#agent hotchner

Thankfully, your favourite sweatshirt has been on hand to throw over yourself but the little sleep shorts you had on were not offering any warmth or protection from the cold. You wrapped your arms around yourself, the long sleeves of the sweatshirt protecting your hands slightly. You weren't wearing a bra, mainly because you're not a sadist and wouldn't dream of torturing yourself like that when asleep. The cold permeated your clothes with ease and your nipples were hard and aching, almost sore to the touch from the cold alone. Your arms covered your chest the best you could and you prayed that nobody noticed your predicament.

The team were in the same boat, with most of them in various levels of undress wearing only their pyjamas, with the exception of JJ who wore a remarkably warm looking cardigan that made you want to step forward and hug her.

It was odd, you had to admit, seeing everyone's preference for nightwear and how varying their choices were. Spencer was wearing a two piece set of pyjamas with little coloured triangles all over. Looking closer you noticed that written between the various printer triangles were prints of Pythagorean theorem across the fabric.

You'd never considered what the team wore as pyjamas before but most of them were true to character, even if it was odd to view. Rossi especially piqued your interest, seeing him in a crisp two piece set with the hotel bathrobe fastened tightly around his waist.

"What's that look?" Rossi says, sensing your somewhat amused gaze.

"Nothing," you say entirely unconvincingly, a smirk blooming on your face. "I just never imaged you wearing pyjamas."

"What did you expect? It's three in the morning," Rossi counters, humouring you.

"Honestly? I expected you to walk out looking like Hugh Hefner, robe and all," you laugh. The team around you chuckles at the vivid mental image, all of their faces lighting up in amusement.

"It was a satin smoking jacket, and I don't own one," Rossi says steadily, unable to hide the amusement in his voice.

"It was silk and you definitely do," you snark, flashing an innocent smile.

Even Hotch laughs along with that one. Rossi laughs with a slight nod, his left eyebrow rising as if he is going to challenge you but instead he leans in closer, patting your shoulder.

"At least I'm wearing pants."

Your eyes flash down to your exposed legs, your shorts hardly covering anything past where your oversized sweatshirt falls. At the sight of your exposed skin you feel a shiver run over you at the cold wind biting your legs. You hug your arms tighter around your body and look up to deliver a clever retort only to find that he had slipped away from the group.

"Excuse me, " Hotch says, spotting the hotel Manager in the crowd and beelining towards him, ready to offer assistance. You only hoped that said assistance did not involve you or the team for once.

"The first night we get off in weeks and we're dragged out here in the cold at 3AM," Derek complains, standing with his hands tucked into his armpits. At least he'd had the sense to throw on his combat trousers with his FBI T-shirt.

You'd worked three cases back to back, each one of them a harder toil than the other both physically and mentally. You'd lost countless hours of sleep both due to action, scouting and paperwork and you'd finally been given the chance to go home in the morning after a night of undisturbed and well deserved sleep.

"Ughr don't remind me," JJ says, folding her arms across her chest and snuggling down into the cardigan she'd thrown over herself. You wholeheartedly agreed with her frustration. "I mean what are the chances."

"You know there's around 3,700 hotel and motel fires annually in the US, so the chances really are-."

"Rhetorical, Spence."

"Right," he nods, his entire body doing an involuntary dance to fight off the cold.

You look up as Hotch approaches once again, stepping back into the group huddle opposite you, relaying the information he'd dragged out of the manager which was practically nothing. You nod along, your eyes closing to stop them aching from exhaustion and from the wind.

"Coffees for everyone," Rossi says as he approaches the group holding two carriers of cups that he distributes throughout the team.

"Where did you..." Derek begins to ask, taking a miscalculated sip of the burning hot coffee, his words dying out as he winces.

"There's a coffee cart down the street, figured we'd need something to fight against the cold. Who knows how long we'll be out here."

You sneak a glance at Hotch, seeing his brow knitted together as usual as his eyes survey the scene around you, inevitably seeking out someone else in charge. He'd already approached the hotel manager and the fire chief to ascertain the situation, finding out that a fire alarm had been raised on the fourth floor and that they were investigating it further. You quickly look away as Rossi approaches you and you thank him profusely for the welcomed warmth. You take the drink from his hands with an appreciative smile and hold it to your chest, hoping the warmth will permeate through and raise your body temperature slightly. You readjust the sleeves of your oversized sweatshirt so they are hanging over your hands, the coffee cup nestled between them. Raising the cup to your lips, you take small steady sips, having observed Derek's eagerness moments before and you smile softly as you feel the liquid warming you as you swallow.

"Huh." Rossi says from beside you, drawing your attention back to him. You realise he hadn't moved on since handing you your cup.

"What?" You ask, seeing an expression in his face that instantly makes you nervous.

"Nothing," he shakes his head with a smirk tugging at his face, an ominous sight from a profiler. "I could have sworn you went to Northeastern."

You try not to react, try not to look at the team around you who are freshly intrigued by Rossi's words, their eyes all falling to you. And instantly the realisation dawns on you of the error you'd made.

In your haste to dress, you'd instinctively thrown on the old sweatshirt you had claimed as your own months prior, stolen from your boyfriend. It had become your go-to comfort item, much too oversized and old enough that it was well worn. It was huge on you and fell to your thighs, sleeves overhanging your hands by inches and a faded navy colour with a slightly frayed neckline. And most notably, cracked and slightly faded gold text that proudly read 'George Washington University, '92'.'

Which would have been fine, in principle, if the team didn't know about your exemplary record and recommendation from Northeastern University.

It may have also been fine if you weren't surrounded by the best profilers in the United States.

But it was not fine, because only one person known to this group had attended George Washington University and had infamously graduated his law degree with honours, notably in 1992.

And that man was Aaron Hotchner, Unit chief of the BAU.

The same man stood pretending not to shiver in his black T-shirt and plaid pyjama pants making a regular sized cup of coffee look comically small in his hand.

The same man who was now averting the multiple sets of eyes falling upon him, ignoring the gasps that the group emitted as the realisation swept through them and the very same man who had the audacity to be holding back a smirk.

It was then that the hotel manager appeared with fortuitous timing to loudly announce that you could all begin returning to your rooms as there was no emergency. Complimentary coffee and pastries would be offered in the dining room for anyone wishing to partake. You hardly listened to what was being said, the tension of the eyes upon you too distracting.

"Night you two, keep it down the walls are like paper," Rossi says with a smirk, his eyes flicking between you and Aaron as he shifts through the group towards the entrance of the hotel, stopping briefly to pat Aaron on the shoulder.

You were certain your blush was vividly pink by now and could only hope that the darkness of the night concealed the vibrancy of it. You dared cast a glance at Aaron, finding him already gazing at you with a somewhat amused look in his eyes and the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. His hand discreetly finds your hip and he traces your side with his thumb, a sneaky and silent declaration of love. Unbelievable.

The team slowly begins to disperse, each retreating to their rooms except for JJ and Emily who are planning to take full advantage of the free offerings in the dining room before bed. Each of the team gives you a knowing smile, a playful wink, a wiggle of their eyebrows or a small playful comment about what had been discovered. Morgan even playfully asked if he could swap rooms with you to be further away from Hotch's room, now knowing that yours would remain unoccupied. Aaron had muttered a reply and you had simply glared, though there was absolutely no power behind your glare.

"We're discussing this tomorrow," JJ whispers to you as she leaves, rubbing your shoulder gently with a sweet smile upon her face that Emily mirrors.

And then it was you and Aaron once again. He pulls you into his chest with a resounding chuckle, his body moving up and down against you as you bury your head into his collar with a groan.

"Let's get you inside," he says, reaching out for your hand and leading you back inside. With everything that had transpired you had temporarily forgotten about how cold you were until you step back into the lobby and feel yourself begin to defrost.

"My room or yours?" He asks as you wait for the elevator, an amused look on his face.

"You're enjoying this!" You accuse, shooting him a look.

"A little," he admits, squeezing your hand as the doors to the elevator open. He guides you in first, his hand reaching for the small of your back as you step in and press the button to your shared level. "Mostly I'm very much enjoying the blush on your cheeks."

You bury your face into his chest once again with a groan and he chuckles once more.

"You're seriously not bothered that they know?" You mumble against his cotton t-shirt, amazed that he still feels moderately warm.

"We've discussed this honey. It's never been my intention to hide our relationship, it was just a precaution to avoid Strauss for as long as possible. I don't mind the team knowing, though it's been nice to have you all to myself for so long."

"I'm still yours, even if they know."

He leans down to kiss you, your words clearly having an impact on him. The kiss is surprisingly intense for how exhausted both of you are, with Aaron's hands reaching down to your butt, keeping you anchored to him as his lips dance against yours.

The door opens on your floor and you're met with none other than Dr Spencer Reid, who looks like he wants to be anywhere except for here right now. Aaron clears his throat, pulling away slightly from you and nods towards Spence as he guided you out of the elevator.

"Um, JJ convinced me to grab some pastries," he says awkwardly gesturing to the phone in his hands, shifting weirdly around the two of you and stepping into the elevator.

"Enjoy," you say awkwardly, wanting nothing more than to just get to your room and crawl back into bed.

"You too," he says quickly, only to realise the connotation of his words, his eyes widening comically. "I mean, um, well I didn't mean."

"Night Reid," Aaron says definitively from beside you, reaching out for your waist to gently pull you away, no longer bothering to hide the clear amusement on his face. If Spencer sees you stepping into Hotch's room together, he doesn't say anything.

Nor does he say anything the next morning when Hotch interrogates the group to find out who had placed the 'Do not disturb' sign on your door handle the next morning.

Aaron Hotchner is the most romantic person you know.

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

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

But you could see it. You knew.

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

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

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

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

a voucher for a massage.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I need a metal can.”

Aaron frowned. “What? Why?”

“I’ll start by burning these curtains.”

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

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

“Love?”

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

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

“Gray or navy blue?”

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

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

“Coffee in ten minutes?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They don’t.

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

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

But that doesn’t happen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You feel like you’re floating.

The grass is wet.

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

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

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

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

It rings twice before someone picks up.

“Hotchner.”

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

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

The line goes dead silent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You could pinpoint those steps from miles away.

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

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

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

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

“I’m cold.” You whimper at him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When he’s satisfied, he moves on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s noon when they finally release you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And he’s right.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay,” you manage.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The room goes quiet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Prentiss frowns. “And the head?”

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

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

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

“You staying with her?” JJ asks.

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

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

“I will,” Hotch says.

There’s a beat of silence.

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

“She’ll appreciate that.”

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

Satisfied, he turns back to the screen.

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

The team nods, refocusing on the case.

You smiled, dragging the fabric of his t-shirt down your body and pulling your hair out of the collar. “Well, we are profilers ourselves. We know what to look for, so we know what to hide.”

“You look beautiful.”

You felt yourself blush. “We need breakfast.”

Aaron moved from his spot on the bed, reaching out for you. You willingly took his hand and let him pull you towards him. “And you,” Aaron breathed, his fingers running up and down your bare thighs. “Look beautiful.”

Failing to hold back your smile as you gently tilted his face to look back at you, you leaned down and kissed him. However, just as you felt yourself melt into him, letting him pull you closer to the bed, you pulled back and just managed to get out of his grasp. 

Aaron groaned, a little playfully, trying to reach out for you as you made your escape to the door. “We need food. Get some clothes on and meet me downstairs.”

“You have my shirt!” 

You popped your head back around the doorway. “And it’s very comfortable. See you downstairs.”

By the time Aaron met you downstairs, you’d just gotten the frying pan hot. 

“Let me,” he said as he leaned down, pressing three kisses to your neck from behind. 

Stepping away to sit on the kitchen island, you watched his muscles gently flex in his back as he whisked the eggs and milk, and started making scrambled eggs. 

“Your eggs, milady.”

You smiled, putting the plate down beside you. “Thank you.”

Pulling him closer to you, you kissed him once, twice, three times. “I thought you needed food?”

You nodded. “I do. But I wanted to kiss you.”

Aaron smiled, cupping your face and leaning in to kiss you a couple more times. Stopping for a brief moment, his fingers swiped the hair from your face and gently brushed over the healing cut at your hairline. 

“It’s healing.”

You hummed. “It is.”

Both of you felt the memory wash over you. 

A crackled radio, an unsub that didn’t want a gun fight and opted to tackle you, the sound of a crash, a grunt, a punch and a gun shot before they got up and ran away from you to try and get away. 

Hotch had found you first as Morgan caught the unsub half way down the hall. 

“Y/n. Hey, Y/n.”

You groaned a little, lay on your back. “Ow.”

“Can you sit up?”

You moved after a moment. Hotch put his gun in its holster and helped you sit up. 

“Let me see,” he said, just before you hissed. Still holding your head, he lifted a finger and found blood underneath. 

“Honey,” his voice was quiet when he said it. 

“I’m okay,” you told him. “Little…dizzy. But okay.”

From his side, Hotch flicked his radio back on and called for a paramedic. Outside, whilst you were getting checked over, Hotch started dividing up jobs and making the calls he needed to tie up the case. 

But the entire time, you could feel his eyes on you; when he was on the phone, walking in a small circle, when he was talking to Rossi, when he was filling in the other officers. 

“Hey,” you gently wrapped your fingers over his wrist. It was a small look in his eyes, but you’d known him long enough to be able to read him like a book. “I’m okay.”

Aaron closed his eyes and breathed you in. “I know. I know.”

Holding his face gently, you kissed him. “Hey, if we have breakfast now, I might just be able to prove how okay I am later?”

Aaron laughed. “I think we’ve already done that, ten fold.”

You laughed, too. 

“But I’m not against the idea.”

Smiling into the kiss as you pulled him in, it was Aaron’s turn to escape and step away. “Hey!”

“Breakfast,” he told you, turning to make his own eggs. “Before you pass out. Your legs were trembling before.”

“Not just from the lack of food,” you mumbled before taking a forkful of eggs. 

By the time Monday morning rolled around, you and Hotch arrived at work separately, acting as if the last fifty-four hours hadn’t just been spent in soft sheets and a warm home together. 

I had just got back to my hotel room. Reading the time on my watch I sighed to myself knowing it’s very late. 

I plop onto the white sheeted bed with a groan and crouch down untying and throwing off my black leather shoes. I laid down against the cool sheets and pulled out my phone from my dress pants. 

I opened it and dialed your number, knowing it by heart is quite easy with how much I call you in general. 

It started to ring, making noise around my empty hotel room. 

If only you were here with me. 

Soon your sleepy voice was the next sound I heard and everything inside went quiet. 

You had a way of doing that for me. Making everything go silent. 

“Hm Hi Aaron..” You mumbled as you probably just woke up out of your sleep. 

I knew sometimes you’d stay up and wait for me to call, but I know you have your own long days and would drift off before I even got back to the hotel rooms on cases. 

“Hi honey. Sorry to wake you, I wanted to hear your voice before I went to bed.” My voice sounded deep, laced with its own exhaustion. 

“Hm, it’s kay. How did it go?” You asked with that soft sleepy voice of yours. Of course you did, you always asked but I always tell you the same thing. 

“Didn’t end the way we expected but the unsub is in custody. All that matters.” I explained shortly, sparing the details. 

You hummed without asking anything more, which I always liked. You never dug into the cases I worked but would only ask how it ended which would always be hard or easy to tell. 

“How was your day?” I undid my tie with my hand, setting my phone on the small bed side table with an old lamp and the hotel phone. 

“Was alright. I worked the shop today by myself so I worked from six to three. I had dinner when I got back home and had fallen asleep for a bit. I walked Daisy then came back home and fell asleep again.” You explained. 

I could hear the ruffle of the pillow next to the phone along with a sniffing noise which was Daisy, our puppy.

The second angel of the household. 

Along with you being the first. obviously. 

“That sounds tiring, baby. I'm glad you had dinner though. I miss my girls so much. I’ll be home in the early evening tomorrow. I should be boarding the jet around eight.” I sighed, running a hand over my face. 

“We miss you too. We’ll be waiting for you. Don’t work tomorrow so I'll be home.” I could hear a smile through your voice. The ones that make me fall harder for you, if only I could see your face right now. 

“Good. I can’t wait. I’ll let you sleep though okay? I don’t want you missing out on sleep.” 

“You should be the one sleeping, Aaron.” 

You caught me there. 

“Hm, I will soon. I promise. I love you sweet girl. Tell Daisy I love her too. My little princess.” 

“She heard you, and we both love you so much. Sleep okay? I’m proud of you.” You spoke quietly into the speaker. 

I smiled to myself even if I was tired and just exhausted. I could still find a smile on my lips hearing those words out of you. 

“And I’m proud of you too. Goodnight angel.” I looked up at the ceiling and then back at my phone grabbing it. 

“Goodnight my love.” You laughed tiredly. 

Soon I pressed the red button and closed my eyes. 

Once I fought my body and got up to take a shower, as much as I didn’t feel like it I also wanted to sleep clean. 

When I said short shower, I meant getting in and getting out in five minutes. 

I slipped on sweatpants and got straight into the bed, setting my phone on the charger and turning off the lamp. The room was dark, with a faint light from the street lamps outside the hotel. 

Having just talked to you, the only thing I could imagine was lying next to you at home in our soft white sheets. Your head on my chest with my hand in your soft hair and daisy sleeping at the end of the bed with us. 

And everything went dark within a few minutes. 

————————————————————————————

It had been just another ordinary day. Aaron had gone to his favorite coffee shop, fully expecting things to move along like they usually did…only that day, the world stopped spinning, because there, in the coffee shop, stood the most breathtaking girl he’d ever had the pleasure of seeing. He couldn’t believe how stunning you were, you carried yourself with such poise and you had a style that stood out amongst the crowd, and he could swear you were glowing.

Your presence demanded to be known, simply in the way you stood. You didn’t shy away in the corner of the room or tuck your nose into your phone. No. You stood, your shoulders back, eyes taking in the space around you and your lips were relaxed into the most subtle of smiles. You were the type of girl that people were drawn to, you made people feel confident and safe without words.

When your gaze met Aaron’s, he was embarrassed initially, his ears burning, but then he noticed how your gaze softened and the corners of your lips curled upward just a tick.

--

Four months later, Aaron and you had gone on quite a few dates. The two of you were just beyond that “going on dates/getting to know one another” stage of your relationship, you’d made it through the basics – names, Aaron told you he had a federal job (but couldn’t be too specific), you told him that you were in law school which took up most of your time, talked about your favorite colors, favorite music, favorite movies…all the typical early relationship stuff.

The two of you had busy schedules that kept you from going out regularly, but you’d done your best to spend time with one another when you could. Tonight, would be no different, Aaron had taken you to a nice dinner…and there was something in the air, a sexual charge, one that had been there more often than not as of late. Only you planned to do something about it tonight.

“Why don’t you come in?” You asked, tracing patterns over the back of Aaron’s hand.

“Is that a good idea?” He asked.

“Maybe not, but I think we’ve earned it.” You leaned in closer to him.

With that, all resolve went out the window. Aaron grabbed the back of your neck, pulling you into him and kissing you breathless. The two of you stumbled your way through your apartment, making quick work of undressing one another. Aaron laid you back on your bed and wasted no time teasing you, his teeth pressed into your collarbone as he eased into your heat in one quick thrust.

The rest of the evening was perfect, everything you’d imagined it would be.

--

But in the morning, the bubble of perfection would burst.

You and Aaron had woken alongside the sunrise, slowly crawling out of bed and making your way to the kitchen to make coffee. Aaron had a mandatory day off and you didn’t have classes today, so you had planned to spend the day together…but what you didn’t expect is what happened next.

“What is this…” Aaron’s voice trailed off slowly as he checked out the items littering your entry table.

“Um, you’re gonna have to be more specific Aar.” You giggled, coming up behind him.

“That.” He gestured to a framed photo of you and your mom.

“That’s a photograph babe.” You rolled your eyes a nudged him.

“Yeah, sweetheart, I get that it’s a photograph…but why is it a photograph of you with my boss?”

You immediately choked on the sip of coffee you’d just taken. Dramatically sputtering, trying to avoid it from coming out of your nose. Aaron was quick to come up beside you and rub your back gently.

After a few coughs, you were able to get out “That’s my mom.”

“Fuck me.” Aaron deadpanned.

“I mean…we already did, and while I am ready for another round, I think you might need a moment, especially now that you know my mother is your boss.”

It was his turn to choke on his coffee.

“If she new the things you’d done to me…she’d fire you so fast.”

--

You truly thought Aaron would call it off after that, but with minimal convincing and a blow job he decided that he didn’t care, because he loved you, and he told you so a few nights later once you’d talked everything out.

--

You hid things for a few more months, longer than you thought you’d ever get away with, but here’s the thing…your mom was a very smart woman, and Aaron worked with profilers.

So, when your mom asked you to attend the annual FBI charity gala with her, you knew you were screwed, there was no getting out of it. You warned Aaron, letting him know you’d be there and he told you that you’d both have to be on your best behavior and make it through one night. No gazing, touching, excessive talking, and definitely no dancing. While you agreed, you definitely were not going to make this easy for him. You planned to get the sexiest dress you could find, and you casually suggested to your mom that you guys spend the day together, getting all dolled up.

She’d gone all out, nails, hair, makeup, new shoes, and a brand-new dress. A dress that was sure to render Aaron speechless.

--

“Alright hon, I’ll introduce you to the BAU. That’s the team I oversee. We will be sitting with them, and then I will have to go and mingle with some of the big wigs…but I promise I won’t leave you to fend for yourself the whole night.”

“Mom…I’m not a little kid; I can handle myself just fine.” You sighed.

“I know honey, but some of these guys, I swear.” She huffed.

“Aren’t you dating one of ‘those guys’?”

“Speaking of which…let’s not bring that up tonight okay? He is technically my subordinate.”

“Mom! That’s kinky.” You laughed.

She nudged you, before breaking out into laughter with you.

“I won’t say anything, I promise.” You looked at her. “Could you at least tell me who it is, so I’m not blindsided later?”

“His name is David Rossi.”

--

You and your mom walked into the ballroom arm-in-arm, she pointed out the table designated to the BAU, to show you where you’d likely spend the entirety of your evening. There awas a small crowd of people loitering near it, one of which stood out amongst the others…that being your sexy boyfriend. That man could wear a tux.

“Woah! Who is the smoke show with Strauss?” Derek wondered aloud.

“That dress is stunning.” Emily gawked.

“I love her shoes!” Penelope squealed.

“That’s her daughter.” Dave chimed in.

Aaron kept his mouth shut. He’d let the others ask questions…he’d even let Dave give too much information away. Why would he know about Erin’s daughter? Well Aaron knew that was because they were secretly dating, but the team didn’t know that.

“Good evening everyone.” Your mom waved elegantly, “this is my daughter.” She introduced you to the members of the BAU one-by-one.

You did your best to play coy, but when it came time to shake Aaron’s hand, you couldn’t help the blush that dusted your cheeks…hopefully the profilers would chalk it up to an inappropriate crush, and not the fact that he’d spent the better half of last night between your legs.

--

The night was dragging on, and despite your previous agreement, you couldn’t help yourself from stealing glances at Aaron all night, how could you not when he looked that good. You’d caught him staring a few times too, which eased the guilt a bit.

“You could be a little less obvious you know.” He whispered coming up next to you at the bar.

“The same could be said for you.” You nodded. “Mother would be appalled if she saw the way you were checking me out earlier.”

“I can’t help it, you look incredible. That dress is gorgeous.” He let his gaze drag over your figure quickly.

“I bought it thinking it would look really good on your floor.” You turned to face him and winked, before walking away.

--

“What were the two of you talking about?”

“Oh, I had mentioned law school, Agent Hotchner told me he used to be a prosecutor and offered to lend me some books that he found helpful when he was in school.” You lied through your teeth.

“How thoughtful of him.”

“Mom, why do I feel like you are insinuating something?”

“I don’t know…is there something I should be insinuating?”

“Mom.”

“Okay. I’m done.” She put her hands up in mock surrender.

“Would you like to dance?” Dave cut in.

“I’m not sure that would be appropriate.” Your mom whispered.

“Mom, go dance with him, look at all the people dancing, it’ll be fine.”

“Thank you.” Dave nodded at you. “So, Erin?”

With that, Dave took your mom’s hand and led her over to the dance floor. You smiled, it was so nice to see her happy, it had been a very long time since you’d seen your mom smile like that. The thought had tears springing to your eyes.

--

“You alright?”

“Oh, yeah. I’m okay.” You sniffled.

“Sweetheart.” Aaron slipped up.

“It’s just, I haven’t seen her this happy in a really long time. After my dad died, she had a really hard time, I was on my own a lot which was fine y’know, I was in high school by then. I just, I left and went to college, and that’s when the drinking started…ugh sorry this is too much. I’m just glad she’s happy is all.”

“You never have to apologize sweetheart. I’m glad you told me.” He leaned in for just a moment, to wipe a tear off your cheek. “Would you um, like to dance?”

“Aar, are you sure?”

“Yeah sweetheart, you mean too much to me to keep hiding this.” He admitted.

“God I love you.” You smiled at him.

“I love you too.” Aaron offered his arm. “Shall we?”

You gently grasped his arm, and he led you to the dance floor, the music slowed and you rested your head on his chest, arms wrapping around one another. You let yourself get lost in him, for just a moment, the feeling of him pressed against you, the smell of his cologne…everything that is unmistakably him.

Aaron let his head fall, resting atop your own. Smiles ghosted over both of your lips and the world around you faded away.

--

“They’re together aren’t they?”

“If I had to guess, I’d say about six months now.” Dave confirmed.

“I should be upset.” Your mom began. “He’s nearly old enough to be her father.”

“But?”

“But they seem really happy.”

“Yeah, they do.” Dave smiled. “I’ve never seen him like this.”

“She hasn’t smiled like that since…well, since before we lost her dad.”

Dave held your mom a little tighter then. The two of them enjoying their own moment together.

--

“The FBI would like to thank you all for attending this evening and even more so for your generous donations. Everyone have a wonderful rest of your evening and get home safe.”

All the different agents began collecting their things and making their way out of the ballroom. The BAU team had all expressed how nice it was to meet you, they were all nice enough to not mention your dancing with Aaron, and they respectively took their leave. Aaron hovered a bit, not sure whether he should just leave or say something to you first.

“Honey, are you going home with me, or did you want to go home with Aaron?” Your mom asked, point blank.

“I, uh, I – what?” You stuttered. “Mom, I can – I can explain!”

“Honey, I don’t want any details. The less I know the better.” She shook her head to keep you from interrupting. “If you are happy, that’s all I care about.”

“I am. Mom, I’m really happy.”

“Good.” She brought her hand to your face, gently caressing it. “I love you honey.”

“I love you mom.” You hugged her. “I’m glad you’re happy too.”

“I am.” She pulled back to look at you and gave you a teary smile. “Aaron, you better take good care of her.”

“I will. I promise.”

A/N : OMG YOU GUYS ARE CRAZY !!!! Thank you for the 800 followers 💘 just celebrate the 700 yesterday and it hit me this morning, lot of love

»» ─── ⋆⋅ ✈︎ ⋅⋆ ─── ««

The papers were signed quietly, without spectacle. A decade of marriage reduced to neat signatures on dotted lines, two pens passing back and forth across a lawyer’s desk. There was no shouting, no bitterness left by the end. Only a hollow ache, the steady kind that settles into the bones. 

Aaron Hotchner had always believed himself capable of compartmentalization, but the divorce left cracks even he couldn’t seal. He carried on, as he always did: suit pressed, tie straight, voice even. But the nights stretched longer, lonelier. Work became less an obligation and more an anchor. The BAU had always been demanding, consuming. Now it was his refuge.

When you arrived in the headquarters, you did not appear like a storm or a disruption. You came quietly, your credentials polished, your reputation respectable. A new agent on the team was nothing unusual, after all he had seen some come and go. 

Yet something about you settled differently in the air. You carried yourself with warmth, the kind that seemed to follow you into every room, chasing shadows out of corners. Laughter came easily to you, quick and bright, though never careless. You weren’t naive; you’d seen the world’s darker edges. But unlike most, you had managed to keep something unbroken in you.

At first, Hotch only noticed you in passing: a new voice in the briefing room, a new hand moving evidence on the table. But slowly, in the edges of his awareness, you began to linger. The rhythm of your speech, the spark of your observations, the way your presence softened the sharpness of a case. It wasn’t that you filled silence, rather, you lit it, like lamplight spilling across a darkened desk.

He did not look for you. He told himself that. Yet somehow, you were always there—close enough that he caught the trace of your perfume when you leaned past him, near enough that your laughter carried easily over the din of the bullpen. 

But he couldn’t let himself act on it. Time had moved forward, yes, but beneath it all, he was still the divorced man he had been not long ago, cautious and careful, unwilling to bring any complication into your life. And besides, you were younger—so bright, so full of life—that the idea of crossing that line seemed impossible. 

And though he would never admit it aloud, not even to himself in those early weeks, there was something in the way you existed at the margins of his day. Something steady. Something dangerous, perhaps, for a man who had promised himself not to feel so much anymore.

The first time he felt it, he didn’t even recognize it for what it was. He told himself it was nothing, just a mistake, a coincidence, two people moving in the same space at the same time. But later, looking back, he would understand that was the moment he should have known.

That day, Aaron was walking toward the conference room—which door swung both ways and more than one agent had earned a bruise from misjudging its timing—you pushed it open briskly with your right hand, eyes already down on the file you carried. At the exact same second, Hotch reached for the handle from the other side, pulling it toward him with his left.

The result was a near disaster: the heavy door jolted between you, catching just shy of swinging straight into both your faces.

You startled back a step, eyes wide. “Sorry !” The word tumbled out breathless, your grip tightening on the folder against your chest.

Hotch steadied the door with one hand, his reflexes sharp despite the suddenness. For a moment you both stood there, half-shadowed in the doorway, the tension broken only by the quiet hum of voices from the bullpen behind you.

“It’s alright.” He said evenly, but his mouth betrayed him with the faintest tug at the corner—so subtle it could almost be mistaken for nothing at all. Almost.

He shifted, pushing the door open fully and holding it in place for you. His gaze met yours just long enough for the warmth beneath his composure to show, before he inclined his head slightly in that familiar gesture of quiet authority. You managed a small, flustered smile as you slipped past him into the room, muttering another apology under your breath.

Hotch let the door swing closed behind him, expression smoothing back into neutrality as he moved on. But that fleeting curve at his lips lingered longer than it should have, tucked away like a secret he didn’t mind carrying.

»» ─── ⋆⋅ ✈︎ ⋅⋆ ─── ««

The second time he realized, he would have preferred it to have been done more privately and not in front of the team, who, he knew, would take great pleasure in discussing it.

That day, the briefing moved with the usual efficiency: the case file projected on the screen, folders distributed, agents leaning forward in concentration. Hotch stood at the front, marker in hand, sketching the bare outlines of a profile across the whiteboard. His handwriting was precise, controlled, each word weighted with the gravity of the work.

Suddenly, you spoke up clear, confident, your voice cutting through the low murmur of the room. “It might also indicate escalation, especially if the timeline’s compressing.” Without hesitation, you rose from your seat, a second marker between your fingers, and stepped toward the board.

Hotch shifted slightly to make space, but you both moved at the same time, your right arm sweeping forward just as his left extended to write. Your two elbows crossed, hands brushing in a fleeting tangle of motion. The squeak of two markers against the board overlapped, one line cutting crookedly into the other.

For the briefest instant, silence held. You startled, a quick apology on your lips, but Hotch only adjusted his stance, pulling his arm back a fraction. His expression didn’t change—composed, unreadable—but his gaze lingered on you longer than it should have. Again, he thought. 

“Go ahead.” He said, voice even, as if nothing had happened.

You nodded quickly and finished your point on the far side of the board, your handwriting looping neatly beneath his block letters. The room moved on, agents chiming in, the flow of analysis resuming as if the moment had never occurred. But the curve of your sentence cut into the edge of his outline, two hands having written two halves of a thought that now sat intertwined on the same surface.

Hotch returned to his seat, pen tapping lightly against his folder. Outwardly unchanged, perfectly in control. Yet somewhere beneath the discipline, something in him registered the faint, awkward brush of contact. The second flicker of awareness, but the first that would not so easily be dismissed, without thinking there’ll be another.

»» ─── ⋆⋅ ✈︎ ⋅⋆ ─── ««

A few days later, the bullpen was unusually quiet, the low hum of keyboards filling the space between paperwork and phone calls. Hotch sat at the round table—his office was under construction, and a few team members had joined him here to sort through reports—a case file lay open in front of him, his left hand steady as he signed his initials at the bottom of a report. His pen moved with the same precision he applied to everything; deliberate, efficient.

He suddenly put it down on his left and sank a little deeper into his chair, closing his eyes as he pinched the bridge of his nose. Writing dozens of reports was certainly what Aaron liked least about his job, and yet as a prosecutor, he wrote tons of them before arriving at the BAU.

Your right hand reached instinctively toward the pen lying just beside you, identical to your own. You were far too preoccupied with finishing your report on time to look up for even a second or take a break after hours of work, so without glancing up, you picked it up and began to write, too focused on the page in front of you to notice that it hadn’t been yours to take.

For a heartbeat, you bent over the report beside him, and the pen’s slight resistance made you pause. But it was the subtle scrape of his chair shifting that drew your attention a moment too late, and you froze, realizing your mistake.  

“Oh—oh God, sorry !” You blurted, eyes wide as realization hit. “I thought it was mine.” Your laugh was small and sheepish, a flutter of embarrassment as you straightened.

Hotch set the report down, smoothing the page with quiet precision. He looked up at you, his expression composed, though a trace of amusement flickered across his features, so subtle it might have been missed entirely.

“You like stealing pens from federal agents ?” He asked softly, dry humor threading through his calm tone.

You opened your mouth to reply, then shut it again, cheeks warming with embarrassment.

He let the moment linger just long enough before shaking his head, voice returning to its usual steady cadence. “It’s fine. It’s only a pen. No harm done.”

He picked it up again and resumed his work, hands precise, posture controlled, but the corner of his mouth held the shadow of that rare, almost-smile, a small acknowledgment of the tiny collision between you.

Later that day, the conference room buzzed with low conversation as the team sorted through the latest leads, coffee mugs scattered across the table like secondhand evidence. You were leaning forward, halfway through a point with Reid, who nodded along earnestly while gesturing at the notes in front of him.

Hotch entered quietly, his presence shifting the room without a word. He set his coffee down on the table as he moved to stand just behind your right shoulder, attention already focused on Reid’s rapid-fire analysis. The mug he placed beside yours was nearly identical—plain, white ceramic, filled to the brim with dark coffee.

Without glancing, you reached for the cup just at your right, lifting it as the discussion rolled on. You took a sip—one beat, two—and then pulled it back with an unmistakable grimace. Your nose wrinkled, lips pressing into a thin line.

“That’s definitely not my coffee.” You muttered under your breath, staring into the mug like it had personally betrayed you.

Reid blinked at you. Morgan leaned back in his chair, smirking. “Careful,” he drawled, eyes flicking between you and Hotch. “Stealing pens is one thing, but drinking the boss’s coffee ? That’s a federal offense.”

Your head snapped toward Hotch instantly, “Oh my God, I didn’t— I thought it was—” You stammered, setting the mug down so quickly it sloshed against the rim.

Hotch’s expression remained steady, though there was a flicker in his eyes—something that might have been amusement, quickly reined in. “It’s fine,” he said, voice calm, measured. He shifted the mug back in front of him. “You’ll live. So will I.”

Morgan’s grin widened, clearly enjoying the scene far too much.

Hotch straightened, adjusting his tie in that practiced way that always signaled a return to order. “Let’s focus on the case.” He said, effectively closing the matter. Still, as the briefing continued, he caught the way you avoided looking directly at him, your own mug held firmly in your hand, as though determined never to repeat the mistake. It was a small thing, barely noticeable to anyone else, but to Hotch it stood out. 

You were careful around him now. Not timid, not diminished, just cautious—since your last… let’s say collisions—and that struck him harder than it should have.

He knew what it meant to be careful. He had lived his entire life behind carefully constructed walls, every word weighed, every action measured. And now, watching you, he realized that your caution was for his sake. You didn’t want to stumble, didn’t want to overstep, not with him.

The thought settled heavily in his chest. Because the truth was, he couldn’t afford mistakes either. Not here. Not with you. He was your superior, recently divorced, a man still carrying the remnants of a fractured life. To let himself lean toward you—your warmth, the way you seemed to slip so naturally into the spaces beside him—would be reckless. Unfair, even.

And yet… there it was. The awareness of you, tugging at the edges of his composure every time your hand brushed his, every time your voice cut through the room, every time your elbow crossed his, every time one of you would stop reaching out, realizing that the other wanted to grab the same thing.

Perhaps it was only in his mind, yet Aaron couldn’t shake the certainty that you felt it too, the same quiet, undeniable pull between you. This pull that seems to draw you every time you pass each other.

He told himself then that he had to be careful. He couldn’t make the mistake of being interested, no matter how quietly, no matter how deeply. But as he forced his attention back to the case, he didn’t yet realize how complicated that promise was going to become. 

Staying on your left wasn't going to be enough. 

»» ─── ⋆⋅ ✈︎ ⋅⋆ ─── ««

The BAU’s temporary command post was a mess of maps, crime scene photos, and half-empty coffee cups. The team was gathered around the largest table, the county map spread flat beneath a layer of clear plastic. Colored pushpins dotted the surface—victim residences, dump sites, possible offender routes.

Hotch stood at one end, pen in hand, leaning over the map with the same steady focus he always carried. “If he’s escalating, then his hunting ground is narrowing. He’ll stay within this radius.” He reached with his left hand, sliding a fresh pin toward the cluster of locations.

At the same moment, you leaned in from the opposite side, right hand aiming for the same area to mark a different location. Your arms crossed clumsily over the center, and the edge of your sleeve clipped the small container of red pushpins resting by his elbow.

The tin tipped. A scatter of bright red rained across the map, rolling to the floor with a sound far louder than it had any right to make.

You froze, eyes wide, already crouching down as if you could reverse time by sheer force of will. “Oh no—oh, I’m so sorry—” You scrambled to gather the pins, flustered, your apology tumbling out in a rush.

Around you, Morgan chuckled under his breath, and Emily gave Reid a look that said don’t you dare start calculating how many pins spilled.

Hotch bent down as well, steady and unhurried, collecting a few of the scattered pieces between long fingers. His voice, when it came, was low and even, cutting through your frantic apology. “It’s nothing,” he said simply. He set the pins back into the tin with quiet precision. “They’re just markers. Nothing we can’t put back.”

You exhaled, feeling your cheeks burning, and nodded quickly, still clutching a handful of pins like they were evidence from the scene itself.

Hotch straightened, brushing his hand against his thigh before setting the tin safely aside. Then, as if nothing had happened, he returned his attention to the map. But the corner of his mouth softened, just barely, when you slid the recovered pins across to him with a sheepish glance.

For a fleeting second, it was easy. An accident, a quiet exchange, nothing more than two colleagues working side by side. The smallest curve threatened at his lips, almost a smile, almost.

And then it hit him. The way your presence seemed to soften even the chaos of the case. It slipped under his guard before he had time to stop it. Just as quickly, the awareness sharpened into something he could not allow.

Hotch cleared his throat, the sound brisk in the air as he straightened. His features settled back into familiar lines, his voice resuming its steady cadence as he redirected the team’s focus to the map. The softness was gone as quickly as it had come, tucked away behind the steel of discipline.

»» ─── ⋆⋅ ✈︎ ⋅⋆ ─── ««

The day he finally truly realized, the hum of the jet filled the quiet, steady and low, a backdrop to the scratch of pens against paper. Case files lay spread across the narrow table, agents lost in their notes.

Hotch sat with his left arm angled across the page, his pen moving in neat, efficient strokes. Beside him, you leaned in with your right, scribbling observations in the margins of your report. It was inevitable in the cramped space—your arms brushing, elbows knocking, your pen dragging against the slope of his wrist before you pulled back with a muttered apology.

It happened once. Twice. A third time, your shoulder bumping lightly against his as you reached across for the reference sheet.

Hotch exhaled, a short sigh escaping—not sharp, not impatient, just the quiet sound of a man who’d been nudged one too many times in close quarters. He shifted slightly, but not away.

Across the table, Emily glanced up from her notes, an amused spark in her eyes. “You two ever think about switching seats ?” She asked, smirking. “Because at this rate, one of you is going to lose an eye.”

Morgan chuckled low, leaning back in his seat. “Nah, don’t bother. Y/N always ends up on Hotch’s left. Guess it’s just her spot.”

The words landed heavier than the teasing tone behind them. Hotch’s pen stilled for a fraction of a second, his gaze flicking down to where your arms brushed again, side by side. He cleared his throat, returning to his writing as if nothing had shifted.

But the thought lingered, caught somewhere in the space between his steady composure and the quiet awareness that had been growing since the day you arrived. Always at his left.

Once the jet landed, the team scattered into motion with the same practiced rhythm they always did. Reid buried himself in the preliminary interviews, rattling off geographic profiles with that relentless speed of his. Morgan coordinated with the local officers, his voice carrying authority as he took command of the logistics. You paired off with JJ to comb through victimology, your laughter now and then breaking the tension in a way that made even the sheriff’s deputies glance over. And Hotch—Hotch was the anchor as always, briefing, directing, pulling the threads together into a working picture.

Hours passed in the grind of fieldwork, each of you taking your piece of the puzzle. Then, as often happened, the call came in: a possible suspect sighting, the kind that couldn’t be ignored. The team split, two cars in different directions, coverage spread thin.

That was how Hotch found himself alone, waiting inside a dimly lit police station in the thick of the night, the air heavy with the scent of asphalt after rain. The minutes stretched, the noise of radios and engines filling the silence where his team should have been.

Then the door opened, footsteps quick against the worn linoleum. You slipped inside, file clutched to your chest, your expression lit with the same determined warmth you carried everywhere. Suddenly, he felt the tension ease from his shoulders in a way that startled him.

“There you are.” You said, a smile tugging at your lips as you crossed the room toward him. “For a second I thought you weren’t there.”

Hotch shook his head, the faintest softening in his expression. “I’m glad you’re here.” He said, and the words came quieter than he meant them to; low, deliberate, but carrying something heavier beneath the surface.

You didn’t pause, didn’t notice the weight he’d let slip. Instead, you flashed him a quick grin, tilting your head as you moved past him toward the waiting officers. “Always on your left, right ?” You teased—reminding him of Morgan's statement—throwing the words over your shoulder like it was nothing more than a joke between colleagues.

But Hotch froze.

Your footsteps carried on across the room, your voice lifting as you addressed the officers, sliding seamlessly back into the business of the case. Yet he couldn’t move. Couldn’t follow. The words lodged in his chest, a simple tease to you, but to him, they landed like revelation. Always on his left. Always there. A pattern he hadn’t wanted to see until now.

His jaw tightened, his hand flexing once against the file he held. No one else noticed his hesitation; no one else saw the way the world seemed to still around him.

He forced himself to turn, to follow your lead, his voice even when he spoke again. But the realization clung to him, sharp and insistent: you had slipped into his life quietly, naturally, until the thought of your absence felt unthinkable. And that frightened him more than anything.

Because some things, once seen, could not be unseen. And now that he had noticed the space you occupied, he wasn’t sure he could un-notice it again.

»» ─── ⋆⋅ ✈︎ ⋅⋆ ─── ««

Weeks later, Hotch couldn’t sleep.

His house was silent, the kind of silence that should have brought rest but instead pressed against him, heavy and unyielding. He lay in the dark with the memory replaying, looping endlessly in his mind: “Always on your left.”

You had said it with a teasing smile, light and unthinking, as though it was just another of those small collisions that had become routine between you. But it lingered with him in a way no other words had in a long time. Because it wasn’t just a joke. It was true.

You had always been there—at his side in the briefing room, shoulder brushing his at the round table, reaching over maps, colliding at doors, trading pens and mugs. Always at his left, without trying, without forcing. It was as if the space had been waiting for you, and you had simply filled it without hesitation.

And he liked that.

God, he liked that.

It hit him then, with a clarity that stole the breath from his chest: you weren’t just occupying the place beside him, you were softening it. Warming it. Every time you stood there, every time your right arm crossed his left, something shifted inside him. The world felt… different. Lighter. The part of him that had been hardened by years of walls and loss and silence was beginning to thaw, quietly, because you were there.

The realization was sinking deep, irrevocable. You were always warming his cold heart by staying on his left. It was terrifying, yes. Because it was dangerous to want something so badly, and dangerous to believe he could have it. But it was also undeniable.

He turned onto his side, staring at the shadows on the wall. But he knew sleep would not come, not with the truth echoing in his mind. He had spent months and months learning to live without warmth, convincing himself that solitude was safer. But now, all he could think of was how natural it felt with you there, close enough to reach.

And for the first time in a long time, Aaron Hotchner admitted to himself that he wanted more.

When he stepped outside his house, the streets were quiet, the lights casting long reflections across wet asphalt. Hotch drove with one and only destination in mind, the hum of the engine filling the space where sleep should have been. 

By the time he reached your apartment building, the hour was far too late for anyone to come calling. He knew that. He knew he should have turned the car around half a dozen times on the way there, but somehow he was still standing in the dimly lit hallway, hand pressed flat against the cool wall as he forced himself to breathe. Then, before he could think better of it, he straightened his jacket and pressed the buzzer.

The door opened a beat later. You blinked at him, hair tousled, wrapped in the softness of exhaustion. “Hotch ?” Your voice was hushed with surprise. “It’s late.”

He shook his head quickly, too quickly. “Yes sorry. I just—” He broke off, jaw tightening, and for a long moment, he only stood there, caught in a silence that stretched too thin. 

“Hotch it’s really late. Are you—what’s wrong ?” You finished your sentence with a soundless yawn.

His eyes searched yours, as though he needed permission simply to speak. “I couldn’t sleep.”

You frowned, confused. “You couldn’t sleep ? ”

He exhaled, a rough sound, almost a laugh but not quite. “No. I couldn’t.” His hands flexed at his sides, restless, betraying the tension he usually hid so well. Another long pause. Then, almost abruptly, like if he didn’t say it now, he never would: “Would you… have dinner with me ?”

For a second, you just blinked at him, his words hanging in the quiet like they’d slipped out by accident. Your brows furrowed, mouth parting. “Dinner ? Right now ?”

A startled huff of air left him, not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. “No—God, no. I didn’t mean tonight.” He shook his head, lips pressing together before he tried again, steadier this time. “I meant… sometime. Soon.”

You tilted your head, still blinking at him, as though you were trying to reconcile the fact that Aaron Hotchner was standing at your door at midnight asking you out to dinner. Slowly, a smile tugged at your lips. “Okay, good, because if you were about to suggest a restaurant at…” you glanced at the clock on the wall, “three in the morning, I was going to start worrying.”

The corner of his mouth curved—small, rare, but real. “I mean it,” he continued softly. “Dinner.” His voice steadied, low and certain now, though his eyes held the same vulnerability that had brought him here in the first place. “Maybe if we sit across from each other, we’ll finally stop colliding.”

That earned him a quiet laugh from you, the last of your confusion melting into something gentler. You shook your head, brushing a strand of hair from your eyes. The corner of your mouth tugged upward. The day’s fatigue didn’t vanish, but it eased, replaced by something gentler as your chest tightened with an affection you hadn’t dared to name. 

“Yes. I’d like that. But we’ll see later, okay ? Because right now, I need sleep more than I need food.”

Something eased in his chest then, some long-held tension loosening. He nodded once, carefully, like he was sealing a promise. “Later.” He agreed.