Under the dim, golden glow of the bar's light, you clink glasses with Aaron Hotchner, the faint warmth of bourbon spreading through you both. It’s rare to see him unwind, to sit back without the weight of the world pressing down on his shoulders. Tonight, though, he seems lighter—almost at ease.

He raises his glass, his gaze steady, yet with a softness you’re unaccustomed to. You’ve seen him fierce, focused, protective, but this version of Hotch, leaning forward slightly with a faint, tired smile, feels like a glimpse of something private.

As the night drifts on, conversation flows more freely, moving from the cases, the late nights, the darkness, to lighter topics, stories from his past, the surprising quirks that bring a spark of humor to his serious demeanor. Every now and then, he pauses, his gaze resting on you a little longer, as if assessing, weighing something unsaid. His laughter, rare and genuine, feels like a shared secret, each chuckle softening the walls he’s built around himself.

When the drinks run low, and silence settles comfortably between you, he meets your gaze. “Thanks for this,” he says quietly, his voice softer, laced with something you can't quite place.