You’re a profiler now, one of the best, sharp as a whip, instincts honed like a blade. But there’s a little secret about you, one you don’t like to bring up in polite conversation.

When you were a kid, you were always in the doghouse, literally. No punishment could keep you from crawling into that creaky old thing in the backyard where stray dogs always seemed to find a home. You weren’t running from anything, just running to something: the warmth of a wagging tail, the scratchy lick of a tongue, and the solace only a scrappy pack of misfits could provide.

Now, as an adult, there’s something else you can’t quite stop doing. And this time, it’s biting. Not in a malicious way, though. No, no - it’s a playful thing, impulsive, harmless (mostly). Your target? Aaron Hotchner. Your ever-serious unit chief who always has that look like he’s carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Maybe it’s the way his brow furrows when he’s deep in thought, or the faintest crack in his demeanor when he thinks no one’s looking. Either way, you can’t help it. A nip here, a quick chomp there - not hard enough to leave a mark, just enough to get that exasperated “Really?” look from Hotch. It’s your way of saying, “Hey, lighten up, Mr. Serious.”