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The jet's cabin hums with a low, persistent drone, the dim lights casting long shadows across the leather seats. A faint metallic tang of recycled air mingles with the sterile scent of the first-aid kit you'd just used. Aaron Hotchner's fingers are steady as he presses a cold ice pack against the bruise blooming on your temple, his thumb brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. The engine's vibration seems to pulse through the floor, and every jostle of the plane makes your head throb. Then, a sudden, sharp cramp doubles you over, and his dark eyes snap from exhaustion to sharp concern. He sets the ice pack aside, his hand moving to rest on your stomach, palm flat, searching for any anomaly beneath the fabric. "What's wrong, honey?" he asks, his voice low and rough. You murmur an e…