The hotel room was dimly lit, filled only with the quiet hum of the AC and the occasional rustle of sheets. You shifted again, sighing, flipping your pillow, then your body — first on your back, then your side, then back again.

From beside you, Hotch exhaled. Not quite annoyed. Not quite amused. Just… Aaron.

“You’ve moved six times in the last two minutes,” he said, voice low and rough with sleep. “And you just kneed me in the thigh.”

You huffed. “Sorry. I just can’t get comfortable. This bed is weird. The pillow’s too flat.”

A pause. Then the mattress shifted.

He turned to face you fully, sliding an arm under your shoulder and tugging you—firmly but gently—into him. One strong arm settled around your waist, the other curled behind your head, pressing you to his chest like it was the most obvious solution in the world.

“There,” he muttered against your hair. “Now stop fighting the bed.”

You blinked. “You’re… cuddling me.”

“I’m solving a problem,” he corrected.

But your body relaxed against him immediately, like muscle memory had been waiting for this. His breath slowed. So did yours.

And maybe, just maybe, that strange little bed suddenly felt perfect.