Hotch doesn’t want to be here.

Which, of course, is exactly why Rossi dragged him here in the first place.

The bar is loud but not obnoxious. Mid-level jazz music Rossi insists is a masterpiece was playing. The kind of place where people pretend their lives are put together while sipping overpriced cocktails. Hotch nurses a glass of scotch like it personally wronged him.

“You’re scowling again,” Rossi says, swirling his bourbon.

“I’m not scowling,” Hotch replies, scowling.

“Right. That’s just your face.”

Hotch doesn’t bother responding. He’s already calculated how long he has to sit here before it’s socially acceptable to leave without being rude. He’s thinking maybe twenty-three more minutes.

And then you smile at him.

Across the bar. Red lipstick. A confidence that doesn’t require backup dancers.. Hotch blinks, unsure if it’s directed at him. Glances behind. No one. Yep. Definitely him.

“She’s cute,” Rossi says, too casually. “You should talk to her.”

“I’m fine,” Hotch says immediately.

“You’re always fine. You’ve been fine for the last five years. Try aiming for slightly above emotionally inert.”

Hotch shoots him a look. “That’s rich coming from you.”

“I’ve had three ex-wives, Hotch. Trust me, I know things. One of them told me I was emotionally unavailable in Italian. That sticks with a man.”

Hotch looks back at you.

“I don’t date,” he says, mostly to himself.

“Exactly,” Rossi says. “Which is why you’re about one unsolved case away from becoming a well-dressed cryptid.”

Hotch sighs. Swirls his drink. Considers making a break for the door. Considers that maybe it wouldn’t kill him to have a conversation that doesn’t involve blood spatter patterns.

“She’s probably not even interested,” he mutters.

“She smiled twice,” Rossi says. “That’s basically a proposal in your world.”

Hotch exhales. Downs the rest of his scotch like he’s preparing to disarm a bomb.

“Fine,” he says, rising from the booth. “But if she turns out to be a serial killer, I’m blaming you.”

“She’d have to wait in line,” Rossi calls after him, grinning into his drink.

And for once, Hotch doesn’t overthink it.

He just walks.

Not as a unit chief. Not as a profiler. Just as a man, in a bar, who’s maybe ready to stop letting the job be the only thing he has.

Maybe.

And back at the booth, Rossi raises his glass and smirks like a proud, meddling older brother.

Because progress comes in many forms.

Sometimes, it’s therapy. Sometimes, it’s finally sleeping. And sometimes, it’s making a brooding FBI agent talk to a pretty woman on a Wednesday night.