He didn't know how she knew.
It didn't really matter, though. She was there, and she was real, and he was too damn tired to care about the how or the why. Her hair was long again, dancing around her shoulders in the half-curls he found himself remembering. Her eyes were softer, though, no longer throwing defenses up at anyone who dared to meet her gaze. He wondered if she had found peace - and though a small part of him was jealous about that, he was mostly happy for her. At least one of them deserved to heal.
For a long time, they just stared at each other. And then her mouth trembled, and she reached up, resting her hand on his face gently. The touch was hesitant, as though she were afraid he'd jerk away.
But he was too damn tired for that, too.
"Oh, Hotch," she whispered, her voice breaking.
It was too much. Everything rushed up through his body, getting stuck in his throat and threatening to burst out of his chest. He had to let it go, or it would kill him.
"Elle," he choked.
The dam burst, and he was in her arms, not caring how that had happened either. They just sank down into the space between the door jambs, her body between him and the world. Her fingers ran through his hair and she held him tightly, silent against the force of his grief. He was grateful for that, even in the midst of his pain. He didn't need words.
But he suddenly realized that he might need her.