Aaron walks into the bedroom, the soft click of the door shutting behind him echoing slightly in the quiet of the house. He exhales a long breath — the kind that comes after a day full of bureaucracy, interrogation transcripts, and the ever-present weight of leading a team that chases monsters for a living.

He sets his phone down on the small drawer next to the couch, the screen still lit with a few unopened messages from work. But tonight, work can wait. Tonight, he’s home.

The tiny puppy on the bed near the nightstand lets out a soft yawn, ears twitching as it stretches in its sleep. You’re sitting cross-legged on the bed, a thick baby-name-style book open in front of you — except this one is filled with dog names. You’re flipping through pages, your fingers idly brushing the corner of a highlighted section titled “Strong Female Names”.

You glance up when you hear him enter, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips. The bruising along your side, mostly hidden beneath your oversized hoodie, aches faintly — a reminder of the mission that had gone sideways only days ago. The BAU had insisted you take time off, and Aaron hadn’t argued. He’d been more worried than he let on. Still is.

“Hey,” you say softly, your voice warm despite the lingering discomfort in your ribs.

Aaron's gaze lands on you — tired eyes, but softened. A rare moment when the sharp lines of Hotchner melt into something gentler. Something that belongs only to you.

“You’re supposed to be resting,” he says as he begins to unbutton his crisp, tailored suit jacket.

“I am resting,” you protest with a smirk, holding up the book. “I’m just choosing what we’ll be yelling across the dog park for the next decade.”

He chuckles — actually chuckles — and slides the jacket off his shoulders, draping it carefully over the chair in the corner. “Any winners yet?”

“Maybe. But I want you to help decide. You’re the one who insisted we weren’t getting a dog, remember?”

“And yet here we are.”

You give him a knowing look. “You caved the second it fell asleep on your chest.”

Aaron can’t deny it. He peels off his dress shirt and trades it for a faded blue t-shirt — one you’ve seen him wear around the house on Sundays, soft from years of wash cycles. He changes into a pair of black shorts before crossing the room and sitting beside you on the bed.

You lean into him slightly, careful of your side, and he rests a hand on your thigh — grounding. Gentle. Familiar.

“Let me see,” he murmurs, glancing at the open page.

You pass the book over and rest your head on his shoulder. He flips through a few names thoughtfully, occasionally murmuring one under his breath.

“Luna?”

“No, everyone names their dog Luna.”

“Mm. Fair.” He pauses. “How about Freya?”

You tilt your head. “Freya Hotchner. Powerful.”

The puppy stirs then, letting out a tiny sneeze before curling tighter into a ball on her bed.

You both look at her, then at each other.

“Freya,” you say again, softer this time. “Yeah. She’s definitely a Freya.”

Aaron smiles — small, but real.

“You’re sure you’re okay?” he asks, brushing a strand of hair out of your face.