#none's anon

"Is this thing broken?" He asks. "There is no reach whatsoever and the aim is way off—"

You raise an eyebrow at him. There are a million things you'd rather be doing right now, including working on that worksheet your professor handed out that was supposed to be due in three hours, than entertain a bunch of FBI guys slumming it in the paintball pit.

"Be so for real, dude," you say, deadpan. "It's fake. It's not a real gun."

The guy chuckles, "Trust me, kid, I handled weapons enough to know the difference."

"Okay," you chuckle in disbelief. You reach for another one of the rifles, getting into position. "The muzzle velocity is only 500 fps, so you just need to consider that to determine the most effective distance you can hit."

A new voice speaks up as you get yourself ready to shoot. "Taking into account the mass of each bullets, the maximum effective range is about—"

The bullet you fired hit its target, the red dot positioned in the 50 yards lane. You grin, satisfied. Still got it. "Fifty yards. Another day, another slay."

"Look at you, Derek," this time, a woman's voice teases. "Getting schooled by a kid on how to shoot a paintball gun."

Another voice pipes up, this time a blonde woman. "You must be losing your touch."

"Okay, in my defense, the only weapon I'm touching these days are diaper bombs," the guy, Derek, says with a chuckle.

You clear your throat, eager to let these people go back to their game and for you to go back to your worksheet. "Okay, well. I'll leave you guys to it. Please make sure that all the protective gears are worn properly. Liabilities, you understand. My coworker, Darnell, will be with you in a minute as a ref. If you have any questions, please don't, but if you really can't help it, I'll be at the front."

It's not five minutes later that one of the guys in the group comes up to the front desk, holding up his protective helmet.

You sigh as you look up from your laptop, getting ready to switch to your customer service mode. "Can I help you?"

"Um, I'd like to know when was the last time this is—uh, washed?" The guy asks. You recognize his voice as the one who tried to explain the relation between mass and velocity.

"We sanitize them before every session," you didn't use to, but after the pandemic, the owner likes to reiterate the importance of hygiene.

"Are you sure?" He is unconvinced, eyebrows pulled to match his frown. He's kind of cute, you decide, with golden curls framing his face and unnaturally pouty lips.

"Will it make you feel better if I spray it with disinfectant right now?"

"Yes," he answers. "Please."

You spray his helmet with the disinfectant you keep under the counter.

"Can you also do my vest?"

You snort, "How about you just take this and give it back when you're done?"

He smiles at you gratefully, before walking off to join his friends.

You manage to submit your worksheet on time, so you scroll through TikTok while sipping on a Capri Sun you stole from Darnell's stash. It's not long until the Disinfectant Guy comes back to your desk riddled in exploded paint pellets, holding one of his cheek.

"Hi," you greet, pulling out your airpods, noting his sheepish smile.

"Sorry to bother you again," he starts. "Do you have a first aid kit?"

"Oh, did your friend got you on your pretty face?" You grin, taking out a box from, yet again, under the counter.

"Something like that," he chuckles. "They also kicked me out for the second round because I broke down the arena into quadrants and mathematical equation and they think it's unfair—sorry. You don't need to know that."

"No, I get it," you smile, handing him an alcohol swab and a small mirror you brought from home. "That's why they don't let me ref or join in for a swing anymore. Sore losers."

You let him tend to his barely-there wound, fingers drumming on the sticky countertop. It's not until he finds your filled-out worksheet that he speaks up again.

"Is this yours?"

"Yep."

"Physics?"

"Engineering."

"Undergrad?"

You nod, "Second one."

"Physics is your first one?"

Your eyes lift towards him. "How did you know?"

"I'm a profiler," he explains. "We are, or some of us were, profilers from the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI."

"Too bad all the hot ones are feds," you joke. To your surprise, his eyes widen, pink tinting his cheeks. For someone who appears so rough and cool, he gets shy easily. "Sorry."

He shakes his head with a small smile. "No, it's—it's okay. I'm just not used to that."

"What? Being called hot?" He nods. "Don't worry, Mr. FBI. You don't need rizz, just big brown eyes and unkempt curls."

He let out a laugh at that, hands running through his hair, self-conscious. "I don't know what that means, but you can—you can call me Spencer."

"So how did you guys fall in love with each other?" James asked.

You both prepared for this—for the casual conversations with strangers, neighbors, parents from Jack's new school. This fundraising barbeque was one of them. Still, you glanced over at Aaron, waiting for his lead.

"First time I fell in love with my angel was in high school," He said without missing a beat. He met your gaze for a fraction of a second, though his hand never leaving yours, intertwined under the picnic table.

Your hand squeezed his in surprise, he squeezed back in reassurance.

"We were constantly arguing back then," you protested.

"Fine line between love and hate, right?" James beamed, Aaron grinned in response. "What about you, angel?"

The nickname was teasing coming from him. You cleared your throat. "Uh, yeah. High school. He punched a guy to defend my honor."

Cameron, James's husband, coo-ed at the story. "Really? But you've only been married for a couple of years!"

"We lost touch and then reconnected," you explained. "I was assigned to his office and the rest is history."

Aaron laughed. "Can you imagine? I was ready to do business as usual and my first love walked in looking more radiant as I have ever seen!"

It was impossible not to pause, physically restraining yourself from kissing him and interrogating him at the same time. That was how he felt all those years ago?

The thought stayed with you, as you prepare for bed. Jack was already sound asleep in his bedroom upstairs, Aaron watched you from the bed.

"Something on your mind, honey?" He asked, curing his arm around your body as you laid your head on his chest. His lips found your forehead oh-so-gently.

"You have been in love with me for that long?"

You felt him smile against your hairline. "So have you."

"Gracie saw right through me the moment you stepped into our house," you told him. "But really? High school? Those cheer uniforms did it for you, huh?"

Aaron placed his hand on your jaw, tilting your head up so he could see you. "Cheer uniforms, ridiculously printed bandana, pantsuits, doesn't matter what you wear, you do it for me."

You grinned. "Such a charmer."

"Sometimes," He began, eyes downcast, thumb caressing your skin. "Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I had kissed you earlier. My party, the airport before I left for Seattle, after every case—"

"Aaron—"

"I think about all the moments we missed."

"We were different people back then," you said. "You wouldn't have married Haley or have Jack—or you would have. We'll never know, but we'll always have right now. Emily will catch Peter Lewis, and then—and right now—we have all the time in the world."

You reached up and pressed your lips to his, slowly, savoring the seconds—the feel of his lips, the stubble on his jaw, the taste of him—and whispered, "I love you, Aaron Hotchner."

"I love you too," He replied without hesitation. "I'll do it all over again if it means having you in my arms."

"Thank god you won't have to," You giggled.