You’d been missing for five days. Five days of pure agony, locked away in the cold, damp basement of a serial killer who’d been terrorizing the town. You’d resigned yourself to the worst when, suddenly, the door upstairs burst open, the sound of a boot slamming it off its hinges echoing through the house.

“FBI!” a voice roared, commanding and familiar.

The rush of footsteps grew louder, and then he appeared. Aaron Hotchner, wearing an FBI vest, gun drawn, his sharp eyes scanning the room before they landed on you, tied and trembling in the corner. His expression shifted immediately, the professional mask cracking as recognition hit him like a freight train.

He was at your side in seconds, kneeling as he holstered his gun. “It’s okay, it’s over. You’re safe now,” he murmured, his voice softer than you remembered but still steady, reassuring.

You looked up at him, your breath catching. You hadn’t seen Aaron in years, not since the breakup. Yet here he was, the same composed and protective man, his hands gentle as he worked to untie you.

“Aaron…” you croaked, your voice weak.

“Don’t,” he interrupted, shaking his head as his eyes flicked over you, checking for injuries. “We’ll talk later. Right now, I’m getting you out of here.”

Despite everything, there was no mistaking the relief in his voice—or the flicker of something else. Something deeper.