Are You Profiling Me?

-20-

Over in Hotch's room.

The hotel room is bathed in the soft glow of moonlight filtering through the thin curtains. Everything is quiet. The air conditioner hums softly, the sound almost comforting in its consistency. Aaron Hotchner lies still on his bed, staring at the ceiling, his mind running over the events of the day, the case they just closed, the weight of his responsibilities.

But sleep is nowhere near his mind.

Instead, it's the memory of her request—Danielle's plea—that keeps him wide awake. She had asked him, so gently, but so firmly, to give her space. She needed time, and after everything she had been through, Hotch had promised to respect her wishes.

He couldn't—wouldn't—be the one to make things worse. Not now, not when she was still working through the trauma, the nightmares, the burden she carried. He would give her the time and the space to heal, even if it killed him to stay away.

But the silence of the night starts to shift.

A quiet rustling comes from the other side of the thin hotel wall. At first, it's subtle—a shifting sound, a soft murmur.

Then, suddenly, there's a sharp, pained scream.

Hotch's heart clenches as he sits up, his eyes darting toward the wall, the sound ringing clear in the stillness. He swears he can feel it in his bones—Danielle.

Her voice is broken, desperate.

"No! No, please! Don't—"

The sound of terror cuts through the air, and for a moment, it feels like the whole world has stopped. Hotch tenses, his muscles rigid, his fists clenching in the sheets as he listens to the screams, his breath caught somewhere between panic and helplessness.

He hears her again—crying out in a way that rattles something deep inside him.

"Please, no—don't leave me..."

Hotch's hand grips the edge of the bed. His eyes close, and his jaw tightens. He can hear it. Hear the horror that has haunted her for weeks now. He knows it's not just a nightmare—this is something deeper, something that she's been running from, something that still holds her in its grasp.

The screaming intensifies, and then the guttural sobs follow. His chest feels tight, like the weight of her pain is pressing down on him from the other side of the wall, and the suffocating helplessness of it is almost too much to bear.

He wants to go to her. He wants to rush into that room, to hold her, to tell her she's safe, that the nightmare is over. But he promised her. He promised her space. She had asked him to step back, to not get too close, and she had meant it. He knows she meant it.

But God, it's killing him.

The silence between the screams stretches, broken only by her soft, disjointed words, a whispered plea through the pain.

"I can't... I can't... please... don't..."

His mind is a swirl of conflicting emotions. Every instinct he has is screaming at him to go to her, to not let her suffer alone. But his body remains frozen, trapped in the promise he made.

He presses his hands to his face, rubbing his palms across his forehead as if trying to physically will away the ache in his chest.

What if she needs him? What if she can't get through this alone?

His gaze drifts toward her door, and he swears he can almost feel the vibrations of her pain through the thin wood that separates them. She's in there. Alone. Struggling. And he's out here.