Hotchniss One-Shots

to make you feel my love

make you feel my love - adele 

The reception hall buzzed with laughter, clinking glasses, and the soft hum of a string quartet transitioning into something livelier. Warm light spilled from chandeliers overhead, casting a golden glow across the polished floor. Hotch stood near the far wall, hands clasped loosely behind his back, surveying the room with calm precision—though his gaze, inevitably, always found Emily.

She was across the room, a vision in navy, leaning down to adjust one of the little decorative floral arrangements on the table. Her dark hair caught the light just so, a few loose strands framing her face as she laughed at something JJ had said. Even in a moment meant for small domestic duties, Emily radiated a warmth that made the chaos of their usual lives—the cases, the long nights, the darkness—feel distant.

Hotch felt a pull in his chest, a quiet ache of affection he had long since learned to accept but never fully articulate. When the evening shadows and the stars appear... he thought, as he watched her, the lyric weaving silently in his mind. Here, in this golden, joyful light, there was no danger, no one in need of saving. Just her. And him.

He made his way through clusters of colleagues and friends, the steady rhythm of his steps matching the faint beat of the music. Garcia waved from the side, her camera poised. "Smile for the camera, lovebirds," she chirped. Hotch's lips twitched. Emily glanced up at the sound, shooting Garcia a mock glare that melted immediately into laughter.

When he reached her, Emily straightened, brushing imaginary dust from her dress. "You're standing there looking like a statue," she teased, though her voice softened when she saw him. "Were you admiring the flowers too, or just me?"

"Both," Hotch said quietly, his usual formal tone softened by the moment. "But mostly you."

Emily's eyebrows lifted, a faint blush rising on her cheeks. "Flattery at a wedding—careful, you might start a rumor," she said. But there was a warmth in her eyes, the kind that made Hotch forget the rest of the room, the other people, everything except the way she seemed to pull him into her orbit without a word.

The music shifted to a slower number, a gentle rhythm that invited couples to the floor. Emily's hand brushed his, tentative but familiar, as if asking permission without words. Hotch stepped closer, and she allowed herself to be drawn in. Their movements were instinctive, unspoken—years of knowing each other reflected in the way she rested lightly against him, the ease with which he guided her in the dance.

I could hold you for a million years... Hotch thought, feeling the truth of the words settle over him like a promise. He held her just a little tighter, resting his chin near the top of her head. The world faded; there were no cases to solve, no danger to avert. Just her, her warmth, and the music.

"Feels... nice," Emily murmured, her voice low enough that only he could hear it.

"It does," he replied softly. "I could get used to this."

Emily tilted her head back slightly, smiling. "Careful. You say that in public and Garcia will never let us live it down."

Hotch allowed a small, private smile. "Then we'll just have to enjoy it while we can," he said, leaning slightly closer. His words were deliberate, carrying a weight of emotion he didn't often reveal aloud, and Emily felt it keenly.

They swayed in silence for a moment, letting the music dictate their pace. Around them, the room buzzed with conversation and laughter, but here, in each other's arms, the noise became a distant echo. Hotch felt a quiet, fierce protectiveness rise in him—not the kind that chased criminals, but the kind that guarded this fragile, perfect moment.