But you never… you never said anything about it. You never told me you were coming home. Derek could have told me you were coming home.”

Aaron inhales sharply, measured and slow. He flexes his fingers against your skin before tightening his grip, his body going just a little tenser beneath you. “It was need to know.”

The second the words leave his mouth, he knows they won’t land the way he wants them to.

Your stare is sharp, unrelenting.

He doesn’t hold your gaze. Can’t. Instead, his eyes drop, his focus shifting to the space between you, to his lap, anywhere but you.

There’s no fight left in him. He knows you’re right.

But you’re not done. He knows you’re not done.

“I kept waiting for you to mention it,” you continue, voice quieter now, though it only makes it worse. “Or validate it, or—” You pause, like you’re bracing yourself. “I wanted you to acknowledge how much it sucked. I kept waiting for you to tell me it was killing you, too.”

Aaron’s throat goes tight. His chest aches.

You drop your gaze, but he can still see the mist in your eyes, the way you blink a little too fast. “But you didn’t. I was alone in it.” You swallow hard, and when you speak again, your voice is barely above a whisper. “You just let me miss you.”

Aaron tips his head back against the headboard, the thunk of it grounding, almost jarring. He closes his eyes.

He doesn’t know what he thought this conversation would be. He rehearsed a hundred versions of it in his head, but none of them accounted for this—for the sheer weight of what he’d done. The damage he didn’t even realize he was causing at the time.

His voice is rough, stripped bare. “I did.” He keeps his eyes away from you, cowardice winning over his desire to punish himself.

“And I shouldn’t have.”

He takes another breath, slow and measured, but it doesn’t help. His pulse is too fast, his chest tight, and before he can even process it, you press your palm flat against his sternum.

Your head tilts slightly, eyes narrowing just a little. “Did you take your meds?”

He blinks rapidly, caught completely off guard. He hadn’t even realized just how fast his heart was racing until you pressed your hand against his chest. The concern in your voice throws him—knocks him sideways. Not because you’re asking, but because you know to ask.

Because you remember. Because even after everything, after five months apart, after every mile and mistake between you, you’re still paying attention to him.

He blinks, rapidly, caught off guard. “I—um—” His voice comes out unsteady, and he clears his throat. “I take them with breakfast,” he says quickly.

“Right.” You nod, your expression softening slightly. “Sorry.”

He waves you off, searching once again for his train of thought.

The pause stretches between you, heavy and thick, before he clears his throat again. His voice is still rough when he finally speaks. “I thought about it every time we hung up.” He swallows, eyes lifting toward the ceiling as if it might help him find the words. “I wanted to tell you—to tell you how much I missed you, how much I hated being so far from you—from all of you—” He cuts himself off, jaw clenching, breath hitching. “I hated it.”

Your voice is small, stunned and demanding. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

He looks at you then, finally, and the regret in his eyes is something deep and unshakable. “I didn’t want you to worry.”

And for the first time in a long time, Aaron Hotchner realizes how badly he miscalculated. He’s known the whole time that he fucked up, sure, but the magnitude of his incorrect assumptions hit him like a brick to the face.

He exhales, slow and steady, trying to collect himself. “It was already hard,” he admits, his voice quieter now. “I thought if—if you didn’t know how hard it was for me, it would be easier for you.”

His hands find your face, cradling you gently, grounding himself in the warmth of your skin. “The last thing I wanted to do was make you feel alone. I thought about you and Jack constantly, missed you the second I woke up to the minute I fell asleep.”

And yet, he had left you alone anyway.

The thought strikes him like a hammer, reverberating in his chest. You were alone. And he was the one who left.

Your gaze searches his, and he feels stripped bare beneath it. You’ve seen the guilt and remorse in him for days now, but there’s something different in your expression this time. You see it now—not just the regret, but the recognition.

The confession leaves you in a whisper. “I just needed you to miss me out loud.”

Aaron’s breath catches.

Fuck.

You’re embarrassed by saying it—he can see it in the way you hesitate, in the thin, almost self-conscious smile you offer as if you expect him to think less of you for it. But God, if anything, it’s the opposite.

Because this is what he should have understood all along. This is what he failed to see while he was drowning in his own self-recrimination, too preoccupied with his own failings to realize that you never doubted him. Not once.

You pause, as if trying to lighten the weight of it. “And you suffered for nothing—I worried about you anyway.”

Aaron closes his eyes, resting his forehead against yours, forcing himself to breathe through the sudden tightness in his chest. “It broke me—the way you looked at me when I came back, like you didn’t know if you should hit me or run.”

You hadn’t yelled at him. You hadn’t told him off, hadn’t demanded an explanation. That would have been easier, in a way. Instead, you had just looked at him—furious, devastated, wary—like you had braced yourself for disappointment, like you were trying to reconcile the person in front of you with the person you thought you knew.

And now, now, he realizes that it wasn’t just about Emily. It wasn’t about the lie, or the mission, or the months of isolation.

It was about him.

He had chosen to go, but you had stayed. You could have taken a transfer, could have left with Ashley, left when the team halved, could have moved on.

But you didn’t.

And the weight of that—of realizing that you were stronger than him in this way, that you had believed in the foundation of the team, believed in him, more than he had—it wrecks him.

His hand moves to your cheek, his thumb sweeping back and forth over your skin. He watches you carefully, searching for something, though he’s not sure what. Maybe confirmation. Maybe absolution. His thumb sweeps over your lips. He knows what they feel like now, against his own. He can’t believe how lucky he is, how kind you are, how forgiving.

A saint.

“I thought I’d lost you,” he admits, his voice raw, stripped of every ounce of composure.

Your breath stutters. You weren’t expecting that.

He swallows, his throat working around the words. He hadn’t realized, back then, just how much hope he was hanging on seeing you again. It had been a mirage in the desert, the thing that kept him upright when everything else in him wanted to collapse.

“I thought about it all the time when I was out there,” he continues, his voice barely holding steady. “What it would be like to see you again.” He exhales, pausing. “I…neglected to account for how rightfully angry you would be. I told Dave I wasn’t sure if you would ever speak to me again, that maybe you—you’d take that transfer to LA after all.”

Saying it aloud makes it sound so stupid, but at the time, it felt inevitable. It felt like justice. Because why wouldn’t you leave him? Why would you stay after everything? He’d convinced himself you’d leave, because that was what he deserved. Because in the end, he relied on his own self-destruction more than he trusted you.

Something in you shifts, some unseen wound beginning to heal. You had spent weeks drowning in his absence, trying to keep your head above water, trying not to let your fury consume you. You had every right to be done with him.

But instead, you shake your head.

“I wanted to hate you,” you whisper. “I tried.”

His breath stills. “But you don’t,” he confirms. It’s less a confirmation, if he’s honest, and more of a request for reassurance.

And then—then you say it, the thing that makes his heart seize in his chest, the thing that turns this moment from painful into something earth-shattering.

“No.” You press your forehead to his, letting your breath mingle with his. Your hands find his jaw, steadying him, holding him together when he feels like he might splinter apart. “Despite my best efforts, I couldn’t.”

It shatters him. It should be a relief. It is a relief. But it’s also the worst thing he’s ever heard. Because he knows what it means. Because you should hate him—and you don’t. Apparently, you’re not even capable of it.

You never would have left. And he should have known that. Should have trusted you. Should have trusted the foundation you built together instead of running from it like a coward.

His hands tighten on you, clinging to you like a man grasping for something solid in the wreckage. When he kisses you—soft, reverent, hesitant—it’s not because he thinks he deserves it. It’s because, for the first time, he understands that it was never something he had to earn.

He presses closer, your hands slipping into his hair, grounding him, anchoring him.

“Promise me you won’t run from us again,” you whisper against his mouth.

It’s not a request. It’s a plea. It’s a demand. And this time, the weight of it hits different.

Because that’s what he thought he was doing. Not running from you, but from the situation. From himself. And now, sitting here with you, feeling your hands in his hair, your breath against his skin, your heart beating against his—he knows.

He should have trusted in the foundation you built together, even if he couldn’t tell you the truth. Should have believed in you, the way you always believed in him. Should have trusted that, no matter how much distance, no matter how much time, you would still be here.

So when he leans back just enough to press a kiss to your cheek, when he pulls you closer and feels you hook your chin over his shoulder, your arms locked tight around his back—

This time, when he says it, he knows it’s true.

“I don’t have a reason to, anymore.”

+++

It’s almost a relief—to rid himself of the last vestiges of the desert, of this painful chapter. The beard has been a constant reminder of where he’s been, what he’s done, what he left behind. Shaving it means closing the door on that part of his life, returning to himself, to something familiar. To home.

But it’s not that simple.

It’s the beard his son hates, sure. The one Jack has scrunched his nose at, declaring with all the conviction of a six-year-old that it’s scratchy and weird and not Dad. The one that’s made Aaron feel like a man in disguise, like someone occupying space in his own life rather than living it.

But it’s also the beard you love—the one you clung to, fingers digging into his skin as you kissed him, as you pulled him closer, as you took him in every way possible. The one that scraped the soft inside of your thighs. The one held between your palms while you looked at him with the kindest, softest, most forgiving eyes.

It’s been his in a way nothing else has these past few months, marking the time he lost and the time he’s trying to reclaim. It made him feel human in the desert, but here, under your hands, it makes him feel wanted—beyond obligation, beyond duty, beyond responsibility.

And now, he’s washing it away.

He’s in the bathroom with shaving cream and a razor, halfway through lathering his face, when he hears you approach. He doesn’t have to turn to know you’re there; he can feel it—the shift in the air, the awareness of you.

“What do you think you’re doing?” You ask, your voice full of mock offense.

He glances at you in the mirror, already half-smiling at your tone. “Shaving? As requested?” It’s meant to be dry, but it comes out as more of a question.

You shake your head and hold up a finger. He watches you disappear toward the bedroom, your movements purposeful and focused. His curiosity deepens when you return with a small cloth bag in your hands, unzipping it as you hop up onto the counter beside him.

The marble is cold under your skin, but you don’t seem to mind. You’re wearing one of his shirts, with only a sliver of your underwear peeking out where the fabric rides up your thighs. It should be distracting—it is distracting—but then you pull out a straight razor and unfold it with a practiced flick of your wrist.

His breath catches.

“May I?”

His eyes flick from the blade to you. He can feel his pulse hammering before he even registers the tension winding through his shoulders.

The air in the room shifts.

His jaw clenches, and it’s involuntary. His breath picks up just slightly. It’s not the request itself, not you, but the gleam of the blade, the angle of it, the way the light catches on its edge. He forces himself to exhale—slow, measured, deliberate—but it doesn’t stop the way his fingers flex against the counter, the way he has to think about keeping his body relaxed.

“Do you have to use that one?” His voice is even, but his lean against the counter turns from casual to purposeful, like he’s keeping himself upright. Like he’s holding himself back. His thumb begins its track, split between the knuckles on the inside of his index and middle fingers.

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you reach for him, your fingers curling gently around his arm, guiding him toward you. He follows without thinking, moving between your knees before realizing that he’s let you do it—that he’s allowing himself to be guided.

You tilt your head, gaze unwavering. “Do you trust me?”

The answer is instinctive. Immediate. “Of course.”

But it’s too fast—too reflexive, like an automatic response instead of something he’s actually considered. He hears it, and you hear it, too.

He swallows. “It’s just… I just—”

“Knife shit.” You say it casually, but the softness in your voice tugs at something in his chest. There’s no pity in your expression, no hesitation. Just understanding. Just you.

The memory of it flickers—brief, visceral. The cold bite of a blade, the pressure, the pain. Blood slipping down his side, onto the floor. Warm and pooling in the hollow of his throat.

He nods, stiffly.

And then, without hesitation, you fold the blade closed and push it away. The motion is so casual, so decisive, that it almost startles him. It skitters across the counter and lands somewhere out of reach, discarded like it was never a real factor to begin with.

You don’t let him dwell. Instead, your hands come up to his face, gentle but insistent, shaving cream be damned. You touch him like you’ve done it a thousand times, like you’ve mapped him out in your sleep. Your forehead presses to his, and the pressure alone makes his eyes fall closed.

“He can’t hurt you anymore.” Your thumbs smooth over his cheekbones, pressing warmth into the sharp angles of his face. “He’s gone. And you’re here. With me.”

He exhales, and some of the weight shifts—some of it. Not all.

And then, softly, you kiss him.

It’s not asking for anything, not demanding or suggestive. Just a kiss. Just this. A quiet anchor in the middle of all the noise in his head. His hands find your thighs, gripping onto you like you might steady him hold him up, like maybe you already have.

When you pull back, he blinks. He lifts a thumb, wiping at a stray patch of foam on your cheek.

You hold his gaze, steady and patient. “Can I do this for you?”

He hesitates. Not because he doesn’t trust you—God, no—but because he trusts you too much. To his detriment. He’d follow you into hell. He’d lead you out.

If he lets you do this, it’s surrender. It’s letting you see him in a way no one else has.

And that’s okay.

Another breath leaves him, shaky at the edges. His fingers tighten where they press into your thighs. “Yeah.” He swallows. Then, softer, more determined: “Yes.”

“If you need to stop, just put your hand on my waist, okay?” Your voice is soft but sure, unwavering. “We can stop anytime, and I can leave you alone, and you can shave this beautiful thing off your face yourself and rob me of my grieving process.”

It makes him laugh—actual, real laughter, breaking through the tension in his chest like sunlight after a storm.

“Okay,” he says, still smiling.

You wet your hands and lather him up properly, rubbing circles into his skin with gentle fingers. He watches you, the little crease between your brows as you concentrate, the way your lips press together in thought.

When you dot his forehead with foam, his nose crinkles. “Really?”

You just shrug.

He exhales, shaking his head and watching as you pick up the razor.

And then he flinches. Not a lot—just enough for you to see. His breath hitches, nostrils flaring slightly as he steadies himself.

You don’t call attention to it. You just lay your free hand over his heart, grounding him in the warmth of your palm.

He exhales through his nose. Slower this time.

The blade whispers over his skin, and for a moment, everything stills.

His pulse jumps under your fingertips, just slightly, but it evens out when he realizes—oh. He’s okay. He’s here. It’s just you. You smooth your thumb along his freshly-shaven skin.

“Breathe, Aaron.”

His eyes stay locked on yours, steady, unwavering. You check in every few seconds, searching for hesitation, but there’s none. By the seventh stroke, his body has yielded completely under your hands. His fingers trace nonsense patterns against your thigh, his shoulders soft, loose.

He lets you tip his chin up, his throat bobbing beneath your touch.

You place a hand at the back of his head, tangling your fingers in his hair. “You’re okay, Aaron.” Your lips brush just beneath his ear. “Just me. Remember?”

His breath shudders out, long and slow. “It’s harder when I can’t see you.”

The confession startles even him.

You pause, considering. And then, in one fluid motion, you set the razor aside and wrap your legs around him, tugging him flush against the counter, pressing your chest to his. His hands flex, gripping onto you like you’re the only thing tethering him to the present.

“You can feel me,” you murmur, your breath warm against his temple. “I’m right here.”

His muscles slacken. His breathing slows. He closes his eyes, just for a second, and lets himself believe you. Your head drops, pressing a kiss just below his ear.

“Does that help?” Your whisper is almost a breath.

He can’t bite back his smile. “Yeah, that works.” His hands wander to your hips, his thumbs running over the fading marks still lingering. He’ll have to rectify that later.

“Hold still.”

When you tip his chin again, he doesn’t tense at all.

You shave the last of his beard with slow, careful precision, pausing only to press kisses to every newly bared inch of skin.

When it’s done, when the blade is rinsed and the shaving cream is gone, you take a warm washcloth and press it to his face. The heat seeps into his skin, and with it, every last bit of tension drains from his body. A profound feeling of safety washes over him. With a little bit of a start, he realizes there’s not a nick or cut on him at all.

That’s talent.

You smile, smoothing your thumb along his cheek.

“There you are.”

For the first time since he stepped into that round table room, he feels like himself.

He studies you, memorizing this moment, this feeling, capturing it like something precious.

“Here I am.”

Your heel sneaks up the back of his leg, dragging slow and deliberate, and fuck, his jaw clenches. His breath hitches, his body tensing, a pathetic attempt to hold back the groan rising in his throat.

It’s ridiculous, really, how quickly you unravel him.

“Jack will be home soon,” he warns, weak at best. He knows it, you know it. His grip on your thighs tightens reflexively, as if holding you still will keep him from losing himself completely.

You barely glance at the clock. “Henry’s soccer game doesn’t end for another twenty minutes, and you know Will will take them for ice cream after.”

His hum is thoughtful, like he’s considering it, like he doesn’t already know exactly where this is going. He tilts his head, studying you, his eyes narrowing.

Your lips curve with amusement. “What?”

“I’m just trying to figure out why I can’t get enough of you.”

It’s a genuine thought. A quiet confession wrapped in playful teasing. A truth that’s been settling into him for days, weeks, years—one that surfaces every time he touches you, every time he has you beneath him, wrapped around him, tangled in his sheets, tangled in him.

He presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth. You sigh, your hands rising to his hair, your nails scraping against his scalp, and it’s all the encouragement he needs. His hands find your back, dragging you closer, pressing you against him so you can feel how much he wants you.

The sound that escapes you—soft, breathless, needy—makes his head spin. Your breath catches as he grinds against you, and God, it’s torture. He drags his nose along your jaw, breathing you in like he’s trying to memorize the exact way you smell, like he needs it in his lungs to breathe.

“I could be inside you all day and still want more.”

It’s not an exaggeration. It’s the truth—one that hits him over and over again, every time he comes back to you. Every time you let him have you like this, open and warm and his.

“Aaron…”

Nobody calls him that.

Not at work. Not in passing. Dave, rarely. He’s ‘Hotch’ to nearly everyone, has been for years. Even Jack, bright-eyed and beaming, calls him ‘Dad.’ But you—

You call him Aaron.

You’ve only called him Aaron, here, at home.

Your head tips back against the wall as his lips move, slow and deliberate, wandering from the corner of your mouth to your neck, down to your collarbones. His hands sweep over your skin, mapping you, knowing you, learning you all over again.

When he’s inside you, Aaron. When his mouth is on you, Aaron. When you fall over the edge, holding onto the sheets or his hair or his shoulder or his hands, Aaron.

He returns to your lips, and you don’t hesitate—you pull him in, arms wrapping around his neck, fingers tangling in his hair. You’re pressed so close to him, your breath warm against his mouth, and he can feel your heart beating against his chest.

“You know,” he murmurs against your lips, voice dark and teasing, “we haven’t christened the counter yet.”

You pull back just enough to meet his eyes, catching the wicked glint in them. “Aaron Hotchner, are you suggesting what I think you are?”

“I’m not suggesting anything.” He pushes his hips into you. “I’m informing you I would love nothing more than to fuck you right here. On this counter.”

You melt. He feels it—the heat that rushes through you, the way your breath stutters, the way your fingers tighten in his hair, pulling just slightly. It’s enough to send a jolt down his spine.

He dips back to your neck, lips brushing just below your ear, just like you did to him earlier. “Would that be alright?”

Your breath is shaky, uneven. Your answer is immediate. “Yes. Yes, please.”

He groans at that, low and quiet. His fingers hook in your underwear, dragging them down, leaving you bare against the counter. He reaches for himself, freeing his cock, running the tip through your pussy, teasing just slightly—but it’s not intentional. He’s watching, entranced, lost in the sight, lost in the way you tremble beneath him, lost in the feeling of you so warm and wet against him.

Your lower lip disappears between your teeth. You need him. He can see it, feel it. It’s almost painful.

And fuck, he needs you, too.

He finally rocks into you, shallow at first, giving your body time to adjust. You’re already so ready for him, already clenching around him, already drawing him in. He fights to keep eye contact, to watch you as he sinks deeper, as he fills you completely, as your body takes him.

You suck in a sharp breath, lips parting, gaze locked on his. He doesn’t look away. He can’t.

Slow. Leisurely. Neither of you in a rush, neither of you needing to chase anything but this. He rocks into you, dragging against you, easing the ache that’s been building all morning.

He could have you every night, every morning, every hour of the day, and it wouldn’t be enough. It would never be enough.

The arm holding your knee shifts, wrapping around the middle of your back, opening you wider, pressing you closer. Your head falls back again, and he takes advantage, kissing your throat, your collarbones, your jaw—anywhere he can reach.

He doesn’t think about anything else—doesn’t want to think about anything else. Just you. Just this. Just home.

When you come undone, it’s slow and rolling, washing over you in waves, taking him with you. Your bodies stay locked together, limbs tangled, pulses thrumming in sync.

Your name on his lips is a plea; his on yours is a prayer.

Aaron.

He holds you close, breathing you in, and stays right where he is—where he belongs.

+++ september 28th, 2011

Aaron watches as Derek plucks a cherry from the jar, the stem dripping with what is absolutely an illegal amount of alcohol—high proof, highly questionable.

"Come on, sweetness, live a little," Morgan teases, holding it by the stem over your lips.

Morgan, if only you knew.

"It'll put hair on your chest."

You roll your eyes but tip your chin up anyway, opening your mouth just enough to take the it between your teeth. Aaron doesn't miss the way Derek's fingers linger on your jaw, just for a second, before he lets go, watching as your lips close around the fruit.

It’s not suggestive—Derek flirts with everyone, and you take it like you always do, an easy grin, a flicker of amusement in your eyes. Nothing unusual. Nothing out of place.

Still, Aaron waits for the twinge of something.

Jealousy, maybe. Possessiveness. Something sharp in his ribs.

But it never comes.

And he knows you. And he knows Morgan. And he knows better.

And then your whole face scrunches up, like you just bit into a lemon made of fire, and all of Aaron’s focus zeroes in on you.

Your shoulders jerk first, then the full-body shudder rolls through you, a violent shiver as the cherry burns its way down. Your hands slap the table as you squeeze your eyes shut, laughing even as your face contorts in horror.

"Oh, fuck—" you choke out. You shake your head, still wincing. "That is awful—Jesus Christ, Derek, what the hell is that?"

Derek throws his head back, laughing, before tossing one into his own mouth. He grimaces, groaning through gritted teeth. "Oh, that’s illegal."

You laugh even harder, wiping at your mouth with the back of your hand. “That burns. What is wrong with you?”

Aaron watches you, watches the way your shoulders shake, the way your nose scrunches when you laugh that hard, the way your tongue peeks out to lick the excess liquor from your lip without thinking.

And fuck, there it is. That thing that he still can’t quite wrap his head around.

The way you let him in. The way you forgave him. The way you laugh like that, bright and open, sitting across from him when not long ago you could barely look at him. Now, you’re avoiding his eyes just for fun, just to play.

And just like that, the rush of affection that overtakes him is suffocating.

You’re here, eating moonshine cherries and laughing like he never broke your heart.

He takes a sip of his beer, hoping it’ll settle something in his chest. It doesn’t.

Derek disappears, probably for another drink. Was that four Hennessys? Or five?

A moment barely passes before Emily’s voice cuts through the din. "Alright," she announces, setting her drink down with a thud. "We’re playing a game."

You shoot her a wary glance. "That sounds dangerous."

"It is," Penelope sings, grinning wickedly. "For you, anyway."

“I’m serious.” Emily wiggles her eyebrows suggestively and bumps you with her shoulder. “...and I’m just drunk enough to ask the good questions.”

You laugh, taking a sip of your water, deflecting. “Yeah, and I’m sober enough to not answer them.”

Aaron doesn’t miss the way your shoulders square just slightly. Preparing. Bracing for impact.

"Oh, come on," Penelope whines. "At least give us something."

You sigh, rubbing a hand over your face, and Aaron knows you’re about to indulge them.

"Fine," you relent. "Five vague questions. No names, no identifying details. Five."

“Each?” Garcia’s eyebrows raise, but immediately fall into a scowl when you reply -

“Total.”

It’s a show, really. A performance, and a brilliant one at that. You give just enough, reveal just enough, to keep them entertained, but never enough to land yourself in trouble. Five questions. Vague answers. The illusion of revelation without an ounce of true confession.

But Aaron knows you. He knows when you’re deflecting, knows when you’re playing a part, knows exactly what you’re doing when you pointedly refuse to look at him across the table.

And so, he lets you sweat.

Lets you work for it.

Lets you answer Emily’s too-bold, too-loud questions with the kind of cool confidence that makes his blood run hot.

"Impressive."

"Exceedingly impressive."

"What are we talking about?" Derek slides in behind Emily, planting a kiss to her cheek before tossing back another shot. Aaron gives him space, shifting to the other side of Penelope. He can see you better from here, anyway.

Emily gestures at you. “Someone has some kind of magical, elusive, possibly-imaginary fuck-buddy, and we have been granted five vague answers to five vague questions.”

Derek’s brow arches, eyes flicking to you. Aaron watches, waiting, curious.

Without hesitation, you bump fists with Morgan.

“That’s some good news,” Derek says, raising a brow. "Lord knows we need it."

Aaron notes the tension in Derek’s posture. The extra drink in his hand.

He doesn’t so much as flinch. Just lifts his beer to his lips and watches you over the rim of the bottle, watches the way you carefully toe the line between truth and amusement, watches as you dig yourself deeper and deeper into the corner you’ve built.

It’s delicious.

And it’s dangerous.

Penelope reviews the previous two questions in rapid fire. “We only have vague information, but the metrics are impressive and someone is very well taken-care of, apparently.”

You smile a little and shrug, as if it’s a given.

Maybe it’s because he’s a profiler. Maybe it’s because he knows you. But he can tell—every single choice is intentional. Every movement, every flutter of your eyelashes, every easy stolen sip of Penelope’s drink through her straw. Even the way your jaw drops at something outrageous Emily says—it’s just close enough to the way you look when he first pushes inside you. He knows it’s nothing but coincidence, but it still lights something low in his spine, something that has no business existing in a bar full of your colleagues.

Another question.

Emily ponders for a minute. “Record?”

“For?”

“How many times has he managed to get you off in one night? Or do you have to do it yourself?”

You pretend to think for a moment. “Do you actually mean one night, or just in one round?”

Penelope’s jaw drops, and you try not to laugh out loud.

“Um…” Emily’s caught off guard a little. “One night—wait, are you sure you’re dating a man-person?”

A laugh escapes you. “Yes, I’m sure he’s a man, we’re not dating, and to answer your first question, I would conservatively estimate six, but it could be more if you count consecutives.” You pause, looking inconvenienced. “I’m honestly not sure. I don’t usually keep count. He might, though, so I’ll have to ask him.”

Aaron can feel the way his body reacts to that. Christ. He takes another sip of his beer.

Derek’s brow furrows. "Where did you meet this guy?"

“I refuse to answer on the grounds of specificity.”

"Alright, fine." He amends. "Rank? Where are we on the roster?"

"I don’t have a roster, Derek." You roll your eyes. "But—if I did—" your chin tips up just slightly, lips curling like you know exactly what you’re doing. "First." You sip your water, pausing for effect. “Ten out of ten. Five stars. Would recommend to a friend.”

And then, finally, you glance at him. A single wink. A flash of mischief.

Aaron rolls his eyes, barely suppressing a smirk. Unbelievable.

"Hotch," Emily turns, grinning. "Do you have a question?"

Aaron waves her off, taking another sip of his beer. He hesitates. "Don't… don’t indict me."

Derek goes still beside him. Aaron knows Derek resents him being here. Knows he hasn’t forgiven him yet. He accepts that. He expects that.

"Okay, last one," Emily announces. "It’s gotta be good and I’m really gonna put you on the spot.” She points at you. "Do you like him?"

You stuff a smile. Emily pounces.

“Oh my god. Do you love him? Is he gonna be here for a while?"

You take a deep breath. Aaron can feel the moment stretching, tensing, like a wire pulled too tight. And then, a slow smile curves your lips. One that looks like it’s meant for Emily, but Aaron knows better.

“I think he’s got a really decent shot,” you say, voice careful, measured. "If he plays his cards right."

Aaron's chest tightens.

Derek lifts his glass. “I’ll drink to that.” His tone is pointed. “To one lucky motherfucker, wherever he may be.” A challenge. A warning.

Aaron doesn't flinch. Across the table, your gaze flickers back to him. Just for a second. Just enough for him to catch it.

His brows lift—small, imperceptible. You mean it?

The corner of your mouth twitches.

You’ll have to see, won’t you?

+++

He unlocks the door and steps aside. Silent.

You brush past him, your shoulder catching his chest. He feels it like a brand, burning through the fabric of his shirt. Neither one of you acknowledges it. 

You don’t look at him. 

The absence of acknowledgment is its own kind of rejection. It’s one he’s grown used to in the last seventy-two hours. He shuts the door softly. 

Aaron watches as you come to a stop in the middle of the living room, hands on your hips, breathing shallow. He doesn’t move from the doorway. His bag is still slung over his shoulder, but he barely registers the weight anymore.

It’s nothing compared to this. 

Jack is with Jessica until tomorrow afternoon. No buffer. No reprieve. Just the two of you, and the reckoning he knew was coming the second he set foot back in the round table room three days ago. It’s the first time he’s stepped foot in his own home in months, but it feels foreign to him now.

He expected a fight when he returned. But this—the silence, the avoidance, the cold, careful way you look through him—is somehow worse. You stand before him, arms crossed, your breath measured, but he knows better than to think you’re calm. It’s in the set of your jaw, the grip of your hands on your arms, the heat behind your gaze. He expects this is an inquisition, and he is your sole subject.

Because it’s not just anger.

It’s hurt.

And he put it there. This is his fault.

Aaron lets himself look at you. Really look at you.

You look the same. But you don’t. He doesn’t know if it’s from stress or lack of sleep or just five months of change that he wasn’t here to witness. You’re still you, though, which means youre the most beautiful vengeful diety he’s ever seen.

Your posture is a defensive one, a protective one. Protecting yourself from him.

His fault.

You inhale deeply—once, twice—before you speak. “When did you know?”

His fingers tighten around the strap of his bag. He expected this question, probably. Didn’t think you’d start here, but he expected all of it.

But expecting something doesn’t make it easier to face.

Aaron exhales, slow and deliberate. His hand scrubs over his face, dragging across the beard on his jaw. His body is heavy with exhaustion, but it doesn’t matter. You’re exhausted, too. He can see it in the way your shoulders are drawn tight, in the way your body is too still, like you’re forcing yourself to stay upright.

He hesitates—not because he doesn’t know the answer, but because he does. He has the wrong answer. And he can’t lawyer-word-salad his way out of this one, distract you with logic traps so complex you forget what you asked in the first place…

“Stop,” you snap. “Answer me.”

A direct order. No room for retreat.

He swallows. “Last week,” he says, voice low. “I knew last week.”

Your arms cross before he’s even finished speaking. “So when you called to check in with me, you couldn’t have—I don’t know—shared that?”

He clenches his jaw. There was a way to tell you.

The call on Wednesday had been planned. It went normally. You told him about Jack’s soccer game, an issue with a case file, something that made Garcia laugh so hard she cried. Your voice had been warm, steady, unguarded—because you didn’t know. Because you thought he was still thousands of miles away, not preparing to leave.

He’d known, even then, that he was likely coming home soon. And he didn’t tell you. Because he didn’t know how. Because he didn’t know what was waiting for him when he got back.

On Friday, he confirmed with Morgan that he’d be on his way home within 24 hours. By then, he knew for certain. He had another chance to warn you, to give Derek permission to pass along the message. 

And he still didn’t. Because he’s a coward.

Because in his mind—in every version of his return he played over and over in the desert—you were happy to see him. Thrilled, even.

Delighted by the surprise. Maybe tearful, maybe angry, briefly, in that theatrical way you do when you’re relieved. But then you’d smile. Then you’d throw your arms around him and he’d hold you close and everything would be okay. 

But when he walked into the bullpen three days ago, he saw the truth written all over your face.

You were furious. You should be furious.

And the worst part (the ugliest part) is that he knew this was a possibility. And he gambled with it anyway. He gambled with you.

He lets out a dissatisfied breath, one he tries to hide. Knowing that no explanation will make it better.

And somehow that makes it worse—so much worse.

Because if there were a reason that could explain it—something noble, something clean beyond providing—it wouldn’t hurt you like this.

But it does. And that means it wasn’t good enough, that he wasn’t good enough.

You pivot again, right back to the thing that’s been festering since March.

“You could have told me you were leaving.”

Your voice is quieter now, but it doesn’t lose any force. In fact, it sharpens—cuts deeper because of the control it takes to keep it steady. 

And it cuts him, too. Because you’re still holding back for his sake. Because even now, you’re offering him more care than he gave you.

“I thought maybe you didn’t want to be around me anymore, that maybe we were crossing way too many lines and you wanted to back off or something.”

That’s the furthest thing from the truth. He just hopes he gets to tell you. 

“I would’ve understood,” you say. “Maybe not right away. But I would’ve tried. I would’ve asked questions. I would’ve argued. But I wouldn’t have stopped you. I probably could’ve pretended I was excited for you instead of scared shitless..”

A beat.

Your gaze lifts to his, stormy and steady. “Say something.”

He opens his mouth to try. He’s ready to explain, to take the blame properly, to tell you everything he couldn’t before—

But you cut him off the second he draws breath.

“No—actually, don’t.” You shake your head, voice trembling. “Because whatever you say, it’s going to sound reasonable. And I’m not ready for that. I’m not ready to forgive you just because you had a good reason. And I’m sure you did.”

You pace a tight, frustrated line, back and forth, back and forth.

“I’m trying so hard not to give you the benefit of the doubt, and it’s infuriating. Because I know you.“

And do you ever. He’s never been more grateful for your ability to see clean through him. 

“And I know it probably wasn’t about thinking I couldn’t handle it. Or that I wasn’t strong enough. Or trustworthy enough.”

You stop, hands flung open at your sides, and your voice breaks over the next line.

“But it feels like that, Aaron. It feels exactly like that.”

He doesn’t move.

God, you could’ve handled it. He knows that. You would’ve been so brave.

He dips his chin, shame thick in his throat.

He agrees with you completely.

“You could’ve told me. You should’ve told me. I wouldn’t have made it harder. I wouldn’t have begged you to stay.” 

You break off with a sharp inhale. And then, again quieter, “You should’ve told me.”

Silence expands around you, awful and full.

You pause mid-pace, struck by another thought—one that comes out smaller, but sharper.

“You did hint. That’s the worst part. You even hinted at me and I chose not to—ugh!”

Your arms drop, frustration vibrating in every limb. 

“There were moments. Hypotheticals. Comments. Pauses in conversation. And I just—I let it go. I let you do it.”

You huff and pull a hand down your face. 

“Because I trusted you. I trusted that if you had something to share, you would. I didn’t push. I didn’t pry. I gave you space.”

Aaron’s face tightens. You’re describing his worst sin like it’s a natural consequence of your own actions, like you blame yourself.

He can’t believe you’re still giving him that much grace.

“And maybe I should’ve asked,” you finish, quieter now. “But I just didn’t want to be another person in your life trying to make you talk before you were ready.”

He thinks he might be sick

When you speak again, your voice is barely a whisper. “I would have forgiven you if you’d just prepared me a little. For leaving and coming back.”

You laugh humorlessly. “Everyone looked at me like I was supposed to know something.” Your eyes harden. “Because I was supposed to know something.” You pause, your eyes falling to the floor. “Because we tell each other everything, I thought.”

He’s the worst person. 

Your hands tighten on your arms. Your posture shifts—something raw leaking through, something splintering at the edges. He recognizes it a second before your voice does the same.

“We spent months without you, Aaron.” Your voice cracks like a whip.

Fuck. 

"Months. You missed out on so much, and I was alone—“

Fuck. 

“—and it was so hard, and I—"

You stop. Swallow hard, forcing it down.

Aaron doesn’t move. He doesn’t speak. He just takes it, lets it hit him. He wishes you wouldn’t hold back. 

Because you’re right. Because there’s nothing he can say that will change it. Because you have every right to be furious with him.

Your arms tighten around yourself. Your weight shifts—uncertain, vulnerable. “I missed you.”

It falls out of you, like you didn’t mean to say it. Tears fall in devastating, nonstop rivulets down your cheeks, dripping off your chin and down your throat. 

God. He hoped, perhaps foolishly, that he would never make you cry like that.

Aaron’s breath catches. So does yours.

Your next words hit him like a freight train, whacking all the places inside him that haven’t fully unthawed since he left.

 “I missed you so much I couldn’t breathe.”

His body moves before his mind does. Or maybe it’s the other way around. Or maybe you move first.  

Maybe there’s no difference.

Your hands are in his hair. His mouth is on yours.

It shouldn’t have come to this.

Aaron knows it, feels it like a fresh wound, right alongside all the other wounds he’s inflicted on you. It should’ve been different. He should’ve told you the truth. Should’ve done this right. Should’ve been yours before he ever left. Should’ve stayed in the first place.

But, it’s everything he wanted. He’ll take the opportunity—he’s not sure he’ll ever get another. 

Your hands pull him in, drag him under. His fingers dig into your hips, a vice grip, desperate, aching. He shouldn’t hold you this tight, but he can’t help it. It’s you. You're strong. You can take it.

You taste like salt and grief and heat, like devastation. He can’t tell if he’s breathing for the first time in months, or if you’re stealing the last of his breath from his lungs.

His lips trace a path lower, dragging along your jaw, down your throat. The beard is new. The way it drags across your skin is new, foreign to him as well. He wonders if you hate it. If you love it. If you’ll let him find out.

Because he’s already memorizing this. Every sound, every tremor, every place you shudder beneath his mouth. Because some part of him doesn’t trust you won’t disappear if he lets go. 

Then, you twist your fingers into his hair. And pull, Hard.

The sound he makes is deep, unrestrained, devastated. Your nails rake against his scalp, sending fire down his spine. His chin tips up, following your grip. 

Oh.

Oh, he should not find this hot. But he does.

His pulse kicks against his ribs. His fingers tighten, a sharp inhale. He is absolutely fucked. But he knew that already. He’s known for years. 

You pull his mouth back to yours, kiss him like you want to ruin him. He thinks, helplessly, that you already have.

You break away, breathless, panting against his lips. Then, so soft, so close, like a secret—"I can't stand you."

The words should destroy him. Instead, they send a rush of heat straight to his spine. He hears it—the lie. Because you kiss him first. Because you don’t let him go. Because you don’t mean it.

Aaron exhales, almost a laugh, almost something else. His hands slide up, framing your face, his forehead pressed against yours. He kisses you again.

Then, so close you could breathe the words straight from his mouth, "I know."

And then, you shove him. It’s deliberate.

Aaron stumbles backward, off balance for half a second. His back hits the couch, hard. His breath punches out of him, sharp. His chest heaves, his blood roaring in his ears. His hair is a wreck from your fingers, his skin flushed, burning.

Oh. Oh, this is new.

He’s still. He looks at you. And he waits. Because he won’t take this from you. He won’t make another decision on your behalf.

If you want this, it has to be you. 

He doesn’t have to wait long. 

You strip off your shirt, your bra still in place, and Aaron—Jesus Christ. His breath hitches, his hands flex at his sides, but he doesn’t reach for you. Not yet.

Because he’s kept you waiting. Because he needs to let you come to him.

You do.

His hands find your ribs as you settle in his lap, steadying, grounding, holding on. You’re warm, certain, so fucking beautiful, and you’re looking at him like you could destroy him.

Maybe you already have. Maybe he wants you to.

“What are you doing?” His voice is hoarse, already unraveling.

You thread your fingers back into his hair, keeping him close. “I want you.” You don’t hesitate, but your voice is a rasp, on the verge of breaking. “I can barely look at you, I’m so mad. But I still want you.”

And that fucking wrecks him.

Because you shouldn’t want him. Not after everything. Not after the lies, the cowardice, the months apart.

But you do. And God help him—he wants you too.

Something breaks open in your voice, something unguarded. “I always have.”

And that’s it.

Aaron watches as your face crumples, like keeping it together had been the real fight. Like losing control with him is what finally breaks you.

His own breath fractures. This is his fault, his doing. His thumbs sweep your cheeks, catching your tears, but there’s no stopping this. He wants to fix it. To apologize, to explain, to make this right. But there are no words that will undo what he’s done.

So, instead, he kisses you.

Soft. Slow. Like he can pull you back to him, back from this. Like he can hold you here, safe. He wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t believe him. He doesn’t.

His lips move against your skin, catching the tears before they fall, mapping the places he’s ruined, the places he wants to keep. You haven’t pulled away, haven’t cooled off. His nose brushes against yours, his breath uneven.

“While I’d much rather we do this when you’re not considering homicide…”

He says it to make you laugh. He says it because he’s losing you.

And then you do. A breathless, shaky little thing, wet with tears.

And Aaron smiles. 

He shouldn’t. He shouldn’t, but he does. Because you laughed. Because he made you laugh. He can still make you laugh. 

“…I’ve wanted you so badly.” He drags his hands down your back, pressing you flush against him. “Years,” he breathes between kisses, “years, years, and years of wanting you.”

He kisses you again, because he doesn’t know what else to do. Because you let him.

Your arms slide behind him, your hands splayed across his shoulders, warm and certain. It shouldn’t stagger him the way it does—the way you hold him like this, the way you keep him close despite everything.

But it does.

He straightens to support you, guiding his hands up your back, fingers mapping your spine, learning you all over again. The intimacy of it makes something in his chest ache, but he doesn’t stop. He studies you, unable to believe you’re here, that you’re letting him have this—have you.

And then, you tuck yourself away.

You press your face into his neck, folding into him like you can’t bear to meet his eyes anymore. He exhales sharply, a quiet, shuddering thing, wrapping his arms around you like he can keep you here. Keep you his.

His hand moves up and down your back, broad, steady, grounding. 

For you, or for himself, he isn’t sure.

His lips press into your temple, soft, reverent. He lets himself have this moment, lets himself hold you. 

Then, after a minute, after too short a minute, you tip your head back to meet his gaze.

And there it is. The warning.

“I’m not any less mad at you.”

It lands between you like a thrown gauntlet.

Aaron’s lips part slightly, something tightening in his throat. He doesn’t even think about refuting it. He just nods, something like understanding settling over his features. “I know.”

And he does. He doesn't know exactly how much damage he’s done, exactly how much he deserves your fury. That doesn’t mean he won’t spend the rest of his life trying to earn back something better.

He doesn’t deserve the softness he presses against your jaw, doesn’t deserve the chance to ask for more.

But he does anyway.

His voice is quieter when it comes this time, careful, aching. “Will you let me show you how sorry I am?” A kiss, feather-light against your pulse. “For everything?”

His lips linger just a second too long, and he prays, silently, please, please, please. 

He’s done more praying in the past three days than he has in a decade. 

And then, breathless, you give him the only answer that matters. “Yes.” 

Aaron doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t stop to think.

His grip tightens around you, steady and unyielding, and then he stands, lifting you effortlessly. Your legs cinch tight around his waist, a reflex, a trust, and something in his chest fractures with it.

He doesn’t deserve that trust. But he’ll take it. He’ll hold it carefully. He’ll earn it.

Or, more accurately, earn it back.

His lips never leave your skin as he carries you through the apartment. He presses slow, deliberate kisses into your jaw, down your throat, against the soft hinge where your shoulder meets your neck. You feel so warm in his arms, so right, and it makes something deep in his gut clench tight.

His fingers flex at your back, keeping you close, as if letting go might wake him from this, might drag him back into a world where he hasn’t broken you and left you alone to pick up the pieces.

He barely registers where he’s going. Nothing in this apartment matters—not the dim glow of the lamps, not the doorways he barely clears, not the way the bedroom smells like home, even after five months, because it smells like you.

You’re the only important thing in the room. 

He feels you shift against him, the way your fingers wind in his hair at the nape of his neck, the way your breath flutters across his skin. You rest your cheek against his temple, nuzzling just slightly, just enough that his throat goes tight. He doesn’t think you even realize you’re doing it. It’s so painfully fond. And maybe something else, but he can’t afford to think that way right now. 

God, he wants to tell you. Wants to say something that can hold the weight of everything coiled in his chest, everything he’s felt for years but never let himself speak.

Instead, he swallows it all down and focuses on the way your skin feels under his lips. He can’t get enough of you. Never has. Never will.

When he reaches the bed, he lays you down so gently—so careful, so controlled, as if you might disappear under his hands.

You don’t. You just look up at him, blinking, breathless, eyes blown dark with heat.

He follows you down, crawling over you, bracing himself with a knee between your thighs. He doesn’t waste time, doesn’t let himself hesitate, doesn’t let himself think too hard about what this means, what he’s risking.

He just kisses you. It’s deep, consuming, something that steals the breath straight from his lungs. He can’t help it. He needs you, needs this, like he needs air.

And then—you move.

The breath rushes out of him in a sharp exhale as his back hits the mattress, his brain struggling to catch up to his body. His hands are still on your hips, steadying, anchoring, but they’re not guiding.

No, that’s you.

You’re the one in control. You shift above him, rolling your hips just once—and he feels everything. The pressure, the friction, the heat. His jaw flexes, his fingers tightening against you, but he doesn’t stop you.

Doesn’t want to stop you.

Because you’re confident in this. Unshaken. Deliberate. You don’t hesitate, don’t question, don’t second-guess yourself the way he knows you do in quieter moments. You’re the same person he’s trusted for years in the field, his true second, the same one who stands firm in conviction, who won’t let anything—anyone—intimidate you out of what you wants.

Including me…

And maybe—maybe he’s proud.

Because he’s watched you become this, watched you shape yourself into someone who knows your own power, who knows how to wield it. And the fact that you feel safe enough to wield it with him—that you trust him enough to take what you want, without waiting for permission—

His head tips back, his eyes falling shut for a moment as you do it again, dragging yourself against him with slow, deliberate intent. Fuck.

The little smile that flickers across your face—just barely, just enough to be felt—makes his pulse kick hard against his ribs.

You’re teasing him.

You’re enjoying this.

He’s so fucked.

The bulge in his cargos presses up between your thighs, exactly where you want it, and the needy little whimper that escapes you? That goes straight to his spine, tightens the heat low in his gut until he has to force himself to keep his hands where they are, keep his breathing steady, keep from bucking his hips to chase the friction you’re so cruelly denying him.

Aaron knows what’s coming before it happens.

He sits up slowly, adjusting to keep you balanced, his hands firm at your waist. But his mind is already running ahead, anticipating, bracing. He’s not sure if it’s better or worse that you don’t hesitate, that your fingers slip beneath the hem of his shirt with ease, a quiet confidence that he finds unbearably attractive. You don’t ask. You don’t second-guess. You just take.

And he lets you.

Aaron keeps his eyes on you as you drag the fabric higher, your knuckles brushing along his ribs, your mouth following the path your hands carve. He should be lost in the heat of it, should be too far gone to feel anything but you—but then, the shirt is off. And reality settles heavy in his chest.

His arms come down before he can think better of it, hands hovering like he can shield himself from you, like he can keep you from seeing.

But you have seen. That night in his apartment, when he was still stitched together, barely past the shock of it. You were careful then, diligent, touching him only to clean and dress the worst wounds, to make sure he wasn’t going to fall apart in front of you.

This is different.

He’s leaner now. He can see it in the way your eyes trace him, taking in the sharp cut of his torso, the definition of muscle through skin, the stark tan line where his collar sat in the desert. The scars—raised, jagged, ugly—catch the dim light of the room. He knows how they must look to you. Worse than before.

He almost moves to cover them again.

But then, you take his hands. Firm. Steady. A quiet refusal.

If you don’t get to hide, neither does he.

The breath leaves his chest in a slow, measured exhale. You’re not afraid of what you see. That’s what undoes him. Not the physical touch—though that alone is enough to drive him insane—but the way you touch him. The way your fingers skim over the deep ridge beneath his ribs, the way your lips follow, warm and certain.

He doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until your mouth brushes the wound just beneath his collarbone. The biggest one. The one you dressed yourself two years ago, hands so gentle he almost forgot the pain.

You don’t forget. You never forget. Your lips linger, tracing the jagged lines like a promise.

I see you. I know you. I know what’s here, what you hide. I know what I’m getting into.

His hand finds the back of your neck, fingers curling at the base of your skull, his thumb passing slowly beneath your ear. A tether. A plea. A prayer.

The restraint in his breath is something you recognize, something you know as well as you know the way he holds himself together for everyone else. But this is for you.

He doesn’t move until you do. Until you pull back, just slightly, just enough to look him in the eye again. Until your hands frame his face like he’s something worth keeping. Worth knowing.

His breath catches.

Your lips brush against his, soft, searching. Once, twice. His lashes flutter as he exhales into you, something raw in his chest unraveling all at once. And when you deepen the kiss—when it shifts from tenderness to something more desperate, more consuming—he lets it.

Because he’s done resisting you.

His hands move before his mind catches up, slipping down the line of your spine, tracing every inch of skin he can reach. He needs to touch you, needs to feel that you’re here, that you’re still here.

Then he reaches the clasp of your bra. His fingers pause. You shift against him, tipping your head down, your breath hot against his neck. Then, barely above a whisper—“Please.”

The sound of it, the trust in it, slams through him so hard he nearly forgets how to breathe.

Aaron swallows. His hand trembles, just once. Then, achingly, tenderly, he laces his free hand with yours, bringing your joined hands to his lips. His mouth presses against your knuckles in silent reverence, in something dangerously close to devotion.

You smile into his skin.

Though it’s been years since he’s done this with any finesse, he unhooks the band with a pinch and twist of his left hand.

It’s the little things. 

When he finally slides his hands around to your ribs, he does it slow. Measured. Gentle. Brushing the underside of your breasts just enough to make you shiver as your bra is cast aside.

His eyes trace over you, seeing you for the first time, committing all of you to memory.

And he knows, without a doubt—he’ll never stop wanting you.

The words leave his mouth before he can think, before he can stop himself. “You’re so beautiful.”

And it’s not just that. It’s the way you look at him, the way you let him see you. It’s the warmth of your skin under his hands, the way you hold him like you’ve already forgiven him—like he hasn’t ruined this beyond repair.

You don’t respond with words. You just fall into him, closing the distance, letting him press his lips to your jaw, your cheek, before finding your mouth again. 

He can feel your breath, warm and unsteady, mingling with his own as he whispers it into you. “I missed you.”

His answer comes without hesitation. “I missed you, too.”

And he knows it’s true. But it doesn’t matter, because missing him isn’t the same as forgiving him. Missing him isn’t the same as trusting him. And before he can dwell too long on that, before he can even think to prepare for whatever’s coming next, you lean back just slightly—just enough to make him pause.

Your gaze sharpens, assessing, and something in his chest locks up when you narrow your eyes at him. He doesn’t get the chance to figure out why before you press two fingers to his sternum and push.

His back hits the mattress.

He resists at first. Instinct, habit, something older than language. But then he feels you—your weight, the slow, deliberate press of your fingers against his chest—and he exhales, forcing himself to relax. Letting you settle over him.

He’s never let anyone else do this to him. He’s never wanted to.

For a second, you just look at him. He looks back. His chest rises and falls beneath you, his pulse slow but strong, his breath steady, even as his head spins.

“I missed you more when I didn’t know you lied to me.”

The words hit him like a slug to the chest.

His body reacts before his mind catches up—his face falling, his jaw tightening, his hands twitching at his sides like he wants to reach for you. To fix it.

There’s nothing to fix.

He opens his mouth, a thousand apologies and explanations already forming, already reaching for you, but before he can say a word, you press three fingers to his lips.

He stops.

The look in your eyes, steady and unrelenting, tells him everything he needs to know.

I don’t want to hear it.

And worse—worse than that—

I [redacted] you more than I could ever be angry with you.

He knows what he sees in your gaze. He just can’t bear to name it. It’s a mercy, and it’s a cruelty.

His lips press together, holding back whatever useless words had been ready to spill out, and he lets you take from him what you want.

And then you move.

You slide down his body, deliberate and slow, your touch burning through the fabric of his cargos as you reach for the button at his waistband.

His breath catches.

His fingers tighten in the duvet, pressing into the linen, grounding himself as you work open the button, as you drag the zipper down, tooth by tooth, as you brush your lips against his stomach and—

His abs twitch.

Oh.

Your smile is small, almost indulgent. That does something to him, something sharp and aching. He’s not used to this—being wanted, being adored, being the thing someone enjoys. He’s out of practice. 

He’s not sure he’s ever been in practice. 

He’s never wanted to be anything more.

And then your weight shifts, your fingers hooking in the fabric, and in one smooth motion, you strip him. His cargos land somewhere on the floor, forgotten, and suddenly, there’s nothing between you but the thin stretch of his boxer briefs.

You straddle him, the heat of your body pressing down against his, and he swears—he swears—it takes everything in him not to flip you onto your back and take control again.

But he doesn’t.

Because you’re here. Because you’re guiding this. Because after everything, you still trust him enough to take him apart piece by piece.

His hands rise to your hips, but he doesn’t pull you down. Doesn’t push.

His breath shudders out, jaw tight. “Fuck.”

From the way your body pulses, he knows exactly what his curse does to you. His hands find your hips, grounding, but you drag yourself against him anyway, chasing friction that neither of you can really use.

Okay. He’s done letting you play. Before you can blink, you’re on your back, his mouth crashing into yours. You fist your hands in his hair, and the deep groan inspires a tighter hold, a press of your chest against his.

“Tell me,” he pants into your kisses. “Tell me what you want.”

“Just you. All of you.”

His lips trail lower, down your neck, between your breasts, over your stomach. When he reaches the edge of your pants, he flicks his gaze up, asking permission. You give it—of course you do—and he hooks his fingers at your hips, the back of his fingers touching bare skin, dragging everything down at an excruciating pace.

You’re bare before him, and his eyes darken as he takes you in. He wets his lips and lets out a low, appreciative hum as his lower lip catches between his teeth. Your shiver opens a deep well of satisfaction in his chest. He plans on filling it. 

He kisses the inside of your knee, then your thigh, his beard scraping along your sensitive skin. 

He flicks his gaze up again, holding your eyes as he presses a slow, deliberate kiss to your clit. Your head drops back, and that’s all the invitation he needs. 

His breath is hot against your skin. His grip is sure, steady, hands pressing your thighs apart, keeping you open for him.

And God, he wants this. Wants to memorize you, to map every reaction, to learn you like this—like he should have years ago.

He’s wanted this for so long. Too long. He can’t afford to get this wrong.

He starts slow, deliberate, tentative in a way that surprises even him. His tongue flicks out, just barely, just enough to taste— just enough to gauge your reaction.

You gasp.

His stomach tightens. His cock throbs in his briefs.

Noted.

His first real taste of you is exquisite. He lets out a slow, measured exhale against you, pressing a hand to your hip to hold you steady, to hold himself steady, because fuck—he knew he’d like this, but he didn’t know it would be like this.

And then, he listens.

He pays attention.

He moves with purpose, with precision, adjusting every time you react, taking note of every sigh, every shudder, every shift of your hips.

Here? He flicks his tongue over your clit, light, experimental—

You jolt.

Good. Noted.

And this? He seals his lips around you and sucks—

Your thighs tremble. Your fingers yank at his hair, dragging him impossibly closer.

Fuck. Noted. Very much noted.

The corner of his mouth lifts, smug, pleased. He likes this. Likes figuring you out, likes learning what you like, what makes you completely fall apart.

And then he groans—deep, low, sloppy—because now he’s imagining all the other things he’s going to get to learn about you.

Your entire body reacts to the sound. He notices. His cock throbs at the realization.

There we go.

Then, something clicks. He’s got you now. The hesitation, the warm-up period? Done.

Aaron sinks into this fully, into you, into the way your body responds under his mouth. He licks into you with purpose now, slow, deep, intentional. Now, he’s mastering the craft.

His nose brushes against you. His beard drags, just slightly, just enough to heighten everything. You twitch, sharp and sudden, and his stomach clenches.

Your fingers tighten in his hair, tugging, pulling, and he groans, the sound muffled against you, like he doesn’t even care that you’re using him like this. Like he likes it. Like it spurs him on.

It does.

It so does.

He shifts lower, pressing you further into the mattress, pushing your legs wider as he works you open, devours you, wrecks you.

And God, he could stay here all night.

Your back arches, your body tightening, and he knows—he knows you’re getting close, he can feel it, taste it, hear it  

Your voice is breathless, his name falling from your lips like a prayer.

“Oh fu— Aaron...”

He nearly loses it right there—his control, his focus, his goddamn mind—because he’s spent years trying not to imagine exactly this.

Trying not to think about how you’d sound, how you’d say his name when you fell apart for him, when your body gave in and let him make you come. Trying not to get off to the thought of it in some hotel shower on some case in some city he can’t even remember anymore.

And now? Now, he doesn’t have to imagine.

It’s real.

He grins against you, impossibly smug, and it’s with that same arrogance that he slips a finger, and another, and another into you. It’s practical as well as experimental—he’s not a proud man, but he knows you’ll need some preparation. Aaron exhales, steadying himself, locking in, remembering what he knows—

70% consistency. 30% locked focus from the receiving party.

That’s it.

And he is nothing if not consistent.

He presses his tongue against you with purpose, with focus, settling into a rhythm, learning every time you react, watching you, adjusting, sharpening, perfecting. 

He’s going to make you come like this.

Noted.

"Aaron."

It’s a demand, not a request, and it cuts straight through the haze in his brain.

He stops immediately, head snapping up, meeting your eyes without hesitation. His body is still humming from the wreckage he’s made of you, still throbbing, but none of that matters when he sees the look on your face.

Not distress. Not overstimulation. Just hunger.

"Come here."

His stomach tightens. His cock twitches against the sheets. His hands are unsteady when they leave your thighs, but not from hesitation. From want.

He doesn’t waste time. He shifts onto his knees, rising between your legs, and finally—finally—slides his boxer briefs down.

The moment he’s free, you inhale, sharp and surprised, your eyes dragging over him. He watches your expression shift, the way your pupils darken as you take him in fully.

It’s unreal—that look. That gaze, eating him alive, like you want him just as desperately as he wants you. 

Aaron has been in control of himself for years—through crises, interrogations, literal torture. But this? You looking at him like this? The slow rise of your eyebrows as you fully clock just how hard he is for you, how he’s already leaking, how absolutely incredible he looks with his lips and chin still shining with you—

God willing, I will never wake up from this dream.

His jaw tightens, fingers twitching at his sides.

A smug flicker catches in his chest—just for a second, just because he can see what this does to you—he knows it shows up on his face. It’s on purpose. 

And then your eyes narrow. 

He doesn’t have long to process the shift before you launch yourself at him, and he catches you. His hands are already on you, already gripping tight, already controlling the fall—but you? You’re the one taking this.

And that? That knocks the breath from his lungs.

Your mouth crashes into his. He meets you with equal force, kissing you back with everything in him. Tender and rough at the same time, because that’s what you are—both, always. His fingers dig into your hips, pressing into the bruises he already left behind, into the proof that this is real, that he gets to have this, have you.

Still, even through the dizzying fog, Aaron needs more.

His hands slide lower. He hauls you up the bed, lifting you like you weigh nothing, rolling over you until you’re right where he needs you. Your knee hooks high over his hip, his body slotting against yours, fitting together like it’s something you’ve always done, like it’s something you should have been doing for years.

He reaches blindly for the bedside drawer. He’s pretty sure the condoms in there haven’t been touched since Jack was born, but…

"I'm covered," you murmur, breathless.

His chin dips, just slightly. "Me too." 

There’s a brief moment—just one—where you both pause. The heat still simmers between you, still crackles, but there’s something else there, too. You both know this would never be an option with anyone else—the amount of trust required is too great. 

A beat.

Aaron watches as your mouth tugs into a small, knowing smile.

And then he’s on you again.

His weight presses into you, his arms caging you in, his lips devouring yours. The taste of you is still fresh in his mouth, and he knows you can taste it too. The little noises you let out—soft, breathy, drunk with it—send another pulse of arousal down his spine.

Then—your hand moves. Your fingers wrap around his cock, warm and sure, so fucking confident, and oh—

His head tips back instinctively, eyes rolling closed for a split second, his mouth falling open—

Oh, you love that. And fuck, you’re mean about it.

You pull away from his mouth, just to watch him, just to take in the way he ruts into your palm, the way his hips twitch, desperate, chasing the slow, steady glide of your fingers.

He doesn’t even realize his breathing has gone ragged until he drags his gaze back down to meet yours, sees the sharp, delighted glint in your expression—

Oh, Jesus Christ. Trouble.

Aaron exhales through his teeth, head spinning, hands tightening on your hips like he’s barely keeping himself together.

Then, you let him go.

His groan is wrecked, frustrated, almost pleading, but before he can protest, before he can beg you to put your hands back right fucking now, your fingers slip between your own legs. You coat your fingers, and his stomach drops—tightens—tangles itself into knots—

He is absolutely going to lose his goddamn mind. 

Thank God he jerks off regularly (to literally this scenario) or else he would have already embarrassed himself. 

He’s usually good at keeping his reactions in check, keeping his body in line, keeping himself together—but not here, not with you. His fingers twitch against your hips, his nails pressing just slightly into your skin, like he’s trying to ground himself—like he’s trying to remind himself that this is real. That you’re here. That you’re doing this to him. That you’re touching him like you own him.

And maybe you do.

You take him in your hand again, now wet, slick, stroking him slow, slow, slow.

Your thumb teases the head, spreading the wetness, and a guttural sound rips from his throat.

The pleasure is sharp, coiling deep, pulling him under…

And then—then, you hum. Not a full sound. Not even a real reaction. Just… pleased. Like you’re learning something new about him.

Damn. 

Aaron crashes his mouth against yours, breathless, needy, his chest tight with something he doesn’t even have the words for. A small, desperate whine leaves his throat. 

And you fucking react to it. Of course you do. 

Your grip tightens. Your fingers stroke him with a fraction more force, like you’re rewarding him for it.

Your hand guides him, aligns him, and he follows, lets you, lets you pull him in, bring him home.

The first push inside you is slow. Careful. Barely anything at all. But it’s enough to steal your breath, to make your forehead rise against his, to make his entire body seize as heat floods his spine. 

Holy fuck.

His fingers tighten where they frame your hip, anchoring himself, holding himself back, forcing himself to take his time. Because God, he wants to bury himself in you right now, wants to lose himself in how warm and wet and tight you are, but—

No. Not yet.

You deserve better than that.

So, he rocks into you, slowly, each thrust giving you more, stretching you, filling you, until the burn in your expression softens into something else—something less tense, something less strained, something that makes his entire body throb with satisfaction.

You feel so fucking good around him. So good he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to function after this, doesn’t know how he’s supposed to think about anything else after knowing how perfectly you fit around him.

And the worst part—the worst, cruelest part—

He knew you would. He imagined this. And now it’s real.

A slow smile tugs at his lips, satisfaction curling in his chest, pride flickering through the haze as he watches you adjust to him, watches you take him.

Your eyes narrow at the expression. “What?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He just pushes in a little further—more than he meant to—his restraint fraying, unraveling at the edges.

Your gasp sends a sharp pulse of heat down his spine, and he clenches his jaw. Exhales through his teeth. “It’s just—” His brows pull together, his voice lower now.. “You feel even better than I ever imagined.”

Something flickers in your eyes. 

You kiss him like you’re trying to pull him under, like you want to drown him in you, and he lets you, lets himself lose himself completely, lets the air leave his lungs as he sinks all the way inside you, your legs wrapped around him, falling into your arms. He can’t feel anything that isn’t you.

He can understand why Menelaus went to war for Helen of Troy.

Your body throbs around him, tight and hot and perfect, and everything stops.

His hands are trembling where they grip your hips. His breathing is shallow, uneven.

He’s imagined this for years, imagined splitting you open on his cock, imagined you gasping against his lips, imagined you shuddering as you take him all the way in—but now that it’s real, now that he’s here, buried inside you, fully seated in the one person he’s wanted for years—

He has to fight for control.

His forehead presses against yours. His eyes close.  His pulse pounds in his ears. His body screams at him to move. 

And then—your voice, low and breathless, knocks him clean off his axis. “Do you want to show me?”

His eyes flicker open, hazy, dazed, like he’s been drugged, like he’s not entirely sure what he just heard. “What?”

You pull back just enough to look him in the eye, and fuck, you are smug. 

"Do you want to be good and show me how sorry you are?"

Oh.

Oh.

The words hit him like a live wire. He throbs. His breath catches.

Because yes.

Yes.

That’s all he wants, all he’s wanted. To be good for you, to be what you need, to make this right. 

This isn’t enough, but it’s a damn good start. 

He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t need to. His response is immediate.

He pulls almost all the way out and thrusts back in.

Slow. Steady. Reverent.

His lips brush your cheek, his fingers skate over your hairline—sweet, almost chaste.

Because the rest of him? The rest of him is devouring you.

He’s all over you, branding himself into every inch of you. He moves with purpose, with intention, holding your body steady as he fucks into you, as he gives you what you asked for.

This isn’t about his own pleasure. This isn’t about a quick fuck to work out frustration. This is an apology. A confession. A surrender. This is him loving you.

And God, he hopes you can feel it.

You shift beneath him. He recognizes the movement too late.

Before he can stop you—before he can ask why—You push him.

And he lets you.

He lets you take him over, lets you flip him onto his back, lets you push him flat against the mattress.

And then—you sink down onto him again.

Aaron’s head tips back so hard it nearly bounces against the pillow.

Oh, Jesus.

His hands clench around your thighs, his breath punching out of him in a sharp, shattered exhale.

He can feel everything. The way you take him, the way you slide down slow, the way your body grips him perfectly, hot and tight and fucking ruining him. Bottoming out never felt so good. 

His hands fall to your hips, barely gripping, barely holding himself together. And then—then, he makes the mistake of looking up at you.

And it is devastating.

Your head is tipped back, your mouth open, your body rolled forward in pleasure. Your hands brace against his shoulders, the pressure firm, grounding.

He’s been on his back before, hands gripping hips, taking and taking and taking.

But this? This is different. This is you. This is someone he’s spent years wanting, knowing, witnessing, years fantasizing about, years imagining—only to finally have you, and to learn that his imagination didn’t come remotely fucking close.

You are using him. Taking what you want. And he loves it.

Aaron doesn’t fight you when you pull his hands from your hips, lacing your fingers and using them for leverage. 

He lets you have him.

Your hips move, slow and deliberate, dragging against him, dragging him deeper into you. Every little shift sends sharp, aching pulses of pleasure through you—he can feel them, feel the way you clench around him, taking everything he gives you, not letting a single inch go to waste.

And then you kiss him, teeth scraping his lower lip, a punishment, and his hips jerk beneath you, a groan breaking free.

You’re still mad at him. He can feel it in the way your nails dig into his skin, in the way you take and take and take from him. And maybe he should feel worse about that, maybe he should feel ashamed—but he doesn’t.

Because he can give you this. Because you’re still here. Because if this is what you need, he’ll give it and take it. Gladly.

Your pace picks up, your body rolling perfectly, your breath ragged against his mouth. His grip on your hands tightens, keeping them locked right where they are, letting you use him the way you need.

And then—he watches you.

You’re fucking stunning like this, your head tipped back, mouth parted, skin warm and starting to sweat, giving you a glow that’s almost ethereal. He’s seen you angry, seen you reckless, seen you determined. But this? This is unrestrained, wild, desperate. You’re fucking yourself on his cock, using him for your own pleasure—and it’s the single hottest thing he’s ever witnessed in his life.

He doesn’t know what heaven looks like, but it has to be this.

He doesn’t want his mind to wander too far, but if he fully focuses on this moment—the way you feel, the sounds you make, the expression of unadulterated pleasure on your beautiful, familiar face—he will lose the last vestiges of his control. At the moment, that control is the only part that matters. 

Waiting years for sex? Fine. Routine. Waiting years for bad sex? Unsat. Unacceptable. 

Entirely and admittedly selfish, he’s not too proud to admit he’s got a reputation to uphold, here, even after nearly four years of self-imposed celibacy. 

Then—you shift. Your fingers tighten around his, taking his hands and pinning them over his head.

Oh. Oh, fuck.

He resists for a second—pure reflex—and then something in his chest breaks open. Let's go.

He lets you pin him down, lets you keep him there, your fingers wrapped so tight around his. His body burns beneath yours, heat coiling, twisting, unraveling.

He watches, dazed, his entire body wrought with need, with awe, as you take him. He’s not even sure this passes for participation anymore. 

Your hips keep rolling, every slow, deliberate grind dragging your clit against his abdomen, making you shake above him. The sight is devastating—you trembling, you clenching, your breath hitching every time you take him deep.

This should be illegal.

And he loves it.

You kiss him, hard. He kisses you back, harder. His hips jerk up instinctively, meeting yours, giving you more, chasing everything you’ll let him have.

His jaw tightens. His breath punches out of him. His fingers twitch where they’re locked in yours, aching to grab you, to flip you back over, to fuck you into the mattress until you can’t breathe.

He doesn’t. He won’t. But his restraint is hanging on by a single thread. 

You pulse around him. It snaps. 

Just as quickly as you took control, it’s gone.

Your bodies shift. His thighs press up behind you, changing the angle, and the movement knocks you forward against his chest. Your wrists are still locked above him, still holding him down, but now—now, you can’t reach his mouth.

He can hear your frustrated little noise, feel the way you try to stretch, and that’s what does it.

Aaron moves. In a single, fluid motion, he snaps his hands free, crushes you to him, and flips you onto your back.

You barely have time to gasp before he covers you, mouth crashing into yours, hips driving forward, pressing into you, stretching you, filling you, checking in on you as he bottoms out with every stroke.

He wonders, for a second, if that was too much.

Your eyes are on him, desperate sounds falling from your mouth. 

Safe to say you’re fine.

His hands drag down your sides, anchoring, owning, branding. He ducks his head, pressing his lips to your shoulder, speaking into your skin. “God help me, I’m so in love with you.”

He’s so far gone he doesn’t even care if you hear him. 

And your nails—fuck. Your nails sink into his back and rake, deep enough that he knows he’ll still feel you tomorrow. Maybe even the next day. His groan is dark, broken, wild, spilling into your mouth like a confession. He hopes you drew blood.

His body is on fire. His entire being is focused on you. The way you feel around him.

“I missed you,” he murmurs against your throat, voice broken and rough. “I missed you so much. And I’m so sorry.”

Tears prickle at the corners of your eyes. If he looked up, off he could face you, he’d see them shine. Your voice is soft, warm. “I know, honey. I know.”

He shudders. His hips roll, slow, perfect, dragging pleasure through you like fire. His mouth moves over your skin, soothing the bruises he’s already sucked into you, devouring you with every stroke.

His voice breaks. “Touch yourself.”

Your breath catches.

“Show me.”

His forehead presses to yours, his body pulsing, pounding, aching. He lifts your hips, shifts you onto a pillow, changes the angle, drags a deep, desperate moan from your lips.

Your fingers slide between your bodies, rubbing tight circles, and he feels everything. Feels the way you tighten, the way you clench, the way your breath stutters.

“I’m close, Aaron.”

His stomach tightens. His cock throbs. “I can feel it. Where do you want me?”

Your voice is ragged, pleading, a desperate, gasping cry. “Don’t leave me. Inside me. I need all of you.”

He groans. Deep, guttural. His hips snap forward. He couldn’t imagine, even if you begged him to come inside you, that you would sound so desperate for him, and him alone.

Your fingers wind in his hair, tight. “Are you—?”

His nose brushes yours, his lips barely forming the words. “Let go for me, baby. Let me have all of you—let me see you. Put my imagination to shame.”

And then—you break.

Your body tightens, clenches, shakes. Your head tilts back, mouth open, but nothing comes out. Your orgasm takes you under, consumes you, shatters you. 

And he follows.

His body locks up, his groan debauched, desperate, ruined. His cock throbs, spills inside you, warmth flooding you, leaving nothing between you.

His forehead presses to yours, his hands shaking as he pulls you close, wraps you up, holds you together even as you fall apart.

And then—he exhales.

His body softens against yours, his hand cradling the back of your neck, thumb passing over the soft skin under your ear.

You both shudder. And for the first time in months—he feels whole again.

He captures your lips with soft, languid kisses as you both come down, like he’s trying to tether you to him, to this moment, to the reality of it. Your legs shake where they’re still wrapped around him, and he smooths his hands over your skin like he can quiet the aftershocks, like he can soothe what he’s done to you, what you’ve done to him.

When he finally slips out, your body clenches reflexively, a soft whimper breaking free, and it guts him. He presses a kiss to your temple. 

“Christ, you're perfect.” He’s sure it’s almost inaudible against your skin. He closes his eyes, squeezing them shut as he breathes you in an effort to capture the moment, to keep it forever. 

Then, reluctantly, he forces himself to move.

The bathroom light spills into the bedroom as he steps inside, casting a glow over the sheets, over your skin. He catches glimpses of you in the mirror as he wets the washcloth, and it stops him in his tracks. The slow, steady rise and fall of your breath. The sated heaviness in your limbs. You’re utterly spent, pliant, unraveled right there on his bed—because of him.

His grip tightens on the counter. A sharp inhale, through his nose. The ache low in his gut only deepens. And despite everything—despite the months of emotional silence, the war still raging between you—he knows, without a doubt, that this is where he belongs.

When he returns, he’s as careful as he knows how to be, wiping you down with slow, reverent strokes.

Then he sees it. His cum, still leaking out of you.

The sheen between your legs, the mess dripping onto the sheets—it’s his.

It slams into him all at once, a visceral, primal kind of possession. His cock twitches, uselessly spent, and he swallows hard, forcing himself to focus. Warm. Clean. Comfortable. That’s what he should be thinking about. Not—not this. Not the way he swipes the cloth over your inner thigh and gathers what he left inside you.

Jesus Christ.

The reality of it—the fact that he’s still inside you, that your body is slick with him, because of him—smacks him with a force he isn’t prepared for. It should be illegal, the sight alone.

Another slow, thick ribbon of his cum spills from you, slipping down the curve of your ass, pooling in the dip where your thigh meets the sheets. It’s obscene—the way you’re still leaking, still full of him. Like your body doesn’t want to let him go. Like it’s keeping something of him, holding onto it, even now. 

Oh, fuck.

He forces himself to finish another pass, gentle and slow. 

How is he supposed to go back to normal after this? After knowing what it’s like to clean you up after fucking you senseless? After tasting you on his tongue like some kind of sacrament?

The sight of you like this—melting into his bed, warm and blissed out—is something he thought he’d never have. Didn’t deserve. Still doesn’t.

The eyes he loves—the ones that have cut through precincts in tiny backwater towns, the ones that have rolled when he’s almost made you laugh, the ones that have held him steady for so long—are glazed-over, heavy-lidded, focused on him with a fucked-out haziness he’s only ever read about. 

And he did this.

His eyes trace every inch of you, drinking you in, committing you to memory. Your skin glows in the dim light, sticky with sweat, your lips swollen from his kisses. Something raw claws its way up his throat. It tries to speak—I missed you, I love you, I love you, I love you.

Instead, he swallows hard and forces himself to move. Blinking like he’s breaking from a trance. The cloth lands in the hamper. His hands flex at his sides, reluctant to let go.

He tugs his boxer briefs back on, his movements slow, deliberate, before padding back toward the bed. When he stretches out beside you, he leaves just enough space for you to breathe—just in case you need it.

And then, finally, finally, he allows himself to exhale.

The ceiling blurs. His breath is even, controlled, but there’s something hot behind his ribs, something pressing at the backs of his eyes. He doesn’t move, doesn’t shift, doesn’t let it show. But beside him, you stir, tucking your arm beneath your head, turning to face him.

And when your heavy, exhausted gaze lands on him, something in his chest breaks.

Because you’re still here. With him.

It’s not strange, either, knowing that you won’t talk about the mind-blowing sex you just had until the rest of your business is laid to rest. Much like everything else in your friendship, all things get the attention they’re due in their time—and no earlier.

“There was only one way to keep Emily safe, and it was for all of us to believe she was dead.”

He doesn’t look at you yet. He can’t. Instead, he watches the shadows play against the ceiling, the way the dim glow of the bedside lamp casts soft, wavering lines over the walls. He forces himself to keep his voice even, to control the pace of his breathing. The words have weight—weight he’s carried for months, weight he now must shift from himself to you.

There’s a pause, one he knows you’re waiting for him to fill. He turns his head to the side, facing you, and the moment he sees your expression—quiet, open, bracing—it hits him how badly he doesn’t want to tell you this. How much he doesn’t want to be the reason your hurt deepens, your grief stretches longer. But he owes you honesty.

“If JJ and I had told the truth…” His eyes flick to yours, just for a second. His hand twitches, like he wants to reach for you, but he doesn’t. He’s still afraid to touch you—afraid he’s forfeited the right, even after all that. “…even to you or Morgan, there was a great chance she could have been killed before she completed her mission.”

He doesn’t know if he expects you to fight him on that, but you don’t. You just nod, absorbing the words, parsing them against the months of grief you were made to bear.

“I know that doesn’t make it easier.” He lets out a breath, the weight of it pressing down on him. He rolls fully onto his side, reaching for you instinctively, pressing his forehead to yours. The proximity—your warmth, your breath fanning against his lips—nearly unravels him.

“I hated every second.” His voice is raw, breaking under the confession. “I hated knowing I had the power to make your hurt go away, but couldn’t use it. I’m so sorry for lying to you.” The words scrape against his throat like gravel. His eyes squeeze shut. “I’m sorry for leaving. I’m so sorry.”

He barely realizes he’s holding his breath, bracing for the worst—for the walls to go back up, for you to pull away. But you don’t.

Instead, you wrap yourself around him, and he clutches at you. Holds you like an anchor, like if he lets go, he’ll be lost again.

But then, your body stills. Your breath catches.

And he knows what just hit you.

Pakistan.

It strikes through him, clean and sharp—like something he should have seen coming. Because you’re right. Because that’s exactly how he managed it.

He didn’t just lie to you. He already knew he could.

He had already proven to himself that he could compartmentalize, shut you out, let you ache without him. And then he left. 

Aaron swallows, but it doesn’t dislodge the lump in his throat. His fingers tighten against your back, against the warmth of your bare skin, like maybe if he holds onto you tightly enough, he won’t feel like he’s slipping again.

Then, against his skin, he feels it—warm, quiet tears, slipping onto his collarbone.

It stabs through him like a knife. He would know.

His throat tightens. His arms instinctively cinch around you, his fingers pressing firm into your back. Like he can hold you together. Like he can hold himself together.

The breath in his chest falters, shakes. The weight in his throat swells, tightening. His ribs expand against you, his lungs pulling in a breath like they need to, like his body has made the choice before his mind can follow.

And then—he breaks.

Silent. Always silent. He’s had practice. 

How many times?

How many nights as a child, as a teenager, as a husband, as a father, as a man, as himself, has he let pain slip from his body in silence?

How many times has he gone unseen?

But this time, he’s not alone. Because you don’t say anything. You don’t try to fix it. 

Instead, you touch him.

Your hand, soft and steady, wraps around his bicep where it crosses your own, grounding him. Your other smooths down his side, gentle, deliberate, like you’re reassuring him that he won’t break apart.

That he’s allowed to feel.

His ribs expand against you, his breath slow and measured. You hold him as he eases, as the weight in his chest lightens just enough to be bearable.

And when his body finally slackens, when his grip on you shifts from clinging to holding, you press a kiss to the base of his throat, barely there, barely touching.

I’m here.I see you.

He exhales, long and slow, and for the first time since he got back, he feels something settle.

He doesn’t know when you fall asleep. Only that you do.

He follows. 

+++ september 22nd, 2011

Aaron stirs, his mind pulling him from unconsciousness with a slow, unfamiliar ease.

For once, it’s not from a nightmare. Not from the jerking halt of his own breath or the phantom echoes of gunfire rattling in his skull. Not from the sharp snap of a door shutting too hard, triggering muscle memory to reach for his sidearm.

His body tenses on instinct, ready for the discomfort of stiff joints, the bite of a cot too short for him, the lingering damp of sweat and dust clinging to his clothes. Ready for the headache that comes from sleeping under too-bright floodlights, from forcing himself into shallow, unsatisfying rest while a generator hums in the background.

But none of it comes.

Because he’s home.

And you’re here.

The realization crashes into him, rattling through his body like the first step off a plane after too long away. His fingers twitch against the sheets—his sheets. The cotton is soft—too soft, almost unfamiliar after months of rough military linens and the coarse weave of his rip-stop pants, sleeping in his boots. 

His breath catches as the night before floods back in—your hands in his hair, his name gasped against his skin, the taste of your pleasure on his tongue, the way you fit around him like you were made for him.

His lips part, an exhale slipping free, and for a moment, he doesn’t move. He doesn’t dare.

His mind latches onto evidence, the way it always does. The way he knows, with absolute certainty, that this wasn’t some elaborate dream.

The scent of you lingers, clinging to the pillows, the sheets. His own skin.

His body aches—not in that way he’s accustomed to after too little sleep and too much strain, but in a way that has everything to do with you.

The covers have been displaced, not just by restless sleep, but by hands—your hands—pulling, grasping, dragging him closer.

He shifts just slightly, reaching across the mattress—

Cool sheets. You’re gone.

Aaron’s brows furrow as his brain kicks into motion, dragging itself fully into wakefulness.

The bedroom is dark, truly dark—not just the half-light of a field jacket slung over his face to block out the glow of security lamps. The shadows are familiar. The air is still, not thick with the stifling humidity of a supply tent packed too tight with bodies.

He exhales, running a hand down his face.

Then he listens.

Faintly, from the kitchen—water running from the fridge filter.

Relief trickles through him, slow and certain. He lets his head drop back against the pillow. 

You didn’t leave. Some part of him had expected you to.

It makes sense, doesn’t it? For you, five months of unresolved anger, of longing and grief twisted up together into something too sharp to touch. Five months of holding yourself together without him.

For him, past five months have been spent in temporary quarters, never quite belonging anywhere, his surroundings always shifting, always unfamiliar.

But this—this—

You. In his kitchen. In his space.

It’s the closest thing to normal he’s had in months.

And it kills him how much he wants it to stay this way.

A part of him wants to follow, to press into your space the way he’s spent years resisting. But another part of him—the part still adjusting to the reality of this moment, to you in his home—can’t bring himself to move just yet. He can’t hear you talking to yourself, can’t hear you pacing, so maybe you’re not spiraling. Maybe you’re just drinking water. Maybe you’re not as overwhelmed by all of this as he is.

He slides a hand under your pillow, stretching—oh. He picks up your phone, checks the battery, and shakes his head. 

Yeah. No. 

You and Emily both have this terrible habit of letting your phones have a brush with death before plugging them in. Derek isn’t much better. Even with two phones, one of them is always half-dead. 

So, it might be full enough for you, but certainly not to his taste. He shifts, leaning over and plugging your phone into the charger next to your side of the bed. He can’t believe he was kidding himself before he left. He bought it, placed it, and made sure it worked. For you. 

He shakes his head and tucks himself back in, ears straining through his tinnitus for your presence in the apartment. 

A beat.

Then the clink of empty glass against the counter, left behind.

You’re coming back. The knowledge settles something deep inside him.

The bed shifts under your weight as you slide back in. And then—

Cold.

A sharp, sudden brush of your feet against his shin sends a jolt through him, a sharp contrast to the warmth of the sheets. His breath pulls in between his teeth, his whole body tensing before settling.

Jesus Christ, how are your feet always this cold?

You go still, like you’re bracing for him to move away, but he doesn’t.

Instead, his arm moves, wrapping around your waist and pulling you against him. "C'mere."

His chest presses to your back, his nose slots against your neck, his hand finds the space just beneath your ribs and holds.

His thighs trap your feet between them, and—fuck–you really are freezing. He startles slightly at the difference in temperature, muttering, “Jesus. Did you jump in the fucking river?”

You shift, like you’re about to pull away, whispering, “Sorry,” but he tightens his grip.

“Nope,” he grumbles, voice rough with sleep, his exhaustion already pulling him back under. His grip tightens just slightly. “Over faster.”

The warmth spreads between you, slow and certain.

It’s too easy, the way he tucks you close, the way he doesn’t hesitate, the way he was always going to hold you like this, no matter what.

Like he’s been waiting for this all along. Like he’s home, in the only way that matters.

+++

Aaron wakes to warmth.

He takes a slow, measured breath, careful not to disturb you where you rest against him. Your back is pressed flush to his chest, the weight of your body sinking into his, soft and pliant. His arm is looped around your waist, keeping you close, and your fingers rest lightly over his forearm. You must have reached for him in your sleep.

That realization sends something deep and bittersweet curling through his chest.

For a moment, he just listens.

The ticking of the clock in the bathroom. The hum of the refrigerator down the hall. The soft, even sound of your breath.

It’s real. You’re here. This is happening.

He’d spent so many nights overseas convincing himself this was never on the table. That when he got back, things would be irreparably different. That whatever fragile balance you’d maintained before would be shattered completely under the weight of his absence, his choices.

And maybe it still will be. You’re here now, but that doesn’t mean you’ll stay.

His jaw jumps.

He spent months, years, training himself not to want this, and now that it’s in his hands, he doesn’t know what to do with it. He spent so long pretending he could live with the distance, the boundary between you, that the reality of crossing it—shattering it—is still something he can’t quite process.

Haley would be proud of him.

The thought is immediate, striking him like a bolt of certainty. She’d be the first to roll her eyes and tell him she told him so, that he never could see what was right in front of him. And she’d be right. And God, he wishes she were here to see it—to brush her fingers through the hair over his forehead like she used to, tell him how brave he’s been.

There’s a knot in his throat as he exhales, slow and controlled, pressing his forehead lightly to the back of your shoulder.

He lets himself have one more moment of stillness before he carefully reaches behind him for his phone, feeling for the familiar weight of it on the nightstand. The screen is too bright in the dim room, making him squint slightly as he checks the time.

6:02am.

Plenty of time to get to the office if needed.

His inbox refreshes, and the email is there, waiting.

TO: Investigations and Operations, East - Behavioral Analysis Unit (MCRT) <[email protected]> CC: Robert Mueller, Director <[email protected]> FROM: Erin Strauss <[email protected]> SUBJECT: NOTICE: Suspension - Effective Immediately Pending Senate Investigation

He exhales sharply through his nose as he skims the text.

Not unexpected. But still different to see it in writing.

His lips press together as he locks the screen and sets his phone back down on the nightstand, more deliberately than necessary. Then he shifts again, pulling you closer, grounding himself in the reality of your body against his.

His hand rests against the bare skin of your hip. He traces slow, idle patterns there, barely thinking about it—just needing to feel you, needing the tactile reassurance that this is real.

Then you stir, shifting slightly, your breath catching as you stretch against him. He watches the exact moment you wake—the slow rise of awareness, the slight furrow in your brow before your muscles relax again. What a gift, to see you join the waking world, after so many months missing it. 

You press into him, your hand smoothing over his where it rests against your skin.

"Good morning," he murmurs.

You make a quiet sound—half-sigh, half-satisfied hum—before rolling over to face him, keeping just as close. Your leg drapes over his hip, locking you together.

His lips twitch. 

"Good morning," you echo, voice still heavy with sleep.

"Breakfast?" He asks, trailing his fingers over your shoulder. 

Your brow furrows slightly, still full of sleep. "Don’t we have to go in? What time is it?"

He sighs, long-suffering and heavy, tilting his chin toward the nightstand. "Just after six. Check your email."

That gets your attention. You twist and grope for your phone, fingers closing around it where it sits charging.

You unlock the screen and squint at the subject line. The moment you read it, you groan, flopping back against the pillow.

"Goddamn it."

Aaron watches, amused, as you turn back to him, scowling.

"Can’t we go at least a few months without some kind of forced unpaid vacation?"

He huffs a quiet laugh. "Guess not." Then, with a pointed look, "On the bright side… breakfast?"

+++

He doesn’t think much about it when he sets his iPod to shuffle—just another morning, another familiar routine. But when Hey Nineteen rolls in, easy and smooth, he exhales without realizing he’d been holding anything in.

The music fills the kitchen, threading through the quiet as he works, mostly to ease awareness of his tinnitus—knife through fruit, toast hitting the plate, the comfort of repetition settling into his bones. He could almost forget the months he spent on another continent, the miles of distance still stretching between here and there. Almost.

And then he glances up.

Aaron watches you twist back and forth on the barstool, your chin propped in your hands. You’re watching him from your seat at the island, eyes soft in the morning light. You don’t say anything, just tilt your head, lips twitching like you’re holding back a smile when you catch him looking. 

You’re wearing one of his old Paul McCartney & Wings shirts, and something about it sends a wave of warmth through his chest. You’ve worn his clothes before, but this time it’s not a necessity or convenience. You didn’t pull it from the drawer in Jack’s room like you did in the spring. This time, you took it from his drawer, in his room.

It settles something in him.

He slides the plate of fruit toward you, brushing his fingers against your wrist in passing. Not intentional. Not really.

He rounds the island with his own. He watches you dig in, quietly grateful you’re eating. He expected more silence this morning, maybe even a carefully constructed wall between you. But there you are, in his shirt, in his home, watching him with something that almost looks like ease.

He nearly lets himself believe in it. That this is something real, something tangible, something he can keep. He watches you, the ease in your posture, the quiet satisfaction in your expression, and it makes something in his chest go tight. 

This is the moment, isn’t it?

It’s never been a question of whether he loves you. It’s only ever been a question of if, or when, he should say it.

He lets out a slow exhale. His body feels warm—content, settled in a way it hasn’t been in months. It has to be that simple, right? Maybe honesty is the best way forward—it usually is. Just the truth. He owes you that much, at least, after everything. 

And he knows what honesty looks like with you. He’s seen it in the moments you weren’t supposed to notice him watching: the way your brow furrowed in concentration when you helped Jack glue something, the light in your eyes when you laughed or rolled your eyes at Derek, the way you let out a satisfied, smug little hum when you won a poker game on the jet and claimed the pretzel pot. Years ago now, the time he pretended to be asleep in the backseat just to hear you and JJ sing along—maybe off-key in some places, but full of joy—to some ridiculous pop song on the radio.

It’s in the way you squared your shoulders and met his gaze head-on when he was recovering from Foyet, the way you changed his dressings without hesitation, the way you never pitied him, even when you cried for him. It’s in the way you stood on the back deck of the big house with Haley, giggling over something that felt secret and sacred between you both.

He knew it at Liberty Ranch, when you were shot and nearly blown up, and he knew it when you held his son’s hand and kept him safe on the worst days of his life, hiding Jack’s face from the destruction of his only home, his mother’s blood on the floor. 

And he knows it now, looking at you in his shirt, in his home, eating the food he made for you.

But you’re done eating. And he’s out of time. He clears his throat, his voice steady, even as something thrums in his chest.

“This may be a bad time, but do you want to talk about us at all?”

Your reaction is immediate. The slight stiffening of your shoulders, the way your fingers flex against his before pulling away. He feels the loss acutely, his hands tightening into loose fists in his lap. That was the wrong thing to say, probably. 

Pushing too hard, too fast. Fuck. 

He forgets that he’s the guilty melancholic in this scenario, where you’re the righteous, biblically-accurate angel with the wrath of God at your back. 

Or maybe that’s just… Catholic. Those years of boarding school really did a number on his psyche. 

For a moment, you just look at him, and his breath feels too tight in his chest. 

“Can we just... be? Right now?” Your voice is small, hesitant. It’s almost like you’re afraid of making a mistake, of pushing him away. 

What a patently absurd notion. And yet. 

Aaron nods before he even fully processes the words. There’s no argument in him, no plea to rush this along. 

You shift, picking at the hem of his shirt you wear, and it takes every ounce of restraint he has not to reach for your hands again. He listens, as you stumble through your reasoning—settling back into normal, taking things slow, not naming this just yet.

Of course you need time. He left. He lied. He let his fear guide him, not once, but twice, and it’s left him standing on uneven ground with you. And yet, despite all of it, you’re still here. Being brave. Braver than he’s ever been. 

Aaron swallows down the lump in his throat, nodding. “I understand.” His voice is steady, but his fingers twitch in his lap, aching to touch you, to anchor himself in you.

“I just… I just need time.”

“Okay.”

He doesn’t hesitate this time. He tugs you forward, settling you between his knees. His hands rest lightly on your waist—an unspoken reassurance, a quiet promise that he’ll give you all the time you need.

And then, because it’s been sitting at the tip of his tongue for longer than he can even remember, he finally says it.

“This may go without saying, but…” He meets your gaze, holds it. “I love you.”

It’s terrifying.

He was right–there is no moment of grand revelation, no surge of adrenaline. He just says it, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Because it is. It has been, for years.

You don’t move at first. You just look at him, and something flickers behind your eyes.

His stomach clenches.

And then, the tension drains from your shoulders. Your breath comes out in a quiet, breathless laugh. “I love you, too.”

His breath catches. For a moment, the world tilts.

The words settle over him like warmth after a deep, bone-chilling cold—like stepping into the sun after too long in the dark. Something sharp in his chest eases, unraveling in a way that almost makes him dizzy. He’s held onto this for so long, gripped it so tightly, convinced himself over and over again that he would never hear you say it. And now, here you are, looking at him like he’s something worth holding onto, like this is something worth having. Something you’re not scared of. 

The weight doesn’t just ease—it evaporates. In its place, something bright and heady sparks to life, something that feels like joy in its purest, most overwhelming form.

Then, with a crooked smile, you add, “I promise, no matter how much I hate you, I love you more.”

It’s real.

It’s yours.

And when you release his hands and wrap your arms around him, he exhales like he’s been holding his breath for five months. Maybe he has. 

His hand finds the back of your head, cradling you to him. He presses his face into your shoulder, letting his eyes close.

For the first time in what feels like forever, the world goes quiet.

You love him.

+++

+++ september 21st, 2011

Aaron doesn’t argue. Doesn’t push, doesn’t explain. 

He just unlocks the door and steps aside. Silent.

You walk past him, your shoulder brushing his chest as you move, but neither of you acknowledge it. 

Your hands find your hips the second you stop in the middle of the living room, then your arms cross, restless. The weight in your chest is suffocating and you wish that it could just stop, that you could manage this with a nifty little switch. 

Jack’s gone, staying with Jessica until tomorrow afternoon. This is your only chance to lay into him the way you want to. When you two have an audience again, you’ll have to stuff it and pretend you’re fine.

Aaron lingers near the door, just watching you. His bag is still slung over his shoulder, wearing the same clothes he wore when he flew in. He hasn’t shaved in a week or two, probably. He looks drawn, exhausted, like he’d fall over if you looked at him wrong. 

This isn’t new. This isn’t even your first silence on the subject. 

"No."

"I can’t talk to you right now."

You meant it then. You mean it now. The problem is, it’s not true anymore. You want to yell and demand and make him feel the way you feel—like you spent five months drowning and have just been pulled from the water.

But God, is it good to see him in one piece. 

"When did you know?"

Aaron exhales, slow, deliberate. A hand scrubs over his face. You know this is the last thing he needs, after taking an uncomfortable supply transport home, working through the nights for close to three days, dealing with you at work. He gave everything he had left to find Declan, to finish the job. 

You do not care.

But you’ve been tired too. This anger and hurt and exhaustion has pushed you to the brink. You don’t know how else to iron this out. 

His overthinking, the editorializing to get his thoughts in order stokes your irritation. 

“Stop. Answer me.” 

"Last week,” he admits, his voice low. “I knew last week.”

You cross your arms. "So, when you called to check in with me, you couldn’t have—I dunno—shared that?" Your voice has a bite to it. 

A muscle jumps in his jaw. He lets out a dissatisfied chuff, like there’s an answer somewhere in his head, but he can’t or won’t say it.

And that’s worse. So much worse.

“You could have told me you were leaving.”

The words come low, steady. Controlled. But not soft. Never soft. You’ve spent weeks perfecting this control, and still it threatens to shake loose in your throat.

You see the way it hits him. You don’t care. Not enough to stop.

Because even now—even now—you’re biting your tongue on half of what you could say. 

“I thought maybe you didn’t want to be around me anymore,” you say, and the words feel like sandpaper, rough from disuse. “That maybe we were crossing way too many lines and you wanted to back off or something.”

“I would’ve understood,” you add, breath hitching. “Maybe not right away. But I would’ve tried. I would’ve asked questions. I would’ve argued.”

You glance at him, throat raw.

“But I wouldn’t have stopped you. I probably could’ve pretended I was excited for you instead of scared shitless.”

A beat. 

“Say something.”

You mean it. You think you mean it. But the second he tries, the second he so much as breathes—

“No—actually, don’t.”

You shake your head, hard. Your voice warbles. But you don’t cry. Not yet.

“Because whatever you say, it’s going to sound reasonable. And I’m not ready for that. I’m not ready to forgive you just because you had a good reason. And I’m sure you did.”

You start to move—tight, restless steps across the floor. The pacing doesn’t help. 

“I’m trying so hard not to give you the benefit of the doubt,” you spit. “And I’m failing and it’s infuriating. Because I know you.”

That’s the worst part. That you do.

“I know it probably wasn’t about thinking I couldn’t handle it. Or that I wasn’t strong enough. Or trustworthy enough.”

You stop in your tracks, arms thrown wide in disbelief. Your voice shatters at the edges.

“But it feels like that, Aaron. It feels exactly like that.”

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t flinch.

You wish he would. 

After five months of this bullshit, these feelings, you want a fight. You want something you can actually hit or your words to visibly land.

“You could’ve told me. You should’ve told me. I wouldn’t have made it harder. I wouldn’t have begged you to stay.” 

You pause. Try again. Softer now.

“You should’ve told me.”

The silence swells around you—bloated with everything you didn’t get to say back then. 

You pause, mid-step, struck by a new vein of fury that runs cold down your back.

“You did hint.” It spills out fast. The realization tastes like rust. 

“That’s the worst part. You even hinted at me and I chose not to—ugh!” You throw your arms down, helpless, disgusted with yourself and frustrated by your endless patience for him. 

“There were moments,” you say. “Hypotheticals. Comments. Pauses in conversation.”

You pace faster, like maybe the speed will keep your skin from peeling off under the heat of it.

“And I just—I let it go. I let you do it.”

You press the heel of your hand to your forehead. You feel hot all over.

“Because I trusted you. I trusted that if you had something to share, you would. I didn’t push. I didn’t pry. I gave you space.”

You finally stop, breathing shallow. And something inside you… shifts. The anger doesn’t leave, but it leans into exhaustion, into that bone-deep ache of loving someone who keeps making the same goddamn mistake—of shutting you out in the name of protecting you.

“And maybe I should’ve asked,” you admit, quieter now. “But I just didn’t want to be another person in your life trying to make you talk before you were ready.”

A bitter laugh cracks from your throat. It feels dangerous.

“Everyone looked at me like I was supposed to know something.” Your jaw tightens. Your eyes sting. “Because I was supposed to know something.”

You look down. Away from him. “Because we tell each other everything.”

Your voice breaks.

“I thought.”

Your hands tighten on your arms and you feel it again—that awful wave of anger trying to cauterize the wound underneath. 

"We spent months without you, Aaron. Months." The words burn on the way out, your throat tight. "You missed out on so much, and I was so alone, and it was so hard, and I—we—"

You stop. Swallow against the heat in your throat.

He’s watching you, taking the hit, letting it land. He’ll take what you throw at him without argument. You’re sure he hates himself right now more than you ever could. 

And you hate him for that, too. His self-loathing has been so tiresome the last couple of days. If you were speaking to him, you would have told him to cut it out. 

"I missed you." It slips out—like a confession, like something ripped from your chest before you could stop it. Tears slide, numerous and unbidden, onto your cheeks. Your throat closes up again. You swallow it.

Aaron’s breath catches. So does yours. You continue against your better judgement. 

"I missed you so much I couldn’t breathe."

And that does it. That’s what breaks whatever threadbare restraint is left between you.

Aaron moves. You move. You’re not sure who moves first. 

Your hands are in his hair. His mouth is on yours.

He gasps as he pulls you in, his hands vice-tight on your hips. You’ll have bruises later and the thought only spurs you on. The kiss is raw, brutal - you nip at his lower lip, your tongue sliding over his with a hunger, a desire, you hardly recognize in yourself. 

Your tears mingle with the taste of him - bitter coffee, spearmint toothpaste, something achingly familiar. His beard scrapes against your skin as he moves from your mouth, dragging rough kisses down your neck, giving you space to breathe  even as he steals your breath from you. The beard is new, unexpected. Not unwelcome.

You wish this was different. Something sweet, something slow, something you could savor. 

You’ve certainly worked for it, waited for it, long enough.  

When has anything with him been typical? When has anything ever been the way you wanted? 

Then, 

God, he’s good at this. 

Bastard. 

When his mouth finds your pulse point, a shudder rips through you. Your fingers tangle in his hair, finding the root and yanking once. Hard. Aaron groans, unrestrained. The sound shoots heat straight through you, and you bring his mouth back to yours. 

He holds you like he’s memorizing you, like he doesn’t trust you won’t disappear if he lets go. He’s everywhere. 

“I can’t stand you,” you whisper against his mouth. The lie falls flat, landing like a surrender.

(You don’t mean it.)

Aaron huffs, breath warm against your lips. It's almost a laugh, almost a challenge. His answer is whispered between rough, bruising kisses. You can feel his smile. “I know.” 

(He knows,)

You let him go and shove. Surprised, he stumbles back, landing hard against the couch with a sharp exhale. His chest heaves, pupils blown, his hair a wreck from your fingers. He wets his bottom lip, his tongue peeking out. His gaze never leaves you. 

There’s a flintiness in Aaron’s eyes, watching you, maybe daring you. You whip your shirt off and drop it, straddling him as his hands rise to your ribs. 

“What are you doing?” He asks, his mouth at your collarbone, his voice knowing. 

“I want you,” you tell him, your voice still rough, almost a rasp. “I can barely look at you, I’m so mad. But I still want you.” You take an unsteady breath, offering him a rueful, watery half-laugh. “I always have.” 

Something cracks as you voice it. A sob catches in your throat as more tears fall and his hands are already there, cradling your face, steady and warm. You hate him, you love him, and you lean into his touch. 

Your anger has been a firestorm since his return—soundly burning him every time he got too close. But this? This is worse. This isn’t your righteous rage; this is grief, stripped down to the bolts. And yet, even now, you lean into him. Even now, you let him touch you.

The anger, the hurt, the raw wounds weeping and sore–all of it flickers for the briefest of moments as he catches your tears, his thumbs soothing your cheeks. Your breath shudders out of you as your eyelids flutter closed. He draws you closer, his nose sliding against yours. 

“While I’d much rather we do this when you aren’t considering homicide…” he murmurs, his lips brushing yours as he speaks. 

You manage a breathless, soundless laugh before he’s kissing you again. It’s deep, consuming, and you’re dizzy with it. 

“…I’ve wanted you so badly.” He drags his hands down your back, pressing you flush against him. “Years,” he breathes between kisses, “years, years, and years of wanting you.”

Your arms slide behind him, hands splayed across his shoulders. He straightens, drawing his hands up your back, studying you with a soft, devoted tenderness that makes you self-conscious. You tuck your face into his neck, pressing into him as much as you can. His hand passes up and down your spine, the firm pressure grounding you.  

You tip your head back after a minute or so, looking him in the eye again. Just in case he forgot (he didn’t.)—

“I’m not any less mad at you.” 

“I know.” He kisses the underside of your jaw, reverent and gentle. “Will you let me show you how sorry I am? For everything?” 

Your breath leaves you and the weight of it all crests over you–the years of pining, the months apart, the need, the love. His lips graze your pulse point, his breath warm, as he waits patiently. You give in, breathless. “Yes.” 

Holding you close, he stands and you link your ankles around his back. He never once lifts his lips from your skin as he carries you to the bedroom. Your fingers dig into his lean shoulders, feeling the shift of muscle beneath the skin. Carrying you across the apartment is effortless. 

You rest your cheek on his temple as he paints kisses all over your neck and collarbone. You can feel the apology in them. With a little bit of a start, you realize you can feel the love in them, too. Something in you softens, knowing innately he has been right there with you, by your side, with you for years. 

He reaches the bedroom, and lays you on his gray linen duvet cover without acknowledging anything in the room that isn’t you. It must be good to be home, in some ways. 

Idly, you wonder if anything’s really changed. Other than everything, of course. 

Crawling over your body, he finds your lips again and kisses you soundly, holding himself up with a knee between your thighs. Somewhere in there, you remember why you’re here, and you flip him onto his back, straddling him once more. He looks up at you, and it’s clear he’s still completely at your mercy. 

You roll your hips over him, and he holds onto control. His jaw flexes, his hands tighten on your hips. The little smile on your face is only a little playfully malicious when you do it again. 

You’re rewarded handsomely–his mouth falls open while his eyes snap shut. It’s an intoxicating sight. The bulge in his cargos cants up between the apex of your legs and you whimper a little, pulling at the hem of his shirt, feeling the warmth of his skin underneath.

He sits up, making sure you keep your balance. When he’s sure you’re not going to fall, he lets you remove his shirt, your mouth following your hands up his body. He tenses, his arms coming back down almost immediately—to cover, to hide. 

If you don’t get to hide, neither does he. 

You take his hands, almost a rebuke, and guide them to your back as you continue your work. 

He’s thinner than when he left, the scars on his torso more prominent. You kiss each one, feeling the way he tenses under your lips. You wonder if he’s let anyone see them since they healed. There’s a hesitation in his breath, a restraint you recognize all too well. A tentative, shaking hand meets the back of your neck, his thumb passing back and forth under your ear—a tether.

You take your time, pressing a lingering kiss to the biggest, ugliest one under his collarbone, a wound that feels almost familiar, with all the time you spent dressing it two years ago. Your lips trace the ridges and jagged edges. An affirmation, a promise. 

I see you. I know you. I know what’s here, what you hide. 

I know what I’m getting into. 

When you straighten, framing his face in your hands, his breath catches. Your lips brush once, twice—soft, searching—before heat flares between you. He exhales into your mouth as the kiss deepens, shifting from tender to desperate, all tongue and teeth and frustration.

His hand finds the clasp of your bra, and they pause. You drop your lips to his neck and nod. “Please.” 

That one syllable hits him hard, holding him in place for the briefest of moments. He sucks in a breath and achingly, tenderly, laces his free hand with yours, bringing your joined hands to his lips. You smile into his skin. 

With one hand, he releases the band and brings his hands around to your ribs, brushing the underside of your breasts. You shiver. 

Damn, he’s good. 

You slip the straps off your shoulders, and you resist the urge to cover yourself. His eyes roam over you, seeing you for the first time and committing all of you to memory. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he says. 

You fall into him, and he lets his lips trace your jaw, your cheek, before pressing them to yours. You share breath as he speaks again. “I missed you”

“I missed you, too.” 

Your admission lights the hot, ugly thing in your chest to a flicker again. You lean back, and look at him for a second, narrowing your eyes. His eyes widen as you push him down with two fingers to his chest. He resists for a moment and you feel the weight and strength of him before he relaxes. 

You let him look up at you for a moment. Then– “I missed you more when I didn’t know you lied to me.”

His face falls and he opens his mouth as if to speak. You press three fingers to his lips and shake your head. He presses his lips together, holding back whatever apology or explanation was forming.

You hope he can see what you can’t say.

I don’t want to hear it. 

I love you more than I could ever hate you. I love you more than I could ever be angry with you. 

You crawl down his body, reaching the waistband of his cargos. His breath catches in his chest as you slowly unbutton them and drag the zipper down, tooth by tooth. His fingers grip the duvet, ironing wrinkles into the linen. 

You press your lips right below his belly button, and when his abs jump under your touch, it makes you smile. 

With his legs still hanging off the end of the bed, you both manage to make quick work of his pants after you’re quite finished being a bully. The outline of his cock in his boxer briefs makes heat shoot straight through you, pooling low and heavy. You straddle him again, settling your aching center right over him.

His breath shudders out, jaw tight. “Fuck.”

The curse is foreign in his voice like this, and from the way your body pulses, he knows exactly what it does to you. His hands find your hips, grounding, but you drag yourself against him anyway, chasing friction that neither of you can really use.

He’s done letting you play. Before you can blink, you’re on your back, his mouth crashing into yours. You fist your hands in his hair, and the deep groan he lets out against your lips might be the hottest thing you’ve ever heard.

How is everything a turn on?

Nothing new. It’s been this way for four years.

It’s about goddamn time.

“Tell me,” he pants into your kisses. “Tell me what you want.”

“Just you. All of you.”

His lips trail lower, down your neck, between your breasts, over your stomach. When he reaches the edge of your pants, he flicks his gaze up, asking permission. You give it—of course you do—and he hooks his fingers at your hips, dragging everything down at an excruciating pace.

You’re bare before him, and his eyes darken as he takes you in. He wets his lips and lets out a low, appreciative hum as his lower lip catches between his teeth. The sound alone makes you shiver.

He kisses the inside of your knee, then your thigh, his beard scraping along your sensitive skin, sending sharp sparks of pleasure through you. His hair is soft between your fingers, five months of unregulated growth showing off the glossy, thick texture. 

He flicks his gaze up again, holding your eyes as he presses a slow, deliberate kiss to your clit. Your head drops back, and that’s all the invitation he needs. 

He takes his time, learning, tracing every pattern that makes your thighs tremble. When his tongue dips lower, tasting you, savoring you, you gasp—he groans against you, just as wrecked by this as you are.

He pushes a finger into you, knuckle-deep, and you keen, your back arching. Another, then another, stretching you, opening you, preparing you.

How is he so good?

Your fingers tighten in his hair, and he groans again, sending vibrations through you. It’s in that moment you decide you never want the beard to go away. The friction is incredible, swallowing the entire apex of your thighs in sensation. 

“Fuck, Aaron.” 

With a pleased hum, he directs all his attention to where you want him the most, and you can hear the wet sound of his tongue and your own arousal as he works at you. It’s obscene and sends another rush of heat through you. At this point, you’re surprised you're not on fire. He shakes his head, his lips still wrapped around your clit, and your thighs clamp around his head. There will certainly be burns between your legs tomorrow - the beard all to blame and all to thank. 

“Aaron.” This time, his name is a demand, and he stops right away, lifting his head and meeting your eyes. The concern disappears as he hears you say, “Come here.” 

His eyes light up, and he does away with his final article of clothing. You can’t help the raise of your eyebrows as you catch sight of him for the first time. Seeing the impression of it is one thing, but now that he’s kneeling between your thighs with his cock painfully hard and weeping precum, you realize just how impressive he is. 

He can’t hide the smug glint in his eyes as you take him in. You narrow your eyes, and you remember just how angry you are at him. The image before you—that of his perfect cock, the way he looks so undone with his lips and chin covered in you—beside the point. 

Launching yourself forward, he catches you and captures your lips. 

He’s tenderly rough with you, his fingers digging into your hips, slotting into the already-developing bruises. He hauls you to the top of the bed, hiking your knee up over his hip as he reaches for his bedside drawer. 

“I’m covered.” 

His chin dips for a second. “Me too.” 

You look at each other for a minute before a smile tugs at one side of your mouth. Aaron drops back down to you and you can taste yourself on his tongue. He kisses you with abandon. Little noises leave his throat and chest as he devours you - they’re adorable, but your mind is on something else. 

Reaching between your bodies, you wrap your fingers around his cock. His head tips back, eyes rolling for a split second, the ghost of a curse on his lips, before he drags them back to you. 

A smile flits across your mouth. Gorgeous. 

Let’s see that again before we’re done here.

You release him only to slip two fingers inside yourself, coating them before wrapping your hand around him again, stroking slowly

His hips rut into your palm, desperate for more, and he kisses you with a small, needy whine. The sound sends a sharp pulse of pleasure straight through you.

You guide him to your center, and he pushes in just enough to steal your breath. Your forehead falls against his as he rocks into you, each thrust giving you more, stretching you, filling you.

He’s big, and he knows it. The painstaking slowness isn’t just to savor the moment—it’s to keep from hurting you. The stretch is incredible, burning just the right amount as your body adjusts to accommodate him.

A slow smile tugs at his lips, and you tug his hair to force his gaze back to yours. "What?"

Your question is punctuated by a gasp as he pushes in a little farther than he meant to, sending a wave of heat all the way to your chest.

“It’s just—” He exhales again through his teeth, brows pulling together. “You feel even better than I ever imagined.” 

He imagined this? 

Well...you did. 

Yeah, but that’s different. 

Is it?

You don’t answer. You just kiss him, swallowing every sound he makes as he finally, fully seats himself inside you. His breath catches, and he stills, his hands trembling where they hold you. Your walls clench around him instinctively, the delicious pressure scrambling your thoughts.

“Do you want to show me?” You ask.

His eyes flicker open, hazy and a little dazed. “What?”

"Do you want to be good and show me how sorry you are?" Your tone is playful, but the undercurrent of truth is unmistakable.

His response is immediate. He pulls almost all the way out and thrusts back in—slow, steady, reverent. His lips press to your cheek, his fingers brushing your hairline in a touch so gentle, so sweet, it’s almost chaste. Because the rest of him is anything but—devouring you, ruining you, leaving no part of you untouched.

When this started, you expected something more like the hate-fucking you see in movies—fast, hard, fueled by frustration. But this? This is an apology. A confession. A surrender. 

A demonstration of just how much he loves you.

Aaron never stops surprising you.

Time to surprise him.

You shift your hips and he takes the cue, rolling onto his back, keeping you connected. Your head tips back as you sink onto him again, feeling impossibly full. 

His hands fall to your hips for support as you grind down on him. You brace yourself against his shoulders for better leverage, and you’re not disappointed.

The way he looks beneath you—breathing hard, eyes closed, mouth open, neck exposed—is devastating.

You commit it to memory.

Leaning back, you pull his hands from your hips, lacing your fingers together and pinning them over his head. He resists at first—a reflex—then melts, his fingers wrapping tight around your palms

You don’t stop moving. With every roll of your hips, your clit drags against his abdomen, sending sharp, aching pulses of pleasure through you.

His eyes snap to yours with a kind of wildness. You kiss him, then bite his lower lip. His hips jerk beneath you, a groan breaking free.

You can’t quite shake the anger—not entirely—even with pleasure unraveling you at the seams.

His cock slips in and out of you easily as you ride him, circling and grinding harder. He meets you stroke for stroke, thrusting up into you, his breath ragged.

Though he summed it up nicely before, you know now—he’s even better than any dream could conjure. The sheer reality of it is breathtaking. There’s none of that misty intangibility here.

And he’s somehow bigger than you thought.

Every sight, every sound, every touch is in sharp relief.

Then he brings his thighs up behind your ass, gaining even more leverage, and the shift knocks you forward against his chest. With your arms still stretched above his head and his infuriatingly tall frame, you can’t reach his mouth anymore. You need his lips, his breath.

Aaron senses it, and in one swift motion, he breaks your grip like it’s nothing, crushes you to him, and rolls back over, covering you with his body.

You don’t mind in the slightest, especially when his lips slot against yours. 

Your nails rake lines into his back, and he grits his teeth into the kiss, his dark, pleased laugh almost a growl. His entire body is coiled tight, a rubber band on the verge of snapping, but even so, he slows his pace. You’re already impressed by his strength, his stamina—but his control? That’s something else entirely.

I knew all those jokes about being old were just for show.

No, you didn’t.

Yes, I did.

…

Okay, maybe not, but you hoped—and you were right. 

Ha.

He ducks his head into your shoulder, whispering something you can’t quite make out against your skin. You find your place in this new rhythm, wrapping your legs around him, taking him impossibly deeper. One hand stays tangled in his hair, the other grips his shoulder, feeling the way his muscles flex and pull beneath your touch.

The way he fills you is perfect. He knows exactly how to reach that place—the one that makes your back arch and your toes curl. He kisses up the column of your throat as you throw your head back, finding a spot under your jaw that makes you gasp. 

Of course he knows. 

He’s always known you—why would this be any different?

“I missed you,” he murmurs against your skin. “I missed you so much and I’m so sorry.”

Tears prick at your eyes. “I know. I know, honey. I know”

His tongue soothes the marks he’s sucked into your skin, his movements falling into time with his thrusts, and every coherent thought slips from your mind as you press closer, needing more, more, more.

"Touch yourself," he rasps. "Show me.”

Holy shit.

A breath shudders from your lips as you drop your hand from his shoulder. He shifts, slipping an arm beneath your lower back, lifting you. In a surprising and deft maneuver, he pulls a pillow beneath your hips, and the new angle sends you crying out.

There’s also enough space, you realize, for your fingers to frantically work at your clit. He presses his forehead to yours again, feeling your walls flutter around him as you get closer and closer. 

His forehead presses to yours again, sticky with a light sheen of sweat, and his breathing stutters as he feels the way your walls flutter around him, the way your body tightens, straining toward the edge.

"I’m close, Aaron."

He groans. "I can feel it. Where do you want me?"

"Don’t leave me. Inside me, please. I need all of you." The plea is desperate, breathless.

His hips snap into yours in response, and you yank at his hair with your free hand. "Are you—?" The question catches in your throat, breaking apart on a gasp. You’re not sure you can hold off much longer.

He nods, his nose brushing yours. "Let go for me, baby. Let me have all of you—let me see you. Put my imagination to shame.”

You fall over the edge, mouth open in a silent scream.

He keeps thrusting, even as his rhythm falters, chasing his own release while you tremble beneath him. Every stroke sends aftershocks through your limbs, your nerves alight and overstimulated.

The pleasure is all-consuming, overwhelming every other sense. Your body clenches around him, pulling him deeper, and he groans—a wrecked, desperate sound that makes the pleasure crest again.

For a moment, you swear the world goes dark.

Every nerve sings.

Aaron’s large hand slides between your shoulder blades, pulling you flush against his chest as he buries himself deep with a shuddering groan. His release crashes over him, and the way his body seizes against yours sends another pulse of pleasure through you. Your cry is barely a word, something that might be his name, but all you can do is hold onto him as you fall apart again.

He captures your lips with soft and languid kisses as you both come down, like he’s trying to pull you back down from the stars, skin tingling and bodies completely spent. Your legs shake where they’re wrapped around him, the shuddering aftershocks rolling through you. 

When he finally slips out of you, you whimper at the loss, your body too raw, too sensitive. He murmurs something soothing, pressing one last kiss to your temple before disappearing into the bathroom.

From where you lie, sprawled and spent against the sheets, you can see him through the open door, catching glimpses of him in the warm glow of the master bath nightlight. He moves with purpose, but every few seconds, his head tilts back toward you—checking, lingering. Like he can’t quite make himself look away. Like he needs the reassurance that you’re still there, still his.

It makes something deep in your chest tighten, heat curling low in your stomach. Even now, wrecked and breathless, his first thought is you.

When he returns, there’s a reverence to the way he cleans you up. He’s as gentle as you knew he would be, but somehow, it still surprises you. Every careful stroke, every slow pass of the warm cloth over your skin, feels like an unspoken apology, a quiet worship. Even the sting of water against the beard-burn on your thighs is soothed by the press of his lips, the warm sweep of his fingers.

And then, he stops.

Washcloth in hand, he lingers at the edge of the bed, eyes tracing the length of your body like he’s trying to commit every inch of you to memory. There’s something raw in his gaze, something reverent and wanting, and if you weren’t so completely spent, you’d pull him back down and never let him leave.

You can see the moment he forces himself to move, blinking like he’s breaking from a trance. He swallows, exhales through his nose, and finally turns. His hands flex at his sides before he forces himself to move, tossing the cloth into the hamper like it takes effort to let go of this moment.

Your heavy-lidded gaze follows him as he pads across the room. He tugs his boxer briefs back on, the lean muscle of his back shifting as he moves, before making his way back to you. The bed dips under his weight as he stretches out beside you on his back, close but not quite touching yet—like he’s giving you the chance to breathe before pulling you back into him.

When he finally does settle, sweaty and still a little breathless, with his hands resting lightly on his stomach, you tuck your arm under your head and turn to face him. Your body is drained, limbs heavy with exhaustion, but you know he has more to say—more to share with you.

It’s not strange, either, knowing that you won’t talk about the mind-blowing sex you just had until the rest of your business is laid to rest. Much like everything else in your friendship, all things get the attention they’re due in their time—and no earlier.

He stares at the ceiling as he speaks. “There was only one way to keep Emily safe, and it was for all of us to believe she was dead.”

You wait as he pauses. This isn’t necessarily what you thought he’d start with, but it’s clear this weighs the heaviest.

“If JJ and I had told the truth”—he glances at you, his hand twitching like he wants to reach for you but stops himself. That hesitation breaks your heart, just a little. Even now, he second-guesses touching you. “Even you or Morgan, there was a great chance she could have been killed before she completed her mission.”

You nod wordlessly.

“I know that doesn’t make it any easier. I hated every second.” He rolls to his side, pressing his forehead to yours. “I hated knowing I had the power to make your hurt go away, but couldn’t use it. I’m so sorry for lying to you.” His voice breaks. “I’m sorry for leaving. I’m so sorry.” 

His eyes close, like he’s bracing for something, but you don’t let him. You wrap yourself around him, pulling him in.

You know there was no way to protect Emily without this lie. It makes all the sense in the world. You can’t be angry at him for that—for saving her like he did. If anything, you admire it. The very thought of lying to him like that is a Herculean feat. You’re not sure how he managed…

But then it hits you.

Pakistan.

That’s how he managed it.

Your breath catches, and you go still against him.

Right.

The information about Emily is a revelation—insight to why he left. You can guess at the true reasons, but you’ll need to ask him about it, to hear him say it out loud. 

The realization sits heavy in your chest, cold at the edges. He was already capable of this. Already practiced in keeping the pain to himself, letting the rest of you ache without him. 

A few more tears escape, but Aaron can’t see them with your head tucked under his chin. You’re sure he does, however, feel them against the bare skin of his chest. His grip on you tightens, his arms banding around you like he can hold everything together if he just keeps you close enough.

Then, a shuddering breath.

His tears fall too, landing on the pillow beneath his head.

Your breath catches, and for a second, you forget how to move.

Aaron cries, silent and still. 

You’ve seen his eyes mist over, his voice go raw, the weight of unshed grief settle into his features like a permanent shadow. But you’ve almost never seen him truly weep. Not like this. Not where he can’t stop it, can’t school it away behind quiet resolve. 

His body hardly quakes with it. His shoulders do not shake. His breath is silent. The only indication is a tremble in his ribs, the tightness of his jaw.

You wonder how many times he’s wept like this. And under what circumstances.

You don’t say anything. There’s nothing you could say.

Instead, you just…touch him.

You wrap your hand, trapped a little under your own weight, around his bicep where his arm wraps around you. Your other hand smooths down his side, deliberate and soothing. You don’t hold him tighter, don’t clutch at him like he might break apart, even though that’s what you feel like doing.

Instead, you let him feel.

You stay exactly where you are, letting his chest rise and fall beneath you, feeling his body slowly ease under your touch, until his breathing evens out and the tension starts to bleed from his muscles.

Eventually, his arms slacken just enough to let you shift, but you don’t pull away. You press a silent kiss to the base of his throat, lingering there, lips barely touching his skin.

I’m here.I see you.

And when he exhales, another slow, measured breath, it feels like something between you has shifted. Like some unseen weight has finally been set down.

You don’t know when you fall asleep. Only that you do.

+++ september 22nd, 2011

You wake with a start in the middle of the night, disoriented and confused. Sleeping in the office has done you no favors. You sit up, trying to remember, in your exhaustion, where exactly you fell asleep. 

It’s dark, familiar in this room. You look, immediately and innately knowing where the clock is (next to the closet, on the wall). 

2:47am

So you’re not at the office. That’s good. You went home - 

You went home to Aaron’s. 

…Oh my god. 

A giddy kind of hysteria bubbles out of your mouth and you crush your palm to your face because…

…because Aaron is asleep beside you. Practically naked. Peaceful.

Oh my god. 

It happened. It actually happened. The unreality of it all almost overwhelms you. A spike of heat lances through your belly when you remember, well. Everything. 

Something that feels a lot like anxiety settles along your diaphragm. You press your hand to your sternum, trying to massage it away. 

Belatedly, you realize it’s been so long since you were excited about anything that the sensation is almost entirely foreign to you. 

You take a deep breath, trying to regulate around the delicious soreness between your legs and the flashbulbs of the previous evening. You look down. 

That’s a mistake. 

Aaron sleeps. He sleeps on his side, his arm under his pillow, his hand loosely curled by his face. His hair flops over his eyes. The curve of his bare shoulder is visible, almost silver in the velvet blue light from the window, the covers pushed down to his waist. His breath is slow and even, the near-permanent lines between his brows absent. 

This does nothing to help your nervous system. 

You carefully get out of bed, navigating easily in the dark. Usually, you sleep on Aaron’s side of the bed, but—

You can’t. Because Aaron is there. Because you had sex. 

!!!!

You snag a pair of sweatpants from your go bag throw on his shirt, on the floor by the foot of the bed. It smells like him. And sand. And sweat. And Kevlar. And—

Oh my god. 

You pad to the door, turning the handle completely before you pull it open, leaving it cracked behind you. 

Aaron must be out cold, because he doesn’t stir. He’s usually such a light sleeper…

You cover your face with your hands. 

Oh my god. 

You grab your own shirt from where it landed on the armchair, shaking it out and laying it over your arm with far more precision than is called for. You continue to the kitchen, where you grab your cup off the drying rack, filling it with the cold, filtered water from the fridge. 

You slug it down with the desperation of a desert pilgrim finding an oasis, gritting your teeth through a brain freeze as you set the cup back down on the counter. That helps. 

The counter, as it happens, that you’re now leaning on with both hands, staring—unseeing—into the fake granite. Your hands are steady (shocking, really), considering your brain is currently leaking out of your ears.

I had sex with Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Benjamin Hotchner, JD, MA, NTOA, CASIP, etcetera. 

…I had sex with Aaron. My Aaron! That one!

Oh my god. 

It’s a lot to process. 

+++

When you return to the bedroom, Aaron hasn’t moved. 

It makes it all that much easier to strip back down to nothing and slide back into bed, doing your best not to disturb the covers too much.

He’s so warm.

It was something you noticed when you were (“platonically,” you might add) spending the night in the spring. He’s like a damn generator.

The heat is on in the apartment, but that doesn’t make your feet any warmer. You accidentally tap Aaron, making ice-cold contact with his shin. You freeze. 

“C’mere,” he mumbles, not moving. 

You tuck in, your back to him, and his arm shoots out, wrapping around you and pulling you close, tucking his face into the back of your neck. His thighs trap your feet between them and he startles at the temperature difference. 

“Jesus. Did you jump in the fucking river?” His voice is rough, coated in sleep. 

”Sorry,” you whisper. You move to pull your feet away, to spare him if you can, but he holds fast. 

“Nope,” he grumbles. He continues, by way of explanation, “Over faster.”

The warmth spreads between you, slow and certain.

It’s too easy. The way he tucks you close, the way he doesn’t hesitate, the way he was always going to hold you like this, no matter what. Like he’s been waiting for this, all along.

Oh my god.

+++

When you wake up in the morning, you’re still wrapped in his arms. He’s awake, tracing lazy patterns on your hip with his fingers. Your bodies are flush—legs tangled, his chest warm against your back, your hips slotted together.  

“Good morning,” he says. 

He loosens his hold on you just enough for you to turn in his arms, and you tuck yourself back into him, throwing a leg over his hip to maintain proximity. It elicits a small laugh from him. 

“Good morning,” you echo.