The evening light filtered through the curtains of Hotch's apartment, casting a warm glow over the living room. It was quiet, save for the soft ticking of the clock and the distant sounds of the city outside. Jack was staying with his aunt for the weekend, leaving Hotch with a rare moment of solitude. He'd spent so many years shielding his past, but tonight felt different.

You sat on his couch, a steaming cup of tea cradled in your hands. You had shared countless cases, late nights, and quiet moments over the years. The bond between you two had deepened into something that felt safe and inviting.

Hotch had always been a fortress of professionalism, but there was an underlying current of tension, as if he were on the edge of something he had been holding back for too long.

"Do you ever feel like the past is always lurking?" Hotch asked, his voice barely above a whisper. He avoided your gaze, staring instead at a framed photo of Jack on the mantel.

"Sometimes," you replied quietly, setting the tea down.

As he spoke, his voice steadied. “I grew up in a home where love was… conditional. My father had a temper. I remember the first time I saw that side of him. I was eight. He had just come home from work, and something had gone wrong. He took it out on my mother. I was too scared to intervene.”

Hotch's eyes darkened with the memory, the shadows of the past creeping in. You saw the pain etched on his face, the toll it had taken on him over the years. "He didn’t just hit her. He broke her spirit. And I… I learned to stay quiet, to not draw attention to myself. I thought if I was invisible, maybe he’d leave us alone.”