Hotchniss One-Shots

Happier Than Ever

It wasn't until she was an ocean away that Emily realized she had started breathing again.

For years — years — she thought it was just part of the job. The loneliness. The compromise. The way she'd twisted herself into quieter and quieter shapes to fit into Aaron Hotchner's life, into his world of walls, silences, and invisible lines she wasn't allowed to cross. She had learned to be grateful for the scraps he gave her — a soft look across the bullpen, a rare dinner that wasn't interrupted by work, a whispered apology in the dark when he broke yet another promise.

She had loved him.

God, how she had loved him.

She had loved him through years of waiting, of convincing herself that the tiny fragments he gave her were enough. She had told herself that patience was love. That sacrifice was love. That silence was love.

But here, in London, with her own team, her own apartment overlooking the Thames, her own life — she woke up one morning and realized she didn't miss him anymore.

She didn't miss the way she had to guess how he felt. She didn't miss shrinking herself to fit into the tiny corner of his world he allowed her to occupy. She didn't miss the lonely ache that came from lying next to someone who was never really with her.

Her phone buzzed across the nightstand, dragging her from her thoughts. She reached over, heart skipping — an old reflex — when she saw his name flash across the screen.

Hotch.

She hesitated for a moment, thumb hovering over the answer button. Then she picked up.

"Emily," his voice was the same — warm, low, familiar. Too familiar.

"Hotch," she replied coolly, wrapping the blanket tighter around her body. "Everything okay?"

There was a beat of silence on the other end, like he hadn't expected that question — like he thought she would fall right back into old rhythms. As if she hadn't spent the last year rebuilding herself from the ground up.

"I heard you were in D.C. last month," he said. "Jack said he saw you."

"Yeah." She kept her voice neutral. "I had meetings. It didn't seem necessary to call."

The words were harsher than she meant them to be, but she didn't apologize. Not this time.

He cleared his throat, a sound she knew too well — stalling for time, searching for the right words.

"I miss you."

Three words. Simple. Devastating.

A year ago, those words would have broken her. She would have booked a flight, packed a bag, convinced herself that maybe this time things would be different.

Now, they barely made a dent.

She closed her eyes, the lyrics to a song she'd been humming for weeks echoing in her mind.
I don't relate to you... no, I don't relate to you, no...

"I'm happier now," she said quietly, the truth sitting heavy but freeing on her tongue. "Without you."

Silence. The kind that used to terrify her. Now it felt like peace.

"I'm not saying that to hurt you," she continued, voice steady. "I just... I spent so long believing that if I loved you hard enough, you'd show up for me the way I showed up for you."

"Emily—"

"I don't blame you," she said, cutting him off gently. "You loved me the only way you knew how. I believe that. But it wasn't enough. Not for me."