Based on season 3, episode 20 - "Lo-Fi" - and season 4, episode 1 - "Mayhem".
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Golden lights were peeking through the soundless bedroom, hardly perturbing its peace, as Eleanor had witnessed the sun rise in quiet, too fearful to discompose the fanciful image. His hazel hair was painted in golden shades by each beam that had caressed his asleep physique in ways she didn't dare to anymore, a magnificent image that pulled out all of her suffering from her soul and, for a second, she believed they could remain like this forever. Happy. Enchanted by each other's glance. The way it used to be. When did that end?
Her soul shrank, the last shred of air becoming trapped in her neck the moment his dormant body had come to life, terrified that the spell had been broken. She removed her eyes from him, desperately aiming to counterfeit her falling into the land of dreams, but a heavy, firm arm pulled her out, a quiet heave that left her body uncovering her. "Good morning," he whispered, his genuine smile pulling her back to him. She didn't dare to make a sound, peacefully admiring his sleepy figure, still drowsing off from time to time. Yet, his mind was fully awake, his hand curling up around her silhouette, tenderly pulling her body to him.
The unfamiliar coziness of his warm chest against her evaporated any sign of doubt from her mind, being led in a laced dance that only their bodies knew the steps of, his arms intertwining on her back to hold her close to his pounding heart. His large hands roamed over her shoulders, forcing her to glance at him, his fingers brushing over her feverish cheeks.
She left all of her will at his command, anticipation growing instantly to revive the spark that once filled her eyes when gazing at him. He pulled her to him, ardently kissing away any sighs that perturbed her being as his fingers relentlessly caressed every inch of her cheeks. "We should go," she uttered weakly in between kisses, their foreheads locking together. Her friable body melted into his arms, faintly leaning into his hand. "We still got time," he argued, though the emptiness in her eyes didn't diminish at all. There was a one way road and he's already passed by her.
She closed her eyes shut, fused to the palm of his hand, then, and only then, she dared to whisper. "Do we?" Her words pierced through his skin like flaming embers, his limbs paralyzed as he tried to put all his words in order to form a pertinent argument, yet he couldn't even form a simple sentence. She tried to ignore his stiff being, turning to his morning alarm that finally went off, freeing her from his spell. "I guess we do not," he said to himself, watching her go get ready for work.
A fever dream. At least that's how it felt like. She could still feel his fingers brushing over her cheeks, his leathery smell that intoxicated her being, making her float over the stairs in an incoercible state of trance, all the way to the conference room. In there, Hotch played the clips of the latest murders over and over and over again. "Don't get comfortable. There'll be time to debrief on the plane," he uttered, his face still locked on the screen, the only indicatory of him not being alone anymore being the different types of steps flooding the room. Steps that Eleanor did not notice. She thought they were alone. She also thought she was slowly losing the internal battle happening inside her mind.
