The BAU was two weeks deep into the Boston case when Aaron Hotchner lost track of his own lines. Boston always felt claustrophobic: narrow alleys that trapped the cold, air that never really left your suit jacket no matter how tightly you buttoned it, and a case that twisted too close to home with each new victim.

He'd barely slept. Garcia had texted him another lead at 3:14 AM, her pixelated coffee cup emoji the only bright spot in the darkness, but that wasn't why Aaron found himself standing outside the consultant's hotel room door at 11:37 PM. That wasn't why his thumb hovered over the peephole, heart drumming against his ribs like evidence he couldn't bury.

It had started with conversation. The consultant wasn't BAU, but attached to the case through the Boston field office—a profiler with a background in behavioral psychology, sharper than Aaron liked, the kind of man who asked the questions Aaron didn't have time for. He didn't like the way the man looked at him: steady, unreadable, like he saw through the suit and tie to the cracks underneath.

That night, Aaron knocked once. It wasn't a conscious decision. It wasn't premeditated. It was a reflex, like reaching for his gun when a door slammed unexpectedly.

The door opened. The consultant's voice was low, "Hotch?" as if he'd been waiting, as if Aaron's footsteps had been predictable despite his best efforts.

Aaron didn't answer. He pushed past him into the room, the scent of雪松 cologne and hotel soap hitting him like a physical thing, something he could almost taste.

There wasn't a kiss first—Aaron didn't do things like that. Not with men. Not ever. But suddenly his hands were on the man's collar, undoing the first button with shaking fingers, knuckles brushing skin he had no business touching. The consultant didn't resist. He just watched, eyes dark in the dim light, as Aaron tried to regain control by taking it.

It wasn't love. It wasn't even about sex, not really. It was about control. About losing it so completely he could pretend it was a choice.

The first time hurt. Not physically—not for the consultant—but for Aaron. His hands shook so badly he could barely unzip the man's pants. He kept his eyes closed the entire time, jaw clamped so tight his temples ached. He didn't let himself feel good. Even when he finally let go, breath ragged in the dark, he pressed his face into the pillow like the walls themselves might testify against him.

Afterward, he dressed in silence. His gun was already holstered beneath his suit jacket. His tie stayed in his pocket. He wasn't that put together tonight.

Aaron's jaw flexed before declaring firmly, "This didn't happen."

Back in Quantico, the pattern didn't break. It wasn't constant, just... when things got quiet. When Hailey was asleep upstairs. When Jack was still too small to understand why Daddy sometimes smelled like strange cologne.

He'd drive out under the excuse of a late case consult. Or he'd say he was on-site for an interview with a potential witness. The lies came easier each time, sliding off his tongue like part of the job.

Always the same man. Never anyone else.

It was 11:46 p.m. when Aaron Hotchner pulled up outside the consultant's house, the government-issued SUV a black shadow against the darkened street. He sat for exactly four minutes. Engine running. Headlights off. A picture of Jack sat folded in his wallet, next to his badge—the corner bent from how many times he'd taken it out and stared at it tonight.

Hailey was home. He'd told her he needed to finish paperwork at the office. He'd lied too easily.

When he finally got out of the car, Aaron's jaw was clenched so tight it hurt. The cool night air hit his face as he walked up the steps, shoes crunching on gravel that shouldn't be familiar. He didn't knock hard—just enough to be heard, just enough to prove he wasn't hiding, even though he was.

The door opened immediately, no surprise in the consultant's face, as if he'd been watching Aaron sit in the car through the window.

"I shouldn't be here." Aaron spoke as he was stepping inside anyway. His voice was flat, quieter than usual. Like it cost him something to admit even that much. He was already taking his jacket off—methodical, like everything else in his life. Suit jacket first, hung precisely on the hook by the door, then gun holster laid flat on the side table like muscle memory.

The house was too quiet. No toys scattered on the floor. No family photos on the wall. Nothing that tied the man down. Aaron hated how easy that made things. Hated how much he envied it.

And he hated what it felt like, hands in the man's hair, teeth against skin, saying "fuck" under his breath like it wasn't the first time. Hated that he knew exactly how the man tasted now, how he sounded when he was about to come, how to touch him to make him gasp Aaron's name instead of his title.

None of it felt good. Not the way it was supposed to. Aaron kept waiting for guilt to kick in hard enough to make him stop. It didn't. It was always there, a low hum in the back of his mind, but never enough to overcome the need.

By the time it was over, he sat at the edge of the man's bed, shirt unbuttoned, head in his hands, semen cooling on his stomach where the man had come when Aaron finally let himself touch him properly.

"This is the last time," Aaron said quietly. He didn't sound convinced. The words had lost their meaning somewhere around the third or fourth "last time.""I can't do this anymore. I have a family. I have a wife."