Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The conference centre buzzed with the restless hum of conversation, muffled clatter of heels on polished floors, and the occasional ring of a phone quickly silenced. Aaron moved through the sea of navy and black blazers, his shoulders squared by long habit and concealing just how out of place he now felt. Years had passed since a suit had been his armour; now it felt more like a costume, after years of a life pared down to lecture halls, quiet offices, and button-downs and chinos on a small college campus two states away. In fact, it’d been a long time since he’d last driven down the I-95 and the congested D.C. streets, into the corners of the city he’d called home for more than half his life. Here, surrounded by fresh-faced Bureau agents, task force leaders, and analysts clutching iPads, he felt at once like a stranger and a ghost returned to haunt his own history.

His breakout session had come and gone without incident - he’d gotten much practice working a crowd since his days in the Bureau, after all - leaving him to peruse the morning’s schedule for any other sessions that caught his eye. He lingered near the edge of the crowd and scanned the mile-long schedule pinned to the wall, which felt eerily like a relic from a previous life - Criminal Typologies, Forensic Science Methodologies, Linguistic Profiling. The scent of burnt coffee and worn carpeting, not unlike the scent of years of overnight briefings and case files in the conference room, lingered in the air, and his pulse quickened in a way that had nothing to do with professional ambition.

He caught himself, exhaled slowly, and scanned the board for something - anything - that looked relevant to his final lectures that semester. Then two names snagged his attention like a hook:

David Rossi and Tara Lewis (FBI Behavioural Analysis Unit)

As he stared at the block letters, his throat tightened. It was familiarity, yes. Perhaps a pang of nostalgia, but also the very peculiar dissonance of seeing names he once had on speed dial or regularly announced across a briefing table now printed in glossy Helvetica. He hadn’t expected to see them here, though in hindsight he should have known that conferences like these had a way of pulling people back into orbit, no matter how far they drifted.

For a moment he hesitated, the weight of years pressing down on him – of everything that had happened, and everything that had ended. He pictured Dave’s fatherly (or grandfatherly) laugh and the way Tara’s sharp eyes missed nothing, and wondered if they would even recognise him now, older and greyer and so deliberately absent from the life that’d been so violently pulled from him when the threat of Mr Scratch had loomed over them.

He glanced at the clock on his phone. Their session was about to begin.

He told himself he could just as easily head back to his hotel room and order a late lunch, but his feet had already made the decision for him. He slipped the phone back into his pocket, stepped away from the board, and moved towards Ballroom C.

In the cavernous ballroom, he spotted Dave first, his unmistakable silhouette leaning comfortably against the podium at the front of the room. His hair was fully silver now, but his posture hadn’t changed – easy, confident, and holding court with a familiar mix of humour and gravitas. Tara was seated beside him, flipping through notes, her expression sharp and unyielding even in repose. He hadn’t seen her in years, but she seemed utterly at home. They both did.

Aaron stayed at the edge of the room for a moment with his hands in his pockets, watching them with a curious ache in his chest. The team. The work. It all felt like a life he’d stepped out of long ago; a version of himself he’d put carefully away. And yet, standing here, the years between seemed to shrink.

He slid into a seat near the back of the room. The intermittent Facebook updates he’d caught glances of over the years simply weren’t a substitute for being back in D.C., breathing the same air as the people he’d once spent nearly every waking hour with. He hadn’t expected to feel this… restless, or homesick in ways he hadn’t been prepared for. When Dave and Tara took the podium and discussed some of their most recent cases, he couldn’t help but feel like a fish out of water – once upon a time, he’d be the one at the head of the conference table or standing in front of a crowd delivering a lecture like this. It’d been years since he’d entrusted Emily with those responsibilities, but a deep ache still settled in his chest.

As the session concluded, Aaron didn’t even have to approach the podium before a familiar voice rang in his ears. “Hotch!” Dave’s voice carried over the din, warm and booming as ever. “I’ll be damned, look who’s here.”

Aaron smiled despite himself and stepped forward to give Dave and Tara a hug.

“You haven’t changed a bit,” Tara chimed in, though there was a teasing glint in her eye.

Aaron huffed a laugh and unconsciously ran his fingers through the grey flecks of hair at his temples. “I’d say the same, but I’d be lying.”

Dave clapped him on the back and steered him out of the flow of attendees. “What brings you back to civilisation? Couldn’t stay away from the old Bureau crowd, huh?”

“The conference was too good to pass up,” Aaron said, careful, measured. “And I’m teaching a couple of hours away now, so why not return to my old stomping grounds?”

“Well, you picked the right week to visit,” Dave said with a grin. “It’s Emily’s birthday tomorrow. We’re throwing her a little thing in the bullpen. You should come.”

Aaron hid the sharp jolt in his chest. He also pretended that Dave hadn’t casually emphasised Emily’s name – or cast him a knowing smirk.

Emily. Of course. Her birthday had always been seared into his memory, though he’d made a habit of pretending otherwise. He smoothed his expression and feigned a touch of uncertainty. “Tomorrow?”

Tara snorted and crossed her arms. “Don’t even try it, Hotch. She’ll be thrilled to see you.”

Dave’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “Thrilled and maybe a little surprised. Actually, very surprised. Come on, Aaron, it’s been too long. What’s a birthday without an old friend showing up to make her blush?”

Aaron allowed himself a small smile, although his pulse beat a little faster at the very thought of returning to Quantico for the first time in nearly a decade. “Alright. I’ll come.”

“Good.” Dave slapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t make me regret inviting you.”

As the crowd began to thin, Aaron glanced toward the exit, his mind already drifting. He hadn’t seen Emily in years – not in person, anyway. He wondered if she’d changed, and if she’d look at him and see all the ways he’d changed. He wondered if she’d still laugh the same way.

And beneath it all, a quiet and relentless anticipation stirred.

Back in his hotel room that evening, Aaron sat on the edge of the stiff bed, suit jacket and tie draped neatly over the chair. The glow of his laptop scream lit the room in a sterile blue as he typed his password - again - and watched the rejection banner flash across the page.

Incorrect password. Please try again.

He sighed and tried another variation. Still wrong. Years of meticulous planning, briefing high-stakes cases with lives in the balance, and winning the attention of a room of one hundred restless twenty-year olds, and here he was, bested by Facebook.

It felt ridiculous - childish, even - to be sitting here at eleven at night in a hotel in downtown D.C., trying to look up Emily Prentiss. But Dave’s words from earlier - her birthday party tomorrow night - had settled in his chest like a spark he couldn’t smother. He searched his mind for any excuse he could concoct to get out of the party – unfortunately, “I need to get home to Jack” had long expired as an excuse – but he also knew with a terrifying certainty that he couldn’t possibly miss the occasion. It was Emily, after all.

He reached for his phone before he could second-guess himself.

Aaron: Jack, what’s our Facebook password?

The typing bubble appeared almost instantly. As much as he hated to admit it, he was glad that college life kept Jack up at all hours of the night.

Jack: “Our” password? You mean YOUR password.

Jack: Why are you even on Facebook? No one’s on Facebook these days, unless you’re a Disney adult or into conspiracy theories. Or stalking someone.

Aaron frowned. His thumbs moved stiffly across the keyboard.

Aaron: Just tell me the password, please.

Jack: Oh my God. Wait.

Jack: Is this about who I think it is?

Aaron pinched the bridge of his nose.

Aaron: Who?

Jack: EMILY.

Jack: Dad, I know you’re in D.C. for that conference…

Jack: This is either research or stalking.

Aaron let out an incredulous laugh before he could stop himself.

Aaron: It’s neither. I just wanted to see how she’s doing.

Jack: Uh-huh. Sure.

Jack: Fine. The password is the same as your email password. But honestly? Just talk to her.

Aaron didn’t respond to that, though he could feel his son’s amusement radiating through the screen. He finally logged in and typed her name into the search bar with hands steadier than he felt. She hadn’t updated her profile in years, but it felt like no time had passed at all when he laid eyes on her most recent photos. The dark sweep of her hair was unchanged and her smile still carried that sharp, knowing edge. There were photos with colleagues he didn’t recognise and shots of her speaking on panels, her expression poised and confident. He clicked through them slowly, each image a fragment of a life he’d missed.

The clock ticked past midnight. Aaron closed the laptop but found himself staring at the faint reflection of his own face in the black screen. There was a strange flicker of excitement beneath the nerves; a pull he’d long since buried.

Tomorrow, he’d see her again.

And somehow, that thought felt like stepping onto a tightrope suspended between memory and something dangerously like hope.

The BAU bullpen looked much the same, and yet nothing about it felt untouched by time. The boards still carried their grim parade of faces - this time of a man named “Sicarius” and his victims - and the desks were still littered with empty coffee cups and case files curling at the corners. But the air had shifted; now there was laughter echoing, threaded with voices that were half-familiar and half-strange.

Someone – probably Penelope – had decorated the place for the occasion. A banner was draped across the catwalk railings, streamers hung from the ceiling, and a gigantic birthday cake (chocolate fudge, still Emily’s favourite) sat in the middle of the room. An unfamiliar set of faces leaned over Tara’s desk, while JJ was perched on the edge of a chair, phone in hand, and looked up to greet him with the bright, easy warmth he remembered so well. It was all familiar, but with the soft blur of a memory that didn’t quite fit the present.

And then, he saw her.

Across the room, standing near Tara, Emily was laughing at something Dave had said, her head tipped slightly, her smile sharp and knowing in a way that hit Aaron squarely in the chest. The bell-like sound of her laughter reached him even through the low hum of conversation, like a shard of glass catching the light.

But it wasn’t just her laughter that stopped him cold.

It was her hair.

The silver caught him off guard first - a glint of metallic under the harsh fluorescents, a shimmer that made him blink. And then he realised: it wasn’t a trick of the light. It wasn’t a single strand threaded through her dark hair like a whisper of age or wisdom. It was all of it – a cascade of silver, cool and luminous, framing her face like moonlight poured over her shoulders.

For a moment, he forgot how to breathe. He’d known Emily as a creature of shadow and fire, her hair as dark as the secrets she carried, a cloak of mystery she’d worn like armour. And now she stood there in silver, no less formidable, but also softer somehow, luminous and utterly commanding. The years had not dimmed her; they had burnished her and carved her into something finer, sharper, and even more arresting than the woman he’d known before.

Tara said something else, and Emily threw her head back, the silver flashing like silk. His pulse kicked up, ridiculous and unsteady. He had spent years imagining her – what she might look like now, what she might be doing – but none of his daydreams had prepared him for this. For her.

She moved to talk to a younger agent named Luke, the subtle authority in her posture unmistakable, yet there was an ease he didn’t remember seeing often. She looked happy. Comfortable. Like she belonged; like this was her world now. And he stood there, rooted to the floor, feeling like a man watching the earth spin without him. He blinked and readied himself to smile, to greet everyone, to shake Luke’s hand when he offered it. His attention, though, kept flicking back to Emily, to the way she carried herself, to the way silver suited her so completely it seemed inevitable.

She hadn’t seen him yet. And he didn’t think he was ready for her to.

For another second he stayed rooted where he was, the hum of voices and the scrape of chairs around him fading into a soft blur. Every movement Emily made seemed exaggerated and deliberate in its perfection, as though the light caught her just so, and the air around her hummed with quiet command. He could see the small curve of her jaw, the delicate line of her neck, the way her hands rested lightly on her hips as she laughed. His pulse, slow and measured only minutes ago, now thudded in his ears. Time itself seemed to hesitate, holding its breath while he drank her in, memorising a version of Emily Prentiss that was at once achingly familiar and impossibly new.

A voice broke through the haze.

“Hotch! There he is!”

Dave’s grin was wide, easy, and entirely unselfconscious as he crossed the room and clapped Aaron on the shoulder. “Look who decided to show up. The prodigal profiler returns!”

JJ stepped forward, her smile bright, and Penelope leaned in with the same warmth and delight she always carried, both of them radiating welcome. Luke offered a quick handshake, efficient but friendly, a quiet confirmation that the BAU was thriving under Emily’s guidance. Aaron found himself laughing along, shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries, but all the while his attention kept drifting back across the room.

Then, finally, she saw him.

Emily’s smile spread slowly, and she tilted her head just enough to convey curiosity and amusement in a single motion. “Aaron Hotchner,” she said, her voice carrying a playful bite. “I didn’t expect you’d crash my party.”

He forced himself to smile, letting a laugh that was a little tighter than usual escape his throat. “I wouldn’t miss it,” he said, feeling the familiar pull of her attention and the weight of all the unspoken words between them. There was a flicker - surprise, admiration, and something else he couldn’t quite name just yet - that passed between them; a moment of recognition stretched taut by years apart.

And for the first time since stepping through the bullpen door, the world outside seemed to vanish.

A couple of hours later, the party had thinned to a low hum. Most of the team had disappeared, and the clatter of chairs and the scrape of takeout trays faded into the background. Emily lingered near her desk – once his office, he reminded himself with a quiet tug at memory – gathering gifts and the last of the paperwork, shoulders relaxed but alert, her silver hair catching the overhead lights in flashes of moonlit silver.

Aaron stepped closer, careful not to startle her. He reached into the bag he’d been carrying all evening, producing a small square package wrapped simply in black paper with a hint of silver ribbon. He held it out to her, and a bolt of electricity coursed through him when his hand brushed lightly against hers for just a moment.

“I… thought you might like this,” he said, his voice steady even as his pulse quickened. “I went to a few record shops this morning.”

Emily blinked, curiosity sharpening in her gaze as she accepted the gift. She unwrapped it carefully, and her breath hitched ever so slightly when she saw the sleeve of a worn but otherwise pristine limited-edition Siouxsie and the Banshees LP inside.

“You remembered,” she said softly, almost in disbelief, as she ran her fingers over the cover. “I can’t believe you remembered.”

“I didn’t forget,” Aaron said, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “And… I thought you might enjoy it.”

Her smile widened, warm and luminous, brushing away all the years between them. “Thank you. Really. This… it’s perfect.”

His mind wandered for just a moment, a quiet, private memory rising unbidden: the high school yearbook photo that she’d insisted he not look at, but of course he had before she’d tucked it into her desk drawer. Emily, all black lace, eyeliner smudged just so, staring at the camera with mock menace that didn’t quite mask the faintest corner of a grin. He’d pretended not to have seen it, of course, but the image had long etched itself in his memory.

He chuckled softly, and she looked up, brow arched.

“What?” she teased.

“Nothing,” he replied, shaking his head. “Just… remembering things. Funny things.”

Her grin widened. “I hope they were good things,” she said, and there was a flicker of playfulness in her voice – perhaps a dare, or an invitation.

“They were.” The words felt charged with all the history between them.

Emily’s eyes softened, and she took a small step closer, closing just enough of the space between them that the hum of the empty bullpen seemed to vanish. “It’s… been too long,” she said quietly, her voice almost uncertain.

Aaron exhaled slowly and felt the tension in his shoulders ease just a fraction. “It has,” he admitted, realising that the years away from the job had chipped away at some of his armour. His gaze didn’t leave hers. “I… I missed all of this. I missed you.” The words came out slower than he meant, awkward in their honesty, but he couldn’t take them back.

(He didn’t want to take them back, he realised almost immediately.)

She blinked, and then a small, warm smile curved her lips. “I missed you too.” The weight of that confession settled between them. “How… how did we not see each other all this time?”

He ran a hand down the back of his neck; a flicker of self-consciousness crossed his features. “Life happened,” he said apologetically. “Things got in the way. I…” He stopped, unsure how to capture years of absence in mere words.

Emily tilted her head and her silver hair caught the light like a halo again. “Things always get in the way. But here we are now.”

“Here we are,” he echoed.

For a heartbeat, the past and present entwined – the goth-haired teen he’d once glimpsed in a yearbook photo, the brilliant, silver-haired leader before him, and him, standing somewhere between memory and desire, entirely captivated.

They lingered there, caught in the quiet of the office, a shared pulse of laughter and sighs from the evening fading around them, the world outside the bullpen reduced to irrelevance. For once, Aaron didn’t think about procedure or propriety. He only thought of her, and the ache of having her here now, after so long.

Of course Emily offered him a ride back.

“You look like you need an escort back to your hotel,” she’d said with a teasing lift to her voice as they descended to the parking garage. “I can’t have you wandering the D.C. streets alone after the party.”

“I—” he’d begun, then let the words die on his lips.

When he slid into the passenger seat, he was suddenly aware of how small the car felt; how private. He was acutely conscious of the way the evening light caught the silver in her hair, and how the faint scent of her perfume reached him even through the slight crack of the window.

“You’re too serious,” she joked after a pause, eyes glinting in the rearview mirror as she watched him adjust in his seat. “Even for you.”

“I’m… nervous,” he admitted, the words surprising him as much as her. “I don’t know why. It’s been too long, perhaps.”

(Of course, he knew that was a lie. He was nervous – around her.)

She laughed softly – it was a musical sound that softened her sharp edges. “You? Nervous? Oh, this I have to see.”

Their eyes met in the rearview mirror for a beat too long, and the air between them thickened. Aaron’s hand brushed hers as she put the car in drive, and he felt a spark, unexpected, electric, and impossible to ignore. She reached over to buckle her seatbelt, and again, their fingers lingered just a heartbeat longer than necessary.

He cleared his throat and kept his gaze forward. “You look… incredible,” he said quietly. “The grey. And… you wear the job with a grace I never managed. I knew I made the right choice appointing you Unit Chief.”

She glanced at him, surprised, the teasing in her eyes softening into warmth. “That’s… high praise coming from you,” she said, a mixture of amusement and curiosity in her tone. “Thank you.”

Aaron allowed himself a small, private smile; his fingers brushing against hers once more as the hum of the engine filled the quiet stretch of the city between them. Emily’s eyes flicked to him, a small, mischievous smile tugging at her lips. “So… how’s your hotel bar? Worth checking out?”

Aaron raised an eyebrow. The abruptness of the question took him by surprise. He hadn’t expected her to be so… bold. Or forward. He couldn’t find the right words anymore. “Are you suggesting a nightcap?”

“Maybe I am,” she said lightly, though there was a glint in her eyes that made him hesitate. “It’s been too long. We need to catch up.”

“You really want to spend your birthday… with me?”

“I do,” she said with a quiet sincerity that made his chest tighten. “I want to.”

He exhaled slowly and felt the tension in his shoulders ease just a fraction. “Alright,” he said, letting himself smile. “Then I think we should see if the hotel bar lives up to the hype.”

A comfortable silence settled over them as the city lights streaked past, punctuated only by the occasional flicker of amusement or glance that lingered a beat too long. The night stretched ahead of them, intimate and unwritten, and for the first time in years, Aaron felt like he might finally step into it without hesitation.

The hotel bar was quieter than expected, even for a weekday night. The low buzz of conversation and clinking glasses wrapped around them like a soft cocoon. Aaron settled onto the bar stool next to Emily, the dim light catching her silver hair in glimmers that made his chest tighten every time he looked up.

“Dave mentioned to me that you were teaching, but I didn’t realise you were just two states away,” Emily began. “How’s the job?”

“It’s been great, but my two-year contract is ending soon and I decided to venture somewhere else. So I’m moving to a new school when the spring semester begins.”

“Oh?” she raised her glass quizzically. “Where are you headed?”

“Actually, I’m moving back here. The new job’s in the D.C. area.”

She laughed, and the sound was warm and effortless. “Wow. You’re finally moving back here.”

“Jack’s thrilled. He keeps reminding me I finally get to be a local again.”

“I bet he does. He’s grown into quite the young man, hasn’t he?”

“He has,” Aaron grinned, his heart swelling with pride that Jack was spreading his wings at Harvard. “Smart, stubborn… can be a bit of a handful. But he’s doing great. I’m proud of him.”

She nodded, her gaze thoughtful. “I remember. I’d love to see him again.”

“I’m sure he’ll be happy to see you, Em. But enough about me. How’s Section Chief life treating you?

“Oh, there’s been plenty keeping us busy. We’ve picked up what looks like a massive case… but the team is finally coming back together after all the COVID upheavals. The new apartment in Dupont Circle helps, though; it’s mine. A little sanctuary, quiet in the middle of chaos…”

Aaron listened, genuinely fascinated, but he found himself distracted by the way the light caught her hair; the way the silver had softened the sharp angles of her face without dulling the fire in her eyes. She radiated a calm confidence he’d missed for so many years, and it left him momentarily breathless.

She noticed, of course. “You keep staring,” she teased, voice low and intimate. “And I don’t think it’s the wine.”

Aaron cleared his throat in a futile attempt to hide the flush creeping across his face - a flush that wasn’t the product of the wine. “It’s hard not to notice. You look incredible, Emily. Really. The grey… it suits you.”

Her smile softened, warmth and a hint of challenge in her eyes. She leaned closer, her arm brushing his where it rested on the bar, and he felt it like a spark. “You’re enjoying this a little too much, aren’t you?”

“Maybe,” he admitted, voice low and steady, though his pulse betrayed him.

Her grin turned conspiratorial, and he wanted to memorise the glimmer of mischief in her expression. “I could say the same about you.”

They lingered like that for a beat, the buzz of the bar fading around them. Hands occasionally brushed; her fingers grazed his wrist when she reached for her glass, his knuckles brushed hers when he shifted. Each touch carried a current neither wanted to name just yet - a gentle affirmation of years spent apart and the quiet thrill of rediscovery.

For what felt like hours, they talked, laughed, and reminisced, letting the conversation drift between old memories and new curiosities. Aaron leaned in just a fraction closer to hear her over the soft jazz soundtrack, and her gaze lingered on him for a moment longer than necessary, and he met it with a small, knowing smile. Neither said anything, but the quiet between them was charged and electric.

When they finally rose to leave, neither moved with any real urgency; the soft intimacy of the bar still clung to them like perfume. Their hands brushed and lingered, until fingers twined with quiet certainty. Emily tilted her head to meet his gaze, and Aaron found himself leaning just slightly closer, caught in the pull of her warmth.

The city outside the hotel windows blurred into a blue and gold backdrop to the charged silence between them. Whatever words they might have spoken hung unsaid in the air, eclipsed by something inevitable – the kind of moment that could only end one way.

Chapter Text

Aaron had never particularly enjoyed long drives, though he’d made them often enough over the years. But the endless stretch of the highway felt different now; the monotony was softened by the quiet hum of anticipation beneath his ribs. He’d risen before dawn, gathered his things, and slipped out of the hotel without stopping for breakfast, eager to get on the road before D.C. traffic hit. The air still held the damp coolness of night as he started the car, headlights cutting through the fog, and he thought of her – of Emily – far more sharply than he had in years.

He turned the dial until he found the track he wanted. The familiar, pulsing shimmer of Siouxsie and the Banshees filled the car like a private benediction. That image of her – the softness of her hair, the way she’d tilted her head into his touch without even thinking – had been circling his mind since they’d parted ways in the hotel lobby. It was absurd, he thought, how it hurt to put this distance between them again, even when he knew it wouldn’t last. He’d be back in D.C. soon enough.

He gripped the steering wheel tighter and let the memories unfurl.

She’d stood first, elegant even in her fatigue, tucking her coat around her shoulders with familiar grace. He followed her to the lobby, their steps in sync, and stopped with her at the doors. She’d glanced at him with a warmth that sent electricity coursing through him – he hadn’t felt that in so long that it startled him.

“Goodnight, Aaron,” she’d said softly, low with the weight of everything left unsaid. He should have smiled and stepped back to let her leave, but instead he reached for her hand, and she let him catch it, her fingers cool against his own. He’d marvelled at how easily she let him guide her closer; how natural it felt, like this had always been inevitable. His other hand rose almost without thought, brushing through her hair, tracing the streaks of silver with reverence. She’d shivered beneath his touch, her breath catching just slightly, and the last of his inhibitions broke wide open at the sight of her so unguarded and luminous in the dim light of the hotel foyer.

He bent to kiss her slowly with a tenderness that surprised them both. She tasted faintly of wine and laughter long since faded into quiet, and leaned into him with a sigh that settled deep into his bones. There was no urgency, no desperate rush, only the quiet joy of recognition; of finding her again. He cupped her face as he drew back, his thumb lingering at her jawline, reluctant to let go. She gave him a look that was equal parts wonder and sorrow, as though she’d been waiting for this and fearing his imminent departure, and he knew, then, that he’d follow her anywhere.

“Goodnight,” she’d whispered again with the shyest of smiles, and slipped away, leaving him in the echo of her perfume and the warmth of her lips still burning on his.

He drove in silence for miles before realising the music had stopped, the hum of the tyres and the steady drone of the engine filling the empty space. He pressed play again almost absently, and the opening notes of Cities in Dust spilled softly through the speakers, her voice – or rather, Siouxsie’s – curling through the car like smoke and memory. He’d thought of her instantly when he’d first heard the song years ago; now, it felt as though it belonged wholly to her; to the memory of her hair beneath his fingertips and the quiet exhale against his cheek when she’d leaned in.

The ache in him travelled up through his chest and down through his arms resting steady on the wheel. He had kissed her once and already he felt marked. Already he could still taste her on his lips as though the memory was stitched into him permanently. The stretch of highway between here and home felt endless, each green sign counting out the miles not just to his house but away from her, each one a small cruelty. He glanced at the empty passenger seat more often than he cared to admit, as though she might appear there suddenly, laughing at his ridiculousness and hair catching the light.

But soon, he reminded himself. Soon, all of this distance would shrink to nothing. In a few months, he would be back in D.C. and the ache in his chest might soften, replaced by something else entirely – something like hope, or its older, quieter cousin, certainty. Perhaps there would be dinners and laughter and nights that stretched on until morning. Perhaps there would be no more standing in the doorway of a hotel bar, watching her retreat into the night while he returned to an empty room.

For now, though, he let himself live in the memory of the way she had looked at him like she knew every word he wasn’t saying; the way she’d tilted her chin just slightly, an invitation so soft he could have missed it. He’d cupped her cheek and kissed her once, and the world had gone utterly still. That stillness lingered even now, an echo in his bones, and he held it close like a talisman as the miles unfurled before him.

Even with the years between them, he could picture her mornings with startling clarity: the rush of black coffee, the weight of the badge and gun she still carried, the constant shuffle of reports and briefings that had once consumed his own life. He knew what it meant to sit in that chair and carry what felt like the entire Bureau’s storms on your shoulders, and the thought of Emily navigating that every day stirred a mix of emotions in his gut – pride and worry and longing all tangled together.

But what surprised him was how much he wanted to know it all – not just her professional life or the armour she wore so well, but also the quiet, ordinary details of her days: what music she played when she couldn’t sleep, the book on her nightstand, or the way she wound her scarf on bitterly cold mornings. He’d spent years keeping his feelings for her neatly locked away and compartmentalised like everything else, but now, they refused to stay buried.

There had always been something between them, even if either of them lacked the courage or gumption to admit it. They’d understood each other without having to explain; she’d been able to cut through his walls with one dry, knowing look. For years, they’d danced around it, both too careful, too scarred, and too bound by the demands of the job to risk stepping closer.

But now?

He was no longer SSA Aaron Hotchner, BAU Unit Chief, and shackled to a role that consumed everything. He was a father first, a professor now, a man with a steadier life than he’d had in decades. And Emily – Emily had risen into his old role with a grace that humbled him. He’d expected the spark between them to have dulled over time, buried beneath distance and exhaustion, but the opposite was true. Seeing her again had reignited something that felt inevitable.

He wondered if she felt it too. The kiss had been tender, yes, but there had also been weight behind it; years of unspoken longing condensed into a single breath. He gripped the steering wheel tighter, the thought of her gaze softening beneath him sparking a mix of hope and nerves he hadn’t felt in years.

Maybe this was his second chance.

Maybe they weren’t too late. Maybe, in this stage of their lives, when the chaos had settled just enough to breathe, there was finally space for this. For her.

Emily woke before her alarm, the thin wash of morning light painting her ceiling in pale grey. She lay there for a long time, motionless beneath the sheets, her body unwilling to rise, mind still caught in the quiet ecstasy of the night before. The world beyond her bedroom – the buzz from the neighbourhood coming to life, the looming hours at Quantico, the familiar rhythm of the BAU – felt muted, like a fog she wasn’t ready to step into. His voice still lingered in her head like a melody she’d forgotten she loved.

She rolled onto her side and closed her eyes again, as if that might bring him closer.

He’d touched her hair hesitantly at first, almost unsure if he had the right to. She’d tilted her head into his hand without thinking, a gesture as instinctive as breathing, and watched him soften, his mouth curving into an uncharacteristically shy smile. The hotel lobby was nearly empty, the night draped around them like a secret, and she’d felt her heart twist at the sight of him like that, so tender and unguarded after all these years apart.

He’d stepped close enough that she inhaled the scent of him – clean and warm and familiar – and his fingers slipped through her hair, tracing silver strands like he was memorising them. She’d leaned in then, or maybe he had, the space between them closing with a soft inevitability, and his lips touched hers, feather-light, a question asked and answered all in one breath.

It wasn’t a kiss meant to undo her, and yet it did: the careful press of his mouth, the hand at the back of her neck, the slow, reluctant way he drew back, as if he’d been holding his breath for years.

Her heart tightened at the memory. She’d been kissed before, of course — more times than she could count — but nothing in her catalogue of memories felt like that kiss. That quiet, patient reverence. That soft ache of affection long-buried finally being unearthed.

She knew she should get up. She should shower, dress, drive to Quantico, and slip seamlessly back into the life she’d built without him. And yet, lying there, she found herself almost wishing she didn’t have to. The BAU suddenly felt like an intrusion; a reminder that their paths had diverged for years, that this – whatever this was – might just be a moment suspended in time.

But he was moving back to D.C. The thought alone sent a pulse of anticipation that made her bite back a smile.

It wasn’t just a kiss. Not to her. Not to him. She knew him too well for that. They knew each other too well for that.

He wasn’t the man he’d been when he left the Bureau, and she wasn’t the woman he’d known then either. Time had shaped them both, worn them at the edges, softened some parts and sharpened others. And yet last night, sitting across from him in the dim hotel bar, laughing over shared memories and quiet confessions, she’d felt something ancient and familiar unfurl between them, like a song they’d both known by heart but hadn’t dared to sing until now.

She pictured him now on that long drive home; she imagined the music he might be playing and felt a tenderness she hadn’t allowed herself in years tug deep in her chest. For so long, her life had been an endless cycle of cases, crises, and barely enough space to breathe. Love had felt like a luxury she couldn’t afford.

But Aaron was different. Aaron had always been different.

Maybe this was her second chance.

Maybe they weren’t too late. Maybe, in this stage of their lives, when the chaos had settled just enough to breathe, there was finally space for this. For him.

Emily pressed her face into her pillow and let herself linger in the memory for one more stolen minute. She could still feel his lips and the weight of his hand in her hair. She pictured the way his eyes had softened like she was rare and irreplaceable. And for the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel the need to outrun that tenderness.

Now, lying in her bed with the memory still lingering on her lips, the thought of walking into the BAU felt strange and almost dissonant. The world of blood spatter, crime scene photos, and endless travel suddenly felt distant. She certainly hadn’t expected him to surprise her at her birthday party. She hadn’t thought she’d see him again so soon, or even at all, and now here he was, threaded into her thoughts so tightly that she found herself wishing, childishly, that she could stay in this morning forever.

She reached for her phone and hesitated for just a moment before she typed out the words, simple and unassuming, but carrying far more than they said.

Text me when you get home safely?

Aaron’s suitcase thudded softly across the hardwood floor when he stepped into his apartment. The faint scent of rain clung to his jacket and his shoulders and neck ached from the exhausting drive, but he was finally home — at least, home for the next few months until he finally returned to the city that had made him. He settled onto the couch and pulled his phone out of his pocket.

Text me when you get home safely?

He read it three times, thumb hovering over the screen, and his lips curved into a smile. The ache in his shoulders dissipated almost immediately. She was thinking of him. Emily Prentiss – silver hair catching the dim light of the bar, voice warm when she teased him, surprise in her eyes when he kissed her – was thinking of him.

He typed back, Home safe. Thank you, Emily.

He deleted it and typed again.

Home safe. Thinking of you.

He hesitated, then erased that too, no matter how much he was aching to say it. It was too soon.

Made it back. Thank you for checking.

He pressed send before he could overthink it, but his small smile lingered, stubborn as a heartbeat. She cared. And if she cared, maybe this wasn’t just some fleeting spark in a hotel bar, but the quiet beginning of something he didn’t dare name yet.

Emily’s phone buzzed as she exited the Quantico parking garage.

Made it back. Thank you for checking.

Of course he was cautious; still measured and careful in all the ways she remembered from the days she’d first met him: the same careful watchfulness and steady reserve. It made her chest ache in a familiar, bittersweet way.

But now the channel was open again, however tentative. He had reached out, even if only with a few careful words. And she wasn’t ready to close it. She wanted more — she wanted the slow, unfolding warmth of contact that had felt impossible for years.

So she typed something light and teasing that she’d never admit that she’d spent a few good minutes brainstorming while walking to her office:

Don’t let those students get the best of you. I expect tales of misbehaving undergrads.

The BAU loomed behind her with all its chaos and expectation, but for once, her mind lingered on a different kind of anticipation.

Aaron set the kettle on and listened to the soft hiss of steam as the rich smell of coffee curled through his small kitchen. He cradled the mug between his hands, fingers warming against the ceramic, and let his eyes drift to his phone. Emily’s text glimmered on the screen, light and teasing, and for the briefest moment he felt the absurd, giddy flutter of a teenager, though, of course, he hadn’t needed to over-analyse every acronym and emoji when he’d actually been one.

He smiled at her tone; the way it threaded mischief and affection together so effortlessly. Tales of misbehaving undergrads, she’d written, and suddenly the quiet of his apartment felt a little less lonely. The monotony of grading mid-terms and lecture preparation was softened by the thought of her.

He tapped out a reply carefully and deliberately, wanting to match her warmth without overstepping the fragile rhythm they were rediscovering.

Only if you promise not to report me to the Dean. And maybe… I’ll save a story or two for when I see you next.

He paused before sending it, staring at the words, again imagining the curve of her smile, the way her silver hair caught the light in the hotel bar. A small, contented chuckle escaped him. She had a way of making the distance feel smaller; of making the impossible seem entirely possible.

With the text sent, he leaned back in his chair and tried to process the last twenty-four hours; just how much had changed in the last twenty-four hours. For the first time in years, the ache of absence was tempered by anticipation.

Soon, he’d be back in her city, and then maybe, just maybe, the quiet teasing of text messages would bloom into something far sweeter in the real world.

Weeks passed quietly and surprisingly. Texts flickered between them at odd hours: a quick question about lecture schedules, a note on a new case at the BAU, a fleeting joke about something one of his students had said. He regaled her with the trials and tribulations of getting his Gen Z students to keep their phones for the duration of a two-hour seminar; she texted back with the pictures of the ways she’d made his former office her own. But the content of the messages themselves barely mattered after a while, because what mattered much more was that the thread existed at all, a delicate lifeline weaving their worlds together across the miles.

Aaron would check his phone before bed and smile at the little ping that heralded her replies. He’d linger over her words for longer than necessary, reading them twice or three times just to feel that connection — a reminder that despite the distance, she was still there and still speaking to him.

And when his thoughts drifted, he found himself replaying the kiss they’d shared – the feeling of her skin against his, her silver strands wrapped around his fingers, the red wine on her breath.

He wondered if she did the same.

So, when an email titled Housing in the D.C. Metropolitan Area landed in his inbox, he clicked on it immediately, and sure enough, it was a message from his new department with an important assignment: to begin scouting for housing in the D.C. metropolitan area. He’d long given up the apartment he’d shared with Jack up until they’d been relocated to Vermont under WITSEC, meaning that Zillow was going to be his new best friend for the foreseeable future.

He found himself scouring through listings late one night after grading papers, noting the subtle differences in prices and location, but the quiet excitement of possibility curled through him in a way that dulled his practical concerns.

He was finally returning to D.C. He was finally returning to Emily’s world.

Then he realised: if he timed it right, he could drive down for a weekend. For house-hunting, of course, but also a short, stolen stretch of time just to see her and sit with her in the calm spaces outside the chaos of work - if she would have him.

He hesitated for a while, aware of how busy she must be. Her life as Section Chief probably didn’t leave much room for the frivolities of surprise visits. And yet, when he texted her, laying out the idea in careful, almost teasing terms, she replied almost immediately.

I can make it work. I’ll see you soon.

His disbelief softened into joy. Her words were simple and pragmatic, but to him they shimmered with possibility. She wanted to see him.

And just like that, the promise of a weekend together became a beacon against the dull monotony of distance.

Emily tapped her pen against the edge of her desk and pretended to sort through paperwork while her mind drifted elsewhere. The rhythm of Quantico mornings was familiar and sometimes even comforting, but her thoughts kept slipping back to the message she’d sent him — her own impulsive, yet careful yes to the weekend.

He’s coming. That realisation was a small, secret thrill she could carry through the rest of the week. She caught herself breathing a little lighter.

There were briefings to prepare for, reports to file, and meetings to attend, but for a moment, all that seemed distant. Her office felt warmer somehow, the sun streaming in just so, as if the universe had agreed to make room for this one small, perfect anticipation. She imagined him entering her life again for those two days – conversations over coffee, maybe a quiet lunch in a bistro downtown, the same subtle brush of hands that’d made her heart skip in the dim light of the hotel bar.

And somewhere beneath the calm professionalism she wore like armour, she let herself savour the thought that after so many years, after all the distance and absence, he would be here, and she would see him again. Just the idea of it made her feel like the world had shifted slightly on its axis, tilting toward something unexpected, tender, and undeniably theirs.

Chapter Text

“Are you sure you’re okay with being here?”

“Aaron, you’ve asked me this at least three times this morning.” They were on a sidewalk in Adams Morgan on a Saturday morning, Emily cradling her Thermos flask of coffee, and he still couldn’t believe she was standing next to him of her own volition. “Of course I’m fine being here.”

“I’m sure you can think of better ways to spend your weekend. Instead of waiting for a realtor who’s running late to finally show up.” He stared at his watch for what was probably the fifth time that minute, annoyed that the very realtor who’d sternly warned him about being punctual for viewings was apparently content to let potential clients stand on a sidewalk on a frigid morning.

“Hey, it’s been a long time since you were last a D.C. native. You need someone who knows the current property market to help you get re-settled,” she winked. “And there’ll be plenty of time to make it for lunch — provided this realtor shows up in the next fifteen minutes.”

It was still surreal that Emily was willing to spend her Saturday morning house-hunting with him, even though he’d had this weekend penciled into his calendar for days now. In fact, he’d half-expected her to cancel, solely because cases had a way of landing on their desks on Friday nights. Full weekends off were a rarity in the BAU – he knew that better than anyone – and here she was, standing on a sidewalk in the autumn chill, having already bought coffee for both of them and done more research on the neighbourhood than he had.

His hand grazed hers as he reached into his pocket in search of his phone. Neither of them pulled away.

When the realtor finally arrived and ushered them into a sun-drenched corner apartment with floor-to-ceiling windows, he was impressed by the finishings and natural lighting, yes – but also momentarily distracted by the way the light illuminated her skin and made her silver hair look even more luminescent.

Actually, he was more than momentarily distracted.

As the realtor launched into a monologue about the apartment building’s proximity to a Whole Foods and some of the city’s best restaurants, his gaze kept drifting back to the window where she’d been standing; back to her. She was taking photos of the view outside the windows, entirely unguarded and relaxed, and his heart skipped a beat.

But no, he had the apartment tour to pay attention to. Everything else had to wait.

He forced himself to focus on the realtor’s voice and nodded at appropriate intervals, but every single time Emily moved into his periphery, his attention wavered. She leaned against the window frame with her arms folded, her hair falling over one shoulder as she surveyed the view like she was memorising it for him. When she caught his eye and smiled like they were sharing a private joke, his breath hitched almost imperceptibly.

The tour eventually wound down, much to his relief, and after polite handshakes and promises to “be in touch”, they stepped back out into the crisp autumn air. “So, what are your thoughts? Is this the one?” Emily asked as she buttoned her coat – a chic navy wool that made her brown eyes sparkle.

He exhaled and rubbed the back of his neck. As eager as he was to return to D.C., this apartment hunt was something he couldn’t afford to rush. “It’s… nice. Great light. Decent layout. But I don’t know if it’s the one.”

“Fair enough.” She sipped from her Thermos, her lips curving around the rim as she considered him. “I’ve always said that house-hunting is a bit like dating. Sometimes it takes a few tries before you find the right fit, but when you find the right one, you’ll just know.”

(The subtext wasn’t lost on either of them.)

He let out a self-deprecating chuckle as he slid his hands into his coat pockets. “Not sure I’m great at either of those things.”

The glint in her eyes was both amused and unexpectedly soft. “You’re doing fine, Hotch.”

The old nickname warmed him from the inside out; it was a reminder of who they’d been and how much had changed. Things certainly had changed enough that a day like this, with her, was even possible in the first place.

They ended up at a quiet little bistro tucked into a corner of Dupont Circle for lunch, the kind of place with exposed brick walls and small tables pressed close together. She insisted on treating him, which he half-protested before giving in, and soon they were seated across from each other, menus forgotten between them and plates of pasta and focaccia piled high – indulgences they’d denied themselves for the longest time, but felt fitting for this occasion.

It felt… easy. Almost too easy. She asked about his lectures, about the shift from the BAU to academia, and he found himself telling her more than he’d intended: about the surprising joy of teaching, the late nights grading papers, the initial nervousness of standing in front of a room of twenty-somethings and feeling, for once, completely out of his depth. The conversation flowed like water, and Emily listened like she always had, her chin propped in her hand, her gaze unwavering and laughter warm when he admitted he’d been roped into a faculty trivia night.

“Tell me you won,” she teased, nudging him lightly with her knee under the table.

(It took everything in him to pretend that it hadn’t sent a bolt of electricity through him.)

“Second place,” he said, pretending to be scandalised. “But only because the history department brought in a ringer.”

Her laughter lingered in the air between them, and he realised he’d missed the easy rhythm between them; the way she had always been able to pull him out of his own head. How had he gone for so many years without this? He silently admonished himself for not reaching out to her earlier, to check on how she was coping as Unit Chief after being air-dropped into the position, or simply just to catch up – but then she beamed at him from across the table after asking for the check and he put those thoughts aside. It was enough – more than enough – that they were here together, now, simply enjoying each other’s company outside of the world of case files and evidence boards.

After lunch, they wandered through the neighbourhood, coffee cups in hand and the city buzzing around them, and it started to truly sink in that he was returning – no longer to the fast-paced Bureau lifestyle, but to the city, in its magnificence and splendour. The leaves were turning, shades of amber and crimson scattered across the pavement, and every so often his shoulders brushed against hers as they walked close together. Neither of them stepped away.

“You know,” she said softly, as they paused to admire a row of brownstones wrapped in ivy, “Living in Capitol Hill was nice, but I’ve always thought that Dupont Circle has some of the most beautiful houses in the city.” Her smile was tinged with memory, but Aaron knew intuitively that the Emily who lived in Dupont Circle was far more at home than the Capitol Hill Emily had ever been — it was all over her and in her eyes. “It’s probably why I moved to the neighbourhood.”

“You chose well.”

Suddenly, the world felt suspended around them. He wanted to reach for her hand but stopped himself, afraid to shatter the calm they’d found. Instead, he watched her tuck her hair behind her ear and step forward, and he followed, his chest tight with an unspoken longing.

They walked like that for what felt like hours — two old friends on the cusp of something new. Two people with years of history between them and a future neither had dared imagine yet, the space between them now charged and alive with possibility.

The afternoon stretched lazily ahead of them. Autumn sunlight spilled across the streets, softening the sharp edges of the old brick townhouses and casting the sidewalks in dappled gold. They walked side by side, close enough for their arms to brush every now and then, and the casual intimacy of it felt both familiar and strangely new.

Emily tugged him toward an antique shop filled with mismatched furniture and dust-flecked mirrors that she remembered from years ago. She wandered between the aisles, smiling at a porcelain vase that had seen better days and a teaware set in an elegant Tiffany blue. Aaron lingered a few steps behind with his hands in his pockets, watching her with quiet fondness as she tilted her head to examine a brass clock, her expression caught somewhere between amusement and curiosity.

“You’ve always had a good eye for antiques,” he said softly, and she glanced over her shoulder with a smirk.

“And you’ve always been an excellent observer,” she countered.

He chuckled and followed her deeper into the shop, brushing his hand along a shelf lined with vintage coin collections. “I used to love these. I probably still have my old collections somewhere,” he said, his voice tinged with nostalgia. “Spent too much of my time and money scouring yard sales for old coins.”

Emily’s smile softened. “You mentioned that, years ago.”

He couldn’t believe she’d remembered. Of course, he’d never doubted that she was still the same thoughtful Emily he’d fallen for all those years ago, but it was nice to be seen and remembered in that way, and not just as the profiler or Unit Chief Hotchner.

As they slipped back out into the crisp air, she led him toward a narrow alleyway that opened onto a tiny independent bookshop, with windows crowded with handwritten staff recommendations and stacks of new releases. The bell above the door chimed softly as she guided him inside.

“I haven’t been here in years.” She ran her fingertips over the spines of books in the crime section, including a couple of titles by a very familiar-sounding David Rossi (who’d apparently dropped by to sign his own books at some point). “You’re making it easy to be a tourist in my own neighbourhood.”

“I can see why you’d like this place,” he said as he scanned the shelves with quiet appreciation. She’d always been fond of reading on the jet – now he wished he’d paid more attention to the titles she’d tucked into her go-bag. “It has your energy. Very refined, a little chaotic.”

She shot him a playful look over her shoulder. “That’s a compliment, right?”

“The highest.”

They left the shop with two paper bags between them – one with a Booker Prize-nominated novel Emily had been meaning to read, the other with a history book Aaron couldn’t resist – and wandered aimlessly back toward his car, stopping along the way to admire the fall foliage and take sips of their coffee. Their conversation meandered as easily as their steps: her stories of the BAU’s recent cases, softened of their harsher edges, his quiet confessions about teaching life – the satisfaction of a student’s breakthrough, the unexpected joy of standing at a lectern without the weight of a gun at his hip. There was laughter, too, low and unhurried, like they’d stepped out of time and back into a rhythm that had always existed between them, but neither of them had ever acknowledged.

(Until now, at least.)

By the time he pulled up in front of her building, the dipping sun bathed them in gold. Emily lingered at his car window, her hair catching the faint glow of the streetlamp overhead. Neither of them moved to end the moment.

“Text me when you get back to the hotel?” she asked, after a beat.

“I will.”

He cut the engine and stepped out of the car before he could talk himself out of it. She looked up at him, startled but not surprised, and didn’t move as he came to stand in front of her. He could smell her perfume now, mingling with the faint scent of coffee from the Thermos she still carried. Twenty years since they’d met in his office and she still smelled the same — soft and floral and familiar — and it struck him with the force of memory, as though nothing essential between them had ever really changed. A reminder of what he had secretly wanted then — and what he could no longer pretend not to want now.

He lifted a hand, hesitated only briefly, then leaned down and pressed his lips to her forehead. Her skin was warm and impossibly soft; it made his chest ache and he wanted to memorise that touch. She closed her eyes at the contact, her face unguarded and stripped of every mask she wore at work, and it left him momentarily breathless.

When he pulled back, the tenderness that flickered in her gaze lodged itself deep in his chest.

“Drive safe, Aaron.”

“I will.”

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and glanced over her shoulder once before disappearing into her apartment building; he stood by the car for a moment longer, watching until the door closed behind her.

As he slid back into the driver’s seat, the warmth of her skin still lingered against his lips, a ghost of a touch he couldn’t shake. She had looked so beautiful, so open, and he realised with wonder that he hadn’t seen her like that in years; maybe ever. That look, so quiet and unshielded, had been enough to unravel him, and he wanted it fixed in memory before the rest of the world could take it away.

The image stayed with him all the way back to the hotel and curled through him like a quiet promise.

Aaron: Made it back.

Emily: Good.

Emily: I was wondering… what time do you need to set off for home tomorrow?

Aaron: I have the afternoon.

Emily: If you’re free… we could go to Great Falls?

The invitation was so casual, so easy, that for a moment he just stared at it, caught off guard. He hadn’t been to Great Falls in years – not since Jack was little.

He pictured Emily standing there in the sunlight with her hair caught in the wind, and without thinking twice, he typed, Tell me when and where to meet you.

Emily couldn’t quite remember where she’d gotten the idea for a mid-afternoon walk, but she knew that the drive had been worth it the instant she and Aaron stepped out of the car into a lot so silent that every crunch of gravel under their feet reverberated through the air. Silence was a luxury in her line of work — a virtual impossibility in a Bureau that never slept — and she had long accustomed herself to the roar of the jet or chatter that echoed through precincts all over the country. But now she was standing in the middle of a tree-lined path with only their footsteps and the quiet screams of cicadas and her thumping heart in her ears, both sides flanked by greenery so immense that she was almost overwhelmed, and she knew that she was in the thick of something so much bigger than herself. The air was fresher, the trees taller, and her footsteps lighter.

She snuck furtive glances at him, their shoulders grazing lightly as they strolled down the deserted path, gratitude for each other’s company silently percolating between them. Aaron kept pace next to her, his footsteps falling in time with hers as they approached the outlook overlooking the Potomac River, transfixed by the relentless rush of water hundreds of feet below them. There was no need for conversation; not when they both stared down into the torrent and let the comforting gush of cascading water settle over them.

“I wish I had time to come here more often,” she said softly after a long silence, her voice nearly drowned out by the river. “The last few years have been… hectic. I need to slow down.”

He studied her profile – hair glinting in the pale light, shoulders finally relaxed. “I get that,” he murmured, meaning every word.

Of course he understood. He understood better than anyone.

A flicker of a smile passed across her face when she looked at him, and before he had a chance to catch it, she slid her hand into his, warm and steady, and he curled his fingers around hers almost without thinking, feeling the quiet certainty of her touch even as she turned her gaze back to the river. They stayed like that for a while, listening to the rush of water and the November wind tugging at their coats and letting the world stretch out around them.

When they finally rose and made their way back along the trail, their hands remained joined, swinging gently between them, the uneven path and blanket of fallen leaves doing nothing to break the rhythm they had found again after so many years. The tether between them was hard-earned, he knew, and somehow even more real for the years and miles it had survived. It’d taken them a decade to finally be in the same place at the same time again; he wasn’t letting go that easily, and neither was she, in more ways than one.

Emily’s thumb traced an idle pattern across his knuckles, so light he might have imagined it, and he caught herself smiling at the little things – how his hand felt warm against hers, how natural it was to fall into step beside her, and the gentle way the autumn sun caught silver threads in her hair and made her luminous without even trying. Couples and families with dogs and children passed them, but they felt cocooned in their own rhythm, neither of them speaking, both content to let the quiet stretch.

They reached the car, and even as he unlocked it, she lingered by his side, fingers still tangled with his. Only when he opened her door did she finally release his hand, and the absence of her touch was sharp and immediate. As he rounded the car to get in on his side, he caught her watching him through the glass, her smile soft and knowing. He slid behind the wheel, the warmth of her hand still imprinted in his own, and for a moment neither of them moved to start the engine. The air between them felt charged, like a thread pulled taut.

“Tea?” she suggested after a long silence, half-hopeful, half-testing the waters.

“Tea,” he agreed with a smile, as if the word itself was already sweet enough.

They drove to one of her favourite haunts in town that reminded her of her Interpol days in London and chose a table by the corner, the last embers of sunlight pooling around them. The conversation started lightly – first of scones and the menu, then the veritable tea selection (earl grey for Emily, English breakfast for him) – but quickly drifted into pauses and glances that spoke louder than words. She leaned closer as she spoke, just enough that she could sense the warmth of him and spot the faint creases at the edge of his eyes when he smiled. The steady cadence of his questions carried her back through the years, and she found herself answering with gestures rather than words – fingers brushing his as she reached for the clotted cream and jam jars, the teapot passed a little nearer than necessary, the easy tilt of her head when laughter slipped free. The air between them seemed to hold its own quiet current, pulling them nearer without either of them naming it.

By the time the teacups were empty, the afternoon sunlight spilling across the table and warming the quiet corner of the café, his heart was tight with the knowledge that soon he’d be driving back across state lines. Soon he’d make the lonely drive home with only Siouxsie and the Banshees — her songs — over the speakers of his car and the ghost of her touch on his skin, and he wished, with a sentimentality that had been foreign to him for so many years, that he could stretch every second into hours more with her. He wanted this to last far longer than just a fleeting weekend.

“I… I should probably head back,” he said hesitantly after a long silence, almost as if speaking it aloud might make it harder to leave. He couldn’t believe how fast the weekend had flown by, and judging by the sadness in her expression, neither could she. “Thank you. For spending the weekend with me.”

Emily lifted her gaze and managed a hopeful smile. “I’m glad you came,” she replied with a quiet earnestness that made his chest ache.

His hand brushed hers across the table, and the warmth of her fingers anchored him in a calm he knew he’d miss desperately until he next saw her. “Me too,” he said simply, voice almost breaking on the last word.

They rose together, and for a moment, neither moved to step apart. He was close enough that he could see the faint flush along her cheeks and the way her hair caught the light just so, and he thought he could look at her like this for hours. He didn’t want to tear his eyes from her, but also couldn’t let himself drive back across state lines without a proper farewell.

And so did what he’d been hoping to do all weekend: he leaned in, cupping her face lightly in one hand, and she leaned in, closing the small gap between them.

It was a quiet press of lips that held everything they hadn’t said yet – gentle warmth, the faint taste of tea and butter, and the slow exhale of a shared breath, all suspended in a moment they both wanted to last. When they finally pulled back, just enough to meet each other’s eyes, the smallest laugh escaped her, nervous and bright at once. He brushed a stray strand of hair behind her ear, lingering a heartbeat longer than necessary.

“I’ll text you when I get home?”

“Please do.” She smiled shyly. “Drive safe, Aaron.”

Her smile held the unspoken knowledge that this was no ending at all, but the beginning of something that would return to them again and again.

Chapter Text

Emily had been on the highway for two hours when the thought struck her.

The dashboard clock glowed just past ten; her meeting in New York wasn’t until the late afternoon, and she had made good time. She could drive on, take the straight line north as she always did, arrive early, and fill the hours with notes and email. Sensible and predictable.

Or – her fingers hovered over her phone at the rest stop – she could take a small detour. An hour’s drive, no more. The impulse startled her, but it didn’t fade.

Are you around for lunch? she typed before she could talk herself out of it. On my way up to New York. Passing close by.

She wasn’t passing close by – not really. The extra stretch of road was an indulgence, and she felt a giddy flutter as she sent the message. The silence of the highway pressed in as she waited, the vibration of her phone breaking it only a minute later.

I am. I’ll be there.

He hadn’t even sounded surprised. Just an easy certainty, as though he’d been waiting for her to ask.

By the time she reached the small college town where he was staying, the sky had slipped into its soft, silver midday light. She found him waiting outside a café (a favourite of this college town, he said) with green paint on the shutters and pots of lavender drooping along the pavement. He lifted a hand when he saw her, and she felt that same jolt she had felt in the hotel lobby all those nights ago – the sense that, after years of orbiting the same constellations, they had found their way back into each other’s skies.

“Hey,” he said, his hand brushing against the small of her back.

“Hey.” She was suddenly aware of the rush of her own pulse.

It felt almost ordinary, walking inside together and finding a table by the window. Ordinary, except for the way her chest ached with brightness – she was stealing time and discovering she wanted even more of it. The notes and emails she’d been meaning to get to while waiting for her meeting to start blurred into the background of her day; all she wanted to do was drink in his presence for however long she got with him.

The café reminded her of her days at Yale – coffee grounds and buttered toast, students working on their group presentations, people rushing their mid-term papers or reading articles on their laptops. He asked about her meeting, and she laughed – “You don’t want the long version, trust me” – and he smiled as though he’d sit there all day listening if she let him. She found herself asking about his lecture series, and the way his expression softened as he spoke about it caught her off guard. She thought of him in classrooms she’d never seen, chalk dust clinging to the sleeve of his shirt, his hand resting against the back of a chair as he guided someone toward clarity – wholly different, yet somehow still resembling, the SSA Aaron Hotchner she’d known in another life.

It was nothing extraordinary: sandwiches, coffee, and the kind of casual lunchtime chatter they might once have had in the bullpen. And yet, she caught herself watching the line of his jaw as he lifted his cup, and the way his gaze lingered on her a beat too long before sliding away again. She marvelled at the ease between them – how natural it felt to be here with him, folded into the rhythm of each other’s day without ceremony – and realised that she didn’t regret, not for a second, her hour’s detour here.

“What about you?” he asked at one point, leaning forward slightly. “Do you ever think about what’s next? Section Chief… then what?”

She traced the rim of her mug in deep thought. “Sometimes. But I never stay with the thought long enough to know what I want.”

He nodded as if he understood, his thumb tapping lightly against the table. “Maybe it doesn’t have to be decided all at once.”

The words weren’t charged – not on the surface, at least – but they lingered between them anyway. Possibility. A future that could lie outside the Bureau and include them both, if they let it.

(They both knew, instinctively, that a future that included them both was already being written.)

Eventually, the cosiness of the café gave way to sunlight and the hush of the university grounds, the two of them falling into step without needing to decide where to go. Students streamed past in clumps of laughter and chatter, and beyond the stone buildings the trees swayed lightly in the breeze. Leaves were scattered across the hallways in little eddies of gold, reminding them both that the fall semester was coming to an end – and with that, bringing his imminent return to D.C.

Emily tucked her hands into her coat pockets and matched her pace to his. “Ready for DMV traffic again?” she teased, her sidelong glance catching the faint crease of amusement at his mouth.

“I can’t say I’ve missed the Beltway,” Aaron admitted. “But… I’ve missed being close to people who matter.”

The words slipped out lightly and without emphasis, but they landed with gravity. Her heart tightened in a way she didn’t quite want to name just yet.

People who matter. The words echoed in her head.

They slowed near a fountain, watching the spray catch the afternoon light. She leaned against the edge of the stone and watched him as he studied the paths winding outward and clusters of students scattered across the grass.

“So when are you next coming to town?” she asked as casually as she could manage.

“I have a few more viewings lined up in the next few weeks.” His hand gently wrapped around hers. He paused, then added softly, “I’m looking forward to seeing you again.”

Emily smiled shyly despite herself. “Me too.”

It wasn’t a plan, not yet, but naming it only confirmed what their choices had already declared: that they were in this; that they had already begun. She had already driven an hour out of the way to see him; they had already stolen a weekend together. The rest felt inevitable – it was only waiting to be named.

By the time they reached her car, their steps were unhurried as though neither wanted to break the spell that’d fallen over them. She turned to him with the keys loose in her hand, and for a moment they simply stood there, the steady quiet stretching between them.

“Good luck with the meeting, Em.”

“Thanks,” she replied, her breath catching as she realised how close they were, how easily she could tilt her chin and–

And then she did. Her lips brushed his in the gentlest of touches; it was a kiss so brief it might have been nothing more than a thought made real, but the intimacy of it lingered as though it had lasted forever.

Aaron’s smile made her chest thrum with tenderness she hadn’t felt in years. She slid into the driver’s seat, her fingers trembling slightly as she gripped the wheel. He stepped back with his hands in his pockets and watched as she started the car.

For the next hundred miles of highway, she could still feel the ghost of his mouth against hers; she still tasted the sweetness of a beginning.

Aaron stood in the parking lot a moment longer, until the sound of her engine faded into the distance. His lips still tingled with the softness of her kiss; his heart thumped far too wildly for something so fleeting. But already he could feel the shape of possibility settling in his chest. This was becoming their ritual – a way of marking every meeting and every goodbye.

This – her, them – was no longer just memory or chance. It was a future beginning to take form. It was a question he realised he wanted to answer with her.

This was becoming real.

A few days later, Emily stared down at her phone, the conversation stretching far longer than either of them had intended. They’d been texting about nothing and everything at once – files, lectures, a stray memory from a case long closed, a joke that neither quite remembered who had started – but somehow, an hour had passed without them noticing.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, then she typed carefully and deliberately:

Can I call you?

She hit send before she could overthink it, and immediately felt her stomach tighten with the same flutter she got when he walked into a room or smiled at her across a table.

Aaron’s reply was almost instantaneous.

Of course.

Just two words carried the promise of presence.

When she pressed the call button, his voice came through, and the world contracted to the cadence of it. “Emily,” he said – just her name, yet it was everything.

She smiled and leaned back in her chair, letting herself sink into the ease of it. He was there, present, patient, and waiting for her. And for the first time that day, she let herself forget the deadlines and the cases and simply folded herself into the quiet warmth of him on the other end of the line.

They traded fragments of their days – Emily shared a song she’d been playing on loop while writing reports, Aaron mentioned a lecture that had gone better than he’d expected. They laughed quietly at each other’s small catastrophes from the last few days – printers that jammed at the worst possible moment, students who asked the most bizarrely specific question about criminal profiling – and it felt like they were sharing a little pocket of time all their own.

When they hung up, both of them lingered a moment longer before setting the phones down, hearts a little lighter.

Later that week, Aaron’s phone buzzed quietly on his desk. He glanced down at Emily’s name and hesitated only for a second, feeling the pull of instinct. He knew from the clipped tone of her texts that today had been particularly brutal for her; he was all too familiar with the way some cases could make the team– and especially its Unit Chief – fray at the edges.

He pressed the call button before he could overthink it, and she picked up almost immediately.

“Hey,” his voice came softly through the line, carrying the weightless steadiness he always seemed to have, like a quiet harbour in the midst of a storm – she marvelled quietly at how just a single word from him could lift some of the tension from her shoulders.

“Hi,” she said, her voice small and cautious at first. He pictured her sitting alone in her office, case files in front of her and a half-drunk cup of coffee next to them, not unlike how he used to spend his evenings in that very same room.

“I figured you might need a break.” Gentle concern threaded his words. “Want to talk?”

She exhaled for what felt like the first time in hours. “Yeah. I think I do.”

For the next twenty minutes, he let her unload – the terse emails, the endless briefings, the tight knot of frustration that had been building all day. He didn’t offer solutions unless she asked; he just listened, and let her vent and sigh and breathe. His presence, though separated by distance, made it easier for her to slow down.

“I hate feeling like I’m always behind,” she admitted at one point, her voice trembling slightly. “This unsub we’re pursuing — he’s…”

“You’re not,” he said firmly. “You’re doing more than anyone could ask. And it’s okay to be tired. You don’t have to be everything all the time.”

He could hear her fingers idly tapping the edge of her desk – a habit he remembered from old office visits. “I just… don’t want to let anyone down,” she whispered.

Momentarily, he was taken back to another lifetime, when the words felt like they were lifted from his internal monologue and that he’d carried silently until they nearly broke him. He remembered the endless nights when exhaustion sat like a stone in his chest; when he’d convinced himself that if he only pushed harder and gave more, he might keep the people he loved safe. He’d never spoken those doubts aloud, not once – they had remained locked inside him, festering in the quiet.

But the difference now was that here she was, courageous enough to speak them out loud, fragile and unvarnished, and to give shape to the fear that he had once buried. He marvelled at it – the courage in her honesty, the defiance in her vulnerability – and for a moment he wished he had been able to do the same, all those years ago, before the silence hardened into armour.

“You won’t let anyone down,” he said. The calm in his voice settled into her chest like a soft weight. “I know how much you care, and it’s more than enough. And…” He hesitated, then added quietly, “I’m here, okay? Even just on the phone. I’ve got you.”

It was an ember of relief and tenderness she hadn’t expected, and the tension in her shoulders loosened. “Thank you.”

They lingered in the conversation a while longer, voices low and gentle, trading small comforts and quiet laughter. When they finally said goodnight, Emily felt lighter and calmer, but also suddenly aware of what she longed for: not only his steadiness in the moments she unravelled or his voice carrying her through the dark, but his presence woven into her days. She wanted his fingers wrapped around hers and his lips on her forehead in the quiet hours; she craved the comfort of knowing he was there in the flesh as much as he was in words.

Aaron, too, set the phone down slowly, a small, satisfied smile tugging at his lips. He’d stayed up later than usual, yes, but he didn’t mind. He wanted to be there for her. He had chosen her, and the thought alone made the night feel warmer than it had when it’d started.

After that night, the calls became a habit. Sometimes it was just a few minutes before bed, sometimes a bit longer if Emily’s schedule allowed it. Aaron would sit in the hush of his apartment with the lamplight low and quiet hum of the refrigerator in the background, choosing without thought to trade sleep for the sound of her voice. Emily, in turn, would steal a moment in the garage at Quantico or retreat to a shadowed corner of her office, the world held at bay while she spoke to him.

They spoke of nothing remarkable and yet everything that mattered: the lunches they might one day share, the books waiting half-read on their shelves, the stray details of days that blurred too quickly otherwise. She found herself listening for the low cadence of his laugh and felt the corners of her mouth curve when he let it slip; he listened for the lilt that entered her voice when she admitted something she would never confess to anyone else, and each time it felt like a small sacredness that belonged only to the space between them.

It was sweet in a way neither of them had expected. A text could carry a thought, a joke, or a small reassurance. A call carried warmth, presence, and the subtle intimacy of voice and breath. Slowly and imperceptibly, they were folding each other into their days – and they wouldn’t have it any other way.

And with each conversation, each laugh, and each quiet “goodnight,” the distance between them felt less vast.

Aaron: I’m driving to D.C. for a viewing today. A great apartment came on the market last-minute and I’m hoping to nab it first. Don’t worry if you’re swamped.

He wasn’t expecting much. He knew the demands of her schedule better than anyone else — in the BAU, weekends were almost fictitious. Things hadn’t changed in the near-decade since he’d left, and judging from the frequency of her texts, he didn’t think things would ever change. This was an extremely last-minute visit — one he’d arranged the instant he’d seen the listing on Zillow — and he certainly wasn’t expecting Emily to rearrange her day to accommodate him. But it didn’t stop him from hoping.

When Emily saw the message, she had a Sicarius case file in hand and her phone in the other, and almost halted her conversation with Tara and Luke to digest it.

Aaron was coming to town. Today.

No, she told herself. She couldn’t possibly walk out — not today. There was too much buzz in the bullpen; too much information to make sense of. The responsible Unit and Section Chief in her wouldn’t let her leave.

But the tug in her chest was undeniable.

She glanced at her watch. It was a couple of hours away from lunchtime. All morning, there had been talks of ordering Chinese food or something greasy for an hour of reprieve from the growing mess that was this case.

So, would it really make a difference if she had her lunch off-site today?

Emily: I have an hour, if you can make it to Quantico at noon.

His reply came almost immediately.

Aaron: It’s a date.

(They both knew that the word wasn’t accidental.)

That was how she found herself in a booth seat in a diner a short drive from the Bureau with Aaron sitting across from her, having casually mentioned to Dave and Tara that she was going to pop out for a while. This was exhilarating, she realised, carving out one stolen hour to see him, even in this unremarkable diner she’d ordered takeout from one too many times. Somehow, it was precisely because of how unremarkable this diner was that their lunch felt even more intimate than it usually did.

“I didn’t think you’d manage to sneak off,” Aaron teased as she slid into her seat. “Did Dave give you a hard time?”

“Surprisingly, no,” she grinned. Random meetings at all hours of the day came with the Section Chief job, and for that, she was suddenly grateful for a built-in cover story.

They placed their orders quickly — two sandwiches, two coffees — and then the menus were pushed aside, the space between them occupied only by the familiarity of their gazes. It was strange, Emily thought, how easy it had become to slip into this rhythm with him again; how natural it felt to sit across from him in a diner booth as if all the years they’d been apart had been no more than a season or a brief pause.

Aaron asked about the Sicarius case with just enough curiosity to make her feel heard but not pulled back into the vortex of it, and she, in turn, pressed him about the apartment viewing, listening intently as he described the hardwood floors, the sunlight in the mornings, and the way he could picture bookshelves against the far wall.

“That sounds fantastic.” She smiled over the rim of her coffee cup. “I hope your application goes through.”

His answering nod was small and almost shy, but she caught the flicker of warmth in his eyes. “Yeah. I hope so too. I think this is the one.”

I’ve always said that house-hunting is a bit like dating. Sometimes it takes a few tries before you find the right fit, but when you find the right one, you’ll just know.

He hadn’t forgotten what she’d said to him on that sidewalk in Adams Morgan just a few weeks prior, and judging from her gaze across the table, neither had she.

(The metaphor had already stretched beyond the realm of apartment hunting, and they both knew it.)

Their food arrived shortly after, and for a while they ate in companionable silence, punctuated by small stories that made them both laugh more than they probably should have. She realised, halfway through her sandwich, that she was leaning closer than she’d meant to — her arm rested easily against the side of the booth; her gaze lingered on his mouth when he smiled.

And he, too, noticed the way her eyes softened, and how she tilted just slightly toward him. The sheer normality of it left him momentarily dazed. One hour in this unremarkable diner, and he felt more grounded than he had in months.

As they emerged into the parking lot, Emily found herself reluctant to break whatever fragile spell had held them suspended for that brief stretch of time. She glanced at her watch and bit back her disappointment as reality pressed in again – Sicarius, the bullpen, an inevitable face-off with Doug Bailey…

“Back to the grind?” he asked gently.

She nodded, but her smile lingered. “Unfortunately. But this was… worth it.”

The steady and unguarded look he gave her in return was enough to keep her buoyed long after she slid out of the diner and back into the world that demanded her. If she’d snuck out of the bullpen for lunch five years ago, the guilt would have eaten her alive. But today, she didn’t regret it. Not for a second.

They stood together for a moment by her car, neither in any particular hurry although time ticked on mercilessly around them. He glanced at his watch, she fiddled with her keys — both of them drew out the seconds as if they could stretch the hour thinner and make it last.

“Drive safe,” he said finally, the familiar words softened by a tenderness that caught in her chest. She leaned in and pressed her mouth to his in a quick, certain kiss — a kiss that was ritual now.

He smiled when they broke apart, reached into the small paper bag in his hand, and pulled out a chocolate muffin that she hadn’t even realised he was carrying. “For later,” he whispered, knowing without asking that it was still her favourite. It took her a second to realise that he’d probably grabbed it from the display case as he was settling the check, and his thoughtfulness nearly knocked her off her feet.

She laughed, her eyes bright with affection, and kissed him again, slower this time, gratitude and sweetness layered into the press of her lips. Then she slipped into the driver’s seat with the muffin carefully balanced on her lap.

He closed the door for her, his hand lingering on the frame just a second longer than necessary, and then stepped back as she started the engine. As she pulled onto the road, she caught sight of him in her rear-view mirror: tall, steady, standing in the sunlight with his hands in his pockets, watching her go. The image followed her long after he’d disappeared from view.

And as the miles ticked away, she found herself smiling at nothing and everything. The idea of him back in D.C. was no longer abstract; she could picture it with startling clarity. Afternoons that stretched unhurried, coffee shops tucked into corners of the city, lunch hours that didn’t feel stolen but simply belonged to them. Something steady, and something wholly theirs.

She gripped the steering wheel tighter as a quiet thrill ran through her. For once, her excitement wasn’t something she tucked away, hidden even from herself. It sat there, bright and undeniable.

This was becoming real.

As Emily’s car slipped out of sight, Aaron let out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. He turned back toward his own car, still warmed by the echo of her smile, and pulled his phone from his pocket.

A new notification from the realtor lit the screen.

Congratulations! Your application for the apartment has been approved.

He blinked and read the message again. After weeks of searching, of half-measures and uncertainty, here it was — something solid. A new apartment; a new beginning.

And though he hadn’t told her yet or hadn’t dared name whatever it was they were weaving between them, the timing felt impossibly right. For the first time in years, Aaron felt not only that he was moving forward, but that he was moving toward something.

This was becoming real.

Chapter Text

Aaron’s apartment was quieter than he remembered it ever being, though maybe that was because he had stripped it bare one box at a time. The bookshelves where he had once stacked criminal psychology and profiling texts stood hollow, the couch was already shielded from dust by a layer of thin plastic wrap, and the excess kitchenware had been packed up and donated to the local Goodwill. He folded his shirts slowly and methodically, as though the motion might delay the inevitable.

The movers were due the next morning, and although he’d been counting down the days to his return to D.C., a sentimental part of him couldn’t quite believe that this chapter of his teaching journey was finally coming to a close. When the opportunity to join the department as a guest instructor had come his way years ago, he certainly hadn’t expected himself to say yes, let alone end up in a three-year contract, skeptical of his own ability to teach after his profiler instincts had been dulled by his time in WITSEC. But he couldn’t keep away from it for too long – and that was how Professor Hotchner had ended up settling in this cosy college town.

This was the place where he had relearned how to breathe; where he had spent long evenings drafting lectures or grading papers with a glass of scotch he rarely finished. He’d relearned how to be a profiler, albeit in ways that didn’t put him in the field or BAU bullpen. It was also where he had stood at the window one winter afternoon and watched his son open an acceptance notification from Harvard. He remembered thinking, with a mix of grief and pride so sharp it had nearly undone him, that Jack would no longer need him in the same ways he once had.

Teaching had surprised him in more ways than one. He’d never envisioned himself talking to lecture halls of fresh-faced undergraduates about criminal typologies, but it hadn’t taken him long to realise that he liked the person he was becoming: more patient and a more astute listener, gently guiding students who were hungry for a life he had nearly forgotten could exist. It was here in this small college town, too, that he had realised the walls between work and home did not always need to collapse in on each other. There could be mornings of quiet coffee, afternoons unclaimed by anyone’s emergencies, and evenings when the world did not end without him. There was no need to jump whenever his cell phone rang or he received a new email.

He closed the last box, pressed the tape down firmly, and for a moment just stood still. He’d always be grateful for this chapter, he knew, but a far more exciting one waited for him just a few hundred miles away.

Washington D.C.

He’d spent so many years of his life writing DMV-area zip codes below his address that it’d taken him months to kick the habit after WITSEC had relocated him and Jack to Vermont. The city had made him, in more ways than he cared to admit. It had pressed him into someone who could stand steady in the worst of storms and could wear composure like armour even when his body shook beneath it. The years he’d spent there had taught him how to lead without cruelty, how to hold the trust of people who had seen the world at its darkest, and how to carry that trust carefully – some of the hardest lessons he’d ever had to learn.

And it was there, too, that he had been undone. One house, one afternoon, and suddenly the life he had known was over – the street outside his home stained with sirens, his fists dripping with the blood of the man who’d stolen the woman he loved from him. He could still taste the bitterness of those years when grief was the only thing he allowed himself; when love felt like a betrayal of memory.

Yet the city had also surprised him with light and the possibility of warmth he thought he had forfeited, and Emily was a part of that. All those years ago, she had walked into the room where he had locked his heart away and reminded him, wordlessly, that it still beat. It was there, in those corridors and offices, and in the rhythm of late-night briefings and the quiet between crises, that he’d let hope take root again in between the cycles of grief and anguish. And now, she had walked right back into his life, and Aaron realised with wonder that the light she shone hadn’t dimmed or dulled in all their years apart.

D.C. was grief and grace in equal measure. The years he’d spent there were undoubtedly the toughest, but also the most defining. Now he was going back, not the same man who had once nearly drowned there, but someone who had learned, at last, that survival could give way to living.

And this time, he wouldn’t be stepping back into the city alone.

Emily had already promised to help him settle in the instant she’d found out his arrival date, and her simple offer carried more weight than either of them had spoken aloud. He could almost imagine the two of them moving through his half-empty rooms, her laughter breaking the silence and presence turning the space into something less temporary. As he boxed up the last of his things and settled in for his final night in this apartment, the prospect of returning felt less like walking into memory and more like walking toward a future – one in which she was already waiting.

Emily leaned back in her chair, her final stack of paperwork finally cleared, and let her fingers trace the edge of the desk – a habit she had when her mind wandered too far.

Aaron was arriving tomorrow.

She hadn’t seen him in three weeks, but already the apartment she imagined for him seemed alive with possibility: boxes stacked just so, the soft weight of his presence settling over the rooms he’d make his own.

Her thumb hovered over the keyboard as she browsed the Crate and Barrel website for a housewarming gift that might carry more meaning than function. Candles seemed too simple, but the idea of something warm and small still appealed to her – something that quietly announced “you’re home” whenever he walked through the door. A set of books might be practical, but being in academia meant that he probably had enough of those to reach the ceiling, and she was fairly certain that he would already own whatever titles came to her mind, being the voracious reader he was.

(The memory of their last kiss came unbidden: the press of his lips and the weight of his body against hers. She was giddy just thinking about it — and anticipating being with him again.)

She clicked through pages, each item a tiny compromise between thoughtfulness and whimsy. A mug with a subtle design, a throw soft enough to sink into, a plant that might survive his careful neglect. But then she found it: a small tableware set, all clean lines and subtle glaze, that could live on his kitchen counter or the small table she imagined him sitting at for breakfast. She clicked “confirm pickup” and leaned back again, letting the chair cradle her as her mind wandered.

The office around her seemed to dissolve, replaced by the small, imagined world of Aaron’s apartment. She let herself linger on that image – the ordinary intimacy of helping him carry boxes, setting things down just so, arranging a corner of his space to feel like home. The tableware she’d picked already seemed alive in her mind: cups filled with morning coffee she knew he’d drink, spoons clinking softly against bowls. Intimacy, in one of its most subtle forms.

It was only a few hours of shared effort, and yet the thought of being there with him, moving through the quiet rhythm of unpacking, meant more to her than she’d ever anticipated – just the simple, steady joy of his presence, close enough to touch, and close enough to linger.

She gathered her things and let herself relish the thought that tomorrow, she would see him again.

Emily leaned against her car, the afternoon sun catching in her hair and two fresh cups of coffee in hand. She’d arrived earlier than she’d planned to – perhaps the anticipation of seeing him again had pulled her here before the clock demanded it. The quiet hum of the street and distant clatter of construction were the only sounds, yet the air itself seemed to hold its breath.

Less than three months ago she’d stood in the BAU bullpen and laid eyes on him for the first time in years. She couldn’t lie to herself — she’d been wondering, for longer than she cared to admit, if their paths would ever cross again. Now she was standing in the parking lot of his new apartment complex on the cusp of something new and exciting with him. It wasn’t lost on her that she used to spend weekends drinking wine alone in her apartment or hunched over paperwork in her office in Quantico; now there was a person who was lifting the loneliness she’d kept buried for years.

She wanted to spend time with him. The very thought made her feel buoyant, like the grey haze of loneliness brought on by the pandemic and the Section Chief job and the clusterfuck that was their current case was being lifted from her shoulders.

And now, they were finally in the same city again.

When Aaron’s car rolled up, she felt the familiar weight of his presence even before she saw him. “Emily,” he said as he stepped out of the car, and the single word made her chest flutter in the way it always did when he said her name nowadays – not “Prentiss”, like all those years ago, but just “Emily”, slow and certain.

This time, she didn’t hesitate. Their lips met in a kiss that was soft and lingering; a gentle reclamation of the weeks they’d spent apart. His fingers tangled briefly at her waist as if seeking permission to stay closer, and she let it.

Pulling back just enough to meet his eyes, she smiled mischievously. “Welcome back,” she whispered, letting the warmth of her words carry the day forward. He returned the smile, the faint crease at his brow softening, and for a heartbeat, the rest of the world fell away: just the two of them, and the beginning of unpacking still waiting inside.

Emily stepped inside the apartment behind him, letting her fingers brush against the edge of a box as she passed. It was her first time seeing the space outside the pictures he’d sent her, and it held a quiet potential; a kind of hush that promised the life he was about to build here. Aaron moved through the sun-drenched rooms with measured familiarity, as if testing each corner and imagining where his routines would settle. Emily followed, lingering by the kitchen counter and watching the silent choreography of someone unpacking not just boxes, but pieces of a life poised to start anew. Even the empty shelves and bare countertops spoke of possibility.

It struck her, as she stood there, how different this felt from the few times she’d stepped into his home back when they were still at the BAU. Then, she’d gone searching for him in the shadows of his silence after Foyet’s knife had nearly taken him from them, or to gather him up again when he was wounded and worn thin. But this… this was something else entirely. This apartment wasn’t about surviving what had been done to him; it was about choosing what came next. And she, somehow, was here to witness it.

“It’s… good,” she said softly, though the words felt too small for the way her chest swelled. “Feels like you’re on the cusp of something big.”

“It’s nice to finally be home,” he smiled.

Emily nodded, feeling the same pulse of excitement thread through her. Boxes sat like quiet witnesses, waiting for hands and care to bring them to life. And she realised, with a small and steady thrill, that she would be part of this chapter in the simplest, most meaningful way, by helping him carve the first lines of a story that was entirely his, yet somehow already included her.

They began with the kitchen. The half-open boxes revealed stacks of mugs, bowls, and the neat rows of plates Emily had been imagining all morning. She picked up the tableware set she’d chosen, holding in her hands as if weighing the way it might settle into his life, and handed it to him; he pressed a kiss to the corner of her lips and uttered a soft and sincere “thank you”. He arranged the pieces carefully on the shelves, tilting a cup in the sunlight, while she moved beside him unwrapping utensils. The faint scent of wood and ceramic drifted up around them, and she felt a quiet thrill at the access she had; at this glimpse of the man who had carried so much with such quiet control, letting her help shape his new space.

The books came next. Heavy tomes and lighter volumes filled the boxes and then his shelves, each title hinting at a past lecture or an evening spent reading long after the world had gone quiet. She gently brushed specks of dust off each cover before handing them to him, and in doing so felt the slow reorientation of her gaze, re-learning him in this small, intimate gesture. He was the same man she’d met twenty years ago – deliberate, steady and thoughtful, yet softened at the edges by years she hadn’t been there to witness.

A small box of miscellaneous items yielded pens, notebooks, and a small leather journal. Emily lifted it and Aaron reached instinctively, fingers brushing hers again and lingering with unspoken permission. She felt the warmth of him there, tethering the rhythm of her own movements; she relished the quiet intimacy of shared labour.

They moved through the apartment side by side, elbows brushing and shoulders occasionally bumping as they navigated the stacks of dishes and books. Laughter came softly and half-surprised at the minor misfits and curiosities each box revealed. Their hands met without thought – his steadying a plate as hers passed by a stack of books – and the contact felt ordinary and electric at once. She lingered on the small, habitual things: his brows furrowed in concentration as he reordered his books by author, the way sunlight caught the salt and pepper in his hair, the almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of his mouth when she nudged him with a teasing remark. The room seemed to pulse with a closeness she hadn’t quite anticipated.

She realised, standing in his living room among the boxes and the private world of his belongings, that this was the first time they had been alone together – properly alone – without the noise of restaurants or careful restraint of public places. The quiet of his new apartment seemed to hold its breath around them, the cardboard boxes forming a shelter that made the space feel smaller and safer. For once there was no audience, or a reason to pull back or measure their closeness, and the shift in intimacy was so subtle it might have gone unnoticed – except that both of them felt it, like a current running between them.

By the time the last box had been cracked open, the apartment had started to take shape. Emily stepped back, letting her eyes travel over the small gestures that had always marked him as Aaron Hotchner: attentive, precise, quietly protective, and somehow impossibly tender. She inhaled and let the moment settle around her like warmth.

“How does takeout sound?” he offered.

“Sounds perfect,” she said, leaning back against the counter as he pulled out his phone and perused Postmates. The thought of leaving the apartment after the long day of unpacking made both of them pause, but it didn’t quite matter. The warmth of the space they’d begun shaping felt more far inviting than any restaurant could.

“My treat, of course.”

Minutes later, the doorbell announced their meal, and Emily rose to grab the bags, inhaling the comforting aroma that spilled into the apartment. They set the containers down on the table, the steam rising like a quiet bridge between the day’s work and the evening to come. Plates and cups clattered gently as they arranged their food, small, mundane gestures taking on a rhythm of intimacy: passing a dish, knees brushing under the table, laughing softly at the minor mishaps of spilled sauce or stubborn lids.

As they settled into their meal, the fatigue of the day folded into calm. Emily sipped from her cup, glancing at him as he maneuvered a fork. For a moment, the apartment – the empty boxes, the filled shelves, the soft glow of the evening – felt entirely theirs. The promise of more days like this stretched gently ahead.

By the time dinner had dwindled to empty containers and the faint, lingering aroma of pad thai, Emily pushed her plate aside and stretched slightly, the day catching up to her in a quiet, pleasant ache. Aaron rose, stretching one arm above his head, and she felt the pull of his presence beside her, steady and calm. “Come sit,” he said, patting the couch.

She moved beside him and settled into the soft cushions. She rested her head on his shoulder at first, savouring the ease of proximity and brush of his arm against hers. Aaron shifted slightly and eased her into his embrace, one hand slipping around her back while the other found hers, their fingers lacing together naturally.

He pressed a series of gentle kisses to her forehead, each one slow and deliberate, tracing a quiet line from her temple to her hairline, as if memorising the curve of her face, and somehow it felt even more intimate than being kissed on the lips. His hands rested lightly at her shoulders, steadying her, and she felt the warmth of him settle in her chest with each soft press of his lips. “Thank you for coming over… for helping. It means a lot.”

Emily met his eyes for a moment before leaning closer, the rhythm of their breathing aligning. “Anytime.”

It was the truth. There were a dozen things she needed to attend to – emails unanswered, reports to sign off on, schedules to juggle – but in this quiet moment, all of it receded. She wanted to make time for him and linger in this closeness, and the awareness of that desire hit her with a small, powerful force.

Being here, with him, just mattered more. She let herself settle fully into it, letting the rest of the world wait, even if for just an evening.

Then, with a mischievous glimmer in her eyes, she added, “You know, I think we should celebrate properly – your return to D.C., I mean. Maybe a nice dinner out before the new semester begins?”

Aaron raised an eyebrow, and a smirk tugged at his lips. “Oh? Are you asking me on a date, Emily Prentiss?”

Her smile widened. “Well… it’s about time we had a proper one. The kind that marks a new chapter.”

(A new chapter, in more ways than one.)

“A real date, then,” he chuckled, before stamping a kiss to her lips. “I think I can be persuaded.”

She leaned back slightly, letting the playfulness linger, but the comfortable silence that enveloped them felt like a small, perfect beginning for everything that awaited. Her fingers flexed in his hand, seeking the press of his thumb, and he responded, squeezing lightly in return, the simple gesture anchoring them both.

For a minute, her mind drifted and teased itself with the thought of their upcoming dinner. The idea of watching him smile across the table, and of sharing food and conversation while stealing small glances at one another, made her lips tug upward in a quiet grin. Maybe she’d see how easily she could make him laugh, just like all the meals they’d shared in diners and cafes over the last couple of months. Maybe she’d find a way to brush her hand against his across the table between bites of food or sips of wine. She already had the perfect dress planned out – one that she unearthed only for the most special of occasions – and it felt almost as if it had been waiting for this moment, just like she had been waiting too.

Aaron, for his part, was already replaying the gleam in her eyes and the teasing lift of her smile. He let himself imagine the date too: walking the streets of the city he was learning to call home again, an elegant restaurant downtown, laughter spilling between them, and perhaps the kind of touches that said more than words ever could. It’d been months since he’d last put on a suit, but the thought of dressing for her made the act feel like a small celebration in itself. The anticipation of it all settled into his chest.

They knew that it wasn’t just the prospect of dinner, but it was what the dinner meant: the quiet acknowledgement that they were stepping into something more defined. Something official. That awareness threaded itself into the space around them now and heightened every glance and shift of movement.

They could feel the quiet air between them shifting with the knowledge that this was the first time they had allowed themselves the privacy to lean closer and test the edge of what they had been circling for weeks. There was an almost giddy current of nervousness beneath their composure, and it made the simple act of sitting close feel charged.

Her knee brushed his first; it was a small, accidental touch that made her breath catch. He turned his head toward her, eyes dark with intent, one hand sliding to her waist with a quiet certainty, and she met him halfway. The kiss began softly and almost tentatively, before the tension that had been held back too long pulled them deeper. His thumb grazed her cheek; her fingers curled lightly into the fabric of his shirt, anchoring herself as they found the rhythm of it.

Their mouths parted and found each other again, kisses warm and unhurried, but threaded with a low thrum of hunger. The press and slide of their lips carried heat in every shift and stolen breath. His hand moved slightly at her waist, palm warming her skin through the fabric of her blouse, while she tilted toward him, her body aligning instinctively with his. The couch seemed to hold them in place, drawing them down into its cushions until time felt suspended.

When they finally drew back, she rested her forehead against his, lips tingling from the sweetness of it. They didn’t speak or move away for many long minutes; it was enough to sit there, tangled in the warmth of each other, aware that they had crossed into something new and irretrievable. And in the quiet that followed, with his arm still firm around her and her hand still resting against his chest, she thought of the drive home and her empty apartment waiting, and knew she wasn’t ready to return to it yet.

Here, the silence was companionable and the closeness unforced, and she let herself imagine that this was what it might be like to belong. She closed her eyes and relaxed into his embrace, and knew she would remember this: the quiet before everything shifted; the moment she allowed herself to stay.

Chapter Text

Emily was uncharacteristically nervous as she rummaged through the depths of her closet for her red-bottomed heels — the heels that she saved only for special occasions. She hadn’t found an excuse to wear them in over a year now, and was even considering selling them on The RealReal… until it hit her that only her Louboutins would suffice for her date.

Her date with Aaron Hotchner, that is.

This wasn’t her first time at La Grande Boucherie. She was more than acquainted with their extensive wine list and menu of elegant-but-unpretentious French classics. And technically, this wasn’t their actual first date, although the results of that debate lay in semantics.

When she slipped the shoe onto her foot and wobbled a little, she had to steady herself against her closet door. Ridiculous, she thought, that after years of undercover work, life-or-death standoffs, and navigating labyrinthine Bureau red tape, one dinner could undo her composure. Still, her palms were faintly damp as she reached for her dress — emerald, sleek, a garment she knew flattered her but which suddenly felt like a gamble. Too much? Too little? Would he see the effort, or would he see through it?

She caught her reflection in the mirror and pressed her lips together. There was no disguising the flush high on her cheekbones or the way her chest felt too tight. She forced herself to breathe to remember that this was Aaron Hotchner — steady, familiar Aaron — and not some stranger whose opinion could dismantle her. And yet, the thought of him watching her walk into that restaurant and his eyes sweeping over her in the low light sent a thrill darting through her.

On the dresser, her phone buzzed with a text. For a heartbeat she considered ignoring it to preserve her bubble of preparation, but curiosity got the better of her.

Aaron: Can’t wait to see you.

It was exactly his kind of message: simple and unadorned. And somehow, it only made her stomach flip harder.

She typed and erased three different responses before settling on a short reply.

Emily: Me too.

Then she dropped the phone face-down, as though even that tiny admission risked giving too much away. With one final deep breath and look in the mirror, she grabbed her purse and headed out the door.

Aaron stood in front of his closet longer than he cared to admit. He’d already chosen a suit — classic black, well-cut, and reliable — but the shirt gave him pause. White was crisp and safe; light blue softened him a little. He pulled both down, laid them across the bed, and stared like the choice mattered more than it should. He’d been to enough formal dinners in his career to know it didn’t, but tonight wasn’t about formality. Tonight was about Emily.

His fingers were steady and deliberate as he buttoned the blue shirt. He didn’t bother second-guessing once it was on; indecision wasn’t his habit. Still, as he adjusted the cuffs, he felt the tug of nerves low in his chest, reminding him he was stepping into territory that he wanted to navigate carefully.

His watch went on last; it was a ritual he hadn’t broken since his early days at the Bureau. He caught his reflection in the mirror and found nothing out of place, though a shadow of a smile lingered at his mouth. He let it stay.

His phone lit up with her reply to his earlier text.

Emily: Me too.

It was brief and unguarded, but enough to make his anticipation sharpen into something almost physical. He slipped the phone into his pocket, reached for his jacket, and headed out the door with the quiet certainty that tonight mattered more than either of them had admitted yet.

La Grande Boucherie was already humming by the time Emily arrived, and somehow that only made her more nervous. She paused just past the entrance to gather herself and let her eyes adjust to the low light, one hand clutching her purse and the other nervously smoothing a crease on her dress.

And then she saw him.

Aaron rose from their table almost before she had the chance to wave. For a beat he simply looked, and his gaze was unguarded and almost startled, like she’d managed to catch him off balance in the best possible way. He crossed the space between them with a sense of purpose she felt all the way through her chest, and then, before she could second-guess her dress or her heels or the shade of her lipstick, he leaned in and kissed her. It sent the tension spiralling out of her body so fast that she nearly laughed in relief. By the time he drew back, the nerves that had dogged her all evening were gone.

“You look beautiful, Em.” The sheer affection and admiration in his gaze made her weak in the knees.

“And you clean up well, Aaron,” she smiled.

His mouth softened into a smile that he rarely showed in public — the one she’d now come to think of as being specially for her. And just like that, the night was theirs.

They slid into their seats and opened their menus, more out of habit than necessity. Emily already knew half the offerings by heart, while Aaron, steady as ever, studied the page as if he might uncover some hidden truth between hors d’oeuvres and entrées.

“Pinot noir?” she suggested, glancing at the wine list before passing it over. He nodded, trusting her judgment, and when the sommelier appeared, Aaron ordered with quiet confidence, his voice low enough that she found herself leaning in, caught more by the cadence than the content.

The wine arrived, rich ruby in the glass, and with it a sense of ease neither had been certain would come. Much to their relief, conversation slipped into place as if no time had passed at all. Stories were traded — small ones, half-jokes about work, sharper memories softened by candlelight — and woven into the hum around them until the rest of the restaurant seemed to fall away. She gestured animatedly with her fork; he listened with that attentive stillness that had once unsettled her but now felt like a gift.

Their knees brushed under the table, over and over again. He didn’t move away; he didn’t want to.

Aaron let his gaze linger on the slope of her shoulders in that dress and the way the light caught at the silver of her hair. He couldn’t hold back a smile as he basked in the unmistakable glow she carried, like she had walked through fire and somehow came out brighter. God, she was beautiful, maybe even more so than usual, with her ebullient, relaxed smile, hearty laughter reverberating in his ears, and the dress hugging her curves so effortlessly.

Luminescent. That was the right word to describe Emily, her skin glowing in the low light and brown eyes sparkling when she raised them to look at him. He was no stranger to his own attraction to her, but it was like seeing her in a brand new light all over again: this relaxed, carefree version of her whose effervescent laughter made his heart soar, yet still very much the same Emily he’d fallen for all those years ago, with her kind smile and unshakeable determination, but who could also make his skin flush with desire.

She caught him staring and arched her brow. “What?”

He only shook his head, lips curving faintly as he reached for his glass. “Nothing.”

But it wasn’t nothing at all.

By the time the plates were cleared, the city outside had deepened into night. Emily felt light and almost weightless, and not just from the wine. Laughter was spilling from her in bursts she hadn’t anticipated, and Aaron’s quiet attentiveness only made her smile wider. Their knees touched again under the table and the friction sent warmth spiralling up her leg. Their fingers brushed when she reached for her glass; he didn’t recoil. The silence itself was intimate; it was a pulse they both felt in the space between them.

When they finally stood, moving toward the door, he draped his jacket over her shoulders without a word. They stumbled into the cool night air with his hand on the small of her back, their mirthful conversation giving way to a contented, peaceful silence. She leaned into him for warmth and support as they waited for their Uber, and he took her in his arms and pressed his forehead to hers, the combination of wine on her warm breath and their closeness doubly intoxicating.

“Guess my boyfriend escorts me home now,” she laughed, teasing but sincere.

Aaron’s gaze softened. She had given their closeness a name; drawn the line between what they had been and what they were now. “We’re not quite in high school anymore, but… I like the sound of that.”

He more than liked the sound of that; he loved the certainty of it. He loved her certainty about it.

She let her hand slip into his when they paused at her doorstep, and there was no ambiguity anymore; this was theirs now.

“Call me when you get home?”

“Always.” His thumb brushed over hers in a gentle, grounding rhythm.

Then she leaned in, and their lips met again, slow, warm, and knowing. He held her closer, one hand sliding around her waist and the other brushing her hair back, and she pressed herself into him without thought, letting the world shrink to the press of his body and steady thrum of his heartbeat.

When they finally pulled apart, just barely, they lingered in the hush of the night for a few more stolen seconds, both already feeling the weightless promise of what was to come next.

The next time he saw her just a few days later, she’d traded her emerald slip dress for leggings and a sports jacket, but he still thought he’d never seen someone more beautiful.

“Do you need Tide pods?” Emily casually pushed the cart into the detergent aisle, impervious to his racing train of thought. “You might as well stock up on snacks while we’re here.”

He almost didn’t hear her question, because he was lost in the absurdity of thinking about love in the aisles of a suburban grocery store.

Emily had crossed his mind countless times over the years, but walking down the aisles of a grocery store with her as she loaded the cart with household essentials certainly hadn’t. He laughed to himself thinking about how ridiculous that would’ve sounded to him just a couple of months ago, but watched her push their bright blue cart past a wall of Tide pods and thought that he could happily dwell in this absurdity forever — her laugh, their fingers grazing on the cart handle, Maroon 5 music on full volume in the background.

“You know what the easiest way to make your students like you is?”

It took a second for him to register that she was talking to him, and he quickly caught himself. “Mmm?”

“Buy that and give them out at the start of your next lecture.” She pointed at an obscenely large bag of Twizzlers and his eyes shot open in disbelief.

“These are young adults, not grade school kids,” he scoffed. “I don’t think I can win them over with candy.”

“Oh, you’ll be surprised.”

“Seriously?”

“Well, I’d pay complete attention to you if you handed me candy at the start of a long lecture,” she remarked with a mischievous smirk.

“Because of the candy?”

“Obviously,” she drawled, leaning on the cart, “Professor Hotchner.”

The title made him pause. It sounded different from her lips than from any student’s; it was warmer, sweeter, and far more reverent. His pulse accelerated wildly – how could something as simple as hearing that from her lips undo him? “Strange hearing that outside the classroom.”

Her eyes glinted. “You like it?”

“Yes,” he admitted almost sheepishly. “Especially from you.”

She laughed, low and teasing. “Careful, Professor. I might have to start evaluating your snack choices.”

He leaned closer and covered her hand with his. “In that case, I’d flunk out immediately.”

Her grin deepened as she leaned in too. “Not in my book. I’d give you an A.”

Aaron’s gaze lingered on her, the Twizzlers and laundry detergent forgotten. The aisles and fluorescent lights around them had faded into the background, and suddenly every grin and every teasing Professor Hotchner felt like a game only they knew how to play. They made their way down the final aisles, Emily tossing the last few items into the cart while he hoisted the absurdly large bag of Twizzlers like it was a trophy.

“Careful,” she said, trying not to laugh. “You’re going to sprain something.”

“I think I can manage,” he grinned down at her. “Unless you think I should also get that family-sized bag of Reese’s.”

She reached for his hand. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet, entirely yours.”

Her eyes widened. “You really are ridiculous, Professor Hotchner.”

He looked at her, mock-offended but smiling. “Let’s just call it… thorough preparation.”

She shook her head, still grinning, and nudged the cart with her hip. “Well, then, let’s see if your students are as easily won over as I am.”

And with that, they moved toward the register, the bag of candy cradled in his arms, which felt like an intimate little victory that was theirs alone. He buckled the bags in the car, glancing at her as she settled into the passenger seat, her hair slightly mussed and cheeks flushed from laughing. The ordinary chaos of detergent, candy, and cart collisions suddenly felt entirely extraordinary. He found himself smiling, again, at the sheer ridiculousness of it all: the two of them, caught up in grocery aisles and Maroon 5, and somehow, perfectly at ease.

For the first time in a long while, he thought maybe this absurd, chaotic, and completely mundane moment was exactly where he wanted to be.

Two weeks passed sharp and quick, and in them they saw each other only twice – the rest of the time was measured in fragments.

Both of them were busy in the ways they’d been for most of their lives, the calendar sparing no generosity. Her days were crowded with Sicarius – the case had become folded into every conversation, late-night meeting in the conference room, and even the hours she spent alone in her office poring over reports. On the other side of the city, his were stitched with his new syllabi and reading lists, lectures that asked for his whole attention, and orienting himself on a brand new college campus that felt intimidatingly larger than his previous.

A part of Emily selfishly wished that they’d come to their senses over ten years ago and taken this leap of faith when they both spent most of their waking hours together at Quantico or side by side on the jet. But she also knew that things wouldn’t be blooming as sweetly as they were now if they’d found each other amidst the chaos of cases and evidence boards. There simply was no need to rush, not when they finally lived in the same city again and knew from years of experience that they’d find intimacy in other ways.

The small things were everything, and they made the days between seeing each other pass just a touch faster.

It started with a text at noon on a mundane Tuesday afternoon: Read this when you can — page three has a line that makes me think of you. She clicked the link between meetings and smiled when she opened the article; the line was a seemingly ordinary quotation about patience, but in her pocket his name pulsed like reprieve in the breakneck speed at which the case was unfolding. She replied with a pithy remark and a heart, then buried her head in the next task.

On another afternoon, in the quiet geometry of her office, he left her a voice message: Call me when you get a minute. The tension of the day fled her when he picked up, his voice threaded with warmth and assurance she hadn’t realised she needed so desperately. They spoke for six minutes – nothing too heavy, mostly fragments – and when he hung up the silence felt changed, as if he had been in the room sitting across from her the whole time.

She, too, found ways to sneak him into parts of her day and delighted at the secret she was keeping tucked under her skin. Once, she sent him a photograph of a half-eaten carton of noodles from the Chinese take-out place near Quantico that he’d grown sick of over the years; he replied with a link to a Siouxsie and the Banshees song with a single line: listen at 2:07 (and she did, in the privacy of her car on the drive home). Sometimes she would text him or leave a voice message between interrogations while her pen scored the margin of a statement, and imagined him gathering her texts like small liturgies.

By the close of the week, when the hours had begun to wear thin, he sent a line he had been holding back:

Aaron: How does dinner tomorrow sound? Maybe a movie?

She answered with an image of her calendar, Saturday circled in red, and underneath it, scrawled in her own hand, Date night?

Aaron: Looking forward to it.

She looked at the glow of the screen for a long moment. Just two more days, she thought, and they could finally enjoy a rare and treasured silence that belonged only to the two of them, where neither the Sicarius file nor his syllabus could intrude. It was nothing more than a plan scribbled onto her calendar, but the very thought made the rest of the week feel a touch lighter.

Just a day more, and they would have time to breathe together again.

Aaron wasn’t entirely sure why he was so nervous when he pulled up outside Emily’s apartment complex the following night, until it hit him that he’d never actually been inside her current apartment. Stepping into it felt like crossing a threshold into something she hadn’t shown anyone in years, and so he stood in the doorway for a beat too long, letting the details sink in. He still remembered her old apartment – the one overlooking the Capitol, with its stainless steel Bosch appliances and floor-to-ceiling windows that made him wonder just how much she had shelled out for a place like that. This one wasn’t quite as palatial, but that wasn’t the first thing he noticed about it – all he could think about was just how Emily it was.

She grimaced apologetically when she mentioned that she hadn’t found much time to tidy up after a long week working their case, but Aaron thought that he actually preferred things this way. Her books were pressed close on the shelves without a clear organising principle, the French and Italian and Spanish tucked among the English, and a half-empty mug rested abandoned on the coffee table, next to what looked like a stack of Post-Its she’d been scrawling case-related details on. A throw blanket was carelessly tossed across the back of the couch as if she had fallen asleep under it the night before, and he hoped that she hadn’t spent the previous evening the same way he used to when he was Unit Chief, poring over case files until he dozed off. Framed photographs of friends and family were tucked into corners, some crooked, as if she’d never been fussy about presentation. And he still thought it was the most beautiful place he’d ever seen, in all its chaos and character, because of the unmistakable sense that she lived here.

This was the one landscape she had chosen, stitched together, and made warm, and she was letting him in. He was being invited into her interior life — not the one she carried to the office or wore like armour in every interrogation room, but the quieter one that loved mismatched mugs, half-finished books and evenings that ended curled on a couch. He knew, even before she turned back to him with two glasses of wine in hand, that this was a kind of intimacy he hadn’t expected, and that he would treasure it more than anything.

“What do you feel like eating?” Her voice punctured the silence. She had already pulled out her phone to browse through Postmates, the glow reflecting soft in her eyes as she scrolled through menus.

He watched the way her hair caught the light and how her fingers hovered over the screen. “Whatever you want is fine.”

She looked up, amused. “Really? You’re letting me choose? Dangerous.”

“Not dangerous,” he said slowly. “Trusting.”

Within minutes the order was placed: two curries, fried rice, and a pile of spring rolls. There was nothing fancy about their order, and yet he thought he’d never been so aware of the ordinary becoming sacred. They set themselves up on the couch with plates on their laps, the low hum of a playlist she’d made for the evening filling the corners of the room. Their knees brushed, and he let his hand find hers, fingers interlacing as they ate.

It was so simple and so unassuming, and yet, in the faint clatter of takeout containers and the warm, golden light of her apartment, he didn’t think he’d felt so… comfortable in many years. Just the quiet way she’d let him in like this was far more than he’d ever expected from Emily, and his gratitude for it all nearly overwhelmed him.

And all this because Dave had invited him to Emily’s birthday party.

(He could already imagine Dave’s smug reaction to finding out that his invitation had made something blossom.)

By the time the cartons were empty and their chopsticks abandoned, they’d shifted closer without remarking on it. The silence between them was thick with the kind of ease he hadn’t realised he’d been starving for – after days of not seeing her, he was savouring every minute he could get. Emily wiped her fingers on a napkin, reached for the remote, and with the same casualness she had when tossing spring rolls into a box, she said, “Movie?”

He nodded, and before he could ask, she’d queued up Dirty Dancing, which they’d joked over dinner was a sign of their age. The opening notes slipped into the room, and he smiled again at the choice – unabashedly romantic, quietly bold, and entirely her. Emily leaned back into the couch and tucked herself against him as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and he followed without hesitation, sliding an arm around her shoulders and fingers finding hers with the other.

They didn’t exchange words for a long time – the movie’s dialogue filled the small spaces between them – but still every once in a while she would shift even closer, pressing into him just slightly more, and he would tilt his head to brush his lips against her skin in a quiet reminder that they were both here, fully, in a way the rest of the week rarely allowed – something that would’ve been impossible when they both worked in the BAU. It’d taken nearly twenty years to get here, but they were here, nonetheless, and he didn’t want to waste a second of it. And from the way she leaned into him, he knew that she didn’t either.

He marvelled at the way she seemed luminous even in the low light. Ordinary movements – her fingers grazing his arm as she reached for popcorn (which he realised she’d bought specifically for tonight) and her hair brushing against his collarbone when she curled into him – felt like a private language only he knew. When Johnny and Baby spun across the screen, she laughed softly, and he responded with a kiss to her temple, then her mouth.

They fell into a rhythm, and Aaron almost couldn’t believe just how effortless it felt: watch, laugh, lean in, kiss, settle back. At some point, she let herself relax fully into him, the weight of her body soft and warm against his chest. He tightened his arm around her waist, protective but not possessive, and she exhaled against him, a small, happy sound — one that he wanted to hear for the rest of his life.

Eventually, the laughter ebbed away into silence as the week’s weight finally pressed down on them both. He felt it in the smallest shifts – her body gradually went slack against him; her breath deepened until it brushed steady and warm across his shirt. He knew he should move to let her have her bed and ease her into comfort, but couldn’t bring himself to, because any movement felt like it might disturb the delicate quiet she had found at last. He was all too familiar with the post-case fatigue, so he stayed exactly as he was, arm curved around her, heartbeat careful and steady beneath her cheek.

The weight of her trust kept him still, and when his own fatigue began to blur the edges of thought, he let it take him too, their breaths folding into the same slow rhythm. And in the hush of her living room, with the credits rolling unseen, he thought there was nowhere else in the world he would rather close his eyes.

Chapter Text

Emily slipped into the lecture hall with a quiet precision that came from years in the field and let the heavy door settle shut behind her with a muted click. The space smelled faintly of chalk dust and varnished wood, and the air echoed with the rhythmic clicks of attentive students typing away on their Macbooks. She slid into a seat at the back, her breath still carrying the chill of winter outside, and then she saw him.

Aaron stood at the front of the room, one hand braced lightly against the desk as he spoke, his voice carrying with that unshakable calm that once steadied an entire team through the worst humanity had to offer. His posture filled the room without force, and quiet authority radiated from the straight line of his shoulders. He was still very much the Hotch she remembered who knew exactly how to command attention without raising his voice, and she was struck by a sudden, unexpected swell of pride.

The light caught the streaks of silver at his temples and the lines etched around his eyes that spoke of both years lived and strength hard-won. Emily let her gaze linger on him, knowing she should feel guilty for intruding like this but utterly unable to tear her eyes away. He was magnetic in this space, with the professor’s calm precision, layered over the profiler’s intensity she knew so well.

She leaned back in her chair, heart thrumming as she watched him field a question from a student. She swallowed against the rush of emotion and allowed herself, just for a moment, the rare indulgence of seeing him unobserved; of memorising him like this, composed and unguarded, the weight of his attention turned elsewhere.

And yet, even as she told herself he wouldn’t notice her here, she felt the unmistakable flicker of his gaze and the briefest hesitation in his voice before he continued. Her breath caught. He had seen her.

She stayed in her seat as the lecture wound to a close. Aaron dismissed his class with a nod, and Emily let herself linger, watching him gather his papers, his gestures measured and unhurried. He had always moved like this, precise and self-contained, but with a gravity that drew every eye in the room, hers most of all. She waited until the last student slipped out before stepping down the aisle with her hands tucked into her coat pockets, a smile already playing on her lips.

“Hi,” she said softly, and the warmth that flickered across his face undid her.

“Em.” His smile was touched with that quiet pleasure she had missed more than she dared admit. He set his notes aside and closed the distance between them, leaning down to brush a kiss against her temple – a small, unguarded gesture he allowed himself now that they had crossed the fragile threshold between friendship and something infinitely more tender. “You’re early.”

“Used my power as the boss to declare the rest of the day off,” she chuckled as she slipped her arms around his waist. She felt him laugh under his breath, the sound reverberating through his chest, and he held her for a moment in that dim lecture hall.

“Lucky me,” he said, and when she tipped her face up to meet his eyes, she saw the same expression he’d worn the first time he’d kissed her in the hotel lobby months ago, as if he were still a little surprised by the rightness of it.

Minutes later, Emily leaned against the edge of his desk as he moved around his office, packing his briefcase with the same careful precision she had always admired. She propped her chin in her hand, watching the way his shoulders filled the space, the slow, deliberate motion of smoothing each folder before setting it aside, and the faint crease in his shirt that made her want to reach out and flatten it herself. When he glanced up, the warmth in her gaze met his.

“Thanks for coming,” he said softly. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Of course, Professor Hotchner,” she winked.

She didn’t think she’d ever get sick of the way his eyes sparkled whenever she called him that.

He reached for another folder, and she brushed her fingers lightly against his hand as she placed it down. She leaned just a fraction closer, enough that their shoulders brushed, and allowed herself to drink in his calm authority and quiet strength. He met her gaze with that slow, knowing smile that had haunted her thoughts for years.

“You’re trouble,” he said, exhaling softly, though there was affection in the way he watched her.

“I prefer charming,” she countered, tilting her head and letting a smile curl at her lips.

He laughed softly, low and rich, and she felt it resonate through her chest, filling her with warmth and awe all at once. “Is that so?” he murmured, raising a brow. “I suppose it’s my duty to keep you on task, then.”

“Am I your favourite student?” she teased, letting her voice drop to a warm murmur.

“Of course. My most beautiful student, too,” he replied without a hint of irony, his thumb brushing against her hand as she rested it on the desk.

The sincerity in his eyes nearly knocked the wind out of her. For a long moment, they simply looked at each other, and she felt herself unravel under the steady warmth of his gaze, her composure fraying thread by thread until all she wanted was the certainty of his mouth on hers.

“Lunch can wait,” she said finally, letting her smile speak what words could not, and stepping forward to press a kiss to his lips. It unfolded with the kind of care that made her knees weaken. She leaned into him and his hand settled at her waist with deliberate ease, anchoring her as though he’d been waiting for this as long as she had.

He chuckled against her mouth, the sound low and fond and vibrating through her in a way that made her want to draw him even closer. “Yes, it can,” he murmured, and for a moment, neither of them wanted it to be anything else.

The next morning, Emily woke alone with the faint imprint of him still on her skin although he wasn’t there. The lecture hall, his office, the brush of his fingers against hers… they all lingered in the corners of her mind like sunlight caught in a window. She poured herself a cup of coffee, and for a moment let herself fold back into the memory of his calm presence and low resonance of his laugh that seemed to echo even now.

Her phone buzzed, and she glanced down to find a message from him.

Aaron: Good morning. I’m thinking about you.

Her chest was full with warmth – his warmth – as if the space between them had no weight at all. At the bullpen, her hands moved over files and screens, but her mind kept returning to the aftertaste of yesterday: the brush of his shoulder, the tilt of his head, and the subtle charge that had threaded itself between them when he laughed at her teasing. She caught herself smiling at nothing, and Tara and Luke definitely raised an eyebrow, but she didn’t even care.

Later, in the quiet of her office, she found herself tracing the lines of his face in memory, the edges softened in the half-light of the late afternoon. She thought of the way his hands moved with purpose, and of the way he had chosen her without ceremony, simply by letting her see him without guard.

She sent him a quick text in reply — something inconsequential about a line from a case file that reminded her of him — but the subtext was unmistakable: I’m thinking of you, still.

Minutes later, her phone buzzed again.

Aaron: I'll be here if you want me.

And Emily realised, softly, that she did.

She wanted to be with him, because a part of her now imagined a life in which he was just… there. She wanted him to be part of the day-to-day; to make the unremarkable hours extraordinary by his presence alone.

The bridge between yesterday and tomorrow was no longer uncertain. It was threaded with anticipation, and she welcomed it.

Almost a week had passed since she’d seen him, and the absence pressed against her chest. She could no longer ignore the quiet ache.

The glow of the streetlights streaked across her windshield as she drove home. Her day had been tangled with meetings, case notes, and endless emails, but her thoughts had been elsewhere, circling around him, and around the brief stolen moments they’d shared just days ago. Her phone sat in the cupholder, silent and tempting.

Should she tell him? Could she tell him?

She wanted so badly to say that she missed him or that she was thinking about him constantly, but even the thought of speaking that first made her stomach flutter. She gripped the steering wheel tighter, half hoping he would somehow know, and half terrified that she might be overstepping.

Half an hour later, when she stumbled through the door of her apartment, juggling her bag and an armful of case files, she still couldn’t shake the feeling that had lodged in her chest. Her phone sat on the edge of the kitchen, screen dark, and she poured herself a glass of wine in a vain attempt to divert her attention somewhere else, until finally, she surrendered.

Emily: I had a long day. Can I call you?

It was a small and simple question, but the courage it took to hit send made her stomach flutter.

His reply came almost immediately.

Aaron: Of course.

“Hey,” he said when he picked up, and that single word carried the weight of all the afternoons and stolen moments they had shared, and all the mornings spent thinking of each other across the miles.

“I…” she began, her voice unsteady for the first time in ages. But there was no turning back now, and she knew, deep down, that she didn’t want to turn back either. “I miss you.”

There, in the quiet of her apartment, she’d finally admitted it. She missed him. She wanted his hand on the small of her back. She wanted to ensconce herself in his arms and to feel his lips against her forehead until her eyes grew heavy with slumber.

She missed him.

The words were an honest tremor in the evening air, and she realised that simply letting him know, in itself, felt like a kind of closeness.

He was silent for a second. She could hear the faint rustle of papers through the line and the quiet inhale of him absorbing her words.

“I… miss you too,” he said finally, and there was no hesitation or question in his words.“More than I thought I would.”

Relief flooded her. Even from a distance, they were finding their way into each other’s days, piece by quiet piece, and she didn’t know how she’d lived without this for so long. His voice was a balm to the countless lonely nights she’d spent alone in her apartment, swallowing her loneliness. She wasn’t truly alone anymore, and that thought made her feel buoyant. Someone she cared for deeply was here and choosing to be present with her, even across the miles.

Their voices stayed soft over the call as they traded small details of their days: the maze of FBI bureaucracy, a student question, a misbehaving printer. Emily felt herself relax into the rhythm, letting herself want and be heard, knowing he was there and choosing to listen.

When the call ended with a quiet “goodnight”, her heart was still racing, and she realised just how much she wanted him, more than she had admitted even to herself. But beneath the ache of that longing was the quiet, patient certainty that he wanted her just as much. And that certainty was a promise in itself – one that she knew she’d hold in her heart until the next time they met.

The days that followed their conversation on the phone were brutal in ways that even twenty years of FBI experience hadn’t prepared her for. Sicarius had his foot pressed to the team’s neck, the case felt like it was always on the precipice of disintegrating into chaos (or worse, nothing at all), and Penelope just had to give her a migraine by kissing a material witness to the one of the biggest investigations in the BAU’s history…

Sometimes, she hated her job.

Aaron, of all people, would understand that. She could have called him to unload the mess of the week into his ear, but she never could bring herself to. He’d left this life behind years ago and carried enough of his own weight, so she refused to add hers unless she had no choice. But the cracks were starting to show and she knew, with some regret, that she simply hadn’t been able to keep things locked in her mind anymore. The signs were there, in her clipped texts and the calls that were briefer than usual.

His call came one evening after she’d taken two Advils in a feeble attempt to fight the physical and figurative headache that the week had burdened her with. His voice was steady and gentle over the line:

“I know you’ve had a brutal week. Let me cook you dinner tomorrow?”

She hesitated for a moment, and it took her another second to figure out exactly why. It wasn’t unfamiliar to see him — he’d been in her apartment just a couple of weeks ago, after all — but the offer itself pressed against something tender.

Let me cook you dinner tomorrow?

It had been years since she’d let anyone step into her life in that way, and since she’d allowed herself the simple intimacy of being cared for without needing to calculate what it would cost her later. When even was the last time she sat down for a home-cooked meal, let alone a meal that someone else had cooked for her?

It was the sincerity in his offer undid her. She knew he hadn’t said it out of mere politeness or habit; that simply wasn’t the Aaron she knew. She was moved by the simple fact that he wanted to care for her in a way no one had in years. The thought that he wanted to, and that she could let him, was as frightening as it was tender.

“Yes,” she said at last, and she could feel the quiet satisfaction in his pause. “I’d love that.”

All through the next day, the thought pressed at her insistently, and even her stubborn headache took a backseat, as though her body, too, was just a fraction more unburdened by his offer. The morning meetings blurred into a string of voices she barely heard and the coffee on her tongue seemed sharper. Even the stack of papers on her desk felt lighter in her hands, as though they belonged to another life entirely.

Aaron had offered to cook dinner for her. The words kept circling back, each time with the same faint sense of disbelief, as though she might have misheard him, and yet she knew she hadn’t. It was such an ordinary gesture, and still it unsettled her, because it was the kind of ordinary she hadn’t let herself have in far too long. Wanting it felt like weakness, and yet she wanted it all the same.

By the time she descended to the Quantico parking garage, the evening stretched long across the pavement and her anticipation had already taken root: the warmth of a kitchen lit for her, two glasses of wine on the counter, and the scent of something simmering that she hadn’t lifted a finger to make.

The apartment smelled of fresh tomatoes and rosemary and the slow simmer of whatever he had coaxed into the pan warmed the air. She leaned against the counter, one hip propped, the stem of a wineglass cool between her fingers. From where she stood, she could watch the easy rhythm of his movements: the roll of his sleeves to his forearms, the deliberate precision of his knife against the cutting board, an occasional glance over his shoulder to see if she was still watching.

She was.

Every so often she tipped her glass to her lips, letting the wine bloom sharp on her tongue as her eyes followed the curve of his back and the way his shoulders settled as though he’d always belonged in her kitchen. When he handed her a small plate to taste, their fingers brushed, and she held the bite in her mouth longer than she needed to, as if savouring the press of his hand just as much as the food itself.

“When did you become such a good cook?” she asked in awe.

“Witness protection gave me a lot of time to experiment,” he winked. “How’s the pasta?”

She twirled a forkful and lifted it to her mouth, expecting competence at best, but the flavors bloomed rich and layered, the kind of depth that came from patience and attention. She closed her eyes briefly, tasting the faint heat of pepper, the brightness of tomato, and the comforting weight of cheese.

“It’s—” she stopped, shaking her head a little, a teasing smirk tugging at her lips. “It’s unfair, is what it is.”

He only watched her, pleased, and returned to his own plate with the same quiet ease that had unnerved her since the moment he’d stepped into her kitchen. It wasn’t simply that he was good at this; it was that he made it look natural, as though cooking for her, standing in her kitchen across from her, had always been part of his life. She found herself slowing down and letting each bite linger, not only because she wanted to stretch the meal but because she also wanted to stretch the moment. The clink of silverware, the steady rhythm of his breathing across the table, and the brush of his knee against hers under the wood were gentle affection she had been starved of without realising.

By the time the plates were cleared, she lingered at the sink beside him handing over dishes half-rinsed, her shoulder brushing his with each pass. The warmth of his hand against hers traveled up her arm in a slow, deliberate way; a silent claim that made her pulse hitch. He leaned just slightly closer to reach the faucet, and she felt the faint brush of his chest against her side. Her breath hitched, but she didn’t pull away — she simply couldn’t. Instead, she let the space between them shrink by the smallest fraction, her shoulder resting against his as she moved the wet dishes to the drying rack. She realised she hadn’t been this aware of him, or this attuned to his proximity, in a long time; maybe ever.

Her hand lingered on a plate he passed back, fingers brushing his again, and she felt the quiet gravity drawing them closer. Her chest tightened in a delicious ache she couldn’t name, and she found herself savouring the ordinary motions – the touch of his palm against hers and the scent of his cologne and aftershave — as if memorising them before anything else could happen.

By the time their dessert of sugared berries was ready, she had curled onto the couch, legs tucked beneath her, with a small bowl resting in her lap. He sank beside her, and the space between them vanished almost instantly. She offered him a berry, holding it out like a peace offering, and he leaned forward to take it from her fingers, eyes holding hers a moment longer than necessary. Their knees pressed together, shifting subtly until their legs were tangled, limbs curling around each other in a quiet assertion of closeness. She leaned back against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of it beneath her shoulder, and he draped an arm across her, the weight grounding her while simultaneously igniting something more urgent.

Suddenly, every taste and every movement were magnified. She pressed her temple lightly against his collarbone as he lifted a berry to her mouth, and she realised she was drinking him in just as greedily as the fruit, savouring the deliberate ease of their closeness and the heat that lingered wherever their bodies touched. He lifted another berry toward her, and instead of taking it from his hand, she leaned forward, catching his wrist lightly and guiding it lower until her lips brushed his knuckles. The gesture was soft and fleeting, but the look it drew from him was anything but – and neither of them could deny the tension coiling between them any longer.

For a moment neither of them moved, suspended in the quiet weight of it. The bowl of berries slid unnoticed onto the coffee table, and he tightened his arm around her, pulling her more fully against his chest, and the warmth of him became impossible to ignore.

Her breath caught, and that was all it took.

He dipped his head slowly and deliberately, and when his mouth found hers it was unrestrained and hungry in a way that startled her with its force. She met it just as fiercely, her hand tangling in his shirt, pulling him closer until there was no space left between them. The taste of sugar lingered on his tongue, sharp and sweet, and she drank it in as though she’d been waiting for this exact moment all evening. The kiss deepened, his thumb brushing her jaw as if to anchor her there, and she melted into him, letting the steady thrum of his heartbeat against her chest answer every question she hadn’t dared to ask.

Dessert was forgotten. The wine was forgotten. There was only his mouth on hers, his body wrapped around hers, and the sharp relief of desire that had finally broken free.

She barely noticed the couch beneath her as his mouth met hers, soft yet insistent, coaxing a shiver up her spine. Her shoulder pressed into the warmth of his chest; the brush of his thigh against hers made her breath hitch.

“Bedroom?”

“Bedroom.”

He ignored the ache in his knees as he lifted her and carried her down the hall, the steady press of him grounding her as she curled into his hold. The door clicked shut behind them. She let him just be, and let herself be, and let the tension in her shoulders dissolve into the weight of his arm across her back.

In the shaded darkness of her room, they kissed like people who had thought about it too long, the years pouring into their lips slow and heavy. Aaron’s lips pressed with a hunger he had buried beneath fatherhood and solitude, and Emily answered with a roughness that startled her, almost bruising in its urgency. Their mouths parted and closed again, breaths tangled, the taste of wine and longing sharp between them, as though thirst itself had found a vessel at last.

He gently lowered her onto the mattress, their chests pressed together, just drinking in the moment before everything changed. They didn’t move or exchange a word for a few long minutes, too intoxicated by their closeness after three months – maybe even decades – of carefully dancing around the desire that now simmered in the air. Her cheek rested against the line of his collarbone, fingers tracing the ridges of muscle and scars beneath his shirt, and he tilted his head, lips brushing her temple and lingering at her jaw, and she shivered, pressing closer.

When he moved to unbutton her blouse, his hands trembled. Her skin was warm and soft in places and scarred in others, and the sheer reality of her beneath his hands threatened to undo him. He lingered at her ribs, traced the edge of her waist, and bent to taste the hollow of her throat, where the salt of her skin mixed with the faint sweetness of wine. She gasped when his mouth moved lower, her fingers curling into his hair, pulling him close to anchor herself in the miracle of having him here. Her loneliness rose like a tide, years of hotel rooms with sheets cooling too quickly and silence stretching against her ribs, and she clung to him as though he might fill every empty space. Her voice broke into his ear, raw and certain: please, I need you.

She gingerly helped him strip his shirt away, baring the pale skin she had glimpsed only in fragments over the years — the line of his collarbone, the breadth of his shoulders. She touched him now without restraint, fingers pressing into his chest, her mouth following with slow, tasting kisses. When she reached his faded scars, she paused, pressing her lips there in recognition. I know, she murmured, and the words sank into him deeper than any caress.

Her hand lingered over the marks as though she could soothe the history written there, her thumb drawing small circles against his side. He watched her silently, chest tight, as if bracing for recoil or pity, but there was none – only the warmth of her palm and the quiet reverence in her eyes. She kissed the streaks on his skin again, softer still, and he let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding, the most guarded part of him loosening in her touch, and his breath caught.

Suddenly, it wasn’t just survival that lived in those scars anymore. It was the proof of having been carried through to a night where someone looked at him and didn’t see damage, but endurance.

He shifted and guided her gently onto her back, his lips grazing the hollow of her throat, and moving lower still until they found the brand mark etched above her breast. His mouth lingered there, tender as a prayer, and she shivered with the relief of being seen without hesitation. Her instinct was to flinch and turn away from the evidence of Ian Doyle’s cruelty, but he gave her no reason to; he pressed another kiss there, slower this time, as though he could lay claim to her survival itself, and her hand rose to cover his, grounding herself in the certainty that he wanted all of her, even the parts she had long believed were unlovable.

“You’re so beautiful, Emily.”

She averted eye contact again, her skin flushing a shy pink under him. Perhaps it was the unadulterated adoration in his eyes that made her shiver unconsciously – it was as though his gaze had physical weight, so pure and unwavering in its sincerity. There was nowhere to hide and no excuses she could conjure to close herself off from his affection; it lived in his body and burned brightly in his eyes.

Emily. Her name rolled off his lips like a prayer, reverent and entranced.

How did she deserve someone like him?

“I’ll never get enough of you.” His index finger traced her abdomen and lightly ghosted over her scars with a tenderness that made her want to burst. She realised with an almost blinding clarity as his lips met hers again, tenderness and care pouring into that caress, she wasn’t afraid anymore – not when both their bodies carried their histories openly.

This was their first time, and it felt impossible, like stepping into the body of a dream that had haunted them for decades. He had spent years imagining the slope of her shoulders and the way her hair slipped loose after long days, wondering what it might be like to cup her waist and feel her lean into him. She had thought of him too, catching glimpses when his shirt rode up as he’d reached for case files, or when his tie loosened after a long night; she imagined the solidity of his chest, and wanted nothing more than to feel the warmth that seemed to radiate even when they stood apart. Now those stray imaginings gave way to reality, more overwhelming than either had ever dared let themselves picture.

He kissed his way down her stomach and she trembled, her breath hitching when he moved lower still. He had imagined this too; wondered if he would ever have the chance to taste her, and now that he did he wanted nothing but to linger. His hands pressed into her thighs and thumbs smoothed along her skin as though mapping new ground, and then his mouth found her.

Emily cried out, sharp and startled, her hand fisting in the sheets before sliding back to his hair. It was almost too much — the wet heat of his mouth, and the way he moved with such deliberate care, as though she were the only thing he had ever wanted to know this closely. She had been touched before, but never like this: never with this patience; with the quiet reverence of a man drinking water after years in the desert. Her loneliness cracked open under it, spilling out in sobbing breaths.

“Aaron,” she gasped, voice breaking, “oh, God.”

He hummed against her until her body tightened around the sensation and she shuddered apart, her nails biting into his shoulders when she dragged him up to her. Her mouth found his with a desperate force and she tasted herself on his lips, needing him closer, needing all of him. She threaded her hands through his hair, tangling fingers in the strands at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer, and he groaned softly, brushing his lips over her jaw and along her collarbone, trailing warmth down her throat in small, measured touches.

His hands found the silver strands in her hair again, twining them between his fingers as he kissed her more softly now, whispering, “I’ve wanted this for so long.”

“So have I,” she breathed, her eyes dark and voice raspy with desire. Her arms wound around his torso, legs curling against his, anchoring herself to him while letting herself float.

He cupped her face, lips finding hers again, teeth grazing softly and tongue tracing gentle arcs, dragging his fingers lightly across the marks that had carried her through long years of solitude. The warmth of him melted away years of distance and loneliness, and she shivered into him, letting herself be claimed and claim in turn, desire and tenderness folding together until neither could tell where one ended and the other began.

When he entered her it was almost unbearable, the culmination of decades pressed into a single act. She cried out and clutched his back as though to fuse them together, nails dragging lightly before digging in. He groaned against her throat, the sensation overwhelming, like a language he had thought lost suddenly returning to him. He moved with her, over her, around her, lips trailing, hands mapping, anchoring, releasing, over and over in an infinitely intimate rhythm.

She wrapped herself around him, fingers and legs and lips and breath interwoven, letting herself dissolve into the press of warmth and trust. His lips pressed against her shoulder, her neck, back to hers, murmuring low, private sounds that threaded through the quiet of the room. The rhythm built slowly, hips moving with the inevitability of tide against shore, their scars brushing as they pulled closer still.

He whispered broken fragments against her mouth – Emily… so beautiful… always — and she swallowed the words with her lips, answering with the press of her body and the sound of her breath. Her own words came ragged into his hair, don’t ever let me go. They moved together as though time itself had been waiting; as though every year of restraint had been stored in their bones for this release.

When it came, it was fierce. Her cry spilled against his shoulder; his groan was muffled against her skin — two shuddering bodies clinging as if they might drown without the other.

They collapsed together in tangled limbs. He held her in the curve of his body, forehead resting against hers, shivers settling into warmth. She pressed her cheek against his chest, murmuring into the quiet intimacy of having finally, finally found the touch she had been missing, and the safety she had longed for. Aaron traced lazy circles over her hip, his lips brushing her temple as he murmured, you’re here, that’s all I’ve ever wanted. Emily’s hand rested over his scars, anchoring them both in the quiet afterward.

The years of imagining, distance, and loneliness all led here to this one overdue night, full and quenching, where the waiting had always been part of the beauty.

The light was muted at the edges of the curtains when he stirred the next morning, and for a moment he forgot where he was. Then, the shape of her against him drew everything back. Her silver strands caught on his skin like threads that refused to loosen, and the sheets smelled faintly of her shampoo and traces of the wine from the night before, the night’s closeness still clinging to the cotton. He let his palm rest at the small of her back, feeling the lingering heat of her skin and the subtle rise and fall of her chest against his touch, and marvelled at how natural it felt to hold her.

Emily shifted slightly in her sleep and felt the steady press of him beneath her arm, the weight of his body a tether she hadn’t known she needed. She breathed in the mix of his cologne and mint and cedar and let herself sink into the curve of his chest. Her hand lay flat against his chest, feeling the quiet rhythm of his muscles under her fingers and the faint tremor of him moving in their shared warmth.

He lay still, listening to the cadence of her breathing and savouring the way she curled into him as though she had always belonged there. His body ached in small, tender ways – there was a stiff pull in his shoulders from holding her and the dull throb of muscles long unused in this particular intimacy – yet none of it felt unwelcome. There was no rush or urgency to move; it was more than enough for him just to feel the tether of her fingers brushing faintly at his skin.

He smoothed his thumb over her shoulder, trailing idly along her petal-soft skin, and she finally caught his gaze with a quiet smile that undid him more than any words could. She thought of nothing and everything at once: the long years of distance, the ache of anticipation, and the miracle of being here, finally.

The comfortable silence settled over them like a blanket. Their legs were still tangled beneath the sheets, feet brushing occasionally, the warmth of her thigh against his anchoring him as surely as her hand. They had crossed into something they had both carried in silence for years, and the proof was here, in the hush that felt more binding than any declaration. He pressed a kiss into her hair and she settled even closer, her arm looped firmly around him as if to keep him from ever moving.

The hours behind them pressed softly into the sheets. His hand lingered at her waist; her cheek stayed tucked against his chest. Time bent around them, each small shift of skin on skin a quiet punctuation in the hush of the morning. Here, in the lingering and the space between breaths and heartbeats, there was no question: they were simply here, together. They had finally arrived.

Chapter Text

The first time Emily thought about saying I love you to Aaron was when they were talking on the phone after a long day.

The clipped tone of his messages and the silences that stretched longer than they usually did were enough for her to know that his day had gone badly — unusual for him, given how well he seemed to have adapted to teaching at the new college. Had a rough lecture was all he’d offered, his characteristic reserve clipped down to four words, but even that small crack in his facade was enough to have her reaching for her phone, thumb tapping his number before she’d even thought it through.

“Emily.”

His voice, low and worn with exhaustion, came through after just two rings. It’d been years since she’d heard him like this — not Aaron the father, friend, or man who had finally found some semblance of peace, but as SSA Aaron Hotchner as she had known him at the end of a day when everything had gone wrong, and when holding himself together took so much effort that even the air around him seemed taut with fatigue. That reminder of the past unsettled her slightly, but she pushed it aside to focus on him and what he needed from her in the moment.

She closed her eyes and let the tension and worry in her own body shift around the knowledge that he was there, and answering. He said her name again, more softly this time, as though the very act of speaking to her tugged his gentleness out of him. He couldn’t see her, obviously, but she smiled hearing some of the frustration leave his voice.

As he shared fragments from his day, she carefully held that quiet unraveling that he rarely allowed anyone to see. They talked with a halting honesty that lived in the pauses, him letting her coax a little more from him than he might have offered otherwise, sharing fragments of the lecture, the way the words had stuck in his throat, and the sense of failure that still lingered hours later, not unlike the darkness of his days holding the BAU together. She filled the silence with presence rather than chatter, knowing that what he needed in the face of his exhaustion was quiet steadiness.

When they shifted to end the call, he surprised her. “Emily,” he said again, more firmly this time, and she could almost hear him gathering strength, “thank you. For… being there. For everything.”

The words caught in her chest like a flare, knocking loose the ache she carried for him and the tenderness that always threatened to spill over when he let his guard slip – a side to him that she was still discovering, nearly twenty years after they’d first shaken hands in his office. He had no idea, she thought, no idea how much space he took up in her or how long she had been holding herself back from reaching across the miles and pressing her palm to his chest just to steady the beat of it. In the moment, she wanted nothing more than to shoulder some of the weight he’d carried, just like he had for the team, and her, all those years ago.

He paused for a second before adding sincerely, “I don’t always say it. But I’m grateful for you. So grateful.”

The sound of that gratitude, rough and unpracticed in his mouth, undid her completely. Heat surged through her and tears pricked at the back of her eyes, her body suddenly taut with the need to give something back. All she wanted to do was tell him what he meant to her in words that couldn’t be mistaken or downplayed.

That was when she felt the swell of three specific words rising up, fiercely and insistently:

I love you.

They hovered and trembled on her lips and almost shaped themselves into breath and speech.

I love you.

She was nearly trembling from how suddenly those three words hit her. How it was the very first time she had seriously contemplated saying them, yet they rose up so powerfully that they knocked the air out of her lungs.

But she bit down and pressed her teeth lightly into her lip, because it wasn’t the moment.

No, she couldn’t tell him she loved him when she was sitting on the other side of the city, when all they had were each other’s voices over the phone. How could she utter words of this gravity during a phone call, when she couldn’t look him in the eye or take his hand in hers? Surely the moment needed to be more scrupulously thought out than this, especially when he was already hurting and vulnerable after a long day. Naming it now would turn tenderness into exposure and make too much of his weariness.

So she steadied her breath and let herself offer the only truth she dared.

“I’m always in your corner,” she said, quietly but surely. She held the phone close to her ear and let the silence linger, silently assuring him that she was there for him.

And although she didn’t speak them out loud, those three words pressed against her ribs and thrummed through her like a pulse for the rest of the night.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

The first time Aaron thought about telling Emily he loved her was the day that Jack came to town.

He’d told himself not to overthink it, but of course he had. When Jack first mentioned he’d be home for a weekend, Aaron had hesitated for longer than he’d expected. He wasn’t sure at first whether to ask Emily to join them — would it be fair to either Jack or Emily? The possibility of misstep lingered long enough to make him pause. Jack was grown and nearly a man, and carried himself with a reserve that wasn’t unlike Aaron’s own, though it softened at the edges when he was with people he trusted. Aaron wasn’t sure which way this would tilt, and not being able to forecast this had unnerved him. He worried that Emily would be too much for Jack — too quick or too warm — and that Jack might hold himself back.

Or things could be the other way around: that Emily would see a near-stranger, the boy she’d known as a child swallowed into this tall, quiet young man, and feel the distance too wide to bridge. Ten years was a long time, and though Jack had always remembered Emily in flashes of laughter and the vague impression of a presence that had been kind and safe, memory was one thing, and meeting each other again now was another altogether. The worst case scenarios kept looping in Aaron’s head during the short drive to the bistro downtown, so much so that Emily leaned across the console to squeeze his hand as he pulled into the parking lot – as though she wasn’t the one wandering into uncharted territory (that he’d invited her to).

The moment stretched while they approached Jack, who’d arrived early and had already nervously settled into a booth seat in the corner of the bistro. Aaron paused by the side of the table, watching as though from a great distance. Jack shifted with his hands folded nervously in his lap, mouth pressed in the straight line he used when uncertain.

But Aaron nearly gasped in disbelief when he realised Emily was unfazed. Her grin bloomed, open and fearless. “Jack. It’s been a while.”

“Your hair,” Jack said, his voice a little rough with shyness. “It’s… cool. Different.”

Emily laughed and tucked a strand behind her ear. “The grey? That’s what happens when you survive this long in the FBI.”

Jack’s mouth curved wider. “I think it’s badass.”

The first thing that Aaron noticed was the small easing in Jack’s shoulders, then the quiet relief flickering in his son’s eyes. He hadn’t expected it to come so quickly, and felt his racing heart settle a little as he slid into his seat next to Emily.

She glanced at Aaron, just briefly, as though to share the moment, then back at Jack. “The last time I saw you, you barely reached my shoulder. Now you’re in college, goodness. How’s Harvard treating you?”

“Classes are tough, but good,” Jack smiled sincerely. “Feels like I’m where I’m supposed to be. And Cambridge is nice, especially in the fall.”

“You know I’m Yale, right? Eternal rivals,” Emily teased. “I should probably be rooting against you.”

“Yeah.” Jack’s lips twitched as though he couldn’t quite keep a straight face, to which Aaron exhaled in relief. “I almost didn’t bring it up. Didn’t want you to feel bad about attending the inferior college,” he teased back.

“Jack!” Emily chortled, pretending to be scandalised. “Well, I suppose I can forgive you. You’re Aaron’s kid, after all. Some things can be overlooked.”

And Aaron watched. He watched the way Jack leaned toward her without knowing he did, and the way Emily matched it instinctively, her presence folding around his son with a familiar warmth, as if she had always been waiting to fall into this place. As if she had always belonged here, in the shape of his life with Jack.

The sight of it hit him harder than he’d expected and was sharp enough to steal his breath. His ribs constricted around the ache of knowing that something irrevocable was settling into place. He’d never let himself imagine this scene too vividly, because a part of him had always believed that this would never come true: Emily with Jack, laughter echoing in the air as they split the garlic bread and even gave in to the temptation of dessert. But now it was here, alive in front of him, and he found himself clinging to it as if the moment might dissolve if he blinked.

When they reluctantly parted ways with Jack and walked back to the car with her hand in his, his heart was pressing forward against the cage of his sternum and straining for release. Three words surged up unbidden, fierce in their simplicity.

I love you.

They were the only words that fit the enormity of what was breaking open inside him. How much he cherished the time she’d made for him and Jack and the ache of realising that she fit into his life so effortlessly. How moved he was to watch his son look at her with so much admiration and tenderness, this formidable woman gaining his guarded son’s silent approval.

His lips parted on a breath that trembled at the edge of speech. He could almost feel the syllables forming, and his whole body was taut with the possibility of letting them fall. But the moment hung there, suspended and fragile. He swallowed hard, the taste of restraint at the back of his tongue, and held the words where they burned.

Because more than anything, he wanted the day to be about them: about Jack’s ease returning and Emily’s relief at finding that ease with him. To speak now would be to shift the weight of the moment onto himself or to risk overwhelming her. She’d already given so much today, and the last thing he wanted to do was scare her; to shatter another wall before she was ready for yet another leap of faith. It was far better, he realised, to leave the moment untouched in its beauty.

So he kept quiet as he squeezed her hand, content to carry his own words in silence for now.

The second time Emily thought about telling Aaron she loved him was when they sat shoulder to shoulder in the quiet of her apartment.

There hadn’t been time for a proper date or the kind of evening that required planning or reservations or even the illusion of leisure. The hours they could steal from their lives were measured in fragments, so they decided to sit side by side working instead, after a dinner of prosciutto and pasta from the homely Italian place down the street from her building. Somehow, that compromise was even more intimate than any carefully orchestrated outing could have been.

She was typing away at an overdue report, the muted clicks of her keyboard mingling with the faint scrape of his pen against the papers he was grading. Apart from trading a few jokes about how they probably could swap tasks with relative ease (paperwork procedures had been burned into Aaron’s long-term memory, and Emily definitely had some constructive criticism for the couple of papers she’d snuck glances at), there was only the occasional shift of weight when one of them leaned back for a breath or the sound of him breathing beside her, even and unhurried. She could feel the warmth radiating from his arm where it brushed against hers, and it was enough to make her heart race with the closeness of it.

It had been years since she had let herself sink into the quiet tether of someone’s presence or the tenderness of stillness. She realised, as she stole yet another glance at him, that he belonged in her space as though he had always been there, and found herself cataloguing everything: the careful bend of his wrist as he wrote, the subtle furrow between his brows, and the faint scratch of stubble along his jaw. The expectant energy hung heavy and omnipresent in the air around him, urging her to find one elusive moment to let three significant words roll off her lips for the first time, and the thought crossed her mind without warning: was this it? Could she finally say them?

She wanted to turn to him and let the words on the tip of her tongue free into the air between them. I love you, plain and unadorned.

She wanted to say them because they felt true in this moment and truer than anything else she could name: that even in silence, or maybe especially in silence, she had never felt more accompanied.

I love you.

But some part of her resisted. Speaking it aloud would break the fragile stillness they had made together and pierce through the quiet with a weight that might tilt it into new terrain before either of them was ready. The words bubbled to the surface, but no, she had to hold herself back – she would know the perfect moment when it came, she told herself. Surely she’d be able to find the final ounce of resolve she needed to look him in the eye and make that declaration when the time was right.

The words could wait. The quiet, so tender and peaceful and hard-earned, felt too precious to fracture.

And so she stayed in it, her fingers poised lightly above her keyboard, letting the weight of what went unsaid pool warm and heavy inside her.

The second time Aaron thought about telling Emily he loved her was when she padded barefoot into his kitchen one morning.

She was half-dressed in one of his old shirts, the hem brushing just above her thighs, and the sight of her moving with that effortless confidence, completely at ease in his apartment, made something twist tight in his chest. She paused at the counter, the faint morning sunlight spilling over her shoulders and catching the subtle curve of her neck. Steam rose from the coffee machine and curled around her, carrying warmth and the faint scent of her shampoo with it.

She reached for the cupboard with the mugs before he could. “I’ll get that,” she said, her voice softened by sleep.

“I’ve got it, sweetheart,” he replied, the term of endearment slipping out before he realised it had left him.

Sweetheart.

The word threaded through his thoughts with a clarity he hadn’t expected. Sweetheart. A name she deserved; one that captured the depth of affection in his heart. He wondered how he hadn’t said it earlier, because now that it had left his lips, it felt so right.

She froze mid-motion. For a heartbeat, she only stared at him, wide-eyed and lips parted, like the ground had shifted under her feet. “Sweetheart?” she echoed, soft and incredulous.

He braced for her to laugh it off or make a dry remark in typical Emily Prentiss fashion, or let it hang unanswered, and for a second he wondered if he’d overstepped. Instead, she lit up, her whole face breaking into a smile that was so startling in its brightness that it could fill every corner of the room.

“You called me sweetheart,” she said again, this time a quiet marvel instead of a question, as though she wanted to savour it on her own tongue. She crossed the kitchen and slipped her arms around his waist, holding him with the sudden, startled affection of a person overtaken by joy.

The sight of her wonder, so tender and unshielded, nearly unmade him. God, she was beautiful. She always was, but he’d never seen her this radiant, even free of make-up and hair tousled from slumber, eyes sparkling with an almost child-like glee. Her cheek brushed lightly against his chest, and he felt the words – I love you – hover on the tip of his tongue, delicate but insistent.

How was he still holding back? Was today finally the day he’d gather and resolve and say–

He almost let the words go and gave in to the swell of feeling that pressed at him, but the enormity of them caught in his chest.

I love you.

To speak them would change everything; to hold them back kept the fragile wonder of her joy intact. Her exuberance was all that mattered in the moment, and he wanted nothing more than to let her bask in it.

She, unaware of the havoc she had wrought in him, leaned in even closer, the heat of her thigh brushing his in a teasing nudge that made his pulse spike and the almost-words thrash in his chest. He desperately wanted more; he wanted to feel the weight of her entirely against him, and to let her know in every possible way how just fully she inhabited him.

But he let those three words rest unspoken, because nothing about this moment needed articulation. Her surprise, and the way her happiness was spilling into the space between them, was more than enough for the moment. He simply breathed her in and let himself linger in the sweetness of being held, because this simple term of endearment had made her so luminous that he wanted nothing more than to let her joy fill the room, unburdened by anything heavier.

He watched the faint rise and fall of her shoulders as she pulled apart from him to pour him a cup of coffee, and the domestic intimacy of it nearly undid him all over again. Then, she caught his gaze, eyes still radiant with wonder, carrying sweetheart between them like something precious.

Aaron closed his eyes for a second and simply savoured the soft and heady nearness of her. He sipped his coffee and let the three unspoken words hang between them, unbearably and achingly true.

Soon, he thought. Soon.

The third time Emily thought about telling Aaron she loved him was when she came home to find him waiting outside her apartment building.

She had texted him absentmindedly as she was leaving Quantico with just a quick note that she was exhausted and defeated and heading home, and nothing more. She hadn’t thought much of the gesture, her mind still full of Sicarius case files and unfinished reports. But when she turned the corner, there he was, leaning against the iron railing as if he would have stayed until dawn if that’s what it took. The streetlamps caught him in strokes of gold and rendered the angles of his face in quiet lines of patience.

She’d seen him before he saw her, and the sight landed like a blow. Even when she had trouble admitting it to herself, she had wanted him all week and carried that hollow weight through every late night and empty morning. And now here he was, stepping directly out of her longing, his presence collapsing the distance she had carried in her chest. The relief that filled her was almost violent in its force, a flood against the raw and barren edges of her hunger for him, and she simply moved, closing the space and pressing herself into his arms, clinging to him as though she had been waiting forever.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he said softly, wrapping his arms around her protectively as he sensed, completely instinctively, just how much she needed this. “I hope it’s okay that I showed up here.”

Her throat tightened with emotion. She wanted to laugh or to cry or to tell him he had no idea what it meant just to see him, to feel him here when she had carried the ache of missing him all week. “I’m so happy to see you,” she managed, her voice catching on the edge of tears she didn’t quite let fall.

He only pulled her closer in answer. His hand was warm against her back and his chest firm beneath her cheek, and she breathed him in and let the steadiness of him quiet the frayed edges inside her. She’d thought she could bear the distance and the waiting, but now that he was here, she felt the truth of how badly she had needed him and just how deeply she wanted to keep him close. How was it that just a single look from him could make her heart almost burst in her chest? His softness made the last of her defenses drop, and for a moment she could do nothing but hold on in the face of the tidal wave of emotion.

The quiet gradually settled around them, and in that moment of calm, her thoughts sharpened into a single, luminous urgency.

I love you.

Why was she still waiting? Why wait for a textbook perfect moment when she had all she wanted right now, on a sidewalk in Dupont Circle? Those three words were bursting in her chest and hanging on the tip of her tongue, lying in wait for a moment that would dignify them. Was it finally time to set them free?

I love you.

But still she forced them back on instinct, not because the words weren’t true, but because she wasn’t ready to risk the fragile perfection of letting herself melt into the warmth of his presence without complication. No one – not John, not Mark, not Andrew, not even Matthew – had ever cared for her like this, and she selfishly wanted to keep this memory untainted by her old fears. To speak the words now would demand an answer or a shift in the equilibrium, and silence, she realised, could hold the truth of this moment more delicately than speech could. She wanted to keep this whole and precious: her in his arms, his lips against her forehead, the scent of his cologne on her collar.

Yet even in silence the words burned within her like a truth alive beneath the shelter of his embrace. Her pulse raced and the almost-words hovered, ready to spill into the quiet night. She could have said them. She wanted to. But she swallowed them back again, letting them swell inside her instead, sacred in their restraint.

In that moment, the unspoken truth hovered heavier than anything she could ever speak aloud. And in the stillness, she let herself feel a mix of ache and gratitude. The nearly-there words, alive and bright and trembling, were on the cusp of finally breaking free.

One day soon, she’d come clean with her feelings for him, like he deserved.

The third time Aaron thought about telling Emily he loved her was when they were wandering through the linen section at Macy’s.

The weekend had started unremarkably. After waking up in his bed, she’d casually suggested grabbing brunch before she headed to Quantico for an afternoon meeting, which resulted in them inspecting sheets and comparing pillowcases at the Macy’s in the nearby mall after having their fill of avocado toast and eggs Benedict. The overhead lights were harsh and fluorescent, and soft pop music from the speakers mingled with the hum of other shoppers and the occasional clatter of carts. To the casual observer, it was a completely ordinary weekend at any department store around the country.

It was all so ordinary, and yet the ordinariness was precisely what made it extraordinary.

That morning alone, he’d dragged her through probably half the stores in the mall as he searched for everything from spring-appropriate work attire to bathroom essentials, but she’d been nothing but patient, even when he contemplated questions as mundane as whether he needed a new bathroom mat. As they moved side by side through the aisles, baskets grazing their hips and her commentary dry and playful as she rejected half the designs and held up the worst offenders just to make him laugh. She had slipped so naturally into the rhythms of his weekend, and into the errand-running and decision-making and the domestic minutiae he had stopped imagining himself sharing with anyone, that he wanted to shake his head in disbelief. Disbelief that a woman like Emily Prentiss wanted to spend time with him, even in the most unremarkable of places.

He memorised the small crease between her brows when she weighed practicality against comfort and the amused smile tugging at her lips when she realised he was overthinking something as mundane as sheets. She was folding into the quiet corners of his life as if she had always belonged there. And what startled him most was how right it all felt. Being here, with her, was easy. Natural, even.

And then her fingers slid into his, steady and sure, without hesitation or ceremony. She didn’t even glance at him; she just reached, found him, and anchored herself, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

For a moment, the noise in his head stilled. The simplicity of her touch made his chest tighten, and he felt the words rise in him again: I love you.

But no. He immediately reproached himself.

No, he couldn’t tell her he loved her here, standing in a fluorescent-lit aisle, battling the ambient chaos of suburban shoppers and blaring pop music. The thought alone made him almost laugh in disbelief: in Macy’s, of all places. She deserved better than this. And yet, absurd as it was, the urge persisted and pressed insistently against him.

She was distracted by the satin weave of yet another pillow cover when she squeezed his hand just slightly, and a storm of affection surged through him all at once despite the simplicity of the gesture. It was a dizzying mixture of desire, gratitude, and the terrifying clarity of knowing he could spend the rest of his life with this woman and still find himself surprised by the smallest things she did.

For a heartbeat, the world beyond the aisle faded. Emily lingered on a stack of sheets and brushed the fabric with delicate fingers, while Aaron’s chest ached, the almost-words pressing against him and waiting for a space to escape. He couldn’t move for a second and just let the mundane setting amplify the intensity of the gesture. Even surrounded by the hum of fluorescent lights and shoppers’ chatter, a quiet vow threaded through the din.

I love you.

He didn’t say it – not today, not in the linen aisle of a Macy’s – but it was there, like the warmth of sunlight through a clouded window.

The first time they both thought about saying I love you in the same moment was in the quiet of his apartment one evening.

Emily was sitting on the right side of his bed — now her side, she’d come to realise — and stared at the blinking cursor on her phone screen. It was tempting to admonish herself for a thoroughly unproductive Saturday afternoon spent lounging on Aaron’s couch instead of removing her laptop from its bag or going about one of her many outstanding errands, but truthfully, there was no other way she wanted to spend her day, especially after her morning meetings at Quantico.

Aaron had propped himself up on two pillows next to her, one hand holding a half-finished novel and the other tracing random patterns on her upper arm while he pored over the words on the page. He looked relaxed; in fact, he felt relaxed, Emily realised when she’d rested against his side and his hand had instinctively moved to play with her hair. He’d been visibly relaxed all afternoon, and Emily had caught sight of an almost imperceptible, but nonetheless telling, smile glued to his face all day. She’d felt the affection in his touch when he’d squeezed her hand while they were unboxing their take-out dinner; she watched the way his eyes, even in the low glow, seemed to hold her entirely, as if he could carry her in their depth.

Neither had spoken for the better part of the past hour, but the silence vibrated with anticipation and a weight she couldn’t ignore. Her own feelings were blindingly clear to her.

She loved Aaron.

Years of exchanging glances across case files, debriefs, and shared spaces at the Bureau, yet he still looked at her as though he was transfixed for the very first time. There was reverence in the way his eyes lingered on her now, as if memorising her at any opportunity he had. She could feel the weight of his care in every movement and every look.

She loved Aaron.

She’d played many different roles in her life and in her relationships: the ambassador’s daughter, Interpol spy, caretaker, guardian… but with Aaron she was just human. He looked at her and saw Emily, plain and simple, with no labels or responsibilities behind her name. He knew her: the fear, the doubt, the moments when she felt unmoored and small. And he had never flinched, instead carrying all of it with him quietly, without judgment or needing explanation.

She loved Aaron.

Even after years apart and the distance of their separate lives, they were rediscovering each other now, and just looking at him made her think about how profoundly she belonged with him. The happiness that swelled in her chest was so complete and unguarded that she felt almost dizzy with it. Who would ever have guessed that they’d someday end up here, after their frosty and tense start nearly twenty years ago? She certainly hadn’t, and this was precisely the kind of effortless, laid-back evening that made her smile in disbelief – it was him, and her, and she’d almost forgotten what it was like to feel this content and relaxed next to someone.

She loved Aaron – and even more powerful was the realisation that she was happy with Aaron. She was happier than she’d been in years.

What other walls remained to be broken down between them? There was just one. The words hovered on the tip of her tongue, fragile as smoke: I love you. They pressed against her ribs, almost unbearable in their simplicity.

Next to her, Aaron’s chest ached, too. He had been holding the words and storing them behind his careful restraint, letting them swell quietly with every ordinary moment that had become sacred simply because she was there. And now, with her hand resting on his thigh and hair catching the lamplight in luminous strands, the words threatened to escape. He opened his mouth once, twice, then closed it again, as though speaking them might shatter the delicate bubble of the room.

He loved Emily.

The quiet gestures and subtle intimacies made him feel needed in a way that went far beyond desire. He loved the way she let her hand rest against her arm or leaned into him without thinking. He loved that she had chosen him over and over and how she let him in fully and without reservation. It’d been only a few months since their lips had first touched in the dim light of the hotel lobby, and already they’d come further than he’d ever dared to imagine. Now they were on the cusp of another level of intimacy.

He loved Emily.

The way she carried herself, even in exhaustion, made him ache with admiration. He loved her strength and how she had survived everything life had thrown at her, and yet allowed herself to be tender in the moments he shared with her. They’d gone through hell over the years, but they now were here, right where they needed and wanted to be. Did it matter that they’d taken a few detours along the way?

He loved Emily.

There was no expiration date for his love for Emily Prentiss. He loved rediscovering her after all these years and seeing how she had blossomed into a leader who carried her burdens with quiet grace and moved through the world with the same fierce intelligence he had always admired, now tempered by wisdom and steadiness. He loved that there was always some layer of her strength or warmth to uncover, and that in every moment he felt both pride and awe at the woman she had become.

What other walls remained to be broken down between them? There was just one. Soon, he was going to utter those three words to her. He could feel it in his bones.

They turned the light off and tucked the covers around them, but sleep was far from Emily’s mind. The day had drained her: her back ached from waking up too early for her meetings, and her mind still raced with the work she had to get back to, yet she was alive to everything Aaron was: the faint shadow along his jawline, the soft exhale of breath she could feel against her hair, and the careful way he shifted to pull her closer. She squeezed her eyes shut and tucked herself against him, focusing on the steady beat of his heart against her ear and how far she and Aaron had come in the last few months. They clearly wanted to be in each other’s company; they wanted each other, plain and simple.

This was real, and it was theirs.

His warmth radiated through her as she tried to slip into slumber, and one truth became undeniable: she wanted him. She needed so much more than just proximity. She needed the fullness of him; the intimacy that came from trust, presence, and the quiet certainty of being loved.

“Sweetheart?”

She froze when his voice punctured the silence.

“You’re so tense. Are you okay?” He reached for the switch and turned the lamp back on, revealing a concerned expression conveying that a cursory I’m fine wasn’t going to satisfy him. God, he knew her too well; he knew, just from holding her in a darkened room, that something was weighing on her mind and on the precipice of spilling out.

“Aaron,” she whispered after a long pause, and it made him inhale sharply. She leaned closer, just enough for their shoulders to touch and hands to press together, and the warmth of his body made her pulse stutter. She no longer had a convincing explanation to herself for why she was still holding back, especially when she could just about burst with how deeply she felt for him.

“I…” she began, voice low and almost afraid, eyes glancing to his lips in the low light, then away, then back again. The lump in her throat felt so oppressive and consuming she feared it’d consume her voice whole. “I—”

Her voice trailed off, and for a second she could feel her resolve slipping, but she had to fight it, especially when she felt his hands twitch nervously in hers. She had the power to remedy that, and no, she didn’t want to hold back anymore – and so she looked him squarely in the eye, took a deep breath, and-

“I love you, Aaron.”

He heard the words and felt his chest seize.

She could see the wheels in his head turn as the enormity of what she’d just said settled around him. Disbelief, at first, as he questioned if he’d heard her correctly, but she tightened her grip on his hands, desperate to prove, somehow, the truthfulness behind every word.

I love you.

The weight of those words anchored him in a way he hadn’t known he needed. He blinked, processing at first, caught between disbelief and the impossible relief that she had said it first.

And then the disbelief fell away, softening like ice under sunlight, and a smile spread across his face without permission. His answering words were already there, rising as naturally as breath.

“I love you too, Emily.”

When their gazes met, he saw the same fierce and luminous affection that had made him hold his own declaration at bay for so long. It was hers, and it was so much more than enough, and it made his heart ache in the best possible way. He leaned into her, forehead resting against hers, letting the quiet intimacy hold them both. Then he swept her hair from her forehead and let his lips wander over her jaw and neck, honeyed and indulgent, as though they had all the time in the world.

“I’ve loved you for so long,” he whispered, and finally, finally, the last of the distance that had lived between them dissolved.

“Me too,” she whispered back with an almost giddy smile on her face.

They lay together for what felt like slow hours, luxuriating in the peaceful intimacy that settled over the room as their breaths slowed in sync. Aaron languidly ran his fingers through the silver strands of her hair and opened his arms to let her curl up against his chest; they exchanged a thousand words in contented, peaceful sighs and placid kisses.

She was safe here. He felt it in the way she relaxed in his arms and her eyes fluttered shut in the silence. She’d spent far too much of her life running towards and away from danger, but she now looked so peaceful cocooned against his chest, and he felt a wave of protectiveness rumble in his chest and grip his heart. He’d do anything in his power to love her for as long as she wanted him to; for this flame to burn ceaselessly.

He felt Emily smile contentedly against him when he peppered her temple with a series of soft kisses, and he wondered if it was possible to love her more than he already did. His Emily, whose light he couldn’t tear his eyes away from and wanted to bask in forever; whose love bloomed unceasingly in him, so profound yet uncomplicated.

“Love you,” she whispered against his chest again as the lure of sleep took hold of her, although it didn’t dull the penetratingly clear affection and sincerity in her voice. That sentence echoed in the silent air around them, and a bolt of electricity coursed through him; words so simple and stark, yet poetic beyond measure.

Emily loved him. They’d almost lost track of each other, but he’d found his way back to her, because the seeds of her love had long been planted in him, sprouting quietly over decades and drawing him back to her light.

“Love you too,” he whispered, his voice carrying the weight of all the years he had held back and the words he had almost spoken.

Aaron loved her. Through all the gains and losses of the years, she hadn’t lost him. She’d found an embrace where she could sink her roots; she finally was safe in his love.

Everything was right. Everything was home.

Here, lying skin-to-skin in the darkness and drifting into slumber with love lingering on their lips, their closeness was even more immense than the promise of many more of these days and nights, and here they remained where their love flowered, in their invincible, eternal spring.

Chapter Text

Emily woke slowly in the pale hush of morning before memory sharpened into the day’s demands, and all she could perceive in the moment was warmth: the solid line of his body pressed to her back, and his arm wrapped protectively around her waist. The faint rhythm of his breath against her hair was the only sound in the room, and she lay very still, as though any movement might startle the spell away.

I love you, Aaron.

She’d finally let those words slip into the dark last night.

They lingered like heat beneath her ribs. She’d held back for so many weeks because they felt like words borrowed from another life, but now that she’d said them, they finally belonged to her, and to them. She brushed her mouth across his in the gentlest of kisses, not meant to wake him, but simply to let herself believe that this moment was real.

His eyes opened slowly, the chocolate brown in them softened by the hour. “Good morning, sweetheart,” he whispered against her lips, voice still rough with sleep, and he kissed her hair before tilting her chin so he could see her face.

She tucked herself against him, half-flustered and half-smiling, and kissed him again, more deeply this time. He traced the curve of her hip, pulling her even closer, and the world narrowed to his warmth and the delicious possibility of losing herself in him. Almost on instinct, she let her hand wander towards the waistband of his sweatpants, inhaling sharply when she felt the sure, hard line of him against her palm. He groaned into her mouth and the sound alone made her pulse stutter; his lips moved with a hunger that matched her own, coaxing her deeper into the kiss, and when his hand slid under the hem of her panties she shivered, her breath catching on a low, needy sound.

The air between them immediately became charged, their bodies tipping toward the inevitable–

Then the phone on the nightstand buzzed and cut through the haze.

Aaron lifted his head slightly, his voice low and amused, but still edged with hunger. “You should answer that.”

She groaned against his mouth, refusing to move her hand, sliding her palm deliberately along the length of him until his breath caught. “You’re not my boss anymore,” she whispered with a grin, the words half a taunt and half a plea to stay hidden here, where nothing existed but the heat between them.

The phone buzzed again and she buried her face in his neck, stubborn in her refusal.

“Indeed… but you still should answer it,” Aaron said again, although his hand slid along her thigh, torn between reason and the temptation of her touch.

She only laughed quietly, wicked in her stubbornness, tugging at the waistband of his sweatpants to let him spring free and curling around his length until he groaned low in his throat. “Can you make it quick?” she whispered, her voice husky with delight at her own audacity.

He smirked. “With you?” he whispered, pushing her onto her back with a deliberate press of his body. “Definitely.”

The kiss deepened until there was no space left to fill, and her legs parted easily beneath the steady weight of him. His hand slid along her thigh, pulling her shorts and panties down with it, and when she gasped into his mouth he growled softly. “That’s it, sweetheart… let me in. Fuck, I need you.”

She flushed at the raw hunger in his voice and clutched at his shoulders, whispering something incoherent against his lips, a plea and prayer in one. He pressed into her slowly at first, savouring the sharp intake of breath she made, and then with more certainty, bracing his palm beneath her to bury himself to the hilt. “God, you’re perfect. So wet for me,” he murmured against her shoulder, every word rough with desire. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

The rhythm built quickly and urgently, his hand cradling her back as if to keep her steady, and their hunger didn’t diminish the affection in the way they looked at each other.

“Say my name,” he whispered harshly in her ear as he drove into her with a shudder, one hand slipping between them to rub her clit.

“Aaron–” she gasped, his name breaking from her lips in a rush of breath. “You feel so fucking good.”

Her cheek pressed against his shoulder as she came. He followed with a rough exhale, the urgency undone by the tenderness that lingered even after.

For a long moment, neither of them moved, their bodies still joined and breaths mingling in the peaceful silence of the room. His hand smoothed up her back as though he wanted to anchor there forever, and she shifted faintly beneath him, still half-dazed. “Stay right here, sweetheart. Just like that. Let me hold you a little longer,” he whispered with his lips against her temple.

She smiled against his skin and traced lazy patterns across his shoulder, unwilling to let the world intrude just yet. In the moment, there was no space for the case or her buzzing phone on the nightstand that would inevitably drag her away from his arms. Only after a few extra, stolen minutes did he finally press a reluctant kiss to her lips and brush her cheek with his thumb. “The bathroom’s all yours.”

He let her slip from the bed, watching her disappear down the hall with her clothes, and moved to the kitchen to start the coffee machine and slide bread into the toaster in an attempt to stretch the cocoon of morning a little longer before the day claimed her.

Eventually, she emerged from the bathroom in a fresh pantsuit and with her hair pulled neatly back, the armour of Quantico already settling over her like a second skin. But the sight that met her – him at the counter pouring coffee and the faint smell of toast rising – made the Bureau feel like a distant universe.

He turned at the sound of her steps, gaze sweeping over her in quiet admiration. “Looking beautiful, Section Chief,” he said simply, and the words undid her more thoroughly than his body had minutes ago. The contrast nearly made her laugh: their hurried, tangled sex still written across their skin, and now this tenderness of breakfast waiting and the earnestness of the gesture.

She crossed the room before she could think and pressed her mouth to his, bracketing his jaw with her hands as though she could hold the moment in place. “I love you,” she whispered, needing him to hear it again; needing to say it as often as she felt it.

“I love you, too.” His hand settled at her waist and she marvelled at how natural it felt.

She lingered as she finished her coffee, briefcase already tucked by the door and the day pressing at her back. The thought of making that long, lonely drive to Virginia made her chest ache, the miles stretching out like a punishment for the happiness she’d stumbled into. “I’ll call you later,” she said softly, the words stripped of hesitation or shyness, no longer wanting to hide just how much she wanted and needed him.

His arms closed around her. “I’ll be here.”

Reluctantly, she drew back and smoothed her blazer into place, pressing one last kiss to his lips before she made herself turn toward the door. Very soon, the urgency of their current case would carry her through the day, but underneath it, she carried him: the taste of coffee and toast and his lips, the warmth of his hands under her shirt, and the echoes of I love you.

By the time Emily arrived at Quantico, she’d fully donned her professional armour. She strode into the bullpen and opened the door to her office with her usual assertiveness and sense of purpose, but underneath her skin was the utter joy of having woken up to the sight of Aaron next to her. If only every single day could start like this, she thought to herself — even she couldn’t deny that there was an extra spring in her step despite the mounting chaos of the Sicarius case.

(For a minute, she let herself imagine a future in which every single day started like this.)

Her office was exactly as she’d left it the evening before, with files stacked too high and her laptop not yet powered down, but her phone lit up even before she set her bag down.

Aaron: Just so you know, I love you. Have a great day, sweetheart.

The newness of I love you, finally free from its shackles, made her skin tingle, and she couldn’t get enough of hearing and saying it – and from the looks of it, neither could Aaron.

Emily: I love you too. More than I can say.

It felt indulgent, almost, to type a message like that, but she sent it anyway, her small surrender to the sweetness of him. She sank into her chair with a smile that she couldn’t fight even if she wanted to.

When she looked up again, Tara was leaning against the doorframe with one eyebrow raised, while Luke was standing behind her with a conspiratorial grin.

“What?” Emily asked a little too quickly, her phone still warm in her hand.

“You left before we could pass you our paperwork from yesterday,” Tara explained. “Looks like you had a good evening.”

Luke chuckled and added, “You’re glowing. Something we should know?”

Emily rolled her eyes, but the heat in her cheeks betrayed her, and she ducked her head toward her laptop as if it could shield her. “Don’t you two have work to do?”

They left with laughter echoing down the hall and she pressed her phone closer to her chest, letting herself melt all over again at the thought of him.

The glow of his message lingered in her chest as she started on her work for the day, and it came with a quiet and thrilling thought: they didn’t have to hide it. Tara, Luke, and the others would catch on eventually; Dave certainly would. She could tell them tomorrow, next week, or next month. A part of her was certain that Aaron wouldn’t mind, especially since it’d been so many years since he’d left the BAU.

But she didn’t have to tell them anything. At least not yet.

There was something delicious about keeping it small. Their mornings, texts, and whispered I love yous could be a secret that belonged only to them; a cocoon of stolen moments and gentle domesticity, hunger, and tenderness intertwined. She could let the world wait a little longer while she carried him with her privately through her days.

Miles away, Aaron navigated the streets toward the college. His mind ran through the lecture he had to give in an hour, but also the quiet thrill of knowing that she was glowing somewhere behind her desk in Quantico. He could imagine the gentle teasing from the team, but he didn’t mind at all – whether or when they found out suddenly felt irrelevant. She didn’t have to keep it secret from the team. But keeping it small, at least for the time being, was a tantalising prospect. He had spent enough years guarding himself to understand that what they had belonged to them only; it wasn’t diminished by secrecy. If anything, it made it even more intimate.

The world could wait. For now, all the quiet mornings, secret text messages, the touch of skin, and the unfolding of new love were wholly theirs.

The rest of the day quickly consumed her. Her meetings bled into briefings and reports and paperwork for her to review stacked on her desk faster than she could clear them. There was hardly a moment to think, let alone breathe, and her role felt like a weight she was carrying up a hill that never ended – Sisyphus, if he worked in Quantico, Virginia.

Her phone buzzed once around noon.

Aaron: Hope you’re getting something to eat.

Emily: Trying to. Packed day.

She smiled without meaning to and reached for the protein bar in her drawer.

Emily: Thank you.

And at four, when her inbox had reached double digits again, another message appeared.

Aaron: You alive, sweetheart?

Emily: Barely. Drowning in paperwork. Don’t know how you did this for so long.

Aaron: Ha, you’ve been doing this for longer than I did.

Aaron: Step away from your work, love. Five minutes. Just breathe.

She leaned back in her chair and let his voice fill the silence of her mind. Five minutes wasn’t much, it was enough. There was still work to finish and the endless churn of leadership and command, but beneath it all lay the quiet tether of him, who reminded her that there was a world outside the walls of the FBI compound.

Grade: A. Lucid and rigorous argument. Well-organised and clearly presented.

Grade: B-. Essay could have been better scoped. An ambitious line of argument that was not substantiated by appropriate evidence.

Being the instructor of an unexpectedly popular class without a TA came with one distinct disadvantage: grading countless papers. Usually, he relished reading his students’ work and seeing just how much they’d gleaned from weeks of seminars, but he couldn’t lie to himself – the fatigue was starting to set in quickly, especially when he encountered the inevitable dud from someone who’d clearly slept-walked through half the semester.

Grade: C. It is important to adhere to the deadlines for this class. Please ensure that your papers are properly proofread and referenced before submission.

Sometimes, he had to resist the urge to go down a black hole and check his score on RateMyProfessor, despite Jack’s repeated reassurances that he had nothing to worry about (and had even been called a “silver fox” by a handful of enamoured students). It was rewarding work, certainly, but it’d taken him months of doing this for him to stop obsessing over every detail of every lecture or seminar, much like his old job had trained him to do in a previous life.

But some old habits died hard, like him sitting alone at his desk close to midnight, trying to finish all the remaining work he had before allowing himself a moment of rest.

He’d settled into his study after a quick dinner of salmon and asparagus (the fastest thing he could whip up that evening) and hadn’t risen from his seat in probably four hours. Just eight papers left and he’d be done… but the yawn he stifled was a disappointing sign that working into the wee hours of the night might no longer be a viable option.

Pushing himself had been his modus operandi for years. It’d taken him from his prosecutor days, to the FBI Academy, to SSA and Unit Chief, and now, a job in academia. The environments changed, but the rhythm didn’t, and he was no stranger to the drive and quiet insistence that fatigue was a failure of discipline. And yet, as stimulating as his current work was, it no longer required the same unrelenting pace, nor did it reward it. He’d seen what happened when the line between devotion and self-destruction blurred, and lived it and watched others fall to it.

So why was he still pushing himself so hard?

Emily: Finally leaving Quantico. You’re probably asleep, but I’m thinking about you. Love you.

The corners of his mouth lifted before he could stop them. It was almost poetic, the irony of her telling him to rest, and her mirror of all those messages he’d sent her over the past weeks: Eat, breathe, rest. She was learning, finally, to slow down, and that the Bureau could survive one night without her. And he, of all people, should have known better than to keep sprinting long after the finish line had moved. Even from miles apart, they seemed to move in tandem, and in teaching her to rest, he was realising the same truth applied to him.

He leaned back in his chair and exhaled, and set the remaining ungraded papers at the corner of his desk. Maybe she wasn’t the only one who needed reminding that the world wouldn’t end if he stopped for a night. Maybe balance was something they were still both learning, quietly, imperfectly, and most importantly, together. He could afford to stop, soften, and let the night close gently around him instead of resisting it.

Aaron: I’m awake. Go home safe and get some sleep. Love you too.

He stared at the message for a beat before setting his phone down and turning off the lamp. Somewhere between exhaustion and calm, he thought of her drifting off to sleep, her hair against her pillow and the small crease that formed when she was dreaming, and felt the last of his resistance give way.

Maybe, he thought, it wasn’t just about helping her to rest. Maybe it was also about remembering how.

For years, he had lived as if the world would collapse the moment he stopped moving. But here, now, with her, he could feel that illusion loosening, one quiet night at a time.

He left the papers unfinished and let himself rest.

They both were learning that there was life beyond the endless rush of obligation. That rest could be an act of love, too, for the world they were building together and the years they still had left to live.

Despite Emily’s desperate prayers for some reprieve from her work, the rest of the week pulled her underwater. She hardly remembered what day it was – only that the nights bled into mornings and the office lights blurred together into one endless and humming brightness. She hadn’t seen Aaron in four, five days maybe, and though he had never once complained, the absence pressed on her like an anvil.

His messages were short and unassuming, but always a welcome respite in the breakneck pace at which the Sicarius case seemed to unfold.

Get some sleep tonight.

Don’t skip dinner.

Thinking about you.

She always read them too late or was too tired to reply properly, and the guilt she felt was sharp like glass under her ribs.

Then, on Thursday afternoon, her phone buzzed again.

Aaron: Don’t cook tonight.

Emily: Wasn’t planning to.

Aaron: Good. Text me when you’re on your way home and check your door when you get back.

She frowned at her screen in confusion, but didn’t have time to press him further; her next meeting was starting in five minutes. By the time the evening light had faded beyond her office window, she texted him to tell him that she was leaving the office, half-expecting him to have fallen asleep by that hour. But at eleven sharp, a knock came, and she opened her door to find a delivery from her favourite Thai place and a little note printed on the receipt.

Eat, breathe, and rest. -A

Her throat tightened. She set the bag on the counter and stared at the slip of paper for a few long minutes. The curry was still warm when she sat down to eat, and for the first time all day, she felt the exhaustion ebb just a little.

She snapped a quick photo of the meal and sent it to him.

Emily: You’re impossible.

His reply came almost instantly.

Aaron: You love that about me.

Emily: I really do. I love you so much.

She closed her eyes and tasted his love in every bite.

Aaron slowly lost track of how many nights had passed since he’d last seen her.

He missed her, yes, but more than that, he understood her. He understood the job: the unrelenting hours, and the way it swallowed people whole until they couldn’t tell where duty ended and the self began. She carried the responsibility the same way he had once carried it, albeit with far more grace and instinctive steadiness than he ever had. She was better at his old job than he’d ever been, and the thought didn’t wound him at all; in fact, it made him proud in a way that he didn’t quite know how to name, but felt in every fibre of his body.

He’d learned over the years that love wasn’t always about presence. Sometimes, it was patience, or the quiet act of knowing when not to ask for more. So, when her texts occasionally came hours late or full of clipped sentences, he didn’t take it personally. He could picture her in her office, brow furrowed, jacket draped over the back of her chair, a half-drunk coffee next to her, and a mountain of case files she refused to leave unfinished because of her sense of responsibility.

Even if they couldn’t steal an evening for themselves, there were other ways he could care for her. An idea sprang to his mind one Thursday afternoon, after he’d finished grading a stack of mid-terms and had settled into his office chair with a cup of coffee..

Aaron: Don’t cook tonight.

Emily: Wasn’t planning to.

Aaron: Good. Text me when you’re on your way home and check your door when you get back.

He found the phone number of her favourite Thai place – now saved in his contacts – and remembered exactly how she liked her curry: medium spice, extra basil, no eggplant, alongside a steaming bowl of white rice. When the staff picked up, he hesitated for just a second before making a special request for a message on the receipt.

Eat, breathe, and rest. -A

It wasn’t much, but it was something that he could do that said I see you. I know how hard you’re trying. You’re not alone.

When he got home, his apartment was silent and he wanted nothing more than to hear her laughter echoing faintly down the hall or feel her skin against his, but he smiled despite himself. She deserved to be cared for, even from a distance, and without demand, and that was the way that he could love her right now.

Emily: You’re impossible.

Aaron: You love that about me.

Emily: I really do. I love you so much.

He didn’t hesitate at all when typing his reply.

Aaron: I love you too.

Emily’s guilt settled in five days later.

He’d gently asked if she was free for dinner over the weekend, and one glance at her calendar was enough for her to know that it felt impossible for her to carve out even one night for him. She hadn’t seen him in almost two weeks now, and the quiet of her office was starting to feel oppressive. The rest of the team had gone home, having been sent home by her an hour ago, leaving her alone in the bullpen with a half-drunk cup of coffee cooling beside her and a stack of reports to vet before sending them to Doug Bailey.

Aaron had been so patient with her over the last few days; he’d texted her reminders to eat, to breathe, and to rest. She knew he understood better than anyone what the job demanded, but that only made her guilt sharper, because he’d once burned himself out for the Bureau, and now he was watching her walk the same tightrope he’d nearly fallen from. She hated that he was still taking care of her from a distance while she could give him so little in return; it felt unfair that he was always the one waiting in the quiet.

She stared at her phone for a long time before pressing the call button.

He answered on the second ring, as though he’d been sitting by the phone and waiting for her to call. “Hi, sweetheart.”

“I’m sorry I haven’t called.” Her voice trembled.

“You don’t have to apologise. I’ve been there.”

“I just–” She hesitated for a second. “I’m tired, Aaron. Really fucking tired.” The admission scraped her throat raw. “I can’t seem to stop working, even when I know I should. It’s like I’m trying to prove something, even though I don’t know what.”

“You don’t have to prove anything to anyone. Least of all me.” The tenderness in his voice made her want to tear up. “You’re doing an amazing job. Better than I ever could.”

“I feel guilty,” she confessed. “I miss you. I hate that I haven’t gone to see you.”

“I miss you too,” he said quietly. “Em, take one night. Just one. The Bureau isn’t going to fall apart without you.”

She let out a shaky laugh and blinked against the sting in her eyes. “Are you sure about that?”

“Absolutely sure. Come here – I’ll make you dinner. You’ll eat, shower, and rest. That’s all. You can get back to it in the morning.”

His voice caught her off-guard. Rest. It broke through her defences and dissolved the armour she’d worn all week, until all that was left was exhaustion and the fragile ache of wanting to be cared for, especially by him.

By the time she reached his apartment, her body felt hollowed out and her head was pounding. He met her at the door before she was even out of the car, took her bag gently from her hand, and pressed a kiss to her forehead so tender and affectionate that she felt tears well up in her eyes.

“Rest, sweetheart. That’s all I want for you.” He gently cupped her cheeks and wiped away the stray tear that fell, holding her in his arms until she relaxed into him.

The smell of roasted vegetables filled the air and she realised, distantly, that she hadn’t eaten since morning. He led her to the dining table without a word and squeezed her hand before plating up the pasta he’d made, and let her eat in a peaceful silence. He watched her in a way that didn’t demand anything of her, unlike the hours she spent in the office where people seemed to flow in and out of her office like a revolving door, and she felt some of the oppressive exhaustion leave her body.

When they finally made it to bed, she didn’t speak and only curled in his side, letting herself unravel for the first time in days. As she drifted to sleep, she murmured a quiet thank you.

He brushed her hair back and pressed his lips to hers. “You’re welcome, Em. You deserve one night off. That’s all.”

And for once, she believed him.

When morning came, the world felt softer.

It was the first time in over a week that she woke without the heavy press of responsibility already waiting on her chest. She lay there for a long moment, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest and faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. Her mind was usually a storm of tasks and contingencies, but this morning, it was quiet. She’d tucked her phone away at the bottom of her bag before falling asleep and didn’t feel the familiar impulse to reach for it or check her email.

The Bureau could wait. The world could wait.

For years, her life had revolved around the endless churn of crises and the relentless pace that had become indistinguishable from purpose. But here, in the quiet rhythm of his breathing, she began to sense that there might be something else waiting for her beyond the Bureau’s walls: a life filled with peaceful mornings just like this one. The thought startled her, not because it frightened her, but because it now felt possible.

He had become, somehow, the still point around which her days turned and the haven she hadn’t realised she’d needed. With him, the world slowed and the sharp edges dulled.

She could love, and be loved, without the weight of saving anyone.

She turned on her side and studied his face, and thought about how much she’d come to rely on his steadiness. He’d given her permission to rest, and that permission was starting to rewrite everything she’d believed about strength. How strange that she had once thought she didn’t need or want this. She had spent years running on the fragile conviction that her work was her purpose and that to pause was to risk being swallowed by the tide, but as she lay there in the hush of morning, she could finally see the shape of another life forming in the stillness.

When he stirred beside her, eyes still heavy with sleep, she smiled faintly and whispered, “Morning.”

He smiled back and reached out to run his fingers through her hair. “Morning. How do you feel?”

“Better,” she said, surprised by how true it was. “Like I finally remembered what it feels like to just… stop.”

He reached for her hand and squeezed it gently. “Then we’ll make sure you don’t forget again.”

She nodded and tucked herself closer to him. For the first time in a long while, she believed that maybe she didn’t have to keep running to prove her worth.

Maybe rest was its own kind of strength.

And she thought, yes – maybe that was the point of it all. To remember, and to keep finding her way back to the stillness of him.