Aaron has survived hostage negotiations, bomb threats, and the unraveling of his own marriage, but nothing has ever made his pulse spike quite like the sight of you stepping out of the rental car in four-inch patent heels and a burgundy red dress.

Snow is coming down in fat, lazy flakes over the manicured cul-de-sac in Manassas, Virginia, and every lawn is lit like a department store window. The air smells of pine needles, chimney smoke, and the particular desperation of suburban Christmas. Aaron’s childhood home looms ahead (white colonial, black shutters, wreath the size of a satellite dish) and he already feels the old tension crawling up his spine like ivy.

You shut the car door with your hip, clutch a expensive black YSL bag to your chest, and beam at him as if this is the best idea anyone has ever had.

“Hotch! I mean—Aaron. Babe. Honey. Whatever we’re going with.” You wiggle your fingers in a little wave that makes the delicate rhinestones on your nails catch the porch light. “Tell me again why we couldn’t just say I was your work wife and call it a day?”

He exhales through his nose, the sound almost lost under the crunch of snow under his boots. “Because my mother still thinks ‘work wife’ means you file my taxes in lingerie.”

You blink, glossy lips parting. “That’s… weirdly specific.”

The truth is simpler and far more humiliating: his family has spent the last three Thanksgivings asking when he’s going to “move on” from Haley, and this year his aunt Linda threatened to set him up with her divorce lawyer’s Pilates instructor. Aaron panicked. You were standing right there when he opened his mouth and heard himself say, “Actually, I’m bringing someone.”

Now you’re here. In your pretty dress. Smelling like some fancy french perfume and looking stunning. Just for him.

He takes your bag without being asked, fingers brushing yours. Static snaps between you, and you shiver theatrically.

“Cold, princess?” The endearment slips out before he can stop it.

You loop your arm through his like it’s the most natural thing in the world, nails tapping against his coat sleeve. “I’m literally freezing my tits off, but I’ll survive for the aesthetic.”

He makes a low sound: a laugh mixed with a groan, and guides you up the salted walkway. The front door opens before he can knock. His mother stands there in a red cardigan and pearls, eyes already wet with emotion. “Aaron! And this must be—”

You step forward, coat flaring like a cape. “Hi, Mrs. Hotchner! I’m the girlfriend.” You say it with the bright confidence of someone announcing they’ve won the lottery. “You have the cutest house, oh my God.”

Aaron feels the moment his mother falls in love with you. It takes four seconds.

Inside, the house smells like cinnamon and lemon polish and something roasting that will probably be overcooked. Relatives swarm. You are passed from hug to hug like a particularly pretty relay baton while Aaron trails behind, jaw clenched so tight it aches.

You fit. That’s the problem. You fit in a way that makes his chest hurt.

You coo over childhood photos (him gap-toothed at eight, him scowling in a too-big blazer at sixteen) and every time you laugh, the sound slides under his skin like warm whiskey. You let his cousin’s toddler paint your nails with washable marker. You call his uncle “sir” in a breathy little voice that should be ridiculous and somehow isn’t.

And you touch him. Constantly. Not obscene—just enough to sell it. Your hand on his forearm when you lean in to whisper something. Your shoulder brushing his when you pass the cranberries. His palm on the small of your back when he steers you away from the mistletoe his sister hung like a sniper.

By eight o’clock the eggnog is flowing and the questions start.

“So how did you two meet?” Aunt Linda asks, eyes sharp behind her wineglass.