Alister ✧ ☁ ˊˎ-

Messily painted, but that was part of its charm. A project during an art summer camp Jack attended.

You nodded sadly, biting down on your lip.

It had been his favorite mug, a staple since - and before - you met him. The one that made you think back to the sleepovers early in your relationship; sitting on the counter in his kitchen in your (his) pjs, chatting and laughing softly together as he poured each of you a morning helping. He would then find himself standing in between your legs, kissing you and leaving you breathless with the bitter taste of coffee in his breath.

It hadn't taken you long to fall in love with him.

Aaron took a step back, keeping his hands on you as he looked you up and down, scanning for anything out of place.

"You didn't hurt yourself, did you?" He released you only to grab your right hand, turning it, and then repeated the motion with your left. Absent were any cuts or gashes, your skin as soft and familiar as always.

"No, Aaron, I broke it. It shattered everywhere." Your admittance ended with a small huff, clearly upset with yourself. The visual of it broken into multiple fragments across the kitchen floor made you sick to your stomach. You couldn't even salvage the pieces, ruined beyond belief.

The whole thing could've been avoided too, that was the worst part. You shouldn't have tried to juggle multiple mugs at once. You should've gripped onto it better. You should've just gone to bed instead of being proactive, leaving emptying the dishwasher until tomorrow morning.

You'd tried to catch it too - he knew that without having to ask. Hence, why he was so worried you'd injured yourself in the process.

"But you're okay?" He clarified, his eyebrows furrowing gently into a line.

"I'm fine," you insisted sharply, slightly annoyed he kept changing the subject, but you weren't focusing on what he was saying. His concern for you outweighing the casualty. Tears began to pool at your waterline, blurring him. "But it's broken. And I'm so sorry."

"Hey," he shushed you gently, attempting to soothe you. "Don't worry about it."

An exasperated tilt of your head, "but..."

"It was an accident, sweetheart." Aaron shook his head dismissively - at the situation, not you. "A mug is replaceable. Being chronic caffeine drinkers, we own plenty of them. Your fingers, however, are not. I care much more about those."

Along with his seriousness, he was still trying to coax a smile from you, and it was working. But the light shift of your face caused a singular tear to roll down your cheek. He wiped it away with the pad of his thumb before it got too far.

"I was worried you'd be mad." You sniffled, throwing your arms around his neck. "You use it practically every morning. I know how much it meant to you."

"I feel worse that you had to fret over the whole thing." A sympathetic chuckle shook through him, although his eyes remained somber. Aaron's expression was so understanding, you couldn't help but instantly feel relieved, the regret that had been haunting you fading away. "When did this happen?"

Your bottom lip protruded. "The night after you left."

"Honey," his words exited him in a soft breath. "You worried about this for almost a week?"

You nodded, and Aaron felt horrible he hadn't picked up on your unease through your short calls and texts. He was also saddened at the fact you hesitated to bring it up, wary of his reaction.

"You're sweet." He leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss on your pout. "I'm not mad. Far from it."

"You promise?"

"I promise."

"You're not just saying that?"

"No sweetheart," an amused chuckle shook through his chest, his hand roaming your back. "It's okay. Genuinely."

You sighed, feeling eased. Aaron threw an arm around your shoulder, tucking you into his side and kissing your temple.

"I missed you too." You said gently as your palm found his torso, your fingertips toying with one of his shirt buttons. A trace of light humor was present in your tone, "And I may have already taken Jack somewhere for a replacement. Not to spoil the surprise, but I wanted to make it up to you as quickly as I could."

A/N : I hate this

»» ─── ⋆⋅ ✈︎ ⋅⋆ ─── ««

Spencer rarely went out. He wasn’t the type to suggest dinner at a trendy new restaurant or drinks in some dimly lit bar. He was more of a person who, once his workday was over, would read a book in a language you couldn’t even pronounce, or an article about a theory that was just as unfamiliar to you. And you had absolutely no problem with that; in fact, you loved it. You couldn't hide your excitement at the fact that the mere idea of ​​having a drink gave him hives.

You absolutely loved the simple idea that once you stepped through your front door, you’d find your boyfriend waiting there for you, with a new idea to share, a story from the BAU, or just one of those little observations only he could make. It was already rare enough to have him three nights in a row without the team whisking him away on a plane to chase monsters. So, you’d learned to cherish every small, ordinary evening like it was gold. 

Still, sometimes you couldn’t quite believe it had started so simply.

It was an ordinary afternoon when you first saw him: a tall, lanky silhouette half-hidden in the Russian classics aisle of the bookstore where you worked. His brows furrowed in concentration, head tilted as though Tolstoy himself had written a puzzle just for him. And, strangely, something about him caught your eye, and before you could second-guess yourself, you’d crossed the aisle.

“Need a recommendation ?” You’d asked lightly. 

He looked up then, blinking at you as though pulled from another world, and you realized how striking he was—sharp bones, deep brown eyes, and a distracted air that seemed both endearing and intimidating all at once.

That first conversation turned into a debate about Dostoevsky’s darker psychological themes versus Chekhov’s subtler explorations of human nature. You hadn’t expected him to be so articulate, or so enthusiastic, and yet he never once made you feel small for not knowing every reference. If anything, he seemed… delighted that you cared enough to argue back.

From then on, he came back. Once a week at first, then more often. Sometimes he’s buying a book, sometimes he’s waiting until you finish with a customer just to chat. He’d ask your opinion, spin off into tangents about something he’d read, or on quieter days, just lean on the counter and keep you company.

For the first time in your life, your felt valued. Here was a man who was clearly much smarter than you, whose mind seemed to operate in dimensions you couldn’t see, and yet you never once felt foolish in his presence. 

Your past romantic relationships never been the best experiences of your life, you had to admit that. Even if you didn't have a higher-than-average IQ, you were still an extremely intelligent girl; after all, you and Spencer were dating for a reason, right ? 

For a long and dark time of your life you had to wear a mask you’d built for others; the too-sweet, the too-agreeable version of yourself you’d crafted for men who never really saw you. This had let you to meet men along the way who, after thinking it over, you would have preferred to avoid. You never talked about it, not once. But, of course, Spencer noticed things. Anyway, he never judged you. And that, was for sure what charmed you the most. 

Over time, his visits became the highlight of your weeks. Until, finally, after months of circling each other in careful conversation, he stood awkwardly in front of your register one evening and asked for your number. His ears had been red the whole time, and you remembered laughing softly, not at him but out of disbelief that this strange, brilliant man actually wanted you.

At first, you didn’t know how to act around him. Too many past relationships had taught you to contort yourself into something easier, something prettier for men who never really wanted you in the first place. But with Spencer, things happened naturally. Maybe it was because he had a kind of magic—nothing about his many tricks that continued to impress you—an honesty that didn’t just invite you in, but made you feel safe once you were there. 

He hadn’t hidden his life from you. Very early on, he’d told you about the BAU, about what it meant to chase darkness for a living. He didn’t soften the truth, but he didn’t romanticize it either. And instead of frightening you away, it reassured you. Because, after all, it made sense. His intensity, his long silences while analyzing what you just said, his gentle carefulness—they all clicked into place. You knew how hard it must be for him to balance that life, and yet here he was, still choosing to make room for you.

And you ? Well, you found yourself choosing him, again and again.

That was how you ended up here, waiting for him to come home after another case. He just returned from California, miraculously without a call back to the field, and you’d prepared for the rare luxury of a quiet evening together. You’d spent hours tracking down the original print of an old 1930s movie you knew he’d love, imagining the way his face would light up when you would tell him. 

You weren’t the genius in the relationship, at least not the kind Spencer was. But you listened. You learned. You absorbed every odd detail he shared, even the ones you barely understood because you loved the way his voice softened when he spoke about something he cared about. And maybe that was your magic, you tried. You wanted to meet him where he was, even if it meant fumbling through papers and authors you’d never heard of.

You tried to be the best girlfriend you could. And Spencer, in return, was more than you’d ever asked for. He wasn’t just brilliant; he was kind. He was patient. He was the one person you could truly reason with, the one who made you feel like being yourself was not only enough, but more than enough.

Suddenly, your phone rang, the screen lighting up with a single name. Just the sight of it made your lips tug upward into a foolish smile you didn’t even try to hide. "Doctor," you answered, your tone teasing. 

"Stop it." He laughed—and oh, did you mentioned his laugh ? You could feel it vibrate in your chest, a sound so unguarded it always left you wanting more. Then, he continued more serious, "Are you okay ?" 

"Now that I hear your voice, yes. And you ?" You replied, balancing your phone between your shoulder and ear while scanning the shelves of popcorn flavors. 

"Yes. It's been a long day, but everything went great. Well—” there was a pause, the amusement edged his voice, “if Morgan giving me dating tips seems normal to you."

You burst out laughing, biting your lower lip as you turned into the drink’s aisle. Dating tips from Derek Morgan to Spencer Reid, the image was ridiculously cute. 

Spencer and you were madly in love, but there was one detail that still made your stomach twist whenever you thought about it: no one at the BAU knew about you. Not yet. It wasn’t because he didn’t want to share; but because you’d asked him not to. You needed time, and most of all space to build what you had before letting his genius team of profilers dissect every detail of your life. And honestly, the idea of being studied by them, even indirectly, wasn’t something you were eager to face. 

"I already told you, Spence, nod your head and—oh, sorry, excuse me," you stepped aside quickly, smiling politely at a woman reaching for a bottle of Coke in front of you.

"Is everything okay ?" Spencer asked, a flicker of worry tightening his words.

You smiled reassuringly at the stranger, then crouched down to check the lower shelves for the pomegranate soda you'd tried once. Spencer had loved it, even though this man only runs on still water. "Oh yeah, don't worry. I'm shopping for something tonight. You'll be so happy !"

Your boyfriend could hear the excitement in your voice, then he asked cautiously, "Really ?" 

"Yes !" You beamed, scanning the labels until you spotted the ruby-red bottle. “I spent days finding that movie you told me about when we were at the Japanese restaurant. Remember ? The one with the KGB spies and the cheating wife—well, I think it's this one ? I don't remember. Anyway, you'll love it !"

His response was low, deeper than usual, like he was swallowing words. "Mh..."

But you were so caught up in your excitement that you barely noticed. “I bought some popcorn and found the pomegranate soda from last time! I swear it was quite an ordeal, the stores are so packed at this time—hello !” You greeted the cashier, unloading your basket onto the conveyor belt. “I got off work early, so I have the time to get everything ready. I even thought I could try making the pasta from last time—oh yes, please—wait a minute, Spence.”

You juggled the phone against your cheek as the cashier asked about bags, quickly paying and gathering your groceries.

“So, like I was saying,” you continued while sliding into your car, “I have all the ingredients to try making your pasta again. I remember you loved it and—”

“Y/N.” His voice cut in, gentle but firm.

You faltered, frowning at the steering wheel. “Sorry, I’m rambling. I’m just excited to see you.” You started the car, setting the grocery bag carefully on the passenger seat.

“No, it’s not that. Actually… if I called, it was to ask you something in the first place.” His hesitation was tangible, a careful pause between each word.

Your grip on the steering wheel loosened. “Oh… Is there something wrong ? You know, if you have work to do, I can wait for you, no problem. I start late tomorrow—”

“No, no, that’s not that.” His voice dipped lower, like he didn’t want anyone around to hear.

“So you have to stay at work ?” You asked, disappointment creeping in despite your best effort to sound casual. “If that’s the case, it’s okay. I still have emails to answer—”

“Bug.”

The nickname froze you in place, your lips pressing into a thin line. “…Sorry. I’m listening.”

But then you heard the unmistakable warmth of his smile carried in his words. “It’s okay. It’s just that Emily asked the team out tonight. And every time I manage to get away, but Garcia refused to let me escape.”

“Oh.” You tried not to let the letdown show in your voice, though your chest sank a little. “Well, it’s okay. Like I said, I have some unread emails.”

“Actually…” He cleared his throat, nervous. “I was going to ask if you wanted to come with me ?”

You stopped breathing, staring at the steering wheel like it might give you the right answer.

“Bug ? Are you okay ?”

“Yes, yes, sorry. I… Well, do you really want me to come with you ?” You asked, shocked he’d even offered.

“Of course. And you know I would have preferred to be with you. But since Hotch and Rossi are coming too, I really can’t escape. And I don’t think I can handle this alone.” His words tumbled faster now, like he was trying to reassure you with every syllable. “Then I could introduce you… Well, only if you want to ! That way Derek might stop giving me advice… Well, whatever you want, I don’t want to force you.”

You chewed on your lip, your silence stretching too long. His voice sharpened, calling your name, worried. You blinked, snapping back. “The whole team will be there then ?”

“Yes. But if you don’t want to bug, I understand. I’ll try to sneak out—”

“No need. I’ll come with you tonight.” The words slipped out before you could catch them, and as soon as they did, regret twisted in your chest.

“Are you sure ?”

“Sure. Text me the address, I’ll get ready.” You tightened your grip on the steering wheel, knuckles whitening as the stress bloomed hot and heavy inside you.

“Okay, great ! I can’t wait for them to finally meet you.” He sounded so happy, so relieved, that you couldn’t bear to backtrack.

“Me too. Kisses, I love you.” You ended the call quickly, just to breathe.

Alone in the car, your reflection stared back at you in the rearview mirror. What the hell had you gotten yourself into ? The closest thing to your worst nightmare was about to play out tonight—and the cruelest part was that you’d agreed to it.

You started your car and pulled out of the parking lot, the hum of the engine masking the way your heart thudded unevenly in your chest. The bag of popcorn and the bottle rolled slightly on the passenger seat as you turned onto the main road, but you barely noticed. They’d have to wait for another night. 

Streetlights flickered past your window, each one stretching into a blur as your mind ran circles around itself. In a few minutes, you’d be meeting Spencer’s team—the people he trusted with his life, the ones he spent more hours with than anyone else. What if they thought you were boring ? What if you weren’t enough ? Worse, what if you embarrassed him ?

Your phone buzzed at a red light. A new message. 

Spence

8:30 at the Hush. Can’t wait.

Your stomach flipped. The words should have reassured you, but instead they only made the panic sharper. He can’t wait. And you were absolutely terrified.

By the time you pulled into your apartment building’s lot, your hands were damp against the steering wheel. You grabbed your bag and groceries, climbing the stairs two at a time just to burn off the nervous energy.

Once inside, you dropped everything onto the counter and leaned against the door, taking a shaky breath. “Okay,” you whispered to yourself, voice breaking slightly. “What I’m gonna wear ?”

You rifled through your closet, tossing tops and dresses onto the bed, each one rejected almost as quickly as you pulled it out. Too formal. Too casual. Too… you. What if they expected someone polished, someone put together, someone who looked like they belonged beside Spencer Reid, the genius doctor, profiler, FBI agent ?

You caught your reflection in the mirror and froze. Your own expression stared back at you, anxious and raw. And yet, you remembered the way Spencer looked at you when no one else was around, like you were the only thing in the room that mattered. He didn’t love you in spite of who you were. He loved you because of it.

So, you settled on something soft but simple: dark jeans, a fitted sweater that framed you without trying too hard, and the necklace Spencer had once fiddled with absentmindedly during a bookstore date. A little mascara, a touch of lip balm, and you were ready.

The drive to the bar passed in a haze, your fingers drumming nervously on the steering wheel at every stoplight. You parked a block away just to give yourself a few extra seconds to breathe, your legs suddenly heavy as you walked toward the glowing sign.

And then you saw him.

Through the wide front window, Spencer stood near the bar, animated in conversation with an older man whose smile crinkled at the corners of his eyes. Rossi, you guessed—Hotch didn’t look like the smiling type. Spencer’s hands moved as he spoke, his whole body caught in the rhythm of his words, and Rossi nodded with practiced patience, sipping his drink.

Your lips curved without meaning to. God, you loved him like this.

Still, the doubts clawed their way back. Was this a mistake ? You could still text him, say you weren’t feeling well, save yourself from the humiliation of being weighed and measured by a room full of profilers. Your hand even hovered over your phone.

But then Spencer glanced around the room, as if searching for something, or someone. For you. And your chest ached at the thought of letting him down. So, you inhaled deeply, squared your shoulders, and pushed the door open.

The bar was warm, buzzing with laughter and the sharp crack of pool balls. Music floated from the jukebox in the corner, and everywhere you looked, people seemed at ease. Near the dartboard, a blonde was tossing darts while two men egged her on. You didn’t even have time to study her face before Spencer appeared in front of you, as if drawn by instinct.

“You’re here.” His voice carried a relief so genuine it melted the last bit of hesitation in you. His smile—wide, boyish, and proud—lit up the space between you.

“Yeah, sorry, there was a traffic jam.” You lied, adjusting the strap of your bag. The truth that you’d sat frozen in your car debating escape was too pathetic to admit.

He barely noticed, already reaching for your jacket, his fingers brushing yours. “It’s okay. Come on, I’ll introduce you. Derek doesn’t believe me.”

You forced a smile and nodded, slipping your hand into his. His palm was warm against yours, grounding you as he wove you through the crowded bar toward a round table tucked in the back.

The noise softened as you approached, laughter giving way to curious glances. You were aware of every pair of eyes lifting toward you, sizing you up, not unkindly but keen, observant—well profiler eyes.

“Everyone,” Spencer began, squeezing your hand gently, “this is Y/N.”

And just like that, the spotlight was on you.

But instead of interrogation, what you found was warmth. The one with the glasses, Garcia if you remembered correctly, gasped and rushed over first, already gushing about how adorable you looked. Derek gave Spencer a pointed look, then shook your hand with a grin that made it clear he approved. Emily leaned forward, sharp but friendly, immediately asking what were you drinking. Rossi offered a gallant smile and a glass of wine, insisting that Emily’s beer was trash, while Hotch’s nod carried more weight than words.

The questions flowed easily after that—what you did for work, how you’d met Spencer, whether you liked movies or trivia nights better—and though your nerves bubbled beneath the surface, the genuine curiosity in their eyes eased the pressure. And the whole time, Spencer stayed close, his hand brushing yours under the table, his knee pressed against your leg, his smile flickering every time you spoke.

Everything was going well.

And for the first time that night, you let yourself believe it might actually stay that way.

»» ─── ⋆⋅ ✈︎ ⋅⋆ ─── ««

You chewed absently at the straw of the drink Spencer had brought you earlier, nodding along to Penelope’s latest outrageous story. The comfort of her animated gestures and colorful words was enough to soothe your nerves, until the blonde from the dartboard suddenly leaned against the table, sliding seamlessly into the conversation.

“I’ve played enough for tonight,” she announced with an easy laugh, taking a sip from her glass. Her presence alone seemed to shift the energy at the table; calm, familiar, assured.

Then her gaze landed on you. “Oh, hi ! I don’t think we’ve met.” She exclaimed, as though she’d just realized you were new. “Jennifer Jareau. But you can call me JJ.” Her smile was soft, kind, and it lit up her whole face.

The name landed like a weight in your chest. Jennifer Jareau. Of course. Spencer’s JJ. He’d mentioned her often; always in passing, never with much detail, but enough that you knew she was the person he trusted most on the team, letting her access to those parts of him he never let anyone see. His closest friend after Derek perhaps.

And now here she was in front of you, all golden hair and bright blue eyes, effortless charm and warmth radiating from her like sunlight. She wasn’t just kind and intelligent, as you’d been told. She was… stunning. Young. Perfect.

You felt your throat tighten, a shiver prickling down your spine, though in reality it was only Spencer’s arm draping around your shoulders, pulling you gently toward him.

“JJ, this is my girlfriend, Y/N.” He said it quickly, as if making sure there was no room for doubt, tugging you closer into his side. His voice was brisk but proud, as if he needed the world to hear it.

JJ’s eyes flicked between you and Spencer, her surprise obvious but fleeting. “Oh ! It’s so nice to meet you. I didn’t know Reid had a girlfriend.” Another dazzling smile, this one directed solely at you.

“No one knew,” Derek laughed, shaking his head. “Pretty Boy keeps his cards close to his chest. You should’ve seen my face when I spotted them holding hands.”

The group chuckled, Garcia adding something light-hearted, but you barely heard her. Your vision tunneled. All you could see was JJ—her perfect posture, her perfect laugh, her perfect everything. 

And you ? Just you.

Your stomach turned, and before you realized it, you were pulling away from Spencer’s arm. “I’m just going to grab another drink.” You muttered, standing quickly.

Spencer’s brows drew together, puzzled, but before he could follow, Emily caught his eye. With the barest tilt of her head, she signaled she’d go instead. He hesitated, reluctant, but eventually let her slip away. You just needed a drink, right ?

You stood at the bar, half-hidden in the shadows, your mind spiraling. You knew better than this. Spencer was different, he loved you, he’d made that clear countless times. But knowing and feeling were oceans apart. Right now, reason had drowned beneath the wave of insecurity.

What if JJ was what he really wanted ? What if, one day, he realized you weren’t enough ? They were always together, maybe one day he'll realize that you can’t give him what he really needs, that your presence is too rare. After all, your ex-boyfriends had always replaced you, finding someone better as fast as they dumped you. It was only a matter of time before he realized that JJ was better than you.

Emily found you quickly. She approached without fanfare, her movements careful, deliberate, as though you were a frightened animal she didn’t want to startle. Her hand brushed lightly against your shoulder.

You jumped anyway, forcing a too-bright smile when you turned. “Oh—hey. Sorry, I should’ve asked if you wanted anything. The bartender hasn’t come yet, but, uh, you can wait with me.” The words tumbled out too fast, too rehearsed.

Emily leaned on the bar beside you, her head tilted, an easy half-smile on her lips. “Is everything okay ?”

“Yes. Why ?” You replied instantly.

Her smile deepened, but it wasn’t mocking. “You don’t have to be a profiler to see something’s wrong.”

You swallowed hard, blinking at your hands as you twisted your fingers together. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She just looked at you, dark eyes steady, patient. Not pushing, just waiting. And that patience cracked something in you.

You sighed, your voice breaking as you admitted softly, “It’s stupid. I know it’s stupid.” You shook your head, looking at your feet.

“Doesn’t feel stupid, though, does it ?” Emily’s tone was gentle, inviting.

Your throat tightened. You raised your head but you couldn’t look at her, instead your gaze found the blonde at the table. You looked at her for a moment, how she was listening then laughing with the others. You hesitated for a few other seconds, then whispered, “She’s pretty.”

Emily didn’t need clarification but still asked. “JJ ?”

You nodded miserably, feeling stupid. “She’s… not what I expected.”

Silence stretched between you for a moment, filled only by the hum of conversation from the rest of the bar. Then Emily turned fully toward you, her elbows resting on the counter as she leveled you with a look that was soft but firm. But the bartender appeared before she could say anything, and you’ll never thanked him enough for that. 

You both ordered, and a few minutes later, your two drinks slid across the counter. You thanked him quietly, and when you glanced back, Emily was already smiling—not at you, but toward the table.

Spencer was watching in the bar’s direction, his expression a little too intent, his hand drumming against the wood in barely contained impatience.

Emily’s smile softened. “You’re enough for him. More than enough. And if you forget that, don’t worry, he’ll remind you.”

That startled a laugh out of you, a small and nervous one. “There it is,” Emily murmured, satisfied. She bumped her shoulder lightly against yours. “Don’t worry. JJ and Spencer… they’re good friends. That’s all.”

You nodded, though your fingers tightened around the glass in front of you. “I know. I just…” you trailed off, not wanting to sound even more ridiculous, but the words hung there anyway.

Emily smiled knowingly. “JJ’s one of the best people you’ll ever meet, really. But I’m also sure that if Reid’s with you, it’s because he wants to be with you. That guy doesn’t do half-measures.”

That last part earned a laugh out of you, a real one this time. One that finally finally loosened the knot in your chest.

“See ?” Emily chuckled. “If you can laugh at my pep talk, you’ll survive the rest of the night just fine.” Her gaze lingered on you, gentle but sharp enough that you knew she’d read right through you. She leaned in just a little and said quietly, “Come on. He looks like he’s about to combust if you don’t get back over there.”

You laughed despite yourself, letting her guide you through the crowd. You exhaled, some of the weight finally lifting from your chest. Maybe the doubts would come back later, but right now, with Emily’s words in your ears and Spencer waiting at the table, you felt steady enough to walk back.

The moment you reached the table, Spencer’s hand found yours, tugging you gently back down at his side, like he hadn’t quite known what to do with himself without you there.

Emily slid into her own seat, catching your eye briefly across the circle. She didn’t say anything, but the small, knowing curve of her smile told you she didn’t need to.

Aaron Hotchner is the most romantic person you know.

Of course, if you tried to verbalize this to him, Aaron would give a half-smile, mumbling in mockery.

“Tzz, you’re starting to get sleep deprived. Let’s go to sleep, honey.”

But you could see it. You knew.

He didn’t say “I love you” often, or make big public declarations—it wasn’t necessary. You learned to watch the way he loved.

He would show up with a bouquet of tulips every month on the twentieth (the date you got married)— a silent ritual he followed to the letter, whether you were traveling to a case or at home. If a case was particularly difficult for you, he would sit next to you on the jet in silence, intertwine your fingers with his, and with his free hand, place a cup of tea and your favorite candy in front of you.

You mentioned once — just once — that your lower back hurt during your period. It was a casual comment, something so small that you didn’t even remember why it was important to the conversation. But he kept it in mind. In the months that followed, he would pay attention to every phase of your cycle. Every tiny expression on your face—from a slight frown when you bent down to pick up something that had fallen on the floor — didn’t go unnoticed.

Aaron would come to you at the end of the day, placing a quick kiss on your lips and a folded note in your hand.

a voucher for a massage.

And when you were feeling especially needy — which happened more often than you’d like to admit out loud — he’d notice before you could even open your mouth. Aaron would drag you to sit on his lap while he finished his reports.

Even if it was hard to write. Even if his leg went numb. He let you, because it was important to you. And because he loved you.

But there was one thing, one specific gesture, so simple, that melted you like jelly.

He didn’t make any decisions without asking your opinion first.

– After the wedding, you agreed to stay in his apartment instead of buying a house. The apartment was well located, practical, and safe. Besides, with the routine at BAU, it would be difficult to look for a house, deal with the renovation, and move. It was a lot of unnecessary stress.

The only problem is that Aaron is a very practical person, and takes the meaning of the word functional very seriously – things just needed to fulfill their purpose. A couch was a couch. And a curtain was just a piece of cloth that needed to block the sun's rays from coming in.

Worrying about the colors of the walls, matching the furniture in the house? No, that wasn't important to him.

But it was important to you, and that was the first thing you noticed. The wooden furniture in different tones, the three wallpapers in different colors and patterns. Not to mention the biggest affront to good taste, that damn striped curtain.

The decoration of the apartment was, honestly, terrible. But in his defense, Aaron was willing to make the place comfortable for you. In other words, he was so committed to transforming the apartment that he even mentioned changing the tiles in the bathroom if you wanted.

“You can decorate it however you want,” he said, leaning against the doorframe. His arms crossed over his chest, an amused smile on his lips when he noticed your expression of disgust.

“You promise?” , you asked, still staring at the couch as if it were a personal enemy.

“Of course, honey” , he assured, “where do you want to start?”

“I need a metal can.”

Aaron frowned. “What? Why?”

“I’ll start by burning these curtains.”

– Aaron woke up thirty minutes earlier than you every day. It was a deal you made, you take care of breakfast and he gets Jack ready for school. It was the kind of simple but essential deal that made the routine lighter without weighing on either side.

You were still half asleep, sunk into the soft sheets, hugging Aaron's pillow to fill the void in the bed and smell him – a mix of soap and cologne.

“Love?”

“Hm..?” You murmured, your voice hoarse. Opening your eyes slightly, trying to make out the figure near the wardrobe.

Aaron had his back to you, only with the white towel wrapped around his waist, still with small drops of water sliding down his back. His hair was damp and disheveled. He was holding two hangers.

“Gray or navy blue?”

You blinked slowly, trying to understand why the koala from your dream was calling you and your love and asking you to choose between two colors. You snuggled deeper into the bed, burying your head in the pillow. “I think… Navy blue.”

Aaron smiled, seeing your drowsy state. He hung the hangers back in the wardrobe and walked over to the bed. The mattress dipped slightly under your weight, before his lips brushed against your shoulders, leaving small kisses.

“Coffee in ten minutes?”

“Depends, if you want pancakes it’s ten minutes. Now if you want coffee in bed…” Before you can finish your sentence, he lightly bites your shoulder, making you let out a muffled laugh against the pillow.

“I can’t believe you’re flirting with me in your sleep,” he says, his tone full of disbelief – although he was clearly enjoying himself.

“Baby, I would learn necromancy to flirt with you after death,” you retort, turning your face slightly to face him.

Aaron lets out a snort of laughter. “You’re impossible,” he mutters, slapping your ass before standing up. “Come on, Mrs. Hotchner.”

“Call me that later,” you whine dramatically as you sink deeper into the sheets and mattress, “Now give me five more minutes, Mr. Koala.”