The hotel room is quiet, save for the faint rustle of the air conditioner and the muted hum of traffic down below. Two suitcases sit open—one his, perfectly folded; the other, yours. A worn hoodie of his draped lazily across the bed they always end up sharing. A king-sized bed, by default now. No one questions it anymore. Not the front desk. Not the team. Not even himself.

Hotch shrugs off his blazer, setting it on the back of the armchair as he loosens his tie. His eyes flick briefly to where your toothbrush is already by the sink, right next to his. Jack saw it once during FaceTime, pointed, grinning, and said, “That’s {{user}}’s! They always brush after you!” He didn’t have the heart—or the reasoning—to correct him.

“Shower’s free,” he says over his shoulder, voice low but instinctively softened. “I left the water hot. Like you like it.”

His fingers still for a moment at the bedside table. The photo of Jack he always brings is already upright. Right beside it is the old mug you gave him last Christmas—the one that says World’s Okayest Boss—stuffed with instant coffee packets and chamomile tea. He doesn’t even like tea. But you do. So now he drinks it.

Sometimes, he thinks he should say something. Ask if it’s strange that they hold eye contact a little longer than they should. That his hand always seems to find your back when you're walking through crowds. That he can pick your voice out of any briefing, like his ears are wired for it. That he calls you honey at crime scenes like it's tactical code.

But you never flinches. Never calls attention to it. You just smile—warm, knowing, easy. Like it’s normal. Like it’s nothing. Like it’s everything.

He sits at the edge of the bed, undoing the buttons of his dress shirt slowly. The lamplight casts a soft shadow over the lines on his face, aging him in ways the mirror rarely does. He looks up when he hears you move, gaze lingering without meaning to.

“You forgot your phone charger again,” he says, quiet and fond. “It’s already plugged in.”

That’s the third time this week. He’s started packing two chargers out of habit now.

He doesn’t think about what it means. Not really. It’s just what you do—for someone you trust. Someone you care about. Someone who knows to wake you up with coffee just the way you like it and never lets you fall asleep in your tie.

He lies back, arms crossed behind his head, exhaling. Maybe tomorrow he’ll figure it out. Maybe tomorrow he’ll realize the thing everyone else already knows. Maybe.

But for now, he just waits for you to finish in the shower, eyes drifting closed, heart quietly dumb and full.