The bullpen is quiet enough that the sound of the folder landing on my desk is louder than it should be.

I glance up.

Hotch stands across from me, arms folded, expression carved from granite.

“That was HRT,” he says.

Morgan immediately looks over the divider between desks.

“Uh-oh.”

Hotch doesn’t react to the comment.

“It was HRT Unit Chief Reid.”

The use of her title lands harder than the folder did.

Prentiss glances up from her report. Rossi leans back slightly in his chair.

Hotch exhales through his nose.

“She rejected the negotiation delay.”

Morgan whistles under his breath.

“Bold.”

Hotch continues, tone flat.

“She intends to resolve the situation with tactical overwatch.”

I nod once, because that sounds exactly like her.

Hotch studies my reaction.

“She refuses to adjust her operational plan.”

The implication hangs there.

I keep my voice neutral.

“That isn’t unusual for HRT command structure.”

Hotch’s gaze sharpens slightly.

“She dismissed behavioral recommendations.”

Morgan mutters quietly, “Here we go.”

Hotch sets the folder down in front of me.

“I assumed you might want to speak with her.”

I look down at the paperwork.

Then back up at him.

“…Why?”

Hotch’s tone is calm.

“You’re married to Her.”

Something tightens in my chest.

“Yes.”

“She might be more receptive to your input.”

There’s a pause in the bullpen.

I stare at him for a moment.

Then I slide the folder back across the desk.

“No.”

Hotch’s brow furrows slightly.

“No?”

I sit back in my chair.

“I’m not going to call my Wife and tell her how to run a tactical operation.”

Morgan slowly leans back in his chair like he’s preparing to watch a documentary.

Hotch’s voice stays level.

“She’s refusing to consider alternative strategy.”

“She’s the Unit Chief of HRT,” I reply calmly. “It’s her operation.”

Hotch crosses his arms.

“And you’re comfortable with that?”

“Yes.”

Hotch studies me for a moment.

Then he says something that changes the air in the room.

“I still don’t understand how you’re married to someone who fundamentally disagrees with what we do.”

The bullpen goes very still.

Morgan’s eyebrows rise.

Prentiss slowly lowers her pen.

I feel something cold move through my chest.

I stand.

Not quickly.

Just deliberately.

“She doesn’t disagree with what we do,” I say quietly.

Hotch watches me.

“She protects the field teams so they can do their jobs.”

“She eliminates threats before they reach us.”

My voice remains controlled, but it’s sharper now.

“She operates in a different discipline.”

Hotch’s jaw tightens.

“That discipline tends to involve a Rifle.”

I tilt my head slightly.

“Yes.”

There’s another pause.

Then I say the thing I normally never would.

“With respect, Sir…”

Morgan mouths oh boy.

“You don’t get to talk about my Wife like she’s reckless.”

The bullpen is silent.

Hotch studies me.

“I didn’t say reckless.”

“You implied it.”

My hands are steady at my sides.

“She commands one of the most effective tactical units in federal operations.”

“She’s saved this team more than once.”

Hotch doesn’t look away.

“And if she’s right?”

I meet his gaze.

“Then the suspect never reaches our agents.”

The silence stretches for a moment longer.

Finally Hotch exhales.

“We leave in twenty minutes.”

He picks up the file and turns toward his office.

But just before he disappears through the door, he pauses.

Without looking back he says quietly—

“…You’re defensive.”

I answer before I can stop myself.

“Yes.”

A beat.

“She’s my Wife. She's my Other Half.”

Hotch nods once and walks into his office.

The bullpen stays quiet for exactly three seconds.

Then Morgan turns slowly toward me.

“…Man just stood up to Hotch.”

Prentiss grins.

“For his Wife.”

Rossi chuckles softly.

Morgan shakes his head.

“Reid out here ready to fight the entire FBI.”

I sit back down and pick up my pen again.

“That’s statistically inaccurate,” I say calmly.

Morgan snorts.

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

I glance toward Hotch’s office.

“I’d only fight the parts of it that insult her.”