50 shades of Hotchner|| Aaron Hotchner x reader

♕ Chapter 3 ♛

     
My heart is pounding. The elevator arrives on the first floor, and I scramble out as soon as the doors slide open, stumbling once but fortunately not sprawling onto the immaculate floor. I race for the wide glass doors, and suddenly I'm free in the bracing, cleansing, damp air of Quantico. Raising my face, I welcome the cool, refreshing rain. I close my eyes and take a deep, purifying breath, trying to recover what's left of my brain cells.

No man has ever affected me the way Aaron Hotchner has, and I cannot fathom why. Is it his looks? His civility? Wealth? Power? I don't understand my irrational reaction. I breathe an enormous sigh of relief. What in heaven's name was that all about? Leaning against one of the brick pillars of the building, I valiantly attempt to calm down and gather my thoughts. I shake my head. What was that? My heart steadies to its regular rhythm, and when I can breathe normally again I head for the car.

As I leave the city limits behind, I begin to feel foolish and embarrassed as I replay the interview in my mind. Surely I'm overreacting to something that's imaginary. Okay, so he's very attractive, confident, commanding, at ease with himself—but on the flip side, he's arrogant, and for all his impeccable manners, he's autocratic and cold. Well, on the surface. An involuntary shiver runs down my spine. He may be arrogant, but then he has a right to be—he's accomplished so much. He doesn't suffer fools gladly, but why should he? Again, I'm frustrated that Chanel didn't give me a brief biography.

While driving peacefully, my mind continues to wander. I'm truly perplexed as to what makes someone so driven to succeed. Some of his answers were so cryptic—as if he had a hidden agenda. And Chanel's questions—ugh! The dead wife and asking him if he was gay! I shudder. I can't believe I said that. Ground, swallow me up now! Every time I think of that question in the future, I will cringe with embarrassment. Damn Chanel Rose!

I check the speedometer. I'm driving more cautiously than I would on any other occasion. And I know it's the memory of those penetrating brown eyes gazing at me and a stern voice telling me to drive carefully. Shaking my head, I realize that  Hotchner's really acts his age.

Forget it, (y/n), I scold myself. I decide that, all in all, it's been a very interesting experience, but I shouldn't dwell on it. Put it behind you. I never have to see him again. I'm immediately cheered by the thought. I switch on the stereo and turn the volume up loud, sit back and listen to 2000s music as I press down on the accelerator. As I hit the Interstate, I realize I can drive as fast as I want.

live in a small community of duplex apartments close to the Baltimore campus of LUM. I'm lucky—Chanel's parents bought the place for her, and I pay peanuts for rent. It's been home for four years now. As I pull up outside, I know Chanel is going to want a blow-by blow account, and she is tenacious. Well, at least she has the digital recorder. I hope I won't have to elaborate much beyond what was said during the interview.

"(y/n)! You're back." Chanel sits in our living area, surrounded by books. She's clearly been studying for finals—she's still in her pink flannel pajamas decorated with cute little rabbits, the ones she reserves for the aftermath of breaking up with boyfriends, for assorted illnesses, and for general moody depression. She bounds up to me and hugs me hard.

"I was beginning to worry. I expected you back sooner."

"Oh, I thought I made good time considering the interview ran over." I wave the digital recorder at her.

"(y/n), thank you so much for doing this. I owe you, I know. How was it? What was he like?" Oh no—here we go, the Chanel Rose Inquisition.

I struggle to answer her question. What can I say?