fictional hyperfixations

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

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

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

He groans softly. “That’s not why—”

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

“You don’t have to—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, voice strangled.

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

He breathes your name like a prayer.

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

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

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

“You do,” he says. “You always do.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He blinks. “What’s that?”

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

And he does.

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck, baby,” he murmurs. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

+++

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

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

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

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

“You’d better.”

And he does.

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

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

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

Then his mouth is on you.

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

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

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

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t let up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then you move.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes—yes, Aaron—please, I need—”

That’s all it takes.

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

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

You smile.

He grins back—a rare one.

“Best fucking view I’ve ever had.”

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

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

“You okay?” he murmurs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

+++

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is it too hot for you?” You ask.

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

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

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

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

He hums. “Nope. That’s all you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Your skin would prune.”

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

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

“I think I’m in love with you.”

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

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

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

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

+++

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

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

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

You raise an eyebrow. “Science?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He actually chokes on his coffee a little.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You smile sweetly. “I know.”

+++

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

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

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

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

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

“Right here?” you ask.

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

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

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

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

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

He exhales like it hurts. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

+++

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You smile. “That’s sweet.”

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

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

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

You lift your head slightly. “What?”

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

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

And that’s it. No need to say more.

+++

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

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

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

Thank God it’s November.

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

“You look incredible.”

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

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

You toss a wadded pair of socks at his head.

+++

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

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

Aaron doesn’t look up. “For?”

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

Aaron sighs. “Dinner.”

“Need wine recommendations?”

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

“You sure?”

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

Not by me, he doesn’t say. 

Dave raises both hands. “Fair enough.”

+++

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

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

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

“Dinner?” She asks. 

“Dinner.”

“With?”

He raises a brow. “Someone I like.”

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

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

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

+++

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

“Hey,” you call.

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

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

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

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

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

His reflection softens. “Thank you.”

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

“You look beautiful.”

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

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

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

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

“The getting-ready part?”

“The standing-close-to-you part.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You clear your throat. “Much better.”

It comes out thin. He smiles.

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

+++

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

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

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

(You have.)

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

(It did.)

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

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

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

His breath catches. A beat.

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

You smirk. “I’m serious.”

“I know.”

+++

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

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

He tilts his head, curious. “A rule?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You meet his eyes.

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

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

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

You smile faintly. “We were very professional.”

His brows lift. “Painfully.”

“Terrified,” you add.

“Both of us.”

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

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

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

“How are you?” he asks.

You pause.

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

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

You take a breath.

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

He nods, already bracing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You earned it,” you say.

And you mean it.

+++

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

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

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

He raises an eyebrow. “Another thing?”

You shrug. “Couple things. Small.”

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

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

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

You watch him read it once, then again.

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

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

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

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

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

He looks at it for a long time before speaking.

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

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

“Good day?”

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

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

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

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

Aaron groans. “That’s cruel.”

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

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

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

+++

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aaron laughs quietly, squeezing your hand.

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

There’s a pause.

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

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

You could lie. Brush it off.

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

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

Another beat of silence.

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

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

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

His thumb strokes lazily over your knuckles once, twice.

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

A pause. A breath.

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

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

He’s watching you.

Your heart thuds heavy in your chest.

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

“I would’ve wanted you to kiss me.”

Aaron’s breath catches.

“And touch me.”

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

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

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

“And here.”

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

You smile against his skin—small, secret.

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

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

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

And you whisper, because it feels like something sacred:

“I would’ve wanted you too.”

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

“I know,” he says quietly.

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

“Its cheesy, maybe, but—“

“No,” you coax. “Say it.” 

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

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

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

You swallow hard, heart kicking against your ribs.

“Show me,” you whisper.

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

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

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

And then he does.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your breath catches, hips tipping up into him automatically.

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

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

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

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

“You’re killing me,” you gasp.

He chuckles low in his throat. 

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

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

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

“And then I would have asked.”

One hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek.

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

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

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

How right it feels.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You whimper.

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

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

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

Your nails dig into his back, clinging to him.

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

“Fuck,” you manage, trembling.

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

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

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

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

“Because—”

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

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

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

Aaron’s hand strokes down your side.

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

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

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

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

He rocks into you again, slow and devastating.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another slow, devastating roll of his hips.

“Where you wanted me to come.”

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

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

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

“And you would have said—”

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

Waiting for you to finish it.

You can barely breathe. Barely think.

But you know the answer.

You always knew the answer.

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

“Inside. I would have said inside.”

Aaron’s whole body shudders.

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

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

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

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

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

“I love you. I love you. I love you.”

You kiss him back, breathless and broken and perfect.

“I love you,” you whisper.

+++

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

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

You blink. “Seriously?”

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

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

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

“Jesus,” you mutter.

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

You raise your eyebrows.

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

You smile despite yourself.

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

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

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

Your brow furrows.

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

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

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

Jesus.

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

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

You swallow the heat crawling up your throat.

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

But he hadn’t. 

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

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

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

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

Jess’s mouth twists again.

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

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

“And Aaron’s mom?”

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

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

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

You nod again, more solemn now.

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

You don’t speak.

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

You nod. “I will.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Love you,” you say against her shoulder.

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

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

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

“Remember our chat this summer?”

You groan. “Shut up.”

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

You narrow your eyes. “Goodnight, Jess.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“About Roy?”

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

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

You freeze.

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

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

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

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

His breath catches, almost startled by your tenacity.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No one’s going to hurt you here.

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

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

“I know.”

You press a kiss to the crown of his head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

+++

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

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

“Rossi!” you sing. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mission accomplished,” you say.

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

Aaron groans softly behind you.

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

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

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

+++

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

You ease up beside him, careful not to crowd.

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

He nods but doesn’t look at you.

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

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

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

“I’m not.”

You tilt your head.

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

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

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

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

Aaron looks at you then. Really looks at you.

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

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

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

He nods. “Together.”

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

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

+++

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

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

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

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

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

A familiar mask for parents…

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

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

Roy’s nod is short. Barely there.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod back. Handled.

+++

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

You follow his gaze.

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

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

You don't need to ask.

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

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

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

You introduce yourself in kind. 

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

Aaron steps forward, the faintest smile on his face.

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

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

“Work partner,” she says. “Right.”

She winks, lightning fast. 

Suddenly you feel... exposed. 

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

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

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

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

“Alright. Let me see my grandson.”

+++

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

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

And you’re looking for everything. 

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

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

The two women clock each other immediately.

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

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

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

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

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

You blink. Holy shit.

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

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

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

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

You almost choke on a baby carrot.

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

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

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

Blend into the vegetables.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 “Got a second?”

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

He grins. “Nah. Just curious.”

You tilt your head. “Dangerous.”

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

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

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

Derek nods. “Figured.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You both pause for a second. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn’t have to say it. Aaron. JJ.

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

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

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

You tilt your head. “Yeah?”

He smiles—a real one this time. “Yeah. Dinner. Talking. You... reminding me not everything’s broken just ‘cause it feels like it.”

You bump his shoulder lightly. “We do what we can.”

+++

“This is lovely,” Kathleen says, glancing around the yard. “You’ve put so much care into it.”

You offer a small smile. “Jack deserves a good birthday and a little fun treat for doing so well in his first month of school. And the decorating is all Dave. He’s been a lovely host. Jack loves it here.”

Kathleen nods. “He seems happy.”

“He is,” you say simply. “He’s surrounded by people who love him.”

A pause. Then, in a careful voice, she says, “That matters a great deal. Especially now.”

You nod, taking notes from Evelyn to keep your face mindfully placid. “It does.”

Kathleen lets her gaze linger on the yard. “I sometimes wonder what Haley would think—seeing all of this. How things have turned out.”

You study her expression for a moment. It’s not exactly accusatory, but it’s loaded with something—grief, maybe, or something a little less flattering.

You offer her something honest. Call it a show of good faith. 

“I was lucky enough to be close to her after we met a few years ago.” You fold your hands in front of you, looking down at them. “We talked a lot. I know the divorce was difficult for her, and I know Aaron wishes it had gone differently.”

You can’t really help yourself. For better or worse, it’s always your instinct to defend and give him credit with people who don’t like him all that much. 

Derek comes to mind…

Kathleen’s mouth tenses slightly. You don’t press. You don’t need to. The silence does the work for you.

After a beat, she murmurs, “She didn’t always open up easily.”

You nod once. “When she did, she was…” You search for a word. “…very clear.”

There’s another beat of quiet. Kathleen doesn’t ask what Haley said. Maybe she doesn’t want to know.

She glances back toward the yard. “Well,” she says finally. “It’s a beautiful day. You’ve made Jack’s birthday very special.”

You smile gently. “That was the goal.”

She nods, then drifts back toward the drink table, her expression unreadable.

+++

Evelyn takes a sip of her tea, delicately readjusting her barrette with her other hand. “Denial is unbecoming of you, Aaron.” 

He snorts. “We’re well past that, thank you.” 

“You are so welcome.” 

“Mhm.”

…”So when’s the last time she spent a night at her place?”

“Mom!” 

“What?” She looks convincingly shocked. “We’re all adults here. We can have sex with other consenting adults.” She crosses herself. ”It’s not like you had a white wedding the first time, God bless you.”

Aaron puts a hand over his eyes. “We are not having this conversation.” 

“I think it’s remarkable,” she says, unbothered, “that you’re treating this exactly as you did when you were seventeen. That’s something.”

Aaron huffs a sigh and ignores her. “Thank you, Mother. Very insightful.”

“I’ll leave you alone, now.” 

Aaron raises his eyebrows and tips his head, his mouth tight. “All I ask.” 

As luck would have it, you approach with a smile and a laugh. “Evelyn, I really hope you’re getting your digs in.”

“Oh, I always have some sage advice for my oldest, most beloved, responsible, and level-headed child.” She leans in as if to ruffle Aaron’s hair, and he ducks out of the way in a move that’s more seventeen than forty-three.

“Jesus—Mom, please.”

“Not Jesus,” she says lightly, straightening her barrette again. “Just me.”

Aaron mutters something about the grill and heads off, a little too quickly to be casual. You watch him go, amused, while Evelyn takes another sip of her tea.

“I thought he’d grow out of the brooding silence thing,” she says, almost to herself. “Guess not.”

You smile. “Yeah, I’ve picked up on that.”

Her eyes flick toward you, steady and kind. “You’re good with it. Better than most.”

“Some days,” you admit. “Other days, I think about throwing something at him.”

That earns you a soft laugh. “Good. He needs that. He’s not nearly as mysterious as he pretends to be.”

You glance toward the grill, where Aaron’s already leaning in like he’s debriefing Rossi instead of checking on burgers. “I figured,” you say.

Evelyn hums. “I know my son. He’ll withdraw, he’ll sulk, he’ll convince himself he’s a burden.” She waves her hand dismissively. “But he listens to you. He told me so.”

Your throat tightens at that, though you cover it with a smile. “I try not to let him get away with too much.”

“Keep it that way,” she says simply, and there’s a spark of approval in her eyes.

+++

Jack darts up, sword in hand. “Grandpa, did you see? Uncle Derek says I’m the fastest knight in the yard!”

Roy chuckles, ruffles Jack’s hair, then glances past him to Aaron. “Well, you always did like playing soldier.”

“And such a brave knight you are, Jack,” Aaron says, a smile on his face. 

Roy takes a slow sip, eyes sharp. “Gets that from Haley. She was always quick on her feet. Knew how to take care of herself.”

Aaron hums, noncommittal.

“Funny thing,” Roy adds, like he’s reminiscing. “Haley always said she was raising two kids. One of them just happened to wear a suit to work.”

+++

You and Jess step out onto the deck. 

“…Haley always said she was raising two kids. One of them just happened to wear a suit to work.”

Aaron doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. His shoulders sit tighter, his silence the only answer.

Roy tips the bottle toward him, almost like a toast. “Guess she didn’t know how right she was until the end.”

Aaron’s face is neutral, but you’ve been around him long enough to know how much force it takes to keep it that way.

Jess doesn’t hesitate. “Dad,” she says, bright and breezy, cutting across the tension like a knife through butter. She hooks her hand through his arm before he can press the point further. “Come meet the Holts—they’ve been dying to hear your take on Nationals' playoff roster.”

Roy blinks, caught off guard, but she’s already steering him toward the crowd.

You move in the opposite direction, brushing your hand against Aaron’s elbow. Your voice is pitched casually, for him alone. “Dave says the grill’s getting away from him. You should go check.”

Aaron exhales, long and quiet, then gives the faintest nod. His brown eyes are warm and full of gratitude when he looks back at you. 

You wink at him, lightning fast. 

+++

Aaron slips back to your side, past the chaos, to where you’re stacking paper plates at the buffet.

“Hey,” he says, voice low.

You glance up. “Hey.”

He lingers, posture half-relaxed, half-braced. “Thanks. For earlier.”

You raise a brow. “For what? Being functional and polite?”

He huffs a small laugh, shaking his head. “For… running interference.”

“Yeah, literally, actually zero problem,” you say, blunt as ever. “I don’t know why it would be a problem.”

Something like relief tugs at his dimple. “Mostly I’m just happy you don’t want to kill me anymore.”

You give him a flat look. “I don’t want to kill you anymore… right now. It’s still on the table, please don’t misunderstand me.”

Aaron nods, the faint smile still threatening at the corner of his mouth. “Got it.”

From across the yard, Dave leans against the deck railing, arms crossed, sipping his wine like he’s watching a play. His eyes flick between you and Aaron, a smirk tugging at his mouth.

+++

The yard is a disaster—the bounce house half-collapsed as it deflates, streamers and balloons wilting off the fence and deck railing, decorative lettuce looking similarly limp on the table. 

Evelyn and Aaron work together, getting the gifts and leftover party favors into the trunk of Aaron’s SUV. 

The view is only a little inspiring as you sit back with Jack in one of Dave’s Adirondack chairs, the birthday boy melted entirely to your chest, his head on your shoulder and breath sticky against your collar. His little hand rests on your bare upper arm, fingers twitching a little as he dreams (just like his dad). 

You close your eyes against the waning sunshine for what feels like the briefest of moments before you’re startled by a shadow. 

Evelyn Mae West-Hotchner. A formidable shadow, indeed. 

She crouches beside you and you’re impressed by the lack of cracking in her knees. She has her son beat, there. Her hand rises, fingers gently raking through Jack’s hair. 

“He doesn’t let just anyone touch his kid, you know.”

“Hm?” 

“You both think you’re very cool and subtle.” She tips her head in a startlingly familiar manner. “Trust me. I know.” 

You stare at her placidly, your eyebrows rising only a touch. 

“Mom.” Aaron’s flat, halfhearted chastizing doesn’t make it very far. 

Evelyn sighs, long-suffering, and stands, brushing her hands on her pants. “Yes, darling?”

“Stop harassing my friends, please.” 

She looks back at you with an eyeroll.. Get a load of this guy. “Friend. Right.” 

“Mom.” 

Your head lolls to the side. “Aaron, it really is incredible how you can sound 30 years younger with one single syllable.” 

You can almost hear him swallow something snarky. 

“Can you get Jack in his car seat please?” 

“Mhmm.” You straighten gingerly, supporting Jack’s head as you stand, Evelyn’s hand at your elbow. You turn to her, briefly. “Thank you.”

“Please don’t encourage her,” Aaron says. 

You snort, passing him with the lightest of shoulder checks. “Be nice.” 

His response is hardly louder than a breath and dripping with sarcasm. “No.”

Reaching the car, you pour Jack into his booster seat and get him buckled. He stirs a bit and you dip down into his eye line.

“Did you have a good birthday, bud?” 

He nods, sleepy. “Thank you for the party.” 

You bite back a smile, opting for something crooked and small. “Of course.”

+++

“Alright, baby. It’s just you and me,” Evelyn says as she watches you disappear behind the car. “What is the deal? Actually.” 

Aaron sighs.

“Uh oh.” 

The sigh turns into an annoyed huff. “We’re friends.”

“Right. And I’m the Attorney General.” 

“Dad got close, once.” 

“Yeah. And so am I. So fess up.” 

Aaron’s mouth twists. “I’m being very patient,” he says, finally, clipped and precise.

“...About?”

“I… made…. several mistakes. So, I’m being patient.”

She chews on that for a second. “That’s good. It builds character.”

“I’ve done plenty of character-building, thank you Mother.” 

“Clearly not enough, if you’re making so many… meaningful mistakes.” 

Aaron bites his tongue. “Fair.” 

She pats his arm and reaches up to kiss his cheek. He doesn’t move.

“Okay, be good. Please keep me updated when your patience is rewarded or runs dry.” 

“Goodbye,” he replies, dry. “Drive safely.”

“You too,” she says, sliding into her car. She rolls down her window as the door shuts. “Be good, okay?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

You join him as Evelyn backs out of the driveway, waving as she disappears around the hedge. 

“You good?” 

“Mhm.” 

You peer at him. “You lying?” 

“Mhm.” 

“I’ll see you at home.”

+++