Work Text:
Hotch never intended to fall in love with another woman: what married man would? But it happened all the same. He fell in love the way you fall down a forgotten step at the bottom of the stairs: a sickening lurch, a moment of weightless panic, and an abrupt and painful return to solid ground that leaves your heart racing and your hands shaking and your mind racing a million miles a second.
But Hotch was a married man, and moreover, he was and always had been a good man. So he hid the fact that he'd fallen in love with another woman, and for the most part, he hid it well. He hid it in the back of his mind, in a grave of buried love, deep and secret and safe. He hid it until it became second nature, as automatic as breathing, until it very rarely crossed his mind at all.
But he couldn't hide it perfectly. Nobody could. Hotch had a better poker face than most people, but even the best of players has his tells, and he was no exception. And his biggest giveaway was right on his face.
Hotch compartmentalised. Personal was personal and work was work: emotions were the former and stoicism the latter. He was serious to the point of dourness. He seldom laughed. He rarely smiled.
Except for her.
With just one brief conversation, Penelope Garcia could worm her way into his heart and make him smile.
That's why he loved her.