#ajf update

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.”

+++

sunday, november 9th - goodbye stranger

wednesday, november 12th - space: the final frontier

wednesday, november 19th - healed

wednesday, november 26th - command presence

wednesday, december 3rd - bear arms

sunday, december 7th - let me (nsfw)

wednesday, december 10th - observations

wednesday, december 17th - friendly fire (7x09)

saturday, december 20th - just because (nsfw)

tuesday, december 23rd - soft spot (7x10)

+++

these have been postponed for a future date!

schoolyard politics: part ii (7x01)

as you like it (7x01)

reinstated

the bubble (nsfw)

+++

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.

+++

“I just need to know they’ve healed,” you say, your thumb brushing the edge of a raised scar. Your voice doesn’t shake, not anymore. 

He blinks, opens his eyes. You don’t look up yet. You’re focused.

“I need to know that you’re okay.” Your voice drops to a very honest whisper. “That you made it.” 

He goes very still beneath you.

And maybe it should surprise him, how easily you say it. How calmly. But it doesn’t. Not really.

He watches your face instead. The way your fingers move with care, not fear. Like he’s not made of something broken. Like he’s not fragile. Like he’s worth touching, worth learning by hand.

Your fingers stop at the one just under his collarbone—the worst of them, aesthetically speaking. 

It’s jagged and more raised than the rest, an angry, twisted line that still hasn’t calmed after all these years. The scar is gnarled, extending far deeper than you can see. 

“This one,” you whisper, “was the one they were worried about long-term.”

He nods. “The most nerve damage. I couldn’t feel anything around it for weeks. There are still numb spots.”

You don’t flinch. You press your palm flat over it. Like you’re grounding it. Like you’re taking it into yourself.

He watches you in silence.

You move lower, shifting the blanket to trace another.

“I’ve never seen this one,” you murmur, fingers ghosting over the thin, raised scar between his ribs on the right side.

“Slotted right through,” he says. “Didn’t hit anything vital. Barely.”

You lean in and press a kiss to it.

Your hands move again, lower, reverent. The one just under his ribs makes you pause. You run your fingers over it, feeling the knotted scar tissue underneath. 

From where Foyet dug. 

You can feel the anger, the hatred for the man who met his righteous end at Aaron’s hand. 

He sees it on your face and answers before you can ask.

“That one was from the second hit. I was already down.”

Your throat tightens, but you say nothing.

Not yet.

There’s another, just to the left of his belly button. Smaller. Cleaner. But still angry. Still personal.

“That one was from the smaller knife,” he says, almost too softly. “It wasn’t serrated. Easier to heal.”

Your hand shakes. You steady it. He’s never talked about this with you, never talked about the attack, not really.

You look at him. “Thank you for telling me.”

His eyes are wet. “You don’t need to know all this.”

You shake your head. “I do. Because I was there. Maybe not in the room. But I was there.”

He reaches up, cups your cheek.

“You were,” he says. “I remember your voice. In the hospital. It was the first thing I really registered.”

You blink fast. Press your lips to the center of his chest—over his heart. The one that’s still bruised, still vulnerable. Still fighting.

“You let me take care of you,” you whisper. “And then you shut the door.”

“I thought I was protecting you.”

“I know,” you say, voice steady. “But I didn’t need protection. I needed you.”

He closes his eyes, breath catching.

“I want to know all of it,” you add. “Not because it’s easy. But because it’s you.”

There’s something unbearable in his face when he opens his eyes again. Not grief. Not shame. But something almost like awe.

“You’re not afraid,” he says.

“I am,” you reply. “But not of you.”

He draws you down to him—carefully, gently—and you settle over his chest, still tracing every mark. Every piece of him that once broke open and healed under his own relentless will.

You glance up at him. “Do they still hurt?”

“Sometimes,” he admits. “Not sharp. Just… stiff. Tight.”

Your palm shifts slightly, following the curve beneath his ribs.

“Is there… permanent nerve damage?” you ask. “Are you still on medication? For your heart?”

His gaze sharpens—not defensive, just startled. He nods, once. “Beta-blocker. Low dose. And yeah. There’s numbness. Some phantom pain. Mostly in my ribs, but there are other parts I still can’t feel at all.”

“Where?”

He takes your hand and presses it to his side, under his arm, where his vest velcros together. “Here. I can’t feel this at all.” His hand guides yours to tap, to prod. You spread your fingers over his skin, the pads of your fingers bridging the scar tracing the curve of his ribs.

“The scar tissue is beyond saving,” he says, pulling your hand to another healed wound under his sternum. “I can’t feel any of it beyond the psychosomatic itch.”

“How much is internal?” Your fingers trace the scar, this one preternaturally smooth, no ridges or imperfections at all on its surface. 

He shrugs. “They’re not sure. They checked it on ultrasounds on my last follow up to clear me for Pakistan but they’d really need a contrast MRI for all of it.” 

You hum. Understanding. 

“I’m okay,” he says. 

Physically, you believe him. 

Your fingers return to his collarbone, remembering the internal stitches. There’s a companion on the other side of his chest, a relatively shallow slice on his pec. That one has healed pale and smooth. 

His shoulder has a thin, aged line bisecting the curve of it, interrupting the canvas of lean muscle. You look up with a question. 

“Coat hanger. I was twelve.”

That doesn’t really answer your question. You keep your eyes on him. 

“My father was…” He pauses, his jaw working. “He had a temper.“

You take a breath, passing over the scars, the new and the old, with your thumb. 

You’re not cataloging weaknesses. You’re asking about his life. The one you share. The one he’s lucky enough to live.

You press a soft kiss to the scar beneath his sternum. Not to soothe. To see him.

“Okay,” you murmur, laying your cheek just over the spot you kissed. You can feel the steady thump beneath your skin. “I just wanted to know.”

His fingers brush your temple, his thumb tracing under your eye, slow and grateful. “You already do.”

But he realizes—he hadn’t thought about it like this before.

About the way you carry it. That night. That aftermath.

You weren’t there. But you felt it all. You watched him stagger back from the brink. And you never looked away.

So when you shift—when you rise up slowly onto your elbows and then your knees, straddling him with quiet reverence—he watches you like he’s seeing something holy.

You’re not rushing. Not trying to fix anything.

You just want to be close.

You curl your fingers into the shirt you wear—his, one he loaned you ages ago that somehow stayed yours—and push it up over your chest, then higher, over your head. And when you lean in, you press your lips to each wound, one by one, deliberate, your skin against his. 

He shudders.

Not because it hurts.

Because it doesn’t.

Because there is nothing clinical about your touch. Because you’re not reducing him to the pain. You’re honoring it. Reframing it. Offering something back.

When you finally look up, your voice is almost a whisper. “Let me take care of you.”

He’s already breathless. He nods.

Not because he needs it.

Because he wants it.

Because your offer doesn’t feel like pity.

It feels like truth.

You kiss him again—this time at the hollow of his throat—and his breath catches.

There’s nothing hurried about it. No frantic need, no sharp edges. Only presence. Only the warm, quiet urgency of here, now, still. Your mouth brushes the underside of his jaw, and his hand slides from your hip to your waist, grounding himself in the feel of you.

“You’re so gentle with me,” he murmurs, like it’s the strangest miracle in the world.

You look at him, half-smiling. “Of course I am.”

You stay like that for a while, skin to skin. Still wrapped around each other, but the intimate heat between you has cooled into something quieter. Not less intense—never that—but steadier. Like embers instead of flames. Like something that lasts.

Your cheek rests against his shoulder, and his arm curls around your back. His breathing has slowed. So has yours.

Neither of you speak.

It’s not silence. Not really. It’s something softer. Like the space between words when you already understand each other. 

His hand strokes slowly up and down your spine, not for your benefit or his—just because. Because you’re here. Because he is. Because the world went on turning, and you both made it back.

Eventually, you lift your head.

Not far. Just enough to look at him. His hair is a little messy. His lips have a little color. There’s a furrow between his brows that hasn’t smoothed entirely, like he’s still afraid this might vanish if he looks too closely.

You touch his face. Thumb across his cheek. Feather-light.

“You okay?” you ask, quiet.

He blinks. Nods. “I’m—” He stops. Tries again. “Yeah. I am.”

You raise an eyebrow. He sighs.

“I don’t always know how to believe that this is real,” he says. “That you’re here. That we’re allowed to be like this. After everything.”

“You don’t have to believe it,” you murmur. “You just have to feel it.”

He closes his eyes. Presses his forehead to yours.

“I do,” he says. “More than I ever thought I could.”

Your fingers curl in the space just above his heart. His hand covers yours.

His voice is rough. “You were the only part of it that ever made sense.”

You don’t answer. You just lean in and kiss him—soft, lingering. Nothing more than the press of lips, the exhale between two people who understand each other down to the bone.

When you pull back, you’re smiling. So is he.

You both shift—still tangled up, but comfortable now. Content.

And later, when sleep begins to pull you under, you tuck your face against his neck and whisper, “You’re not alone anymore.”

He doesn’t answer with words.

But he holds you tighter.

And you feel it all the same.

+++

+++ september 21st, 2011

Aaron doesn’t argue. Doesn’t push, doesn’t explain. 

He just unlocks the door and steps aside. Silent.

You walk past him, your shoulder brushing his chest as you move, but neither of you acknowledge it. 

Your hands find your hips the second you stop in the middle of the living room, then your arms cross, restless. The weight in your chest is suffocating and you wish that it could just stop, that you could manage this with a nifty little switch. 

Jack’s gone, staying with Jessica until tomorrow afternoon. This is your only chance to lay into him the way you want to. When you two have an audience again, you’ll have to stuff it and pretend you’re fine.

Aaron lingers near the door, just watching you. His bag is still slung over his shoulder, wearing the same clothes he wore when he flew in. He hasn’t shaved in a week or two, probably. He looks drawn, exhausted, like he’d fall over if you looked at him wrong. 

This isn’t new. This isn’t even your first silence on the subject. 

"No."

"I can’t talk to you right now."

You meant it then. You mean it now. The problem is, it’s not true anymore. You want to yell and demand and make him feel the way you feel—like you spent five months drowning and have just been pulled from the water.

But God, is it good to see him in one piece. 

"When did you know?"

Aaron exhales, slow, deliberate. A hand scrubs over his face. You know this is the last thing he needs, after taking an uncomfortable supply transport home, working through the nights for close to three days, dealing with you at work. He gave everything he had left to find Declan, to finish the job. 

You do not care.

But you’ve been tired too. This anger and hurt and exhaustion has pushed you to the brink. You don’t know how else to iron this out. 

His overthinking, the editorializing to get his thoughts in order stokes your irritation. 

“Stop. Answer me.” 

"Last week,” he admits, his voice low. “I knew last week.”

You cross your arms. "So, when you called to check in with me, you couldn’t have—I dunno—shared that?" Your voice has a bite to it. 

A muscle jumps in his jaw. He lets out a dissatisfied chuff, like there’s an answer somewhere in his head, but he can’t or won’t say it.

And that’s worse. So much worse.

“You could have told me you were leaving.”

The words come low, steady. Controlled. But not soft. Never soft. You’ve spent weeks perfecting this control, and still it threatens to shake loose in your throat.

You see the way it hits him. You don’t care. Not enough to stop.

Because even now—even now—you’re biting your tongue on half of what you could say. 

“I thought maybe you didn’t want to be around me anymore,” you say, and the words feel like sandpaper, rough from disuse. “That maybe we were crossing way too many lines and you wanted to back off or something.”

“I would’ve understood,” you add, breath hitching. “Maybe not right away. But I would’ve tried. I would’ve asked questions. I would’ve argued.”

You glance at him, throat raw.

“But I wouldn’t have stopped you. I probably could’ve pretended I was excited for you instead of scared shitless.”

A beat. 

“Say something.”

You mean it. You think you mean it. But the second he tries, the second he so much as breathes—

“No—actually, don’t.”

You shake your head, hard. Your voice warbles. But you don’t cry. Not yet.

“Because whatever you say, it’s going to sound reasonable. And I’m not ready for that. I’m not ready to forgive you just because you had a good reason. And I’m sure you did.”

You start to move—tight, restless steps across the floor. The pacing doesn’t help. 

“I’m trying so hard not to give you the benefit of the doubt,” you spit. “And I’m failing and it’s infuriating. Because I know you.”

That’s the worst part. That you do.

“I know it probably wasn’t about thinking I couldn’t handle it. Or that I wasn’t strong enough. Or trustworthy enough.”

You stop in your tracks, arms thrown wide in disbelief. Your voice shatters at the edges.

“But it feels like that, Aaron. It feels exactly like that.”

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t flinch.

You wish he would. 

After five months of this bullshit, these feelings, you want a fight. You want something you can actually hit or your words to visibly land.

“You could’ve told me. You should’ve told me. I wouldn’t have made it harder. I wouldn’t have begged you to stay.” 

You pause. Try again. Softer now.

“You should’ve told me.”

The silence swells around you—bloated with everything you didn’t get to say back then. 

You pause, mid-step, struck by a new vein of fury that runs cold down your back.

“You did hint.” It spills out fast. The realization tastes like rust. 

“That’s the worst part. You even hinted at me and I chose not to—ugh!” You throw your arms down, helpless, disgusted with yourself and frustrated by your endless patience for him. 

“There were moments,” you say. “Hypotheticals. Comments. Pauses in conversation.”

You pace faster, like maybe the speed will keep your skin from peeling off under the heat of it.

“And I just—I let it go. I let you do it.”

You press the heel of your hand to your forehead. You feel hot all over.

“Because I trusted you. I trusted that if you had something to share, you would. I didn’t push. I didn’t pry. I gave you space.”

You finally stop, breathing shallow. And something inside you… shifts. The anger doesn’t leave, but it leans into exhaustion, into that bone-deep ache of loving someone who keeps making the same goddamn mistake—of shutting you out in the name of protecting you.

“And maybe I should’ve asked,” you admit, quieter now. “But I just didn’t want to be another person in your life trying to make you talk before you were ready.”

A bitter laugh cracks from your throat. It feels dangerous.

“Everyone looked at me like I was supposed to know something.” Your jaw tightens. Your eyes sting. “Because I was supposed to know something.”

You look down. Away from him. “Because we tell each other everything.”

Your voice breaks.

“I thought.”

Your hands tighten on your arms and you feel it again—that awful wave of anger trying to cauterize the wound underneath. 

"We spent months without you, Aaron. Months." The words burn on the way out, your throat tight. "You missed out on so much, and I was so alone, and it was so hard, and I—we—"

You stop. Swallow against the heat in your throat.

He’s watching you, taking the hit, letting it land. He’ll take what you throw at him without argument. You’re sure he hates himself right now more than you ever could. 

And you hate him for that, too. His self-loathing has been so tiresome the last couple of days. If you were speaking to him, you would have told him to cut it out. 

"I missed you." It slips out—like a confession, like something ripped from your chest before you could stop it. Tears slide, numerous and unbidden, onto your cheeks. Your throat closes up again. You swallow it.

Aaron’s breath catches. So does yours. You continue against your better judgement. 

"I missed you so much I couldn’t breathe."

And that does it. That’s what breaks whatever threadbare restraint is left between you.

Aaron moves. You move. You’re not sure who moves first. 

Your hands are in his hair. His mouth is on yours.

He gasps as he pulls you in, his hands vice-tight on your hips. You’ll have bruises later and the thought only spurs you on. The kiss is raw, brutal - you nip at his lower lip, your tongue sliding over his with a hunger, a desire, you hardly recognize in yourself. 

Your tears mingle with the taste of him - bitter coffee, spearmint toothpaste, something achingly familiar. His beard scrapes against your skin as he moves from your mouth, dragging rough kisses down your neck, giving you space to breathe  even as he steals your breath from you. The beard is new, unexpected. Not unwelcome.

You wish this was different. Something sweet, something slow, something you could savor. 

You’ve certainly worked for it, waited for it, long enough.  

When has anything with him been typical? When has anything ever been the way you wanted? 

Then, 

God, he’s good at this. 

Bastard. 

When his mouth finds your pulse point, a shudder rips through you. Your fingers tangle in his hair, finding the root and yanking once. Hard. Aaron groans, unrestrained. The sound shoots heat straight through you, and you bring his mouth back to yours. 

He holds you like he’s memorizing you, like he doesn’t trust you won’t disappear if he lets go. He’s everywhere. 

“I can’t stand you,” you whisper against his mouth. The lie falls flat, landing like a surrender.

(You don’t mean it.)

Aaron huffs, breath warm against your lips. It's almost a laugh, almost a challenge. His answer is whispered between rough, bruising kisses. You can feel his smile. “I know.” 

(He knows,)

You let him go and shove. Surprised, he stumbles back, landing hard against the couch with a sharp exhale. His chest heaves, pupils blown, his hair a wreck from your fingers. He wets his bottom lip, his tongue peeking out. His gaze never leaves you. 

There’s a flintiness in Aaron’s eyes, watching you, maybe daring you. You whip your shirt off and drop it, straddling him as his hands rise to your ribs. 

“What are you doing?” He asks, his mouth at your collarbone, his voice knowing. 

“I want you,” you tell him, your voice still rough, almost a rasp. “I can barely look at you, I’m so mad. But I still want you.” You take an unsteady breath, offering him a rueful, watery half-laugh. “I always have.” 

Something cracks as you voice it. A sob catches in your throat as more tears fall and his hands are already there, cradling your face, steady and warm. You hate him, you love him, and you lean into his touch. 

Your anger has been a firestorm since his return—soundly burning him every time he got too close. But this? This is worse. This isn’t your righteous rage; this is grief, stripped down to the bolts. And yet, even now, you lean into him. Even now, you let him touch you.

The anger, the hurt, the raw wounds weeping and sore–all of it flickers for the briefest of moments as he catches your tears, his thumbs soothing your cheeks. Your breath shudders out of you as your eyelids flutter closed. He draws you closer, his nose sliding against yours. 

“While I’d much rather we do this when you aren’t considering homicide…” he murmurs, his lips brushing yours as he speaks. 

You manage a breathless, soundless laugh before he’s kissing you again. It’s deep, consuming, and you’re dizzy with it. 

“…I’ve wanted you so badly.” He drags his hands down your back, pressing you flush against him. “Years,” he breathes between kisses, “years, years, and years of wanting you.”

Your arms slide behind him, hands splayed across his shoulders. He straightens, drawing his hands up your back, studying you with a soft, devoted tenderness that makes you self-conscious. You tuck your face into his neck, pressing into him as much as you can. His hand passes up and down your spine, the firm pressure grounding you.  

You tip your head back after a minute or so, looking him in the eye again. Just in case he forgot (he didn’t.)—

“I’m not any less mad at you.” 

“I know.” He kisses the underside of your jaw, reverent and gentle. “Will you let me show you how sorry I am? For everything?” 

Your breath leaves you and the weight of it all crests over you–the years of pining, the months apart, the need, the love. His lips graze your pulse point, his breath warm, as he waits patiently. You give in, breathless. “Yes.” 

Holding you close, he stands and you link your ankles around his back. He never once lifts his lips from your skin as he carries you to the bedroom. Your fingers dig into his lean shoulders, feeling the shift of muscle beneath the skin. Carrying you across the apartment is effortless. 

You rest your cheek on his temple as he paints kisses all over your neck and collarbone. You can feel the apology in them. With a little bit of a start, you realize you can feel the love in them, too. Something in you softens, knowing innately he has been right there with you, by your side, with you for years. 

He reaches the bedroom, and lays you on his gray linen duvet cover without acknowledging anything in the room that isn’t you. It must be good to be home, in some ways. 

Idly, you wonder if anything’s really changed. Other than everything, of course. 

Crawling over your body, he finds your lips again and kisses you soundly, holding himself up with a knee between your thighs. Somewhere in there, you remember why you’re here, and you flip him onto his back, straddling him once more. He looks up at you, and it’s clear he’s still completely at your mercy. 

You roll your hips over him, and he holds onto control. His jaw flexes, his hands tighten on your hips. The little smile on your face is only a little playfully malicious when you do it again. 

You’re rewarded handsomely–his mouth falls open while his eyes snap shut. It’s an intoxicating sight. The bulge in his cargos cants up between the apex of your legs and you whimper a little, pulling at the hem of his shirt, feeling the warmth of his skin underneath.

He sits up, making sure you keep your balance. When he’s sure you’re not going to fall, he lets you remove his shirt, your mouth following your hands up his body. He tenses, his arms coming back down almost immediately—to cover, to hide. 

If you don’t get to hide, neither does he. 

You take his hands, almost a rebuke, and guide them to your back as you continue your work. 

He’s thinner than when he left, the scars on his torso more prominent. You kiss each one, feeling the way he tenses under your lips. You wonder if he’s let anyone see them since they healed. There’s a hesitation in his breath, a restraint you recognize all too well. A tentative, shaking hand meets the back of your neck, his thumb passing back and forth under your ear—a tether.

You take your time, pressing a lingering kiss to the biggest, ugliest one under his collarbone, a wound that feels almost familiar, with all the time you spent dressing it two years ago. Your lips trace the ridges and jagged edges. An affirmation, a promise. 

I see you. I know you. I know what’s here, what you hide. 

I know what I’m getting into. 

When you straighten, framing his face in your hands, his breath catches. Your lips brush once, twice—soft, searching—before heat flares between you. He exhales into your mouth as the kiss deepens, shifting from tender to desperate, all tongue and teeth and frustration.

His hand finds the clasp of your bra, and they pause. You drop your lips to his neck and nod. “Please.” 

That one syllable hits him hard, holding him in place for the briefest of moments. He sucks in a breath and achingly, tenderly, laces his free hand with yours, bringing your joined hands to his lips. You smile into his skin. 

With one hand, he releases the band and brings his hands around to your ribs, brushing the underside of your breasts. You shiver. 

Damn, he’s good. 

You slip the straps off your shoulders, and you resist the urge to cover yourself. His eyes roam over you, seeing you for the first time and committing all of you to memory. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he says. 

You fall into him, and he lets his lips trace your jaw, your cheek, before pressing them to yours. You share breath as he speaks again. “I missed you”

“I missed you, too.” 

Your admission lights the hot, ugly thing in your chest to a flicker again. You lean back, and look at him for a second, narrowing your eyes. His eyes widen as you push him down with two fingers to his chest. He resists for a moment and you feel the weight and strength of him before he relaxes. 

You let him look up at you for a moment. Then– “I missed you more when I didn’t know you lied to me.”

His face falls and he opens his mouth as if to speak. You press three fingers to his lips and shake your head. He presses his lips together, holding back whatever apology or explanation was forming.

You hope he can see what you can’t say.

I don’t want to hear it. 

I love you more than I could ever hate you. I love you more than I could ever be angry with you. 

You crawl down his body, reaching the waistband of his cargos. His breath catches in his chest as you slowly unbutton them and drag the zipper down, tooth by tooth. His fingers grip the duvet, ironing wrinkles into the linen. 

You press your lips right below his belly button, and when his abs jump under your touch, it makes you smile. 

With his legs still hanging off the end of the bed, you both manage to make quick work of his pants after you’re quite finished being a bully. The outline of his cock in his boxer briefs makes heat shoot straight through you, pooling low and heavy. You straddle him again, settling your aching center right over him.

His breath shudders out, jaw tight. “Fuck.”

The curse is foreign in his voice like this, and from the way your body pulses, he knows exactly what it does to you. His hands find your hips, grounding, but you drag yourself against him anyway, chasing friction that neither of you can really use.

He’s done letting you play. Before you can blink, you’re on your back, his mouth crashing into yours. You fist your hands in his hair, and the deep groan he lets out against your lips might be the hottest thing you’ve ever heard.

How is everything a turn on?

Nothing new. It’s been this way for four years.

It’s about goddamn time.

“Tell me,” he pants into your kisses. “Tell me what you want.”

“Just you. All of you.”

His lips trail lower, down your neck, between your breasts, over your stomach. When he reaches the edge of your pants, he flicks his gaze up, asking permission. You give it—of course you do—and he hooks his fingers at your hips, dragging everything down at an excruciating pace.

You’re bare before him, and his eyes darken as he takes you in. He wets his lips and lets out a low, appreciative hum as his lower lip catches between his teeth. The sound alone makes you shiver.

He kisses the inside of your knee, then your thigh, his beard scraping along your sensitive skin, sending sharp sparks of pleasure through you. His hair is soft between your fingers, five months of unregulated growth showing off the glossy, thick texture. 

He flicks his gaze up again, holding your eyes as he presses a slow, deliberate kiss to your clit. Your head drops back, and that’s all the invitation he needs. 

He takes his time, learning, tracing every pattern that makes your thighs tremble. When his tongue dips lower, tasting you, savoring you, you gasp—he groans against you, just as wrecked by this as you are.

He pushes a finger into you, knuckle-deep, and you keen, your back arching. Another, then another, stretching you, opening you, preparing you.

How is he so good?

Your fingers tighten in his hair, and he groans again, sending vibrations through you. It’s in that moment you decide you never want the beard to go away. The friction is incredible, swallowing the entire apex of your thighs in sensation. 

“Fuck, Aaron.” 

With a pleased hum, he directs all his attention to where you want him the most, and you can hear the wet sound of his tongue and your own arousal as he works at you. It’s obscene and sends another rush of heat through you. At this point, you’re surprised you're not on fire. He shakes his head, his lips still wrapped around your clit, and your thighs clamp around his head. There will certainly be burns between your legs tomorrow - the beard all to blame and all to thank. 

“Aaron.” This time, his name is a demand, and he stops right away, lifting his head and meeting your eyes. The concern disappears as he hears you say, “Come here.” 

His eyes light up, and he does away with his final article of clothing. You can’t help the raise of your eyebrows as you catch sight of him for the first time. Seeing the impression of it is one thing, but now that he’s kneeling between your thighs with his cock painfully hard and weeping precum, you realize just how impressive he is. 

He can’t hide the smug glint in his eyes as you take him in. You narrow your eyes, and you remember just how angry you are at him. The image before you—that of his perfect cock, the way he looks so undone with his lips and chin covered in you—beside the point. 

Launching yourself forward, he catches you and captures your lips. 

He’s tenderly rough with you, his fingers digging into your hips, slotting into the already-developing bruises. He hauls you to the top of the bed, hiking your knee up over his hip as he reaches for his bedside drawer. 

“I’m covered.” 

His chin dips for a second. “Me too.” 

You look at each other for a minute before a smile tugs at one side of your mouth. Aaron drops back down to you and you can taste yourself on his tongue. He kisses you with abandon. Little noises leave his throat and chest as he devours you - they’re adorable, but your mind is on something else. 

Reaching between your bodies, you wrap your fingers around his cock. His head tips back, eyes rolling for a split second, the ghost of a curse on his lips, before he drags them back to you. 

A smile flits across your mouth. Gorgeous. 

Let’s see that again before we’re done here.

You release him only to slip two fingers inside yourself, coating them before wrapping your hand around him again, stroking slowly

His hips rut into your palm, desperate for more, and he kisses you with a small, needy whine. The sound sends a sharp pulse of pleasure straight through you.

You guide him to your center, and he pushes in just enough to steal your breath. Your forehead falls against his as he rocks into you, each thrust giving you more, stretching you, filling you.

He’s big, and he knows it. The painstaking slowness isn’t just to savor the moment—it’s to keep from hurting you. The stretch is incredible, burning just the right amount as your body adjusts to accommodate him.

A slow smile tugs at his lips, and you tug his hair to force his gaze back to yours. "What?"

Your question is punctuated by a gasp as he pushes in a little farther than he meant to, sending a wave of heat all the way to your chest.

“It’s just—” He exhales again through his teeth, brows pulling together. “You feel even better than I ever imagined.” 

He imagined this? 

Well...you did. 

Yeah, but that’s different. 

Is it?

You don’t answer. You just kiss him, swallowing every sound he makes as he finally, fully seats himself inside you. His breath catches, and he stills, his hands trembling where they hold you. Your walls clench around him instinctively, the delicious pressure scrambling your thoughts.

“Do you want to show me?” You ask.

His eyes flicker open, hazy and a little dazed. “What?”

"Do you want to be good and show me how sorry you are?" Your tone is playful, but the undercurrent of truth is unmistakable.

His response is immediate. He pulls almost all the way out and thrusts back in—slow, steady, reverent. His lips press to your cheek, his fingers brushing your hairline in a touch so gentle, so sweet, it’s almost chaste. Because the rest of him is anything but—devouring you, ruining you, leaving no part of you untouched.

When this started, you expected something more like the hate-fucking you see in movies—fast, hard, fueled by frustration. But this? This is an apology. A confession. A surrender. 

A demonstration of just how much he loves you.

Aaron never stops surprising you.

Time to surprise him.

You shift your hips and he takes the cue, rolling onto his back, keeping you connected. Your head tips back as you sink onto him again, feeling impossibly full. 

His hands fall to your hips for support as you grind down on him. You brace yourself against his shoulders for better leverage, and you’re not disappointed.

The way he looks beneath you—breathing hard, eyes closed, mouth open, neck exposed—is devastating.

You commit it to memory.

Leaning back, you pull his hands from your hips, lacing your fingers together and pinning them over his head. He resists at first—a reflex—then melts, his fingers wrapping tight around your palms

You don’t stop moving. With every roll of your hips, your clit drags against his abdomen, sending sharp, aching pulses of pleasure through you.

His eyes snap to yours with a kind of wildness. You kiss him, then bite his lower lip. His hips jerk beneath you, a groan breaking free.

You can’t quite shake the anger—not entirely—even with pleasure unraveling you at the seams.

His cock slips in and out of you easily as you ride him, circling and grinding harder. He meets you stroke for stroke, thrusting up into you, his breath ragged.

Though he summed it up nicely before, you know now—he’s even better than any dream could conjure. The sheer reality of it is breathtaking. There’s none of that misty intangibility here.

And he’s somehow bigger than you thought.

Every sight, every sound, every touch is in sharp relief.

Then he brings his thighs up behind your ass, gaining even more leverage, and the shift knocks you forward against his chest. With your arms still stretched above his head and his infuriatingly tall frame, you can’t reach his mouth anymore. You need his lips, his breath.

Aaron senses it, and in one swift motion, he breaks your grip like it’s nothing, crushes you to him, and rolls back over, covering you with his body.

You don’t mind in the slightest, especially when his lips slot against yours. 

Your nails rake lines into his back, and he grits his teeth into the kiss, his dark, pleased laugh almost a growl. His entire body is coiled tight, a rubber band on the verge of snapping, but even so, he slows his pace. You’re already impressed by his strength, his stamina—but his control? That’s something else entirely.

I knew all those jokes about being old were just for show.

No, you didn’t.

Yes, I did.

…

Okay, maybe not, but you hoped—and you were right. 

Ha.

He ducks his head into your shoulder, whispering something you can’t quite make out against your skin. You find your place in this new rhythm, wrapping your legs around him, taking him impossibly deeper. One hand stays tangled in his hair, the other grips his shoulder, feeling the way his muscles flex and pull beneath your touch.

The way he fills you is perfect. He knows exactly how to reach that place—the one that makes your back arch and your toes curl. He kisses up the column of your throat as you throw your head back, finding a spot under your jaw that makes you gasp. 

Of course he knows. 

He’s always known you—why would this be any different?

“I missed you,” he murmurs against your skin. “I missed you so much and I’m so sorry.”

Tears prick at your eyes. “I know. I know, honey. I know”

His tongue soothes the marks he’s sucked into your skin, his movements falling into time with his thrusts, and every coherent thought slips from your mind as you press closer, needing more, more, more.

"Touch yourself," he rasps. "Show me.”

Holy shit.

A breath shudders from your lips as you drop your hand from his shoulder. He shifts, slipping an arm beneath your lower back, lifting you. In a surprising and deft maneuver, he pulls a pillow beneath your hips, and the new angle sends you crying out.

There’s also enough space, you realize, for your fingers to frantically work at your clit. He presses his forehead to yours again, feeling your walls flutter around him as you get closer and closer. 

His forehead presses to yours again, sticky with a light sheen of sweat, and his breathing stutters as he feels the way your walls flutter around him, the way your body tightens, straining toward the edge.

"I’m close, Aaron."

He groans. "I can feel it. Where do you want me?"

"Don’t leave me. Inside me, please. I need all of you." The plea is desperate, breathless.

His hips snap into yours in response, and you yank at his hair with your free hand. "Are you—?" The question catches in your throat, breaking apart on a gasp. You’re not sure you can hold off much longer.

He nods, his nose brushing yours. "Let go for me, baby. Let me have all of you—let me see you. Put my imagination to shame.”

You fall over the edge, mouth open in a silent scream.

He keeps thrusting, even as his rhythm falters, chasing his own release while you tremble beneath him. Every stroke sends aftershocks through your limbs, your nerves alight and overstimulated.

The pleasure is all-consuming, overwhelming every other sense. Your body clenches around him, pulling him deeper, and he groans—a wrecked, desperate sound that makes the pleasure crest again.

For a moment, you swear the world goes dark.

Every nerve sings.

Aaron’s large hand slides between your shoulder blades, pulling you flush against his chest as he buries himself deep with a shuddering groan. His release crashes over him, and the way his body seizes against yours sends another pulse of pleasure through you. Your cry is barely a word, something that might be his name, but all you can do is hold onto him as you fall apart again.

He captures your lips with soft and languid kisses as you both come down, like he’s trying to pull you back down from the stars, skin tingling and bodies completely spent. Your legs shake where they’re wrapped around him, the shuddering aftershocks rolling through you. 

When he finally slips out of you, you whimper at the loss, your body too raw, too sensitive. He murmurs something soothing, pressing one last kiss to your temple before disappearing into the bathroom.

From where you lie, sprawled and spent against the sheets, you can see him through the open door, catching glimpses of him in the warm glow of the master bath nightlight. He moves with purpose, but every few seconds, his head tilts back toward you—checking, lingering. Like he can’t quite make himself look away. Like he needs the reassurance that you’re still there, still his.

It makes something deep in your chest tighten, heat curling low in your stomach. Even now, wrecked and breathless, his first thought is you.

When he returns, there’s a reverence to the way he cleans you up. He’s as gentle as you knew he would be, but somehow, it still surprises you. Every careful stroke, every slow pass of the warm cloth over your skin, feels like an unspoken apology, a quiet worship. Even the sting of water against the beard-burn on your thighs is soothed by the press of his lips, the warm sweep of his fingers.

And then, he stops.

Washcloth in hand, he lingers at the edge of the bed, eyes tracing the length of your body like he’s trying to commit every inch of you to memory. There’s something raw in his gaze, something reverent and wanting, and if you weren’t so completely spent, you’d pull him back down and never let him leave.

You can see the moment he forces himself to move, blinking like he’s breaking from a trance. He swallows, exhales through his nose, and finally turns. His hands flex at his sides before he forces himself to move, tossing the cloth into the hamper like it takes effort to let go of this moment.

Your heavy-lidded gaze follows him as he pads across the room. He tugs his boxer briefs back on, the lean muscle of his back shifting as he moves, before making his way back to you. The bed dips under his weight as he stretches out beside you on his back, close but not quite touching yet—like he’s giving you the chance to breathe before pulling you back into him.

When he finally does settle, sweaty and still a little breathless, with his hands resting lightly on his stomach, you tuck your arm under your head and turn to face him. Your body is drained, limbs heavy with exhaustion, but you know he has more to say—more to share with you.

It’s not strange, either, knowing that you won’t talk about the mind-blowing sex you just had until the rest of your business is laid to rest. Much like everything else in your friendship, all things get the attention they’re due in their time—and no earlier.

He stares at the ceiling as he speaks. “There was only one way to keep Emily safe, and it was for all of us to believe she was dead.”

You wait as he pauses. This isn’t necessarily what you thought he’d start with, but it’s clear this weighs the heaviest.

“If JJ and I had told the truth”—he glances at you, his hand twitching like he wants to reach for you but stops himself. That hesitation breaks your heart, just a little. Even now, he second-guesses touching you. “Even you or Morgan, there was a great chance she could have been killed before she completed her mission.”

You nod wordlessly.

“I know that doesn’t make it any easier. I hated every second.” He rolls to his side, pressing his forehead to yours. “I hated knowing I had the power to make your hurt go away, but couldn’t use it. I’m so sorry for lying to you.” His voice breaks. “I’m sorry for leaving. I’m so sorry.” 

His eyes close, like he’s bracing for something, but you don’t let him. You wrap yourself around him, pulling him in.

You know there was no way to protect Emily without this lie. It makes all the sense in the world. You can’t be angry at him for that—for saving her like he did. If anything, you admire it. The very thought of lying to him like that is a Herculean feat. You’re not sure how he managed…

But then it hits you.

Pakistan.

That’s how he managed it.

Your breath catches, and you go still against him.

Right.

The information about Emily is a revelation—insight to why he left. You can guess at the true reasons, but you’ll need to ask him about it, to hear him say it out loud. 

The realization sits heavy in your chest, cold at the edges. He was already capable of this. Already practiced in keeping the pain to himself, letting the rest of you ache without him. 

A few more tears escape, but Aaron can’t see them with your head tucked under his chin. You’re sure he does, however, feel them against the bare skin of his chest. His grip on you tightens, his arms banding around you like he can hold everything together if he just keeps you close enough.

Then, a shuddering breath.

His tears fall too, landing on the pillow beneath his head.

Your breath catches, and for a second, you forget how to move.

Aaron cries, silent and still. 

You’ve seen his eyes mist over, his voice go raw, the weight of unshed grief settle into his features like a permanent shadow. But you’ve almost never seen him truly weep. Not like this. Not where he can’t stop it, can’t school it away behind quiet resolve. 

His body hardly quakes with it. His shoulders do not shake. His breath is silent. The only indication is a tremble in his ribs, the tightness of his jaw.

You wonder how many times he’s wept like this. And under what circumstances.

You don’t say anything. There’s nothing you could say.

Instead, you just…touch him.

You wrap your hand, trapped a little under your own weight, around his bicep where his arm wraps around you. Your other hand smooths down his side, deliberate and soothing. You don’t hold him tighter, don’t clutch at him like he might break apart, even though that’s what you feel like doing.

Instead, you let him feel.

You stay exactly where you are, letting his chest rise and fall beneath you, feeling his body slowly ease under your touch, until his breathing evens out and the tension starts to bleed from his muscles.

Eventually, his arms slacken just enough to let you shift, but you don’t pull away. You press a silent kiss to the base of his throat, lingering there, lips barely touching his skin.

I’m here.I see you.

And when he exhales, another slow, measured breath, it feels like something between you has shifted. Like some unseen weight has finally been set down.

You don’t know when you fall asleep. Only that you do.

+++ september 22nd, 2011

You wake with a start in the middle of the night, disoriented and confused. Sleeping in the office has done you no favors. You sit up, trying to remember, in your exhaustion, where exactly you fell asleep. 

It’s dark, familiar in this room. You look, immediately and innately knowing where the clock is (next to the closet, on the wall). 

2:47am

So you’re not at the office. That’s good. You went home - 

You went home to Aaron’s. 

…Oh my god. 

A giddy kind of hysteria bubbles out of your mouth and you crush your palm to your face because…

…because Aaron is asleep beside you. Practically naked. Peaceful.

Oh my god. 

It happened. It actually happened. The unreality of it all almost overwhelms you. A spike of heat lances through your belly when you remember, well. Everything. 

Something that feels a lot like anxiety settles along your diaphragm. You press your hand to your sternum, trying to massage it away. 

Belatedly, you realize it’s been so long since you were excited about anything that the sensation is almost entirely foreign to you. 

You take a deep breath, trying to regulate around the delicious soreness between your legs and the flashbulbs of the previous evening. You look down. 

That’s a mistake. 

Aaron sleeps. He sleeps on his side, his arm under his pillow, his hand loosely curled by his face. His hair flops over his eyes. The curve of his bare shoulder is visible, almost silver in the velvet blue light from the window, the covers pushed down to his waist. His breath is slow and even, the near-permanent lines between his brows absent. 

This does nothing to help your nervous system. 

You carefully get out of bed, navigating easily in the dark. Usually, you sleep on Aaron’s side of the bed, but—

You can’t. Because Aaron is there. Because you had sex. 

!!!!

You snag a pair of sweatpants from your go bag throw on his shirt, on the floor by the foot of the bed. It smells like him. And sand. And sweat. And Kevlar. And—

Oh my god. 

You pad to the door, turning the handle completely before you pull it open, leaving it cracked behind you. 

Aaron must be out cold, because he doesn’t stir. He’s usually such a light sleeper…

You cover your face with your hands. 

Oh my god. 

You grab your own shirt from where it landed on the armchair, shaking it out and laying it over your arm with far more precision than is called for. You continue to the kitchen, where you grab your cup off the drying rack, filling it with the cold, filtered water from the fridge. 

You slug it down with the desperation of a desert pilgrim finding an oasis, gritting your teeth through a brain freeze as you set the cup back down on the counter. That helps. 

The counter, as it happens, that you’re now leaning on with both hands, staring—unseeing—into the fake granite. Your hands are steady (shocking, really), considering your brain is currently leaking out of your ears.

I had sex with Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Benjamin Hotchner, JD, MA, NTOA, CASIP, etcetera. 

…I had sex with Aaron. My Aaron! That one!

Oh my god. 

It’s a lot to process. 

+++

When you return to the bedroom, Aaron hasn’t moved. 

It makes it all that much easier to strip back down to nothing and slide back into bed, doing your best not to disturb the covers too much.

He’s so warm.

It was something you noticed when you were (“platonically,” you might add) spending the night in the spring. He’s like a damn generator.

The heat is on in the apartment, but that doesn’t make your feet any warmer. You accidentally tap Aaron, making ice-cold contact with his shin. You freeze. 

“C’mere,” he mumbles, not moving. 

You tuck in, your back to him, and his arm shoots out, wrapping around you and pulling you close, tucking his face into the back of your neck. His thighs trap your feet between them and he startles at the temperature difference. 

“Jesus. Did you jump in the fucking river?” His voice is rough, coated in sleep. 

”Sorry,” you whisper. You move to pull your feet away, to spare him if you can, but he holds fast. 

“Nope,” he grumbles. He continues, by way of explanation, “Over faster.”

The warmth spreads between you, slow and certain.

It’s too easy. The way he tucks you close, the way he doesn’t hesitate, the way he was always going to hold you like this, no matter what. Like he’s been waiting for this, all along.

Oh my god.

+++

When you wake up in the morning, you’re still wrapped in his arms. He’s awake, tracing lazy patterns on your hip with his fingers. Your bodies are flush—legs tangled, his chest warm against your back, your hips slotted together.  

“Good morning,” he says. 

He loosens his hold on you just enough for you to turn in his arms, and you tuck yourself back into him, throwing a leg over his hip to maintain proximity. It elicits a small laugh from him. 

“Good morning,” you echo. 

“Breakfast?”

Your brow pulls. “Don’t we have to go in? What time is it?”

He sighs, long-suffering and heavy. “Check your email.” 

Uh oh. 

You grope for your phone on the nightstand, fingers closing around it where it sits charging.

When on Earth did he do that?

The man is a magician. 

Scrolling through your email, you find the one he’s talking about, sent at 6am sharp this morning. 

TO: Investigations and Operations, East - Behavioral Analysis Unit (MCRT) <[email protected]> CC: Robert Mueller, Director <[email protected]> FROM: Erin Strauss <[email protected]> SUBJECT: NOTICE: Suspension - Effective Immediately Pending Senate Investigation

You tip your head back against the pillow with a groan before even reading it through—the subject line (albeit obnoxiously long) tells you everything you need to know.

“Goddamn it.” You turn back to Aaron, scowling. “Can’t we go at least a few months without some kind of forced unpaid vacation?”

He huffs a laugh, shrugging. “Guess not.” Then, with a pointed look, “On the bright side… breakfast?”

+++

You twist back and forth on the barstool, your chin in your hands. You’re wearing one of his older concert shirts from the drawer (it’s got Paul McCartney & Wings on it) and a pair of your pajama pants from ‘your’ shelf in Jack’s room, The familiar groove of Hey Nineteen drifts from the speaker on the counter, threading through the quiet of the kitchen. Aaron moves in easy rhythm with it, knife scraping against the cutting board, toast popping up in the toaster like clockwork.

For the first time in days, he doesn’t look like a man standing in the wreckage of something. He just looks like Aaron, making breakfast, listening to music he’d probably put on whether you were here or not.

He moves with an ease that still surprises you sometimes—focused but unhurried, plating fruit with a precision that makes you smile. You sip your coffee and watch. He’s comfortable, more than he has been in days, falling into the rhythm of home like he never left. You’re not sure if it’s for your benefit or his own. Maybe both.

Aaron places a plate in front of you, and rounds the island with his own. You thank him and dig in. Apparently, your one-sided shouting match took it out of you last night in addition to certain... activities that required significant energy. 

When you’re done, he turns toward you and takes your hands in his. He clears his throat. “This may be a bad time, but do you want to talk about us at all?”

You freeze. Your breath catches in your chest, your fingers flex against his before you pull back, resting your hands in your lap. The question lingers between you, heavy, expectant.

“Can we just...be? Right now?” You shift in your seat, picking at the hem of your shirt. “I just— I don’t want to rush into anything. I want to make sure we can—” you sigh, searching for the words, “settle back into normal first. Before we say anything to the others. Before we… put a name on this.”

Aaron nods once, slow. There’s no hurt in his expression, just a quiet understanding that makes your stomach twist. You know that look—it’s disappointment, but not in you. In himself.

“I understand.” His voice is steady, but his fingers tighten slightly in his lap.

You swallow. “I just… I just need time.”

“Okay.” He gently tugs you forward, guiding you between his knees. His hands settle on your waist, light, like he’s giving you space to pull away.  “Take all the time you need. I’ll be here. And I swear, I’ll spend the rest of my life making this up to you if I have to.”

You huff out something like a laugh, the weight in your chest easing. He said something similar to Haley, once. “I know.”

Aaron lifts your hand to his lips, brushing a slow kiss over your knuckles. His breath is warm against your skin, and when he finally speaks again, his voice is quieter.

“This may go without saying, but…” He hesitates, meets your eyes. “I love you.”

For a second, you don’t move. You just look at him. 

Something in you unknots. The tension, the uncertainty—it’s all still there, but beneath it is something deeper. Something solid.

It’s not a grand declaration. There’s no swelling music, no precipitous pause. He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, like it’s knowledge so deeply ingrained in him that it doesn’t need to be said. 

You know, because you feel the same way. 

Loving him has been a given, an action, a choice for so long it feels second nature. It’s not something you had to discover or come to terms with. It’s something you’ve lived. Something that’s woven into the way you move around him, the way you know which mug he reaches for first thing in the morning, the way you instinctively smooth a hand over Jack’s hair before he goes to bed, even when Aaron’s not there to see it.

Maybe this was always inevitable. Maybe it was always leading here.

You let out a breathless laugh, shaking your head. “I love you, too.” A pause, then you tip your head, offering him a crooked smile. With a little tip of your head, you concede, “I promise, no matter how much I hate you, I love you more.”

His lips twitch with the ghost of a smile. “That’s good to know.” 

You release his hands and wrap your arms around his neck, tucking your face into his shoulder. He holds you there, one hand broad and steady against your back, the other cradling the base of your skull. You close your eyes, pressing your face into his shoulder. His heartbeat is slow and even, anchoring you.

No matter what, he loves you.

He loves you.

+++

You end up going to the office before Jack gets home to pick up any random items you’ll need in the weeks of suspension to come. You don’t think too hard about it, grabbing your extra set of clothes from your go bag and a tube of concealer, jumping into Aaron’s car. You do, however, keep the shirt. 

Aaron hops up the stairs to his office while you gather your necessaries from your desk in the bullpen. It feels silly now, to have taken all your things from his office, only to take it back home anyway. 

You feel someone approach from behind you, and you smile when you find Emily. 

“Hey,” she says, as if she’s not sure how she’ll be received. 

For a moment, you just look at her. It’s like stepping into a memory—one where she never died, where Aaron never left. Like if you just blink hard enough, you’ll open your eyes and find yourself back in the middle of last summer, when everything was normal. 

But she’s here, for real. Solid. And waiting for you to say something. 

You take a breath and gather her into your arms. She melts into you. You can hear her sigh of relief. 

When she pulls back, she studies your face, her sharp eyes narrowing. “Where were you last night?”

Your brows pull together. “What?”

Her squint deepens. “You don’t smell like yourself. You smell like…” She pauses, before her face lights up with realization. “Sex…and a handsome man. Who is he? Do I know him?” She raises a brow, playful, teasing, and expectant.

You let out a groan. “I worked out this morning and didn’t shower - I didn’t think I’d run into anyone today, seeing as we’re all suspended.” You reach around her for a stack of files, tucking them in your arms. 

She refuses to give it up, playing your shadow as you go to the kitchen for your favorite mug. “Oh, nuh uh. You’re not about to use my own excuse on me.” 

Shit. That is her excuse, isn’t it?

“Emily, I’m not seeing anyone.” And it’s the truth. Hotch almost walks out of his office, but lingers by the door. He’s already overheard a little bit of Emily’s interrogation and figures it would be far too entertaining to interrupt. Already suppressing a smile, he settles in for the show. 

“Oh, please! You totally got laid last night. Who is he?” She’s practically chasing you around the bullpen at this point as you fabricate tasks to keep moving. “You know I’ll find out.” 

“Emily -”

“Wait, who got some last night?” Penelope pokes her head around the corner as she passes, carrying a box of comfy-cozies from her dungeon. 

This is hell. This is what hell is. Nothing could be worse.

You look to the ceiling. Maybe if you wish hard enough, you’ll be smote on the spot.

Emily jerks her thumb at you, and Penelope’s eyes widen. She squeals, and you shush them both. “You’re joking. With who?”

“Would either of you at least attempt to keep your voices down?” You try to sidestep them, but your best friends block your path like sentries at a fortress gate. “I am not seeing anyone,” you insist.

“Oh yeah? Then why do you reek of sex?” Emily steps closer, eyes narrowing further. “Wait—hold on. That is not your shirt.” Her gaze drops to your collar, and before you can stop her, she’s reaching over and pulling it aside. “And you have a hickey! You sneaky little shit! I see that concealer all over your neck, too.” She pauses, pursing her lips. “Top with powder next time. It’ll matte it out.”

Hotch, lurking out of sight beside the doorway, covers his mouth with his fingers to hide his smile. Emily really can be outrageous, but you haven’t lied yet.  

You roll your shoulder, tugging your collar back into place. “That’s ridiculous.”

Deny, deny, deny. 

“You do!” Emily barks out a laugh. “Come on. I’ve been dead for ten months. The least you can do is tell me who you’ve been fucking since then.”

You tut at her. “Don’t be crass. And it’s been seven months, not ten.”

“Oh, please. You’ve heard worse.”

Your last name rings out across the bullpen, sharp and clear.

You sigh, both thanking and cursing Hotch for leaving you out to dry and coming to your rescue in the same breath. With one last glare at Emily and Penelope, who look pleasantly surprised, you head up the stairs to his office, shutting the door behind you. You realize, somewhat belatedly, that you weren’t acknowledging Aaron at all as of yesterday afternoon. 

Oops. Anyway. 

“You’re an asshole.” 

His mouth twitches as he sits down. 

“Was that fun? Did you enjoy that?”

The amusement drops from his face instantly, though the effort it takes is noticeable. You can see the little creases by his eyes. If you weren’t so familiar with him, the shift might have been intimidating. But it’s hard to take him too seriously when he’s in jeans and a Van Halen t-shirt.

“Immensely,” he says, lowering his gaze to jot a note in a case file.

You fold your arms. “So, did you actually have something for me, or was that just a power move, sir?”

He looks at you under his brows and a spike of heat jolts down from your sternum as you get a flash, a memory, of his steady eye contact as he ate you out last night. 

Oof. 

He looks back down, his tone low and colored with amusement, but there’s no mistaking the weight behind it. “Don’t start something you can’t finish, darling.”

Your heart leaps into your throat. The look in his eyes, the beard, that voice… you find yourself way too warm. 

Duly noted. 

Aaron, of course, has already moved on. He plucks a folder from the desk, passing it to you without missing a beat. “When we get back, we’ll have to follow up with that coroner. His report is incomplete.”

You flip through the file before setting it down. “I’ll add it to the list. If we get our jobs back.”

He huffs a laugh down his nose. “We’ll get our jobs back. We always do.”

“Yeah, you, maybe.”

He stands, offering you some space in the box on his desk for your things. You throw your academic case files in there, and follow him, empty-handed to Strauss’s office. 

He knocks twice and waits for her permission before pushing the door open. “Ma’am?”

“Good morning, you two.” She rises, her hand extended palm-up. He pulls his credentials out of his pocket, and you follow suit, stacking them neatly in her hand. 

“Thank you.” She sighs. “We’ll be in touch regarding the Senate Affairs Committee hearing in the coming weeks. In the meantime, try to enjoy your time off. Get some rest.” 

Aaron nods. “Thank you, ma’am. I can make myself available to assist in anything you may need between now and then.” 

She dips her chin, and you’re dismissed. 

As you head back toward his office, you fight the instinct to create distance, to match the walls you’d put up when he first returned. But walking beside him feels normal. And for that, you’re grateful.

You drop the photos on his broken monitor in the box, taking the post-it with Emily’s plot location and crumpling it, tossing it lightly in the trash. 

“I tried not to disturb too much when I was up here,” you tell him, irrationally feeling a little like you’ve been caught. 

He watches the post-it land in the bin, his expression unreadable. “I don’t mind.” His gaze flicks to you, something quieter in it now. “It’s your office, too.”

You press your lips together, the words settling into you in a way you don’t quite have the capacity to unpack.

What’s mine is yours. 

You head down the stairs in companionable silence, Aaron carries the small box of your shared things, half a step behind you. 

Emily’s in the kitchen, emptying the coffee pot, and she calls over her shoulder without looking. “I am going to figure out who you’ve been sleeping with.” Her voice is all at once playful and accusatory. She glances over her shoulder.

“Oh my God, Hotch. I didn’t—” She freezes. Her gaze darts between you.

You hold steady. The exhaustion in your face makes it easy. You take Aaron’s elbow, steering him toward the door.

Emily, still standing frozen, watches you go.

On your way out, you flip her off.

+++

Once the car doors shut, the silence only lasts a second before you both lose it. The laughter shakes through you, leaning toward him over the console. 

For a moment, it feels like nothing ever changed. Like the last year was just a fever dream.

The thought sobers you. You swallow, your laughter tapering into silence, staring out through the windshield at nothing.

Aaron’s hand crosses the center console. You take it between both of yours.

“Hey.”

You turn to him. “Yeah?”

His thumb runs over the back of your knuckles. “All the time in the world, remember?” 

The corner of your mouth pulls, breathing it in. He means it. You lean over the console to kiss him. 

“Thank you.” 

He catches your chin between his fingers and kisses the corner of your mouth, soft and chaste.

+++

The first order of business when you arrive back at the apartment is a shower. You scrub yourself down twice—Emily made you jumpy in the extreme. 

Newly clean, You pull on the same well-worn concert shirt you had on before, and a pair of jeans before planting yourself on the couch. He emerges from the kitchen a moment later, passing you a cup of coffee before sinking onto the cushion beside you. The second he’s settled, you scoot into his side, tucking under his arm.

“So,” you say. 

He looks at you, brow raising slightly. 

“I don’t think it’s a good idea to change the routine we had before you left for Pakistan.”  

Read: I’m spending almost all of my free time with you and your perfect son.

He hums, taking a sip of his coffee. “I agree. It would be hard on Jack.” It’s a weak excuse.

You nod. “I’d miss you. And I already missed you, and I’m sick of it.” Your voice is small, and for a second, you’re almost embarrassed—but then he presses a kiss to your head.

“I’m sick of missing you, too.” He nuzzles into your temple, the warmth of his breath sending a shiver down your spine. “And I am not done with you yet.” His fingers ghost over your hip, tapping lightly over the marks he left there last night. They did, in fact, move from little red pressure marks to purple, perfect impressions of his fingers. You feel them before you fully register it, but the memory of their discovery is fresh, vivid. 

“Oh my god, you did.”

You shift, adjusting the hem of your borrowed shirt, pulling it aside to get a better look at the ones creeping up your ribs, ghosting over your thighs. Your fingers skim over them, light, then firmer, tracing the edges where pressure turned to something lasting. The color shifts slightly beneath your touch, the bruises warming under your fingertips.

“Holy shit.”

You glance up just in time to see Aaron behind you in the mirror, leaning in the bathroom doorway, arms crossed. Watching.

Heat rises to your face, but you don’t shrink from his gaze. If anything, you straighten, lifting your chin as you tug at the collar of your shirt, exposing the marks where his mouth had been.

He moves before you can say anything, stepping in behind you, his hands settling at your waist. Warm, steady. His lips brush against your throat, just under your jaw, his voice low against your skin.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, dragging it out, not sounding sorry at all.

Your breath catches, but you barely hesitate.

“Do not apologize.” Your voice is firm, authoritative. Something sparks in his gaze and you take a note for later. Then, slower, reflective, almost mumbled, “That’s so hot.”

You inhale sharply now, his fingers ghosting over the marks he left behind. His grip tightens, just slightly, and he leans in, letting his lips ghost over your jaw, over the curve of your cheek, murmuring low against your skin—

“I could spend all day admiring my work.”

“That’s convenient.” you say, your voice a little rough, a little teasing. “I’m not done with you, either. And I wouldn’t want all your hard work to go to waste.”

His coffee is forgotten.

He sets his mug down and tips your chin up with a finger. Hovering just a breath away from your lips, he whispers, “I love you.” Before you can respond, his mouth is on yours, slow and deliberate.

The sound of keys in the door breaks the moment. You barely have time to lean away before Aaron chases your lips again, stealing one last kiss before pulling back. He’s on his feet just as the door swings open.

“Dad!”

Jack barrels inside, his backpack slipping from his shoulders, his whole body launching into motion before the door even finishes closing. Aaron catches him, swinging him up into his arms. Jack clings to him instantly, wrapping his small arms tight around his father’s neck. The momentum fades, and they settle, simply holding each other.

You stand as Jessica steps inside, and she pulls you into a quick embrace.

“Hey,” she murmurs.

“Hey, Jess.”

Neither of you move, watching the father and son reunion.

Jack finally leans back enough to look at Aaron’s face, his little hands pressing against his father’s cheeks. His eyes go round.

“Your beard is scratchy.”

You bite back a laugh. Indeed it is, Jack.

Aaron chuckles, nuzzling into Jack’s cheek just to make him shriek. “Do you like it?”

Jack’s nose scrunches up immediately, and that’s answer enough. But the moment he registers you standing nearby, he gasps, eyes lighting up. He wriggles in Aaron’s arms, practically throwing himself into yours.

“Hey, bud.”

Jack tucks against you, warm and solid. Over his shoulder, he sends his dad a wary glance. “Dad’s beard makes him look funny.”

Suppressing a smile, you lean in conspiratorially. “He doesn’t really look like himself, does he?”

Jack shakes his head with a giggle while Aaron watches, clearly betrayed. 

You press a kiss to Jack’s head before setting him down. He immediately runs off to put his backpack away, and you take the opportunity to slip into the kitchen, collecting the empty coffee mugs and giving them a moment alone.

You sneak back into the master bedroom, stretching out against the headboard with your laptop. Suspension means no work to submit, but nobody said you can’t draft emails and consolidate the veritable mountain of work that will inevitably find you upon your return.

After about twenty minutes, the front door opens and closes, and Jack’s little feet patter past your door toward his bedroom. You barely glance up from your laptop before Aaron swings into the room, crossing to you in just a few strides.. 

He stretches out across the bed, reaching for you, cupping your face in his palm before pressing a soft kiss to your lips.

When he pulls back, your eyes are wide, something soft and full behind them.

Oh my god. 

His brow creases, searching. The corner of his mouth tips up. ”What?”

You hesitate for a moment. 

What is it?

You exhale. “I just—“ You card through the hair at his temple, over his ear. “I don’t usually get what I want.”

Something flickers across his face—understanding, maybe. He takes your hand, kisses your palm, then gently folds your fingers closed over the touch. It’s all very businesslike.

“Well,” he says, clearing his throat, “we’ll work on that.”

You try not to smile. You really do. He can’t think he’s too funny—it’ll go to his head.

He pauses, glancing toward the door. “We’ve got LEGOs in Jack’s room when you’re done here.”

You hum, your fingers trailing up the side of his head. “Oh, not to keep you, but while you’re here…” You brush your lips against his. “I’ll make you a deal.”

“Mm?” His mouth is still on yours.

You lean back slightly, appraising. “Shave the beard to appease your son, but keep the hair long.” Your hand drifts to the back of his head, fingers winding into the longer strands at his nape. You tug—sharp, deliberate.

His breath leaves him in a quiet huff. “What did I say about starting things you can’t finish?”

You grin. Instead of answering, you kiss him again, slow and filthy, practically all tongue. Then, with a pointed little shove, you push him away.

In your lightest, sweetest tone, “To not to?”

He rolls his eyes, standing to leave—but you don’t miss the way he adjusts himself in his jeans on the way out the door.

+++

By the end of the evening, an impressive collection of LEGO vehicles line Jack’s floor. You stretch your bare feet out in front of you, leaning against the bed frame, soaking in the easy rhythm of the moment. It’s familiar, effortless—like the last five months never happened.

A little earlier, Aaron conceded to an easy dinner of sandwiches and veggies in Jack’s bedroom. You figure he’ll be a pushover for another few days as he makes up for his long absence, if tonight is anything to go on. 

“Alright, bud. Time for bed.” Aaron stands and takes all the plates into the kitchen while you help Jack with the LEGOs. 

The finished pieces go on his bookshelf, of course, while the loose pieces go back in the bin that lives under his bed. It’s safe to say you have the lay of the land after nearly five months without Aaron. Jess needed a break just as much as the rest of you, and you were more than happy to take Jack alone for a weekend here or there, sleeping on the couch or (usually) in Aaron’s bed, or having a slumber party on the living room floor of your apartment. 

Aaron returns a few minutes later, wearing a soft white shirt and a pair of sweatpants. He lingers in the doorway, watching you tidy up with Jack. The way you are with him is easy. You toss a set of pj’s out of the drawer, and Jack catches them. 

“Get those on, little bug. Dad will be back in to read you a chapter of one of your books, okay?”

Jack snags your hand, tugging you down so you're eye-level. “Are you sleeping over?” His voice is quiet, careful, like the answer might not be yes.

“I think so, but I’m not sure.” You glance up at Aaron with a smile just for him. “I think we should ask Dad if that’s alright.” 

Jack turns promptly to face his father, leaning back into you. You hook your chin over his shoulder and wrap your arms around him. 

“Daddy, can we have a sleepover?” Jack’s request is polite in the extreme, and it pulls a smile from you. 

Aaron’s lips pull into a fond smile, unable to say no to two of his favorite pouty faces looking up at him. “Yeah, we can have a sleepover.” 

“Yes!” Jack breaks your grip and runs down the hall to his bathroom, where he will inevitably brush his teeth too fast and change into his pajamas. 

You stand, and cross to Aaron, who’s waiting for you with a place in his arms. “Sleepover?”

“Mhmm.” He presses a kiss to your temple and you lean into him. 

Jack comes running back down the hall and you slip out of Aaron’s arms and crouch, letting Jack’s tiny body knock into you full force. You pepper his cheeks in kisses before holding him to your chest, his head tucked under your chin. He wraps his legs around your waist and you haul him up as you stand, passing Aaron in the doorway. 

He scuttles under the covers and you tuck him in, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “I’ll see you in the morning, okay?”

“Okay. I love you.” 

You smile at him. “I love you, too.” With a final kiss to his forehead, you straighten and make your way to the master bedroom, getting plenty comfortable as you wait for Aaron to return. 

Aaron settles in at Jack’s side, propped against the headboard, feeling the quiet weight of home settle into his bones. The book in his hands is a new one. Another thing he missed. Another thing they finished without him.

Jack tucks into his side, and he starts to read. 

With both doors open, you can hear the low murmur of Aaron’s voice from down the hall. You curl up under the covers, letting your eyes close. A light flicks off in the hallway, and you hear Aaron tell Jack, “Since the grown-ups don’t have work in the morning, we’re all gonna sleep in.”

Yeah, sure.

For someone as big as he is, Aaron is surprisingly quiet. With your eyes closed, you only realize he’s back when the door clicks shut. The lights turn off, and he slips into bed beside you. You’re both quiet for a moment before you turn toward him. He can almost hear the wheels turning. 

“Aaron?” 

He reaches for you in the darkness, and you take his hand. “Yeah?”

You hesitate, then sigh, almost resigned. “I still don’t like it, but I understand it.” 

He knows you’re talking about Emily. Relief blossoms in his chest, not because he expected forgiveness right away, but because he wanted you to understand. He needed you to understand, and want to tell him. 

“I hated lying to you,” he murmurs. “I think it was the hardest thing I ever had to do. If there had been any other way…” He trails off, letting the thought speak for itself. “You know that, right?” 

A huff escapes you, almost amused, almost affectionate. You shift closer, tucking into his chest. A little piece of the ache in your chest quiets. “Yeah,” you say, your voice quiet. “I know.” 

He takes a breath. “There will always be things I can’t tell you.” He presses his forehead against yours, and you nod. “But I swear—I will never let you believe something like that again. If you ask me a question I can’t answer, I’ll tell you. If you ask me if you know everything I know, I’ll be honest about that, too.” They sound like vows, almost. Maybe they are. 

He huffs something that’s almost a laugh. “I will be as open as possible about the things I can’t be open about.” 

Your fingers brush over his jaw, tilting his face slightly so you can see him even in the dim light.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

Aaron kisses you, and it’s like coming home.

The warmth of it spreads between you, slow at first, then deeper, hungrier. The kind of kiss that demands more. Your breath hitches when he presses closer, his hands tracing down your spine.

But then you break apart, foreheads still pressed together, panting slightly in the darkness.

It’s torture.

Aaron closes his eyes and kisses the corner of your mouth. It feels like a promise. “What do you want?” The question is loaded. He drops down to your throat, sucking and nibbling at the skin under your jaw. 

You gasp and roll your center against his thigh, slotted between your legs. His eyes narrow, and he presses up into you. Your lower lip disappears into your mouth. “Fuck.”

“What,” he repeats, roughly grabbing your ass and increasing pressure as you grind down on his thigh, “do you want?”

You could probably come just like that. As hot as the thought is, you’ve had him inside you and there’s simply nothing as satisfying. “I need you.”

He continues to guide your hips against him, and you can’t help but chase your own pleasure, finding the perfect angle to get your clit in just the right place for every pass. “I think I’ll keep you right here,” he gives you a sharp tug in time with his leg rising just enough, and you gasp, biting your lip to keep yourself from crying out, “until you’re begging for my cock.” 

Oh my god. 

“Aaron, please,” you whisper, dropping your head to his shoulder. Your hips move of their own accord, desperately seeking friction. 

With every pass, your own thigh brushes the hard line of his cock, and he inhales sharply, his jaw locked shut. He only increases the pace, pressing down with his hands and up with his thigh until you’re writhing against him, desperate for release. 

Hyper-aware of your volume, you press your lips to his collarbone, muffling your staccato whimpers. You’re sure you’ve soaked through at least your underwear by now, the hot slickness of your arousal makes every swivel more satisfying. “I need you.” You can feel your walls flutter around nothing, getting closer. 

“You’re gonna have to do better than that,” he whispers, his breath hot against your ear. “I want to watch you come right here. I want you to know I don’t even have to touch you to make you feel good.”

You pant into his ear, your fingers winding into his hair at the nape of his neck. “I already know that,” you tell him, breathless. “You’re the only one who’s gotten me off almost every night for the last four years.”

A pause. A sharp roll of your hips.

“And you didn’t lay a hand on me until last night.”

Your admission almost does him in. 

“Fuck, I love you,” he says, kissing your forehead and breathing you in. “I love you.”

You're close. He knows it. And yet, instead of letting you have it, he slows just enough—just to watch you break apart right in front of him. You freeze for a second, your breath caught, your lips parted. Your eyes meet his in the dark, and you fight to keep them open as your orgasm snaps up your spine. 

Before you completely come down, he rolls, pulling you on top of him and capturing your lips. He kisses you lazily, languid and unhurried against your skin, reveling in the way you're still trembling. His hands slide your shirt up your torso, ridding you of it. 

The next few minutes are spent entirely on divesting yourself of your clothes. 

As you suspected, there’s a significant wet spot on his sweatpants. The sight draws Aaron’s brows together and his lower lip between his teeth. You swear you see his cock twitch, but you’ll handle that in due time.

You start to shift away, reaching over to throw your shirt toward your go-bag, but Aaron doesn’t let you get far. His hands slide down, firm and deliberate, dragging you almost clear across the bed until you land with your ass flush against his hips. The heat of him makes your breath catch, your pulse skipping in anticipation. You barely stifle a gasp behind your hand as he presses up into you, his touch following the curve of your spine, smoothing over your lower back, ribs, and shoulders before finding your nipples. He rolls them between his fingers, slow and knowing, as if savoring every reaction.

The sensation is almost too much. “Aaron, please.” 

He leans down, chest flush against your back, his warmth sinking into your skin.. You roll your hips, a desperate and vain attempt to get him where you want him. He resists you, his hands ghosting down your abdomen, teasting, eventually landing between your legs. 

When he feels how wet you are, how ready, he drops his head to your shoulder with a shaky breath. You’re sure you hear your name whispered against your skin. Your body answers before your lips do—you tip your head back, offering yourself to him. He takes your jaw gently in his hand, guiding you upright until his lips graze your ear.

“What do you want?”

Your breath shudders. You can’t stop trembling. “I want you inside me.”

“Are you sure?” His other hand palms your breast, teasing, kneading, while his lips trail filthy kisses along your neck, the soft skin behind your ear.

“Yes. Please.” You huff, realizing too late—he’s made you beg for him after all. “Fuck me, Aaron. Goddamn you.”

You feel his smirk against your throat. “Be nice.” 

His fingers part you, guiding his cock between your slick folds, teasing, making you gasp. You spread your legs further, desperate, and he releases your jaw. As soon as his grip loosens, you fold forward onto your forearms, pushing back against him, impatient.

When he finally gives you what you want, you muffle your moan into the comforter, twisting the duvet between your fingers. He sinks into you, shallow and slow, savoring the feel of you. One large hand wraps around your hip while another sweeps down your back, tracing your spine. 

“Aaron.” It’s a demand, and you push back without warning, taking him to the hilt. His name leaves your mouth, this time in a quiet cry, and he doesn’t fare much better. His breath fans warm across your back, fast and heavy. You whimper. “Please. I need you.”

He listens. He always does. 

His hips snap against yours, driving into you with long, punishing strokes. You’re thankful for white noise machines, thick apartment walls. His grip tightens on your hips, keeping you exactly where he wants you, fucking into you with ruthless precision.

“You feel so good.” His praise is tight, layered with restraint, and you can only whimper again in response. “You take me so well. You’re perfect.” 

Bracing yourself, you reach between your legs. He beats you there, circling your clit with his middle finger, already slick. You rest your hand on top of his, guiding his touch. 

Your belly tightens, pleasure coiling low. He groans when he feels you clench around him. 

“You’re gonna make me come again,” you gasp, breathless, laughing through it. 

His pace doesn’t falter. “Good.”

You fall apart, completely at his mercy. You let him take you, let him fuck you through it, biting the inside of your palm to smother the noise that leaves you every time he bottoms out. He keeps going, nearly pulling out with every thrust, making you feel every inch of him. 

Like you were made for each other.

Maybe you were. 

From this angle, he can see the curve of your spine, the way your pussy grips him, wet and slick, your arousal coating his cock, dripping down your thighs. It nearly undoes him.

Then, he’s gone.

You barely register the loss before you’re turning, rising to your knees, savagely kissing him with your hands locked in his hair. He groans into your mouth, raw and wanting.

Aaron falls back on his heels and you follow, straddling him, sinking down with a satisfied sigh. He hisses through his teeth, but his lips never leave yours, hands locking onto your hips as he holds you in place, fucking you fast and deep.

Your hands frame his face, breath shared between parted lips as you bounce and roll your hips, finding the angle that makes you shudder. 

He sounds wrecked. “I - fuck - I need you. Please.” 

You’re not sure what exactly he’s asking for, but you give it to him anyway, taking him fully inside you and rolling your hips. You rock into him like you can take him deeper, until it feels like he’s all the way up in your ribs. 

“You have me.” You press your forehead to his, languidly scooping your hips so your clit makes contact with him at every pass. “You’ve always had me.”

You wrap your arms around his shoulders and tug sharply on his hair, tipping his chin up. Whispering into the skin of his throat. 

“Take what’s yours, Aaron. Take me.”

In one fluid motion, you’re on your back. He surrounds you, his body covering yours. He slips back into you, and your breath catches. You lock your ankles around his back as he splits you—not rough, not wild, but almost gentle. He cradles your head in his hand, the other anchoring you, supporting your back as he moves. 

Desperate, wordless sounds leave both of you. You breathe together, completely in sync. He kisses you, but neither one of you can keep it up for long, gasping between every desperate press of your lips. 

It’s obscene—the sloppy, drenched sounds of him moving inside you. 

His voice is tight, hardly a breath. “Can you come again?” 

You nod, frantic, lost in him.

His hand slips between you, his thumb finding your clit with practiced ease. He’s been paying attention—he has you teetering almost immediately, tracing the same rhythm you chased yourself with last night.

Then, his voice, rough and pleading: “Can I cum inside you?”

You kiss the question off his lips, your own curving into a smirk despite the haze of pleasure.

“I told you to take what’s yours, didn’t I?”

His whole body tenses. “Fuck.” His curse is nothing but a breath. “You’re mine.” 

His thumb hits just right, and you shatter. 

You’re floating, unraveling, untethered, stripped bare. No sound, no breath. You don’t even try to hold back, not when he’s exposed everything you tried to hold back the past five years. 

With a deep, broken groan, he spills inside of you and you cling to him. 

“Yours,” you sigh, your lips at the corner of his mouth. “All yours.”

+++ september 23rd, 2011

Jack, ever the gift, sleeps late the next morning, so you and Aaron have more time than you expected. 

He pulled you into his lap when you first woke, leaning against the headboard with your head against his shoulder. His fingers trace slow, purposeful circles on your back, grounded and steady. 

“Can I tell you something?” He asks.

You hum, your fingers idly tracing over the ridges and planes of his chest. “Of course.” 

Aaron exhales through his nose, his breath warm against your forehead. “I can’t believe you’re not more upset with me over Emily.”

“I just understand it, you know? You explained yourself rather elegantly, and now I’m over the initial shock of it, I’m fine. Also,” you add with a shrug, citing: “It’s a rule, right? If you have a secret, keep it to yourself. Second best, tell one other person. There is no third best.”

He nods, almost smiling. “Jenny got to you.”

You tip your head—an admission of guilt. 

Sobering, you lean back to look at him. This might be the best time to talk about this, to really talk about this. “It’s the Pakistan bullshit that got to me.” 

His throat bobs as he swallows. “Yeah.” He kisses your temple. “I still don’t feel great about that.” 

You burrow into his neck, your nose under his jaw. Breathing him in doesn’t soothe the residual ache in your chest, the ghost of the anger that cratered you. 

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Your voice isn’t harsh, but it’s not gentle either. 

He sighs, and you know he’s actually thinking about his answer, picking his words carefully. “There wasn’t a good time to tell you when I found out I got the assignment, and then I kept putting it off and putting it off. The longer I waited, the more difficult it became.” His jaw tightens. “It was selfish of me. I couldn’t face telling you, especially when I didn’t know how long I would be gone.”

You squint, catching something. After a short debate of whether you want to go here or not, you ask, “Got it…or chose it?”

Aaron sighs, releasing you to drag a hand down his face. “God I’m an idiot.”

“So…you chose it?”

He nods, stiff and wildly uncomfortable. 

There’s silence for a second. 

“When I got the list of options, for all of us,” he starts, “It had been two months since Emily. It was so fresh and I couldn’t mourn with you—share it in the same way.” He pauses. “I didn’t know how long it would take to find Doyle, and I knew I couldn’t keep up the lie when I had to look you in the eye every day.”

“You needed an out.” It’s not a difficult, or particularly confusing choice, when its laid out like that.

He nods, exhaling heavily and staring down at the duvet. “I needed an out.” 

You let it sit for a minute. “...Pakistan?” You pull a face. “Not… Atlanta, or Chicago, or…” You grasp at field offices. “...San Francisco? Like, rural Pakistan isn’t hell, but you can see it from there.” 

“You could say the same about San Francisco,” he mutters. You level him with a light glare. He shakes his head. “Sorry.” He takes another moment, finding the best way to walk through his process. You rest your head on his shoulder, only hiding from his eyes a little.

“Distance was a necessity,” he starts. “But so was accessibility. Pakistan was an option that was both distant and inaccessible.” His eyebrows jump briefly as he considers his next words. “And the per diem and hazard stipend didn’t hurt. Jack has quite a bit from the settlement with Haley, but I was able to pad it. I felt like—I felt like I could–”

“-provide?” You finish for him. 

“Exactly.” He swallows and his eyes return to you. “I could justify it.” 

It feels like he’s done. 

But you’re not.

You lift your head but don’t meet his eyes, fixing your attention on the scar under his collarbone. “You told Derek you were coming home. You talked… to Derek.”

His fingers stutter against your back, for the briefest moments. 

“And you and I had our calls, too, of course,” you say, softer now. “Scheduled. Predictable. I know you tried Aaron, I know you did.” You swallow and let your eyes lift, meeting his gaze. “But it wasn’t enough, and I don’t think I even knew why at the time.” 

There’s a pinch between his brows, his head tilting as he takes his turn to listen.

“Every time I had that phone, it was an echo of you, but you weren’t really there. I could ask how you were, but I knew you couldn’t tell me.” You sigh, pausing to find the words. “I could hear your voice, but I couldn’t feel you. It was like I was watching you walk across that tarmac all over again, every time we said goodbye.” 

Aaron adjusts you on his lap so he can devote his undivided attention to you. His hand settles on your thigh, thumb smoothing back and forth. 

“And that’s not really fair to you—I can’t imagine what it was like to be out there alone. I knew they were monitoring the calls. You were following protocol with everything.” Your mouth twists for a second. “But you never…you never said anything about it. You never told me you were coming home. Derek could have told me you were coming home.”

His next breath is measured, purposeful. His fingers flex, tightening against your skin for a moment. “It was need to know.” 

Right. Need to know. Likely fuckin story.

You just stare at him, eyebrows raised. He breaks eye contact first, looking down at his lap. 

I win. 

You’re not done yet, though, even then. “I kept waiting for you to mention, or validate or–” You pause, collecting your thoughts. “I wanted you to acknowledge how much it sucked. I kept waiting for you to tell me it was killing you, too.” You drop your gaze, unable to meet his eyes as yours mist over. “But you didn’t. I was alone in it. You just let me miss you.”

Aaron tips his head back, against the headboard with a little thunk. He closes his eyes. 

“I did.” His voice is rough. “And I shouldn’t have.”

He takes another slow, measured breath. Your hand flattens against his chest, feeling his heart beat. It’s too fast. 

It steers you off course. “Did you take your meds?” You ask with a little sniff, worried. 

He blinks rapidly. “I—um—I take them with breakfast,” he says quickly. 

“Right.” You’d forgotten that detail. “Sorry.” 

He waves you off, searching once again for his train of thought.

He clears his throat, his voice still rough. “I thought about it every time we hung up.” He swallows and opens his eyes, looking at the ceiling. “I wanted to tell you–to tell you how much I missed you, how much I hated being so far from you–from all of you-” He cuts himself off. “I hated it.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” You whisper, a little stunned. 

He looks at you, something pained and regretful behind his eyes. “I didn’t want you to worry.” 

You offer him a sad, rueful little smile. You would have worried about him. You did worry about him, and you thought he was—well, not good maybe, but fine. 

He exhales, explaining further. “It was already hard. I thought if–if you didn’t know how hard it was for me, it would be easier for you.” He cups your face, his hands warm and gentle. “The last thing I wanted to do was make you feel alone. I thought about you and Jack constantly, missed you the second I woke up to the minute I fell asleep.” 

You search his face. You’ve seen the guilt, the remorse, for days now, but you can see it now—the recognition. 

The confession leaves you in a whisper. “I just needed you to miss me out loud.” 

You feel like you should be embarrassed by it, by your implicit admission that you need him to need you, to want you, to be with you when you’re not there. You pause, offering him a thin, watery smile. You decide to tell him, lightening it a little. “And you suffered for nothing—I worried about you anyway.”

Aaron tips his forehead to yours, closing his eyes. “It broke me—the way you looked at me when I came back, like you didn’t know if you should hit me or run.” 

He pulls back and watches his thumb passing back and forth over your cheek, sweeping down over your lips, looking over your face as if he wants to memorize it. 

“I thought I’d lost you,” he says. His voice is raw, stripped completely. “I thought about it all the time when I was out there,” he continues, his voice barely holding steady. “What it would be like to see you again.” He swallows, pausing. “I…neglected to account for how rightfully angry you would be. I told Dave I wasn't sure if you would ever speak to me again, that maybe you—you’d take that transfer to LA after all.”

Something in you heals, knowing how scared he was. You spent weeks drowning in his absence, trying to keep your head above water. You almost let your fury and pain consume you. 

In truth, taking the transfer never occurred to you.

“I wanted to hate you,” you admit, your voice falling to a whisper. “I tried.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “But you don’t.” It’s almost a question. 

“No.” You press your forehead to his, letting your breath mingle. Your hands find his jaw, grounding both of you. “Despite my best efforts, I couldn’t.” 

He tips his head and kisses you—soft, reverent, hesitant, like after all this, he can’t believe you’re letting him. You press closer to him, your hands slipping into his hair. 

“Promise me you won’t run from us again,” you whisper against his mouth. 

He hums, leaning back just a bit to press a chaste kiss to your cheek. He pulls you closer and you hook your chin over his shoulder, letting your arms hold tight to his back. 

“I don’t have a reason to, anymore.”

+++

It breaks your heart, but the time finally comes to shave the beard. You find him in the bathroom with shaving cream and a razor. He’s already got half of his face lathered up when you walk in.  

“What do you think you’re doing?”

He looks over at you. “Shaving? As requested?” It’s definitely a question.

You shake your head and hold up a finger. Jogging to your go bag, you pull out the shaving kit you keep in there, just in case Derek found himself in a pinch. In it, the tool you’re looking for. You walk back to the bathroom with the little cloth bag in your hand, hopping up on the counter to sit. The marble is cold on your skin, covered only by one of Aaron’s shirts and a pair of underwear. 

He watches you, a curious look on his face. You unzip it and pull out a classic single-blade straight-razor, unfolding it at a safe distance.

“May I?”

Wary eyes glance at the blade, and his breath picks up, catching. His exhale is deliberate, like he has to think about it. His jaw ticks, his teeth clenching as the razor reflects the light. His gaze flicks from the blade to you. 

“Do you have to use that one?” His voice remains even, carefully controlled, but his casual lean against the counter has turned purposeful, like he’s holding himself up. 

You don’t answer him right away. Instead, you take him gently by the arm and turn him, guiding him between your knees. “Do you trust me?” 

“Of course,” he answers quickly–too quickly, like a reflex. “It’s just...I just -”

“Knife shit.” Your tone is casual and understanding, covering the twist of your stomach. The memory appears fully formed, fresh–the hospital, the blood, the machines and gauze holding him together.

As bad days go, that was one of the worst. 

He nods and swallows. 

You fold the blade in and set it down, brushing it away like an afterthought. It skitters across the counter. You place your hands on his cheeks, shaving cream be damned, and press your forehead to his.

“He can’t hurt you anymore.” Your thumbs carve little canyons in the shaving cream, soothing over the sharp, too-thin planes of his cheekbones. “He’s gone and you’re here with me.” 

You shift, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. It’s gentle, neither suggesting or demanding anything. His eyes fall closed, his shoulders soften, just a little. When you pull back, he lifts his thumb to wipe at the foam on your cheek. 

You make sure you have his eyes when you ask, “Can I do this for you?”

“Yeah.” He pauses. Another shaky breath leaves him. His fingers press into your thighs, grounding himself. Then, quieter, more determined. “Yes.” 

“If you need to stop, just put your hand on my waist okay?” There’s nothing but love in your eyes as you watch his gaze flicker across your face. “We can stop anytime and I can leave you alone and you can shave this beautiful thing off your face yourself and rob me of my grieving process.” 

He laughs, light and true, and his lips pull up in a smile. “Okay.” 

You start the hot water in the sink beside you and wet your hands a little to finish lathering him up with the shaving cream. His nose crinkles when you pop a dot of it on his forehead. 

“Really?”

You shrug with a little smile and wash your hands, drying them on the towel hanging over the edge of the sink. Picking up the blade, you raise it slowly. He still flinches a little, nostrils flaring as he controls his breath. 

The first stroke of the blade is whisper-soft. He still tenses beneath the cold kiss of the steel against his skin, a breath locking tight in his ribs. You feel the slight jump of his pulse beneath your fingers.

“Breathe, Aaron.” You run your thumb along his jaw, where beard meets smooth, freshly shaven skin.

He exhales through his nose, slower this time, and when the blade glides over his skin, he finally relaxes beneath your touch. His eyes stay locked on yours–steady, unwavering. You check in every few seconds, checking for any flicker of hesitation or tension, finding none. 

It’s not his steady gaze that undoes you. It’s the unexpected heat at the back of your neck, the quiet intimacy of it all, the sudden shyness–the way he lets you see him like this, stripped bare in a way that has nothing to do with the blade in your hand. 

Shave, rinse, dry, repeat. By the seventh stroke, his fingers are idly tracing nonsense patterns against your thigh, his body yielding completely under your hands. You caress and gently pull and press wherever you need to for a close shave, and he lets you. 

The real challenge comes when it's time to do his neck. His breath picks up again as you tip his chin up. You place one hand around the back of his head, playing with his hair. “You’re okay, Aaron. Just me, remember?” 

“It’s harder when I can’t see you.” His voice is quieter now, more like a confession than a protest. 

You hesitate, thinking for a second. You set the razor aside again, pressing your hands to his ribs. You wrap your legs around the back of his thighs, pulling his hips flush to your center on the edge of the counter. “You can feel me,” you murmur, your lips brushing against his temple. “I’m right here.” 

His fingers flex, gripping you tighter. You wait for it–the moment when his body and his mind recognize the refuge, the safety, you offer. 

He exhales, long and slow. You press a kiss just below his ear. 

“Does that help?” Your whisper is almost a breath. 

He can’t bite back his smile. “Yeah, that works.” His hands wander to your hips, and you try to keep yourself from wiggling against him. 

“Hold still.” You tip his chin up again with gentle, grounding fingers and run the blade up his neck, over his Adam’s apple, under his jaw, past his carotid artery. To combat the rising panic he’s no doubt experiencing, you press a kiss to every patch of freshly-shaven skin. With each pass of the blade, he doesn’t even breathe. You can feel the soft shudder of his breath on your arm as you rinse. 

Soon, you’re finished. You take one final section underneath his jaw, rinse, dry, and fold the blade back into its case. Snagging one of the washcloths nearby, you soak it in the warm water and wring it out, bringing it to Aaron’s face. 

He watches you as you wipe the remaining shaving cream from his skin with a heartbreaking tenderness. The warmth is divine, and all his tension melts away at your touch. A profound feeling of safety washes over him. With a little bit of a start, he realizes there’s not a nick or cut on him at all. 

That’s talent.  

You bring the warm cloth down again, passing over anything left behind. His eyes never leave yours, adoring and gentle. You raise your hand to his cheek, your thumb smoothing over his skin. “There you are.” 

For the first time since he stepped into that round table room, he looks like himself. 

He looks at you for what feels like a long time, like he’s recalling and capturing a memory all at once. “Here I am.” His hands play with the edge of your shirt, wandering.

Your heel sneaks up the back of his leg and his jaw jumps, holding back a groan. “Jack will be home soon.” The warning is weak at best, and you check the clock. 

“Henry’s soccer game doesn’t end for another twenty minutes, and you know Will will take them for ice cream after.” 

Aaron hums thoughtfully, pretending to think. He tilts his head and studies you, his eyes narrow. 

“What?” You ask through a little laugh. 

“I’m just trying to figure out why I can’t get enough of you.” He presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth. Your eyes close, your hands rising to his hair. His hands slide down your back, pulling you flush against him. 

You let out a little unintentional whine from the back of your throat, your breath catching as he grinds against you. His nose runs along your jaw and it feels like he’s breathing you in. 

“I could be inside you all day and still want more.” 

“Aaron…” You tip your head back against the wall as his lips wander from the corner of your mouth to your neck and collarbones, his hands sweeping over your skin. 

He returns to your lips, and you wrap your arms around his neck. “You know,” he says against your mouth, “we haven’t christened anywhere except the bed, yet.”

You pull back, and find a wicked glint in his eye. “Aaron Hotchner, are you suggesting what I think you are?”

“I’m not suggesting anything.” His voice drops, low and deep in his chest, and he pushes his hips into you, two thin scraps of fabric separating you. “I’m informing you I would love nothing more than to fuck you right here. On this counter.” 

Heat floods you, and you’re sure he can feel it against him. Your breath leaves you, shaky and uneven. He dips back to your neck, right under your ear, just like you did moments ago. “Would that be alright?”

Your hands wind in his hair. “Yes. Yes, please.”

He makes quick work of your underwear, leaving you bare against the counter. He frees himself, running the tip of his cock through your arousal. It would almost feel like a tease, but he’s watching, lost in the sensation and the image. 

Your lower lip disappears into your mouth. It’s almost painful, at this point.

It’s a relief when he finally rocks into you, shallow strokes to start as your body adjusts. He fights to keep eye contact with you, sliding all the way in. You drag a breath through your parted lips, holding his eyes as long as you can. 

You take each other with a slow leisure, closing your eyes and just enjoying the closeness between you. He rocks into you, dragging against you, dissolving your ache for him that’s persisted all morning. You know exactly what he means - you could have him all the time, and it wouldn’t be enough.

The arm holding your knee wraps around the middle of your back, opening you even wider to him and pulling you even closer. Your head falls back again, and he bathes your neck in kisses. 

Your peaks wash over you gently, leaving your bodies thrumming and boneless. He holds you to him, and you stay there for a while, just resting against each other. 

+++ september 28th, 2011

“Come on, sweetness, live a little.”

It's the end of the first week of suspension, and the IC subcommittee has subpoenaed you all starting at the end of October. A whole month. Tonight, the team drinks to a possible future of unemployment.

You narrow your eyes at Derek. “You haven’t had any yet.”

He smirks. “It’ll put hair on your chest.”

You lean in, tip your chin up and part your lips, just enough to take it between your teeth. His fingers brush your jaw on the release—just barely—but he holds your gaze for the beat of a breath.

It’s a familiar rhythm by now. He flirts, you indulge him. It never means anything. It never has to. That’s the safety of it.

Still, you can feel eyes on you.

Not Derek’s.

You chew.

And immediately regret it.

It hits your tongue like lava in a liquor store—sharp, cloying, wrong. Your whole face crumples, and before you can even form a coherent thought, your shoulders jerk and you let out a half-cough, half-laugh that’s almost violent.

“Oh, fuck—” you manage, smacking the table with one hand and covering your mouth with the other. “That is awful—Jesus Christ, Derek, what the hell is that?”

He’s already doubled over laughing, because of course he is, but even he grimaces when he eats one. “Oh, that’s illegal,” he chokes, eyes watering.

You’re laughing so hard you can barely breathe, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand and shaking your head. “That burns. What is wrong with you?”

Somewhere across the table, you can feel the heat of Aaron’s gaze on you—not heavy, not intrusive, just there. Attentive in the way he always is, tuned to your every move like he’s never stopped listening.

You don’t look at him.

Not right away.

Because if you do, you’ll see it. That softness he saves just for you. That expression he tries to hide when you make him feel something too big for his hands. You’ll see the way his eyes crease at the corners. The way his mouth hitches, like he’s almost confused by the fact that you’re here—still here—laughing in front of him like you haven’t screamed at him in months, like your anger isn’t still a living thing between you.

Derek leaves for the bar with a squeeze to your shoulder. You clock the slightly unsteady sway in his hips and the way his hand lands just a little too hard on the counter. That man’s had at least five Hennessys, maybe six, depending on how you count the one he split with Penelope.

Derek’s drinking a little too much, he’s a little too tense. You’ll call him next week. 

You’re still recovering from the cherry—that little hand grenade of ethanol—when Emily clears her throat with authority and slaps her drink down on the table.

“Alright,” she declares, loud enough to cut through the music and conversation hum. “We’re playing a game.”

Emily is relentless - three drinks in and she’s badgering you about your sex life. “I’m serious, ” She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively and bumps you with her shoulder. “...and I’m just drunk enough to ask the good questions.”

You laugh, taking a sip of your water. You’re playing designated driver tonight, along with Hotch. You figure it’s easier to sneak around when the rest of the team is drunk. “Yeah, and I’m sober enough to not answer them.”

“Oh, come on, at least give us something,” Penelope whines. 

Against your better judgment, you relent a little. “Alright. You get five vague questions - no names, no identifying details. Five.” 

“Each?” Garcia’s eyebrows raise, but immediately fall into a scowl when you reply -

“Total.” 

Emily downs the rest of her drink. “Alright. I’ll go first. How we doin’ on measurements?” 

Your lips twitch. “Impressive.” Your answer is clipped. The real answer? Damn near perfect, if not a little too big, but you won’t say that. 

“Stamina?” Penelope chirps. 

“Exceedingly impressive.” 

“What are we talking about?” Derek comes up behind Emily and kisses her on the cheek. She preens a little before answering. 

“Well, someone,” she points at you, “has some kind of magical, elusive, possibly-imaginary fuck-buddy, and we have been granted five vague answers to five vague questions.”

Aaron rounds the other side of Penelope, where his singular beer awaits him. He takes a sip to hide his smile.  From here, you’re the only one who can see his face straight-on. 

Clever bastard. 

Derek offers you a fist, and you tap his knuckles with your own. “That’s some good news.” He raises his eyebrows, looking off to the side. “Lord knows we need it.” 

I’ll definitely call him next week. 

Penelope reviews the previous two questions, rapid fire. “We only have vague information, but the metrics are impressive and someone is very well taken-care of, apparently.”

You do your best to avoid a pair of watchful and amused brown eyes. “Alright, three more.” 

Emily ponders for a minute. “Record?”

“For?” 

“How many times has he managed to get you off in one night? Or do you have to do it yourself?”

You pretend to think for a moment. “Do you actually mean one night, or just in one round?” 

Penelope’s jaw drops, and you try not to laugh out loud. 

“Um…” Emily’s caught off guard a little. “One night—wait, are you sure you’re dating a man-person?”

A laugh escapes you. “Yes, I’m sure he’s a man, we’re not dating, and to answer your first question, I would conservatively estimate six, but it could be more if you count consecutives. I’m honestly not sure. I don’t usually keep count. He might, though, so I’ll have to ask him.” 

Derek’s brow furrows. “Where did you meet this guy?” 

“I refuse to answer on the grounds of specificity.” 

“Alright, fine.” He amends. “Rank? Where are we on the roster?”

“I don’t have a roster, Derek,” you tell him with a sigh that plays at exhaustion. To clarify, “But, if I did, where would he be?” Derek nods, and you tip your chin rather arrogantly, still avoiding Aaron across the table. “First. Ten out of ten. Five stars. Would recommend to a friend.” 

You take a sip of your water and finally glance in Aaron’s direction, throwing a wink at him. The corner of his mouth quirks and his eyes flick in a half-roll, but he recovers quickly. 

“Hotch,” Emily turns on him. “Do you have a question?” 

He waves her off and takes another sip of his beer. He swallows, hesitating for a second. “Don’t... Don’t indict me.”

Derek’s jaw flexes. If he had his way, you know, Aaron wouldn’t even be here. JJ’s on thin ice with him too. 

Understandable. 

“Okay, last one. It’s gotta be good and I’m really gonna put you on the spot.” Emily points at you, and you push a water glass toward her. That’s invitation enough. “Do you like him?” She pushes even further when she sees the damning look on your face. “Oh my god. Do you love him? Is he gonna be here for a while?” 

You take a deep breath. 

Decisions, decisions. 

A small, secret smile stretches across your lips. Though your smile is directed at Emily, it’s just for Aaron, but they don’t have to know that. “I think he’s got a really decent shot, if he plays his cards right.” 

Derek tips his head. “I’ll drink to that.” He raises his glass. “To one lucky motherfucker, wherever he may be.” It’s a little too tense, a little forced, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. His toast sounds pointed, a challenge, probably. You appreciate the effort, regardless. 

You take a sip of your water and chance a glance across the table again. 

His eyebrows lift, so small it’s almost imperceptible. You mean it? 

The corner of your mouth twitches, just shy of a smile. 

You’ll have to see, won’t you?

+++

He unlocks the door and steps aside. Silent.

You brush past him, your shoulder catching his chest. He feels it like a brand, burning through the fabric of his shirt. Neither one of you acknowledges it. 

You don’t look at him. 

The absence of acknowledgment is its own kind of rejection. It’s one he’s grown used to in the last seventy-two hours. He shuts the door softly. 

Aaron watches as you come to a stop in the middle of the living room, hands on your hips, breathing shallow. He doesn’t move from the doorway. His bag is still slung over his shoulder, but he barely registers the weight anymore.

It’s nothing compared to this. 

Jack is with Jessica until tomorrow afternoon. No buffer. No reprieve. Just the two of you, and the reckoning he knew was coming the second he set foot back in the round table room three days ago. It’s the first time he’s stepped foot in his own home in months, but it feels foreign to him now.

He expected a fight when he returned. But this—the silence, the avoidance, the cold, careful way you look through him—is somehow worse. You stand before him, arms crossed, your breath measured, but he knows better than to think you’re calm. It’s in the set of your jaw, the grip of your hands on your arms, the heat behind your gaze. He expects this is an inquisition, and he is your sole subject.

Because it’s not just anger.

It’s hurt.

And he put it there. This is his fault.

Aaron lets himself look at you. Really look at you.

You look the same. But you don’t. He doesn’t know if it’s from stress or lack of sleep or just five months of change that he wasn’t here to witness. You’re still you, though, which means youre the most beautiful vengeful diety he’s ever seen.

Your posture is a defensive one, a protective one. Protecting yourself from him.

His fault.

You inhale deeply—once, twice—before you speak. “When did you know?”

His fingers tighten around the strap of his bag. He expected this question, probably. Didn’t think you’d start here, but he expected all of it.

But expecting something doesn’t make it easier to face.

Aaron exhales, slow and deliberate. His hand scrubs over his face, dragging across the beard on his jaw. His body is heavy with exhaustion, but it doesn’t matter. You’re exhausted, too. He can see it in the way your shoulders are drawn tight, in the way your body is too still, like you’re forcing yourself to stay upright.

He hesitates—not because he doesn’t know the answer, but because he does. He has the wrong answer. And he can’t lawyer-word-salad his way out of this one, distract you with logic traps so complex you forget what you asked in the first place…

“Stop,” you snap. “Answer me.”

A direct order. No room for retreat.

He swallows. “Last week,” he says, voice low. “I knew last week.”

Your arms cross before he’s even finished speaking. “So when you called to check in with me, you couldn’t have—I don’t know—shared that?”

He clenches his jaw. There was a way to tell you.

The call on Wednesday had been planned. It went normally. You told him about Jack’s soccer game, an issue with a case file, something that made Garcia laugh so hard she cried. Your voice had been warm, steady, unguarded—because you didn’t know. Because you thought he was still thousands of miles away, not preparing to leave.

He’d known, even then, that he was likely coming home soon. And he didn’t tell you. Because he didn’t know how. Because he didn’t know what was waiting for him when he got back.

On Friday, he confirmed with Morgan that he’d be on his way home within 24 hours. By then, he knew for certain. He had another chance to warn you, to give Derek permission to pass along the message. 

And he still didn’t. Because he’s a coward.

Because in his mind—in every version of his return he played over and over in the desert—you were happy to see him. Thrilled, even.

Delighted by the surprise. Maybe tearful, maybe angry, briefly, in that theatrical way you do when you’re relieved. But then you’d smile. Then you’d throw your arms around him and he’d hold you close and everything would be okay. 

But when he walked into the bullpen three days ago, he saw the truth written all over your face.

You were furious. You should be furious.

And the worst part (the ugliest part) is that he knew this was a possibility. And he gambled with it anyway. He gambled with you.

He lets out a dissatisfied breath, one he tries to hide. Knowing that no explanation will make it better.

And somehow that makes it worse—so much worse.

Because if there were a reason that could explain it—something noble, something clean beyond providing—it wouldn’t hurt you like this.

But it does. And that means it wasn’t good enough, that he wasn’t good enough.

You pivot again, right back to the thing that’s been festering since March.

“You could have told me you were leaving.”

Your voice is quieter now, but it doesn’t lose any force. In fact, it sharpens—cuts deeper because of the control it takes to keep it steady. 

And it cuts him, too. Because you’re still holding back for his sake. Because even now, you’re offering him more care than he gave you.

“I thought maybe you didn’t want to be around me anymore, that maybe we were crossing way too many lines and you wanted to back off or something.”

That’s the furthest thing from the truth. He just hopes he gets to tell you. 

“I would’ve understood,” you say. “Maybe not right away. But I would’ve tried. I would’ve asked questions. I would’ve argued. But I wouldn’t have stopped you. I probably could’ve pretended I was excited for you instead of scared shitless..”

A beat.

Your gaze lifts to his, stormy and steady. “Say something.”

He opens his mouth to try. He’s ready to explain, to take the blame properly, to tell you everything he couldn’t before—

But you cut him off the second he draws breath.

“No—actually, don’t.” You shake your head, voice trembling. “Because whatever you say, it’s going to sound reasonable. And I’m not ready for that. I’m not ready to forgive you just because you had a good reason. And I’m sure you did.”

You pace a tight, frustrated line, back and forth, back and forth.

“I’m trying so hard not to give you the benefit of the doubt, and it’s infuriating. Because I know you.“

And do you ever. He’s never been more grateful for your ability to see clean through him. 

“And I know it probably wasn’t about thinking I couldn’t handle it. Or that I wasn’t strong enough. Or trustworthy enough.”

You stop, hands flung open at your sides, and your voice breaks over the next line.

“But it feels like that, Aaron. It feels exactly like that.”

He doesn’t move.

God, you could’ve handled it. He knows that. You would’ve been so brave.

He dips his chin, shame thick in his throat.

He agrees with you completely.

“You could’ve told me. You should’ve told me. I wouldn’t have made it harder. I wouldn’t have begged you to stay.” 

You break off with a sharp inhale. And then, again quieter, “You should’ve told me.”

Silence expands around you, awful and full.

You pause mid-pace, struck by another thought—one that comes out smaller, but sharper.

“You did hint. That’s the worst part. You even hinted at me and I chose not to—ugh!”

Your arms drop, frustration vibrating in every limb. 

“There were moments. Hypotheticals. Comments. Pauses in conversation. And I just—I let it go. I let you do it.”

You huff and pull a hand down your face. 

“Because I trusted you. I trusted that if you had something to share, you would. I didn’t push. I didn’t pry. I gave you space.”

Aaron’s face tightens. You’re describing his worst sin like it’s a natural consequence of your own actions, like you blame yourself.

He can’t believe you’re still giving him that much grace.

“And maybe I should’ve asked,” you finish, quieter now. “But I just didn’t want to be another person in your life trying to make you talk before you were ready.”

He thinks he might be sick

When you speak again, your voice is barely a whisper. “I would have forgiven you if you’d just prepared me a little. For leaving and coming back.”

You laugh humorlessly. “Everyone looked at me like I was supposed to know something.” Your eyes harden. “Because I was supposed to know something.” You pause, your eyes falling to the floor. “Because we tell each other everything, I thought.”

He’s the worst person. 

Your hands tighten on your arms. Your posture shifts—something raw leaking through, something splintering at the edges. He recognizes it a second before your voice does the same.

“We spent months without you, Aaron.” Your voice cracks like a whip.

Fuck. 

"Months. You missed out on so much, and I was alone—“

Fuck. 

“—and it was so hard, and I—"

You stop. Swallow hard, forcing it down.

Aaron doesn’t move. He doesn’t speak. He just takes it, lets it hit him. He wishes you wouldn’t hold back. 

Because you’re right. Because there’s nothing he can say that will change it. Because you have every right to be furious with him.

Your arms tighten around yourself. Your weight shifts—uncertain, vulnerable. “I missed you.”

It falls out of you, like you didn’t mean to say it. Tears fall in devastating, nonstop rivulets down your cheeks, dripping off your chin and down your throat. 

God. He hoped, perhaps foolishly, that he would never make you cry like that.

Aaron’s breath catches. So does yours.

Your next words hit him like a freight train, whacking all the places inside him that haven’t fully unthawed since he left.

 “I missed you so much I couldn’t breathe.”

His body moves before his mind does. Or maybe it’s the other way around. Or maybe you move first.  

Maybe there’s no difference.

Your hands are in his hair. His mouth is on yours.

It shouldn’t have come to this.

Aaron knows it, feels it like a fresh wound, right alongside all the other wounds he’s inflicted on you. It should’ve been different. He should’ve told you the truth. Should’ve done this right. Should’ve been yours before he ever left. Should’ve stayed in the first place.

But, it’s everything he wanted. He’ll take the opportunity—he’s not sure he’ll ever get another. 

Your hands pull him in, drag him under. His fingers dig into your hips, a vice grip, desperate, aching. He shouldn’t hold you this tight, but he can’t help it. It’s you. You're strong. You can take it.

You taste like salt and grief and heat, like devastation. He can’t tell if he’s breathing for the first time in months, or if you’re stealing the last of his breath from his lungs.

His lips trace a path lower, dragging along your jaw, down your throat. The beard is new. The way it drags across your skin is new, foreign to him as well. He wonders if you hate it. If you love it. If you’ll let him find out.

Because he’s already memorizing this. Every sound, every tremor, every place you shudder beneath his mouth. Because some part of him doesn’t trust you won’t disappear if he lets go. 

Then, you twist your fingers into his hair. And pull, Hard.

The sound he makes is deep, unrestrained, devastated. Your nails rake against his scalp, sending fire down his spine. His chin tips up, following your grip. 

Oh.

Oh, he should not find this hot. But he does.

His pulse kicks against his ribs. His fingers tighten, a sharp inhale. He is absolutely fucked. But he knew that already. He’s known for years. 

You pull his mouth back to yours, kiss him like you want to ruin him. He thinks, helplessly, that you already have.

You break away, breathless, panting against his lips. Then, so soft, so close, like a secret—"I can't stand you."

The words should destroy him. Instead, they send a rush of heat straight to his spine. He hears it—the lie. Because you kiss him first. Because you don’t let him go. Because you don’t mean it.

Aaron exhales, almost a laugh, almost something else. His hands slide up, framing your face, his forehead pressed against yours. He kisses you again.

Then, so close you could breathe the words straight from his mouth, "I know."

And then, you shove him. It’s deliberate.

Aaron stumbles backward, off balance for half a second. His back hits the couch, hard. His breath punches out of him, sharp. His chest heaves, his blood roaring in his ears. His hair is a wreck from your fingers, his skin flushed, burning.

Oh. Oh, this is new.

He’s still. He looks at you. And he waits. Because he won’t take this from you. He won’t make another decision on your behalf.

If you want this, it has to be you. 

He doesn’t have to wait long. 

You strip off your shirt, your bra still in place, and Aaron—Jesus Christ. His breath hitches, his hands flex at his sides, but he doesn’t reach for you. Not yet.

Because he’s kept you waiting. Because he needs to let you come to him.

You do.

His hands find your ribs as you settle in his lap, steadying, grounding, holding on. You’re warm, certain, so fucking beautiful, and you’re looking at him like you could destroy him.

Maybe you already have. Maybe he wants you to.

“What are you doing?” His voice is hoarse, already unraveling.

You thread your fingers back into his hair, keeping him close. “I want you.” You don’t hesitate, but your voice is a rasp, on the verge of breaking. “I can barely look at you, I’m so mad. But I still want you.”

And that fucking wrecks him.

Because you shouldn’t want him. Not after everything. Not after the lies, the cowardice, the months apart.

But you do. And God help him—he wants you too.

Something breaks open in your voice, something unguarded. “I always have.”

And that’s it.

Aaron watches as your face crumples, like keeping it together had been the real fight. Like losing control with him is what finally breaks you.

His own breath fractures. This is his fault, his doing. His thumbs sweep your cheeks, catching your tears, but there’s no stopping this. He wants to fix it. To apologize, to explain, to make this right. But there are no words that will undo what he’s done.

So, instead, he kisses you.

Soft. Slow. Like he can pull you back to him, back from this. Like he can hold you here, safe. He wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t believe him. He doesn’t.

His lips move against your skin, catching the tears before they fall, mapping the places he’s ruined, the places he wants to keep. You haven’t pulled away, haven’t cooled off. His nose brushes against yours, his breath uneven.

“While I’d much rather we do this when you’re not considering homicide…”

He says it to make you laugh. He says it because he’s losing you.

And then you do. A breathless, shaky little thing, wet with tears.

And Aaron smiles. 

He shouldn’t. He shouldn’t, but he does. Because you laughed. Because he made you laugh. He can still make you laugh. 

“…I’ve wanted you so badly.” He drags his hands down your back, pressing you flush against him. “Years,” he breathes between kisses, “years, years, and years of wanting you.”

He kisses you again, because he doesn’t know what else to do. Because you let him.

Your arms slide behind him, your hands splayed across his shoulders, warm and certain. It shouldn’t stagger him the way it does—the way you hold him like this, the way you keep him close despite everything.

But it does.

He straightens to support you, guiding his hands up your back, fingers mapping your spine, learning you all over again. The intimacy of it makes something in his chest ache, but he doesn’t stop. He studies you, unable to believe you’re here, that you’re letting him have this—have you.

And then, you tuck yourself away.

You press your face into his neck, folding into him like you can’t bear to meet his eyes anymore. He exhales sharply, a quiet, shuddering thing, wrapping his arms around you like he can keep you here. Keep you his.

His hand moves up and down your back, broad, steady, grounding. 

For you, or for himself, he isn’t sure.

His lips press into your temple, soft, reverent. He lets himself have this moment, lets himself hold you. 

Then, after a minute, after too short a minute, you tip your head back to meet his gaze.

And there it is. The warning.

“I’m not any less mad at you.”

It lands between you like a thrown gauntlet.

Aaron’s lips part slightly, something tightening in his throat. He doesn’t even think about refuting it. He just nods, something like understanding settling over his features. “I know.”

And he does. He doesn't know exactly how much damage he’s done, exactly how much he deserves your fury. That doesn’t mean he won’t spend the rest of his life trying to earn back something better.

He doesn’t deserve the softness he presses against your jaw, doesn’t deserve the chance to ask for more.

But he does anyway.

His voice is quieter when it comes this time, careful, aching. “Will you let me show you how sorry I am?” A kiss, feather-light against your pulse. “For everything?”

His lips linger just a second too long, and he prays, silently, please, please, please. 

He’s done more praying in the past three days than he has in a decade. 

And then, breathless, you give him the only answer that matters. “Yes.” 

Aaron doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t stop to think.

His grip tightens around you, steady and unyielding, and then he stands, lifting you effortlessly. Your legs cinch tight around his waist, a reflex, a trust, and something in his chest fractures with it.

He doesn’t deserve that trust. But he’ll take it. He’ll hold it carefully. He’ll earn it.

Or, more accurately, earn it back.

His lips never leave your skin as he carries you through the apartment. He presses slow, deliberate kisses into your jaw, down your throat, against the soft hinge where your shoulder meets your neck. You feel so warm in his arms, so right, and it makes something deep in his gut clench tight.

His fingers flex at your back, keeping you close, as if letting go might wake him from this, might drag him back into a world where he hasn’t broken you and left you alone to pick up the pieces.

He barely registers where he’s going. Nothing in this apartment matters—not the dim glow of the lamps, not the doorways he barely clears, not the way the bedroom smells like home, even after five months, because it smells like you.

You’re the only important thing in the room. 

He feels you shift against him, the way your fingers wind in his hair at the nape of his neck, the way your breath flutters across his skin. You rest your cheek against his temple, nuzzling just slightly, just enough that his throat goes tight. He doesn’t think you even realize you’re doing it. It’s so painfully fond. And maybe something else, but he can’t afford to think that way right now. 

God, he wants to tell you. Wants to say something that can hold the weight of everything coiled in his chest, everything he’s felt for years but never let himself speak.

Instead, he swallows it all down and focuses on the way your skin feels under his lips. He can’t get enough of you. Never has. Never will.

When he reaches the bed, he lays you down so gently—so careful, so controlled, as if you might disappear under his hands.

You don’t. You just look up at him, blinking, breathless, eyes blown dark with heat.

He follows you down, crawling over you, bracing himself with a knee between your thighs. He doesn’t waste time, doesn’t let himself hesitate, doesn’t let himself think too hard about what this means, what he’s risking.

He just kisses you. It’s deep, consuming, something that steals the breath straight from his lungs. He can’t help it. He needs you, needs this, like he needs air.

And then—you move.

The breath rushes out of him in a sharp exhale as his back hits the mattress, his brain struggling to catch up to his body. His hands are still on your hips, steadying, anchoring, but they’re not guiding.

No, that’s you.

You’re the one in control. You shift above him, rolling your hips just once—and he feels everything. The pressure, the friction, the heat. His jaw flexes, his fingers tightening against you, but he doesn’t stop you.

Doesn’t want to stop you.

Because you’re confident in this. Unshaken. Deliberate. You don’t hesitate, don’t question, don’t second-guess yourself the way he knows you do in quieter moments. You’re the same person he’s trusted for years in the field, his true second, the same one who stands firm in conviction, who won’t let anything—anyone—intimidate you out of what you wants.

Including me…

And maybe—maybe he’s proud.

Because he’s watched you become this, watched you shape yourself into someone who knows your own power, who knows how to wield it. And the fact that you feel safe enough to wield it with him—that you trust him enough to take what you want, without waiting for permission—

His head tips back, his eyes falling shut for a moment as you do it again, dragging yourself against him with slow, deliberate intent. Fuck.

The little smile that flickers across your face—just barely, just enough to be felt—makes his pulse kick hard against his ribs.

You’re teasing him.

You’re enjoying this.

He’s so fucked.

The bulge in his cargos presses up between your thighs, exactly where you want it, and the needy little whimper that escapes you? That goes straight to his spine, tightens the heat low in his gut until he has to force himself to keep his hands where they are, keep his breathing steady, keep from bucking his hips to chase the friction you’re so cruelly denying him.

Aaron knows what’s coming before it happens.

He sits up slowly, adjusting to keep you balanced, his hands firm at your waist. But his mind is already running ahead, anticipating, bracing. He’s not sure if it’s better or worse that you don’t hesitate, that your fingers slip beneath the hem of his shirt with ease, a quiet confidence that he finds unbearably attractive. You don’t ask. You don’t second-guess. You just take.

And he lets you.

Aaron keeps his eyes on you as you drag the fabric higher, your knuckles brushing along his ribs, your mouth following the path your hands carve. He should be lost in the heat of it, should be too far gone to feel anything but you—but then, the shirt is off. And reality settles heavy in his chest.

His arms come down before he can think better of it, hands hovering like he can shield himself from you, like he can keep you from seeing.

But you have seen. That night in his apartment, when he was still stitched together, barely past the shock of it. You were careful then, diligent, touching him only to clean and dress the worst wounds, to make sure he wasn’t going to fall apart in front of you.

This is different.

He’s leaner now. He can see it in the way your eyes trace him, taking in the sharp cut of his torso, the definition of muscle through skin, the stark tan line where his collar sat in the desert. The scars—raised, jagged, ugly—catch the dim light of the room. He knows how they must look to you. Worse than before.

He almost moves to cover them again.

But then, you take his hands. Firm. Steady. A quiet refusal.

If you don’t get to hide, neither does he.

The breath leaves his chest in a slow, measured exhale. You’re not afraid of what you see. That’s what undoes him. Not the physical touch—though that alone is enough to drive him insane—but the way you touch him. The way your fingers skim over the deep ridge beneath his ribs, the way your lips follow, warm and certain.

He doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until your mouth brushes the wound just beneath his collarbone. The biggest one. The one you dressed yourself two years ago, hands so gentle he almost forgot the pain.

You don’t forget. You never forget. Your lips linger, tracing the jagged lines like a promise.

I see you. I know you. I know what’s here, what you hide. I know what I’m getting into.

His hand finds the back of your neck, fingers curling at the base of your skull, his thumb passing slowly beneath your ear. A tether. A plea. A prayer.

The restraint in his breath is something you recognize, something you know as well as you know the way he holds himself together for everyone else. But this is for you.

He doesn’t move until you do. Until you pull back, just slightly, just enough to look him in the eye again. Until your hands frame his face like he’s something worth keeping. Worth knowing.

His breath catches.

Your lips brush against his, soft, searching. Once, twice. His lashes flutter as he exhales into you, something raw in his chest unraveling all at once. And when you deepen the kiss—when it shifts from tenderness to something more desperate, more consuming—he lets it.

Because he’s done resisting you.

His hands move before his mind catches up, slipping down the line of your spine, tracing every inch of skin he can reach. He needs to touch you, needs to feel that you’re here, that you’re still here.

Then he reaches the clasp of your bra. His fingers pause. You shift against him, tipping your head down, your breath hot against his neck. Then, barely above a whisper—“Please.”

The sound of it, the trust in it, slams through him so hard he nearly forgets how to breathe.

Aaron swallows. His hand trembles, just once. Then, achingly, tenderly, he laces his free hand with yours, bringing your joined hands to his lips. His mouth presses against your knuckles in silent reverence, in something dangerously close to devotion.

You smile into his skin.

Though it’s been years since he’s done this with any finesse, he unhooks the band with a pinch and twist of his left hand.

It’s the little things. 

When he finally slides his hands around to your ribs, he does it slow. Measured. Gentle. Brushing the underside of your breasts just enough to make you shiver as your bra is cast aside.

His eyes trace over you, seeing you for the first time, committing all of you to memory.

And he knows, without a doubt—he’ll never stop wanting you.

The words leave his mouth before he can think, before he can stop himself. “You’re so beautiful.”

And it’s not just that. It’s the way you look at him, the way you let him see you. It’s the warmth of your skin under his hands, the way you hold him like you’ve already forgiven him—like he hasn’t ruined this beyond repair.

You don’t respond with words. You just fall into him, closing the distance, letting him press his lips to your jaw, your cheek, before finding your mouth again. 

He can feel your breath, warm and unsteady, mingling with his own as he whispers it into you. “I missed you.”

His answer comes without hesitation. “I missed you, too.”

And he knows it’s true. But it doesn’t matter, because missing him isn’t the same as forgiving him. Missing him isn’t the same as trusting him. And before he can dwell too long on that, before he can even think to prepare for whatever’s coming next, you lean back just slightly—just enough to make him pause.

Your gaze sharpens, assessing, and something in his chest locks up when you narrow your eyes at him. He doesn’t get the chance to figure out why before you press two fingers to his sternum and push.

His back hits the mattress.

He resists at first. Instinct, habit, something older than language. But then he feels you—your weight, the slow, deliberate press of your fingers against his chest—and he exhales, forcing himself to relax. Letting you settle over him.

He’s never let anyone else do this to him. He’s never wanted to.

For a second, you just look at him. He looks back. His chest rises and falls beneath you, his pulse slow but strong, his breath steady, even as his head spins.

“I missed you more when I didn’t know you lied to me.”

The words hit him like a slug to the chest.

His body reacts before his mind catches up—his face falling, his jaw tightening, his hands twitching at his sides like he wants to reach for you. To fix it.

There’s nothing to fix.

He opens his mouth, a thousand apologies and explanations already forming, already reaching for you, but before he can say a word, you press three fingers to his lips.

He stops.

The look in your eyes, steady and unrelenting, tells him everything he needs to know.

I don’t want to hear it.

And worse—worse than that—

I [redacted] you more than I could ever be angry with you.

He knows what he sees in your gaze. He just can’t bear to name it. It’s a mercy, and it’s a cruelty.

His lips press together, holding back whatever useless words had been ready to spill out, and he lets you take from him what you want.

And then you move.

You slide down his body, deliberate and slow, your touch burning through the fabric of his cargos as you reach for the button at his waistband.

His breath catches.

His fingers tighten in the duvet, pressing into the linen, grounding himself as you work open the button, as you drag the zipper down, tooth by tooth, as you brush your lips against his stomach and—

His abs twitch.

Oh.

Your smile is small, almost indulgent. That does something to him, something sharp and aching. He’s not used to this—being wanted, being adored, being the thing someone enjoys. He’s out of practice. 

He’s not sure he’s ever been in practice. 

He’s never wanted to be anything more.

And then your weight shifts, your fingers hooking in the fabric, and in one smooth motion, you strip him. His cargos land somewhere on the floor, forgotten, and suddenly, there’s nothing between you but the thin stretch of his boxer briefs.

You straddle him, the heat of your body pressing down against his, and he swears—he swears—it takes everything in him not to flip you onto your back and take control again.

But he doesn’t.

Because you’re here. Because you’re guiding this. Because after everything, you still trust him enough to take him apart piece by piece.

His hands rise to your hips, but he doesn’t pull you down. Doesn’t push.

His breath shudders out, jaw tight. “Fuck.”

From the way your body pulses, he knows exactly what his curse does to you. His hands find your hips, grounding, but you drag yourself against him anyway, chasing friction that neither of you can really use.

Okay. He’s done letting you play. Before you can blink, you’re on your back, his mouth crashing into yours. You fist your hands in his hair, and the deep groan inspires a tighter hold, a press of your chest against his.

“Tell me,” he pants into your kisses. “Tell me what you want.”

“Just you. All of you.”

His lips trail lower, down your neck, between your breasts, over your stomach. When he reaches the edge of your pants, he flicks his gaze up, asking permission. You give it—of course you do—and he hooks his fingers at your hips, the back of his fingers touching bare skin, dragging everything down at an excruciating pace.

You’re bare before him, and his eyes darken as he takes you in. He wets his lips and lets out a low, appreciative hum as his lower lip catches between his teeth. Your shiver opens a deep well of satisfaction in his chest. He plans on filling it. 

He kisses the inside of your knee, then your thigh, his beard scraping along your sensitive skin. 

He flicks his gaze up again, holding your eyes as he presses a slow, deliberate kiss to your clit. Your head drops back, and that’s all the invitation he needs. 

His breath is hot against your skin. His grip is sure, steady, hands pressing your thighs apart, keeping you open for him.

And God, he wants this. Wants to memorize you, to map every reaction, to learn you like this—like he should have years ago.

He’s wanted this for so long. Too long. He can’t afford to get this wrong.

He starts slow, deliberate, tentative in a way that surprises even him. His tongue flicks out, just barely, just enough to taste— just enough to gauge your reaction.

You gasp.

His stomach tightens. His cock throbs in his briefs.

Noted.

His first real taste of you is exquisite. He lets out a slow, measured exhale against you, pressing a hand to your hip to hold you steady, to hold himself steady, because fuck—he knew he’d like this, but he didn’t know it would be like this.

And then, he listens.

He pays attention.

He moves with purpose, with precision, adjusting every time you react, taking note of every sigh, every shudder, every shift of your hips.

Here? He flicks his tongue over your clit, light, experimental—

You jolt.

Good. Noted.

And this? He seals his lips around you and sucks—

Your thighs tremble. Your fingers yank at his hair, dragging him impossibly closer.

Fuck. Noted. Very much noted.

The corner of his mouth lifts, smug, pleased. He likes this. Likes figuring you out, likes learning what you like, what makes you completely fall apart.

And then he groans—deep, low, sloppy—because now he’s imagining all the other things he’s going to get to learn about you.

Your entire body reacts to the sound. He notices. His cock throbs at the realization.

There we go.

Then, something clicks. He’s got you now. The hesitation, the warm-up period? Done.

Aaron sinks into this fully, into you, into the way your body responds under his mouth. He licks into you with purpose now, slow, deep, intentional. Now, he’s mastering the craft.

His nose brushes against you. His beard drags, just slightly, just enough to heighten everything. You twitch, sharp and sudden, and his stomach clenches.

Your fingers tighten in his hair, tugging, pulling, and he groans, the sound muffled against you, like he doesn’t even care that you’re using him like this. Like he likes it. Like it spurs him on.

It does.

It so does.

He shifts lower, pressing you further into the mattress, pushing your legs wider as he works you open, devours you, wrecks you.

And God, he could stay here all night.

Your back arches, your body tightening, and he knows—he knows you’re getting close, he can feel it, taste it, hear it  

Your voice is breathless, his name falling from your lips like a prayer.

“Oh fu— Aaron...”

He nearly loses it right there—his control, his focus, his goddamn mind—because he’s spent years trying not to imagine exactly this.

Trying not to think about how you’d sound, how you’d say his name when you fell apart for him, when your body gave in and let him make you come. Trying not to get off to the thought of it in some hotel shower on some case in some city he can’t even remember anymore.

And now? Now, he doesn’t have to imagine.

It’s real.

He grins against you, impossibly smug, and it’s with that same arrogance that he slips a finger, and another, and another into you. It’s practical as well as experimental—he’s not a proud man, but he knows you’ll need some preparation. Aaron exhales, steadying himself, locking in, remembering what he knows—

70% consistency. 30% locked focus from the receiving party.

That’s it.

And he is nothing if not consistent.

He presses his tongue against you with purpose, with focus, settling into a rhythm, learning every time you react, watching you, adjusting, sharpening, perfecting. 

He’s going to make you come like this.

Noted.

"Aaron."

It’s a demand, not a request, and it cuts straight through the haze in his brain.

He stops immediately, head snapping up, meeting your eyes without hesitation. His body is still humming from the wreckage he’s made of you, still throbbing, but none of that matters when he sees the look on your face.

Not distress. Not overstimulation. Just hunger.

"Come here."

His stomach tightens. His cock twitches against the sheets. His hands are unsteady when they leave your thighs, but not from hesitation. From want.

He doesn’t waste time. He shifts onto his knees, rising between your legs, and finally—finally—slides his boxer briefs down.

The moment he’s free, you inhale, sharp and surprised, your eyes dragging over him. He watches your expression shift, the way your pupils darken as you take him in fully.

It’s unreal—that look. That gaze, eating him alive, like you want him just as desperately as he wants you. 

Aaron has been in control of himself for years—through crises, interrogations, literal torture. But this? You looking at him like this? The slow rise of your eyebrows as you fully clock just how hard he is for you, how he’s already leaking, how absolutely incredible he looks with his lips and chin still shining with you—

God willing, I will never wake up from this dream.

His jaw tightens, fingers twitching at his sides.

A smug flicker catches in his chest—just for a second, just because he can see what this does to you—he knows it shows up on his face. It’s on purpose. 

And then your eyes narrow. 

He doesn’t have long to process the shift before you launch yourself at him, and he catches you. His hands are already on you, already gripping tight, already controlling the fall—but you? You’re the one taking this.

And that? That knocks the breath from his lungs.

Your mouth crashes into his. He meets you with equal force, kissing you back with everything in him. Tender and rough at the same time, because that’s what you are—both, always. His fingers dig into your hips, pressing into the bruises he already left behind, into the proof that this is real, that he gets to have this, have you.

Still, even through the dizzying fog, Aaron needs more.

His hands slide lower. He hauls you up the bed, lifting you like you weigh nothing, rolling over you until you’re right where he needs you. Your knee hooks high over his hip, his body slotting against yours, fitting together like it’s something you’ve always done, like it’s something you should have been doing for years.

He reaches blindly for the bedside drawer. He’s pretty sure the condoms in there haven’t been touched since Jack was born, but…

"I'm covered," you murmur, breathless.

His chin dips, just slightly. "Me too." 

There’s a brief moment—just one—where you both pause. The heat still simmers between you, still crackles, but there’s something else there, too. You both know this would never be an option with anyone else—the amount of trust required is too great. 

A beat.

Aaron watches as your mouth tugs into a small, knowing smile.

And then he’s on you again.

His weight presses into you, his arms caging you in, his lips devouring yours. The taste of you is still fresh in his mouth, and he knows you can taste it too. The little noises you let out—soft, breathy, drunk with it—send another pulse of arousal down his spine.

Then—your hand moves. Your fingers wrap around his cock, warm and sure, so fucking confident, and oh—

His head tips back instinctively, eyes rolling closed for a split second, his mouth falling open—

Oh, you love that. And fuck, you’re mean about it.

You pull away from his mouth, just to watch him, just to take in the way he ruts into your palm, the way his hips twitch, desperate, chasing the slow, steady glide of your fingers.

He doesn’t even realize his breathing has gone ragged until he drags his gaze back down to meet yours, sees the sharp, delighted glint in your expression—

Oh, Jesus Christ. Trouble.

Aaron exhales through his teeth, head spinning, hands tightening on your hips like he’s barely keeping himself together.

Then, you let him go.

His groan is wrecked, frustrated, almost pleading, but before he can protest, before he can beg you to put your hands back right fucking now, your fingers slip between your own legs. You coat your fingers, and his stomach drops—tightens—tangles itself into knots—

He is absolutely going to lose his goddamn mind. 

Thank God he jerks off regularly (to literally this scenario) or else he would have already embarrassed himself. 

He’s usually good at keeping his reactions in check, keeping his body in line, keeping himself together—but not here, not with you. His fingers twitch against your hips, his nails pressing just slightly into your skin, like he’s trying to ground himself—like he’s trying to remind himself that this is real. That you’re here. That you’re doing this to him. That you’re touching him like you own him.

And maybe you do.

You take him in your hand again, now wet, slick, stroking him slow, slow, slow.

Your thumb teases the head, spreading the wetness, and a guttural sound rips from his throat.

The pleasure is sharp, coiling deep, pulling him under…

And then—then, you hum. Not a full sound. Not even a real reaction. Just… pleased. Like you’re learning something new about him.

Damn. 

Aaron crashes his mouth against yours, breathless, needy, his chest tight with something he doesn’t even have the words for. A small, desperate whine leaves his throat. 

And you fucking react to it. Of course you do. 

Your grip tightens. Your fingers stroke him with a fraction more force, like you’re rewarding him for it.

Your hand guides him, aligns him, and he follows, lets you, lets you pull him in, bring him home.

The first push inside you is slow. Careful. Barely anything at all. But it’s enough to steal your breath, to make your forehead rise against his, to make his entire body seize as heat floods his spine. 

Holy fuck.

His fingers tighten where they frame your hip, anchoring himself, holding himself back, forcing himself to take his time. Because God, he wants to bury himself in you right now, wants to lose himself in how warm and wet and tight you are, but—

No. Not yet.

You deserve better than that.

So, he rocks into you, slowly, each thrust giving you more, stretching you, filling you, until the burn in your expression softens into something else—something less tense, something less strained, something that makes his entire body throb with satisfaction.

You feel so fucking good around him. So good he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to function after this, doesn’t know how he’s supposed to think about anything else after knowing how perfectly you fit around him.

And the worst part—the worst, cruelest part—

He knew you would. He imagined this. And now it’s real.

A slow smile tugs at his lips, satisfaction curling in his chest, pride flickering through the haze as he watches you adjust to him, watches you take him.

Your eyes narrow at the expression. “What?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He just pushes in a little further—more than he meant to—his restraint fraying, unraveling at the edges.

Your gasp sends a sharp pulse of heat down his spine, and he clenches his jaw. Exhales through his teeth. “It’s just—” His brows pull together, his voice lower now.. “You feel even better than I ever imagined.”

Something flickers in your eyes. 

You kiss him like you’re trying to pull him under, like you want to drown him in you, and he lets you, lets himself lose himself completely, lets the air leave his lungs as he sinks all the way inside you, your legs wrapped around him, falling into your arms. He can’t feel anything that isn’t you.

He can understand why Menelaus went to war for Helen of Troy.

Your body throbs around him, tight and hot and perfect, and everything stops.

His hands are trembling where they grip your hips. His breathing is shallow, uneven.

He’s imagined this for years, imagined splitting you open on his cock, imagined you gasping against his lips, imagined you shuddering as you take him all the way in—but now that it’s real, now that he’s here, buried inside you, fully seated in the one person he’s wanted for years—

He has to fight for control.

His forehead presses against yours. His eyes close.  His pulse pounds in his ears. His body screams at him to move. 

And then—your voice, low and breathless, knocks him clean off his axis. “Do you want to show me?”

His eyes flicker open, hazy, dazed, like he’s been drugged, like he’s not entirely sure what he just heard. “What?”

You pull back just enough to look him in the eye, and fuck, you are smug. 

"Do you want to be good and show me how sorry you are?"

Oh.

Oh.

The words hit him like a live wire. He throbs. His breath catches.

Because yes.

Yes.

That’s all he wants, all he’s wanted. To be good for you, to be what you need, to make this right. 

This isn’t enough, but it’s a damn good start. 

He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t need to. His response is immediate.

He pulls almost all the way out and thrusts back in.

Slow. Steady. Reverent.

His lips brush your cheek, his fingers skate over your hairline—sweet, almost chaste.

Because the rest of him? The rest of him is devouring you.

He’s all over you, branding himself into every inch of you. He moves with purpose, with intention, holding your body steady as he fucks into you, as he gives you what you asked for.

This isn’t about his own pleasure. This isn’t about a quick fuck to work out frustration. This is an apology. A confession. A surrender. This is him loving you.

And God, he hopes you can feel it.

You shift beneath him. He recognizes the movement too late.

Before he can stop you—before he can ask why—You push him.

And he lets you.

He lets you take him over, lets you flip him onto his back, lets you push him flat against the mattress.

And then—you sink down onto him again.

Aaron’s head tips back so hard it nearly bounces against the pillow.

Oh, Jesus.

His hands clench around your thighs, his breath punching out of him in a sharp, shattered exhale.

He can feel everything. The way you take him, the way you slide down slow, the way your body grips him perfectly, hot and tight and fucking ruining him. Bottoming out never felt so good. 

His hands fall to your hips, barely gripping, barely holding himself together. And then—then, he makes the mistake of looking up at you.

And it is devastating.

Your head is tipped back, your mouth open, your body rolled forward in pleasure. Your hands brace against his shoulders, the pressure firm, grounding.

He’s been on his back before, hands gripping hips, taking and taking and taking.

But this? This is different. This is you. This is someone he’s spent years wanting, knowing, witnessing, years fantasizing about, years imagining—only to finally have you, and to learn that his imagination didn’t come remotely fucking close.

You are using him. Taking what you want. And he loves it.

Aaron doesn’t fight you when you pull his hands from your hips, lacing your fingers and using them for leverage. 

He lets you have him.

Your hips move, slow and deliberate, dragging against him, dragging him deeper into you. Every little shift sends sharp, aching pulses of pleasure through you—he can feel them, feel the way you clench around him, taking everything he gives you, not letting a single inch go to waste.

And then you kiss him, teeth scraping his lower lip, a punishment, and his hips jerk beneath you, a groan breaking free.

You’re still mad at him. He can feel it in the way your nails dig into his skin, in the way you take and take and take from him. And maybe he should feel worse about that, maybe he should feel ashamed—but he doesn’t.

Because he can give you this. Because you’re still here. Because if this is what you need, he’ll give it and take it. Gladly.

Your pace picks up, your body rolling perfectly, your breath ragged against his mouth. His grip on your hands tightens, keeping them locked right where they are, letting you use him the way you need.

And then—he watches you.

You’re fucking stunning like this, your head tipped back, mouth parted, skin warm and starting to sweat, giving you a glow that’s almost ethereal. He’s seen you angry, seen you reckless, seen you determined. But this? This is unrestrained, wild, desperate. You’re fucking yourself on his cock, using him for your own pleasure—and it’s the single hottest thing he’s ever witnessed in his life.

He doesn’t know what heaven looks like, but it has to be this.

He doesn’t want his mind to wander too far, but if he fully focuses on this moment—the way you feel, the sounds you make, the expression of unadulterated pleasure on your beautiful, familiar face—he will lose the last vestiges of his control. At the moment, that control is the only part that matters. 

Waiting years for sex? Fine. Routine. Waiting years for bad sex? Unsat. Unacceptable. 

Entirely and admittedly selfish, he’s not too proud to admit he’s got a reputation to uphold, here, even after nearly four years of self-imposed celibacy. 

Then—you shift. Your fingers tighten around his, taking his hands and pinning them over his head.

Oh. Oh, fuck.

He resists for a second—pure reflex—and then something in his chest breaks open. Let's go.

He lets you pin him down, lets you keep him there, your fingers wrapped so tight around his. His body burns beneath yours, heat coiling, twisting, unraveling.

He watches, dazed, his entire body wrought with need, with awe, as you take him. He’s not even sure this passes for participation anymore. 

Your hips keep rolling, every slow, deliberate grind dragging your clit against his abdomen, making you shake above him. The sight is devastating—you trembling, you clenching, your breath hitching every time you take him deep.

This should be illegal.

And he loves it.

You kiss him, hard. He kisses you back, harder. His hips jerk up instinctively, meeting yours, giving you more, chasing everything you’ll let him have.

His jaw tightens. His breath punches out of him. His fingers twitch where they’re locked in yours, aching to grab you, to flip you back over, to fuck you into the mattress until you can’t breathe.

He doesn’t. He won’t. But his restraint is hanging on by a single thread. 

You pulse around him. It snaps. 

Just as quickly as you took control, it’s gone.

Your bodies shift. His thighs press up behind you, changing the angle, and the movement knocks you forward against his chest. Your wrists are still locked above him, still holding him down, but now—now, you can’t reach his mouth.

He can hear your frustrated little noise, feel the way you try to stretch, and that’s what does it.

Aaron moves. In a single, fluid motion, he snaps his hands free, crushes you to him, and flips you onto your back.

You barely have time to gasp before he covers you, mouth crashing into yours, hips driving forward, pressing into you, stretching you, filling you, checking in on you as he bottoms out with every stroke.

He wonders, for a second, if that was too much.

Your eyes are on him, desperate sounds falling from your mouth. 

Safe to say you’re fine.

His hands drag down your sides, anchoring, owning, branding. He ducks his head, pressing his lips to your shoulder, speaking into your skin. “God help me, I’m so in love with you.”

He’s so far gone he doesn’t even care if you hear him. 

And your nails—fuck. Your nails sink into his back and rake, deep enough that he knows he’ll still feel you tomorrow. Maybe even the next day. His groan is dark, broken, wild, spilling into your mouth like a confession. He hopes you drew blood.

His body is on fire. His entire being is focused on you. The way you feel around him.

“I missed you,” he murmurs against your throat, voice broken and rough. “I missed you so much. And I’m so sorry.”

Tears prickle at the corners of your eyes. If he looked up, off he could face you, he’d see them shine. Your voice is soft, warm. “I know, honey. I know.”

He shudders. His hips roll, slow, perfect, dragging pleasure through you like fire. His mouth moves over your skin, soothing the bruises he’s already sucked into you, devouring you with every stroke.

His voice breaks. “Touch yourself.”

Your breath catches.

“Show me.”

His forehead presses to yours, his body pulsing, pounding, aching. He lifts your hips, shifts you onto a pillow, changes the angle, drags a deep, desperate moan from your lips.

Your fingers slide between your bodies, rubbing tight circles, and he feels everything. Feels the way you tighten, the way you clench, the way your breath stutters.

“I’m close, Aaron.”

His stomach tightens. His cock throbs. “I can feel it. Where do you want me?”

Your voice is ragged, pleading, a desperate, gasping cry. “Don’t leave me. Inside me. I need all of you.”

He groans. Deep, guttural. His hips snap forward. He couldn’t imagine, even if you begged him to come inside you, that you would sound so desperate for him, and him alone.

Your fingers wind in his hair, tight. “Are you—?”

His nose brushes yours, his lips barely forming the words. “Let go for me, baby. Let me have all of you—let me see you. Put my imagination to shame.”

And then—you break.

Your body tightens, clenches, shakes. Your head tilts back, mouth open, but nothing comes out. Your orgasm takes you under, consumes you, shatters you. 

And he follows.

His body locks up, his groan debauched, desperate, ruined. His cock throbs, spills inside you, warmth flooding you, leaving nothing between you.

His forehead presses to yours, his hands shaking as he pulls you close, wraps you up, holds you together even as you fall apart.

And then—he exhales.

His body softens against yours, his hand cradling the back of your neck, thumb passing over the soft skin under your ear.

You both shudder. And for the first time in months—he feels whole again.

He captures your lips with soft, languid kisses as you both come down, like he’s trying to tether you to him, to this moment, to the reality of it. Your legs shake where they’re still wrapped around him, and he smooths his hands over your skin like he can quiet the aftershocks, like he can soothe what he’s done to you, what you’ve done to him.

When he finally slips out, your body clenches reflexively, a soft whimper breaking free, and it guts him. He presses a kiss to your temple. 

“Christ, you're perfect.” He’s sure it’s almost inaudible against your skin. He closes his eyes, squeezing them shut as he breathes you in an effort to capture the moment, to keep it forever. 

Then, reluctantly, he forces himself to move.

The bathroom light spills into the bedroom as he steps inside, casting a glow over the sheets, over your skin. He catches glimpses of you in the mirror as he wets the washcloth, and it stops him in his tracks. The slow, steady rise and fall of your breath. The sated heaviness in your limbs. You’re utterly spent, pliant, unraveled right there on his bed—because of him.

His grip tightens on the counter. A sharp inhale, through his nose. The ache low in his gut only deepens. And despite everything—despite the months of emotional silence, the war still raging between you—he knows, without a doubt, that this is where he belongs.

When he returns, he’s as careful as he knows how to be, wiping you down with slow, reverent strokes.

Then he sees it. His cum, still leaking out of you.

The sheen between your legs, the mess dripping onto the sheets—it’s his.

It slams into him all at once, a visceral, primal kind of possession. His cock twitches, uselessly spent, and he swallows hard, forcing himself to focus. Warm. Clean. Comfortable. That’s what he should be thinking about. Not—not this. Not the way he swipes the cloth over your inner thigh and gathers what he left inside you.

Jesus Christ.

The reality of it—the fact that he’s still inside you, that your body is slick with him, because of him—smacks him with a force he isn’t prepared for. It should be illegal, the sight alone.

Another slow, thick ribbon of his cum spills from you, slipping down the curve of your ass, pooling in the dip where your thigh meets the sheets. It’s obscene—the way you’re still leaking, still full of him. Like your body doesn’t want to let him go. Like it’s keeping something of him, holding onto it, even now. 

Oh, fuck.

He forces himself to finish another pass, gentle and slow. 

How is he supposed to go back to normal after this? After knowing what it’s like to clean you up after fucking you senseless? After tasting you on his tongue like some kind of sacrament?

The sight of you like this—melting into his bed, warm and blissed out—is something he thought he’d never have. Didn’t deserve. Still doesn’t.

The eyes he loves—the ones that have cut through precincts in tiny backwater towns, the ones that have rolled when he’s almost made you laugh, the ones that have held him steady for so long—are glazed-over, heavy-lidded, focused on him with a fucked-out haziness he’s only ever read about. 

And he did this.

His eyes trace every inch of you, drinking you in, committing you to memory. Your skin glows in the dim light, sticky with sweat, your lips swollen from his kisses. Something raw claws its way up his throat. It tries to speak—I missed you, I love you, I love you, I love you.

Instead, he swallows hard and forces himself to move. Blinking like he’s breaking from a trance. The cloth lands in the hamper. His hands flex at his sides, reluctant to let go.

He tugs his boxer briefs back on, his movements slow, deliberate, before padding back toward the bed. When he stretches out beside you, he leaves just enough space for you to breathe—just in case you need it.

And then, finally, finally, he allows himself to exhale.

The ceiling blurs. His breath is even, controlled, but there’s something hot behind his ribs, something pressing at the backs of his eyes. He doesn’t move, doesn’t shift, doesn’t let it show. But beside him, you stir, tucking your arm beneath your head, turning to face him.

And when your heavy, exhausted gaze lands on him, something in his chest breaks.

Because you’re still here. With him.

It’s not strange, either, knowing that you won’t talk about the mind-blowing sex you just had until the rest of your business is laid to rest. Much like everything else in your friendship, all things get the attention they’re due in their time—and no earlier.

“There was only one way to keep Emily safe, and it was for all of us to believe she was dead.”

He doesn’t look at you yet. He can’t. Instead, he watches the shadows play against the ceiling, the way the dim glow of the bedside lamp casts soft, wavering lines over the walls. He forces himself to keep his voice even, to control the pace of his breathing. The words have weight—weight he’s carried for months, weight he now must shift from himself to you.

There’s a pause, one he knows you’re waiting for him to fill. He turns his head to the side, facing you, and the moment he sees your expression—quiet, open, bracing—it hits him how badly he doesn’t want to tell you this. How much he doesn’t want to be the reason your hurt deepens, your grief stretches longer. But he owes you honesty.

“If JJ and I had told the truth…” His eyes flick to yours, just for a second. His hand twitches, like he wants to reach for you, but he doesn’t. He’s still afraid to touch you—afraid he’s forfeited the right, even after all that. “…even to you or Morgan, there was a great chance she could have been killed before she completed her mission.”

He doesn’t know if he expects you to fight him on that, but you don’t. You just nod, absorbing the words, parsing them against the months of grief you were made to bear.

“I know that doesn’t make it easier.” He lets out a breath, the weight of it pressing down on him. He rolls fully onto his side, reaching for you instinctively, pressing his forehead to yours. The proximity—your warmth, your breath fanning against his lips—nearly unravels him.

“I hated every second.” His voice is raw, breaking under the confession. “I hated knowing I had the power to make your hurt go away, but couldn’t use it. I’m so sorry for lying to you.” The words scrape against his throat like gravel. His eyes squeeze shut. “I’m sorry for leaving. I’m so sorry.”

He barely realizes he’s holding his breath, bracing for the worst—for the walls to go back up, for you to pull away. But you don’t.

Instead, you wrap yourself around him, and he clutches at you. Holds you like an anchor, like if he lets go, he’ll be lost again.

But then, your body stills. Your breath catches.

And he knows what just hit you.

Pakistan.

It strikes through him, clean and sharp—like something he should have seen coming. Because you’re right. Because that’s exactly how he managed it.

He didn’t just lie to you. He already knew he could.

He had already proven to himself that he could compartmentalize, shut you out, let you ache without him. And then he left. 

Aaron swallows, but it doesn’t dislodge the lump in his throat. His fingers tighten against your back, against the warmth of your bare skin, like maybe if he holds onto you tightly enough, he won’t feel like he’s slipping again.

Then, against his skin, he feels it—warm, quiet tears, slipping onto his collarbone.

It stabs through him like a knife. He would know.

His throat tightens. His arms instinctively cinch around you, his fingers pressing firm into your back. Like he can hold you together. Like he can hold himself together.

The breath in his chest falters, shakes. The weight in his throat swells, tightening. His ribs expand against you, his lungs pulling in a breath like they need to, like his body has made the choice before his mind can follow.

And then—he breaks.

Silent. Always silent. He’s had practice. 

How many times?

How many nights as a child, as a teenager, as a husband, as a father, as a man, as himself, has he let pain slip from his body in silence?

How many times has he gone unseen?

But this time, he’s not alone. Because you don’t say anything. You don’t try to fix it. 

Instead, you touch him.

Your hand, soft and steady, wraps around his bicep where it crosses your own, grounding him. Your other smooths down his side, gentle, deliberate, like you’re reassuring him that he won’t break apart.

That he’s allowed to feel.

His ribs expand against you, his breath slow and measured. You hold him as he eases, as the weight in his chest lightens just enough to be bearable.

And when his body finally slackens, when his grip on you shifts from clinging to holding, you press a kiss to the base of his throat, barely there, barely touching.

I’m here.I see you.

He exhales, long and slow, and for the first time since he got back, he feels something settle.

He doesn’t know when you fall asleep. Only that you do.

He follows. 

+++ september 22nd, 2011

Aaron stirs, his mind pulling him from unconsciousness with a slow, unfamiliar ease.

For once, it’s not from a nightmare. Not from the jerking halt of his own breath or the phantom echoes of gunfire rattling in his skull. Not from the sharp snap of a door shutting too hard, triggering muscle memory to reach for his sidearm.

His body tenses on instinct, ready for the discomfort of stiff joints, the bite of a cot too short for him, the lingering damp of sweat and dust clinging to his clothes. Ready for the headache that comes from sleeping under too-bright floodlights, from forcing himself into shallow, unsatisfying rest while a generator hums in the background.

But none of it comes.

Because he’s home.

And you’re here.

The realization crashes into him, rattling through his body like the first step off a plane after too long away. His fingers twitch against the sheets—his sheets. The cotton is soft—too soft, almost unfamiliar after months of rough military linens and the coarse weave of his rip-stop pants, sleeping in his boots. 

His breath catches as the night before floods back in—your hands in his hair, his name gasped against his skin, the taste of your pleasure on his tongue, the way you fit around him like you were made for him.

His lips part, an exhale slipping free, and for a moment, he doesn’t move. He doesn’t dare.

His mind latches onto evidence, the way it always does. The way he knows, with absolute certainty, that this wasn’t some elaborate dream.

The scent of you lingers, clinging to the pillows, the sheets. His own skin.

His body aches—not in that way he’s accustomed to after too little sleep and too much strain, but in a way that has everything to do with you.

The covers have been displaced, not just by restless sleep, but by hands—your hands—pulling, grasping, dragging him closer.

He shifts just slightly, reaching across the mattress—

Cool sheets. You’re gone.

Aaron’s brows furrow as his brain kicks into motion, dragging itself fully into wakefulness.

The bedroom is dark, truly dark—not just the half-light of a field jacket slung over his face to block out the glow of security lamps. The shadows are familiar. The air is still, not thick with the stifling humidity of a supply tent packed too tight with bodies.

He exhales, running a hand down his face.

Then he listens.

Faintly, from the kitchen—water running from the fridge filter.

Relief trickles through him, slow and certain. He lets his head drop back against the pillow. 

You didn’t leave. Some part of him had expected you to.

It makes sense, doesn’t it? For you, five months of unresolved anger, of longing and grief twisted up together into something too sharp to touch. Five months of holding yourself together without him.

For him, past five months have been spent in temporary quarters, never quite belonging anywhere, his surroundings always shifting, always unfamiliar.

But this—this—

You. In his kitchen. In his space.

It’s the closest thing to normal he’s had in months.

And it kills him how much he wants it to stay this way.

A part of him wants to follow, to press into your space the way he’s spent years resisting. But another part of him—the part still adjusting to the reality of this moment, to you in his home—can’t bring himself to move just yet. He can’t hear you talking to yourself, can’t hear you pacing, so maybe you’re not spiraling. Maybe you’re just drinking water. Maybe you’re not as overwhelmed by all of this as he is.

He slides a hand under your pillow, stretching—oh. He picks up your phone, checks the battery, and shakes his head. 

Yeah. No. 

You and Emily both have this terrible habit of letting your phones have a brush with death before plugging them in. Derek isn’t much better. Even with two phones, one of them is always half-dead. 

So, it might be full enough for you, but certainly not to his taste. He shifts, leaning over and plugging your phone into the charger next to your side of the bed. He can’t believe he was kidding himself before he left. He bought it, placed it, and made sure it worked. For you. 

He shakes his head and tucks himself back in, ears straining through his tinnitus for your presence in the apartment. 

A beat.

Then the clink of empty glass against the counter, left behind.

You’re coming back. The knowledge settles something deep inside him.

The bed shifts under your weight as you slide back in. And then—

Cold.

A sharp, sudden brush of your feet against his shin sends a jolt through him, a sharp contrast to the warmth of the sheets. His breath pulls in between his teeth, his whole body tensing before settling.

Jesus Christ, how are your feet always this cold?

You go still, like you’re bracing for him to move away, but he doesn’t.

Instead, his arm moves, wrapping around your waist and pulling you against him. "C'mere."

His chest presses to your back, his nose slots against your neck, his hand finds the space just beneath your ribs and holds.

His thighs trap your feet between them, and—fuck–you really are freezing. He startles slightly at the difference in temperature, muttering, “Jesus. Did you jump in the fucking river?”

You shift, like you’re about to pull away, whispering, “Sorry,” but he tightens his grip.

“Nope,” he grumbles, voice rough with sleep, his exhaustion already pulling him back under. His grip tightens just slightly. “Over faster.”

The warmth spreads between you, slow and certain.

It’s too easy, the way he tucks you close, the way he doesn’t hesitate, the way he was always going to hold you like this, no matter what.

Like he’s been waiting for this all along. Like he’s home, in the only way that matters.

+++

Aaron wakes to warmth.

He takes a slow, measured breath, careful not to disturb you where you rest against him. Your back is pressed flush to his chest, the weight of your body sinking into his, soft and pliant. His arm is looped around your waist, keeping you close, and your fingers rest lightly over his forearm. You must have reached for him in your sleep.

That realization sends something deep and bittersweet curling through his chest.

For a moment, he just listens.

The ticking of the clock in the bathroom. The hum of the refrigerator down the hall. The soft, even sound of your breath.

It’s real. You’re here. This is happening.

He’d spent so many nights overseas convincing himself this was never on the table. That when he got back, things would be irreparably different. That whatever fragile balance you’d maintained before would be shattered completely under the weight of his absence, his choices.

And maybe it still will be. You’re here now, but that doesn’t mean you’ll stay.

His jaw jumps.

He spent months, years, training himself not to want this, and now that it’s in his hands, he doesn’t know what to do with it. He spent so long pretending he could live with the distance, the boundary between you, that the reality of crossing it—shattering it—is still something he can’t quite process.

Haley would be proud of him.

The thought is immediate, striking him like a bolt of certainty. She’d be the first to roll her eyes and tell him she told him so, that he never could see what was right in front of him. And she’d be right. And God, he wishes she were here to see it—to brush her fingers through the hair over his forehead like she used to, tell him how brave he’s been.

There’s a knot in his throat as he exhales, slow and controlled, pressing his forehead lightly to the back of your shoulder.

He lets himself have one more moment of stillness before he carefully reaches behind him for his phone, feeling for the familiar weight of it on the nightstand. The screen is too bright in the dim room, making him squint slightly as he checks the time.

6:02am.

Plenty of time to get to the office if needed.

His inbox refreshes, and the email is there, waiting.

TO: Investigations and Operations, East - Behavioral Analysis Unit (MCRT) <[email protected]> CC: Robert Mueller, Director <[email protected]> FROM: Erin Strauss <[email protected]> SUBJECT: NOTICE: Suspension - Effective Immediately Pending Senate Investigation

He exhales sharply through his nose as he skims the text.

Not unexpected. But still different to see it in writing.

His lips press together as he locks the screen and sets his phone back down on the nightstand, more deliberately than necessary. Then he shifts again, pulling you closer, grounding himself in the reality of your body against his.

His hand rests against the bare skin of your hip. He traces slow, idle patterns there, barely thinking about it—just needing to feel you, needing the tactile reassurance that this is real.

Then you stir, shifting slightly, your breath catching as you stretch against him. He watches the exact moment you wake—the slow rise of awareness, the slight furrow in your brow before your muscles relax again. What a gift, to see you join the waking world, after so many months missing it. 

You press into him, your hand smoothing over his where it rests against your skin.

"Good morning," he murmurs.

You make a quiet sound—half-sigh, half-satisfied hum—before rolling over to face him, keeping just as close. Your leg drapes over his hip, locking you together.

His lips twitch. 

"Good morning," you echo, voice still heavy with sleep.

"Breakfast?" He asks, trailing his fingers over your shoulder. 

Your brow furrows slightly, still full of sleep. "Don’t we have to go in? What time is it?"

He sighs, long-suffering and heavy, tilting his chin toward the nightstand. "Just after six. Check your email."

That gets your attention. You twist and grope for your phone, fingers closing around it where it sits charging.

You unlock the screen and squint at the subject line. The moment you read it, you groan, flopping back against the pillow.

"Goddamn it."

Aaron watches, amused, as you turn back to him, scowling.

"Can’t we go at least a few months without some kind of forced unpaid vacation?"

He huffs a quiet laugh. "Guess not." Then, with a pointed look, "On the bright side… breakfast?"

+++

He doesn’t think much about it when he sets his iPod to shuffle—just another morning, another familiar routine. But when Hey Nineteen rolls in, easy and smooth, he exhales without realizing he’d been holding anything in.

The music fills the kitchen, threading through the quiet as he works, mostly to ease awareness of his tinnitus—knife through fruit, toast hitting the plate, the comfort of repetition settling into his bones. He could almost forget the months he spent on another continent, the miles of distance still stretching between here and there. Almost.

And then he glances up.

Aaron watches you twist back and forth on the barstool, your chin propped in your hands. You’re watching him from your seat at the island, eyes soft in the morning light. You don’t say anything, just tilt your head, lips twitching like you’re holding back a smile when you catch him looking. 

You’re wearing one of his old Paul McCartney & Wings shirts, and something about it sends a wave of warmth through his chest. You’ve worn his clothes before, but this time it’s not a necessity or convenience. You didn’t pull it from the drawer in Jack’s room like you did in the spring. This time, you took it from his drawer, in his room.

It settles something in him.

He slides the plate of fruit toward you, brushing his fingers against your wrist in passing. Not intentional. Not really.

He rounds the island with his own. He watches you dig in, quietly grateful you’re eating. He expected more silence this morning, maybe even a carefully constructed wall between you. But there you are, in his shirt, in his home, watching him with something that almost looks like ease.

He nearly lets himself believe in it. That this is something real, something tangible, something he can keep. He watches you, the ease in your posture, the quiet satisfaction in your expression, and it makes something in his chest go tight. 

This is the moment, isn’t it?

It’s never been a question of whether he loves you. It’s only ever been a question of if, or when, he should say it.

He lets out a slow exhale. His body feels warm—content, settled in a way it hasn’t been in months. It has to be that simple, right? Maybe honesty is the best way forward—it usually is. Just the truth. He owes you that much, at least, after everything. 

And he knows what honesty looks like with you. He’s seen it in the moments you weren’t supposed to notice him watching: the way your brow furrowed in concentration when you helped Jack glue something, the light in your eyes when you laughed or rolled your eyes at Derek, the way you let out a satisfied, smug little hum when you won a poker game on the jet and claimed the pretzel pot. Years ago now, the time he pretended to be asleep in the backseat just to hear you and JJ sing along—maybe off-key in some places, but full of joy—to some ridiculous pop song on the radio.

It’s in the way you squared your shoulders and met his gaze head-on when he was recovering from Foyet, the way you changed his dressings without hesitation, the way you never pitied him, even when you cried for him. It’s in the way you stood on the back deck of the big house with Haley, giggling over something that felt secret and sacred between you both.

He knew it at Liberty Ranch, when you were shot and nearly blown up, and he knew it when you held his son’s hand and kept him safe on the worst days of his life, hiding Jack’s face from the destruction of his only home, his mother’s blood on the floor. 

And he knows it now, looking at you in his shirt, in his home, eating the food he made for you.

But you’re done eating. And he’s out of time. He clears his throat, his voice steady, even as something thrums in his chest.

“This may be a bad time, but do you want to talk about us at all?”

Your reaction is immediate. The slight stiffening of your shoulders, the way your fingers flex against his before pulling away. He feels the loss acutely, his hands tightening into loose fists in his lap. That was the wrong thing to say, probably. 

Pushing too hard, too fast. Fuck. 

He forgets that he’s the guilty melancholic in this scenario, where you’re the righteous, biblically-accurate angel with the wrath of God at your back. 

Or maybe that’s just… Catholic. Those years of boarding school really did a number on his psyche. 

For a moment, you just look at him, and his breath feels too tight in his chest. 

“Can we just... be? Right now?” Your voice is small, hesitant. It’s almost like you’re afraid of making a mistake, of pushing him away. 

What a patently absurd notion. And yet. 

Aaron nods before he even fully processes the words. There’s no argument in him, no plea to rush this along. 

You shift, picking at the hem of his shirt you wear, and it takes every ounce of restraint he has not to reach for your hands again. He listens, as you stumble through your reasoning—settling back into normal, taking things slow, not naming this just yet.

Of course you need time. He left. He lied. He let his fear guide him, not once, but twice, and it’s left him standing on uneven ground with you. And yet, despite all of it, you’re still here. Being brave. Braver than he’s ever been. 

Aaron swallows down the lump in his throat, nodding. “I understand.” His voice is steady, but his fingers twitch in his lap, aching to touch you, to anchor himself in you.

“I just… I just need time.”

“Okay.”

He doesn’t hesitate this time. He tugs you forward, settling you between his knees. His hands rest lightly on your waist—an unspoken reassurance, a quiet promise that he’ll give you all the time you need.

And then, because it’s been sitting at the tip of his tongue for longer than he can even remember, he finally says it.

“This may go without saying, but…” He meets your gaze, holds it. “I love you.”

It’s terrifying.

He was right–there is no moment of grand revelation, no surge of adrenaline. He just says it, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Because it is. It has been, for years.

You don’t move at first. You just look at him, and something flickers behind your eyes.

His stomach clenches.

And then, the tension drains from your shoulders. Your breath comes out in a quiet, breathless laugh. “I love you, too.”

His breath catches. For a moment, the world tilts.

The words settle over him like warmth after a deep, bone-chilling cold—like stepping into the sun after too long in the dark. Something sharp in his chest eases, unraveling in a way that almost makes him dizzy. He’s held onto this for so long, gripped it so tightly, convinced himself over and over again that he would never hear you say it. And now, here you are, looking at him like he’s something worth holding onto, like this is something worth having. Something you’re not scared of. 

The weight doesn’t just ease—it evaporates. In its place, something bright and heady sparks to life, something that feels like joy in its purest, most overwhelming form.

Then, with a crooked smile, you add, “I promise, no matter how much I hate you, I love you more.”

It’s real.

It’s yours.

And when you release his hands and wrap your arms around him, he exhales like he’s been holding his breath for five months. Maybe he has. 

His hand finds the back of your head, cradling you to him. He presses his face into your shoulder, letting his eyes close.

For the first time in what feels like forever, the world goes quiet.

You love him.

+++

His expression doesn’t change, but there’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes. His eyes dart out his window, and back to you before he speaks. “I think we’re well past ‘favors,’ don’t you?”

“Maybe,” you hedge playfully, stepping closer. You take a breath. “I think I’m going home—to mine—after we’re done today.”

Aaron’s brows lift, just a fraction, and he sits back a little. Not surprised, exactly. Just… not what he wanted to hear.

“Just for tonight,” you add, keeping your tone light. “I need to refresh my go bag, and I have a mountain of laundry that’s threatening to unionize. And—honestly—I’ve been a terrible landlord to myself. It’s time to make sure the fridge hasn’t turned into a crime scene.”

That gets a smile out of him, but it’s the kind he hides behind his hand, his knuckle brushing his mouth as he nods. “Makes sense,” he says. Then, quieter, “Still. That’s going to be a weirdly empty bed.”

You pause in the doorway, caught a little off guard by how much that hits you.

“I know,” you say, gentler now. “I’m already kind of regretting it.”

He doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask you to stay. Just watches you with a softness that says he understands even if he doesn’t like it. “Call me when you get in?”

“Yeah,” you nod. “I’ll call.”

There’s a quiet beat where neither of you moves. 

It’s just a night. A little reset.

His eyes trace you, up and down. You feel it like a touch and you desperately wish you weren’t at work right now. 

Finally, he meets your eyes. “Don’t let your fridge kill you.”

You laugh. “No promises.”

+++

The lock sticks the same way it always has. You really should call the locksmith about that. 

The joys of home ownership…

You shoulder the door open with a little grunt, balancing your dry cleaning in one hand and go bag in the other, full of dirty clothes. You already know the lights won’t be on—your place doesn’t greet you the way Aaron’s does. No lamp left lit for ambiance, no faint smell of dinner, no Lego minefield in the hallway.

But still. It’s yours.

You kick door closed behind you with your foot and set the dry cleaning over the back of the couch, the plastic crackling as it settles. Your eyes catch on the shirts near the back—two of Aaron’s, pressed and perfect. You don’t remember offering, exactly. Just noticed them hanging in the back of the car and said you were headed to the cleaners anyway. He’d smiled at you like you were handing him something priceless.

You pull your phone from your back pocket and sit on the arm of the couch, thumbing open your messages. One new text.

Messages Alpha Bravo Hotel (1)

7:02pm Let me know when you get in.

You hit call instead of replying.

He answers on the second ring. “Hey.”

“Hey,” you echo, softer than you mean to. You look around the house like it’s something you’re seeing for the first time. “I’m home.”

“How’s it look?”

You let out a breath through your nose. “Mildly abandoned.”

Aaron chuckles. “You’ll whip it back into shape. You always do.”

“I don’t know about always,” you tease, but he’s not wrong. You’ve been meaning to do this for a while—handle your business. It just… took a little extra inertia to actually leave. Aaron has been almost too accommodating, but you’ve been washing and wearing the same clothes for like two weeks now. 

“I put two of your dress shirts over the back of the couch,” you add. “They survived my dry cleaning ladies.”

“You didn’t have to—”

“I know.” You smile at the wall. “It’s fine. They were already on the hanger.”

“Thank you,” he says, low and earnest.

There’s a small beat of silence. Not uncomfortable, just… full.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you say, and this time, you mean it. “I need the night. It’s overdue.”

“I figured,” he murmurs. “You’ll let me know if you need anything.”

You nod, then realize he can’t see you. “I will. Kiss Jack for me?”

“Already down, but I’ll tell him you said goodnight.”

Your chest tightens, just a little. “Okay.”

You end the call with one of those soft little goodbyes that doesn’t feel like a goodbye at all, and then you stand, hands on your hips, scanning the room.

Right. Mission mode.

You head for the bedroom, tossing your go bag onto the bed to dig through later. You start sorting the mess in your hamper—field clothes, civilian stuff, the stuff that lives in the gray space between—and build a neat pile of everything that needs laundering. You already know the work boots are by the door, caked with Virginia clay. You’ll scrub those down last.

Halfway through your first load of laundry, you crack open a beverage, and start loading the dishwasher. You wipe down the counters. You clean out the fridge and take out the scary trash. You make a mental list of groceries and strike the ones that will rot in less than a week. You hum to yourself as you fold throw blankets and stack your mail and paperwork into a “deal with it later” pile.

It feels good. Like ownership. Like competence. Like stepping off a cloud and getting your shit together, one tidy domestic act at a time.

Still, when the last load spins up and the apartment finally starts to smell like something pleasant and warm, you drift back to the couch and tap open your phone.

No new texts. You draft one. 

10:23pm Mission accomplished. 

He replies right away. 

10:23pm Any insurgents in the fridge?

You smile. 

10:24pm Some horrifyingly militant leftovers. Handled with extreme prejudice. 

The TV is still on—some movie you half-watched for background noise now rolling into late-night cable filler. You squint at the screen and don’t bother reaching for the remote. It’s white noise now.

You sit there in the blue wash of it, one leg tucked up under you, your phone resting loosely in your hand.

You miss him.

Not in the sharp, gut-pulling way you used to, back when every goodbye felt like an open-ended question. Not like when he was in Pakistan. This is different. Softer. Less lonely, but still hollow around the edges.

Just a night, you remind yourself. A reset.

This should be a once weekly thing, you figure. A calibration. 

Still—your home feels too quiet without the sound of him turning pages beside you. Without the clink of his glass on the nightstand. Without the soft weight of his arm sliding around your waist sometime around 3am.

You glance at your phone again when it buzzes.

11:16pm Still awake?

You smile. He’ll probably get after you if you fall asleep on the couch out here. 

11:17pm Barely.

11:17pm Couch?

You huff. Predictable. 

11:18pm Guilty. I’ll move.

There’s a pause. Then—

11:20pm You don’t have to. 11:20pm Just don’t let it break your neck.

You laugh quietly.

11:21pm You’ll owe me a shoulder rub if it does.

11:21pm Deal.

You reply fast, without thinking. 

11:21pm I miss you.

The breath you draw feels bigger than you expected. Like your lungs forgot how much room they honestly can take up.

You curl further into yourself, the edge of the throw blanket tucked beneath your chin.

11:22pm I miss you too.

The little dot bubbles appear for a second. Then then they vanish.

But right now, this—the quiet, the stillness, the soft virtual thread connecting you across two different spaces—is enough.

You don’t need him to say anything else. He already has. You make your way to the bedroom. Tuck yourself in. Try not to feel too cold without your human space heater. 

The hum of the dryer fades. You let your eyes drift closed.

You’ll see him tomorrow.

You let it hold you.

And finally, you sleep.

+++

The house is quiet. Jack’s been asleep for over two hours and appears to be staying asleep. 

Aaron is on top of the covers, reading glasses pushed into his hair, one hand resting absently on the page of a book he hasn’t touched in fifteen minutes.

Your side of the bed is empty.

He’d thought it might be nice—just one night. A chance to sleep diagonally. Stretch out. Catch up on rest without worrying about kicking you in his sleep.

But now that the house has settled and there’s nothing left to do, he misses you with a quiet sort of ache.

Not a wound. Just… an absence.

His phone buzzes on the nightstand.

Messages Second (1)

10:23pm Mission accomplished. 

He smiles before he even opens it. He replies promptly. 

10:23pm Any insurgents in the fridge?

You answer immediately. Of course you do.

10:24pm Some horrifyingly militant leftovers. Handled with extreme prejudice. 

Aaron huffs a soft laugh, thumb hovering. He could say more. Could ask if you folded the throw blanket like you always do or if you left it in a pile on the couch. Could ask if you opened the window like you used to, even though the house always runs cold. Could ask if you miss him too.

He forces himself to put the phone down before his thumbs enable something stupid. He picks up the team midpoint evals again. He asked Dave to take yours, Reid’s, and Morgan’s, as he missed anything of merit over the summer. 

The added repetition of “conflict of interest” clanging around in his skull doesn’t help. At least his absence is a good enough excuse to avoid evaluating you for now. 

He can’t focus on JJ’s written input, as tidy as it is, distracted by the silence. He gets up and wanders to the kitchen. He putters around, straightening random items and generally stalling, unwilling to go back to the lifeless stillness of his bedroom without you in it. 

Soon enough, he runs out of things to mess around with, to organize, to clean out of the fridge. 

Is there anything else he can reset while you’re gone…? 

It doesn’t look that way. 

He returns to the bedroom, feeling more than a little silly that his evening has been so thoroughly derailed by one night away from you. 

He looks at his phone. Picks it up. Looks at your contact photo. Feels silly. 

He types. 

11:16pm Still awake?

He stares at it. He’s suddenly thrilled they didn’t have texting when he was in school. He would have been in deep shit. 

11:17pm Barely.

His lips quirk in a smile. 

11:17pm Couch?

11:18pm Guilty. I’ll move.

He pictures you for a moment, in your comfiest clothes, watching something inane or interesting enough to be background noise, but not so interesting that it will keep you up. You do better than he does on the couch, but that bar isn’t high. 

11:20pm You don’t have to. 11:20pm Just don’t let it break your neck.

11:21pm You’ll owe me a shoulder rub if it does.

11:21pm Deal.

11:21pm I miss you.

11:22pm I miss you too. 

He starts to type—something about seeing you tomorrow, something about how the house always feels off when you’re not in it. But then he stops.

Because you already know.

You know what he’d say. And more importantly, you know the part of him that wouldn’t.

So instead, Aaron sets the phone down, turns out the light, and closes his eyes.

You’re not here tonight. But you’re in every piece of his quiet, every pocket of stillness he used to fill with silence and now fills with you.

+++

His collar’s still open.

You glance up. “Your tie’s suffering today.”

He doesn’t look at it. “So am I.”

You laugh. That soft, surprised kind of sound that always knocks something loose in his chest.

And then—like you’re not throwing a grenade into the space between you—you say, “I’ve never learned to tie one.”

He looks at you, really looks.

You’ve shared a bed. Slept wrapped around each other. You almost kissed on Christmas Eve. You haven’t talked about it since.

He should say no. Should fix it himself and tell you it doesn’t matter. That the knot isn’t important. That proximity isn’t safe.

But—

Fuck it.

“Come here,” he says.

You unfold and step around the desk, leaning on the surface in front of him, your socked feet between his dress shoes. Closer than you ever should be in daylight, in this office, with the blinds open and the door unlocked. The tie changes custody as he lays the fabric across your hands. 

He watches you, ducking his head a little as you drape the tie around his neck with careful fingers. Watches the way your lower lip catches between your teeth when you try to remember how it starts.

You’re not going to get it. So he reaches for your hands.

Fuck it.

His palms cover yours, guiding.

“Start here,” he says, voice low. “Wide end over the narrow.”

You follow, quiet, obedient (for once) in a way that makes his breath catch.

“Now under. Back around.”

Your fingers tremble—so slightly he might be imagining it.

“Up through the loop. Pull tight.”

He feels the brush of your knuckles against his chest. The way your breath hitches as the knot forms, awkward and imprecise, right over his heart.

It’s not about the tie.

It never was.

Your hands are still in his.

Don’t do it, a voice in his head warns. It’s too close. Too much.

But your eyes are on the knot like it matters. Like the very act of tying it is something special and notable. Like the space between you means something beyond what it is.

“I’m going to forget tomorrow,” you tell him, a small smile on your face. 

He hears himself say, “Then I’ll show you again.”

He lets go of your hands without looking at your face. If he does, he might do something insane.

Something real.

You straighten, slow, measured. Perhaps you know you’ve crossed something neither of you is willing to name, at least not right now. You return to your chair, feet tucking up under you. 

The space between you pulses.

Aaron fixes the knot with surgical precision and doesn’t speak for the rest of the hour.

+++

The apartment is quiet.

Too quiet.

Jack’s at Jess’s for the night, which means the place feels hollow in a way Aaron can never quite adjust to. Like all the breath and life has been sucked out of the walls.

He turns on a single lamp in the corner of the living room. Doesn’t bother with anything else.

His tie’s still looped neatly around his neck. He doesn’t know why he hasn’t taken it off yet.

He stands in front of the hall mirror, loosening the knot—your knot—with slow fingers. It’s crooked. A little messy. A touch too tight. Truthfully, he didn’t want to fix it as thoroughly as he usually would. 

He stares at it as he tugs it loose.

And suddenly he’s back there—your fingers under his collar, your hands guided by his, your voice low and a little nervous when you said, “I’ll forget by tomorrow.”

He told you he’d show you again.

He meant it.

Aaron hangs the tie over the hook by the door. He straightens and smooths it with a hand that lingers too long.

Get a grip.

It was nothing. It had to be nothing.

Just a moment. Just muscle memory and proximity and the normal kind of charged silence that happens when two people are pretending an ill-advised sleepover never happened. When two people are still pretending a kiss didn’t almost happen on Christmas Eve. Knowing you probably read him better than anyone, except maybe Dave. Pretending that you don’t sleep at his place. Knowing you say beside him on the couch in his office earlier today with your knee pressed to his while reviewing a profile you both could’ve formulated with your eyes closed.

He pinches the bridge of his nose.

He shouldn’t have said come here.

He shouldn’t have touched your hands.

He definitely shouldn’t be thinking about doing it again.

But God—he is.

He’s already halfway through the mental calculus: could he pretend to forget how to tie it himself? Claim a hand injury? Ask you to do it for a future court appearance, just to see if you’d press that close again?

He exhales sharply. Disgusted with himself.

You’d never—

You wouldn’t want that. Not from him. Not unless it was a joke, a fluke, a half-step toward something you’d never let fully materialize. It’s not like you meant anything by it. Not like you leaned in the way he thinks you did.

Get it together, Hotchner.

He moves to the kitchen. Opens a beer. Doesn’t drink it.

His tie—your knot—is still hanging by the door.

And no matter how many times he tells himself it didn’t mean anything, he knows he’s lying.

Because when he closes his eyes, your hands are still in his.

+++

You shouldn’t have said anything.

Of course you shouldn’t have said anything.

You were just sitting there, knees tucked under you in his office, the two of you tossing ideas back and forth like you always do, the comfort of it so routine you didn’t even notice until he took his tie off. And then it was like—like your brain was hijacked. Like something cracked open under your ribs and something stupid crawled out.

“I’ve never learned to tie one.”

What kind of schoolgirl bullshit is that?

What, were you hoping he’d… what? Offer? Teach you?

(He did.)

You press the heels of your hands to your face and groan. Out loud. Because you deserve to feel the full brunt of how mortifying that moment was.

And then, he invited you closer.

He sat right there in front of you, tie in hand, eyes soft in a way they shouldn’t be, and said, Come here.

And you went.

God. You stood there with your fingers curled around his collar like you were helping him get ready for work in the morning. Like it was intimate. Like it was yours.

And then he took your hands in his.

Just—like it was normal. Like it was nothing.

You open the fridge, close it again. You’re not hungry. You’re not anything except embarrassed. And you keep trying to convince yourself that it didn’t mean anything. That he was being polite. That he saw right through you and decided to humor your moment of idiocy the same way he humors Penelope’s wardrobe commentary or Spencer’s unsolicited trivia.

He was just being kind.

That’s what he does.

That’s all it was.

…Except he told you he’d show you again.

And he fixed the knot afterward, sure. He didn’t even say thank you. Just did it, clinical and efficient and like he was trying to make it not linger.

But still. You felt something.

You’re not crazy.

+++