lili🌻

“What were you thinking?” She scolds, voice sharp and eyes narrowed. You don’t miss the shaking of her hands as she holds them tightly on her hips or the rising flush of her cheeks, both she would blame on the cold but you knew they were born out of concern, not that she’d ever admit it. Not anymore.

“I’m sorry I didn’t realise the FBI now required its agents to have the abilities to see through walls.” You roll your eyes, the half-joke an attempt to fix her glare, but you know even as the words pass your lips it’s futile. Your shoulders slump, already too tired for the fight ahead,  “He came out of nowhere, Prentiss.” 

Her lips purse, “They require you to be able to clear a room. It seems you might need a refresher course. Maybe until you can be trusted and I deem you requalified it’s best you stay back in quantico.” 

“What?” You ask incredulously. Of all the dumb things- “Let me get this straight, you’re benching me over nothing? Tara was through that door seconds later. I wasn’t defying your orders. You have no reason to do this!”

“I want you to redo your basic training so I know you can be trusted in the field.” She demands, stoic, serious, and so far away from the soft woman you used to be able to reach out to. 

You laugh, but the noise is sad and wild. You shake your head in disbelief, watching the woman in front of you that years ago used to be the person you were closest to in the world. Now you stare at her and feel every part of the ocean that destroyed you both. “God, you’re so emotionally constipated.” 

“Excuse me?” 

You push yourself off the end of the ambulance, bringing yourself to your full height and meeting her gaze. You knew the day she accepted the unit chief position this wouldn’t end well, there was too much history, too much the two of you had left unsaid, hurt and anger smothering any possible relationship left. 

“Let’s not pretend this has anything to do with my performance.” You begin, words low enough that if she didn’t listen the words threatened to disappear with the wind, “It’s because I got hurt and you’d rather damage my career and ruin the tatters of our relationship than admit that me getting hurt scared you.” 

Emily steps backwards, face stricken. Her hands fall from her hips, her mouth opening and closing as she struggles for words. 

You decide there’s nothing left she can say. You excuse yourself and grab a lift with Luke, happy to leave the crime scene and your boss behind. After everyone’s finished at the farmhouse and packed up at the police station it’s nearing two am and everyone is ordered back to the hotel to catch a few hours of sleep before the flight in the morning. 

Your feet are dragging by the time you make it to your room. The meds have done their job though and your headache had faded away, but nothing but sleep was going to help your heavy and aching bones. You wave a tired goodbye to Tara, who unlike Emily had no issues checking in and making sure you were okay, and then retreat to your room. 

You slump into the chair at the desk, telling yourself you’ll find the energy to get ready for bed in one minute. But so thankful to finally be off your feet. Your reprieve lasts only minutes before a knock sounds at your door. A withered sigh leaves your lips and you consider ignoring it but still find yourself pushing yourself upright and making your way back to the door. 

When you open it, you wish you’d listened to your thoughts. 

“Hi?” You say hesitantly, staring into the tired face of Emily Prentiss. There’s no anger, her shoulders are almost slumped, defeated maybe? You look away, too scared to analyse further. 

“Can I come in?” 

You open the door further allowing her entrance. She smiles, tight lipped at you, nodding her thanks. You close the door and wait for her to speak, pondering how in the hell you both got to awkward silences and forced tight lipped smiles when years ago you two could share looks across the room and know what the other was thinking, spent hours talking and laughing together, how you had built a life and never thought there would be a day that she wasn’t in it with you. 

“We can’t go on like this.” She starts eyes meeting yours before flickering away, “Things between us have not been right since I returned and I think maybe we should clear the air. I want to be the Unit Chief, I want to be back here at Quantico but that only works if we can be a team.” 

You scoff. It slips from your mouth, uncontrolled and harsh. Emily’s gaze snaps to yours, her surprise at the sound clear. You shake your head, “What is there to say?” Where would we even begin?

“I-” She chokes, blinking as the emotions claw at her throat. “I’m sorry for hurting you.”

Your brows draw in confusion as you shake your head, “What are you talking about?”

“After everything that happened with Doyle-”

Your eyes bulge, “You think I'm still upset about that? God, do you think I’m a monster? You survived. You lived. That’s all that matters.” 

Tears pool in her eyes, but she blinks them away, her gaze shifting to the wall as her fingers pick at a hangnail. She looks back at you, still picking, gaze more open and lost than you’ve seen in a long time. “Then why? I hurt you. I can see it in the way you can barely stand to be around me, like it hurts you to even be in my presence.” 

You blow out a breath, eyes moving around the room before they land back on her and then away again. “It’s not your fault.” You breathe, emotions lodged in your throat and heart beating wildly against your chest as you try and force the words out. “You didn’t hurt me, I hurt myself. There was never going to be a life I led that you weren’t right with me, you know?” You laugh, wet and broken. 

Emily’s mouth falls open, her eyes emotional pits that you don’t dare hold. 

“And then you left for London and I couldn’t exactly be upset because I had no say in what you did with your life. We were just friends. I knew it’s what you needed and I don’t resent you for that. I just…” You take a breath, “I was so angry at myself for missing you, for thinking that I could be someone you would stay for.”

And there it was. The truth. Because at the end of the day, you’ve always just wanted to be enough for the woman in front of you. For her to see you as more than just your friend. To one day have your feelings returned. 

She’d left and you’d both been busy and you’d deliberately tried to separate yourself as well, drawing back from the painful reminder that you weren’t enough. And since her return, all those emotions have been resurfacing, however much you tried to keep them buried. Because falling out of love with Emily Prentiss was just not something you were capable of, and you’ve spent years trying too. 

Emily approaches you, the space between you closing ever so slightly. Your gaze sticks to the ground, scared to see the easy to read emotions across her face. She takes a breath, the sound muffled by the beating of your heart.

“After I came back from Paris, I used to find myself looking at you and knowing I couldn’t be that woman you remembered, the one you sought for. I wanted to. Desperately.” Her voice hitches, and then lowers to a hoarse whisper, “I wanted to be the woman you fell for.” 

Your eyes finally rise, against your will. Tears make their way in delicate paths down her cheeks, she looks every bit as lost as you feel. The only thing stopping you from falling apart is the fear that if you let go you may never recover. 

“I didn’t need you to be anyone. I just wanted you to be yourself. I wanted you to trust me.” You respond gently.

She shakes her head, “No, everyone was looking for that version of me that I couldn’t grasp onto.”

“Emily,” You sigh painfully. Her face crumples, eyes squeezing shut at the sound of her name from your lips. It’s been so long, you know. “You were healing from a trauma. I’ve always wanted the authentic you, whatever that includes. Why would that suddenly change?” 

She nods, a deep frown on her face as she accepts your words. Then a wet laugh, as she wipes away her tears. “I’ve missed you. Every day. I hate being in the same room as you and it being awkward. I used to be able to look at you and know what you’re thinking. I want that back.” 

A small smile curves your lips, “Me too, more than anything.” 

“Yeah?” She questions. Her teeth run across her lip, as she dares to hope. “You think we could get back there?” 

Your heart hammers. “I just need you to be really clear here. What exactly are we getting back to?” 

She steps forward, finally close enough to touch. Her hand hesitantly reaches out and touches yours, her cold fingers intertwining with your warm ones. Your body remembers her touch, relaxes and leans into it automatically. You eat it hungrily, tracking the movement before your eyes rise to meet hers and find soft, open eyes watching you. “I want to make you fall in love with me again.”

Your breath catches in your throat, tears pooling in your eyes as your hand shakes in hers.

“And this time, I promise, I’ll be there to catch you.” 

“We might have a slight problem with that plan.” You laugh, trying your hardest not to sob.

She frowns, nose wrinkling in the way you adore. “What’s that?” 

“It’s pretty difficult to re-fall in love when I never stopped loving you in the first place.” You huff, and Emily laughs, rich and free and bright. Her face joyful and happy, and with the wide bright smile you’ve waited months to feel pointed in your direction. God the sight makes your head spin.

“Is that so?” She asks, hand moving up to cup your cheek, eyes full of love and pointed at you. 

You can only nod, dizzy from her attention and the emotions coursing through your body. 

When her lips find yours it feels like finally coming home. Soft and delicate, both too scared to push too hard, exploring slowing even as her hand holds your cheek and yours fists in her shirt. You’ve waited years for this, and if you get more of these than it will be worth it. Everything is worth it for the feeling of Emily in your arms. 

When she pulls away, it’s too soon. You follow her mouth and she concedes and gives you a couple more slow kisses before she stops herself, resting her forehead against yours.

“I just want to say sorry for earlier.” She whispers into the safe space you’ve built. “You were right, I was scared when you got hurt. Dave’s already kicked my ass for my response, you won’t receive any disciplinary action.”

You nod slightly, her forehead moving against yours, “Thank you.” 

“It won’t happen again.” She promises, sealing the words with a kiss to your lips. 

“I know.” You kiss her again, but this time you break out into a yawn midway through. Your momentarily forgotten exhaustion, making itself known. 

She melts against you, caressing your cheek. “Oh, you need to sleep. We can talk more tomorrow. I’m taking you out for dinner.” 

You bite your lip to hide the smile threatening to take over your face, “A date?” 

She chuckles, rolling her eyes. “Yes, a date. But only if you sleep first.” 

“Your wish is my command.” You can’t stop the grin from taking over your face anymore. You press a peck to her lips and lead her back towards the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

“Tomorrow.” She agrees, eyes fluttering over your face as if she’s committing every aspect to memory. “Sleep well.” 

“You too.” 

She presses one last kiss to your lips before she opens the door and makes her exit. You close the door quietly behind her, sinking back into it and allowing the giggle to finally escape your mouth.

What the fuck had just happened. 

Emily Prentiss kissed you. 

Emily Prentiss has feelings for you. 

You weren’t alone.

You bite your lip and push off the door, finally ready to get ready for bed and praying come morning that this would still be your reality.

"I don't suppose your Splenda's run out?" She says without preamble, shooting for nonchalance.

You raise your brows and pick up the kettle as it goes off. Her charade is worn and tried: there's a whole box of the stuff squirreled away in her office, sequestered in the third drawer of her desk. This is also a familiar game, but, this time, you don't play your usual part.

You let her question hang as you pour the water into your mug, steam fogging your skin. She leans against the counter and crowds your peripheral vision, a blur of dark hues and the rich, familiar scent of her perfume. You see her arms fold.

She waits, silent, the heat of her gaze burning holes into your face as you set the kettle back down and grab your tea bag, bobbing it in the hot water.

"You know," you muse, still watching your tea deepen, "if you wanted to see me, you could've just said so."

Her heat presses an inch closer. "That wouldn't be too unit-chiefly of me."

You laugh, lifting the tea bag out and tossing it in the trash. As if no one knows of these little visits she takes up, the five to ten minutes of indulgence, a little break where she's no one but yours.

As if you don't enjoy them enough to have the gall to tease.

Emily makes a low, displeased sound in the back of her throat. You bite down on your smile, leisurely reaching for the sugar, spooning it in, and stirring it through your tea. Only after you toss the spoon in the sink do you look back up at her, your amusement poorly hidden, voice low enough to stay trapped just between the two of you.

"What do you want, chief?" You coax, tilting your head. "Tell me."

Emily's eyes go dark, glimmering. She glances about the room—steady and thorough, scanning the open, exposed doorway—a faint flush staining her skin.

Your smile breaks free when she turns her gaze back to you. There's a particular kind of delight you feel when you toy with her like this—especially when she gives in, settles so neatly into the palm of your hand. She knows it, of course.

It still hasn't stopped either of you.

"I wanted to see you," she says lowly.

"That's all?"

Her eyes drop to your mouth. It's a pleasant, tingling heat, blooming under your skin.

"No," she concedes.

In the solace of your home, maybe, you'd have dragged it out. But you're not at home and she's looking too unfairly good and—your last straw—she wets her lip with the tip of her tongue, sends fresh color blooming, and, really, truly, you're not thinking as you hook your fingers into her lanyard, wrap it around your fist, and use it to tug her into you.

She makes a little sound, surprised and gasping against your mouth. The heat of it burns in your blood. You feel her neck tilt to follow the lanyard in your grip and you have to break the kiss sooner than you'd have liked, before the awareness that you're at work completely fizzles out and you get lost in the haze, taking her bottom lip between your teeth, nipping at it to pull another sound from her—

"You have to ask for what you want, Emily." Your voice is only slightly strained, pitched low for her ears.

Her cheeks are awash with a blush. She blinks, but you can still see the slight, dazed look in her eyes.

"You're mean," she murmurs.

"I don't think I am." You thumb at the smooth slip of the lanyard still wound around your fist. "See, you didn't even have to ask."

Emily's hand finds the counter behind you, her arm slinging around your side and encircling you in her warmth. "So this is what I get for wanting a—"

"Hey there, lovebirds." A voice greets cheerily.

Alvez.

Emily whips around, her arm dropping to her side, your fingers letting loose the smooth fabric. You needlessly pick up your mug of tea, pressing its hot edge to your mouth.

Luke's eyes dip to the crinkled edges of Emily's lanyard.

"What?" She demands.

"Oh, nothing." He says in that exaggerated way of his, drawling the words out and making a big show of looking down at his watch. "It's just—well, you've been missing for a while and the team was getting jittery."

"The team." Emily says flatly.

You hide your laugh in a stinging sip of tea.

"You're not often missing, is all," he explains, his tone grave, a bold-faced lie. It clashes entirely with the boyish gleam in his eyes, the little twitch in his mouth.

Emily rolls her own eyes and turns back around. "A person can't even pee anymore." She mutters, grabbing her mug.

"I mean, you don't usually pee on the eighth floor, is all I'm saying."

Emily's eyes shut closed, the skin of her cheeks still dusted pink. "Alvez," she says without turning back around, "if that's all you have to say, I suggest you go back to your desk, quietly, and find something more useful to do. I can list out everything in your backlog if you'd like."

Luke begins to say something, but Emily quickly shuts him down.

"And no detours to Penelope's."

His mouth snaps shut. He dips his head, his sheepish, smiling eyes sliding over to you.

"Yes, Ma'am."

At first, you had told yourself it wasn’t the suspension that bothered you. Two weeks behind a desk wasn’t the end of the world. You’d survived paperwork before. It was everything that came before it. The way she’d looked at you standing beside the pond. The way she’d said Agent Y/L/N.

You rub your thumb absentmindedly over the edge of the file. The paper catches against dry skin.

“Morning.” JJ slows beside your desk with a coffee balanced in one hand and a folder tucked beneath her arm. She offers you an easy smile, the kind that usually coaxes one out of you without effort.

“Morning.”

She studies you for half a second longer than necessary before setting the folder down. “These are from Quantico. Emily wants them reviewed before lunch.”

You nod. “I’ll get started.”

“No rush.”

“There usually is.”

JJ smiles a little wider. “Fair.”

She lingers. Normally, this is the part where one of you says something completely unrelated to work. You’d ask about Henry. She’d complain about Will leaving every cabinet door open in the kitchen. Maybe she’d tease you about the book you’ve been carrying around for three weeks without getting past chapter four.

Instead, she shifts her weight. “Well…”

You glance back at the paperwork. “I should probably get these done.”

“…Yeah.” She gives your shoulder a light squeeze before walking away.

You don’t miss the quick glance she throws toward Emily’s office. Emily has been there since before you arrived. The blinds are half-open, and every now and then your eyes wander there before you catch yourself and redirect them back to the report in front of you.

She notices. Of course she notices. Emily always notices. A file lands softly on your desk. “This one can wait.”

You look up. She’s standing beside you with another folder tucked against her side, dressed in a charcoal blazer with the sleeves pushed carelessly to her forearms. A mug of coffee rests in one hand, though it looks untouched.

Your gaze flicks to her face for only a moment before settling on the file she just placed in front of you. “I’ll finish this one first.”

“It’s not urgent.”

“Good.” You smooth the corner of the report beneath your hand. “I’d hate to fall behind on my desk duty.”

A small crease appears between her eyebrows. “You don’t have to prove anything.”

You slide another document into place. “I’m working.”

“I can see that.” The words hang there. Around you, the bullpen carries on as if nothing has shifted. Morgan laughs at something Rossi mutters under his breath. Reid crosses the room with three books balanced precariously against his chest. Someone’s printer jams.

Emily doesn’t move. “You’ve barely looked at me all morning.”

Your fingers pause over the keyboard. “I didn’t know eye contact was part of desk duty.”

For the first time since she walked over, something flickers across her face. Not quite annoyance. Not amusement either. “You’ve still got jokes,” she says.

“I’ve got paperwork.” You tap the stack of files with the back of your pen. “Figured I’d embrace the assignment.”

A corner of her mouth twitches despite herself. “You always had both.”

You nod once, your attention returning to the report. “Guess today’s different.”

The words come out a little sharper than you intend. Emily hears it. The crease between her brows deepens almost imperceptibly before she straightens. “If you need anything—”

“I’ll ask.”

She studies your face another second, then gives one slow nod. “All right.”

She turns back toward her office.

Only once she’s disappeared behind the glass door do you allow yourself to look up. Her coffee is still sitting on the corner of your desk. She forgot it. No. You know better. She never forgets her coffee. You wrap your fingers around the mug before it cools completely and carry it across the bullpen.

She looks up when you knock lightly against the open door. “You left this.”

Emily glances at the mug, then back at you. “I did.”

You set it beside her laptop. “There you go.”

You turn before she can say anything else. Emily watches the empty doorway for several seconds before reaching for the mug. It isn’t until she takes the first sip that she realizes her coffee has gone cold.

By Wednesday, the distance has become routine. Not obvious enough for anyone outside the team. But painfully obvious to everyone inside it.

You still answer Emily’s questions. You still finish every report she hands you. When she asks for a profile comparison, it’s sitting in her inbox twenty minutes later.

Professional. Polite.

Every conversation begins and ends exactly where it has to. Nothing spills beyond the edges anymore. Morgan notices first. He drops into the chair opposite your desk with all the subtlety of a wrecking ball, spinning a pen lazily between his fingers.

Morgan drops into the chair opposite your desk with all the subtlety of a wrecking ball, spinning a pen between his fingers as though he’d been waiting all morning for an excuse to stop working.

“You know,” he begins, leaning back just enough for the chair to protest beneath him, “I’ve been trying to figure out what this reminds me of.”

You continue typing, your eyes fixed on the report in front of you. The cursor blinks patiently at the end of the sentence you’ve been pretending to revise for the past minute. “Mhm.”

“It finally hit me.”

“I’m sure it did.” You don’t look up. If you do, he’ll take one look at your face and know exactly which office you’ve been trying very hard not to look at all morning.

Morgan studies you for another second before snapping his fingers. “You two are acting like divorced parents.”

A laugh slips loose before you can stop it. You catch it almost immediately, lowering your head under the pretense of rereading a witness statement, but it’s already too late.

“There she is,” Morgan says, sounding entirely too pleased with himself.

You glance up, knitting your brows together. “What?”

“That almost-smile.” He points at you as if presenting evidence to a jury. “Saw it.”

You smooth the corner of the report beneath your hand, buying yourself a second. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Morgan’s grin only widens. “You smiled.”

“I twitched.” One shoulder rises in a half-hearted shrug. Heat gathers in your cheeks anyway, annoyingly enough. You blame the coffee.

“Exactly.”

Rolling your eyes, you save the report with a decisive click and reach for the next file in the stack, grateful for something to occupy your hands. “I’ve got work.” Better to hide behind paperwork than risk looking through the glass wall of Emily’s office again.

Morgan follows your gaze anyway, even though you never let it get that far.

“So does Emily.”

Your fingers pause on the edge of the file before you can turn the page. Barely a second. Long enough for the paper to bend beneath your thumb, long enough for Morgan to catch it. You smooth it out as though that’s what you meant to do all along.

“I’m aware.” Your voice comes out flatter than intended as you finally turn the page, even though you’ve already read the paragraph twice.

Morgan leans forward, resting his forearms on your desk. His expression loses some of its usual playfulness, curiosity quietly taking its place. “Then why does she keep staring at you?”

“I hadn’t noticed,” you reply.

Morgan doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he watches you with the same patient look he usually reserves for suspects who are only halfway through talking themselves into a confession.

“That’s funny,” he says eventually.

You raise an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Because you’ve been avoiding one particular spot in this bullpen all morning.” He nods almost absently toward the glass office without taking his eyes off you. “Funny how people only work that hard not to look somewhere when they’re already thinking about what’s there.”

For a moment, the bullpen seems to recede into the background. Phones continue to ring, keyboards clatter, someone laughs near Garcia’s desk, but it all blurs into a steady hum.

You don’t turn around. You don’t need to. You know exactly which office he’s talking about. “I’m not doing this.”

“Doing what?” he asks, the picture of innocence.

“This.” You gesture vaguely between the two of you. “Whatever this conversation is.”

Morgan lets out a quiet chuckle, leaning back in his chair as if he has all the time in the world and nothing better to do than watch you work your way around the subject. “Having a conversation?”

“You profiling me?”

“I don’t need to,” he answers, the grin softening at the edges, losing some of its usual teasing edge. “I’ve known you too long for that.”

You look away first, turning back to the monitor as if the blinking cursor has suddenly become the most interesting thing in the room. It keeps pulsing at the end of a sentence you stopped reading minutes ago. You click into the document anyway, but the words don’t settle anymore; they scatter before they form anything useful.

“I’ve just been keeping things professional,” you say, more out of reflex than intent.

Morgan doesn’t respond immediately. The silence that follows feels less like a pause and more like he’s choosing where to place the next piece carefully, as if the conversation has moved beyond teasing without either of you agreeing to it.

Eventually, he exhales through his nose, a faint shake of his head accompanying the movement. “Professional,” he repeats, as though testing how the word sits in the space between you.

You keep your focus on the screen, though your attention has long since drifted.

“That’s what you’re calling it.”

Your hand hovers briefly over the mouse before settling again, a small, almost unconscious adjustment that gives you something to do.

Morgan leans forward slightly, forearms resting on your desk, his voice quieter now. “Look, I’m not judging you.”

The shift in tone makes your grip tighten just enough to notice, and from the corner of your eye you see his gaze flicker down for a moment before returning to your face.

“She was pretty shaken after the pond,” he adds, more carefully this time, like he’s stepping around something fragile rather than pointing it out.

That lands differently. Not sharply, but with weight. Your fingers still against the mouse. Not dramatic, not obvious, just a fraction of hesitation that Morgan definitely catches.

He doesn’t push it further immediately. Instead, he watches you for a beat longer, then continues in a lower voice. “She didn’t stop talking about it for the first hour back at the BAU. You know that, right?”

“I was there,” you reply, though your eyes don’t leave the screen.

“Yeah,” he says, softer now. “You were.”

The space between the words feels heavier than the words themselves.

“She was worried about you,” he adds, and this time there’s nothing teasing left in it.

The cursor on your screen keeps blinking. You realize you’ve stopped seeing it. Your hand moves again, not to type, just to scroll, as if motion alone can reset something that has already shifted. “I’ve just been keeping things professional,” you say, but it comes out quieter than before, flattened by something you don’t name.

Morgan studies you for a long moment, his expression unreadable in that way he gets when he’s decided he’s said enough and anything more would only make it worse or clearer. “Sure,” he replies at last.

Not agreement. Not contradiction. Just Morgan, letting it sit. And before the silence can settle any further, the glass door to Emily’s office swings open.

Emily steps into the bullpen with a file tucked beneath one arm. Her gaze lands on Morgan first, though you catch it lingering in your direction for the briefest moment before she looks away again.

“Can I steal Morgan for a minute?” she asks.

Morgan glances between the two of you, a knowing smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. “You can certainly try,” he replies, pushing himself out of the chair with an exaggerated groan. “Can’t promise I’ll come back.”

Emily rolls her eyes. “I’ll take my chances.”

He shoots you one last look as he passes, somewhere between amused and concerned, before disappearing into Emily’s office. For the briefest moment, Emily’s eyes flick to yours. You lower yours to the report before either of you can mistake the glance for something more.

The bullpen feels strangely empty without Morgan’s running commentary. You manage another hour before hunger finally pulls you away from your desk.

The break room is blissfully quiet for once. Someone has abandoned half a box of donuts on the counter, the lid folded back as though they meant to come back for the last few and never did. You inspect the remaining selection with far more concentration than a pastry probably deserves.

One powdered. One plain. One chocolate. The decision is easy.

You slide the chocolate donut onto a paper plate just as the coffee machine lets out its final hiss. The smell of fresh coffee fills the room while you reach for one of the chipped BAU mugs lining the shelf.

“You always pick the chocolate one.” Emily’s voice comes from the doorway.

Your shoulders stiffen before you can stop them. Usually, you hear her long before she reaches you, the measured rhythm of her footsteps, the quiet click of her heels against the hallway floor. Today, she’d managed to catch you completely off guard.

You busy yourself pouring coffee into the mug, watching the dark stream rise toward the rim instead of looking over your shoulder. “There was one left.”

A faint chuckle follows. “You would’ve picked it anyway.”

The corner of your mouth threatens to lift. “Probably,” you admit, reaching for the sugar bowl.

Emily steps inside the kitchen, unhurried. She leaves enough space between the two of you that you could walk past without brushing against her, yet somehow the room feels smaller the moment she enters. The scent of fresh coffee mingles with her familiar trace of sandalwood and gardenia.

Your fingers tighten around the handle of your mug before you deliberately loosen them again.

“You still taking too much sugar?” Emily asks, watching you tear open another packet.

“Depends who’s asking.”

“The person who watched you put four packets in yesterday.”

You glance down at the growing pile of empty wrappers beside your mug. “…Three.”

Emily smiles despite herself. “It was four.”

You tip another packet into the coffee, refusing to give her the satisfaction of looking smug. “I was having a difficult morning.”

Her smile softens almost imperceptibly. “You’ve been having a difficult week.”

The words settle quietly between you. Without thinking, you stop stirring. The spoon rests against the inside of the mug before tapping gently against the ceramic as you set it on the counter. Outside the glass wall, agents cross the bullpen carrying files, someone laughs at Garcia’s desk, a phone rings somewhere near JJ’s office. Life continues with its usual rhythm.

Inside the break room, everything slows. Neither of you reaches for the coffee.

Emily folds her arms across her chest, though the gesture looks more like she’s trying to give her hands somewhere to go than closing herself off. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

You lower your eyes to the coffee again. The sugar has dissolved completely, but you stir it once more anyway, watching the surface ripple. “I’ve been working.”

“You don’t have to keep saying that.”

Your grip shifts on the spoon. “It’s true.”

Emily studies you in silence. “It’s not the whole truth.”

The spoon taps softly against the rim before you set it aside altogether. You rest both hands around the warm mug, letting the heat sink into your palms. “What would you like me to say?”

Her answer comes without hesitation. “The truth.”

For the first time all day, you meet her eyes. The room seems to narrow around the space between you. “What if that’s all I’ve been saying?”

Emily doesn’t answer. She simply holds your gaze, steady enough that looking away starts to feel suspiciously like surrender. For one reckless second, you’re tempted to see how long she’d keep standing there if neither of you blinked.

A voice calls her name from somewhere out in the bullpen. Emily closes her eyes briefly, the interruption drawing a quiet sigh from her before she looks back at you.

“We’re not done with this,” she says, her voice low enough that it almost disappears beneath the noise outside.

Then she’s gone. The scent of her perfume lingers for a few seconds after the door swings shut.

You remain where you are, staring into a cup of coffee that’s already beginning to cool. Only when you reach for the mug again does your gaze fall to the chocolate donut waiting untouched beside it. You’d forgotten it was there.