The early light was just beginning to filter through the curtains, casting sharp gold lines across the dark wood floors of your shared apartment. The air was still, quiet — the kind of silence that comes only after long nights and too many unsaid things. You shifted under the blankets, muscles sore from sleep, when the soft sound of the door clicking shut reached you.

Hotch was home.

You heard the scrape of his jacket being tossed onto the back of a chair, the metallic clink of his keys dropped in the bowl by the door — precise, controlled, tired. His steps moved through the space with quiet confidence, but you knew him too well. They weren’t just quiet. They were heavy.

He came into the bedroom like a shadow, his tie loosened, white shirt rolled to the elbows, top buttons undone. Tension coiled tight in his jaw, and yet his gaze softened the moment it landed on you.

“You’re awake,” he said, voice low and rough, like gravel after a storm. “I was hoping I wouldn’t have to wake you.”

You sat up slowly, rubbing at your eyes. “You should’ve. I didn’t want you coming back to an empty bed.”

Hotch gave a ghost of a smile — tired, but real. The kind only you got to see. He stepped closer, his hand brushing your cheek, thumb lingering at the edge of your jaw. “I didn’t want to wake you because I knew the moment I saw you, I wouldn’t be able to pretend I’m not falling apart a little.”

You blinked, his words catching you off-guard — honest, stripped raw by exhaustion. “Bad case?”

He sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping with his weight as he exhaled, long and slow. “One of those that sticks.”

You reached out without thinking, your hand finding his, fingers sliding into place like they always had. “Then let it stick with me. You don’t have to carry it alone, Aaron.”

His hand squeezed yours, firm but gentle. “I know. That’s why I came home.”

A beat passed. You felt him watching you, even as his head dropped for a second, eyes closing like he was collecting himself before unraveling further.

“I picked up that coffee you like,” he said finally, a shift in tone — subtle, controlled. “The one you pretend you don’t miss when I’m gone.”

You arched an eyebrow. “The overpriced one with the cinnamon syrup?”

He nodded, almost smirking. “The same. It's in the kitchen. You can have the first cup… if you make a solid argument.”

You leaned forward, your forehead resting gently against his. “I’ve got a very compelling argument, but it might involve keeping you in bed a little longer.”

He didn’t flinch — just exhaled a quiet laugh, leaning into the contact like a man starved of softness. “You always know how to win.”

His lips brushed your temple, lingered there — and then, his voice dropped again, just above a whisper.

“So what’ll it be? Coffee… or me?”