grace

Your blouse is buttoned asymmetrically, your hair resembling a bird's nest, and you left your ID at home, making your arrival more delayed as you had to employ Garcia’s help in presenting a copy of your ID to let you through. 

That too was not without stress given that your phone was on the verge of dying as you were in the call, but thankfully you could finally breathe in the elevator. Or so you thought. 

There were two things that immediately caught you off guard as you walked into the bullpen: one, almost all the desks were deserted and two, Reid and Morgan were watching you- as if waiting for your reaction, which led you to look around in anticipation. Is there a surprise? A prank? Did I miss a patch? I’m…wearing pants, right? 

Not wanting to prolong your search, you look at the two for any indication or clue. Tilting your head to the side as if to ask what? But to your surprise, they both nod their heads in one direction. Oh.

Strauss was in Hotch’s office, along with Rossi and a woman you don’t recognize. Hotch looked a bit tense, Strauss firm, Rossi is as relaxed as ever, and the woman… is looking directly at Hotch. Just Hotch. Huh. 

You were stood just shy of your desk when you shook thoughts out of your head, slowly approaching your desk to settle your things. Dozens of scenarios were running through your head, trying to make sense of new additions to an otherwise normal day. 

But the way she was studying him made your chest tight like someone was stepping on it.. and you couldn’t figure out why. 

You approach the two rascals only to lean on Derek’s desk as you whisper under your breath, “What’s happening there?” 

Morgan shrugs but his focused face remains, “I don’t know, kid. I tried Garcia but she doesn’t have a clue either.” Eyes studying the people in the room, noting anything that could tell them something. 

Mulling over more possibilities, you hum in response. Turning to Reid, you ask him- hoping that his eidetic memory can tell you anything about the woman even if they’d only met in passing. 

“Do you know anything, Spence?” But Reid only pouts at you, a sign that he’s thought about it hard but is coming up empty. 

Shaking his head, he soberly replies, “No..I don’t think so. I– I’ve never seen her before. Sorry.” 

Before any more thoughts could be voiced between the three of you, the door to Hotch’s office opens and all four of them file out- the woman walking a little too close to Hotch. 

-

You’re approaching your usual seat on the jet beside Morgan and across from Hotch when suddenly Agent Seaver overtakes you and sits on your seat. Caught by surprise, your eyes instinctively go to Hotch who’s already looking at you. 

He nods to himself, moving from the aisle seat to the one by the window. But it appears Agent Seaver misunderstood his gesture and moved beside him, “Oh! Thank you, sir.” Even going as far as touching his arm and leaning closely. 

Now, you’ve never been a violent person. Rage has just never overcome your senses like that but today.. of all days– you couldn’t help the image of spilling your hot chocolate all over her cream blouse. 

You don’t even notice that you’re frowning as you sit beside Morgan, somehow still unaware of how much their closeness really upsets you. You honestly thought you’ve maintained an expressionless face until Morgan looks up from his file and leans close to whisper in your ear, “You’ll need claws not paws, baby girl.” Winking at you as you separate. 

You steal a glance at Hotch only to see him watching you and Morgan with furrowed brows. He almost looks normal if it weren’t for the clenching of his jaw that’s his tell of irritation. Moving your gaze to Seaver, in case you missed something that’s causing his new mood, you find her reading the case file. 

As you return your gaze on Hotch, you watch as Seaver touches his arm again and engages him in conversation about the case. It’s through the whole jet ride that you had to stomach the constant Agent Hotchner, Agent Hotchner! paired with a giggle or a slight touch. UGH!

If it weren’t for Strauss personally recommending Agent Seaver as a consultant for this case, you would have done– …still absolutely nothing. You had no claim whatsoever over Hotch. Morgan and Rossi may tease the two of you occasionally, forcing that he treats you specially or whatever but his behavior could simply be chalked off as him being a good and attentive boss. 

And yes, okay fine. You may have some moments here and there… but! they could honestly just be built up in your head because of the feelings you have for him. Like when he said he likes it when you stare? Come on, being stared at can be flattering and that’s just a universal truth. 

- 

After a whole day of coming up with theories, visiting crime scenes and M.E.’s, you’re all completely spent. Lounging in the makeshift discussion room, all of you are still working tirelessly on the case given that the unsub’s on a spree and his timeline is alarmingly short. 

Reid’s been silently staring at the board for 20 minutes while Morgan’s pretending to read files of potential suspects with his legs stretched out and feet on the table, “This is impossible. We just don’t have enough.” He exclaims as he tosses the file on the table with a thud. 

To the left of Morgan, you’re also silently mulling over files of potential suspects. Not wanting to admit that he’s right, you guys don’t have enough…bodies. You barely have anything on the guy, barely any clues- for a working profile. 

You sigh heavily, peeling your eyes off the paper and looking at the board. “Reid?” The boy genius shakes his head softly, confirming that the known dump sites don’t say much about the unsub’s comfort zones or hunting ground. 

You suddenly wonder where Seaver, Hotch and Rossi are. You and Morgan got back to the precinct at around 11PM, and you realize you haven’t seen any of them, “Where are the others?” 

Morgan, in an effort to lighten the mood, jumps at the chance to tease you, “Hmm. I think what you’re really asking is: Where’s Hotch and is he with Seaver?” He punches your arm lightly, making it obvious he’s only teasing. 

The smug, playful smile on his face makes you fight one of your own, desperately trying to not give yourself away, “Shut up,” hitting him in the head softly with the file in your hand. 

While you two were exchanging playful glares, Reid interjects, “Seaver wanted to turn in early since she’s also the one meeting with the families tomorrow so Hotch brought her to the hotel.” 

You instantly lift your gaze to him and watch as he removes the marker’s cap and scribbles rapidly on the board, quickly adding “And I’m pretty sure Rossi’s getting us coffee from the diner around the block.” 

You want to blame it on your exhaustion– your inability and ineffectiveness at hiding how you truly feel about what Reid just revealed to you, groaning loudly in pain and frustration. You put your head in your hands, muffling the sounds you’re making that are somehow a combination of a laugh and a sob. 

Morgan understands your reaction immediately and laughs out loud. 

“It’s not funny!” There was honestly no point in hiding it. As much as Morgan teased you, you knew he wouldn’t tell anyway, and Reid.. well, he was honestly an even better keeper of secrets than Morgan, Rossi and Garcia. 

He puts a hand on your shoulder to comfort you, “Baby girl, worry not. You know you hold a special place in boss man’s heart.” Then gripping both your wrists to pry your hands off your face. 

Pressing your face even further into your hands, you let out a muffled version of “That’s not true!” that came out more as “Daffs noft thwu!” 

When Morgan successfully pries your hands off your face, you’re surprised to see Reid’s moved from the board to behind Morgan, half leaning half sitting on the table, curiously watching you. 

Morgan turns around to look at the door behind you, making sure the coast is clear before he says, “Kid. Be real with me for a sec… are you blind?” That was not the question you were expecting. 

You must have looked so lost because he continues, “Hotch cares for you. Deeply. And not in the same way he does for us. You’ve gotta have felt that, kid.” Funny, you are starting to feel like a kid– the only thing missing are his hands on your shoulders to complete that huddle pep talk experience. 

“That’s just not–” you try to start. But Reid swiftly raises his hand, signing you to stop–

“Did you know that every morning Hotch makes sure all the pens and mug handles on your desk are pointing to the right– the way you need it to be– in case the night janitors move any out of place?”

“Or that he never really ate lunch in the office before but started bringing sandwiches and other food he could microwave, while timing his lunches with yours presumably so he could strike up a conversation with you during break?” 

“Or do you remember that one time the AC in the bullpen broke and we were all sweating badly, and I said the heat was making me too thirsty then he disappeared into his office and came back with a bottle of water and an orange juice box only to give it to you?” 

Morgan lets out a loud laugh at that one while Reid pouts playfully, “I mean I was genuinely dying then.” 

Not without his own input, Morgan smiles softly at you with a raised brow “Did you know he personally restocks your favorite hot chocolate in the pantry and on the jet? Including the marshmallows.” 

You breathe in deeply, the revelations sounding too good to be true but winding nonetheless. You crack a small joke, trying to play it off “And I thought the bureau was just feeling really generous.” 

The two, who have grown to be such brothers, give you the exact same look of Really? 

As Reid rounds the table to go back and stand by the board, Morgan catches your attention and holds your eye, “Look, there’s so much more, kid. But they all point to the same thing.” He says this as softly as possible, as if to not scare you away. 

You let out a soft, breathy laugh. Shaking your head, “That just can’t be true.” 

With all three of your backs to the door, you don’t notice Rossi nearing. You just suddenly hear his voice from behind, rounding the table and settling the coffee cups in front of all of you, “Coffee, anyone?” 

As if trapped in the null of the previous conversation, you’re still looking at Morgan as you lean back in your chair, slumping further to seek non-existent cover. Reid, who is now back in his own world with the board, is handed a cup by Rossi, who didn’t even turn to look- only stretching out an arm to receive it and mumbling a distracted “Thanks.”  

Rossi, who is simply too smart for his own good, impressively senses something hanging in the air, nonchalantly asking about the tailend of a conversation he was not supposed to hear, “So… what can’t be true?” 

Back to lounging excessively on a chair that is a tad too tiny for him, with legs outstretched and feet on the corner on the table– Morgan spouts, “That she’s Hotch’s girl, and has no reason to be jealous of Seaver– who by the way needs the HR orientation more than Penelope and I.” 

-

Now– all of your backs are to the door except Rossi’s. Not one of you tried to move due to fatigue, let alone look.

Unbeknownst to you, Morgan, and Reid, on the way back to the precinct from the hotel, Hotch had the genius thought of picking up Rossi so the latter wouldn’t have to walk a block with trays of coffee on hand.

Hotch and Rossi arrived together. And as Rossi went around the table to give you your cups of coffee, Hotch stayed behind– leaning on the doorframe with arms crossed, watching you and the team.

Imagine his surprise, hearing what Morgan just said. His heart skipped a beat, his stomach dropped. His entire being froze entirely.. What? Jealous? 

In his mind, he had two choices: Act like he didn’t hear it and save you from embarrassment or use it to his advantage and make his intentions clear..ish. 

-

You gasp loudly at his bluntness– and in front of Rossi! Straightening in your chair and pointing an accusatory finger at Morgan, “You little– I am NOT jealous! and I am NOT Hotch’s–” 

Cut off by someone loudly clearing their throat from behind all of you, you all freeze, including Reid who hasn’t been actively paying attention until now. 

The hair on your neck stands up as you hear the nearing footsteps, already envisioning digging your own grave in your head when finally, Hotch is standing right beside you. 

You’re all still pretty frozen, save from the slow movement which is your eyes slowly lifting its gaze to the man in question until they meet his hazel orbs. He holds your stare as he leans on the desk, arms straining in his shirt– 

Out of the corner of your eye you can see Rossi fighting a smile, and just as you’re about to mentally curse him in your head, you’re broken out of your thoughts by a deep voice, 

Your eyes burned. The white background of the document was blinding. By your side, Aaron looked as pristine as he had at four in the morning, jacket off, sleeves rolled neatly twice to his forearms, dark hair completely unaffected by gravity or exhaustion. He was reviewing case files, his pen moving in methodical, precise strokes.

You blinked once. It lasted three seconds. You blinked twice. The next thing you registered was the subtle shift of the plane tilting into a gentle bank, and the sudden, grounding warmth beneath your cheek. You weren't leaning against the cold window anymore. Your head had fallen sideways, resting squarely against the firm, tailored fabric of Aaron’s shoulder.

You stiffened immediately, your eyes snapping open. You were ready to scramble backward, pull together a hurried apology about muscle fatigue, and scramble for your seat. But before you could even lift your chin, you felt a slight, deliberate pressure against your arm. Aaron hadn't moved an inch. His shoulder was held perfectly steady to support your weight, and his left arm was rested along the back of your seat, keeping you anchored so the turbulence wouldn't jostle you awake.

"Stay still," he murmured, his voice low and rich, not even looking up from the paper in his hand. "We have forty-five minutes before we land. The report can wait."

You held your breath for a second, then let out a slow, quiet exhale, letting your eyes drift shut again. He didn't shift. He didn't move away. He just kept reading, his breath a steady, comforting rhythm right above your crown.

2. The Briefing Room ( 11:42 PM )

The rest of the team had cleared out an hour ago. Piles of red-labeled folders were stacked in neat towers along the long oak table, waiting for the morning shift. You were sitting in the swivel chair at the end of the table, holding a lukewarm mug of black coffee that had long since lost its potency.

Aaron was standing by the glass wall, a phone pressed to his ear, his back turned as he handled the administrative fallout of a closed bureau audit. His voice was a calm, low baritone, filtering through the quiet room like a lullaby you hadn't asked for.

You rested your elbow on the table, propping your chin in your palm. Just five minutes, you told yourself. Just while he finishes the call.

Your palm slipped. Your head dipped forward, coming to rest not on the hard wood, but on something soft and woolly.

Aaron had walked over silently while wrapping up his call. Spotting you on the verge of collapsing forward onto the table, he had pulled his dark suit jacket off and folded it twice, sliding it right beneath your cheek just before your head landed.

When you jolted awake twenty minutes later, the jacket was still acting as a pillow, smelling faintly of sandalwood, and early morning rain. Aaron was sitting in the chair right next to you, silently reading through a thick stack of requisitions by the light of a single desk lamp.

"I was going to wake you," he said softly, turning a page without looking at you. "But you looked like you needed the rest more than I needed my coat."

3. The SUV (Interstate 95, Rainstorm)

It was pouring. The windshield wipers were sweeping back and forth in a hypnotizing, rhythm. Aaron was driving, his hands steady on the wheel at ten and two, his gaze fixed on the slick, dark highway ahead. You were in the passenger seat, tasked with navigating, but the GPS voice had been muted, and the heater blowing against your feet was a trap. Every time the car rolled over a smooth patch of asphalt, your chin would drop to your chest. Eventually, fatigue won out completely. You didn't just nod off, you fell sideways like a falling tree. Your head thudded lightly against his upper arm.

Aaron didn't flinch. With one hand on the steering wheel, he reached down, caught the edge of your coat, and pulled it up higher over your shoulders. Then, very carefully, he adjusted his driving posture slightly, leaning subtle weight into the door so you had more room to rest against him without sliding toward the gear shift. Every time he had to change lanes, he signaled far earlier than necessary, turning the wheel with painstaking smoothness so as not to disturb the warmth of you settled against his side.

4. The Office Couch (After a 36-Hour Dragnet)

It was four in the morning. The bullpen was pitch black, save for the emergency lights near the exits. You had walked into Aaron's office to drop off a final stack of victim profiles, only to find him sitting at his desk, rubbing the bridge of his nose with two fingers, looking thoroughly spent.

"You should go home, Aaron," you had said quietly, leaning against the doorframe.

"Ten more minutes," he’d replied, though his voice sounded raspy. "I just need to finish signing off on these travel vouchers."

You walked over, sat down on the leather sofa along the side wall to wait for him, intending to offer him a ride home so he wouldn't have to drive tired. You leaned your head back against the leather cushions, crossing your arms over your chest. Ten seconds later, you were under. When you woke up, it was six-thirty in the morning. The faint gray light of dawn was filtering through the blinds. You weren't sitting upright anymore, you were lying down on the couch, your feet tucked onto the cushions. A thick, dark fleece blanket, the one Aaron kept in his lower desk drawer for emergency overnights was pulled all the way up to your chin.

Sitting on the edge of the couch, with his thigh underneath your head, was Aaron. He had his elbow resting against the arm of the couch, holding a hot paper cup of tea, watching the bullpen outside his glass walls. He hadn't left his office. He had just stayed there, sitting quietly on the corner of the leather sofa, guarding your sleep until the building started to wake up.

"Good morning," he said softly, turning his head to offer a faint, genuinely warm smile. "You snore when you're completely exhausted."

"I do not," you grumbled, pulling the blanket over your nose.

"You do," a hint of a smile curving his lips. "It's fine. I didn't mind."

5. The Suburb Case (Safehouse Porch)

It was a rare moment of downtime during an active surveillance detail in rural Virginia. The house was quiet, the local authorities were handling the outer perimeter, and you and Aaron were stationed on the covered back porch, watching the treeline through night-vision optics.

The air was crisp and cool, carrying the scent of damp pine and autumn leaves. You were sitting side-by-side on an old wooden bench, wrapped in matching heavy canvas coats. The silence between you was comfortable, the kind built over years of shared trauma, unsaid understanding, and a quiet, simmering affection that neither of you had ever explicitly named. Your head began to droop. You fought it, snapping your eyes open twice, but the cold air and the heavy silence were overwhelming. Without thinking, you tilted sideways, resting your temple against his shoulder again. This time, Aaron didn't just hold still. Slowly, deliberately, he raised his arm and slid it around your shoulders, pulling you in closer against his side to block the wind. He rested his chin lightly against the top of your head, his thumb stroking smooth, rhythmic circles into the fabric of your coat sleeve.

"I've got the treeline," he whispered into your hair, his voice vibrating softly against your temple. "Go to sleep." You didn't fight it. You pressed deeper into his shoulder, falling asleep to the steady, comforting beat of his heart beneath his chest.

The One Time You Fell Asleep Next to Him

The case had ended with a pile of tedious paperwork and a collective sense of relief. To celebrate the end of a six-week stretch that had taken the team through three different time zones, Rossi had practically dragged everyone to a quiet, dimly lit dive bar three blocks from the Quantico building.

What was supposed to be "one quick drink" rapidly devolved into rounds of cheap whiskey, loud laughter, and heavy releases of built-up tension. You, usually a moderate drinker, had vastly underestimated the impact of two double scotches on an empty, overtired stomach. By midnight, the world was spinning in cozy, warm loops. Aaron had knocked back his fair share, his tie loose around his unbuttoned collar.

When you stumbled slightly coming out of the booth, his hand was immediately at the small of your back, steadying you with practiced ease.

"Alright," Aaron said quietly, his lips brushing near your ear so you could hear him over the jukebox. "Time to get you home."

"I'm fine," you giggled, leaning back against his chest as he guided you toward the door. "I am a picture of professional composure, Agent Hotchner."

"You're slurring the word 'composure,'" he murmured, though the corner of his mouth twitched upward in amusement.

The cab to his apartment was a blur of streetlights and soft jazz playing from the car radio. You don't quite remember walking up the stairs to his front door, but you remembered the feeling of his front hallway, quiet, clean, and smelling of him. You ended up in his kitchen, leaning against the counter while he brought you a tall glass of ice water.

"Drink all of it," he ordered gently, standing right in front of you.

You took a sip, set the glass down, and looked up at him. The suit jacket was gone. His tie was loosened, his top two buttons undone, revealing the warm skin of his throat. The warm, alcohol-induced courage took over before your brain could filter it.

You reached out, catching the edge of his open collar, and pulled him down to you. Aaron caught his breath, his hands instantly resting on your hips to steady you. "Are you sure?" he asked, his voice suddenly thick, his dark eyes searching yours with absolute seriousness. "You've had a lot to drink, and you're exhausted-"

"Hotch," you interrupted, stepping closer so your chest pressed against his. "Aaron. I've been waiting for you to look at me like this for three years. Please."

The restraint that Aaron Hotchner had cultivated for decades seemed to snap in a single, quiet beat. He didn't answer with words. His mouth came down on yours, deep and heavy and desperate, lifting you easily off your feet and onto the kitchen counter. You gasped into his mouth, your hands sliding into his hair, pulling him as close as physical law permitted.

The transition from the kitchen to his bedroom was a chaotic, beautiful haze of discarded clothes, heavy breathing, and skin burning against skin. It wasn't gentle, not entirely. It was the desperate release of months of quiet yearning, heavy glances across briefing tables, and deliberate, excruciating professionalism finally collapsing under its own weight.

Aaron was meticulous, reverent, and surprisingly intense. He held your wrists pinned lightly above your head, his eyes never leaving yours as he moved inside you, driving you to a shattering, breathless peak that left you sobbing his name against his neck. When he finally let go, his own release came with a low, ragged groan into the crook of your shoulder, his heavy weight pressing down on you in the best possible way.

Afterward, the room was silent save for the sound of your synchronized, heavy breathing. The sheets were tangled around your waists. The air in the bedroom was cool, but the heat radiating off Aaron’s bare skin was suffocatingly wonderful. He rolled onto his side, pulling you back against his chest, his strong arm wrapping tightly around your waist, anchoring your spine against his stomach. He pulled the heavy comforter up over both of your shoulders, burying his face into the back of your neck.

"Aaron?" you whispered into the dark room, feeling a soft wave of liquid exhaustion settling deep into your bones.

"Hmm?" he murmured, his lips pressing a warm, lingering kiss against the delicate skin just behind your ear.

"I'm not on your shoulder this time."

You felt him smile against your skin, a real, unfiltered, genuine laugh that vibrated straight through your body.

The blood-red glow was relentless. It saturated the cavernous deep end, painting the cracked white tiling in a bruised hue. It turned the stagnant moisture on the concrete floor into pooled liquid rust and cast long, exaggerated shadows that stretched up the sloped incline like desperate, reaching fingers.

Sitting in the center of the drain, illuminated squarely under the stark crimson light, the matte-black Glock looked less like a weapon and more like an altar. The single brass 9mm round resting beside it caught the red glare, glinting like a drop of wet fire.

Your breathing came in short, shallow gasps, fanning hot air against the torn collar of Aaron’s dress shirt, which still hung loosely over your bare shoulders. The shirt carried his scent, cedar, faint starch, and the iron tang of sweat, but the fabric was losing its warmth against the rising chill of the subterranean room.

Beside you, Aaron hadn't shifted an inch since the echo of his own voice had died away. His broad back remained pressed flat against the cold, mold-stained tiles of the pool wall. His arm, wrapped firmly around your waist, was locked so tight the muscle trembled under the pale cotton of his undershirt. His chest rose and fell in heavy, deliberate cycles, but his eyes, dark, hollowed out by exhaustion, yet burning with terrifying clarity, were fixed on the display.

05:54:02.

"Aaron..." your voice was a fractured rasp, the back of your throat feeling as though it had been scrubbed with coarse sand.

He didn't tear his eyes from the wall, but his grip on your waist tightened marginally, his thumb pressing through the fabric of his shirt into your hip. "I hear you."

"Look at me."

Slowly, Aaron turned his head. The red light carved sharp, harsh angles across his face, accentuating the dark, bruised hollows under his eyes and the streak of dried blood along his left jawline. The stoic, untouchable Unit Chief of Quantico was gone, completely stripped away by thirty-six hours of physical torture, sensory deprivation, and cold concrete. In his place was a man who looked raw, bleeding, and entirely exposed.

"We have less than six hours," you whispered, the reality of the clock pressing down on your chest like a physical weight. Panic, cold and sharp, suddenly pierced through the haze of your exhaustion. "When that timer hits zero, he isn't going to send another message over the speaker. He’s coming down those stairs. He’s going to step into this pool armed, and he’s going to finish it."

"I know," Aaron murmured. His voice was terrifyingly calm, but the pulse throbbing violently in his throat betrayed him.

"So take the gun," you begged, tears hot and sudden burning behind your eyelids as you gripped his forearm, your fingers digging frantically into the fabric of his sleeve. "Aaron, please. You have to take the gun."

"No," he said flatly, his jaw locking tight.

"Stop being stubborn!" your voice cracked, a frantic, ragged sob tearing out of your chest as you pulled yourself away from him, ignoring the blinding spike of pain in your chained ankle. "Look at us! My leg is infected, I can barely stand, and we're trapped in a pit! If neither of us shoots, he walks down those stairs in six hours and kills us both! Jack loses his father. The team loses their leader. You have a son waiting for you at home, Aaron, you take the shot!"

"I said no!" Aaron shouted back, turning his body toward yours so fast his heavy iron shackle clanked deafeningly against the tile. "If anyone is leaving this room, it's you! Pick up the weapon and shoot me!"

"I am not going to shoot you!" you screamed back, tears spilling over your cheeks, staining the dirt on your skin. "You think I could live with that?! You think I could walk out of here, look Jack in the eye, and tell him I killed his father so I could save my own skin?! I am replaceable at the Bureau, Aaron! You aren't! Take the weapon and end this!"

"You are NOT replaceable!" Aaron’s voice shattered completely, the deep baritone tearing raw out of his throat, echoing off the cavernous ceiling like a physical blow. His entire frame was shaking violently, his chest heaving with desperate, jagged gasps as tears filled his dark eyes, glistening blood-red in the light of the timer.

"Why?!" you shouted, gesturing your arms out. "Give me one logical reason! Give me one tactical reason why both of us should die down here instead of you walking out to your son!"

"Because I can't!" Aaron said, his teeth ground against each other, the stoic mask completely fracturing, dropping into a ragged, desperate plea as he rubbed his forehead, closing his eyes for a moment. "I can't pull that trigger! I can't look at you through a sight and pull the trigger, I can't do it!"

"Aaron-"

"Because I love you!"

The confession tore out of him, loud, raw, and harrowing, echoing violently through the empty basin before settling into a suffocating, dead silence.

The red numbers on the wall kept ticking down. 05:48:19.

You froze, your breath catching in your throat, watching as his body went slack, as if the confession had finally loosened something within him. Aaron stared at you, his breathing shallow and broken, his mouth slightly open as if he couldn't believe the words had finally escaped his chest after months of rigid self-control, boundaries, and silent restraint. The iron wall he had built around his heart, the wall he had maintained through tragedy, loss, and the brutal demands of his career, had completely collapsed into dust.

"I can’t do it," Aaron repeated, his voice dropping into a quiet, trembling whisper that vibrated against your skin. "God help me... I love you."

A single tear slipped down his cheek, cutting a clean path through the dirt on his skin. His broad shoulders shuddered as he let out a long, broken exhale.

"I've loved you for months," he murmured, his fingers tightening into fists at his sides. "Every late night in the office, every case we closed, every time you looked at me like I was something more than just your boss... I buried it. Because of protocol. Because of my rank. Because I thought keeping my distance was the only way to keep you safe."

He shook his head slowly, a faint, heartbreaking laugh escaping his lips. "And now we're in a hole in the ground, and the only thing I care about... the only thing that matters in this entire miserable world... is that I cannot be the reason your heart stops beating."

The panic that had seized your chest melted away, replaced by an overwhelming, intense tenderness.You stepped closer and reached up, cupping his face in your cold palms. Your fingers buried themselves in his damp, disheveled hair, pulling him closer until your foreheads rested together. Aaron’s breath hitched in his chest. His hands moved instantly, sliding up your arms, resting against the sides of your neck, his palms warm and trembling against your skin.

"You were never just an agent to me. You were everything." Aaron breathed, his voice rich with an fierce, raw tenderness.

He closed the tiny distance remaining between you, his mouth finding yours in a kiss that was desperate, fierce, and completely devoid of restraint. It wasn't a gentle kiss born of an intimate moment, it was forged in cold concrete, blood, rust, and the looming shadow of death. His lips were dry and warm, pressing against yours with an intensity that made your head spin. His hands slid down your back, pulling you flush against his chest, locking you against him as if he could physically shield you from the ticking clock on the wall.

You kissed him back with everything you had left, tasting salt and the faint metal tang of blood, your fingers gripping the hair at the back of his head, pulling him deeper into you. For a handful of stolen heartbeats, the abandoned pool, the heavy iron shackle around your ankle, the hidden camera overhead, and the numbers on the wall vanished completely.

When he finally pulled back slightly, resting his cheek against yours, his chest was heaving, his heart hammering against your ribs like a war drum.

"We don't give him his ending," Aaron whispered into your skin, his voice regaining that dark, lethal edge of absolute resolve that belonged to the man you loved. "We don't shoot each other. We wait for the clock."

"And when he opens that door?" you asked softly, leaning back to look into his dark eyes, seeing no fear left in them, only an unyielding determination.

"When he opens that door," Aaron said, his fingers lacing tightly through yours, "we tear him apart together."

Slowly, carefully, Aaron shifted his posture, keeping his body positioned between you and the hidden camera overhead. He leaned in close, brushing his lips against the shell of your ear to lay out the trap.

"He can see us, but he turned the room microphone off to keep the feed silent for the broadcast," Aaron breathed, his warm breath fanning across your ear, his voice barely audible over the high-frequency hum of the timer. "We use the chains."

You didn't tilt your head. You kept your hands buried in the cotton of his undershirt, playing the part of a terrified victim clinging to her superior for comfort in her final hours. "How?"

"The link gauge is industrial steel, but the anchor bolts in the wall are set into sixty-year-old poured concrete," Aaron whispered rapidly, his hand coming up to gently stroke your hair, maintaining the illusion of intimacy for the lens above while his mind laid out a brutal, close-quarters ambush. "The concrete around my anchor has stress fractures from the moisture. If I pull hard enough on the chain, I can't pull the bolt out, but I can create enough slack to use the heavy links as a weapon."

"The radius," you murmured against his neck. "If you drag him off balance when he reaches the bottom of the incline..."

"You take his legs," Aaron instructed, his fingers tightening in your hair with an intense, protective grip. "When he steps off the sloped deck into the deep end, he'll focus on me. I’m the primary physical threat. The moment he steps within your chain's reach, don’t try to stand. You stay low. You use your chain like a tripwire. Sweep his ankles."

"And the gun?" you asked, your heart thumping against your ribs. 

"It's a prop," Aaron said coldly. "He left one round. He wants us to kill each other with it. But when he enters this room, he will be carrying a secondary weapon, likely a heavy-caliber sidearm for control. We disarm him the moment he touches the concrete floor. No negotiation. No commands to surrender. We eliminate the threat."

He pulled back slightly, his dark eyes searching your face in the ominous red gloom. The cold, mechanical profiler was gone, replaced by the man who had just laid his entire heart bare on a dirty concrete floor.

"If anything goes wrong..." Aaron’s voice fractured, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone, his skin warm and rough against your chilled skin. "...if he breaks through the trap..."

"Nothing is going wrong," you cut him off fiercely, your hands gripping his wrists. "We survive this together, Aaron. You promised me."

Aaron stared at you, his chest heaving, his dark eyes shining with an unbearable, beautiful vulnerability under the blood-red light of the clock.

"I promised," he whispered.

05:41:00.

On the opposite wall, the red numbers kept counting down.

05:40:59.

05:40:58.

–

FBI Academy, Quantico – 04:12:00 Remaining

The harsh fluorescent lights of the BAU bullpen hummed, casting a pale, clinical glare across the array of desks. Nobody had sat down in hours. Case files lay scattered across tables, property deeds were pinned haphazardly to mobile whiteboards, and satellite maps of Maryland and Virginia were slashed with red dry-erase ink. At the front of the room, elevated high above the bullpen floor, the main glass display monitor glowed with sickening clarity. On the muted feed, the subterranean pool was bathed in a harsh blood-red glow. The LED display on the tiled wall was clearly visible in the top corner of the frame: 04:11:48. Below it, sitting side-by-side against the stained concrete, Aaron had his arm locked around your frame, shielding your upper body from the cold. His lips were pressed tightly against the shell of your ear, his face a hard, unreadable mask, while your hands were buried in the torn cotton of his undershirt.

Morgan stood three feet from the screen, his broad back rigid, his heavy fists balled so tightly at his sides that his knuckles were stark white. His chest rose and fell in ragged, furious hitches.

"He’s talking to her," Morgan growled, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that barely carried across the quiet room. "Look at him. He’s whispering right into her ear. What is he saying, Garcia? Can you boost the ambient audio on the feed?"

Penelope Garcia sat hunched over her triple-monitor station, her face devoid of its usual vibrant color. Dark circles bruised the skin beneath her eyes, and tears had tracked clean channels through her makeup. Her hands, usually so fast and confident across her glowing keyboards, trembled as she adjusted a series of audio visualisers. "I- I've tried," Garcia choked out, her voice cracking on a small, heartbroken sob. "The audio track isn't just muted, it's completely stripped from the incoming data packets at the source server. He’s deliberately running a video-only feed to cut off our tactical assessment. We're looking through a one-way mirror in pitch silence."

"He’s keeping her warm," JJ said softly, stepping up beside Morgan. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her arms wrapped tightly around her waist as if trying to hold herself together. "Look at the way he’s positioned. He took his own shirt off to put it over her shoulders after..." JJ cut herself off, her throat working as she swallowed down a wave of nausea, unable to finish the sentence.

None of them could bring themselves to speak about the previous hour, the sickening moment the unsub’s voice had echoed over the feed, forcing Aaron to strip you of your shirt just to buy a bottle of water and a tube of ointment.

"He didn't break," Rossi said, his baritone cutting through the thick atmosphere like a honed blade.

David Rossi stood near the edge of Garcia's desk, a half-empty mug of black coffee held in his hand, though he hadn't taken a sip in twenty minutes. His dark eyes were fixed on Aaron’s silhouette on the screen. "Look at Hotch's posture," Rossi pointed out, raising a sharp finger toward the monitor. "A man who has given up sags. His shoulders drop, his eye contact falters, his focus turns inward. Aaron is upright. His chin is up. He is studying that room, he’s calculating angles, and he’s talking to her, that's tactical coordination."

"Coordination for what?!" Morgan snapped, spinning around, his arms slashing through the air with explosive frustration. "They’re chained to the floor! They’ve been down there for over thirty-six hours without food, with half a bottle of water between them, and a damn countdown clock staring them in the face! In four hours, that clock hits zero and whoever built that room is walking in there to finish them!"

"Then we find them in three," Rossi replied instantly, his voice entirely devoid of panic, hard as mountain granite. 

"Garcia. What if you stopped trying to crack the stream’s IP proxy? He set up bouncing nodes through Eastern Europe specifically to sink your time into a digital wild goose chase. What if you started looking at what the facility is using." Spencer interjected, his arms folded tightly across his chest, his chin pinched between his thumb and forefinger.

Garcia blinked through her tears, wiping her eyes with the back of her sleeve. "What do you mean, Reid?"

"That clock," Spencer said, stepping closer to her screen and pointing at the pulsing digits on the pool wall. "That isn't a battery-operated prop. That’s an industrial digital event timer with a high-intensity LED matrix array. In an abandoned facility that has been disconnected from the primary municipal grid for decades, where is he getting the amperage to drive a high-draw display, a closed-circuit camera, and a local public address system?"

Garcia’s eyes widened. "A localized power draw..."

"He’s tapping a line," Morgan realised, his tactical mind instantly locking back into gear, pushing the raw emotion aside. "He couldn't use a heavy gas generator, the exhaust fumes would fill an underground pool basin and kill them both before his game even started. He had to splice into an active secondary utility line nearby!"

"Garcia," Rossi ordered, leaning over her chair, his hands gripping the headrest. "Pull up the Maryland State Public Utility grid logs for the last twelve hours. Look for localized voltage drops or illegal bridge taps on dormant commercial and municipal lines within a thirty-mile radius of their last known location."

"On it!" Garcia shouted, her fingers suddenly blurring across her mechanical keys with terrifying speed. Multiple windows flooded her screens, cascading lines of green data, electrical schematics, and regional grid maps. "Filtering for secondary transformer spikes... eliminating active commercial zones... cross-referencing with municipal structures built prior to 1950..."

The room went dead silent again. The only sound was the frantic clatter of keys and the heavy, synchronized breathing of the team. On the wall monitor, the numbers shifted silently.

04:02:11.

04:02:10.

"Come on, Penelope..." Morgan whispered under his breath, leaning over her shoulder, his jaw tightly set. "Come on, babygirl. Give us a door."

"I've got something!" Garcia gasped, her screen flashing bright amber as a single red node illuminated on an overhead topographical map of Prince George’s County. "The exact same time that digital timer flickered onto the live feed, there was a three-amp voltage draw detected on a secondary, non-metered municipal trunk line running beneath Route 202!"

"What's at the surface of that line?" JJ demanded, leaning in close.

"Cross-referencing historical land deeds..." Garcia’s breath caught in her throat, her hands freezing above the keyboard as a black-and-white architectural blueprint from 1934 expanded across her main monitor. "Oh... oh, thank God. It’s the old Prince George’s Community Bathhouse and Civic Center. Abandoned in 1988 after the main gymnasium roof collapsed. The county sealed the upper level, but the subterranean municipal pool deck and boiler rooms were left structurally intact underground!"

Morgan didn't wait for Rossi to give an order. He lunged across his desk, snatching his tactical vest and pulling it over his head in one fluid, practiced motion. He slapped his FBI raid jacket over his shoulders and racked the slide of his Glock with a sharp, heavy clack that echoed like a gunshot through the bullpen.

"JJ, get Prince George's County SWAT on the comms right now!" Morgan barked, his voice booming with lethal authority. "Tell them tactical entry, heavy breaching tools, full ballistic shields, and medical choppers on standby! I want three perimeter teams locking down that block before that clock hits three hours!"

"I'm calling state police now!" JJ shouted back, already sprinting toward the glass doors with her phone pressed firmly to her ear. "Setting up an emergency motorcade corridor along Route 202!"

Rossi walked calmly to his office drawer, pulled out his sidearm, verified the chamber, and holstered it at his hip. He paused at the doorway, turning his head to look back up at the high-definition display one last time.

On the glowing screen, under the harsh blood-red light of the ticking timer, Aaron was sitting perfectly still. His broad body was still wrapped protectively around yours, his head turned slightly toward the dark incline leading up to the pool deck, his eyes wide, vigilant, and completely unblinking in the gloom. "He gave us a clock because he thought it would make us watch them break," Rossi said quietly, his baritone laced with a cold, terrifying promise of violence. "He doesn't understand who he kidnapped." Rossi adjusted the lapel of his jacket, his jaw set like iron. "Hotch doesn't break."

–

The Abandoned Pool – 02:45:12 Remaining

The high-frequency whine of the digital timer had long since ceased to feel like a sound, it was a physical pressure behind your eyes, a dull, thumping ache that synchronized with the slow beat of your heart.

02:45:00.

02:44:59.

The blood-red glow cast across the cavernous deep end had settled into a heavy, oppressive fog. Outside, the night was deepening, but down here in the belly of the abandoned bathhouse, light and time were artificial constructs dictated entirely by the pulsing crimson digits on the tile wall.

The initial burst of adrenaline, the terror of the countdown, the violent emotional fracture, the desperate, feverish kiss that had finally torn down months of professional distance, had ebbed away. What remained was exhaustion wracking every cell of your body.

You were sitting on the cold concrete floor, back supported by the damp pool wall, with your knees drawn up as high as your swelling right ankle would permit. Aaron sat directly beside you, his long legs stretched out, his left arm wrapped completely around your middle, holding you firmly against his ribcage.

His dress shirt, still draped around your bare upper body, had trapped enough of your shared body heat to keep the bone-deep shivering at bay, but his own bare shoulders were ice-cold to the touch. Every few minutes, a subtle, involuntary tremor rippled through his broad frame, though he never made a sound or relaxed his grip.

"Aaron," you whispered softly. The word barely carried through the empty basin, dry and fragile against the silence. "You're freezing."

"I'm fine," he replied quietly, his voice low, gravelly, and entirely devoid of hesitation. He didn't shift away, instead, he rested his jaw against the crown of your head, his hand tightening over your hip. "Save your energy."

"You gave me your shirt, Aaron. You've been sitting in an undershirt on damp concrete for hours." You shifted, trying to adjust the ruined cotton fabric over both of your shoulders so he could share its warmth, but the movement pulled sharply on your chained ankle. A choked gasp escaped your lips before you could stop it. A hot, blinding spike of pain shot straight up your leg, making your vision flash white for a terrifying second.

Aaron was instantly moving. His hand slid from your waist to cup the back of your neck, his thumb caressing the soft skin beneath your ear as he pulled you back against him. "Don't move. You’ll make it worse."

"It's burning," you breathed, tears of sheer physical weakness welling in your eyes. You rested your forehead against the curve of his throat, feeling the rapid, steady thrum of his carotid pulse against your brow. "It feels like it’s on fire."

Aaron’s jaw set into a hard, rigid line. He carefully lowered his hand, his long, calloused fingers gently probing the skin around the heavy iron cuff fastened to your right ankle. Beneath the thin layer of salve and gauze he had applied hours earlier, the tissue was hot, taut, and heavily inflamed. The rusted iron had bitten deep during your struggle, leaving ragged, swollen edges that throbbed in time with the ticking clock overhead.

"The antibiotic paste is slowing it down, but the joint is swollen," Aaron murmured, his fingers remaining light, incredibly gentle as he adjusted the gauze slightly to relieve the tension. "The shackle is restricting circulation. When we get out of here, the first thing the paramedics will do is cut the steel and flush the wound."

When we get out of here.

Not if.

Even down in the dirt, bruised, starved, and stripped of his weapon, Aaron Hotchner spoke with the absolute, unshakeable authority of a man who refused to allow any other reality to exist.

You looked up at him, studying his profile carved out by the crimson light. The sharp, clean line of his jaw, the slight shadow of dark stubble along his cheeks; the dark, hollow sockets of his eyes where deep exhaustion wrestled with a cold, terrifying focus.

"You really believe it, don't you?" you whispered, reaching up to rest your fingertips against his collarbone. His skin was pale and chilled, but beneath it, his chest was steady, a rock in the middle of a dark ocean.

Aaron turned his head down to look at you. The harsh red glow caught the dark iris of his eyes, softening the moment his gaze locked onto yours.

"I have to," he said simply. "Because the alternative is letting a coward decide how your life ends. And I won't allow that."

A faint, trembling breath escaped your chest. You raised your hand further, your thumb tracing the hard line of his cheekbone, smoothing over a smear of dried blood near his temple. "Why didn’t you say anything sooner? About how you felt."

Aaron didn't look away. His eyes remained locked on yours, completely unshielded, vulnerable in a way you had never seen in the bullpen, on the BAU jet, or in any office at Quantico.

"I tried to," he admitted softly, his voice dropping into a raspy confession that made your heart swell. "Every morning when I walked into the office and saw you at your desk... every time we flew back from a case and you fell asleep across the table on the jet... I just reminded myself who I was. I was your Unit Chief. I have a past, a dead wife, a son to raise alone, and a job that consumes everything it touches. I had no right to bring you into that."

"Aaron..."

"I convinced myself that keeping my distance was a form of protection," he continued, his fingers sliding into your hair, holding your head gently against his palm. "I told myself that if I kept the wall up, if I kept our conversations strictly professional, I was saving you from the shit-show that my life is every single day. But standing in this pool, looking at that gun... I realised how arrogant that was."

His thumb smoothed over your lower lip, tracing the faint, dry crack in the center with heart-wrenching tenderness.

"I was just terrified of losing you the way I've lost everyone else." Aaron whispered, his voice cracking slightly. Tears spilled over your lashes, warm and silent, cutting tracks through the grime on your face. You leaned up, pressing your cheek against his palm, kissing the warm center of his hand.

"I chose this job, Aaron," you told him, your voice steady despite the pain radiating from your leg. "I chose to step into this hell-hole of a job every single day. I didn't fall in love with a Unit Chief. I fell in love with you. The man who remembers every victim, the man who stays up until three in the morning making sure his team goes home safe, the man who held my hand in the pitch black when we thought we were going to die."

Aaron’s jaw twitched, a muscle flaring violently in his cheek as he swallowed hard. A single, silent tear welled in his dark eye, catching the red light before slipping down his nose.

He leaned down, burying his face into the crook of your neck. He inhaled deeply, drawing in the scent of your skin, his broad shoulders shuddering as he wrapped both arms around you with a crushing, protective strength that made you feel completely safe despite the iron chain around your ankle.

"We are getting out of this pool," Aaron growled into your skin, the raw, lethal resolve returning to his tone, deep and absolute. "We are going back to Quantico. We are going to finish this case, and then I am taking you out. That little Italian place with the good breadsticks."

A breathless, watery laugh bubbled up from your chest as you rested your forehead against his shoulder. "Is that a promise, Agent Hotchner?"

"It's an order, Agent," he whispered back, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin beneath your ear, sending a warm shiver through your spine. "And I expect you to follow it."

High above, deep within the black lattice of the ceiling rafters, the tiny red lens of the camera continued its silent, unblinking surveillance.

02:15:00.

02:14:59.

The concrete floor remained cold and dirty, your ankle still throbbed with white-hot pain, and the air was thin and stale, but wrapped in Aaron’s arms, feeling the steady, powerful rhythm of his heart against your chest, you were no longer afraid of the clock.

You were just waiting for the door to open.

–

00:00:03.

00:00:02.

00:00:01.

00:00:00.

At the top of the concrete incline, high above the deep end, a heavy mechanical deadbolt threw itself back with the sharp, echoing crack of a rifle shot.

Aaron’s body instantly went rigid. The tenderness of the last three hours evaporated in a single heartbeat, replaced by a cold, predatory focus. He didn't rise to his feet, he couldn't without pulling your chain taut and revealing his position, but his broad shoulders squared, his left hand shifting backward to push you firmly into the shadow, shielding your exposed torso with his own frame. His right hand snaked around his ankle chain, looping the heavy industrial links tightly around his fist until the steel bit into his skin.

The massive iron doors at the top of the ramp swung open, squealing loudly on rusted hinges. Heavy, deliberate footsteps echoed across the upper pool deck. A tall silhouette stepped into the doorway, framed against the faint, sickly yellow streetlamp light filtering in from the alleyway above. He wore a heavy tactical jacket, a dark ballistic vest, and a reinforced rubber face mask that distorted his silhouette into something monstrous and inhuman. In his right hand, held casually down at his hip, was a dark, heavy-caliber Sig Sauer P226. "Well, well, well," the unsub’s voice boomed down the cavernous room, no longer filtered through the tinny tannoy speaker, but raw, echoing, and dripping with manic satisfaction. "The unshakeable Aaron Hotchner and his devoted subordinate. The timer has expired, Agents. And look at you... sitting in the mud, holding onto each other like sick animals."

Aaron didn't say a word. He stayed low, his chest heaving silently, his dark eyes tracking every inch of the man’s descent as he stepped over the threshold and began walking down the sloped concrete incline toward the deep end.

"I have to admit, I'm disappointed," the unsub mocked, his footsteps crunching over grit and broken glass. "I gave you six hours. I gave you a gun. I gave you a clear, simple choice. One bullet. One sacrifice. But you let your pathetic, petty little feelings get in the way of survival, didn't you? You chose to die together."

He reached the bottom of the incline, stepping off the sloped ramp onto the flat, stained floor of the deep end basin. He was less than twelve feet away now, stepping directly into the outer threshold of Aaron’s chain radius.

"Look at me when I talk to you!" the unsub snarled, raising the heavy Sig Sauer, leveling the sight directly at Aaron’s forehead. "You think you're better than me, Aaron?! You think that badge makes you untouchable?!"

Aaron didn't try to dodge the weapon. He threw his weight forward, bringing his left arm up in a violent, sweeping arc as he hurled his chain forward.

The heavy steel links whipped through the dark, catching the unsub’s gun wrist with a sickening crack. The force of the iron strike shattered the man's radial bone. The Sig Sauer exploded out of his grip, flying wildly across the deep end and skittering over the drain, falling with a dull, distant splash into the open, water-filled grate out of reach.

At the exact same instant, you lunged across the smooth tile from his left. Ignoring the tearing, white-hot agony ripping through your infected ankle, you threw your weight flat against the concrete, extending your chained right leg as far as the iron permitted. The heavy chain snapped taut like an iron cable across the unsub’s shins.

"What the-!"

The unsub tripped over the chain, his boots slipping out from under him on the damp tile. He crashed heavily onto his back against the concrete floor, the wind exploding out of his lungs in a wet, guttural gasp. Before he could regain his footing, Aaron was on top of him.

Aaron drove his knee directly into the man’s sternum, pinning him to the floor, his right fist coming down in a devastating, tactical strike aimed straight for the unsub’s jaw. The rubber mask tore away under the impact, revealing a bruised, bloodied face beneath.

"You bastard!" the unsub screamed, his shock instantly turning into a feral, cornered rage.

Despite his broken wrist, the unsub was broader, heavier, and completely rested, unmarred by thirty-six hours of starvation, dehydration, and freezing cold. He surged upward with explosive power, driving his elbow into Aaron’s left shoulder, the exact shoulder Aaron had been favoring since their capture. Aaron let out a stifled, strangled groan of pain as his left arm buckled.

The unsub seized the opening. He didn't reach for a gun, he reached down to his tactical belt, pulling a heavy, seven-inch serrated combat knife from its sheath. With a guttural roar, he drove the blade upward, aiming for Aaron’s throat.

"Aaron!" you screamed.

Aaron caught the unsub’s wrist with both hands inches from his neck, his knuckles turning stark white as he fought against the downward pressure of the steel. The blade hovered directly over Aaron’s collarbone, trembling violently in the red strobe light.

"You're weak, Aaron!" the unsub spat, blood spraying from his split lip as he pressed all of his body weight down onto the knife. "You're starving! You can't hold me!"

Aaron’s left shoulder caved. The serrated edge of the blade sliced through the cotton of his undershirt, biting deep into the meat of his chest. Blood, hot and dark, instantly erupted over Aaron’s skin, pooling across his ribs.

Aaron didn't scream. His face went entirely blank, his jaw locking so hard a vein bulged violently along his temple.

You dragged yourself forward, grabbing the heavy, rusted Glock that had been sitting untouched on the drain grate for two days. With a raw, desperate scream, you swung the solid steel slide of the empty firearm with all the strength left in your body, slamming it directly into the side of the unsub’s head.

The metal struck his skull with a sickening, hollow thud. The unsub groaned, his eyes rolling back as his grip on the knife loosened. Aaron instantly seized the moment, he twisted the unsub’s wrist outward until the bone snapped, forcing the combat knife to slip from his fingers, clattering uselessly down into the dark drain.

The weapons were gone. The guns were out of reach. The knife was in the pipes.

It was no longer a tactical firefight. It was a primal, desperate test of raw physical strength.

"Get off her!" Aaron growled, his voice dropping into an animalistic roar that didn't sound human.

Aaron grabbed the unsub by the throat with his bare hands, burying his thumbs deep into the soft tissue beneath the man's jaw, slamming his head back flat against the concrete floor. The unsub thrashed wildly, his heavy boots kicking out, his hands scratching frantically at Aaron’s forearms, digging bloody furrows into Aaron’s skin.

Aaron didn't flinch. He didn't pull back.

Ignoring the deep, arterial gash pouring blood down his chest, ignoring the exhaustion threatening to black out his vision, Aaron leaned his entire body weight over the unsub, his arms locked like iron hydraulic presses, squeezing the life out of the man who had dared to hurt you, who had dared to force you into survival. Aaron didn't move for three tormenting seconds, his dark eyes completely black with an unadulterated, protective fury. The unsub’s hands fell limply to the floor, his chest stalling, his eyes rolling up into his head as his consciousness slipped away completely.

Slowly, raggedly, Aaron released his grip.

The unsub slumped motionless against the tiles, completely unconscious, pinned beneath the dead weight of his own defeat.

Aaron collapsed sideways onto his knees, his hands resting on the bloody floor as his chest heaved in violent, shallow hitches. Blood poured steadily from the slice across his ribs, dripping off his pale undershirt onto the concrete.

"Aaron..." you gasped out, pulling yourself into his lap, wrapping your arms around his neck to support his trembling weight. "Aaron, hold on... please..."

Aaron rested his head heavily against your shoulder, his broad body shuddering as his right arm wrapped weakly around your waist, pulling you close against his bleeding chest.

"It’s okay," Aaron rasped out, his voice a faint, broken whisper into your skin, his blood warm against your bare collarbone. "You're safe..."

“No, no, no! Don’t do this to me Aaron!” You cried desperately, pulling off his shirt from your shoulders to press it against the wound with all your strength. “Talk to me Aaron, please…”

“You’ll… you’ll get a wine… red…” he breathed, his lips stuttering as your tears dripped down onto his face, your hand shaking violently as it pressed the blood-soaked shirt harder against his chest. “You like red.”

Above you, at the top of the pool incline, the blinding white beams of heavy tactical flashlights suddenly sliced through the dark.

“FBI! MOVEMENT ON THE DEEP END!”

Boot heels thundered down the sloped ramp.

Derek Morgan’s voice boomed through the space, raw, desperate, and filled with immense relief.

“Morgan! Morgan he’s-” You screamed, no longer humiliated by your bare skin, only desperate to keep Aaron conscious as his blood spilled over your fingers.

The rescue had arrived, but down in the deep end, illuminated by the flashing lights, Aaron didn't look up at the tactical team. He just kept his eyes locked on yours, his bloody fingers tight in your hair, holding you desperately until the light completely washed over you both.

–

The sterile scent of antiseptic, rubbing alcohol had replaced the damp stench of mold and rust, but your lungs still felt heavy, struggling to draw in a clean breath. The ICU hallway was a ghost town, the silence punctuated only by the distant, muffled footsteps of night-shift nurses and the soft, rhythmic mechanical hum of life support systems humming behind glass partitions. You sat in a lightweight transport wheelchair positioned just outside the floor-to-ceiling glass panel of Bay 4. Your right leg was elevated, wrapped in thick white surgical bandages from your mid-calf down to your toes. The paramedics had cut the iron shackle away with heavy hydraulic shears on the pool deck, leaving behind deep, purple-black hematomas and jagged, stitched lacerations where the rusted steel had torn into your tissue. An IV line ran into the back of your left hand, dripping high-dose antibiotics and saline into your vein to combat the fever that had begun to take root hours earlier. You wore an oversized gray hospital sweatshirt, courtesy of Morgan, who had practically forced you into it the second the ambulance doors closed, but your hands, resting tightly in your lap, were still cold. Through the clear glass wall of the bay, the scene was drawn in shades of pale blue and clinical white.

Aaron lay motionless in the center of the room. He was buried beneath a maze of clear plastic tubing and monitoring cables. A thick surgical dressing was taped securely across the left side of his chest, covering the deep, arterial laceration from the serrated knife, while another heavy bandage stabilized his bruised, sprained shoulder. A clear endotracheal tube was taped carefully to his mouth, connected to a ventilator that hissed and clicked in a relentless, artificial cadence: Hiss... click. Hiss... click. Beside the bed, the vitals monitor cast a green glow over his pale, drawn face. A bright emerald line traced a slow, jagged path across the dark screen, accompanying the rhythmic pulse of his heart.

"He came out of surgery an hour ago," JJ’s soft voice broke the heavy silence.

She stepped up beside your wheelchair, her hand coming down to rest gently on your shoulder. She had traded her tactical jacket for a plain dark sweater, her face pale, her own eyes rimmed with red from hours of holding back tears. She held two warm paper cups of tea, offering one down to you, though you barely had the strength to wrap your fingers around the cardboard. "The surgeon said the blade missed a major artery by less than a centimeter," JJ continued softly, her thumb caressing the fabric of your sweatshirt. "He lost a lot of blood, and his body was already in severe shock from hypothermia and dehydration before they even breached the facility. They have him under heavy sedation to let his lungs rest and give his body time to heal."

Your eyes never left his face. You stared at the faint shadow of dark stubble along his jawline, the bruised hollows beneath his closed eyes, the slow, mechanical rise and fall of his chest under the thin white hospital blanket. "He stopped breathing on the pool deck," your voice came out as a hollow, fractured whisper, dry and raw from the cold concrete air. "He looked at me, he told me I was safe, and then... his eyes just went blank. I couldn't feel his pulse."

"He was fighting to keep you alive," JJ said, her voice wavering with profound emotion. She squeezed your shoulder tighter, leaning down slightly so her face was in your line of sight.

Tears, hot and silent, finally spilled over your lower lashes, tracking clean channels down your cheeks. You reached up with a trembling hand, resting your palm flat against the cold glass of the ICU window, positioning your fingers directly over the reflection of Aaron’s still hand on the bed.

"He almost died because of me," you whispered, your forehead coming forward to rest against the cool glass.  

JJ let out a small, wet breath, wiping her own cheek with the back of her hand. A faint, sad, yet deeply affectionate smile touched her lips as she looked down at you, then back through the glass at her Unit Chief. "He survived because of you," JJ murmured softly, stepping back toward the ICU hallway doors to give you privacy.

She squeezed your shoulder one last time. "There's no protocol for what you two went through down there," JJ added quietly, pausing at the corner of the hallway. "And nobody on this team is going to stand in the way of what comes next. Get some rest, okay? Morgan is downstairs bringing up real food."

"Thank you, JJ," you breathed.

When the heavy hallway doors clicked shut, leaving you completely alone in the silent corridor, you unlocked the wheels of your chair. Using your good foot, you pushed yourself forward until the footrests bumped gently against the glass door of Bay 4.

Inside, the green line on the monitor kept up its steady, rhythmic dance. Through the glass, the ventilator let out its rhythmic hiss-click. And on the monitor beside his bed, the green line spiked just a fraction faster, a subtle, steady rise in his pulse, as if, even deep beneath the heavy fog of surgical anesthesia, your presence was still the only thing bringing him back to the light.

–

The soft, amber light of the floor lamp in the corner of your living room cut through the warm dimness of the evening and reflected off the framed prints on your wall. On the television screen, a black-and-white classic was playing on low volume, its dialogue drifting through the room like a peaceful background murmur.

You sat on the plush cushions of your sofa, prop-padded with three oversized pillows to elevate your right leg. Your ankle was out of the heavy surgical bandages now, encased in a sleek, rigid medical boot that rested comfortably on the coffee table.

Beside you, sitting close enough that his shoulder brushed yours with every breath, was Aaron. He wasn't wearing a dark suit, an FBI raid jacket, or a sterile hospital gown. He wore a soft, charcoal-grey Henley shirt, unbuttoned at the collar just enough to hide the thick white dressing beneath, and loose lounge pants. He looked softer, younger, completely stripped of the heavy armor he wore every day at Quantico.

Spread across the wooden coffee table between your feet was a feast of brown paper bags, plastic containers, and steam-fogged foil lids from the local Italian place down the street. The air in the apartment was rich with the scent of roasted garlic, crushed basil, rich marinara, and freshly baked garlic knots.

"I think Rossi was personally insulted when I told him we weren't going to Luigi’s in person," Aaron said, his voice low, warm, and delightfully relaxed. He used a plastic fork to twirl a portion of fettuccine Alfredo onto his plate. "He offered to reserve the private back room so we wouldn't have to deal with the crowds."

A soft laugh bubbled up from your chest, a light, effortless sound that felt entirely whole. "And what did you tell him?"

"I told him that after two weeks of hospital food and physical therapy, the only private room I wanted to sit in was yours," Aaron replied simply.

He leaned sideways, setting his plate on the table, and carefully reached over to grab the foil container of chicken parmesan. His movements were still slightly cautious, his left shoulder stiff, his chest healing from the deep gash, but the tension that used to permanently square his back was completely gone.

"Besides," Aaron added, a rare, faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he handed you a fresh garlic knot, "the commute from the kitchen to the couch is much easier on your ankle."

"Tactical efficiency as always," you teased, taking the knot from his fingers, letting your hand linger against his. His skin was warm, his thumb lightly stroking the back of your wrist where the IV bruises had finally faded away.

"We’ve got time for that private table," Aaron reminded you softly, his dark eyes meeting yours with a soft, undeniable heat that made your breath hitch. 

"We do," you replied softly, smiling as you leaned back against the cushions. 

For a long while, neither of you spoke. You ate in comfortable, domestic silence, sharing bites of pasta, passing plastic containers back and forth, and letting the hum of the film wash over you. The atmosphere of the soft fabric of your couch, the steam rising from takeout boxes, and the steady, grounding presence of the man beside you, settled over you peacefully.

When the food was finished, Aaron cleared the containers onto the tray, setting them aside on the floor before shifting back onto the sofa.

Slowly, carefully, he extended his arm along the back of the couch, inviting you in. You didn't hesitate. You slid closer, resting your head gently against his good shoulder, angling your body into his side. Aaron’s arm wrapped around you, his broad hand coming to rest on your hip, pulling you flush against his chest.

Beneath your cheek, through the soft cotton of his shirt, you could hear it. A steady, powerful, unbroken heartbeat. Aaron tilted his head down, pressing a lingering, soft kiss into your hair, his breath fanning warm against your crown. His fingers tightened gently on your hip, anchor-tight, holding you as if proving to himself for the thousandth time that you were both truly here, safe in the light.

"What are you thinking about?" you whispered, resting your hand over his chest, right above his heart.

Aaron let out a quiet, contented exhale, his cheek resting against your hair as he looked at the black-and-white film flickering on the screen.

"Nothing," Aaron murmured, his voice rich with an overwhelming, profound peace. "Absolutely nothing at all."

You drop your hands into your lap like a guilty child.

“Are you hungry?” he asks, making a turn onto the main road. 

“You think I’m biting my nails because I’m hungry?”

“No. I know you only bite your nails when you’re overthinking. And I know you’re more inclined to talk when you’re not running on an empty stomach.”

You glance out the passenger window, taking notice of the rain that has thickened since you bolted to the car. The prison is already a smear in the rear-view mirror, tucked so far into nowhere it feels less like an institution and more like a secret earth is ashamed of. You imagine its architects deciding it should be placed where even guilt would have trouble finding it. 

“There’s a diner about half an hour up the road,” he tries again. “Good coffee. Bad pie.”

You consider it, and on any other night you’d say yes without thinking, like you’ve done countless times before. But you remember that tonight, you’re not heading home. You’re heading back to the hotel room you’re sharing with your boss. The same four beige walls that felt far too small last night.

You hadn’t realised that sharing a bed would also mean sharing melatonin. Though clearly Hotch got the better end of the deal, sleeping like a man immune to proximity-induced panic while you lay still, every muscle tense, your heart hammering as if trying to pound thoughts into words you had no business thinking.

“Can’t we make the drive back home tonight?” you ask, shifting to look at him. “I can drive most of the way if you want to doze off.”

“I think given the weather and your driving skills, that wouldn’t be a wise choice.”

“What’s wrong with my driving skills?”

“You once reversed into a mailbox.”

You scoff. “You weren’t even in the car when that happened.”

“No,” he says, unbothered, “but I did have to file the vehicle incident report explaining why the Bureau SUV suddenly had a dent in the rear bumper.”

You glance out again and he’s right. Sheets of rain blur the road, the wipers swiping furiously just to keep a sliver of the world in view. You’d sooner chew down a mouthful of nails than attempt to drive in this, and considering Hotch handled the entire drive here and carried most of the interview, it hardly seems fair to pester him to slog through another four hours just so you can sleep in your own bed. 

“You did well,” he offers obligingly, and you know he’s trying to patch up your bruised ego.

You hadn’t imagined your last few days with the BAU would involve revisiting what was meant to be a closed case. But new evidence had surfaced, linking back to one of your consults which, after this week, wouldn’t even be yours anymore. It would probably be passed on to JJ or Morgan, but you’d insisted on coming, unwilling to leave loose ends behind. 

That insistence had landed you on a two-day trip with Hotch accompanied by a night in a cheap, overbooked hotel, one bed, a sleepless night yesterday, and the creeping dread of repeating it again tonight.

“You’re lying. I barely got him to talk.” 

“You did more than you realise. We managed to get a name.”

We. You turn your head and catch the faintest hint of amusement tugging at his mouth. “You managed to get a name,” you correct. 

His shoulders lift in a slight shrug, eyes still on the road. “It was a team effort.”

“Well, I suppose it's not really going to be my problem anymore after this week.” You exhale, resting your temple against the cold glass.

“Do you need me to stop anywhere before the hotel?”

“Yes, actually.” You turn towards him with a half-smile, because if you’re going to be forced to share the covers with Hotch again, you’re not doing it sober. “Pretty sure there’s a gas station off the next exit, if you wouldn’t mind?”

He nods, and you go back to overthinking the bane of your existence until Hotch finally pulls into the saddest-looking gas station you’ve ever seen.

“Do you need anything?” you ask, unclipping your seatbelt and letting it snap back harder than necessary, purely because you know it irritates him.

His jaw tics. “You can take it off without assaulting the mechanism, you know.”

“So nothing, then?”

“Coffee. If they have it.”

“Sure.” You pause, then grin at him. “I’ll get you a drink.” 

You’re out of the car before he can clarify that he meant just coffee. The cold air immediately slides under your coat, no matter how tightly you pull it around yourself. The rain’s turned into that annoying misty kind—so light it shouldn’t count, but somehow it still sticks to your hair and makes you feel damp and miserable. You jog the last few steps to the door.

Inside, it smells vaguely of lemon cleaning wipes, which is funny, because absolutely nothing in here looks like it’s been cleaned. You don’t bother searching for the coffee machine since technically, you’re not taking orders from your Unit Chief anymore.

You make a beeline for the back fridges instead.

Rows of cheap wine stare back at you—the kind that would give Rossi a heart attack. You pick the worst looking bottle out of pure spite, already planning on texting him a picture just to ruin his evening. Then, for insurance, you grab a few miniature bottles of whiskey. On your way to the till, you snatch a bag of popcorn. The sweet kind.

Once you’ve paid, you head back to the car. Hotch reaches across to push the door open for you, and you slide in. The bag clinks in your hands, immediately giving away your intentions—something he’s clearly clocked, judging by the look he gives you.

“Sorry. The coffee machine was broken, so I got wine instead. Or whisky. Whatever floats your boat on this fine night.”

“Please tell me there's at least water in there.”

You reach into the bag and pull out a bottle, dropping it into the cup holder between you. “Have a little faith.”

He shakes his head in that disappointed-dad way he’s perfected over the years and shifts the car back into drive. The wipers groan across the windshield, and you take the moment to pull the questionable wine out of the bag to send a picture to Rossi. 

You get a reply just as Hotch is turning into the hotel’s car park.

Rossi: Is this a cry for help? Tell me that’s not going in your body. 💀🍷

You leave him on read, taking your clinking bottles with you as you follow Hotch out of the car and into the building. The two of you are quiet as you watch him fumble with the key to your room. Yes—key, not card, because it’s that ancient. Yet, for a man who can dismantle a Glock blindfolded, he still manages to miss the hole twice.

“Any time today would be nice.”

He exhales through his nose, slotting the key in on the third try. “You could always help.”

“Sure. Usually you just line it up and get it in the hole. Works for me most of the time.”

He goes still for half a second. Then, without looking at you, “You know there are moments I genuinely regret encouraging you to speak.”

The lock finally clicks and he pushes the door open for you. 

“Would you look at that,” you say as you brush past him, “you can find the spot.”

The room is exactly as small as you remember, and somehow the freshly made bed almost makes it look worse. Hotch had made it this morning while you were brushing your teeth, tighter and straighter than housekeeping ever could. Pillows fluffed and aligned, corners tucked. True military craftsmanship from a meticulous dork. 

A meticulous dork who is now taking off his jacket and folding it neatly over his go-bag and suddenly—though not surprisingly—your eyes are glued to the way his white shirt pulls across his shoulders.

You rip your gaze away and begin unpacking your haul. 

“You want the shower first?” he asks, and you glance at him, pretending it’s the first time you’ve looked at him since walking in.

“Nope. I want alcohol.”

He shakes his head, grabs his toiletry bag, and disappears into the tiny bathroom.

You’re about to enjoy the way this glorified paint thinner will probably strip your taste buds, when you realise there’s a slight problem. It’s a corked bottle and not a twist-off. You try using your nails to get it open, and then your sheer willpower. 

Unfortunately it does not respond to either. 

You give it one more useless tug before raising your voice. 

“Hotch?”

Water is running. He does not answer. 

You try again, louder. “Hotch!”

“What?” he calls through the door, voice muffled.

“Are you decent?”

There’s the faintest pause—long enough for you to smile to yourself because you can’t help but imagine him…not decent. 

“Yes,” he says cautiously. “Why?”

“I need help.”

“With what?”

“Alcohol-related emergency.”

You hear him sigh, followed by the water shutting off. A few seconds later, the bathroom door opens and he steps out, with only his belt missing. Interesting. He’s a belt off first kind of guy. 

He looks at the bottle, then at you. “You bought wine without a corkscrew.”

You hold it out to him. “Let me take this as a moment to remind you that I never handed paperwork in late, never took a sick day, never complained about overtime. I was, arguably, the model team member. This is the least you can do to show appreciation.”

He doesn’t argue. Just takes the bottle from your hands and sits on the edge of the bed with it.

Legs spread. Grey slacks pulling just slightly at the seams. Broad thighs taking up most of the mattress. He settles the bottle between them, and you do your absolute best to focus on the glass instead of the fabric creasing over muscle and the very distracting proximity of…everything else. 

He braces the bottle with one hand around the base and you forget how to form actual sentences. With his other hand, he uses his thumb to push the cork down into the bottle, veins flexing with each movement. 

The cork gives a soft, breathy sound as it starts to sink into the neck of the bottle, and you’re just standing there—useless, wine thirsty, and uncomfortably aware of the fact that this should not be as attractive as it is. 

He pulls his hand back as soon as the cork pops and sinks into the bottle, wiping his thumb absently against his thigh and you’re pretty much drooling at the sight, while he looks up at you, unfazed. 

“Happy now?”

“Mhm. Ecstatic. Guess you’ve got just as much trouble pulling out as you do finding the hole.”

“You know I can request to have you transferred earlier than Friday.”

“Go ahead,” you say, scanning the room for glasses. “Knock yourself out.” There are none. No glasses. No mugs. Not even a questionable plastic cup.

“You want to take your wine so I can go shower?” he asks flatly.

“You’re not joining me?” 

His eyes shift between you and the bottle. “How much was this?”

“Four ninety-nine.” You scrunch your nose as he brings it to his face and smells it. “Come on, you have to toast me. Rossi denied me a leaving party because apparently switching departments doesn't count as officially leaving.”

He lets out a slow breath. “You want a toast?”

“Yes.” You nod. “Or you could list your top five things about working with me. Or both. I have time.”

“Fine,” he resigns, moving along the edge of the bed to make space for you. “One toast.”

You grin as you drop down beside him, your knees touching. You watch as he brings the bottle closer to his lips and mulls over what to say. 

“To the fact you never did anything halfway,” he says earnestly and it catches you off guard. You were fully expecting something sarcastic like to the number of sex jokes you made on federal payroll. “Cases, paperwork, people,” he continues. “You were all in. Always.”

And then he tilts the bottle back. You shouldn’t stare, but you do. The way his mouth wraps around the glass, the slow swallow, the faint scrunch of his brows as the taste hits. He pulls it away with a barely-supressed grimace. 

“That’s awful,” he scoffs, handing it to you.

Your fingers brush when you take it, and you can’t help but wonder if his thumb still tastes like wine. You lift the bottle, deliberately pressing your mouth to the exact spot his lips just were, and you catch the way his eyes flick down to follow the movement before meeting yours again.

You take a swig, more than you should because it burns. “God—that’s fucking vile.”

He huffs a quiet laugh through his nose. “Told you.”

“Now you have to help me finish it. Otherwise I’ll die, and you’ll have to do the paperwork.”

“That’s manipulative.”

You shrug. “Is it? Thought extra paperwork would be your kind of foreplay.”

His lips twitch, and you almost catch the smile he’s trying so hard to suppress it’s making him look constipated. “You have a foul mouth,” he mutters, taking the bottle back and bringing it to his lips. 

“Is that the first of the five things you like about me?”

He pauses mid-sip, lowers the bottle just enough to give you that painfully patient stare. “We are not making a list.”

“So that’s a yes?”

He takes another swig, getting him out of answering. When he hands the bottle back, you notice his fingers linger a second longer than necessary, despite you having a firm hold on it. 

“Fine. No list. I’ll just assume it’s implied.”

“It isn’t.”

“It is.”

“It really isn’t.”

You roll your eyes, taking two big gulps that almost make your eyes water. 

The back and forth continues until the bottle is completely empty, along with the mini bottles of whiskey you picked up. The popcorn is gone too, aside from the sad trail of it now crushed into the hotel carpet from your failed attempt to open the bag like a normal person.

At some point, sitting upright stopped being doable. Your backs protested, your vision began to blur at the edges, and now the two of you were lying on top of the covers, side by side, legs still hanging off the edge of the bed.

“Are you still beating yourself up about earlier?” he asks, voice softer than it was before the cheap alcohol.

“A little,” you admit with a sigh. “I wanted to do one last thing before leaving. Not hand it back to you unfinished.”

“You softened him up. Made him think he was in control. It might not seem like much, but it helped.”

You huff and push yourself up onto your elbow, turning to face him. His eyes are a little glassy, and for once he looks relaxed. “Bet you’re going to miss using me as bait.”

He shifts his head to glance at you. “You’re only moving two floors down.”

“And what if my new boss doesn’t like to share?”

“You were always mine first,” he says it so casually, you’re not entirely sure he’s processed his own wording.

“Yours?” you let out a laugh, eyebrows lifting. 

“Ours,” he corrects, a vague flick of his hand. “The BAUs”

You’re fairly certain you like the sound of mine more. You look at him again, the alcohol throwing all discreetness out your system. He smiles back up at you in a way you don’t see often. His hair is all mussed, a thin layer of sweat making his skin glow. 

“What are you thinking?” he asks, pushing up onto his elbow to mirror you. 

You grin at him and he immediately regrets asking because he knows that look. He sighs and drops back onto the bed. “Never mind.”

“I think you need a shower.” You spare him your real thoughts.

“Thanks,” he mutters. “I don’t think I could even get my tie off right now.”

“Do you need a hand?”

He laughs quietly, rubbing a hand over his face. “I might.”

Sitting up takes more effort than it should. The room tilts a little when you move, but you manage to get onto your knees, wobbling and swaying, before Hotch reaches out and catches your wrist, stopping you from diving face first into his chest. 

“What’re you doing?” he asks, just as you swing a knee over his hips and ungracefully settle in his lap.

“Helping you get your tie off because you need to shower.”

He goes rigid beneath you, hands hovering near your waist like he’s unsure if he has permission to rest them on you. “You’re on top of me.”

“We can do this standing if you prefer?”

His eyes close for half a second, like he’s silently begging for patience. “No. Just—”

You catch the speed of that no and can’t help but smile, settling yourself against him. “Okay,” you breathe, leaning in. “Hold still.”

You’ve never actually taken a tie off someone before. Definitely not while tipsy. Which is probably why it’s going so badly. You yank at the knot once… twice… and somehow make it worse. “Why is this thing so tight? Are you into autoerotic asphyxiation or something?”

His hands finally come to rest on your waist. “Please don’t ever say that sentence again.”

“Have we just unlocked a secret turn-on category? It’s fine, I’m very accepting.”

He lets out a breath, somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “It’s called a Windsor knot.”

“Well no wonder you’re so grumpy all the time—this Windsor knot is cutting off circulation to your brain.”

“You’re making it tighter,” he points out, voice sounding strained. He shifts, probably a poor attempt at comfort because all his movement does is press you directly against his groin.

Your fingers fumble with the fabric, because you’re too busy fighting the urge to move. To roll your hips. To test just how good the friction would feel. “Because you’re moving.”

“You’re on top of me.”

You tug at the fabric again. “I gave you the option to do this standing, didn’t I?”

His eyes shift to your lips, then slowly, he removes one hand from your waist. “Slide the narrow end through the loop,” he says, showing you. 

Fuck. He’s talking you through it. And you’re pretty sure you could get off on his voice alone, but you will yourself to focus. 

 “No—other side.”

You follow his direction, fingers brushing his throat. 

“Now loosen it,” he murmurs. His thumb presses lightly at the knot, guiding your hand. “Pull there.”

You do as you’re told, giving a gentle tug and the knot slides loosely apart. “Would you look at that! You’re tie-free.” 

You give it another tug, slipping it from his collar so you can inspect it. What you thought was just a diamond print now, up close, looks suspiciously like two Gs. You gasp. “Oh my god. You really spent two hundred dollars on a Gucci tie just to choke yourself?”

His hands are back on your waist again. “It was on sale.”

“You could’ve asked me,” you say, looping it clumsily around your neck. “I would’ve done it for free.”

“You’re wearing it backwards.”

“Well,” you breathe, setting your hands on his chest, the warmth of him not doing you any favours, “you’re the expert in expensive silk strangulation. Fix it for me.”

He looks at you intently. His pupils are blown wide, dark as ink, and you can feel exactly how hard he is beneath you. You wonder if he can feel how wet you are. Probably not—not through those overpriced, perfectly tailored slacks clearly designed to prevent situations like this from becoming obvious.

He reaches for the tie, fingers brushing your ribs as he takes each end. The back of his knuckles grazes the thin fabric of your blouse as he lifts the silk to straighten it. 

“You want it to lie like this,” he says softly. “Otherwise it twists.”

You don’t breathe. “Mhm.”

“Now it goes over and under…” His hands do exactly that, looping the fabric while all you can feel is the insistent throb between your thighs. The silk slides against you, his hands settling the knot at the top of your sternum, right between your breasts. 

“You can pull the longer end through here,” he murmurs and takes a hold of your hands, guiding them with his. His thumb presses to the knot to adjust it, dragging it higher. “See? Not that hard.”

You tilt your hips forward. “I don’t think that’s entirely true,” you whisper, fingers moving to the top button of his shirt, undoing it. You watch his Adam's apple bob around a swallow. “Do you want to know what I was really thinking about earlier?” you ask, working the second button loose, his white undershirt peeking through.

You glance up at him, and his eyes are fixed on the point where you’re straddling the hard line of his cock. “You’re going to tell me either way, aren’t you?”

“Mm,” you hum, dragging your thumb down the column of his throat, just to feel the way he swallows again. “I don’t have to.”

“But you want to.” His hands are back on your hips, fingertips pressing into your skin through your blouse.

You shrug, wetting your bottom lip. “I was thinking…whether you’ve ever actually thought about sleeping with me.” 

He stills briefly, like he remembers all the reasons why he shouldn’t be doing any of this, but also realises the two of you crossed that line half a bottle of wine ago. “I think you already know the answer to that.”

“Tonight doesn’t count. I mean before this. Have you thought about it?” There’s no shame in your voice, just curiosity.

His thumb slips beneath your blouse, making you roll your hips into him again. “Yes,” he grunts out.

“That’s it?”

“You asked a yes or no question.”

Your hand drifts lower, undoing another button on his shirt. “You could elaborate.”

“You really want me to do that right now?”

“Absolutely.” Your fingers pause, leaving his shirt half-open, and slide to the buttons of your own shirt. You toy with one absentmindedly. “Would it help if I took this off?”

His jaw flexes. He looks at your blouse. Then your mouth. Then your blouse again. “That’s not—” He cuts himself off, exhaling through his nose. 

“How about this,” you offer with a smile, “every time you tell me when you’ve thought about it, I take off a piece of clothing. Seems fair, don’t you think?”

“And if I don’t want to partake in this game?”

“Then I get off your lap, put on my most conservative pyjamas, go to sleep, you shower, and we never speak of this again.” You really, really hope that’s not the option he picks. “The choice is yours. You tell me what you want to do.”

He goes quiet, thinking—though with how hard his cock is pressing against you, practically straining in those slacks, you’re not convinced he’s capable of coherent thought. You’re hardly better. You’re fucking soaked, and technically the two of you haven’t even done anything remotely obscene. But apparently sitting on your boss’s lap counts as the world’s most effective form of foreplay.

“Rossi’s birthday last year,” he reveals. 

“I remember,” you nod and begin working your buttons down. “We stayed behind to help him clean up.”

“And you insisted on putting away the wine glasses—” He stops when your bra comes into view and swallows thickly before dragging his eyes to your face. “You climbed up onto the counter, almost fell and nearly shattered every glass in your hands.”

You laugh, shrugging your blouse off and tossing it on the floor so it can make friends with the popcorn crumbs. “I recall you having a pretty good view of my ass in the process.”

His eyes drop to the breasts spilling out your bra. “Not as good as the view I have now.”

“That’s one.” You toy with the strap of your bra. “Next.”

“The jet.”

You light up instantly.  “This’ll be good.” 

“We were coming back from Georgia and shared the sofa. You were lying on one end, I was sitting on the other.” 

“Do continue.”

“You move a lot in your sleep,” he goes on, eyes fixed on your face, though you can feel the tension in his hands at your hips. “Kept shifting… sighing… dragging the blanket up and then kicking it off again. And with every move, your skirt rode a little higher. I stopped looking when I realised I wasn’t just making sure you were covered. I was… staring.”

“Oh, you poor thing,” you coo sweetly, before attempting to climb off his lap without falling off the bed. His brows pull together as he watches you stand at the edge of the mattress, propped up on his elbows.

There’s a dark patch on his groin, and you don’t know if it’s from you, or him, or both, but it makes your stomach twist, makes you want to end this game so you could finally feel him inside you. 

But apparently you enjoy suffering—or making him suffer—especially when he’s looking up at you with his legs completely spread, those wide, helpless eyes and a face tinged pink. So you only smile, fingers sliding to the zipper of your trousers as you prompt innocently, “Did you like the tights I wore?”

“With the seam at the back,” he confirms just as you push the slacks down your thighs.

You hadn’t planned on playing strip—or confessional—poker with your Unit Chief, which is exactly why your underwear is nothing special. Plain grey cotton and embarrassingly damp. You freeze for only a second, then lift your chin like you meant for it to be this way.

“I don’t think I can keep going,” he says, his voice hoarse.

“You can’t last two more rounds?” you tease, kicking out of the fabric pooling at your ankles. “I won’t count the tie as clothing.”

His eyes drag over you like he’s in pain. “I mean if you keep this up for any longer, I’m going to finish in my pants like a teenager.”

You try very hard not to preen. “I’ll do you a deal,” you say, taking a slow step forward until you’re standing between his legs. “Make this one really good…” You lean in slightly, just enough for the tips of your fingers to brush his knee. “…and I’ll take everything off.”

He swallows.

“The last Christmas party.” His words come easily, like this specific memory had been on the edge of his mind for a while.

You nod. “You were my ride.”

“You had on that black dress with the slit up your thigh. You went upstairs to fix your lipstick and asked me to show you the bathroom.” He sits up, his hands coming to rest on the backs of your thighs. “And then your zipper conveniently decided to undo itself halfway down your spine.”

“That zip was very flimsy.”

“I put my hand on your back and you arched into it. Maybe you didn’t even realise you did it. But I did.” His thumb strokes idly against your skin, eyes half-lidded. “All I could think about was how easy it would’ve been to push that dress the rest of the way down… bend you over the sink and make you watch in the mirror.”

Heat pools low in your stomach. “And you didn’t.”

“You were tipsy and said you’d had too much champagne. So I zipped it back up and walked you downstairs.”

“Such a gentleman.” Your hands are already moving. You reach behind you, fingers brushing the clasp of your bra. “Well…a deal's a deal.” You take your time—partly on purpose, partly because your fingers are shaking the tiniest bit. The clasp gives, and you roll the straps lazily off your shoulders before letting fabric fall.

Hotch has gone completely still, the hands on your thighs frozen like he’s afraid to blink and miss something. The only thing moving are his eyes, dragging over your body so slowly it makes your skin burn. “You okay?”

His tongue sweeps across his bottom lip before he answers. “You know I’m not.”

“Will it make you feel better to do the honours?” Your hands cover his, guiding them up from your thighs to the waistband of your panties. 

He looks up at you, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen him like this. Wrecked and glassy-eyed. He looks like someone who’d do anything you told him to. If they handed out awards for driving tightly wound, hyper-controlled men right to the edge of composure, you’re certain you’d win.

“Go on,” you whisper softly. “You’ve earned it.”

His fingers slip beneath the waistband and his touch is gentle as he starts easing the fabric down your hips. You glance down as he drags them lower, the inside of your underwear looking far worse than the outside. When you look back up, Hotch is already watching you, mouth curved into a crooked, boyish grin, validated that he’s not the only one soaking his undergarments. 

You step out of them the moment they hit the floor.

Hotch’s hands are on you right away, sliding up the backs of your thighs until they settle at the curve of your ass, pulling you closer.  He presses a wet kiss followed by a bite to your hip, your hands finding his shoulders to steady yourself.

“I want you on my tongue.”

“Yeah?”

He nods, laying back down and the room is tilting again. Whether from the cheap wine or the intoxication of him, you’re not sure. All you can do is follow, crawling up his body until your knees bracket his head. You don’t lower yourself down just yet.

He doesn’t touch you right away. Just…looks. 

“You need instructions?” you tease, threading your fingers through his hair, pushing it back from his face. 

The bastard only laughs, the warm puff of air against your inner thigh making your breath catch. Then he’s lifting his head, and all you can do is watch—lips parted, hand still tangled in his hair—as his tongue finally makes contact with your pussy, dragging a slow stripe up your centre that makes your hips twitch. 

He pulls back with obscene patience, and you know exactly why, because a thin, pearly string of your wetness stretches from his mouth to you, and he has the audacity to look proud of it. 

He watches the strand break and you barely have time to process what’s happening before he’s hauling you down until you’re sitting on his face. His mouth opens wider to taste more of you, his tongue flattening and dragging through you, like he’s been dying for this. He absolutely has.

“Fuck!” you choke out, yanking at his hair, only for him to groan in response. Your hips stumble forward and for a second, you fear for the man’s airway with the way you’re practically smothering him between your thighs, but you realise he’s the one that’s pulling you down against him.

“So sweet for me,” he thrums, voice buried. You feel more than hear it, a vibration of sound right where you’re most sensitive. Your thighs tremble around his ears as he licks a messy path up you, then dips lower, tongue slipping inside, the bridge of his nose nudging your clit perfectly.

A whimper spills out before you can bite it back. You rock into him without meaning to, pulse skittering like it’s trying to outrun your body, that familiar feeling already building too fast.

And that’s when he slows. Doesn’t completely stop, just changes the pace in a way that has you letting out a strangled noise. 

“Really?” you pant, trying to catch your breath. “Is this your first time?” You lift yourself enough to look down at him. 

“Ask me nicely.”

“What?”

His chin glistens and he looks infuriatingly pleased with himself. “You’re used to demanding things.” His hands squeeze the sides of your thighs. “I think it’s time you learnt to be polite.”

Asshole. 

You let out a sharp breath, giving his hair a tug. “Please,” you bite out.

He smiles smugly, and then he’s lifting his head to suck your clit into his mouth. A whole parade of curses spill out of you—creative ones too, the kind you don’t even usually say out loud—tripping over each other so fast you barely recognise your own voice. 

And then he pulls back. Again. 

“Please what?” 

Correction: he’s a vindictive asshole.

You see exactly what he’s doing. You recognise his pettiness exactly for what it is. You tormented him first, made him spell it out for you, and now he’s returning the favour. He’s a desperate, competitive perfectionist who insists on winning everything, even the art of sexual torture. 

“Sadist,” you hiss. 

“Mm.” He turns his head and sinks his teeth gently into the soft flesh of your inner thigh. “Now be specific.”

You give him a dry humourless smile. “Please make me come. First with your mouth and then with your cock.” You drag a thumb along his jaw tauntingly. “Is that specific enough for you?”

His mouth is back on you again in seconds. No easing in this time. 

“Jesus—” you gasp, hands bracing on the mattress above his head for balance. The sheets bunch beneath your fingers, the material scratching against your palms. 

You feel his tongue circle and suck, like he’s trying to gauge every possible sound out of you, catalogue every single nerve you possess. Your thighs tighten around his temples, the drag of his stubble scraping lightly against your skin. 

He pulls you even lower, thumbs digging into your hips, like he wants to disappear into you entirely. The movement forces you down onto his tongue, and the wet, needy sounds he’s making against your cunt are so lewd, you swear you feel them echo behind your ribs. 

“Hotch—fuck!”

He hums at the sound, and then his hands shift, big palms sliding up your back, adjusting your angle to give him better access. 

“Okay—okay—slow down—” you whimper, even though your hips are doing the exact opposite.

“You asked nicely,” he mumbles into you.

Your laugh comes out breathless and shaky, your whole body tensing under the intensity of his tongue. “I didn’t think—ah—nicely would get me this.”

He answers without words, drawing a slow circle around your clit, and another moan tumbles out of you. You’re close. You can feel it in every part of you, in your thighs trembling around his ears, in the tight pull at the base of your spine. 

You gasp, head tipping back. “I—I’m—”

“You can come,” he says headily, tugging you closer. “Go on.”

You tense and wither against him. “Say it,” you pant. “Say you want me to.”

“I want you to.”

Your body caves forward, thighs clamping his head as your orgasm pulls you under so fast you forget to breathe, forget to think, forget everything except the feeling of coming apart on his mouth, wishing you could bottle it forever. 

It takes you a few minutes to come back to Earth. Earth being a cheap hotel room in the middle of nowhere. 

The first thing you register is the way Hotch’s thumb strokes your hip, then the press of his mouth to the inside of your thigh, another kiss, then another. You manage to lift yourself, and he immediately helps you, guiding your waist tenderly, letting you settle over him in your dazed state. 

“Hi,” you croak. 

He raises a brow, amused. “Hi.”

“Your face is shiny.”

A slow smile stretches across his mouth. “That would be your fault.”

“I can help with that,” you murmur, leaning down and running your tongue along the line of his jaw, tasting yourself on his skin. Your mouth then grazes the corner of his lips, and that’s when you realise—this man has had his tongue inside you, yet…you don’t know what he tastes like. The two of you haven't actually kissed. 

He must sense something is wrong, because his brows lift slightly, like he’s puzzled by the sudden stillness in your body. “What is it?”

You huff a tiny laugh, breath ghosting his cheek. “We haven’t even kissed.” You pull back, cupping his face in both hands, thumbs sweeping across his chin to clean the shine you left there. 

“You want to?” he asks like it’s a reasonable question, like he didn’t just have his mouth on the most intimate part of your body minutes ago.

“Aaron, you just had me sitting on your face. What do you think?”

“Aaron,” he repeats.

“That’s your name isn’t it?”

“Mm.” His hands tighten at your waist. “Say it again.”

“Are you going to kiss me, Aaron?”

For a second, he just stares up at you, like you’ve asked him something sacrilegious, something he's wanted for so long he’s almost afraid it's not real. His hands slide up your bare waist, settling at your ribs, giving them a gentle squeeze.

“Come here.” 

You meet him halfway.

His lips brush yours delicately, soft enough to make your stomach lurch in anticipation.

You pull back a fraction, just to see his face, and then you’re kissing him again, deeper, tasting something you’ve both been orbiting for years. His tongue slides against yours, the kiss swallowing the moan that slips out of you. 

“You’re wearing too many clothes,” you breathe against his mouth, the words almost a whine.

“Which ones are bothering you?”

“All of them,” you answer, fingers blindly racing to undo the rest of his shirt. “Sit up.”

He obeys with little afterthought, pushing up on his elbows so you can shove the fabric off his shoulders. You don’t bother folding it neatly, tossing it onto the growing pile of clothes on the floor, and you catch the tiny wince he tries (and fails) to hide.

“Arms up.” You grab the hem of his undershirt, tugging, and he sits up properly this time—bringing your bare, aching centre directly against the hard line of his cock.

The sound he lets out is a half-breath, half-groan at the contact. You don’t get the chance to tease him for it. You’re too busy hauling the undershirt over his head, and he has no choice but to help you strip it off. When it joins the rest of the discarded clothes, you press your hands to his shoulders, giving him a gentle push. He falls back without resistance, molten under your touch. 

You lean down, placing a kiss under his jaw, then another just below it, relishing in the way his breath stutters each time your mouth lands on new skin. His chest is warm under your lips, rising and falling in a rhythm that’s embarrassingly close to a pant. 

“Christ,” he mutters, and you grin against him, continuing to kiss your way down.

You press another kiss just above the waistband of his trousers, moving down to nudge the bulge beneath the fabric with the bridge of your nose. His reaction is instant. His hips twitch, hands shooting to your hair.

“Want me to stop?” you ask sweetly, glancing up at him through your lashes.

He shakes his head far too quickly. “Keep going.”

So you do. You kiss along the outline of him through the slacks, the damp patch dragging faintly across your lips with each pass. His thighs flex beneath your hands, his breathing falling out in tight, rigid bursts, the fabric getting warmer and wetter under your mouth. You drag your lips along the length of him once more, slow enough to be cruel, and his whole body jolts. 

That’s when you take pity. 

Your fingers finally move to his zipper, and you feel Hotch’s eyes on you as you ease it down. He lifts his hips immediately, allowing you to roll the slacks off him. The second they hit the floor, you’re already hooking your thumbs into the waistband of his boxers. He lifts his hips again—quicker and needier—as you drag the last piece of clothing down his thighs. 

And then he’s bare beneath you.

You sit back for a second, just to drink him in, mouth salivating at the flushed skin of his stomach, the tense lines of his abdomen, the way his cock rests hard and heavy on his stomach, precum sliding down the curve of him. You reach out without thinking, placing both hands on his thighs for balance as you crawl back up his body. Hovering over him, you lower your hips, feeling the head of his length nudge your inner thigh. 

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, almost like the words slip from him before he can decide whether he’s allowed to say them. His hands trace up your sides, thumbs brushing under your breasts.

That sentence almost makes you coy. Almost. But your body apparently didn’t get the memo, because your hand wraps around his cock, stroking slowly, and Hotch hisses through his teeth. He’s painfully hard in your palm, every throb pulsing against your grip. 

You press him back against his stomach and grind down on him.

“Sweetheart,” he breathes, voice shaking when the slick tip knocks directly against your clit. His hands grab your hips, fingers digging in. “I’m close, and I want to feel you. All of you. I don’t think I’ll be able to last if you keep doing that.”

You roll your hips again, a trembling little slide that makes your breath catch. “You will,” you whimper, leaning forward until your lips brush his. “For me.”

His jaw goes disastrously tight, eyes squeezing shut for half a second before they find yours again, throat constricting around a swallow—and you can’t help the grin that curls up in response. You almost regret leaving the unit, because Monday’s briefing would’ve been something, watching him give orders with a straight face while knowing he couldn’t even wait until he was inside you to come.

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” he rasps. His hand leaves your hip, slides up your spine, and gathers a fistful of your hair. He tugs it, just enough to pull a gasp from your mouth, and then lifts his head to press a wet, open-mouthed kiss against your jaw. 

You laugh, his exhale scorching against your skin. Your hand slips between your bodies, wrapping around his length again, and you pull away from his mouth as you shift upright. You rise onto your knees, finally guiding his head of his cock to your entrance, his precum coating your pussy, your thighs, his own stomach. 

“I think you’re enjoying this far more than I am,” you murmur—right before you sink down on him, only a fraction, enough to make you both tense at the contact. 

“Slow—” he manages, voice breaking around it. “Go slow.”

You pause there, barely taking the head of him, but it's enough for heat and pressure to spark low in your belly. “Slow?” you echo, tilting your head, pretending to consider it. “I don’t know… you weren’t exactly slow with me.”

His hands clamp down on your hips. “That was different.”

You give a faint roll of your hips, just enough for him to feel how wet you still are, how easy it would be to slide all the way down. His breath stumbles out of him, all of his authority stripped. 

“Different how?” you tease, tracing a finger down his chest, stopping right where his stomach flexes under your touch. 

His eyes flutter shut and when they open again, his pupils are blown, jaw clenching like he’s fighting the urge to thrust into you. “Different,” he repeats, “because I’ve been wanting this a long time.”

“How long?” you probe, sinking down onto him further, the stretch of him intoxicating. His head thunks back against the mattress, a groan lurching out of him. 

“Two—years,” he gets out, voice splintering as you take more of him. 

You still for a second. “Two years?”

“You’re surprised?”

“I mean… yeah? You don’t exactly flirt. You scowl. And file paperwork. And tell me I have a foul mouth.” You lower yourself another inch, slow enough to make him choke on a sound he’d absolutely murder himself for making in any other circumstance. You feel the stretch deep in your belly.

“Aaron,” you whisper, dragging your nails lightly down his chest. “Look at me.”

He does instantly. 

“You’ve been wanting this for two years?” 

He nods, and you sink down onto him, all the way, until the dark curls at the base of him brush your clit. He’s deep—too deep—in a way you’ve never felt before, his cock throbbing inside you as you bite down on a moan. 

“Don’t move yet. Just…give me a second,” he whispers, hands kneading the flesh of your ass.

Your fingers splay across his torso as you adjust to him. “Why didn’t you tell me? Or do anything about it?”

“Because I was your superior. Still am. For another thirty-six hours.”

“You’re telling me you waited two years because of HR?”

“Because it was the right thing to do.”

You shake your head, lift your hips, and take him again. He fills you up completely, the tip nudging deep enough to pull a choked sound from your throat. You’d imagined him like this—God, probably longer than two years—but it still doesn’t compare. 

“You feel so fucking perfect,” he pants, his right hand guiding your roll against him. “So, so perfect,” he mutters, voice fraying as you rise off him and then sink back down. 

His spare hand comes up to palm your breast, this thumb brushing the underside before his fingers catch your nipple and pinch. Your head tips back immediately, a moan spilling from you as the pleasure arcs up your spine. 

“That’s it,” he grits. “Just like that.”

Every time you sink back down, he stretches you just a little more, hits that spot just a little harder. Your thighs start to tremble with the effort. His right hand only tightens at your hip, guiding your pace, manipulating your angle because of course he knows what feels better. But it’s his other hand, the one that’s still on your chest, that begins to slide lower, drifting over your ribs, over your stomach, the curve of your pelvis.

You don’t even realise what he’s reaching for until his thumb finds your clit.

A helpless cry breaks out of you.

“There she is…” he coaxes, thumb moving in a circle motion. “So pretty and vocal for me.”

You pick up the pace at the praise naturally. His breath falters, hips stuttering every time you grind down and meet his thumb at the same time. 

“Aaron—” 

His head tips back, a vein standing out at his neck, jaw clenched so tightly the muscle jumps beneath his skin. His thumb slips against your clit with every shake of his body, but he doesn’t stop. If anything, he presses harder, circles tighter, chasing you towards the edge even as he’s sliding towards his own.

“Sweetheart, slow—slow down—”

You don’t. You do the opposite, rocking into him, burying him inside of you. You feel yourself clench around him.

“Fuck!” he groans, your name following. His hands fly back to your hips, trying to hold you still, but your body squeezes around him and his own hips jerk helplessly. The sound he makes next is loud enough you’re almost certain the entire floor hears it. Every muscle in his stomach goes taut as he throbs inside you, warmth spilling in hot waves as he comes harder than you’ve ever heard him breathe. 

One of his hands drags back down to your clit, despite the fact that his whole body seems to shake and twitch. He tries to keep his eyes open—tries to keep watching you on top of him—but his lashes flutter shut as you ride out the aftershocks pulsing through him. 

You feel the warmth of his release seep out of you, ropes catching your inner thigh, clinging around the base of his still-sensitive cock. He finally forces his eyes open, his thumb still on your clit.

“Are you close?” he rasps. 

You nod, legs shaking around him, barely able to hold yourself upright.

“Okay, baby… okay.” His breath stumbles, his whole body jolting each time you move, but his thumb keeps working you. 

“Aaron—” Your voice cracks, head falling forward as a wave of heat curls deep in your stomach.

“I’ve got you, sweetheart. I’ve got you. Come on.”

You grind down again, chasing the high, and he groans at the contact, but pulls you flush against his hips so you can keep moving. Your hands slide across his chest, clutching his shoulders, needing something to hold as the pressure tightens like a fist around your spine. 

Your thighs clamp around his hips, your body clenching so fiercely around him that his head falls back with a quiet whimper. He tries to thrust instinctively, but he’s too sensitive. He trembles through the shock of it anyway, jaw flexing, teeth gritted as he tries to stay still for you. 

“Sweetheart—” he gasps, “I need—you have to—please—”

And that does it. The please. Hearing him say it. 

Your release slams into you like a freight train. 

Your whole body seizes around him, your nails dragging down his chest as your vision whites out, a sharp sob catching in your throat. The orgasm tears through you in violent waves, blinding and completely overwhelming. 

Your body finally goes limp, folding over him, your hands bracing on either side of his head as you lean forward. A thin string of drool slips past your lips as you gasp for air, your pussy still pulsing around his cock in tight, involuntary aftershocks.

Hotch’s arms come up your back immediately, palms splayed, rubbing slow strokes along your spine. 

“Easy,” he murmurs. “Easy…I’ve got you. Just breathe.”

You manage a shuddering inhale against his throat, your forehead pressed to the warm curve of his shoulder. You can hear and feel his heartbeat beneath you, syncing with your own like your bodies haven’t quite figured out how to separate yet. 

His hand moves up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair. “There you go,” he whispers. “That’s it.”

Your lips brush the base of his throat when you exhale. “Don’t pull out just yet,” you mumble against him, wanting to keep him inside as long as you possibly can, unsure when—if—you’ll ever get this close to him again.

“I’m not going anywhere. You can have as long as you want.” 

You both go quiet for a moment, appreciating the soft ache of being filled and held at the same time. His chest rises beneath you with each slow breath, your body melting deeper into the lines of his. 

You lift your head up after a while, meeting his eyes. “Two years, huh?” 

He lets out a soft laugh. “Two years.”

“What’s the right thing to do now?” you ask, brushing the back of your knuckles along his jaw. 

“You need to go pee so I can get you cleaned up.”

You groan into his neck. “Gee, way to ruin a moment.”

“And then,” he adds, kissing your temple, “when your transfer is official… I can take you out to dinner…If you’d like that?”

“A date?” you ask quietly.

“If you want it to be.”

You pull back to look at him properly. “I’d like that.”

“Good,” he says with a smile, voice warm. “That’s what I was hoping.”

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The house was quiet. Unnaturally so. 

No padding feet, no sticky hands pulling at your sleeve, no stubborn, sleepy voices demanding one more story before bed. Jessica had taken Jack and your two-year-old, Bella, insisting that you and Aaron need real sleep after back-to-back cases.

You should have been relieved. It should have felt like a luxury. Should have.

Aaron's voice reached you from somewhere behind. "Well, aren't you dramatic."

You exhaled, too drained to even roll your eyes, barely mustering the energy to glance at him over the arm of the couch. He was by the door, still half in shadow, arms loose at his sides and watching you with that look on his face that he got sometimes, the one that said you were both completely insane and completely adored, all in equal measure.

You made a noise. Not words, not quite a groan either, the sound barely making it past the cushions.

"That bad?"

You lifted a limp arm and let it flop back onto the couch.

"I see." A pause. "Should I be concerned?"

"Probably."

The fridge door hissed as it opened, then shut. The tap turned on, ran for a few seconds, then clicked off. A glass placed, not set, not dropped, just placed, onto the counter. Then, the soft shuffle of socked feet across the floor. The indication he was near by the couch dipping under his weight.

And then there was his hand, finding your leg, fingers pushing into the space between your ankle and the couch. One shoe. Then the next. Like he'd done this a thousand times before. Which he had. Because you were beyond lucky. Fortunate. Blessed. All the vocab words that could be synonymous with you being undeserving. His palm dawdled, thumb dragging absently over the thin stretch of skin just above your heel. 

Your heart did something stupid and weak in your chest.

"You're a very doting husband," you murmured, aiming for teasing but landing somewhere softer, somewhere warmer.

Aaron chuckled, shifting beside you until he was comfortable, his arm draping over the couch as he turned toward you. "Yeah, I don't get many complaints."

You peeked up at him through tired, half-lidded eyes. "I could complain."

"But you won't." His palm flattened against your hip before slipping away. Gone too soon on purpose, you were sure. "You like being spoiled too much."

You let out a small, drowsy hum. "Maybe."

His hand moved to your back, dragging up the ridges of your spine and smoothing over the knots you'd stopped noticing until now. And it was unfair, really, because he then found that space at the base of your neck, and you were done for. 

You should have let yourself be submerged in it. Into him. Into this. You wanted to. Needed to. 

But your brain was perpetually doing loops, swinging from thought to thought, refusing to land. Because as much as you wanted to focus on your very handsome, very intuitive husband, on the way he just knew what you needed before you even had to ask, on his touch, on jus the undeniable, singular himness of him (which, okay, maybe wasn't a real world, but you were too tired to litigate that) — all you could hear was JJ's voice.

"God I remember that level of wiped. I felt the same way before I found out about Michael."

It had been a throwaway comment, made with a laugh as you'd all packed up to head home. It was the kind of thing that should have rolled right off your back. And it had, at first. You'd scoffed, waved it off and blamed it on the jet lag and the late nights and the way your body never quite figured out how to recalibrate between cases.

But now, laying on the couch, staring at at the cushions like they held divine answers, every part of you felt off. Tender in a way you didn't like, in a way that felt far too familiar. 

And you couldn't ignore it. Well, you could. Probably. Maybe. Except no you couldn't because JJ was unfortunately, irritatingly, horrifyingly right.

Aaron repositioned beside you. "You're quiet."

"I'm tired." As if that could be the end of it. Like if you said it just right, it could turn into an irrefutable fact.

"No kidding." A pause. Then softer, nudging. "Try again."

You turn onto your side, eyes catching his before you brain can screech abort mission, bad idea, too much eye contact, danger. And in that same instant you were even surer of your discernment.

Because this isn't suspicion or paranoia or stress or an overactive imagination.

This is real.

The strange dragging in your limbs, the hot-cold whiplash that makes you constantly second-guess your own damn thermostat, the nausea you wrote off as too many takeout meals and too little sleep.

Your body had known for weeks.

It felt like someone had upended a bucket of ice water down your back. Or no, actually, more like a door slamming shut on every single ounce of stability you had spent years clawing toward. 

Because there was no room for this. No room in the schedule, not in the fridge (which, let's be honest, was already one yogurt cup away from disaster), and certainly not in the tenuous, barely-functioning balancing act that was your life.

Jack's school projects, his late-night study sessions, his growing independence that you want to encourage, needed to encourage, but what if you're pushing too hard? What if you're not pushing enough? Bella's refusal to eat anything that isn't shaped like a star, her impossible stubbornness, her need for you that takes up every ounce of energy you have left. 

And work. Gods, work. The late nights, the cases that leave bruises on you emotionally and physically, the constant demand to give more, be more, solve more.

You barely made it though last time. How are you supposed to do it again?

Before you can spiral any further, before your brain can really sink its teeth into the oh my gods, you're fucked of it all, you're moving, no, being moved, with absolutely no input on your part, being hauled into Aaron's lap.

"Do I need to bribe you out of whatever's happening in that head of yours?" he muses, shifting so his hands can slip beneath your shirt, palm warm against too-cold ribs. "Or do I just have to annoy you until you snap out of it?" You blink at him, heavy-lidded, and he smiles, unfairly amused. "Because I can talk about legal precedents and federal jurisdiction until you pass out from boredom."

You groan dramatically, letting your head fall against his shoulder like you're already picturing it.

"Not the legal precedents," you mumble, voice muffled by his shirt. "Anything but that."

"That's what I thought."

You peek up at him, pouting. "I'll take bribery, please."

He smirks and inclines his head like he's mulling it over. "What's my price?"

You angle your head, shifting just enough that he’ll get the hint, because obviously he’s not dense, and obviously you don’t have to spell it out.

Aaron's chuckle is warm and affectionate, and his smirk slips into something more partial. "Well, lucky me."

His lips graze yours like he has nowhere else to be, like the rest of your world isn't hanging on by a thread. And for just one selfish second, you let yourself chase it, into that fleeting illusion that everything is fine.

But then he pulls away, and it's gone. The illusion crumbles, slipping through your fingers like sand.

Because he's too good. Too selfless. Too willing to bear everything like it won't eventually crush him. And now here you are, about to pile more onto his already impossible load. Another thing for him to carry, to shoulder, to make space for when there's already so little left. You don't know if you can stand it, don't know if you can watch the depletion deepen in his eyes and be the reason for it.

Aaron catches it in seconds, because nothing ever gets past him, because you could probably breathe funny and he'd be asking what's wrong. His teasing vanishes immediately, replaced by something gentler, and something infinitely worse. 

His hand is on your face before you can neutral your expression, his thumb at the corner of your mouth, like he's trying to press the emotion back in, to stop it from spilling over.

"You're breaking my heart, sweetheart," he murmurs, fixing his head to meet your gaze. "Tell me how to fix it."

Your hands lift, like the movement might shake the words loose, might make sense of everything in your head, but they fall just as fast, fingers tangling into the material of his shirt.

“It’s just — I don’t know, I should’ve seen it coming, right? But I didn’t, and now it’s like —” You squeeze your eyes shut, breath shaking. “Aaron, I’m so sorry. I don’t even know how it happened, I don’t know what to think, I don’t —”

"Hey, honey," Aaron interrupted, his thumbs sweeping careful paths down your tear-stricken cheeks. His brow dips. "Slow down for me, okay? I need you to breathe."

You try, you really do, but your chest feels like it's wrapped in steel bands, too tight to expand properly, and your thoughts are useless, spinning too fast, overlapping, crashing into each other.

"You're talking in circles, baby. Help me understand."

A sound claws its way out of your throat, half a sob, half hysteria.

Aaron just watches, expectantly, like he's waiting for the moment it all clicks into place. For you to say it. For you to crack wide open.

"Aaron, I'm — God, I'm pregnant."

For a long, stretched-out second, he doesn't move.

His eyes flicker between yours, scanning, searching, reading every inch of your expression before, instinctively, unconsciously, they drop downward. To your stomach.

His hands follow, hesitantly, like they already knew, like something deep in him had felt it before his mind could catch up. But he doesn't touch you, not yet. His fingers just hover, inches from your shirt, like he's afraid to break something delicate. Like he needs to believe in it first.

"You're —?" It's not even a word, just a shape in his mouth, just air barely pushed into sound.

You nod, and oh, something gives way, splinters inside you, breaks open just like he was wanting and suddenly, you can't stop talking.

"I know," you whisper, voice breaking, hands swiping furiously at damp cheeks. "I know."

Your shoulders tremble, fresh tears slipping past your lashes, and damn it, you can't stop them, can't stop any of it.

"I'm so sorry, please don't be upset, I don't know how this happened, I didn't mean for it to happen, I —,"

"Hey." You freeze instantly. "Stop." He pauses for a second as if trying to figure out the right thing to say. "Why are you apologizing?"

You open your mouth, already scrambling for some kind of justification, some kind of explanation, but he's faster.

"Pretty sure we were both there when this happened," he says, voice so deadpan, you almost didn't hear the amusement as his mouth flicked upward. "Fairly certain it was a mutual effort."

You let out a choked, watery laugh. "But we weren't expecting this. We didn't plan for this, and the timing is awful, and work is insane, and Bella —,"

"— will be fine."

"Jack —,"

"— will love it."

"And what about us?"

Aaron's hand moves again, actually pressing to your stomach now. And then he smiles, this tiny, crooked, almost smug little thing that makes your stomach flip in a completely different way, like he's remembering something good, something soft, something dangerously sentimental.

"Did I ever tell you," he murmurs, tilting his head slightly, like he’s been waiting for the perfect moment to drop this, "that you weren't even supposed to be on my team?"

Your brows furrow instantly. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," he says finally, "you were supposed to be off in some White Collar division. Probably catching investment bankers committing tax fraud."

"Then how did I end up here?"

Aaron snorts, actually snorts. "A clerical error."

"Are you serious?"

"Like I said, Strauss meant to assign you to the White Collar division." His thumb strokes along your jaw, like he’s trying to soften the absurdity of what he’s about to say. "But someone messed up the paperwork. By the time she noticed, you'd already started your first week."

A sharp, incredulous breath escapes you. "So I got on the team by accident."

"Not entirely," he murmurs. "Strauss asked if I wanted her to fix it. Move you where you were actually supposed to go."

"And?"

His hands find their way into your hair before you can process the movement —fingertips brushing against your scalp, smoothing strands away, tucking them behind your ears, like he needs to see you.

"And I almost told her yes." And he says it in a way that makes you think maybe he still can't believe it. "Not because of your skills," he continues. "But because I knew — I knew that if I spent any more time with you, I was going to fall in love with you. And I didn't want that," he admits. "Because I wasn't sure if I was ready for something that permanent."

He'd never told you this. Not in words. Maybe in glances, in pauses, in the way he always found you first, in a crowd, in a crime scene. But never like this. Never out loud.

Your brain tries to process it, but it's like pouring water into a cup that's already full, it spills over, sloshes everywhere, and makes a mess of things.

You almost laugh except there's this awful, aching tightness in your throat, and you think if you let the sound out, it might not be a laugh at all. 

"So what changed?"

He lets out a breath, a small, almost reluctant smile playing at his lips. "You told me to relax."

"Excuse me?"

“You were new. Three weeks in. I was this close to telling Strauss yes. Had the email typed out, my finger hovering over send. And that whole week, I had been —” he pauses, smirks faintly, “— a pain in the ass. And you just —” another shake of his head, “— you knocked, walked in, took one look at me, and said, Hotch, you need to relax.”

A long, drawn-out pause.

"And then you walked out."

You let out an unguarded laugh. "No, I didn't."

"You did. And I remember thinking — who the hell does she think she is?" Then, without hesitation, he pulls you flush against him, like that thought alone is hilarious in retrospect. "And then, two seconds later, thinking — I hope she never stops. And you never did. Thank God for that." His forehead presses to yours. "Because now, you're my beautiful wife. The mother of my children. You know, I spent so much of my life thinking I needed a plan but turns out the best things happen when you don't."

And then he kisses you and damn it, he tastes like that coffee, the stupidly expensive, unnecessarily strong stuff he insists on smuggling onto the jet, the kind that is so obnoxiously him it makes your head spin.

Dark roast, sharp on his tongue and now on yours, transferring straight into you like somehow he's the one who's addicting.

And maybe he is. Because when he pulls back, there's another smirk at his mouth, but his hand stays at the nape of your neck, like he's already considering doing it again. And Jesus, you hope he does.

"You know," he muses, far too casual for a man about to be slapped. "if we really think about it, this might actually be your fault."

Your jaw drops. "Come again?"

He tilts his head, all easy amusement, all knowing. "You were the one who insisted on that very thorough stress relief session a few weeks ago."

Your face flames. "Aaron!"

“Oh, don’t act innocent,” he hums, tilting his head like he’s thinking, like he’s remembering in excruciating detail. “I was there. I distinctly recall the moment you climbed into my lap and said —”

"Stop talking."

"— Aaron, I need to —"

Your hand clamps over his mouth, but his laughter is instant, vibrating against your palm, his eyes crinkling at the corners, full of mischief and love and the kind of thing that turns your brain to static.

"You’re the worst," you mutter.

Aaron just smirks, prying your hand away, pressing a kiss to your lips like a punctuation mark. "Says the one who keeps letting me knock her up."

The light is green for right turns as you inch your way closer and closer to the intersection. And as you near, it switches to green for straight passage, giving you right of way—that’s when the sedan appears.

Its blinker flashes right, holding back for the cyclist in front of you, letting him pass—because that’s the traffic law.

As he passes, you’re only a few feet away from heading into the intersection. You keep your eyes trained on the car, it keeps waiting, seemingly waiting for you to pass too. You’re sure the driver has seen you... so you loosen your feet’s grip on the pedals, moving them forward again, easing off the brakes, trusting the driver to hold back, like they did for the other rider.

They don’t.

The sedan surges forward the exact moment you’re parallel with their mirror, cutting across your path. Time feels like it slows. It’s too late to brake as she swings further into your path.

You yank the handlebars right, trying to dodge the car, to make it far enough away from it that the driver spots you before you collide, because it’s your only option at this point.

But that doesn’t happen.

The headlights slam against your left thigh at a slow speed, but enough to knock you down. You lose balance, biking, twisting under you, and you fall toward the road—thankfully, the car has stopped by now.

Your hip hits the ground first, taking most of the impact, then your back, and lastly, your face slams into the asphalt. It feels like your brain rattles inside your skull as the impact processes.

During the impact, you bite down—hard—bruising the inside of your lower lip.

You’re up quickly, sitting before the driver even managed to get out of their car. Your vision swims, looking blurry and like static on an old television. You don’t black out, fully aware of everything around you.

People rush around you, the air filling with voices, gasps, people asking if you’re okay, where you’re hurt, if you know what day it is.

The driver—a lady, no older than your own mom—stands nearby, shocked, on the verge of tears, and barely coherent as she keeps saying ‘I’m so sorry’ and ‘I didn’t see you’ while the pedestrians and other bikers check you over.

You get up on your own, whole body trembling as the people gather your things and help you to the grassy patch on the side of the road. Somehow, you’ve managed to lift your bike up and pull it along with you. Nothing seems broken, it wheels smoothly as you walk it—that’s good, you tell yourself, probably not expensive to fix if anything is wrong.

When you sit down, you feel something drip down your face, running from the impact spot above your left eyebrow and running down the bridge of your nose.

“Am I bleeding?” You ask, knowing the asnwer is yes, but in your confused state, you need the validation, need to know that your brain isn’t lying in the middle of the road.

Someone presses a wad of tissue to the gash, confirming your question, while someone else hands you a water bottle, telling you to drink, that it’s important for your recovery until you can get to the hospital.

(A/N: I make a phone call to my dad here irl as all the people fussed over me. And he actually raced to the scene and was the one to drive me to the hospital in the end.)

Everything feels overwhelming. You’re completely surrounded by people on all sides. You should be crying, you should be screaming, yelling at the driver for being unattentive in traffic, but you don’t; you just sit quietly, answering the questions of all the people as they keep you awake.

You feel like you’re floating.

The grass is wet.

Someone suggest to move you to the bus shelter about thirty feet down from where you’re sitting, because there’s a bench there and you won’t get cold from sitting on the ground.

People start disappearing slowly as you get up—they need to get to work, you think, not stay with you, they don’t know you—your hands are around the handlebars of the bike once again, dragging it along, mostly to steady yourself, while someone brings your backpack in their hands.

“I have to call work and tell them I’m not gonna make it.” You state as they get you seated on the bench in the bus shelter. You find your phone, fingers fumbling to unlock it.

In your hazy state, you’re barely able to recall where your contact list is, you don’t call his office phone often, so it takes some time before you manage to press the call button on one of your contacts.

It rings twice before someone picks up.

“Hotchner.”

His voice is too lively and clear for it being...?—you pull the phone away from your ear, 7:30. He’s probably already at his desk working on the massive stack of paperwork in his inbox you saw last night before you went home.

“Hotch.” You whimper slightly into the phone before your voice turns flat, almost robotic, but still quivers slightly as you speak. “I’m not... I won’t make it to the office today. I just got hit by a car. Can you inform the others?”

The line goes dead silent.

Then he inhales sharply and says your name, in a tone softer than you’ve ever heard him use with you.

“Are you hurt? Where are you right now?” He asks, his questions nearly overwhelming you even further.

“I’m okay,” you answer, trying to gather your thoughts before continuing. “I think I have a concussion, but nothing seems broken. I’m on a bench in a bus shelter, and I’m gonna go to the hospital soon to get checked out. I just didn’t want you to think I was a no-show today.” You explain, babbling more information than he asked for, but is glad you shared.

“You were hit by a car,” he repeats. He sounds like he’s in disbelief, like he’s still trying to process the words you told him. “Which hospital? Tell me where you are.”

“I don’t know,” you admit. “The closest one?”

Hotch is about to ask you to stay on the line, at least until you’re at the hospital, but you’re already saying bye, telling him you have to go and ending the call, ready to go to the hospital.

You let the lady drive you to the ER after you lock your bicycle behind the bus shelter and check that your work laptop didn’t break—because you’re convinced Strauss would fire you if you had to apply for a new device.

Outside the ER, you ask the lady to send you all her details and a report of how she experienced the timeline of the accident.

You rattle off your phone number. She text you, just to be sure you remembered correctly—you did.

She keeps apologizing, and you keep telling her that it’s okay and that it was an accident. You just bid her farewell and that you’ll be in touch, before walking through the ER doors.

Inside, you find the nearest intake desk and tell the nurse stationed there what happened to you. She instantly gets you sat down, blood pressure cuff on—because you’re pale as a ghost—and calls it in.

She’s quickly beside you again, asking about your social security number to admit you. You’re amazed that you can recall it in its entirety.

The nurse is concerned about your low numbers, rechecks your blood pressure, and when they come back just as low, she guides you through the doors into the ER hallway and tells you to lie down on the gurney until she finds a room for you.

You lie there for what feels like hours, but in reality is less than thirty minutes. Nurses keep walking past you, eyeing you in passing to make sure that you’re not worsening.

You’re about to ask the next passing personnel for an update when the restricted access doors that you entered through burst open, and purposeful steps echo closer and closer to your bed.

You could pinpoint those steps from miles away.

Hotch strides through the hallway like he owns the place, already having spotted you—not that it was hard when you’re out in the open.

You push up slightly on your elbows, just enough to lift yourself to a position where you can see him approaching. “Aaron...?”

He’s at your side in seconds, flashing his credentials at the nurse about to threaten him with security.

Hotch looks at you, really looks at you. He takes in your injuries, the gash over your eyebrow, the road rash on your chin and nose, the way you look so tiny and broken in the hospital bed.

“I’m cold.” You whimper at him.

He doesn’t speak at first, just grabs your coat crumpled near your feet, and lays it on top of you like a blanket. “You said you were walking in,” he says quietly, worry evident in his tone.

“The lady who hit me drove me here.” Hotch brushes a hand across your forehead and over your hair, caressing the crown of your head with the softest look in his eyes. You can’t tell if he’s satisfied with the answer or not, but he definitely looks relieved that you didn’t walk all the way there.

Hotch sits with you in silence until a nurse comes and unlocks the wheels of your bed. He wheels the bed down the hall and into a proper room, giving you privacy, dimmer lights, and no passing eyes that seem more judgmental than concerned for your well-being.

Once situated in the room, the nurse clips a pulse-ox clip on your finger, telling you that the doctor will be in soon, and then he leaves.

Hotch sits in the chair next to your bed. Your coat has now been moved to his lap, and your back rests on top of it. He looks way too serious and domestic at the same time.

Thirty minutes pass before another nurse comes, cleans the gash over your eyebrow, and leaves.

It takes yet another thirty minutes before the doctor actually comes.

Hotch is with you all along. Quiet, observant of you, your health, the machines, everything. The only time you hear him speak is when he takes a call from Rossi, giving a quick update on your state ‘banged up but stable’ he says, chatting for another minute before hanging up at letting his focus return to you completely.

He starts by asking what happened, letting you recall the whole story. Meanwhile, he shines a light in your eyes, tells you to follow his finger, and checks your reactions while you talk.

When he’s satisfied, he moves on.

“You’re not gonna like me after this.” The doctor jokes as he starts pushing, with all his weight, on your hips, collarbones, squeezing your ribcage, moving your arms and legs. All to check your joints, to figure out how much pain you’re in, if anything is broken.

The doctor makes you peel your pants down enough to where he can physically see the spot on your thigh where you collided with the car. The bruise is already forming, and there’s what feels like a raised bump under your skin. But he’s not concerned about that.

He then moves on to your jaw, puts his hands in your mouth, checking your bite, looking at the spot where you bit yourself. It feels a little too clinical at this point. You voice your concerns about your potential concussion, but he doesn’t seem worried about it either.

The doctor tells you—well... Hotch mostly—to get some rest, to keep an eye on your injuries, to call your family medicine doctor if first if you feel nauseous and throw up, or if you generally take a turn for the worse.

You can sense that Hotch is starting to get a little annoyed with all the waiting as the doctor bids you a speedy recovery and tells you a nurse will be in shortly to give you a tetanus shot—just in case.

It’s been ages since you last got one, and you’re long overdue for a booster shot.

Yet another thirty minutes pass before the nurse comes; she barely readies the canula before she’s called away.

When she comes back, she finally manages to give you the shot and get you ready to be discharged.

It’s noon when they finally release you.

You slowly sit up, swinging your legs over the edge of the bed. You feel disoriented as you go from lying to a sitting position, closing your eyes for a brief moment to steady yourself.

Hotch is quick to grab your elbow as you begin to lower yourself to the ground, holding you steady as your hips buck slightly with a flash of white-hot stabbing pain.

“Let me,” he says quietly. No room for argument—not that you have the energy for that.

You let him wrap your coat around you and slowly lead you out of the ER to his waiting car.

Getting into his car is a quest on its own. Hotch supporst nearly your entire weight as you slowly pivot and lower yourself into the passenger seat before carefully lifting your legs in and buckling your seatbelt.

The drive to your place is mostly quiet. You don’t know what to say, don’t know how to feel. You just watch the city slide by through the window, resting your forehead against the cold glass, bandage taking most of the coldness.

Hotch guides you straight to your bedroom as you make it up the stairs and into your apartment, not allowing your suggested detour to the couch—because you’re more comfortable in your bed.

And he’s right.

The bed looks heavenly as you enter the bedroom. Hotch pulls back your duvet and fluffs your pillows slightly before he helps lower you until you’re sitting on the edge of the bed.

Every muscle feels like you weren’t just hit by one singular car, but a fleet of buses.

You don’t know where he disappears to, but he somehow returns with a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt.

You should feel embarrassed by your boss helping you undress and redress yourself. But it’s Hotch. And he’s so nice. And he came to keep you company, and he would never do anything to you. You keep telling yourself.

It’s a battle in itself to get you out of your office attire. The shirt is fine and changed in seconds, but the jeans are a nightmare, an actual nightmare.

It nearly takes five minutes to get them peeled off your legs, and not without winces, whimpering, and one snapped “Aaron!” when he pulls a little too hard.

He kneels down in front of you, opening the one leg of the sweatpants like a pair of tights and tells you to steady yourself on his shoulder.

You stand up enough to where you can lift your leg into the leg of the sweatpants, your entire weight leaning against his shoulder. Hotch works as quickly as possible, and once they’re on, he helps you lower yourself back to the mattress and position yourself lying on your “good side”.

You catch a glimpse of yourself in the dresser mirror across the room: still pale, the road rashes raw on your nose and chin, a thick white bandage over your eyebrow, your hand wrapped like a boxer’s, where you tried to brace your fall, but instead ended up scraping your palm open.

You look like you lost a fight with a truck. Which…isn’t far off to be honest.

Hotch pulls your duvet up over you before he sits carefully on the edge of your bed near your feet. His eyes search yours, assessing you, trying to figure out if you need anything, anything you’re not telling him, if you’ll be alright, anything.

“Get some sleep,” he says softly, placing a hand on your shin over the duvet, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Your body’s been through hell. You need the rest.”

“You don’t have to stay.” You whisper, alright fighting your eyelids as they get heavier and heavier by each passing second.

“I know.” Hotch moves his hand from your shin and brush as strand of hair behind your ear—he’s too good at this... but then againhe probably took care of a sick Jack enough times to know what to do, you think to yourself. “I’m not leaving yet. I’ll be out at your dining table with my laptop if you need anything. Just call my name. Even if you just need me to sit with you.” You give him a tiny nod, giving him the go-ahead, ‘allowing’ him to stay.

“Okay,” you manage.

Hotch brushes the back of his hand over your cheek before getting up. “Sleep,” he whispers, turning the light off and leaving the door slightly ajar.

You drift off to sleep the instant he leaves the room.

Hotch sets up on your dining table like promised. His laptop and the current working case file are open in front of him.

The team is gathered in the conference room at the BAU. And Hotch is on a video call connected to them.

He briefs them on the case—victimology, geographic profile, escalation patterns—guiding the discussion to the best of his abilities from thirty minutes away.

The briefing almost feels normal despite the unfamiliar background of your half-decorated kitchen and the string lights you never took down from Christmas.

Garcia lasts all of twenty minutes before she can’t contain herself anymore. “Okay, I’m sorry, I can’t... I just... Sir, with all due respect, how is she?” The words tumble out in a rush. “Our sweet, sweet, lovely (Y/N). Hit by a car. We’ve all been sitting here pretending to focus, but we’re worried sick.”

The room goes quiet.

Hotch’s expression softens. He leans back slightly in your dining chair, glancing toward the hallway as if checking that your bedroom door is still closed.

“She’s sleeping,” he says quietly. “Finally. I’m giving her an hour, then waking her up to make sure her condition isn’t getting worse.”

Garcia exhales like she’s been holding her breath for hours—she probably has.

Morgan leans forward, elbows on the table. “How bad is it, Hotch?”

He considers for a moment, choosing his words with care, debating how much you’d want him to tell them.

“No fractures, no internal bleeding. Significant bruising... especially the left thigh where the car made contact... and a laceration over her eyebrow, didn’t need stitches or glue though, so should be fine, but will leave a scar. Road rash on her face and palm. The hip and lower back took the worst of the impact when she landed, so she’s in a lot of pain. They gave her a tetanus shot and sent her home with strict instructions to rest and keep movement minimal for the next few days.”

Prentiss frowns. “And the head?”

“They’re calling it a mild traumatic brain injury. She never lost consciousness. Officially, they don’t think it rises to concussion protocol.” He pauses, jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. “She disagrees. Says the light sensitivity and headache feel worse than they’re admitting. She’s had a concussion before, so I trust her judgment a little more on that. We’ll monitor it, though.”

“She must be terrified.” Garcia’s eyes are glassy now.

“She was in shock at first,” Hotch admits. “Very calm on the phone... too calm, honestly. But she’s taken everything really well so far.”

“You staying with her?” JJ asks.

“For tonight, yes.” Hotch’s tone leaves no room for discussion. “She shouldn’t be alone until we see how she responds the next twenty-four hours minimum. I’ll work remotely while you guys travel to L.A. for the case, unless the world burns and it’s life or death.”

“Tell her we’re all thinking about her. And that we’ve got the case covered.” Reid speaks up softly.

“I will,” Hotch says.

There’s a beat of silence.

Garcia sniffs once, then straightens. “Okay. Okay. We’ll be brilliant and catch this creep fast so you can focus on taking care of her. And tell her I’m sending cupcakes. The good kind. With sprinkles.”

“She’ll appreciate that.”

He glances toward your bedroom again, hearing nothing but soft, even breathing through the cracked door.

Satisfied, he turns back to the screen.

“All right. Let’s get back to the profile.”

The team nods, refocusing on the case.

And really, truly, genuinely, you need to pull yourself together because Morgan is giving you a side-eye that suggests he’s not only noticed your gawking, but worse, has developed several theories about it.

Hotch’s instructions spill out rapid fire, and you’re halfway to zoning out, catching snippets — Morgan, perimeter. Reid, coordinate with local PD. 

You force yourself to tune in just in time to realize you’ve missed most of what he’s saying, something vaguely alarming about the missing witness slipping past your ears. When Hotch says your name, you flinch, probably visibly, and snap upright, trying (likely failing spectacularly) to look alert.

“You’re with me.”

And then he’s turning, moving, and naturally, instinctively, you fall into step beside him.

It’s fine, you reason, it’s not that you mind. You really don’t. Still, there’s a small part of you, buried beneath layers of admiration and self-doubt, that’s starting to twitch with impatience. You’ve been here for five cases now and you assumed by this point you’d graduate from perpetual trainee shadow to, well, anything else.

You remember Reid telling you he earned independence fairly quickly, and Morgan practically started the job fully formed. But you’re still following dutifully in Hotch’s shadow, like a duckling too nervous to swim on its own. Is it him? Is it you? Is there some glaring flaw he sees, something that screams liability, too-green-to-function-alone? You bite the inside of your cheek, silencing your insecurities before they start screaming louder.

You’re practically speed-walking at this point, struggling to match Hotch’s long strides as the sun cooks your brain into a scrambled mush.

Your fingertips shield your eyes, squinting hard against the glare, cursing your impulsiveness — rushing out this morning after the team like a lovesick intern, leaving behind basic necessities like water. Rookie mistake. You’ll be dehydrated and delirious by noon, hallucinating your own incompetence in vivid detail.

Hotch doesn't even spare you a sidelong glance your way when he thrusts a water bottle toward you, eyes still scanning the horizon, speaking into his radio.

You stare dumbly at it for a second, and he must sense your confusion, because he tacks on, “You always forget to grab one. Drink.”

It sounds more gentle chiding than reprimand, but your face warms all the same.

The moment the bottle touches your lips, your body moves on autopilot, obeying Hotch’s casual command like it’s ingrained in your DNA. You’re pretty sure that’s concerning, how effortlessly you bend to his wishes, but introspection on that front can wait, especially since you’re burning alive under more than just the summer heat.

Without conscious thought, you offer the bottle back to him. 

Hotch pauses mid-sentence, the radio chatter fading momentarily as he eyes the bottle in mild confusion. 

But he takes it, pressing his mouth exactly where yours had been just seconds ago.

The simple action triggers a cascade of horribly inappropriate thoughts — mostly involving other, much less professional ways you’d rather be sharing space with his lips. Your imagination provides a cinematic experience of saliva exchange methods that have absolutely nothing to do with staying hydrated.

Wonderful. 

Your brain officially needs adult supervision.

Hotch, unfortunately observant, asks immediately, “You okay?”

“Fine!” Your voice pitches too high. Words tumble recklessly from your lips, an avalanche of rational-sounding nonsense designed solely to bury the fact that you’ve gone and made this weird. “Actually, if the unsub abducted the witness from the parking lot instead of her home, doesn’t that significantly change the risk factor? Public place, daylight — it would require confidence. That implies either past experiences or familiarity with the location —,”

You’re practically tripping over your own tongue, but your reasoning sounds airtight, thankfully. Because while your mouth may be spewing perfectly acceptable analysis, your brain is still utterly fixated on Hotch’s lips and their newly established indirect intimacy. 

Please let him not notice that.

Hotch considers your point, oblivious to your internal meltdown — or mercifully pretending to be. “That’s a good point.”

You’re in said parking lot before you realize it, baking on the blacktop, the car ride here an absolute blank.

It’s so hot your shoes practically fuse with the pavement, sticking with every step. Hastily shoving sunglasses onto your nose provides some mercy, but it does little to shield you from the full-body assault of sunlight, droplets of sweat quickly making trails down your collarbones. 

Reid would undoubtedly be rattling off something about albedo, thermal something-or-other, or some complicated explanation he pulled from a random academic paper. You simply classify it as outrageously, freakishly hot.

Hotch stands near the SUV, jacket discarded in favor of rolled-up sleeves. 

You discreetly pop open two buttons at your collar, self-consciousness momentarily forgotten in your bid for self-preservation, fingers grazing sweaty skin. 

Hotch’s mild, pointed throat-clear pulls your attention sharply, and your hands fall innocently back to your sides. 

He returns his gaze to the lot, brow furrowed in thought as he begins, “So, our unsub takes a woman from a busy parking lot in broad daylight, and nobody notices. What’s your read on that?”

You swallow painfully.

“Either he’s invisible, or everyone else is oblivious. Maybe both. More realistically, he’s non-threatening — at least initially. Approachable, trustworthy enough to not raise any red flags.”

His eyes flicker to the security cameras. “The unsub knew enough to pick a blind spot and a busy hour. Probably wasn’t his first time.”

“Right,” you agree. “Plus, no personal items were left behind, her keys, phone, everything gone with her. She went willingly at first.”

“Or he was convincing enough to make it appear that way,” Hotch adds.

Sweat trickles annoyingly down your spine, pooling uncomfortably between your shoulder blades. You glance sideways at Hotch, baffled by how unfazed he seems, looking like he’s casually waiting in a nice, breezy room rather than cooking alive in this inferno masquerading as a parking lot.

“I want you to check the eastern side, see if local PD missed anything.”

There’s a flash of doubt, a brief impulse to argue that maybe your efforts would be better spent elsewhere. A tiny voice in the back of your mind suggests hesitantly that maybe you’d earn his respect if, just once, you challenged his orders instead of quietly complying. But that impulse quickly wilts under the addictive rush you feel in gaining his approval.

It’s uncomfortable to admit, even privately, that you like the certainty of following his lead. You trust his judgment implicitly, which is a dangerous revelation you haven’t been able to shake. But even as the realization unsettles you, you’re already heading toward the eastern side, willingly and undeniably eager to please.

You’ve built your whole identity around color-coded calendars, neatly ordered lists, and near-pathological insistence on control. Yet, somehow, here you are, feeling embarrassingly grateful, borderline euphoric, simply because Aaron Hotchner told you exactly where to stand. You’ve either hit rock bottom or stumbled onto a whole new level of pathetic, jury’s still out. Deep down, you suspect you should be significantly more concerned about your state of mind than you actually are.

After a fruitless couple of hours spent cooking yourself alive on the asphalt, Hotch finally takes mercy on you, shepherding you back into the blessed relief of the artificially cooled paradise of the station.

You have a complicated relationship with local police stations. Sure, they’re usually air-conditioned, blessedly cool havens compared to the heat simmering outside. But then again, they’re always saturated with that same smell of charred coffee and day-old donuts. This station, particularly, is no exception. 

You push aside your petty complaints, focusing instead on Hotch’s directive to pair up with Prentiss and sift through alibis the local PD has halfheartedly checked.

You had gotten straight to work, ostensibly because it was necessary but mostly to distract yourself from the soul-crushing awareness Emily’s presence always inspired. She’d always been calm, collected, entirely too put-together, a combination that paradoxically eased your mind while also amplifying every self-conscious insecurity you owned.

You vividly recall your first few interactions with her, particularly the time she’d gently pointed out you’d been reading the map upside-down for five solid minutes.

The memory makes you cringe even now, but Emily had laughed with you, not at you, instantly easing your embarrassment. From the start, she’d balanced teasing and patience, correcting your mistakes without ever making you feel incompetent. It only deepened your appreciation, and, if you were being honest, your mild hero-worship of her.

Your nostalgic reverie about Emily implodes instantly, ruthlessly obliterated by the sudden deafening crack of gunfire. 

The room seems to tumble sideways, your equilibrium evaporation, replaced by sickening vertigo. 

The bullet glimmers so close to your temple that it nudges your hair, a grotesque mockery of intimacy. 

Your mind barely has time to piece together what’s happened before the shouting starts, voices exploding around you. In a dizzy blur, uniforms flood the space, tackling the unsub to the ground.

You stare forward, dazed, your senses dialed down to a murmur as if you’ve sunken underwater without realizing it. Emily materializes in front of you, blurred at first, then rapidly sharpening into focus, her lips moving quickly, shaping syllables you can’t fully grasp. Her face reflects fierce urgency, her stance instinctively protective, something that vaguely registers, but your thoughts stay stubbornly cloudly, lost somewhere between numb disbelief and fragmented comprehension.

Reality rushes back in as Emily’s voice finally floods your ears, her gaze anxiously probing yours for confirmation that you’re alright.

“I’m fine,” you reassure quickly, the words steady enough that they almost convince even you. “What do you need me to do?”

How could you freeze like that?

Breathe in. Count to three. Exhale slowly. You push the panic bubbling up into a box neatly stored behind well-worn barriers of composure. Control slides gracefully back into position, a transparent illusion spun from willpower alone. 

Your mother had been your first and relentless instructor, composure valued above tenderness, flawlessness demanded before comfort was ever considered. Beneath perfectly pinned-up hair and practiced smiles, she’d etched these lessons deeply. You’ve always been made from shards, a careful mosaic of concealed fractures, sewn together by unsaid apologies and quiet disappointments.

You learned early on that the safest place was behind a perfected facade.

She places a hand on your arm. “Maybe you should sit down for a minute.”

“Really, Em, I’m okay,” you assure her quickly. It fits perfectly, even if it feels painfully dishonest now. “Just tell me what you need next.”

You feel your reassurance wobbling like a well-used record, repetitive and empty, but you don’t trust yourself to say anything else. If you speak too openly, you risk Emily seeing the brittleness beneath your words, the terrifying image branded behind your eyes — your body lying cold, lifeless on the station floor, if you had just been one inch to the left. Your father would’ve gotten that call, your desk would’ve been quietly emptied, and your entire life would’ve ended mid-sentence. 

Hotch moves purposefully into your line of sight.

Your attention snags on the empty space where Emily had just stood. You hadn’t noticed her leaving, but that’s typical — Hotch tends to clear the space around you, intentional or not, whenever he addresses you directly. You wonder briefly if it’s because he senses your tendency to falter under scrutiny, or perhaps because he expects you to embarrass yourself again.

How long has he been standing there, waiting patiently for your response?

“Sorry,” you say quickly, refocusing on his face. “Could you repeat that?”

His voice is steady as he repeats, more gently this time, “I asked if you’re hurt.”

“No.”

You glance down quickly immediately afterward. You’re not even sure that’s true — had you actually checked, or had the adrenaline blocked out any injuries? You scan yourself quickly, a little unsure, a lot overwhelmed. Nothing seems wrong, at least nothing visible, but then your attention flits anxiously around the room, eyes instinctively looking for the unsub.

They tackled him, right? So where did they take him afterward — was he cuffed, detained, secured? More importantly, did they figure out why he barged in and opened fire? 

Hotch’s gaze sweeps quickly over you before his hands are gently tipping your head, his fingertips lightly exploring the place where the bullet almost found its mark. Warm fingers carefully part your hair, brushing just above your ear, and suddenly, you’re painfully aware of how tender he’s being, despite everything.

“Just to be safe, the EMTs will check you out,” he says, confident you’re unharmed but cautious nonetheless.

You nod, but you know exactly what he’s thinking, exactly what he must have seen. You were careless, oblivious — frozen solid at the worst possible moment. You’d slipped, and it almost cost everything. Your incompetence nearly ended your life, it could’ve endangered Emily, Hotch, the team. 

How could he trust you after this? Shame blooms hotly, choking your breath, because you know better.

This job doesn’t allow second chances, and you nearly used yours up.

“I’ll just — let me find Emily, then we can —,”

“You’re not doing anything right now.” Hotch’s interruption is firm, an immovable wall you know you can’t scale. “You’re staying exactly here until I say otherwise.”

You feel the sting of his words, immediately interpreting them as proof he no longer trusts you. 

“I’m not restricting you because of anything you did or didn’t do,” he says firmly, understanding clear in his eyes. “You’ve just experienced severe trauma. The EMTs will check you out first, then I’ll bring you up to speed. You’re not being sidelined. I’m going to handle the scene, and once everything is secure, we will regroup and go from there. Do you understand?”

You nod, but your trust feels tissue-thin, easily shredded by self-doubt. Hotch studies you carefully, eyes narrowing just enough to communicate clearly that he knows exactly how hollow your assurance really is.

Still, he nods back gently, pulling out a chair. You sit.

Hotch effortlessly stepped into the space your panic had left open. You watched as he moved calmly through the room, issuing commands. He spoke briefly with the EMTs first, outlining precisely what they needed to check, sparing you the uncomfortable necessity of trying to articulate your confusion.

Moments later, another water bottle appeared in your grapes, placed decisively by Hotch, who barely broke stride in his quiet management of everything around you.

He anticipated your questions and worries before you could voice them, confirming that the unsub was secure and that no one else was injured. 

Each directive he gave on your behalf made you aware of just how badly you needed this — someone stronger, steadier, more certain than yourself, carefully taking control away.

Discovering that surrendering control could feel like finally breathing after holding your breath for far too long was unsettling yet profoundly comforting.

The EMT now moves cautiously around you, examining the side of your head, brushing your hair aside to search for injuries you know aren’t there. Still, you remain perfectly still.

You find Hotch standing nearby, arms loosely crossed, fixed on the EMT’s every movement. He occasionally interrupts with instructions, and the micromanagement that should feel excessive but instead makes you feel grateful.

“I’m sorry,” you finally blurt out. “I completely blanked today. I didn’t respond when I should’ve, and it put everyone in danger. I should’ve been more alert, and…” 

You swallow thickly, shame edging painfully into your words, gaze fixed stubbornly downward.

“You didn’t blank,” Hotch interrupts. “You experienced something called perceptual narrowing. It’s common under severe stress, especially when you’re caught completely off-guard. Your brain was trying to process too much at once, it’s an instinctive reaction, not a failure.” 

You nod hesitantly, biting your lip as you struggle to voice your lingering frustration. “I know that makes sense, but it’s more than just freezing. It’s afterward when I realized how little I actually contributed.”

“You weren’t supposed to contribute right then,” Hotch reminds you. “You were under strict instructions to stay exactly here and let me handle the rest. Trust me, I can manage just fine.” His eyes glimmer briefly with amusement. “Unless you’re saying you don’t trust me to take control?”

You quickly shake your head, cheeks burning hotter now that the EMT has moved away, leaving no buffer between you and Hotch.

“No — no, that’s not what I meant,” you stammer. “Of course I trust you. Probably more than —” You catch yourself abruptly, clearing your throat awkwardly. “I mean, I trust your judgment completely.”

Hotch regards you for a moment, a faint, knowing smile ghosting briefly across his lips before he masks it again.

“I know what you meant,” he says evenly, though the warmth in his voice suggests he heard far more than your careful correction. “I appreciate your trust.” He pauses briefly. “I’ll try not to abuse it.”

Abuse it. That is such a potent phrase. Could he? Would he? The rational answer is no, but another voice counters with maybe. The potential hangs there, tantalizing and terrifying in equal measure. You’ve handed him someone precious, breakable, and yet the risk of abuse feels softer, sweeter, when it’s him.

“You wouldn’t,” you whisper after a moment. “But I think even if you did, I might forgive you.”

Tiled walls, discolored by decades of black mold and mineral streaks, stretched upward into a high ceiling of skeletal steel trusses. High overhead, narrow windows held broken panes of glass, letting in faint, sickly shafts of moonlight that sliced through clouds of suspended dust motes. You were in the deep end of an abandoned indoor swimming pool. The steep incline of the floor rose up behind you, leading toward a shallow end that was completely swallowed by shadow.

A sharp, heavy metallic clank echoed through the basin, the sound ringing off the hard walls like a gunshot. "Don't move too fast. You have a concussion." The voice was rough, gravelly, and stripped raw, but the underlying cadence, even in a rasping whisper, belonged to Unit Chief Aaron Hotchner.

"Hotch?" You whipped your head around, a sudden spike of motion that sent a nausea-inducing ripple through your brain.

Aaron sat roughly fourteen feet away, his back pressed against the sloped wall of the pool’s deep end. The sight of him was unnerving. His dark hair, usually parted and immaculately styled, fell across his forehead in damp, dark clumps. His suit jacket was gone, his crisp white dress shirt was ripped at the collar and heavily stained with oil, dirt, and a thick smudge of dried blood along the left shoulder. Yet despite the physical devastation, his dark eyes were focused, and moving over you with relentless, mechanical precision. "Check your limbs," he instructed softly, his baritone vibrating through the damp air. "Are you bleeding anywhere else? Any major fractures?"

"I... I don't think so," you breathed, your throat feeling as though it had been scrubbed with raw wire. "My head. My ribs."

You instinctually scrambled to cross the floor toward him, but a violent, unyielding jolt ripped through your right leg, snapping your heel back and slamming your body hard onto the tile. A sharp, lightning-hot spike of agony shot up your shin. You gasped, clutching your lower leg as a heavy, sickening rattle echoed off the tile floor. Wrapped firmly around your right ankle was a thick, industrial iron shackle. The metal was cold, biting directly into your skin. Attached to the collar was a dense, heavy-gauge steel chain, its links welded together and anchored directly into an iron eye-bolt sunk six inches into the pool wall behind you.

"Don't pull," Hotch ordered. His voice dropped into its familiar, stern register, the voice he used when de-escalating barricaded suspects, grounding subjects in shock, or commanding an operating room. "The edges are sharp. If you yank against the anchor, it’ll tear through your Achilles." He flexed his own right leg, pulling back the hem of his dark trousers to reveal not only that he had also been stripped of his shoes, but a matching iron cuff clamped around his ankle, its heavy chain stretching back to a secondary anchor bolt in the wall. “Ask me how I know.”

"Where are we?" you whispered, your fingers tracing the biting edge of the iron ring around your skin. "How long?"

"I woke up twenty minutes ago," Hotch said, his eyes scanning the steep, featureless tiling above your heads. "Based on the drying state of the blood on my shoulder, we've been unconscious for at least six hours. We were taken from the staging area outside the warehouse in Maryland."

Panic flared, a hot, suffocating burn in your throat. You dragged yourself to your feet, the chain clinking loudly, dragging through the dirt like a lead weight behind you. You rushed to the absolute limit of its slack. The heavy iron links went taut with a sharp ping, pulling your ankle back. The smooth, tiled pool walls rose at least twelve feet directly above your head, slicked over with a wet sheen of moss and mineral crust. The stainless-steel rungs of the ladder had been sawed off near the lip, leaving only rusted stubs embedded in the concrete above.

"There's no grip," you gasped, your nails scraping uselessly against the glazed tile. "It's completely smooth."

"Look at the floor angle," Hotch said smoothly, standing up. Even filthy and restrained, his posture was rigid, commanding space through sheer force of will. "The chain length gives each of us roughly an eight-foot radius. Our reach overlaps by about three feet in the center near the drainage grate."

"Hotch, look up there," you breathed, pointing toward the high rim above his side of the wall. "If I can get onto your shoulders, I might be able to reach the top of the pool floor, pull myself up, and find something to anchor a rope to."

Hotch didn't waste breath debating. He immediately dragged himself to the threshold of his chain's reach, stretching every link until the metal creaked and bit viciously into his skin. "Step on my knee first," he gritted out, bracing his palms flat against the cold tile wall, flexing his frame. "Then my shoulder. Drive your heel up, don't lean back."

You crossed the small circle of space where your two chained territories intersected. The moment your skin brushed his, your hands steadying against the solid, warm mass of his back, a surreal, sharp shock cut through the cold terror. For months at Quantico, between late-night case reviews, coffee runs, and shared silences over file folders, there had been an unspoken tension, a rigid line neither of you crossed due to protocol, rank, and fear of what lay beyond it. Now, stripped of rank and trapped in dark concrete, the physical proximity felt explosive.

You placed your bare foot on his thigh, then shifted your weight up onto his shoulder. Hotch exhaled sharply through his teeth, his shoulder muscles locking beneath your weight as he pushed upward, hoisting you higher into the gloom. "Can you reach?" he rasped. Warm breath fanned against your leg through the tear in your pants.

You stretched your arms until your shoulder sockets burned, your fingertips desperately scraping at the curved concrete lip of the pool deck. An inch. Just two inches more. You strained upward, your foot slipping slightly against his damp shirt. "I can't get a grip!" you gasped, your fingers slipping over smooth, algae-slicked tile. "It's slipping, there's no edge. I can't hold on!"

"Push!" Hotch commanded, his voice strained as his legs trembled under the uneven weight. "One more inch!"

You pushed onto your toes, the balls of your feet digging into Aaron’s shoulders as you desperately reached towards safety. Your fingers slid completely off the slick lip. Your center of gravity failed, and you slid down his back, falling heavily onto the concrete floor. Hotch turned instantly, catching you by the waist to break your impact, taking the brunt of your fall as you both crashed into the grit.

For three ragged heartbeats, you were pinned against his chest. His arms wrapped firmly around your waist, his heart hammering like a trapped bird against his ribs, his breath hot against your neck. His fingers tightened into your shirt, not like an officer holding a subordinate, but like a drowning man clinging to a lifeline.

Then, the cold reality of the room crashed back down. Hotch slowly let his hands fall away, his jaw clenching as he pulled back, instantly rebuilding the invisible wall between you.

You were trapped. Completely, utterly, and structurally trapped.

Before the terror could fully settle into your bones, a deafening, high-pitched screech tore through the cavernous space.

It was feedback, a violent, high-decibel audio crackling through a hidden horn speaker high up in the rafters. You both winced, slamming your hands over your ears as the sound ricocheted off the hard tiles, rattling through your teeth. Then came a voice. It was electronically altered, shifted down into a heavy, gravelly rasp that sounded synthesised and metallic, yet underlined by an unmistakably mocking, sing-song cadence.

"Oh, look at you two," the voice purred from above, dripping with cruel amusement. "The great FBI profilers. The intellectual elite from Quantico. You spent three weeks reading my crime scenes. Analysing my pathology. Writing little notes on your glass whiteboards about my insecurities. And now... look at you. Scrambling in the dirt like rats in a bucket."

Hotch stood up instantly, putting himself half an inch in front of you, his body instinctively forming a barrier, his eyes searching the dark rafters for the lens of a camera.

"You like games, don't you, Aaron?" the speaker crackled, followed by the wet, clicking sound of someone chewing tongue-in-cheek. "You study human behavior. You think you know what people do when they're pushed to the edge. So let's test your little theories. Let's see how noble the BAU really is when the light goes out."

A harsh, mechanical clunk echoed near the center of the pool, followed by the metallic skittering of something heavy sliding across the concrete incline.

Your eyes snapped down to the drain at the lowest point of the floor, right in the center of your overlapping reach. Resting squarely over the rusted iron grate was a sleek, matte-black Glock 19 pistol. Next to it, glinting dull yellow in the pale shafts of moonlight, lay a single brass 9mm cartridge.

"The rules are so very simple," the unsub’s voice crooned, mocking and light, as if explaining a children's board game. "Eeny, meeny, miny, moe... catch a profiler by the toe. One gun. One bullet. One door that unlocks when the scale is balanced. One of you leaves alive. The other stays behind to rot. Who lives and who goes? I'll let you two draw up the profile on that." The speaker cut out with a sharp, static pop.

Silence rushed back in, heavy, cold, and suffocating.

The profile screamed through both of your minds simultaneously. This was the unsub's exact MO from the regional cases you had been tracking, forced psychological cannibalism. He didn't execute his victims himself, he captured pairs, partners, siblings, lovers, and forced them into a zero-sum nightmare where survival required murder, leaving the survivor destroyed by guilt.

Hotch’s dark eyes locked onto the black metal weapon on the floor.

"Don't move," Hotch said softly. The tone was no longer that of a trapped victim. It was Unit Chief Aaron Hotchner, cold, absolute, terrifyingly composed. "Stay where you are."

"Hotch-"

"That is an order," he said, turning his head slightly, his gaze sharp enough to cut glass. "You do not touch that weapon."

"We aren't in a briefing room!" you yelled, the fear and adrenaline finally boiling over, your voice echoing off the damp tiles. "You don't get to pull rank down here! Look at us! We are chained in a hole!"

"Which is precisely why you need to listen to me!" Hotch snapped back, his stoic veneer cracking, his voice dropping into a harsh, desperate whisper. "You take the gun. You load it. You shoot me."

A cold, nauseating shock hit your stomach. "What?"

"You heard me," he said, stepping as far toward the drain as his chain allowed, his eyes burning into yours with a terrifyingly clear resolve. "You pick up the round, you load the magazine, and you put a bullet through my heart. You walk out of here."

"Are you insane?!" you whispered, your voice cracking. "I am not shooting you!"

"Listen to the math!" Hotch demanded, his jaw clenching so hard the muscle twitched wildly beneath his pale skin. "It is a cold, tactical reality! Jack needs a father, yes, but more than that, I cannot allow you… a member of my team to die on my watch while I stand here and survive it! I won't do it!"

"So you think your life automatically means less than mine?!" you countered, tears of rage burning behind your eyelids as you stepped right up to the limit of your chain, mere inches from his chest. "You think you're just some noble sacrifice? 'The Unit Chief dies so the subordinate lives', is that the script you wrote in your head?!"

"It isn't a script, it's my responsibility!" Hotch shouted back, the sheer volume of his voice shocking you into silence. His chest was heaving, his breathing jagged. "My responsibility is to keep you safe! If one person walks out of this pool, it has to be you!"

"I am not letting you commit suicide by cop through me, Hotch!" you sobbed, the tears finally spilling over, cutting clean tracks through the grime on your face. "You have a son! You have Jack! He lost his mother! Do you have any idea what it would do to him to lose you too?! Do you think I could ever look that little boy in the eye, knowing I pulled the trigger on his father just so I could keep breathing?!"

"You wouldn't have to look him in the eye," Hotch whispered, his voice fracturing, a raw, bleeding edge of agony showing through his brown eyes. "You would live.”

"I am replaceable! The Bureau can assign another profiler to your unit by next Monday. Morgan is your muscle, Reid is your brains, Garcia is your tech. I-...The team can find another generic agent! But Jack cannot get another father! You have a life waiting for you out there! I am not trading your life for mine!"

Hotch stared down at you, his breathing shallow, his face inches from yours. Something deeply buried in his eyes broke, a floodgate of emotion he had kept locked behind steel doors for years.

Without another word, Hotch suddenly lunged downward toward the drain.

"NO!" you shrieked, diving forward, but your chain snapped taut, jerking your leg backward and slamming your knees into the harsh tile.

Hotch snatched the Glock off the concrete. With terrifying, practiced muscle memory, his hands worked in a blur, he slammed the single 9mm cartridge into the magazine, slapped the baseplate into the magwell, and racked the slide back with a sharp, heavy clack.

He didn't point the weapon at you.

He reversed his grip, turned the muzzle inward, and pressed the heavy steel barrel directly against the skin underneath his chin. His thumb rested firmly over the frame, slipping off the safety.

"NO! Stop! Please, Aaron, stop!" you screamed, dragging yourself through the dirt, reaching out your arms, but you were three agonising feet short of reaching his hands.

"Tell Jack I loved him," Hotch whispered softly, his fingers tightening against the trigger, his dark eyes fixed on yours with a cold, devastating peace. "Tell him I’m sorry."

"AARON, NO-!"

A high-pitched, mocking buzzer blasted through the horn speaker, cutting through the cavernous pool like a knife.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk... oh, Aaron. How predictably melodramatic," the unsub's electronic voice purred, practically dripping with sarcastic disappointment.

Hotch froze, the steel barrel still pressed hard against his jaw, his breath catching in his throat.

"Did you really think I didn't profile you?" the voice mocked, laughing softly, a cold, wet sound. "I knew you’d try the hero routine. martyr complex. 'I'll just shoot myself and save the girl.' How noble. How utterly boring."

A pause stretched over the tannoy, heavy and malicious.

"Let me clarify the rules for the hero," the voice continued, dropping into a low, vicious whisper. "If you pull that trigger and blow your own brains out, the game doesn't end. The door stays locked. And your precious little agent will sit down there in the dark, chained with your decaying corpse, listening to the flies, until she dies of dehydration over the next five days."

The speaker let out a final, taunting chuckle. "Choose wisely, profiler. Your death doesn't save her. It just guarantees she suffers longer."

Click. The tannoy went completely dead.

The silence that followed was suffocating, heavy enough to crush bone.

Hotch stood motionless in the center of the floor. The weapon trembled slightly in his hand. The horrifying, mathematical reality of the unsub's trap settled over him like a shroud, self-sacrifice stripped away. Suicide was not a rescue, it was a slow, tortured execution of the person he was trying to protect. Slowly, his fingers shaking, Hotch eased his finger off the trigger. He engaged the safety, pulled the slide back to catch the unfired cartridge as it ejected, and let the empty pistol and single brass bullet fall back onto the iron grate between you with a dull clatter.

He sank to his knees in the dirt. Moving slowly, as if carrying the weight of the entire world on his shoulders, Hotch dragged himself across the concrete until he reached the absolute limit of his chain, mere inches from where you sat curled with your knees against your chest, weeping on the floor.

Reaching out a trembling, dirt-stained hand, Hotch gently cupped the side of your face. His skin was cold, but his thumb was unbelievably soft as it swept across your cheekbone, wiping away a streak of tears and grime. "I'm sorry," he breathed, his voice breaking into a quiet, fractured whisper. He leaned forward until his forehead rested lightly against yours, his dark eyes searching yours with an unbearable, heartbreaking vulnerability. "I'm so sorry... you're not replaceable. Not to the team. Not to me."

Your fingers curled into the ripped sleeves of his shirt, pulling the fabric taught around his arms. Your breath hitched in your throat, a sob that echoed off the vast tiles. As Hotch’s fingers curled around the back of your head, a single red LED light began to blink slowly high up in the dark.

–

The atmosphere inside the BAU bullpen was suffocating.

Twelve hours. 

Twelve harrowing hours had passed since you and Aaron had missed your mandatory morning check-in while following up on a local lead in rural Maryland. Twelve hours of silent cell phones, dead GPS trackers, and a cold case file sitting open on the glass round table in the conference room.

Penelope Garcia sat at her primary console, her usual bright, eccentric clothing replaced by an oversized black cardigan. Her eyes were bloodshot, mascara smudged down her cheeks, her fingers flying across her glowing keyboards in an absolute, frantic blur of desperation. Derek Morgan paced the perimeter of the bullpen like a caged predator, his leather jacket discarded, his sleeves rolled up, his hands clenched so tightly into fists that his knuckles were stark white.

Spencer Reid stood near the central glass board, staring blankly at the tactical map of your last known cell tower ping, holding his notebook so tightly the covers ripped.

JJ stood near the glass wall of the briefing room, her arms wrapped tightly around herself, her phone glued to her ear, listening to an automated voicemail for the hundredth time.

"Give me something, Garcia," Morgan growled, his voice dangerously low, stripped of all its usual humor. "Anything. A traffic camera, an ATM sweep, a credit card hit, give me a direction."

"I'm trying!" Garcia choked out, her voice cracking as a fresh tear spilled down her face. "I'm scrubbing every closed-circuit feed within a sixty-mile radius of the dump site! They vanished off the grid! Their state vehicles were wiped clean! There’s no-"

A sharp, piercing digital tone chimed through the bullpen's main audio array. The entire room froze. The click of keyboards stopped instantly.

"What was that?" Spencer asked, taking three long strides toward Garcia’s desk.

"An incoming high-priority network packet..." Garcia whispered, her hands trembling so violently she could barely hit the spacebar. "It bypassed the FBI gateway security... it’s an auto-executing socket connection routed through a darknet proxy."

"Trace it," Morgan snapped, instantly leaning over her shoulder, his jaw set like iron. "Isolate the node before you execute-"

"I can't block it!" Garcia cried out, burying her face in her hands for a brief second before pulling back. "It’s an auto-launch video stream! It's forcing itself onto the main bullpen display!"

The massive glass screen mounted on the wall of the bullpen flickered. A line of corrupted red code scrolled across the top, followed by a harsh burst of static. Then, the picture resolved. It was a high-definition, crisp video feed. There was no audio, the stream had been intentionally muted at the source, but the visual clarity was nightmare inducing. A dimly lit, abandoned indoor swimming pool. The steep concrete floor of the deep end, covered in dirt and dried water stains. Two figures sitting in the center of the frame, heavy iron shackles wrapped tight around their ankles, chains anchored into the solid wall.

And lying directly between them, resting on a rusted iron drain grate, sat a black Glock pistol and a single, brass bullet.

"Oh, God..." JJ gasped, slamming her hand over her mouth, stumbling back against the glass wall.

Morgan stepped back as if he had been physically hit in the chest, his eyes wide, his chest heaving. "Hotch..."

On the wall display, the team watched in agonising, silent terror as the drama unfolded in real time.

They saw Hotch on his knees, reaching out to gently, desperately cup the side of your face. They saw the raw, unshielded tenderness in his body language, a soft, disturbing vulnerability that none of them had ever seen on their stoic, unyielding Unit Chief in all the years they had worked beside him. They watched you weeping, reaching for him, your foreheads pressed together in the dark hole, locked in a silent, desperate exchange of words the team couldn't hear.

"He didn't just take them," Spencer whispered, his voice dropping,  his dark eyes locked onto the black gun on the screen. "He's making them play his game."

"And he's forcing us to watch," Morgan gritted out, his knuckles popping as his hands balled into fists.

Garcia looked up at the screen, her heart breaking into a thousand pieces as she watched her boss, the man who held the entire team together, hold your face in his hands like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

"Find them, Garcia," Morgan demanded, his voice cracking with lethal intent. "Find them right now."

–

The metallic echo of the unsub’s voice slowly dissolved into the vast, cavernous silence of the abandoned pool. The air remained dead and heavy, thick with the stench of stagnant dampness, pulverised mortar, and the lingering, sulfurous bite of industrial chemicals. In the dim light, the matte-black glock lay undisturbed atop the iron drain. It was no longer just a weapon, it was a physical monument to your helplessness, a cruel centerpiece around which your captivity revolved.

Hotch remained kneeling in the grit, his breathing slow and measured, though the muscles along his jaw were locked so tight they twitched. His eyes hadn't left yours. The thumb that had wiped away your tear lingered against your skin for a second longer than protocol ever allowed before his hand slowly, reluctantly dropped back to his side.

"We need to preserve our energy," Hotch said softly, his voice returning to that low, steady baritone, though the raw strain beneath it was unmistakable. "Dehydration will set in within twenty-four hours. Shock and blood loss will accelerate it. Every unnecessary movement, every rise in heart rate, consumes resources we can't afford to waste."

You nodded numbly, the reality of your predicament settling like lead in your chest. You looked up into the dark rafters, your eyes scanning the heavy iron trusses and ruined skylights. The cavernous ceiling was swallow-whole by shadow, completely obscured by decades of soot and dust. There was no visible glass, no glint of metal, nothing to indicate where the speaker had been placed, or that a hidden lens was tucked deep within the dark scaffolding above, silently capturing every breath, every flinch, every involuntary touch, and transmitting it directly to the horror-struck bullpen in Quantico.

To you and Hotch, you were completely alone in the dark.

"Come here," Hotch murmured, gesturing to the narrow strip of concrete floor where your two chains overlapped. Moving with a weak slowness to spare your throbbing head and bruised ribs, you dragged yourself across the gritty floor. The iron shackle scraped loudly against the concrete, a dull, harsh clank that made you wince. Hotch shifted his weight, backing up until his broad spine pressed flush against the damp, mold-stained tile wall of the deep end. You settled beside him, pulling your knees up toward your chest to trap what little body heat remained in your shivering frame. The concrete beneath you was mercilessly cold, seeping through your clothes and settling deep into your bones. Hotch didn't hesitate, he shifted closer, closing the small gap between you until his shoulder pressed firmly against yours, providing a solid, unyielding anchor of warmth in the freezing dark.

For a long time, neither of you spoke. The silence stretched, filled only by the distant, rhythmic dripping of water somewhere in the upper pipes and the synchronised cadence of your breathing.

"How is your head?" Hotch asked softly, breaking the silence without looking over. His eyes remained fixed on the far wall, vigilant, constantly calculating.

"It throbs," you admitted, your voice small, swallowed by the vastness of the room. "Feels like someone’s squeezing my temples. But I can focus. I don't think my skull is fractured."

"Good," he murmured. "And the concussion?"

"Manageable. I'm not nauseous anymore." You turned your head slightly, looking at the dark profile of his face, the sharp line of his jaw, the dark circles bruising the skin beneath his eyes, the grime smeared across his cheekbone. "What about you? Your shoulder..."

"Soft tissue damage from the impact when they took us," he replied dismissively, classic Hotchner, brushing aside his own pain as if it were a minor inconvenience. "Nothing broken. I'll survive it."

You let out a faint, dry breath that was almost a laugh, though there was no humor in it. "You always say that. I'll survive it. Like it's just an administrative task on your desk."

A faint, almost imperceptible tilt appeared at the corner of his lips, a shadow of a smile that vanished as quickly as it came. "It's a necessity."

"We're off the clock, Hotch," you whispered, leaning back against the cold tiles, your eyes tracking the pale moonlight drifting through the broken skylight above. "You don't have to put on the armor down here."

The silence returned, heavier this time, carrying all the unsaid things that had piled up between you over months of late-night file reviews, shared flights on the jet, and longing glances across crowded rooms.

Hotch exhaled, a long, shuddering breath that rattled faintly in his chest. "I should have seen the counter-surveillance," he said quietly, his tone dropping into a rare, painful register of self-reproach. "When we went to verify the secondary warehouse address in Maryland. The vehicle parked two blocks back... I logged it, but I didn't push for local backup before we breached the perimeter. I broke protocol."

"Stop," you said firmly, turning your face toward his. "He ambushed us with a localised flash-bang and CS gas in a closed hallway. You didn't break protocol. He set a trap, and we walked into it together. Profilers aren't psychic."

"It's my job to foresee the variables," he insisted, his voice laced with guilt. "My job is to bring every single member of my team home alive at the end of a case. And right now... I have put you in a position where survival depends on a monster's whim."

"You didn't put me anywhere," you said softly, reaching out to catch his arm. Your fingers gripped the rough, torn cotton of his sleeve, feeling the rigid, tense muscle beneath. "I'm here because I chose this job. Because I chose this team. Because I chose to follow you into that building."

Hotch slowly turned his head. In the dim moonlight, his dark eyes met yours. The stoic, unyielding chief of the Behavioral Analysis Unit was gone, replaced entirely by a man stripped raw, exhausted, and utterly terrified, not for himself, but for you.

"I can't lose you," he whispered. The words were so quiet, so devoid of his usual authority, that they sounded almost fragile. "I've lost... I have lost too much. If I lose you like this..." He swallowed hard, his throat working as he cut himself off, unable to voice the end of the thought. Your chest ached with a physical, crushing tightness. Without thinking, without care for protocols or boundaries or the professional distance you had maintained for so long, you let your head drop sideways, resting it firmly against the crook of his shoulder.

Hotch stiffened for a single heartbeat, his breath catching in his throat at the sudden, intimate contact. Then, with a long, trembling exhale, the tension bled out of his frame. He let his head tilt slightly, his cheek coming to rest lightly against the crown of your hair.

Slowly, deliberately, Hotch brought his hand down. His large, calloused fingers brushed against your wrist, tracing the sensitive skin before his palm encompassed yours. His fingers laced through yours, his grip firm, steady, and unyielding, a human anchor tethering both of you to reality in the middle of a nightmare.

"I won't let him break you," Hotch murmured into your hair, his voice fierce, low, and absolute. "I promise you. Whatever comes next... I won't let him break you."

You squeezed his hand in response, burying your face deeper into the solid warmth of his shoulder, letting the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest steady your own frantic heart. “I know.” You murmured gently.

High above you, hidden deep within the black lattice of the ceiling trusses, the tiny red lens of the concealed camera continued to blink silently in the dark. And miles away in Quantico, projected in sickening, high-definition clarity across the main monitor of the bullpen, the entire team stood frozen in total, breathless silence, watching their boss hold your hand in the dark, tethered to a cold concrete floor, waiting out the night together.

–

Your eyes flickered open to a heavy, suffocating darkness, broken only by the faint, icy shaft of moonlight filtering down through the broken skylight above. Your body was rigid with cold, every muscle aching from the relentless chill of the concrete floor. But you weren't lying flat against the grit. Your head was resting in the soft fold of warm, coarse fabric. A heavy, comforting weight on the crown of your head as Aaron’s palm cradled you, his fingers lightly curled around the strands of your hair. You shifted slightly, wincing as a dull spike of pain throbbed behind your eyes. Above you, the steady, rhythmic rise and fall of a chest vibrated against your temple. You looked up into the gloom.

Aaron was leaning back against the cold, mold-stained tiles of the pool wall. His chin was resting against his collarbone, his dark eyes closed, his breathing long and deliberate. His face was a mask of pale exhaustion, deep dark circles bruised under his eyes, grime and dried blood smudging his cheek. Yet his jaw was tight, his body tense, a man locked in a state of hyper-vigilance even while motionless. He hadn't slept. He couldn't.

Your movement caused his eyes to snap open instantly, dark and piercingly sharp in the gloom, instantly assessing your surroundings before dropping down to lock onto yours. "Don't move too fast," Aaron whispered. His voice was raw, a rough rasp stripped down by hours of cold air and zero water.

You didn't move away. The warmth radiating from him was the only thing keeping the shivering in your limbs manageable. "How long was I out?"

"Roughly four hours," Aaron murmured, moving his hand to rest on the concrete inches from your head, his fingers twitching slightly before he pulled them back, keeping a rigid handle on himself. "It's close to four in the morning."

You let out a soft, dry breath, your throat feeling like it was lined with glass. "You didn't sleep at all."

"Someone needed to stay awake," he replied simply. His voice carried that familiar, immovable weight, standing guard even when chained by the ankle to a floor. "The temperature dropped significantly around midnight. If I let you slide onto the bare concrete, hypothermia would set in faster."

You slowly pushed yourself up, sitting beside him against the tiled wall. The heavy iron shackle around your right ankle clinked softly, a cold reminder of the iron ring binding you to the concrete floor. You pulled your knees to your chest, shivering violently as the damp chill seeped back into your clothes.

"Any sign of him?" you asked softly, your eyes scanning the dark, cavernous rafters overhead.

"No," Aaron said, his gaze fixed on the matte-black Glock sitting in the middle of the floor atop the rusted drain, its solitary brass round gleaming dully in the dim light. "He’s watching. But he hasn't moved. He's letting the environment do his work for him. Hunger, dehydration, isolation, sleep deprivation. He wants our cognitive functions to degrade until impulse overrides judgment."

"He doesn't know us very well then," you murmured, resting your side against his broad shoulder for warmth.

An almost imperceptible exhalation escaped Aaron, a phantom of a laugh. "No. He doesn't.” He paused, his lips setting into a straight line again, his eyes trained on the gun, unmoving and deep in thought. “If it comes to that-”

“No.” You cut him off, sensing the direction of his conversation. “No.” You repeated, watching as his eyes moved to you, registering the clarity in them, the unmoving stubbornness that he admired so much. His throat worked as he swallowed, and he bowed his head in a single nod before leaning it back against the tile again.

Silence settled between you again, heavy and thick, but no longer suffocating. In the dark, stripped of Quantico's glass walls, case files, and tactical vests, the silence felt remarkably soft.

"What were you thinking about?" you asked softly, watching the faint rise and fall of his breath. "While I was asleep."

Aaron was quiet for a long moment. His eyes remained fixed on the shadow-draped incline leading up to the shallow end. "My first year at the Bureau," he murmured, his baritone dipping into a lower, introspective register you rarely heard. "I spent six months convincing myself I was entirely prepared for the weight of the job. I thought logic, procedure, and emotional detachment were absolute shields."

"And were they?"

"No," he said gently, turning his head to look at you in the dim light. "They're just tools to keep you moving forward. But the weight never leaves. You learn to carry it, or it crushes you." He paused, his dark eyes searching your face with unbreakable intensity. "I was thinking about how much of that weight I've watched you take on since you joined the unit. You carry it well. Too well, sometimes."

Your chest tightened, a strange, bittersweet ache blooming behind your ribs. "I learned from the best."

"Don't copy my mistakes," Aaron murmured, his voice dropping an octave, laced with an undeniable sincerity. "I spent years building these walls because I thought it protected the people around me. It didn't. It just left me alone."

You reached out, your fingers finding his arm, lightly resting against the torn, filthy sleeve of his dress shirt. "You're not alone down here, Aaron."

Aaron looked down at your hand on his arm, his expression shifting, a subtle, vulnerable crack in his iron composure. He didn't pull away. He turned his palm upward, his large, calloused fingers gently wrapping around yours, squeezing with a grounding strength.

"No," he whispered, his eyes meeting yours in the dark. "I'm not."

–

The BAU bullpen was bathed in the harsh, sterile glow of overhead fluorescent lights and computer monitors. Nobody had slept. Coffee cups, cold and abandoned, littered the desks alongside maps, property deeds, and tactical schematics. On the massive glass monitor at the front of the room, the silent feed continued to stream.

On the screen, Aaron and you sat side-by-side against the dark wall of the pool. To anyone else, it was a picture of two hostages freezing in the dark. But to the team who knew Aaron Hotchner better than anyone, the way his body was angled toward you, shielding you from the cold draft of the room, holding your hand in the dark, was a silent, heart-wrenching revelation.

Morgan stood in front of the board, his eyes red-rimmed, staring at a map of Maryland with a marker gripped so tightly in his hand that his knuckles were white.

"He took them from a secondary site in suburban Baltimore," Morgan gritted out, his voice hoarse from hours of shouting and endless phone calls. "We found their abandoned SUV three miles out. Tires slashed, comms jammed. He had a two-hour window before we even flagged them missing."

"Look at the masonry in the background of the feed," Spencer said, walking up to Garcia’s desk, pointing a laser pointer at the top left corner of the live stream. "Garcia, zoom in on those structural beams above the pool deck."

Garcia’s fingers flew over her keyboard, her face pale, her eyes rimmed red with dried tears. The image enlarged, grainy but readable. "Okay, zooming in. What am I looking at, Reid?"

"Those aren't standard residential trusses," Spencer observed, his voice cold and analytical. "They're reinforced steel beams with rivets used in late 1920s civic construction. This isn't a private mansion or a gym. It's a municipal pool built during the public works administration era."

"Public works... public works..." Garcia muttered, her fingers becoming a blur across her glowing light-board. "Filtering closed municipal facilities, high schools, and recreational centers built between 1930 and 1940 within a fifty-mile radius of the snatch site..."

"Cross-reference with properties foreclosed or abandoned after the county water treatment in the 1980s," JJ added, leaning over Garcia’s chair, her voice tight with suppressed fear. "The unsub needs an isolated facility with industrial drainage,somewhere he could set up heavy chains and a closed-circuit stream without drawing power grid spikes."

"I've got seventy-four potential sites," Garcia gasped, her screen lighting up with a dizzying list of addresses.

"Filter it further!" Morgan snapped, slamming his hand onto the edge of the desk, his eyes darting back to the live monitor where Aaron was gently adjusting his position to cover your shoulder with his frame. "Look at him down there! They've been in that hole for over twelve hours without food or water! We don't have time to knock on seventy-four doors, Garcia!"

"I'm working as fast as I can!" Garcia cried, tears spilling over her lashes. "He's running the feed through seven bouncing proxies in Eastern Europe! I can't reverse-trace the IP without triggering an auto-kill switch on the stream! If I mess up, the feed goes black and we lose line of sight entirely!"

Rossi placed a firm, steadying hand on Garcia's shoulder. "Breathe, Penelope. Look at the feed. Look at Hotch. He’s keeping her alive. He’s keeping her focused. They are buying us time. Now let's do our job and buy them theirs."

–

Down in the deep end, the stillness was broken by a sudden, harsh, high-pitched squelch of electronic static.

The sound exploded out of the darkness like a physical blow. You both flinched violently, Aaron instantly shifting his body in front of yours, his arm extending to push you back against the wall as his eyes snapped up toward the hidden speakers in the dark ceiling.

The static smoothed out into the wet, sickeningly cheerful rasp of the unsub’s electronically pitched voice. "Good morning, my dear profilers," the speaker crackled, dripping with cruel, sing-song mockery. "Did we sleep well? Oh, wait... of course you didn't. The concrete is so very cold, isn't it? And look at you two, curled up together like stray dogs in an alley. How sweet. How thoroughly touching."

Aaron didn't say a word. His face hardened into a mask of pure stone, his dark eyes cold, calculating, searching the shadows of the ceiling for any glint of hardware or movement.

"You know," the voice continued, chuckling softly, a wet, clicking sound that echoed off the tiles, "I’ve been watching your little team back at Quantico. They are running around like ants in a flooded nest! Oh, if you could see them, Aaron! Agent Morgan is practically vibrating with rage. And the blonde one... poor girl looks like she’s about to throw up."

Your heart hammered against your ribs. 

"They can see you, you know," the unsub purred, his tone shifting into a malicious, delighted whisper. "Right now. High definition. Muted audio, of course, I like to keep some secrets, but they can see every pathetic, desperate little detail. They saw you holding her hand, Aaron. They saw her resting her head on your chest in the dark. So very romantic for a Unit Chief and his subordinate."

Your breath hitched. A sickening spike of heat flushed through your skin despite the freezing cold. The thought of the entire bullpen watching you trapped down here, watching the vulnerable moments you had shared. 

"So," the unsub snapped his fingers, the sharp sound popping loudly through the speaker, "let's give your audience a real show. Let's see how much dignity the BAU has left when forced to strip away the uniform."

"Whatever you're planning, it ends with you in a cell," Aaron said, his deep baritone cutting through the cavernous room, loud, firm, and entirely devoid of fear. "You want a psychological reaction. You won't get it."

"Oh, I think I will, Aaron," the voice sneered. "Because right now, you two still look like federal agents. You still think you have control. You still hold yourselves like you're above the mud. Let's fix that."

A heavy mechanical latch clicked somewhere near the top of the pool incline.

"In that little hole in the wall… you see it Aaron, don’t you? there is a silver tin and a full bottle of fresh water," the unsub crooned. "Inside the tin is a single ration of thick, medical-grade antibiotic salve and fresh gauze. Your poor agent's ankle shackle is already chafing, isn't it? By nightfall, without treatment, the open sores against that rusted iron will turn septic. And without water... Well, neither of you will last another twenty-four hours."

You looked down near the drain. Sitting inside a hole in the wall, behind a locked grate, was a small silver tin and a clear plastic bottle filled with pristine, clean water.

"To get the water and the medicine, there is a small price," the voice whispered, dropping into a dark, intimate purr. "Aaron... I want you to strip her of her upper clothing."

Your stomach dropped.

"What?" you breathed, your voice barely a rasp.

"You heard me," the unsub laughed, the sound twisted and distorted through the speaker. "The shirt, the undershirt…. The bra. All of it. I want you, Aaron, to undo every button, pull the fabric off her skin, and toss it up over the pool lip where neither of you can reach it again. Leave her exposed to the freezing cold, sitting in nothing but her trousers in front of that camera."

"No," Aaron said immediately, his voice dropping into a register so dark and lethal it vibrated through the concrete floor. "I will not."

"Think carefully, Aaron," the unsub taunted. "If you refuse, I leave the water where it is and turn off the air circulation. She dehydrates, her wound rots, and she suffers while you watch. But if you comply... if you violate protocol, if you strip down your subordinate in front of her colleagues, in front of the entire FBI hierarchy watching this stream... you both drink. She gets the medicine. She survives the day."

The speaker let out a wet, mocking chuckle.

"I want to see the unshakeable Aaron Hotchner unbuttoning his subordinate's clothes like a petty predator. I want your team at Quantico to watch their boss reduce you to bare skin in a concrete hole. I want you to look each other in the eye afterward and pretend you're still professional colleagues. You have two minutes."

Click.

The tannoy went dead.

The silence that returned was thick, suffocating, and vile. You sat frozen against the wall, your skin crawling, tears of pure humiliation burning hot behind your eyelids. It wasn't about physical pain, it was about psychological violation. It was designed to strip away every layer of professional boundaries, to force Aaron into performing an act of forced vulnerability upon you, and to broadcast that humiliation to everyone who respected you both back home.

Aaron stood rooted to the spot. His face had drained of all color, turning a ghostly, deathly pale. His hands were clenched into tight, violent fists at his sides, trembling with an uncontrollable, silent fury.

"No..." Aaron whispered, his voice cracking, raw as scraped iron. "No. I won't. I won't touch you."

"Aaron..." your voice trembled, dry as ash in your throat.

"I won't do it!" Aaron suddenly roared at the dark ceiling, his baritone tearing out of his chest, echoing violently off the tiles like a wounded animal. "DO YOU HEAR ME?! I WILL NOT TOUCH HER!"

"Aaron, stop! Look at me!" you demanded, dragging yourself forward as far as your chain allowed, ignoring the torturous bite of the iron against your swollen ankle. "Aaron, look at me!"

He turned his head slowly, his breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. The unshakeable Unit Chief of the BAU looked completely destroyed. His dark eyes were wide, filled with a suffocating, unbearable horror.

"We need that water," you whispered, your hands trembling violently as you reached for him, grabbing his wrists. His skin was burning hot against your freezing fingers. "Look at my leg, Aaron. It's already infected. If we don't get that water and that salve, we won't last long enough for them to find us."

"I can't," Aaron breathed, a single tear slipping past his lashes, cutting a clean track through the grime on his cheek. "I can't do that to you. I won't strip you down... I won't violate you like this. Not in front of them. Not in front of anyone."

"It's not a violation if I'm asking you to do it." you argued, your voice as calm as you could muster as you pulled his hands toward your chest. "It's just fabric, Aaron. It's just clothes, he wants to break your spirit, he wants to make you feel dirty so you give up, don't let him win."

"No-”

"Do it, Aaron." you said, pressing his trembling hands flat against the top buttons of your shirt. "Please. I need you to do it. We need that water, Jack needs you to come home… Please."

Aaron stared down at your hands holding his against your chest. His jaw twitched, his teeth grinding together so hard a muscle flared violently in his cheek. He looked into your eyes, seeing the terrifying blend of humiliation, terror, and despite everything… trust shining through your tears.

"I'm sorry," he choked out, his voice a broken, agonising whisper. "I'm so sorry..."

His hands, usually so steady and precise, trembled fiercely as his fingers fumbled with the top button of your shirt. He kept his eyes locked firmly onto yours, refusing to look down, refusing to give the hidden lens overhead the satisfaction of seeing him treat you as anything less than sacred.

One by one, the buttons slipped free under his calloused fingers. The cold air hit your bare skin like a physical slap, making you gasp and shiver uncontrollably. Aaron’s hands were gentle, heartbreakingly so, as he peeled the ruined fabric off your shoulders, his fingertips barely brushing your skin, careful not to touch you any more than necessary.

With a ragged breath, he pulled your shirt and undershirt away, before gently placing his hands on your shoulders to turn you. With your back to him, his fingers lowered to the hooks on the clasp of your bra. The fabric fell from your chest, your nipples peaking in the cold. His jaw pulled taught as he let out another breath that fanned across the bare skin of your back before turning and hurling the fabric high up onto the pool deck out of reach. You stood exposed in the freezing dark, clutching your arms around your ribs, shivering violently from both the cold and the sheer, crushing humiliation of the moment. The grate that the water and tin were hidden behind lifted with a metallic clunk as the lock disengaged.

Without a word, Aaron lunged toward the drain. He snatched the silver tin and the water bottle, scrambling back to you in a frenzy. He uncapped the bottle with shaking hands and held it to your lips, steadying your chin with one warm hand while you drank greedily, the cool water rushing down your parched throat.

"Save half," you gasped out, pushing the bottle back toward his chest. "You need to drink, Aaron. Take it."

Aaron didn't argue. He threw his head back and swallowed the remaining water, his throat working as he emptied the plastic bottle. He immediately cracked open the silver tin, scooping out the thick antibiotic salve with his fingers. He knelt at your feet, his hands trembling as he tenderly applied the cold paste over the raw, bleeding skin around your chained ankle, wrapping it swiftly in the clean gauze.

When he finished, Aaron didn't move away. He immediately pulled off his own torn dress shirt, leaving himself in his undershirt, and wrapped the warm fabric around your bare shoulders. He pulled you hard against his chest, wrapping his broad arms entirely around your frame, burying his face into the crook of your neck to shield your exposed skin from the camera's view.

"I'm sorry," Aaron breathed into your skin, his body trembling with a mixture of rage, exhaustion, and fierce protection as his arms locked around you like iron bands. "I've got you..."

You buried your face into his shoulder, sobbing quietly as the warmth of his body seeped back into yours, the taste of clean water still on your tongue.

The silence that followed the ordeal was hollow, heavy, and thick with the scent of stale water and raw humiliation.

You sat pressed firmly against Aaron's chest, wrapped in his dress shirt. His broad arms remained locked around you like iron bars, his chin resting against the crown of your head, shielding your shivering frame from the cold air and the invisible eye of the camera overhead. His heart hammered in a hard, erratic rhythm against your ear, a wild contrast to the steady, unyielding mask he presented to the world.

For a long time, neither of you spoke. The water was gone, the empty plastic bottle crushed beneath Aaron's heel near the drain, and the cold paste on your ankle throbbed with a dull, manageable ache.

High above you, hidden deep within the dark rafters, the tiny red lens of the camera continued to blink silently in the dark. And miles away in Quantico, standing in front of the silent, high-definition display screen, Derek Morgan covered his mouth with a trembling hand, Rossi turned his face away in sickened, helpless fury, Spencer kept his eyes firmly locked on the floor, his jaw so tight his teeth could crack, JJ’s fingers dug into Emily’s arm and Garcia sobbed into her hands, watching their unshakeable leader hold you against his chest in the dirt, wrapped around you like a shield.

–

Time in the pool lost its meaning, measured not by hours or minutes, but by the slow, struggling decline of your bodies. The chill of the concrete floor had settled deep into your bones, a constant, dull ache that made every breath feel heavy. Your skin was cold, covered by Aaron’s ruined dress shirt. Aaron himself sat in his pale undershirt, his posture rigid despite his obvious exhaustion, his arm locked around you to share what little body heat he had left. His knuckles were still red from where he’d balled his hands into fists during the ordeal, his jaw set in a line of grim, unyielding determination.

The silver tin and the empty water bottle lay discarded near the drain. The water had taken the sharpest edge off your thirst, but it was a temporary mercy. Dehydration and shock were steady, silent enemies, wearing down your resolve bit by bit.

Then, the silence of the deep end was shattered.

A loud, ear-splitting screech of static ripped through the dark, bouncing violently off the damp, mold-stained tiles. You both flinched, Aaron instantly shifting his weight to pull you tighter against his chest, his body instinctively positioning itself as a barrier between you and whatever was coming.

High above, deep within the black lattice of the roof trusses, the speaker crackled to life once more.

"You've been very resilient," the unsub’s voice rasped, the electronic distortion giving it a flat, mechanical tone that made the words even colder. "You've survived the cold. You've survived the indignity. You've held onto each other like children in a storm. But patience is a luxury I am no longer inclined to extend."

A heavy, mechanical thunk echoed from the shadows above the pool deck, followed by a dull, rhythmic clicking sound.

On the tiled wall opposite your position, high above the reach of either chain, a bright red LED display flickered to life. Crimson numbers glowed in the darkness, sharp and unforgiving: 

06:00:00.

With a soft, electrical hum, the numbers shifted. 05:59:59.

"Six hours," the speaker crooned, the unsub’s tone dripping with dark, theatrical satisfaction. "Six hours to make your choice. The gun is still where you left it. One bullet. One trigger pull. If one of you is dead when that clock reaches zero, the survivor walks out. I will unlock the heavy steel doors at the top of the incline, and you may return to your lives."

The red light from the digital timer cast a long, bloody glare across the dark concrete floor, reflecting off the matte-black finish of the Glock resting on the rusted drain grate.

"And if the clock reaches zero while both of you are still breathing?" the unsub continued, his voice dropping into a sinister, low purr. "Then I will come down into that pit myself. And I will execute you both. The decision is yours."

A final, sharp click signaled the end of the broadcast, leaving only the relentless hum of the digital clock as it ticked down the seconds.

05:59:42.

05:59:41.

Tiled walls, discolored by decades of black mold and mineral streaks, stretched upward into a high ceiling of skeletal steel trusses. High overhead, narrow windows held broken panes of glass, letting in faint, sickly shafts of moonlight that sliced through clouds of suspended dust motes. You were in the deep end of an abandoned indoor swimming pool. The steep incline of the floor rose up behind you, leading toward a shallow end that was completely swallowed by shadow.

A sharp, heavy metallic clank echoed through the basin, the sound ringing off the hard walls like a gunshot. "Don't move too fast. You have a concussion." The voice was rough, gravelly, and stripped raw, but the underlying cadence, even in a rasping whisper, belonged to Unit Chief Aaron Hotchner.

"Hotch?" You whipped your head around, a sudden spike of motion that sent a nausea-inducing ripple through your brain.

Aaron sat roughly fourteen feet away, his back pressed against the sloped wall of the pool’s deep end. The sight of him was unnerving. His dark hair, usually parted and immaculately styled, fell across his forehead in damp, dark clumps. His suit jacket was gone, his crisp white dress shirt was ripped at the collar and heavily stained with oil, dirt, and a thick smudge of dried blood along the left shoulder. Yet despite the physical devastation, his dark eyes were focused, and moving over you with relentless, mechanical precision. "Check your limbs," he instructed softly, his baritone vibrating through the damp air. "Are you bleeding anywhere else? Any major fractures?"

"I... I don't think so," you breathed, your throat feeling as though it had been scrubbed with raw wire. "My head. My ribs."

You instinctually scrambled to cross the floor toward him, but a violent, unyielding jolt ripped through your right leg, snapping your heel back and slamming your body hard onto the tile. A sharp, lightning-hot spike of agony shot up your shin. You gasped, clutching your lower leg as a heavy, sickening rattle echoed off the tile floor. Wrapped firmly around your right ankle was a thick, industrial iron shackle. The metal was cold, biting directly into your skin. Attached to the collar was a dense, heavy-gauge steel chain, its links welded together and anchored directly into an iron eye-bolt sunk six inches into the pool wall behind you.

"Don't pull," Hotch ordered. His voice dropped into its familiar, stern register, the voice he used when de-escalating barricaded suspects, grounding subjects in shock, or commanding an operating room. "The edges are sharp. If you yank against the anchor, it’ll tear through your Achilles." He flexed his own right leg, pulling back the hem of his dark trousers to reveal not only that he had also been stripped of his shoes, but a matching iron cuff clamped around his ankle, its heavy chain stretching back to a secondary anchor bolt in the wall. “Ask me how I know.”

"Where are we?" you whispered, your fingers tracing the biting edge of the iron ring around your skin. "How long?"

"I woke up twenty minutes ago," Hotch said, his eyes scanning the steep, featureless tiling above your heads. "Based on the drying state of the blood on my shoulder, we've been unconscious for at least six hours. We were taken from the staging area outside the warehouse in Maryland."

Panic flared, a hot, suffocating burn in your throat. You dragged yourself to your feet, the chain clinking loudly, dragging through the dirt like a lead weight behind you. You rushed to the absolute limit of its slack. The heavy iron links went taut with a sharp ping, pulling your ankle back. The smooth, tiled pool walls rose at least twelve feet directly above your head, slicked over with a wet sheen of moss and mineral crust. The stainless-steel rungs of the ladder had been sawed off near the lip, leaving only rusted stubs embedded in the concrete above.

"There's no grip," you gasped, your nails scraping uselessly against the glazed tile. "It's completely smooth."

"Look at the floor angle," Hotch said smoothly, standing up. Even filthy and restrained, his posture was rigid, commanding space through sheer force of will. "The chain length gives each of us roughly an eight-foot radius. Our reach overlaps by about three feet in the center near the drainage grate."

"Hotch, look up there," you breathed, pointing toward the high rim above his side of the wall. "If I can get onto your shoulders, I might be able to reach the top of the pool floor, pull myself up, and find something to anchor a rope to."

Hotch didn't waste breath debating. He immediately dragged himself to the threshold of his chain's reach, stretching every link until the metal creaked and bit viciously into his skin. "Step on my knee first," he gritted out, bracing his palms flat against the cold tile wall, flexing his frame. "Then my shoulder. Drive your heel up, don't lean back."

You crossed the small circle of space where your two chained territories intersected. The moment your skin brushed his, your hands steadying against the solid, warm mass of his back, a surreal, sharp shock cut through the cold terror. For months at Quantico, between late-night case reviews, coffee runs, and shared silences over file folders, there had been an unspoken tension, a rigid line neither of you crossed due to protocol, rank, and fear of what lay beyond it. Now, stripped of rank and trapped in dark concrete, the physical proximity felt explosive.

You placed your bare foot on his thigh, then shifted your weight up onto his shoulder. Hotch exhaled sharply through his teeth, his shoulder muscles locking beneath your weight as he pushed upward, hoisting you higher into the gloom. "Can you reach?" he rasped. Warm breath fanned against your leg through the tear in your pants.

You stretched your arms until your shoulder sockets burned, your fingertips desperately scraping at the curved concrete lip of the pool deck. An inch. Just two inches more. You strained upward, your foot slipping slightly against his damp shirt. "I can't get a grip!" you gasped, your fingers slipping over smooth, algae-slicked tile. "It's slipping, there's no edge. I can't hold on!"

"Push!" Hotch commanded, his voice strained as his legs trembled under the uneven weight. "One more inch!"

You pushed onto your toes, the balls of your feet digging into Aaron’s shoulders as you desperately reached towards safety. Your fingers slid completely off the slick lip. Your center of gravity failed, and you slid down his back, falling heavily onto the concrete floor. Hotch turned instantly, catching you by the waist to break your impact, taking the brunt of your fall as you both crashed into the grit.

For three ragged heartbeats, you were pinned against his chest. His arms wrapped firmly around your waist, his heart hammering like a trapped bird against his ribs, his breath hot against your neck. His fingers tightened into your shirt, not like an officer holding a subordinate, but like a drowning man clinging to a lifeline.

Then, the cold reality of the room crashed back down. Hotch slowly let his hands fall away, his jaw clenching as he pulled back, instantly rebuilding the invisible wall between you.

You were trapped. Completely, utterly, and structurally trapped.

Before the terror could fully settle into your bones, a deafening, high-pitched screech tore through the cavernous space.

It was feedback, a violent, high-decibel audio crackling through a hidden horn speaker high up in the rafters. You both winced, slamming your hands over your ears as the sound ricocheted off the hard tiles, rattling through your teeth. Then came a voice. It was electronically altered, shifted down into a heavy, gravelly rasp that sounded synthesised and metallic, yet underlined by an unmistakably mocking, sing-song cadence.

"Oh, look at you two," the voice purred from above, dripping with cruel amusement. "The great FBI profilers. The intellectual elite from Quantico. You spent three weeks reading my crime scenes. Analysing my pathology. Writing little notes on your glass whiteboards about my insecurities. And now... look at you. Scrambling in the dirt like rats in a bucket."

Hotch stood up instantly, putting himself half an inch in front of you, his body instinctively forming a barrier, his eyes searching the dark rafters for the lens of a camera.

"You like games, don't you, Aaron?" the speaker crackled, followed by the wet, clicking sound of someone chewing tongue-in-cheek. "You study human behavior. You think you know what people do when they're pushed to the edge. So let's test your little theories. Let's see how noble the BAU really is when the light goes out."

A harsh, mechanical clunk echoed near the center of the pool, followed by the metallic skittering of something heavy sliding across the concrete incline.

Your eyes snapped down to the drain at the lowest point of the floor, right in the center of your overlapping reach. Resting squarely over the rusted iron grate was a sleek, matte-black Glock 19 pistol. Next to it, glinting dull yellow in the pale shafts of moonlight, lay a single brass 9mm cartridge.

"The rules are so very simple," the unsub’s voice crooned, mocking and light, as if explaining a children's board game. "Eeny, meeny, miny, moe... catch a profiler by the toe. One gun. One bullet. One door that unlocks when the scale is balanced. One of you leaves alive. The other stays behind to rot. Who lives and who goes? I'll let you two draw up the profile on that." The speaker cut out with a sharp, static pop.

Silence rushed back in, heavy, cold, and suffocating.

The profile screamed through both of your minds simultaneously. This was the unsub's exact MO from the regional cases you had been tracking, forced psychological cannibalism. He didn't execute his victims himself, he captured pairs, partners, siblings, lovers, and forced them into a zero-sum nightmare where survival required murder, leaving the survivor destroyed by guilt.

Hotch’s dark eyes locked onto the black metal weapon on the floor.

"Don't move," Hotch said softly. The tone was no longer that of a trapped victim. It was Unit Chief Aaron Hotchner, cold, absolute, terrifyingly composed. "Stay where you are."

"Hotch-"

"That is an order," he said, turning his head slightly, his gaze sharp enough to cut glass. "You do not touch that weapon."

"We aren't in a briefing room!" you yelled, the fear and adrenaline finally boiling over, your voice echoing off the damp tiles. "You don't get to pull rank down here! Look at us! We are chained in a hole!"

"Which is precisely why you need to listen to me!" Hotch snapped back, his stoic veneer cracking, his voice dropping into a harsh, desperate whisper. "You take the gun. You load it. You shoot me."

A cold, nauseating shock hit your stomach. "What?"

"You heard me," he said, stepping as far toward the drain as his chain allowed, his eyes burning into yours with a terrifyingly clear resolve. "You pick up the round, you load the magazine, and you put a bullet through my heart. You walk out of here."

"Are you insane?!" you whispered, your voice cracking. "I am not shooting you!"

"Listen to the math!" Hotch demanded, his jaw clenching so hard the muscle twitched wildly beneath his pale skin. "It is a cold, tactical reality! Jack needs a father, yes, but more than that, I cannot allow you… a member of my team to die on my watch while I stand here and survive it! I won't do it!"

"So you think your life automatically means less than mine?!" you countered, tears of rage burning behind your eyelids as you stepped right up to the limit of your chain, mere inches from his chest. "You think you're just some noble sacrifice? 'The Unit Chief dies so the subordinate lives', is that the script you wrote in your head?!"

"It isn't a script, it's my responsibility!" Hotch shouted back, the sheer volume of his voice shocking you into silence. His chest was heaving, his breathing jagged. "My responsibility is to keep you safe! If one person walks out of this pool, it has to be you!"

"I am not letting you commit suicide by cop through me, Hotch!" you sobbed, the tears finally spilling over, cutting clean tracks through the grime on your face. "You have a son! You have Jack! He lost his mother! Do you have any idea what it would do to him to lose you too?! Do you think I could ever look that little boy in the eye, knowing I pulled the trigger on his father just so I could keep breathing?!"

"You wouldn't have to look him in the eye," Hotch whispered, his voice fracturing, a raw, bleeding edge of agony showing through his brown eyes. "You would live.”

"I am replaceable! The Bureau can assign another profiler to your unit by next Monday. Morgan is your muscle, Reid is your brains, Garcia is your tech. I-...The team can find another generic agent! But Jack cannot get another father! You have a life waiting for you out there! I am not trading your life for mine!"

Hotch stared down at you, his breathing shallow, his face inches from yours. Something deeply buried in his eyes broke, a floodgate of emotion he had kept locked behind steel doors for years.

Without another word, Hotch suddenly lunged downward toward the drain.

"NO!" you shrieked, diving forward, but your chain snapped taut, jerking your leg backward and slamming your knees into the harsh tile.

Hotch snatched the Glock off the concrete. With terrifying, practiced muscle memory, his hands worked in a blur, he slammed the single 9mm cartridge into the magazine, slapped the baseplate into the magwell, and racked the slide back with a sharp, heavy clack.

He didn't point the weapon at you.

He reversed his grip, turned the muzzle inward, and pressed the heavy steel barrel directly against the skin underneath his chin. His thumb rested firmly over the frame, slipping off the safety.

"NO! Stop! Please, Aaron, stop!" you screamed, dragging yourself through the dirt, reaching out your arms, but you were three agonising feet short of reaching his hands.

"Tell Jack I loved him," Hotch whispered softly, his fingers tightening against the trigger, his dark eyes fixed on yours with a cold, devastating peace. "Tell him I’m sorry."

"AARON, NO-!"

A high-pitched, mocking buzzer blasted through the horn speaker, cutting through the cavernous pool like a knife.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk... oh, Aaron. How predictably melodramatic," the unsub's electronic voice purred, practically dripping with sarcastic disappointment.

Hotch froze, the steel barrel still pressed hard against his jaw, his breath catching in his throat.

"Did you really think I didn't profile you?" the voice mocked, laughing softly, a cold, wet sound. "I knew you’d try the hero routine. martyr complex. 'I'll just shoot myself and save the girl.' How noble. How utterly boring."

A pause stretched over the tannoy, heavy and malicious.

"Let me clarify the rules for the hero," the voice continued, dropping into a low, vicious whisper. "If you pull that trigger and blow your own brains out, the game doesn't end. The door stays locked. And your precious little agent will sit down there in the dark, chained with your decaying corpse, listening to the flies, until she dies of dehydration over the next five days."

The speaker let out a final, taunting chuckle. "Choose wisely, profiler. Your death doesn't save her. It just guarantees she suffers longer."

Click. The tannoy went completely dead.

The silence that followed was suffocating, heavy enough to crush bone.

Hotch stood motionless in the center of the floor. The weapon trembled slightly in his hand. The horrifying, mathematical reality of the unsub's trap settled over him like a shroud, self-sacrifice stripped away. Suicide was not a rescue, it was a slow, tortured execution of the person he was trying to protect. Slowly, his fingers shaking, Hotch eased his finger off the trigger. He engaged the safety, pulled the slide back to catch the unfired cartridge as it ejected, and let the empty pistol and single brass bullet fall back onto the iron grate between you with a dull clatter.

He sank to his knees in the dirt. Moving slowly, as if carrying the weight of the entire world on his shoulders, Hotch dragged himself across the concrete until he reached the absolute limit of his chain, mere inches from where you sat curled with your knees against your chest, weeping on the floor.

Reaching out a trembling, dirt-stained hand, Hotch gently cupped the side of your face. His skin was cold, but his thumb was unbelievably soft as it swept across your cheekbone, wiping away a streak of tears and grime. "I'm sorry," he breathed, his voice breaking into a quiet, fractured whisper. He leaned forward until his forehead rested lightly against yours, his dark eyes searching yours with an unbearable, heartbreaking vulnerability. "I'm so sorry... you're not replaceable. Not to the team. Not to me."

Your fingers curled into the ripped sleeves of his shirt, pulling the fabric taught around his arms. Your breath hitched in your throat, a sob that echoed off the vast tiles. As Hotch’s fingers curled around the back of your head, a single red LED light began to blink slowly high up in the dark.

–

The atmosphere inside the BAU bullpen was suffocating.

Twelve hours. 

Twelve harrowing hours had passed since you and Aaron had missed your mandatory morning check-in while following up on a local lead in rural Maryland. Twelve hours of silent cell phones, dead GPS trackers, and a cold case file sitting open on the glass round table in the conference room.

Penelope Garcia sat at her primary console, her usual bright, eccentric clothing replaced by an oversized black cardigan. Her eyes were bloodshot, mascara smudged down her cheeks, her fingers flying across her glowing keyboards in an absolute, frantic blur of desperation. Derek Morgan paced the perimeter of the bullpen like a caged predator, his leather jacket discarded, his sleeves rolled up, his hands clenched so tightly into fists that his knuckles were stark white.

Spencer Reid stood near the central glass board, staring blankly at the tactical map of your last known cell tower ping, holding his notebook so tightly the covers ripped.

JJ stood near the glass wall of the briefing room, her arms wrapped tightly around herself, her phone glued to her ear, listening to an automated voicemail for the hundredth time.

"Give me something, Garcia," Morgan growled, his voice dangerously low, stripped of all its usual humor. "Anything. A traffic camera, an ATM sweep, a credit card hit, give me a direction."

"I'm trying!" Garcia choked out, her voice cracking as a fresh tear spilled down her face. "I'm scrubbing every closed-circuit feed within a sixty-mile radius of the dump site! They vanished off the grid! Their state vehicles were wiped clean! There’s no-"

A sharp, piercing digital tone chimed through the bullpen's main audio array. The entire room froze. The click of keyboards stopped instantly.

"What was that?" Spencer asked, taking three long strides toward Garcia’s desk.

"An incoming high-priority network packet..." Garcia whispered, her hands trembling so violently she could barely hit the spacebar. "It bypassed the FBI gateway security... it’s an auto-executing socket connection routed through a darknet proxy."

"Trace it," Morgan snapped, instantly leaning over her shoulder, his jaw set like iron. "Isolate the node before you execute-"

"I can't block it!" Garcia cried out, burying her face in her hands for a brief second before pulling back. "It’s an auto-launch video stream! It's forcing itself onto the main bullpen display!"

The massive glass screen mounted on the wall of the bullpen flickered. A line of corrupted red code scrolled across the top, followed by a harsh burst of static. Then, the picture resolved. It was a high-definition, crisp video feed. There was no audio, the stream had been intentionally muted at the source, but the visual clarity was nightmare inducing. A dimly lit, abandoned indoor swimming pool. The steep concrete floor of the deep end, covered in dirt and dried water stains. Two figures sitting in the center of the frame, heavy iron shackles wrapped tight around their ankles, chains anchored into the solid wall.

And lying directly between them, resting on a rusted iron drain grate, sat a black Glock pistol and a single, brass bullet.

"Oh, God..." JJ gasped, slamming her hand over her mouth, stumbling back against the glass wall.

Morgan stepped back as if he had been physically hit in the chest, his eyes wide, his chest heaving. "Hotch..."

On the wall display, the team watched in agonising, silent terror as the drama unfolded in real time.

They saw Hotch on his knees, reaching out to gently, desperately cup the side of your face. They saw the raw, unshielded tenderness in his body language, a soft, disturbing vulnerability that none of them had ever seen on their stoic, unyielding Unit Chief in all the years they had worked beside him. They watched you weeping, reaching for him, your foreheads pressed together in the dark hole, locked in a silent, desperate exchange of words the team couldn't hear.

"He didn't just take them," Spencer whispered, his voice dropping,  his dark eyes locked onto the black gun on the screen. "He's making them play his game."

"And he's forcing us to watch," Morgan gritted out, his knuckles popping as his hands balled into fists.

Garcia looked up at the screen, her heart breaking into a thousand pieces as she watched her boss, the man who held the entire team together, hold your face in his hands like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

"Find them, Garcia," Morgan demanded, his voice cracking with lethal intent. "Find them right now."

–

The metallic echo of the unsub’s voice slowly dissolved into the vast, cavernous silence of the abandoned pool. The air remained dead and heavy, thick with the stench of stagnant dampness, pulverised mortar, and the lingering, sulfurous bite of industrial chemicals. In the dim light, the matte-black glock lay undisturbed atop the iron drain. It was no longer just a weapon, it was a physical monument to your helplessness, a cruel centerpiece around which your captivity revolved.

Hotch remained kneeling in the grit, his breathing slow and measured, though the muscles along his jaw were locked so tight they twitched. His eyes hadn't left yours. The thumb that had wiped away your tear lingered against your skin for a second longer than protocol ever allowed before his hand slowly, reluctantly dropped back to his side.

"We need to preserve our energy," Hotch said softly, his voice returning to that low, steady baritone, though the raw strain beneath it was unmistakable. "Dehydration will set in within twenty-four hours. Shock and blood loss will accelerate it. Every unnecessary movement, every rise in heart rate, consumes resources we can't afford to waste."

You nodded numbly, the reality of your predicament settling like lead in your chest. You looked up into the dark rafters, your eyes scanning the heavy iron trusses and ruined skylights. The cavernous ceiling was swallow-whole by shadow, completely obscured by decades of soot and dust. There was no visible glass, no glint of metal, nothing to indicate where the speaker had been placed, or that a hidden lens was tucked deep within the dark scaffolding above, silently capturing every breath, every flinch, every involuntary touch, and transmitting it directly to the horror-struck bullpen in Quantico.

To you and Hotch, you were completely alone in the dark.

"Come here," Hotch murmured, gesturing to the narrow strip of concrete floor where your two chains overlapped. Moving with a weak slowness to spare your throbbing head and bruised ribs, you dragged yourself across the gritty floor. The iron shackle scraped loudly against the concrete, a dull, harsh clank that made you wince. Hotch shifted his weight, backing up until his broad spine pressed flush against the damp, mold-stained tile wall of the deep end. You settled beside him, pulling your knees up toward your chest to trap what little body heat remained in your shivering frame. The concrete beneath you was mercilessly cold, seeping through your clothes and settling deep into your bones. Hotch didn't hesitate, he shifted closer, closing the small gap between you until his shoulder pressed firmly against yours, providing a solid, unyielding anchor of warmth in the freezing dark.

For a long time, neither of you spoke. The silence stretched, filled only by the distant, rhythmic dripping of water somewhere in the upper pipes and the synchronised cadence of your breathing.

"How is your head?" Hotch asked softly, breaking the silence without looking over. His eyes remained fixed on the far wall, vigilant, constantly calculating.

"It throbs," you admitted, your voice small, swallowed by the vastness of the room. "Feels like someone’s squeezing my temples. But I can focus. I don't think my skull is fractured."

"Good," he murmured. "And the concussion?"

"Manageable. I'm not nauseous anymore." You turned your head slightly, looking at the dark profile of his face, the sharp line of his jaw, the dark circles bruising the skin beneath his eyes, the grime smeared across his cheekbone. "What about you? Your shoulder..."

"Soft tissue damage from the impact when they took us," he replied dismissively, classic Hotchner, brushing aside his own pain as if it were a minor inconvenience. "Nothing broken. I'll survive it."

You let out a faint, dry breath that was almost a laugh, though there was no humor in it. "You always say that. I'll survive it. Like it's just an administrative task on your desk."

A faint, almost imperceptible tilt appeared at the corner of his lips, a shadow of a smile that vanished as quickly as it came. "It's a necessity."

"We're off the clock, Hotch," you whispered, leaning back against the cold tiles, your eyes tracking the pale moonlight drifting through the broken skylight above. "You don't have to put on the armor down here."

The silence returned, heavier this time, carrying all the unsaid things that had piled up between you over months of late-night file reviews, shared flights on the jet, and longing glances across crowded rooms.

Hotch exhaled, a long, shuddering breath that rattled faintly in his chest. "I should have seen the counter-surveillance," he said quietly, his tone dropping into a rare, painful register of self-reproach. "When we went to verify the secondary warehouse address in Maryland. The vehicle parked two blocks back... I logged it, but I didn't push for local backup before we breached the perimeter. I broke protocol."

"Stop," you said firmly, turning your face toward his. "He ambushed us with a localised flash-bang and CS gas in a closed hallway. You didn't break protocol. He set a trap, and we walked into it together. Profilers aren't psychic."

"It's my job to foresee the variables," he insisted, his voice laced with guilt. "My job is to bring every single member of my team home alive at the end of a case. And right now... I have put you in a position where survival depends on a monster's whim."

"You didn't put me anywhere," you said softly, reaching out to catch his arm. Your fingers gripped the rough, torn cotton of his sleeve, feeling the rigid, tense muscle beneath. "I'm here because I chose this job. Because I chose this team. Because I chose to follow you into that building."

Hotch slowly turned his head. In the dim moonlight, his dark eyes met yours. The stoic, unyielding chief of the Behavioral Analysis Unit was gone, replaced entirely by a man stripped raw, exhausted, and utterly terrified, not for himself, but for you.

"I can't lose you," he whispered. The words were so quiet, so devoid of his usual authority, that they sounded almost fragile. "I've lost... I have lost too much. If I lose you like this..." He swallowed hard, his throat working as he cut himself off, unable to voice the end of the thought. Your chest ached with a physical, crushing tightness. Without thinking, without care for protocols or boundaries or the professional distance you had maintained for so long, you let your head drop sideways, resting it firmly against the crook of his shoulder.

Hotch stiffened for a single heartbeat, his breath catching in his throat at the sudden, intimate contact. Then, with a long, trembling exhale, the tension bled out of his frame. He let his head tilt slightly, his cheek coming to rest lightly against the crown of your hair.

Slowly, deliberately, Hotch brought his hand down. His large, calloused fingers brushed against your wrist, tracing the sensitive skin before his palm encompassed yours. His fingers laced through yours, his grip firm, steady, and unyielding, a human anchor tethering both of you to reality in the middle of a nightmare.

"I won't let him break you," Hotch murmured into your hair, his voice fierce, low, and absolute. "I promise you. Whatever comes next... I won't let him break you."

You squeezed his hand in response, burying your face deeper into the solid warmth of his shoulder, letting the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest steady your own frantic heart. “I know.” You murmured gently.

High above you, hidden deep within the black lattice of the ceiling trusses, the tiny red lens of the concealed camera continued to blink silently in the dark. And miles away in Quantico, projected in sickening, high-definition clarity across the main monitor of the bullpen, the entire team stood frozen in total, breathless silence, watching their boss hold your hand in the dark, tethered to a cold concrete floor, waiting out the night together.

–

Your eyes flickered open to a heavy, suffocating darkness, broken only by the faint, icy shaft of moonlight filtering down through the broken skylight above. Your body was rigid with cold, every muscle aching from the relentless chill of the concrete floor. But you weren't lying flat against the grit. Your head was resting in the soft fold of warm, coarse fabric. A heavy, comforting weight on the crown of your head as Aaron’s palm cradled you, his fingers lightly curled around the strands of your hair. You shifted slightly, wincing as a dull spike of pain throbbed behind your eyes. Above you, the steady, rhythmic rise and fall of a chest vibrated against your temple. You looked up into the gloom.

Aaron was leaning back against the cold, mold-stained tiles of the pool wall. His chin was resting against his collarbone, his dark eyes closed, his breathing long and deliberate. His face was a mask of pale exhaustion, deep dark circles bruised under his eyes, grime and dried blood smudging his cheek. Yet his jaw was tight, his body tense, a man locked in a state of hyper-vigilance even while motionless. He hadn't slept. He couldn't.

Your movement caused his eyes to snap open instantly, dark and piercingly sharp in the gloom, instantly assessing your surroundings before dropping down to lock onto yours. "Don't move too fast," Aaron whispered. His voice was raw, a rough rasp stripped down by hours of cold air and zero water.

You didn't move away. The warmth radiating from him was the only thing keeping the shivering in your limbs manageable. "How long was I out?"

"Roughly four hours," Aaron murmured, moving his hand to rest on the concrete inches from your head, his fingers twitching slightly before he pulled them back, keeping a rigid handle on himself. "It's close to four in the morning."

You let out a soft, dry breath, your throat feeling like it was lined with glass. "You didn't sleep at all."

"Someone needed to stay awake," he replied simply. His voice carried that familiar, immovable weight, standing guard even when chained by the ankle to a floor. "The temperature dropped significantly around midnight. If I let you slide onto the bare concrete, hypothermia would set in faster."

You slowly pushed yourself up, sitting beside him against the tiled wall. The heavy iron shackle around your right ankle clinked softly, a cold reminder of the iron ring binding you to the concrete floor. You pulled your knees to your chest, shivering violently as the damp chill seeped back into your clothes.

"Any sign of him?" you asked softly, your eyes scanning the dark, cavernous rafters overhead.

"No," Aaron said, his gaze fixed on the matte-black Glock sitting in the middle of the floor atop the rusted drain, its solitary brass round gleaming dully in the dim light. "He’s watching. But he hasn't moved. He's letting the environment do his work for him. Hunger, dehydration, isolation, sleep deprivation. He wants our cognitive functions to degrade until impulse overrides judgment."

"He doesn't know us very well then," you murmured, resting your side against his broad shoulder for warmth.

An almost imperceptible exhalation escaped Aaron, a phantom of a laugh. "No. He doesn't.” He paused, his lips setting into a straight line again, his eyes trained on the gun, unmoving and deep in thought. “If it comes to that-”

“No.” You cut him off, sensing the direction of his conversation. “No.” You repeated, watching as his eyes moved to you, registering the clarity in them, the unmoving stubbornness that he admired so much. His throat worked as he swallowed, and he bowed his head in a single nod before leaning it back against the tile again.

Silence settled between you again, heavy and thick, but no longer suffocating. In the dark, stripped of Quantico's glass walls, case files, and tactical vests, the silence felt remarkably soft.

"What were you thinking about?" you asked softly, watching the faint rise and fall of his breath. "While I was asleep."

Aaron was quiet for a long moment. His eyes remained fixed on the shadow-draped incline leading up to the shallow end. "My first year at the Bureau," he murmured, his baritone dipping into a lower, introspective register you rarely heard. "I spent six months convincing myself I was entirely prepared for the weight of the job. I thought logic, procedure, and emotional detachment were absolute shields."

"And were they?"

"No," he said gently, turning his head to look at you in the dim light. "They're just tools to keep you moving forward. But the weight never leaves. You learn to carry it, or it crushes you." He paused, his dark eyes searching your face with unbreakable intensity. "I was thinking about how much of that weight I've watched you take on since you joined the unit. You carry it well. Too well, sometimes."

Your chest tightened, a strange, bittersweet ache blooming behind your ribs. "I learned from the best."

"Don't copy my mistakes," Aaron murmured, his voice dropping an octave, laced with an undeniable sincerity. "I spent years building these walls because I thought it protected the people around me. It didn't. It just left me alone."

You reached out, your fingers finding his arm, lightly resting against the torn, filthy sleeve of his dress shirt. "You're not alone down here, Aaron."

Aaron looked down at your hand on his arm, his expression shifting, a subtle, vulnerable crack in his iron composure. He didn't pull away. He turned his palm upward, his large, calloused fingers gently wrapping around yours, squeezing with a grounding strength.

"No," he whispered, his eyes meeting yours in the dark. "I'm not."

–

The BAU bullpen was bathed in the harsh, sterile glow of overhead fluorescent lights and computer monitors. Nobody had slept. Coffee cups, cold and abandoned, littered the desks alongside maps, property deeds, and tactical schematics. On the massive glass monitor at the front of the room, the silent feed continued to stream.

On the screen, Aaron and you sat side-by-side against the dark wall of the pool. To anyone else, it was a picture of two hostages freezing in the dark. But to the team who knew Aaron Hotchner better than anyone, the way his body was angled toward you, shielding you from the cold draft of the room, holding your hand in the dark, was a silent, heart-wrenching revelation.

Morgan stood in front of the board, his eyes red-rimmed, staring at a map of Maryland with a marker gripped so tightly in his hand that his knuckles were white.

"He took them from a secondary site in suburban Baltimore," Morgan gritted out, his voice hoarse from hours of shouting and endless phone calls. "We found their abandoned SUV three miles out. Tires slashed, comms jammed. He had a two-hour window before we even flagged them missing."

"Look at the masonry in the background of the feed," Spencer said, walking up to Garcia’s desk, pointing a laser pointer at the top left corner of the live stream. "Garcia, zoom in on those structural beams above the pool deck."

Garcia’s fingers flew over her keyboard, her face pale, her eyes rimmed red with dried tears. The image enlarged, grainy but readable. "Okay, zooming in. What am I looking at, Reid?"

"Those aren't standard residential trusses," Spencer observed, his voice cold and analytical. "They're reinforced steel beams with rivets used in late 1920s civic construction. This isn't a private mansion or a gym. It's a municipal pool built during the public works administration era."

"Public works... public works..." Garcia muttered, her fingers becoming a blur across her glowing light-board. "Filtering closed municipal facilities, high schools, and recreational centers built between 1930 and 1940 within a fifty-mile radius of the snatch site..."

"Cross-reference with properties foreclosed or abandoned after the county water treatment in the 1980s," JJ added, leaning over Garcia’s chair, her voice tight with suppressed fear. "The unsub needs an isolated facility with industrial drainage,somewhere he could set up heavy chains and a closed-circuit stream without drawing power grid spikes."

"I've got seventy-four potential sites," Garcia gasped, her screen lighting up with a dizzying list of addresses.

"Filter it further!" Morgan snapped, slamming his hand onto the edge of the desk, his eyes darting back to the live monitor where Aaron was gently adjusting his position to cover your shoulder with his frame. "Look at him down there! They've been in that hole for over twelve hours without food or water! We don't have time to knock on seventy-four doors, Garcia!"

"I'm working as fast as I can!" Garcia cried, tears spilling over her lashes. "He's running the feed through seven bouncing proxies in Eastern Europe! I can't reverse-trace the IP without triggering an auto-kill switch on the stream! If I mess up, the feed goes black and we lose line of sight entirely!"

Rossi placed a firm, steadying hand on Garcia's shoulder. "Breathe, Penelope. Look at the feed. Look at Hotch. He’s keeping her alive. He’s keeping her focused. They are buying us time. Now let's do our job and buy them theirs."

–

Down in the deep end, the stillness was broken by a sudden, harsh, high-pitched squelch of electronic static.

The sound exploded out of the darkness like a physical blow. You both flinched violently, Aaron instantly shifting his body in front of yours, his arm extending to push you back against the wall as his eyes snapped up toward the hidden speakers in the dark ceiling.

The static smoothed out into the wet, sickeningly cheerful rasp of the unsub’s electronically pitched voice. "Good morning, my dear profilers," the speaker crackled, dripping with cruel, sing-song mockery. "Did we sleep well? Oh, wait... of course you didn't. The concrete is so very cold, isn't it? And look at you two, curled up together like stray dogs in an alley. How sweet. How thoroughly touching."

Aaron didn't say a word. His face hardened into a mask of pure stone, his dark eyes cold, calculating, searching the shadows of the ceiling for any glint of hardware or movement.

"You know," the voice continued, chuckling softly, a wet, clicking sound that echoed off the tiles, "I’ve been watching your little team back at Quantico. They are running around like ants in a flooded nest! Oh, if you could see them, Aaron! Agent Morgan is practically vibrating with rage. And the blonde one... poor girl looks like she’s about to throw up."

Your heart hammered against your ribs. 

"They can see you, you know," the unsub purred, his tone shifting into a malicious, delighted whisper. "Right now. High definition. Muted audio, of course, I like to keep some secrets, but they can see every pathetic, desperate little detail. They saw you holding her hand, Aaron. They saw her resting her head on your chest in the dark. So very romantic for a Unit Chief and his subordinate."

Your breath hitched. A sickening spike of heat flushed through your skin despite the freezing cold. The thought of the entire bullpen watching you trapped down here, watching the vulnerable moments you had shared. 

"So," the unsub snapped his fingers, the sharp sound popping loudly through the speaker, "let's give your audience a real show. Let's see how much dignity the BAU has left when forced to strip away the uniform."

"Whatever you're planning, it ends with you in a cell," Aaron said, his deep baritone cutting through the cavernous room, loud, firm, and entirely devoid of fear. "You want a psychological reaction. You won't get it."

"Oh, I think I will, Aaron," the voice sneered. "Because right now, you two still look like federal agents. You still think you have control. You still hold yourselves like you're above the mud. Let's fix that."

A heavy mechanical latch clicked somewhere near the top of the pool incline.

"In that little hole in the wall… you see it Aaron, don’t you? there is a silver tin and a full bottle of fresh water," the unsub crooned. "Inside the tin is a single ration of thick, medical-grade antibiotic salve and fresh gauze. Your poor agent's ankle shackle is already chafing, isn't it? By nightfall, without treatment, the open sores against that rusted iron will turn septic. And without water... Well, neither of you will last another twenty-four hours."

You looked down near the drain. Sitting inside a hole in the wall, behind a locked grate, was a small silver tin and a clear plastic bottle filled with pristine, clean water.

"To get the water and the medicine, there is a small price," the voice whispered, dropping into a dark, intimate purr. "Aaron... I want you to strip her of her upper clothing."

Your stomach dropped.

"What?" you breathed, your voice barely a rasp.

"You heard me," the unsub laughed, the sound twisted and distorted through the speaker. "The shirt, the undershirt…. The bra. All of it. I want you, Aaron, to undo every button, pull the fabric off her skin, and toss it up over the pool lip where neither of you can reach it again. Leave her exposed to the freezing cold, sitting in nothing but her trousers in front of that camera."

"No," Aaron said immediately, his voice dropping into a register so dark and lethal it vibrated through the concrete floor. "I will not."

"Think carefully, Aaron," the unsub taunted. "If you refuse, I leave the water where it is and turn off the air circulation. She dehydrates, her wound rots, and she suffers while you watch. But if you comply... if you violate protocol, if you strip down your subordinate in front of her colleagues, in front of the entire FBI hierarchy watching this stream... you both drink. She gets the medicine. She survives the day."

The speaker let out a wet, mocking chuckle.

"I want to see the unshakeable Aaron Hotchner unbuttoning his subordinate's clothes like a petty predator. I want your team at Quantico to watch their boss reduce you to bare skin in a concrete hole. I want you to look each other in the eye afterward and pretend you're still professional colleagues. You have two minutes."

Click.

The tannoy went dead.

The silence that returned was thick, suffocating, and vile. You sat frozen against the wall, your skin crawling, tears of pure humiliation burning hot behind your eyelids. It wasn't about physical pain, it was about psychological violation. It was designed to strip away every layer of professional boundaries, to force Aaron into performing an act of forced vulnerability upon you, and to broadcast that humiliation to everyone who respected you both back home.

Aaron stood rooted to the spot. His face had drained of all color, turning a ghostly, deathly pale. His hands were clenched into tight, violent fists at his sides, trembling with an uncontrollable, silent fury.

"No..." Aaron whispered, his voice cracking, raw as scraped iron. "No. I won't. I won't touch you."

"Aaron..." your voice trembled, dry as ash in your throat.

"I won't do it!" Aaron suddenly roared at the dark ceiling, his baritone tearing out of his chest, echoing violently off the tiles like a wounded animal. "DO YOU HEAR ME?! I WILL NOT TOUCH HER!"

"Aaron, stop! Look at me!" you demanded, dragging yourself forward as far as your chain allowed, ignoring the torturous bite of the iron against your swollen ankle. "Aaron, look at me!"

He turned his head slowly, his breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. The unshakeable Unit Chief of the BAU looked completely destroyed. His dark eyes were wide, filled with a suffocating, unbearable horror.

"We need that water," you whispered, your hands trembling violently as you reached for him, grabbing his wrists. His skin was burning hot against your freezing fingers. "Look at my leg, Aaron. It's already infected. If we don't get that water and that salve, we won't last long enough for them to find us."

"I can't," Aaron breathed, a single tear slipping past his lashes, cutting a clean track through the grime on his cheek. "I can't do that to you. I won't strip you down... I won't violate you like this. Not in front of them. Not in front of anyone."

"It's not a violation if I'm asking you to do it." you argued, your voice as calm as you could muster as you pulled his hands toward your chest. "It's just fabric, Aaron. It's just clothes, he wants to break your spirit, he wants to make you feel dirty so you give up, don't let him win."

"No-”

"Do it, Aaron." you said, pressing his trembling hands flat against the top buttons of your shirt. "Please. I need you to do it. We need that water, Jack needs you to come home… Please."

Aaron stared down at your hands holding his against your chest. His jaw twitched, his teeth grinding together so hard a muscle flared violently in his cheek. He looked into your eyes, seeing the terrifying blend of humiliation, terror, and despite everything… trust shining through your tears.

"I'm sorry," he choked out, his voice a broken, agonising whisper. "I'm so sorry..."

His hands, usually so steady and precise, trembled fiercely as his fingers fumbled with the top button of your shirt. He kept his eyes locked firmly onto yours, refusing to look down, refusing to give the hidden lens overhead the satisfaction of seeing him treat you as anything less than sacred.

One by one, the buttons slipped free under his calloused fingers. The cold air hit your bare skin like a physical slap, making you gasp and shiver uncontrollably. Aaron’s hands were gentle, heartbreakingly so, as he peeled the ruined fabric off your shoulders, his fingertips barely brushing your skin, careful not to touch you any more than necessary.

With a ragged breath, he pulled your shirt and undershirt away, before gently placing his hands on your shoulders to turn you. With your back to him, his fingers lowered to the hooks on the clasp of your bra. The fabric fell from your chest, your nipples peaking in the cold. His jaw pulled taught as he let out another breath that fanned across the bare skin of your back before turning and hurling the fabric high up onto the pool deck out of reach. You stood exposed in the freezing dark, clutching your arms around your ribs, shivering violently from both the cold and the sheer, crushing humiliation of the moment. The grate that the water and tin were hidden behind lifted with a metallic clunk as the lock disengaged.

Without a word, Aaron lunged toward the drain. He snatched the silver tin and the water bottle, scrambling back to you in a frenzy. He uncapped the bottle with shaking hands and held it to your lips, steadying your chin with one warm hand while you drank greedily, the cool water rushing down your parched throat.

"Save half," you gasped out, pushing the bottle back toward his chest. "You need to drink, Aaron. Take it."

Aaron didn't argue. He threw his head back and swallowed the remaining water, his throat working as he emptied the plastic bottle. He immediately cracked open the silver tin, scooping out the thick antibiotic salve with his fingers. He knelt at your feet, his hands trembling as he tenderly applied the cold paste over the raw, bleeding skin around your chained ankle, wrapping it swiftly in the clean gauze.

When he finished, Aaron didn't move away. He immediately pulled off his own torn dress shirt, leaving himself in his undershirt, and wrapped the warm fabric around your bare shoulders. He pulled you hard against his chest, wrapping his broad arms entirely around your frame, burying his face into the crook of your neck to shield your exposed skin from the camera's view.

"I'm sorry," Aaron breathed into your skin, his body trembling with a mixture of rage, exhaustion, and fierce protection as his arms locked around you like iron bands. "I've got you..."

You buried your face into his shoulder, sobbing quietly as the warmth of his body seeped back into yours, the taste of clean water still on your tongue.

The silence that followed the ordeal was hollow, heavy, and thick with the scent of stale water and raw humiliation.

You sat pressed firmly against Aaron's chest, wrapped in his dress shirt. His broad arms remained locked around you like iron bars, his chin resting against the crown of your head, shielding your shivering frame from the cold air and the invisible eye of the camera overhead. His heart hammered in a hard, erratic rhythm against your ear, a wild contrast to the steady, unyielding mask he presented to the world.

For a long time, neither of you spoke. The water was gone, the empty plastic bottle crushed beneath Aaron's heel near the drain, and the cold paste on your ankle throbbed with a dull, manageable ache.

High above you, hidden deep within the dark rafters, the tiny red lens of the camera continued to blink silently in the dark. And miles away in Quantico, standing in front of the silent, high-definition display screen, Derek Morgan covered his mouth with a trembling hand, Rossi turned his face away in sickened, helpless fury, Spencer kept his eyes firmly locked on the floor, his jaw so tight his teeth could crack, JJ’s fingers dug into Emily’s arm and Garcia sobbed into her hands, watching their unshakeable leader hold you against his chest in the dirt, wrapped around you like a shield.

–

Time in the pool lost its meaning, measured not by hours or minutes, but by the slow, struggling decline of your bodies. The chill of the concrete floor had settled deep into your bones, a constant, dull ache that made every breath feel heavy. Your skin was cold, covered by Aaron’s ruined dress shirt. Aaron himself sat in his pale undershirt, his posture rigid despite his obvious exhaustion, his arm locked around you to share what little body heat he had left. His knuckles were still red from where he’d balled his hands into fists during the ordeal, his jaw set in a line of grim, unyielding determination.

The silver tin and the empty water bottle lay discarded near the drain. The water had taken the sharpest edge off your thirst, but it was a temporary mercy. Dehydration and shock were steady, silent enemies, wearing down your resolve bit by bit.

Then, the silence of the deep end was shattered.

A loud, ear-splitting screech of static ripped through the dark, bouncing violently off the damp, mold-stained tiles. You both flinched, Aaron instantly shifting his weight to pull you tighter against his chest, his body instinctively positioning itself as a barrier between you and whatever was coming.

High above, deep within the black lattice of the roof trusses, the speaker crackled to life once more.

"You've been very resilient," the unsub’s voice rasped, the electronic distortion giving it a flat, mechanical tone that made the words even colder. "You've survived the cold. You've survived the indignity. You've held onto each other like children in a storm. But patience is a luxury I am no longer inclined to extend."

A heavy, mechanical thunk echoed from the shadows above the pool deck, followed by a dull, rhythmic clicking sound.

On the tiled wall opposite your position, high above the reach of either chain, a bright red LED display flickered to life. Crimson numbers glowed in the darkness, sharp and unforgiving: 

06:00:00.

With a soft, electrical hum, the numbers shifted. 05:59:59.

"Six hours," the speaker crooned, the unsub’s tone dripping with dark, theatrical satisfaction. "Six hours to make your choice. The gun is still where you left it. One bullet. One trigger pull. If one of you is dead when that clock reaches zero, the survivor walks out. I will unlock the heavy steel doors at the top of the incline, and you may return to your lives."

The red light from the digital timer cast a long, bloody glare across the dark concrete floor, reflecting off the matte-black finish of the Glock resting on the rusted drain grate.

"And if the clock reaches zero while both of you are still breathing?" the unsub continued, his voice dropping into a sinister, low purr. "Then I will come down into that pit myself. And I will execute you both. The decision is yours."

A final, sharp click signaled the end of the broadcast, leaving only the relentless hum of the digital clock as it ticked down the seconds.

05:59:42.

05:59:41.

the lock clicked.

a grocery bag hung from peter’s wrist as he nudged the apartment door open with his shoulder, already bracing himself for the familiar creak of old hinges and the hum of overworked computers.

“you’re kidding.”

his apartment wasn’t empty, he wasn’t alone.

you sat comfortably in his chair, one boot hooked beneath the desk as it lazily spun from side to side. an energy drink rested in one hand while the other danced across his keyboard with practiced confidence. the glow of three monitors reflected in your eyes as lines of code scrolled faster than most people could read.

you didn’t even look at him. “you should really replace your front door.”

“you broke into my apartment.” peter slowly lowered the grocery bag.

“i picked the lock.”

“that’s still breaking in.”

“it sounds more impressive when you say it your way.”

he just stared. his apartment wasn’t much to look at, and he sort of hoped you didn't mind a cramped basement tucked beneath a crumbling brick building where the pipes rattled whenever someone upstairs flushed a toilet, exposed wiring hugged the ceiling, boxes of spare parts were stacked against one wall, and every flat surface had somehow become storage for unfinished prototypes and dismantled gadgets.

but he was amused you looked completely at home. “you left your wi-fi password written under the router.”

“uh, no, i didn’t.”

you pointed toward the underside of the shelf without looking.

“‘mayparker&tonystark99.’”

peter visibly deflated.

“i’m changing that.”

“you should.” finally, you glanced over your shoulder. “after you change the lock.”

his gaze drifted to the monitors. “you touched my computer.”

“i improved your computer.”

“i spent six months building that system.”

“and i spent six minutes finding seventeen vulnerabilities.”

“what…? seventeen?”

“eighteen.” you tapped another key.

“there. eighteen.”

peter blinked. “how?”

“i have siblings.”

“…that’s not an explanation.”

“it is if you’ve met jean.”

he sighed.

“fair.” curiosity eventually won over whatever annoyance he was trying to hold onto. he stepped closer, setting the grocery bag on the workbench before leaning over your shoulder.

“what are you doing?”

you took another sip of your drink before gesturing toward one of the monitors.

“i’m trying to understand why someone smart enough to engineer synthetic web fluid thought suppressing his own dna was a good idea.”

peter’s expression immediately hardened. “you looked at the inhibitor.”

“i reverse-engineered it.”

“you reverse-engineered it?”

“i got bored.”

“you got bored in my apartment.”

“it has terrible lighting.”

he rubbed a hand over his face. “you know, most people start with ‘thanks for letting me in.’”

“you didn’t.”

“i wasn’t given the option.”

“no, you weren’t.”

a schematic of the inhibitor rotated across the center monitor which made you frown, “this algorithm is compensating instead of regulating.”

peter folded his arms. “explain…?”

“you built a device that constantly fights your mutation.”

“it keeps it under control.”

“it keeps it suppressed.”

“same thing.”

“no.” you swiveled toward him. “control means understanding something well enough to work with it. suppression means pretending it doesn’t exist until it inevitably pushes back.”

you reached for the keyboard again. “if your arachnid physiology is part of your genetic baseline, forcing your body to overwrite it every second is biologically inefficient.” your fingers flew across the keys, watching as windows opened, graphs shifted, and simulation models recalculated.

“you’ve created a feedback loop.”

he leaned closer. “what feedback loop?”

“your inhibitor monitors arachnid activity.”

“right.”

“it detects a spike.”

“yeah.”

“so it suppresses it.”

“well… yeah.”

you looked at him like he was proving your point. “and what does every living organism do when you suppress a natural response?”

peter’s brow furrowed. “it…”

“…compensates,” you finished. “your body’s constantly trying to restore what you’re artificially pushing down. you’re wasting energy fighting yourself.”

he stared at the screen with squinted eyes, then at you, and back at the screen. “i never modeled it that way.”

“i noticed.”

“you noticed?”

“you labeled three variables wrong.”

“i absolutely did not.”

you silently turned one of the monitors toward him, where his own equations stared back at him and a single coefficient highlighted in red.

peter almost winced. “…that’s…”

“wrong.”

“…huh.”

you couldn’t help the small, smug smile that appeared, “i was wondering how long it’d take.”

“you’ve been waiting for me to notice?”

“i wanted to see if you’d argue first.”

“i really hate that you’re right.”

“i know.”

he laughed under his breath, shaking his head as he watched you effortlessly navigate software he’d spent years developing. “you know what’s bothering me?”

“hm?”

“you walked into my apartment…”

“picked the lock.”

“…picked the lock, insulted my security, hacked my computer, dismantled one of my biggest projects,”

“mhm.”

“and somehow you’ve convinced me to let you keep going.”

only then did you finally swivel the chair to face him completely, balancing the energy drink on one knee. “you could stop me.”

“i really couldn’t.” peter looked from you, to the monitors, to the corrected equations still rendering across the screens.

a satisfied grin spread across your face. “that’s what i thought.”

you rose from the chair, the worn casters scraping softly against the concrete floor. the apartment suddenly felt smaller than it had moments ago. peter remained where he stood, one hand still resting against the edge of the desk, watching as you closed the distance between you.

neither of you spoke and the only sound came from the quiet whir of overworked computer fans and the rain tapping against the basement window.

you stopped just in front of him, close enough that he caught the faint scent of citrus from the energy drink mixed with cold air from outside. close enough that you could make out the barely-healed scratches along his jaw, the exhaustion hidden behind eyes that had spent far too many nights without sleep.

peter didn’t move, and he knew he should’ve asked what you were doing, but instead, he found himself watching your gaze linger on his for a long moment before drifting behind his neck.

“you know,” you murmured, “for someone who’s supposed to be a genius…” a teasing smile tugged at your lips. “you make some incredibly questionable decisions.”

his brow lifted when your hand rose between you.

peter’s breath caught, not from fear, but from the certainty in your movements. your fingers brushed lightly against the nape of his neck, searching until they found the small device hidden beneath the collar of his hoodie.

the contact lasted only a second.

a soft click echoed through the apartment and you held the inhibitor between two fingers, examining it with quiet amusement before flicking it aside. it landed somewhere beneath his workbench with an insignificant clatter.

peter’s eyes instinctively followed the sound.

when he looked back, you were still standing there, impossibly close.

you held his gaze without hesitation, the confidence in your expression never wavering. then, barely above a whisper, you said,

“let loose, spiderman.”

peter staggered. his hand shot to the edge of the workbench, knuckles whitening against the metal as his breathing caught in his throat.

every sound inside the apartment seemed to sharpen at once, the hum of the computer fans, rain striking the basement window, water rattling through ancient pipes somewhere overhead. even your heartbeat became impossible to ignore.

“peter.”

he squeezed his eyes shut. “don’t.” the word came through gritted teeth.

when he looked up again, the familiar warmth in his eyes had vanished, swallowed by an endless black that stretched from iris to sclera.

your expression never changed, instead, you studied him with the same quiet curiosity you’d shown his equations only moments earlier.

“so that’s what it looks like up close.”

he let out a humorless laugh. “you think this is funny?”

“i think you’re scared.”

his jaw tightened. “i’m angry.”

“no.” you took one measured step toward him. “you’re overwhelmed and you’re mistaking that for anger.”

his pulse hammered in his ears as every instinct screamed at him to leave. to put distance between himself and the one person who insisted on dismantling every wall he’d spent years building.

“you don’t know what this feels like.”

“i don’t.”

you stopped only when you stood within arm’s reach. “but i know what it looks like.”

his breathing remained uneven while your gaze never left those pitch-black eyes.

“they’re beautiful.”

peter’s composure cracked.

in one swift movement, he closed the distance between you, one hand catching your wrist as the other braced itself against the wall beside your head. his breathing was ragged, his face inches from yours, every muscle taut as though he were fighting himself more than he was fighting you.

“you really don’t know when to stop.”

your lips curved into the faintest smile. “i told you.” you held his gaze without flinching.

“i usually stop only when i’m wrong.”

neither of you moved, then peter kissed you.

not carefully. it was months of restraint colliding with relief, frustration, fear, and something he’d buried for far too long. the kiss was firm, almost desperate in its urgency, before the realization of what he’d done cut through the haze.

when he pulled back abruptly, his breathing was still uneven.

“…i…”

the anger had already begun to fade, replaced by guilt.

“i’m sorry.”

you looked at him for a long moment before reaching up and resting your hand lightly against his cheek.

“i know.” your thumb brushed his jaw. “because you stopped.”

a quiet exhale escaped him which made you smile, just enough to soften the tension between you. “see?”

he frowned. “see what?”

“you were never losing yourself.” your fingers slipped into his hand.

“you were just afraid you would.”

peter lingered only inches away, his breathing still uneven. the black in his eyes hadn’t faded, but neither had the restraint he’d fought so hard to regain.

“you’re insufferable.”

“oh, i know.” a smug smile tugged at your lips.

his jaw tightened, because both of you knew you should’ve stepped away. but you held his gaze, unwavering, studying those inhuman eyes with the same curiosity that had driven you to tear the inhibitor from his neck in the first place. there was no fear in your expression. no hesitation, only quiet defiance.

the silence stretched.

peter searched your face for the slightest crack in your confidence. what frustrated him was that he found none. a dry laugh escaped him, almost disbelieving.

“you never back down.”

“neither do you.”

another beat passed, then he reached for you again. this time there was no anger behind the movement, only the stubborn refusal to let you have the last word. his hand settled lightly against your jaw, tilting your face toward his before he kissed you again.

you met him without hesitation. the endless arguments, the chase, and every reason the two of you had for standing on opposite sides disappeared into the quiet of the apartment.

when the kiss broke, neither of you moved very far.

but you looked up at him with the faintest smirk. “feel better?”

peter exhaled a quiet laugh through his nose, shaking his head once.

“you talk too much.”

“so i’ve been told.”

before you could say anything else, he kissed you again, cutting off whatever remark had been waiting on your tongue.

fuck. you cursed in your head.

feeling your back crashing onto the rumpled sheets in a heated scramble with peter, your breasts heaving against his chest as your lips moved together in a fierce, reluctant kiss, tongues battling with the same intensity as the first jabs and blows from each other a week ago.

your defiance cracked into a gasp when he deepened it, hands roaming your curves with ruthless intent, arousal thickening between the two of you. he put a small distance between the two of you as he began palming your breasts, eyebrows raising at the discovery you weren't wearing any bra underneath the layers of your clothes.

now your hands were also everywhere. one draped over his broad, muscular shoulder, and the other caressed his clothed dick through his sweatpants. your index finger continuously switched from stroking and rubbing the tip (after many times of squeezing around lightly) until something wet come out.

oh, cute. precum.

he broke the kiss just enough to growl, “i told you i’d web and fuck the life out of you,” before shoving you down as silken webs coiled around your wrists like living handcuffs, binding your arms above your head to the headboard.

“don’t stop me,” peter loomed over you, his cock straining hard against his sweatpants as he tore at your clothes, exposing the slick heat of your pussy and the taut peaks of your breasts.

“wet already?”

with a lazy smirk, he began pressing between your thighs, grinding the thick head of his cock along your folds in deliberate, rough strokes that made your hips buck involuntarily, and the webs tightened around your wrists with every shift.

his eyes drinking in the sight of you in a reluctant ecstasy, the air thick with the scent of your mingled arousal and the promise of deeper violation. “warnings for a whore like you shouldn’t be given.”

tension coiled tighter in the space between the two of you as his body poised to thrust inside,

your defiant glare melting into desperate need without any release yet in sight, “peter, please.”

and he doesn't hesitate, he never does, driving his hips forward with brutal force to bury his thick cock fully inside your slick, clenching pussy in one deep thrust that stretched your walls and drew a ragged moan from your throat.

“f-fuck!”

you met his gaze with a slight nod, the webs coiled tighter around your bound wrists like a deliberate tie to the headboard, your body yielding beneath his while your defiance melted into hungry acceptance.

raw desire surged higher with every relentless stroke, his cock hitting the perfect spots deep within you that made your pussy spasm and flood with arousal, breasts jiggling against his chest as he lost all restraint, hips snapping wildly while you writhed and gasped in evident enjoyment, “you like that, baby?”

“mhmm..”

“fucking slut.”

he took note of your cheeks that were flushed with ecstasy, and how you repeatedly clenched around him each thrust. he swore he almost came after the first clench.

his thrusts became harsher, faster, and rougher by the time— and seriously, you don’t know how he does that, but you couldn’t care less because he’s hitting all of the right spots.

it was impossible to focus on one thing while he fucked you hard.

peter watched as your head slightly turned to the side before he grabbed your jaw. “look at me while i fuck you.”

then he spat in your mouth.

your pussy clenched so tightly around him, a loud groan came out from his parted lips. he continued fucking you into his mattress relentlessly, not caring about how it creaked so loudly while his eyes remained fixated on you.

“you can come in me,” you panted, granting consent in a breathless rush, legs locking around him to pull him deeper as he pounded without mercy.

“yeah?”

shliiick, shliiick, shliiick

the wet sounds of him ramming himself into your pussy alongside your skins slapping echoed through his apartment amid the heavy scent of sweat and sex.

“come with me.”

“...god– shit!”

“peter’s my name, baby.”

his black eyes drank in every detail of you unraveling beneath him, observing the way your inner muscles milked his cock as your moans grew frantic, pushing him over the edge as his balls tightened and released roared through his veins.

“come.”

the hot pulse of his cum began to erupt inside the same time you felt yourself come hard, eliciting a loud moan from you as you mindlessly tugged at the webs that kept you bound to the headboard.

shortly, the apartment settled back into silence as rain tapped softly against the basement window, the steady rhythm filling the space between the hum of peter’s computers and the uneven sound of two people remembering how to breathe.

he stayed still for a moment, the darkness in his eyes began to recede.

slowly, almost imperceptibly, the endless black gave way to the familiar brown until there was nothing in them but exhaustion. his gaze dropped to your wrists.

the strands of webbing still held them loosely against the headboard, forgotten in the chaos of everything that had happened, and guilt crossed his face almost instantly.

“i’m sorry.”

his voice was quieter now— uncertain, almost hesitant. with a careful touch, he reached up and peeled the webbing away. the strands dissolved beneath his fingertips, breaking apart until your hands were free again.

he gently took one of your wrists, turning it over to make sure the webbing hadn’t left any marks, watching you flex your fingers before slapping his hand away which caused peter to roll his eyes after, though the corners of his mouth betrayed him with the ghost of a smile.

with a weary exhale, he shifted away just enough to give you space, running a hand through his already-disheveled hair before dropping back against the mattress. the tension that had filled the apartment earlier had settled into something quieter while peter reached for the blanket pooled near the foot of the bed and pulled it over both of you without ceremony.

“you know,” he said, staring up at the stained ceiling, “breaking into someone’s apartment is generally considered rude.”

you turned your head toward him. “and yet you still haven’t asked me to leave.”

“i’ve considered it.”

“liar.”

“…maybe.”

“is my pussy that good?” a satisfied smile crossed your face. “you know i could use another round with proper foreplay.”

he glanced sideways at you. “was it too fast?”

“i just felt like that should be considered an improper sex because you didn’t do foreplay. you just went straight into fucking me!”

“my bad, remind me to do it next time.”

“no next times, dipshit. do it now.”

peter let out a tired laugh, shaking his head.

“a spider has to rest before he takes a request.”

“oh, wow.”

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

Peter Parker’s quaint little apartment was awfully loud for someone who lived alone.

The window was wide open, the hustle and bustle of New York infiltrating his home. The crap dryer was in the middle of shrinking his jeans as it hummed loudly, sounding as if a few screws were loose.

Which, come to think of it, probably were.

His speaker played music softly as he was hunched over the small desk near the window. He was in the middle of patching up his suit after an intense fight with The Hand.

Crash!

Peter jolted up, on high alert for any other sounds. His spider senses weren’t going off, but he was still worried about what caused the sound outside of his apartment.

He quickly grabbed his phone, pausing the music to hear better.

He was met with a dead silence until-

“Shit!”

Peter let out a sigh of relief, hearing a muffled voice from behind his door in the hallway.

The person must’ve dropped something.

Peter rose up from his seat and cracked open the door, only for his breath to quite literally catch in his throat.

You were standing there, three boxes stacked on top of one another, a fourth box on the floor with shattered glass surrounding it.

You set the three boxes down and huffed, scratching the back of your neck and looking at the mess you made in the hallway. You glanced up at the boy staring at you as if he had seen a ghost.

“I’m sorry,” you said sheepishly. “I just- well I thought I could carry all these boxes to my apartment, but clearly not.”

Peter swallowed hard and blinked, snapping out of the trance he was in. “You- wha- Sorry,” he laughed awkwardly, making you quirk a brow. “You’re moving in?” he asked, glancing at the apartment door right across the hall from him.

You nodded with a small smile, dangling your keys up. “Yup. Right across from you apparently.”

Peter’s eyes widened.

He hadn’t seen you or heard from you in years. Not since Dr. Strange casted that spell and made everyone forget who he was. For years he wondered where you were, if you were okay, and more importantly, if you found someone new because truth be told, he hadn’t.

He wasn’t even looking.

At university, girls would flirt with him every now and then, falling for that shy and dorky personality with something more mature growing around the edges. Peter Parker was an attractive guy and he was so sweet, so kind, to everyone he met.

The boy could’ve honestly had a new girlfriend by now.

But he didn’t because it had always been you.

You were the only girl he ever wanted.

You rocked back on your heels, staring at Peter with narrowed eyes. You couldn't quite place it, but he seemed familiar, like maybe you had seen him somewhere before, but then again, he looked like your average young adult in New York. “Do I know you from somewhere?”

Peter blinked. “Me?”

You looked around the empty hallway with a small giggle, already finding your new neighbor rather entertaining. “Who else?”

“Oh. Duh,” Peter lectured himself from under his breath with closed eyes and a pitiful headshake. He cleared his throat and straightened up, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. “Yeah, no, you don’t.”

He hated lying, especially to you.

You tilted your head slightly. “Are you sure? You seem…I don’t know. You seem familiar. What’s your name?”

“P-Peter,” he stuttered. “Peter Parker.”

You hummed, the name not entirely ringing a bell. “Peter Parker,” you repeated, as if it would jog your memory. “Sounds familiar, but then again, you have the most generic name.”

Before Peter could respond, you stuck your hand out and introduced yourself.

Peter stared down at your hand, then pulled his lips into a tight line. He knew that if he touched you he risked you immediately being overloaded with the knowledge of who he was and the history you both shared.

The day Dr. Strange casted that spell, he promised you that he would remind you of who he was.

That was the first time Peter Parker ever lied to you.

He went down to the pastry coffee shop he knew you and Ned would hangout at just to bother MJ, because there was once a time Peter was in the picture too. When he saw you sitting beside Ned, a small warm peppermint hot chocolate in your hands, his heart fluttered, excitement coursing through his veins as he made his way over to introduce himself, just like he had rehearsed a million times.

“Hi, I’m Peter Parker, and you don’t know me, but we used to be friends, more than friends actually.”

Was what he was supposed to say.

But when he got close enough for you to look up at him, a glint of confusion in the very eyes he had fallen in love with, his own eyes that you had no recollection of caught sight of the healing gash that caused a slit in your eyebrow and the bandage a few inches away from it on your forehead.

A painful reminder of what it meant to get too close to someone like him.

It was his fault that you had gotten hurt and nearly died.

He didn’t ever want to put you in a situation like that again, and after Aunt May…he figured it would be best if you were no longer associated with him.

He froze up completely and ended up telling you his name like some kind of dork and asking you if the peppermint hot chocolate was worth the five dollars.

So now, in the present moment, his heart was slowly breaking because you hadn’t fully remembered him from that day, which was fine because why would you have?

He was just a weirdo who approached you awkwardly and asked how the peppermint hot chocolate was, which…was strange because it wasn’t inherently obvious to anyone that wasn’t MJ or Ned that that was what you were drinking.

But Peter knew because it was your favorite.

“Sorry,” he apologized. “I would shake your hand, but my hands are dirty. I was just uh…cleaning.”

“Oh,” you muttered quietly, pulling your hand away awkwardly, glancing away from him feeling slightly embarrassed.

The hallway was silent as you stood there for a second, Peter thinking of something, anything to say to you because he didn’t want the moment to end.

“Do you want me to help you carry your stuff in?” Peter offered.

Your brows pressed together. “I thought your hands were dirty. I don’t want you touching my stuff,” you half joked.

“Right…” Peter replied. “I’ll sweep up the glass.”

You smiled softly and nodded, unlocking your door and dragging a box inside, thinking that your new neighbor was a little weird, but meant well.

Peter smiled and as soon as you disappeared into your empty apartment, his smile fell instantly. He squeezed his eyes shut, muttering a list of profanities under his breath as he returned back into his apartment to retrieve a broom and dustpan.

He swept up the glass and you thanked him before going back into your apartment.

For the next couple of days, you wouldn’t see Peter often. You’d sometimes cross paths heading downstairs to retrieve your mail, earning a small wave from him or see him on your way out to work. 

Regardless, that little to no interaction was driving him up the wall.

You were right there.

Right across the hall.

Right within arms touch, and one touch…just the one, had the potential to ignite an old flame again.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

Peter lied on his couch, staring at the ceiling while tossing a pen into the air and catching it mindlessly. He was supposed to be figuring out what to eat for dinner, but alas, you were on his mind.

He had missed you before, but ever since you moved in he felt like he was losing his mind.

You consumed each and every one of his thoughts, every fiber in his being. If there was one thing Peter Parker wanted, it was you.

He jolted up, hearing the sound of someone knocking on his door. He practically bounced off of the wall, his spider senses going haywire, sensing that it was you. He swung the door open and saw you standing in the hallway wearing a casual outfit that you still looked cute in. Cute top, sweatpants, and pair of slippers that he bought you for Christmas one year that made him smile from ear to ear.

“Hey,” he said casually, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed over his chest, his biceps flexing, which he was doing on purpose.

He watched as your eyes darted down quickly and back up. He noticed the way you swallowed, blinking quickly as if to get your mind back on track, which only made him smirk.

He was glad to know you still liked that.

“Hi,” you chirped. “So…” you trailed off, rocking back on your heels. “I made dinner and I accidentally made too much, I doubled the recipe,” you explained, rolling your eyes at your own stupidity. “Anyway, I was wondering if you wanted to come over and have dinner with me?”

Peter blinked, caught off guard. “I uh…yeah, I’ll have dinner. I’ll be over in a few.”

Your smile widened. “Perfect. See you in a few.”

You turned on your heel and went across the hallway to your own apartment. Peter went back into his and scrambled across the living room into his bedroom where he yanked off his tank top and sweatpants. He threw clothes out of his closet and tried on about five different outfits before deciding on a t-shirt and pair of jeans. He nearly tripped over the clothes that were now all over his floor as he raced towards his cologne, deciding on the one he knew you loved.

He grabbed his shoes and-

Wait…

Does he need shoes to take two steps across the hallway to your apartment?

He decided to slip on his slippers like you had. He grabbed a bottle of wine that he was saving for his Daily Bugle office party, figuring that this was more important.

Did you drink?

He wasn’t sure.

He’d bring it anyway.

He raced over to the door, hand halting over the handle.

Hold on…

Jeans? Really? You were in sweatpants!

He groaned and ran back into the kitchen, setting the wine bottle down and running back into his room, yanking a drawer open and grabbing a pair of sweatpants. He kicked the slippers off, hobbled on one foot, nearly falling over as he took his jeans off and replaced them with the sweats.

Peter went back to grab his slippers when a new thought filled his mind.

What if you had changed into jeans?

“No,” Peter lectured himself. “You look fine. You look great,” he reassured himself, though his heart was racing, which could’ve been because he just ran around his entire apartment in less than five minutes.

He made his way out of his apartment, standing in front of your door and taking a deep breath.

Knock knock.

Within two seconds you were at the door, opening it all the way.

He let out a sigh of relief to see that you were still in your sweatpants.

The scent of his cologne immediately filled your nose and you felt an odd tingling sensation in your finger tips, as if your powers were so desperately trying to remind you of something.

You raised a brow, knowing you didn't smelled cologne when you initially went to his place, meaning he put it on before coming to yours.

“Brought some wine!” Peter chirped, holding up the bottle. “I actually don’t know if you drink, but if not I have uh…” he trailed off, thinking. “Well, I don’t have anything except for water…out of the sink, but I’m saving up for a filter!”

You raised your brows as he rambled, and his face quickly went red in embarrassment. “I uh…” he laughed. “I’m joking,” he breathed out. “Well…not really, but…”

You giggled, stepping aside. “I don’t drink, but I’ll gladly try with you. Come on in.”

Peter made his way inside and looked around as you shut the door. Your apartment reminded him so much of your bedroom back at the Avenger’s Tower, it just looked as if you had grown up.

Because you both had.

Peter Parker was still the nerdy, awkward, and awfully cute boy you met back in high school that you unfortunately didn’t have the pleasure of remembering. But something about him had changed. He was more mature. Slightly less awkward but still rather awkward to a fault.

“Your apartment is nice,” he complimented, following you into the kitchen.

“Thanks,” you beamed. You reached into the cabinet and pulled out two regular glass cups. “I don’t have wine glasses,” you said sheepishly. “This should work, right?”

Peter smiled. “Yeah. It’s perfect.”

“Now would probably be a good time to tell you that I don’t have a bottle opener either.”

Peter shrugged, taking the foil off of the bottle. “It’s alright. I got it.” Peter’s muscles flexed ever so slightly as he quite literally flicked off the top. “Tada!”

Your eyes widened. “What the hell? How’d you do that?”

Peter smirked. “Well, I work out a lot,” he said smoothly, leaning against the counter.

You raised a brow. “Do you now?”

Peter nodded. “Yeah. Like, a lot.”

“Mhm.”

“I’m at the gym all the time.”

“Right.”

Peter smirked, watching as you tried to conceal your smile, which you were doing a very poor job at. “You’re smiling.”

Now you broke, smiling like a dork. “Because you’re funny.”

“But I didn’t say anything funny.”

“You did,” you said matter of factly. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re trying to impress me, Parker.”

“Are you impressed?”

You rolled your eyes and snagged the glasses off of the counter. “Come on. The food is getting cold.”

Peter smiled triumphantly to himself. Back when you two first met, you were both incredibly shy, but you managed to take charge, flirting with Peter constantly, making him a nervous mess.

But now time had changed you both.

Now Peter was the one with the confidence to flirt with you and make you all nervous.

He followed you to the small table in the kitchen where two bowls of pasta were sitting. You both sat down, Peter pouring both your glass a little less than halfway.

“So,” he said, trying to spark up a conversation, aka, trying to figure out how you had been the past few years since he had missed out. “How’d you manage to afford to live in the most expensive place in all of New York?”

You laughed because you and him definitely did not live in the most expensive place in all of New York. It was actually the cheapest and you considered it to be a literal shit box.

“I’m making, like, fifty cents above minimum wage working at a bookstore a few blocks down,” you said as he slid your glass of wine over to you. You grabbed the glass from him, your fingers just centimeters away from ghosting his…just centimeters away from knowing the truth. “It’s not bad though, I like it. What about you?”

Peter filled his glass the same amount as yours. “I work at the Daily Bugle. I get all the pictures of Spider-Man and stuff like that.”

Your eyes widened as he set the bottle down, meeting your gaze. “You know Spider-Man?”

Peter shook his head, averting his gaze. “No. I- I mean, I just get the pictures,” he said sheepishly, bringing the glass up to his lips.

You gave Peter a confused look. “Come on,” you said. “You must know him. I mean, how else do you get literal selfies of him on top of the Empire State Building? Unless…you are Spider-Man,” you joked.

Peter spit his drink out back into the cup, becoming a coughing mess. “Wha- What?! N- No-!” he managed out between coughs.

Your face contorted into one of pure bewilderment at his reaction, something you weren’t at all expecting. “Jeez, okay…”

Peter put his glass down, shaking his head adamantly. “I’m not Spider-Man,” he said sharply.

“Okay.”

“That wouldn’t even be possible.”

“I believe you.”

“I just…we’re close enough that he gives me those pictures.”

“Right.”

“I am not Spider-Man.”

“Exactly.”

It was silent for a beat as you stared at each other. By your expression and tone, Peter could tell that you were catching onto something, but he wasn’t quite sure what. It could’ve been the fact that he was Spider-Man, it could’ve been that you were slowly starting to realize you knew him before, he wasn’t sure.

One thing he knew for sure was that if you kept staring at him, you would probably start to put two and two together somehow, because you always did.

“Are you gonna try that?” he asked, motioning to the glass on the table.

You glanced down at it and grabbed it, bringing it to your nose.

“Oh, shit,” you grimaced, the scent burning.

Peter smiled. “It’s not all that bad.”

You brought the glass to your lips and immediately spat it back out into the glass. “What the hell!” you exclaimed. “How does anyone drink this shit?!”

Peter laughed. “This is supposed to be the good stuff.”

You gagged. “Gross.”

“So uhm,” he began, changing the subject, grabbing his fork and picking up some pasta with it, you repeating the action. “You got any family close by?”

Now, he was just checking to see if you still had your family of Avengers.

To his knowledge, and based upon where things were the last time you two were actually together, you had already lost Nat, Tony, and Steve, so you were really left with the only two people you were close to.

Sam and Bucky.

You had been complaining to Peter your whole field trip across Europe about how you hated living with Bucky because he was insanely over protective and the only reason you were on that trip was because of Sam.

But then again, Sam was also over protective, just slightly less.

Your fork clattered against the plate, making Peter’s brows raise slightly.

“Sorry,” you laughed awkwardly, picking it back up. “I uh…I don’t,” you said, figuring it would be best to not tell a stranger that you were a superhero and after you moved out, Bucky Barnes and Sam Wilson had a falling out, which meant they went their separate ways and suddenly you didn’t seem to exist to either of them anymore.

Bucky was a new Avenger and Sam was rounding up his own team and you were left behind.

“No?” Peter asked, not wanting to pry but so desperately curious to know that the past few years you’d been okay.

You couldn’t look at Peter as you shook your head. “No,” you said quietly.

Peter’s heart broke because that told him everything.

You had been just as alone as he had, with the exception of MJ and Ned of course.

You had no family and neither did he.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

Peter shut the door behind him, back pressing into it as he slowly sank to the floor, letting out a deep sigh.

God, he still loved you more than anything.

Of course he did.

Peter was completely lost.

He wanted you to know that just a few years ago you were both so desperately in love with one another, and you were just one touch away from knowing it.

You clearly were interested in him, already starting to fall back in love with him all over again.

He could just fall back in love with you and act like there was no history, but what was the point?

He didn’t want you to know who he was anyway to keep you safe.

But his soul craved to be with you again.

He bit his lower lip in thought, deciding what to do.

He had to tell you.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

Your nose was filled with the putrid smell of alcohol and marijuana as you leaned against the wall that was vibrating against your back due to the music.

You sipped on the red solo cup in your hand, the plastic filled a quarter of the way full with soda, which was probably meant to be used as a chaser, but you didn’t drink.

Your eyes scanned the party, watching college students do the most heinous things while under the influence.

“And then…there’s Miles. This random high school kid from Brooklyn who might be Spider-Man, but my friends said we probably shouldn’t be stalking a fifteen year old.”

Your friend, Ned, was rambling to someone about how you, MJ, and himself were on the brink of discovering who Spider-Man was, though you were all more than likely far off in your guesses.

MJ was beside you, arms crossed over her chest as she pointed out people for you to look at. First it was some frat guy standing on top of a table while chugging a bottle of beer, then it was some girl making out with her boyfriend, and now it was some loser who allegedly kept staring at you.

“That guy,” MJ said, nodding her head across the room. “He keeps looking over here every ten and a half seconds.”

You didn’t know who she was talking about due to the sheer amount of people in the room, and you didn’t necessarily care. “Glad to know you’re keeping tabs on potential threats,” you teased lightly heartedly.

“Hey,” MJ, shrugged. “Maybe once Spider-Man stops taking all your villains, you can get back at it. I feel like you don’t pay attention to anything anymore.”

Ever since the Avengers had gone their separate ways following Thanos, you hadn’t really done much as a masked hero. 

You vaguely remember fighting alongside Spider-Man to defeat Mysterio and then there was something that felt like a blur with three Spider-Men, Dr. Strange, and villains from differing universes.

On numerous occasions, the ‘New Avengers’ had reached out about you joining their team, but you objected each time, partially because you hated the idea of your family of heroes being replaced, partially because of the politics surrounding it with Sam fighting for copyright, and partially because you enjoyed being a normal person for once.

Your entire teenage years were dedicated to fighting and for once in your life, you wanted to just live.

“I pay attention,” you said, finishing your drink.

MJ, pursed her lips, giving you an uncertain expression. “You know, a few years ago you would’ve thought that weird guy over there was out to get you because he’s been staring at you since you got here,” she said matter of factly. “Oh, not to mention he keeps scanning the room as if something bad is going to happen.”

You smirked. “Imagine he’s Spider-Man.”

MJ raised her brows. “That loser?”

You giggled. “I honestly don’t even know who you’re talking about.” Before MJ could respond, you flashed her your cup. “I’m going to get some more soda. Want anything?”

“Soda is good.”

You nodded with a smile and began to push your way through the crowd.

MJ’s eyes followed you briefly before glancing to the side. The ‘loser’ that she said was staring at you was following you, pushing his way through the crowd.

“What a dork,” she mumbled to herself, assuming that he was some socially awkward dweeb who had a crush on you.

In the kitchen, you had already filled up MJ’s cup and now you were filling up your own. You weren’t paying any attention and didn’t seem to notice the guy whose hands were shaking as he moved to stand beside you, refilling his cup that was already full.

It was Peter Parker, your neighbor, and you couldn’t seem to notice him in a crowded room. A few years ago, you would’ve thought he was the only person in the room, your eyes locking with his naturally.

It was like he didn’t even exist in your world all over again, and it was then he realized he couldn’t take it anymore.

You had to know.

You screwed the cap back onto the soda and grabbed the cups. The boy opened his mouth to say something, but you were already walking away.

As you began to push through the crowd again, you glanced down at the soda you had poured for MJ.

It was Sprite and he hated light soda, she preferred dark, something like Coke because ‘Light soda isn’t on the same wavelength as my soul,’ or whatever nonsense she said back in high school.

“Damn it,” you muttered to yourself, turning abruptly onto your heel.

Little did you know, that ‘loser’ MJ mentioned just moments ago was hot on your tail, following you.

You both accidentally collided into one another, your chest hitting his, sending your drinks, and his splashing, and very conveniently only hitting your clothes.

“Oh no!” he exclaimed. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to! Are you alright?!”

Peter scrambled to figure out how to help, worried that he had completely ruined your night.

Then he looked at you and panic set in.

He recognized your reaction all too well.

Your breath caught in your throat as you looked down at the half empty cups in your hands. You looked like you had seen a ghost.

As soon as you touched him, you saw everything.

The boy in high school you had fallen in love with.

The first time you’d met, Tony Stark introducing him as ‘The Spider-Ling’, to which Peter embarrassingly looked away from you when you laughed.

All those late nights staying up together over a video call, ranting about whatever books you were reading, a science project he was working on, or rambling on about your days, which you’d already spent together.

The first time he swung you all around New York when you couldn’t sleep, your arms wrapped tightly around him as your stomach dropped each time his webs redacted from a building.

Your first kiss at the top of the Empire State Building, slow, desperate, and messy.

The entire team of Avengers finding out about you two being together and embarrassing you both endlessly.

The two of you growing and maturing together right before college applications.

And that was the last you could remember of it because your memories had been taken from you.

It was like the room had fallen silent, the music fading out, and suddenly only you and the boy you spent your entire teenage years loving were the only people in the room, two hearts beginning to beat in the same rhythm again.

Your eyes slowly glanced up to meet his gaze, tears threatening to spill from them. Your mouth had gone dry, not even knowing what to say.

Peter’s face immediately washed over with realization.

You knew.

You touched him and your powers went off, telling you exactly everything that happened.

Before he could say anything, you turned around quickly, pushing as fast as you could through the crowd.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

You managed to get away from the party, and found an empty fire escape on the side of the building where you sat crisscrossed, staring at the busy city despite it being so late at night.

You heard someone grunt softly and the sound of metal clanging. You turned and saw familiar brown hair and brown eyes.

Peter.

He gave you a soft smile, but you looked away, out into the skyline.

Peter’s smile faded, heart aching as he moved to sit beside you.

It was painfully quiet as he played with his fingers, not knowing what to say just yet.

Thankfully for him, you spoke up first.

“You promised me,” you whispered, voice trembling. “You promised you’d remind me of you. Of…of us.”

Peter glanced over to you, though your gaze remained on the skyline. “I know,” he said. “And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he apologized sincerely.

You finally turned to him, tears in your eyes. “Why?”

Peter swallowed, blinking rapidly. “I don’t know,” he mumbled. “I just…I thought that everyone was finally okay because I wasn’t there. You all got to finally go to college because you didn’t know me. You all got to be happy and live a life away from all that stuff. You guys didn’t need me.”

“I needed you, Peter,” you said. “I needed you more than anything.”

Peter’s heart absolutely shattered at your words and the pure hurt in your tone.

You grabbed Peter’s hand and squeezed it tightly. “I’d go back and do everything all over again if it means being with you. I’d go back and not get accepted into MIT. I’d go back and nearly die. I’d do it all over again, Peter.”

Peter’s expression softened. “I just wish it wasn’t like this. I want you safe and I want you to get everything you’ve ever wanted.”

“But that’s just the cards we’ve been dealt,” you said softly, his hand still in yours. “If we hadn't been dealt them, who’s to say we would’ve ever been together?”

Peter sighed, staring out into the city. “It’s not fair to you. You deserve better and it was selfish of me to even think about getting back with you.”

You stayed silent, staring at Peter before looking away again.

“You know,” he began, letting out another sigh. “I had this whole plan to tell you tonight about everything. I assumed you wouldn’t believe me so then I was going to get you to use your powers and-” he cut himself off, shutting his eyes. “It was stupid. So stupid.”

You shifted your body, turning sideways to face him fully. “Peter,” you said softly.

He slowly glanced up to meet your gaze. “Yeah?”

“It wasn’t stupid.”

Peter’s brows pressed together. “But it was-”

“Not, it wasn’t,” you interrupted him.

Peter then began to ramble a mile a minute, and it started to remind you of him in high school.

“Okay, but like, I just keep you in danger, and I know you always have been in danger because you have powers, but I feel like you’re in additional danger and-”

“Peter-”

“I just want you to be safe and I think maybe we should go back to not knowing each other-”

“Peter-”

“Not that I don’t want to know you, because I love you, and I-”

Peter cut himself off, face a bright shade of pink. He looked at you with wide eyes, your lips parted slightly.

Your lips slowly curved upward into a teasing smile as he began to panic again.

“No! I didn’t mean that!” Peter exclaimed. “Wait! I mean, I do love you but- but- like, you know- actually-”

Peter’s words weren’t cut off because you interrupted him verbally again.

No.

You kissed him.

Soft and gentle just like you had that night on the Empire State building.

Peter didn’t freeze up like he did that night.

He immediately melted into it, kissing you back.

Your powers gave you the ability to recall history or memories of the past. Peter’s did not, but something about that kiss made him remember the feeling he had been missing for years. The feeling he craved to experience again.

And that feeling was you.

The missing piece of his soul was you and it always had been.

You pulled apart, forehead resting on his. “I love you too,” you said softly, glancing up at him, cupping his cheek.

Peter swallowed. Hard. “You- You do?”

“I do.”

Peter’s lips curved into a smile. “I love you too.”

“Good,” you said, thumb brushing his cheek. “So, do you wish I could lose my memory of you again?”

Okay, that’s not true — he does. When he has to. When there’s a case file in his hands and you’re just another member of the team he needs to brief — another agent he’s in charge of. When there’s a question about geographical profiling or victimology and you’re the one who can answer it. When he’s assigning roles and has to say your name.

But everything outside of that? Nothing. Cold silence. Controlled distance.

And it killed you.

You wouldn’t even know you kissed him. More than once. Wouldn’t know how his hands felt in your hair, or how he’d said your name like it physically hurt him. Wouldn’t know that there was a moment — no, a string of moments — where he looked at you like you were the only thing grounding him to earth.

Because now? Now he’s pretending none of it ever happened.

And the worst part?

You know he still wants you.

Not in the arrogant way. Not in the I’m-so-irresistible kind of way. No — you know it because you see it. In the way his eyes flicker to you when he thinks you’re not paying attention. In the way his jaw ticks when Morgan jokes too casually with you. In the way he goes quiet when your laugh cuts across the room — his lips pressing into a thin line while his body tenses, almost like he’s trying to stop himself from laughing along.

He wants you. And he’s made that clear before.

But he’s also your boss. Older. Emotionally constipated. A man who shuts people out just before they get too close.

So of course, he made the decision for both of you. Of course, he pulled away, said it wasn’t appropriate, said you needed to keep it professional. Of course, he slammed that wall up between you and iced you out like he didn’t miss you the moment he left.

And now? Now you’re in Florida. The local PD is stretched thin, there’s a suspected spree killer hitting tourist-heavy areas along the I-4 corridor, and you’re operating out of some small, humid precinct where the AC rattles and no one knows how to use a case board.

Hotch pairs you with Officer Pretty Smile — an actual cop, around your age, golden tan, charming, full of casual grins and easy compliments. You don’t even hear most of what Hotch says when he assigns you; you’re too busy fuming at the fact that he’s done it again.

Just like the last two cases, he pairs you with some random officer, keeps you away from the scene, away from the precinct, away from anywhere he might be — in a way, he’s not letting you do your job.

Distanced from the rest of the team, you’re not much help.

How is that professional?

You know the game he’s playing. Avoidance. Distance. Control.

You’re sick of it.

But Officer Pretty Smile — his name’s Ryan — doesn’t seem to mind the stormcloud hanging over your head. He makes it easy to forget, just a little. He’s perceptive, actually listens when you talk, knows when to make you laugh and when to stay quiet. It’s a relief.

He flirts — lightly, respectfully — and you flirt back. Why shouldn’t you?

Aaron’s the one who put this wall up. He’s the one not speaking to you.

You don’t owe him your loyalty if he won’t even look at you outside of a damn case briefing.

The case wraps up after a few days of gruelling profiling, false leads and one late-night stakeout that finally caught your UnSub at a rest stop. You’re debriefing the locals, coordinating transport and starting to pack things up when Ryan walks you out to the parking lot.

He offers you his number, and you take it, pocketing it with a smile that widens when he leans in to press a soft kiss to your cheek. It’s innocent, really. Careful and sweet, but when he pulls back, he doesn’t go far. His face stays close, breath brushing against your skin as his eyes lock onto yours.

Then his gaze drops — not just to your lips, but the space between you — like he’s weighing the distance and what to do about it. It takes a breath or two before he meets your eyes again.

He leans in, slower this time, and his lips just barely graze yours. A featherlight touch that barely classifies as a kiss. It’s more of a hesitation. A silent question — do you want this too?

Yes, you do.

You answer by lifting a hand and placing it gently on his jaw, your touch light but certain.

He exhales softly, and his hands move to your waist, holding you like he’s been wanting to all day.

Your lips are so close, a breath away, and just as you’re about to close the gap—

“Agent!”

Aaron’s voice cuts through the humid Florida air like a gunshot, sharp enough to turn heads. It’s not just a call — it’s a warning. A demand. His tone carries weight, and everyone nearby instinctively pauses, glancing over to where he stands near the SUV, his jaw tight, posture coiled like he’s seconds away from snapping.

You freeze.

Where the fuck did he spawn from?

Ryan pulls back, but not completely. His hands stay on your waist, holding you close, as his eyes look over your shoulder.

You, however, don’t turn around — stubbornly refusing to give Hotch the satisfaction of ruining this moment.

He can wait.

He can watch.

You keep your gaze locked on Ryan. On his lips that are a bit further away than before, parted in confusion as he stares at your boss.

Your fingers shift slightly against his jaw — a gentle nudge meant to draw his attention back to you. And it works. His eyes flicker away from whatever intensity Hotch is radiating behind you and settle back on yours.

You lean in, slow and deliberate, and the moment you do, he seems to forget everything else as he leans in too.

And, just like before, just as your lips graze—

“Agent!”

Somehow, his voice is harsher than before — each syllable laced with barely contained fury.

Your hands fall from Ryan’s face and drop to your sides as you sigh, letting your head dip forward slightly.

“What’s his problem?” Ryan murmurs, his frustration mirroring yours as he shoots Aaron a brief, irritated glance before turning his attention back to you.

You lift your head, just enough to meet his eyes again, and mutter, “I don’t know. He’s just—” You wave a hand vaguely behind you. “A hardass.” You pause. “Or an ass. A normal ass. Whichever floats your boat.”

Ryan snorts, nodding as he looks back at Aaron. “Yeah. That tracks.”

You smile, wide and genuine. “Well then,” you say, looking up at him, “duty calls.”

He nods, looking a bit reluctant as he returns your smile and asks, “Will I see you again before you go?”

You hesitate, just for a second, before finally glancing over your shoulder.

Hotch stands by the entrance of the Jacksonville Sheriff’s Office — arms crossed, back stiff, jaw tight. His eyes are locked on you like he’s trying to dissect every inch of the moment he just interrupted. He looks furious. Controlled, as always, but furious nonetheless.

You look back at Ryan. “Probably not.”

There’s a brief pause — just a breath of silence — before he nods. He doesn’t push, doesn’t ask for anything more. Instead, he steps in and kisses your cheek again, soft and quick, like a quiet goodbye. When he pulls back, he lets his hand brush down your arm before stepping away.

You turn without another word, lowering your head as you approach Aaron. With each step, the feeling of his stare on you burns hotter, sharper.

You stop in front of him, standing there for a moment before you glance up.

His blazer is off, his blue button-up clinging slightly to his skin. His sunglasses perched on his nose and his jaw is tight.

You hate yourself for thinking that he looks hot.

You cross your arms, exhaling sharply before saying, “You called?”

He doesn’t waste a second. “Get the scene logs from the officers inside. I want them scanned and uploaded before we leave for the jet.”

His tone is dry, detached. The words hang in the air like a weight that doesn’t match the way he’s looking at you. His expression is stone-cold, all business, and it only fuels the frustration coursing through you.

You blink, your chest tightening. That’s it? That’s the urgent reason he called you out of a kiss like the sky was falling?

It’s a bullshit task. You both know it.

But he’s your Unit Chief. And right now, he’s pulling rank — not for the case. The case is over. Solved.

He’s doing it for himself, and it makes you want to scream.

You bite back the thousand things you want to say, give a tight nod, and walk past him without a glance.

—

On the jet, the tension is unbearable.

Aaron is sitting near the front, a stack of case files spread in front of him that he hasn’t touched since takeoff. He just stares at them, unmoving, like he’s willing them to make him forget.

You’re in the back, headphones on, glaring out the window as your forehead rests against the glass of it.

The others feel it — the tightrope tension stretching across the cabin. No one says a word.

After a while, you can’t help but glance his way, your eyes rolling when you see how he’s glaring at the files in front of him.

He’s clearly seething. The image of you, about to kiss someone else, seemed to be carved into his memory.

If he’d been closer, he might’ve punched the guy. Hell, if he wasn’t so goddamn professional, he might’ve dragged you away himself.

But he didn’t. He waited. He watched.

He hates that he waited.

And now he’s stewing in it.

When the jet lands, everyone moves quickly — eager to escape the static pressure in the air. You stand, grabbing your go-bag before heading for the stairs.

And then — low, sharp, right in front of you:

“Stay.”

He’s still seated, leaning forward slightly, elbow propped on the table. His hand is pressed to his face, fingers buried in his hair while his palm digs into his temple like he’s desperately trying to hold his thoughts together.

His eyes are closed — not from sleep, but something heavier — and despite the jet landing, his papers are still out, strewn in front of him. Clearly, he’d given up trying to read them — or pretending to read them.

His face is taut, shadowed — caught in a quiet storm of exhaustion or thought. Maybe both.

He looks really hot.

Swallowing, you will that thought away.

‘Stay.’ He had said, in a tone that made you freeze — one that left no room for argument.

You hesitate, your grip on your bag tightening a bit as you stare before deciding.

No.

With your lips set in a frown, you start walking again.

Just as you’re about to move past him, though, his hand reaches out to wrap around your wrist.

You tense, his touch making you feel warm and a bit breathless despite your anger.

“I said stay.” His voice cuts through the quiet — steady with an edge that sends a jolt through you.

Shit.

You look down at him, jaw set. “Let go.”

He doesn’t move at first — just lifts his eyes to meet yours, something unreadable flickering behind them. Then he exhales before rising to his feet in a fluid motion. His grip on your wrist doesn’t loosen as he stands over you, shoulders squared.

You falter, thrown by the sudden nearness. “Hotch—”

“Aaron.” He interrupts you, his eyes narrowing as he stares down at you. His tone is sharp, stern like hearing his last name offended him.

“Hotch.” You repeat it, just to piss him off.

If distance is what he wants, distance is what he’ll get.

He stares at you for a second before exhaling, a tired look in his eyes as he says, “We need to talk.”

“Oh, now you want to talk?” Your voice rises a bit and you barely manage to hold back a laugh. “You ignore me for weeks, send me off like I’m a problem you can delegate, and now — suddenly — you want to talk?”

His jaw clenches. “You don’t understand—”

“No. You don’t get to—“

Before you can finish what you’re saying, he uses his grip on your wrist to pull you into him. Fuelled by everything he hasn’t said, it’s not a gentle gesture.

You gasp as you stumble forward, crashing into his chest. Your cheek brushes the soft fabric of his shirt and your hand splayed instinctively against him for balance. When your eyes finally meet his, he’s already looking down at you — jaw tense, eyes dark, your faces now inches apart.

“You were going to kiss him.” His voice is quiet, but the words hit harder than if he’d shouted them.

His grip on your wrist tightens slightly, and for a moment, he closes his eyes. The sight of you both leaning in replays in his mind — the tension in his jaw is visible as his lips press into a line. His expression looks as if the image physically hurt him.

When he opens them again, his eyes lock onto yours, searching, checking to see if you understand the severity of it.

Your lips are parted as you stare at him.

You’re not surprised that he brought it up. You knew it was coming, but the way he says it — the weight in his voice — wasn’t something you were expecting.

His words carried an undertone of pain that make you falter. It’s not just about the kiss, you realise. It’s about everything he’s been holding in.

“You were about to kiss him.” He repeats, slower than before, his eyes still boring into yours.

Hearing the word ‘kiss’ a second time, along with the sudden proximity, had your gaze falling to his lips.

You couldn’t help it.

You looked back up quickly to find his eyes still on you.

A flicker of guilt creeps into your chest — something small, unwanted. Maybe it’s the way his voice quietened when he said it. Maybe it’s the look in his eyes, like he wasn’t prepared for how much it hurt him — you almost kissing someone else.

For a split second, you start to feel bad.

But it doesn’t last.

Not when you remember the last few weeks — how he’s iced you out, kept his distance like you didn’t matter, like the moments you shared never happened.

Your jaw tightens and your brows furrow in the way they always do when you’re annoyed.

“Stop.” You say, the word sharper than you intended. Shaking your head, your voice comes out quieter the second time. “Just… stop.”

He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, just watches you — eyes flicking across your face like he’s trying to read you.

Like he’s trying to profile you.

What happened to never profiling each other? Probably the same thing that happened to being ‘professional’.

“You’re being unfair, Aaron.”

You avert your gaze, unable to hold his anymore. It drops to his chest — the fabric of his shirt stretched a bit beneath your hands that are still resting there. You can feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing, slightly faster than it should be.

He has no right to be upset, you think, and it takes everything in you not to say it out loud first. But when you look back up at him, your anger catches fire again, sharp and unforgiving.

“You’re the one who pushed me away.” You bite out, voice low. “You iced me out. For weeks, Aaron.”

Your words land heavy in the space between you, but you don’t stop.

“You told me we couldn’t—” You falter slightly, pain catching in your throat, “—that we had to keep things professional. And then you avoided me. You acted like I didn’t matter.”

His jaw flexes again, but he says nothing.

“And now what?” you continue. “Now you’re upset because I almost kissed someone else? You don’t get to pull me in two different directions like this. You can’t tell me to stay away, and then look at me like that when someone else gets close.”

His hand is still on your waist, his grip on your wrist still firm. He hasn’t let go, hasn’t backed off, and that makes it worse — the contradiction of it. The ache of being wanted but not claimed.

“It’s confusing. You’re confusing.” My voice goes back to being quiet as I lower my gaze again, missing the way his expression softens a bit.

It softens because he knows you’re right.

He can’t argue with you, not really. Not when you’re looking at him like that. Or rather, not looking at him at all. Your eyes are fixed on his chest now, lips pressed together in that tight little frown that always means you’re trying not to show how hurt you are.

He can’t argue with you because you’re right.

He’s being unfair, and the guilt of that realization hits him instantly, swallowing him whole. The weight of his own selfishness also sinks in, making him feel stupid for not realizing how much he’s hurt you.

When the silence stretches for too long, you look up, and your frown deepens when you see how he’s watching you.

“Stop profiling me.” Your voice shakes a bit as you try to yank yourself free of his grip. But Aaron doesn’t let go. His hands stay firm on your waist, like letting go would mean losing something he’s not ready to give up.

It only makes you angrier.

You shove at his chest, hard, but he barely budges. “Let go.” you snap, glaring up at him, but his expression doesn’t shift. He just watches you, jaw tight, eyes unreadable behind the shield of his silence.

That silence cuts deeper than anything.

“You ignored me for weeks!” you shout, your voice rising, cracking with something raw. “You didn’t even look at me. You shut me out like I meant nothing!”

You try again to pull away, like his touch burns. Like the heat of his hands is searing through your skin, cracking you open.

And it hurts him — more than he thought it would. Watching you try to escape him like he’s done something unforgivable — which he has — makes something twist in his chest. He wants to fix it, but he doesn’t know how. Every word you throw at him lands like a blow, and still, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t let go.

He just hurts.

“Let go!” you yell, louder now, fists balled as you push at him again. “I said fuck off, Aaron!”

You look up at him then — eyes blazing, cheeks flushed with anger, your frown etched deep into your face. The fury in your expression is undeniable, and it hits him like a punch.

And before he even realizes what he’s doing — he kisses you.

It comes out of nowhere. Like something snaps inside him, like instinct. It’s not gentle. It’s not soft. It’s angry and desperate and messy—like he’s trying to shut you up and apologize all at once. Like everything he’s been holding back has just erupted, too big to contain.

You freeze at first, tensing against it, breath caught in your throat.

But then you break.

Your hands fist in the lapels of his blazer, gripping hard like you need something to hold you upright. Your lips move against his with the same kind of fury you’d just thrown at him — like this is a fight, too. But somewhere in that chaos, your shoulders slump, and so do his.

Like you’re both exhaling for the first time in weeks.

Like this is the first breath either of you has taken since everything fell apart.

His hands move — one, then both — rising to cradle your face, fingers splayed across your cheeks like he’s terrified you’ll disappear if he lets go.

You pull back first, breaking the kiss with a gasp, your breath catching somewhere between his mouth and your own. His grip loosens, and for a second, something like a whine escapes him — soft and involuntary — like he can’t believe you’re already pulling away.

You’re breathless. Lips swollen. Heart racing.

“You’re such an asshole.” you hiss, voice low, hoarse, but still furious.

His eyes darken. “You were gonna kiss him.”

“Stop repeating that!” you snap, but there’s no bite behind it now — just exhaustion and heat and emotion so tangled you can’t separate any of it.

You don’t even think about it — you just lean in again, drawn like a magnet. And this time, he meets you halfway. Your lips part just before they touch, and when they do, it feels like the ground shifts beneath you. Like the jet could be spinning or crashing and you wouldn’t even notice.

It’s slower, deeper — but just as intense. His hands are still on your face, and yours are clinging to him like you don’t trust gravity anymore.

But then he pulls away.

His forehead drops to yours — close, so close — and for a moment you almost let him stay there. But something in you twists, and you turn your head just slightly, breaking the contact. You keep your eyes shut, breathing shallow, your face turned toward the wall of the jet like if you don’t look at him, you can hold onto the last piece of your anger.

His heart sinks.

“I’m sorry.” he says, his voice quieter now. Cracked open. “I’m sorry for all of it.”

You don’t move. Don’t look.

“I— I thought it was the right thing.” he says, and now it’s all unraveling, everything he’s shoved down clawing its way out. “I didn’t know how to handle what I felt for you. I didn’t know if I should. So I convinced myself the best thing — the most responsible thing — was to shut it down. To shut you out.”

He lets out a breath, sharp and rough. “I told myself you’d be better off. That you didn’t need someone like me — someone older, someone who barely knows how to process his own shit, let alone drag you into it. My hours are a nightmare, I’m exhausted all the time, and I have nothing to give you except… this mess.”

His voice softens but doesn’t steady. “And if Strauss found out, she wouldn’t hesitate to pull you off the team. To punish you for something that was always my fault.”

You still don’t speak. Your eyes remain closed.

“I thought I was doing the right thing,” he says again, quieter now, like it physically hurts to say. “But it felt like cutting off my own oxygen. Seeing you every day, hearing your voice, pretending you were just another agent — it fucking destroyed me. Every moment I stayed away, I felt like I was unraveling. But I thought… if I could just hold the line a little longer, maybe I could let you go.”

His voice cracks then, barely above a whisper. “But I couldn’t. I can’t.”

You don’t say anything, and the silence eats at him. He shifts slightly, eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to read anything — any flicker of emotion, of softness, of something.

“Please say something.” he murmurs.

There’s no anger in him anymore. Just regret. Just longing.

“I haven’t slept,” he says, after a second. “Not really. Not since I let you go. You’ve been in my head every day. Every night. You walk into the room and I can’t think straight. I hear your voice down the hall and I forget what I’m doing. It’s pathetic.”

Then gently — cautiously — he reaches out, fingers brushing against your chin. He turns your face to him, coaxing your eyes to his.

And when you look at him, he looks wrecked.

There’s exhaustion in his features, shadows beneath his eyes, but it’s the look in them that breaks you: raw, sincere, desperate. Like you’re the only thing anchoring him to earth right now.

“I’m sorry.” he says again, like it’s the only thing he has left to give. Like he means it with everything he’s got.

And he does.

It’s silent for a second.

His eyes search yours, unsure and a little frantic, like he’s trying to profile you again — trying to get an understanding of whatever’s going on in your mind.

He gives up quickly, wanting to find out whatever it is your thinking from you yourself. But just as he’s about to ask, you kiss him.

When you pull back, your hands stay on him, sliding down to his chest where you can feel the rapid, uneven rhythm of his heart.

“I don’t expect you to be perfect, Aaron.” you murmur, voice soft but steady. “I’m not. I barely have my own shit together half the time. And I’m not looking for some ideal version of you — just you. The version that cares too much and thinks too hard and carries everything on his back like it’s his job to keep the world spinning.”

You pause, your eyes searching his, and he doesn’t look away.

“I don’t want anyone else.” you say, more firmly now. “I can’t want anyone else. My heart’s already decided. It’s you. It’s always been you. These past few weeks without you—feeling you pull away, watching you pretend like nothing mattered—that was hell. And if you think I just brushed it off and moved on, you really don’t know me at all.”

You don’t stop there, because you can see it — how he’s still doubting, still not sure what you see in him. So you tell him.

“You don’t even realize how much I see you.” you whisper. “How good you are. You’re strong, yeah, but you’re also… unbelievably kind. You’re the one who makes me feel stable when everything else is a mess. You make me feel safe without trying to control me. You make me feel… things I didn’t even know I was capable of feeling.”

His brow creases like he doesn’t know what to do with that, like it’s too much, too pure.

“And I don’t give a damn about your age. If anything, it makes you hotter.” you add with a breath of a laugh. “It means you’ve lived, you’ve learned, and you listen. You make me feel taken care of in a way no one ever has.”

He’s blinking at you like his brain short-circuited somewhere along the way.

“As for Strauss…” You shrug a little. “She’s not a profiler. We barely even see her. If we keep things professional at work, we’ll be fine. We’re good at this — at keeping calm under pressure. This isn’t gonna change that.”

Then you take one of his hands and hold it tightly, pressing your fingers to his palm.

“All I want,” you say, voice low, “is for you to let me love you.”

Something in him breaks. Or maybe it mends. You can’t quite tell.

His eyes widen just a little, and for a second he just stares at you — like his brain is still catching up. Like the word punched the breath right out of him.

“What?” he asks, the word so soft it’s barely audible.

“I just want to love you, Aaron.” you repeat, quieter this time, like it’s a promise.

His breath shudders out of him, and he leans forward again — not kissing you yet, just resting his forehead against yours, like he needs the grounding.

“I love you.” he says, the words raw and unfiltered. “And I’m sorry. I’ll talk to you next time — really talk. I won’t shut you out again. I won’t let myself forget what this feels like.”

“You better not.” you murmur.

And then he kisses you again.

It’s steadier now. Certain. Like he’s finally, finally giving in to the truth he’s been denying. Like he knows what he wants — and it’s you.

As your lips move together, the world outside the jet fades into the background. His hand moves slowly, purposefully, down your side, and then it shifts, lowering until he reaches into your pocket.

You pull away a little, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Before you can fully process it, he pulls out the small piece of paper — the one with Ryan’s number scrawled on it.

Your heart skips a beat. He saw that?

The thought stings for a second — had he seen everything? You’d assumed he’d stepped outside for some reason and had just happened to catch a glimpse of you two — coincidentally, when you were about to kiss.

But Aaron’s mind works in a different way. He had seen you leave with Ryan, noticed the way you two were talking, the smiles on your faces. And something in him tensed. He didn’t like it. The way you were walking so close, how easy it seemed between you. So he followed, curiosity gnawing at him. He hadn’t meant to — but it felt like he had to know.

You break the silence with a quiet question, still trying to make sense of it all. “You saw that?”

Aaron’s jaw tightens, his face flickering with a flash of frustration, then quickly hardening as he remembers it.

“I saw all of it.” he says, his voice colder than you expected. A wince pulls at his expression as he scrunches the paper up in his hand, turning to toss it in the small bin beside the exit of the jet, the movement sharp and final.

You can’t help but let out a small, amused laugh despite the tension. His reaction, his possessiveness — it’s almost too much to ignore. But then, before he can get too far in his thoughts, you soften and murmur an apology. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

He cuts you off with a question of his own, his gaze still intense as he watches you, his tone now a little guarded. “Were you actually going to kiss him?”

You blink, surprised by the bluntness, but you can’t help the smirk that slips onto your face. “Hey, you’re the one who paired me with him.”

Aaron rolls his eyes, the hint of frustration fading a little, but you can still see the sharp edge to his expression. “From now on, you’re with me for every case.”

You laugh at the thought, shaking your head, but the joke settles in as you reply, “I don’t think that’d help with keeping Strauss off our trail.”

Aaron chuckles, his eyes softening just a fraction, but he doesn’t back down. “I’ll risk it. It’s fine.”

Your laughter fills the space between you, and it warms Aaron’s heart more than he’d care to admit. He’s missed hearing it, hearing you so carefree, even when things feel a little chaotic.

He pulls you a little closer then, wrapping an arm around your waist as if he can’t let you go now that he’s got you. He starts guiding you off the jet with that same quiet confidence he always carries, but there’s something different now — a sense of peace between you both, even if the world outside still feels a little unsettled.

“You’re coming to my place.” he says, his voice low and steady. “I’m making you dinner.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”