a.

Jealousy tasted like pomegranate and gin and the citrus oil JJ rubbed from her thumbnail into a napkin because her hands wouldn’t stop fidgeting.

Rossi had picked the restaurant—dim lighting, brick walls, laughter from years of celebrations hanging in the rafters—and they were, for a few blessed minutes, just a table of people who loved each other. Spencer was telling a story with too many proper nouns. Garcia wore a dress that shimmered when she laughed. Morgan kept stealing fries like a man who had never paid for his own food. Hotch smiled with his eyes and pretended not to. It was easy. It felt like home.

And then Penelope said, “Soooo, Em—how is London?? How is your new apartment? How is your boyfriend!?” and the air changed.

Emily blinked. “My—how do you know about—”

“Please.” Garcia tapped her temple. “Do you think Interpol’s firewall scares me? Also, you used the same password you used when you were twenty-seven.”

Morgan leaned in, grin wide. “Hold up. Boyfriend?”

“Mark,” Garcia sing-songed, already thumbing her phone. “Capital-M Mark, who runs, like, charity 5Ks and has a dog with an Instagram!”

“His dog uses social media?” Spencer asked, faintly horrified.

“Of course he does,” Garcia said. “Look how cute—oh. Oooooh! that’s him. Okay, shoulders!”

On the lit rectangle of her phone was a bald, broad-shouldered man with good teeth and light, kind eyes, a strong arm around Emily at some fundraiser. Emily looked composed—shoulders neat in a tight but classy dress, smile polite, raven hair tucked behind one ear.

“Who is this Mark guy,” Morgan drawled, because of course he did.

“The someone I’m seeing,” Emily said, careful and even. “The boyfriend. My boyfriend.”

The words landed inside JJ like a penny in a well. She swallowed and tasted copper.

She hadn’t been ready for the part where it hurt to breathe in the same room as Emily again. She’d told herself she could do this. She’d told herself the divorce had already taken the worst from her. That this was a good pain, the kind that meant something was still alive.

She smiled. JJ knew how to smile. “He looks… nice.”

“He’s nice,” Emily said, and it was the kind of nice that meant: harmless. It was also the kind of nice that meant: don’t ask.

The table shifted back into chatter. JJ could feel Emily trying to catch her eye, and it was suddenly too much—too many years with words in her throat, too many nights thinking if she ever got another chance she’d be braver. It should have been a relief to know Henry was at a sleepover and Michael was with Will tonight, that she wouldn’t have to tiptoe when she got home. Instead, the freedom hummed under her skin like a fever.

When Emily asked, quietly, about Will, JJ heard herself huff, and immediately heard how ugly it sounded.

“Sorry,” she said, fast, shame burning her neck. “That wasn’t—I’m sorry.”

Emily’s face softened. “You don’t have to be sorry with me.”

JJ breathed out. “We’re… not together,” she said, and watched understanding ripple across Emily’s features like wind through grass.

“Oh,” Emily said. “Oh. I didn’t—JJ, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“I didn’t put it on Instagram,” JJ said, and it was so dry they both almost smiled. Her fingers worried at the small pendant at her throat, turning it once, twice. “We tried. I thought—” She shrugged. “I thought a second baby might fix the cracks. That’s not how babies work. We’re better as parents than we were as us. We’re okay. We co-parent. The boys are good.”

“I’m glad they’re good,” Emily said, because that was the star JJ had never stopped following.

“And you?” JJ asked, careful, already dreading the answer. “With this Mark guy. Is it… serious?”

Emily hesitated a fraction too long. “Yeah,” she said. “Yeah, I guess so.”

JJ didn’t catch the beat; jealousy was already under her ribs. Penelope was still scrolling through Mark’s Instagram, narrating in delighted bursts – his dog, his stupid muscles, another photo of him and Emily under city lights. JJ put on the professional nod, laughed at something Morgan said, kept her drink slow. She didn’t look at the phone again – she didn’t have to. She’d already memorized enough: Mark’s arm cinched at Emily’s waist. She held the smile and imagined unlatching that hand. Breaking his fingers. Snap. Crack. She refused to go to London in her head, or the dog, or the exact angle of Emily’s hip when she slid into the booth—how black slacks, and the woman in them, wiped out her attention span.

Later that night, chairs scraped back and coats found shoulders. Rossi caught the server’s eye, slipped his card into the check, and just like that, the evening drew to a close. They stepped out into the cool, damp air, the kind that smelled faintly of rain and city stone.

The goodnights came easy, practiced from years of repetition. There were hugs, teasing, the usual warmth that lingered after long nights together. But the extra attention gathered around Emily – their visitor again after so long. Garcia wrapped her up in a quick, fierce hug. “Coffee next week,” she said. “I’m stealing an hour off your calendar! And I won’t accept no for an answer, pussycat! ” Emily laughed and promised. Spencer was already rambling about the five-hour Napoléon restoration they had to see together. “You’re coming with me before you fly back,” he insisted, and Emily gave him that fond, half-resigned smile that counted as agreement. Morgan clapped her on the shoulder, Rossi pressed a kiss to her cheek, and Hotch’s quiet smile was blessing enough.

One by one, they drifted toward waiting cars until the curb fell silent again—only JJ and Emily left under the halo of the streetlamp, their breath fogging in the cool night air.

The city felt quieter now, mist hanging in the air, traffic a low hum in the distance.

“Where are you staying?” JJ asked, too quickly.

“Downtown,” Emily said. “Near Dupont. About thirty minutes out.”

JJ hesitated, then said it anyway. “My place is closer to here. If you want… you could come with me.”

Emily looked at her for a long moment, as if the right answer might be written somewhere on JJ’s lips. “Okay,” she said finally, voice low. “Yeah.”

-

JJ’s new apartment smelled faintly like fresh paint and the peppermint oil she put in the diffuser so it wouldn’t smell like fresh paint. The boxes were mostly gone. The toys were in bins close by the couch for the nights the boys were there. The fridge had too many condiments and not enough actual food. JJ gave the kind of tour that was mostly “bathroom’s down there” and “it’s not much, but,” and Emily said, “It’s yours,” like a benediction.

They ended up on opposite sides of the couch, as if distance could save them now. Framed photos lined one bookshelf, waiting for nails. Emily’s gaze caught on one in particular—JJ in a hospital bed, hair tangled and eyes wild with joy, Will an exhausted moon at her shoulder, Henry grinning like the world had just doubled. A nurse had taken it the day Michael was born. The perfect little family.

“Sorry I wasn’t there,” Emily said quietly.

JJ glanced at the photo, a small smile tugging at her mouth. “You were halfway across the world,” she said. “You couldn’t have been.”

“I wanted to be,” Emily said, the words coming out like a confession she didn’t expect to be forgiven for.

JJ’s smile faded, the weight of that honesty settling between them. For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Emily asked, softly, “Are you happy? Now?”

JJ’s laugh wasn’t kind to herself. “Yes, most days. But it’s… loud, sometimes, in my head. And sometimes it’s very quiet, which is—worse. The boys are my favorite thing I’ve ever done. But I miss—” She faltered. “Do you ever miss who you thought you’d be?”

“All the time,” Emily said, and JJ could see the years in her face, the ones they hadn’t gotten to share. London stamped into her posture. “But I’m glad you seem to be doing okay, despite the recent… challenges.”

“Thanks,” JJ said, and then—less brittle—“And… I’m glad you are happy.”

Emily held her eyes. “Yeah, very.” she said finally.

JJ’s mouth tipped. “You’re lying.”

“So are you.”

A half-beat, and then JJ nodded. “You first.”

Emily’s throat worked. “He’s good on paper,” she said. “He’s kind. He cares about things that matter. He makes plans. He learned how I drink my tea—because I like tea now—It should—” She shook her head. “I keep waiting to feel… finished. Like someone handed me the last piece. Mostly, I feel like I’m watching my own life from the doorway.”

JJ’s breath left in a shiver. “I feel like a failure some days,” she said. “Like I’m breaking my kids by not being able to be everything. And then Henry does that little frog jump down the hallway and I—” She smiled, helpless and real. “I know I made the right call. I just—there’s a shape missing. There has been for a long time.”

Her voice thinned to a wire. “When I heard you were coming back, I thought, maybe.” She swallowed. “And then Penelope says the word boyfriend and I—” She pressed a hand over her sternum. “I don’t understand why it feels like this sharp, stupid thing in my chest that refuses to go away. Why… the guy in London gets to call you his.”

Emily’s eyes closed like she recognized a song from the first two notes.

They had always spoken around it. The thing itself, careful as glass. Now it was on the couch between them like a third person.

“I am not a good person for this,” JJ said, almost laughing. “I don’t want to mess up your—whatever it is with him. I don’t. But I also cannot stand the idea that he’s the one who gets to—” She looked at Emily’s mouth. “Kiss you.”

The room went very, very still.

“Tell me to stop,” JJ said, quiet and certain, leaning in closer slow enough to count every breath. “I will. I will stop. But if you don’t, I am going to kiss you, and I am going to show you I’m a much better kisser than the British guy.”

“He’s from Manchester,” Emily said, dazed.

“Even worse,” JJ whispered, a single heartbeat from her lips. “Say no.”

Emily didn’t say anything.

The first brush was a tremor. The second was a promise. By the third—open, warm, a sound torn from both of them—JJ was sliding closer, one hand at the hinge of Emily’s jaw, the other fisting in the white cotton of her blouse like she’d been drowning for years.

It spilled fast after that because it had always been going to. Years of almost collapsed under the night’s gravity. Emily tasted like something mysterious and something home, and when JJ nipped at her bottom lip – Emily made a sound from the back of her throat that JJ knew she’d hunt in every room for the rest of her life.

“Are you sure?” JJ asked against her mouth. The question was a handrail.

“Yes,” Emily said, fierce. “Yes.”

JJ eased her back until Emily’s head met the armrest, hands never breaking contact. “Tell me again.”

“Yes,” Emily breathed, less articulate when JJ’s mouth found her throat. “Jennifer—God—yes.”

The blouse fought and then forgave. The zipper on the slacks whispered open. JJ’s hands were reverent and greedy both, mapping skin her imagination had colored in a hundred different ways. Emily was all heat and long muscle and the neat trim of hair where JJ’s palm rested over her, a low curse catching in JJ’s mouth.

“Please,” Emily said, breath hitching when JJ kissed the inside of her knee. “JJ, please.”

“I’ve got you,” JJ murmured, sliding down and flattening on her stomach between Emily’s thighs. One of Emily’s legs hooked over JJ’s shoulder like it had always belonged there, hauling her closer. JJ nosed against damp cotton, breathed her in, and the ground tipped under both of them.

JJ pressed her mouth to her through the fabric—meant to be gentle, testing—but Emily jerked and rolled up to meet it, a needy little grind that knocked the breath out of JJ. She let Emily chase once, twice, then yanked the panties down in an impatient drag, kissing the hollow of her hip as she went. Slick was already warm on JJ’s thumb; the soft circle she drew made Emily buck again, helpless, like her body had decided before her mind could.

“God, you’re—” JJ didn’t finish. She dropped her mouth and gave Emily the kind of kiss you couldn’t fake, firm over her clit until Emily’s hips came up sharp. Fingers scrabbled for purchase—cushion, JJ’s hair, anywhere—trying to keep herself tethered and failing. JJ breathed out and did it again, then parted her with her tongue, slow and filthy and intent. Emily couldn’t keep still; every time JJ sealed her mouth, Emily rolled up to meet it, greedier, and JJ let her, matching the rhythm until the slick, messy drag of it had both of them shaking.

“Easy,” JJ tried, voice wrecked against her. Emily didn’t—couldn’t. JJ braced, forearm firm across Emily’s thigh to steady her, and the restraint only made Emily push harder, chasing pressure. JJ laughed a breath into her, gave in, and rode the movement, tongue relentless, letting Emily grind against her mouth.

When JJ slid one finger into her—slow, deep, deliberate—Emily gasped and bucked around it like she’d been waiting for years. The hungry heat met her; JJ added a second, mouth never leaving Emily’s clit, her pace slipping into something rougher as Emily kept rolling up, asking for more without words.

“Look at me,” JJ said, and when Emily did— big brown eyes blown, mouth open, hair a haloed mess—JJ smiled against her. “Bet I’m better than Mark.”

Emily’s laugh broke on a moan. “Believe me,” she panted, still chasing JJ’s mouth, “you’re better than anyone.”

It went to JJ’s head like liquor. She sucked harder, ruthless and loving, the heel of her hand grinding against Emily with every thrust of her fingers. Emily came apart fast and then kept going, riding JJ’s mouth through it like her body had finally remembered its first language. When it hit, it hit everywhere— her back bowing, a hoarse sound torn free, leg locking around JJ’s shoulder so tight that the blonde swore she felt the bruise bloom and hoped it would last.

JJ rode her through it, easing only when Emily whimpered, softening the drag of her tongue, kissing her like something holy once, twice, before lifting her head.

Emily was boneless and beautiful and laughing in disbelief, one hand raking through JJ’s hair. “You’re ridiculous,” she said, dazed.

“You have no idea,” JJ said, climbing back up her body, licking into her mouth so Emily could taste herself, undoing buttons she’d missed, pushing the blouse off Emily’s shoulders and then—because fairness was a religion—pulling her own dress up and over her head in one quick, practiced motion.

“Jesus,” Emily said, sitting up enough to stare, to touch. JJ flushed; she had trained for a decade to be made of steel at work and was always a little undone by being looked at like this. Emily’s hands were reverent, thumbs fitting under the line of JJ’s ribs, palm curving over the slope of her breast. “You’re—God, JJ.”

“Just JJ,” she murmured with a grin, catching Emily when she tried to chase and easing her back down. The next kiss was deeper, all hunger and promise. JJ’s mouth trailed lower, finding the curve of Emily’s breast; she took a nipple between her lips, tongue circling until Emily’s breath caught and trembled. Her free hand stayed on the other, thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles, every movement measured against the sounds she drew out of her. When the shiver turned sharp, JJ softened, pressing a gentler kiss, smiling against her skin.

“Let me,” Emily said—sudden, fierce—and in one motion flipped them. It was almost clumsy, all urgency and heat, until JJ found herself beneath her, hair spilling across the cushions, thigh falling open. The look in Emily’s eyes wasn’t hunger so much as something purer, devotion sharpened to a point.

Emily kissed her once more, slow and open, before beginning her descent. Her mouth traced a path along JJ’s jaw, then down her throat; a kiss to the hollow between her collarbones, another at the faint scar that she lingered over, remembering without asking. She kept moving lower, lips and hands working in tandem—one palm cupping JJ’s breast, thumb circling lazily while her mouth trailed further down.

“Emily,” JJ said, a warning and a plea all at once.

“I know,” Emily murmured. “I know.”

Emily sank to her knees between JJ’s thighs, one hand reaching out behind to shove the coffee table back just far enough to give herself room. The sound of it scraping over the floor was quick, purposeful. Then she leaned in and kissed JJ like she’d waited too long to be polite about it.

JJ’s head tipped back against the couch, a broken sound slipping from her throat. Her fingers found Emily’s hair, tangling, not to guide but to hang on. Emily was slower than JJ had been—deliberate, intent—her mouth firm against JJ’s clit, the pace unhurried in that way that built pressure until JJ’s whole body drew tight, a line pulled through a needle’s eye.

When Emily finally slid a finger inside, JJ exhaled a laugh like she’d just been told a secret. Emily looked up, checked in without words, and when JJ rolled down onto her, greedy for more, she added another.

“There you go,” Emily murmured, voice rough. “That’s it.”

JJ’s fingers tightened in her hair. “God,” she gasped, the words slipping out before she could stop them, “I always hated thinking about you touching someone else.”

Welcome to my world; Emily thought.

Whatever she’d been about to say dissolved into thin air. She pressed in harder, tongue steady, fingers curling just right, and JJ’s whole body went taut beneath her. It built fast—shaky, uneven, like she was trying not to let go and couldn’t help it anyway. When it hit, it tore through her, a sharp, broken cry muffled behind her hand.

Emily didn’t stop right away—she eased her through it, gentling the movement until the tremors slowed.

For a moment, JJ stayed where she was, still catching her breath, fingers loose in Emily’s hair. Then Emily braced a hand on the couch and climbed up beside her, settling onto the cushions. JJ leaned into her instinctively, their bodies finding each other in the aftermath.

They ended up tangled together, JJ’s head on Emily’s shoulder, hair caught between their mouths, the couch suddenly, gloriously too small.

For a while, the only sounds were the imperfect hum of the refrigerator and the two of them learning how to breathe in the same rhythm again.

Eventually, Emily spoke into JJ’s hair. “This is… complicated.”

JJ let out a shaky breath, more exhale than sound. “That’s one way to put it.”

Some quiet minutes passed and neither of them moved- frozen in time. The room smelled like sweat and peppermint oil, the air too warm, too still. When JJ finally sat up straigher, Emily followed, their skin peeling apart in a way that felt louder than it should have.

They dressed in silence. Emily reached for her blouse on the floor, buttoning it wrong at first before fixing it with shaking hands. JJ pulled her dress back on, tried to smooth it, gave up. The sound of zippers and fabric filled the room.

“I should feel… worse than I do,” the brunette said quietly, fastening her last button. “About him. About us. About any of this.”

JJ swallowed, her throat raw.

Emily hesitated, then shook her head. “But not right now. Not yet.”

That hit harder than it should have. The younger woman looked down at her lap, her hands twisting the hem of her dress. “You’ll tell him?” she asked anyway, even though she already knew the answer.

Emily’s pause said everything. Then—“No. I won’t.”

The truth settled like a stone in JJ’s stomach. The image of Emily going back to him—his bed, his hands, his mouth—made her feel physically sick. She pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth to keep from saying something cruel.

“I hate that I’m jealous,” she said finally, voice small. “It’s ugly. It makes me feel sick. I don’t even have the right to be, but I am. The thought of you with him—” She broke off, shaking her head. “I can’t stand it.”

Emily’s shoulders dropped. “I’ve felt that way about you for years,” she said softly. “When you had Henry, when you got married… even when we’d talk on the phone and you’d sound happy. I’d tell myself that was enough. It never was.”

JJ’s eyes lifted, glassy and tired. “You really felt like this all that time?”

Emily gave a small, helpless laugh. “What do you think London was for?”

That landed somewhere between confession and apology. JJ sat back, spine against the couch, arms folded like she needed to keep herself from reaching out again. “So now what?”

Emily looked at her for a long time, then reached for her jacket. She slipped it on over her blouse, fingers fumbling with the zipper before giving up and smoothing the fabric instead. “I think I should go,” she said finally. Her voice was calm, but it wavered on the last word.

JJ nodded, though her throat ached with it. “Yeah. Probably.”

Emily hesitated, still standing in front of her. “You know I’m not going to stop thinking about this, right?” she said softly. “About you.”

JJ’s breath hitched, eyes flicking up to meet hers.

“I’ll go back,” Emily went on, quieter now, “and he’ll still be there, and I’ll do all the things I’m supposed to. But it won’t be the same. It never is, after this.” She smiled without humor. “You don’t really get away from something like that.”

JJ swallowed hard. “No,” she said. “You don’t.”

Emily leaned in, close enough that JJ could smell the faint trace of her perfume still clinging to her collar. She kissed JJ’s temple, soft and final, and pulled back before either of them could break.

Then she left. The door clicked shut, polite as a secret.

JJ stayed where she was, staring at the space Emily had just been. The apartment felt too still. The blanket on the couch still creased from where Emily’s body had pressed against it.

Jealousy curled low in her stomach, but it didn’t burn anymore—it throbbed. She pictured Emily back in London, his hands on her hips, her mind miles away, remembering this instead. Remembering JJ’s mouth, the sound she’d made when she came.