you left your typewriter at my apartment

You were good at hiding discomfort. He had noticed that early on, your tendency to downplay aches and pains, even injuries. You preferred taking care of everyone else first. He doubted you even realised how obvious it was— how every small gesture, every warm smile dedicated to your teammates came at the cost of you neglecting yourself entirely. 

Even now, as you sat there completely zoned out, trying to blink away whatever fog had settled over you, Aaron could see it— the tremble in your fingers, and the sluggishness in your movements.

You hadn’t said a word to anyone. Of course you hadn’t.

He was already crossing the distance before he fully registered it.

“Hey.”

You startled a little, hand dropping from your temple. “Hotch.” Mumbling, you tried to straighten up, giving him that I’m fine smile. But it faltered at the edges, and now that he was closer, he could see the red welt forming along your hairline.

His jaw tensed. “What happened?”

“Nothing. I’m fine.”

“You’re swaying.”

“I’m—”

Before you could finish the sentence, Aaron sat down next to you, steadying your elbow. His grip wasn’t forceful, but it left no room for argument. “Stay seated.”

You hesitated, stubborn as ever, but as a wave of nausea passed over you, that determination wavered.

“Did the unsub get you?”

“…Plank,” you mumbled sheepishly, glaring at the gravel. “Didn’t even see it coming.”

Aaron’s jaw fluttered, a rare crack in that cool, controlled exterior. “You should’ve said something sooner.”

You sighed softly, “It didn’t hurt so bad at the time.”

He met your eyes— and damn it, even with your pupils slightly unfocused, that stubborn pride was still there. But so was the quiet fatigue, the faint shakiness that you couldn’t mask.

Aaron exhaled, softer this time. “Head injury isn’t nothing.” His voice dropped, quieter. “You don’t have to power through everything, you know.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but a medic was approaching now, called over by Hotch’s subtle nod.

You glanced at him suspiciously. “Did you—?”

Aaron didn’t deny it. Just sat back, arms folded, watching like a hawk as the medic gently examined you, going through the usual barrage of concussion questions. You answered fine, but even then, Aaron couldn’t help tensing up when he heard the slight wince as they checked the lump on your head.

The medic cleared you quickly enough. Luckily, it had just been a mild concussion; no immediate alarm bells.

Still, Hotch couldn’t help hovering.

“You’re riding back with me,” he announced, tone brooking no argument.

You tried for some humour, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “What, no more Uber surprises?”

For a second, Aaron’s eyes softened. The same look he gave you on rainy days, and when your coffee mysteriously appeared on your desk. That quiet, inexplicable fondness that said more than any words ever could. 

“No,” he said simply, “Just wanna make sure you’re okay.”

And maybe it was the lingering adrenaline, or maybe it was the subtle warmth behind those words, but the ache in your head faded into background noise. 

So for the first time all day, you relaxed, letting yourself lean into Aaron. Just a little. And you could swear he shifted closer too — like somehow, without saying a word, the two of you had finally found it.

That quiet, steady place between worry and warmth.

Your sweet spot.

◁ part one

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Borders by @/cafekitsune

A tiny thing— barely even noticeable. Mesner was deflecting your questions again, retreating behind a wall of arrogant confidence, and you’d let just the slightest trace of impatience crack through your tone. The professional mask wavered for a nanosecond, but it was enough.

Mesner’s eyes narrowed, a cruel smile stretching across his face. 

“You’re not as innocent as you look, you know,” he sneered, sitting up straighter, eyes flashing. “You’re just another whore. Like the rest of them.”

Your heart sped up. You fought to keep your posture neutral, but alarms were blaring in your brain.

“Like who, Richard?”

The table went flying.

Chairs scraped back as he shot up, metal screeching across broken tile. You shoved your own chair back, adrenaline tightening your muscles. Mesner was snarling, body coiled with immense rage.

Before you could even register your next move, the door slammed open.

Aaron Hotchner.

His presence filled the room like a pressure change. He stepped in, calm and composed, but authority rolling off his shoulders. 

“Sit down, Mr Mesner,” Hotch said, eyes staring him down, voice low and measured. 

Mesner froze— not soon enough, but the instinct was there. His eyes darted between you and Hotch, sizing up his opponents. 

“I will not repeat myself. Sit down.”

The edge in Hotch’s tone wasn’t overt, but it was undeniable. A wire pulled tight enough to cut.

Mesner faltered, shoulders slumping as his bravado cracked. 

You didn’t wait for permission. You stood, stepping smoothly around the fallen chairs and out the door. You could feel Hotch’s gaze flick to you as you left — sharp, assessing — but you didn’t look back.

It was nearly an hour later when Hotch brushed past you, with a swift “My office, now.”

Not a request.

You straightened your shirt, your heartbeat still thready from before, and you made your way upstairs. His door was open— a formality, considering you were alone on this floor.

“Shut the door, please,” he said, eyes fixed on a brown file in his hand.

You obeyed.

For a moment, he stayed quiet, flipped a page like it mattered. You waited, not daring to break the silence.

Finally, Hotch exhaled— sharply, like a fuse burning down. “I undermined you.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “Sir?”

“Earlier. With Mesner.” He set the file down, brown eyes meeting yours. His face was unreadable, but you could see tension in his jaw, something different simmering under his usual cool façade. “You had it under control. I stepped in prematurely. I undermined your control of the interrogation.”

You opened your mouth to disagree or argue or something, but he raised a hand— not dismissive, just firm.

“I know what it looked like to you. But you need to understand, it wasn’t about doubt. It wasn't about a reflection of your ability.” Aaron lowered his eyes, “It was about control. Mine.”

You kept quiet, giving him space to finish his thought. He seemed to need to get it all out. 

“I wasn’t going to risk it,” he continued, “Not with him. Especially not with you in the room.”

Something clicked in your brain then. The edge you’d noticed earlier wasn’t anger, it was fear. Tight, contained, expertly buried… but fear, nevertheless.

You hesitated, taking the time to weigh your words carefully. “Hotch… you didn’t undermine me. You backed me up. There’s a difference.”

His jaw ticked, and for a brief moment, something unguarded slipped into his expression. Guilt, maybe. Or… something else. Something warm.

“I trust you,” he said, voice barely above a murmur. “But men like Mesner… I’ve seen what happens when you underestimate a man like that.”

The unsaid words hovered— and I’ve seen what happens when you lose someone to it.

You nodded. “I appreciate it, Hotch.”

You moved to leave when he called your name out behind you. 

You turned, and hesitation flicked across his face, like he was still making up his mind over whether to let the words escape.

“You didn’t slip up,” he said, finally. “He did.”

You smiled. “Thanks, Aaron.”

And just for a second— blink and you miss it— his mouth quirked up in return. 

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Dividers by @/cafekitsune and @/strangergraphics-archive.

Morgan and Garcia had dragged everyone out after the case wrapped. Just a low-stakes evening at the closest bar near Quantico— laughter, drinks and darts. But you’d sat at the end of the booth all night, shoulders tucked in and ankles crossed as if trying to make yourself smaller. You had politely pretended to enjoy yourself while everyone grew steadily louder. You’d given it your best shot, Hotch would give you that. But you just didn’t seem like the kind of person who enjoyed taking up space. 

He wasn’t sure exactly what tipped him over the edge. Maybe it was the way you quietly slipped out of the booth when no one was looking. Or maybe it was how every time he looked at you, you looked down like it burned.

So there he was, coat unbuttoned, hands cold, heart hammering. He tried to remember why it seemed like a good idea a few minutes ago.

Before Hotch could chicken out, he reached out and knocked on your door. Lightly, though, like he hoped you wouldn’t hear.

But you did.

A few moments passed before the door opened a cautious sliver. A flash of clothing, and then you peeked through the side, startled, wide-eyed. “Hotch?”

You looked so soft, so sleepy, so… you. And Aaron Hotchner— seasoned profiler, former prosecutor, Unit Chief— nearly turned around and fled.

“Hi. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

You blinked, completely puzzled. “Um… No. You’re fine. I just—I just wasn’t expecting…” You trailed off, voice soft.

Hotch cleared his throat, trying to dispel the persistently increasing jitters. “Can I come in for a minute?”

You stepped back, letting him in with your usual shy awkwardness. You looked like you were trying to process whether this was a dream or a disciplinary meeting.

The lights were low, cosy. You’d clearly been winding down. Fuzzy cat socks. A soft throw blanket on the couch. An unfamiliar domestic ache passed through him, and he had to force his gaze away from how inviting it all looked.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said.

“You didn’t,” you said too fast. “You just… surprised me.”

You stood with your arms curled around yourself, fidgeting. Your eyes flitted to him, then the floor. Were you nervous, too? Because of him?

Hotch took a deep breath. “I just wanted to make sure you got home okay.”

You blinked again. “That’s… why you’re here?”

“No,” he said quickly. Immediately regretted it, too. “I mean— yes. But also no. I mean—“

He scrubbed a hand down his face, mentally reviewing every poor life decision that led to this moment. This was going so much worse than the already-pathetic version he’d imagined. What the hell are you doing, Hotchner? 

Your brows furrowed, and you took a cautious step forward. “Is… everything okay?”

“No,” he sighed, lowering his hand, “But I think I’ve made something wrong. And I didn’t mean to, I swear.”

You looked so confused. And so small. Hotch felt his heart twist in several directions before you asked, “What do you mean?”

“I think I’ve given you the wrong idea.”

“About?”

“Me.” His throat felt tight. “And… you.”

You stared at him, wide-eyed. He felt every second of your silence like a countdown.

“I always thought you didn’t like me,” you said.

He nearly laughed—not because it was funny, but because it was so absurdly tragic that he’d made you think that.

“Why?”

“You never talk to me unless you have to. You don’t smile at me like you do with JJ or Emily. And when I try to joke with you, you just stare like I’ve said something stupid.”

Hotch grimaced. Of course you’d noticed. 

“That’s not—God. That’s not what I meant to do.”

You looked like you were trying to shrink into yourself. “It’s fine. I get it. I’m quiet. Weird. I know I come off as—”

“You don’t,” he interrupted. “You don’t come off as anything except… you. Thoughtful. Kind. And yes—quiet. But that’s not bad. It’s never been bad.”

He saw you freeze.

And he realised this was it. No take-backs. No cool, calm control. The mask was off.

“I’ve been trying so hard not to scare you off that I think I just came off like an asshole.”

Your voice was so quiet. “Wait. Scare me off?”

He nodded, wishing he were someone better at this. Someone smoother. Someone not carrying a briefcase full of unspoken feelings.

“I like you,” he said. “A lot more than I should.”

There. Done. Ruined.

You blinked, stunned. “I’m… sorry, what?”

Hotch swallowed past the ball in his throat. Say it again. Softer. Or maybe louder. Or more romantically. You probably didn’t hear him right. He must have imagined the way your cheeks flushed and given him the slightest sliver of hope.

“That— Sorry, I’m just— I didn’t mean to say it like that.”

“Wait, so… so you don’t hate me?”

He winced. Interrogations were easier than this. “No. God, no. I’ve been doing mental gymnastics trying not to show how much I liked you, especially in the office. I thought— I figured you might not appreciate it. But clearly, I took it too far.”

Your eyes were doing that wide-eyed sparkle thing again. Like you were recategorising the last six months of interactions in your head. All the awkward silences, the moments he stood too close and then bolted, the time he spilt coffee and nearly had a stroke when you offered to help clean it.

“You… like me?” you asked.

And now he felt about twelve years old. “Yes. Is that not—was that not clear?”

You laughed, then. He’d never heard you laugh like that. If only he could bottle it up. “Aaron, you flinched every time I entered a room.”

“That wasn’t flinching. That was panic.”

You lifted a brow. 

“Not the bad kind,” Hotch added quickly, “I just kind of forgot how to speak for a couple of seconds. Or function, for that matter.

You giggled. He’d take the memory of that laugh to his grave,

“You’re really bad at this,” you said.

He sighed, smiling despite it all. “I am… painfully aware.”

“I thought you were mad every time I said something awkward,” you admitted. “Or when I fumbled a report. You always looked so stern.”

“I am stern,” he said, and you laughed again. “But I was never angry. I was… distracted. By you.”

Something in you shifted then—visibly. Like you were seeing him clearly for the first time.

Hotch took a step closer.

“I don’t expect anything from you,” he said softly. “But I wanted you to know. I wanted to stop pretending I didn’t notice you. Or that you didn’t matter to me.”

You didn’t run. You didn’t hide. You didn’t even look away.

Instead, you reached for his hand.

And Hotch didn’t stop himself from holding it.

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You knew what you were doing when you picked that skirt this morning—just the right length to be office-appropriate, but the way Aaron’s eyes had trailed over you during the morning briefing? 

Oh, he noticed. 

The subtle clench of his jaw. The way he didn’t trust himself to speak when you leaned across the table.

So when your phone buzzed with a single message—“Be home by 7. Don’t make me ask twice. — A.H.”—your stomach fluttered, anticipation thrumming under your skin all day.

So there you were, perched on the edge of the couch, legs curled under you, heart racing every time you thought you heard footsteps. Your gaze flitted between the clock— 6:59 pm— and the door. Hair down just the way he liked, lip gloss fresh, and that skirt? Still on… for now.

The front door clicked open at 7:01 pm. You pretended not to rush to your feet, but you were already standing by the time he stepped in, briefcase in one hand, jacket slung over his shoulder, and shirt sleeves rolled up in ways that should be criminalised.

Aaron paused in the doorway, gaze sweeping over you—lingering for a moment too long on that damn skirt— and you swear you heard the faintest groan under his breath.

“One minute late. I was concerned,” you teased, stepping closer, heart hammering.

He dropped the briefcase by the entryway, his response low and deliberate. “You’re lucky I didn’t pull you into an empty conference room the second you crossed your legs in that thing.”

“I had no idea I had such an effect on you,” you said coyly, not meeting his eyes.

Hotch closed the space between you with deliberate confidence. “You knew exactly what you were doing, honey,” he murmured, voice rich with heat. “You knew since the second you chose to wear the skirt this morning.”

You grazed your fingers against the inside of his wrist, feather-light. “It’s just a skirt, Aaron.”

“Oh no, honey. Don’t play dumb. That wasn’t just a skirt,” he whispered in your ear, “That was a direct challenge. I know it’s been a while, but did you really think you’d get away with that?”

Your breath hitched.

“Not really,” you grinned.

“For that,” Aaron continued, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes, “you’re going to sit on the couch, hands in your lap, and wait for me to change. When I’m back..” His gaze dropped, slow and loaded. “We’re going to have a long conversation about office conduct and dress codes.”

You swallowed, cheeks flushing. “Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Sir— Yes, sir.”

“Good girl,” he whispered, lips brushing your temple, making your knees weak. Then he disappeared down the hall, leaving you breathless and buzzing.

You smoothed your skirt down with sweaty palms, sinking onto the couch, exactly as instructed.

The seconds dragged out like honey. You heard drawers opening and the soft shuffle of footsteps in the distance. You shifted nervously, thighs brushing together, all too aware of how empty the room felt without Aaron— and how charged the air felt because of him.

You glanced at the hallway, straining for a glimpse, but… nothing. Just silence. 

Until— finally— he returned.

He’d changed. No suit. No tie. Just a fitted black T-shirt and grey sweats that hug his frame like they were tailored to him. That somehow made it worse. Or better. You weren’t sure. The only thing you knew was that your pulse was somewhere in your throat.

Aaron stood a few feet away, arms crossed. His eyes roamed over you slowly, like he was savouring the sight of you sitting right where he left you— obedient, flushed, hands resting together like a schoolgirl waiting for her reprimand.

He tilted his head. “Didn’t move an inch.”

“Didn’t dare,” you murmured, voice shaky.

His lips twitched. You might’ve mistaken it for a smile, but you knew better. It didn’t even reach his eyes. “Smart girl.”

He moved, then, stalking over to your direction— there was no better word for it, the way he moved was downright predatory. He sat beside you, close but still not touching. That restraint—that discipline— was more unbearable than anything else. His arm snaked behind your shoulders on the back of the couch, like he was in no rush, like he had all the time in the world.

“Sometimes I wonder why you pull these stunts, sweet girl,” he started, voice like velvet and smoke.

“What do you mean?” You managed. Nervousness pooled in your belly.

“If you wanted my attention, you could’ve just asked.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

At that, Aaron leaned in, brushing his lips against the shell of your ear. “You should know better. You distracted me all day today. That’s not done for a Unit Chief, is it?”

You didn’t say a word. You couldn’t. He was moving down the column of your neck, and he was dangerously close to that spot behind your ear. The one that had you lolling your head back in bliss every time he nipped it with his teeth.

“I know how you cross your legs when you’re pretending not to be flustered. I know the way you bite your lip when you want me to look. You played with fire today, sweetheart.”

Your lips parted, a faint breath escaping. “Are you mad?”

He pulled away to look at you. “No,” he said quietly. “I’m impressed.”

Aaron moved his hand then, slow, deliberate, fingers brushing the edge of your skirt just above the knee. Not inappropriate. Just enough to remind you who’s in control.

“You have my attention now,” he murmured. “The question is— what are you going to do with it?”

You smiled, shy and bold all at once. “Whatever you tell me to.”

“Good answer.”

His hand moved upwards, past the hem of your skirt. “You always follow orders so well in the field,” he whispered, thumb skimming the inside of your thigh, “But here? In private?” His voice dipped lower, darker. “You like testing me.”

You couldn’t disagree with that. You enjoyed seeing how much you could get away with before he snapped. Before that thin veil of professionalism cracked and gave way to something rougher. Something earned.

“It’s time I teach you a lesson,” he continued. “One you’ll remember next time you decide to tease me at work.”

Your stomach flipped. 

“Turn around and get on the couch,” he commanded, and you obeyed, heat flooding your cheeks as your palms met the backrest. You could feel the weight of his gaze behind you—Aaron didn’t move for a moment. He just stood there, watching.

Almost a minute ticked by before he moved again. He lifted your skirt slowly, baring the soft curve of your ass. His touch lingered, and you almost whimpered, before he leaned over you to whisper, “Count for me.”

The first spank was firm, more sting than pain, and it stole the breath from your lungs.

“One,” you gasped, gripping the back of the couch.

“You know what you did, don’t you?” Another crack against your skin, sharper this time. “Wearing that little skirt. Laughing at Morgan’s jokes. Not looking at me.”

“Two,” you whispered, thighs pressing together instinctively. Your body was already betraying you, damp heat pooling between your legs.

“You’re mine,” he growled, delivering the third spank, this one lower, right across the softest part of you.

“Three.”

His hand soothed the sting, gentle now, fingertips trailing over the burn. “You’re wet,” he said, voice low and pleased. “You like being punished.”

You nodded, pressing back against his hand shamelessly. “Yes, sir.”

The title made Aaron groan, fingers tightening on your hip. “That’s right. You’re going to behave now, aren’t you?”

You moaned as he leaned in, pressing a kiss to your spine. “Yes, sir.”

“Good girl.”

He slid his hand between your legs then, and the teasing stopped. The leather of the couch was cool beneath your skin, a sharp contrast to the molten heat spreading low in your belly. Your knees dug into the cushions, skirt hiked up to your waist, panties still clinging damp between your thighs.

“I suggest you lean forward, sweet girl,” he said quietly. “Now.”

You obeyed instantly, arms stretching forward, back arching as you settled into place. Exposed. Ready.

You heard the soft rustle of Aaron tugging his drawstrings loose. Your breathing sped up.

“You wanted to be a brat today, so here’s what you’ve earned.” His hand came down again, bare this time. The sound echoed in the room—sharp, humiliating, delicious.

You jolted forward with a strangled gasp. “Four.”

Another. The burn blossomed bright, pulsing through your body like lightning.

“Five.”

He leaned in close, his rough calluses on his fingers dragging against your inner thigh like a warning. “Do you even know how badly I wanted to bend you over my desk today? In front of everyone?” he whispered, his voice low and cutting. “To show them all who you really belong to?”

You whimpered, hips rocking back against him, craving contact, craving him. “Aaron, please.”

“You tease me in public, but you act so obedient at home,” he continued. His other hand came up to wrap loosely around your throat, not tight, just there. A reminder. A leash.

The moan tumbles out of your mouth before you can even think to stop it, heart racing. Arousal was taking over every sense, and the need was blinding you. You needed more, and you needed it now.

He squeezed his fingers gently around your neck, enough to make you tilt your head. “Say it.”

“I belong to you,” you whispered, voice shaking.

“I didn’t hear you.”

“I belong to you.”

“That’s better.”

The next slap snapped across your ass with brutal, perfect precision that had your knees wobbling. The cry that escaped you was guttural, raw.

“Six.”

Aaron growled low behind you. “Look at you— trembling and soaked. You’re so good when you’re being ruined.”

He hooked his index finger in your panties and pulled them to the side, fingers slipping through your slick folds without hesitation. You gasped, thighs quivering as teased your clit, hips rocking involuntarily into his palm. You hadn’t known how bad you’d needed this.

“Beg for it.”

You swallowed your pride, shivering, desperate. “Please.”

“Please what?”

“Please fuck me, Aaron.”

You barely had time to register the swish of fabric before your world shattered.

He didn’t wait. Didn’t ease in. He gripped your hips and filled you in one deep, punishing thrust that had you crying out so loud it barely sounded human. You clawed at the couch, barely holding on as he fucked you—hard, relentless, every thrust a reminder of who you belonged to.

“Count.”

You could barely think. “S-seven…”

Another thrust. Deeper. Rougher.

“Eight.”

He reached around and circled your clit, rubbing tight, cruel little circles that made your eyes roll back.

“Nine—oh fuck,” you scream, pleasure arcing through every fibre your being. All you could do was hold on to the couch and take it.

“You gonna come on my cock like a good girl?”

“Yes—yes, please, I’m—”

Your orgasm hit you like a freight train, body clenching, thighs shaking as you cried out, legs giving way beneath you. He didn’t stop. Didn’t slow down. Just fucked you through it, hips slamming into yours until he groaned deeply, and spilled inside you.

Silence followed. Just your ragged breathing mingling with his, and the soft creak of leather beneath you both.

Aaron stayed buried inside you for a moment, large hands stroking soothingly over your back. Then his voice—softer, still rough.

“Next time, maybe you’ll think twice before wearing that little skirt in front of the team.”

You smiled into the couch cushion, boneless and sated.

“No,” you whispered. “I hope I forget.”

Thanks for reading! I appreciate any likes/comments/reblogs/follows. Constructive criticism is welcome. Do not plagiarise my content and/or post it anywhere without crediting me.

Dividers by @/cafekitsune

You’d been trying to avoid this. It’s not that you weren’t hungry, but the idea of food right now felt like too much. So you forced a smile and said, “No, I’m fine,” hoping he wouldn’t notice. You weren’t trying to be difficult, but you couldn’t help it. “Thank you, though,” you added, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself. 

But Aaron noticed. He always did. The way your shoulders tensed and how you instinctively tried to curl inwards. He didn’t even need to profile you; he had always been able to read you like an open book.

“Are you sure?” he asked, a teasing lilt to his voice, though it was clear he was picking up on something more. “What about some chips, or maybe some chocolate? I’ve got those After-8 Mints you love…”

“No,” you cut him off a little too quickly, trying to make your voice sound as casual as possible. “I really just don’t wanna eat right now.”

His eyes were on you now, playfulness gone. You could feel him searching your gaze, trying to make sense of every micro-expression. You were already naked under the sheets, but this— this exposed you. Like a bloodied shard of glass laid bare for him to inspect. And you hated it.

"Hey," Aaron said softly, his tone muted, "Talk to me. What’s going on? You’ve barely eaten today."

You hesitated, trying to push away the knot in your stomach, but it only seemed to tighten with every word he spoke. You sat up slightly, arms wrapped tightly around your knees, trying to maintain some semblance of control.

“I’m fine, Aaron,” you said, this time with more firmness, though your voice still trembled ever so slightly. “Really. I’m just not hungry.”

Aaron's gaze softened for a moment, but there was something behind his eyes—a concern, a quiet worry. He knew you too well by now to let this slide. “What about something light, then? Maybe some fruit? Or just a little snack?” His voice stayed gentle, but there was no mistaking the way he was probing now, trying to find a way in.

“No, Aaron. I don’t want anything.” You sighed, growing more agitated, your patience beginning to wear thin. “I really just don’t wanna eat right now, okay?”

Aaron’s jaw tightened slightly as he leaned back on the bed, still watching you closely. “You’ve been saying that for the past few days. And every time, you get more and more distant. What's going on, really?"

You tried to brush it off, but it was starting to feel like a pressure cooker, the conversation simmering beneath the surface. The fact that Aaron wasn’t backing down only made you more defensive. You couldn’t shake the feeling that this conversation was about to go in a direction you didn’t want it to.

“I told you, I’m fine,” you snapped a little too harshly, your shoulders stiffening. You tried to turn away from him, hoping he’d drop it. "I just don’t feel like eating right now."

But Aaron wasn’t about to let it go. His voice dropped a few degrees, and you could hear the frustration underneath the calm. “Okay, stop. I’ve seen what’s going on. You’re acting like this isn’t a big deal, but it is. You’ve barely touched any food, and I’ve noticed you sneaking in workouts late at night. You’re pushing yourself too hard, and I can’t just stand by and pretend like I don’t see it.”

Your breath hitched, and you instinctively pulled the blanket tighter around yourself as if it would shield you from the tension growing between you two. You wanted to hide, to bury the feelings, but he was too sharp, too attentive. 

“I’m just trying to get healthy,” you said quickly, hoping it would be enough of an excuse to end the conversation. “I’m just making some changes, Aaron. That’s all.”

His eyes searched yours, a mixture of confusion and concern in his gaze. “Get healthy? You’re already healthy. You don’t need to starve yourself or overexert yourself to be that. What’s really going on?”

You hesitated for a moment, trying to formulate something that wouldn’t make you sound ridiculous. But the truth was, you didn’t know how to explain it without feeling vulnerable—without feeling exposed.

“I just... I don’t know,” you began, the words spilling out before you could stop them. “You’re a big, important man, Aaron. You’re a fancy guy, and I just feel like... I don’t know. I want to match up with you. To look the way you deserve. To be perfect, especially around your coworkers. You always have everything together, and I don’t want to be the one who looks out of place. I don’t want them to look at me like I’m... less than.”

He didn’t say anything after your little speech. He wasn’t even making eye contact. The silence stretched on. This was exactly why you hadn’t said a word. 

You stared down at your hands, your nails digging into your palms from how tightly you were clenching them. Humiliation prickled under your skin. You wished you could claw the words back into your mouth, pretend none of it had ever been said.

“I’m sorry,” you muttered, trying to withdraw the moment. “Forget it. I don’t know why I—”

“Stop.”

His voice wasn’t sharp. It was soft—firm in the way only Aaron Hotchner could be when he actually cared about something. It rooted you to the spot.

Finally, finally, he looked up at you. His brow was furrowed like he was thinking so hard it hurt. And then he said, very quietly, almost like he was forcing it out:

“You don’t need to look a certain way for me. Or for anyone. I love you just as you are—just you.”

You blinked at him.

“I don’t care what anyone else thinks,” he continued, the words sounding clumsy in his mouth, like he wasn’t used to letting them out. “I care about you. You could show up to a Bureau gala in pyjamas and I wouldn’t—”

He broke off, dragging a hand through his hair. His ears were slightly pink.

The ache in your chest tightened, loosened, tightened again.

“I’m… I’m just trying to get healthy,” you repeated— weakly, stupidly. Trying to hold on to the walls you’d built.

Aaron didn’t argue anymore. He simply reached over, gently touching your hand. “I don’t need you to be anything but who you are. Healthy doesn’t mean forcing yourself to be something you’re not, and it doesn’t mean changing to meet some idea of perfection. And honestly, I think you already look pretty perfect to me.”

There was a long silence between you, the tension beginning to dissolve. No grand gestures or big speeches—just him showing you he understood, and that you didn’t have to prove anything.

“You... you don’t think I’m embarrassing?” you asked, his words acting like a balm on your heart.

Hotch let out a breath that was almost — almost — a laugh. 

“No," he said. "I think you’re the only thing that feels easy anymore.”

The world tilted a little sideways. 

He pressed a kiss to your forehead. 

“You’re not so fancy either, Agent Hotchner,” you mumbled, leaning into the warmth of his embrace.

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Dividers by @/cafekitsune

You’d retaliated by calling Hotch all kinds of names. Mentally, of course. It was childish and dramatic, you know. But no more dramatic than the way he had once corrected your paperwork with a red pen, and hadn’t even told you— just left it on your desk like a cursed object. 

You tried not to take it personally. For a while, it worked. But then he started doing this thing— this new thing— where he’d enter a room, and leave as soon as you walked in. It had only happened twice, but it had been the same excuse both times: that superiors called him away. Suspicious.

So you did what any well-adjusted and emotionally mature adult would do. You went straight to Garcia’s office and told her that your boss hated you and you were going to get fired because he could smell your weakness. She’d gasped, handed you a bejewelled stress ball, and offered to hack into some database on your behalf (you declined, but it was nice to feel loved for a change).

Still, you couldn’t shake it. It seemed like he couldn’t be in your orbit for more than three and a half minutes without the need to file an HR report.

So when the moment came, you weren’t prepared.

●・○・●・○・●・

You were in the briefing room, finishing up your notes after everyone else had gone. The case had closed. People were smiling. Even Hotch had smiled at someone. (Not you. Obviously. But still.)

You were alone now, sorting through crime scene photos, muttering under your breath about timelines, when his voice startled you.

“You missed lunch.”

You jumped. Clutched a photo like a weapon. “Hotch—you can’t just sneak up on people like that.”

He looked vaguely alarmed. “I knocked.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I did,” he insisted, like someone trying to explain doorbells to a raccoon.

You narrowed your eyes. “What do you want?”

He paused. Then, slowly, he stepped forward and—without ceremony—placed a sandwich in front of you. Neatly wrapped. Labelled with your name. From your favourite place.

You blinked. “…What is this?”

“You didn’t eat.” A beat. “It’s been a while since the brief ended.”

“I— I was going to—”

“I’ve noticed.”

You stare at the sandwich like it’s a bomb. Then at him.

“You got me food?”

“Yes.”

“Because you hate me and you’re trying to poison me?”

He blinked. “What?”

“It’s fine,” you said, hands raised in mock surrender. “I respect it. A clean kill. No one would suspect a thing.”

“…Why would I hate you?”

You let out a single, disbelieving laugh. “Are you kidding? You avoid me like I’m radioactive. You only talk to me when absolutely necessary, and even then, you struggle. You sigh when I speak.”

Hotch looked absolutely, entirely baffled.

“I sigh at everyone.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I do. It’s a thinking thing.”

You scoffed. “Well, you don’t think around Morgan that much, apparently.”

He exhaled. Then, before you could launch into Exhibit D (the Unspoken Broom Closet Incident), he said:

“I’ve always valued your insight.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Your reports are consistently the most thorough. Your geographic profiling is precise. You’re one of the most detail-oriented agents I’ve worked with.”

You stared at him. “…So you don’t hate me?”

“No,” he said quickly. Too quickly. “Quite the opposite.”

Silence.

You opened your mouth, about to ask what the opposite of hate even meant in Hotch-speak, but he was already turning away, clearing his throat.

“Anyway,” he said, suddenly very interested in the wallpaper, “I thought you might want lunch. That’s all.”

And then he was gone. Just—left. Like he hadn’t just lobbed that cryptic grenade over his shoulder and walked away.

●・○・●・○・●・

You don’t eat it right away. Not because you’re still suspicious—it’s from your favourite deli and has your name written on the brown paper in what can only be described as Hotch's weird, neat serial killer handwriting—but because you're too busy mentally disassociating.

Quite the opposite.

What on earth did he mean?

The rest of the day passes in a weird, slow-motion haze. JJ gives you a weird look when you accidentally sit in her chair. Reid asks if you’ve seen his recent paper, and you blink at him like you’ve just returned from war.

Because you’re thinking. Hard.

Like:

That time Hotch asked if you were staying late and then looked weirdly panicked when you said you were walking home.

The morning you came in limping from breaking your ankle, and he said, “You shouldn’t be here,” in the flattest tone imaginable.

How he called you by your first name once, and you almost fell out of your chair because he never uses anyone’s first names. You chalked it up to a lapse. 

And then. Then, the worst one.

Last month. You’d been coughing like a maniac during a briefing. He had placed a bottle of water in front of you with a dull thunk. At the time, you had taken it to be his passive-aggressive way of saying please shut the fuck up right now. Only to find out later from JJ that he’d actually gotten up and left mid-meeting to get that water for you.

Now you're sitting at your desk rewatching it all in your head like the twist ending of a psychological thriller.

●・○・●・○・●・

You don’t see Hotch again until nearly 6 p.m., and when you do, he’s at his office door, jacket folded over one arm, clearly intending to head out.

You’re not even thinking when you get up and intercept him halfway down the hall.

He stops mid-step when he sees you. “Everything alright?”

“I… need you to clarify what’s going on.”

He exhales like someone who just got caught by airport security. “About what?”

You try to keep your expression neutral, but your heart is pounding like you’re about to ask your boss if he’s mad at you—because that’s exactly what you’re doing.

“You’ve been… weird,” you say finally. “With me. For months.”

Hotch tilts his head. “Weird.”

“You barely speak to me unless it’s about a case. You avoid sitting near me on the jet. I brought cookies in last week, and you took one, then put it back. Who does that?”

He has the audacity to look mildly horrified. “I didn’t mean to put it back.”

“That’s not the point.”

You’re spiralling and he knows it. You can tell by the way his jaw tightens like he’s trying not to laugh. You, on the other hand, are mortified.

“I just need to know,” you continue, quieter now. “If I did something wrong. If I’ve annoyed you somehow, or if you genuinely just… can’t stand me.”

There’s a beat of silence, just long enough to make you want to crawl into the floor tiles.

Hotch runs a hand down his face. “I don’t hate you.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“I—” He pauses, and then, with all the charisma of a man giving a congressional hearing, says, “You make me nervous.”

You blink. “Sorry?”

“You… distract me,” he mutters, like he’s admitting to tax fraud. “I didn’t mean to be distant. I thought it would help.”

“Oh.” It comes out stupidly small, because your brain is too busy cataloguing every single interaction the two of you have ever had and realising, oh no, he was just emotionally repressed and completely, tragically bad at this.

You swallow. “So… you don’t think I’m annoying?”

“No,” he says, almost immediately, and then after a pause, “Not even a little. Not even when you talk over me in briefings.”

You almost laugh. “That’s because you talk like we’re in court.”

“And you talk like you’re arguing with your GPS.”

Now you do laugh, and something about the way his shoulders ease tells you this is maybe the most honest conversation you’ve ever had with him.

You look at him for a second longer, searching his face. “You’re really bad at this.”

“I know.”

“You could’ve just said you liked me.”

“I’m saying it now,” he says, softer.

And okay—maybe Hotch didn’t confess it with a rose in his teeth and violins playing in the background. Maybe it came out like a man filing paperwork for a broken heart. But it’s still something.

“You want to get coffee or something?” you ask.

He nods once. “Yeah. I do.”

You don’t know what this is yet. But it doesn’t feel like work. And this time, he didn’t glare— so, by your standards, that was basically a proposal.

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Dividers by @/cafekitsune

You smiled back, heart fluttering. “Hope it tastes as good as it looks.”

He took a bite, humming his approval. But then his eyes drifted to your plate. His brow creased.

“Why did you take so little?” he asked, his tone suddenly tight. “Are you not hungry?”

You let out a soft laugh, trying not to give yourself away. “No, I’m fine. I just—thought you’d want more.”

Aaron’s eyes didn’t leave your plate. He blinked, as if trying to piece together some hidden meaning.

“This isn’t funny,” he said, his usually warm eyes now devoid of emotion. He had gone unnaturally still.

Your smile froze. The air shifted. “I—what?”

“This.” He gestured to your plate, his voice strained. “It’s a joke, right? A prank?”

Your stomach twisted. You could feel the panic rising, heat crawling up your neck. “It’s—yeah, it’s just a trend I saw. I didn’t mean anything by it. People online do it for fun—I thought it would be—”

“Don’t,” he said sharply, his fork clinking against the plate as he set it down. He pushed back from the table, jaw clenched, a flicker of something dark in his eyes. “I don’t like jokes like that.”

Your chest tightened. “Aaron?” you asked, your voice small now. All traces of mirth were gone, replaced by worry. “I didn’t mean to upset you. It was just a dumb prank, I didn’t think—”

He ran a hand through his hair, pacing back from the table. “It’s not about the food,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. “It’s not about the goddamn food.”

You stood, suddenly unsteady on your feet. “Aaron, please. I’m sorry. Talk to me, please. What is this about?” Anxiety gnawed at your sides. He seemed lost, eyes flickering between places, not looking at you. 

He stopped moving, his back to you. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, but no less intense.

“My father used to do shit like that,” he said, and your breath caught. “He’d belittle my mom in these... subtle ways. Make her feel like she didn’t deserve as much. That her needs didn’t matter. And she’d stop taking up space. She’d serve herself less. Say she wasn’t hungry. Make herself small so he wouldn’t get angry.”

His voice cracked on the last word.

“I promised I’d never become that kind of man.”

You blinked back a rush of tears, heart pounding painfully. You had no idea. How could you? “Aaron, I didn’t know. I’m so sorry. I swear I didn’t—if I had—God, I would never have—”

He turned to you, eyes glassy but guarded. “I know you wouldn’t. I know that. But when I saw your plate... it just—something hit me. Like I was back there. Like I was him. Watching someone I care about try to shrink themselves for my sake.”

You crossed the room in a few quick steps, your hands shaking as you reached for him. “You’re nothing like him, Aaron. You’re the safest person I’ve ever known. You’re a good man. I just—I didn’t think. I’m so sorry, Aaron. Please don’t think for one second that I was trying to make you feel like that.”

He closed his eyes and took a breath like he was trying to steady himself, but his shoulders were still tense, his hands curled into fists at his sides.

“I shouldn’t have snapped,” he murmured. “That’s not me. I don’t want to be someone who gets angry like that. Especially not with you.”

“You didn’t scare me,” you whispered, even though you had flinched. “I just—I felt awful. I wanted to fix it. I want to fix it now.”

You let go of him gently and returned to the table, your hands still shaking as you swapped the portions, this time making them equal. You carried the plates back, carefully, like a peace offering.

“There,” you said, voice soft. “Now we’re even. You don’t have to worry. I’m here. I’m okay. You’re okay.”

Aaron looked at the food, then back at you. His jaw unclenched. Slowly, he stepped closer, took the plate, and set it down. His hand found yours, fingers curling around it tightly, grounding both of you.

“I just love you,” he said, his voice raw. “More than I know what to do with sometimes. And when I think I’m hurting you, or that you’d feel like you have to make yourself less for me... I panic.”

Your eyes stung. You stood on your toes to press a chaste kiss to his lips. “You don’t hurt me. You never have. You love big, and sometimes it comes out messy, but I always know it’s love.”

He exhaled slowly like he’d been holding it in for hours. “No more food pranks?”

You gave a tearful laugh, nodding. “No more food pranks. Just stupid socks and cling film on the shampoo bottle.”

“Better,” he said, voice warm again, finally—finally—relaxed.

Aaron tugged you into his arms, and you melted into him, holding tight.

“Happy April Fool’s,” you mumbled into his chest.

He kissed the top of your head. “Next year, I’m pranking you back.”

“Please do,” you murmured. “Just don’t make me cry.”

“I’ll try not to,” he said softly.

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Dividers by @/cafekitsune

Getting caught up with how to impress you further was exactly how he found himself accidentally stealing your coffee.

In Aaron’s defence, he was tired. The team had gotten back at 3:00 am, and he was running on autopilot. He must have forgotten his travel mug because it wasn’t on the usual shelf in the break room. So he grabbed the identical one sitting there and took a sip before his brain could catch up. An understandable error.

And then Aaron choked. 

It was sweet. Too sweet. Like someone had emptied three tins of sugar into it. It’d be an affront to even call this coffee. This was… an abomination.

He coughed once, twice, then glared at the cup like it had betrayed him. And then, in dawning horror, he realised it wasn’t his cup at all.

“Damn it.”

He hurried back to the break room and sure enough— there you were, digging through the upper shelves like you were looking for treasure. Aaron froze in the doorway. An unfamiliar sensation took over him— nervousness?

You didn’t hear him at first, so he took a step inside.

“Hey—”

You spun around so fast you nearly knocked into the counter. Your eyes widened, and then you just froze.

Like a sheep spotting a wolf.

Not that he was the wolf. He hoped not. Shepherd? Maybe. Sheepdog? 

What??! 

What was he thinking? He didn’t know. His brain was short-circuiting—tripping over metaphors and good sense alike. Why couldn’t he just say hello like a normal person?

Say something, his brain urged. Something normal. Professional. Not ‘I drank your coffee and now I’m in love with you’.

“Oh,” you said eventually, voice quiet. Your hand was still mid-air, holding onto the cabinet. “Hi.”

You were staring at him. Your eyes were big and uncertain like you hadn’t expected him—like maybe you were just as thrown as he was. He wished that didn’t make his heart stutter.

He cleared his throat. “I, uh.” He held up the mug like it was evidence. “I think I accidentally took your coffee.”

Smooth. Real smooth.

You blinked. And then—to his absolute horror—you looked mortified. “Oh god. You drank it?”

“I did.”

“Was it…terrible?”

He wanted to say no. He wanted to say it was perfect, actually, because it was yours, and he would drink it ten thousand times more if it meant he got to see your nose scrunch like that. But instead, he choked out, “It was…unexpected.”

You pressed your lips together, clearly trying not to laugh, and Aaron could feel heat creeping up his neck. Great, really great. Now he was blushing like a teenager. At work.

“I had one just now and it was black. Bitter. I thought I was dying.”

That startled a laugh out of him. A real one. It slipped out before he could catch it, and your head jerked up at the sound.

You looked at him like he’d just spoken fluent dolphin.

He couldn’t stop watching the way your mouth tilted into something unsure like you weren’t sure if you were allowed to smile at him. Like you were trying to read him in real time. And suddenly, he wished he were easier to read. Easier to talk to. Less of a brick wall with a nice tie.

Why did this feel so difficult? He led a team of elite profilers. He testified in courtrooms. He’d faced down serial killers with nothing but a badge and a sharp tongue.

And yet here he was, overthinking every word that left his mouth. Because it was you. Because your voice went quiet when you talked to him, and your smile came a beat later like you were still figuring out if it was safe.

“I’m sorry,” you said, eyes soft with concern. “I didn’t mean to insult your taste.”

“No, it’s alright,” he said, still smiling. “Your coffee was…memorable.”

You relaxed, a little. He noticed your grip easing on the shelf. But you still looked like you wanted to flee. Aaron really should have left it there. But his mouth moved before his brain could think and he took perhaps the biggest risk of his life.

“I’m—uh—happy you liked the pen,” he said, almost too casually.

You blinked again. “Oh. I—I did. I do. I use it every day. It’s—it’s lovely.”

There was a shy honesty to your voice like you didn’t quite know how to say how much it meant to you. It did something warm and ridiculous to his chest.

“I’m glad,” he said softly. A little too fond.

You nodded, then excused yourself with a flustered smile and disappeared down the hall.

Aaron stayed rooted to the spot, heart hammering like he’d just been asked to prom.

“Well, well.”

Rossi’s voice cut in like a knife and Aaron nearly dropped the mug, fumbling to catch it mid-air.

“I was wondering what all that giggling was about,” Dave said, strolling into the room like he hadn’t just witnessed the most awkward crush exchange known to man.

Aaron gave him a warning look. “Don’t start.”

“I’m just saying,” Rossi said, reaching for his own coffee. “I’ve seen high schoolers flirt more subtly.”

“It wasn’t flirting,” Aaron muttered, looking anywhere but at him. The wall behind Rossi seemed very compelling. Maybe it held answers. Or an escape hatch.

“Sure,” Rossi said, sipping. “That’s why you’re smiling into a mug of sugar syrup.”

Aaron sighed. “She’s—young.”

“She’s not that young.”

“She works for me.”

“She also smiled like you’d hung the stars for her. Come on, Aaron. You’re not exactly Mr. Spontaneous, but even you can see the way she looks at you.”

Aaron didn’t answer.

Rossi’s voice dipped, just a touch more kind than usual. “She likes you,” he said. “You like her. Ask her out. What’s the worst that could happen?”

Aaron stared at the door you’d just exited from. He could still see the outline of your smile.

He already knew the worst that could happen. He’d lived it before.

But the best?

The best could be good. Something warm. Something new.

He looked down at the too-sweet coffee in his hand and huffed a quiet laugh, barely there, but real.

Maybe tomorrow, he’d bring two cups.

Just in case.

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Dividers by @/cafekitsune

He prided himself on his ability to categorise things, to turn life into binary or categorical data. But you slipped like butter through his mental filing system, like something he could never quantify. You smelled like rain and cedar, like something both fresh and familiar, like petrichor clinging to the edges of an old wooden frame. He couldn’t place it, couldn’t place you, and maybe that was why he couldn’t stop thinking about you.

When you talked about your job— you were an elementary school art teacher— you talked about it with a kind of excitement that made Spencer envious. It was silly, really, but he wanted the one to be taught by you, to spend more time trying to figure you out. He loved his work, too, but it was so full of danger and death, and the way you loved yours made him want to be a part of the world you had.

The first time he met you, Spencer spent an embarrassing amount of time trying to decipher the colours in your outfit. He knew different textures weren’t supposed to be mixed (the Vogue magazine he had swiped at the doctor’s office had declared the mixing of dots and stripes a cardinal sin), but you had layered patterns like a painting. It shouldn’t have made sense. So why did it? He had opened his mouth to ask if there had been a method behind it, but you had flashed a smile at him that made his unfaltering mind stop dead in its tracks, and you had said, “Don’t overthink it, Spence. Just feel.”

As if it was something he knew how to do.

You weren’t chaotic, not exactly—but you were unpredictable. Spencer, with his equations and calculations, with his logic and probabilities, had always sought comfort in knowing the outcome before things even began. But you—you weren’t an equation. You were the space between the numbers, the part of the formula he couldn’t solve. You were a walking, talking example of Ramsey’s theorem— he knew where you started and where you ended, but he couldn’t untangle what was in between.

Every morning, you took a picture of your coffee. It was the same drink every day, but you persevered, swearing the foam made a new image every time. You’d tried to rope him into theorising with you, to get him to see the shape of the world in the swirls and patterns of the cream, but Spencer could never really see it like you. 

“You know it’s just milk and coffee, right?” He’d say, leaning over your shoulder to examine the mug. “There’s no scientific basis for anything more.” 

But you never held it against him. Sometimes, you’d nudge him with your elbow, a grin tugging at the corners of your mouth as you said, “I think you’re missing out on a whole new dimension of the universe, Reid.”

He’d hum, a little smile on his lips, and then he’d drop the subject—mostly. He wasn’t one to argue for long, especially when it came to the things that made you happy, like the ritual of your morning coffee or the way you’d rearrange your art supplies by colour, even though it made absolutely no sense.

When Spencer found out you kept bugs as pets, he’d nearly leapt out of his chair.

“You— you have a mantis,” he stammered, eyes wide as he watched you let it crawl delicately over your fingers.

“That’s not just a mantis, Spence,” you scolded him gently, a smile tugging at your lips, “Meet Matilda. She’s my friend.”

Spencer blinked, processing. “Statistically, most people keep a cat or a dog—“

“I’m not a statistic, Spence,” you’d reminded him, voice gentle as if you were talking to one of your school kids.

He tried to understand, tried to decipher why anyone would choose to keep an insect as a pet, but logic evaded him, a feeling he only experienced around you. But when he’d watch you play with Matilda like she was the best thing in the world, he let it go.

He started bringing you little things—odds and ends that made him think of you. A book of surrealist paintings he thought you’d like. A smooth, speckled rock he found outside the precinct. A jar of local honey from a case in a small town, because you once mentioned you liked the taste of dandelions.

And every time, you’d accept them like he had just handed you a moonbeam, eyes lighting up in unadulterated joy.

“See?” you had murmured one day, holding the honey jar up to the light. “You do feel things, Spencer. You just don’t realise it.”

No, it wasn’t about logic. Maybe, it was just about you.

One day, Spencer caught himself carefully placing a ladybug outside on a leaf, rather than brushing it away. As he counted its spots for you— something about them bringing luck— he realised something.

Oh.

I love her.

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Dividers by @/cafekitsune

It was a late-night flight, nothing new. But the AC in the cabin must have malfunctioned that day. It was brutally chilly, and since you were returning from a case in Florida, you had nothing but summer clothes. Your tea wasn’t doing much, so you occasionally walked the length of the cabin, trying to be quiet so the others could sleep. It hadn’t even crossed your mind to ask for something as simple as a jacket.

But Hotch saw. 

He didn’t look up from his paperwork— he just held it out as you passed his seat again. His arm barred you from dodging past, so you reluctantly draped it over your shoulders. Just five minutes, then you’d return it.

Maybe he heard your thoughts because right then, he said, “Keep it on.” It wasn’t a polite request; he had already decided for you.

But it’s Hotch so you listen.

No one questioned where you got the jacket from when the jet landed. But you catch JJ’s faint smile from the corner of your eye when she sees the jacket hanging from your desk chair the next day.

Hotch never asked for it back.

●・○・●・○・●・

You’re a great agent in terms of fieldwork. The whole team trusted you. Of course, you wouldn’t be there if they didn’t, but it felt nice to realise that nevertheless. 

But blind trust didn’t mean Hotch wouldn’t watch you like a hawk.

It was probably just a coincidence. You always ended up paired with him when heading into dangerous situations. He never hovered or anything, he always let you do your thing. But it was the way he positioned himself slightly ahead of you when clearing rooms, a silent wall between you and any potential threats,

And then there were the crime scene situations. You could hold it together; your poker face an acquired skill. But some cases hit home. You never let it show too much, but Hotch noticed when your fingers curled into tight fists, shoulders going rigid.

He never called you out on it, or put you on the spot.

Instead, his voice came through the comms before you and Morgan breached a suspect’s house. “Be careful.”

He said it to both of you, but somehow, you knew it was meant for you.

And later, when the case was over, and you were sitting on the back of an ambulance with a shallow cut on your arm from a scuffle, he was there.

"Does it hurt?" he asked, voice low.

You shook your head. “No. It’s fine.”

He didn’t argue, but he sat next to you long after the paramedic finished patching you up.

●・○・●・○・●・

You didn’t even realise when it started.

One morning, you had walked into the bullpen, and there had been a steaming hot cup of coffee on your desk. Just the way you took it. You blinked at it, confused, but you assumed Garcia was behind it.

But it happened again the next day. Then the day after. And again the following day.

It was never a big thing or a grand gesture. Just a simple takeaway cup with your order etched into the side. When you finally thanked Garcia, she looked utterly bemused.

“Oh, sugar. That’s not me,” she’d said, a grin stretching across her face.

No way.

So the next time it happened, you glanced towards Hotch’s office. Sure enough, he was already looking at you. But he never said a word. He didn’t even smile. He just looked down at his files and kept writing.

You sipped the coffee at your desk slowly, savouring every sip, willing it to last longer. The warmth spreading across your chest had nothing to do with the drink.

●・○・●・○・●・

The rain had been terrible all week. Sick of fighting your way through public transport where everything was slippery and wet, you had treated yourself to an Uber. You didn’t have an umbrella while you waited, so you stood under the awning in front of the building. You’d make a run for it when the car showed up.

As you scanned the road in front of you for your designated car, a black umbrella swung open over your head.

You turned, startled, only to find Hotch standing behind you, holding it up without a word. His coat was getting wetter, but he didn’t look like he cared.

“You’ll get soaked,” you said, noting how he had angled it more over you than himself.

“I’ll be all right,” he replied simply.

And that was that.

He waited till your car came, and then he helped you get in, ensuring not a drop touched your head as you bundled yourself into the backseat. 

It wasn’t until you were almost at your front door that you realised— he’d never had an umbrella with him when he came to work this morning.

Hotch had taken the time to find one— just for you.

●・○・●・○・●・

The Denver case was a disaster. 

Too many close calls. Too many what-ifs.

Sleep was difficult that night. You stared at the ceiling of your hotel room, letting yourself dissociate. But a buzz from your phone snapped you out of your reverie. When you checked your screen, there was just one text message.

You did well today. - A.H.

You stared at those four words for too long. No over-the-top reassurances, no unnecessary fluff. Just an acknowledgement.

You never responded, but the next morning on the jet, he caught your eye and nodded, ever so slightly. Like he knew you saw the message. Like he knew it helped.

And maybe, just maybe, it had eased your worries a bit that day.

part two ▷

Thank you for reading! I appreciate any likes/comments/reblogs/follows. Constructive criticism is welcome. Do not plagiarise my content and/or post it anywhere without crediting me.

Dividers by @/cafekitsune

This one had the element of surprise on you. A sharp pain bloomed across your ribs as he threw you against the wall, air leaving your lungs in a strangled gasp. You didn’t back down— you clawed and scratched and screamed at everything around you. But nothing could stop the world from going black when he pistol-whipped you across the temple.

——

They were all there when you came to. Every member of the team. 

Morgan was draped across a chair, eyes filled with worry. JJ sat on your bed, fingers lightly grasped onto yours, with Emily right behind her. Garcia was next to Rossi, fidgeting with her glasses as if she’d rushed there in a panic. Even Reid was there, book in hand, though he wasn’t reading it. 

And, of course— Hotch. Removed and distant, watching from the door. But his eyes remained sharp as if tracking every micro-expression on your face, cataloguing every tiny shift in your posture and breathing.

You forced a smile, ignoring the pain lashing up your sides. “I’m fine,” you had said, voice scratchy from disuse.

The team exchanged glances. No one believed you.

“You went through a home invasion,” Rossi rumbled, “That’s not something you just brush off.”

You shrugged— wincing slightly— forcing out a chuckle. “I’m alive, aren't I?”

Hotch’s jaw tightened. “That’s not the point.”

“I’m really all right,” you repeated with some finality, shutting the conversation down. But you could feel Hotch’s gaze boring into you, even though the others reluctantly let it drop.

——

You returned to work too soon. The team knew it. You knew it.

But you had to. Because if you stayed at home, it meant thinking about what happened. It meant hearing the mirror fracturing, the door slamming, and the rasp of your voice as you screamed for your life. You couldn’t let the fear win. How many times had you said that exact thing to the family of a victim?

So you forced normalcy. Maybe if you said you were fine enough times, you’d actually start believing it. You smiled at Garcia’s ramblings, entertained Derek’s teasing and exchanged theories with Reid.

Eventually, the team forgot. They trusted you were better. You were starting to believe that, too.

But Hotch wasn’t fooled.

He watched you like a hawk, day in and day out. He noted how you avoided talking about the attack, the way you tensed when you heard the word ‘home’. He watched you as you acted the role of someone who had moved on.

He wasn’t buying it.

——

The panic attack hit when you least expected it.

Some stupid sound triggered it; you had no idea what. It could’ve been anything— a door creaking or a chair shifting. Whatever it was, you suddenly weren’t in the BAU anymore.

You were there again. 

The office disappeared. The air was thick, suffocating you as it forced itself down your throat. The walls of your apartment were closing in around you, and you could feel everything and nothing at all. 

Your breath hitched. Your vision tunnelled. Your fingers trembled violently as you gripped your chair to ground yourself. But your body betrayed you, kicking itself into high drive. Your ribs hurt again, the phantom pain searing across your skin like he’d thrown you into the wall all over again.

Then— “Hey.”

A voice. Familiar, dulcet and steady.

Aaron.

You flinched as he neared you, brain oscillating between past and present, fear and reality. But he stopped a few feet away, palms exposed towards you, body language careful and measured.

You suck in a breath, “I’m— I’m fine.”

His brows stitched together. “No, you are not.”

“Please, Hotch. I just— I just need a minute.”

He didn’t move. He just watched. Waiting, letting you decide.

The minute wasn’t nearly enough. In an effort to normalise your breathing, you’d begun hyperventilating. Your head was spinning. This wasn’t working. You weren’t okay, and Hotch knew it. Before you could wave him off, he closed the distance between you, carefully placing his palms on your shoulders. 

The warmth was grounding. Aaron was real. Aaron was solid. The phantom touches crawling across your skin were not.

“Look at me,” he murmured, voice soft but authority evident.

You did what he said. You had no energy to protest. And one look into his coffee-coloured eyes was all it took. The dam broke.

You gulped cool air in, breath catching on a sob you hadn’t meant to let out. But you persevered, taking one breath after another. Aaron didn’t say a word. He didn’t tell you to relax, to calm down, or force you to speak. He just held you, anchoring your consciousness to the present.

Minutes passed, maybe even hours.

When your heartbeat finally settled, Aaron spoke again. 

“You don’t have to keep pretending.”

Your fingers curled around the fabric of his shirt, crumpling it. “I can’t stop,” you whispered.

Aaron’s grip on you tightened, ever so slightly. “Then let me help you.”

For once you didn’t argue.

Thank you for reading!I appreciate any likes/comments/reblogs/follows. Constructive criticism is welcome. Do not plagiarise my content and/or post it anywhere without crediting me.

Dividers by @/cafekitsune