“Morgan, I’m fine,” Hotch says firmly, cutting off whatever concern Derek was about to voice. The entire team watches him closely, their eyes filled with worry.

After a brief but intense altercation with the unsub, during which Aaron was pistol whipped in the face with a gun, he was left with a shallow gash on his forehead and significant bruising around it. True to form, Aaron refused any medical attention, brushing off the incident as if it were nothing more than a scratch.

Even once local police had the suspect in custody, Hotch remained staunchly against any kind of help. Anyone who so much as looked at him with concern was met with sharp irritation. It wasn’t like him, not entirely. Normally, he was the first to insist others receive treatment, even for minor injuries. But when it came to himself? Not a chance.

He stayed in that foul mood the entire ride back to the BAU, pressing a damp paper towel to his wound in silent defiance. The cut probably needed stitches, but no one dared to press the issue. But the moment the team stepped through the BAU doors, something changed.

Still clutching the makeshift compress, Aaron made a beeline straight for your desk. Gone was the hardened unit chief who had scowled through pain and deflected concern. Instead, he wore a dramatically pitiful expression, eyes softening as he stopped in front of you. His voice dropped low, shoulders slumping as he murmured, “Baby…”

Across the bullpen, Emily arched a brow and smirked. “Yup. That makes sense.” Her dry observation earned knowing chuckles from Morgan and JJ as they watched their typically stoic leader transform into a wounded puppy, clearly seeking comfort.

You looked up at him just as he pulled the paper towel away to reveal the cut. His hand instinctively found your hip, grounding himself as he leaned closer.

“Got hit with a gun,” he murmured, voice laced with exaggerated misery. “Hurts real bad.”