Summary — Hotch sees you’re online for Scrabble. He looks up from his tablet, finds you a few seats away on the jet. You’ve already placed a word. After a second, he plays his turn.
Warnings — age gap , pining for each other pre relationship, banter , reader calls him Mr Hotchner, they kiss , she pulls on his tie .
WC —1.7K
You’d just wrapped the case in New York and the jet was quiet on the way back to Quantico. Low lights. Engine hum. Everyone else looked out—sleeping, pretending to sleep, or already gone. You were a few rows down from Hotch.
Not tired. Not even close.
You pulled out your iPad, opened Scrabble without really thinking about it, then smiled when you saw his name sitting there—online. You hesitated for half a second before sending the challenge.
A moment later, you saw him lift his eyes from his tablet. Just a glance.
Right at you. You looked back down and played your word before you could overthink it.
Reader plays:
GLANCE
Your heart kicked a little. Hotch didn’t respond right away. You could feel it—him noticing, calculating, deciding not to rush.
A minute passed.
Then his tile slid into place.
Hotch plays:
FOCUS
You bit your lip, fighting a smile.
You typed before you could talk yourself out of it.
Reader plays:
DISTRACT
This time the pause was longer.
You felt his eyes on you even without looking. Like he’d leaned back slightly, jaw tight, rereading the board.
Then—
Hotch plays:
DISCIPLINE
Your smile turned soft. Dangerous.
You sent a message with your next move.
Reader: You’re good at this.
The reply came a few seconds later.
Hotch: So are you.
You shook your head, fingers already moving.
Reader plays:
TEST
You didn’t look up, but you knew he saw it. Of course he did.
Hotch plays:
CONTROL
Your chest tightened, heat curling low and slow.
You took your time now.
Reader plays:
WANT
Minutes dragged by. Too long.
You told yourself not to look—but you did. He was still awake. Watching the screen. Watching you.
Hotch plays:
DENY
Your pulse jumped hard enough you felt it in your throat.
You answered immediately.
Reader plays:
TEMPT
This time he responded fast. No hesitation.
Hotch plays:
RESIST
You exhaled through your nose.
Liar.
Reader plays:
CLOSER
The pause stretched. Long enough that you wondered if he was going to let it sit there between you.
Then—
Hotch plays:
ENOUGH
Your fingers hovered. You swallowed.
Reader plays:
STILL
A message popped up right after.
Hotch: I think you’re enjoying this.
You smiled to yourself, typing back.
Reader: I think you’re just letting me win, Mr. Hotchner.
Three dots. Gone. Then—
Hotch: I don’t let people win.
Your last move slid onto the board.
Hotch plays:
MINE
Your breath caught.
The game ended. You sat there for a second longer than necessary, chest warm, head buzzing, then locked your iPad and stood to get a glass of water.
As you passed his seat, your fingers brushed his—soft, accidental, just enough.
His hand stilled.
You took one more step before you heard him unbuckle.
When you turned slightly, he was already standing, close, voice low.
“Still thirsty?” he asked.
And you weren’t sure anymore if he meant the water. “Mr. Hotchner,” you say as you reach for a glass in the cabinet— or try to. You forget it’s higher than you.
Before you can even stretch, he’s there. Close. Too close. He reaches past you, arm brushing yours as he pulls a glass down and places it gently in your hand. His fingers linger just a second longer than necessary.
“I meant it,” you say softly, not looking at him.
“I know,” he says.
Your breath catches anyway. “I want you,” you say, the words slipping out before you can stop them.
He doesn’t move away.
You step closer to the fridge, sliding the glass under the water dispenser, the quiet hum filling the space between you. Your hands shake just a little as the glass fills.
“I know,” he says again—lower this time, closer.
So close you can feel him behind you. His presence steady. Controlled. Barely. The water clicks off. Neither of you moves.
He moves the hair from the back of your neck, brushing it aside with each careful step his hand hovers there, close, heat radiating from him.
“Aaron,” you say—his name slipping out for the first time, easy and soft. Just like that, it does something to him.“Don’t,” he says, low, tense. “Don’t say it like that.”
Your chest tightens. Your heart races. You can feel the way he’s holding himself back, how close he is, and it makes every nerve in your body alive, every word between you heavy with something you can’t really name .
He starts to head back to his seat.
“Don’t go,” you say softly, reaching for him. He stops. You turn to face him, eyes locked. “You’re playing with fire,” he says, rough, trying to stay in control. Your hand slides up to his chest. “Isn’t that the fun of it?” you whisper, your heart racing.
He swallows. “You’re impossible,” he mutters, but the way he looks at you says otherwise. You smirk a little. “And you like it,” you tease, brushing your fingers over his shoulder. He steps closer, careful, controlled. “Don’t make me lose my mind,” he says quietly. You shake your head, smile soft. “I think you already did.
“Then what are you waiting for?” he says.
You slide your fingers around his tie, smiling as you pull him closer to you. His gaze never leaves yours. “Do you know what you’re doing?” he asks. You nod, because you don’t think you can say anything else.
“I’ve wanted this with you for a while now,” you say. “I don’t want it with anyone else Aaron you say softly.”
“You are what I want,” you add. “I’ve never felt this before. You make me feel alive.” He swallows hard, and the way he looks at you now… it’s like he wants you more than ever.
“No. Only if you’re sure,” he says. He reaches up and cups your face in his hands, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones. Then he kisses you—slow at first, and then deeper, more urgent, like he’s been holding back for far too long. Your lips mold together, his warm, firm, and demanding, and you feel it all—the heat, the pull, the rush of wanting him. Your hands fumble at his shirt, then stop, caught between desire and the world around you.
You both forget where you are. He’s leaning into you, fingers brushing the button of your shirt when Spencer walks up and clears his throat.
“I knew it,” Spencer says, a knowing grin on his face. “I knew there was something going on between you two.”
You freeze, your chest pounding, heart hammering against your ribs. Hotch doesn’t take his eyes off you. Not once. He slides your hand into his, firm and grounding, and leads you to sit down. You lean against his shoulder, still flushed from the kiss, and he holds you close, steady, like he’s never letting go. Your body still tingles where his lips had been, and just being near him makes your chest ache with what just happened, you look up at him , now what you say softly, well take it slow he says well take it day by day first we talk about it when we get back home he says, but for now just rest .
Author notes : I loved writing every single bit of this … and pre relationships seam to be my favorite trope with the age gap .. bold!fem!reader is my favorite … I hope you guys enjoy this one it was really fun in I hope you guys can see this as well if you enjoyed it please consider liking in comment I haven’t written in min had writers blog 😭💔 it’s a real thing ..
Morgan your SEO is way too on point! Don't ask me why I was googling this at 10pm on a Sunday. But you're the first result coming up when you search "Aaron Hotchner ass" 😅🤣
💀
HAHAHAHAHAAH I LOVE THIS SO MUCH! i mean, like have you seen his ass?? the juiciest peach 🍑🤤 i have no words. I MISS YOUR FACE BTW! ♡ i do believe his ass deserves googling at 10pm because what else is there to discuss?? 😅 just look at it 🤭😏
The laugh that I just pulled out of my ass reading that anon's comment: "British Empire is the greatest empire to ever exist" was insane. It screams uneducated anglo (respectfully) to me.
Have they not heard about the Persian empire?!? Like c'mon, nothing beats the first declaration of human rights, refrigeration and irrigation. Even roads was made my achaemenid Iranians.
There are so many more things that would've made the world a much more unpleasant place to live in if the Persians hadn't invented them.
what got me was saying the colonized countries were improved by being part of the british empire. i think that’s such a horrendous take and i despise the fact that there are people out there who genuinely think that.
THE WRITER EVER!!! like actually a staple hotch writer to me. i love seeing you on my dash you're always so sweet and i keep using the word lovely i cant help that all of my mutuals are lovely but you are!!! you're kind and you can write like Crazy and i love that a lot <33
mutuals send me a 💌 and ill tell u something i love about you
Summary Aaron stays home to take care of you , after realizing you’ve waking up with full blown migraine , he’s pretty much your doctor for the day .
Pairing Aaron Hotchner x fem!reader , angst , being in pain mention, Reid & Garcia to the rescue , Garcia being her delight funny self , Hotch making up for loss time with you , Haley is mentioned by you comfort , hotch cuddles you, reader in her early 20s in Hotch in his mid 30s WC : 2.3K |
Author notes : not me google if hot stones for therapeutic massage therapy purposes only , works for migraines , and where to get them if needed … Reid to the rescue well Garcia to the rescue .. 🫣🫣… not fully proof read … wish I can make my words at the top colorful .. you guys make yours look neat in I love it … let’s just say I got over a migraine in coulda in wished Aaron was around to help 😭
You wake up with a full-blown migraine—your neck aching, the pressure in your skull so intense it made your stomach twist. You didn’t even have to say a word. When you rolled toward Aaron, you let out that tiny, miserable little noise… the one he knew instantly. The one that meant you were in real pain.
Aaron wasn’t completely sure what was going on, but he had a good idea. And the moment he realized how bad it was, he moved. It was 7:35 am in the morning
He slipped out of bed quietly, making sure not to disturb you. He pulled the curtains tighter, darkening the room until it was soft and safe. Then he adjusted the thermostat lower—cool enough that you wouldn’t feel the heat pounding behind your eyes.
After that, he grabbed his phone.
He did research first, scrolling through reputable medical pages the way only Aaron Hotchner would—methodical, focused, determined to help you. But then he went a step further.
He called Reid.
Because if anyone understood migraines, it was Spencer. And Aaron trusted him with anything involving you.
“Reid, she’s hurting. Bad. What do you do when yours get this severe?”
His voice was quiet, clipped with worry—Hotch-worry, that barely contained tension that only shows when it’s about someone he loves.
“I hear massage therapy works wonders,” Reid says after a moment. Hotch can practically see him adjusting his hand in his pocket through the phone. “And—uh—hot stones. Those help too.”
“…Excuse me?” Aaron asks, because hot stones are not something he expected to come up in this conversation.
“Trust me,” Reid adds quickly. “Place the hot stones on her neck and then down the line of her spine. It relaxes the muscles enough to ease some of the pressure.”
Hotch exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “Right. Anything else?”
“Oh, yeah—she needs electrolytes.” His tone shifts into that gentle, clinical cadence he uses when he’s trying to be helpful. “Try getting her to drink Gatorade. But only the blue twist kind, she won’t drink anything else.”
Aaron huffs the smallest breath through his nose—something close to a soft, fond laugh. “You noticed that too , huh ?”
“Of course,” Reid says. “Also give her strong Tylenol. Dim the lights—or no lights at all, if she prefers. Let her sleep once the medication starts working.”
There’s a pause, and then Reid adds, almost shyly, “Maybe put some lavender nearby. It can help calm her nervous system. Just… make the environment feel safe.”
Aaron nods even though Reid can’t see him. “Got it.”
He ends the call and stands there for a moment, hand still holding the phone, eyes drifting toward the dark bedroom where you’re curled up and hurting. Then he squares his shoulders.
Your pain is something he can’t fight directly—but he’ll do everything he can to make it easier.
Reid hangs up with Hotch and immediately turns toward Garcia’s office. He steps inside, fingers tapping restlessly against his thigh as he says—
“Garcia, I need you to run a search.”
She spins in her chair, eyebrows lifting. “For what, my star-eyed genius?”
“How to get hot stones. For therapeutic reasons,” he says in one long breath.
Garcia just stares at him. “Hot stones? Spencer, are you—are you starting a spa? Should I be concerned?”
He exhales sharply, already flustered. “Just do it. It’s for Hotch.”
Her eyes go wide. “Hotch? Boss man Hotch? Are we massaging Hotch??”
“No,” Reid groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “She has a migraine. A bad one. I suggested he use hot stones but he’s not going to want to take her to a massage place right now.”
Garcia’s confusion melts instantly into concern. “Oh sweetheart…” She’s already typing, acrylic nails clacking like tiny weapons. “Okay, okay—on it.”
A few seconds later, her screen flashes. “Found a place. Twenty-four-hour therapeutic supply shop. Closest one to Hotch’s route home. I’ll text you the address.”
Reid lets out a tight breath. “Thanks, Garcia.”
She softens. “Tell him she’s gonna be okay. And tell him to call if he needs anything.”
Reid nods and heads out , already dialing Hotch back with the information.
Reid catches Hotch on the second ring.
“Hotch—it’s Reid. I found a place. Garcia located a twenty-four-hour therapeutic supply store. I’m already on my way.”
Hotch pauses. “Reid, you don’t have to—”
“I’m already in the car,” Reid interrupts, voice firm in that rare way he gets when he’s decided something. “You shouldn’t leave her alone, not when she’s in that much pain. I can be there in less than twenty minutes with everything she needs.”
Hotch exhales, the tension in his shoulders loosening just a fraction. “Thank you, Reid .
“No problem.” Reid shifts gears—Hotch can hear the turn signal click softly through the phone. “I’ll get the stones, the heating wraps, electrolyte drinks… all the things I know she actually tolerates. I’ll bring lavender oil too—the one without the synthetic additives. She reacts better to the natural one.”
Hotch is silent for a second, struck by the precision, the care. “Reid—really. Thank you.”
“That’s what family does,” Reid says quietly. “I’ll be there soon.”
Hotch ends the call, staring at the bedroom doorway where you’re curled under the blankets, trembling at each throb behind your eyes.
Reid moves through the therapeutic shop with laser focus—hot stones, heating wraps, electrolyte drinks, the specific lavender oil that won’t overwhelm your senses. He double-checks each item twice before placing it in the basket.
At the counter, he sets everything down carefully.
The clerk rings it all up. It’s… not cheap.
Reid doesn’t even blink, at this point he doesn’t care how much it is , it’s for you .
He pulls out his wallet and pays for the full total without hesitation. Because this isn’t optional. This is you, and Hotch asked, and that’s enough.
Once the bags are in his hands, he steps outside into the cool early morning the air is crisp —and that’s when he remembers something important.
She hasn’t eaten.
He stops, looks at the supplies and then puts it in the passenger seat, and then nods to himself before getting to the car in starting the engine again.
Two minutes later, he’s pulling into the parking lot of your favorite little bagel shop. He walks in, still holding his phone like he’s expecting Hotch to call again at any moment.
“Two everything bagels,” he orders, “lightly toasted, small amount of cream cheese on the side.”
The lady handed him the bag of bagels . Reid studies it with a quiet, resigned expression.
“…Not my thing,” he murmurs to the lady , adjusting his grip on the handle of his bag . “But she’ll enjoy it.” The lady smiles .
He opens the passenger side door places the bag gently next to the therapeutic supplies—like it belongs with them—and then he gets back in the car and buckles himself in, and starts the car back up .
Reid pulls into Hotch’s apartment complex, grabs every bag—stones, wraps, lavender, Gatorade, the bagels—and heads inside. The elevator hums softly as he rides up to Hotch’s floor, shifting the bags in his hands.
He finds the right door and knocks.
It opens almost instantly.
“Reid,” Hotch says, relief flickering through his normally steady voice.
“Everything she’ll need is in here,” Reid replies, stepping inside and setting the bags carefully on the table. “Stones, wraps, electrolytes… even food. Is she awake yet?”
Hotch shakes his head. “No. Not since earlier.”
But he doesn’t realize—
you are awake.
Barely.
You’re sitting up in the dark bedroom, elbows on your knees, hands pressed to your temples as if you could hold your skull together. The darkness feels thick. Your head is pounding so viciously it makes the room tilt.
Hotch steps away from Reid and moves quietly into the doorway.
“Hey,” he whispers, voice low and warm.
You look up at him—eyes squinting against even the faint hallway light—and your voice comes out raw, scraped, fragile.
“You… you shouldn’t be home.” You swallow. “The office needs you.”
Hotch moves closer, crouching beside the bed so he can see your face in the dim. His brows pull together—concern, frustration, tenderness all mixing into something that makes your chest tighten.
“The only place I need to be,” he says softly, “is right here.”
His hand reaches out, gentle, fingers brushing a strand of hair away from your forehead so carefully it almost makes you cry.
“You’re in pain,” he adds. “Nothing else matters.”
Your voice is barely above a whisper, low and rough.
“I can handle myself,” you breathe, even though you can hardly keep your hands steady.
Hotch’s jaw flexes, not in anger—just quiet worry. Before he can answer, another voice breaks the silence.
Reid steps into the doorway, arms full of supplies.
“You called Reid?” you say, folding your arms across your chest despite the way your shoulders tremble with the throbbing pain.
Hotch straightens a little, but Reid moves first. He sets the bag down on the dresser, sorting through everything like he’s preparing a medical kit.
“You need this,” Reid says gently as he brings you the medicine and the blue Gatorade he picked just for you.
You shake your head, frustration rising under the migraine haze.
“I said I can take care of myself.”
Reid freezes for half a second—not offended, just concerned.
Then he crouches down the way he does when he’s trying to make something less overwhelming.
“I know you can,” he says quietly, in that surprisingly soft tone he only uses when you’re hurting. “But you don’t have to right now.”
“You’re not alone,” Hotch adds softly. “Let us help.”
The room stays dim and quiet, like it’s holding its breath, waiting for you to let the walls down just an inch.
Reid moves gently, like he’s afraid of making the pain worse.
He twists open the Gatorade, pops the seal, then screws the lid back on loosely so you don’t have to fight with it. Then he presses the medicine into your hand.
You take it—unhappy, exhausted, but compliant.
At least he remembered blue twist.
That tiny detail makes something inside you unclench just a little.
You shake your head, eyes closing briefly against the throbbing behind your temples.
“Hotch… you don’t need to be here. Neither of you do.”
Reid’s eyes soften, flickering to Aaron, but you speak before he can say anything else.
“Reid… can I talk to Hotch alone?”
Reid nods instantly, stepping out of the room without hesitation, the door closing softly behind him.
Hotch steps closer to you, but not too close—just enough to be present.
“Tell me something,” you whisper, even though talking feels like needles in the side of your skull.
“You shouldn’t be sitting up,” he murmurs, voice steady, low, careful. “You need to rest.”
But you push through the ache.
“Tell me this,” you repeat, throat tight. “Did you… did you do this for Haley? When she was hurting?”
Hotch freezes.
Just for a moment—but you see it, the way his breath stills.
“Not as much as I would’ve liked to,” he admits, honesty cracking through the air like something fragile. His voice softens even more. “But I’m here now. And I want to help you.”
You swallow. “But the office—”
“The office can wait,” he says, and there’s no room for argument in his tone, only sincerity. Then, quieter, “You can’t.”
“But it’s your job…” you whisper, as if you’re trying to free him from some invisible weight.
Hotch shakes his head slowly, stepping close enough to rest a hand against your shoulder—warm, grounding.
“My job,” he says, voice low, firm, “is whatever needs me most. And right now? That’s you.”
Reid steps back into the room, tablet already in his hand.
“Hotch,” he says quietly, “I have to head out. They just called me in—new case.”
You look at Aaron immediately, worry tightening your face despite the migraine.
“You should go too,” you whisper. “I’ll be fine.”
Hotch shakes his head before you even finish the sentence.
“No,” he says firmly but gently. “I’m staying until you’re doing better than you are now.”
Reid gives him a small, understanding nod.
“Keep me updated,” he says softly.
“Thanks, Reid,” Hotch replies.
And then Reid slips out the door, quiet and careful, leaving the apartment in the same soft dimness he entered.
Hotch waits a few seconds, listening to the silence settle again, then picks up one of the small lavender diffusers Reid bought. He places it on your nightstand, then another near the dresser, one by the door—soft pockets of calm throughout the room.
You smell it instantly, even with the pain still clawing behind your eyes.
“Lavender…” you whisper.
He nods. “Reid picked it up. Said it might help.”
You watch him for a long moment—how deliberate he is, how steady.
“You didn’t have to stay,” you say softly. “I don’t want to pull you away from your job…”
Hotch turns back toward you, expression soft but unmistakably serious.
“I’m exactly where I need to be,” he says quietly.
He comes closer, sits on the edge of the bed like he’s afraid to disturb you.
“You’re hurting,” he adds, eyes locked on yours. “I’m not leaving you to deal with that alone.”
His voice is low, warm, full of something that makes your chest ache more than the migraine.
“Work can wait,” he murmurs. “You can’t.”
Hotch stands carefully, moving toward the dresser to set up the kit Reid had brought—the hot stones, wraps, everything neatly arranged.
“What’s that?” you ask softly, voice still rough from the migraine.
“Hot stones,” he says quietly.
You giggle a little despite the pain, eyes widening. Something about the idea makes you almost forget how awful your head feels.
“Reid says it works,” Hotch adds, glancing at you briefly.
“Really?” you murmur, curiosity flickering through the haze.
He leans just a bit closer, voice low, almost a whisper. “Wanna try?”
You nod, heart fluttering—not from the migraine, but from the way he’s here, focused on you, steady and calm.
Can you… lay on your stomach?” Hotch asks softly.
You nod and carefully pull off your shirt, the migraine making every movement feel heavier than usual. You lie down on the bed, letting the blanket cover you halfway—just enough to keep you warm but not restrict him.
He pauses for a moment, hands hovering over the kit, and looks at you.
Are you comfortable?” he asks, voice low and careful, like he’s afraid any sudden motion might make the pain worse.
You nod again, wincing slightly as you settle into the pillows. “Yeah… I’ll be fine,” you whisper, even though every muscle in your body is tense.
Hotch studies you for a moment longer, then finally reaches for the stones, his movements deliberate and slow, making sure each step is calm and safe.
Hotch reaches out, moving your hair gently off your neck so he can work. His fingers brush lightly against your skin, careful not to hurt you.
Then, almost instinctively, he leans down and presses a soft, lingering kiss to the nape of your neck before picking up the first hot stone.
“Have you ever had this done before?” he asks quietly, voice low, cautious.
“No,” you whisper, your voice barely audible over the pounding in your head.
He nods, placing the warm stone carefully on the tense muscles along your neck. His touch is deliberate, grounding, like he’s anchoring you to the present so the migraine doesn’t consume you completely.
“Just relax,” he murmurs, brushing his fingers lightly over the stone. “I’ve got you.”
The room is dim, the faint scent of lavender curling around you, and for the first time since waking, you feel a little of the pressure start to ease.
He places the warm stone carefully on your neck.
You feel it immediately—a gentle, soothing heat that isn’t as uncomfortable as you feared. Your body eases slightly, and you let out a deep, shaky breath.
Hotch watches you closely, studying the way your shoulders relax, how the tension in your neck softens just a little. He waits, giving you a moment to adjust and respond, before he picks up the next stone.
Slowly, deliberately, he moves down your spine, placing the second stone with the same careful, grounding touch. His eyes flick to yours, silently asking if it’s okay, if the heat feels right, if you’re comfortable.
The migraine is still there, but somehow, with him here, the pain doesn’t feel quite as sharp.
He carefully places the next two stones along your back, spacing them just right so the warmth spreads evenly over the tense muscles.
Then he reaches for the lavender oil Reid brought, holding the small bottle delicately in his hand.
You shift slightly on the bed, the blanket still draped over you, and murmur, “Yeah… it feels… nice.”
He leans a little closer, his eyes scanning your face. “How’s it feel? Can you tell me?”
You take a slow breath, the warmth of the stones radiating through your back and neck. “It… it helps. More than I thought it would,” you admit, voice faint but honest.
Hotch nods, almost relieved, his hand brushing briefly over yours to reassure you. “Good. That’s what I wanted to hear.”
The room is quiet except for your breathing and the faint hum of the lavender diffuser, the soft intimacy of the moment wrapping around both of you.
Hotch pours a few drops of the lavender oil over your shoulders, the scent mingling with the warmth of the stones.
He starts to massage gently, slow, deliberate movements meant to ease the tension knotting your muscles. His eyes never leave your face, watching closely for every reaction—every small shift, every breath you take.
“Has no one ever done this for you before?” he asks softly, voice low and steady.
“No,” you whisper, your voice barely audible, eyes fluttering closed as the warmth and pressure begin to relax your muscles.
Hotch nods slightly, continuing the massage with careful precision, his hands firm yet gentle. “Then let me take care of you,” he murmurs. “Just for now, you don’t have to do anything but breathe.”
You take a shaky breath, letting the heat of the stones and the lavender wash over you
Hotch’s hands move carefully, pressing into the knots in your neck—muscles that had been tight for far longer than you realized. He works slowly, deliberate, giving each spot the attention it needs.
As he eases the tension from the first knot, a small but undeniable wave of relief washes over you. You let out a quiet, grateful breath, the tight ache in your neck loosening for the first time in hours.
Hotch pauses for a moment, watching your reaction closely, making sure the pressure is right. “How does that feel?” he asks softly, almost whispering.
“Better… so much better,” you admit, your voice rough but tinged with relief. The migraine hasn’t vanished, but the burden in your muscles is lighter, and it makes the pain a little more bearable.
He nods, a small, satisfied movement, and continues slowly, working out another stubborn knot. His hands are steady, precise, grounding—you can feel his focus entirely on you, and it’s almost more comforting than the warmth of the stones or the lavender in the air.
Hotch works slowly, easing the last of the knots from your neck. The tension that’s been building for who knows how long begins to melt under his careful, grounding hands.
You let out a long, shaky breath, closing your eyes and savoring the relief. The migraine is still there, but for the first time since waking, it feels manageable.
When he pauses, brushing a stray strand of hair from your neck, you can’t help the sudden, soft tug in your chest. Your lips part slightly as you look up at him through the dim light.
“Hotch…” you whisper, voice low and raw, almost hesitant.
He looks down at you, expression soft but unreadable, waiting for you to say more.
You lift your face just a little, heart racing in your chest. “Can… can you —” you trail off, voice trembling.
He leans slightly closer, and before you even realize it, your lips meet his in a gentle, tentative kiss. It’s soft, warm, grounding, and for a moment, the migraine, the tension, everything falls away, leaving only the two of you suspended in this quiet, intimate space.
When you pull back slightly, breath shallow but calmer, he brushes his thumb along your cheek. “Better?” he murmurs, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips.
Hotch takes the stones off your back one by one, his touch warm even without the heat of them. You let your body relax into the bed as he gathers everything up.
You roll onto your side, cheek pressed into the pillow, eyes drifting toward him. He’s bent slightly as he puts the stones away, black slacks stretched perfectly across him, the lines of his body , the tight but of his still incredible even through the haze of your headache.
“Aaron…” you whisper, barely loud enough to cross the space.
He glances over his shoulder, brow lifting in that quiet, attentive way he has.
“Could you… stay?” you ask softly. “Could you lay with me?”
A slow smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Now you want me to stay,” he teases, voice warm, low, a little amused.
He finishes with the kit, then turns fully toward you, walking back with that steady, unhurried confidence that always makes your chest tighten.
“Of course I’ll lay with you,” he says gently.
Your heart beats faster, nerves and want tangled together. “Can I… lay on your chest?”
He doesn’t even hesitate. “Of course, sweetheart.”
He slips off his shoes and sits on the edge of the bed before easing down beside you. His arm opens, inviting, protective. You move toward him, slow and careful, resting your head against the solid warmth of his chest. His heartbeat is steady under your ear—strong, grounding, exactly what you need.
His hand settles on your back, thumb brushing up and down in slow, soothing lines.
“You comfortable?” he murmurs against your hair.
You nod, eyes already sliding shut. “Yeah… better with you.”
He exhales softly, almost like he’s been holding something in too. Then he presses a light kiss to the top of your head and pulls you even closer.
I saw that he says , saw what you say “ Nothing he says . You curled up in to him he holds you tight as you drift off to sleep in his arms , as he pulls the blanket over in him he drifts off to sleep to ….
Few hours go by , you both awake , you sit up your acutely hungry, he tells you that Reid left some bagels oh good you say , getting up to get them from the dresser , you got the cream cheese, you head back to bed , you share your bagel with Aaron . Thank you , for today you say softy , don’t thank me he says , I wanted to be here for you in I would do it again ..
