Emily Prentiss had a habit of straightening her blazer sleeves exactly three times before walking into a room. You’d counted. It wasn’t nerves—at least, not the kind people expected from a Section Chief with her reputation. It was precision, a ritual, like the way she always tapped her pen twice against her notebook before speaking in meetings. You’d noticed these things long before you ever admitted why you were noticing them.

The bullpen was quiet for once, most of the team out on assignments or buried in paperwork. Emily’s office door was cracked open, the warm glow of her desk lamp spilling onto the carpet. You hovered near the threshold, watching the way her fingers skimmed the edge of a case file,deliberate, unhurried. She hadn’t seen you yet. That was fine. You liked these stolen moments, the unguarded way she chewed her lower lip when she was deep in thought.

Then she glanced up, and her expression shifted—something softer, private. “Hey,” she said, voice low. No title, no formality. Just your name, barely above a whisper.

You stepped inside, nudging the door shut with your hip. The click of the latch sounded louder than it should have. Emily’s gaze flickered to the handle, then back to you. “Everything okay?” she asked, but her fingers had stilled on the file.You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you leaned against the edge of her desk, close enough that your knee brushed against hers. Emily inhaled sharply, and you pretended not to notice. “Just wanted to see you,” you said, casual, like it wasn’t a confession.

Emily’s fingers twitched against the file,not closing it, not pushing it away, just hovering there as if she couldn’t decide whether to anchor herself to work or to you. The air between you felt charged, the kind of tension that made the back of your neck prickle. You knew that look. The one where she was calculating the distance between professionalism and what you both wanted, the one where her jaw tightened just enough to be noticeable if you were looking for it. And you always were.

The silence stretched, but not uncomfortably. Emily exhaled through her nose, her shoulders dropping a fraction as she leaned back in her chair. “You know,” she started, voice still quiet, like the walls might repeat her, “Bailey asked me yesterday if I was mentoring you.” Her thumb traced the edge of the file folder, back and forth. A nervous tic. “He said it was good to see you getting guidance from someone with experience.” The words hung there, weightier than they should’ve been. You knew where this was going. You’d seen the way Strauss had glanced between you two in the elevator last week, the way Garcia had bitten back a grin when you’d reached for Emily’s coffee cup without asking.

You shifted just enough to press your knee more firmly against hers, a silent rebuttal. Emily’s breath hitched, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, she turned her hand palm-up on the desk, an invitation. You slid your fingers into hers without hesitation, feeling the calluses along her knuckles. “I don’t need guidance,” you said, deliberately light. “Unless you’re offering to teach me something specific.”

Emily’s laugh was soft, almost rueful. “That’s the problem.” Her thumb brushed over your knuckles, slow, like she was mapping them. “They see what they want to see. Mentor and protégé. Boss and subordinate.” Her grip tightened, just for a second. “Not this.”

You leaned in, close enough to catch the faint scent of her shampoo,something clean, uncomplicated. “Then let them see,” you murmured. Emily’s eyes darkened, her free hand coming up to cradle your jaw, her touch firmer now, less hesitant. You could feel her pulse where your fingers curled around her wrist, faster than it had been a moment ago. The file folder slipped to the floor, forgotten.

The folder hit the carpet with a muffled thump, but neither of you moved to pick it up. Emily’s fingers tightened against your jaw, her thumb brushing the curve of your cheekbone like she was committing the shape of you to memory. You could see the hesitation in her eyes,not reluctance, but the weight of a hundred unspoken fears. The kind that came with being her, with the way the world had taught her to second-guess every good thing that dared to get close.

You turned your head just enough to press a kiss to the inside of her wrist, where her pulse jumped beneath your lips. Emily made a quiet, wounded noise in the back of her throat, her other hand still tangled with yours on the desk. "They don't get to define this," you murmured against her skin, feeling the way her breath stuttered at the words.

Emily’s grip shifted, her fingers sliding into your hair as she pulled you closer, until your foreheads touched. Her eyes were shut tight, her lashes dark against her cheeks. "I'm too old for this," she whispered, but the way she said it—like a confession, like she was waiting for you to disagree—made your chest ache.

You laughed, soft and deliberate, your free hand skimming up her forearm to trace the line of her collarbone through her blouse. "You're not old," you said, thumbing open the top button of her shirt just to watch her breath catch. "You're just used to being in control." Emily’s eyes flew open at that, her gaze sharpening in a way that sent heat curling low in your stomach.

The knock on the office door was abrupt, three sharp raps that had Emily jerking back like she’d been burned. Her hand dropped from your hair, her expression shifting so quickly into something neutral it was almost jarring. "Come in," she called, her voice steady in a way that belied the flush still high on her cheeks.

The door swung open to reveal JJ, her blond hair slightly tousled from the afternoon wind, a stack of folders balanced precariously in her arms. Her gaze flicked between the two of you—Emily, now sitting ramrod straight behind her desk, and you, still leaning against it with what you hoped was casual indifference. JJ’s eyebrows lifted just a fraction, but all she said was, "Sorry to interrupt. Garcia’s got the prelims on the Denver case." She set the folders down on the edge of Emily’s desk, her eyes lingering on the abandoned file on the floor.

Emily cleared her throat, reaching for the folders with practiced ease. "Thanks, JJ. We’ll take a look." Her voice was smooth, professional, but you caught the way her fingers trembled slightly as they brushed against the paperwork. JJ nodded, hesitating for half a second before turning to leave. You could practically see the questions forming behind her eyes, but the door clicked shut behind her without another word.

The silence that followed was thick, charged with everything left unsaid. Emily exhaled sharply, her shoulders slumping just enough to betray the tension she’d been holding. You reached out, catching her wrist before she could retreat further, your thumb tracing the delicate bones there. "You’re overthinking," you murmured. Emily’s laugh was quiet, brittle. "I’m always overthinking," she admitted, her gaze dropping to where your fingers curled around hers.

You tugged her closer, until her knees bumped against yours again. "Then stop," you said, simple and direct, because you knew she needed that,needed someone to cut through the layers of doubt with something firm and uncomplicated. Emily’s breath hitched, her free hand lifting to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. Her touch was hesitant, like she wasn’t entirely sure she was allowed. "It’s not that easy," she whispered, but the way her fingers lingered against your skin said otherwise.

The desk phone rang, shrill and insistent, shattering the moment. Emily flinched, her hand dropping away as she reached for the receiver. "Prentiss," she answered, her voice steady despite the way her eyes stayed locked on yours. You could hear Garcia’s cheerful chatter bleeding through the line, but Emily’s responses were clipped, distracted. You leaned back, giving her space, but you didn’t look away—didn’t let her pretend this wasn’t happening.

Emily hung up the phone with a quiet click, her fingers lingering on the receiver a moment too long. The silence that settled between you was different now,heavier, like the air before a storm. She didn’t meet your eyes, instead focusing on straightening the folders JJ had brought in, her movements precise to the point of obsession. You watched the way her jaw tightened, the way she worried her lower lip between her teeth. It was a tell you’d come to recognize, the way she braced herself before saying something she didn’t want to say.

"You should go," she murmured finally, her voice low but firm. "Denver case is heating up. Garcia’s sending the jet coordinates." The words were professional, distant, but her hands betrayed her, fumbling slightly as she shuffled papers. You didn’t move. Instead, you reached out, catching her wrist mid-motion, feeling the rapid flutter of her pulse beneath your fingertips. Emily froze, her breath hitching audibly. "Emily," you said, softer now, thumb brushing over the delicate skin of her inner wrist. "Look at me."

For a moment, you thought she might refuse. Then, slowly, she lifted her gaze, and the raw vulnerability in her eyes hit you like a physical blow. There was no mask now, no Section Chief poise—just Emily, stripped bare by her own doubts. "You don’t want me to go," you said, not a question. Emily’s throat worked as she swallowed hard, her free hand gripping the edge of the desk like she needed the anchor. "No," she admitted, the word barely audible. "But that’s not the point."

You leaned in, close enough to see the faint lines at the corners of her eyes, the silver threads woven through her dark hair. "Then what is?" Emily’s laugh was brittle, self-deprecating. "You’re—" She gestured vaguely at you, her hand trembling slightly. "You’re you. And I’m…" She trailed off, but you knew what she meant. The years between you, the promotions, the weight of her position—all of it suddenly insurmountable in her mind.

You tightened your grip on her wrist, pulling her closer until your knees knocked together again. "You’re Emily," you said, deliberate. "That’s all I care about." Her breath hitched, but you pressed on before she could retreat further. "You think I haven’t noticed the way you check your reflection in the elevator? The way you tense up every time someone mentions our ‘age gap’ like it’s a fucking scandal?" Emily’s eyes widened slightly, her lips parting in surprise. You hadn’t meant to say it so bluntly, but the words spilled out now, sharp with frustration. "I don’t care if you’re ten years older or twenty. I care that you’re here, with me, right now."

Emily’s fingers went still against the paperwork, her breath catching in a way that wasn’t quite surprise,more like resignation, as if she’d been waiting for you to peel back this particular layer of her armor. The overhead light caught the faint lines at the corners of her eyes, the ones she’d started smoothing out with expensive creams you’d pretended not to notice in her bathroom. “It’s not just the years,” she said finally, her thumb brushing over your knuckles in absent circles. “It’s the… the shape of them.”

You tilted your head, waiting. Emily exhaled through her nose, her gaze flickering to the framed photos on her desk,one with the team at Dave’s retirement party, another from Quantico years ago, her face younger but already sharp with responsibility. “You were in high school when I arrested my first serial killer,” she murmured, and the words landed like stones between you. “I had crow’s feet before you ever held a badge.”

It wasn’t the math that bothered her, you realized. It was the milestones,the way her life had already been carved into before-and-afters by the time yours was just starting. You could see it in the way she hesitated before ordering dessert, like indulgence was a luxury she’d talked herself out of long ago. In the careful way she avoided mentioning music or movies from your childhood, as if embarrassed by the gap.

Your grip on her wrist tightened. “You think I care that you remember dial-up internet?” Emily huffed a laugh, but her shoulders stayed tense. “I care that they care,” she admitted, nodding toward the bullpen. “That every time Garcia makes a fucking Millennial joke, I feel—” She cut herself off, pressing her lips together.

You knew what she meant. The way people’s gazes lingered whenever you leaned too close in briefings. The knowing looks when Emily’s hand lingered on your shoulder a second too long. The unspoken assumption that she was something temporary for you,a phase, a conquest, a notch on some imagined bedpost.

Emily’s fingers trembled slightly as she traced the edge of the photograph on her desk,the one from Quantico, her younger self staring back with a confidence that now felt foreign. The silence between you stretched, heavy with the weight of her unspoken fears. “You don’t understand,” she said finally, her voice fraying at the edges. “It’s not just the numbers. It’s the—” She gestured vaguely at her body, her blazer suddenly seeming too stiff, too old. “I wake up and there’s another gray hair. I find myself Googling fucking retinol at 2 a.m. like some—” She cut herself off, pressing her palms flat against the desk as if to steady herself.

You’d seen the receipts crumpled in her trash can, the expensive serums hidden behind her toothpaste. The way she’d started turning her face slightly away from the bathroom light when she brushed her teeth, as if the shadows might soften the lines. It hit you then, like a punch to the gut—this wasn’t vanity. It was terror. The kind that came from realizing the world had already decided she was past her expiration date.

You reached out, catching her hand mid-gesture, turning it over to press a kiss to the delicate skin of her wrist. Emily made a wounded noise, her fingers twitching against yours. “You’re beautiful,” you said, deliberate, your thumb brushing the faint age spots on her knuckles—the ones she’d once tried to hide with foundation. “Every part of you. Even the ones you think are flaws.”

Emily’s laugh was raw, uneven. “Easy for you to say,” she murmured, but her grip on your hand tightened. “You’re not the one who—” She hesitated, her throat working as she swallowed hard. “They talk, you know. The new recruits. They call me a Cougar behind my back.” The word landed like a slap, her voice brittle with the effort of admitting it. You could picture it—the smirks in the break room, the way their eyes would flick between the two of you whenever you walked past.

You leaned in, close enough that your breath ghosted over her cheek. “Let them talk,” you said, your voice low and fierce. “They’re just pissed they’ll never be half the woman you are.” Emily’s breath hitched, her free hand coming up to clutch at your sleeve like she was afraid you might vanish. “You don’t have to believe me yet,” you continued, pressing another kiss to her jaw, just below the pulse point. “But you will.”

Emily's office smelled like bergamot and argon oil—the lingering traces of her morning tea and afternoon range session. The scent wrapped around you both like a shared secret as you pressed closer, your fingers tightening around hers. Outside, the bullpen hummed with muted activity, phones ringing and keyboards clacking, but in this stolen moment, the world narrowed to the space between your bodies. Emily exhaled sharply when your lips brushed the shell of her ear, her pulse rabbit-quick beneath your touch. "They don't get a say in this," you murmured, and felt her shiver.

Her grip on your sleeve tightened, fabric bunching under her fingers as she pulled you flush against her. The edge of the desk dug into your thighs, but you barely registered the discomfort—not when Emily was looking at you like that, her dark eyes wide and unguarded. "Say it again," she whispered, her voice rough with something between plea and command. You grinned, nipping at her jaw just to feel her gasp. "You're beautiful," you repeated, slower now, savoring the way her breath hitched. "And you're mine."

The words hung between you, thick with promise. Emily made a wounded noise low in her throat, her hands sliding up to cradle your face. Her thumbs traced the arches of your cheekbones, reverent, as if memorizing the planes of your face. "Christ," she breathed, her forehead dropping to rest against yours. "When did you get so damn good at this?" You laughed, soft and warm, your fingers threading through the hair at her nape. "Had a good teacher," you teased, and Emily groaned, but the tension in her shoulders eased just a fraction.

The intercom buzzed abruptly, Garcia's cheerful voice slicing through the moment like a knife. "Chief? Wheels up in twenty—Denver's waiting!" Emily stiffened, her hands freezing against your skin. You watched the mask slip back into place,the straightening of her spine, the careful smoothing of her expression,but this time, you didn't let her retreat. Instead, you caught her wrist as she pulled away, pressing a kiss to the frantic flutter of her pulse. "Tonight," you said, firm. "Your place. No excuses." Emily's lips parted in protest, but you shook your head, cutting her off before she could speak. "I'll bring the takeout. You bring the case files. We'll argue about jurisdiction over egg rolls."

A startled laugh escaped her, bright and unexpected in the dim office. "That's not—" she started, but you were already stepping back, straightening your shirt with deliberate nonchalance. Emily's eyes narrowed, her lips twitching despite herself. "You're insufferable," she muttered, but the words lacked their usual bite. You grinned, tossing her blazer at her from where it hung on the back of her chair. "And yet," you said, pausing at the door to shoot her a look over your shoulder, "you love me anyway." Emily rolled her eyes, but the flush creeping up her neck betrayed her.