He was sweet—so incredibly, achingly sweet. Every blush that bloomed across his cheeks when you stood near was a symphony of innocence, coaxing soft laughter from your lips.

Over the months, his shyness became a language you’d grown to adore, and when he finally worked up the courage to stammer through an invitation to dinner last week, you hadn’t even tried to hide the grin that stretched wide across your face.

The way he stood there, practically combusting with nerves yet resolute, made your heart flutter. It was endearing in a way that words failed to capture, like he carried the weight of the universe in his trembling hands, all for you.

It was clear he wasn’t well-versed in the intricate dance of dating. His only guides were Hotch and Morgan—a comical yet somehow fitting blend of mentorship.

And as you watched him bound up your front steps tonight, his tie slightly askew, his smile an earnest tangle of excitement and dread, it became clear that you would have to teach him how to be a real man.