#shy!bau!reader

He returns it with a quiet, “Morning,” like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And that’s when the team starts paying attention.

Morgan’s head tilts up first, brows knitting together. Emily, mid-sip of her coffee, pauses with the cup just short of her lips. Reid frowns at the exchange like it’s a puzzle he hasn’t figured out yet. Rossi just smirks.

The door to Hotch’s office closes a moment later, and she moves toward her desk, entirely unaware of the looks being exchanged across the room.

Emily recovers first, setting her coffee down and leaning toward Morgan. “Morning, Hotch?”

Morgan shakes his head, almost in disbelief. “That’s not normal, right? She doesn’t talk to anyone like that. Not even me,” he points out, sounding offended. “And I’ve been workin’ on breaking her out of that shell for years.”

Reid blinks, clearly running through past conversations in his head. “She’s never greeted me like that before, either.”

“Or me,” Emily agrees, before throwing a glance toward Rossi. “You?”

Rossi just takes a slow sip of his coffee, unreadable.

“Something’s up,” Morgan mutters.

Emily hums in agreement. “Something.”

||||

It happens again the next day.

And the next.

And the next.

Each time, it’s something small—something easily overlooked if you aren’t paying attention. But they are paying attention. Because once profilers start noticing something, it’s impossible to stop. It becomes a game between Emily and Morgan, noticing the small ways you've warmed up to Hotch.

Easier smiles, passing him in the plane when you would usually wait for a larger gap, conversations continued when he walks into the room rather than screeching to a halt like before.

It's nothing massive to the untrained eye but, well, they are trained to notice breaks in patterns, to see when things change and how they do.

Like today.

Hotch walks into the bullpen, coffee in hand, heading straight for his office. Nothing unusual there. But as he passes by her desk, she glances up from her file, eyes flicking toward his cup.

“Did you eat?” she asks, casually—too casually.

Hotch slows just a fraction, just enough for the team to catch it. “Not yet.”

She hums, glancing at the time. “Bagel shop’s still open. They have fresh bread until nine.”

“I’ll be fine,” Hotch assures, but he lingers. Just for a second.

She gives him a pointed look before returning to her file. “Mm.”

That’s it. That’s the whole exchange. And yet—

Morgan immediately turns toward Emily. “You seein' this?”

Emily nods, hiding a grin behind her coffee. “Oh, I’m seeing it.”

Reid, who has been diligently pretending not to be part of this entire conspiracy, clears his throat. “I mean, she could just be concerned about his health?”

Morgan gives him a look as Emily snorts. “She’s never told us to eat.”

“She’s never told anyone to eat,” Morgan mutters, shaking his head. “Except Hotch, apparently.”

Spencer frowns slightly, watching as Hotch disappears into his office. Then he looks back at her, catching the way she glances one more time at the closed door before focusing back on her file.

“Okay,” he admits. “That was weird.”

“Thank you,” Emily says, throwing her hands up.

Morgan shakes his head, settling back into his chair. “I’m just saying, that’s not nothing.”

||||

It happens again later that evening, this time in the briefing room.

They’ve wrapped the case, a particularly grueling one, and now it’s the slow process of debriefing, paperwork, and waiting for the jet to be refueled in case they actually need it tomorrow - they've been able to help over the phone today but everyone is certain tomorrow will bring a tragedy the necessitates travel tomorrow or the day after. The team is scattered around the table—some flipping through reports, others making half-hearted attempts at conversation, everyone running on fumes.

She's tucked into the corner of the room, curled over a file, her pen tapping absently against the paper. If she stops moving, she’ll fall asleep. And she doesn’t have the energy to be embarrassed about that.

The door opens, and Hotch steps in. The conversation dulls, but only slightly—it’s always like that when he walks in. Not because they’re afraid of him, but because his presence naturally shifts the atmosphere.

She barely looks up. “Coffee?” she asks, already moving to stand.

Hotch shakes his head. “I got it.”

She pauses, then settles back down, flipping a page. “Okay.”

That’s it. No hesitation, no stammering, no overthinking the fact that she offered in the first place. Just easy.

And that is very interesting.

Morgan narrows his eyes slightly, tilting his head as he watches her. It’s subtle—probably something even she hasn’t noticed—but there’s no way in hell he’s imagining it now.

The old her would’ve never spoken to Hotch without being spoken to first. Would’ve never offered him something so casually, so easily, like it was second nature.

And Hotch—

Hotch, who usually doesn’t acknowledge small gestures like this, doesn’t even bat an eye. Doesn’t make a comment, doesn’t pause, doesn’t do anything other than react without thought.

Which means this isn’t the first time it’s happened.

Emily catches Morgan’s look and raises a brow. You seeing this?

Morgan smirks. Oh, I’m seeing it.

They share a knowing glance, and then—just to test the waters—Emily leans forward, setting her elbows on the table.

“Hey, Hotch,” she says casually. “Since you’re already up, can you grab me one too?”

Hotch glances at her, then at Morgan, who looks far too interested in his answer. He exhales sharply, amused but unamused, and turns toward the door.

“No.”

Morgan barks out a laugh, and Emily grins, triumphant.

And in the corner, she remains blissfully unaware, still flipping through her file, still tapping her pen, still completely oblivious to the way the entire team is slowly piecing this together.

||||

The next moment happens in Rossi’s office.

She hadn’t meant to end up here. It’s late, past the point of pretending she’s being productive, but she told herself she’d finish one more report before heading home. Somewhere along the way, she’d wandered, coffee in hand, and now she’s leaning against Rossi’s doorway, blinking sluggishly at him as he flips through a leather-bound journal.

“Long day?” he asks without looking up.

She nods, then remembers he’s not looking. “Yeah.”

He hums, setting the journal aside. “And yet, you’re still here instead of going home. Or is it that you don’t want to go home?”

“I was going home,” she argues, though they both know she’s lying. “I just… got distracted.”

Rossi leans back, eyeing her with the kind of gaze that makes it impossible to lie. Not that she’s in the habit of lying to him—especially since he’s usually at least five steps ahead of her anyway.

She glances at the clock. 10:42 PM. She exhales through her nose, rolling her lips together.

“You should get some sleep,” he says, but there’s something else in his tone. A lilt. An implication.

She squints at him. “Why do you sound like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you know something.”

Rossi shrugs. “I know a lot of things.”

“Right,” she mutters, narrowing her eyes.

He’s enjoying this. That much is clear. She doesn’t know what he’s enjoying yet, but she’s sure he’ll make her figure it out on her own.

And then—

“Oh.” She blinks. “Wait. No.”

Rossi smirks.

Her stomach flips. “You know?”

He doesn’t answer, just reaches for his glass of scotch, taking a slow, measured sip.

She feels heat creep up her neck, spreading across her cheeks.

He knows.

Which means Hotch told him.

Which means Hotch talked about it.

Which means—

“Relax,” Rossi drawls, interrupting her impending spiral. “It’s not like he gave me a play-by-play. He just mentioned you two had dinner.” He pauses, then grins. “And that it went well.”

She shifts her weight, suddenly too aware of herself. Oh.

It’s not that she thought Hotch would keep it a secret forever, but hearing that he’d told Rossi, that he’d spoken about it in any capacity, makes it feel… real.

More real than the way her heart stuttered when Hotch had smoothed a hand over hers at dinner. More real than the quiet, steady confidence he’d had in their them-ness while she was still fumbling over the weight of it.

Rossi watches her carefully, still amused but softer now. “You okay?”

She nods, pressing her lips together. “Yeah. I just—”

She gestures vaguely, words failing her.

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Go home,” he says again, more insistent this time. “And tell Aaron I said you’re welcome.”

She sputters, eyes wide, and Rossi just laughs, already reaching for his journal again.

She doesn’t know if she’s embarrassed or endeared, but as she slips out of his office, warmth tucked into her chest, she thinks maybe it’s a little bit of both.

||||

The moment is small. Blink and you’d miss it.

Hotch is standing by the coffee maker in the break room, pouring himself a cup. She wanders in a moment later, her movements unhurried, her posture looser than usual. The case they’d just wrapped had been rough, but the team was back home, safe, and exhaustion was settling in around all of them like a thick fog.

She steps beside him, reaching for the sugar, only to find his hand already on it.

She blinks up at him.

Hotch smirks, just barely. “You were going to put in two scoops.”

Her eyes narrow. “And?”

He hands her the spoon, ignoring the way the corner of his mouth twitches. “And you always complain that it makes the coffee too sweet.”

She exhales, glaring at him for being right, and scoops one spoonful instead.

“You should get your own coffee if you’re just going to judge mine.”

“I was here first,” he reminds her. "Making my own coffee, not yours."

“I was letting you make mine for me.”

The words are out before she fully registers them, her lips parting slightly at the realization.

Across the room, Morgan and JJ freeze mid-conversation.

Hotch stills, his fingers tightening ever so slightly around the handle of his mug. He watches her, slow and appraising, and then—

He leans in. Not much, but just enough. “You've got me there. Here." Slowly, he places the cup in her hand, a spoonful and a half of sugar poured in, slowly curling her fingers around the mug for her. Pleased at the reaction he so easily brings forth.

And then he walks out, leaving her standing there, fingers curled around her coffee cup, ears burning.

Morgan lets out a low whistle. “Damn.”

JJ, still wide-eyed, elbows him. “Don’t make it a thing.”

“Oh, it’s already a thing,” Morgan mutters, shaking his head in disbelief. “Did you see that? She flirted back.”

JJ presses her lips together, fighting a grin. "Still, not our business." She insists, despite the way warmth curls in her stomach at the thought.

||||

The jet hums beneath them, a steady, soothing vibration. The case had been long and brutal, but it was over, and they were finally on their way home. The team was scattered around the cabin—Morgan and Emily playing cards, JJ half-dozing with her headphones in, and Rossi nursing a glass of something dark.

And her?

She was sitting stiffly in her seat, her arm propped awkwardly against her side, doing a terrible job of pretending she wasn’t in pain.

The gash on her ribs wasn’t deep. She’d already been patched up at the local hospital—stitched, bandaged, and thoroughly instructed to take it easy. But “take it easy” apparently translated to everyone treating her like she was made of glass.

Emily had tried to grab her go-bag for her earlier.

Morgan had asked if she wanted him to get her a drink—when had he ever done that before?

Even Spencer had hovered like a worried sibling, his gaze flicking toward her every few minutes like he was expecting her to keel over.

She could deal with that. What was harder to deal with was the fact that Hotch hadn’t said anything at all.

Not until now.

“You need to rest,” his voice cut through the low hum of conversation, steady, sure.

She looked up from her untouched cup of tea to see him standing in front of her, arms crossed, expression unreadable to anyone who wasn’t her.

She sighed. “I’m fine, Hotch.”

“You’re in pain,” he countered, not unkindly.

“I’m always in pain after a case,” she pointed out, arching a brow.

His lips twitched in a way that was almost—but not quite—a smile. “This is different.”

He knew. Of course, he knew. She should have expected that.

Her shoulders eased just a little. “I just don’t want everyone fussing over me.”

“They’re only fussing because they care.”

She couldn’t argue with that. But still, she rolled her eyes, shifting slightly in her seat—only to wince when the movement tugged at her stitches.

Hotch sighed and sat beside her. “Case in point.”

She huffed, tilting her head back against the headrest, aware of the small, knowing glances being exchanged around the cabin. No one said a word, but she felt it—the way the energy shifted.

Like they were all watching something unfold, something inevitable.

She kept her gaze on Hotch. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

“Not a chance.” His voice softened just enough to make her chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with her injury.

And despite the pain, despite the exhaustion pressing down on her limbs, she found herself... warm.

Because he knew her. Knew when to push and when to step back. Knew how much she hated being coddled, but also knew exactly when she needed to be told to stop pretending she was fine.

It wasn’t suffocating.

It was steady.

It was him.

||||

The bar was too loud, too dimly lit, too full of bodies swaying and pressing together in a way that made her head ache.

She’d never wanted to come, not really. But Morgan had a way of making things sound like a good idea until she was already in them, halfway slumped over a sticky bar top, nursing a drink she barely had the energy to lift.

"You look like you’re about to pass out," Morgan teased, leaning his elbow against the bar beside her.

"Probably," she murmured, not even pretending to refute it.

She was wrecked. The case had been long and grueling, every hour stretching into the next with little more than caffeine and sheer willpower keeping her upright. When Morgan had invited her out, she hadn’t been sure why she said yes—maybe just to avoid thinking too hard about things.

But now, with exhaustion weighing her down and the music pounding too loudly in her ears, she wished she’d just gone home.

Morgan nudged her shoulder. "Alright, lightweight. You eat anything today?"

The question barely registered before she answered, too tired to filter her words. "I had dinner in Hotch's office."

It was out before she could stop it.

Morgan blinked. Then grinned.

"Ohhhh," he drawled, sitting up straighter, eyes lighting up in that way that meant trouble. "That’s why you two have been acting different lately."

She frowned, sluggish. "What?"

"Come on, don’t play coy now. Dinner? With Hotch? In his office? That’s why you’ve been all up in each other’s space. I knew something was up!"

Oh, God.

Her stomach plummeted, warmth flooding her face so fast she thought she might actually faint. "Morgan," she hissed, suddenly far more awake. "I—I didn’t mean—"

"You totally meant," he cut in, smug as hell.

She buried her face in her hands, groaning. "You tricked me into coming here. I’m too tired for this interrogation."

"You’re too tired to lie," he countered, tapping the bar. "And that’s the best time to get the truth."

She let out a long, slow breath, willing herself to cool down, to deflect, to not make this worse. But Morgan was already grinning like he’d won something, like he had all the confirmation he needed.

He leaned in conspiratorially. "So, how was dinner?"

She didn’t even bother answering. Instead, she waved down the bartender. "Two shots, please."

Morgan laughed, clinking his glass against hers when they arrived. "Now that is an answer."

||||

"I'm so sorry," she groans, squeezing her eyes closed against the admission.

Hotch has the nerve to laugh, covering his face with his hand. Red peers up and over his palm where it covers his expression. "I'm not mad," he insists, "just very amused."

"How is this amusing?" She asks, exasperated, turning to pace across his office.

"I've been opening flirting with you for months, almost a year. It's been a running joke, darling. It's amusing because you're only just now getting the heat for it. For reciprocating it."

"Reciprocating!" She exclaims, injust.

"Oh, are you not? Should I clear my calendar for tomorrow, then, cook for just me and Jack?"

She scowls, shaking her head and rolling her eyes. "No," she pouts, voice near a whine. "I just thought you didn't want the team to know anything was up."

"Oh, so something's up between us now?"

Leave it to him to use this moment to tease you, of course. When she first joined the team, Hotch was broody and withdrawn. It hadn't taken long for her to see his exterior crack, the flaws shining beneath.

He appears as a rule follower, a stickler for what's right and just, but he constantly bends for his team, for the victims, for children. And now, for you, he bends so far from that rigid form people perceive him in she has difficulties seeing his stiffness anymore.

Still, moments like these shock her. Aaron Hotchner is a flirt and an expert one at that.

"Maybe!" She concedes, too flustered to wiggle her way out of his trap. "That's not the point."

"I think that's exactly the point." Hotch catches her wrist, halting her pacing. "But it's okay. I don't mind the others knowing that 'something's up' with us."

You look up to watch Aaron as he writes something down. Not so long ago, you asked him what he is always writing. Every case, he’s bent over papers, pen in hand, scribbling away. You’d noticed it within the first few cases you’d worked together but only questioned it when your closeness meant that a stray mark of ink made its way from his fingertips to your chin. He’d told you that the only way for him to keep his mind moving forward and not worrying about Jack or home or anything other than the case was to write.

You can tell by the way his hand flexes over and over while he clenches the pen that his wrist is sore. Later, if you can gather the courage to follow him to his hotel room or invite him to yours, you’ll massage his arm for him. Now, though, you decide a tea will have to do.

You know he’ll complain about the lack of caffeine, but you know he already struggles to sleep most nights. It’s well after midnight, you want him to sleep as much as he can.

(A small voice in the back of your head reminds you that, once, Aaron divulged that your few naps together were the best sleeps he’s had in years. You’re certain he wouldn’t be opposed to you sharing his room, even though that line hadn’t been crossed. Certain that he wouldn’t expect anything from you, would just let you lay with your cheek on his chest and trace shapes across your shoulders. The thought feels near to a fantasy even though he would never reject you if you asked. You want to, just don’t know how.)

You’re waiting for the water to boil when the door opens. This police station seems to be a repurposed house and there’s a small kitchen that you’re using the stove in. You turn to see one of the officers, likely returning from patrol, in the doorway.

“Hey, sweetheart, glad you’re here. Make me a coffee, while you’re at it, ‘kay?” He doesn’t wait for you to answer, sauntering away.

The coffee pot is full, freshly brewed. You furrow your brows, turning and tapping your nails against the plasticky countertop. You’d caught the gist from the second you entered the station – small town, no female officers, raised brows and quiet comments when they’d seen your team.

The sheriff only directly talked to the guys and Emily had to glare one down to get him to listen when she was talking to him.

Deciding that an argument wasn’t worth it, especially considering the coffee was already ready, you pull down an extra mug and fill it to the brim, leaving no room for sugar or cream just to be a little petty.

You pick up the mugs, holding the handles of your and Aaron’s in one hand, and manage to open the door without help. Your tea is sweet, several scoops of sugar and a healthy dash of milk. Aaron’s only has the barest splash of cream, though, so mixing them up shouldn’t be an issue.

The officer who demanded his coffee is at his desk, leaning back in his chair and talking loudly to the only other officer in the building. You set his mug on the corner of his desk and turn back to the table you and Aaron are sharing.

You set the mug at his elbow, resting a hand on his shoulder lightly so he looks up. “Take a break, we should probably leave soon,” you whisper.

Aaron nods at you, not smiling, not now when the air is thick with tension and the setting is so public, but meeting your eye with a sort of purpose that reminds you of his smiles – direct and open and meant only for you.

You sit down with a leg tucked under you and take a sip of your tea, listening to Aaron begin to read you some of his notes – another new development. You like it when he talks, an admission you made once when very tired and slightly tipsy on the plane home. Aaron likes to walk you through his thought process, knowing you’ll let him talk through his thoughts and only interrupt if you have some new revelation to share with him. It’s a win and has gotten you through several long nights and tough blocks on cases.

You’re building this steady foundation together, slowly but surely, and it feels a little like you’re weightless. You don’t quite have your feet under you, you’re not ready to run headfirst. You think Aaron likes that, though, he can count on you only doing what you’re comfortable with. Sometimes you worry that you’re moving too slow for him. You blush easily, still tuck your chin to hide your smile when he compliments you. Still have to whisper when you tell him he’s handsome, even though that’s becoming a more frequent habit. Still wait for him to kiss you most days, though you’ve become braver with that too. The anxiety trickles in that he should be with someone stronger, as forthcoming with their feelings as he is, but it’s quickly soothed by relentless care from Aaron.

You’re lavishing in the quiet dialogue from him, letting the familiarity of his voice soothe you as you begin to let your thoughts dig into the case again, when the voice of the officer cuts in.

“Hey, girl,” he says. You know he knows your name, he was only reminded of it this morning, but you look up anyway. He’s holding his mug up, tilted toward you. “The fuck is this? Nobody teach you how to make a coffee?”

You’re stunned at this. It’s not the first time an officer in a town just like this has spoken to you like this, but in front of others so brazenly is shocking.

“Excuse me?” Aaron asks, looking up at the man and setting his pen down.

“I’m surprised you keep her on your staff, man, to be honest,” the officer jokes, obviously not paying attention to the disgusted gaze Aaron has leveled him with.

“The agent you’re speaking to is a highly qualified member of my team with more talent than you could possibly possess. I’m surprised you’re still staffed when you’re unable to remember to put in a belt in the morning and obviously are frequently distracted by your ongoing divorce.”

You fight a smile, lifting your mug to hide your expression.

The officer tries to interject but Aaron stands, bending to collect your bag. Taking the cue, you tidy the desk.

The room is cold and quiet as you follow Aaron out. He stops by the man’s desk, bending forward and tilting the picture of the officer and his family so he can examine it closer. “In the future, I would use more caution with who you speak to that way. Not only can she outshoot most of my team, I also don’t take too well with disrespect toward any of my agents

Later, you do follow Aaron into his hotel room. It’s next to yours, so it’s easy and nowhere near as awkward as you were afraid of. You soak in the pleased smile he sends you when you do.

He sets your bag down on the bed and turns toward you, mouth open to say something as neither of you addressed the situation in the car.

You shock him again, though, reaching a hand up to his cheek and pushing yourself on your toes to kiss him, firm and quick. “Thank you,” you say, voice quiet and meeting his eyes. His hands make their way against the small of your back, keeping you near him.

“I’m sorry for stepping in, I know you don’t like to make a scene,” Aaron replies despite the self-pleased smile that is stretching across his face. You shake your head, sliding your hand from his cheek to the back of his head, slotting your fingers into the short hair there.

“I actually think I liked it – you making a scene for me.”

“Yeah?” Aaron asks, letting you tilt his head down to ease the strain on you reaching up.

You nod, tugging him to kiss you. He obliges, of course, pressing his mouth to yours eagerly. It’s warm, his kiss, and he wastes no time deepening it, reaching his hands down further to lift you by the thighs and walk you to the bed.

he can hear the second soft sniffle, and the two that follow in rapid succession, easily as he's now paying attention. your shoulders are moving slightly and your head tilts further down, nose digging into the collar of the sweatshirt you only ever drag out of the depths of your desk when it's just the two of you here.

Spencer panics, eyes darting around his desk. he shoves his hands into the pocket of his coat hanging off of the back of his chair and finds a little package of tissues, a little crinkled in their plastic wrapping, but otherwise clean. gnawing on his lip, he flips them twice in his hand before standing up as quietly as he can manage and slipping into the small kitchen that is just around the corner.

your tea isn't hidden very well, he'd found it the first day you came into the office. he's never opened it before, though. he's only ever watched you make it, sipping his coffee and wondering how the mild drink could ever transport enough caffeine to fuel an overworked profiler.

he makes it how he remembers you making it, familiar with the rhythm after years of watching you over the tops of his books on planes and in hotel lobbies and this very kitchen.

he finds your favorite snoopy mug resting in the sink and washes it for you, rushed but thorough.

your head is in both of your hands when he returns, shoulders crumpled and elbows resting on your knees. he hesitates, snatching up the tissues on his way past his desk, already stuttering in his mind before he manages to say anything.

sure he'll muddy his words and say something stupid about the chemical components of tears or something else unhelpful and annoying, Spencer opts for simply crouching in front of you and resting the packet of tissues on your knee.

you jump a little, shocked at his sudden presence. a loud sniffle cuts the silence as you wipe your hands down your face and brush your hair back. you tuck it behind your ears in the way that always makes his heart jump, and then return your hands to cover your face.

"I'm sorry," you say, voice soft and warbling and so awfully sad that it makes Spencers anxiety pulse.

he doesn't know how to make whatever this is better, he's very much so not the perfect person for this, but he feels the urge to fix whatever has made you this sad humming in his bones.

"why're you apologizing to me?" Spencer asks, voice equally soft, as he settles back onto his heels. the mug of tea is clutched between both of his hands, steam curling up around his chin.

"for crying." you peer through your fingers down at him. "I'm okay, I promise."

"you don't seem okay," Spencer says, lifting the tea to your attention.

your breath is still hiccuping, tears flowing steadily. you make no move to grab the mug. moving without thinking, Spencer reaches forward and wraps his fingers gently around your wrist. you let him tug your hand down so he can set the mug inside of it, using his fingers to wrap your own around the base so the warmth seeps into your chilly palm.

"I'm not, but I can be. I'm sorry, this is so embarrassing."

Spencer shrugs at this, slowly retracting his hands despite how much he wants to keep holding yours. "you don't have to be okay. I'm not going anywhere."

you look at him funny at that, taking a slow sip of your tea. he can see the moment you notice it's your tea, made how you like it. he's proud for a second before you start crying again.

"what?" Spencer asks, panicked, reaching forward to hold your elbow, leaning into your space. "I'm sorry, that wasn't supposed to upset you."

"it hasn't," you promise, breathing deeply to compose yourself. "it's just, it's so nice. you're so nice."

Spencer nods, thoughts racing. he's utterly confused.

"thank you?"

"no, I should be thanking you. I'm sorry, it's just been such an awful day and you're so," you sigh, leaning back in your chair and cradling the mug to your chest. "you're so good and just. thank you."

"you're welcome?"

there's a silence then, as you steady your breath and slowly stop crying.

once Spencer is sure the movement won't cause another garage of tears, he settles down to sit fully, taking off his glasses to clean them so he has something to do with his hands as he says, "do you want to tell me about it? your bad day? I know I talk a lot, I talk too much, but I can listen, too. if you want that."

Spencer doesn't look at you for a few seconds, scared of your reaction. but, when you don't answer, he has to look up.

"Okay, we can cross out this county," Spencer says, interrupting your thoughts and reaching across you to mark through a small section. Eyes flicking across the paper, you furrow your brows, confused by the choice.

"Why?" You ask, hand moving to stop his pen strokes before you double-think and let it hit the tabletop.

"Because it's too easy for him to hit if he wanted to. It's been too long, he must have no interest in the area."

"It's low income, exactly his MO. He might hit it later, once he realizes..."

"No," Spencer says, shaking his head before you can finish your sentence. He finishes blacking out the area with his Sharpie and caps the pen, not looking over at you. "That wouldn't make any sense."

Tounge caught by your nerves, you slowly nod your head instead, deciding to give the topic up for now. The next wall the team hits, though, you're determined to readdress the area.

Deciding you need a moment to yourself, you excuse yourself quietly and stand to move to the back of the jet. You stretch your arms above your head, rolling your head back to feel the stretch in your shoulders.

"What county?" Hotch asks, reaching a hand out to intercept your path as you pass him.

"Sorry?" You ask, breath catching on the word as his hand brushes your arm and loops loosely around your wrist. Next to him, JJ has fallen asleep against the window. You feel bad for her for a moment, remembering her talking about Henry's recent sleep regression.

"The county you mentioned to Reid - which one was it?"

"Morris," you say instinctively, still hyper-focused on his hand. His thumb swipes against your wrist bone twice before he lets you go, motioning for you to continue walking.

You think he's let it go and quickly move down the aisle to one of the couches at the back of the jet. When you settle down, though, intent on opening your own map, Hotch sits next to you and tilts his head so you can hear each other if you were to talk softly.

"What was your original thought about it?"

You're struggling to think, distracted by his proximity and low voice. The soft tones reach your belly, causing it to flip, The feeling is pleasant, even if it's entirely inappropriate.

"Sorry?" You say again, meeting his eye before quickly looking away to fumble with the map. Hands shaking, you manage to open it to the right state.

"There's no need to be sorry," Hotch says, voice firm but gentle. He reaches out and you think he's going to grab your wrist again but he instead taps a finger once against Morris County. "Your idea about the county - what was your original thought before Reid shot you down?"

"Oh. It's okay, Reid already said it doesn't make sense." You notice that Hotch opens his mouth to interject before you can finish and your sentence falters at the end. Still, his eyes watch you to make sure you're finished before he answers.

"I still want to hear what you had to say."

You explain your theory to him, then, talking quickly at first, stumbling over your words, before slowing down once you realize he's going to listen to everything you have to say. He nods, agreeing with your theory.

"I'll keep it in mind and give the information to Garcia. Thank you," he says, sincere, eyes locked on yours.

"You're welcome." You wait for him to get up now that you have nothing new to say about the case. While you were talking, you mentioned a few thoughts you had about the preliminary profile the team started on that you couldn't seem to find the space to add during the group conversation.

Instead, he settles further into the seat next to you, reading the map over your shoulder.

Something about his casual posture and the lack of his suit jacket fills you with enough confidence to ask, "Why haven't you invited anyone else to the barbeque place?"

He watches you for a minute, not replying as his eyes scan your face and posture. You've never been the best at body language when it comes to people you know, always a little too nervous to scan them the same way you might an unsub, but you know that Hotch is taking in any and all clues your body can give him before he answers. He seems to roll the words on his tongue, testing them out, before he answers.

You've never been the best at reading the body language of the people you know personally, but you still are considered an expert at it in interrogations, often requested to watch from behind the glass. That's all to say, Hotch seems nervous as he says, "I was hoping it could be us two unless you would prefer the others to be there."

The air leaves your chest and you feel unsteady and unbalanced even though you're sitting. Before you can overthink it, you're shaking your head no.

Hotch's face falls, a slight thing you would certainly notice if your eyes weren't glued to his face to ensure this wasn't some kind of sick joke.

"No, I want it to be just us," you say, quick before he can get the wrong impression.

The usual confidence Hotch carries reinflates in him quickly. He smiles, a slight tug at the corner of his lip that you again only catch because you're watching him so closely.

"Good," he says.

You two sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes after that, first just watching each other, and then, when you get embarrassed, comparing your case files and small map.

"To be clear," he says when Rossi and Spencer have started up a quiet conversation about chess - when his soft tones would be nearly impossible to be understood by anyone but yourself - "I mean as a date. If you would like."