#here4hotchner

Sitting at the table was Aaron Hotchner the man you never thought you’d see across from you dressed up, impossibly composed. Your stomach twisted in a nervous knot. How were you supposed to act normal when he looked like that? When this, this whole night, had been something you’d been quietly hoping for?

“You’re nervous,” he said, and your heart stuttered.

You picked at your dress, trying to hide the way your hands were shaking. “No, I’m good,” you lied. But he could see right through it. You knew he could.

His phone rang. He glanced at you, guilt flashing in his eyes, then answered. “Hotch,” JJ’s voice came through.

“JJ, not now. But we’ve got another case,” she said, steady but apologetic.

“I’m sorry, Hotch,” she said softly.

“Okay. I’m on my way,” he replied.

Your chest sank. You wanted to be annoyed at the interruption, at the job that always came first, but mostly you just felt… disappointed. Heavy, stubborn disappointment, like a dull ache that wouldn’t go away.

“I’m sorry,” he said, looking at you.

“Right,” you said, trying to sound casual, trying to shove down the fluttering mix of frustration and longing. “It’s okay. I should’ve known better.”

And even as you forced the words out, you hated that you felt so small, so… let down. Hotch looked guilty, and you felt it too, like a mirror of your own ache. You followed him back to the BAU, your first real night with him quietly dissolving into the work you both couldn’t escape, and your heart ached for what had never really started.

You’re silent on the way back to the BAU.

Once at the BAU, and he shuts the engine off the SUV he turns to look at you .

“Look at me,” he says, his voice calm but firm, the kind of tone that usually commands attention at the office.

You don’t.

“Hey,” he says again, slower this time, softer.

“Hotch, please,” you whisper. “I need to change before anyone asks questions,” you add, barely audible.

“It’s just a setback,” he says, controlled, measured. “I promise.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” you reply, your voice tight. You step out of the SUV, and he follows.

“Wait,” he says, stopping a step behind you.

“Stop,” he adds, more quietly, almost pleading this time.

Your chest aches, tight and heavy, and your heart feels like it’s in pieces. All you wanted was one night. One night that was just yours and his, no cases, no work, no interruptions. You didn’t care if it was selfish. You didn’t care about anything else. You just wanted him, just once, without the world in the way.

“Why stop?” you say, annoyed. “I gotta change. We’ve got a case. I look like I’ve been on a date—which I have… with you. Or wait, that got cancelled, so I guess it was a pre-date. So it’s okay for them to know, right?” you shout.

“Don’t do that,” he says, calm but firm.

“I’m just saying what I mean,” you reply, voice tight with frustration. “I just wanted one night,” you add, quieter now, almost a whisper. “One night with you. It was supposed to be our first date. So please… can we just go in and see what type of case we’re facing?”

He hesitates, silent for a moment, and you can feel the weight of his restraint. But even with that, your heart aches, still pulsing with what should have been, with the night that slipped through your fingers before it even began.

“Stop,” he says.

“Stop what?” you snap, your voice sharper than you intended.

“Stop with that tone,” he says, calm but firm, that quiet authority that always makes you want to listen, even when you’re mad at him.

“My tone?” you say, looking up into his eyes, heart hammering. “What about my tone? I’m frustrated, Aaron. I’m not gonna apologize for it either.”

You take a shaky breath, trying to push down the fluttering in your stomach, the way your heart keeps calling out for something you can’t force. You just want him close, want this night to be real, and want—desperately—for him to see how much you’ve been holding back.

“Damn it,” he says. “Look, you don’t think I’m disappointed? You don’t think I’m… annoyed, hurt? Or did you not think I looked forward to this date as much as you did?” he adds.

“It’s not just you,” he says.

“Don’t,” start.

“Don’t what?”

“Nothing. Forget it, Hotchner. I’m heading in to get dressed.”

“Wait… what? You just call me?” he asks.

“That’s what we’re doing now,” he adds. “Seems that way,” you mutter, turning toward the door. He grabs your wrist gently as you start heading inside. “Let go of me,” you say, half frustrated, half… something else.

“You know how I feel about…”

“Hotchner,” he says.

“I told you to call me Hotch… or Aaron,” he adds, eyes steady on yours.

“Right. Am I free to go now?” you say, looking down at his hand resting lightly on your wrist.

“You really don’t want me to let you go,” he murmurs, leaning in closer.

“I know your disappointment that we didn’t get our night together,” he continues, voice low, controlled. “But I promise you, I’ll make it up to you.”

“I told you… don’t make promises you can’t keep, Hotchner,” you reply, heart tight, frustration and longing tangled together.

He lets go of your wrist. You open the door to the BAU. By now, it’s 8:30 p.m. on a Friday—a case on a Friday night at 8:30. Tonight’s going to be a long one.

You push the elevator button, feeling the tension still tight in your chest. Hotch is behind you, quiet, controlled, impossibly close. You feel the heat of him just behind you, the subtle weight of his presence brushing against your shoulder. Your stomach twists—part nerves, part anticipation—that you can’t name.

The doors slide open. You both step inside. Silence stretches between you, heavy and charged.

“Tell me something,” he says.

“What?” you murmur, heart skipping a beat.

“One thing you were disappointed you weren’t going to be able to do tonight,” he adds, calm, steady, but there’s something softer under the control.

Your breath catches. “Excuse me?” you say, blinking at him. Your chest hammers, a mix of irritation and something else you can’t ignore.

Before you can think, he presses the red panic button, stopping the elevator.

“What are you doing, Hotchner?” you gasp, pulse spiking.

“Stop calling me that,” he says, calm, controlled, gaze locking with yours.

Your mind races. He’s so close. I can’t believe he did that. Your heart… it’s pounding. What are you supposed to do?

“Yeah, if I don’t…” you trail off, words faltering under the weight of the sudden closeness, the electricity crackling between you, the night that should have been yours still hanging in the air.

You feel every second stretch, every tiny shift of his body, and it’s like the world outside the elevator doesn’t exist. For a moment, it’s just you and him—and the ache of wanting him closer, wanting this night, wanting… something you can’t fully say out loud.

He leans in, his voice low near your ear.

“This is just a setback,” he says. “We’re going on a proper date, and it will be perfect. I promise.”

“Hotchn—”

“Don’t,” he cuts in, his tone soft but firm.

He’s close now, too close, his breath brushing against your cheek. You bite your lower lip before you can stop yourself, eyes flicking up to his.

“I swear,” he murmurs, his voice quieter now, rougher. “You do that just to get under my skin… or to get a rise out of me.”

Your pulse jumps, your voice barely above a whisper. “It seems to be working.”

The space between you hums with tension, the kind that burns slow and quiet—something neither of you should want but can’t seem to pull away from.

Hotch pushes the panic button again. The elevator jolts slightly, and as it starts moving, he leans in toward you.

Your chest tightens, stomach twisting, heart hammering. The warmth of him so close, the faint scent of him, the quiet strength in his presence—it all hits you at once. Everything else—the cases, the BAU, the late night—fades away.

You whisper, voice soft and trembling, “I wanted to know what it would be like… to kiss you. I wanted to know what it would be like… sitting across from you without it being work. I wanted this night… with you.”

Your hands can’t stay still. They rise, almost without thinking, to his chest, fingers brushing over the fabric of his suit. One hand slides up, finding the knot of his tie, and you let it linger there, the touch sending a thrill straight to your stomach. Your pulse hammers, every nerve alive with the ache of wanting him, the ache of being this close after waiting so long.

He leans in closer, breath warm against your cheek, and you can feel the pull, the magnetic tension between you. You bite your lower lip to stop a sound from escaping, your heart thundering in your ribs. Every thought is consumed by him, by the nearness of him, by the sharp, delicious ache of wanting more.

And then—the elevator doors slide open.

He slipped out of bed quietly, making sure not to disturb you. He pulled the curtains tighter, darkening the room until it was soft and safe. Then he adjusted the thermostat lower—cool enough that you wouldn’t feel the heat pounding behind your eyes.

After that, he grabbed his phone.

He did research first, scrolling through reputable medical pages the way only Aaron Hotchner would—methodical, focused, determined to help you. But then he went a step further.

He called Reid.

Because if anyone understood migraines, it was Spencer. And Aaron trusted him with anything involving you.

“Reid, she’s hurting. Bad. What do you do when yours get this severe?”

His voice was quiet, clipped with worry—Hotch-worry, that barely contained tension that only shows when it’s about someone he loves.

“I hear massage therapy works wonders,” Reid says after a moment. Hotch can practically see him adjusting his hand in his pocket through the phone. “And—uh—hot stones. Those help too.”

“…Excuse me?” Aaron asks, because hot stones are not something he expected to come up in this conversation.

“Trust me,” Reid adds quickly. “Place the hot stones on her neck and then down the line of her spine. It relaxes the muscles enough to ease some of the pressure.”

Hotch exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “Right. Anything else?”

“Oh, yeah—she needs electrolytes.” His tone shifts into that gentle, clinical cadence he uses when he’s trying to be helpful. “Try getting her to drink Gatorade. But only the blue twist kind, she won’t drink anything else.”

Aaron huffs the smallest breath through his nose—something close to a soft, fond laugh. “You noticed that too , huh ?”

“Of course,” Reid says. “Also give her strong Tylenol. Dim the lights—or no lights at all, if she prefers. Let her sleep once the medication starts working.”

There’s a pause, and then Reid adds, almost shyly, “Maybe put some lavender nearby. It can help calm her nervous system. Just… make the environment feel safe.”

Aaron nods even though Reid can’t see him. “Got it.”

He ends the call and stands there for a moment, hand still holding the phone, eyes drifting toward the dark bedroom where you’re curled up and hurting. Then he squares his shoulders.

Your pain is something he can’t fight directly—but he’ll do everything he can to make it easier.

Reid hangs up with Hotch and immediately turns toward Garcia’s office. He steps inside, fingers tapping restlessly against his thigh as he says—

“Garcia, I need you to run a search.”

She spins in her chair, eyebrows lifting. “For what, my star-eyed genius?”

“How to get hot stones. For therapeutic reasons,” he says in one long breath.

Garcia just stares at him. “Hot stones? Spencer, are you—are you starting a spa? Should I be concerned?”

He exhales sharply, already flustered. “Just do it. It’s for Hotch.”

Her eyes go wide. “Hotch? Boss man Hotch? Are we massaging Hotch??”

“No,” Reid groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “She has a migraine. A bad one. I suggested he use hot stones but he’s not going to want to take her to a massage place right now.”

Garcia’s confusion melts instantly into concern. “Oh sweetheart…” She’s already typing, acrylic nails clacking like tiny weapons. “Okay, okay—on it.”

A few seconds later, her screen flashes. “Found a place. Twenty-four-hour therapeutic supply shop. Closest one to Hotch’s route home. I’ll text you the address.”

Reid lets out a tight breath. “Thanks, Garcia.”

She softens. “Tell him she’s gonna be okay. And tell him to call if he needs anything.”

Reid nods and heads out , already dialing Hotch back with the information.

Reid catches Hotch on the second ring.

“Hotch—it’s Reid. I found a place. Garcia located a twenty-four-hour therapeutic supply store. I’m already on my way.”

Hotch pauses. “Reid, you don’t have to—”

“I’m already in the car,” Reid interrupts, voice firm in that rare way he gets when he’s decided something. “You shouldn’t leave her alone, not when she’s in that much pain. I can be there in less than twenty minutes with everything she needs.”

Hotch exhales, the tension in his shoulders loosening just a fraction. “Thank you, Reid .

“No problem.” Reid shifts gears—Hotch can hear the turn signal click softly through the phone. “I’ll get the stones, the heating wraps, electrolyte drinks… all the things I know she actually tolerates. I’ll bring lavender oil too—the one without the synthetic additives. She reacts better to the natural one.”

Hotch is silent for a second, struck by the precision, the care. “Reid—really. Thank you.”

“That’s what family does,” Reid says quietly. “I’ll be there soon.”

Hotch ends the call, staring at the bedroom doorway where you’re curled under the blankets, trembling at each throb behind your eyes.

Reid moves through the therapeutic shop with laser focus—hot stones, heating wraps, electrolyte drinks, the specific lavender oil that won’t overwhelm your senses. He double-checks each item twice before placing it in the basket.

At the counter, he sets everything down carefully.

The clerk rings it all up. It’s… not cheap.

Reid doesn’t even blink, at this point he doesn’t care how much it is , it’s for you .

He pulls out his wallet and pays for the full total without hesitation. Because this isn’t optional. This is you, and Hotch asked, and that’s enough.

Once the bags are in his hands, he steps outside into the cool early morning the air is crisp —and that’s when he remembers something important.

She hasn’t eaten.

He stops, looks at the supplies and then puts it in the passenger seat, and then nods to himself before getting to the car in starting the engine again.

Two minutes later, he’s pulling into the parking lot of your favorite little bagel shop. He walks in, still holding his phone like he’s expecting Hotch to call again at any moment.

“Two everything bagels,” he orders, “lightly toasted, small amount of cream cheese on the side.”

The lady handed him the bag of bagels . Reid studies it with a quiet, resigned expression.

“…Not my thing,” he murmurs to the lady , adjusting his grip on the handle of his bag . “But she’ll enjoy it.” The lady smiles .

He opens the passenger side door places the bag gently next to the therapeutic supplies—like it belongs with them—and then he gets back in the car and buckles himself in, and starts the car back up .

Reid pulls into Hotch’s apartment complex, grabs every bag—stones, wraps, lavender, Gatorade, the bagels—and heads inside. The elevator hums softly as he rides up to Hotch’s floor, shifting the bags in his hands.

He finds the right door and knocks.

It opens almost instantly.

“Reid,” Hotch says, relief flickering through his normally steady voice.

“Everything she’ll need is in here,” Reid replies, stepping inside and setting the bags carefully on the table. “Stones, wraps, electrolytes… even food. Is she awake yet?”

Hotch shakes his head. “No. Not since earlier.”

But he doesn’t realize—

you are awake.

Barely.

You’re sitting up in the dark bedroom, elbows on your knees, hands pressed to your temples as if you could hold your skull together. The darkness feels thick. Your head is pounding so viciously it makes the room tilt.

Hotch steps away from Reid and moves quietly into the doorway.

“Hey,” he whispers, voice low and warm.

You look up at him—eyes squinting against even the faint hallway light—and your voice comes out raw, scraped, fragile.

“You… you shouldn’t be home.” You swallow. “The office needs you.”

Hotch moves closer, crouching beside the bed so he can see your face in the dim. His brows pull together—concern, frustration, tenderness all mixing into something that makes your chest tighten.

“The only place I need to be,” he says softly, “is right here.”

His hand reaches out, gentle, fingers brushing a strand of hair away from your forehead so carefully it almost makes you cry.

“You’re in pain,” he adds. “Nothing else matters.”

Your voice is barely above a whisper, low and rough.

“I can handle myself,” you breathe, even though you can hardly keep your hands steady.

Hotch’s jaw flexes, not in anger—just quiet worry. Before he can answer, another voice breaks the silence.

Reid steps into the doorway, arms full of supplies.

“You called Reid?” you say, folding your arms across your chest despite the way your shoulders tremble with the throbbing pain.

Hotch straightens a little, but Reid moves first. He sets the bag down on the dresser, sorting through everything like he’s preparing a medical kit.

“You need this,” Reid says gently as he brings you the medicine and the blue Gatorade he picked just for you.

You shake your head, frustration rising under the migraine haze.

“I said I can take care of myself.”

Reid freezes for half a second—not offended, just concerned.

Then he crouches down the way he does when he’s trying to make something less overwhelming.

“I know you can,” he says quietly, in that surprisingly soft tone he only uses when you’re hurting. “But you don’t have to right now.”

Hotch stands behind him, arms crossed, gaze steady on you—protective, patient, unmoving.

“You’re not alone,” Hotch adds softly. “Let us help.”

The room stays dim and quiet, like it’s holding its breath, waiting for you to let the walls down just an inch.

Reid moves gently, like he’s afraid of making the pain worse.

He twists open the Gatorade, pops the seal, then screws the lid back on loosely so you don’t have to fight with it. Then he presses the medicine into your hand.

You take it—unhappy, exhausted, but compliant.

At least he remembered blue twist.

That tiny detail makes something inside you unclench just a little.

You shake your head, eyes closing briefly against the throbbing behind your temples.

“Hotch… you don’t need to be here. Neither of you do.”

Reid’s eyes soften, flickering to Aaron, but you speak before he can say anything else.

“Reid… can I talk to Hotch alone?”

Reid nods instantly, stepping out of the room without hesitation, the door closing softly behind him.

Hotch steps closer to you, but not too close—just enough to be present.

“Tell me something,” you whisper, even though talking feels like needles in the side of your skull.

“You shouldn’t be sitting up,” he murmurs, voice steady, low, careful. “You need to rest.”

But you push through the ache.

“Tell me this,” you repeat, throat tight. “Did you… did you do this for Haley? When she was hurting?”

Hotch freezes.

Just for a moment—but you see it, the way his breath stills.

“Not as much as I would’ve liked to,” he admits, honesty cracking through the air like something fragile. His voice softens even more. “But I’m here now. And I want to help you.”

You swallow. “But the office—”

“The office can wait,” he says, and there’s no room for argument in his tone, only sincerity. Then, quieter, “You can’t.”

“But it’s your job…” you whisper, as if you’re trying to free him from some invisible weight.

Hotch shakes his head slowly, stepping close enough to rest a hand against your shoulder—warm, grounding.

“My job,” he says, voice low, firm, “is whatever needs me most. And right now? That’s you.”

Reid steps back into the room, tablet already in his hand.

“Hotch,” he says quietly, “I have to head out. They just called me in—new case.”

You look at Aaron immediately, worry tightening your face despite the migraine.

“You should go too,” you whisper. “I’ll be fine.”

Hotch shakes his head before you even finish the sentence.

“No,” he says firmly but gently. “I’m staying until you’re doing better than you are now.”

Reid gives him a small, understanding nod.

“Keep me updated,” he says softly.

“Thanks, Reid,” Hotch replies.

And then Reid slips out the door, quiet and careful, leaving the apartment in the same soft dimness he entered.

Hotch waits a few seconds, listening to the silence settle again, then picks up one of the small lavender diffusers Reid bought. He places it on your nightstand, then another near the dresser, one by the door—soft pockets of calm throughout the room.

You smell it instantly, even with the pain still clawing behind your eyes.

“Lavender…” you whisper.

He nods. “Reid picked it up. Said it might help.”

You watch him for a long moment—how deliberate he is, how steady.

“You didn’t have to stay,” you say softly. “I don’t want to pull you away from your job…”

Hotch turns back toward you, expression soft but unmistakably serious.

“I’m exactly where I need to be,” he says quietly.

He comes closer, sits on the edge of the bed like he’s afraid to disturb you.

“You’re hurting,” he adds, eyes locked on yours. “I’m not leaving you to deal with that alone.”

His voice is low, warm, full of something that makes your chest ache more than the migraine.

“Work can wait,” he murmurs. “You can’t.”

Hotch stands carefully, moving toward the dresser to set up the kit Reid had brought—the hot stones, wraps, everything neatly arranged.

“What’s that?” you ask softly, voice still rough from the migraine.

“Hot stones,” he says quietly.

You giggle a little despite the pain, eyes widening. Something about the idea makes you almost forget how awful your head feels.

“Reid says it works,” Hotch adds, glancing at you briefly.

“Really?” you murmur, curiosity flickering through the haze.

He leans just a bit closer, voice low, almost a whisper. “Wanna try?”

You nod, heart fluttering—not from the migraine, but from the way he’s here, focused on you, steady and calm.

Can you… lay on your stomach?” Hotch asks softly.

You nod and carefully pull off your shirt, the migraine making every movement feel heavier than usual. You lie down on the bed, letting the blanket cover you halfway—just enough to keep you warm but not restrict him.

He pauses for a moment, hands hovering over the kit, and looks at you.

Are you comfortable?” he asks, voice low and careful, like he’s afraid any sudden motion might make the pain worse.

You nod again, wincing slightly as you settle into the pillows. “Yeah… I’ll be fine,” you whisper, even though every muscle in your body is tense.

Hotch studies you for a moment longer, then finally reaches for the stones, his movements deliberate and slow, making sure each step is calm and safe.

Hotch reaches out, moving your hair gently off your neck so he can work. His fingers brush lightly against your skin, careful not to hurt you.

Then, almost instinctively, he leans down and presses a soft, lingering kiss to the nape of your neck before picking up the first hot stone.

“Have you ever had this done before?” he asks quietly, voice low, cautious.

“No,” you whisper, your voice barely audible over the pounding in your head.

He nods, placing the warm stone carefully on the tense muscles along your neck. His touch is deliberate, grounding, like he’s anchoring you to the present so the migraine doesn’t consume you completely.

“Just relax,” he murmurs, brushing his fingers lightly over the stone. “I’ve got you.”

The room is dim, the faint scent of lavender curling around you, and for the first time since waking, you feel a little of the pressure start to ease.

He places the warm stone carefully on your neck.

You feel it immediately—a gentle, soothing heat that isn’t as uncomfortable as you feared. Your body eases slightly, and you let out a deep, shaky breath.

Hotch watches you closely, studying the way your shoulders relax, how the tension in your neck softens just a little. He waits, giving you a moment to adjust and respond, before he picks up the next stone.

Slowly, deliberately, he moves down your spine, placing the second stone with the same careful, grounding touch. His eyes flick to yours, silently asking if it’s okay, if the heat feels right, if you’re comfortable.

The migraine is still there, but somehow, with him here, the pain doesn’t feel quite as sharp.

He carefully places the next two stones along your back, spacing them just right so the warmth spreads evenly over the tense muscles.

Then he reaches for the lavender oil Reid brought, holding the small bottle delicately in his hand.

“You doing okay?” Hotch asks softly, his voice low, steady, grounding.

You shift slightly on the bed, the blanket still draped over you, and murmur, “Yeah… it feels… nice.”

He leans a little closer, his eyes scanning your face. “How’s it feel? Can you tell me?”

You take a slow breath, the warmth of the stones radiating through your back and neck. “It… it helps. More than I thought it would,” you admit, voice faint but honest.

Hotch nods, almost relieved, his hand brushing briefly over yours to reassure you. “Good. That’s what I wanted to hear.”

The room is quiet except for your breathing and the faint hum of the lavender diffuser, the soft intimacy of the moment wrapping around both of you.

Hotch pours a few drops of the lavender oil over your shoulders, the scent mingling with the warmth of the stones.

He starts to massage gently, slow, deliberate movements meant to ease the tension knotting your muscles. His eyes never leave your face, watching closely for every reaction—every small shift, every breath you take.

“Has no one ever done this for you before?” he asks softly, voice low and steady.

“No,” you whisper, your voice barely audible, eyes fluttering closed as the warmth and pressure begin to relax your muscles.

Hotch nods slightly, continuing the massage with careful precision, his hands firm yet gentle. “Then let me take care of you,” he murmurs. “Just for now, you don’t have to do anything but breathe.”

You take a shaky breath, letting the heat of the stones and the lavender wash over you

Hotch’s hands move carefully, pressing into the knots in your neck—muscles that had been tight for far longer than you realized. He works slowly, deliberate, giving each spot the attention it needs.

As he eases the tension from the first knot, a small but undeniable wave of relief washes over you. You let out a quiet, grateful breath, the tight ache in your neck loosening for the first time in hours.

Hotch pauses for a moment, watching your reaction closely, making sure the pressure is right. “How does that feel?” he asks softly, almost whispering.

“Better… so much better,” you admit, your voice rough but tinged with relief. The migraine hasn’t vanished, but the burden in your muscles is lighter, and it makes the pain a little more bearable.

He nods, a small, satisfied movement, and continues slowly, working out another stubborn knot. His hands are steady, precise, grounding—you can feel his focus entirely on you, and it’s almost more comforting than the warmth of the stones or the lavender in the air.

Hotch works slowly, easing the last of the knots from your neck. The tension that’s been building for who knows how long begins to melt under his careful, grounding hands.

You let out a long, shaky breath, closing your eyes and savoring the relief. The migraine is still there, but for the first time since waking, it feels manageable.

When he pauses, brushing a stray strand of hair from your neck, you can’t help the sudden, soft tug in your chest. Your lips part slightly as you look up at him through the dim light.

“Hotch…” you whisper, voice low and raw, almost hesitant.

He looks down at you, expression soft but unreadable, waiting for you to say more.

You lift your face just a little, heart racing in your chest. “Can… can you —” you trail off, voice trembling.

He leans slightly closer, and before you even realize it, your lips meet his in a gentle, tentative kiss. It’s soft, warm, grounding, and for a moment, the migraine, the tension, everything falls away, leaving only the two of you suspended in this quiet, intimate space.

When you pull back slightly, breath shallow but calmer, he brushes his thumb along your cheek. “Better?” he murmurs, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

Hotch takes the stones off your back one by one, his touch warm even without the heat of them. You let your body relax into the bed as he gathers everything up.

You roll onto your side, cheek pressed into the pillow, eyes drifting toward him. He’s bent slightly as he puts the stones away, black slacks stretched perfectly across him, the lines of his body , the tight but of his still incredible even through the haze of your headache.

“Aaron…” you whisper, barely loud enough to cross the space.

He glances over his shoulder, brow lifting in that quiet, attentive way he has.

“Could you… stay?” you ask softly. “Could you lay with me?”

A slow smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Now you want me to stay,” he teases, voice warm, low, a little amused.

He finishes with the kit, then turns fully toward you, walking back with that steady, unhurried confidence that always makes your chest tighten.

“Of course I’ll lay with you,” he says gently.

Your heart beats faster, nerves and want tangled together. “Can I… lay on your chest?”

He doesn’t even hesitate. “Of course, sweetheart.”

He slips off his shoes and sits on the edge of the bed before easing down beside you. His arm opens, inviting, protective. You move toward him, slow and careful, resting your head against the solid warmth of his chest. His heartbeat is steady under your ear—strong, grounding, exactly what you need.

His hand settles on your back, thumb brushing up and down in slow, soothing lines.

“You comfortable?” he murmurs against your hair.

You nod, eyes already sliding shut. “Yeah… better with you.”

He exhales softly, almost like he’s been holding something in too. Then he presses a light kiss to the top of your head and pulls you even closer.

I saw that he says , saw what you say “ Nothing he says . You curled up in to him he holds you tight as you drift off to sleep in his arms , as he pulls the blanket over in him he drifts off to sleep to ….

Few hours go by , you both awake , you sit up your acutely hungry, he tells you that Reid left some bagels oh good you say , getting up to get them from the dresser , you got the cream cheese, you head back to bed , you share your bagel with Aaron . Thank you , for today you say softy , don’t thank me he says , I wanted to be here for you in I would do it again ..

You had counted on him being home in an hour, exactly like he said. But that hour came and went. And then another hour. Your fingers trace the edge of the pillow, restless, tugging at the silk, and a small crease of worry knits your brow. You try to shake it off after all, it’s work. But there’s a little sting, a flutter of disappointment, that maybe he forgot just how much you were waiting.

The sheets twist around you as you shift, trying to make yourself comfortable, trying not to imagine him walking in, tired and tense, and wondering if you’d be upset. Your heart beats a little faster when the faintest sound of keys turns in the lock, your breath catching before it even has a chance to leave your lungs.

Aaron finally steps inside. You hear his bag drop softly to the floor, the jingle of keys on the kitchen table echoing in the quiet apartment. And just like that, all the waiting, all the quiet worry, melts away. Relief rushes through you, mingling with a fluttering excitement as you see him leaning in the doorway, arms folded, taking you in. The silk sheets against your skin feel impossibly soft, your black lace pajamas catching the low light just right, and it hits you—you missed this. You missed him.

You shift slightly, trying to appear casual, but the corners of your mouth lift in a soft, sleepy smile. “Finally,” you murmur, voice rough from sleep and the lingering edge of worry.

“Miss me that bad?” he says, voice low, calm, every word measured, controlled.

You let out a soft laugh, trying to hide the quick flutter in your chest. Your eyes keep scanning him, tracing the lines of his shoulders, the tilt of his jaw, even as you try to look casual.

“I know what you’re doing,” he adds, a hint of amusement slipping through the control.

You try to swallow, shifting slightly under his gaze. “I’m not doing anything,” you say, your voice a little higher than you intended.

“So you’re not undressing me with your eyes…” he teases, the corner of his mouth lifting just enough to make your stomach do a little flip.

You gasp, quickly pressing both hands over your face, trying to hide the flush burning across your cheeks and the flutter in your chest. Part of you wants to disappear under the silk sheets, and part of you can’t tear your eyes away from him. Carefully, almost instinctively, you peek through your fingers as he steps fully into the room.

He moves slowly, deliberately, and settles on the edge of the bed, close enough that your heart jumps but far enough to give you a moment to steady your racing thoughts. Every detail about him—the neat knot of his tie, the way his shoulders fill the space—sends a shiver through you.

“Yes,” he says softly, calm, controlled, reading every small movement, every quick glance you try to hide.

“Nothing,” you murmur, voice barely above a whisper, even though your chest is pounding and your mind is betraying you with thoughts you shouldn’t be having.

Your hands remain partly over your face, but your eyes can’t stop watching him. You bite your lip, cheeks burning .The words escape in a quiet, almost breathless whisper, “You just don’t realize… how much I’ve missed you.”

Your heartbeat hammers in your ears, every nerve alive with the mix of relief, longing, and the thrill of having him here, finally home.

You curl your knees up close to your chest, a reflex to make yourself smaller, safer, but your pulse is already racing, a wild drum in your ears. Every nerve feels electric, as if the air between you is humming.

He moves closer, deliberate, calm, and before you can fully think, he pulls you into him, easing you down onto the silk sheets. The cool softness presses against your skin, a contrast to the heat building in your chest, your stomach twisting with anticipation.

His hands rest lightly on your sides, grounding you, yet every inch of contact sends tiny sparks through your body. Your heart thunders so hard you’re sure he can hear it. His eyes catch yours, steady, intense, calm, and it’s as if he can see all the chaos your mind is trying to hide.

“I can only imagine,” he murmurs, voice low and measured, smooth and intoxicating, threading straight into the center of your thoughts. It’s like he knows the words you can’t say, the ache you’ve been holding in your chest.

Without thinking, your fingers reach for his tie, tugging lightly, almost trembling. The moment your skin brushes the silk of his tie, a shiver races down your spine, your stomach flipping as a breath catches in your throat. He chuckles, a deep, warm sound that makes your chest ache in ways you didn’t expect.

“You have an obsession,” he teases, eyes sparkling with mischief and something heavier, something you feel straight in your bones.

You bite your lip, cheeks flaming, heart hammering, eyes darting away though every fiber of you wants to look at him, memorize him, feel him. “Stop,” you murmur, soft, shy, almost pleading, even as the sheets shift beneath you, every nerve ending alight, every heartbeat screaming that you’re alive in a way you haven’t felt all day—maybe all week.

Your body tingles, every tiny brush of his presence setting off alarms and fireworks at once, and you realize, with both terror and exhilaration, that you’ve been waiting for this exact moment more than you even understood.

You’re waiting for it, holding your breath, every nerve screaming as he leans just slightly closer. The look in his eyes calm, steady, but smoldering , says he wants to cave first, that he wants to be the one to close the distance, to press his lips to yours. Your chest tightens, your pulse hammering as if the rest of the world has disappeared, leaving only the two of you suspended in this charged, electric moment.

Your fingers trace lightly over his chest, feeling the warmth beneath the fabric, the steady beat of his heart beneath your fingertips. Each subtle movement sends shivers down your spine, makes your stomach twist and flutter, and you can feel the slow, teasing tension building between you like a wire about to snap.

You’re acutely aware of everything his scent, the slight roughness of his tie beneath your fingers, the way his eyes never leave yours, measuring, daring, waiting. Your own lips part slightly, your breath catching as if even inhaling is a secret shared only between the two of you.

It’s a quiet, heart-stopping moment, alive with anticipation, and you realize you’ve been craving this more than you could ever admit to feel him, to let him be the first to bridge the space you’ve both been holding.

You bite your lower lip, the sharp edge of your teeth barely breaking your skin, and a soft moan escapes before you can stop it. Your chest rises and falls faster, heart hammering in your ears, every nerve ending tingling.

“You…” you whisper, your voice trembling, barely more than a breath, “Aaron…”

The sound of his name on your lips seems to hang in the air between you, heavy and charged. Heat pools low in your stomach, spreading upward, and your fingers tighten slightly against the fabric of his shirt, tracing the line of his chest without meaning to.

You can feel him lean just a fraction closer, the faintest brush of his presence against yours igniting every inch of your skin. Your breath catches again .

“Please,” you whisper, tugging on his tie a little harder than you meant to. The silk slides between your fingers, and it’s enough—just enough—to pull something loose in him. His breath deepens, his eyes steady on you, dark in a way that makes your stomach flip.

He finally leans in, giving in, kissing you slow at first… slow enough you feel it all the way through your body. Every inch of you wakes up at once. You hold onto his tie like you need it, like letting go would break something between you.

In the quiet scramble of your bodies moving together, his suit jacket somehow ends up on the floor, half-forgotten. His shirt bunches beneath your hands, soft wrinkles forming where you’ve been grabbing and pulling him closer without even realizing it.

The kiss grows deeper still gentle, but full of everything you’d both been holding back. His hands slide over your sides, warm against your skin even through the thin silk, and it makes your whole body tighten and relax at the same time.

Your mind doesn’t feel steady; it feels alive, too alive, like he’s the only thing you can register. The way he leans into you. The way he lets just a little of that control slip. The way you can’t stop wanting more of him, closer, now.

Your hands move without you even thinking about it, reaching for the top button of his shirt. You undo it slowly, then the next… and the next… your fingers brushing his skin each time, making your breath catch in your throat. He doesn’t stop you he just watches you, eyes warm, focused, like you’re the only thing in the room that matters.

You slip his tie off, letting it fall beside you on the bed, then push his shirt off his shoulders until it joins the jacket on the floor. Your palms flatten against his chest, feeling the heat of him, the way his muscles tighten under your touch.

When you finally lift your gaze to his, it hits you all at once—how long you’ve been waiting for this, how much you needed him home, here, with you. Your voice comes out soft, shaky, almost breaking,

“God… I’ve missed you so much.”

The words spill out before you can even think about holding them back. And the way he looks at you in that moment like he feels the exact same thing makes your whole body ache in the sweetest way.

You push yourself upright, the sheets shifting around you, and he follows your movement, sitting up with you. His eyes never leave you. You lean in slowly, pressing your lips to his chest soft, lingering kisses that make his breath deepen, his hand instinctively settling at your waist.

Before either of you can think too much, you swing a leg over and climb into his lap. His hands slide to your hips, steadying you, pulling you just a little closer.

“Sweetheart…” he murmurs, voice low, warm, the kind of tone he only uses when he’s letting his guard down for you.

You shake your head gently, your fingers curling against his shoulders. “No interruptions,” you whisper, your voice softer but firm. “Not tonight.”

There’s a small pause heavy, warm, full of meaning and then he nods, his forehead brushing yours, his hands tightening around your waist like he’s anchoring himself to you.

“Okay,” he breathes. “No interruptions.”

“Where’s your phone?” you ask softly, your fingers brushing up his chest before settling on his shoulder, warm and steady.

He blinks, just a little thrown by the shift. “In my pocket,” he says, voice low.

You hold out your hand. “Take it out. Hand it over.”

His brows lift, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Sweetheart…” Aaron murmurs, like he’s not sure if he should laugh or give in.

You meet his eyes, steady and warm but firm. “Aaron,” you remind him quietly, “I said no interruptions… didn’t I?”

The way he exhales slow, almost defeated in the sweetest way tells you everything. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out the phone, and places it in your hand without looking away from you once.

“Alright,” he says softly. “No interruptions.”

His voice is deeper now, warmer… like the words mean more than quiet like they mean you have me, completely, right now.

You rise from his lap slowly, every shift of your body still humming from the memory of his hands, the press of his chest against yours, the heat of his lips. There’s a natural sway in your hips — not intentional, not teasing, just the way your body moves when it’s still lit with him.

Aaron watches you like he’s starving. Eyes dark, jaw tight, every inch of him tense and waiting. The shirt and tie he wore earlier are gone, leaving him bare-chested, the low light catching the smooth lines of his shoulders and the slight rise and fall of his chest.

You cross the room with that slow, unsteady gait, opening the top drawer — the tie drawer — and sliding his phone inside. The quiet click of the drawer feels impossibly loud in the thick, charged air.

“Happy?” he asks from the bed, his voice low, controlled, but threaded with hunger.

You pause, letting your gaze drag over him, over the bare skin and the faint sheen of heat you caused, over the way he sits up just enough to make you ache. Your hand brushes lightly over the silk sheets as you turn fully to face him, letting the air of the room press against your bare arms.

“Very,” you murmur, soft but sure, and the way his eyes darken, heavy and full of need, makes your pulse jump. The room feels smaller, hotter, alive with anticipation, like the air itself is holding its breath for what comes next.

You’re standing by his dresser, fingers brushing over the smooth wood, then letting them drift down your body where your pajamas cling to your curves. You can feel him watching, and it makes your skin feel alive, electric, like it’s remembering every touch from earlier.

Your voice comes out low, soft, a little shy. You tilt your head, catching your own pulse in your throat. “What… what do you think of my pajamas?” you ask, barely louder than a whisper, eyes flicking up to meet his.

He doesn’t answer right away. His eyes travel over you, slow, deliberate, and you can feel heat rolling off him. Over your hips, your chest, back to your face. His breath deepens, his chest rising and falling, and it hits you how much he wants you.

“You…” he murmurs, voice rough, low, the kind that makes your knees go weak. “You look…” He stops, swallows, and the way his gaze darkens, the almost desperate way he’s staring, makes a shiver run straight down your spine.

Even just standing there, shy, tentative, with him watching you like that, your body hums. Your stomach twists, your pulse pounds in your ears, and every tiny movement feels sharper, hotter. The air between you feels like it’s burning, and you know he feels it too.

You give a little spin for him, letting the lace of your pajamas catch the light. A soft giggle slips from your lips before you even realize it, light and airy, and it makes something stir in him—something deep and hungry.

You start walking toward him, slow, deliberate, each step measured. The sway of your hips, the soft rustle of lace against silk, the warmth pooling low in your stomach… every inch of you is alive, and every step makes his chest tighten.

Aaron doesn’t move. He doesn’t need to. His eyes track you, dark, intense, unblinking, and there’s this quiet almost disbelief in the way he looks at you. Lace on you like that—like you were made for him to see. He doesn’t even realize how lucky he is, how much he’s been waiting for this exact moment.

By the time you’re close, standing right in front of him, he can’t help it. The air between you feels thick, electric, almost unbearable. Before you can react, he reaches up, strong but careful, and pulls you back down onto his lap. The movement is smooth, hungry, and intimate, and your breath catches, heart hammering, every nerve alive.

He leans back just enough to hold you close, his hands settling on your hips, and for a moment, neither of you moves—just feeling the heat, the closeness, the pull of everything that’s been building between you.

You move your hips slowly on him, just barely, testing, teasing—deliberate and slow, savoring every inch of contact. Your skin tingles where it brushes against him, every nerve alive.

A rough, low moan escapes him, deep and raw, and it sends a jolt straight through your stomach. That sound, the way it vibrates against your chest, makes your pulse spike and your breath catch.

You don’t stop. You lean in, careful at first, letting your lips brush against his, soft and teasing, tasting him, and he lets you. Not controlling, not stopping—just letting you move, letting the moment stretch between you, heavy and charged.

His hands slide more firmly to your hips, holding you, drawing you closer. Your lips press harder, and the room shrinks until it’s only the two of you, every touch, every sound, every shiver magnified in the heat between you.

Aaron…” you whisper again, voice soft, trembling just slightly. “I… please…”

He doesn’t hesitate. His hands find the straps of your lace tank top, fingers brushing your skin as he slowly pulls it over your head. The fabric slips away, leaving you bare, shivering from the sudden cool air and the heat radiating off him.

Before you can catch your breath, he guides you gently but firmly onto the bed. His eyes never leave yours—dark, intense, full of need.

Then he starts. Slow. Deliberate. Worshiping every inch of you. His lips trace a path from your collarbone down your stomach, over the curves of your body, leaving fire wherever they touch. Every kiss, every brush of his hands, every careful caress makes your pulse race, makes your skin feel electric.

You arch instinctively under him, every nerve alive, craving more. The world outside the room falls away until there’s nothing left but you, him, and the heat between you, building, slow, unstoppable.

You lift your gaze to his, soft but steady, letting him see the heat and need in your eyes. “I want to… take the lead,” you whisper, voice low, trembling just enough to show him how much you mean it. “I want to… take care of you.”

For a moment, he just looks at you, dark eyes scanning your face, chest rising a little faster, the tiniest hitch in his breath betraying him. Then a slow, rough smile curls at the corner of his lips.

“You… you want to take care of me?” he murmurs, voice husky, low, almost teasing, but full of something heavier, hungrier.

“Yes,” you say, heart pounding, heat pooling low in your stomach. “I want this. I want you.”

He leans forward, hands brushing over your sides, holding you close, and for a second the world narrows to just the two of you—every touch, every breath, every shared heartbeat amplified in the quiet, charged space.

You reach for the zipper un do his zipper , fingers trembling just slightly, your pulse racing. Slowly, deliberately, you undo the single button on his pants, letting your hand brush over his hip as you ease the waistband down.

Your fingers trail over his thigh, rubbing lightly, teasing, feeling the heat of his skin beneath your touch.

He exhales sharply, a low, rough sound that sends a jolt straight through you, and every nerve in your body comes alive. The room feels charged, thick with tension, slow, hungry, and entirely yours in this quiet, intimate moment You glance down and see how hard he already is, the heat between you unmistakable. A small, knowing smile spreads across your lips, soft but teasing, and you feel him shift slightly under your touch.

The sight of him, so alive, so responsive, makes a thrill run straight through you. Every nerve in your body hums, your pulse racing, your stomach twisting with need and anticipation. You lean in just a little closer, letting him feel your warmth, letting him know exactly what you want without a single word.

The air between you grows heavy, thick with tension. The room feels smaller, hotter, charged with every quiet breath, every touch. Every inch of him, every inch of you, is alive, wanting, ready.

You hook your fingers into the waistband of his boxers and slowly pull them down, dragging the fabric over his hips, his thighs, until he’s bare under you. The moment is quiet, intimate, almost fragile just you and him, and the heat pulsing between your bodies.

“Aaron…” you breathe, voice soft, almost shy even now. “I wanna worship you tonight.”

The words slip out warm and honest, hitting him deeper than any touch could.

You look up at him, hands still resting on his thighs.

“It’s been days since you’ve been home,” you admit, voice tight with the truth sitting heavy in your chest. “And I… I miss you.”

His breath catches, stutters.

Not from your hands, not from the heat between you—

but from that.

From your voice, soft, needy, the way you look at him like he’s everything.

He reaches out, fingers brushing along your jaw, slow, gentle, reverent—like he’s making up for every day he wasn’t here, like he can’t get enough of you.

She slowly takes his hard dick into her mouth, careful at first, savoring the heat and weight of him. Every nerve in her body hums, alive to the feel of him.

A rough, low moan rumbles from him, deep and raw, and he pushes her head just a little further, letting her know how good it feels.

“Sweetheart… just like that,” he murmurs, voice low, rough, full of need.

Her hands grip his thighs, steadying herself as she continues, every motion deliberate, every inch of him pressing against her, every sound he makes sending shivers straight through her. The room shrinks until there’s nothing but her and him, and the heat between them burns hotter with every second.

“Oh my god… sweetheart,” he groans, low and rough, voice thick with need.

You look up at him, eyes locking with his, breath catching around him.

His hands guide you gently, urging you on, and then he starts to move your head faster, deeper.

You’re enjoying this—maybe a little too much—feeling him fully inside your mouth, every inch, every pulse, every shiver of his reaction feeding the fire building in you.

Every movement, every low moan he lets out, every hitch of his breath makes your body hum, the heat between you thick, slow, and impossible to resist.

The moment you feel him release, he lifts you up, holding you close, and presses a soft, slow kiss to your lips. Then he leans you back against the bed, just enough to catch your breath.

“Aaron…” you start, voice shaky, wanting to say something.

He lifts a finger to your lips, trying to stop you from speaking.

What he doesn’t expect is for you to suck on it, teasing, claiming just a little piece of him for yourself.

His eyes widen for the briefest second, then darken with need, low, rough groan escaping him. The room feels hotter, smaller, every inch of you humming with the tension between you.

He lowers himself slowly, until he’s between your legs, chest hovering above you. His hands part your thighs gently, just enough to see you, and he notices—your panties are still on, but he can already feel how wet your clit is.

“Hmm,” he murmurs, low and rough, pressing a finger firmly against your clit through the fabric, pushing just enough to make you shiver.

A soft moan escapes your lips, trembling and unsteady, and it makes him grin darkly, hungry.

Every movement—every press, every brush of his fingers against your clit through your panties—sends shivers straight through your body. The heat between you thickens, slow, teasing, and impossible to ignore, each touch pulling you closer to him, closer to the edge, making you ache for more.

“Please…” you gasp, voice trembling, barely more than a whisper.

“Use your words, sweetheart,” Aaron murmurs, low and rough, his fingers still pressing against you, his eyes dark and hungry, waiting for you to tell him exactly what you want.

The heat between you hums, thick and heavy, every nerve alive, every breath pulled tight with need.

Fuck me,” you gasp, voice rough, with your finger you say voice shaky .

“Please…” you whisper, trembling.

He pulls down your panties, tossing them aside, and looks up at you, eyes dark and hungry. Slowly, deliberately, he slips a finger inside you, letting it glide in and out, each movement teasing, deliberate.

“Like this,” he whispers low, rough, needy.

“Yes,” you breathe, voice shaky, hot, desperate, giving yourself over to him completely.

He starts to move faster, each glide of his finger sending sparks through your body. You move with him, matching his rhythm, because it feels too good to resist.

Your hand drifts up, tangling lightly in his hair, pulling him closer, feeling the heat and weight of him against you. Every tug, every little grip makes him groan low and rough, and it only drives the fire in you higher.

The world shrinks until it’s just the two of you—every touch, every moan, every shiver stretched out, slow, hungry, and electric.

He knows exactly when you’re ready. Without hesitation, he slides another finger inside you, slow, deliberate, stretching you just enough to make your back arch.

“Aaron…” you plead, voice trembling, raw, desperate.

Every inch of him inside you, every careful movement of his fingers, makes your pulse race, your body hum, and your breath come in short, shaky gasps. The heat between you is thick, slow, and impossible to ignore, each motion drawing you closer, closer to the edge.

“Let go for me, sweetheart,” he murmurs, low and rough, voice thick with need. “It’s okay… you can let go.”

Every word, every touch, every brush of his fingers against you makes your body shiver, your pulse race. The heat between you coils tighter, your breath hitching as you feel yourself unravel under him, alive and consumed by the moment.

Once you’re done, you pull him close, guiding him to where he’s lying beside you. A soft giggle escapes your lips, and he watches you, dark eyes scanning your face before he reaches up, brushing your hair back from your cheek.

“So… you missed me, huh?” he teases, low and warm.

“Jerk,” you mutter, a small smile tugging at your lips as you crawl into his arms.

He grins, holding you close, and you answer him honestly, voice soft but sure: “Yes… more than you’ll ever know.”

You wanted to argue, to say you weren’t ready, that you couldn’t think straight with the thought of him gone, that your hands were already shaking — but Emily’s hand landed on your shoulder. A silent don’t fight it.

Your throat burned. You nodded because that’s what Hotch would’ve done — steady, controlled, even when his world was falling apart. But your mind was screaming.

The gray outside seeped into everything. Into your bones, into your breath. You looked up at his empty office and felt something inside you break — quiet, small, but sharp enough to hurt.

Because this wasn’t just your boss missing.

This was him….

You followed Strauss down the hall, your shoes echoing off the floor — each step heavy, uneven. The air felt colder away from the bullpen, quieter too, like even the building knew something was wrong.

“What do we know?” you asked, trying to sound like you had control, like your heart wasn’t crawling up your throat.

“All we know is that he never made it home last night,” she said, not slowing her pace. Her tone was clipped, efficient, like facts could fix the ache building in your chest.

You nodded, the words hitting harder than you let her see. Never made it home. You tried not to picture his apartment , the untouched coffee pot, the silence that must’ve filled it. You forced your voice to steady. “Got it.”

But then it slipped out before you could stop it. “Strauss… why me?”

She stopped, turned to you — her expression unreadable, something between exhaustion and calculation.

“Because,” she said firmly, “I need someone who can think like him. Someone who understands how he operates.” Her eyes narrowed slightly, tone hardening. “And don’t question my Decision again . It’s already been made.”

You swallowed, the words catching in your throat.

“Find Agent Hotchner.”

That was all she said before she walked away, leaving you standing there with your pulse ringing in your ears.

You stared down the empty hallway, your reflection blurred in the glass. The weight of it all settled like a storm in your chest — not just the responsibility, but the fear. The ache of not knowing where he was, if he was hurt, if he was okay.

You drew in a shaky breath and whispered it to yourself, because it was all you could hold onto —

I’ll try to find him …

Derek and Spencer were behind you — close enough that you could feel the weight of them, the worry hanging thick between all three of you. The bullpen buzzed, voices low, phones ringing somewhere far off, but it all sounded muffled. Like the world had dimmed a little.

“What do you want us to do?” Derek asked quietly. His tone was calm, but you could hear it — that edge of fear he was trying to hide.

You turned to face them, and your hands wouldn’t stay still. You could feel your pulse in your fingertips, the tremor in your throat when you spoke. “I don’t know,” you said, voice cracking. “I don’t know why she thinks I can handle this.”

It slipped out before you could stop it. The truth of it — raw, shaking, and heavy.

“Hey,” Derek said, stepping closer, his voice softer now. “You can handle this.”

You shook your head because you didn’t believe it. Not yet. Everything inside you felt unsteady — like the ground itself was moving. “He’s never just… gone, Derek,” you whispered. “Not without a word, not without—” you stopped yourself before the words not without me knowing could come out.

“Look at me,” he said, and you did. His eyes were steady, that same quiet fire you’d seen a hundred times in the field. “We’ll find him. We’re not losing him, okay?”

You nodded even though the ache in your chest didn’t ease. It was like something hollow had settled there. “Okay,” you managed, barely more than a breath.

You tried to gather your thoughts, to sound like someone who could lead — like he would. “Go to Garcia,” you told Spencer, your voice trembling but determined. “See if you can get into his phone records, traffic cams, anything that might tell us where he went last night.”

Spencer nodded immediately, already reaching for his phone. “Got it.”

You turned toward Derek again. “Me, Rossi, and Emily will go to his apartment. Em’s got a key — so do I.”

Derek gave a small nod, but he didn’t move yet. He just looked at you, eyes searching, grounding. “You got this,” he said quietly, and somehow it hit harder than anything Strauss had said. “Trust your gut. Trust what Hotch would do.”

You tried to swallow the lump in your throat, but it stayed there, burning. “Yeah,” you whispered, your gaze flicking toward the empty glass office above. His office. His mug still sitting there from yesterday.

You felt something in your chest twist, sharp and deep. You weren’t sure if it was fear or the kind of hurt that comes when you realize how much someone means to you — too much to even say out loud.

Trust what Hotch would do.

But the truth was, you didn’t want to think like him. You just wanted him back.

You take out your phone hands hovering over Hotch’s contact , you wanted to text him you type out what you wanna send to him , heart racing….

You :

Hotch we need you , I need you please be okay.

Then you erased it …

You tell Emily and Rossi let’s go you say . “Rossi, you drive,” you say, voice tight, trying to sound like you’ve got control when you don’t. He just nods, no questions asked. Emily’s already moving beside you, eyes sharp but quiet — she can feel it too, the weight pressing on all of you.

You push through the glass doors and head straight for the SUV. The air outside hits colder than before, like the weather knows something you don’t. You slide into the passenger seat, pull your phone from your pocket, and call Garcia before Rossi even starts the engine.

“Garcia, talk to me,” you say, breath shaky.

Her voice comes through the speaker, fast and nervous. “Okay, so, I traced Hotch’s vehicle from last night — he got out of the SUV around nine. Traffic cam shows him pulling over just outside the city.”

You close your eyes for a second, heartbeat pounding in your ears. “And after that, sweets?”

There’s a pause. “After that, I’ve got nothing. It’s like he vanished. No cameras, no credit cards, nothing. Poof.”

“Spence?” you ask, hoping for something, anything.

You hear him in the background, voice low but clear. “I checked his phone records. Only one outgoing call after he stopped.”

“To who?” you ask, the words leaving your mouth before you can brace for the answer.

Spencer hesitates, then says it — “You.”

The silence that follows is so thick it almost hurts. Rossi’s hands tighten on the wheel. Emily’s head snaps toward you.

“Me?” you whisper. “I didn’t even get the call.”

“Time stamp says it went through,” Spencer adds softly. “But it never connected. It’s like… it rang into nowhere.”

You stare down at your phone like it’s betrayed you. “How is that even possible?” you say, voice breaking just a little.

No one answers.

Outside, the gray sky hangs heavy over the windshield, and the world feels too still — like it’s holding its breath, waiting for you to find out what comes next.

And all you can think is — Why me? Why was his last call to me?

Back at the BAU ….

Hotch stepped into Garcia’s office quietly, the door closing behind him with barely a sound.

Garcia froze mid-sentence, eyes going wide. Spencer’s head jerked up from his screen, Derek turning at the same time, disbelief written across his face.

“Don’t,” Hotch said calmly, holding a finger to his lips before any of them could speak. His voice was low, even — the kind that made you stop instantly. “How’s she doing?” he asked.

“Really, Hotch?” Derek shot back, half-whisper, half-growl. “You vanish, have everyone losing their minds — she’s losing her mind — and you’re asking how she’s doing?”

Hotch’s expression didn’t change. “This is a test.”

Spencer blinked. “A… test?” he repeated, like the word didn’t sound right coming from him.

“Yes,” Hotch said simply. “I needed to see if she could handle a situation like this — if something were to happen to me.” His tone softened slightly, something almost protective beneath it. “She needs to know what it feels like to lead under pressure.”

Derek shook his head, stepping closer. “You’re telling me you put her through this? You had Strauss tell her you were missing?”

Hotch didn’t flinch. “Strauss is part of it. She agreed to help.”

Garcia’s jaw dropped. “You and Strauss are in cahoots?” she whispered, still staring at him like he’d lost his mind.

Hotch exhaled, short and sharp. “This isn’t a game, Garcia. I need to know the team can function — that she can — if I’m ever taken out of the equation.”

The room fell silent. The hum of the computers, the faint buzz of the overhead light — that was all that filled the space.

Then Hotch’s eyes hardened again, command slipping back into his tone. “Now act like you didn’t see me,” he said quietly.

“Hotch—” Derek started, but Hotch cut him off with a look that ended the argument before it began.

“Not a word,” Hotch said. “She needs to believe this is real.”

And just like that, he turned and walked out — leaving them standing there in stunned silence, torn between anger and understanding, watching the door close behind him.

Garcia’s hands flew to her mouth, eyes wide, voice coming out in a rush — high and panicked. “Oh my god… oh my god.” She spun toward Derek and Spencer like the walls were closing in. “What do we do? What do we even do?”

Derek stepped forward, his jaw tight, trying to stay calm even though his pulse was pounding in his neck. “Baby girl—”

“No, don’t ‘baby girl’ me right now, Derek Morgan!” she snapped, her voice shaking with that mix of fear and fury only Garcia could pull off. “You know I’m not good at this! I don’t lie well! I talk with my eyes and my face and my soul, Derek! She’s gonna take one look at me and know something’s wrong!”

Garcia’s fingers were already tapping against her keyboard like she could type her nerves away, but her thoughts were spinning too fast. The image of you pacing the bullpen — that look in your eyes, the way your voice cracked when you said how is that even possible — it replayed in her head. The guilt hit her like a punch.

“Why would he do that?” she asked suddenly, voice breaking just a little. “Why would he put her through this? She thinks he’s gone, Derek. Do you have any idea how scared she looked?”

Derek ran a hand over his head, exhaling hard. He was angry — at Hotch, at Strauss, at the whole damn setup — but he also knew Hotch never did anything without a reason. “He’s testing her,” he said quietly. “He wants to see if she can handle it.”

Garcia spun in her chair, eyes glassy. “Handle it? She’s breaking, Derek. That’s not handling it, that’s hurting.”

Spencer, who’d been silent this whole time, finally spoke, voice low and uneasy. “Hotch trusts her,” he said. “Maybe this is his way of proving to himself that she’s ready.”

Garcia turned to him, tears starting to gather in the corners of her eyes. “Ready for what, Spence? For him not to come back one day?”

The question hung heavy in the air. None of them had an answer.

Derek reached out, resting a steadying hand on the back of her chair. “Look,” he said softly. “We keep it together. For her. Hotch wants to see how she moves, fine — we’ll make sure she’s not alone in this, even if she doesn’t know it.”

Garcia’s voice trembled. “I don’t like it, Derek. I don’t like lying to her.”

“I know, baby girl,” he murmured. “Neither do I.”

She turned back to her screens, blinking fast to keep her tears from spilling. “Then he better come out of hiding soon,” she whispered. “Because if she finds out about this before this all over ..…”

She paused, glancing at Derek, eyes full of worry.

“…he’s gonna wish he’d actually gone missing.”

You get to Hotch’s apartment. Rossi shuts the engine. You take a deep breath… trying to steady yourself, but it barely helps.

Emily’s phone buzzes — a text from Garcia: Listen to me carefully, Hotch came in, saw us. This is a test for her, for us… she cannot know anything, you hear me, Em? Don’t tell her anything.

You look back at Emily, eyes searching her face. “Everything okay?” you ask.

“Great,” Emily says quickly, too fast, her voice tight. She doesn’t meet your eyes. You can feel something is off — a shift, a silence that makes your stomach twist.

“Well…” you say quietly, looking at Hotch’s apartment. “Shall we?”

You all get out. The air feels heavy.

You’re the first to lead them up to Hotch’s door. Emily shows Rossi the message that Garcia sent her, her face unreadable but her hands trembling slightly.

“He did what?” Rossi mutters, eyes narrowing as he looks at the message.

“Everything okay?” you ask again, your chest tightening.

“Yeah,” Rossi says after a pause. “It’s great.”

“Okay,” you say softly, though the word feels heavy in your throat.

You get to the door. You unlock it and push it open. The air inside feels still, too quiet.

“What are we looking for?” you ask, stepping inside, voice unsteady.

“Anything that might be out of place,” Rossi says.

“Or anything that might help us,” Emily adds, glancing around.

You turn to them, heart racing. “Okay… you two, what’s going on? What are you hiding?”

The silence after feels louder than anything else.

“It’s nothing,” Rossi says, voice calm but not convincing.

“Don’t forget, I know when you guys are lying,” you say, eyes narrowing on both of them. The room feels too still, too quiet — every sound from outside echoing like it doesn’t belong.

“Let’s just continue to find something,” Emily says quickly, avoiding your gaze, already moving toward the desk like searching will make it all go away.

“Someone say something!” you snap, the tension cracking in your voice. “What was that back there? I’ll find out… you know I will.”

You look between them — Rossi still, unreadable, Emily stiff, her shoulders drawn up like she’s holding something heavy.

“Look,” you say, the words coming out raw, “Hotch is needing us. He’s out there missing and—”

Rossi looks at Emily. That one small glance makes your stomach twist, your heart drop.

“What?” you snap, voice sharp, breath shaking.

Neither of them answers. The silence presses down, thick and heavy. You can feel your chest ache — fear, anger, confusion all tangled together.

“She has to know,” Emily says, her voice low but tense.

“No,” Rossi says firmly.

“Know what exactly?” you say, your tone sharp now, eyes narrowing.

The air goes quiet, heavy — until your phone rings. Penelope.

“Hey, sweets,” you say, putting her on speaker.

You can hear her try to clear her throat, forcing her voice steady. “Hi, um—hey you,” she says, her usual sunshine tone cracking just a little.

Something in her voice makes your stomach drop. She’s hiding something. You can feel it.

“Everything okay, Garcia?” you ask softly.

“Yeah! Totally fine, just—uh, I, um…” she hesitates, then keeps talking, trying to sound normal, “I might’ve found something for you, boss lady.”

You frown. “Go ahead.”

She exhales sharply, papers rustling in the background. “Hotch’s phone just pinged near a nearby hotel… Morgan and Reid are already on their way for backup.

Your heart stops for a second, then kicks hard against your ribs.

“A hotel?” you repeat, disbelief in your voice. “Are you sure?”

“Positive,” she says, her voice softer now. “Signal’s still active.”

You glance at Emily and Rossi. Emily looks down, can’t meet your eyes. Rossi keeps his arms crossed, watching you quietly — that same steady calm that feels more like a warning now.

You swallow hard, throat tight. “Alright,” you say, grabbing your jacket. “Let’s move.”

As you head for the door, you can still hear Garcia’s voice in your head — shaky, too controlled. You don’t know it’s because she’s holding the truth in her chest, that this was all a test Hotch had set in motion.

You meet up with Spencer and Derek at the hotel. Derek’s already walking toward you, jaw tight, eyes flicking to Emily and Rossi behind you.

“Does she know yet?” he asks, voice low.

“Know what?” you snap, stepping closer. “Can someone explain this to me, please? What’s going on?”

No one answers. The silence burns.

Then the doors to the hotel open — Strauss walks out, her expression unreadable, that cold calm that always makes your stomach twist.

“Well,” she says, arms folded. “Did anyone say anything to you?”

You blink, confusion and anger knotting in your chest. “Tell me what exactly?” you demand.

And then — he walks out.

Hotch.

Your eyes widen. For a second, everything in you stops — the noise, the air, even your heartbeat. It’s like the world tilts, and you’re the only one still standing in it.

“Whatever happens next,” Derek says quietly to Strauss, “just let it slide. You hear me?”

You don’t even hear the rest. You’re already moving.

You walk straight toward him. “Really?” you breathe out, your voice breaking halfway through. “Really, Hotch?”

“I had to,” he says, calm, steady like that explains everything.

“You had to?” you snap. “Everyone knew but me? Everyone, Hotch?” Your voice cracks, anger bleeding into hurt. “You made me believe—”

He tries to speak, but you don’t let him. The sound of your hand connecting with his cheek is sharp, echoing through the parking lot.

“How could you,” you whisper, your throat tightening, eyes burning. “Honestly, how could you?”

He doesn’t move. He just looks at you, that same unreadable expression you’ve seen a thousand times — only now it’s softer. Regret sits heavy in his eyes.

But you’re already shaking your head, backing away, because the hurt is too raw, too deep.

You trusted him. And he made you believe he was gone.

Strauss ,Emily and Rossi ride back with Derek and Reid.

“Hotch says, then he turns to you , “You’re riding with me.”

You look up at him, heart pounding, eyes still burning from tears. “No,” you say, voice sharp.

The others glance between you both, no one daring to say a word. “Do as you’re told,” Hotch says quietly.

They leave, one by one, the sound of car doors closing echoing in the air until it’s just you and him left standing in the parking lot.

He steps toward you, careful, slow.

“Don’t,” you say, your voice breaking.

“I know you’re mad,” he says softly.

“Mad?” you let out a small, humorless laugh, tears already forming again. “Mad, Hotchner? Mad doesn’t even cover it.”

He exhales. “Okay—”

“No,” you cut in, shaking your head, voice trembling. “Not okay.”

The tears spill over now, hot against your cheeks. You hate that he’s seeing this, hate that he made you feel it.

He takes another step toward you, hand half-reaching out.

“Don’t touch me,” you whisper, stepping back. “Just don’t.”

His hand drops.

“You made me think you were in real danger,” you say, voice cracking as you try to catch your breath. “Do you have any idea what that felt like? Everyone was scared, Strauss put me in charge—Hotch, I thought you were gone.”

He’s quiet. No defense, no excuse, just that heavy silence that somehow hurts worse than words.

You wipe your face, your hands shaking. “You don’t get to just walk out here like nothing happened. You don’t.”

He looks at you, eyes full of guilt, but you can’t even look back.

You turn away, voice soft, raw. “You don’t get to do that to people who care about you.”

The silence after that says everything.

“Can I explain?” he asked, that calm, low voice — the one he only ever used with you.

You laughed, quiet and broken. “Explain?” you said, eyes wet. “You wanna explain why you did it?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stood there, that unreadable expression, hands shoved in his pockets like maybe it would keep them from shaking.

“It still hurts,” you said, voice catching. “What if Derek or Emily did that to you? What if I did that to you? I mean—” your voice trembled, “what if I told Strauss I had a plan but it had to be between me and her, and you had to think it was real?”

Your words hung in the air, heavy.

He looked at you then, eyes full of something you couldn’t name — regret maybe, or guilt so deep it almost looked like love.

You shook your head, wiping at your face. “You can’t just say you’re sorry and expect me to understand, Hotch. You broke something in me when you did that.”

The silence pressed in, thick between you. You could still feel it — the fear, the panic, the ache that had settled deep in your chest when you thought you’d lost him.

And now he was just standing there, trying to explain something that couldn’t be undone.

Stop,” Hotch said, his voice low, firm, the kind that used to steady you. “Get in.”

“No.” You shook your head, eyes burning. “No, Hotch.”

He sighed, that heavy sound that carried more weight than words ever could. “Okay,” he said quietly. “I get it.”

“Get what?” your voice cracked, the anger barely holding itself together.

He took a small step closer. “I’m here,” he said, softer now. “This is real. I’m real. I’m not gone.”

Your breath hitched, tears spilling again before you could stop them. “But you—” you said, voice trembling, “you made me think you were gone, Hotchner. You made me think something happened to you.”

He didn’t move, didn’t defend himself. Just stood there, taking every word like he deserved it. The night air was cold, but not as cold as the space between you.

You shook your head, chest tight. “Do you have any idea what that felt like?” you whispered. “To think I lost you, to think I didn’t say enough— didn’t do enough?”

His jaw tightened, eyes flickering with something raw. But he stayed quiet.

He moved closer to you, slow, careful, like he knew one wrong move and you’d fall apart completely.

“Don’t,” you said, your voice shaking. “Don’t you say— just don’t.”

Before you even realized it, your hands hit his chest — not hard, not out of anger, just out of everything you couldn’t put into words. The hurt. The love. The fear that had lived in your chest for hours thinking he was gone.

He didn’t stop you. He just stood there, taking it, letting you get it out. His breath was uneven, eyes locked on you like he’d been holding his own together this whole time.

And then it broke. You leaned in, burying your face into his jacket, the scent of him hitting you all at once — familiar, grounding, infuriating.

“Hotchner,” you whispered against him, your voice small, cracked. “How could you do that to me?”

His hand hovered near your back, unsure if he should touch you, if he even had the right to.

“I thought I lost you,” you said, your words muffled against him. “You don’t get to do that to me… not you.”

He finally pulls you in — slow, steady, his hands trembling just a little when they find your arms.

“Look at me,” he says quietly, voice breaking in a way you’ve never heard before. “I know I hurt you.”

You shake your head, tears still slipping down your cheeks.

“Was the test stupid? Maybe,” he goes on. “Was it necessary?” He hesitates, searching your face. “Yes.”

“Could it be avoided?” you cut in, voice sharper this time, fragile but angry.

“Yes,” he admits. “But I needed to know if you could handle the team… if something were to happen to me.”

You stare at him, chest tight, your heart caught somewhere between love and disbelief.

“And you did,” he says softly, almost proud, like it’s supposed to mean something. “The team— they listened to you.”

“That’s not funny,” you snap, your voice cracking halfway through the word.

“I didn’t say it was,” he replies, his tone gentle, grounded.

You take a step back, shaking your head. “What, you don’t think we can navigate when you’re gone?”

“It’s not like that,” he says, but it sounds like an excuse.

You can see the exhaustion in his face — the guilt in the lines around his eyes. But all you can feel is the ache sitting heavy in your chest. He tested you. And maybe you passed, but at what cost?

It wasn’t about leadership,” he says quietly.

You blink, confusion mixing with the sting still sitting deep in your chest. “Then what was it about?”

He exhales, slow. “I know you can lead the team,” he adds, eyes steady on you. “That was never the question.”

“Then enlighten me, please,” you say, voice trembling even though you’re trying to keep it even. You can feel the heat behind your eyes again — anger and hurt fighting each other.

He looks down for a second, jaw tight, hands flexing at his sides. “I guess it was more for my benefit,” he says, and his voice cracks just enough to make you pause.

“Your benefit?” you echo, disbelief dripping from the words. “Hotch, you made me think you were gone. You made all of us think—”

“I know,” he cuts in gently, his voice rough. “I know what I did. And I know what it cost.” He finally looks back at you, eyes softer now, regret written in every line of his face. “I just… needed to see what happens when I’m not there. Because every time we go out there, every case we take— I think about it. What happens to you. What happens to the team. If I don’t make it back.”

He stops, searching your face like he’s afraid of what he’ll find there. “It wasn’t a test for you,” he says. “It was a test for me. To see if I could finally let go enough to trust that you’d be okay if I wasn’t.”

You just stare at him, breath catching. You want to say something — to tell him that’s not fair, that he doesn’t get to hide behind good intentions. But instead, all you can manage is a whisper “And were you?”

He swallows, his voice low. “No. Not even close.”

“I may have handled it okay,” you manage, your voice soft but uneven, “and maybe it was only a few hours…” you pause, a shaky breath escaping, “but it felt like a lifetime, Hotch.”

He looks at you, quiet, eyes dark with guilt.

“I didn’t like being in charge that way,” you add, your throat tightening, words starting to tremble. “It didn’t feel like leadership, it felt like loss.”

You take a small step closer, chest heavy, heart beating hard. “Hotch,” you say, barely above a whisper, “I care about you. You know that, right?”

His lips part, but no sound comes out — just that silence that’s always so him, that steady restraint that makes you ache even more.

“I wasn’t scared because I couldn’t do it,” you continue, voice breaking through the quiet, “I was scared because it was you. Because every second I thought you were gone, I couldn’t breathe. I didn’t want to be the one holding it all together if it meant losing you.”

His jaw flexes — just once — and he steps in a little closer, his voice low and rough. “I never wanted you to feel that,” he says. “I swear to you, I didn’t.”

You look up at him, eyes glassy. “But I did,” you whisper. “I felt every second of it.”

Please don’t make me ever feel like that again.

Deal ..

He pulled you in tighter — not the careful kind of hug he gives in moments of comfort, but something deeper, desperate. The kind that says I almost lost this.

“Hotch,” you gasped, your hands fisting in his jacket. You could feel his heartbeat, steady but heavy against your cheek.

“I—” you started, your voice breaking, “I love being near you.” The words slipped out before you could stop them, trembling and raw. “In your arms… you feel safe to me.”

He exhaled, the sound shaky, almost like he’d been holding his breath for hours.

“I don’t want this to go away,” you whispered into his chest, the words small, but honest.

His jaw set, expression unreadable; whatever crossed his face disappeared just as fast. Then he moved again like nothing had changed, like he hadn’t felt it at all. “Clearly,” he murmured under his breath.

“She’s been doing great,” Emily added, watching his face change, the way something tight flickered and settled again. Hotch looked up at her. “When she’s done, send her to me.” It wasn’t a request. “On it,” Emily said, then softer, careful, “You can use my office — which was yours, Hotch.”

He’d already headed that way. Meanwhile, you finished your questions for now, jaw tight, patience worn thin, the room starting to feel smaller than it had a minute ago, like the walls were leaning in. Emily found you a moment later. “Hotch is back,” she said. Your stomach dropped. “What?” The word barely came out right, thin and uneven.

“Em… you didn’t say anything to him, right?” You looked back at her before turning toward his—her—office, your feet already moving even though your chest felt stuck. “No,” she said, quick but gentle, then softer as she reached for you, her hand settling on your shoulder. “But you should.” You swallowed, the thought catching. “What if he disappears again?” you asked, the fear slipping out before you could stop it.

So you head to Hotch’s office, which is technically Emily’s office. You walk in. “I guess we don’t knock anymore,” Hotch says, looking up at you. “Don’t you say— shut the door,” he adds. “No,” you say back.

He gives you that firm look that says do it now, so you do. “Sit,” he continues. “No, I think I’ll stand,” you say. “So this is how I hear that you’re back… how long before you disappear again?” you say.

“Oh, you’re mad,” Hotch asks, one eyebrow lifting.

“Mad doesn’t even cover it, Hotch,” you snap back as you fold your arms, trying to distract yourself from falling apart in front of him , because you don’t do that. You can’t. You’re stronger than that.

“It’s a good thing you closed the door then, if you’re gonna snap at me.” “Screw you, Aaron.” He looks at you really looks at you , and can see you were not gonna lit up anytime soon , then he says “I’m sorry, sweetheart, but we already did that.” Your eyes meet his, and that just makes you more mad, yes I’m well aware of that, more than once may I add you say voice cracking , you were trying not to fall apart .

“There’s something I have to tell you, but I’m still mad at you this does not let you off the hook,” you say, your chest tight, hands gripping the edge of the desk.

“Go on,” Hotch says, calm, measured, but you can see the sharp edge in his eyes, that part of him bracing for whatever comes next.

You turn from him to call Em. “Can you bring in Elle to me?” you ask, voice just above a whisper, heart hammering in your ribs.

“Sure can,” she says, nodding over the phone then hangs up , and heads to Garcia’s office. You pace slightly, fingers twisting together. Garcia has Elle wrapped in a soft pink blanket , she’s been changed, fed, and ready for Mom.

“Thanks, Garcia,” Emily says softly , feeling nervous since she is the godmother of Elle .

She’s gonna tell him, isn’t she? Emily nods, giving her a small, knowing smile. Garcia takes a steadying breath and hand Elle over to her, you get to meet your daddy sweet angel , aunt Penelope loves you , gives her a kiss on the forehead. 

Then Emily walks out of Garcia office holding Elle in her arms , as Elle is asleep , she walks up to her/hotch’s office to you, small steps, and places your daughter in your arms. Your chest aches as you look up at Hotch.

His face goes still. His jaw tightens. His eyes flicker between you and Elle, disbelief mixing with something deeper, something raw that he can’t—or won’t—say.

“Wait… who is that?” His voice is low, cautious, controlled, but his hands curl into fists at his sides.

“She’s got your hair — full, dark hair,” you whisper, holding Elle closer. She’s asleep, oblivious to the storm in the room.

“Hotch… Aaron, this is Elle. Your daughter.”

For a heartbeat, nothing moves. Then his chest tightens, a quiet exhale escaping him, and you see it that crack in the armor. His eyes glisten just a fraction, disbelief, awe, and something like fear all rolled into one. He swallows hard. Slowly, carefully, he steps closer, hands trembling slightly, hovering before finally resting them near yours, as if afraid to break the moment.

Elle moves slightly in your arms, and you glance at Hotch, heart hammering. He’s quiet, not a word, just looking, drinking her in, and you realize , that in this moment he’s here and he’s not going anywhere.

You look at Aaron, who’s close by you now—so close you can feel him there, steady and unfamiliar all at once. “Would you like to hold your daughter?” you ask softly. He nods. He doesn’t quite know how to respond, doesn’t know where to put his hands, but you guide him anyway, careful as you place her against his chest.

“You’re off the Voit case,” he says, his voice low.

You look up at him, then at Emily. “Hotch—she’s the only one who’s gotten anything out of him. We need to keep her on,” Emily says, firm, protective.

“She is the mother of my child,” he adds, like that should settle it.

“We understand that,” you say, meeting his eyes, holding them, “but I’m doing my job.” Your voice doesn’t shake, even if everything inside you does. “You don’t get to come back and boss me around.”

“Can I have a moment with the mother of my child?” he asks, looking at Emily. She hesitates, then nods. He’s still holding Elle.

“How long were you planning to keep her from me?” he asks you.

“Hotch—”

“No,” he cuts in, quiet but firm. “How long?”

“I don’t know,” you say, trying not to snap. You don’t want to raise your voice with Elle in the room, don’t want her to feel any of this. “But you left,” you add, the words heavier than you mean them to be.

“I had a right to know I had another child,” he says. There’s no anger in it—just something tight, wounded.

“You did. You’re right,” you say, swallowing. “I understand why you left. You wanted a life without the BAU for once. You wanted to take care of Jack, after everything that happened.” Your voice falters, but you keep going. “I wasn’t ready to give this up. And I wasn’t going to give up Elle after I found out I was pregnant with her.”

He watches you like he’s memorizing your face.

“Yes, I should’ve told you sooner,” you admit. “But you just tried to take me off the Voit case.” You let out a shaky breath. “Imagine if this was a few months ago—if I was still pregnant with her. You would’ve sent me home.”

His jaw tightens. He looks down at Elle, then back at you. His voice drops. “That doesn’t mean I didn’t want you,” he says. “That I don’t.”

Out in the bullpen, JJ and Reid came in with Luke. “What’s going on in there?” Reid asked, already looking toward the office.

“They’re arguing,” Emily said. She was sitting at her desk, eyes on the blinds. “And where’s Elle?” JJ asked.

“She’s with them,” Emily added, quieter, “but she was asleep.” “Should we intervene?” Reid asked, concern creeping in.

“No,” Luke said, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t. Not with her temper. Have you seen her with Voit?” Emily watched the shadows shift behind the blinds and let out a soft chuckle.

“Hotch… you want me?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. Your stomach twists, and you can’t stop your eyes from searching his.

“Aaron,” he says, looking at you, steady, unflinching. “Yes. I want you and Elle a part of my life… and Jack’s. But I don’t want to give this up.”

You glance around his office, suddenly feeling small in the space, like you’re intruding. The walls hold the faint weight of all the cases he’s carried here, the precision in his desk, the neatness of everything—controlled, just like him.

“I know,” he adds, softer now, almost careful. “Garcia contacted me. Told me there were some big changes while I was gone, that I should get back here soon. I got a nanny to help with Jack… and she can help with Elle too.”

Your throat tightens. You don’t know how to feel about that—someone else caring for your child, your Elle, while he’s here, looking at you like this. “I don’t know how I feel about that,” you say softly, and your voice betrays a little of the fear you can’t hide.

“Just think about it,” Hotch says. Calm, steady, deliberate. But you can feel it—beneath the surface, the care, the quiet insistence, the want. “I know you’ve been doing it on your own for the past nine months. Let me step in. Let me help you with our child. I still care for you. I still want you in my life.”

Your heart jumps at that, because hearing it said aloud—so steady, so controlled, but so full of him—makes it impossible not to feel the pull. And you realize, maybe you’ve wanted this too, even before he walked in.

“Okay,” you say. “Fine… let’s do it,” you add softly. “I’m in.”

He walks over to you, hands Elle back into your arms, and kisses you on the forehead. Then he leans down and kisses Elle on the forehead too. “My two girls…”

“Wait,” you say, “you said something about Garcia?”

“Don’t—” Aaron starts, then shakes his head. “She was just doing her job—”

“No, hold on,” you say, gently taking Elle. “Sweetheart, don’t… where’s Garcia?”