Morgan leaned against his desk, grinning. “I swear, one day I’m going to catch them doing something. Just a tiny PDA, that’s all I want.”

Reid adjusted his glasses. “I’ve run a probability analysis. The likelihood of them showing affection while under observation is practically zero.”

Prentiss snorted. “Yeah, tell me about it. It’s maddening.”

JJ tilted her head, smirking. “And Natalia… by her build, her arms—like, serious girl-biceps—honestly, I’d have pegged her as… you know, not interested in Hotch at all.”

Rossi laughed quietly. “That’s the genius of it. She looks intimidating, professional… like a bodyguard. Yet somehow, she’s married to Hotch. And he’s… Hotch.”

Garcia, typing furiously at her computer, squealed, “I know there’s chemistry there! I just need a slip-up! One smirk, one hand brush—anything!”

Hotch appeared behind them, folder in hand. Natalia followed, carrying a stack of files. Their eyes met, and for a heartbeat, the bullpen held its collective breath. But they just nodded, efficient and professional. Natalia set the files down with a subtle flex of her biceps, then returned to her chair. Hotch sat, and the moment was gone.

Morgan groaned. “See? Every. Single. Time. Professional robots.”

Prentiss muttered, “It’s unfair. And those arms! I’m never going to guess them right.”

Reid scribbled notes. “Perhaps their self-regulation is simply optimal for public observation. Fascinating.”

Garcia whispered, dramatically, “Mark my words, one day, I will witness the slip.”

And the bullpen returned to work, defeated, plotting, and utterly certain: they would never catch Hotch and Natalia.