dni if you are a bigot or axe murderer (unless you axe murder in a cool, fun, sort of hot way) ((absolutely zero bigots though))
i also prefer that you have your age present in your bio/on your blog because while my blog is sfw i still prefer to know who i am engaging with
and on that note pls do not interact if your blog is sexual in nature, nothing wrong with that i just want this to be a safe space outside of those interactions!
and if you are a sexist homophobe transphobe lesbiphobe biphobe racist terf or anything of the sort i personally set you on flames through the screen and please never interact with me! and question your decisions and values pls!! xx
irl i work at an addiction rehabilitation center, i have three cats that i love with my whole life, and i hope to live life spreading love and joy- so i hope you are well!! thank you for reading!!
content/tw: pure fluff, established relationship, reader doesn't have a specific gender!
a/n: I just couldn't get out of my head the image of being spoiled by hotch. I just feel that he goes out of his way to make sure you're happy. Ugh, I love him!
dividers by @uzmacchiato
“Aaron, baby. You could’ve just said no.”
Hotch stared at you like you just said the most absurd thing that he’s ever heard.
To him, you really did.
Since you walked into his life, from day one, he could never, ever deny you anything. Anything being, five more minutes in bed, dressing up together for halloween, getting a sweet treat in the middle of the night, massages and every silly little thing your creative mind could come up with.
This is the reason why, on a wednesday night he got home one hour later than he used to. Ever since you and him started dating, everytime Aaron could find himself alone between one task and the other, he called you. They were quick calls, really. Almost all of them are about five minutes: many times less than that, never much more. He checked on you, maybe made plans for the night. Mainly just listening to you ramble about whatever chorus you were up to at the moment. He truly just wanted to hear you, and make sure you knew he was thinking of you.
It was on one of those calls when it happened. At some point between those 3 minutes and 47 seconds of talking you mentioned you were craving blueberry muffins with powdered sugar on top. You asked him if he could get you some from the bakery next to the BAU on his way home. He (obviously) said yes, and you moved on. You didn’t even think about it after that, it was just a moment. But your wish (every single one) was a (very urgent and imperious) command.
So, when he walked out of the office to find out that said bakery didn’t have any blueberry muffins left, he decided to check on another bakery on his way home. And another one. After the third failure he decided to make his life mission to find the best blueberry muffins available and bring them home to you.
That’s how he found himself across town, with 30 minutes added to his already long path home and a package of (warm!!!) blueberry muffins (with powdered sugar on top, of course) on the passenger seat. You greeted him by the door the second you heard him unlocking the front door, worried out of your mind about why it took him so long to get home after he texted you he was leaving. And when he explained, you almost couldn’t keep yourself from combusting into flames at how adorable he was.
“But… you asked me to.”
“I know.” you pointed, still giggling and holding your arms around his neck, looking at him lovingly “But I didn’t want to bother…”
“You didn’t.” he dismissed, too quickly “You never do.” he added, softly. You gave him a few pecks on the lips, smiling so hard it was almost hurting your cheeks. “Did you like it?” he asked, and in moments like this he looked like a boy, with eyes slightly wide, scanning your face looking for any signs that he did something right. You loved him a little bit more (as if it was possible) everytime he did it.
“I loved it, baby. They smell so good, I might eat the whole box right away!” you exaggerated, and were rewarded with a chuckle in response.
“Then it was worth it.” he concluded, giving you another peck on the lips.
“You spoil me. Just promise me that, the next time, you will just tell me no.” he scrunched his nose at you.
the number 1 rule of fanfic is have fun and be yourself. the number 2 rule is the average healthy adult male can lose roughly 2 liters of blood before dying.
summary: aaron confirms his relationship during a game of interrogation. the team had no idea.
tw: mentions of abusive/toxic relationships, Jack being absolute sweetheart.
word count: 1.9k
authors note: coming back to you as a married woman now! I have one spencer reid story planned for this week. Please let me know how you like this one.
tag: @wormznrocks
masterlist
~♡~
The soft scratching of a charcoal pencil against heavy textured paper is usually the only sound that fills your sunlit living room on a Friday afternoon. Today, it’s soundtracked by the rhythmic, heavy thud of a docked tail wagging against the hardwood floor, and the bright, breathless laughter of a seven-year-old boy.
You look up from your sketchbook, a fond smile immediately tugging at your lips. Jack is currently on his hands and knees, completely buried beneath the massive, sleek frame of Buster, your ninety-pound doberman. Buster, whose usual demeanor is that of an imposing, razor-sharp guardian, has completely melted into a puddle of compliance. He is currently letting Jack drape a red superhero cape around his neck, his dark brown eyes tracking the little boy with nothing short of absolute adoration.
"Look, Y/N! He’s Super-Buster now!" Jack crows, looking over his shoulder at you, his eyes bright and crinkling at the corners. He looks so much like his father in that exact moment that it catches in your chest.
"He looks magnificent, sweetie" you laugh, setting your sketchbook on the coffee table. "But I think Super-Buster is requesting a tactical deployment of belly rubs."
As if understanding the cue, Buster flops onto his side with a dramatic grunt, his massive paws curling into the air. Jack squeals with delight and immediately obliges, burying his small hands into the dog's sleek fur.
Watching them, a profound sense of peace settles over you—a feeling that, up until a year ago, you weren't sure you’d ever experience again.
Your past is a shadow you’ve had to run from for a long time.
Your ex-boyfriend hadn't just handled your breakup poorly. He had turned into a terrifying, relentless specter in your life. The stalking had escalated from flooded inboxes and unexpected appearances at your art studio to broken windows, slashed tires, and the suffocating feeling that you were constantly being watched. It had stripped away your sense of safety, leaving you hyper-vigilant and constantly looking over your shoulder.
Buster had been your saving grace. Trained rigorously for personal protection, the doberman became your living, breathing shield. He was the only reason you could sleep at night, a fierce deterrent of teeth and muscle that kept the nightmare at bay until the law finally caught up with your ex.
Now, that man was behind bars, serving a lengthy sentence, but the emotional scars didn't just vanish with a prison verdict.
Then, Aaron Hotchner walked into your life.
You had met him entirely by chance at a local community art gallery where some of your students' work was being displayed. He had been standing in front of a messy, vibrant watercolor painted by a six-year-old, looking at it with the kind of intense, quiet gravity he usually reserved for federal cases. You had approached him, amused, and a conversation about the raw honesty of children's art had sparked something neither of you expected.
Despite the six-year age gap, and despite the heavy armor you both wore—him from the horrors of his job and the grief of his past, you from the trauma of your stalking—you clicked. Aaron didn't push. He was patient, a steady and immovable rock in a world that had always felt like shifting sand to you. When he finally met Buster, he hadn't been intimidated or put off by the dog’s intense guarding instincts. Instead, Aaron had looked at the massive animal, then at you, and you had seen a visible wave of relief wash over his usually stoic features.
“Knowing he’s here with you when I’m on the road” Aaron had murmured one night, his large hand buried in Buster’s fur after the dog had finally deemed him trustworthy “it’s the first time in years I haven't worried myself sick leaving for a case.”
Three months ago, you took the leap and moved into Aaron’s house. It had been a seamless transition. Jack absolutely adored you, and perhaps more importantly, Jack and Buster had become an inseparable duo. Aaron jokes that Buster has officially traded his guard-dog credentials to become a glorified toddler-enabler, but you all know the truth: Buster loves Jack just as fiercely as he loves you.
"Y/N?" Jack's voice breaks you out of your thoughts. He has abandoned the belly rubs and is now leaning his elbows on the edge of the coffee table, looking at you with big, earnest eyes. "When is Daddy coming home?"
You glance at the clock on the wall. It’s just past four in the afternoon. "He should be home in a few hours, bud. He said they had a lighter day at the office today—mostly paperwork and training."
"Do you think he'll play catch with us? Me and Super-Buster?"
"I think if you ask him nicely, he won't be able to say no," you smile, reaching out to ruffle Jack’s hair.
Jack beams, then hesitates, his expression turning uncharacteristically serious. He fidgets with the edge of his sleeve, looking down at his sneakers before looking back up at you. "Um... Y/N?"
"Yeah, sweetie? What's up?"
"Can I... can I ask you something big?"
Your heart softens, and you shift so you're facing him fully. "Of course you can. You can ask me anything."
Jack swallows, his small shoulders rising and falling. "My friend Maya at school... she has a mom and a dad. And she calls her mom 'mama'. I know my mommy Haley is in heaven..." He looks up, his eyes swimming with a mixture of vulnerability and hope that completely melts your heart. "But since you live with us now, and you take care of me, and you're my favorite person... is it okay if I call you mama Y/N? Or just... mama?"
For a second, the breath catches in your throat. A warmth so fierce and consuming floods your chest that tears prick the corners of your eyes. You know how much Haley meant to this family, and you have never, ever tried to replace her. To hear Jack offer this up entirely on his own is the most profound gift you've ever received.
You slide off the couch onto the floor, pulling Jack into a tight, warm hug. Buster immediately shuffles over, whining softly and nudging his wet nose against your tangled arms, wanting to be included.
"Oh, Jack," you whisper into his hair, blinking back tears of pure happiness. "I would love nothing more in the whole world than for you to call me mama. It would be the biggest honor."
Jack squeezes your neck tightly, his small body relaxing completely against yours. "Good. Because Buster and I already talked about it, and he agrees."
You let out a watery laugh, burying your face in his shoulder. "Oh, he agrees, does he? Well, far be it from us to argue with Super-Buster."
As you hold Jack, you can't help but wish Aaron were here to see this. You know how much this would mean to him—to know that the home you've built together is whole, happy, and brimming with love.
What you don't know, however, is that at that exact moment, across town in the glass-walled offices of the BAU, your stoic, fiercely private boyfriend is currently being subjected to a completely different kind of interrogation.
The atmosphere in the BAU bullpen is deceptively relaxed, a rare occurrence that usually only happens when a string of brutal cases finally snaps shut, leaving a graveyard of paperwork in its wake. But today, the quiet afternoon has been weaponized for a different purpose.
In one of the glass-walled conference rooms, the entire team is gathered. Derek Morgan is leaning back in his chair with a smirk, his arms crossed over his chest. Emily Prentiss is twirling a pen between her fingers, an amused glint in her eyes. Spencer Reid is nervously adjusting his satchel, though his eyes are sharp with analytical curiosity, and Penelope Garcia is practically vibrating with excitement, hovering near the doorway.
At the head of the table sits Aaron Hotchner. His suit jacket is draped over the back of his chair, his sleeves are rolled up to his forearms, and his expression is a terrifying, blank slate of absolute stoicism.
Opposite him sits David Rossi, looking like a man who is thoroughly enjoying his retirement years, even while on active duty. Next to Rossi is the catalyst for this entire exercise: Agent Jordan Todd, the newest addition to the team, who is currently sweating through her blazer.
The past few weeks had revealed a glaring vulnerability in Jordan's skillset. While she was brilliant at media relations and assessing public threats, her face-to-face interrogations with hardened suspects had been lacking. She struggled to maintain control of the room, often letting suspects deflect or read her emotions.
To remedy this, Hotch had suggested a hands-on training exercise. A "game," though anyone who knew Aaron Hotchner knew he didn't actually play games. The premise was simple: Hotch would play the role of a highly uncooperative, highly intelligent suspect. The team’s objective was to use various interrogation tactics to extract as much concrete, verifiable personal data from him as possible within a one-hour time limit.
"Alright, Jordan," Rossi says softly, leaning back. "The floor is yours. You’ve been trying the direct approach for fifteen minutes, and he hasn't given you a single inch. Change your angle. Find the pressure point."
Jordan swallows, looking at Hotch. Hotch doesn't blink. He looks like a statue carved out of marble and bureaucratic authority.
"Okay," Jordan says, leaning forward, trying to project confidence. "Suspects like you... you think you’re completely self-sufficient. You think you don't need anyone. But everyone has a anchor. A point of vulnerability. Let's talk about your personal life."
Hotch tilts his head by a fraction of a millimeter. "My personal life is not relevant to the charges."
"It's relevant to your psychology," Jordan counters, gaining a bit of footing. "You work long hours. You’re cold, distant. I bet you go home to an empty house every night, don't you? No one is waiting for you. No one cares when you walk through that door."
Morgan hides a smirk behind his hand. Prentiss bites the inside of her cheek. They all know Hotch’s life—or at least, they think they do. They know about the tragic loss of Haley, they know about Jack, and they know Hotch lives a solitary, dedicated life split entirely between the Bureau and his son.
Hotch lets a long, agonizing silence stretch through the room. Then, very slowly, a tiny, almost imperceptible smirk touches the corner of his lips. It’s gone so fast Jordan almost misses it.
"An empty house," Hotch repeats, his voice a low, steady baritone. "That’s an interesting assumption."
"It's an accurate one," Jordan pushes, thinking she’s found a crack. "Men in your position don't have time for relationships. You're married to the job. You don't have anyone."
Hotch leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. He looks directly into Jordan's eyes, his expression a masterclass in controlled manipulation. "If I told you I did have someone, what would your profile say then?"
The room shifts. It’s subtle, but the collective energy of the BAU team suddenly sharpens.
Morgan’s eyebrows shoot up. Prentiss stops twirling her pen. Even Reid looks up from his notes, his head tilting like a confused puppy.
"I'd say you're bluffing," Jordan says, though she falters slightly under his intense gaze. "You're trying to project a sense of normalcy to throw me off. It’s a classic deflection tactic."
"Is it?" Hotch asks smoothly. He doesn't look at the rest of the team, keeping his focus entirely on Jordan, but he knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s teaching her how a suspect can use truth as a weapon to disorient an interrogator. "What if I told you that not only do I have someone, but we’ve been together for over a year. And what if I told you we recently moved in together?"
A collective, silent gasp seems to echo through the glass walls.
Garcia, standing by the door, lets out a tiny, high-pitched squeak. Morgan instantly sits upright, his chair scraping loudly against the floor.
"Whoa, whoa, wait a minute" Derek interjects, completely breaking the protocol of the exercise. "Hold on. Hotch, are we still playing the character, or are we... because that sounded oddly specific."
Hotch doesn't break eye contact with Jordan. "Rule number one of interrogation, Agent Todd: never let outside interference break your focus. Continue."
Jordan looks bewildered, glancing at Morgan, then back to Hotch. "Uh... okay. If you're not bluffing, prove it. Give me a detail. Suspects who lie stumble on them. Give me a detail about this... imaginary partner."
Hotch relaxes back into his chair. He crosses his legs, the picture of absolute composure. But there is a softness in his eyes now, a tiny glint of something incredibly warm and fiercely protective that none of them have ever seen on a case.
"She’s younger than me," Hotch says, his voice dropping into a tone that is entirely too genuine to be acted. "Six years, to be exact. She’s an artist. An art teacher, specifically. She spends her days teaching children how to express themselves through color, because she believes the world is too bleak without it."
Prentiss’s jaw literally drops. She exchanges a wild, wide-eyed look with Rossi.
Rossi, for his part, has a massive, knowing grin spreading across his face. He leans forward, thoroughly invested now. "Go on, suspect. Describe her routine. Prove she lives there."
Hotch’s eyes flick to Rossi, a silent acknowledgement of the shift in the room. The exercise has officially devolved into a full-blown interrogation of Aaron Hotchner's secret life, and Hotch, surprisingly, is letting it happen.
"Her routine," Hotch murmurs, a genuine fond smile finally breaking through his stoic facade. "She wakes up earlier than I do but she stays in bed because she knows I like the quiet moments before the day starts. She smells like sandalwood and vanilla. There is currently a smudge of blue acrylic paint on the molding of my living room baseboard because she got a bit too enthusiastic while helping redesign the space. And if you walk into my kitchen right now, you’ll find a mug with a chipped handle that she refuses to throw away because she says it has 'character'."
"Oh my god," Garcia whispers, clutching her chest. "It’s not a drill. This is not a drill! Papa Bear has a honey!"
"Hotch," Morgan says, his voice a mix of utter disbelief and profound offense. "Are you serious right now? A whole year? You’ve been seeing someone for a year and you didn't say a damn word to us?"
"You never asked," Hotch replies smoothly, the quintessential corporate answer.
"We didn't ask because we thought you were married to the paperwork!" Prentiss exclaims, leaning over the table. "An art teacher? Six years younger? Hotch, how did you even meet an art teacher? You don't leave this building unless someone is dead!"
"At a gallery," Hotch says simply.
Jordan, realizing she has completely lost control of the room but completely fascinated by the unfolding drama, decides to play along with the team’s dynamic. "If this relationship is as serious as you say... how does your son feel about it? A man like you wouldn't bring a stranger into his child's life."
The mention of Jack makes Hotch’s entire demeanor soften completely. The rigid, formidable Unit Chief melts away, replaced entirely by a proud, fiercely loving father.
"Jack adores her," Hotch says, and there is a thick, emotional weight to his voice that commands the room's absolute silence. "They are... inseparable. He looks at her like she hung the stars. In fact, just this morning before I left for work, Jack told me in secret that he was planning on asking her if he could start calling her 'mama'."
Reid’s eyes widen, a soft, incredibly sweet smile spreading across his face. "That’s... that’s a huge psychological step for a child who experienced that kind of maternal trauma, Hotch. It means he feels entirely safe with her. Secure."
"He does," Hotch nods softly. "We both do."
"Hold up," Morgan says, narrowing his eyes as he processes the information. "You moved her into the house? With Jack? And there hasn't been a single security breach? No weird vibes? Hotch, you’re the most paranoid man I know. You background check the mailman."
"I did a background check on her," Hotch admits without an ounce of shame. "And her past is... complicated. She had a severe stalking incident with an ex-boyfriend before we met. The man is currently in maximum security, but the trauma of it doesn't just leave. Because of that, she doesn't travel alone."
"What do you mean?" Prentiss asks, her profiler mind immediately clicking into gear. "Does she have a security detail?"
"In a way," Hotch smiles. "She has a ninety-pound, professionally trained personal protection Doberman Pinscher named Buster."
Garcia lets out another gasp. "A Doberman! Oh, a big, scary, beautiful puppy!"
"He’s not a puppy," Hotch corrects, though his eyes are dancing with amusement. "When I first met him, he wouldn't let me within five feet of her. It took three hours of patient integration before he allowed me to sit on the same couch. He is fiercely protective of her. But now?" Hotch chuckles, a low, rich sound that the team rarely hears. "Now, he’s Jack’s best friend. Jack dresses him up in superhero capes. Buster follows him around like a oversized shadow. Knowing that dog is at the house, knowing his teeth and his instincts are guarding my family when I am halfway across the country on a case... it’s the only reason I can sleep at night, Morgan."
The room falls into a warm, stunned silence. The image of the terrifying, unapproachable Aaron Hotchner going home to an art teacher, a laughing son, and a cape-wearing Doberman is almost too much for them to process.
Rossi leans forward, a smug, triumphant look on his face. "Well, Agent Todd, I’d say you successfully cracked the suspect. Look at him. He’s spilling his guts."
Jordan laughs, raising her hands in surrender. "I think the team did most of the heavy lifting on this one, sir."
Morgan slaps his hand down on the table, a wide, challenging grin on his face. "Alright, Hotch. You let the cat out of the bag. You can't just drop a bomb like this and expect us to just go back to writing files. We need proof. We need to meet this saint of a woman who managed to tame the Unit Chief and a doberman."
"Yeah, Hotch," Prentiss chimes in, her eyes sparkling. "Dinner. This weekend. Or better yet, a barbecue at Rossi's. You owe us. One year of secrecy deserves at least a formal introduction."
Hotch looks around at his team—his family. He sees the genuine, deep-seated happiness in their eyes for him. They have seen him at his absolute lowest, through tragedy and grief, and he knows that their demanding nature right now comes from a place of pure, unadulterated love.
He glances at his watch. 4:30 PM.
"Alright," Hotch says, standing up and reaching for his suit jacket. "I'll tell you what. I'm heading home now. I will talk to her tonight. If she’s comfortable with it, we will arrange something for next weekend."
"Yes!" Garcia cheers, pumping her fist in the air.
"She better say yes, Hotch" Morgan warns playfully, walking with him toward the door. "Because otherwise, I'm going to start showing up at art galleries looking for a woman with a giant dog."
Hotch just shakes his head, a lingering smile on his face as he grabs his briefcase. "Goodnight, everyone. And Jordan? Good job today. You found the pressure point."
With a final, parting nod, Hotch exits the bullpen, his stride lighter than it has been in a very long time.
The drive home is a blur of anticipation. By the time Hotch pulls his sedan into the driveway of his suburban home, the sun is dipping below the horizon, casting long, golden-orange shadows across the lawn.
As soon as he cuts the engine, he can see the warm glow of the living room lights through the front window. He steps out of the car, gripping his briefcase, and walks up the front porch. Before he can even get his key into the lock, the heavy, muffled sound of barking echoes from inside—not an aggressive bark, but the sharp, excited alerts of Buster recognizing his car.
The door swings open before he can turn the key.
There you stand. Your hair is tied up in a messy bun, a few stray tendrils framing your face. You’re wearing an oversized flannel shirt that actually belongs to him, paired with leggings, and there is a faint smudge of yellow pastel on your cheek. Behind you, Buster is vibrating with excitement, his docked tail wagging so hard his entire hindquarters are shaking.
"Hey," you say softly, a brilliant, warm smile lighting up your face.
"Hey," Aaron breathes. Every ounce of residual stress from the Bureau, the weight of the dark cases, the exhaustion of the week—it all evaporates the moment he looks at you.
He steps across the threshold, dropping his briefcase on the entryway table, and immediately pulls you into his arms. You wrap your arms around his neck, burying your face in the crook of his shoulder, inhaling the familiar, comforting scent of his cologne mixed with the crisp evening air. Aaron squeezes you tightly, his large hand cupping the back of your head, pressing a firm, lingering kiss into your hair.
Buster whines loudly, nudging his massive head right between your hips, demanding his share of the greeting.
Aaron laughs against your hair, finally pulling back just enough to look down at you. "Missed you too, buddy," he murmurs, reaching down with one hand to vigorously scratch Buster behind his floppy ears. The Doberman leans heavily into Aaron’s leg, eyes half-closed in bliss.
"Daddy!"
A small streak of lightning comes hurtling down the hallway. Jack skids to a halt on the hardwood floor, a massive grin on his face. Aaron immediately drops to one knee, catching his son in a tight embrace, lifting him slightly off the ground.
"Hey, buddy," Aaron says, his voice thick with affection. "Have you been good for Y/N?"
"The best," Jack proudly declares as Aaron sets him down. "We played superheroes! Buster was Super-Buster. And, Daddy? Guess what?"
Aaron looks up at you, his eyes twinkling with a soft, knowing warmth, before looking back at his son. "What's that, Jack?"
Jack looks at you, then back to his dad, his chest puffing out with pride. "I asked her, and she said yes. I get to call her Mama now!"
Aaron freezes for a fraction of a second. His eyes instantly flick up to yours. You offer him a soft, slightly watery smile, nodding gently.
Aaron’s chest heaves with a deep, emotional breath. He looks back down at Jack, his hand resting on the boy’s shoulder, his thumb stroking through his fabric. "She did? That... that is the best news I’ve ever heard, Jack. You are a very lucky boy."
"I know!" Jack beams. "Come on, Buster, let's go get the cape!" Jack takes off toward the kitchen, Buster bounding happily right at his heels, his heavy paws clicking against the floor.
Aaron stands up slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. He steps closer, reaching out to gently cup your face with both hands. His thumbs gently brush over your cheekbones, wiping away the small smudge of yellow pastel.
"Thank you," he whispers, his voice raw and deeply emotional. "For everything. For loving him. For being here."
"Aaron," you murmur, placing your hands over his wrists. "There is nowhere else in the world I’d rather be. I love him. And I love you."
He kisses you then—a deep, slow, fiercely possessive kiss that speaks of promises, safety, and a future he never thought he’d get to have again. When he pulls away, he rests his forehead against yours, his breathing steadying.
"So," he says, a sudden, amused hitch in his voice. "I have a bit of a confession to make."
You eyebrow arches, a playful smile touching your lips. "Oh really? Should I be worried? Did you bring home more paperwork?"
"Not paperwork" Aaron chuckles, leading you by the hand toward the living room couch. You both sit down, settling close against one another. "Today at the office, we did an interrogation training exercise with the new agent. I was playing the suspect."
"Okay..." you say, thoroughly intrigued. "How did it go?"
"Well," Aaron rubs the back of his neck, looking incredibly amused. "They tried to profile me. They suggested I went home to an empty house and that I had no one. So... I used a tactic. I told them the truth."
Your eyes widen slightly. "The truth? As in... about us?"
"About us" Aaron nods, his smile widening. "I might have mentioned that I’ve been seeing an incredibly talented, beautiful art teacher for a year. And that we moved in together. And that she has a ninety-pound Doberman protector who keeps her safe when I'm away."
You let out a startled, delighted laugh, burying your face in his chest. "Aaron! You didn't! You are notoriously the most private person on the planet! Your team must have experienced collective whiplash."
"Morgan almost fell out of his chair," Aaron admits, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter. "Prentiss stopped breathing for a second, and Garcia screamed. They completely abandoned the training exercise and turned it into a full-scale interrogation about my personal life."
You look up at him, your heart swelling with an intense, overwhelming warmth. The fact that he was willing to share you—to proudly proclaim your existence to the people who mattered most to him—was the ultimate testament to how safe and secure he felt in this relationship.
"So" you smile, tracing the collar of his shirt. "What happens now? Are they going to put a tail on me?"
"Worse" Aaron smiles, kissing the top of your head. "They demanded a dinner. They want to meet you. Next weekend, if you're up for it. Rossi offered to host a barbecue at his place. It’ll be loud, Morgan will probably try to grill you for embarrassing stories about me, Garcia will try to hug you a dozen times, and Reid will likely list off thirty different facts about art history. But... they are my family, honey. And they are dying to meet the woman who brought me back to life."
You lean into him, looking out toward the kitchen where Jack's laughter echoes, accompanied by the happy thud of Buster's tail. The fear that used to define your life feels like a distant, faded memory, replaced entirely by the solid, unbreakable reality of the man holding you.
"I think" you say softly, looking up into Aaron's beautiful, dark eyes "that Super-Buster and I would absolutely love to go to a barbecue."
