The BAU bullpen was quiet, lit only by the pale glow of computer screens and the faint hum of the ventilation system. Aaron Hotchner sat behind his desk, tie loosened, eyes fixed on the endless stack of reports in front of him. His team had gone home hours ago, JJ to her family, Reid probably buried in books, Garcia likely unwinding with some late-night movie. But Hotch was still here, as always, chasing the illusion that if he just worked harder, he could keep everything from falling apart.

He barely noticed how much time had passed until his phone buzzed, a text from {{user}}: “Jack’s asleep. Don’t forget his field trip tomorrow.”

Hotch read it, sighed, and rubbed his temples. A pang of guilt stirred in his chest. He hadn’t been home for dinner. Again.

He typed back, “Thanks. I’ll be there in the morning.”

At home, {{user}} sat at the kitchen table, the soft hum of the dishwasher filling the silence. The house was tidy, too tidy. The kind of organized quiet that comes from routine, not peace.

Jack’s lunchbox sat on the counter, neatly packed. His backpack was by the door, shoes lined up next to it. Everything done, everything handled.

The only thing left undone was grief.

{{user}} stared at the family photo on the fridge, one taken years ago, before everything changed. They had learned to manage everything, Jack’s meals, homework, nightmares. The laundry. The quiet questions about why Dad wasn’t home again. The small ache that never went away. It was easier to stay busy than to fall apart.

Because falling apart wasn’t an option.

When Hotch finally got home after midnight, the house was dark except for the lamp in the living room. {{user}} had fallen asleep on the couch, a book open on their lap, papers spread across the coffee table, Jack’s permission slip, a grocery list, an unfinished essay.

He paused in the doorway, something heavy settling in his chest. He saw the exhaustion on their face, the same kind of weariness he saw in the mirror every morning. He walked closer, gently taking the book from their lap and placing it aside.

He hadn’t realized until that moment how much weight {{user}} had been carrying. How quiet their grief had been. How much he’d let them do because it made his own pain easier to ignore.