Chapter Text
Y/N had been working for the FBI for two years now—having started when she was 21. The opportunity was great, of course, and she did not hesitate to relocate for it. She’d always been a social person, the kind of woman who could make friends in a grocery store checkout line, so she was sure she’d be able to fit into the social scene of D.C. pretty well. Strauss had placed her in forensic pathology, and though it was a little easy and redundant, she was glad to help where she could. The hours were convenient, the pay was decent, and it gave her a predictable life—something she’d always clung to as a source of control.
Y/N was in the midst of cataloging the bruising patterns on a corpse photo, mentally checking off her routine, when she got the call. Strauss. Not exactly someone she expected to see blinking on her caller ID. Her stomach tightened—Strauss didn’t call unless something big was coming, and was always a little cold to her.
“Agent Y/L/N,” she said without preamble. “You're being reassigned.”
Y/N straightened. “Ma’am?” She didn’t mean for it to come out questioning, but the word slipped that way anyway.
“Effective immediately. The BAU is in need of a medical advisor with forensic specialization. I’ve reviewed your file. You’re overqualified to be tucked away doing lab paperwork. They need someone like you.”
Her mind skipped like a scratched record. The BAU? The one everyone in the Bureau gossiped about? She blinked, knowing that the unit chief was uncomfortable with outsiders. “The chief approved this?”
Strauss hesitated. “Hotchner will adjust.”
Y/N already knew what that meant—and it didn’t exactly ease the sudden tension in her chest.
The room was quiet when Y/N walked in. Morgan gave her a curious once-over and Prentiss smiled politely—measured but kind. JJ offered a warm hello to break the silence, which Y/N appreciated greatly when she’d received Reid’s awkward but kind greeting.
They all introduced themselves warmly enough, though she could tell they were more of a family than just a team. Breaking into that dynamic was going to be… tricky.
Then Hotch entered.
She’d never met him before, only heard of him across units—The Aaron Hotchner. Cold, calculating, respected, untouchable.
He didn’t smile. “Agent Y/L/N. You’ll be functioning in an advisory capacity only. No field work. Medical analysis and post-evaluation support only.”
Y/N nodded quickly, almost too quickly. “Yes, sir.” She made sure her tone was professional, hiding the flicker of irritation that he hadn’t even given her a full sentence of welcome.
His tone was clipped, posture stiff. Neither hostile nor welcoming. She could feel his walls, thick and high, like stone battlements.
Hotch, for his part, barely looked at Y/N after that. She seemed too young. Too eager. Very clearly more interested in her cosmetics than actual work. His eyes trailed over her as she turned. What is Strauss pulling? His jaw tightened as she sat in the corner with the tablet Garcia enthusiastically gave her. He wanted to trust Strauss less than he wanted to trust her.
~
“You settling in okay?” Prentiss asked, leaning against the counter with her mug.
Y/N smiled faintly. “As much as anyone can when their boss looks like they want to slam a door every time you speak.” She meant it as a joke, but there was a little truth in there she couldn’t quite hide.
Prentiss grinned sympathetically. “He’s not... great with new people. Give it time.”
Morgan walked in. “You talkin’ about Hotch’s signature ice routine?” He gave Y/N a wink. “Don’t take it personal, Doc. He takes a while to thaw.”
“I’ve noticed,” she said quietly, eyes flicking to the hallway. He wasn’t even rude, exactly. Just cold in a way that felt like she’d never be fully a part of the team without his approval.
She’d adjusted pretty well—kept up with the paperwork, ensuring that nothing fell behind. But she was yet to go on one of these “cases” Strauss mentioned. Her medical expertise hadn’t been applied beyond brief corrections or basic information on old cases the team worked on. And every day, she wondered if she’d been brought here to be useful, or just to prove a point to Hotch.
Hotch watched from his office as Y/N enthusiastically engaged with the team in the bullpen. Despite being reluctant to let her onto the team at all, he couldn’t help but notice she seemed to have zero problem earning their friendship. Laughter had become a frequent sound in the building. But he was yet to hear any of her jokes, nor see her smile beyond a polite, small grin in his presence.
Two weeks in, he was already regretting his coldness. She’d done more for the team than he’d expected. Strauss hadn’t told him Y/N would also be responsible for most of the paperwork he used to do; she had the profilers fill out the psychological parts, but took care of evidence, processing, and other details beyond forensic detailing.
The team was normally behind on their work—submitting almost everything late—which was the primary reason Strauss started looking for excuses to fire him. But now they were well ahead, and Hotch found himself going home at six instead of ten.
He didn’t need to linger until six; he could leave at five. But Y/N stayed until six every night, and he knew it was because the team dumped a sudden boatload of files on her at the end of the day. She never complained. And somehow, she still had the energy to stop by Rossi’s or Garcia’s office to chat. Never his.
~
At the end of each day, Y/N went to Hotch’s office to turn in her stack of files. It was the one part she dreaded the most. She knew he didn’t like her, and she knew all too well the consequences of being a woman a powerful man dislikes.
One particular night, Y/N came in around 6:15, slightly later than usual. She was balancing a box of files that had to weigh fifty pounds, trying to figure out how to knock and open the door without toppling it.
She hesitated outside, considering just kicking the door, but finally set the box down with a thud and rapped her knuckles against the wood.
Hotch allowed a small smile as he watched her through his window before calling for her to enter.
Y/N turned the knob, pushed the door open, and hurriedly picked the box back up—awkwardly backing in so she could nudge the door shut.
She always set the files on the small part of his desk he’d cleared for her, quietly thanked him, and left. Today, she struggled to bend her elbows high enough to set the box on the desk, prompting him to get up and help.
She flinched as he approached—reflexive, unintentional—and almost dropped the box. “Sorry,” she whispered, embarrassed, recovering quickly.
Hotch’s movements softened slightly as he lifted and slid the box onto his desk.
“Thank you, sir.” She stepped back, already retreating.
She practically ran out of his office and down the stairs to pack her bag. She wasn’t scared of him—exactly—but the last thing she wanted was to be alone in a dark parking lot with him. She preferred to keep her exits separate from his.
Hotch began trotting down the steps after straightening his office up and saw Y/N quickly zip her bag and swing it over her shoulder as she fumbled with her keys and basically sprinted ahead of him.
Hotch paused at the bottom of the stairs, watching the glass doors swing closed behind her. He heard the hurried click of her boots against the tile fading down the corridor, her keys rattling like warning bells in her hand.
She was scared.
He noticed it in the way her shoulders tensed when he stood too close, the breath she held when his voice sharpened by accident, and how she never let her eyes linger on his.
And now, in the way she fled.
He looked down at the floor, jaw tightening. He hadn’t meant to make her feel that way, create that distance. But he knew it was there, and worse, he’d let it grow. Nurtured it, even, in the name of caution. Strauss had dropped her in his lap, and instead of meeting her with curiosity, he’d armed himself with suspicion.
And now she was distrusting of him.
He exhaled slowly and moved toward the glass doors, hand stuffed into his coat pocket. Outside, he caught a glimpse of her retreating figure under the sodium-orange parking lot lights—rushing toward her car with hunched shoulders and a lowered head. She unlocked the door with shaking hands, never once looking behind her, not until she was safely inside.
She thinks I hate her.
Hotch stood still, just beyond the threshold. The motion lights flickered on above him. For a moment, he considered walking over. Saying something. Offering to walk her out next time.
But would that make it worse?
He turned back toward the bullpen instead.
Y/N hadn’t even buckled her seatbelt before her heart stopped racing.
She hated that she moved like that—rushed like that. That she let herself panic at the sound of his footsteps. It wasn’t fair. He had never touched her, never raised his voice, never even looked at her with anger. But the coldness he wielded so effortlessly…it got under her skin.
She’d met men like him before. Controlled. Stern. Unreadable.
She didn’t want to know what he looked like angry.
And yet…
Y/N had seen something different tonight.
A softness in the way he’d reached for the box. The guilt in the corner of his eyes when she flinched. His hands had been steady but careful. Gentle, even.
She hated that her brain wanted to remember how that looked. How it felt.
Back inside, Hotch returned to his office and sank into his chair. The box still sat on his desk, the edges slightly worn where her arms had pressed too tightly. He pulled a few files out, then stopped.
A faint, lingering scent of lavender and something citrus—shampoo?—clung to the lid of the box. It hit him harder than he expected. That small, ordinary thing he didn't even remember noting before.
She was smart. Quick. Observant. She worked twice as hard to prove she belonged in a place where she’d never been asked to join in the first place.
And she was beautiful.
Hotch rubbed a hand down his face. Don’t. He couldn’t let that kind of thinking in. Not now. Not when she could barely meet his eye without tensing.
This wasn’t a crush. It was guilt, he told himself. Misplaced concern. She reminded him of what happened when he forgot how easily authority could wound.
But still.
He caught himself wondering what her laugh sounded like.
And that scared him more than anything else.
~
The room was abuzz with low chatter and shifting papers as the team filed into the conference room. Y/N was already seated, hands folded in her lap, posture tight.
She could feel Hotch's presence before he even entered.
When he did, the air seemed to shift, pulled taut like a cord. He was calm, unreadable as always, and gave her a barely perceptible nod as he passed. She dipped her chin just enough to acknowledge it but didn’t look up.
She never looked at him.
Not even once during the entire case rundown.
As Rossi explained the initial victimology, Y/N scribbled quietly into her notebook. When Morgan cracked a joke, she hid a small smile and kept her gaze trained safely on the case file. Even when Reid enthusiastically pointed to a map projection, she didn’t glance at Hotch as he moved to stand beside it.
Not even when he asked the room, “Any insights?”
She shrank a little, invisible.
Hotch noticed.
She built a wall around herself whenever he was there, terrified of misstepping.
She doesn’t feel safe around me.
And he hated it.
~
While the jet hummed through the clouds somewhere over Ohio, Y/N sat beside Garcia, hunched forward over a video feed from the unsub back in Quantico. The footage was short—just twenty-two seconds of the unsub walking past a reflective surface, barely catching the edge of his hands in the mirrored glare.
“There,” Y/N said, pointing to the screen and pausing the frame. “His fingertips—look. He’s got fresh calluses, like from a guitar. But he’s not using a pick because the upper pads are more worn than the lower.”
Garcia blinked. “Uh, okay Sherlock. You’re impressive."
Y/N smiled, shaking her head humbly. “No I’m not. It’s a part of my training.” She leaned in, scrolling through purchase databases. “Could you try cross-referencing guitar purchases in the last month in the region, but eliminate any that include picks in the receipt? Especially acoustic. Nylon string maybe—less likely to be suspicious in a small space.”
Penelope’s fingers clattered across the keyboard.
“Oh my God. You’re good,” she whispered.
Y/N just shrugged, still smiling casually. “My boyfriend played guitar in high school.”
The screen on Garcia’s desk chimed withideo call. Garcia spun the monitor to reveal the jet’s conference setup. The team appeared, strapped in and attentive.
Hotch was in the center frame.
Y/N immediately stopped talking.
Garcia took over, explaining the guitar theory, the elimination search, and finally, showing the single name that matched all the criteria. A twenty-nine-year-old music teacher with a sealed juvenile record and a growing list of aggressive complaints from students.
“Name’s Trent Doyles,” Garcia said triumphantly. “And guess who just made her first field assist before wheels down?”
The camera flicked to Hotch.
“She figured that out?” he asked, brows drawing slightly together in what could have been surprise—or admiration. His gaze sharpened slightly, eyes trying to find Y/N in the periphery of the frame. “From his hand?”
Y/N, not necessarily eager to turn to Hotch, was out of frame as she typed away.
“Yes, sir,” she said distracted.
Hotch’s voice was lower this time. Gentler.
“Good work, Agent Y/L/N.”
There was a beat of silence. Y/N nodded once, murmured, “Thanks.”
~
The team was still riding the high of the break when the wheels touched down.
“That was fast,” Morgan said, stretching his arms. “She’s not a profiler.”
“Medical background,” JJ added. “But yeah. That was a leap.”
“Not a leap,” Reid corrected absently. “A deduction. The callus pattern matches classical fingerstyle technique. It’s a pretty niche observation.”
Rossi smiled. “Impressive. Especially from someone who didn’t speak a single word during the entire briefing.”
Hotch remained silent as they filed off the jet.
Inside, he was thinking too many things at once.
She didn’t speak in the room because he was there. She only bloomed when he was absent. When they picked up the call, she seemed entirely uninterested in crediting herself.
And still she offered up a crucial lead without hesitation.
She’s scared of me, and I keep making it worse.
He hadn’t meant to weaponize his presence. But it was the only explanation for the way her voice faltered, her body tensed, her eyes refused to meet his. He remembered how she flinched near his desk. How she rushed out of the building at night.
And now… she was helping them solve a case before they’d even touched ground.
He should be proud. Grateful. And he was.
But all he felt was regret.
And something warmer. Something far more dangerous.
Because for the first time since he’d lost Haley, since he’d walled himself off to the possibility of anything resembling intimacy—
He found himself wondering what it would take to make her smile at him.
~
The team had spent the first couple of days trying to determine the geographical location, receiving two more videos. Y/N had been working alongside Garcia, trying to figure it out as well, given that she didn’t really have much to do while the team was away.
The static flickered again on the unsub’s newest video, grainy and poorly lit like the others. The team watched from the precinct’s setup, and Y/N leaned closer to the screen Garcia had pulled up beside her. She hit the spacebar.
“Wait, could you go back two seconds?” She squinted at the screen.
Garcia obeyed, clicking back. “There?”
“Yeah. Zoom on the upper left corner…oh my God! That’s a window.” Y/N pointed. “See that? The reflection? That’s a neon sign. I think it says ‘Pete’s.’ Or something with a P.”
Garcia squinted. “That could be any dive bar in America.”
“Not with that font,” Y/N murmured. “That's that vintage 70s script, reverse-lit. And… wait, yeah. Okay, hold on.”
She wheeled across the floor to another terminal and began typing, pulling up regional business directories. “He has BPD, right? They said that meant impulsive tendencies, unstable emotional baseline, and a strong familiarity to feel safe.”
“Yeah…” Garcia nodded slowly. “So?”
“So, he won't hide in the woods. He’s gotta be hiding in town or near his home. Somewhere familiar. Places where people know him enough to ignore him. Somewhere close to childhood territory or an emotional anchor point.”
Garcia’s hands flew across the keys, cross-referencing with sealed juvie records, archived business licenses, and zoning maps. Y/N’s mouth parted slightly when the results narrowed as she looked over Garcia’s shoulder.
“There’s only one Pete’s Tavern within twenty miles of any of his last known addresses. And it’s next to a condemned music shop he used to give lessons at.”
She stood up, dialing the landline Garcia had open to the precinct.
The phone rang once before Morgan picked up.
“Morgan.”
“Hey, it’s Y/N. Or wait, sorry. Y/L/N.” she said, shaking her head. He smiled and set the phone down on speaker as she continued. “I found something. I think that based on the thing you guys said about him needing stability, he’s hiding near a place from his childhood. There’s a tavern called Pete’s just outside the city, next to that closed-down music shop on Keller. That sign’s in the video—I mean it's kinda hard to see but I think it is. Garcia cross-checked it with zoning maps and tax records and it looks like the only plausible match.”
There was a pause on the other end.
Reid spoke up. “You got that from the window reflection?”
“Technically, yes.” She sounded sheepish now. “Also the lighting temperature and the discoloration on the glass looked like neon, not LED like arcades, which helped.”
“Remind me to never play trivia with you,” Morgan said.
“Remind me to only play trivia with you,” Reid added, a smile in his voice. “Y/N, that’s amazing. You just cracked the whole location angle.”
“Thanks,” Y/N said modestly, “It got boring watching Garcia.” Garcia swatted at Y/N playfully.
The line erupted in chuckles.
“I’ll stay back with local PD and coordinate SWAT,” Reid said. “Garcia, can you send me the address?”
“Already on it, sugar.”
The team heard Y/N shout something and her footsteps leave the room.
“The food got here. She got upset when I told her I hadn’t tried the Mexican place downtown,” Garcia’s voice had a smile hidden in it.
The team smiled, amused, before dispersing.
In the background, unnoticed, Hotch had stepped into the precinct room.
He stood just outside the edge of the light, his coat still on, arms folded, and his eyes fixed on the speakerphone.
The voice coming through it wasn’t the quiet, stiff one that flinched in his doorway or shrank away during briefings. This was warm, clever, quietly witty. Confident, even. And for the first time, Hotch heard what she sounded like when she wasn’t afraid.
And it twisted something in his gut.
I want that.
It wasn’t just guilt now. It was the grief of something unrealized, of something he’d stomped on before it ever had the chance to grow.
He didn’t only lose her trust, but her personality too.
His fingers curled into his palm as he listened to her lighthearted back-and-forth with Reid. It wasn’t jealousy—not of Reid. He didn’t believe anything would happen there. But it was envy. Envy of their ease. Envy of her comfort. And some frustration.
He was the reason she didn’t smile like that around everyone.
You don’t deserve that kind of warmth from her. Not yet.
And still—he wanted it anyway.
~
Hotch entered Strauss’ office precisely at 9:00 AM, expecting to be the first to arrive.
He wasn’t.
Y/N was already seated across from Strauss, legs crossed at the ankle, a mug of tea cradled between her hands. She was smiling softly—an expression Hotch had never seen directed at him—and speaking in a tone he’d never heard her use outside of Garcia’s office.
It was relaxed, warm.
Strauss smirked slightly at something Y/N said just as Hotch stepped in. They both looked up. Y/N immediately straightened, smile gone in an instant like someone had hit a kill switch.
“Hotchner,” Strauss said crisply. “Have a seat.”
He nodded and took the empty chair beside Y/N, who had suddenly gone still. Her hands tightened around the mug as she looked down at her shoes, silent now.
Hotch didn’t miss the shift, and it hurt.
She’s more comfortable with Strauss than she is with me.
That wasn’t just unusual. That was unheard of. Strauss had a way of making even seasoned agents sweat. But Y/N had been calm until he walked in.
“I wanted to call this meeting,” Strauss said, hands folded on the desk, “to discuss Agent Y/L/N’s position with the BAU.”
Both Hotch and Y/N glanced toward her.
“Her insight on the last case was instrumental in locating the unsub before anyone was hurt. And the way she worked alongside Garcia remotely was—frankly—more effective than I expected when I reassigned her.”
Y/N shifted. It was a rude way of saying it, sure, but she took the compliment anyway.
Strauss turned to Hotch, but her tone stayed even. “I’d like her to start traveling with the team on field assignments.”
There was a long beat.
Hotch spoke first. “I think that would be beneficial.”
Beside him, Y/N blinked, as if surprised she’d been spoken of in terms of value. “I’m okay with that,” she said quickly. “If that’s what the team needs.”
Strauss gave a rare, faint smile. “Good. Then it’s settled.”
Hotch stood as soon as he was dismissed. Y/N was already halfway to the door before he reached it.
She didn’t wait. She never did.
As Hotch stepped into the hallway behind her, he spotted Rossi approaching from the opposite end—calm, casual, coffee in hand.
The moment Y/N saw him, she felt her shoulders relax and found herself smiling genuinely again. She practically skipped to meet him, falling into step beside him like a kid finding a favorite teacher.
“Hey, Rossi,” she said brightly.
“Morning, bella,” he smiled, patting her shoulder. “Meeting time?”
“Apparently I’m mobile now,” she said lightly. “Strauss said I’m going with you guys on your cases now.”
Rossi chuckled. “She doesn’t make changes easily. I think she may have a soft spot for you, kid.” Y/N shrugged before bombarding Rossi with questions about the jet.
Hotch slowed as he approached them, watching the easy rhythm of their exchange. Y/N was animated, energetic and excitedly bantering with Rossi in a way Hotch craved.
Hotch fell into step behind them, then beside them as they reached the door to the conference room. Y/N’s chatter quieted slightly, though she didn’t step away from Rossi.
She didn’t retreat.
Not fully.
Progress?
He didn’t know anymore.
He moved ahead of them and opened the door.
The team was already seated—Reid flipping through a file, Morgan and Prentiss chatting, JJ checking her phone. They all looked up as Hotch entered.
“I wanted to inform you all,” he said, standing at the front of the room, “that Agent Y/L/N will begin traveling with us on cases moving forward. She’ll continue in a medical advisory role, but her insight will be used in the field.”
Heads turned toward her as she slipped in quietly behind him, smiling at the team. She could smell his cologne.
“Really?” JJ smiled. “That’s great.”
Morgan grinned. “You’ll love the jet. Reid hogs the couch, though.”
“I do not,” Reid muttered.
Garcia’s voice buzzed over the intercom. “I call dibs on installing her Spotify account into the speaker system.”
Y/N chuckled, eyes flicking up briefly as she sat down. Not to Hotch, but to the rest of them.
He stepped aside to sit down. And as she moved to a seat—still quiet and tentative—he watched her with a knot in his chest.
He had work to do. And he didn’t want to admit why it had nothing to do with the case.
The team filed onto the jet and Y/N followed Morgan and Prentiss like a lost puppy until they directed her to a booth seat with them. Reid joined them. She opened up her case file as the team waited for take off, talking to them excitedly.
From the far side of the jet, Hotch watched her.
Not intentionally. At least, that’s what he told himself. But his eyes kept drifting back to her—tucked between Prentiss and the wall, laughing softly with Reid’s curls bobbing next to Morgan, who sat across from her.
She was different when she wasn’t aware of his presence. Lighter. She always seemed ready to talk about anything and everything, and conversation never seemed to halt with her. Her energy buzzed quietly under the surface, but it was warm. Magnetic.
He caught the tail end of her teasing Morgan.
“I don’t know, I zone out when you talk.”
And then Morgan laughed, pretending offense. Prentiss fist-bumped her while Morgan playfully kicked her under the table.
“Why? You excited?” He asked her, still smiling.
“Yeah; my family’s in L.A.. Well, I guess it’s not technically good ‘cause it’s a murderer, but you know.”
She was smiling so hard she felt like she couldn’t stop it even if she tried.
Hotch’s gaze softened.
She’s from L.A. He filed it away, already curious. What neighborhood? Did she grow up in the city or outside it? Who was she before this?
He wanted to know. He wanted to understand her. Professionally, of course.
Because the more he watched, the more he began to notice the cracks in her armor—cracks that didn’t fully make sense.
He’d seen the flinching, yes. The silence, the stiff posture, the way she always positioned herself near exits. At first, he’d chalked it up to his own coldness—he’d made her uncomfortable, unwelcomed.
But now…
Even here, surrounded by teammates she clearly trusted, she startled a little too easily when someone laughed too loudly. She flinched when Morgan’s foot accidentally nudged hers again. She looked over her shoulder every ten minutes like she was checking for something behind her.
It wasn’t him. Not entirely.
Hotch’s chest tightened.
She’s afraid of something bigger than me. I remind her of something bigger.
The flight was around five hours, and the sky quickly turned into darkness.
Y/N had curled up near the window seat after reviewing the autopsy report, her face lit softly by the tablet screen. The others had dozed off or were deep in quiet conversation.
Hotch took the seat across the aisle, a file open in his lap.
But of course, he wasn’t reading. He hadn’t been reading for the last hour or so.
He was watching her from the corner of his eye.
She’d kicked off her boots and sat, tucking her knees up under her while scribbling notes in the margins with a purple pen as she chewed her lip, focused.
She doesn’t make mistakes. Not if she can help it.
He wondered how long she'd been like that.
He glanced down at the tablet in his hands, then back up.
She was still reading, unaware of him watching her.
Unaware of his guilt. And just as oblivious as him to something soft sprouting between them.
Hotch swallowed thickly and looked away.
She deserves better than what I gave her.
And for the first time since he’d met her, he found himself not just wanting her trust—but to protect her.
Maybe, slowly, he still could.
The autopsy photos were grim, the report grimmer, but Y/N tried to keep her attention on the facts.
Focus on the facts. Not the seat across the aisle.
Not him.
She tapped her purple pen against her lips, then jotted a note in the margins. Ligature pattern inconsistent. Possible improvisation. She underlined it twice.
Y/N wasn’t sure when Hotch had sat down across the aisle, but she’d felt it. The shift in the air. The invisible weight his presence always brought with it.
He hadn’t spoken to her all day, not since the brief announcement that she’d be accompanying them from now on. He’d been as unreadable as ever. That perfectly professional tone. That rigid posture. That face carved from silence.
She’d seen it crack once.
Just once.
That day in his office, when she almost dropped the box of files. He’d apologized. Softly. Almost like he meant it.
But then he’d closed right back up again.
She couldn’t stop thinking about it.
She scribbled something else: victim’s hand broken post-mortem? Rage displacement? Then paused.
Her pen hovered.
Y/N hated how aware she was of him. Every time he moved, her skin tensed. Every time he cleared his throat, her pulse kicked up.
Not because he’d done anything wrong, really. Not directly.
But because he felt dangerous in the way that quiet men with power often do. In the way that made Y/N’s gut coil and her spine straighten.
But here was the worst part:
She wanted him. She’s not entirely sure in what way.
Not the fear part. Not the intimidation. But… the him part. The part she’d heard in Garcia’s stories, and in Rossi’s voice when he mentioned “Aaron” instead of “Hotch.” The part she saw in rare glimpses—when he praised her through a speakerphone, or gently steadied that box onto his desk like he was afraid to spook her.
There was a soft side.
I’m sure of it.
She just didn’t think she’d ever get to see it.
Because why would he show it to someone he clearly couldn’t stand?
Y/N sighed, glancing down at her handwriting. It was getting too tight, too neat, too clean. She was holding her breath again.
Her gaze flicked up, just for a second.
Hotch was reading. Or pretending to. His jaw was slack with concentration, and the corners of his mouth twitched just enough to make her stomach flip.
She dropped her eyes again quickly.
He doesn’t like you.
He never will.
So why did her chest ache every time he stood too close?
Why did she keep imagining what his voice might sound like if he ever said her name gently?
Why did she feel safer watching him from afar than being near anyone else?
Y/N exhaled, quiet and slow, pressing her pen back to paper.
It didn’t matter. He was her boss.
And even if he wasn’t—he was Aaron Hotchner.
Untouchable.
Unreachable.
Unbreakable.
And her? She was just the girl who couldn’t even meet his eyes.
~
The fluorescent lights of the precinct buzzed faintly overhead as the BAU team filed into the station. It wasn’t exactly glamorous, but the air buzzed with that all-too-familiar tension of a unit about to dive into something dark.
“SSA Aaron Hotchner,” Hotch introduced himself to the precinct chief, shaking hands firmly.
“Derek Morgan,” “Emily Prentiss,” “Dr. Spencer Reid,” the introductions followed like clockwork.
Y/N stayed near the back, a little out of formation, watching carefully. When her turn came, she smiled politely and extended her hand. “Y/N L/N. I’m a medical advisor with the BAU.”
The chief smiled. “Didn’t expect the Bureau to bring in a medical specialist.”
Before she could respond, a voice rang out from behind her. “Y/N?! No way.”
Y/N turned, her face lighting up in recognition.
“Jesse?” she gasped.
The young officer coming toward her was tall, tanned, and very L.A.—all sun-streaked hair and a cocky grin. Y/N practically launched herself at him, hugging him so tightly that his radio crackled from the pressure.
Morgan and Prentiss exchanged a glance. Hotch’s jaw clenched—just slightly.
He didn’t know why that unsettled him so much. But it did.
“Holy hell, I haven’t seen you since we were in Compton!!” Jesse beamed, holding her arms as he stepped back. “Look at you, all grown up and FBI-famous.”
“Shut up,” she grinned, swatting at him. “Don’t think I didn’t forget about what you pulled when I left.”
“You’re never gonna let me live that down, are you?”
They both laughed. The rest of the team had already moved on, but Y/N and Jesse lingered behind as the others reviewed the murder board.
Hotch paused once, glancing back from the conference room doorway. Y/N didn’t notice—her back was turned, too focused on Jesse. But he watched, and for some reason, it irked him that she smiled so easily with someone else.
Y/N and Jesse leaned against a vending machine in the hallway, catching up quietly.
He nudged your arm. “So… what’s the story with your boss?”
She stiffened a little, unsure of her tone. “Hotch?”
“Yeah. You’ve got that whole ‘forbidden workplace crush’ look going on.”
Her face flushed. “I do not.”
Jesse gave Y/N a very pointed look. “You just hugged me like you were dying and then went completely tense when he looked over.”
She sighed, giving in with a sheepish shrug. “Okay. Fine. Maybe I do. But it’s complicated.”
“Complicated how?”
“I think he… I don’t know. Doesn’t like me. At first he was really cold, professional, borderline hostile. He didn’t want Strauss to hire me. I’m still pretty sure he thinks I’m some kind of mole. So yeah. Crush aside, I’m also kind of terrified of him.” Y/N looked down, biting her lip. “I just, I hear so much about him being so sweet outside of work. But he doesn’t show any of that around me.”
Jesse studied her for a moment before his voice lowered. “I don’t think he dislikes you.”
She raised a brow. “You just met him.”
“Yeah, but I’ve also known you forever. And I know when someone’s looking at you like they’re trying really hard not to let something slip.”
Y/N smiled sadly. “That’s nice of you to say. But you don’t know him. He doesn’t—”
“He does. I saw it. He watched us like he was calculating how fast he could shove me into traffic.”
She snorted.
“Listen,” Jesse leaned closer. “My chief wants me on a stakeout tonight. We’re pairing off with Bureau agents. He wants one pair in a car two blocks over, two closer to the hotspot. Wanna ride with me?”
“Of course I do.”
A grin curved his lips. “Good. Because I think your crush needs a little… external motivation.”
She gave him a skeptical look. “What, you gonna flex your precinct badge at him, an FBI agent?”
“Even better,” Jesse smirked. “I’ll flirt with you. Make it look mutual.”
She stared at him. “But… you’re gay.”
“And does Hotch know that?”
Y/N blinked.
He raised his brows expectantly.
“…No.”
“Exactly. You wanna shake that suit of armor he wears? Let’s see if it rattles.”
She hesitated—then grinned.
“Let’s do it.”