The clock on the living room wall ticked too loudly.

Each second sounded heavier than the last, not just time passing, but time running out.

11:54 p.m.

The candles you’d lit hours ago had burned down to stubby pools of wax. Dinner was cold. The wine bottle sat open, untouched beside two glasses.

You’d told yourself you wouldn’t wait this time, not like last year, but of course you had. Because he’d promised.

He’d looked you right in the eyes before he left three days ago and said, “I’ll be home this time.”

And you’d wanted so badly to believe him. But belief doesn’t fill an empty chair.

You sat on the couch in one of his old shirts, legs pulled up beneath you, staring at your phone. The last message had come hours ago: “We’re wrapping up. I’m coming home as soon as I can.”

You hadn’t answered. You didn’t know what to say anymore.

11:57 p.m.

You exhaled shakily and wiped at your cheeks before you could stop yourself. It wasn’t fair, to be angry at him for saving people, for doing what he was meant to do. But it still hurt. You could respect his job, his duty… and still ache from the empty space beside you.

You blew out the last candle. Midnight was minutes away.

You were halfway up the stairs when you heard it, the sound of a key fumbling in the lock, the door swinging open.

“Aaron?” you whispered, voice small in the dark. He was there — suit rumpled, tie loose, exhaustion carved into every line of his face. His eyes found you immediately.

“Hey,” he breathed, voice rough, almost broken. “I- I made it.”

You looked at the clock. 11:59. Barely.

He crossed the room in a few long strides, stopping just short of you, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch you. His hand twitched at his side. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “The case ran long, and-”

“You missed it,” you interrupted, your voice catching. “Again.”

He closed his eyes like the words hit him straight in the chest. “I know.”

“You promised this time, Aaron.” You hated how fragile your voice sounded, hated that you still cared enough for it to break. “You said-”

“I know,” he said again, barely above a whisper now. “I was counting the hours. I kept thinking if I left five minutes earlier, if traffic wasn’t-”

You shook your head, tears finally spilling. “It’s not about five minutes. It’s about every time you’re almost here.”

For a long moment, the only sound was the clock. Midnight.

Happy anniversary.

Aaron finally stepped closer, hesitating just long enough for you to think he might retreat again, but then his hands found yours. Cold. Shaking. Desperate.

“I hate this,” he said, voice raw. “I hate that I keep choosing between the world and you. And every time I do, I lose something I can’t get back.”

You didn’t pull away. You couldn’t. Because you could see it, the exhaustion, the guilt, the love he didn’t know how to show except by coming home, even if it was a minute too late.

You sighed and leaned your forehead against his chest. “You’re here now.”

His arms came around you instantly, holding on like he was afraid you might disappear. “I’ll do better,” he murmured into your hair. “I swear, next year.”

You gave a small, broken laugh. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Hotch.”

He exhaled, the sound half a laugh, half a prayer. “Then I’ll just say this: I love you. That’s the only thing I know I won’t fail at.”