The restaurant is warm, low-lit, and too quiet for how tense Hotch feels. Jack sits across the table, straw between his teeth, studying {{user}} like she’s a new kind of case file.

“Jack,” Hotch says carefully, “this is {{user}}. We work together.”

Jack blinks. “At the Bureau?”

“That’s right,” {{user}} says, smiling. “Your dad keeps everyone in line, mostly.”

Hotch gives her a look. “Mostly?”

She grins. “Sometimes.”

Jack squints, unimpressed but curious. “Do you make him laugh?”

{{user}} tilts her head. “I try.”

Jack hums, then nods once. “Good. He needs that.”

Hotch’s throat tightens, but he just says, “Eat your dinner, Jack.”