Leri ero quiete perché oggi sarò la tempesta

The courthouse bathroom smelled like antiseptic and cheap floral air freshener, the kind that never quite masked the underlying staleness. You adjusted the knot of your tie in the smudged mirror, pressing your lips together to smooth out the faded lipstick. A drop of water from the tap had splashed onto your sleeve—dark silk, unforgiving—and you dabbed at it with a scratchy paper towel, cursing under your breath. First day of the Reid trial, and you were already fighting a losing battle against your own nerves.

Outside, the hallway buzzed with lawyers, reporters, and the occasional FBI agent weaving through the crowd. You spotted her immediately,Emily Prentiss, all sharp angles and coiled energy, leaning against a pillar with a case file tucked under one arm. She was scanning the room with that practiced, detached look, the one that made witnesses squirm and suspects overthink. But when her gaze landed on you, it flickered, just for a heartbeat. A tiny, dangerous crack in the facade.

"Counselor," she said as you approached, voice low and even. Professional. Too professional. The way she said it made your stomach twist.

"Agent Prentiss," you replied, matching her tone, though your fingers twitched at your side. You wanted to reach out, to brush the invisible lint off her blazer, to let your knuckles graze hers in the pretrial huddle just to feel the spark of contact. Instead, you clenched your hand into a fist. "You ready for this?"

Emily’s mouth quirked. "Born ready." The corner of her lip twitched like she was fighting a smirk, and you knew exactly what she was thinking,last night, her knee between yours, her teeth at your collar, muttering the same words against your skin.

The courtroom doors swung open with a weighty groan, and the bailiff's voice cut through the murmuring crowd. "All rise." You didn't miss the way Emily's shoulder brushed yours as you both stood,too close for colleagues, not close enough for what you really were. The judge's bench loomed like a guillotine, and you forced your gaze away from Emily's profile, focusing instead on the empty witness stand. Reid was already seated at the defense table, his fingers drumming a nervous staccato against the wood. Cat Adams, smug in her prison jumpsuit, smirked from the prosecution's side like she'd already won.

Opening statements were a blur. You spoke crisply, methodically dismantling the prosecution's argument point by point, but your pulse roared in your ears every time Emily shifted in her seat behind you. You could feel her eyes on the back of your neck, tracking the way your fingers tightened around your pen when the DA implied Reid had a history of instability. A muscle in your jaw twitched. Emily cleared her throat—just once, deliberately—and you exhaled, loosening your grip.

During recess, JJ cornered you near the vending machines, her smile knowing. "You and Emily seem... in sync," she said, popping the tab on a Diet Coke. The can hissed like an accusation.

You shrugged, buying time by feeding dollar bills into the machine. "We’ve worked together before." The lie tasted stale.

JJ hummed, taking a sip. "Uh-huh. And the way she looks at you when you’re arguing? That’s just professional respect?"

The vending machine spat out a bottle of water with a thud. You caught it mid-air, gripping the plastic tighter than necessary. "Emily’s thorough," you said, aiming for casual and landing somewhere closer to defensive. "She pays attention to details. That’s her job."

JJ’s smirk deepened. "Right. And the way you two leaned into each other during the recess huddle? That’s just… strategizing?"

A laugh escaped you,nervous, too sharp. You twisted the cap off your water, buying time. The courtroom doors swung open again, and Garcia’s head popped out, her curls bouncing. "Five-minute warning, lovebirds—" She froze, eyes widening behind her glasses. "I mean. Colleagues. Professional associates. Completely platonic coworkers."

Emily appeared behind her, stepping smoothly into the hallway. Her expression was unreadable, but the way her fingers flexed at her sides gave her away. "We should head back in," she said, voice even.

Garcia mouthed ‘oh my god’ at JJ behind Emily’s back.

The afternoon session bled into evening, the fluorescent lights overhead humming like a jury of bees. You’d just torn apart the prosecution’s star witness,some forensic accountant who’d flinched when you leaned into his personal space,when Rossi caught your elbow in the hallway. His grip was firm, his voice a conspiratorial murmur. "You know, I’ve seen Emily bluff her way through interrogations with serial killers," he said, thumb brushing the fabric of your sleeve, "but I’ve never seen her blush until today."

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. "Must’ve been the coffee," you lied, nodding toward the courthouse vending machine. "It’s brutal."

Rossi chuckled, low and knowing. "Kid, I’ve been married three times. I know what it looks like when someone’s trying not to stare at their wife’s ass in a courtroom."

Across the hall, Emily was hunched over a case file with Morgan, her brow furrowed in a way that usually meant she was two steps ahead of everyone else. But when Morgan nudged her and nodded toward you, her pen stilled mid-sentence. The look she gave you—half warning, half hunger—sent a shiver down your spine.

The bailiff’s voice cut through the tension. "Court’s reconvening."

The gavel cracked like a gunshot, jolting you back to the present. The judge was speaking,something about inadmissible evidence,but your attention snagged on Emily’s fingers drumming against her thigh. Three taps, then a pause. Three taps again. Your secret rhythm, the one she’d used that morning when she slid your coffee across the kitchen counter, her wedding ring glinting in the sunlight. Three taps: I love you.

Morgan’s elbow nudged Emily’s ribs, and her hand stilled. She didn’t glance at you, but her shoulders tensed, the line of her jaw tightening like she was biting back a smile,or a curse. You focused on the legal pad in front of you, scribbling nonsense to steady yourself. The pen left angry indents in the paper.

"You’re killing them," Reid whispered suddenly from the defense table, his voice low with something like awe.

You blinked. "What?"

"The way you’re dismantling their case. It’s…" He hesitated, eyes darting to where Cat Adams was scowling at her desk. "It’s almost beautiful."

The judge called for a fifteen-minute recess after the prosecution’s forensic accountant stumbled through his testimony, his credibility in tatters. You gathered your files with deliberate slowness, avoiding the weight of Emily’s gaze burning a hole through the back of your suit jacket. The air in the courtroom was thick with tension,legal, personal, the kind that made your pulse thrum just beneath your skin.

You barely made it to the hallway before Morgan materialized at your elbow, his grin all teeth. "Counselor," he drawled, leaning against the wall with practiced casualness. "You ever consider a career in the BAU? We could use someone who eviscerates people that gracefully."

"Stick to recruiting actual FBI agents, Morgan," you muttered, but the corner of your mouth twitched.

Behind him, Garcia appeared like a hurricane in heels, clutching a tablet to her chest. "Oh, please, please tell me you’re as good at cross-examination in your personal life," she stage-whispered. "Because if so, Emily never stood a chance."

You choked on nothing. "I have no idea what you’re—"

"Garcia," Emily's voice cut through the hallway like a blade, smooth but edged with warning. She appeared behind Garcia, her posture impeccable, but her fingers flexed at her sides in that telltale way you knew meant she was two seconds from dragging you both out of here. Garcia squeaked and spun around, nearly dropping her tablet. "Why don’t you go check on Reid? He looked like he needed a caffeine boost."

Garcia saluted, her eyes dancing with mischief. "On it, boss. But just so you know, the betting pool’s already at—"

Emily’s glare could’ve melted steel. Garcia vanished before she could finish the sentence, Morgan following with a laugh and a knowing glance over his shoulder. The moment they were out of earshot, Emily exhaled sharply, rolling her shoulders like she was shaking off the weight of the day.

"You’re not subtle," she muttered, stepping closer, her voice low enough that only you could hear.

You raised an eyebrow, fighting the urge to reach for her. "Me? You’re the one who blushed when Rossi called you out."

The courthouse steps were slick with rain by the time the judge finally adjourned for the day, the neon glow of downtown D.C. reflecting in the puddles like scattered puzzle pieces. You lingered by the defense table, shuffling papers with deliberate slowness, watching from the corner of your eye as Emily exchanged hushed words with Morgan near the bailiff’s station. His laughter carried across the emptying courtroom, rich and knowing, and when he clapped her on the shoulder, Emily’s mouth twitched not quite a smile, but close enough to make your pulse skip.

"You coming?" Reid asked, shrugging into his coat with a tentative glance at Cat Adams being led out in cuffs. Her smirk had long since soured.

You hesitated, fingers drumming against your briefcase. "I should—"

"Save it," JJ interrupted, appearing at your elbow with Garcia in tow. "We’re all going to O’Malley’s. Even Hotch used to crack a smile there after a tough case." She paused, her gaze flicking to Emily, then back to you. "And before you argue, Emily already said yes."

Emily, now standing at the prosecution’s abandoned table, straightened abruptly as if she’d heard her name. Her eyebrows lifted in silent question, and you bit back a smile. So much for discretion.

The bar was dimly lit, the kind of place where the whiskey glasses left sticky rings on the wood and the jukebox played nothing newer than 1998. You slid into the booth beside Reid, who was already nursing a beer with the focus of a man trying to forget he'd spent the day being accused of murder. Emily sat across from you, her elbows propped on the table, fingers laced together like she was praying for patience. Morgan dropped into the seat next to her with a grin, nudging her shoulder. "Relax, Prentiss. We won."

"Not yet," Emily muttered, but her eyes flicked to yours, warm and private despite the crowded booth.

Garcia clapped her hands together, leaning forward. "Okay, but before we toast to Reid's impending acquittal—" Reid winced at the word acquittal— "we need to address the elephant in the room. Or should I say, the ring on someone's left hand?"

The table went silent. Emily froze, her thumb which had been absently tracing the edge of her wedding band still mid-motion. You exhaled slowly, pressing your knee against hers under the table. Three taps. ‘I love you.’

Rossi took a deliberate sip of his scotch. "I’ll put fifty on Vegas," he said, like he was discussing the weather. "Eloped after that case in ’13, am I right?"

Emily's fingers twitched, her wedding ring catching the dim bar light as she slowly lowered her hands to the table. The silence stretched like a live wire,Morgan grinning into his beer, Garcia practically vibrating with anticipation, JJ's knowing smirk widening,until Emily exhaled sharply through her nose. "Fine," she said, voice dry as parchment. "Vegas. 2014. Two AM after the Mendoza cartel sting."

Garcia shrieked so loudly the bartender dropped a glass.

You hid your smile behind your whiskey as Morgan choked on his drink. "Wait,you proposed?" he wheezed, pounding his chest.

Emily's smirk was all teeth. "She cried during the Elvis impersonator's vows."

The bar erupted in chaos,Morgan nearly upended the table lunging to clap Emily on the back, Garcia was halfway out of her seat squealing something about wedding photos, and Rossi just nodded sagely like he’d known all along (which, given the smug tilt of his eyebrows, he probably had). Reid blinked owlishly between you and Emily, his beer forgotten. "Huh," he said finally, pushing his glasses up his nose. "That explains why you quoted Marriage Story during the Rodriguez deposition."

Emily's cheeks flushed the faintest pink, but she held her ground, fingers tightening around her whiskey glass. "It was relevant to the—"

"Oh my god," Garcia interrupted, slamming her hands on the table. "You have a house together, don’t you? With like, shared towels and a coffee maker that says ‘hers’ and ‘hers’—"

You snorted into your drink. "It says ‘yours’ and ‘also yours’ because Emily broke the first one trying to reprogram it in Spanish."

Emily kicked you under the table—not hard, just enough to make you smirk—but Garcia was already gasping like she’d been personally handed a conspiracy theory. "You live together?!"

“We're married,” Emily said in exasperation.

The table erupted into overlapping questions,Garcia demanding to know why she hadn’t been invited to the wedding, Morgan ribbing Emily about her taste in rings, Rossi already flagging down the bartender for celebratory shots but Emily’s gaze never left yours. Her foot pressed against yours under the table, a silent anchor in the storm of their excitement. "Told you we should’ve gone with separate cars," she muttered, just loud enough for you to hear over Garcia’s dramatics.

You grinned, swirling your whiskey. "And miss this? I live for the theatrics."