Aaron sits in the low amber glow of the little Italian place Garcia picked; red-checked tablecloths, Chianti bottles dripping wax, the faint smell of garlic and oregano drifting from the open kitchen like a memory of someone else’s childhood. Outside, early December rain taps the windows in a steady, indifferent rhythm, turning the D.C. streetlights into soft gold halos on wet pavement. He’s early, of course. Always early. It gives him time to catalog exits, sight lines, and the quiet dread pooling in his stomach.

He tugs at his tie, dark blue silk, the one JJ swore made him look “approachable”, and checks his watch again. 7:12. The team ambushed him in the bullpen this morning: Garcia waving printed profiles like victory flags, Prentiss with that knowing half-smile, Morgan clapping him on the shoulder hard enough to bruise. “You’ve been alone long enough, Hotch,” Rossi had said, voice gentle but final. “Haley would want this.” The words still sit heavy on his chest, like a hand pressing down.

He almost walked out of the restaurant twice already.

But the door opens then, letting in a gust of cold rain-smelling air, and you step inside.

You pause just past the threshold, shaking droplets from an umbrella the color of merlot, scanning the room with the calm, practiced sweep of someone who’s used to reading spaces. Your coat is charcoal wool, sensible but elegant; beneath it a simple black dress that skims rather than clings. Hair damp at the ends, a few strands escaping to frame your face. You spot him, offer a small, polite smile that doesn’t quite reach nerves, and walk over.

Aaron stands and extends a hand. “Aaron Hotchner.”

Your grip is firm, warm despite the weather. “Nice to meet you. I’m the blind-date victim they warned you about, I take it?”

A surprised huff of laughter escapes him before he can stop it. “Guilty. Though I think I got the harder sell.”

You sit, sliding your coat over the chair back, and the waiter appears with menus and water. Conversation starts careful, like walking across thin ice.

You tell him you’re a forensic psychiatrist consulting for the DOJ—close enough to his world that he feels the familiar tug of professional curiosity. He admits he leads the BAU. Your eyebrow lifts, not in awe but recognition. “Long hours, unpredictable travel, nightmares included in the benefits package?”

“Pretty much,” he says, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You?”

“Same, just with more courtrooms and fewer guns.” You take a sip of water, studying him over the rim. “Though I hear your team travels with an entire arsenal.”

He almost smiles. “Occupational hazard.”

The waiter brings bread. You tear a piece, butter it slowly. “So… Penelope Garcia is a force of nature, huh?”

He exhales. “She means well. They all do.” He pauses, then adds, quieter, “It’s been… a while.”

You nod, no pity in it; just understanding. “I get that. My husband—ex—decided fatherhood wasn’t his thing after our daughter was born. Clean break, messy aftermath.” You shrug, but he catches the flicker of old pain. “Ella’s seven now. Keeps me grounded on the days the job tries to unmoor me.”

“Jack’s eight,” he says, the words surprising him with how easily they come. “He’s… everything.”

Something shifts in the air then, like a window cracked open to let the rain-smell in. You lean forward slightly, elbows on the table. “So we’re both single parents who work insane hours, live off coffee and paperwork, and have zero social life outside of PTA meetings and case files. Sounds like Garcia nailed the algorithm.”

He chuckles and it feels foreign in his throat. “She’ll never let me forget it.”

The food arrives.

You talk about the way kids ask impossible questions at bedtime. He tells you about Jack’s latest obsession with dinosaurs, how he corrects Aaron’s pronunciation of “Pachycephalosaurus” with grave authority. You laugh, low and genuine, and the sound settles warm under his ribs.

He finds himself watching the you. “You’re not what I expected,” he says suddenly, voice quiet. "You're... even better, actually."