Flew close to the sun now I'm scared of the light

As soon as you walked into the living room, Hotch’s eyes widened slightly, his posture straightening. He took in the sight of you. A small smile tugged at his lips, and he leaned back, his arms crossing over his chest as he admired your dedication.

“Well,” he began, his voice low and amused, “this is certainly a unique way to introduce me to a video game.”

You gave him a playful smirk, striking a pose just like Jill would, standing strong and confident with your hand on your hip. “I thought you might appreciate a little bit of immersion.”

Hotch chuckled, but there was a spark of genuine appreciation in his eyes. “I have to admit, it’s working. You look incredible.”

You walked over to him, handing him the controller as you settled beside him. “Okay, so here’s the deal,” you began, your tone more serious now as you explained the game’s premise. “You’re about to enter Raccoon City, a town infested with zombies and other terrifying creatures. Jill Valentine - me - has to survive and stop Umbrella’s bioweapons from spreading.”

Hotch raised a brow, glancing at you in your attire. “And you just happen to look this good while doing it?”

“Of course,” you teased, leaning in closer. “Jill’s a pro. Nothing phases her. Plus, I thought you might need a little encouragement to stick with it.”

He smiled, his thumb brushing against the controller as he adjusted it in his hands. “I think I’ll manage just fine. As long as you’re guiding me.”

The evening went on, the two of you alternating between playing and laughing as you coached Hotch through the game. But you noticed how, every so often, his gaze would drift away from the screen to take you in, his appreciation for your dedication clear. It wasn’t long before Hotch paused the game, setting the controller down.

“You know,” he began, his voice soft but intense as he looked at you, “I’m starting to think this game isn’t the only thing you’re trying to distract me with.”

You grinned, tilting your head as you leaned closer to him. “Maybe… but is it working?”

Hotch reached out, his hand resting on your knee, his thumb tracing soft circles over the fabric of your mini-skirt. “Oh, it’s definitely working.”

The diner had been his idea. Off a quiet highway and open 24/7, it had a nostalgic charm to it, all faded red booths and the faint smell of syrup in the air.

"You’re staring," you teased softly, a small grin playing on your lips as you placed your own coffee cup down on the table.

Hotch blinked, his expression melting into a sheepish smile. "Am I?" You nodded, leaning back into the booth’s cushion and feeling the day’s exhaustion seep away with each sip of coffee. "You were. But I don’t mind."

He chuckled under his breath, his voice quiet but warm. "I suppose I’m just not used to seeing you like this."

"Like what?"

"Relaxed." He met your gaze, his eyes reflecting the soft yellow glow of the overhead lights. "Peaceful."

You bit your lip to keep the grin from spreading too wide, your cheeks warming at his words. "You know I should be saying that to you. Mr. I never know that I'm allowed to take a break," you grinned. "You should take me out for midnight coffee more often, then."

Hotch tilted his head slightly, considering. "I might."

The waitress approached then, putting down a small plate of pie between the two of you with a knowing smile. "On the house," she said, her Southern drawl thick with kindness. "You two look like you’ve earned it." Hotch thanked her politely, and as she walked away, he slid the plate toward you. "You first."

You broke off a piece of the crust with your fork, holding it out to him instead. "We’re sharing."

He smiled again, a rare sight that always made your heart skip. "If you insist."

As the night wore on, the conversation drifted from work to anything and everything else. You talked about books you hadn’t finished, movies you wanted to see, and places you dreamed of visiting, yet your work never allowed that to happen. Hotch listened, offering his own musings in return, his voice low and soothing against the quiet hum of the diner.

Eventually, the fatigue caught up with you, and you leaned your chin into your palm, blinking slowly at the man across from you. "You’re not tired?" Hotch shook his head slightly, though the lines of exhaustion were evident on his face. "I’ll sleep later."

"Do you ever let yourself rest, Aaron?" you asked softly, your voice carrying a hint of concern. Knowing that he pushed himself way too hard.

For a moment, he didn’t answer. Then, he reached across the table, his hand brushing yours. "Moments like this help," he admitted, his thumb grazing your knuckles.

Your chest tightened at the vulnerability in his words, and you turned your hand over, threading your fingers with his. The simple touch felt grounding, and intimate in a way that words couldn’t replicate.

The diner’s clock ticked onward, but neither of you cared. The world outside could wait. For now, it was just you, Aaron, and the warm glow of a sleepy diner at the end of a long day.

“Who is he?”

“Isn’t he a government agent or something, I feel like I've seen him on the news?”

“I need to know how they met, like, yesterday.”

For weeks leading up to the award show, the buzz surrounding your personal life had been relentless. Whispers of a new love interest had floated around since a blurry photo of you leaving a D.C. coffee shop surfaced online. But this? This was confirmation.

Aaron was calm despite the chaos surrounding you, his stoic demeanor making him even more intriguing. He leaned close to your ear, his deep voice barely audible over the noise. “You okay?”

You smiled a small but genuine expression that only he could draw from you in moments like these. “Perfect. I should be the one asking you that.”

You paused for photos at the iconic step-and-repeat. You beamed as Aaron stayed slightly behind you, he wasn’t here for the glitz or the glamour; he was here for you, to support you.

Inside, the night unfolded with Hollywood’s elite coming to greet you—and by extension, him. There was no escaping the barrage of curious glances and polite inquiries.

“How long have you two been together?” someone asked during a lull in the evening.

Aaron’s lips twitched. “Long enough to know I’m the lucky one.”

It wasn’t until after you won your award—a standing ovation accompanying your name being called—that the internet exploded. The camera caught you returning to your seat, your hand naturally seeking his for a celebratory squeeze. It was a small, intimate gesture, but it spoke volumes to the people watching at home.

By the end of the night, hashtags about you both trended worldwide.

#WhoIsAgentHotchner?

#HotchnerAndHollywood

#LoveInTheLimelight

The press dissected every detail of his life within days: FBI Unit Chief, widower, father of one. It was a whirlwind of attention that would overwhelm anyone else—but not Aaron.

In your private moments, when the cameras were off and the designer clothes were replaced by sweatpants, he reminded you why this worked.

“I didn’t sign up for this to be your publicist,” he teased one evening, his hand slipping around your waist as you both watched late-night coverage of the Oscars from the couch.

“You signed up to be my partner,” you countered, resting your head against his shoulder. “And you’re doing a great job.”

He pressed a kiss to your hair, his voice low and full of affection. “You make it easy.”

“She’s insecure-avoidant with strong narcissistic traits,” he said. “Needs to be wanted, needs to be in control, but the second she senses rejection, real or imagined, her entire sense of self collapses. That collapse is what makes her kill.”

Prentiss clicked the remote. A close-up of ligature marks on the first victim filled the screen.

“Manual strangulation after chemical submission,” she continued. “Victims were dosed with a fast-acting benzo slipped into their drink while they were still at the bar. Once they were compliant, she finished it face-to-face. No hesitation marks. She watches them die after she stabs them. That’s not just personal. That’s intimate.”

JJ’s voice was softer.

“All four victims were last seen at Luxe Noir, downtown. Same club, same VIP section. She’s not cruising random bars in the Downtown area. This is her hunting ground. She’s comfortable there. Possibly a regular. Bartenders might recognize her face, but she pays cash mostly and never uses the same card twice, nor does she check a coat.”

Reid didn’t look up from the geographic map glowing on his tablet.

“Comfort zone is a six-mile radius centered on the club,” he said, rapid-fire. “Victimology is… unusually specific. Caucasian males, thirty-five to fifty. Dark hair, above average height, physically fit. All divorced or recently separated. All dominant personality types, lawyers, surgeons, CFOs, et cetera. Friends and colleagues uniformly describe them as serious, intense, natural leaders.”

Morgan let out a low huff that might have been a laugh if the room hadn’t been so quiet. He tipped his chin toward Hotch.

“Which means the single best piece of bait we have in this building is already wearing a suit.”

Every head in the room swiveled to Hotch. A couple of the younger detectives did obvious double-takes, like they were only just noticing the resemblance to the victim board behind him.

Captain Gordinski cleared his throat. “You’re telling me you want to put your unit chief on the menu?”

Hotch didn’t blink.

“I will enter Luxe Noir tonight as a patron,” he said, as if reading from a mission brief he’d already memorized. “Man in a high position in Chicago on a consulting trip. Drinking with a friend and projecting availability, but emotional distance. It’s the exact profile she’s killed four times already.”

Rossi folded his arms. “I will be that friend. The rest of us will be inside, dressed for the occasion, staggered positions. Agent L/N and Agent Morgan on the dance floor, Dr. Reid and Agent Jareau covering exits, Agent Prentiss at the bar. And me and Agent Hotchner up in the VIP mezzanine. We’ll have eyes on him the whole time. She makes contact, we move.”

Hotch’s gaze swept the room, settling on Gordinski.

“We need CPD to maintain a three-block perimeter. Unmarked units only. No uniforms inside the club, no marked cars on the same block. If she’s spooked even once, she vanishes, and we start over with victim number five. If we need immediate extraction or additional manpower, we’ll call it on the tactical channel. Clear?”

Gordinski exhaled hard through his nose, eyes flicking from Hotch to the victim photos and back again. The resemblance was uncanny, same jawline, same dark eyes, same look of authority that made people listen when he spoke.

“You sure she’ll bite?” the captain asked.

Hotch’s answer came flat and immediate.

“She already has a type,” he said. “I’m just making sure she doesn’t have to look far to find it.”

Hotch stood under the harsh locker-room fluorescents, rolling the sleeves of a black dress shirt that cost more than most of the uniforms hanging on the hooks behind him. No suit jacket tonight. No tie. Just the tailored shirt tucked into dark jeans and the top two buttons deliberately undone, revealing a tuft of chest hair.

He looked like the kind of man who could ruin your credit score and your life in the same evening.

He slid a thin wallet with a fake ID, cash, and one black Amex with a name that wasn’t his, into his back pocket when the side door that connected to the temporary women’s changing area opened.

You never knocked anymore when it was just the two of you.

He turned, and whatever smart remark he’d had ready died in his throat.

The dress was black. Backless. Front… negotiable. Thin straps crisscrossed over skin that had no business being on display in a police station.

The hem barely qualified as decent, and the heels, strappy, vicious-looking, and fire-engine red at the bottom, made your legs look longer.

Your hair was down, tousled as if you’d just come from someone’s bed.

Lips painted a red so dark it looked like you’d bitten someone and enjoyed it a little too much.

You looked like sin with a badge.

And you were glaring at him as if he’d personally offended you by existing.

Hotch arched a brow. “Problem, honey?”

You shut the door with a soft click that somehow echoed louder than the slam you clearly wanted to give it.

“I’m fine,” you said, folding your arms over your chest, which only made the neckline plummet further into criminal territory. “Just admiring how dedicated you are to the whole brooding-divorcé-in-distress aesthetic. Really committing to the open-collar, fuck-boy-on-a-mission vibe.”

He leaned back against the lockers, lips twitching.

“You’re jealous.”

You stepped closer, heels clicking on the tile.

“Excuse me if I don’t love watching my husband get dolled up like a high-end escort so some serial killer can try to roofie him in a nightclub,” you hissed. “Honestly, Aaron, two buttons? You might as well wear a sign that says ‘Please drug me, I’m emotionally fragile but great in bed.’”

He pushed off the lockers and closed the distance in two strides. His hands found your bare waist, thumbs tracing the warm skin just above where the fabric dared to start again.

“You’re wearing a dress that would get you dress-coded at a rave party,” he murmured, voice low and fond, boarding a chuckle, “and you’re giving me grief about two buttons?”

“I’m giving you grief,” you muttered, jabbing a finger into his chest, “because every woman in that club is going to picture riding your dick like they're bouncing on an exercise ball. Including the one who wants to murder you. It's the efficiency I don’t support.”

His laugh was soft as he dipped his head until his lips brushed your ear.

“For the record,” he whispered, “the only person dragging me anywhere to bounce on my dick tonight is currently glaring at me in four-inch heels and a very healthy sense of ownership.” He grabbed your hand and rotated your wedding ring slightly on your finger to get his point across.

Your glare lasted one more second before it cracked. He felt the moment you softened.

“Shut up,” you grumbled, but your hands were already sliding up his chest, fingers curling possessively into his open collar.

He kissed you right at the corner of your mouth so he wouldn’t ruin the perfect red of your lips, and when he pulled back, your eyes were still narrowed, but the possessiveness had warmed into something dangerously close to pride.

A sharp knock rattled the door, and Morgan’s voice, dripping with amusement, filled the room. “I swear to God, if I walk in there and you two are defiling a Chicago PD locker room, I’m telling Garcia, and she’ll find a way to live-stream it to the entirety of the Bureau. Wheels up in three, lovebirds!”

You flipped the door the finger even though Morgan couldn’t see it.

Hotch pressed one last kiss to your temple, letting his lips linger.

“Come on, wife,” he murmured. “Let’s go catch a serial killer before you decide to cuff me for disturbing your peace.”

He laced his fingers through yours and tugged you toward the hallway.

Luxe Noir VIP Mezzanine Booth 12:42 a.m.

The bass thudded through the floorboards and up into Hotch’s ribcage. He sat with his back to the wall, one arm draped casually along the top of the leather booth, the other nursing a glass of bourbon he hadn’t touched in twenty minutes.  

Rossi sat opposite him, pretending to scroll through his phone while actually watching every reflection in the mirrored wall behind Hotch.

On the dance floor below, you were a weapon in motion.  

Morgan’s hands rested on your hips, guiding the slow, filthy roll of your body against his. Your back pressed to his chest, one of your arms hooked up and around his neck, the other braced against his thigh as you dropped low and ground back up. Red soles flashed every time the strobes hit.  

You looked both like a sex goddess on the dance floor and a murderous wife in equal measure as you moved to the music.  

And every thirty seconds, your eyes cut to the booth he sat in.

Morgan leaned down, mouth near your ear, grin audible even over the music. “Damn, mama, if you glare at your husband any harder, you’re gonna set his shirt on fire. Jealous looks real good on you, by the way.”

You bared your teeth in something that was definitely not a smile. “I’m not jealous.”

“Sure,” he laughed, spinning you so you faced him, hands still respectfully low on your waist. “And I’m the Queen of England.”

You opened your mouth to hiss something venomous when movement at the booth caught your eye.  

She was here.

Sleek auburn hair, black dress that looked like it cost more than most people’s rent, smile sharp enough to cut glass.

She slid into the booth next to Hotch like she belonged there, one manicured hand already resting on his forearm. Hotch turned that slow, charmed smile on her, and your stomach knotted so hard you almost forgot how to breathe.

Morgan felt you go rigid against him. “Easy, tiger. That’s the job.”

She leaned in, said something that made Hotch laugh, and although you knew he was faking it from the way his head tilted slightly back, your vision still tunneled with red-hot rage.

Ten minutes. That was all it took. Ten minutes of her touching his sleeve, his knee, leaning in to whisper against his ear, before Hotch threw down a stack of bills, offered her his hand, and led her toward the back exit like a perfect gentleman.

You'd seen her drug his drink, seen the two notice and quietly switch drinks when her attention got caught by something across the room.

Morgan’s grip tightened on your waist. “We wait for the signal—”

But his words were too late; you were already moving.

You tore out of his arms and cut through the crowd like a shark through water. Morgan’s curse was lost behind you. You hit the back hallway, heels silent on the rubberized floor, and shouldered the emergency exit open.

And stepped into the alley five minutes too late.

The unsub had Hotch against the brick wall, one hand fisted in the front of his shirt, the other pressing a thin, wicked blade to the hollow of his throat. A bead of blood had already bloomed where the edge kissed skin.

Hotch’s hands hung loose at his sides. He was letting her, you could tell by his posture.

He was waiting for the team.

Waiting for you.

Because he knew you would be the one to take this killer down from the pure reaction you'd had to him dressed like a man whore—in your own words.

Your Glock came up before the door even finished swinging shut.

“FBI! Drop the knife!”

The woman startled, pressed harder.

The blade bit, but didn't cut.

You didn’t hesitate.

The shot cracked through the alley like lightning. Her right arm jerked back, the knife clattering to the wet pavement as she screamed and clutched the blooming red hole in her bicep.

Hotch moved in one swift motion, one second pinned, the next he had spun her, slammed her chest-first into the wall, knee in the back of her thigh, cuffs ratcheting tight around her wrists.

“Ava Rollins,” he said, voice calm, “you are under arrest for the murders of Daniel Whitford, Marcus Lange, Patrick Brennan, and Richard Callahan. You have the right to remain silent.”

Chicago uniforms flooded the alley, red and blue lights painting the bricks. Someone took the sobbing, bleeding woman off his hands.

Hotch turned to you, breathing steady, one hand absently touching the thin surface wound at his throat.

You still had your gun up, chest heaving.

He walked over slowly, plucked it from your fingers, and holstered it for you.

“Really?” he asked. “Five minutes. You couldn’t give me five whole minutes before you came storming out here like a one-woman SWAT team?”

“I wasn’t—”

“Jealous?” He stepped closer, voice dropping to that low register that always unraveled you. “Baby, you shot a serial killer because another woman had her hand on my chest. That’s the textbook definition.”

You folded your arms tight across your chest. “I’m not jealous.”

“Uh-huh.” He brushed a thumb over your lower lip, smudging the red just enough to make you crazy. “Remind me to wear this shirt more often. Clearly, it drives my wife insane.”

"How did you know her name?"

Hotch shrugged. "She introduced herself."

“I hate you.” You glared up at him.

He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Liar,” he whispered. “You really, really don’t.”

Behind you, Morgan finally caught up, hands on his knees, laughing so hard he could barely breathe.

“Told you,” he wheezed. “Queen of England. My ass.”

You: Orphan raccoon. Needs bottles every 3h or he won’t make it through the night. I’m bringing him home.

The three dots appeared almost instantly, his reply coming faster than you thought a federal agent in the middle of a case could type. You could practically hear the deep, exasperated inhale through the screen

Hotch: Absolutely not.   Hotch: Under no circumstances is that animal coming into the house. Hotch: I’m serious. We are not doing this. That is a wild animal.

You grinned, already halfway to the car with the warmed carrier.

You: Already in the passenger seat. Seatbelt on. See you in a couple of days 💕

A solid minute of nothing passed while you were strapping yourself in and then making sure the tiny baby was okay. Then:

Hotch: We are discussing this when I get home.

Which, translated from Hotch-speak, meant: I know I already lost this war, and I hate that I know it and have no control over the situation whatsoever.

Two Days Later, the front door opened at 11:17 p.m. precisely; you’d recognize the quiet snick of his key anywhere, carefully letting himself into the house, trying his best not to make a sound.

Jack was asleep on the couch, head in your lap, one protective arm flung over the fleece-lined nest you’d built out of an old laundry basket. Inside, the raccoon, now dubbed “Bandit” because Jack had insisted that he needed a name and you had been too tired to fight it, despite trying to explain that naming him creates attachments, and that the little guy needed to be rehabilitated and go back into the wild, was in the middle of a milk coma, little pink tongue still half-out, paws twitching from whatever baby raccoons dream about.

Empty bottle number 3 of the evening lay discarded on the coffee table next to a pile of burp cloths that definitely hadn’t been there yesterday.

Hotch stopped dead in the doorway, briefcase still in hand.

He took in the scene like he was profiling a crime scene, which if you asked him, he definitely was: the dim lamp light, the scattered formula tins, Jack’s abandoned Xbox controller, your unbrushed hair, the fact you were wearing his stretched out and faded law school hoodie like a dress… and then, finally, the actual masked bandit snoozing happily on a heating pad.

He blinked once. Twice. A third time for good measure, because clearly he was imagining the scene he had been met with.

“No,” he said, voice low and dangerously calm, maybe a little too calm given the wild animal in his living room. “No. This is not happening.”

Jack stirred at the sound of his dad’s voice, sat upright, and beamed, still half asleep, like Christmas had come early. “Dad! Look! He likes belly rubs!”

Hotch's gaze flicked from his son’s pure joy to the raccoon to you, and you watched the internal battle play out in real time behind those dark eyes.

You offered the tiniest, most innocent smile you could muster. “He’s had three perfect feeds, two poops, and zero bites. We’re basically pros.”

“That,” Hotch said, pointing one accusatory finger, “is a North American rabies vector with opposable thumbs and his mother probably has a history of property damage.”

“He’s twelve ounces, Aaron. His crimes are limited to spilling formula on my bra and wetting his bed.”

Jack giggled at your comeback. Bandit, sensing new attention, gave a sleepy chirp and stretched, revealing the white milk mustache on his snout.

Hotch pinched the bridge of his nose so hard you worried for the cartilage. “Guest bathroom. Heating pad. Laundry basket with the mesh lid. And the moment he’s weaned, he’s going to the outdoor enclosure at the rescue. Are we clear?” He countered, trying his hardest to get the animal out of his house.

It wasn't that he was totally against you bringing clients home, but when you'd bought the house and discussed the possibilities, he'd meant a dog or a cat, even a parrot would've been better than this.

“Crystal,” you said sweetly.

He knew you were lying. You both knew.

Four Nights Later, you’d finally crashed hard around 3 a.m. after the midnight and 3 a.m. bottles, positive that the 6 a.m. feed was a problem for Future You. Except when you shuffled downstairs, bleary-eyed and already dreading the syringe of kitten milk replacer, you froze on the bottom step.

Hotch: Unit Chief, permanent frown on his face, the man who once stared down the barrel of a serial killer's gun without flinching, was perched at the kitchen table in the low light of the rising sun, still in his boxers and an old t-shirt.

Bandit was cradled in the crook of his left arm like he’d done this a thousand times, which he kind of had when Jack had been a baby.

A clean tea towel was draped over his shoulder. The bottle, warmed to exactly 100°F, because of course he’d checked, was angled perfectly, and he was swirling it gently between sips to keep air bubbles down, the way the rescue’s vet techs had taught you when you started working there. You'd come home excited that day, telling him every little detail from your first day.

His voice was barely audible as he spoke to the raccoon, that soft murmur he used when Jack had nightmares.

“Easy, little man. You’ll hiccup again… there you go. Good job.”

Bandit’s tiny black hands clutched Hotch's thumb. His little tail flicked happily as he gulped down the milk.

You must have made some sound, half laugh, half sob, because Hotch's head snapped up. For one glorious second, his face was completely open: soft, rumpled, and utterly besotted. Then horror crashed over it like a wave.

“This isn’t—” he started.

“Oh, it one thousand percent is,” you whispered, padding closer.

“He was crying,” he said defensively, shifting the kit higher against his chest. “Loud, repetitive distress vocalizations. I thought he might be cold. Or constipated. I don't know. I was… assessing.”

“Mm-hmm. Assessing with burping techniques and everything.”

The raccoon chose that moment to release an enormous milk-bubble burp directly into the tea towel. He, with the reflexes of a seasoned father, immediately shifted to pat his back in perfect circles.

You leaned over the back of his chair, resting your chin on his shoulder, close enough to smell formula and warm raccoon on Hotch's skin.

“You’re using the football hold. That’s advanced-level bottle feeding, Hotchner.”

“I read the rescue’s care sheet,” he muttered, cheeks actually pink, as if he were embarrassed to tell you. “Three times.” You just found it endearing that, despite his protests, he was still trying to support your work with these creatures.

Bandit squeaked, abandoned the bottle, and attempted to climb Hotch's chest like a fuzzy mountaineer. He instinctively cupped the kit’s butt to keep him from sliding and hurting himself.

“Admit it. You love him.” You bit your lip so hard it hurt.

“I do not—” Bandit shoved his whole face into Hotch's neck and started making tiny contented huffing noises. Hotch's traitorous hand came up to cradle the back of the raccoon’s head, thumb stroking the soft fur between his ears. “—He’s… adequate.”

“Adequate,” you repeated, grinning so wide your face ached.

He sighed, the sound of a man who had profiled serial killers and negotiated with terrorists but was finally, utterly defeated by twelve ounces of orphaned trash panda. “He grabs my finger when he’s sleepy,” he admitted in the smallest voice. “It’s… objectively cute.”

“You’re a raccoon dad now, honey.” You pressed a kiss to his temple.

He closed his eyes like he was praying for strength. “If Morgan or Rossi ever finds out—”

“He will never let you live it down. I’m fully prepared to blackmail you for extra foot rubs.”

Bandit yawned, revealing a tiny pink tongue and two minuscule front teeth, then promptly fell asleep wedged under Hotch's chin, paws tangled in the collar of his T-shirt.

Hotch looked down at the sleeping kit, something achingly tender crossing his face before he could school it back to neutrality.

“—He stays until he’s fully weaned and climbing like a maniac,” he said at last. “Then an enclosure in the backyard. Then soft release in spring.”

You rested your forehead between his shoulder blades, smiling so hard it hurt. “Of course.”

He knew you were lying again.

And this time, he didn’t even pretend to mind.

You rolled onto your back and cracked one eye open. He was already sitting on the edge of the bed, hair adorably rumpled from where your hands had been running through it last night. The soft light from the lamp on his bedside carved shadows across the lines of his face. Even half-asleep, he looked like the put-together unit chief. It was unfair.

“Your tie’s going to be crooked if you don’t let me fix it later,” you said, watching him get dressed.

He gave you the tiniest smile, knowing you were teasing him, and leaned down to kiss you. When he pulled away, you tried to chase his mouth, and he laughed under his breath.

“Shower,” he said, tapping your hip. “I’m making coffee.”

You listened to him walk around the house getting Jack up and ready for school while you scrolled through your phone, deleting any evidence of the text you had sent him at 11:43 the night before that simply said: come to bed, Hotch.

The man was paranoid about subpoenas and the team discovering your little secret before any of you were ready to share the news.

You thought it was cute.

By the time you were both in the kitchen, he was flipping eggs one-handed while the espresso machine hissed. Jack had already been picked up by the bus, so the house was quiet except for the low tones of the radio playing classical because Aaron Hotchner refused to listen to anything with lyrics before 8 a.m.

You leaned against the counter in one of his old T-shirts and watched him move.

There was something stupidly attractive about how competent he was at 6:45 in the morning.

“You're staring,” he said without looking up.

“You have a very interesting spatula technique.”

He glanced over his shoulder, eyebrow raised. “That a euphemism?”

“Only if you wanted it to be.”

He snorted, plated the eggs, and slid one across the island to you.

Toast popped.

You both ate standing up, shoulders brushing. He stole the sports section of the paper you weren’t reading anyway, and you stole sips of his coffee because you liked it stronger than you would ever admit.

At 6:58, you rinsed your mug and headed for the stairs.

“Leaving in seven minutes,” he called after you.

“I know the drill, Hotchner.”

Upstairs, you changed into the blouse and slacks you had brought over in your covert overnight bag, the one that lived, permanently, in the back of his closet or the trunk of your car.

You were buttoning your shirt when his arms slid around you from behind.

“You looked better in my shirt,” he murmured against your neck.

“And you looked better out of yours, but we aren't having that conversation again, or we'll both be late.”

He hummed, kissed the spot just below your ear that made your knees weaken, then stepped back before you could do something reckless like drag him back to bed.

7:05. You were at the door, keys in hand. He was still upstairs pretending to finish getting dressed. You had perfected the timing: you left first, circled the block once, then headed to the office. He left three minutes later, took the shortcut, and beat you there by eight minutes. Every single day.

You were halfway down the driveway when the front door opened again. He had his suit jacket slung over one arm, tie straighter than you'd like to admit.

“Hey,” he said, voice low. Anyone watching the street would have thought he was just saying goodbye to his partner and not currently pulling of an undercover mission. “You forgot something.”

He stepped close, cupped your face, and kissed you.

When he pulled back, your lipstick was probably ruined a little, but you didn’t care; you could fix that in the parking lot before heading inside.

“See you at the Academy,” he said.

“Try not to look too smug when you beat me there, Agent Hotchner.” You winked.

He smiled.

You drove away first.

By the time you pulled into the FBI parking lot at 7:23, his SUV was already in its designated spot.

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt.

Inside the bullpen, Morgan was at his desk, Reid was balancing a coffee and three books, and JJ was on the phone, probably to Will or coordinating with a local PD about an upcoming case. Everything normal.

You dropped your bag at your desk, smoothed your hair, and headed for the kitchenette like you had been up for hours and definitely did not have your boss's handprint still on your ass from last night.

Rossi was already there, leaning against the counter, sipping espresso from a tiny cup that had probably been imported from Italy and cost more than your rent.

“Morning, tesoro,” he said, eyes twinkling with the wisdom of a man who had seen everything twice. “Sleep well?”

You froze mid-pour. “Fine, thanks.”

He nodded slowly, gaze flicking to the faint mark just above your collar that you 100% thought your blouse had covered. “Funny. Hotch mentioned he had trouble sleeping last night. Said he kept getting woken up by… noise.”

Your cheeks burned. “Must’ve been the neighbor’s dog.”

“Mm. Big dog.” Rossi patted your shoulder as he walked past. “Tell Aaron the good coffee’s in the tin labeled ‘decaf.’ He’ll know what it means.”

He was gone before you could form a response.

At 7:58, Hotch walked through the bullpen with his scowl on, coming straight from a meeting with the director. He nodded at the team and stopped by your desk on his way to his office.

“Morning,” he said, perfectly neutral.

“Morning, sir,” you answered, just as neutral.

No one else noticed the way his fingers brushed yours when he handed you a case file that didn’t need handing at all.

Rossi, watching from the catwalk above, just shook his head and smiled into his coffee.

One day, you thought, the secret was going to be pointless.

Until then, there was tomorrow morning.

And the morning after that.

And Hotch's ridiculously strong coffee waiting for you at 6:45 sharp.