von

Groaning, you shift onto your other side, turning to worm your way into Emily's arms. Your head drops on her shoulder, arm curling tight around her waist, pressing you both closer like it'll stop her from leaving. She gracelessly rubs the back of your head, yawning.

"Alaska?" She slurs into the phone. "Y'sure you got that right?"

Despite everything, her soft drawl makes you smile into her collarbone. You go all warm inside when she sounds like this—a gravelly rasp in her throat, her words pulled long and sticky, rounded with the softness of her mouth. Her voice roughens, yet her pronunciation crumbles; it's like she gets sanded down, all the sharpness melted away, purely for you to hear when she's heavy with sleep or—

Your eyes snap open at the sound of Garcia's voice, tinny but clear through the phone, reminding you of the fact that you're very much not the only witness to your wife's less inhibited state.

"Yes, I've got that right. The deputy mentioned it, like, ten times—"

"Lemme guess, salmon city, Alaska." Emily yawns again, letting her forehead loll down and press against yours.

"So close, it's Fairbanks." 

She makes a grumbling sound under her breath, the vibrations seeping into your skin. You go hot knowing the sound carries, the speakers picking up what's yours, delivering it to Garcia's ears.

Sleep leaves your body very quickly.

Garcia tuts. "Up you get, cupcake. It's a ten hour flight. Pack warm."

"No," Emily rasps.

"Jet leaves at six."

"I'm resigning."

"Can't relay the news!" Garcia chirps. "Sorry, hon, in-person resignations only. Don't be late."

She hangs up with a beep and Emily throws the phone somewhere on the bed, groaning again as she curls around you—smothers you, really. You're still stewing as the tip of her nose nudges your cheek, her mussed bangs tickling you all over. 

It's just Garcia. One-of-your-favorite-people-on-this-planet Garcia. Emily's-best-friend Garcia. 

You're being ridiculous. It's fine. She's seen her drunk off her mind, looped up on pain meds. They spend an abnormal amount of time together, and this isn't the first time this has happened. Hell, it'll hardly be the last.

Had she ever answered JJ like this? Hotch?

Your fingers curl into the cotton of Emily's tank top. She exhales, the warmth of it hitting your cheek, and shifts around to rest her forehead on your shoulder.

"I should quit."

"Yeah, you should." You shoot back too fast, your own voice gravely with exhaustion.

"Wow, really?" Emily mumbles. "That was a lil' too enthusiastic."

You search for her hand amidst the covers. It's cold, limp until you thread your fingers through hers and give a halfhearted squeeze. "You just came back, Emily." You say. You can't really make out her features in the dark, only feel her, hear her. "You're exhausted. It's not fair."

She hums thickly, her lips soft on your cheek. "Don't worry your pretty little head about me."

"I can't not. Besides," your voice goes a little petulant as you twist in her arms, huddling close enough to see the faint sheen of her eyes, "no one else should get to hear you like this." You mumble.

Emily's brows furrow. "Like what?" She asks, perplexed.

"This," you whisper, tracing her plush bottom lip. "Mine."

"I'm yours all the time." She whispers back. It's so earnest, so sweetly clueless. Heat crawls up your skin again, this time from your own absurdity. 

Sighing, you press a small kiss to her mouth. Emily cups your cheek, a frown still creasing her forehead. "Baby, what're you talkin' about?"

"Nothing," you mumble, muffled into her hand. "I hate the BAU."

She pets your cheek, strokes clumsily next to your eye. You savor the kiss she drops there, a small bit of lingering warmth to chase away the cold when she slips out of bed.

The cigarette smoke curled around Emily Prentiss’s fingers like a stray cat begging for attention. She leaned against the brick wall behind the school, the only place the teachers never checked during lunch, exhaling slowly as she flipped a page in her dog-eared copy of ‘The Bell Jar’. The black eyeliner smudged under her eyes made her look perpetually tired, or maybe just perpetually bored,you could never quite tell.

You’d seen her around before, of course. Everyone had. Emily Prentiss wasn’t popular, not in the cheerleader-and-football-player way, but she had this quiet gravity that made people glance twice. Maybe it was the way she dressed—all black everything, boots scuffed at the toes—or the way she never seemed to care what anyone thought. You’d never spoken to her, though. The few times your paths had almost crossed, you’d chickened out, ducking into the nearest classroom or pretending to be engrossed in your phone.

That was why it was so startling when, on a Tuesday in early October, Emily Prentiss looked up from her book, locked eyes with you across the courtyard, and said, "You gonna keep staring, or are you gonna come over here?" Your stomach did something between a flip and a freefall. You hadn’t even realized you’d been staring. Swallowing hard, you crossed the space between you, the rubber soles of your sneakers squeaking against the pavement. "Sorry," you mumbled, shoving your hands into your hoodie pockets. "I didn’t mean to—"

"It’s fine," Emily interrupted, tapping ash from her cigarette. Her voice was softer than you expected. "You’re in my bio class, right? Third period?"

You nodded, surprised she'd noticed. "Yeah. Back row by the windows." The words came out too fast, like they'd been waiting to escape. Emily smirked, snapping her book shut with one hand while the other lifted the cigarette to her lips again. "Thought so," she said, exhaling smoke to the side. "You always look like you're about to bolt whenever Mr. Henderson starts talking about mitochondria."

Heat rushed to your face. That was embarrassingly accurate. Biology was your worst subject,not because you weren't smart, but because Henderson's monotone voice could put caffeine addicts into a coma. "It's just... really boring," you admitted. Emily's smirk softened into something warmer. "Tell me about it. I doodle in my notebook so much he probably thinks I'm compiling a graphic novel." She tilted her head, studying you in a way that made your pulse stutter. "You're quieter than I expected."

You blinked. "You expected things about me?"

Emily shrugged, crushing the cigarette beneath the heel of her boot in a motion that looked practiced. "Yeah," she said, like it was obvious. "You've got this whole 'observing from a distance' thing going on. Like you're taking notes on everyone." She paused, then added with a half-smile, "Which, honestly, is kind of hot.

Your breath caught in your throat. No one had ever called you hot before—not like this, not with such casual confidence. Before you could stammer out a reply, Emily reached into the pocket of her leather jacket and pulled out a crumpled pack of gum, offering you a piece. "Here," she said. "Mint. Covers the smoke smell before class." You took it, fingers brushing hers for half a second,long enough to notice how warm her skin was despite the October chill. "Thanks," you said, unwrapping the gum slowly, buying time to steady yourself. "So, uh. Do you always invite random people over when they stare at you?"

Emily laughed, a low, rich sound that made your chest tighten. "Nah. Just the cute ones." She tucked her book into her bag, slinging it over one shoulder. "And you're not random. Like I said—bio class. You're the only one who doesn't groan when Henderson says 'pop quiz.'"

"That's because I'm too busy panicking," you admitted, and Emily grinned.

The October wind tugged at the edges of Emily’s jacket, the leather creaking softly as she shifted her weight against the wall. Sunlight filtered through the thinning leaves of the oak tree above, dappling her face in shifting patterns of gold and shadow. You noticed, then, how the light caught the flecks of amber in her dark eyes—how it made the sharp line of her jaw look softer, almost approachable. The scent of her cigarette mingled with the crisp autumn air, something bittersweet and faintly metallic, like the last gasp of summer clinging to the season’s edge.

Emily’s fingers drummed absently against the cover of her book, the chipped black polish on her nails catching the light. You could see the edge of a doodle peeking out from the pages,a twisted, intricate thing that might’ve been a dragon or a thorny vine. It was messy, impulsive, like she’d let her mind wander and her hand had followed. You wondered how many of those filled the margins of her notebooks, how many hours she’d spent half-listening to lectures while her thoughts spiraled into ink.

She tilted her head, watching you with an unreadable expression. The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was charged, like the moment before a storm breaks. You could feel your pulse in your throat, quick and insistent. The gum she’d given you was sharp with mint, cool against your tongue, but it did nothing to dull the warmth spreading through your chest.

A leaf skittered across the pavement between you, carried by a sudden gust. Emily reached down instinctively, her fingers brushing the concrete as if she might catch it. The motion was oddly graceful—practiced, like she’d spent a lifetime reaching for things just out of grasp. When she straightened, there was a smudge of dirt on her knuckles, dark against her skin. You had the sudden, inexplicable urge to wipe it away.

The bell rang then, a harsh, mechanical sound that shattered the quiet. Emily grimaced, slinging her bag higher on her shoulder. “Back to the grind,” she muttered, but she didn’t move right away. Instead, she held your gaze for a beat too long, something flickering in her expression—something that made your stomach tighten. Then she pushed off the wall, her boots scuffing against the pavement as she stepped closer.

Emily’s boots scuffed against the pavement as she stepped closer, her shadow stretching long in the autumn light. She stopped just short of you, close enough that you could see the faintest chip in her black lipstick, the way her eyelashes clumped together at the corners. “You walk this way to fourth period?” she asked, nodding toward the science wing. Her voice was casual, but there was an undercurrent of something you couldn’t name—like she already knew the answer.

“Yeah,” you said, falling into step beside her without thinking. Your sneakers squeaked against the linoleum as you crossed the threshold into the hallway, the smell of disinfectant and old textbooks replacing the crisp outside air. Emily walked with a loose-limbed confidence, her bag slung carelessly over one shoulder, her fingers brushing against yours every few steps like an accident that didn’t feel accidental.

A group of juniors loitered by the lockers, their laughter cutting off as Emily passed. They didn’t sneer,they just watched, the way people did when something interesting happened in the monotony of a Tuesday. Emily didn’t seem to notice, or maybe she just didn’t care. She pulled a stick of gum from her pocket and offered it to you without breaking stride. “Here,” she said. “Mint’s better than the shit they sell in the vending machines.”

You took it, your fingers brushing against hers again. This time, neither of you pulled away. The wrapper crackled between your fingers, loud in the quiet hum of the hallway. Emily glanced at you sidelong, her mouth quirking. “You’re blushing,” she observed, like it was a fascinating scientific fact.

“It’s warm in here,” you lied, popping more of the mint the gum into your mouth. The mint was sharp, almost painful, but it grounded you.

Emily snorted, rolling her eyes as she nudged your shoulder with hers. "Yeah, sure. The school's famous tropical climate." Her sarcasm was undercut by the way her thumb lingered against your wrist for half a second too long before she pulled away. A locker slammed somewhere down the hall, making you both flinch—Emily recovered faster, her smirk returning as she adjusted the strap of her bag. "So. You ever ditch fourth period?"

You nearly choked on your gum. "What?"

"Relax," she laughed, shaking her head. "I mean, like, to go to the library or something. Not to, like, rob a bank." She paused, considering. "Unless you're into that. No judgment."

"I—no," you stammered, heat crawling up your neck. "I've never ditched. My mom would actually murder me."

Emily's expression did something complicated,amused, but with an edge of something softer. "Mine too," she admitted quietly. "Hence the whole 'hiding behind the school to smoke' thing." She gestured vaguely toward the exit with her chin. "But the library doesn't count as ditching if you're still in the building, right? Technically speaking."

The library was tucked away in a quiet corner of the school, its heavy oak doors perpetually half-open like an afterthought. Emily pushed through them with the ease of someone who'd done it a hundred times before, her boots silent against the worn carpet. The air smelled like dust and old paper, the kind of scent that clung to your clothes for hours afterward.

"You ever read anything good in here?" Emily asked, trailing her fingers along the spines of the books as she walked. Her touch was light, almost reverent—a stark contrast to the way she'd crushed her cigarette earlier.

"Uh." You scanned the shelves, suddenly self-conscious. "I mostly just use the computers for research."

Emily shot you a look over her shoulder, one eyebrow raised. "Bold of you to admit that in a temple of literature."

Before you could respond, she ducked into one of the narrow aisles, disappearing between towering bookcases. You followed, your sneakers squeaking against the linoleum—until you turned the corner and nearly collided with her. Emily was standing on tiptoe, reaching for a battered copy of ‘Wuthering Heights’ on the top shelf. The motion stretched her camisole taut across her shoulders, the fabric riding up just enough to reveal a sliver of skin above her jeans.

Your breath hitched as Emily’s fingers brushed the book’s spine, her shirt riding higher,just enough to expose the delicate curve of her lower back, the faintest hint of ink peeking above her waistband. A tattoo? You hadn’t pegged her for the type. Then again, you hadn’t pegged her for a lot of things.

"Need a hand?" you blurted before you could stop yourself.

Emily glanced over her shoulder, her smirk lazy. "Nah. Just appreciating the aesthetic." She stretched further, the muscles in her forearm flexing as she tugged the book free. It landed in her palm with a soft thump, sending up a puff of dust. "See? Worth the effort." She flipped it open, revealing yellowed pages and cramped margin notes in faded pencil. "Some poor soul actually annotated this. Tragic."

You leaned in, close enough to catch the scent of her shampoo,something earthy and faintly sweet, like sandalwood. "You don’t like annotations?"

"Not in fiction," she said, tapping a particularly aggressive underline. "It’s like graffiti on a sunset. Just let it be." She snapped the book shut and held it out to you. "Here. Take it."

Your fingers closed around the book’s spine just as Emily’s grip tightened, neither of you letting go. The air between you crackled with something unspoken—something that made your pulse thud against your ribs like a trapped bird. Emily’s gaze flicked from the book to your face, her dark eyes unreadable in the dim library light. Then, without warning, she stepped forward, crowding you back against the bookshelf with a quiet thump.

“You’re staring again,” she murmured, so close you could taste the mint on her breath.

This time, you didn’t apologize. This time, you held her gaze and let your fingers slide over hers on the book’s cover, a silent challenge. Emily’s lips parted slightly—surprise, maybe, or approval—before she leaned in, closing the last inch between you. Her mouth was warm, softer than you expected, and she kissed you like she’d been thinking about it for weeks. Like she’d mapped out the exact pressure of her lips against yours while pretending to listen to Henderson’s droning lectures.

The book slipped from your collective grip, landing on the carpet with a muffled thud, but neither of you moved to pick it up. Emily’s hands found your hips, her thumbs brushing the bare skin where your hoodie had ridden up, and you gasped into her mouth. She swallowed the sound greedily, her fingers tightening possessively.

When she finally pulled back, your lips tingled—bruised, maybe—and Emily’s smirk was downright sinful. “Okay,” she breathed, her voice rougher than usual.

"Okay," Emily repeated, her fingers still pressed into the dip of your waist like she was afraid you'd vanish if she let go. The word hung between you, heavy with unspoken questions. She exhaled sharply through her nose, her eyelashes fluttering as she glanced down at the fallen copy of ‘Wuthering Heights’. "So."

You waited, your pulse hammering against your ribs. Emily Prentiss didn’t stammer. She didn’t hesitate. But now, she was chewing the inside of her cheek, her grip shifting uncertainly against your hoodie.

"Was that—" she started, then stopped, scowling at herself. The pink flush creeping up her neck was at odds with the smudged eyeliner and leather jacket. "Shit. I should’ve asked first."

You blinked. "You? Ask permission?"

Emily’s scowl deepened, but there was no heat behind it. "Contrary to popular belief, I do have manners." She flicked a strand of hair out of her face with an impatient jerk of her chin. "So. Can I—"

Emily’s question died halfway, swallowed by the sharp intake of breath when you leaned forward and kissed her first. Her lips parted in surprise,then melted against yours, warm and yielding. The taste of mint and cigarette smoke tangled on your tongue, intoxicating in its contradiction. Her hands slid from your waist to the small of your back, pulling you closer until the edges of the bookshelf dug into your shoulder blades. You didn’t care. The pain was distant, secondary to the way Emily’s fingers trembled against your skin, betraying the confidence she wore like armor.

When you broke apart, her eyeliner was smudged worse than before, her lips swollen and glossy. She blinked at you, dazed, before her trademark smirk resurfaced—though it wavered at the corners. "Okay," she breathed again, but this time it sounded like surrender. Her thumb brushed your bottom lip, wiping away the smear of her black lipstick. "So. That happened."

"Yeah," you managed, your voice embarrassingly breathless. The library air felt thick, charged with the weight of what you’d just done. A stack of overdue notices fluttered on the circulation desk from the draft of the HVAC system, the only sound besides your racing heartbeat.

Emily’s gaze flicked to the fallen copy of Wuthering Heights, then back to you. "I was gonna ask if you wanted to go out," she admitted, shoving her hands into her jacket pockets like she wasn’t sure what to do with them. "Like. On a date. Before you—" She gestured vaguely between you, her ears turning pink.

"You were?" The words tumbled out before you could stop them. Emily Prentiss wanted to go out with you. The realization sent a jolt through your chest, electric and terrifying.

Emily’s thumb brushed your lip again, this time lingering—like she was mapping the shape of your mouth for later. “Yeah,” she said, voice low, rough around the edges in a way that made your knees weak. “Was gonna take you to that shitty diner off Route 9. The one with the jukebox that only plays Elvis.” She paused, her smirk softening at the corners. “Still can, if you want.”

The absurdity of it hit you like a punch to the ribs—Emily Prentiss, all leather and sharp edges, planning a diner date with a jukebox. It was so normal, so painfully high school, that you almost laughed. Instead, you caught her wrist, pressing her palm flat against your racing pulse. “Elvis,” you repeated dumbly, staring at her chipped nail polish. “You’re a secret oldies fan?”

Emily scoffed, but her fingers curled against your neck, warm and grounding. “Don’t tell anyone. Ruins my aesthetic.” She leaned in, her breath ghosting over your cheek. “So? You in?”

The overhead lights flickered—some malfunction in the school’s ancient wiring—casting her face in fleeting shadows. For a heartbeat, she looked uncertain, almost vulnerable, and it wrecked you. You’d spent weeks watching her from afar, convinced she was untouchable, and here she was, biting her lip like she cared about your answer.

“Yeah,” you breathed, tugging her closer by the belt loops of her jeans. “But only if you promise to feed me your fries when you think I’m not looking.”

The diner’s neon sign flickered like a dying firefly, casting erratic shadows across Emily’s face as she held the door open for you with a dramatic sweep of her arm. “M’lady,” she deadpanned, her smirk barely visible in the dim light. The chivalry was undercut by the way her combat boot caught on the threshold, making her stumble just enough that her shoulder bumped yours. She smelled like leather and the cherry-scented lip balm she’d borrowed from you in the car—a fact she’d never admit if asked.

Inside, the air was thick with the smell of grease and decades-old syrup. The vinyl booth squeaked under you as you slid in, Emily crowding right beside you instead of taking the opposite seat. Her thigh pressed against yours, warm even through the layers of denim. “You’re blocking the jukebox view,” you lied, nodding toward the vintage machine in the corner.

Emily rolled her eyes, already digging into her jacket pocket for quarters. “Bullshit. You just like me close.” She dropped the coins onto the table with a clatter, one rolling precariously toward the edge until she caught it with a fingertip. The motion made her lean over you, her collarbone brushing your cheek—close enough you could see the faint freckles dusting her nose, the way her eyeliner smudged at the outer corners from where she’d rubbed her eyes in the car.

The waitress,a woman in her fifties with a name tag reading “Darla” and zero patience,slapped two menus down without stopping. Emily snagged a straw wrapper and flicked it at her retreating back, grinning when you elbowed her. “What?” she said, all faux innocence. “She didn’t even say hi.”

You watched as Emily methodically unfolded her napkin, smoothed it over her lap, then immediately ruined the gesture by stealing yours to fold into a lopsided origami swan. “Ta-da,” she muttered, placing it atop your water glass like a crown. The absurdity of it—Emily Prentiss, who chain-smoked behind the school and once made a senior cry by staring at him too long, carefully folding napkin art—lodged something warm and aching in your chest.

The jukebox whirred to life as Emily fed it quarters, her tongue caught between her teeth in concentration. She was taller than you by maybe two inches, but it felt like more when she stretched up to punch in the selection, the hem of her shirt riding up to reveal a sliver of tattoo you hadn’t seen before,a line of script too quick to read. You didn’t realize you’d leaned forward until she glanced over her shoulder, catching you mid-stare. “Creep,” she said fondly, stepping back just enough to let you read it: ‘So it goes’ in delicate cursive.

Before you could ask, the opening chords of “Can’t Help Falling in Love” crackled through the speakers. Emily’s ears went pink. “Shit,” she muttered. “Meant to pick ‘Jailhouse Rock.’”

You bit your lip to keep from grinning. “Uh-huh.”

She slid back into the booth, deliberately knocking her knee against yours. “Shut up. It’s a classic.”

Darla reappeared, her pen poised over her notepad. Emily ordered a cheeseburger with extra pickles and a side of fries— “And another plate,” she added, shooting you a sidelong glance. “For sharing.” The way she said it, like it was an afterthought, made your stomach flip.

The song swelled as Darla walked away, Elvis crooning about fools rushing in. Emily drummed her fingers on the tabletop, out of sync with the rhythm. The neon glow from the soda machine turned her chipped nail polish violet, her rings catching the light every time she moved. “So,” she said, nudging your ankle with her boot. “You come here often?”

You snorted. “Seriously?”

Emily grinned, unrepentant. “Had to ask. Standard date protocol.” She leaned back against the cracked vinyl, stretching her arm along the booth behind you. The casual sprawl of her body took up space in a way that shouldn’t have been as attractive as it was. “Next question: What’s your favorite—”

The jukebox skipped, the record scratching mid-lyric. Emily winced. “Okay, that killed the mood.”

You laughed, reaching for the ketchup bottle just to have something to do with your hands. “You’re terrible at this.”

Emily snatched the bottle before you could, her fingers brushing yours. “Terrible?” She squeezed a haphazard spiral onto her fries, then—without looking up—pushed the plate toward the middle of the table. “I’m a fucking delight.”

Darla returned with two milkshakes Emily hadn’t ordered, thunking them down with a glare. “Complimentary,” she grunted, jerking her chin at the jukebox. “For putting up with that piece of shit.” Emily blinked, then grinned like she’d won the lottery.

“See?” She nudged a straw toward you, her smirk victorious. “Delightful.”

You rolled your eyes but took the shake anyway. The first sip was pure sugar, thick enough to make your teeth ache. Emily watched you over the rim of her own glass, her dark eyes flickering with something unreadable when you licked whipped cream off your lip. “So,” she said, abruptly setting her shake down. “Favorite book.”

“That’s your big romantic question?”

Emily shrugged, stealing a fry off your plate. “Gotta know if you have taste.” She bit into it with an exaggerated crunch, her gaze never leaving yours.

The fries were lukewarm, oversalted, perfect. You watched as Emily meticulously arranged them into a pyramid, only to demolish it seconds later with a single poke. “Wuthering Heights,” you admitted, nodding toward the jukebox where Elvis had finally, mercifully, stopped singing.

Emily’s eyebrows shot up. “Really?”

“You’re holding my copy hostage in your bag,” you pointed out, and she laughed—a real one, loud enough that Darla glared from across the diner.

“Fair.” Emily leaned in, her knee bumping yours under the table. “But you’re wrong. Heathcliff’s a dick.”

You gaped. “You’ve read it?”

“Obviously.” She rolled her eyes, licking salt off her thumb. “Had to see if it was worth stealing from the library.” Her grin turned wicked. “Spoiler: it wasn’t.”

The milkshakes were half-gone when Emily’s phone buzzed a single, sharp vibration that made her flinch. She pulled it from her pocket, her smirk fading as she read the screen. The neon light turned her face garish, washing out the warmth in her cheeks.

“Shit.” She shoved the phone away, but not fast enough for you to miss the name ‘Mom’ flashing across the screen. “Curfew.”

You blinked. “You have a curfew?”

Emily flipped her phone onto silent without breaking eye contact, her jaw set in a stubborn line. The neon glow from the diner’s sign flickered across her face, painting her defiance in shades of pink and blue. “Yeah, well,” she muttered, shoving the device deep into her jacket pocket like she could bury the problem. “Curfews are more like... guidelines.” She stole a fry off your plate, crunching down hard, as if chewing could dissolve her mother’s demands.

The diner’s clock ticked audibly over the hum of the soda machine, but Emily didn’t glance at it once. Instead, she dragged her thumb through the condensation on her milkshake glass, drawing a shaky spiral. “You live near the old train tracks, right?” she asked abruptly. “The ones with the graffiti?” You nodded, and Emily’s shoulders relaxed slightly. “Cool. I’ll walk you.” She said it like a statement, not a question, already sliding out of the booth and tossing a crumpled bill onto the table.

Outside, the October air bit at your exposed arms, and you crossed them tightly. Emily noticed instantly. Without a word, she shrugged off her leather jacket, the one with the frayed cuffs and the faint smell of smoke and draped it over your shoulders. The weight of it was warm, still carrying the heat of her body. “Don’t argue,” she said preemptively, catching your protest before it could form. Her fingers brushed your collarbone as she adjusted the collar, lingering just a second too long.

The walk was quiet, save for the crunch of leaves underfoot and the distant whistle of a train. Emily matched your pace effortlessly, her hands shoved into her jeans pockets, her breath visible in the cold. At the intersection where the streetlights flickered erratically, she stopped you with a light touch to your elbow. “You’ve got—” She reached up, her thumb brushing the corner of your lip. “Milkshake.” Her voice was softer now, the edges worn down by the night.

Emily’s thumb lingered against your lip, her touch feather-light but electric. The streetlight above flickered once—a brief, stuttering pulse—and then died, plunging you both into shadow. You could barely see her face, just the sharp outline of her jaw, the faint gleam of her eyes reflecting the distant glow of the train tracks. Her breath hitched, just slightly, when you caught her wrist, holding her hand there against your mouth.

“Emily,” you started, but her name came out muffled against her skin, half a plea and half a question.

She didn’t answer. Instead, she stepped forward, closing the space between you in one fluid motion, her free hand finding the side of your neck, her fingers cool against your pulse. The leather jacket,her jacket,slid off one shoulder as she leaned in, but neither of you moved to catch it.

The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was hungry, impatient, like she’d been thinking about it the whole walk home and couldn’t wait another second. Her teeth caught your bottom lip, just shy of painful, and you gasped into her mouth, gripping the front of her shirt to keep from swaying. Emily made a sound low in her throat—something between a laugh and a groan—and pulled you closer, her fingers tangling in your hair.

Somewhere down the street, a car door slammed, and you jerked apart, breathless. Emily’s lips were smudged, her eyeliner even more ruined than before, and she looked pleased about it, her smirk lopsided and smug. “Okay,” she breathed, like she was conceding something. Her thumb brushed your cheekbone, wiping away a smudge of her lipstick. “Now I really gotta go.”

Emily’s fingers tightened in your hair, pulling just enough to make your breath catch, before she abruptly let go. The sudden absence of her touch felt like losing gravity. “Text me when you get in,” she muttered, already stepping back, her boots scuffing against the pavement. She didn’t wait for a reply,just turned on her heel and strode down the sidewalk, her silhouette swallowed by the uneven glow of the streetlights.  

You stood there for a long moment, her jacket still draped over your shoulders, the scent of leather and cherry lip balm clinging to the collar. The night air was sharp with the promise of frost, but your skin burned where she’d touched you.  

Inside, you toed off your shoes by the door, the house silent except for the hum of the refrigerator. Your phone buzzed in your pocket before you could even reach for it—Did u make it? Emily’s text was punctuated with a single cigarette emoji, as if she couldn’t bear to sound too invested. You grinned, typing back Yeah before adding, Your jacket smells like a dive bar. 

a/n-im the poor soul who annotated wutherin heights 😀 pls someone come pick me i cant handle english a level anymore i fear i might not make it

Summer 2009 hits Quantico, Virginia like a fist. The heat radiates off the pavement in visible waves as you step out of the cab, your go-bag slung over one shoulder and a box of personal effects tucked under your arm. The base pulses around you: agents rushing to their assignments, trainees eagerly following mentors, men in suits glaring at people who linger too long, the weight of federal branch still figuring out who it is in this new administration.

You stand outside the FBI Academy Main Building and breathe.

Fresh start. The words taste bitter. Fresh starts are for people who haven't spent three years in the CIA watching their partner make increasingly reckless calls that culminated in a warehouse in Peru and a bullet that missed your femoral artery by two inches. Fresh starts are for people who don't wake up at 3 AM with phantom pain in their leg.

But here you are anyway, externally composed, internally spiraling, trying to convince yourself that the BAU is different. That profiling domestic cases in the continental United States is different. That you can outrun what happened if you run just far enough.

The glass doors of the building loom ahead. You adjust your grip on the box and step inside.

The BAU bullpen looks exactly like Hotch described it, organized chaos with personality bleeding through the professional veneer. You stand at the glass doors taking in the space that's supposed to encourage healing and growth, attempting to find someone who was standing still.

"Agent." Hotch's voice cuts through your spiral. He's standing by his office door, expression neutral but eyes assessing. He's the only one who knows. The only one who read the full file, saw the incident report, understood why you needed out of the CIA and into something that felt less like slowly dying.

You cross to him, and he gestures you into his office. The door clicks shut.

"How are you settling in?"

"I haven't started yet," you say, aiming for light. It falls flat.

Hotch's expression softens almost imperceptibly. "The team is good. They'll welcome you. Give them time to adjust, we don't get new members often."

You nod. Time. You can do time. You've done worse.

"I won't tell them about Peru unless you want me to," he continues. "As far as they're concerned, you're a skilled profiler from the CIA looking for fieldwork that makes a difference."

"That's not entirely untrue."

"No," Hotch agrees. "It's not."

He slides your credentials across the desk, gives you a firm handshake and leads you out to the bullpen. The team is filtering in, it's early, barely seven, but apparently, this is normal. A blonde woman with kind eyes spots you first and breaks into a smile.

"You must be our new profiler!" She crosses to you, hand extended. "Jennifer Jareau, but everyone calls me JJ. I'm the communications liaison."

Her handshake is firm, warm. You introduce yourself and immediately get swept into a round of introductions. Derek Morgan, charming smile, assessing eyes. Spencer Reid, younger than you expected, already rattling off statistics about CIA-to-FBI transfers. Penelope Garcia appears in a blur of color and enthusiasm, pulling you into a hug before you can protest.

"We're so excited to have you! New blood, fresh perspectives, and Hotch says you're brilliant, which is basically like the Pope declaring sainthood because he never compliments anyone—"

"Garcia," Hotch says mildly.

"Right, right, professional boundaries." She beams at you anyway.

You're smiling, actually smiling, when you feel it. The weight of a gaze. You turn and find her.

Emily Prentiss stands by her desk, coffee mug in hand, dark eyes fixed on you with an intensity that makes your breath catch. She's beautiful in a way that feels dangerous to notice. Sharp features, dark hair framing her face, an elegance that speaks to the diplomatic background Hotch mentioned in passing.

"Prentiss," Hotch says, and there's something in his tone you can't quite parse. "This is our new team member."

Emily crosses to you, and you notice she doesn't close the distance the way the others did. She stops just outside comfortable conversation range, extends her hand with professional precision.

"Emily Prentiss." Her voice is cool, controlled. "Welcome to the BAU."

Your hand meets hers, and the contact sends an unexpected jolt through you. Her grip is firm, brief. She releases you quickly, steps back.

"Thank you," you manage. "I've heard good things about the team."

"We do good work." It's not unfriendly, exactly, but it's not warm either. Emily's gaze flicks to Hotch, then back to you. "I'm sure you'll find it different from the CIA."

There's something in the way she says it, not quite dismissive, but close. Like she's already decided something about you and found it wanting.

"I'm looking forward to it," you say evenly.

Emily nods once, then returns to her desk without another word.

JJ appears at your elbow, guiding you toward an empty desk. "Don't mind Emily," she says quietly. "She's not usually like that. She's actually one of the warmest people here once you get to know her."

You glance back at Emily, who's now focused intently on her computer screen, jaw tight.

"I'm sure we'll find our rhythm," you say.

You don't mention the way your palm still tingles from her handshake, or the hollow feeling that settled in your chest when she walked away.

The first case comes three days later. A serial arsonist in Baltimore, victims trapped in their homes. It's brutal, urgent, and exactly the kind of work you joined the BAU to do.

On the jet, you sit across from Reid, who's explaining the psychological profile of arsonists with the kind of enthusiasm that makes you think he's never had a boring thought in his life. Morgan's reviewing crime scene photos. JJ's on the phone with the Baltimore PD. Gideon's reading a book that looks older than you are.

Emily sits at the far end of the cabin, gaze fixed out the window.

You've tried, these past three days. Tried to build rapport, find common ground. You brought her coffee the way you'd seen JJ do it. She thanked you with a tight smile and didn't drink it. You asked her opinion on a case file, she gave you a thorough, professional answer and then found somewhere else to be. You made a joke during a team lunch, everyone laughed except Emily, who barely looked up from her book.

It shouldn't bother you. You're the new person. These things take time.

But it does bother you, in a way that feels disproportionate and uncomfortable. You find yourself watching her when you shouldn't, noticing things you have no business noticing. The way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she's concentrating. The precise way she handles her weapon. The rare, genuine smile she gives JJ that transforms her entire face.

You want that smile directed at you with an intensity that frightens you.

Professional friction, you tell yourself firmly. Territorial behavior. Perfectly normal for an established team member when someone new arrives.

It has nothing to do with the way your heart rate picks up when she enters a room, or the way you've started timing your coffee breaks to coincide with hers, hoping for a conversation that never quite materializes.

Nothing at all.

The Baltimore case wraps in four days. The unsub is caught, the fires stopped. On the jet home, the team is loose, relaxed. Morgan's teasing Reid about something, JJ's asleep with headphones in, Hotch and Gideon are huddled in a corner, debriefing.

You're reviewing your notes, trying to see where you could have been faster, sharper. The CIA taught you to be good. You need to be better.

"You did well."

You look up. Emily's standing in the aisle beside your seat, expression neutral but not cold. It's the first time she's voluntarily spoken to you outside of case necessity.

"Thank you," you say carefully.

She nods, then moves past you toward the back of the jet.

It's nothing. Barely a sentence. But you turn it over in your mind the entire flight home, examining it from every angle like evidence, trying to understand what it means.

JJ catches you watching Emily's retreating form and gives you a sympathetic smile.

"She'll come around," JJ says quietly. "I promise."

You nod, but you're not sure what you're hoping she'll come around to.

You're not sure you want to know.

The second case is worse than the first.

Three women dead in Austin, all killed in their homes, all staged to look peaceful. Sleeping beauties, the media called them, because the unsub poses them in their beds, hands folded, eyes closed.

It's the kind of case that gets under your skin and stays there.

You're in the precinct conference room at two in the morning, alone with the crime scene photos, when Emily finds you.

"Can't sleep?" she asks from the doorway.

You glance up. She's in jeans and a Georgetown sweatshirt, hair loose around her shoulders. It's the most casual you've seen her, and it does something to your concentration that you firmly ignore.

"Too wired," you admit. "Trying to find the pattern we're missing."

Emily crosses to the board, studies it with those dark, assessing eyes. "The staging bothers you."

It's not a question, but you answer anyway. "He's not just killing them. He's tucking them in. There's care there, even in the violence."

"Remorse," Emily says. "He knows what he's doing is wrong, but he can't stop himself."

"Which makes him more dangerous." You stand, move to the board beside her. You're close enough to smell her perfume, something subtle but heavy. "Because he'll escalate to resolve the cognitive dissonance."

"We need to find him before he does." Emily's gaze flicks to you, and for a moment, something passes between you. Understanding, maybe. Recognition.

Then she steps back, and the moment breaks.

"You should get some sleep," she says, voice returning to that professional distance. "We'll need clear heads tomorrow."

"You're here too," you point out.

"I'm always working." She says it like a confession, then seems to regret it. "Goodnight."

She's gone before you can respond.

You stand in the empty conference room, staring at the space she occupied, and wonder why it feels like she's running from you.

The pattern continues. Emily gives you an inch, a conversation about a case, a moment of shared understanding, once even a genuine laugh at something you said, and then she retreats. Pulls back behind professional courtesy and leaves you wanting.

It's maddening.

Morgan catches you watching Emily across the bullpen one afternoon. He doesn't say anything at first, just sidles up beside you with two cups of coffee, hands you one.

"You good?" he asks casually.

Your heart rate spikes. "Yeah. Fine. Why?"

"Just checking." Morgan takes a sip of his coffee, eyes still on the bullpen. "You've been pretty focused on the Prentiss case file lately."

You frown. "She's a good profiler. I'm trying to learn from her approach."

"Right." Morgan's quiet for a beat. "Look, I'm just going to say this because I think you're solid, and I don't want to see you get blindsided. People notice things. They talk. And in a place like this," He glances around the bullpen, lowers his voice. "You gotta be careful about what people think they're seeing."

Your stomach tightens, but not with recognition, with confusion. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm not trying to start anything," Morgan says quickly. "I'm just saying, be smart. Be careful. Emily's a good agent and a good person, but this job doesn't always make room for—" He stops, seems to reconsider. "Just watch yourself, okay?"

He walks away before you can respond, leaving you standing in the middle of the bullpen with your coffee growing cold in your hands.

You replay the conversation in your head, trying to parse what he meant. People notice things. What things? You're doing your job. You're studying Emily's methods because she's skilled, because you respect her work. That's professional. That's normal.

Isn't it?

The panic that creeps up your spine isn't about being caught, it's about being misunderstood. About Morgan seeing something in your behavior that isn't there, or worse, something you can't quite name. Something you've been rationalizing as professional admiration and competitive focus because anything else is impossible.

Emily's a woman. You're supposed to marry a man. You're supposed to give your parents the life they've been planning for you since birth.

So whatever Morgan thinks he saw, he's wrong.

You just need to prove it.

Three weeks in, you're partnered with Emily for interviews. A case in Denver, witnesses scattered across the city. Hotch splits the team, and somehow you end up in an SUV with Emily, driving to a suspect's workplace in uncomfortable silence.

"Take the next left," Emily says, eyes on the GPS.

You turn, navigate through downtown traffic. The silence stretches.

"Can I ask you something?" The words escape before you can stop them.

Emily's shoulders tense. "Sure."

"Have I done something to offend you?"

She looks at you sharply, bangs bouncing against her forehead. "What?"

"You've been cold since I arrived. Distant. I'm trying to figure out if I did something wrong or if this is just how you are with new people."

Emily's quiet for a long moment. When she speaks, her voice is carefully controlled. "You haven't done anything wrong."

"Then what is it?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"Emily." You pull into the parking lot, put the SUV in park, turn to face her. "I'm a profiler. You're a profiler. We both know you're lying."

Her jaw tightens. For a second, you think she might actually answer. Then she opens the door.

"We have an interview to conduct," she says, and that's the end of it.

But during the interview, when the suspect gets aggressive and steps toward you, Emily moves. Positions herself between you and the threat with a speed that speaks to instinct, not thought. Her hand goes to her weapon, voice drops to something dangerous.

"Step back. Now."

The suspect complies. The interview continues. But you can't stop thinking about the way Emily protected you without hesitation, even as she keeps you at arm's length in every other way.

In the SUV afterward, you try again. "Thank you. For that."

"It's my job," Emily says, but her voice is softer than before.

"Is it your job to freeze me out the rest of the time?"

Emily's hands tighten on the steering wheel. "I'm not freezing you out."

"Then what do you call it?"

"I call it maintaining professional boundaries."

"With me specifically, or with everyone?"

Emily doesn't answer. But you see it, the way her throat works, the tension in her shoulders. She's not unaffected. She's not indifferent.

She's scared.

The realization hits you like a physical blow. Emily Prentiss, who faces down serial killers without flinching, is scared of you.

You don't push further. But something shifts between you in that moment, some unspoken acknowledgment that whatever this is, isn't simple professional friction.

It's something else entirely.

Something neither of you is ready to name.

The word enters your head on a Tuesday.

You're in your apartment, alone, staring at your phone. Your mother called earlier, left a voicemail about a man she wants you to meet. "A lawyer, sweetheart. Very successful. Your father and I think you'd like him."

You haven't called her back.

Instead, you're thinking about Emily. About the way she looked at you yesterday when you solved a puzzle in the case that had everyone stumped. Pride, maybe. Or something warmer.

About the way your stomach flips when she smiles.

About the way you've started cataloging details about her like evidence. How she takes her coffee, the books that swap on her desk, the way she worries her bottom lip when she's thinking.

Gay.

The word appears in your mind fully formed, and you immediately shove it away.

No. No. You're not—you've never—

You think about your ex-boyfriends from college. Nice guys. Boring sex. You blamed the boredom on stress, on youth, on anything but the truth.

You think about your parents' expectations. The perfect daughter who would give them perfect grandchildren and a perfect son-in-law and undo all the worry you caused with your "reckless" CIA work.

You think about Emily's hands. Her mouth. The way she'd look at you if you were brave enough to—

No.

You delete your mother's voicemail and go to bed, and you don't let yourself brew over why you can't stop thinking about Emily Prentiss.

Emily is having the same crisis, though she won't admit it.

She's in her apartment, second glass of wine in hand, trying to read a book and failing spectacularly because all she can think about is you.

The way you chewed your pen during the team meeting today. The way you laughed at one of Morgan's jokes, head thrown back, unselfconscious. The way you looked at her when you thought she wasn't paying attention, like you were trying to solve her.

She's been cold to you. She knows it. She hates herself for it.

But the alternative is worse.

The alternative is admitting why her heart races when you enter a room. Why she times her arrivals to the coffee maker to coincide with yours, even though she never lets the conversations go anywhere. Why she lies awake at night thinking about what it would feel like to—

Stop.

Emily drains her wine glass. She thinks about her mother, about the carefully constructed image of the Prentiss family. About the Catholic school she attended, the things the nuns said about people like—

About people who felt things they shouldn't.

She thinks about Josh, her ex-boyfriend who she dated because he was safe and appropriate and she felt absolutely nothing for him beyond mild affection.

She thinks about the women she's noticed over the years, the ones who made her feel too much, and how she's always explained it away as admiration or friendship or anything but the truth.

She thinks about you, and the way you look at her, and how terrified she is that you might see her.

Really see her.

Emily pours another glass of wine and doesn't let herself finish the thought.

The case comes in on a Thursday. Three bodies in Roanoke, Virginia. All men, all killed in their homes, all with evidence of torture before death.

It's brutal. Vicious. Personal.

You're in the conference room when Garcia pulls up the crime scene photos, and even Hotch looks a little pale.

"The unsub spent hours with each victim," Reid says, studying the photos. "The level of torture suggests extreme rage."

"Or self-hatred," Emily says quietly.

Everyone looks at her. She's staring at the board, expression unreadable.

"What do you mean?" Hotch asks.

"The victims are all gay men. Openly gay, active in the community. The unsub isn't just killing them, he's punishing them for something."

"For being gay," you say, and your voice comes out rougher than intended.

Emily's gaze flicks to you, and something passes between you. Recognition. Understanding.

Fear.

"We should consider that the unsub might be closeted," Emily continues, looking back at the board. "Punishing in others what he can't accept in himself. The freedom he won't give himself."

The room is quiet. Then Hotch nods.

"Let's work that angle. Wheels up in thirty."

The case gets worse.

The unsub kills again while you're in Roanoke. A fourth victim, same MO. The torture is escalating.

You're at the crime scene with Emily, and it's bad. The victim is young, mid-twenties, whole life ahead of him. He's been positioned in his living room, surrounded by photos of himself with his boyfriend, with friends at Pride events, living openly and authentically.

The unsub made him look at those photos while he died.

You have to step outside. The air is cold, sharp in your lungs. You're a professional. You've seen worse. But something about this case is getting to you in a way you can't quite articulate.

"Hey."

You turn. Emily's standing in the doorway, backlit by the crime scene lights.

"I'm fine," you say automatically.

"You're not." Emily steps outside, lets the door close behind her. "This case is hard."

"They're all hard."

"Not like this." Emily moves closer, and you can see the strain in her face. She's feeling it too. "This one's different."

"Why?" The question comes out sharper than intended, defensive. "Because the victims are gay?"

Emily flinches. "Because the unsub is killing people for being something he hates about himself. Because every victim is a mirror he's trying to break."

Her voice cracks on the last word, and you realize she's not just talking about the unsub.

"Emily—"

"We should get back inside." She turns away, but you catch her arm.

"Wait."

She freezes. You're touching her, your hand on her forearm, and the contact sends electricity through you. You should let go. You don't.

"This case is getting to you too," you say quietly.

Emily's eyes meet yours, and for a moment, you see everything. The fear, the self-hatred, the desperate longing for something she won't let herself name.

You see yourself reflected back.

"We all have cases that hit harder," Emily says, but she doesn't pull away from your touch.

"Emily," a beg, a plea for a real conversation. For something deeper than professionals who see the worst together.

"We should get back inside," she repeats, and this time you let her go.

But as you follow her back into the crime scene, you can still feel the warmth of her skin under your palm, and you know something has shifted.

You're both drowning, and neither of you knows how to ask for help.

The team catches the unsub two days later. He is a closeted gay man, just like Emily predicted. Married, kids, active in his church. He killed men who had the freedom he didn't he was allowed.

During his confession, he breaks down. "I just wanted what they had," he sobs. "I just wanted to be myself."

You watch Emily's face go pale. She excuses herself, and no one stops her.

Hotch notices how long Emily is gone first. He always does. He finds her in a stairwell on the third floor of the precinct, tucked into the corner like she's trying to make herself invisible.

She's not crying. Emily doesn't cry.

But she's close.

"Emily." Not Prentiss. This isn't a conversation with her boss, but with someone who cares.

She looks up, and Hotch sees it all. The fear, the self-hatred, the desperate exhaustion of someone who's been fighting themselves for too long.

"I can't do this anymore," she says, and her voice breaks.

Hotch sits down beside her on the concrete steps. "Tell me."

And Emily does. It pours out of her, years of shame and fear that she's never spoken aloud.

"I was fifteen," she starts, her voice barely above a whisper. "In Rome. I got pregnant because I wanted to fit in, wanted to be normal, wanted to prove I could be the girl everyone expected me to be." She laughs bitterly. "I went to my priest. I thought— that he'd help me. That the church would be there for me."

Her hands are shaking. "He told me if I got an abortion, I wouldn't be welcome in the church anymore. That I'd be damned. That God would turn his back on me." She swallows hard. "But I did it anyway. My friend Matthew helped me. He took me to the clinic, held my hand, helped me find the courage to walk back into that church afterward even though I knew, I knew, I was wrong. Broken. Sinful."

"Emily—"

"No, you don't understand." Her voice cracks, palms swiping at her thighs. "I've spent my entire life trying to be good enough. Trying to undo that sin, trying to prove I'm not the terrible person they said I was. And I thought—I thought if I just worked hard enough, if I was perfect enough, if I followed all the rules—" She stops, presses her palms against her eyes. "But I can't. Because it's not just the abortion. It's this. It's her."

She drops her hands, and her eyes are wild with panic. "I look at her and I feel—God, I feel everything. And I know what the church would say. What my parents would say. What that priest would say. That this is another sin, another way I'm broken, another reason I don't deserve his grace and love." She sniffles, one last attempt to get it together. Hotch doesn't press.

"I've never felt like this about anyone," Emily continues, and now the tears are coming. "And I hate myself for it. I hate that I can't just be normal, that I can't just want what I'm supposed to want. I hate that every time I look at her, I hear that priest's voice telling me I'm damned.I hate that I'm thirty-six years old and I'm still terrified of a God who was supposed to love me but only ever made me feel like I was wrong."

She's crying now, really crying, hands wiping at her cheeks with vague awareness. "I've been cold to her because I'm terrified. Because if I let myself feel this, if I let myself want her, then I have to admit that everything they taught me was a lie. Or that I'm exactly as broken as they said I was. And I don't know which is worse."

"Emily." Hotch's voice is gentle but firm. "There's nothing wrong with you."

"You don't understand—"

"I understand that you're letting other people's hatred dictate your life. I understand that you're punishing yourself for something that isn't a crime or a sin or anything but human."

Emily's breath hitches.

"You're one of the best agents I've ever worked with," Hotch continues. "You're brilliant, compassionate, brave. You face down killers without flinching. But you're terrified of your own heart."

"I don't know how to not be terrified."

"You start by being honest. With yourself first, then with her."

"What if—" Emily's voice drops to a whisper. "What if I lose everything?"

"What if you gain everything?" Hotch counters. "Emily, I've watched you these past two months. I've seen the way you look at her when you think no one's watching. I've seen the way she looks at you. You're both drowning in denial, and it's destroying you."

"My parents—"

"Your parents don't have to live your life. You do." Hotch pauses. "Do you want to end up like our unsub? So consumed by self-hatred that you destroy yourself and everyone around you?"

"No," Emily whispers.

"Then stop letting fear win. Stop letting other people's prejudice write your story." Hotch stands, offers her his hand. "You deserve to be happy, Emily. You deserve to love and be loved. Not despite who you are, but because of it."

Emily takes his hand, lets him pull her to her feet. She's shaking, but there's something different in her eyes now.

Determination.

"I don't know how to do this," she admits.

"You start by accepting yourself. The rest will follow."

Emily nods slowly. Then, quietly: "I'm gay."

It's the first time she's said it out loud. The words hang in the air between them, terrifying and liberating in equal measure.

"Yes," Hotch says simply. "You are." The beginnings of a prideful smile curling at the edges of his mouth.

Emily starts to cry then, really cry, not the careful tears she's allowed herself before. Hotch pulls her into a hug, and she clings to him like he's the only thing keeping her upright.

"It's okay," he murmurs. "You're okay. I've got you."

They stand there in the stairwell for a long time. When Emily finally pulls back, her eyes are red but clear.

"Thank you," she says.

"Don't thank me. Just be yourself."

Emily nods. She doesn't know how yet, but for the first time in her life, she thinks she might want to try.

The next week is hell.

Emily has accepted herself, said the words, let them be real. But acceptance doesn't erase thirty-plus years of conditioning. It doesn't make the fear disappear.

And watching you is torture.

Because now that Emily's let herself see it, she can't unsee it. The way you look at her when you think she's not paying attention. The way you find excuses to be near her. The way your breath catches when your hands accidentally brush.

You feel it too. Emily doesn't need to ask. She knows.

But she also sees the denial. The way you flinch away from the truth. The way you mention your parents' expectations with a forced brightness that doesn't reach your eyes. The way you're trying so hard to be something you're not.

Emily recognizes it because she lived it. Is still living it, in some ways.

She wants to shake you. Wants to grab you by the shoulders and tell you to stop wasting time, stop hurting yourself, stop letting fear win.

But she can't. Because you have to come to this yourself, the way she did. No one can force you to accept who you are. It doesn't make watching it any easier.

Monday, you mention a guy your mother wants you to meet. You say it casually, like it doesn't matter, but Emily sees the way your hands shake.

Wednesday, the team is sitting around the bullpen doing anything but paperwork. You're laughing at something Morgan said, but it doesn't reach your eyes. Emily watches you from across the office and sees herself seven days ago. Going through the motions, pretending everything is fine, slowly suffocating.

JJ appears at her elbow, a luring smile on her face, "You should talk to her."

"About what?" Emily responds as her brow rose.

"Emily." JJ's voice is gentle. "I'm not blind. Neither is anyone else on this team."

Emily's stomach drops. "I don't know what you mean."

"Yes, you do." JJ squeezes her arm. "And for what it's worth? We'd all be happy for you. Both of you."

She walks away before Emily can respond, leaving Emily staring into her coffee and wondering when she became so transparent.

Thursday, you're partnered with Emily for interviews again. You're professional, competent, everything you should be.

But in the car, you're quiet. Withdrawn.

"Are you okay?" Emily asks, even though she knows the answer.

"Why does everyone keep asking me that?"

"Because you're not."

You're quiet for a long moment. Then: "My mother called again. About that guy. She's insistent I meet him."

"Are you going to?"

"I don't know." Your voice is small. "Maybe I should. Maybe it would be easier."

"Easier than what?"

You don't answer, but Emily sees the way your jaw tightens, the way you grip the steering wheel.

"Easier than being honest?" Emily presses, and she knows she shouldn't, knows she's pushing too hard, but she can't stop herself.

"I don't know what you want me to say."

"I want you to say the truth."

"The truth?" You laugh, and it's bitter. "The truth is that I'm trying to be a good daughter. I'm trying to give my parents the life they wanted for me. I'm trying to be normal."

"And how's that working out for you?"

You pull into the parking lot too fast, slam the car into park. "What do you want from me, Emily?"

Everything, Emily thinks. I want you to stop hurting yourself. I want you to be free. I want you to look at me the way you do when you think I'm not watching and not be afraid of it.

But she can't say that. Not yet. Not when you're still so deep in denial.

"I want you to be happy," Emily says quietly.

You look at her, and your eyes are bright with unshed tears. "What if I don't know how?"

"You learn," Emily says. "You start by being honest with yourself."

"And if the truth is something I can't accept?"

"Then you're going to spend your whole life running from yourself. And trust me—" Emily's voice cracks. "That's no way to live."

You stare at her for a long moment. Then you get out of the car without another word.

Emily sits in the passenger seat and tries not to cry. She's watching you destroy yourself the way she almost did, and there's nothing she can do to stop it.

The team goes out the following Friday. It's been a good week, two cases closed, no casualties, everyone's in high spirits.

Emily's been watching you all night. You're smiling, laughing, playing darts with Morgan. To anyone else, you look fine.

But Emily sees the cracks. The forced brightness. The way you're drinking faster than usual. The way you keep checking your phone.

JJ and Penelope pull you into conversation, and Emily watches from across the bar. She's nursing a beer, trying to decide if she should leave or stay, when she hears it.

"My mom's got this whole timeline planned out," you're saying, and your voice is too bright. "Meet this lawyer, date for a year, engaged by next summer. She's already talking about wedding venues."

"And what do you think about that?" Penelope asks carefully.

"I think—" You pause, take a drink. "I think it would make them happy. After everything I put them through with the CIA, the least I can do is give them the daughter they wanted."

"But what do you want?" JJ asks.

You laugh, and it's hollow. "Does it matter?"

Emily's on her feet before she realizes she's moving. She crosses the bar, and she knows her expression must be intense because Morgan actually steps back.

"Can I talk to you?" Emily says, and it's not really a question.

"Emily—"

"Now. Please."

You look at JJ and Penelope, who both nod encouragingly. You set down your drink and follow Emily toward the exit.

Hotch watches from his seat at the bar. He catches Emily's eye, gives her a small nod.

Go.

Emily leads you out of the bar, past the entrance, into the alley beside the building. It's dark, private, and Emily can finally breathe.

She turns to face you, and all the words she's been holding back for months threaten to spill out at once.

"What are you doing?" she asks.

"What?"

"What, are you doing?" Emily repeats, and her voice is shaking. "You're going to meet this guy? You're going to date him, marry him, give your parents the perfect life they want? You're going to spend your entire life pretending to be someone you're not?"

"Emily—"

"No. Listen to me." Emily steps closer. "I've spent the last two months watching you destroy yourself. I've watched you try so hard to be what everyone else wants you to be. And I can't—I can't watch it anymore."

"You don't understand—"

"I understand perfectly," Emily cuts in. "I understand because I've been where you are. I've spent my entire life trying to be the perfect daughter, the perfect agent, the perfect everything. I've dated men I didn't love because it was easier than admitting the truth. I've hated myself for feeling things I was told were wrong."

Your eyes are wide, and Emily can see you're barely breathing.

"But you know what I realized?" Emily continues, and she's crying now, doesn't care. "I realized that living a lie is worse than any truth. I realized that being perfect for everyone else means being nothing for myself. I realized that I'd rather be honest and alone than dishonest and surrounded by people who don't really know me."

"Emily—"

"I'm gay," Emily says, and the words come easier this time. "I'm gay, and I've spent thirty-six years hating myself for it. Thirty-six years listening to my mother's disapproval and the church's condemnation and society's prejudice. Thirty-six years being terrified of who I am."

She takes another step closer, and now you're backed against the brick wall, nowhere to run.

"But I'm done being terrified," Emily says. "I'm done letting other people's hatred dictate my life. I'm done pretending to be someone I'm not. And I'm done watching you do the same thing."

"I don't—" Your voice breaks. "I can't—"

"Yes, you can." Emily's hands come up to frame your face, and you're shaking. "You can be honest. You can be yourself. You can stop trying to be the daughter your parents want and start being the woman you are."

"What if they hate me?"

"Then they never really loved you in the first place," Emily says gently. "Because love isn't conditional. Love doesn't come with requirements. Love accepts you as you are, not as someone wishes you would be."

You're crying now, tears streaming down your face. "I'm so scared."

"I know. I'm scared too." Emily's thumbs brush away your tears. "But I'd rather be scared and honest than comfortable and living a lie."

"Emily—"

"I'm in love with you," Emily says, and the words feel like jumping off a cliff. "I think I've been in love with you since the day you walked into the BAU. And I know you feel it too. I know you're terrified of it. But I'm asking you, begging you, don't throw away your life because you're afraid of what other people will think."

You're staring at her, and Emily can see the war happening behind your eyes. Fear and longing and self-hatred and hope all battling for dominance.

"I don't know how to do this," you whisper.

"You start by being honest. With yourself first." Emily pauses. "So I'm going to ask you a question, and I need you to answer honestly. Not what you think you should say. Not what would make your parents happy. The truth."

You nod shakily.

"Are you gay?"

The silence stretches, the weight of obligations, the societal prejudice, rings in your ears. Emily can hear her own heartbeat, can feel your breath against her skin.

Then, so quietly she almost doesn't hear it: "Yes."

The word breaks something open in both of you. You start crying harder, and Emily pulls you into her arms, holds you while you shake apart.

"I'm gay," you say again, louder this time. "I'm gay, and I'm terrified, and I don't know what to do." Your hands fist in her shirt like it's the only thing keeping you tethered to the conversation.

"You don't have to know," Emily murmurs into your hair. "You just have to be honest. The rest will come."

You pull back enough to look at her, and your eyes are red but clear. "What if I lose it all? My job, the team—"

"What if you gain everything?" Emily echoes Hotch's words. "What if you get to be yourself? What if you get to be happy?"

Your heart does something complicated, expression shifting from fear just an inch. "What if I get to be with you?"

Emily's breath catches. "Yeah. What if?"

You stare at each other, and the air between you is electric. Emily can see the moment you decide, the moment fear loses and truth wins.

"I want to be with you," you whisper. "I want to stop pretending. I want to be myself."

"Then be yourself," Emily says. "Be with me. Be free."

"I'm gay," you say, and this time you're laughing. "Oh my god, I'm gay."

"Yeah," Emily says, grinning. "You are."

And then you're kissing her.

It's tentative at first, your lips barely brushing Emily's, like you're testing whether this is real, whether you're allowed. Emily's hands come up to cup your face, gentle, giving you space to pull away if you need to.

But you don't pull away. Instead, you lean in, and the kiss deepens. Your hands slide from Emily's shirt to her neck, fingers threading into her hair, and Emily makes a sound low in her throat that sends heat racing through your entire body.

It feels like relief. Like coming home. Like every piece of yourself you've been holding separate finally clicking into place.

When you finally break apart, you're both breathing hard. Emily's forehead rests against yours, and she's smiling. Really smiling, the kind of smile you've been craving since the day you met her.

"Okay," you say, breathless. "Okay."

"Okay," Emily echoes, and she kisses you again, softer this time. Sweeter.

You stay like that for a long moment, just holding each other in the alley, letting the reality of it settle over you. You're gay. Emily's gay. You're together. The world hasn't ended.

"We should probably go back inside," Emily says eventually, though she doesn't sound like she wants to move.

"Probably," you agree, but you don't let go of her yet.

Emily laughs, pressing one more kiss to your temple before stepping back. "Come on. Before they send a search party."

You take a moment to compose yourself, smoothing down your shirt, running your fingers through your hair. Emily does the same, though there's a flush high on her cheeks that makeup can't hide, and her lips are kiss-swollen in a way that's going to be obvious to anyone who looks.

You don't care.

Emily reaches for your hand as you head toward the door, and you let her take it. Your fingers lace together naturally, like they've been doing this for years instead of minutes.

The bar is loud when you step back inside, the team's laughter carrying over the music. But the moment you and Emily walk through the door, still holding hands, the conversation at your table dies.

JJ sees you first. Her eyes drop to your joined hands, then back up to your faces, and her entire expression transforms into something knowing and delighted. She elbows Penelope, who turns to look and immediately gasps.

"Finally," Penelope says, loud enough that half the bar probably hears.

Morgan's grin is shit-eating. "Took you long enough."

Reid looks confused for about half a second before his eyes widen in understanding. "Oh. Oh."

And Hotch just nods, quiet and approving, the corner of his mouth ticking up in what might be the closest thing to a smile you've ever seen from him outside of Jack's presence.

"We were starting to think we'd have to lock you two in a room," JJ says, standing to pull you both into a hug. "I'm so happy for you."

"You knew?" you ask, though the answer is obvious.

"Sweetheart, we all knew," Penelope says, joining the hug and nearly knocking you over with enthusiasm. "You two have been doing this ridiculous dance for months. It was painful to watch."

"I didn't know," Reid offers helpfully.

"You never know," Morgan says, clapping him on the shoulder before turning to Emily. "Seriously, though. I'm happy for you, Prentiss. Both of you."

Emily's hand tightens around yours, and when you glance at her, there are tears in her eyes. Good tears. Relief tears.

"Thank you," she says, and her voice is thick with emotion. "All of you."

"You're family," Hotch says simply. "This doesn't change that. It never would."

The team rallies around you after that, buying rounds, telling embarrassing stories, treating this like any other outing. And maybe that's what makes it so perfect. They're not making a big deal out of it, not treating you like you're fragile or different. They're just happy. Supportive. There.

You catch Emily's eye at one point, and she's smiling that smile. The one you've been craving, the one that transforms her entire face. And this time, it's directed at you.

An hour later, Emily leans in close, her breath warm against your ear. "Want to get out of here?"

Your heart does that complicated thing again. "Yeah. Yes."

You say your goodbyes, JJ hugs you extra tight, Penelope makes you promise to tell her everything tomorrow, Morgan gives Emily a look that's equal parts warning and approval. Then you're walking out into the cool night air, Emily's hand still in yours, and the world feels like your oyster.

The walk to your apartment is quiet, it's charged. Electric. Every brush of Emily's shoulder against yours sends sparks racing across your skin.

When you reach your door, you fumble with your keys, hyperaware of Emily standing close behind you. You finally get the door unlocked, but before you can push it open, Emily's hand catches your wrist.

You turn, and she's right there, close enough that you can see the flecks of gold in her dark eyes.

"Hi," she says softly.

"Hi," you breathe.

And then she's kissing you again, pressing you back against your apartment door. This kiss is different from the one in the alley, less tentative, more certain. Emily's hands slide to your hips, holding you steady, and you make a sound that's half gasp, half moan.

Your hands find her hair, her neck, her shoulders, anywhere you can reach. Emily tastes like wine and possibility, and you can't get enough. When she presses closer, fitting her body perfectly against yours, you forget how to breathe.

"Emily," you gasp against her mouth, and she makes that sound again, low and wanting.