#hotchner

“Aren’t you at least a little bit embarrassed?” you tease, already starting to brew the coffee beans. It has been almost a year since he bought it – following your suggestion – and he never even cared to learn how to use it. Not that he needed to, really. You were always there to do it for him.

He pressed his lips together in a mocking reflective expression, just to shrug his shoulders “Not really, no.” you just chuckle as the two of you move in sync to finish preparing breakfast.

Just as the eggs were ready, his phone rang all the way to his bedroom. As an old man who still hadn’t created the urge to be glued to his phone 24/7, you took over the bacon pan as he faded into the hallway to pick up.

You were so focused on your task you didn’t realize he was taking too long. It wasn’t until you filled both of your plates and mugs that you noticed he didn’t come back. Your first reaction was too tense, to go after him and check what was wrong, but soon after you heard his laugh, loud and strong, making its way towards you. So, no emergencies.

Sensing it was probably Sean, your boyfriend’s brother, or maybe Rossi with a gossip – something you learnt after you started dating Hotch: the two older men at the BAU were gossipers. Penelope Garcia level gossiper – you stayed back, giving them privacy to chat. Ignoring all the etiquette lessons you had, you started eating alone. At least one of you should enjoy the warm food.

Just when you took the last bite you heard him stepping back into the kitchen, a ghost of a smile still present on his face “Hey, you chatty” you teased. He chuckled, sitting beside you on the stoll and drinking a sip of coffee “Who was it?” your curiosity got the best of you, even though you knew he was going to tell you either way.

“Beth!”

Oh.

“Oh”

“Yeah.” he agrees, taking a bite of the toast, completely oblivious to the gut wrenching feeling taking over your senses “She called me to say she’s coming back. From Hong Kong.”

Oh (but harder).

“That’s… good?”

“It’s great! She got to transfer back for a promotion, with a higher salary and getting to be close to her family.” he explains, sounding way too pleased with himself.

“She rocks.” you cringe immediately, not knowing what the hell you meant by that.

“Right?” fortunately – or not, that’s up to the eye of the beholder – he remained completely clueless to your awkwardness. “Jack’s going to lose it when he hears it.” he said, chuckling to himself.

You hate how hearing this makes you twice as jealous.

“Y’think Jack remembers her?” you wonder, pretending to be unbothered as you wash your dishes in a way to distract yourself. He stays silent for a second, and you hope he’s not picking up on your selfish rotting for the worse.

“He does. Last time she face-timed me, Jack took over half the call.” he says, his voice suddenly closer to you. He takes the dishes from your hand, gently pushing you to the side “That’s on me.” he points kindly, taking over the dishes. You step away, hoping he didn’t feel the sound of your heart breaking.

They face-time each other? Is Jack a part of this? By the way he said it, it seems like a frequent occurrence. Where were you all those times? How could you miss that?

Is this cheating? Objectively speaking, if it was cheating he probably wouldn’t be so blunt about it. And he’s probably the most loyal person you know.

So why does it feel like cheating? Why do you feel betrayed? Why do you feel so jealous?

Trying to take a hold of the situation, you fight to appear normal, trying your best to hide your anxiousness and all of self-doubt, at least while you figure your feelings out. Otherwise you’d probably end up locked in a mental asylum.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

It turned out the mental asylum would probably be a nicer place to be than your own head right now.

As the day passed by, you started to notice how excited Aaron was for Beth’s arrival. If you missed their calls before, you definitely weren’t now. Every other day you stumbled on him somewhere in the house, his phone balanced between his shoulder and his ear while he finished a task.

When it wasn’t the calls, it was the texting. He would send her pictures about things she liked and places she missed. She would always send a picture of everything that was different over there, ask silly questions about the job or about Jack. 

And Jack was a whole other problem. Not a problem, actually. But his obvious adoration towards the woman made you bitter. You found yourself losing your appetite more often than not every time Jack asked about her in the middle of dinner or lunch. Which was a horror on its own, but it was even worse because every time he did it, soon after the meal ended Hotch would call her to tell her about it.

You felt like an outsider.

The worst part was that it wasn’t even their fault. Everytime you walked by him, he asked you to join the call, pulling you to sit with him and chat with the woman on the other side of the screen. She would ask about you, about your likes and dislikes. She would joke about Hotch, about his sleep myoclonus, about his ability to fall asleep in the first few minutes of a movie.  You laughed with her, making fun of his antic habits as if sharing that with her didn’t feel like a knife in your gut. 

When she finally came back, it was, somehow, worse.

Hotch insisted that you’d tag along on their catching ups, you hang with them as she went out with the team. You had playdates with her and Jack.

It was now safe to say: you hated Beth. And you were completely obsessed with her.

You watched the way she spoke, the way she dressed. How she smiled, how she laughed. The exact color of her lipstick, her haircut. 

When her nails were perfectly made. She was so elegant. You started doing your nails weekly.

Next time you saw her, her nails were chipped and two of them were broken. She was so carefree. You cancelled your membership at the nail salon.

One would think Beth was a frequent character in Hotch's life. She really wasn’t. With all the cases, Jack and his relationship with you, he barely had time to actually hang out with Beth. But there was no point, and the damage was made.

Ever since he took that call, she made her way into your head, building her own little house with a balcony and a white fence. Even if she wasn’t around, your mind made sure to think about her. You hated hearing her name, but you secretly hoped it would come up in the middle of the conversation.

When his phone rang, you braced yourself, preparing for that gut wrenching pain you were oh, so familiar with. 9 out of 10 times, it wasn’t her. But 1 out of ten times, it was. And when you hear him calling her name, smiling easily at the speaker like she was seeing him, you felt your world fall apart, and what a comforting sensation that was.

You had no idea how you could crave someone as much as you craved her.

You wanted her gone.

The thought came to you out of nowhere, in the middle of the night. You were sleeping on his bed – almost yours by now – and his body involuntarily jerked. And there it was: another sleepless night. You were reminded of her, and now you were cursed to spend the rest of the evening wondering if she slept on the same side of the bed you were in, on how she would react. Would she laugh? Would she wake him? Would she pretend she didn’t see it?

It was maddening. It had to stop.

It wasn’t going to stop. You had to get out of this.

When the thought came, it stayed. You haven’t thought about it before, but you knew it. It had to be done. There was no way you would survive this. There was no way you could compete with this, with her. They understood each other to a degree you could never. They were the same age, and had the same references. They were both divorced, they had experiences you still haven’t had. You hated being outside of their inside jokes, even if said jokes were whatever was fashion in the 70’s.

Truth to be told, you wouldn’t even be with him if she hadn’t moved out of the country. And now she was back, reclaiming her old apartment, her athletic habits and his heart.

You weren’t dumb. You could see he loved you. But he loved her too. And you wouldn’t settle for half. Even if it killed you inside.

Besides being younger than Aaron – and Beth – you were very mature. Mature enough to understand that you shouldn’t make a big deal out of this. You knew, usually, the right thing to do was to talk about your feelings. To explain where you were coming from and make changes in order to keep the relationship alive.

But how could you go to the man you loved and beg him to not fall back in love with his ex? What exactly do you want to achieve by talking to him about it? He wasn’t doing anything wrong, you know that much. He would probably just stop talking to her ‘if it meant not making you insecure’, but you know very well how that would turn out. You didn’t want it to end with a fight, and you didn’t want to feel like you had to put up a fight to keep the man you love. You didn’t deserve that, and neither did him.

So, piece by piece, you started to make your way out of Aaron’s life.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

You usually spent the majority of your time in his place. And you started to change that, slowly starting to spend more time in your rented apartment than in his. Piece by piece, you started to move back your clothes. First a blouse, then a pajama. Evolving to your dresses, shoes, and your products.

It was going by unnoticed, until after you moved almost all the products on your side of his bathroom’s cabinet. A wednesday morning, while getting ready to work, you opened it to find everything back where they belonged.

You stayed there, shocked for a few seconds, your heart racing. The toothbrush inside your mouth is frozen, the minty foam starting to burn your gums. Aaron stepped on the bathroom behind you, fixing his cufflinks and looking at you through the mirror.

“Oh, I saw you ran out of them.” he explained, casually pointing at the new stack of products, completely unaware of your mind short circuiting “You didn’t restock, but I remembered them from last time. I had to go to the drugstore anyway.” he shrugged, reaching for his cologne and stepping out like he didn’t just shatter your whole world.

Later, when your tears smudged your mascara, you just said you choked with the mouthwash.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

After a while, you’d spent so much time on your own place that Aaron started to miss you. Not only that, he questioned it. One specific morning, you were in the shared kitchen in the BAU mixing a bowl of yogurt with cereals and fruits when you felt a pair of large hands clinging to your hips. Yelping in surprise, you turned to face your boyfriend.

“Hey, you scared me.” you chuckled, picking up the bowl to put something between the two of you.

“I miss you.” he said, simply. He wasn’t whining, or complaining, or even trying to talk you out of your devious plan – not that he knew about it. He was just stating a fact, as clear as the day, the same way and tone he announced a profile or call a meeting.

Not knowing what to answer without breaking into tears, you stuffed a spoon full of greek yogurt, granola and strawberries into your mouth. While you did it, you mumbled something he couldn’t comprehend. Figuring you said you missed him too, he just moved on, leaning over your head to reach for the cabinet.

“Can I take you out for dinner tonight?” he asked, grabbing the freshly made coffee and filing his mug “It’s been a while since we left the house.”

You swoon at him, taking a deep breath before answering “It has. But I have plans.” you grimaced “Girls night.” you explained, chewing on the granola for longer than needed.

Aaron stopped for a second, his steaming mug already halfway to his lips. “Oh.” He wasn’t the kind of boyfriend to be in the way of your life, but he usually was aware of your plans. Not in a controlling way, but by knowing you, talking to you. And he was just realizing how it felt not knowing. He hated it. Not being a man to give up, he quickly came up with another idea “I can make you that BLT you like while you get ready.” not seeing you immediately jump with joy – as you usually do when BLT is mentioned – he suggested “Or we can stop at McDonalds drive-thru when I pick you up later.” 

Your heart did a backflip and shattered in a thousand pieces with the sight of his puppy eyes, expectantly looking at you.

“Oh that sounds lovely. But the bar we’re heading it’s the one across the street from my building. We’re walking there.” you explain, placing a hand on his chest gently, fixing the lapels of his suit. He looked down at your hands, fighting the urge to pull you by his arms and lock you in there. He wasn’t sure what was happening, but his gut knew something didn’t sit right.

“Text me when you get there. And when you get home.” he says, more a statement than a request. Your safety was not negotiable. You nodded, stepping closer to him and giving him a quick peck on the side of his jaw.

“I promise!” and you meant it, winking at him as you move to leave the kitchen.

Just as you step outside the perimeter, you almost bump into Rossi, who’s just standing there with his hands buried in his pockets and his eyebrow raised so high it was almost blending his hairline. Not ready to handle his piercing gaze – knowing you’d crumble at the first couple minutes –, you just nodded and gave him one of your best polite smiles, speeding your pace all the way to your desk.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

After you knocked twice on the office door, you stared at the words “David Rossi” engraved on the metal platter in its center as you waited for him to open.

When he did, you were surprised to see his office drowned in low light coming from the lamp on his desk and the moonlight peeking through the widow.

“You wanted to see me?” it meant as a statement: he did ask to see you. At first, you were sure it had something to do with the case you were consulting, the topic you and him were talking about during dinner. What confused you was that the setting looked anything but professional, if the expensive bourbon bottle and the two glasses sitting on the table wasn’t enough of a tell.

“Yes. Come in.” he said, waiting for you to walk into the office to close the door. You stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, waiting for him to take the lead. Unaware – or, most probably, choosing to ignore – your startled state, he slowly made his way to the couch on the back of the room, filling up both glasses before sitting comfortably.

Taking one of the glasses, you sat beside him, pressing your lips together and trying not to bounce your leg to ease the tension.

“How was girls night?” Rossi asks, raising his glass to his lips. He didn’t even look at you as he waited for your answer, his tone almost mocking you.

Having absolutely no idea what he was going with this, you decided to play along “It was fun.”

He nodded “I see.” You took a sip of your drink, trying to keep your posture. It didn’t work. As soon as the burning liquid settled in your stomach, you turned to face him. Terrible idea.

“Dave, what’s going on? What is this?”

“You know,” he started, completely ignoring your question “People may think about profiling as a criminal study. They think we have to learn about psychopaths, stressors, geography, and criminal patterns. That it’s about getting in the mind of crazy people and figuring them out.”

“And it isn’t?” you blinked, drowned by his speech.

“Oh, definitely. But it’s not just that. It’s about studying people. Feelings, motivations. Learning, understanding their behaviour and using it to figure out their intentions.”

And that’s when it hit you: he knew.

“We have an unspoken policy in the BAU: not profiling each other.” he began, turning his body to face you.

“So why are you profiling me?” you asked, voice edging and uneasy, desperately trying to stop him from putting into words. He ignored it.

“You’re breaking up with him.” Not a question, not a suggestion, and definitely not a doubt. “I know what this is about. Who this is about.” your chewed on your bottom lip, deciding on what to say.

“Please, don’t try to talk me out of it.” you beg, hating how weak your own voice sounds. He took another long and lazy sip, and you watched as the liquid clinged to his lips, the wet reflecting the low light of the lamp.

“I won’t.” he stared at you, his eyes squinting slightly “I’m here to encourage you.”

You frowned, your eyebrows pinching together “What?”

“Yes. You really should break up with him. You know, if you’re in such an unbearable relationship.” You roll your eyes, tilting your head back.

“Stop.”

“No, seriously. Do you think he’s what? Cheating on you with Beth?”

“What? That’s not what this is about. I know he’s not cheating.” you defend yourself, cringing at the topic of the discussion.

“Then what is it?”

“I’m just…” your eyes burn with tears harder than the liquid on your throat when you down the rest of the bourbon before continuing “I’m not her.”

“You sure? Under this specific light I could’ve swore…”

“Dave!” you whine, and he chuckles.

“Yes, you’re not Beth.” you grimace at her name, not bothering to hide your feelings anymore “Why are you saying this as a bad thing?”

“Because it is. She’s back now and…” you feel a tear striking down your cheek as you gesticulate “She just fits. She gets him.”

“And you don’t?”

You sigh “You must think I sound really stupid.”

“Oh, you sound absolutely ridiculous.” you look at him, looking at a smirk on his face. Before you realize it, you’re laughing as well, but in a weak and depressed way “Love does this to us. Make us blind to the obvious. Clouds our judgement and turns us into…” he gesticulates towards you. You roll your eyes, but you’re not crying anymore “I have three divorces, so you’d think I know one thing or two about failed relationships. And let me tell you: yours isn’t one of them.”

“You’re just saying this because you’re his best friend.”

“I’m saying this because I love you.” he stated bluntly, and you widened your eyes in surprise, not expecting this. “And it'll kill me to see you do something I know you’ll regret later.” he leaned closer, looking at you with a paternal love that made you uneasy “Hotch loves you, kid. Don’t try to assume things. Let him know.”

“It’s hard.”

“I know it is. It has to be, don’t you think?” he smiles, the wrinkle on the corner of his eyes enhancing his passion towards the subject “Or else is not worth it. But talk to him. You know him more than I do, but I’m pretty sure you’re seeing things out of a place of hurt, probably past experiences.” he nod his head in a knowing gesture “From what I see, you’re out of your mind if you think that Hotch would ever consider living his life away from you.”

You only notice the tear streaming down your cheeks like a waterfall when his fingers gently wipe them away.

“Sorry.” you mumble, and he shakes his head.

“Listen, if it doesn’t work out, it doesn’t. It’ll be fine too. You’ll be fine. But just don’t let it all go to waste before at least giving him a chance.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

It got to a point where you had to stop for a second to wipe the sweat out of your eyelids to see. By the time you reached your – Aaron’s – front door, your heartbeat had lowered to a normal rhythm and your skin was now cold rather than wet. You spent almost the entire night awake, tossing and turning on the bed. The night went so late it was almost morning, so you figured it made more sense to just get up and do something other than to lay in the dark with nothing but your loud and torturous mind.

Running, these past few weeks, were your loyal ally to your early mornings. That specific day, you just got back from an over two hour long run, finally feeling your limbs hurting more than your heart. As you walked in, you were surprised to find Aaron pacing around the living room, something crumpled up on one of his fist, a piece of paper in the other.

When he looked at you, his face was everything but stoic: he looked panicked, tortured, confused and, overall, hurting. “We need to talk” he said, quietly. If you listened closely, you could hear the way his voice wobbled in the middle of the sentence, like he didn’t actually want to talk. Like he wanted you to just be confused, and just ask what he meant by that, and that you weren’t being distant, he was just paranoid. Anything that could prove, beyond reasonable doubt, that you weren’t, in fact, leaving.

Despite all his silent wishes you just nodded, making your way to the couch “Yeah, we do.”

Hoping the sound of his heart shattering wasn't loud enough for you to hear, he made his way to the couch in front of you, distant enough for him to think clearly – as much as possible, under the circumstances. For a minute you just stared at each other, the weight of everything unsaid so heavy it could suffocate.

You glanced down at his hands, still not managing to understand what he was holding so tight on his fist. On the other hand, you could finally see what it was. Before you left the house that morning, already planning on staying out for long, you wrote him a note with the steps to use the coffee pot.

“Before we start,” he began, his voice hoarse. He clears his throat before continuing “I already know. So there’s no need to lie.” you gulp, shifting in your seat. You never lied to him before, but it was fair of him to point it  out. You weren’t being exactly honest. And even though you knew what he was talking about, it still surprised you when he finally said it out loud “When exactly you were planning on breaking up with me?”

Your breath hitched, panic rushing through your veins. It didn’t matter that you still weren't sure about what to do, there was no point in lying. Not anymore. It hurt you to think about it, but actually admitting to him was a whole other level of pain.

“I don’t know.” you answer weakly.

He blinks. And then chuckles.

When he dips his head down, you stare at him confused. The only thing you catch is the way his head shakes slightly, his fists flexing but never letting go of your note and the other white soft – looks fluffy? Is it a stress relief ball? – thing. Aaron tilts his head up and his eyes are full of tears. They are shiny and reddish, and you want nothing more than to make it all go away.

“Hotch,” you try, because just watching him crumble in front of you is not an option.

“Jesus! Stop calling me that.” he spat, frowning.

“Your name?”

“That’s not my name. Not to you. Not in here.” he adverts, the pain muffling the anger in his tone.

You chew on your bottom lip, trying to hold back the tears that are threatening to fall from your eyes. Sniffing as quietly as possible, you look at him “Do you think this is easy for me?”

“It must be!” he says, barely containing himself, “You’re doing it all behind my back, vanishing from my life little by little, until all I have left is an empty drawer with nothing but this shirt and a coffee pot I don't know how to use.” and you finally understand what he was holding on so tightly. It’s a plain silky pajama shirt. It’s the only piece of clothing because it’s matching short you – he – ended up tearing it in half on the first night you wore it.

“I left you instructions.” you point to the paper in his other hand.

“I don’t want to learn.” he looks disgusted at the paper, like it personally offended him “I’m not learning how to use it.” he emphasizes.

You try again “It’s not that hard.”

“I won’t.” 

That discussion was pointless, anyway. It is something to cling onto while avoiding the main issue. Sighing deeply in order to avoid crying, you change the subject “Listen, it’s nothing with you. It’s me.” you snort at that, because it’s that old cheesy and shitty excuse. But it’s the truth. “I’m just…” it’s all you manage to say before the tears blur your vision and you have to dip your head down to try and wipe them away.

His voice filled your ears, making you glance up to face him again. “I noticed that you weren’t being yourself, but I figured you’d tell me. It was something from work, or your family. I didn’t think it was this. It was us.” his voice weakens, and he has to gulp before continuing “Aren’t you happy anymore?” 

“I… there’s a lot going on.”  you feel your nose burning, and you stop caring if he sees the tears streaming down your face.

“Tell me what I did.” his demeanor changes, and he doesn’t look sad and confused anymore. He sounds energetic, urgent, demanding and begging all together “Tell me where I got it wrong, i can change it. I’ll do it right. I’ll do it better.”

Hearing this, combined with the raw desperation on his voice, so opposite from his usual calm and steady behavior, only makes you cry harder, and you don’t even try to wipe them away.

“You did nothing wrong. Nothing. I don’t want you to change. I just…” a strangled hiccup interrupted your speech, and you feel ridiculous, weak, dramatic and lonely. You want this to end, but also you want this to have never happened. “I shouldn’t feel this way in a relationship.”

He nodded, thinking. When Aaron speaks again, his voice is much calmer. Resignated, even. “So that’s it, then? You have your mind made up? Nothing I say will change it.” and it’s not a question anymore.

“I’m doing this for you, I want nothing more than what’s best for you.”

“Bullshit.”  he snapped, his words startling you “Why are you doing this? Is it the job? You said it’s not me. Is it Jack? Is this life too much for you? The responsibility of…”

“What? Of course not!” your heart aches thinking about it. It hurts that he thinks this, but you have no one but yourself to blame “I love Jack. I love our… this life.” 

He stays silent for a second, as if analyzing your explanation — or lack thereof. “Is it someone else?” you stop, and blinks. This is it. You won’t lie straight to his face. He stiffens, and it doesn’t need another word from you to understand. “Who is him?”

“Him?” you frown in the middle of your tears, so confused you stopped crying. “What do you mean?” 

“You said there was someone else.” he squinted his eyes at you.

“I didn’t, you did.” 

“You didn’t deny it. Who is he?” he insisted, his jaw tensed.

“Who do you think I am?” you asked, actually aggravated at his accusations “I would  never…” 

“Who is he?” he interrupts you, his eyes burning holes in your head.

“There's no he. It’s Beth.” 

Hotch’s jaw is immediately unlocked at that, the anger and betrayal completely subsided by complete shock and confusion. “What? You and… Beth?”

“Huh?” you were the one left in confusion now. How did he get to that conclusion? For a second, you didn’t feel the excruciating pain and humiliation from admitting your feelings to him “No. You and Beth.”

“What do I have to do with this?” he asks, his confusion turning to aggravation once again “You don’t like our friendship? That’s why you're breaking up with me?”

Now, said excruciating pain and humiliation were back on its full force. You ignored the lump on your throat, taking a deep breath and explaining the situation in the most sober and objective way possible. “I realized you and her fit more together than me and you, and…” your voice faltered as you saw his outrageous expression “...the two of you only broke up because she moved away. You’re all happy that she’s coming back. I just figured…”

“What?” he interrupted, his voice sharp and edgy “That i’d break up with you to be with her?” asking like it was a ridiculous thought. You stayed silent, because that was exactly what you thought. He huffed an incredulous laugh through his nose “Jesus. Did I ever give you a reason to question me? Or my loyalty?” he accused, his voice showing more worry than anger.

“No. Actually I don't know if you’d break up with me. That’s why I saved you the trouble.” you shrugged, trying not to show how much it hurt you to say it.

“Jesus fucking christ.” he muttered, pintching the bridge of his noise “Are you even hearing yourself?”

“Stop talking like I'm insane.” you snapped, losing your patience “You’re the one making phone calls, facetiming and going on dates with your ex girlfriend. I saw you when the two of you broke up. I was there. You were in pain. How am I supposed to feel? How am I supposed to handle this? How am I supposed to compete with this? Explain to me, Aaron. Because I have no fucking clue.”

The moment you stopped speaking, you realized you were almost yelling. It was the first time you let out your anger, your hurt. All the time you kept saying you were doing the best: for Aaron, for Jack, for Beth… Not once you stopped to think how much it sucked to be you, to deal with all of that. Yes, you could’ve talked to him sooner. But you shouldn’t have felt like that. No one should. 

When you asked him to explain, to tell you what to do, it wasn’t a fight. It wasn’t sass. You were actually asking, begging for him, for someone, to tell you how to feel. It didn’t make sense, none of this made sense to you. It was too overwhelming, and you just wanted it to be gone. You wanted to disappear.

You noticed too late you were crying, fully sobbing now, with one hand clutched to your chest, as if you tried to rip your heart out, and the other resting against your throat, trying to soothe the pain from talking so loud. You didn’t see how his expression softened, his anger melting into pure sorrow. He couldn’t believe he did that to you, that he, of all people, made you feel this way.

A few minutes had passed when he finally made a move. He got up from his couch and crossed the room, sitting right by your side. His knees were pressed against your thighs, his eyes filled with tears. His body and his soul were completely in surrender to yours. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, simply. “I should’ve seen it before. I shouldn't have acted like this. Or at least, talked to you about it. I’m not trying to make any excuses for the way I acted, but I need to explain.” he cleared, his eyes scanning your face every 10 seconds, trying to find any hint of chance in your stance “The thought of someone other than you, in a romantic way, is so out of my reality that I didn’t even considered her a ‘threat’. Not that she, or anyone, is a threat. But I really didn’t see the situation as something that could’ve hurt you. And that was my first mistake.”

“She knows you in a way that I can’t.”

“You know me in a way no one can.” he argued “You were my subordinate, then my work colleague, my friend. Now you’re my best friend and my family. You’re the woman I love.” he gulped, flinching at his own words and feeling the hot streak of a lonely tear falling from his eye. The one he couldn’t hold back. “I don’t want you going back to being less than that.”

Your posture didn’t show any kind of surrender. But he didn’t see resistance either, and when you turned to face him, he noticed that you didn’t keep arguing and just waited to listen. Taking it as a good (the best yet) sign, he pressed further.

“There’s nothing going on between me and Beth. She happened to be the first friend I’ve had outside of the job for a long time, that’s all. I don’t know if it will help to hear this,” he tried, hesitantly “...but her leaving wasn’t the only reason why we broke up.” seeing your questioning expression, he kept going “We came to the realization we worked better as friends anyway, and it was just a matter of time for us to end things. The moving just happened first.” he shrugged.

You opened your mouth to speak, but he anticipated your argument “Yes, I did suffer. It was a change in scenario, how could I not? But as I said, we knew it was happening. So what it hurt the most was actually Jack. I felt like the worst parent from giving another sort of mother figure just to take it away from his life. Again.”

Before you could think properly, your hand reached out to his, squeezing in a silent reassurance. He always doubted his parental skills, and you were always making sure to remind him how amazing he was. Even now, with your heart broken and your relationship hanging by a thread, you still found a way to comfort him. 

How could he lose something like this? Someone like this? How could he let you go? How could he make you feel that way? He had to press his lips together in a thin line to keep them from trembling, and to hold back the force of his grip when he squeezed your hand back, making sure he wasn’t hurting you as he not so subtly tried to hold on to you. To keep you from leaving.

“Honey,” he started, not even caring about his voice cracking. He couldn’t wait any longer, or lose any more chances. This was it. “I love you so much. I know this isn’t ideal, and I hate myself for ever making you feel this way. If not being with me will make you happier, then…” he gulped “...I’ll let you go. But if this situation is the only reason, please, don’t go. Please, give me a chance to show you how you’re the only one I want.”

You feel your tears running freely from your face, and you choke up a sob before speaking, your voice so weak it was barely hearable “I feel really immature.”

He laughs, but it doesn’t sound like he’s making fun of you. It sounds like he’s gone completely mad, like your admission was the water bottle after two days in the desert. It gave him hope.

“No.” he denied firmly, not letting go of your hand even for a second “Now that I think about it, if the tables were turned, I might’ve murdered your ex.” he whispered like a secret. It was so unexpected and so out of character of him that you laughed, surprising both you and him. He smiled from ear to ear at the sound of it. “I’m really sorry, I should’ve been more careful with the situation.”

“I should’ve just talked to you instead of jumping to conclusions.” you smiled apologetically. He ignores your attempt, looking deep into your eyes and calling your name with such a raw expectation that if you weren’t already seated, you would’ve fell.

“Did you change your mind?” you hesitate for a second, and he sees right through you “Tell me you have. I know you want to, I can feel it.” His voice is quiet, his words so soft spoken it feels like a spell. Only you know that you do want to be with him, now that is all cleared. “Please, give me a chance to make things right.”

You chew on your bottom lip as your eyes fill with tears again “I feel stupid.” you admit, and he wants nothing more than to cry his eyes out.

“Don’t say that ever again.” he leans in hesitantly, and when you don’t flinch or pull back, he wipes the tears from your face with the pad of his thumb. The other hand is still holding yours firmly “You were protecting yourself, as you should’ve. Thank you.”

“What for?” you snort between tears, not understanding what he could possibly be thankful for in this situation.

“Thank you for protecting and taking such good care of someone I love so much. Especially when I was too damn blind to see that she needed it.”

After that, there was no point of dragging this any further: you were completely and undeniably his.

He didn’t see it coming, his body jerking in surprise when you literally jumped to his lap, hugging him tightly and burying your face on his neck, sobbing and muttering apologies on repeat. His lips were glued to the crown of your head, kissing you repeatedly. His hands were all over you, touching from your feet to the strands of your hair, as if his body needed to feel you there, to make sure you were with him, for his mind to completely wrap up around the fact that you weren’t going anywhere.

Ignoring your words, he whispered his own, “Don’t you ever apologize. I should be the one apologizing. I’m so sorry, sweetheart.” and it’s the only moment his lips leave your skin “I’m sorry. I will never make you feel this way. If I ever hurt you like that again, and I won’t, I want you…”

“Don’t say it.” you cut him off. He ignores, once again.

“...to just shoot me in the face. Kill me.”

You chuckle weakly, lifting your head from his chest to face him properly “Dude, you gotta stop with the murder threats.” he arches his eyebrow at you, the corner of his mouth twitching in a smirk.

“Dude? Who do you think you’re talking to?” he asks, and his finger tickles your sides as the stubble on his beard tickles your neck. Your body jerks and twitches on top of his while you laugh loudly, but never moving away from his.

When he finally feels you learned your lessons, his hands rested comfortably around your waist in its rightful place. You sigh, looking at him.

“Promise me that you will always talk to me, and be honest about your feelings. No matter how ugly you think they are.”

“I promise.” you say as you wipe the wet off his face, and it’s just then that he realizes he’d been crying all along “Promise me that if your feelings for me change, you’ll communicate.” he rolls his eyes so hard it feels like they’ll hit the back of his head “Promise.” you insist.

“I promise.” he says, seriously. When you relax, he starts again. “Matter of fact, my feelings just changed.” you squint your eyes at his playful tone “A few minutes ago I wanted to stop by your place to get back the clothes you took. But now, I’ve decided you’ll be spending the rest of the weekend with nothing to wear but that shirt.” he says, leaning – without moving you away from his lap – to grab the piece of fabric he left on the center table.

“I have to get at least underwear.” you argue.

“If you behave, I’ll let you borrow a couple boxers.”

“Jack will see it.”

“He’s a kid. And they’re the exact same size of what you call your casual shorts so I doubt he’ll notice the difference.” he points seriously and you squeal, slapping his chest slightly.

“That’s rude. And humiliating.”

“That’s what you get for stealing.”

Your mouth hangs open for a second “I didn’t steal! I didn’t take anything from your house but my clothes.”

“This house is ours.” he stares at you deeply, waiting for his statement to sink in before continuing “So is everything in it. From the bedroom to the coffee pot and, therefore, your clothes. So, basically, you stole from us.” he shrugged, like he made a perfect point. You just laugh, choosing to accept it.

“I’m sorry for stealing.” he nodded politely and you dive back into his embrace, sighing happily “Can we stay like this forever?” Aaron tight his arms around you, his whole body answering before any words came out.

“I’ll think about it. But before that, we have to eat. You're probably on the verge of dehydration right now.” he points, standing up with you still in his arms, and makes his way toward the kitchen. He settles you in one of the stools and hands you your shirt “Go change while I make us breakfast. Now that I’ve learnt how to use the coffee pot.”

You gasp, widening your eyes in a mock-threat. Jumping out of the stool with your shirt already crumpled on your hands, you stomp your way to where he stands behind the stove, pointing your finger to his chest. “You can cook whatever you want, but don't you dare touch the coffee pot, Aaron Hotchner.”

Aaron does just as you said, beaming while frying the bacon even when you’re upstairs in his shower. Your shower. And both of you know, somehow, you’ll be okay.

1 THE NUCLEAR OPTION

Aaron Hotchner looks very, very out of place standing in your bedroom.

Not inappropriate. You want to be very clear about that. You are two fully grown adults with fully operational frontal lobes and a respectable understand of professional decorum.

There is nothing scandalous happening here beyond your own imagination, briefly supplying an image of him against your headboard before you swatted it away like a cat attempting to push a glass from a countertop.

It’s just… visually disorienting. 

He’s all severity and slate-gray composure now in a room rendered in blush and cream and the kind of girlish optimism that suggests you refuse to let your job bleach the color out of you.

He doesn’t fit, to put it plainly. Not physically (the man has shoulders like a structural beam) and definitely not symbolically. 

Despite this, he takes his time as he scans the space with a clinical neutrality that feels less like judgment per se and more like being positioned beneath an unforgiving forensic lamp, dusted for prints you didn’t realize you’d left behind.

Is he analyzing this? Is he building a psychological profile right now based on the chipped mug of pens beside your bed and the stuffed bear you can’t seem to get rid of? The half-burnt vanilla candle on your nightstand that, yes, you absolutely lit knowing he was coming — all of it suddenly looks childish. 

Embarrassing. Juvenile. 

This is how people die.

Not from shame, exactly, though that’s certainly trying its best, but from being comprehensively, devastatingly perceived by a man whose entire job is to see through facades.

He offered to wait by the door. Kindly. Considerably. With that quiet, unfussy courtesy that makes you sure, in the fullest sense of the word, he holds elevators open and always returns his shopping cart with solemn civic pride.

You should’ve let him. Really.

But no, instead of choosing the sensible option like someone who understands the boundaries of time, space, and self-preservation, you made a mistake. A fatal, irredeemable mistake.

You waved him in. 

And now, instead of standing respectfully beside your umbrella stand and politely pretending that driving you to the airport isn’t already a favor beyond what his job requires, Aaron Hotchner is in your bedroom.

What did you offer in exchange for this selfless act of transportation? Not coffee or gas money. Oh, just full unfiltered access to the inner circle of your private life.

You shove another sweater into your suitcase. 

“I promise I usually plan better than this,” you say, “but I got caught on a call with my landlord trying to determine whether my oven is gas or electric, which I apparently never clarified in three years of tenancy.” 

You hesitate, already regretting the admission, because he is a man who knows the make and model of every government-issued vehicle he’s ever driven. 

“In my defense,” you tack on quickly, “it functions. I press a button, it produces heat. We’ve maintained a very mutual, low-communication relationship.”

One of his eyebrow lifts, just enough to suggest that he has several thoughts and is choosing the kindest one.

“That’s the sort of thing you really should know,” he says, and there’s the faintest hint of dry humor threaded through the words, as if he’s allowing himself a single inch of amusement. “I can take a look when we get back.”

You let out a laugh that sounds suspiciously like nervous air leaking from a balloon you’ve been gripping too tightly.

“That’s — you don’t have to — you really don’t have to do that,” you rush out, tripping over your own politeness. “You are not responsible for my… appliance literacy. Or the alarming gaps within it.” You gesture helplessly at the room, at the half-packed suitcase. “You’re already doing so much. If I start assigning you household infrastructure, I’m pretty sure that qualifies as abuse of power.” You pause. “Not that I have any. Power, I mean. Very famously not in possession of that.”

He doesn’t bother disguising that same for of amusement this time that touches now his mouth.

“I’ve done worse favors.”

You squint at him.

“I feel like that says more about your life than it does about me.” You study him for a moment, then let your shoulders ease despite your best efforts. “Still. Thank you. I really do appreciate it.”

The words come out sincere, and for half a second the eye contact holds in a way that feels less professional and more… something else.

Which is your cue to flee into safer territory.

“Anyway, I am really excited about this conference. The keynote speaker is incredible. I’ve read three of her papers, and the case studies she’s presenting are the kind of things I used to read in grad school like they were campfire ghost stories.” You pause, reconsider. “More academic ghost stories. Less paranormal. Still pretty grim, though. Just… fascinating grim.”

He lets your excitement taper off unanswered, glancing down into your suitcase before lifting his eyes back to you.

“It’s going to be cold.”

You frown at derailment of the conversation. “...Yes?”

“You need a coat.”

“I have a coat,” you reply, pointing to the quilted white thing draped over your desk chair.

It has gold buttons. It is elegant. It is, admittedly, constructed with more outer-appearance than insulation.

“A real coat.”

“It is real,” you insist, because it exists, and you have worn it outside, and therefore it satisfies the basic criteria of outerwear under the laws of physics.

“You’ll freeze.”

You want to keep arguing. 

You want to explain that the coat you chose is mostly warm, that it performs adequately under reasonable atmospheric conditions, that packing the bulky, government-issued tundra shield he likely considers appropriate would have required sacrificing something essential. 

Like your backup flats, the only pair that doesn’t turn conference halls into endurance trials, or your travel straightener, which is less about aesthetics and more about appearing competent in harsh lighting.

But the look he gives you — so mild on the surface, so pointed beneath — drains the rebellion right out of your lungs.

Suddenly, it’s not about fashion or function. It’s about the existential need to not disappoint him. 

You cannot afford to lose even a sliver of the regard he has chosen to extend to you.

You hoard his approval the way a crow gathers bright scraps of tin and glass, tucking them into the hollow spaces inside you, convinced that if you collect enough of it, it might one day harden into something sturdy enough to stand on.

So you sigh, equal parts petulance and submission, and turn back toward the closet in search of something thicker.

You sift through your wardrobe and grab a soft navy peacoat. You smooth your palm over the fabric as if presentation alone might improve its chances, then hold it up with the careful hesitation of someone submitting evidence to the court. 

You don’t speak, but your eyes ask the question plainly: Is this acceptable? Does this restore confidence? Does this prove I can anticipate basic survival? 

He studies it for no more than a second before the verdict arrives in the form of a single shake of his head.

You exhale slowly, already holding a small, private funeral for your pride, and reach into the back of the closet for the final option.

The nuclear choice.

The coat you swore would remain undisturbed unless meteorologists began using phrases like “artic blast” or “polar vortex.”

It’s fleece-lined. Excessively practical. It is also deeply, almost maliciously unattractive.

It swallows you whole, reduces your silhouette to an amorphous mass, and renders you less woman-on-business-trip and more sentient sleeping bag with ambition.

He nods, once. “Atta girl.”

You hate how effortlessly those two words melt down the structural integrity of your independence liquefying into dopamine-slush.

He’s an asshole, you decide.

Because you are entirely certain he knows what it does to you, how his approval lands like a controlled substance you never consented to trying, let alone craving.

Sometimes you suspect he enjoys it, just a little, watching you attempt to maintain dignity while your internal self is spinning barefoot through a field of daisies, drunk on validation.

You duck your head quickly, hiding the smile that threatens to surface, and shove the coat into your suitcase as if you can compress the feeling along with it.

“You always this stubborn?”

You wrinkle your nose.

“I prefer the word… determined,” you say, keeping your tone light, flippant even. Then you exhale. “But yes. Probably.”

“I don’t want you getting sick.”

You freeze for a second before looking at him. He’s already watching you with that stupidly hot expression that means something, but never tells you what. 

Your throat tightens around something inconvenient. “Okay.”

He nods once, satisfied, like the matter has been properly resolved.

Then, almost as an afterthought, “Wear it on the plane.”

You huff a small breath through your nose.

“You’re surprisingly bossy for someone who isn’t technically supervising me right now.”

“Think of it as preventative strategy.”

You shake your head, but the smallest smile slips through despite yourself as you reach for the coat anyway. Because if his concern is the motive, then anything else suddenly feels… unnecessary.

And maybe a little unkind.

2 FORTY-TWO AND FORTY-THREE

The hotel is… not what you prepared for. You’d braced yourself for something sensible. Industrial carpet in a shade of brown that exists solely to forgive stains. The smell of disinfectant doing its honest, blue-collar best to mask a thousand anonymous overnights. Clean sheets, sure. Functional plumbing, ideally.

Maybe a little plant in the lobby that some waters too enthusiastically out of obligation rather than love.

Instead, there’s marble everywhere. Gold accents. Furniture that looks as though someone fluffs it between guests on a strict hourly rotation. 

It’s almost funny, the budgetary whiplash between “active serial killer in rural nowhere” and “please observe our institutional excellence.”

Apparently, when the FBI wants to project competence, it does so in chandeliers and imported stone.

“Did you manage to sleep on the flight?” you ask, hoping it sounds completely normal coming from your overextended mouth.

Which you are, to set the record straight. Normal. Very normal. A model of composure. The very portrait of workplace appropriateness.

Not, for example, someone who, five minutes ago at the front desk, briefly entertained the likelihood of an overbooking error and the subsequent moral dilemma of one room, one bed, and a shared look of well, this is unfortunate.

You did not, under any circumstances, imagine saying something graceful like, “Oh, I don’t mind the couch,” while secretly hoping there wasn’t one.

You are a rational human being, after all.

If your thoughts briefly detoured into logistical fantasy, that is simply narrative conditioning from too many romance novels dog-earred on your nightstand teaching you that proximity plus tension equals destiny. 

It is not a reflection of your character.

Probably.

Although the fact that your first instinct in a crisis is self-sacrifice for the sake of optics is… interesting. Something to unpack later. Preferably never.

“Enough,” he answers. “I wanted to make sure you did.”

Your pulse somersaults. You can’t figure out why.

“Oh. I did,” you assure him. 

“Good.” He inclines his head slightly. “Long day tomorrow.”

“Right,” you nod. “Can’t have me falling asleep mid-panel and drooling on a nationally recognized criminologist. That would be deeply damaging to the Bureau’s image.”

You tuck your hands into your coat pockets, hiding the nervous flex of your fingers, and lengthen your stride to keep pace with him.

He manages to walk with such an unrushed confidence that somehow never looks like an effort, and you fall into step beside him like you’ve been trained to it.

The hallway stretches ahead in muted tones and hotel anonymity, the carpet thick enough to swallow the sharp click of your heels as though it understands the value of discretion.

“I’ve reviewed your grad work,” he says calmly. “You’re more likely to correct the panel than fall asleep during it.”

You freeze.

“You have?”

It comes out before you can moderate the enthusiasm. 

Of course he has, you remind yourself quickly. He does not tolerate blind spots. You are an allocation of federal resources, and he is meticulous about ensuring his investments are strategically sound.

Still, the idea of him reading your thesis — your painstakingly footnoted, cross-referenced, over-edited labor of love — feels intimate in a way you hadn’t anticipated. 

You remember the nights you folded yourself around your laptop, hair twisted up, rereading paragraphs until the words blurred, muttering about theoretical frameworks and definitional clarity like they were moral obligations. 

You rewrote the introduction twelve times because it didn’t sound authoritative enough. You panicked over whether your sources were recent enough. Influential enough. Impressive enough.

Did he think it was disciplined? Did he see how hard you worked to make it unimpeachable? Did he notice where you rushed the methodology section because the deadline was breathing down your neck? Did he recognize the case study you were secretly proud of, the one you worried might read as ambition masquerading as competence?

“Yes.”

He looks at you, and for one breathless, precarious second you’re convinced he’s going to add something more. A descriptor. An evaluation. Something you could cradle later in private.

A word like “impressive,” perhaps. Or even “solid.”

You’d take solid. Solid is dependable. Solid can be examined from every angle at midnight while you’re brushing your teeth, replayed and replayed until it wears smooth. 

But he offers nothing else. He simply holds your gaze, and the silence lengthens until it becomes reflective, until you can see yourself inside it.

The flicker of expectation you tried to mute, the hopeful tilt of your expression, the subtle widening that betrays how badly you wanted confirmation.

You’re suddenly hyperaware of how readable you must be, how clearly you hunger for the thing he chose not to give.

He looks away first and keeps walking, and you’re left wondering whether the silence is mercy, sparing you from overinvestment, or leverage, something he’ll deploy when it serves him best.

You quicken your pace regardless, because composure feels optional and you are, inconveniently, invested in every unsaid thing.

You close the gap between you more quickly than necessary, nearly brushing his shoulder when he stops in front of two identical doors. 

Forty-two and forty-three.

Twin thresholds to separate, responsibly partitioned realities, as if a number on a plaque is enough to define distance.

“Any preferences?” you ask, gesturing between the rooms.

As if you aren’t very intune with the fact that whichever number you take situates him precisely one wall away, separated by drywall, wiring, and the thinnest possible illusion of propriety.

“Take this one,” he says, already extending the keycard. Forty-three.

“Okay,” you say instantly, because apparently your default setting when he gives you direction is cheerful compliance.

Pavlov would have had a field day.

You glance toward his door, narrowing your eyes playfully. “Should I be concerned you’re assigning yourself the superior territory? Is it the presidential suite? Hidden minibar advantage?”

He nearly smiles, but it never quite materializes.

“Yours faces the main corridor and the elevators. Mine faces the exterior exit.” 

You blink at him, confused by the specificity.

“If something happens,” he continues, “I want you between both access points. That gives me visibility from either direction.”

“You’re planning for something?”

“I always plan for something.”

“I suppose that shouldn’t shock me.”

And it doesn’t, not really, because this is a man who could probably draft a contingency plan for a power outage in a room full of generators, who once paused outside a crime scene long enough to reroute you around a thin patch of ice you hadn’t seen, hand hovering near your elbow, just in case gravity decided to make an example of you.

Planning is his default state, his resting pulse, his love language if he had one he’d admit to.

But you’ve started noticing, and you wish you hadn’t, how the calculations seem to grow sharper when you’re involved, how his posture adjusts if you’re nearest to a door, how he subtly corrals space so you’re buffered from whatever could go wrong.

It’s probably subconscious. It has to be subconscious. You are not the axis around which his vigilance rotates. You are a member of the team. A junior one at that. This is leadership, not preference. Protocol, not protectiveness.

“No,” he agrees calmly. “It shouldn’t.”

You lift the keycard toward the reader, already angling yourself toward the door, but he moves a half-step ahead of you.  His hand closes around the handle before yours can, body stepping between you.

You look up at him. “What are you doing?”

“Checking.”

He says it like the answer should have been self-evident, like you’re the one lagging behind for needing clarification, and then he’s stepping into your room before you are.

You watch as he moves through the space.

The deadbolt is tested. The chain latch examined. He leans in to inspect the peephole alignment, close enough that his shoulder nearly brushes the doorframe, and you have the deeply inconvenient thought that this is what intimacy apparently looks like in your life — a man assessing sightlines and entry points.

His gaze tracks the ceiling corners next, scanning for blind spots. The bathroom door opens, lights flick on, the shower curtain is drawn back in one motion. Closet doors slide open and closed.

You hover near the entrance with your arms folded loosely, doing your absolute best impression of a person who is not secretly going, wow, okay, so this is what it looks like when a man is competent and terrifying and also, unfortunately, really, really attractive while doing the least romantic task imaginable.

You need to get a grip.

“It’s not exactly a cartel safehouse,” you offer.

“No,” he agrees evenly, checking the window latch. “But it’s still a point of vulnerability.”

He presses the window once more.

Satisfied with the resistance, he steps aside only then, as if you’ve been waiting for clearance.

“You can go in.”

You tilt your head. “Permission granted?”

“Recommendation,” he corrects.

“Right.”

He turns toward the hallway.

“Call me if you need me.”

And that’s the thing, isn’t it? You could call him for a hundred legitimate reasons. You could call him because the lock jams. Because the heater rattles. Because the hallway feels too quiet. 

You could call him for none at all, just to hear his voice confirm that the wall between you is only drywall and not distance.

3 EFFICIENT ENERGY ALLOCATION

You know something is wrong the second you open your hotel door. Or, fine, not something. Someone. More specifically, him. Hotch.

There are two small lines gathering between his eyebrows, deepening incrementally the longer he looks at you, like he’s sketching blueprints for a cathedral of disapproval. 

You know that look. You’ve built a secret mental archive of his face, categorized and cross-referenced with devotion, the way other people collect vintage wine or heirloom china.

This particular arrangement means he’s thinking too hard. Which is either excellent or catastrophic, and with him, the margin between those two things is gossamer-thin.

It’s a tell, though he would sooner walk into oncoming traffic than admit he has any.

And you would never correct him on it. You are not nearly foolish enough to forfeit your single, fragile advantage in this — whatever this is. 

Because in the market of Hotch, he is always running four moves ahead on a chessboard you're still trying to locate. 

And the longer he stares, the more your confidence begins to dissolve like sugar melting into coffee until you can’t even remember it once existed in defined, crystalline pieces. 

Your body, traitor that it is, moves to compensate: spine straightening without permission, vertebrae aligning themselves one by one, chin tipping upward a fraction as though the geometry of good posture might function as armor.

Your hand finds your hair. Smooths it back over your shoulder. Corrects, with careful fingers, a flaw that was not there a moment ago. That would not exist at all, actually, if his eyes hadn’t passed over you and invented it.

“Is there a reason you’re looking at me like that,” you ask, attempting breezy and landing somewhere closer to ambitious intern pleading her case before a tribunal,  “should I be concerned?” 

He doesn’t answer right away and the silence manages to gather density. It pools in the corridor between you, thickening by the second, and you hold out for what feels like a respectable amount of time before your mouth makes a unilateral decision.

“Did something smudge? I knew I blinked weird during mascara and I made a judgment call that it was probably fine and I think we're both seeing how that turned out. This is what I get for rushing.”

For a second, something almost like disbelief crosses his features, there and gone, a brief constitutional crisis behind his eyes, as though he’s carefully sorting through his available responses and selecting the least inflammatory one.

“Your mascara is fine,” he says finally, and the economy of it, the complete lack of reassurance beyond the bare clinical fact, is so extraordinarily him that you almost want to write it down.

His eyes move downward again before finding yours again, the crease between his brows intact and now, you think, accompanied by a friend.

“I’m trying to determine,” he continues, “whether you were aware of the temperature outside when you selected that outfit.” He looks toward the end of the hallway.  “It’s fourteen degrees.”

You frown and glance down at yourself, suddenly hyperaware of every seam and hem. Pencil skirt. Tailored, modest, entirely appropriate. Blouse tucked in neatly, sleeves buttoned to the wrist.

Tights, which are admittedly optimized somewhat more for aesthetic cohesion than for any serious confrontation with polar endurance, but which are nonetheless indisputably, demonstrably present.

And the jacket he chose. You draw it closed around yourself now, pulling the lapels together with both hands, turning just slightly toward him. Here. Look. Proof. You followed the parameters. You incorporated the feedback. You are, in this moment, the living embodiment of a person who listens and learns and shows up correctly dressed, and you would like that acknowledged, please.

“I was aware.” 

“Then I’m concerned about your definition of the word.”

“I’m wearing layers.”

His brown eyes drop once again. Slow with the unhurried certainty of a man who has never once been rushed by another person’s discomfort, and comes to rest at the hem of your skirt, right where it grazes your thighs, and simply remains. 

Every hair on your body stands at full attention, a physiological standing ovation for the specific quality of being looked at by him.  Your hands want to move — to the hem, to the lapels, to anything that might constitute a defensive action — and you refuse them, one by one, with great effort and limited success.

No. Absolutely not. You will not flinch. You will not fidget. You will not give him the satisfaction of watching you fold, because the moment you reach for that hem is the moment you've lost, and you are already losing enough in this conversation.

He exhales slowly, the kind of exhale that has a whole paragraph in it, before he speaks. “The skirt is short.”

“It’s not —” you begin, warmth rushing up your neck before you can determine whether it’s indignation or something more humiliatingly self-conscious steering the ship.

“It’s appropriate,” he says, and his voice has shifted, gone quieter, the hard edge filed down like he's recognized he's overshot and is now carefully correcting course. “I’m not criticizing it. That’s not —” He stops. Starts over. “You look exactly as you should.” He presses two fingers to the bridge of his nose. Closes his eyes for just a moment. “I’d just prefer you not be miserable on the walk over.”

You stare at him, running a rapid internal audit of your available emotional responses and finding the inventory deeply unhelpful. Mortification is one option. Gratitude is another. They are not, as far as you can tell, mutually exclusive, which is its own problem entirely. 

You shouldn’t have to feel both things simultaneously before eight in the morning, that seems like a violation of something, some basic covenant between a person and their day.

You are going to need significantly more caffeine before you can be expected to feel things correctly.

“I am aware of how temperature works,” you reply, gently defensive but not sharp, “and I do, in fact, possess the ability to identify discomfort before it becomes life-threatening.”

“I don’t doubt your ability to recognize discomfort,” he says. “I doubt your inclination to admit it when you’re experiencing it.” The brow tightens, just slightly, just enough. “You have a habit of tolerating more than you need to.”

There's nothing wrong with what he said.

That's the problem with what he said. You recognize yourself in it with the specific, sinking clarity of someone who has just been handed a mirror they weren't expecting. 

You reach for your smile. The reliable one, the soft, deflecting smile you've been deploying since approximately the third grade, and let it do what it's always done. Cover the crack. Keep the walls presentable. Move things along before anyone gets a good look at the load-bearing ones.

“I wouldn’t call it a habit,” you reply carefully. “More like… efficient energy allocation.”

“Is that what we’re calling it.” It isn’t a question. A hint of dry amusement surfaces in his expression, not a smile exactly, just the suggestion of one, the ghost of one haunting the corner of his mouth, as he relents. “All right.” His tone softens. “I’ll defer to your… methodology.”

You beam at him with a brightness that is frankly disproportionate to the exchange. Wildly, embarrassingly disproportionate. You don't care even a little.

“Great. Perfect. Wonderful.”

He is, unfortunately, completely correct.

Fifteen minutes later, the wind finds you like it has a personal grievance, carving straight through your layered confidence, making a thorough and public mockery of your efficient energy allocation. 

You keep your chin up and your expression neutral because you would genuinely rather fossilize in place than give him the satisfaction.

He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t point, doesn’t raise an eyebrow, doesn’t deploy a single syllable of the told-you-so he has absolutely, irrefutably earned.

He simply pauses mid-stride, unwinds the scarf from his own neck and wraps it around you with both hands.

You try not to kiss him.

4 HIS FLOOR OR YOURS

The conference has been going on for three hours and forty minutes, which feels less like a span of time and more like a psychological experiment designed to test how long a human being can remain upright while their soul quietly slips through their ears. Two hours and forty minutes beyond what your attention span contractually agreed to when you walked in with your notebook. 

During the break, Hotch had taken one look at you, at the restless rotation of plastic between your hands, at the brittle way you were holding yourself together, and said, in the tone of a man who had already made the decision and was merely informing you of it rather than requesting your input, come on.

So now you’re walking to get lunch, which would have been entirely pleasant, almost restorative, even, sunlight, fresh air, the gentle reward of carbohydrates after too much bureaucratic endurance, if Garcia hadn’t chosen this exact moment to text you something that demands both your full visual attention and the majority of your remaining cognitive function.

The text reads, in its entirety: 

how’s the conference bestie!!!!! followed immediately, without waiting by: and before you say “informative” or productive” or any other word that means you’re reflecting… i want to know about the OTHER curriculum. the one where it’s just you and hotch and a hotel and no rossi chaperoning. 

Your face heats to 380 degrees, a temperature at which most metals would begin to warp. You type with your thumb as you walk, squinting against the glare on your screen.

garcia. 

A breath. 

GARCIA. 

You delete that. Too much. 

the conference is going fine, there is no other curriculum, we are colleagues attending a professional development event and i would like you to reflect on what you've said. 

You pause. Add: 

also rossi wasn't chaperoning he was just. present. there's a difference. 

You read it back. Delete it because now you sound like someone with something to prove. Add it back because you do, in fact, have something to prove. Mainly your innocence. Allegedly.

Hotch shifts slightly closer to navigate a narrow patch of sidewalk and you physically rotate your entire torso away from him like a sunflower turning from the light, except the opposite of that, and hit send.

The response comes through in the time it takes you to exhale.

there's a difference !!! yeah the difference is whether or not you end up on his floor or your floor tonight babe

You read it twice. You read it twice because the first time your brain just skips, like a record catching on something, and the second time it processes it fully and that is infinitely worse.

Because now you’re thinking about it. Now the thought has a foothold and it is making itself at home, spreading out, getting comfortable, putting its feet up, and your imagination, which we’ve already covered is your most disloyal organ, starts filling in details you did not ask for.

Carpet burn. His chest pressed flat against your back, his rough breath against your ear, telling you what to do, how to do it, what to feel. 

You guillotine the thought before it can finish forming. You do. You absolutely do. You are doing it right now.

You type back one handed, the response dissolving and reforming as your fingers fumble, something about how Garcia is clinically unwell and should be investigated by her own team, your attention fractured by the screen and the pavement you assume will continue existing beneath your feet.

You don’t see the curb.

You don’t see the car.

You don’t see anything at all until Hotch’s hand finds your arm and the world snaps back into focus all at once, as the vehicle tears through the space you’d been about to occupy.

The wind of it grazes your knees.

You look up at him because you don't know what else to do and immediately wish you'd looked literally anywhere else.

His eyes darken and move over your face with the rapid, assessing quality of someone running a systems check.

Pupils. Color. Responsiveness.

And when he’s satisfied that you are intact and present and not currently dying, something shifts.

Hotch doesn’t soften exactly, that’s not the right word for it, more like reconfiguration. A rearrangement of something that had gone momentarily, dangerously loose. The aftermath of relief rather than relief itself. 

His thumb moves once against your arm. Small. Probably involuntary.

“Are you all right.” Once again not quite a question. The tone of a man who needs confirmation of a thing he's already determined to be true.

“Yes,” you say, which comes out smaller than you intended.

His hand finally releases your arm.

“Put your phone away.”

You do as you're told. Immediately, without deliberation, without the small internal debate you’d normally stage on principle.

It disappears into your pocket with the speed of someone who has just been reminded that the universe has consequences. 

Garcia can wait. Garcia, in fact, has forfeited her right to immediacy, because Garcia and her terrible timing almost got you killed, and she is going to receive a text later when you are safe and stationary and no longer shaking slightly in a way you hope isn’t visible.

“You sound like my fa —” you start, because apparently you are constitutionally incapable of letting a silence exist peacefully, and then your brain catches up to your mouth approximately three words too late and the sentence just stops. 

You don't finish it. You can't finish it, actually, because finishing it would require you to say out loud the thing you were about to say out loud, which was to compare hotch to your father, which you were apparently fully prepared to do two seconds ago and are now prepared to die before doing. 

You swallow the rest of it. Redirect your gaze to the middle distance, to some fixed and blameless point that isn't his face, and devote every remaining resource you have to convincing your expression to do literally anything other than what it's currently doing, which is, you are fairly certain, everything.

You feel him look at you. There’s a particular quality of his attention when he’s already understood something and is giving you the grace of not saying it out loud. 

He knows. He absolutely knows.

Neither of you says anything. You keep walking.

+1 FOR SCIENCE

The scolding had gone well, you think. You’d communicated the full extent of your feelings about Garcia’s role in the near-death-by-crosswalk incident with clarity, and she had said okay you’re right i’m sorry in the sincere tone she reserves for when she actually means it, and that should have been the end of it. 

That was the natural ending. But then, approximately four seconds later, as if the apology had simply been a brief administrative detour:

but do you even own any lingerie just in case… this is a completely unrelated question, purely for science. 

And somehow, through a conversational sequence that had felt, step by step, almost reasonable, that is how you have arrived at this. 

Hotel bed. Nearly eleven. Cross-legged in your white lace pajames with your hair loose and your phone held aloft at an angle you’ve adjusted three times now, trying to produce a photograph that communicates see, I have perfectly good taste, this is both comfortable AND attractive for the benefit of a woman who treats every piece of information she receives as a potential future weapon. 

Garcia had said prove it with the energy of someone issuing a formal declaration of war and you had, apparently, accepted the terms without reading them. 

The fourth attempt is the one.

You know it immediately. The angle is right, the light is doing exactly what you wanted it to do, the lace sits exactly as it should and you look, if you’re being objective about it, genuinely pretty.

Soft and warm and settled in yourself in a way that doesn't always come naturally, in a way you don't always feel entitled to, and something about the photograph catches it, holds it still, makes it documentable. 

You open the conversation. Tap the photo. Hit send. Set the phone face down on the duvet with the kind of pleased energy of someone closing a chapter, pouring yourself a glass of water from the sink, taking a sip, allowing yourself eight whole seconds of serenity. 

Then you pick the phone back up because Garcia hasn't responded and this is wrong, this is factually incorrect behavior for Garcia, who has never in the entire history of your friendship allowed more than thirty seconds to pass without a reply, whose response time is frankly less a reflection of effort than of some innate physiological gift, and you look at the screen and —

The background of the conversation is wrong. 

The contact picture is wrong. 

Something is wrong with the name at the top of the conversation in a way that your brain, in an act of profound self-protection, declines to process for three full seconds.

Sits there cycling through increasingly implausible alternatives, searching for any exit ramp from the conclusion that is, despite everything, the only one available.

And then it arrives. All at once, the way bad things do, complete and total and horribly clear.

Hotch.

Garcia.

Recent conversations, right next to each other, because they would be, because why wouldn't they be, because the universe has a personal investment in your suffering and an excellent sense of comedic structure.

The photo is delivered.

For science sits beneath it.

And you sent it to your boss.

You make a sound that has no letter equivalent, something that exists purely in the register of visceral horror, and you are off the bed before the sound has finished leaving you.

Think, you need to think. 

Option one: he's asleep. It's late. Hotch is a disciplined, regimented person who almost certainly has a consistent sleep schedule because of course he does, because he is Hotch, and maybe, maybe, he'd put his phone on silent and gone to bed and hasn't seen it and won't see it until morning at which point you will have already faked your own death and started a new life somewhere without extradition.

Option two: his phone. You could get to his phone. His room is right beside yours. You could be there in twenty-two seconds, and hotel door locks are — okay you don't actually know how to pick a hotel door lock but you could figure it out, probably, under sufficient duress, and this qualifies as sufficient duress —

A knock sounds at your door.

You stand in the center of the hotel room and you do not move, do not breathe, do not produce any sound or evidence of biological function whatsoever, because if you are very still and very quiet then perhaps the universe will lose interest and move on to someone else.

Maybe it's not him. Maybe it's housekeeping, at eleven at night, which, yes, is not when housekeeping comes, but hotels are unpredictable, stranger things have happened, you are not ruling anything out.

Maybe it's the person in the next room who miscounted doors, maybe it's someone who has the wrong floor entirely, maybe it's — your phone screen lights up.

Open the door.

You stare at it. It stares back.

You open the door and immediately wish with every fiber of your being that you hadn’t.

Not because of the expression on his face, though that’s — that’s a lot, that’s an entire situation, his jaw tight and his eyes doing something you’ve never seen them do before, moving over you in a way that starts at your face and doesn’t stay there and snaps back up with the control of a man making a conscious decision. 

Not even because of the grey t-shirt. The sweatpants. The fact that Hotch, your Unit Chief, apparently exists in soft cotton after hours like a normal person, which is information you are placing in a box, sealing the box, and sliding the box to the very back of a shelf you will not be visiting tonight.

No. It’s the silence that does it.

He just looks at you. Says absolutely nothing, makes no move to explain himself or fill the space or give you anything to work with. It presses on you with considerable force.

“It was an accident.” The words come out before you've decided to produce them, falling over each other with the graceless urgency of someone trying to outrun a consequence. “I love this job. I'm good at it, I mean, I think I'm good at it, I hope you think I’m good at it, and I know this looks insane, it is insane, but please — please don't make this into something that ends my career, I was just trying to win an argument with Garcia about whether I owned ling — Uh, nice pajamas and —”

“Garcia,” he interrupts.

You blink. “What?”

“The argument.” His words are careful. Doing a great deal of structural work beneath the surface. “It was with Garcia.”

“Yes,” you say. “About whether I — yes.”

“About the pajamas.”

“About whether I owned any.” You are aware you’re not improving the situation. “Nice ones. She implied I didn’t and I — it was a matter of principle.”

He looks at you for long enough that you become acutely, specifically, inventory-level aware of every square inch of white lace currently within his line of sight. 

And the awareness moves over you in real time, square inch by square inch, because he is. He is doing exactly that. Looking at the neckline and the hem and everything the light is enthusiastically illuminating and then looking at more of it, and you stand very still in the doorway of your hotel room and breathe very carefully and wait for him to say something, and he doesn't, and the looking continues, and it has a temperature.

“You’re not losing your job,” he says. His voice has done something you can't quite name. The professional remove still present but thinner somehow, like fabric that's been washed too many times. “That was never —” He stops. Edits. “You don’t need to worry about that.”

“I really am sorry,” you say, which is true, which is entirely true, which is also complicated by the fact that he’s standing in your doorway and you have now run out of layers to hide behind, literally and figuratively.

“I know.” He says. “I came because I wanted to make sure you were —” a pause, brief and loaded, “ — all right.”

“I’m glad you did,” you say, which comes out quieter and more honest than you intended, stripped of the deflection you’d normally wrap around something like that. “Come, I mean. I’m glad you came.”

You become very interested in a point just past his shoulder and then make yourself look back.

“For the record,” he says, “you won the argument.”

“Hotch —” His name comes out barely a whisper.

“You did.”

“That’s not —” you start, “I don’t need you to —”

“I know you don’t need me to,” he says. “That’s not why I said it.”

“Why did you say it?”

He moves first.

Or maybe you do. 

Or the wanting does, finally, after months of being firmly managed.

Later you might look for the beginning and find only that the distance was there and then wasn’t. His hand comes up to your face with that steadiness, that particular Hotch steadiness that you have been watching without permission since the day you met him, the kind that says I have considered this and I am not afraid of it, tilting your chin up. 

And then his mouth is on yours.

And here is what you were not prepared for: that it would feel like being returned to you. Not given, returned.

Like something you’d been missing your whole life without knowing what it was called, without having a word for the specific absence of it.

Your father’s approval delivered at arm’s length, your college boyfriend who never quite saw you, every authority figure you’ve ever rearranged yourself for in hopes that this time, this time, it would be enough.

And Hotch, who has been watching you with those eyes for months, who has noticed the necklace-tugging and the over-apologizing and the way you look at him when you think no one’s looking, who has known, who has known —

It is nothing like what your imagination built. Your imagination was not working with sufficient information. 

It is exactly like the thing you've been most terrified of wanting, because wanting things this much has historically been the setup for not getting them, and you are so tired of not getting them, and for a moment, for this moment, there is only his mouth and yours and the feeling moving through you in waves you can’t name and don’t need to.

Finally. 

You lean into it with everything you have. Every feeling you've filed under inadvisable. Every careful professional distance you've maintained. Every time you looked away first. You stop looking away. You give him all of it, and he makes a sound low in his throat, vibrating through you.

Then he stops.

Goes still first, and then pulls back by degrees. Slow, almost reluctant, like something being peeled away rather than removed.

His forehead drops to yours just for a moment, his eyes closed and his breath uneven and his hand still at your jaw.

You don't move. You barely breathe. You are terrified of breaking it and equally terrified of what exists on the other side of it, and so you stay very still in the small sacred space of his forehead against yours and try not to want more than you're being given.

What comes next is his eyes opening. Finding yours. And in them, underneath the want that he’s no longer quite managing to conceal, something older settling back into place like sediment after a disturbance. 

You can see it. 

Something that was always going to come back. Responsibility settling through him like silt after a tremor, like a tide reasserting itself, the accumulated weight of everything he is and everything he thinks you deserve and every reason he has been filing this under don't from the very beginning.

You can see exactly where it lives. In the careful way his jaw sets. In the incremental straightening of his posture, degree by degree, a man rebuilding his architecture in real time, becoming your Unit Chief again by visible effort.

His hand leaves your face last.

“I’m sorry.” His voice has gone hard again, a professional distance reassembling itself word by word. “That wasn’t —” a pause in which several things clearly occur to him and are discarded — “I shouldn’t have done that.”

“It's okay,” you say, which is both completely true and completely insufficient. “I'm — please don't apologize, I —” you hear yourself, recalibrate, attempt something in the vicinity of normal. "I'm sorry too. For the photo. For all of —” another vague gesture, this one encompassing roughly the last hour of your life — “this.”

“This isn’t your fault.”

“Okay,” you say, because what else is there.

You both stand in it for a moment that lasts too long.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says finally.

“Yeah.” Your voice is remarkably steady. You’re proud of it. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

You stand in the doorway until the corridor is empty and then you close the door and press your back against it and stare at the ceiling of a hotel room that feels entirely different than it did an hour ago.

You don’t sleep.

You hopped up from the couch, blanket trailing behind you like a cape, and marched to him in the kitchen.

“You have to see this,” you said, thrusting your phone at him, making it sound like you were about to show him something terrible you read in the news.

He took it with a skeptical glance, but watched the short clip of a woman sprinting across a park, her cop husband counting to five before taking off and scooping her up in mereseconds.

The comments were full of heart emojis and ‘this is goals,’ and ‘congrats 🥲’

Hotch handed the phone back to you without a word, trying his hardest not to indulge you too much—because he knew where this would eventually go—but you caught the faintest hint of amusement in his eyes.

“It’s cute, right? Harmless fun. They’re calling it the Foot Pursuit Challenge.”

He sipped his coffee, peeking at you over the rim of his mug, and raised both eyebrows. “It’s definitely… something.”

You leaned against the counter, grinning. “We should do it!”

“No.”

Just like that. Flat, immediate, classic Hotchner move from work.

But you weren’t deterred. He was forgetting that you weren’t one of his agents, that you weren’t so easily discouraged by having your ideas shot down as his subordinates.

You’d been married to Hotch long enough to know that “no” was rarely the final answer when it came to your ideas—especially if said ideas were something that made you or Jack happy in the long run.

Phase one of Operation Convince Aaron to do the video kicked off the very next morning, right in the heart of breakfast-making and getting ready for school and work.

Jack was standing on a chair at the counter, carefully pouring his favorite sugary cereal into a bowl—how you and Hotch kept falling for his puppy dog eyes in the cereal aisle was still a mystery to both of you—his tongue poking out in concentration as a few pieces inevitably spilled onto the countertop.

Hotch sat at the dining table, unfolded newspaper spread wide in front of him—actual newsprint, crinkling with every turn of the page. You would’ve just read the news on your phone if it were you. But he was stubbornly old-school that way, insisting on the feel of real paper despite everyone else scrolling on their devices.

You carried two bowls of oatmeal to the table and slid one right in front of him. As you did, you leaned in just a touch closer than necessary and murmured, low enough that Jack might not catch every word but loud enough to plant the seed, "Imagine how fast you'd catch me if we did that. The video would absolutely break the internet."

Hotch didn't even glance up from the finance section. His voice was once again flat and resolute. "Not happening."

Jack's head snapped up from his cereal pour, milk sloshing dangerously close to the rim of his bowl. His eyes lit up with pure, unfiltered eight-year-old curiosity. "Catch you? Like tag? Can I play too?"

You seized the moment, turning to Jack with an enthusiastic grin while drizzling a little bit of honey over your oatmeal. "Oh, it's this super fun game, Daddy and I could play. I'd run away from him in a large field, maybe even the soccer field where you practice, and Daddy would chase me down. Kind of like cops and robbers, but way more exciting because it's for grown-ups."

Jack's eyes went comically wide—cartoon comically wide—his spoon frozen halfway to his mouth. He bounced a little in his chair, cereal forgotten. "Whoa! Dad, you're really fast! Like superhero fast! You'd totally win in, like, two seconds."

Hotch finally looked up from the newspaper just enough for his eyes to meet yours. It was that look—the one you'd seen a hundred times before. The narrowed eyes, the slight tightening of his jaw, the silent message screaming: You're playing dirty, pitting my own son against me, and you know it.

You met his glare with the picture of wide-eyed innocence, batting your lashes as you slid the honey bottle across the table toward him, knowing he was boring and would eat his oatmeal plain—yuck.

"What? Just hypothetically speaking," you said sweetly, before turning back to your breakfast with a barely suppressed smirk. Phase one was officially underway.

Phase two of Operation Convince Aaron to do the video unfolded over the next several days like a carefully orchestrated siege, every moment thoughtfully planned out and designed to wear down his defenses without ever looking like an outright attack.

It started small. While prepping dinner one evening, you left your phone propped against the fruit bowl on the kitchen island, volume turned just high enough to carry into the living room.

A compilation of the challenge played on loop—clip after clip of women sprinting across backyards, beaches, and parks, giggling breathlessly as their husbands closed the gap in seconds, scooping them up into triumphant, spinning hugs.

Hotch walked in from the garage, wiping his hands on an old, oily rag, and paused mid-step when he heard the unmistakable sound of a woman shrieking with laughter as she was caught.

He glanced at the screen, then at you innocently chopping vegetables, and shook his head before disappearing down the hall.

You caught the way his eyes lingered for half a second longer than necessary—Maybe mulling the idea over for once.

The next night, during Jack’s bedtime routine, you pulled up “the funniest ones” on your tablet—carefully curated, of course.

You sat on the edge of Jack’s bed, the two of you huddled together under his dinosaur blanket, howling at a woman who dramatically dove into a pile of leaves to escape, only to be gently tackled and rolled around in her husband’s arms.

Jack’s giggles echoed down the hallway, impossible to ignore. And Hotch lingered just outside the door, pretending to check emails on his phone—because you were supposed to be reading bedtime stories, and not watching videos—but you saw his mouth twitch into the faintest smile when Jack declared, “That guy is so strong! Just like you, Dad!”

The real precision strike came on Wednesday. You waited until you knew he’d be alone in his office, eating a sandwich at his desk between meetings, while scribbling away at backed-up paperwork.

You sent him a single video—no text, just the clip. It was one of the sweeter ones making the rounds on the app: a man dressed in full uniform in a park giving his wife a full twenty-second head start. She bolted across the grass in a sundress—not the smartest choice for top speed, you thought—hair flying, laughing before he even started moving.

He took off at an easy lope, closed the distance effortlessly and quickly, and when he caught her around the waist, he didn’t stop. Instead, he spun her in slow circles like they were slow dancing to music in their kitchen, both of them breathless and beaming.

You watched the “delivered” turn to “read” and waited.

His reply came five minutes later: Stop it.

You took the time it took to reply as a win, because he couldn’t be as against it as he implied, because then he would’ve replied the second he read the message.

You sent back nothing but a red heart and winking emoji… followed immediately by another video.

Phase three—full weaponization of Jack—began in earnest by day four.

Jack—bless his enthusiastic little heart—became the most effective catalyst imaginable. It started at breakfast: “Dad, when are we gonna play that running game (Y/N) told me about?”

By lunchtime, it had escalated to, “Dad, can I hold the phone and film it? I promise I’ll be super steady!”

And by dinner, full-on pleading: “Daaaad, pleeease? She said you’d be the coolest dad on all of TikTok. Like, the coolest ever.”

Hotch held out for exactly one more day under the combined assault of his wife and son.

He was grumbling more, deflecting with increasing desperation, but you could see the cracks forming—every time Jack asked, Hotch’s refusal came a little softer, a little slower, and a little more undetermined.

Friday night sealed it.

You’d gone all out for dinner. Perfectly seared ribeyes, roasted potatoes, and those garlicky green beans that he pretended weren’t his favorite but always finished first.

Jack had come home from school clutching a piece of construction paper folded in half like a sacred relic.

During quiet time, he’d drawn the three of you in a sunny field.  Stick-figure Hotch with spiky hair and a huge grin, enormous arms outstretched as he caught stick-figure you mid-run—complete with little motion lines and hearts—while tiny stick-figure Jack stood off to the side holding what was clearly meant to be a phone—definitely looking more like a flat screen TV size-wise—filming the whole thing. He’d even written in careful block letters across the top: “BEST DAD CATCHES (Y/N)!!!”

When Hotch got home late from a case the team was working in D.C, tired and rumpled, he found the drawing taped proudly to his closed office door at Jack-eye-level.

He stood there for a moment, just looking at it.

Then he came into the living room, where you and Jack were curled up on the couch under a blanket together, watching yet another challenge video—this one featuring a husband who let his wife almost get to the tree line before sprinting and catching her just in time.

Jack was narrating the whole thing excitedly. “See? He gave her a super long head start and still got her!”

Hotch leaned against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, tie loosened, suit jacket off, watching the two of you laugh together.

Finally, he let out a deep, long-suffering sigh. One of those ones that started in his chest and carried the weight of total surrender during the exhale.

“Fine.”

You and Jack both froze mid-laugh.

You turned slowly, afraid to breathe. “Wait… really?”

Hotch pointed a finger at you, expression stern but eyes betraying him with that familiar spark of reluctant amusement. “One take. No Jack in the video—we blur him or crop him or whatever you have to do if he ends up being slightly in frame. We film it somewhere away from the house. And if you post the video and even a tiny bit of the neighbourhood we live in shows, I swear I’m deleting TikTok from every phone, tablet, and laptop in this house. And blocking access to it on the WI-FI. Permanently.”

Jack launched off the couch like a rocket, barreling into Hotch’s legs and wrapping his arms around them in the fiercest hug his small body could manage—not even caring that he basically was banned to only being the cameraman. “Yes! Thank you, Dad! You’re the best!”

You rose more slowly, heart thudding with victory, and walked over to him. Sliding your arms around his neck, you pressed close, feeling the tension in his shoulders ease the moment you touched him.

“You’re the best husband ever,” you murmured against his ear. “You know that, right?”

He made a low grumbling sound—something about being a complete pushover and how the two of you had him wrapped around your fingers—but his arms came around your waist immediately, strong and warm, pulling you in until there was no space left between you.

“You love it,” you whispered, brushing a soft kiss just below his jaw.

He didn’t argue. Just held you a little tighter, the faintest smile curving against your temple as he whispered. “Maybe I do, or maybe I know of other ways you can make it up to me.”

Meanwhile, Jack continued to cheer triumphantly at hip height.

Saturday morning came, and for one, the BAU hadn’t been called away on a case—yet.

Jack was vibrating in his booster seat the entire drive out to the soccer field near your house. He was clutching your phone like it was the most important job in the world. And kept practicing his “director voice” in the backseat, complete with dramatic pauses. “And… action! Take one… rolling… quiet on the set!” You had no idea where he had learned those things, but his excitement was contagious; even Hotch couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he drove.

When he pulled into the empty gravel lot and cut the engine, he turned in his seat to face both of you, expression serious, almost as if he was about to send two agents into a known ambush. “Ground rules,” he began firmly. “Ten-second head start. I count out loud, slowly. No running toward the street, no trees, no uneven ground—nothing dangerous. And when I catch you,” his eyes locked on yours, “no dramatic flailing or twisting that could actually get you hurt. I mean it.”

You brought two fingers to your forehead in an exaggerated salute, trying your hardest not to burst into laughter. “Yes dad, sir, Unit Chief Hotchner, sir.”

He rolled his eyes so hard you swore you could hear them turning in their sockets, but the smile finally broke through. He couldn’t hide it anymore.

You all climbed out. Jack immediately claimed his spot on the sideline, like a seasoned cinematographer, phone held steady in both hands.

He even adjusted the angle twice, muttering to himself about “getting the whole field on camera.”

You bounced lightly on your toes at the ‘starting line’ you’d mentally drawn, pretending to warm up for your sprint.

Hotch looked unfairly good in dark jeans that fit just right, and a quarter-zip that stretched across his shoulders and chest in all the best ways, sleeves pushed up to his forearms—he absolutely knew what he had been doing as he got dressed, knowing this exact look would distract you enough for the chase to be over quickly.

The morning light caught the subtle strands of silver at his temples, and the relaxed set of his jaw made him look younger, lighter.

Casual Hotch—away from the weight of the world—was always your absolute favorite look on him.

Jack lifted the phone. “Ready? Okay… three, two, one... ACTION!”

Hotch’s voice rang out clear and steady across the empty field. “One.”

You bolted.

Arms pumping wildly, legs flying, you leaned into the comedy of it from the very first stride. Hair already whipping loose from its elastic, laughter bubbling up uncontrollably.

The grass felt alive under your sneakers, air rushing into your lungs.

“Two… three…”

You risked a quick glance back. Hotch hadn’t moved yet—just stood there with his hands casually in his pockets, watching you with that fond, indulgent half-smile that turned your insides to liquid even from ten yards away.

“Four… five… six…”

You pushed harder, aiming for the distant white goalpost like it was the finish line of the Olympics.

Your heartbeat thundered in your ears, joy more than exertion at this point.

“Seven… eight… nine…”

A dramatic gasp for effect. “You’re not even trying yet!” You yelled back, well aware that the phone wouldn’t catch it, but he would.

He rolled his eyes. “Ten.”

And then he moved.

It was unreal—like a switch flipped—no wind-up, no playful jog, just pure, efficient, predatory speed. Long, powerful strides that ate up the distance with terrifying speed. The gap between you shrank faster than physics should even allow.

You let out a shriek that echoed across the field. “No fair! You’re too fast! This is an abuse of federal training and resources!”

Desperate for a few more seconds of glory, you zigzagged sharply, then threw in the most ridiculous spin move you’d copied from a viral clip—arms out, one leg kicked high, nearly losing your balance in the process as you stumbled in the opposite direction.

It bought you exactly two extra seconds.

Strong arms banded around your waist from behind, lifting you off the ground as if you weighed nothing and weren’t struggling.

You kicked your legs in mock outrage, laughing so hard you could barely breathe, while he executed one smooth, gentle twirl—full circle, your back to his chest—the world spinning in a blur of blue sky and green grass. Then he lowered you both carefully, twisting at the last moment so he took every bit of impact on his back, you landing safely straddling his lap, hands braced on his chest.

Your hair had come completely undone around your face. You were breathless more from laughter than the run, cheeks flushed, heart racing.

“Got you,” he murmured, voice low, the sound rumbling through his chest under your palms. One large hand came up slowly, fingers brushing the messy strands from your eyes before tucking them gently behind your ear.

“That was barely twenty seconds total!” you protested weakly, poking his chest. “You made me look ridiculous out there.”

He smirked—actually smirked—eyes crinkling at the corners. “You managed that all on your own.”

Jack came barreling over, phone held high like a trophy. “I GOT IT ALL! The spin was SO COOL! Did you see the spin, Dad? It was awesome!”

The three of you collapsed together right there in the middle of the field—Jack diving into the dogpile with zero regard for aim, all of you tangled in a heap of limbs and laughter until your sides ached and tears streamed from the corners of your eyes.

When you finally caught your breath, you migrated to the big oak at the edge of the field. Jack launched into a frame-by-frame narration of his directorial choices, gesturing wildly.

You watched the footage together four times in a row—pausing at your comically dramatic start, rewinding Hotch’s impossibly smooth sprint, slow-motioning the mid-air spin, zooming in on the gentle landing. Every replay sent Jack into fresh fits of laughter.

“It’s perfect,” you declared finally, leaning into Hotch’s side, head resting on his shoulder. He had one arm draped comfortably around you, the other wrapped around Jack, who was nestled against his dad’s chest like it was the safest place in the world—which it was.

Hotch’s lips brushed your temple, voice soft against your skin. “Post it if you really want to.” He smiled. Although he was ‘giving you permission’ to post it, you knew he was just as pleased with the result as you were.

“Already planned,” you assured him, tilting your face up to meet his eyes. “Just us and laughter. Text overlay: ‘How long till my FBI husband catches me?” You spread your hands out in the air, as if framing a headline.

Jack yawned, snuggling deeper into Hotch’s side. “Can we do it again next weekend? I wanna be the runner this time.”

Hotch groaned dramatically, dropping his head back against the tree trunk. “We’ll… negotiate. But no filming this time.”

You grinned, knowing full well that was code for yes.

Later that evening, after Jack was tucked in with stories and kisses and one more replay of “the best video ever,” the house finally fell quiet.

You sat cross-legged on the couch in the soft glow of your phone, editing the video, adding a gentle blur to Jack’s excited dash at the end, layering music that swelled just right at the catch.

You added the text overlay in a simple white font, then hit upload before you could second-guess it.

By morning, it had exploded in the challenge hashtag. Notifications poured in as you sipped your coffee. “The SPIN took me OUT 😭😂,” “FBI husbands are built different fr,” “This is the sweetest one yet!! my heart,” “Tell me you feel safe without telling me you feel safe.” “OMG look at the way he’s looking at her when they’re on the ground.”

Hotch wandered in still half-asleep, hair adorably tousled. He came up behind you without a word, arms sliding around your waist, chest warm against your back, chin resting atop your head as he peered at the screen.

“Regretting your life choices yet?” you asked, tilting your head back to smile up at him.

He hummed thoughtfully, voice still gravelly with sleep. “Ask me again after the unlimited chocolate chip cookies you now owe me for the rest of our lives.”

You laughed softly, turning fully in his arms to loop yours around his neck. “Deal,” you whispered, before kissing him.

When you finally pulled back, he was smiling a smile that made every single day of scheming, every sneaky video, every pleading child, and perfectly timed snack worth it.

Absolutely and undeniably worth it.

“Don’t ever sell yourself short like that, kid,” Derek warned, his finger pointed at you. “If anything, Hotch is lucky that you’re looking at him.” 

“Hear, hear,” Emily agreed. “You are a bombshell, and he’s,” Emily looked towards Hotch, “just a man.” 

“You’re the best thing for him,” Derek said softly. “I’ve never seen him this happy.” 

You smiled at the kind words thrown by them, it was nice to have it wash over you until you looked over to the cause of your pain. She was touching his arm now, practically on top of him. He never allowed the team to touch him, minus you. 

“I’m gonna head out to lunch before everyone takes the brisket again,” you removed yourself from the group and heading towards the cafeteria. 

You were too in your head that you didn’t realise that Spencer called out your name, pouting slightly when you didn’t respond. “Don’t take it personally, kid,” Derek clapped his hand on Spencer’s shoulder. “She thinks that Hotch is in love with the new recruit.” 

“That’s ridiculous,” Spencer replied, confusion in his tone. “Everyone knows that Hotch is in love with her.” 

“Well,” Derek stretched out the word and looked at Hotch and Madeleine. “Can you blame her though?” 

“It’s probably not what it looks like,” Spencer frowned. “Maybe she just has daddy issues and Hotch is fulfilling that role.” 

Derek barked out a laugh, while Emily grinned in amusement. “Don’t think that helps the scene, kid.” 

The conversation naturally died down as Hotch approached the table, Madeleine in tow. Emily couldn’t help but roll her eyes. Sure, Canavan was a nice kid. A bit too nice for Emily’s liking, a bit too fake and green-eyed, but maybe she was biased. She was fond of you afterall. 

“She’s gone,” Emily provided, not looking up from her book and before Hotch could ask the question. “To lunch.” 

All she received was a frown from Hotch. Taking out his phone, he looked at the screen before humming and excused himself before leaving in the same direction that you did. 

“Oh no, kid, don’t even think about it,” Derek stopped Madeleine from following Hotch. “That’s their time. I would not interrupt that. And I would not get in between them.”  

“Yeah, one time I did and not that Hotch would ever admit it, but I think he hated me at that moment,” Spencer smiled tightly, looking at Madeleine. 

“Are they together?” 

“Worse.” 

“Worse?” She repeated, not quite getting the obvious inside joke between the team. 

“They’re practically in love but too them to say anything,” Emily snarked, looking at the girl in front of her. Narrowing her eyes briefly, she saw the despondent look on the other girl’s face. 

“Oh.” 

“So, don’t think about it,” Derek warned. “As nice as you are, those two only ever revolve around each other.” 

-

“There you are,” Hotch said, a smile appearing on his face as he saw you. “Brisket?” He nodded towards the food in your hand. 

Grinning you nodded, “Finally managed to grab some before DT grabbed everything. Got you some,” you tapped the tupperware next to you. 

“Thank you, honey,” placing a soft kiss on your head, he sat down next to you. “Are you okay?” 

You took a beat to say anything, just chewing your food and thinking. Maybe now was the right time to bring it up, everything that you were feeling. The insecurity and jealousy that’s been brewing inside of you. That for the first time since this started between you and Hotch, you felt that you were on unsteady ground. That you didn’t know where you fit into his life. 

However, as you looked around, you realised that bringing this up during work was not something you could do. 

And if Hotch said the worst things that your brain could conjure up, there’s no place to run or hide from him. You still had a good six hours until you clocked off. Plus, the embarrassment, there was no way you were getting embarrassed at work due to a man. 

“Just tired,” you eventually landed on. Which wasn’t a lie, technically. But you still needed a few days to figure out what you were going to say to him. 

Hotch looked at you, and as much as he didn’t want unprofessional feelings in the workplace, he couldn’t help it. You were mesmerising. Everything you did managed to leave him in awe. As if whatever you were doing was the first time he was seeing it. 

“Do I have sauce on my face?” You asked, your free hand tapping your face softly. 

Hotch shook his head, a small fond smile on his face, “You’re beautiful.” 

You softened, your foot tapping his, “I know.” 

Chuckling he couldn’t help but lean and kiss your forehead again. 

-

You watched, arms crossed as Hotch delegated the tasks, eyes flicking towards you every now and then. You gave him an encouraging nod as he began to shift his attention to the local police department. 

You waited for the orders, everyone pairing off. You perked up as you heard your name, and his, along with two others. Clenching your jaw as you saw her bound up to Hotch, too happy in this context, you turned your head to search for the other person in your little team. 

“Price,” the man held out his hand which you gladly took. It was rare that the local pd respected any of you, let alone the women. Introducing yourself, you both began to exchange information. 

Hotch and Canavan moved to where the two of you were, heads bent together as you discussed the different entrances that the warehouse had. “I’ve got your back, if you have mine,” Price looked to you, and for a moment you were lost in his blue eyes. 

If you met him two years ago, maybe you would have taken him out for a drink after the case, maybe you would have exchanged numbers. However, it was now, and a gentle hand on your back brought you out of your reverie, you looked towards the culprit who barely acknowledged his tender touch. 

“‘Course, Price,” you gave him a soft smile. 

“Officer Price,” Hotch interrupted your conversation, “if you could show Agent Canavan the layout of the warehouse,” he nodded to the woman standing next to him, looking a bit distraught as he sent her off. 

“He’s awfully happy to be partnered with you,” Hotch stated as he kept the man in his line of sight, his hand still on the small of your back, absentmindedly rubbing small circles.  

“You partnered us, remember?” You quipped back. “Price and I can take the inside of the warehouse, if you and Canavan want to go around the perimeter,” you suggested, already forming a plan in your head. That would be the easiest and most logical. 

“I’ll go with Price, stay with Maddy,” Hotch amended. “It would do her well to be with someone like you. I trust you to keep her safe.” 

“Maddy,” you mocked quietly, but not quiet enough as Hotch heard you. At his questioning look, “Nicknames, already?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Gonna start calling her honey as well?” You accused, envy embedding itself in every nerve you had. You stepped out of his hold and you watched as his hand stayed in the air for a moment, and then dropping to his side, a small clench of his fist. 

It was a standstill for a moment between the two of you, you too in your head that you didn’t notice the way that Hotch was studying you. The concentrated look that he only ever has when he’s trying to piece together a particularly frustrating puzzle. 

“As much as I want to listen to this telenovela, we have a case,” Rossi interrupted as he looked between the two of you. “Lives are at stake, remember?” 

You nodded, ashamed in your brief outburst. Rossi was right. This was an active case. People were dead and will die if you didn’t stop acting like a jealous, hormonal teenager. 

Hotch watched you leave as Rossi studied him, a knowing look on his face. “What, Dave?” Hotch exhaled. 

“Do you seriously not see it?” 

“See what?” 

Rossi made a noise and smiled tightly at him, “You know, for a brilliant profiler, you’re very stupid.” At Hotch’s glare, Rossi held up his hands. “All I’m saying is, how do you not realise why (Y/N) is mad at you.”  

--

“Canavan, stay back!” You ordered, shoving your hand in front of her. “Fucking, don’t go charging in there, we know he’s armed and he has accomplices, that may or may not be in there with him. So stay the fuck back.” 

“They have the victims in there!” She pointed to the room at the end of the hall. 

“We wait for back-up,” you commanded. “We don’t know if they have the victims in there, and again we don’t know if he’s alone.” 

“The victims are in there,” she all but growled, finding the strength to kick your leg and push you out of the way. 

“Son of a fucking bitch,” you angrily followed her, gun held to your side. “Canavan,” you whispered angrily, trying to keep up with her. “Fuck, Canavan!” You saw her getting yanked inside, screaming as she went. 

Without another thought, you ran towards her, from your memory, this was a big room. There were plenty of craters that you could hide behind, but it was far too dark to really see anything. If shots were fired and you didn’t know where it came from, you were screwed. But you had to try. 

As best as you could, you hid yourself behind a crater, as vicious as the unsubs were, they were stupid. Ego the gods could envy, they didn’t bother hiding when they were trying to shoot. 

Seeing your chance, you quickly straightened, once your eyes were on him, you shot two bullets into his chest. Running quickly, you took his gun and confirmed that he was dead. Suddenly you felt yourself being shoved into the wall, your head banging harshly against the concrete. Fumbling with your knife, you quickly pulled it out and lodged it in his ribs causing the unsub to groan and throw another punch at your face. 

Twisting the knife as much as you could, the man screamed in agony as he swayed back away from you, allowing yourself to stand up. Grabbing the metal, you tried to swing down at the man when he came up, grabbing it and directing a punch underneath your rib, causing you to drop to the ground. Taking the pipe from your hand, you saw the man grin as he raised it up, poised to hit you until you heard two gunshots. 

“Unsub down,” you could hear Derek tell the walkie talkie. “There were two,” you could vaguely hear Derek describe the scene, the ground in front of you suddenly the most appealing thing to look at. 

You could hear voices in your earpiece, vaguely hearing your last name, then your name, each call getting more panicked when you didn’t answer. 

“Shit, Hotch,” Derek ran over to you, “she’s down, unsub hit her.” 

“Canavan,” you muttered, trying to point to where you saw her last. “Knocked out.” 

Derek looked towards the girl, conscious and now slouched over by the corner of the room. Briefly glancing at her and seeing no visible injuries, he turned his attention back to you. “Alright, mama,” helping you up, Derek looked at your wounds. 

You saw the rest of the team run in, Hotch at the helm. He partially looked at Canavan, then nodded to Emily and headed straight to you. 

“What were you thinking?” Hotch started as he looked at you. The words coming out sharper than he intended as he saw the state of your injuries. 

“Hotch, man, back off,” Derek stood between the two of you. “We all heard that it was Canavan that came charging in. If there was anyone at fault,” he looked towards the girl who was now in Emily’s arms, eyes trained on Hotch. 

“Shit,” you wiped the blood from your nose and grimaced as you felt more blood gush down. The throbbing in your head escalated as the room became louder. You felt overstimulated as everyone gathered in the room, lights suddenly on and you felt like throwing up. 

You slapped his hand away, “I’m fucking fine, Hotch,” you groaned as you stood up. “Derek,” you handed off the unsubs gun, and he took it with a nod. Holstering your own gun, you began walking to the medic. 

“Where are you going?” Hotch walked with you, the team forgotten behind. 

“Medic,” was all you said. Gritting your teeth as you felt the throbbing underneath your ribs. 

“I thought you said you were fine,” Hotch commented, a worrying frown on his face as he took notice of you holding your ribs. He ignored the woman who called his name, his attention all on you. 

“Yeah, well, I know it’s going to cause a shitstorm if I don’t get it checked out,” you clenched your jaw as pain shot through your body due to the uneven ground. “Fucking,” you cursed under your breath as you felt Hotch catch your body, causing you tense momentarily. 

“Easy,” Hotch mumbled softly.

“I’m fine,” you tried your best to shove yourself off him, you could see the ambulances now, just a few feet away. “Fuck off,” you cursed at him. 

“What is going on with you?” Hotch narrowed his eyes, refusing to abandon you. 

You turned back to him, and you didn’t know if it was the frustration that’s been building up, your new injuries or the fact that everything was just too loud and too bright, you exploded. “Why don’t you go back to your girlfriend?” You spat the word out as if it offended you personally. As if it wasn’t what you’ve been wanting from him. 

Hotch briefly took a step back as if you’ve just slapped him, your eyes instantly zeroing on the hurt that flashed across his face. “What are you talking about?” 

Opening your mouth, you gritted your teeth as pain began to worsen in your head.

“Forget about it,” grumbling, you walked away from Hotch, slowly making your way to the ambulances. 

--

“She has some injuries, but you’re fine, well as much as you can be,” the medic finished taping up your wound. “She shouldn’t be alone, just in case.” 

“She’ll stay with me,” Hotch announced, eyes trained intently on you. 

“Jesus Christ, give me a break,” you mumbled under your breath, earning a breathy laugh from the medic beside you, which quickly stopped as he saw the look that Hotch gave him. 

“Thanks,” nodding to the medic, you slowly jumped off the edge and began walking to the team that was now outside. 

“Morgan!” You called out, “Need someone to supervise me tonight.” 

Grabbing your elbow lightly, Hotch pulled you towards him, “She’s fine, Morgan. I’m looking after her.” 

Whatever smartass comment Derek wanted to say was stopped by the stern look on Hotch’s faces, and the grip he had on you. Moving you towards the car, he helped you up and placed your seatbelt. “I’m not a child,” you frowned, yanking the seatbelt from him and clicking it yourself. All you got was an exhausted huff. 

“Are we going to talk about this now or are you going to wait until we get back to the room?” Hotch asked, as he got into the car, and when you didn’t respond, he let out a sigh and began driving. 

--

“Why are you being so stubborn?” Hotch asked as the two of you walked into his hotel room. “I can get your stuff or you can wear mine, I know that you feel more comfortable in them sometimes.” 

Ignoring his question, you rolled your eyes, tired from the night, from the case, from the situation that you found yourself in with Hotch and the trainee. You were a grown woman, and here you were feeling the same things and doing the same things you were doing when you were sixteen. 

“Why are you here?” 

“This is my room,” Hotch stated dumbly, and for the umpteenth time that night, you rolled your eyes. 

Exhausted, you stared at him, and exhaled loudly. “I mean why are you here with me, when your precious Canavan is also injured and needing to be looked after.” 

“I want to make sure you’re okay,” Hotch said softly, taking a step forward but stopping when he saw you taking one back. “I frankly don’t care about her right now.” 

“That’s not a very Unit Chief thing to say,” you quipped, removing your jacket, wincing as you stretched your arm too much. 

“Honey,” Hotch started, moving towards you, hands out ready to help. 

“Don’t,” you snapped, finally removing your jacket. You moved towards his bathroom, intending to shower until you heard him shuffle behind you. 

You exhaled loudly, turning to face him, exhaustion on your face, “What do you want, Hotch and if you say it’s because you want to make sure I’m fine, I’m going to castrate you in your sleep.” 

Hotch couldn’t help but chuckle at your retort, even when you were injured and in pain, you still managed to be so you. 

“You heard the medic, I just need some rest,” you waved him off and began to remove your trousers. “If that’s all,” you gestured to the bathroom door. 

“That isn’t all.” You looked at him expectantly, “You’ve been ignoring me.” 

Scoffing you paused your movements and ran your hand through your hair, “And? In case you haven’t noticed we’ve been on a case.” 

“Don’t be naive,” Hotch chided. “We’ve been different,” at the solemn look on his face, a small part of you softened. “We have been for a while,” Hotch confessed softly. What he won’t tell you was he was racking his brain, trying to think of anything that he could have possibly done to make you drift away from him. 

Did you finally realise that you were too good for him? That he was a damaged old man and you deserved someone who could keep up with you? That you deserve someone good?

“I wonder why that is,” you commented under your breath.

“What?” 

You scoffed, exasperated by everything and especially at the man in front of you. “Hotch, why don’t you just do us both a favour and just go relieve Morgan from his duty of taking care of Canavan. We both know you want to be in her room anyway,” you moved to close the bathroom door, a growl practically escaping you when he moved to block it. 

“Why would I go into her room?” By the narrowness of Hotch’s eyes and animosity in his voice, you knew that you had to tread carefully. 

“I’m sure she needs the big boss to comfort her after the big night she had,” you mocked and you felt like a bitch. Again, you wouldn’t feel this way, you normally wouldn’t say things like this, if it wasn’t for everything. You knew she was probably scared, it was one of her first times on the field and she got attacked. You closed your eyes at the guilt you felt. 

“What the fuck?” It wasn’t the first time you heard Hotch curse, you were one of the few he allowed to hear him like that, but the tone severity of his tone took you back. “Why would I go into her room?” He repeated again, this time enclosing in your space. “Why do you keep bringing her up when I don’t care about her outside of work?” 

“Oh, I’m sorry, were you and her not eye fucking the entire case?” You laughed bitterly. “For weeks, ever since I came back, all I can see are the two of you practically humping each other whenever you were in the same vicinity. I had to watch you laugh with her, Hotch!” 

“Is this why you’ve been such a pain the last few weeks?” Hotch frowned, but there was an underlying tone of teasing that you didn’t like. 

“Fuck you,” you spat at him, you shoved him from your space and stomped back to the bedroom. “Guess since I’m not the youngest, I lost my shine, eh?” You mockingly winked at him, venom in your tone. “She’s new, young, probably your type. Like I was once upon a time,” you almost regretted the words as soon as they left your mouth. You bravely stared at Hotch, ignoring the fluttering in your chest and the churn of your stomach. 

Hotch hissed your name in warning. “Do not,” Hotch warned. “Look at me,” he directed you.

There was something in his tone and his demeanor that made you keep your eyes on him. He was breathing heavier, his face flushed in anger. At you? At the situation? You didn’t know. 

“I’m in love with you,” Hotch said seriously, his eyes never leaving yours. “I’ve been in love with you since the first day that I saw you, and I fall in love more every single day I talk to you.” 

Standing there in shock at the confession, you didn’t know what to say. It was the first time that either of you put anything to what you were feeling. What this was between the two of you. Your shoulders sagged a bit, a small bit of the fight leaving you, but a big part of you who’s been on the edge of crashing out needed this fight. 

“You never did anything to tell her that you were taken!” 

“What did you want me to do? We’ve never talked about this!” Hotch raised his voice, eyebrows to his hairline. “I didn’t want to put words into your mouth in case you didn’t feel the same way.” 

Never felt the same way? You thought bitterly. Is he an idiot? 

“You never stopped her! You instigated things, Hotch. Don’t think I don’t have eyes,” you bit out. “Is it because I was away for a week? That suddenly you forgot me and she appeared.” 

“Do not insult me with the thought that my feelings are that fickle,” Hotch snapped. “That all it takes to forget my love for you is some woman throwing herself at me,” walking towards you, Hotch kept his gaze on you. Every step, every word was deliberate. “I didn’t realise what you saw, what you perceived was me eye fucking her, or practically humping her, when those actions are only ever reserved for you.” 

“I was being nice, I’m her boss,” he explained, more gently this time but still a firmness in his tone that isn’t usually directed to you. “This job is already hard, you’ve told me plenty of times that I need to be kinder, put myself in their shoes, to not be a hardass,” at that you couldn’t help but chuckle, Hotch mirrored it with his own smile. “I want to be kinder for you. You make me want to do that.” 

“I’m sorry for not stopping it, I’m sorry for allowing her to think that there was ever a possibility of me being into her when all I think of is you,” he moved forward now, internally elated when he saw you stay put. “I’m sorry for making you believe that I don’t live for you.” 

Hotch was frustrated to say the least, not at you but at himself. For not seeing what Canavan was trying to do. The hurt that you felt all because of him, because he was being an idiot. All he could do was hope that you gave him a fighting chance. That he wouldn’t lose you because of this stupid, careless misunderstanding. 

You briefly looked at him, you knew that he wasn’t lying. If there was one thing that Hotch would never do to you, it was to lie. You watched as he went through the different emotions, eventually landing on something that he only wore around you. 

Walking towards you, he took the risk of gently placing his hands on your neck, “I’m in love with you and I’m sorry. You are the only thing that makes me sane, the one that actually makes me want to come to work because I can see you,” he admitted. “Please don’t let me not know what it’s like to see you first thing in the morning, or what kind of furniture you want for our home.” 

And you wanted that. You wanted that with him. You wanted everything with Hotch, the good, the bad and the ugly. You wanted to know what kind of pots he preferred, if he liked multiple blankets on the bed. You wanted the laughs, the fights and bickering. You didn’t want that with anyone else. 

“You let her touch you,” was all you could say. Thoughts running a mile per minute. You cringed inwardly as your behaviour from the past couple of weeks bombarded your brain. Were you really that petulant? That juvenile? You could feel the tears of embarrassment line your lashes. “And you’re an idiot for not seeing that she wanted to jump you.”

“And for that I’m sorry. I promise that you’ll be the only one that gets to touch me.”

“Good,” you said defiantly, and you watched as the left side of his lips tilted up. Raising your hands, you placed them on his chest. “Because I swear, if that ever happens again, Aaron,” you threatened. 

“I know, honey,” Aaron nodded solemnly. He knew that if anything like this happened, you would be gone. Whatever future he wanted with you would be gone. 

“You know though right?” You said softly, hoping to convey what was caught in your throat. You followed Hotch as he sat down on the bed and pulled you to him. 

“Know what?” He teased, wrapping his hands around your waist. 

“You’re being annoying and I’m injured,” you whined, your arms slowly falling to his shoulders. “You’re annoying,” you spoke as you slowly sat down in his lap. 

“Baby, say it,” he hovered his hands around your waist, being extra careful of your injured side. 

“I’m kinda in love with you,” you rolled your eyes playfully, “and baby? Really?” You arched a brow. 

“Kind of?” Aaron smiled up at you. “I wanted to try something new,” he shrugged. “Weird?” 

“No,” you shook your head. “Just different. I love it.” 

“Oh, so you love that, but you’re kind of in love with me,” Hotch teased, fingers drumming against your waist. 

“It’s because you’re being annoying,” you supplied. “But ask me tomorrow morning and it may change.” Leaning down, you smiled at him, the tension and anger washing away as you looked down into his eyes. “Now kiss,” you pouted and bent down, slotting your lips slowly to his. 

It was soft and slow, like you had all the time in the world, and for the moment, you did. You grinned as you felt his stubble graze your skin. Placing one hand on the small of your back and the other on your thigh, Aaron pushed you closer to him, opening his mouth to allow your tongue to slide in. 

Tracing the inside of his mouth, you felt his tongue slowly try to dominate yours, allowing him, you let out a moan as you felt Aaron’s hand drift down to your ass. He squeezed once, eliciting another moan into his mouth as you pushed yourself closer, hips flushed together.

“You’re beautiful,” Aaron whispered against your lips, as he pulled away from you. “My beautiful girl.” And there was no lie in what he said. You are beautiful, on top of him, slightly panting and face flushed. “I love you.” 

“I’m kinda in love with you, Aaron Hotchner,” you grinned before kissing him again. Pushing him down, you began to slowly grind against him, hands grasping his shirt. 

“Honey, you’re injured,” Hotch smiled against your cheek, as he sat up. Kissing from your cheek to the path to your ear, Aaron gave your lobe a kiss before he whispered, “Once you’ve got the all clear from your doctor-,” 

“Pound town?” You finished for him, arching one brow. You flinched a bit as a bellowed laugh came out of Aaron. 

Smiling largely at you, you couldn’t help but be entranced by the dimples of his cheeks and the light in his eyes. “Yes, honey. Pound town.” 

--

You woke up to someone shuffling around the room, grimacing as you felt the telltale of a headache. “You okay, honey?” You felt the bed dip next to you. Opening your eyes, you were met with the beautiful sight of one Aaron Hotchner, wet hair and a towel wrapped around his hips. Before you could even truly appreciate the scene, a stabbing pain erupted behind your eye. 

“Headache,” you groaned and closed your eyes. 

Aaron tutted and moved around the room, opening his bag and running the tap. “Here, honey.” 

“Thanks, love you,” you automatically said Aaron handed over some meds and water. 

You didn’t see the lovestruck look on Aaron’s face, “Kinda in love with me or love me love me?” 

“You’re more annoying in the morning,” you chided, handing him over the empty glass. “But love you, love you.” 

Leaning down, he kissed you lightly, “Once this headache is gone, prepare for some serious smoochin’,” you warned. “Now come back, we have two more hours before we meet the others.” 

“You want breakfast?” He asked as he climbed into bed with you, towel forgotten on the floor. “Fruit might help you with your headache.” 

“Do you think they have scones?” You wrapped yourself around him, enjoying the warmth his body brought. “You smell good,” you placed a kiss on his neck, hand slowly drifting down. 

“Honey,” he warned. “You’re injured, I don’t want to hurt you.” 

“I’m not going to do anything strenuous,” you rolled your eyes, “yet,” cuddling closer to him, you couldn’t help the noise of content you let out. “I have three weeks of touching you to make up for, Aaron Hotchner.”

--

“What’s gonna happen to Canavan?” You asked as you traced nonsensical patterns on his forearm. Breakfast in front of the two of you, and Hotch was right (not that you’d ever say it) about the fruit helping with your headache. 

Hotch made a noise above you, shifting a bit to allow his back to be more comfortable. “Discipline from the board, I assume. Then they’ll have to look at her files, she may get kicked out of the academy if they deem her unsuitable. She’s out of the BAU, though,” Hotch commented. He didn’t wish any harm on people, but he came very close when he found out she was the reason you went into that room. The reason why you got injured. 

“She’s a good kid,” you muttered.

“I thought you hated her,” Hotch asked, leaning your body so he could look at you. 

“I hated how she made me feel but I don’t hate her. I’m pretty sure that I would have done the exact same thing when I was her age,” you shrugged. “But she’s a good agent. Maybe not for the BAU, but somewhere else.” 

It was silent for a little while, too long for your liking so you turned your head and realised that Aaron had been staring at you. “What? Did I say something wrong?” 

“You’re something, you know that?” Hotch said quietly. “You’re wonderful and I love you.” 

--

“Finally!” Spencer exclaimed as he saw the two of you walk into the jet. He grinned as he saw Hotch’s arm around you. “I knew it!” 

“Reid, please try to keep it down,” Aaron cautioned, as his grip tightened on you. 

“So it only takes for (Y/L/N) to get beat up for you to confess you’re in love with each other,” JJ teased as she gave you a hug and once over to make sure you’re okay.

“You guys couldn’t have become a couple like normal people?” Emily asked, as she raided her wallet and handed Rossi a fifty. 

“I told you,” Rossi waved his money and winked at the two of you. 

“Come on, honey,” Hotch guided you to your usual seat, hand drifting down too close to your ass. 

“Honey!” Derek chortled as he and Emily shared a look. 

“I’m sorry that you only have your hand to go home to, Derek,” you sniped, a grin on your face. Derek rolled his eyes as Hotch followed you with a knowing smile. 

“I booked my appointment with Doctor Mohan,” you told Hotch, as you put your phone on top of the table. “She should give me the all clear today, if we land on time.” 

“Not today,” Hotch chuckled lightly, his hand landing on your thigh and giving it a squeeze. 

“You said, and I quote, ‘once you’ve got the all clear from your doctor’,” you stared Aaron down. “Don’t tell me you’re a liar.” 

The rest of the team, minus Canavan, who was holed up in her own seat, watched as the two of you bickered. 

“So, kid, how long do you think they’ll take before he pops the question,” Derek questioned, opening up his notepad. 

“Six months,” Rossi instantly piped up. 

“You say that as if you know something,” JJ looked at Rossi who all but shrugged. 

Several weeks passed while he grappled with the conclusion. Haley was gone, and it felt like cheating to have feelings for another woman, especially one nearly 20 years his junior.

But you were an undeniable glimmer of sunshine in his life. He just didn’t show it.

So, as you sat across from him at a kitschy coffee shop, you found it difficult to make light conversation as you both waited for an unsub to enter the establishment. A classic stakeout, with Emily and Derek on the opposite side of the cafe to block each exit.

He’d paid for your coffee. Something with more sugar and milk than the standard black coffee he ordered. They even drew a little picture with the foam. Your small excitement warmed his heart when you shimmied in your seat, taking a quick picture of your coffees to capture the design before you took a much needed sip.

Just as you were about to ask him about his week, about Jack even, his phone buzzed. You weren’t overly familiar with his few expressions, but you could tell the slight difference between his neutral expression and one of disdain.

“Everything okay?” You asked, coffee mug at your lips.

Aaron didn’t look up as his thumbs typed. Maybe he didn’t hear you. Or maybe, even more likely, he ignored you. A small sigh escaped your lungs at the realization, but then he set his phone down. Upside down, to block the screen in case it lit up again.

“Sorry, just Strauss.” He apologized.

You nodded slowly. “Can’t ignore that.” You noted.

He said nothing else, just picked up his mug and took a gulp like he secretly wished it was some of Rossi’s fancy bourbon. You glanced around, making sure that your unsub hadn’t slipped into the store yet.

“Has she been on you recently?” You pried, trying to make it seem like you’re actually a couple drinking coffee instead of two FBI agents waiting for a murder to walk inside.

Aaron huffed, expression stoic as ever. “Feels like she’s never gotten off.” He grumbled.

You smirked, taking another warm sip of your latte. “Well, that’s not your fault. It’s Rossi’s, right?”

That’s when it happened. His coffee mug in mid air, prepped to take another sip, when his smile broke into a toothy grin. Dimples framing his smile. Crows feet deepening around his eyes. And a sound so foreign and beautiful to you that you were no better than a sailor falling captive to a siren. A laugh. No, not a laugh. A giggle. A grown man giggling in front of you.

You couldn’t help but laugh along with him. His joy was contagious, and it seemed terminally infectious. The moment seemed to have lasted hours, but it was only a few short seconds before your ear piece shorted in your ear.

“I heard that.” A voice, Rossi’s voice, scratched through your earpieces.

It took another second before Aaron composed himself, smile still pulled wide while rubbing his forehead. “Sorry, Dave.” He mumbled.

You pulled your lips to the side, hoping to lock them from laughing anymore. “Sorry, Rossi.” You repeated, sounding more like a teenager who was really not sorry.

After that, you couldn’t look at Aaron the same again. Someone who you thought was incapable of happiness in any capacity suddenly turned into someone you’d bend over backwards for, just to hear that laugh again.

You’d known exactly what you were doing sending that picture to Hotch.

Clad only in his t-shirt with a pair of lacy pink panties that you knew he’d be dying to rip off.

It was a strategic decision, you’d been so bored at home without him.

Why not give him a little incentive to get home earlier? It was rare enough that you’d ever see Aaron home before 8.

You hear the door slam closed whilst you’re laid out on the bed, sprawled over the covers with your legs spread as you hear Hotch stomp up the stairs.

Pleasure curls in your gut as you feel yourself leak slick between your legs.

Hotch’s eyes are dark and predatory when he steps into the room, dragging his gaze down your body to commit the sight of you to memory.

He never has been a very patient man.

“Fuck,” He curses, jaw clenching as he watches you spread your legs invitingly for him.

“Missed you,” you pout, smirking at your act as you watch Aaron’s nostrils flare as he stalks towards you on the bed.

He wrangles his tie off his neck before shrugging off his suit jacket.

His slacks look unbearably tight over his cock and you refrain yourself from leaning forward to mouth at it over the material.

“You’re such a fucking tease,” He grunts, undoing his belt before unzipping his pants just enough to release some of the pressure.

“I was in the middle of a meeting, hard in my pants because you just couldn’t fuckin wait until I got home huh?” Aaron laughs without humour.

His face is hard with tension and you can’t help but whimper, canting your hips upwards and displaying the dampness of your panties to Aaron.

“Needed you,” you whine, peering up at Aaron imploringly as if you’re pleading your case.

Aaron tsks, “Oh I know sweetheart, you just needed Daddy to fill up your greedy little cunt didn’t you baby?” He croons condescendingly.

You pout, frowning up at him in displeasure.

While yes, that had been why you’d pulled that stunt, it didn’t make you feel any better to be mocked about it.

You huff, “I was gonna do it by myself!” You insist with a whine.

“Just didn’t feel as nice,” you mumble.

Aaron softens, “That’s because your fingers aren’t big enough baby, you need Daddy to stretch you out nice and good dontcha’ bunny?”

You nod hastily, pleading with Aaron to just give you what you want.

“Need it,” you agree. “Need you to fuck me, please Daddy, want your cum.”

Aaron groans guturally, squeezing his cock harshly before leaning down to capture your lips in a kiss.

You squeal into the kiss, feeling as Aaron’s cock grinds against your covered cunt.

Your hips jerk upwards and you both groan into each other’s mouths at the feeling of your lower halves meeting.

“Fuck me,” you demand, tugging at your own panties to pull them down your legs to throw them off.

Aaron growls when he catches sight of your wet pussy, glistening from your slick and you feel your clit throb from raw hunger.

You lunge, tugging at Aaron’s dress shirt until his buttons snap off as you pull him down into a heated kiss.

“Naughty girl, just couldn’t wait could you?” Aaron murmurs, shrugging himself out of his shirt and leaving him clad in his pants and boxers.

Your hands run themselves over the expanse of Aaron’s biceps and upper back as he licks into your mouth, groaning and growling as you grind against one another.

You bite down harshly on his bottom lip when you feel his cock grind against your clit.

“Daddy’s gonna take such good care of you,” he promises, his voice husky as he dips his neck to press wet kisses against your neck and collarbone.

You pant as you stretch your hand to push half heartedly against Hotch’s pants, indicating him to take them off.

He detaches from you to do just that and you take your own chance to slip out of his old Harvard t-shirt, leaving you bare against the sheets.

Hotch’s cock is red and bobbing against his abdomen when he drops his pants.

He grits his teeth, snarling as he runs his hand up and down the veiny members, his tip glistening from the steady leak of precum that dots his boxers.

You lick you lips, your gaze never straying from his erection.

“You wanna give it a kiss honey?” Aaron coos, a devilish smirk on his face as he stalks towards you on the bed.

You nod dumbly, sitting up as Aaron walks towards you.

His cock aligns perfectly with your mouth as you sit on the bed.

You lean forward to kitten lick his tip which leaves him hissing in sensitivity.

You hum from the taste of his skin, something to purely Hotch.

You drive yourself forward to suck softly at his tip, dragging your tongue over the underside to softly stroke the nerve that you know drives him insane.

Aaron chokes on a growl, “Fuck, yeah keep doing that angel. C’mon baby I know you can take it deeper.”

You moan around his cock, letting it sink deeper into your throat with little warning to Aaron until you feel the wiry hair of his pubes brushing against your nose.

Aaron moans, loud and guttural as he humps your face, “Shit! Shitshitshit, oh that’s good baby, yeah that’s so fuckin’ good.” He groans.

You swallow around him, your throat constricting as you fight back the urge to gag.

You lift your hand to softly roll his balls in your hand, adding to the stimulation as forcing Aaron to pull you off his cock.

“Shit,” he gasps with a wince, lurching forward to grab the base of his cock in a tight grip.

He laughs shakily, “Almost came down your throat with that move, fuckkk—gotta give me a warning next time sweetheart.”

You smirk softly, “Just wanted to make you feel good.” You shrug.

Aaron rolls his eyes fondly, “lie on the bed, let’s see how much of a smartass you can be with my dick in you.”

You hide your smile as you crawl back onto the bed, lying on your back and spreading your legs for Aaron to crawl inbetween them.

“Oh honey,” Aaron murmurs as he crawls over to you from the end of the bed.

“Your little cunt’s practically drooling for me angel, you’re making a mess all over the sheets.” He tsks.

“What’re we gonna do about that?” He frowns contemplatively.

You huff a small laugh, “Gonna fuck me s’what.” You affirm.

Aaron smirks down at you, “Such a dirty mouth.” He reprimands, his hand coming up to drag a thumb over your bottom lip that’s still glistening from your own spit.

“Is that why you suck cock so good baby? Cause you got a dirty little mouth?” Aaron asks.

You peer up at him and blink owlishly as you nod, nipping at Hotch’s thumb with a smile.

“Should’ve known,” he murmurs, leaning down to kiss softly at your neck, bracing one hand against the pillow at your head as his other lines up his cock with your cunt.

“You want Daddy to stretch you out first baby? Or you want it straight?” Aaron whispers, gazing into your eyes with full transparency.

You’re too riled up to wait for Aaron to stretch you out, you’ve spent so long toying with yourself before he came home that you’re basically a puddle of slick and loose enough that it will barely even hurt.

“Nuh uh,” you disagree. “I can take it.”

Aaron’s smile is fond if not a little exasperated, “My brave girl,” he concedes.

His cock slips through your labia, basically gliding through your own fluids as you and Aaron both moan and jerk when his tip kisses your clit in perfect precision.

Aaron huffs, his eyes dilating when the spongy head of his cock catche at your hole, thrusting in softly that it just pops right in.

You feel your own cunt clench down on the intrusion harshly as your breath feels like it’s stolen right from out of your lungs.

“Daddy,” you whine, shaking against the pillows.

You want to be filled, you need to be filled. Hotch promised.

“I know, I know,” he consoles you quickly, pressing a quick kiss to your parted lips as he lets himself sink further into the tight, wet heat of your cunt.

“Oh fuck baby,” He chokes out. “Your cunts’ strangling me baby, Daddy’s not gonna last.”

You squirm, your breath hitching from how stretched Aaron’s cock makes you feel.

You feel like he’s in the back of your throat.

“Haah—” you whine out breathily.

Aaron smiles, “‘S my cock too big for you sweetheart? Is it making your cunt all achy baby?”

You shake your head fruitlessly, lifting your legs to wrap them around Hotch’s waist to pull him further into you.

“Oh?” Hotch sounds amused, one hand coming up off the bed to cup at your waist to settle you.

“You want me to move? That it?”

You nod, mouth still open in pleasure as you feel Aaron thrust out and into your cunt.

“Fuck,” you curse when you feel him hit that spot inside of you that brings stars to your vision.

Aaron is dedicated, you’ll give him that.

You’re well aware he’s more than compensating as he switches between tweaking your nipples and clit to bring you closer to an orgasm due to the fact that he knows he’s seconds away from filling you.

He will make you cum first though, that’s one thing he’ll never compromise on.

“Yeah baby—keep—keep fuckin’ clenchin on me like that. Good girl, fuckin’ tightest little cunt I’ve ever had.” Hotch groans, eyes closed in pleasure as he fucks into you without thought.

The veins of Hotch’s cock drags against your inner walls, further stimulating the feeling of your cunt being stretched.

“So big,” you warble as you attempt to grasp at any piece of Hotch that you can hold on to.

“I know angel, I know it’s big,” Hotch soothes, “but you can take it can’t you baby? You’re taking it so good for me.”

Hotch releases a sound low in his throat, “‘S like you’re fuckin’ milking my cock baby.” He groans.

You whimper, feeling your orgasm fast approaching as you hump upwards into Aaron’s cock.

His jaw clenches tightly as he feels himself nearing his own orgasm, he leans down to pinch and rub at your clit as he feels you clench rhythmically down onto him.

“I’m gonna—” you babble, your eyes dilated and unfocused as Aaron fucks into you like a feral beast.

“Cum,” Hotch orders, “make a mess on my cock baby, s’gonna feel so good.” He promises.

Your breath hitches as you let out a high pitched whine, orgasming sporadically on Hotch’s cock.

You feel your wetness soaking Aaron’s thighs and your own as Hotch continues to thrust into you wildly.

You hear him curse from above, roaring out as he cums and you feel the hot spurts of his seed fill your womb.