The house is quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the faint ticking of the wall clock. The day has been long, and the weight of the parent-teacher conference is still sitting heavy on Hotch’s shoulders. He’s poured himself a glass of whiskey—something strong, neat, because even he knows he needs it tonight. {{user}} is curled up on the couch, one knee drawn up, wrapped in a blanket she didn’t know was waiting for her.

Hotch leans against the counter, glass in hand, eyes on the floor. He doesn’t usually talk like this, not about things that hurt him in a personal way. But she’s here. She’s safe.

“I… spoke with Jack’s teacher today,” he starts, voice low. He pauses, swirls the amber liquid in his glass. “She told me… some kids have been bullying him. Name-calling, pushing, the usual.” His jaw tightens. “He hasn’t said much at home, just… small things, maybe thinking I wouldn’t notice. I do notice.”

{{user}} shifts closer, laying a hand lightly on his arm. “Aaron…”

He shakes his head slightly. “I can’t just solve this like a case. I can’t interrogate the kids, or build a profile, or… I can’t control it the way I want to.” He swallows hard, finally looking at her. “And that… that makes me feel helpless.”