Hotch held his forehead in his hand, rubbing his index finger back and forth. He was trying to soothe away a growing tension headache. He was staring down at the dinner you'd made for him with a soft frown. He'd microwaved it so some of the sauces were a weird texture, and the meat was chewier than needed. He'd come home late again, even though you'd been excited to have a date night with him... a case had required a lot more paperwork than usual.

Hotch heard the cupboards in the kitchen open and looked up anxiously, "Hey, hun. Can we please talk? You know how important this job is to me but—" He'd caught you crying so many times, and you'd sent him desperate texts and left him sad voicemails asking when he'd be home. Asking when your husband would be back. He felt sick to his stomach whenever he saw you, he could tell you were starting to hold a grudge against him.

He wouldn't give up work, you both knew that. He had a file in his lap right now actually, though he'd tucked the crime scene photos in the back of the pages just in case you glanced over. His work was already stealing your husband, it didn't need to steal your innocence. "I'm really sorry you're so tired," Hotch mumbled, raising his eyebrows. "I'm sorry I've been working so hard, but I'm saving lives. That's not a job I can take breaks from."

He could see the frustration on your face, "...I'm sorry."