#fbi cbs

OA Zidan x Reader

Summary: Meet cute, fluff, there are no gendered description of reader in this

Word Count: 1,768

this is one of my first fics. much love <3

The first time you saw him was during your daily bakery stop, you quite literally ran into him.

You were grabbing a drink from the shop's cooler, and as you whipped around to head to the register, you landed face-first into this man’s (incredibly firm) chest. With such velocity, you started to lose your balance, but his hand reached out to steady you. Registering what just happened, you took several steps back to put a face to the figure you’d just body-slammed.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry.” His chocolate-colored eyes were intense, and his face was just as serious. Oh gosh.

“That’s alright, no problem,” he said, still with a serious stare, but you definitely imagined the corner of his mouth lifting a hair.

Why does his voice remind you of caramel? No, okay, let’s focus up. Move! Do something!

“Right, uh, sorry again.” You stepped to go around him. “Have a nice day.”

He moved too, but quickly added, “You too,” with a centimeter’s worth of a nod and a couple more hairs of a smirk.

Wow, he was gorgeous. You couldn’t help one more glance his way as you left the store.

________

The second time you saw him, in your routine bakery spot, was just a couple days later. You spotted him almost immediately.

How would one miss a suit like that?

At the chime of the shop door, his attention turned right towards you. His eyes met yours, and you immediately focused on ordering. As you did so, you swore you felt his gaze on you. You studied his features out of your peripheral: close-clipped hair, full, beautiful beard. A deep navy suit that hugged him deliciously, complete with a matching blue tie.

"Iced mocha latte for Y/N." Snapping back to reality, you grabbed the coffee and made your way out the door. Obviously with a quick glance in the man’s direction. Your eyes met again, only this time he smiled ever so softly, almost too quickly hidden by the sip of his mug. But you'd caught it and struggled the rest of the day to think of anything else.

________

The third time you see him, in your pre-work bakery shop, he is already in line. You think you’d recognize that tightly suited stature anywhere. You get in line behind him. He turns in your direction and does that barely-there smirk, followed by a dip of his head and a faint chuckle. At the sound, your face flushes.

You bring your attention back to deciding what to order. He orders and steps away. You place your order and start to pull out your card when the cashier informs you it’s already paid for. Visibly puzzled, she glances at the seating to your left. When you turn, you’re facing the back of that suit.

Your feet are moving his direction before your brain even knows what’s happening.

“Thanks for paying for my order,” you say as you come to face him. “It’s the only thing that’s going to get me through work.”

“Of course. I know the feeling,” he says with a chuckle and an actual smile, which —holy fuck— this is the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen. You can’t help smiling back as you make your way to a table.

“Would you maybe want to, uh—” Your steps halt. “Have a seat?” Your stomach does a somersault as you face him again.

He drops his head with a small chuckle. “Here? With me?” he finishes, finding your eyes with his that have a slight sparkle today.

“Sure, I’d love to,” you say, taking a seat. He’s about to speak when, “Hazelnut cold brew with foam for Omar,” is called.

“That’s me, one second,” he says with a pat to the table.

You fidget with your rings as he comes back to the table. “Your name is Omar?”

He chuckles through a sip of his drink and sits back down. “Yeah, I normally go by OA.”

“OA,” you repeat. “I like it, it suits you.”

“Thank you,” he chuckles. Those cheekbones with that beard when he smiles is just—mwah, chef’s kiss.

“It’s lovely to meet you, OA. My name is—” you’re cut off by your order being called.

“Your name is Y/N?” he asks.

“Yeah, it is,” you say with a laugh.

You start out of your seat when he says, “I’ll get that for you.”

When he returns, you thank him, and as he sits, you inquire, “Do you work around here?”

“No, I live in the area. I discovered this shop on my way to work one day.”

“Oh, cool! Same here, actually.”

“Really?” he says. “What do you do for work?”

“I’m on an HR team for a publication agency.” He smiles.

“And what do you do for work?”

“I actually work for the FBI,” he says with a completely serious face.

You chuckle, but his face remains the same. “Wait, really?” you grin.

“Can I see your badge?” You’re immediately blushing because why did that sound like an innuendo?!

He chuckles as he digs into his pocket. He displays the badge, and your mouth drops open.

“No way! That’s cool as fuck.” You both chuckle. It’s also hot as fuck, but you don’t say that part out loud.

“If you say so,” he says with a laugh. He glances at his phone, then his watch. His face changes.

“I actually have to go.” He pockets his phone and looks apologetic.

“Of course. It was nice to meet you, OA. Thank you for the coffee.”

“My pleasure, Y/N,” he says as he stands to put on his coat and lays down a card next to your hand. “My number is on there. I’d love to buy you a coffee again.” You both smile before he takes off.

You fiddle with the card all day long.

OA’s POV

As the day drug on and on, he focuses as much as the tasks require, but he can’t help thinking about your hair, your eyes, your smile. Even after an awful day like today. Finding no new messages when he checks his phone, he pushes down the regret of not just getting your number.

“Night, OA,” says Maggie, as she and Scola are heading out.

“Yeah, night, guys,” he says, distracted, as he checks his phone again. This time there is a message.

Hey, OA. It’s Y/N. The coffee really helped me get through my workday. I hope your day was good.

He grabs his stuff and starts toward the elevators. Suddenly, he cannot wait for another bakery run-in. He calls your number.

Y/N POV You’re only mildly hyperventilating after sending that text to OA. You’d finally managed to send something, mostly thanks to the now-lengthy call with your best friend.

Your phone starts buzzing in your hand. “Oh my god, Sky! He’s calling.”

“Well, answer it, you dumbass,” they say, and immediately hang up.

“Hello,” you say as you pick up the call.

“Hey, Y/N. It's OA.”

“Yes, I know that,” you say. OA chuckles, a deep, hearty laugh, and it sounds like music to your ears. “Are you okay?” you question.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m all good. Just a rough day today. I sort of just wanted to hear your voice again.”

You had just met, and he called you after a bad day at work? Your stomach does even more gymnastics at this thought.

“Oh, I’m sorry today was tough. Can I do anything to help?”

“No, I’ll be alright. I gotta get some food, and then I’ll call it a night.” He pauses. “Would you, uh, happen to be hungry?” Shocked by this, you’re immediately warm in the cheeks.

“Why, I am. How did you know?” you tease. The mood is already lighter.

“If you wanted, I could pick you up in about 30 minutes?”

“Sure, I’ll text you my address.” You hear the breath that escapes him right in your ear.

“Okay, I’ll be there in a bit,” he says, his voice stronger now. There is less weight to his words.

Now, time to not overthink what to wear… You can do that, totally...

You’re at minute 22 of 30 before OA picks you up, and only a third of your closet is thrown all over your room.

At minute 29, you’re triple-adjusting your hair when your phone rings.

“Hi, OA,” there is palpable excitement in your voice.

“Hey, I’m pulling up to your street. Take your time, I’ll be parked outside.”

“Okay, I’m heading down now.” The excitement turns to nerves as you grab your stuff and head out the door.

“I’m right out front in the silver sedan.”

“Kk, see you in a second,” you giggle, not knowing what else to say. “Bye,” you say as quickly as you hang up.

When you step outside, he comes around the car and opens the door for you. He’s in a similar suit to the other day, though this time his tie is loose and his collar is unbuttoned a tad.

“Thank you,” you say as you get in. His smile is bright even in the dark of the evening.

He finds your eyes as he climbs in and turns the ignition.

“Hey,” he says with such a searching stare.

You giggle and reply with, “Hi.” He is so close. The closest you two have been. Is this a dream?!

“There’s a place around the corner that's open this late.”

“Awesome, I’m cool with whatever is open.” He chuckles with that familiar tilt of the head, and he starts onto the road.

There is about two minutes of silence, and you feel bad for not knowing what to say. He had a rough day being a literally FBI agent and you can't make some small talk.

“I’m sorry for being a bit quiet tonight. Work felt very long today.” His grip on the steering wheel tenses a bit. That grip tells more than just 'very long,' but that is not a topic for tonight.

“OA,” you turn to him in your seat, “I am perfectly happy just keeping you company.”

“Really?” He lets out a breath as he looks back at you.

“Absolutely.” You give him a soft smile.

His grip on the wheel eases and lands in his lap. He adjusts again to the wheel, then to resting on the center console.

There’s an obvious pull in the air that has you reaching for his hand and pulling it to your own lap. He gives your hand a squeeze in return.

spencer’s older sister

pairing: aaron hotchner x reader

summary: you are spencer’s unapologetically big sister who often visits the team for a small break, because you figured that they needed a little break too

warnings: reader is f, reader is called monica, slowburn, older sister x boss, reader always tries to come by whenever she felt like seeing her brother, the WHOLE unit loves reader!, hotchner kinda hates u, a bit slowburn, wym shes late hotchner?, hotchner misses u..?, hotch projected frustration?

wc: 5.2k

masterlist

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊⊱·✶·⊰₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹-

The first time Monica Reid set foot inside the FBI Behavioral Analysis Unit in Quantico, Aaron Hotchner had been ready to remind her about security clearance protocols.

It was two years ago, during the grueling second week of an inter-state serial sniper case. The entire team was living on lukewarm coffee, fluorescent light, and three-hour catnaps on the bullpen couches. Aaron had been standing at the glass whiteboard in his office, rubbing his temples to stave off a migraine, when he heard a quiet, cheerful voice echo through the tension-filled room.

He had walked out of his office, expecting to clear out an unauthorized visitor, only to find Spencer Reid being pulled into a warm, gentle hug by a dark-haired woman carrying a box of fresh pastries from a bakery in D.C.

"I brought food, Spencer," the woman had said softly, looking over her brother with genuine concern. "Mom mentioned you were skipping meals again. Eat something before you collapse."

That was Monica. Spencer’s older sister by four years.

Unlike Spencer, who was soft-spoken and reclusive, Monica moved with an easy, unpretentious confidence. She was quick-witted, fiercely protective of her brother, and completely unbothered by federal badges or intimidating authority figures. Hotch had approached her to explain the access rules, but Monica had simply smiled, offered him a warm cup of coffee, and said, "I know you have strict rules, Unit Chief. I'm just here to make sure my brother remembers to breathe. I'll be out in five minutes."

And she kept coming back.

Whenever the BAU was grounded at headquarters for weeks on end—grinding through endless cold cases, behavioral audits, or long-term serial profiles—Monica would stop by every now and then. Sometimes it was Tuesday at lunch to drop off takeout for Spencer; sometimes it was a Thursday evening just to say a quick hello to the team, chatting easily with Garcia, Emily, and JJ while Spencer organized his files.

Aaron had initially found her presence lingering on the edge of exasperating. She disrupted the rigid, controlled atmosphere he maintained in the bullpen, chatting casually as if the high-security sixth floor were an open lounge.

Yet, after two years... he found himself looking at the bullpen clock every afternoon around three. And if she didn't show up, a quiet, unacknowledged frustration would settle over him for the rest of the day—a feeling he steadfastly denied to himself.

"She's downstairs, Hotch," Derek Morgan said with a knowing grin, leaning against Hotch's office doorframe as he took a sip of his coffee.

Aaron didn't look up from his file. "Who is?"

"Your favorite visitor," Morgan chuckled, gesturing down toward the bullpen.

Aaron’s eyes involuntarily flicked up to the glass window.

Down below, Monica was standing near Emily’s desk, an iced coffee in hand. Emily and JJ were leaning in, laughing softly at a story Monica was telling, while Penelope Garcia hovered nearby, animatedly showing her something on a tablet. Spencer sat at his desk three feet away, pretending to be absorbed in a case file, though a subtle, fond smile sat on his face.

"She shouldn't be wandering around an active workspace," Hotch muttered, though his voice lacked any real authority.

"Hotch, she's brought the team coffee twice this week, helped Garcia track down a rare book for her birthday, and brought us actual home-cooked food last night," Morgan laughed smoothly. "She’s practically family at this point."

Morgan straightened up, adjusting his suit jacket, a bright, flirty spark in his eye as he looked down at Monica. "In fact, I think I'll go see if she needs help carrying her coat."

Aaron’s jaw tightened imperceptibly. His eyes tracked Morgan as he walked down the stairs, stepping up to Monica with his signature easy charm. Hotchner watched through the glass as Monica turned, laughing lightly at something Morgan whispered in her ear, shaking her head with a graceful smile.

Aaron abruptly closed his case folder, the quiet thud breaking his concentration.

He stood up, adjusted his tie, and walked down the stairs into the bullpen.

"—so I told Spencer if he keeps sleeping on his office couch, I'm bringing a real mattress in here myself," Monica was saying smoothly, her tone light and warm.

"Please don't, Monica," Spencer sighed softly, though he couldn't hide his small smile. "Hotch would have it impounded."

"I might," Hotch’s deep voice cut through the conversation as he approached.

The group turned. Hotch stood at the base of the stairs, hands tucked into his suit pockets, his face maintaining its usual stoic mask.

"Unit Chief," Monica greeted him, her dark eyes lighting up with an amused, quiet warmth. She didn't look intimidated; she simply gave him a gentle, perceptive look. "You look exhausted today, Aaron. Have you taken a break at all?"

Hotch blinked, the casual use of his first name catching him off guard, though he kept his tone strictly professional. "This is a busy week, Miss Reid."

"It always is," Monica said softly, stepping a half-step closer to him. Up close, she smelled faintly of rain and sweet vanilla. "Which is exactly why I'm here."

She turned her attention to the rest of the group—Emily, JJ, Garcia, Morgan, and Spencer.

"Spencer tells me you've all been stuck on HQ duty for almost three weeks straight," Monica said, her expression shifting into genuine gratitude. "So, I'm hosting dinner at my place tomorrow night. 7:00 PM."

She looked around the circle before bringing her gaze right back to Hotch's dark eyes.

"All of you are invited," Monica said firmly. "It’s my way of saying thank you for looking out for my brother every day when he's out in the field."

"I'm twenty-seven years old, Monica," Spencer pointed out quietly, though there was no real bite to it.

"I don't care how old you are, you're still my younger brother," she replied fondly, before looking back at the team. "So, can I count on you all?"

"I am 100% in!" Garcia announced instantly. "I'll bring dessert!"

"Count me in too," Emily added. "I'll bring a good bottle of wine."

"I wouldn't miss it, Mon," Morgan said, flashing her a warm, charming smile. "Need me to come early and help you set up?"

"That's sweet, Derek, but I have it handled," Monica replied with a graceful smile. Then, her eyes shifted directly back to Hotch.

Aaron opened his mouth, fully intending to give a polite, controlled excuse about administrative backlog or pending reviews—when Monica stepped just an inch closer, tilting her head up to look at him.

"That includes you, Aaron," she murmured, her tone dropping into a quiet, remarkably gentle register meant only for him. "No excuses. No case files. Just dinner."

Aaron felt his throat go slightly dry under her steady, intelligent gaze. The subtle warmth in her voice chipped right through his carefully constructed defenses.

"I have... a considerable amount of reports to clear, Miss Reid," Hotch said, his voice lower than usual.

"They'll still be waiting for you on Monday," she replied softly, a faint, encouraging smile touching her lips.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The surrounding chatter of the bullpen seemed to quiet down. Morgan watched the exchange with a sudden, curious glint in his eyes, while Emily and JJ shared a quick, subtle look.

Hotch cleared his throat, pulling his posture back up into its familiar, rigid composure.

"7:00 PM," Hotch said evenly, though his eyes held hers a second longer than necessary. "I'll bring the wine."

A radiant, beautiful smile spread across Monica's face, softening her features completely and causing something tightly wound in Hotch’s chest to slowly release.

"Good," Monica said softly, taking a step back toward the exit. "I'll see you all tomorrow night."

She gave a small wave to her brother and walked toward the glass doors, her light footsteps echoing softly down the corridor.

Hotch stood in the middle of the bullpen, his eyes following her until the elevator doors closed behind her.

"Well now," Morgan murmured, stepping up beside Hotch with a slow, disbelieving grin. "Look at that. I didn't think anyone could get you to agree to a social dinner during a heavy paperwork week."

Aaron didn't turn to look at Morgan. He adjusted his cuffs with crisp precision, turning back toward the stairs to his office.

"Get back to work, Morgan," Hotch commanded quietly.

But as he sat down behind his desk and picked up his pen, Aaron Hotchner couldn't bring himself to focus on the paperwork in front of him. His eyes drifted toward the bullpen clock—and for the first time in a very long time, he was quietly looking forward to the end of the workday.

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊⊱·✶·⊰₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹-

By 6:50 PM on Saturday, the cozy row house in Capitol Hill was filled with the rich, inviting aroma of garlic, fresh basil, and simmering marinara sauce.

Monica moved around her kitchen with calm, practiced ease, setting down a large mahogany salad bowl in the center of the dining table. Her hair was pulled back into a loose, elegant twist, and she wore a soft navy sweater that made her look entirely different from the composed woman who dropped by Quantico during intense case weeks.

The doorbell rang at precisely 6:55 PM.

Spencer, who had arrived twenty minutes early to help set out glasses, walked toward the foyer. "That's probably Rossi," he noted, opening the door.

David Rossi stepped inside, holding two bottles of expensive vintage Italian red wine. Right behind him was Aaron Hotchner, wearing a crisp charcoal dress shirt with the sleeves neatly rolled up to his forearms—no jacket, no tie, looking remarkably relaxed for a man who usually lived in armor. In his hand was a bottle of a high-end French Cabernet.

"Ah, the Reid residence," Rossi declared cheerfully, handing his coat to Spencer. "It smells incredible in here, Spencer. I see good taste runs in the family."

"Dave," Monica called out, stepping out of the kitchen with a warm, welcoming smile. "It's so good to see you. Thank you for coming."

Rossi stepped forward, kissing her cheek warmly. "Wouldn't miss it for the world, my dear. When Spencer told me his sister was making homemade arrabbiata, I insisted on coming along. I brought proper pairing wine."

"I'll hold you to your standard," Monica chuckled softly before her gaze drifted past Rossi to meet Hotch’s dark eyes.

A quiet, unspoken beat passed between them. Hotch held out the bottle of wine, his expression composed, but his eyes softened entirely as he looked at her.

"For the host," Hotch said, his deep voice carrying a quiet warmth. "Thank you for having us, Monica."

"You're very welcome, Aaron," Monica replied gently, her fingers briefly brushing against his as she accepted the bottle. "I'm glad you came."

Before Hotch could say another word, the front door burst open as Garcia, Morgan, Emily, and JJ arrived in a energetic wave.

"We brought dessert!" Garcia announced dramatically, setting down a bakery box tied with a bright pink ribbon. "And by dessert, I mean three different kinds of tart because I couldn't choose!"

"Hey, Mon," Morgan greeted her, stepping into the hallway and giving her a quick, affectionate hug. "Place looks great. Need me to pop open any of these bottles?"

"That would be wonderful, Derek, thanks," Monica said with an easy laugh.

Within fifteen minutes, the dining room was alive with chatter, laughter, and the clinking of glasses. The BAU team sat around the long wooden table—Rossi at one end holding court with stories from his early days in the Bureau, Emily and JJ teasing Spencer about his college days, and Garcia excitedly showing Monica pictures of her new office decor.

Hotch sat across from Monica. Throughout the meal, he found himself listening to her voice—the quiet, intelligent way she carried conversations, the effortless way she made everyone feel entirely at home, and the fierce, protective affection she showed whenever Spencer spoke up.

"So, Dave," Morgan asked with a grin, leaning back in his chair with a glass of wine, "how does Monica's marinara hold up against yours?"

Rossi took a deliberate sip of his wine, wiped his mouth with his napkin, and looked across the table with pseudo-seriousness. "I am a traditionalist, Derek. But I will admit... her garlic-to-herb ratio is exceptional. I might actually have to ask for the recipe."

"That is the highest praise you will ever receive in your life, Monica," Emily laughed, raising her glass.

Monica smiled, resting her chin on her hand as she looked around the table at the smiling faces. "I'm just glad you all could take a break. You work far too hard."

Her eyes naturally flicked toward Hotch, who was watching her over the rim of his wine glass. When their eyes met, Hotch didn't look away. Instead, a subtle, genuine smile touched the corners of his lips—a look so quiet and rare that Rossi, sitting right next to him, took a slow sip of his drink and smirked to himself.

As the evening wound down, Emily, JJ, and Garcia helped Spencer pack up the leftover dessert in the kitchen, while Morgan and Rossi stepped out onto the back porch to finish their glasses of wine.

Hotch stayed behind in the dining room, gathering the empty wine glasses from the table.

Monica walked in from the kitchen, holding a damp towel. She stopped when she saw him clearing the table.

"Aaron, you don't have to do that," she said softly, walking over to stand beside him. "You're a guest."

"It's the least I can do," Hotch replied smoothly, setting two glasses onto the sideboard. He turned to face her, leaning back slightly against the edge of the table. "Dinner was wonderful, Monica. Truly."

"I'm glad you liked it," she murmured, stepping closer until only a foot of space remained between them. She looked up into his dark eyes, her expression thoughtful and gentle. "You look much less stressed than you did at the office yesterday."

"That's because I'm not surrounded by case files," Hotch admitted quietly, a low, gravelly tone entering his voice. He looked down at her, taking in the soft light reflecting in her eyes. "Or maybe it's just the company."

Monica’s breath caught slightly at his honesty. A faint, soft blush touched her cheeks, but she didn't step back.

"Is that a compliment from Aaron Hotchner?" she teased softly, her eyes sparkling with quiet affection. "I should write this date down."

Hotch let out a low, quiet breath of a laugh—a sound so warm and relaxed that Monica’s smile deepened.

"I mean it, Monica," Aaron murmured, reaching out with slow, deliberate precision. His fingers lightly brushed against her wrist, resting gently over her warm skin. "Thank you. For everything you do for Spencer... and for stopping by the bullpen, even when I pretend it's a distraction."

Monica looked down at his hand resting against her wrist, then looked back up into his eyes, her heart beating a little faster.

"It was never just to see Spencer, Aaron," she whispered softly.

Hotch’s eyes darkened with a sudden, intense warmth. He didn't pull his hand away; instead, his thumb lightly caressed the inside of her wrist.

"Hey, Mon, where do you want these—"

Morgan stepped through the kitchen door holding a stack of coffee mugs, stopping dead in his tracks as his eyes landed on Hotch’s hand resting over Monica’s wrist, and the close, intimate distance between them.

Hotch smoothly dropped his hand, turning his head toward Morgan with an unbothered, remarkably calm expression, though his eyes held a subtle warning.

"In the sink, Derek," Monica answered smoothly without missing a beat, giving Morgan a warm, unflustered smile.

Morgan looked at Monica, then slowly looked at Hotch, a massive, slow grin spreading across his face as he set the mugs on the counter.

"Right. The sink," Morgan murmured, shaking his head with a quiet chuckle as he walked back toward the porch. "Got it."

Monica turned back to Hotch, a small, knowing smirk playing on her lips. "I think Derek just figured something out."

Hotch adjusted his cuffs with crisp precision, stepping a fraction closer to her once again, his voice dropping into a low, private whisper.

"Let him," Aaron said softly. "I'll see you next week at the office, Monica."

"I'll bring coffee," she promised softly, her eyes following him as he walked toward the hallway to join the rest of the team.

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊⊱·✶·⊰₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹-

By Wednesday of the following week, the atmosphere on the sixth floor of Quantico was thick enough to cut with a knife.

The BAU had been handed a grueling, multi-jurisdictional kidnapping case spanning three eastern states. Whiteboards were covered in victim timelines, coffee pots were constantly burning dry, and the bullpen was filled with the low, relentless hum of frantic phone calls and keyboard clacking.

Through it all, Aaron Hotchner sat in his glass-walled office, his posture straight as a ramrod, his jaw set in a tight, unyielding line.

He was focused on the case—of course he was. But as three o'clock came and went on Thursday afternoon without a single sign of a dark coat or a warm box of freshly baked pastries, a quiet, sharp irritation had begun to fester beneath his composed exterior.

By Friday afternoon, it hadn't gotten any better.

Hotch marched down the iron stairs from his office, holding a stack of revised geographic profiles. His footsteps were heavy, echoing sharply off the polished floorboards.

"Reid," Hotch called out, his deep voice carrying a cold, clipped edge that made half the bullpen freeze.

Spencer looked up from his desk, blinking through his glasses, looking thoroughly exhausted. "Yes, Hotch?"

"Where are the supplementary phone logs from the Philadelphia field office?" Hotch demanded, his dark eyes fixed on his young agent. "They were supposed to be cross-referenced by noon."

"I... I finished cross-referencing the first batch, Hotch," Spencer said quickly, holding up a blue folder. "The second batch just arrived twenty minutes ago. I'm working through them now."

"We don't have twenty minutes to spare on secondary logs, Reid," Hotch said stiffly, setting the stack down on Spencer's desk with a loud thud. "I need those correlations before the three-thirty briefing with the Director."

"I'll have them done," Spencer said, adjusting his collar, clearly feeling the sudden pressure.

Standing near the coffee machine, Derek Morgan took a slow sip from his mug and exchanged a subtle look with Emily.

"Man," Morgan muttered under his breath, leaning toward Prentiss. "Hotch has been on a warpath since yesterday. Did somebody mess up the budget reports again?"

"No," Emily murmured back, her eyes flicking toward the glass doors of the bullpen entrance, which remained stubbornly shut. "I think the Unit Chief is experiencing withdrawal."

Morgan smirked, swirling his coffee. "You noticed too, huh?"

Hotch turned on his heel to head back up the stairs, but stopped mid-step, looking back over his shoulder at Spencer. He hesitated for a fraction of a second before speaking in a voice he tried very hard to make sound casual.

"Is your sister coming by today?" Hotch asked.

Spencer blinked, looking up from his papers in surprise. "Monica? No. She had a massive catering order for a wedding weekend starting yesterday. She’s been in the bakery kitchen since four this morning." He paused, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. "Did... did she say she was coming?"

"No," Hotch replied flatly. "I simply assumed she would, considering she usually frequented this floor with her bakery deliveries."

"Oh," Spencer said, missing the subtle tension entirely. "Yeah, she usually texts me if she's dropping off surplus pastries, but she was so swamped with the bakery ovens that she completely forgot to send her daily check-in. I only found out when I called her at lunch."

She forgot.

Hotch’s jaw tightened. He didn't say another word. He simply gave a rigid, single-inch nod and turned back toward the stairs, his strides even faster and stiffer than before.

Morgan couldn't help himself. He stepped into Hotch's path near the bottom step, holding his coffee mug with a slow, immensely entertained grin.

"Everything alright, Boss?" Morgan asked smoothly, his voice laced with playful, dangerous charm. "You seem a little... distracted today. Missing your favorite baker?"

Hotch stopped, looking down at Morgan with a gaze cold enough to freeze boiling water.

"My focus is entirely on this case, Agent Morgan," Hotch said, his voice dropping into a low, quiet, warning register. "Perhaps yours should be as well, considering the Philadelphia phone logs are still pending."

"Right. The phone logs," Morgan chuckled softly, taking a step back but keeping that knowing smirk locked on his face. "Just checking, Unit Chief."

Hotch retreated into his office, slamming the heavy glass door shut.

He sat down at his desk, picking up his pen to sign off on a search authorization. He stared at the signature line for five seconds before aggressively setting the pen down, rubbing the bridge of his nose as he closed his eyes.

He was annoyed at the delay in the case. He was annoyed at the lack of sleep. But mostly, he was deeply annoyed at himself for how much he missed the sound of her quiet laugh echoing through the bullpen—and how empty the room felt without the sweet scent of flour and vanilla that usually followed her in.

At 5:15 PM, the glass elevator doors at the end of the hall opened with a soft ding.

The bullpen was quiet, most of the team buried under paperwork. Spencer was typing feverishly at his computer when a shadow fell over his desk.

"I am so sorry, Spence," a familiar, exhausted, but warm voice murmured.

Spencer looked up in surprise.

Monica stood there, looking slightly tired from a long day on her feet, but still undeniably striking. She wore a tailored coat over her simple baker's clothes, her hair pinned back neatly, and she held two large trays of fresh espresso and a bakery box bursting with warm, hand-crafted savory tarts and pastries.

"Monica?" Spencer said, standing up. "I thought you were locked in the bakery kitchen until eight?"

"Finished the wedding cake early," Monica said, setting the heavy trays down on his desk with a quiet sigh of relief. "I realized I completely forgot to text you today, and I knew you guys were drowning in this three-state case. I brought fresh coffee and a batch of warm croissants."

Within seconds, Garcia, Emily, JJ, and Morgan gathered around Spencer's desk like a swarm.

"You are an actual angel sent from above," Garcia declared, practically weeping as she grabbed a caramel macchiato and a cheese pastry. "I was five minutes away from eating paper."

"Thanks, Mon," Emily said, taking a cup. "We really needed this."

"How's the bakery holding up?" Morgan asked, leaning against the desk and giving her a warm, appreciative smile as he took his coffee. "You look tired, beautiful."

"Don't remind me, Derek," Monica laughed softly, rubbing her temple. "Rolling out seventy layers of puff pastry by hand is like an endurance sport. But I made it through."

From high up in his office, Hotch heard the sudden shift in the bullpen’s energy.

He looked up from his desk. Through the glass, he saw her standing there—surrounded by his team, smiling warmly, handing out coffee and pastries.

Hotch stood up instantly. He didn't grab any files this time. He simply buttoned his suit jacket, adjusted his cuffs, and walked out of his office down the stairs.

The team fell slightly quiet as the heavy, rhythmic sound of Hotch’s shoes echoed against the floor.

Monica turned around just as Hotch reached the bottom of the stairs. Their eyes met.

For a long, tense moment, neither of them spoke. Hotch stood there, posture rigid, hands in his pockets, his dark eyes searching her face with an unreadable, intense focus.

"Unit Chief," Monica greeted him softly, her sharp, perceptive eyes taking in the deep lines of fatigue around his eyes and the tight set of his jaw. She picked up a plain black coffee cup from the tray—black, no sugar, exactly how he took it—along with a small paper wax bag containing his favorite cinnamon roll. She stepped toward him. "I brought you one."

Hotch didn't reach for the items immediately. He looked down at her, his voice low, gravelly, and tight.

"You're late, Miss Reid," Hotch stated stiffly.

The entire bullpen went dead silent. Spencer paused mid-sip. Morgan raised an eyebrow, hiding a grin behind his cup.

Monica blinked, slightly surprised by his sharp tone. But instead of shrinking back, she tilted her head, a soft, immensely perceptive, and teasing smile touching her lips.

"I didn't realize I had an official delivery schedule, Agent Hotchner," she replied smoothly, her voice dropping into a quiet, intimate register meant only for him as she held the coffee out an inch closer. "I had a massive catering order. But I came as soon as the ovens were off."

Hotch looked at the coffee cup, then looked back into her warm, intelligent eyes. The sharp, tight knot of frustration that had been sitting in his chest for two days straight suddenly began to melt away, leaving only a deep, quiet ache.

He reached out, his large hand taking the cup and paper bag from her. His fingers intentionally brushed over hers, lingering for a full second longer than necessary.

"Thank you," Aaron said softly, his voice losing its harsh edge entirely, returning to that deep, warm tone that only she ever heard.

"You're welcome," Monica whispered back, her smile widening just a fraction as she met his gaze without flinching.

Behind them, Morgan let out a quiet, cough-like chuckle, turning around to hide his face, while Emily quietly nudged JJ with her elbow.

Hotch took a slow sip of the hot coffee, his dark eyes never leaving Monica's face.

"My office," Hotch murmured, his tone professional to any outside ear, but holding an underlying invitation that made Monica’s heart take a sudden, quiet leap. "I'm sure you need a moment to sit down after being on your feet all day."

"I wouldn't mind a break, Unit Chief," Monica said softly, stepping past him toward the stairs. "Lead the way."

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊⊱·✶·⊰₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹-

The moment the door to Hotch’s office clicked shut behind Monica, the bullpen erupted into a chorus of hushed, frantic whispers.

Down by the main desks, Garcia slammed her hands onto her cheeks, letting out a silent, squealing gasp that shook her bedazzled glasses. Emily immediately tossed her pen onto her notepad, leaning across the aisle toward JJ with wide, disbelieving eyes.

"Okay, did everyone else see that, or am I suffering from severe caffeine-induced hallucinations?" Emily whispered, her voice laced with pure glee.

"Oh, we saw it," JJ said, shaking her head with a breathless laugh as she adjusted her coffee cup. "Hotch was literally ready to write Spencer up for a late phone log ten minutes ago, and the second Monica walks in with a cinnamon roll, his entire posture turns into butter."

"I am telling you," Garcia hissed softly, leaning over the partition with her eyes gleaming like neon lights. "The man was pining! He was undergoing severe, acute, romantic withdrawal! The stone wall was crumbling!"

Derek Morgan leaned back against Spencer’s desk, taking a slow, immensely satisfied sip of his coffee. He turned his head toward Spencer, who was sitting motionless in his swivel chair, holding his mug mid-air, staring at the closed glass windows of Hotch’s upper office in complete, horrified shock.

"Hey, Spence," Morgan drawled smoothly, a massive, teasing smirk spreading across his face.

Spencer blinked, slowly turning his head toward Morgan. "What?"

"How are you feeling about the potential family dynamic?" Morgan asked, leaning in with a playful, dangerous glint in his eyes. "You know... having Aaron Hotchner as your official brother-in-law?"

Spencer’s eyes widened behind his glasses. "Morgan, no. Stop. They’re—they’re not—Monica is just being nice. She brings pastries to everyone! It’s a courtesy gesture!"

"Reid," Emily chimed in, rolling her chair closer with a huge grin. "He called her late. In front of the entire unit. As if she had a assigned shift to come see him. You don't say 'you're late' to a civilian unless you've been staring at the door waiting for them for forty-eight hours straight."

"Statistically speaking," Spencer stammered, his cheeks flushing bright red as he gripped his coffee mug tight, "the probability of Hotch pursuing a romantic relationship with a family member of a subordinate is exceptionally low due to the strict Bureau conflict-of-interest guidelines, not to mention Hotch’s personal adherence to—"

"Kid," Rossi’s voice cut through the air smooth and low.

Everyone turned. David Rossi was leaning against the doorway of his office down the hall, holding his own coffee mug, a quiet, knowing smirk playing on his lips.

"I’ve known Aaron Hotchner for over fifteen years," Rossi said, taking a slow sip. "I have seen him face down armed cartels, corrupt politicians, and high-profile serial killers without his heart rate going up a single beat. But just now? When your sister handed him that paper bag? His pulse jumped into his throat."

Rossi chuckled softly, looking up at the glass office where two silhouettes were standing close together by the desk. "Give it up, Spencer. You might as well start planning where Hotch sits at Thanksgiving."

"Oh my god," Spencer groaned loudly, dropping his head flat onto his desk with a heavy thud, covering his ears with both hands. "No. Absolutely not. I refuse to profile my boss kissing my sister."

"Imagine the holiday dinners, Reid!" Morgan barked out a laugh, clapping Spencer hard on the shoulder. "'Pass the mashed potatoes, Agent Reid, or I'm putting a formal reprimand in your personnel file.'"

"Stop it!" Spencer muffled into the wood of his desk, though a small, helpless laugh escaped him.

"And imagine the discipline!" Garcia added dramatically, holding a hand over her heart. "'Spencer, if you don't clean your room, Unit Chief Hotchner is revoking your security clearance!'"

"I live in my own apartment!" Spencer shot back, lifting his head, his face entirely red.

Up inside the glass office, the blinds were partially drawn, but the quiet, high-tension atmosphere was completely disconnected from the teasing down below.

Hotch was sitting on the edge of his mahogany desk, holding his coffee cup, watching Monica as she leaned back against the bookshelf, taking a slow, relaxed breath. The sweet, warm scent of vanilla and roasted coffee clung to her, completely erasing the harsh, sterile smell of the office.

"You look like you haven't slept in two days, Aaron," Monica said softly, her dark, intelligent eyes sweeping over his face with a gentleness that made Hotch's chest ache.

Hotch looked down into his black coffee, then looked back up into her eyes. He didn't pull up his usual stoic wall. He didn't offer a professional deflection.

"I haven't," Aaron admitted, his deep voice dropping into that low, gravelly register that made her breath catch slightly. "The case has been difficult."

"I know," Monica whispered, taking a half-step closer to his desk, stopping right in front of him. "That's why I came. Even if I was late."

A subtle, incredibly soft smile touched the corners of Aaron’s lips—a look so rare and private that no one down in the bullpen had ever seen it. He reached out, his large hand resting over the dark wood of the desk, his fingers just inches from hers.

MAGGIE BELL & OA ZIDAN ❤️