#k9!reader

The German Shepherd’s shoulders rolled under his tactical vest, every muscle tuned to the invisible thread of scent faintly drifting from the third row of warehouses.

You weren’t BAU. You were an FBI K9, itinerant, loaned out like a bloodhound to whatever team needed a nose sharper than their own.

Hotch had made it clear from the moment you’d arrived: You follow my command structure. You’d nodded, smiled, and meant exactly none of it.

“Apollo’s got something,” you said into your radio, voice low. “Southeast, and from his body language, scent is moving away, fast.”

Hotch’s reply crackled back instantly. “Negative. Hold position. SWAT’s two minutes out.”

Two minutes! In two minutes, a man who’d already burned three women alive could be three blocks gone, swallowed by the labyrinth of loading docks and rusted rail spurs.

Apollo whined, a sharp and urgent sound, and pawed the cracked asphalt. You glanced at the BAU agents fanned out behind their SUVs: Morgan’s jaw tight, Prentiss scanning rooftops, Reid muttering probabilities under his breath.

Hotch stood at the center, arms crossed, brows furrowed, eyes locked on the darkness ahead, as if he could will the unsub back into custody.

You unclipped Apollo’s lead. “Søg,” you whispered. Search.

He launched forward, a black-and-tan bolt, claws scrabbling for purchase against the asphalt. You were two steps behind, boots pounding, flashlight slicing through the dark.

Hotch’s voice exploded in your ear. “Agent! Stand down—”

You clicked the comm off.

The warehouse Apollo led you to was a gutted shell, its roll-up door hanging crooked on one hinge. Inside, the air was thick and chemically, gasoline most likely, scorched wood, and something sweeter that you couldn't quite pinpoint.

Apollo’s nose dropped to the concrete, then snapped up, tracking a zigzag path between overturned crates. You followed, heart hammering against your ribs, the weight of your Glock steady in your hand, having a feeling you might need to use it for once.

There.

A section of plywood, hastily nailed over a crawlspace. Apollo circled it twice, then sat, ears flat, eyes locked on the dark beneath, and with one loud bark, he signalled that this was the place.

You knelt, pried the board up with the muzzle of your flashlight, revealing a tunnel. Narrow, seemingly hand-dug, the earth was damp from where the unsub’s had frantically scrambled through, overturning the dirt.

Apollo’s tail thumped once, impatient.

You keyed your mic back on. “Tunnel entrance, warehouse 17-B. Suspect’s underground. I’m pursuing.”

Hotch’s voice was ice. “You will not—”

“Too late.” You had already signalled Apollo to drop in before dropping into the hole yourself, knees bending to absorb the impact. The tunnel swallowed you fast in its darkness; the only light was your flashlight’s thin beam.

Apollo's nails scraped against the dirt ahead, and along with his barks, those were the only signs of life.

The passage twisted, narrowed, then opened into a storm drain junction, concrete walls slick with runoff, the stench of mold thick enough to taste.

Apollo’s bark echoed ahead. You rounded the corner at a sprint.

The unsub was halfway up a maintenance ladder, a canister of accelerant slung over his shoulder, lighter glinting in his hand.

He saw you, saw the dog, saw the gun, and lunged for the rungs. And although he was fast, Apollo was faster, locking his teeth around the man’s calf, dragging him down in a tangle of limbs, fur, and curses.

The canister clattered away, rolling into the dark. You were on him in seconds, knee in his back, cuffs ratcheting tight around wrists already slick with blood.

“FBI! Stay down!” Your voice cracked like a whip. Apollo released on command, circling to block the tunnel’s mouth, lips peeled back in a silent snarl.

Bootsteps thundered behind you—SWAT, finally, breaching the drain.

Once you, Apollo, SWAT, and the unsub had cleared the tunnel and were back on the surface, you were met by Hotch. He took in the scene, the cuffed unsub, the evidence bagged accelerant, Apollo sitting proud beside you, tail dusting against the concrete.

You brushed grit from your vest, and met Hotch’s stare. “You’re welcome, sir.”

His jaw flexed, the muscle ticking. “We’ll discuss your insubordination later.”

You stepped forward, boots crunching on a few loose stones, Apollo’s ears swiveling toward the rising heat in your voice. “Insubordination?” The word cracked out of you, sharp enough to make the nearest SWAT officer glance over. You didn't know what had gotten over you, whether it was Hotch or the situation getting on your nerves. “You’re not my unit chief, Agent Hotchner. I’m a K9 liaison, not BAU. My chain of command starts in Alexandria and ends with whoever signs Apollo’s vet bills.”

Hotch’s eyes narrowed to slits. “When you’re on my scene, you follow my protocol.”

“Your protocol just lost us forty-three minutes and almost let a serial arsonist vanish into the sewer system.” You jabbed a finger toward the tunnel mouth. “Apollo had the scent. I had probable cause. You had a perimeter that looked pretty on paper and useless in practice.”

Morgan took one deliberate step back, hands raised in surrender. Prentiss leaned against a crate, arms folded, clearly settling in for the show. Reid’s gaze ping-ponged between you like he was timing the argument with a stopwatch.

Hotch’s voice dropped to that lethal register that usually made rookies flinch. “You breached a tactical line without clearance. You put yourself and that dog in a structurally compromised tunnel with an armed suspect.”

“And I put cuffs on him before your SWAT stack even finished their countdown.” You matched his volume, refusing to cede ground. “You want to write me up? Fine. Send it to Captain Delgado. He’ll frame it next to the commendation we got in Pittsburgh when your profile missed the secondary egress and Apollo dragged a kidnapped kid out of a grain silo.”

Hotch took one step closer; the floodlights carved harsh shadows across his face. “This isn’t about commendations. It’s about discipline. One rogue agent compromises the entire op.”

“Then maybe stop treating borrowed assets like chess pieces you’re afraid to move.” Your pulse hammered in your ears, but you didn’t blink. “I’m not your agent, Hotch. I’m the idiot who just handed you a closed case. A thank you wouldn’t kill you.”

For a heartbeat, the only sound was Apollo’s tail thumping against your calf and the distant crackle of radios. "And next time, remember who it was that called me in for help." Hotch’s nostrils flared as you spoke; you could practically see him counting to ten.

“Quantico,” he said finally, each syllable clipped. “08:00. My office. Bring your after-action report... and your captain’s contact information.”

You gave him the same two-finger salute, slower this time, deliberate. “I'll do you one better, I'll bring the whole man. Looking forward to watching you explain to Delgado why you needed a dog to do your job.”

Hotch pivoted, barking coordinates to SWAT, but the set of his shoulders was rigid enough to snap. You turned on your heel, signalling for Apollo to follow. He trotted at your side, and neither of you looked back at the seething unit chief.

Hotch’s silhouette disappeared into the command trailer. You vanished around the far side of warehouse 17-B, Apollo’s tags jingling like a warning bell.

Thirty yards away, behind the mobile command van, the BAU clustered like kids at recess.

Morgan pulled a crumpled twenty from his pocket. “Three weeks. Max. They’re gonna combust in that office.”

Prentiss smirked, digging for her wallet. “Two. I’m telling you, the second the door closes, paperwork’s hitting the floor.”

Reid adjusted his glasses. “Statistically, workplace proximity plus elevated adrenaline increases the likelihood of a precipitating event by thirty-seven percent. I say ten days, but only if Garcia livestreams the security feed.”

JJ, arriving with crime-scene tape, caught the tail end. “Y'all betting on when they'll finally snap?”

“Pretty much. We call it the Hostile sexual tension bet,” Morgan smiled.

Garcia’s voice piped over the comms, tinny but gleeful. “Put me down for eight days and a utility closet somewhere at the academy. I’ve got popcorn money riding on this.”

Quantico, Monday morning, 07:58.

The bullpen was still half-asleep, agents shuffling with coffee, printers humming like lazy bees. You stood outside Hotch’s office door, Apollo heeling at your left in a perfect sit, tongue lolling.

Your uniform was pressed, boots polished to a spit-shine, but the bags under your eyes said you’d spent the red-eye flight writing the after-action report Hotch had demanded. Captain Delgado leaned against the wall beside you, arms crossed, salt-and-pepper beard catching the fluorescent glare of the lamps above. He looked like a man who’d already won the argument and was just waiting for the room to catch up.

The door opened. Hotch filled the frame, tie knotted with military precision, expression carved from granite—Clearly, he hadn't calmed down since last night. “Agent. Captain.”

“SSA Hotchner.” Delgado’s voice was mild, but the way he said Hotch's title made it sound like Delgado was calling him a paper-pusher. He stepped inside first, claiming the chair angled toward Hotch’s desk without waiting for an invitation. You followed, Apollo’s nails scraping against the carpet. Hotch’s eyes flicked to the dog, lingering half a second on the shepherd’s calm focus, before settling on you.

“Close the door.”

You did. The click sounded final.

Hotch didn’t sit. He rounded the desk, planted both palms on the blotter, and leaned forward. “Let’s be clear. Forty-three minutes of containment, SWAT in stack, and you breached the line without—”

“Without what, Agent Hotchner?” Delgado cut in, voice smooth. “Without waiting for a suspect who’d already set three women on fire to light another match? My handler had critical circumstances, a trained K9 asset with a positive track record, and a tunnel that collapsed thirty seconds after SWAT cleared out. You want to lecture someone on timing, start with your own tactical brief.”

Hotch’s knuckles whitened. “Protocol exists for a reason, Captain.”

“Protocol didn’t smell the accelerant bleeding through cracked concrete.” Delgado pulled a tablet from his briefcase, flicked to a still frame from your body-cam: Apollo frozen mid-sit over the plywood cover, ears pinned, nose pointed like an arrow. “This is probable cause. This is actionable intelligence. Your perimeter map marked that sector ‘low probability.’ Apollo marked it ‘jackpot.’”

Hotch’s gaze slid to you. “Your comm went dark for ninety-two seconds.”

You met it, unflinching. “Because you were busy reciting the manual while a killer crawled away. It was like I experienced tinnitus for the first time. Ninety-two seconds bought you a cuffed unsub and zero extra body bags. You’re welcome.”

Delgado didn’t bother hiding his grin. “She’s not wrong.”

Hotch straightened, folding his arms. “K9 is an adjunct resource. Adjunct follows the primary team’s command.”

“Wrong again.” Delgado swiped to the next screen, which happened to be an organisational chart, BAU in one column, K9 Field Operations in another, both feeding straight to the Deputy Director. “We’re parallel assets. When lives are at stake, my handlers have discretionary latitude. It’s in the MoU you signed last year when we started this collaboration. Page seven, paragraph four. I can wait while you find it.”

The silence stretched, thick enough to chew. Apollo yawned, pink tongue curling.

Hotch’s jaw worked. “Discretionary latitude doesn’t mean solo cowboy stunts in a condemned drain.”

“It means trusting the asset you requested,” you said. “You called us in because your profile said the unsub would rabbit through ‘non-obvious exits.’ Apollo found the non-obvious. If I’d waited for your green light, we’d still be pulling charred bones out of basements right now.”

Delgado leaned back, chair creaking. “Here’s what’s going to happen, Aaron.” First-name basis. Delgado was trying to piss him off, you thought to yourself, trying your hardest not to show your amusement. “You’re going to accept that the collar did your work for you. You’re going to put K9 Apollo, handler Agent [Y/L/N] in the press release. And you’re going to stop pretending borrowed dogs come with leashes you control. Because next time you freeze my team out, I’ll pull them the second they clear the tarmac. Clear?”

Hotch’s eyes flicked to the photo on his desk, Jack, gap-toothed in a Little League uniform, then back to Delgado. Something shifted behind the stoic mask, a calculation you couldn’t read.

“Understood,” he said finally, each syllable scraped raw.

Delgado stood. “Good. Agent [Y/L/N] will forward the body-cam footage and logs. You’ll find they corroborate every decision she made.” He paused at the door, hand on the knob. “Oh, and Aaron? Next time you want to dress down one of my handlers, schedule it through me. Saves us both the paperwork.”

The door opened. Delgado strode out like he owned the hallway. You lingered for a second before standing, Apollo rising to follow.

Hotch’s voice stopped you. “Agent.”

You turned.

He was closer now, voice low enough so the slowly filling bullpen wouldn’t catch it. “Your captain’s not here to referee every scene.”

“No,” you said, meeting him stare for stare. “But the dog is. And he doesn’t file complaints. He bites, on command.” You narrowed your eyes and gritted your teeth at the last part

Apollo huffed, bumping Hotch’s knee with his snout "accidentally", the glint in his eyes told otherwise. Hotch’s hand twitched again, same as in the warehouse, but this time his fingers brushed the shepherd’s ear, a single, involuntary stroke.

You caught it. So did he.

Heat flashed across his cheekbones, gone as fast as it came. “Dismissed.”

You stepped into the bullpen. Behind you, the door shut with a definitive click.

Morgan was already waiting, leaning against Garcia’s desk with a twenty-dollar bill pinched between two fingers. “Pay up, Baby Girl. Captain just ate Hotch’s lunch and used the dog as a napkin.”

Garcia’s eyes went wide behind her cat-eye glasses. “Details. I need details.” You could hear her tapping away on her tablet, probably scrambling to get access to the security camera in Hotch's office.

You kept walking, Apollo’s tags jingling like victory bells, but you didn’t miss the way Hotch’s silhouette stayed framed in the window as the elevator doors closed around you and Apollo.

2. Denver

It was 4 am, forty-one hours since the Amber Alert first shrieked across every screen in the metro area.

The BAU had the unsub in cuffs twenty-four hours earlier. A twitchy thirty-year-old, picked up at a Greyhound depot with the missing girl’s backpack in his locker. But he lawyered up faster than the team had ever seen before, zipped his lips, and let the clock chew through the little girl’s life one merciless second at a time. No location. No ransom. Just the echo of a six-year-old’s name in every briefing room.

Hotch had pulled every string the Bureau owned: search grids, cadaver dogs, thermal drones, infrared helicopters. Nothing. The trail died where the unsub had ditched his van, under the I-25 overpass, where runoff from a busted sprinkler main turned the shoulder into a swamp.

That’s where the K9 unit rolled in.

Three handlers, four dogs. You and Apollo took the east quadrant. The other teams fanned west. You’d been on the ground six hours, boots soaked through, the wind knifing straight through your jacket.

Apollo’s nose never quit though, working the air in tight, methodical arcs, sifting through diesel fumes and wet concrete.

Then he froze.

One paw lifted, tail still. The classic alert. You dropped to a knee beside him. “Whatcha got, buddy?”

He shoved his muzzle under a tangle of kudzu and came up with a scrap of fabric clenched gently in his teeth. It was pale pink with cartoon dinosaurs, crusted with dried blood and grime. The missing girl’s blanket, you confirmed it by pulling up the photo that had been distributed to the search parties.

Hotch’s voice crackled over the comms channel. “K9’s got an article yet?”

“Apollo just found something,” you answered, already clipping a longer line to Apollo’s harness. “Blanket. We're preparing to track.”

“Hold for—”

“Negative.” You were moving before the sentence finished, Apollo lunging forward, pulling you down the embankment into the runoff ditch. “Trail’s degrading in the water. Clock’s ticking.”

The ditch became a culvert, became a concrete throat that swallowed light and sound. You flicked on your headlamp. The beam jittered across ankle-deep sludge, algae-slick walls, and the metallic reek of urban runoff. Apollo splashed ahead, ears flat, nose skimming the surface like a bloodhound in a bayou. Every few yards, he’d pause, circle, re-lock on the scent, then surge forward again.

Your radio squawked, Hotch, Morgan, and Prentiss, all talking over each other.

“Agent, report grid—”

“Tunnel’s unstable—”

“Backup ETA four minutes—”

You clicked the mic once—acknowledged—then clicked it off. Four minutes was an eternity when a kid was turning blue somewhere close by.

The tunnel narrowed. You had to turn sideways, sucking in your gut. Apollo whined, then bolted. You followed, boots slipping, one hand braced on the wall. The passage dumped you into a junction box the size of a subway car: rusted ladder, maintenance hatch overhead, and in the corner...

A tiny shape curled against the concrete.

Sophie Grant. Six years old. Lips purple, knees drawn to her chest. Barely shivering or breathing.

You dropped beside her, two fingers to her carotid. Pulse thready, but there. “Sophie, honey, I'm with the FBI. You’re safe.” Her eyes fluttered; they were glazed over and unfocused.

Hypothermic. Dehydrated. But alive.

Apollo nosed her cheek, licked once, then sat vigil.

You keyed the mic. “Child located. Junction box delta-seven. Need medics now! She’s conscious but in very critical condition.”

Static, then Hotch’s voice. “Copy. Medevac inbound. Do not move her until—”

“Negative. She’s crashing. I’m extracting.”

You scooped her up, she almost weighed nothing, and you wrapped her in your jacket and started back the way you came. Apollo led, pausing at every fork to be sure you followed. The tunnel seemed longer going out, the mud heavier, every breath burning cold in your lungs.

You emerged under the overpass into a carnival of red-blue strobes. Paramedics swarmed. You handed Sophie over, barking your observations.

Hands pulled you back. You let them. Your knees buckled; someone shoved an emergency blanket around your shoulders. You hadn't even realized how cold you'd gotten. Apollo pressed against your leg, whining.

Hotch was there suddenly, close enough that you smelled the coffee and gun oil on him. His eyes raked over you, raised a brow, then the tunnel mouth, then you again. “You went in alone?”

You were too cold to bristle. “Technically, no.” You patted Apollo’s head, he leaned against your thigh like a small furnace. “Had the best nose in the Bureau with me.”

His mouth twitched, the barest flicker, gone before it became a smile. “You should’ve waited for backup.”

You looked past him to the ambulance where Sophie was already hooked to warm IV fluids, oxygen mask fogging with every shallow breath. “Then she’d be dead.”

He followed your gaze. The fight leaked out of him in one slow exhale. “Medics said another twenty minutes and we’d have lost her.”

“Twenty minutes was four minutes ago.”

Silence stretched. Somewhere behind you, Morgan let out a low whistle. “Damn, Hotch. She just pulled a miracle out of a sewer pipe.”

Prentiss, arms folded, murmured to JJ, “Add ‘superhero complex’ to the profile.”

Reid, ever earnest, piped up. “Actually, the canine olfactory epithelium has roughly three hundred million receptors compared to our six million. Statistically—”

Hotch ignored them. His eyes stayed on you, dark and unreadable, but the muscle in his jaw wasn’t ticking anymore. “Debrief in thirty. Med tent.”

You nodded, too tired to argue. As the team dispersed, you caught the tail end of the betting pool restarting.

Morgan slapped a fresh twenty into Prentiss’s palm. “Reset the clock. Two weeks tops.”

JJ snorted. “You’re optimistic. I say one. That tunnel just became foreplay.”

Reid frowned. “Foreplay is a social construct—”

You pretended not to hear, but heat crawled up your neck anyway. Hotch was still watching you, hadn’t moved. You lifted your chin. “Something on my face, sir?”

He stepped closer, voice pitched low enough that only you could hear. “You’re hypothermic.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re shaking.”

You glanced down, yeah, okay, your hands were trembling around the blanket. Adrenaline crash. He noticed too much.

Without asking, he reached out and tucked the silver foil tighter around your shoulders. His knuckles brushed your collarbone, accidental, maybe. The contact burned hotter than the blanket.

“Med tent,” he repeated. Not an order this time.

Apollo chose that moment to shove his head between you, demanding attention. Hotch’s hand dropped to the shepherd’s ears automatically, fingers scratching the spot that made Apollo’s back leg thump. The dog groaned in bliss.

You smirked. “See? He trusts you.”

Hotch’s eyes flicked up, caught yours. “He’s a better judge of character than most.”

The moment stretched, fragile as frost. Then the paramedic called your name, time for vitals. You stepped back, breaking the spell.

“Debrief in thirty,” you echoed.

He nodded once, sharply, and turned away. But you saw it again, that almost-smile, ghosting at the corner of his mouth as he walked toward the command truck.

3. The Riverbank Strangler

The river was a black ribbon under a moonless sky, its banks choked with the ghosts of four dead women. The BAU had been chasing the unsub for nine days; Hotch’s profile was taped to every whiteboard from the field office to the mobile command trailer:  

Male, 30–40, local, blue-collar, ritual-driven.

Escalating but controlled; avoids revisiting dump sites to prevent pattern recognition.

The next body will be north of the city, new territory, higher risk.

You’d sat through the briefing, arms crossed, Apollo sprawled under the table with his head on your boot. When Hotch wrapped up with his usual clipped certainty, you’d raised a hand.

“Respectfully, sir, that’s wrong.”

Every head swiveled. Hotch’s eyes narrowed. “Explain.”

“Dogs don’t care about your geographic progression. Apollo’s hit the same scent cone at the first two sites. Same signature. If the unsub’s avoiding old sites, why’s the scent pooling heavier each time we grid the old ones?”

Hotch’s answer was immediate. “Transference. Wind off the water. You’re tracking residual, not active.”

You’d let it go. For twelve hours.

Now, at two in the morning, you were back at Site #1. The rest of the team was canvassing a factory district eight miles north, chasing Hotch’s “new territory.” You’d signed out with a vague “K9 re-grid” and a promise to check in. Apollo had refused to load into the SUV until you pointed him at the river. One whine, one paw on the door, and you were driving.

The shepherd hit the ground running.

He quartered the bank like he’d been born to it, nose skimming the mud, tail low and focused. You followed with a headlamp and a collapsible shovel, boots sinking into the soft earth. The air smelled of wet dogwood and rot. Forty yards downstream from the original recovery marker, Apollo froze, statue-still, one front paw raised. Then he dropped his chest to the dirt and began to dig, claws flinging clods of red clay.

You knelt, heart already sprinting. “Show me.”

He dug faster. You joined him, shovel biting earth. Six inches down, the blade struck something soft. Fabric? Denim! Then the unmistakable give of human tissue.

You sat back on your heels, breath fogging in the cold. “Son of a bitch.”

Apollo sat beside the hole, ears pricked, waiting for praise that stuck in your throat. You keyed your radio. “Command, K9-One. Site One-Alpha. I’ve got… a body. Fresh. Request the crime scene immediately.”

Hotch’s voice came back flat. “Repeat?”

“Victim five. Shallow grave, original dump site. Apollo’s on it.”

Silence. Then: “On my way.”

They arrived in a convoy of slamming doors and shouted orders. Floodlights turned toward the riverbank. Morgan vaulted the tape first, Prentiss on his heels. Reid skidded to a stop beside the grave, eyes wide behind fogged glasses.

Hotch was last. He didn’t speak. Just stood at the edge of the hole, hands on his hips, staring down at the partially exposed torso; female, mid-20s, ligature marks around the throat, wrists and ankles. The dirt around her was darker, richer, freshly turned. She'd been there for less than a few hours.

You stood opposite him, Apollo heeling at your side, mud streaked up to your elbows. The silence stretched until it felt like a held breath.

Finally, Hotch looked up. “You disobeyed a direct order to stand down on re-grids.”

“I logged a welfare check on residual scent.” You kept your voice level. “Apollo disagreed with your profile. Turns out he was right.”

Morgan coughed into his fist. Prentiss bit her lip. Reid started muttering about “canine olfactory memory” once again and “spatial revisit tendencies in ritual killers.”

Hotch’s eyes never left yours. “This changes everything.”

“Yeah,” you said. “It does.”

He opened his mouth, closed it. The vein in his forehead pulsed once, twice.

“Guess we’ll be rewriting that geo-profile, huh, Bossman?”

The nickname landed like a slap. Morgan actually choked. Prentiss turned it into a cough. Hotch’s jaw flexed so hard you heard the click.

“Agent,” he said, voice low enough only you could hear, “my office when we’re wheels-up.”

You smiled, sweet as poison. “Can’t wait, Bossman.”

The mobile command trailer smelled of burnt coffee and printer toner. The team huddled around the folding table while Reid scribbled furiously on the whiteboard, erasing Hotch’s neat arrows and replacing them with frantic spirals that looped back to Site #1 like a dog chasing its tail.

You leaned against the wall, Apollo curled at your feet, pretending to study the new map. Hotch stood at the head, sleeves rolled, tie loosened for once. Adding to the whiteboard, and every time his marker squeaked across the laminate, your eyes flicked to the tension in his forearms.

He caught you looking. Held it. The marker paused mid-stroke.

“Something to add, Agent?”

“Just wondering how many more bodies we’d have if I’d listened to you, Bossman.”

The marker snapped in his hand. Ink bled across his fingers like a bruise.

Morgan whistled low. “Damn. She’s got a death wish.”

Prentiss elbowed him. “Or a type.”

Hotch wiped his hand on a napkin, slow and deliberate. “The profile was based on behavioral patterns observed in—”

“Dead women,” you cut in. “Patterns that didn’t account for a dog who can smell guilt through six feet of clay. You built a box. Apollo just kicked it over. When are you gonna admit that my dog is better at your job than you are?”

Reid raised a finger. “Actually, olfactory detection of cadaverine and putrescine—”

“Not helping, Spence,” JJ muttered.

Hotch’s voice dropped to that dangerous register he usually only used during interrogations. “You want to lead the profile, be my guest. But until then, you follow my grid.”

“Funny,” you said, stepping forward until the table was the only thing between you. “I thought the grid followed the evidence. Evidence just barked and dug up your mistake.”

His eyes flashed. “You’re insubordinate.”

“And you’re arrogant.” You leaned in, close enough to see the flecks of gold in his irises. “The difference is, my arrogance saved lives tonight. Yours almost cost one.”

The trailer went tomb-silent. Apollo lifted his head, ears swiveling between you like he was watching a tennis match.

Hotch’s nostrils flared. “Briefing’s over. Everyone out.”

Chairs scraped. The team filed out like kids dismissed from the principal’s office. Garcia’s voice floated back through the open door: “New pool—first one to make the other snap gets the pot. I say Hotch cracks before we touch wheels in Quantico.”

The door shut. Just you, Hotch, and eighty pounds of shepherd who suddenly seemed very interested in the tension vibrating in the air.

Hotch rounded the table, slowly. “You don’t get to undermine me in front of my team.”

“Your team requested K9. You got us. That includes the part where we’re right and you’re wrong.” You didn’t back down. Besides, you couldn't tell if he was refusing to see the signs, or if he truly was blind and hadn't figured out you'd started riling him up on purpose. “Call it whatever you want: insubordination, attitude, truth. Apollo doesn’t profile. He finds. Maybe try listening to him sometime.”

He stopped a foot away. Close enough, you could see the faint scar through his left eyebrow from when he'd nearly been blown up. “You think this is a game?”

“I think you hate being wrong more than you hate me.”

His laugh was sharp, humorless. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Don’t worry, Bossman. I’m not.”

The nickname again. His hand twitched, like he wanted to grab something. Your arm. The table. His own sanity.

Apollo chose that moment to stand, wedging his bulk between your legs and Hotch’s, tail thumping once against the unit chief’s knee. A peace offering. Or a warning.

Hotch looked down at the dog, then back at you. Something shifted behind his eyes; frustration, yes, but something else. Respect, maybe. Or the realization that you weren’t going anywhere, or backing down for the matter.

He stepped back. One step. Enough to breathe.

“Next time,” he said, voice rough, “you find something, you call it in before you dig.”

“Next time,” you countered, “you write a profile that doesn’t ignore a dog’s nose, I’ll consider it.”

He stared at you for a long beat. Then, quietly: “Get some sleep. We’re back at the river at 06:00.”

You nodded with a salute. “Yes, sir.”

As you turned to leave, Apollo paused to bump his head against Hotch’s hand once, this time definitely deliberate. Hotch’s fingers curled, scratching behind the shepherd’s ear without thinking. The dog leaned into it, eyes half-closed in bliss.

You caught the whole thing in the reflection of the trailer window. Smiled despite yourself.

"Woman." Hotch sighed as you closed the door behind you and Apollo.

Outside, the team was waiting like vultures.

Morgan grinned. “So? Who won?”

You kept walking. “Ask Bossman.”

Behind you, the trailer door slammed. But not before you heard Hotch’s muffled voice, low and furious, and maybe a little awed.

“Dammit.”

4. Dallas

The warehouse district south of downtown was a graveyard under a sky the color of dried blood. The unsub had already leveled two strip malls and a daycare. His manifesto was a 47-page screed against “corporate complacency,” delivered via email to every news station in the metroplex.

The BAU had him cornered in a leased storage unit two hours ago, but he had swallowed a cyanide capsule before they could ask where the last device was planted.

Now the clock was a guillotine.

Bomb Squad had swept the warehouse three times, thermal, X-ray, the works. “Clear,” their lieutenant declared, peeling off his helmet. Hotch echoed it in the command huddle. “Package is neutralized. We’re standing down EOD, shifting to evidence collection.”

You stood at the perimeter with Apollo, watching the techs pack up. The shepherd’s ears were forward, tail still, nose working overtime. You knew that look.

“Apollo, søg.”

He moved before you finished the word, cutting across the taped-off bay like he’d been shot from a cannon. Straight to a row of dented storage lockers along the back wall.

He sat. Hard. Stared at the locker door like it had personally insulted his mother and all his brothers and sisters.

You keyed your radio. “K9 alert, Unit 17. Strong hit. Potential of explosives.”

Hotch’s voice came back instantly. “Bomb Squad cleared that row. Stand down.”

“Apollo says otherwise.”

“Stand. Down.”

You looked at the locker. Then, at the civilian tech still inside the bay. You looked at Apollo. His whine was low, urgent. There was definitely something important in there.

You unclipped his lead. He planted himself between the locker and the tech, hackles half-raised. You moved fast, three strides, hand on the photographer’s shoulder. “FBI. Out. Now.”

The tech startled, yanking out an earbud. “What—”

You didn’t explain. You grabbed his vest collar and hauled. He stumbled after you, camera clattering. Behind you, Apollo barked once.

You cleared the bay threshold at a dead run. Ten feet. Fifteen.

The world turned white.

The blast wave hit like a freight train, lifting you off your feet and slamming you into a stack of pallets. Sound vanished, replaced by a high, cottony ringing. Heat rolled over you, singeing the back of your neck. Debris rained: sheet metal, glass, a twisted locker door that embedded itself in the concrete where you’d been standing.

Then silence. Real silence, the kind that follows annihilation.

You rolled to your knees, coughing dust. Apollo was already there, limping, but whole, nosing your face with frantic whines. You ran your hands over him: no blood, no shrapnel. Just a very good boy.

Sirens wailed in the distance, growing closer. The warehouse bay was a smoking crater, the locker row obliterated. The tech sat ten yards away, pale and shaking, staring at the hole where he’d been.

Bootsteps pounded. Hotch skidded to a stop in front of you, suit jacket gone, tie askew, face streaked with soot. His eyes raked over you, then flicked to Apollo, then back to you.

“You could’ve died.”

His voice was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that came before a storm.

You pushed to your feet, swaying once before locking your knees. “So could he.” You jerked your chin at the tech.

Hotch stepped closer. Close enough, you saw the pulse hammering in his throat. “I gave you a direct order.”

“And I gave you a live bomb.” You brushed grit from your vest, voice flat. “You’re welcome.”

His hands flexed at his sides. Like he wanted to strangle something. Or hold it together. “You breached the cordon. Again.”

“Apollo alerted. Civilian in the blast radius. Math was simple.”

“You didn’t know it was live.”

“I knew it was possible.” You met his stare, unflinching. “You wanted to risk a kid’s life on ‘cleared’?”

His jaw worked. No answer.

Behind him, the team fanned out. None of them looked at you. They didn’t need to. The tension was alive, coiled between you and Hotch like a third wheel.

He took another step. Now you were toe to toe, the heat of the blast still radiating off the concrete at your backs.

“You don’t get to keep doing this,” he said, voice low. “Running in blind. Risking—” He stopped. Swallowed. “Risking assets.”

Assets. The word hung there, clinical and wrong.

You laughed. “Apollo’s not an asset. He’s my partner. And I’m not yours to command, Bossman.”

The nickname again. His eyes flashed, but this time the anger was tempered by something else. Fear, maybe. Or the realization that you kept walking into fire, and he couldn’t stop you.

Apollo pressed against your leg, leaning hard. You dropped a hand to his head, grounding yourself in the warmth of his fur. Hotch’s gaze followed the motion, lingering on your trembling fingers.

“You’re bleeding,” he said.

You glanced down. A shard of metal had sliced your forearm sometime in the chaos. You hadn’t felt it until now.

“Scratch,” you said.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out a folded handkerchief. It was crisp white and monogrammed A.H. He pressed it to the cut without asking. His hand closed over yours, pinning the cloth in place. The contact was clinical, but his grip lingered.

You stared at his hand on yours. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” His thumb brushed the edge of the wound. “You’re shaking.”

“Adrenaline.”

“Bullshit and you know it!”

The words cracked between you, raw and unexpected. He didn’t swear. Ever. You looked up. His eyes were darker than the smoke still curling behind him, fixed on you with an intensity that felt like a physical weight on top of your already weak body.

“You could’ve died,” he repeated. Quieter. Rougher.

“So could he,” you said again, softer this time. “And you’d have lived with it. I wouldn’t.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t let go of your arm. The silence stretched. Somewhere in the distance, Morgan shouted for a medic, but it felt like another planet.

Apollo whined, nudging Hotch’s knee. The agent’s free hand dropped automatically, fingers finding the shepherd’s ears. Apollo leaned into it, eyes half-closed, tail thumping once against Hotch’s leg.

Hotch’s voice was barely a whisper. “I can’t keep watching you run into danger.”

“Then stop writing profiles that miss it.”

His mouth twitched up, not quite a smile, but close enough. “You’re impossible.”

“Takes one to know one, Bossman.”

He exhaled through his nose, a sound that might’ve been a laugh if he’d let it. Slowly, reluctantly, he released your arm. The handkerchief stayed pressed to the cut, now spotted with red.

“Med tent,” he said. “Now.”

You nodded. “Yes, sir.”

But as you turned, he caught your elbow. “And Agent?”

You looked back.

“Next time you ignore my order and save a life…” His voice cracked, just slightly. “Try not to make it a habit.”

You smiled. “No promises.”

He let go. You walked away, Apollo limping slightly at your heel.

In the med tent, 15 minutes later, the team had formed a loose perimeter around the folding table where a paramedic stitched your arm. Morgan leaned against a support pole, arms crossed, grinning like a kid who’d won the bet.

“Add ‘bomb whisperer’ to the resume,” he said.

Prentiss handed you a bottle of water. “You’re officially insane.”

Reid, peering at the shrapnel fragments in an evidence bag, murmured, “The blast radius suggests a minimum of eight pounds of C-4. Your timing was within a 4.7-second window of—”

“Reid,” JJ warned, “not. helping.”

Hotch stood just outside the tent flap, backlit by floodlights, pretending not to listen. But you caught the way his eyes flicked to you every few seconds, checking the stitches, the dog, the tremor in your hands that hadn’t quite stopped.

Morgan followed your gaze. “Man’s about to short-circuit.”

Prentiss smirked. “Pool’s at three hundred now. First one to admit they’re worried loses.”

You rolled your eyes, but the heat in your cheeks had nothing to do with the explosion.

Apollo flopped at your feet and let out a long, contented sigh. Hotch’s handkerchief, still damp with your blood, was tucked into your pocket.

You didn’t look at him again. But you felt his stare all the way to the bone.

The time Hotch saved Apollo

The rail yard was a maze of rust and shadowed freight cars. The unsub had derailed one Amtrak train and taken a second hostage earlier in the day.

By now, the BAU had him boxed in between two boxcars on Track 7, SWAT stacked on the far side, Hotch negotiating from the gravel berm.

You and Apollo held the blind corner, twenty yards of open track, no cover, just you, the dog, and the wind screaming through the couplings.

Hotch’s voice was steady over the megaphone. “Dale, put the weapon down. Let the kid go. We can still end this without anyone else getting hurt.”

The unsub's answer was a wild shout, half-coherent about “government trackers” and “surveillance in the rails.” The hostage whimpered through the duct tape over his mouth, wrists zip-tied behind his back.

You’d been watching Apollo. The shepherd’s hackles were up, ears flat, body vibrating with tension. He’d locked on something you couldn’t see.

Then it happened.

The ubsub broke cover, fast and panicked, rifle swinging wild. He shoved the kid ahead of him, using the boy as a shield, and bolted straight down the track toward the open yard.

Hotch’s voice cracked like a whip. “Hold fire! Hold—”

You were already moving. Running after Apollo who'd taken off in a sprint to catch the unsub. “Apollo plads!” Heel

The shepherd launched like a black-and-tan missile aimed at the unsub's gun arm. Twenty yards. Fifteen. Ten.

He saw him. Eyes wide, manic. The unsub pivoted, rifle jerking down, not at you, not at the SWAT stack, but at Apollo. The barrel flashed orange.

You heard your own voice break. “APOLLO!”

Too far. You were too far.

A second shot, louder and sharper, from your left. Hotch’s Glock.

The bullet took the ubsub high in the right shoulder, spinning him like a top. The rifle flew from his hands, clattering across the rails. He dropped, screaming, blood blooming bright red against his jacket. The hostage stumbled free, falling to his knees.

Apollo skidded to a stop a foot from the unsub's boots, hackles still raised, but otherwise unharmed. He looked back at you confused, waiting for the next command.

You couldn’t move. Your lungs had forgotten how.

Bootsteps crunched gravel. Hotch was there faster than should’ve been possible, Glock still up, eyes scanning the yard for threats. Then he holstered, dropped to one knee beside Apollo without hesitation.

His hands moved over the shepherd with practiced efficiency, checking his flanks, chest, legs, and ears. Checking for blood, for shock, for the smallest flinch. Apollo leaned into him, tail giving one uncertain wag.

Hotch’s voice was low, steady. “Easy, boy. You’re okay.”

He looked up at you, really looked. You were still frozen mid-stride, Glock half-raised, breath sawing in and out like you’d run a marathon.

“You all right?” he asked.

You managed a nod. It felt like lying.

“Yeah.” Your voice cracked. “He’s okay?”

Hotch’s hand stilled on Apollo’s neck, thumb rubbing the spot behind the collar that made the dog’s eyes half-close. “Not a scratch.” His tone softened just a fraction, but enough. “I’d hate to lose our best agent.”

You couldn’t tell if he meant you or the dog.

It didn’t matter.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was heavy, relief, terror, something raw. Snow started to fall, flakes catching in Hotch’s hair, on Apollo’s fur, on the blood pooling under the unsub's shoulder.

SWAT swarmed in, shouting and cuffing the ubsub before dragging him away. Morgan’s voice cut through the chaos: “Hotch! You good?”

Hotch didn’t answer. He was still crouched beside Apollo, one hand on the dog’s chest like he was counting heartbeats. The other reached out and closed over your wrist.

Your pulse was racing under his fingers.

“Breathe,” he said quietly.

You did. In. Out. The world narrowed to the heat of his hand, the solid weight of Apollo pressing against your shins, the snow melting on your lashes.

You swallowed. “You shot him.”

“He was going to kill your dog.”

The words were simple. Final. No apology, no justification. Just a fact.

Apollo whined, nudging Hotch’s knee, clearly not pleased that Hotch had stopped petting him. The agent scratched his ears again, and Apollo leaned hard, nearly knocking Hotch off balance. For a second, Hotch’s mask slipped as he steadied himself quickly.

You laughed. It came out shaky. “He likes you.”

Hotch’s mouth curved. “He’s got good taste.”

Morgan jogged up, Prentiss on his heels. “Hostage is secure. Medics inbound. Nice shot, boss.”

Hotch stood, hand lingering on Apollo’s head a second longer before dropping. “K9 saved the kid. I just kept the dog breathing.”

You met his eyes. “Thank you.”

He held your gaze. “Don’t mention it.”

But the way he said it said everything.

Thirty minutes later, Hotch was re-wrapping the gauze on your knuckles in the med tent, because you’d punched a boxcar in the chaos, apparently. His touch was careful, clinical, but his eyes kept flicking to Apollo like he was double-checking the dog was still breathing.

You cleared your throat. “You ever think about getting one?”

He paused. “A dog?”

“Yeah.”

He tied off the bandage. “Jack’s allergic.”

“Jack’s also eight. Kids grow out of that.”

Hotch’s mouth twitched. “You offering to dog-sit?”

Apollo thumped his tail at the word sit.

You smiled. “Maybe.”

He didn’t answer. Just looked at you, then at the dog, then back at you. The silence wasn’t awkward anymore. It was almost normal.

The park smelled of wet leaves and woodsmoke, late-autumn sun slanting gold through the oaks. You were on day nine of medical leave. Your collarbone cracked in a warehouse raid in Baltimore, nothing BAU-related, just bad luck and a fleeing dealer with a crowbar. The sling chafed under your hoodie, but the air felt good in your lungs, and Apollo trotting off-leash beside you felt better.

He was healed faster than you, always was. The vet had cleared him after the rail-yard scare, and now he moved like liquid muscle, nose to the ground, tail flagging every new scent.

You rounded the bend by the duck pond, debating whether to risk a jog, when Apollo’s ears snapped forward. A low woof, then he was gone.

“Apollo!” The name cracked out of you, sharp with panic. You broke into a lurching run, sling bouncing against your ribs, and you winced in pain. “Come!”

You spotted them at the same moment.

Hotch stood with his hands in his pockets, watching Apollo skid to a stop at his feet. The shepherd sat instantly, tail sweeping leaves, staring up with pure adoration. Hotch’s face did something way too complicated for his usual growl: Surprise, then the faintest curve of a smile.

You caught up, breathing hard. “I swear he’s never done that before.” Knowing that that was a complete lie.

Hotch crouched, scratching Apollo behind the ears with the same ease he’d shown in the rail yard. “You should work on keeping your dog under control, Agent.”

The dry delivery, the Agent, the way his eyes flicked up to yours all of it hit like a match strike. The old banter flared to life.

You propped your good hand on your hip. “Says the man who shot a sniper to save him. Pretty sure that makes you his favorite.”

Apollo leaned into Hotch’s leg, nearly knocking him off balance. Hotch steadied himself with a palm on the dog’s head, the smile threatening again. “He’s biased.”

“Smart dog.”

Silence settled. A jogger passed, leaves crunching. Apollo flopped onto his side, offering his belly to Hotch like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Hotch obliged, fingers ruffling fur. You watched the way his shoulders loosened, the way the park’s golden light caught the faint scar on his knuckle.

He cleared his throat. “How’s the collarbone?”

“Pinned and pissed off. Doctor says another three weeks before she'll clear me for desk duty.”

“You always follow the doctor’s orders?”

“Only when they involve pain meds.”

His mouth twitched. “Good to know.”

Apollo rolled upright, nudging Hotch’s hand for more. Hotch gave it. Then, quietly. “Jack’s with his aunt this weekend.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Okay…”

He stood, brushing leaves from his coat. The dog pressed against his shins like a chaperone. Hotch’s eyes met yours.

“Dinner?” He asked. “Tomorrow night. If you’re not busy breaking medical advice.”

The words hung there, simple and enormous between you.

You felt the grin start before you could stop it. “Thought you’d never ask, Bossman.”

He exhaled. “Aaron.”

“Aaron.” You tested it, liked the way it felt. “Apollo comes too, right? He’ll sulk if he’s not invited.”

Hotch glanced down at the shepherd, who thumped his tail in enthusiastic agreement. “He can have the steak. You get the wine.”

“Deal.”

He offered his hand. You took it. His grip was warm, calloused, steady. Apollo wedged his head between you, demanding inclusion. You both laughed.

Hotch didn’t let go right away.

“Seven o’clock,” he said. “I’ll pick the place. You pick the dog’s outfit.”

You squeezed once before releasing. “He has a bow tie. It’s ridiculous. I put it on him for Christmas and New Years!”

“I expect nothing less.”

Apollo barked, then trotted a circle around you both like he was herding you together.

You started walking, slowly, side by side, the dog weaving between your legs. The tension wasn’t gone. It had just changed shape at this point.

Behind you, you'd been added to the BAU group chat before a text buzzed from Garcia:

> Garcia: PARK sighting CONFIRMED. Hand-holding. Dog third wheel. PAY UP, LOSERS. I. WIN!!! 💍🐾

Neither of you noticed. You were too busy arguing over whether Apollo needed a tux for the date.

He definitely did.

           You looked down at Jaeger, smiling at how content he was to just be near you after a long day of catching criminals. His large frame leaned into your leg, and despite his tough, disciplined nature on the job, he was a softy at heart. Except, of course, when it came to Aaron. As much as Jaeger respected him in passing, there was always a hint of protectiveness - and maybe a little jealousy - whenever Aaron was around especially when he was too close for Jaeger's liking.

           The door clicked open, and in walked Aaron, his familiar suit and tie a contrast to the more casual atmosphere of your home. As soon as Jaeger heard the door, his head perked up, ears alert. He didn’t bark - he knew Aaron's sounds and scent by now - but that didn’t stop him from moving in between you and your boyfriend, planting himself right at your side like a furry barricade of slobber and teeth.

           “Hey,” Aaron greeted, smiling as he made his way toward you, but his eyes flickered to Jaeger, already predicting what would happen next.

           “Hi,” you said warmly, stepping toward him.

           But before Aaron could get too close, Jaeger’s large head bumped against Aaron’s knee, guiding him ever so slightly away from you with an evident purpose. You stifled a laugh as Jaeger gave Aaron what could only be described as a disapproving look, sitting tall and proud like a bodyguard on high alert.

           Aaron sighed, though his lips tugged into a small smile. "Still jealous, huh, buddy?"

           You grinned, reaching down to ruffle Jaeger’s ears, before quickly leaning over the dog to place a peck on Aaron's lips. "I think he’s just making sure you’re treating me right. You know how he is." You winked.

           "Yeah," Aaron chuckled, shaking his head, "he makes it clear every time I get within five feet of you."

           You stepped closer to Aaron, finally closing the distance, and as you did, Jaeger gave a low huff as if to say, Alright, but I’m watching you. He didn’t budge from his spot, though, not until Aaron wrapped his arm around your waist.

           "See? It’s fine," you teased Jaeger, giving him a playful nudge with your foot. "You can let him stay."

           Jaeger merely grumbled in response, his dark eyes watching Aaron like a hawk. But despite his antics, there was no real malice - just a big, protective dog who wasn’t quite ready to share his favorite person with anyone else.

           The next day, you were called out on a case with the unit. Jaeger was in his element, moving through the wooded area of a local park with precision, sniffing out a trail as part of his search. You were focused, keeping a steady pace behind him as he worked, your hand gripping the leash guiding him with confidence and familiarity.

           What you didn’t expect was to see Aaron and the rest of the BAU team show up on the scene as you emerged from the woods. You hadn’t realized your units would be working together today.

           Aaron spotted you almost immediately, his brow raising in mild surprise before his usual expression returned. "I didn’t know you were working today," he said as he approached, walking up alongside you.

           "Surprise," you replied with a small smile, but before you could say anything else, Jaeger’s head snapped up, recognizing Aaron.

           And, as if on cue, the German Shepherd made a low growl and planted himself right in front of Aaron, effectively blocking his path. It was the same routine as always - Jaeger asserting his territory, reminding Aaron that he was still the alpha in this dynamic. And that you were his, not Aaron's.

           Aaron chuckled under his breath, clearly amused. "Good to see you too, Jaeger."

           Jaeger, the most stubborn protector, merely stared at him, his tail flicking with just enough attitude to make his disapproval known.

           "Sorry," you said, shaking your head with a laugh. "He still thinks you’re up to something."

           Aaron gave a small smile, though he kept his distance, clearly knowing better than to test Jaeger’s boundaries at the moment. Especially when he was working "I’ll win him over one day."

           You raised a brow, a teasing grin spreading across your face. "Good luck with that, Hotchner."

           The case was moving along, but so did the tension. Aaron, along with a few other agents, had gone deeper into the woods after narrowing down a lead from one of the civilians. You were nearby with Jaeger, keeping your distance but ready to move if needed. The situation was dangerous - there was a suspect, armed and unpredictable, kidnapping children left and right. Everyone was tense as the clock ticked closer and closer to what inevitably would be a hard conversation to have with the victim's parents.

           As you waited, keeping an eye on your surroundings, a sudden crack rang out through the trees - the sound of a gunshot. Your heart dropped. In a moment of weakness you forgot to direct Jaeger and the moment the sound hit, his instincts took over.

           Before you could stop him, Jaeger jerked forward, pulling the leash out of your hands in one swift motion. You stumbled, calling after him, but it was too late - he was already running straight toward the sound.

           "Jaeger, no!" you shouted, scrambling to your feet as you ran after him.

           Jaeger sprinted ahead, his powerful body moving with purpose as he rushed toward where Aaron had gone. Your heart raced, panic bubbling in your chest as you realized what was happening. Jaeger was going after Aaron, and not to protect you this time, but to protect him.

           By the time you reached the clearing, you saw it - the suspect was down, disarmed by Aaron, but he hadn’t been alone. Another figure had appeared from behind the trees, aiming a gun straight at Aaron.

           But Jaeger was faster. With an intense, determined bark, Jaeger lunged forward, knocking the gunman off his feet and sending the weapon flying. In one smooth motion, Jaeger stood over him, growling and barking, his teeth bared as he held the man in place.

           Aaron was stunned but otherwise unharmed as he looked at Jaeger with wide eyes, the realization of what had just happened sinking in.

           You rushed forward, out of breath but relieved beyond words. "Jaeger, heel," you called, Jaeger backed off immediately, though he kept a watchful eye on the man beneath him, low rumbles still emerging from his throat.

           Aaron stood up, dusting himself off as he glanced at Jaeger, then at you. "Well... that was new."

           You couldn’t help but laugh, though it was tinged with relief. "Yeah, looks like Jaeger finally decided you were worth keeping."

           Aaron’s expression softened as he looked at Jaeger, who, for the first time, wasn’t glaring at him with suspicion but rather like he was saying, You’re alright now.

           With a small smile, Aaron knelt down, extending a hand toward Jaeger. "Good boy." He grinned.

           Jaeger hesitated for a moment, then, with a low, yet affectionate rumble in his chest, he stepped forward, nudging Aaron’s hand with his nose.

           You smiled, shaking your head in disbelief. "Guess you’re finally friends."

           Aaron stood up, giving Jaeger one final pat before turning to you. "Looks like I owe him one." Jaeger wagged his tail as if to say, Yeah, you do.