ScorpSik

She had spent hours standing in front of the closet before finally getting dressed, and then she'd spent almost as long convincing you to come with her. You'd resisted for days, insisting you had no interest in going to another crowded college party, but Claire had refused to let it go. So tonight you eventually gave in.

“Josh is waiting for us in the kitchen.”

Claire turns right, weaving effortlessly through the crowd until you end up in an packed kitchen. There are so many people crammed around the counters that you can't even tell where the stove is supposed to be.

The walls are covered in faded red wallpaper with tiny blue flowers running along the border near the ceiling. The kitchen cabinets are white, matte once, now stained and grimy. Something sticky is dripping down the cupboard doors, and you wrinkle your nose in disgust. Why the hell did you agree to come?

“There you are!” Josh greets the two of you, who has officially become Claire’s boyfriend by now.

It had taken a month of dates, long conversations, and late-night visits before the two of them had finally admitted what everyone else had already seen coming. You never questioned Claire’s change of heart, and once you got to know Josh, you couldn’t think of a single reason they shouldn’t be together. He’s a gentleman through and through, even if he is not a dessert person.

“Hey.” Josh pulls you into a quick side hug before wrapping an arm around Claire’s waist again. “You look beautiful.”

His gaze lingers appreciatively on the beige dress Claire is wearing. The fifth one she had tried on that afternoon after declaring that absolutely nothing in her own closet felt right. Your bedroom had looked as though a tornado had passed through it by the time she finally disappeared into the bathroom to change, leaving half your wardrobe scattered across the bed.

You had started folding everything back into place while she was gone, grateful for something to do with your hands, then she had opened your closet again.

“Wait…” Claire had paused, one hand still inside your closet. “Isn’t this Emily’s jacket?”

Your stomach had dropped. For weeks, you had managed not to think too hard about where you had hung it. It had disappeared behind your heavier winter coats almost on its own, just far enough out of sight that Claire had never noticed it. Until now.

“Why do you still have it?”

You had looked at the jacket for a heartbeat longer than necessary before forcing yourself to answer.

“We forgot about it that evening,” you had said, hating how quickly the explanation left your mouth. “She was already in the car by the time we realized, and she said she wasn’t cold anyway.”

Claire had continued looking at you.

“Then she flew back to Quantico the next morning.” You had shrugged, hoping it looked casual. “We just… haven’t seen each other since. You know that.”

Claire had accepted it with little more than a nod before reaching for another dress, her attention already somewhere else. The conversation had ended there. Yours with yourself hadn’t. You could have mailed the jacket. You could have texted Emily. Instead, it remained tucked away behind your winter coats, exactly where you had left it.

“Your drinks.” Josh pulls you from your thoughts, holding out two red plastic cups filled almost to the brim with a clear liquid.

As you take yours, a little sloshes over the rim onto your fingers. You absentmindedly lick it away. Vodka. Definitely vodka. And you hadn’t planned on drinking anything strong tonight.

“Come on,” Claire urges, already nodding toward the doorway. “Let's head into the living room. Abigail and everyone else should already be here.”

You follow the two of them, your heartbeat just a little faster than it should be. You know exactly who is here tonight. More importantly, you know why Claire had insisted you come. She still hasn’t given up. Somewhere in the back of her mind, the hope that Isabelle might finally pull you out of your shell is very much alive.

After dinner at the restaurant, your paths had crossed a handful of times around campus. Never planned, always unexpected. Isabelle never seemed disappointed by the coincidence. Quite the opposite. She had invited you for coffee, flirted with an ease that left you blushing more often than you cared to admit, brushed your shoulder whenever the opportunity presented itself, and somehow every goodbye ended with another hug that lingered just a heartbeat longer than necessary.

Under different circumstances, you probably would have given her a chance. A few weeks ago, you might have. Before late-night conversations that refused to leave your thoughts. Before a woman with gray streaks in her hair and warm brown eyes had begun occupying your mind with a persistence that bordered on unfair.

Emily never asked for that space. Somehow, she had simply filled it without ever trying, until there was hardly room left for anyone else.

Abigail, Melinda and Isabelle are standing beside an oversized speaker system, the bass rolling through the room in heavy waves that seem to settle beneath your ribs. By the time you reach them, your skin is already covered in goosebumps. Every instinct tells you to turn around before anyone notices you’ve arrived, to disappear before Claire can wave you over, before Isabelle smiles at you the way she always does. Too late.

It doesn’t take long for her eyes to find you, drifting slowly over your outfit before a smile spreads across her face. You return it automatically, even when your heart is not in it. You do it because kindness has always come easier to you than disappointing people.

When Isabelle steps closer and opens her arms, you wrap yours around her without thinking.

“It’s good to see you,” she murmurs near your ear. Her hands rest lightly against your back, warm even through the fabric of your shirt.

Your smile falters almost imperceptibly. “You too.”

Saying the words is easy enough. Believing them is something else entirely.

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Claire watching the two of you with unmistakable curiosity, just as she has every single time you've interacted with Isabelle. You roll your eyes, earning a childish grin and a stuck-out tongue in return before Claire finally turns her attention back to Abigail and Josh. Melinda, meanwhile, is deep in conversation with a guy you've never seen before.

“We haven't seen each other in a while,” Isabelle admits, leaning back against the wall as she studies you with an intensity that makes it difficult to look away. “After everything that happened... I wasn't really sure when the right time would be to ask you properly out.”

You hadn’t expected her to be this direct tonight. You search for the right words, but they refuse to come. Her blue eyes remain on yours, patient and open, and when you open your mouth only to close it again, she gently wraps her fingers around your wrist.

“It’s okay,” she says softly. “If you still need time. Claire told me you hardly left your dorm after the mall.”

The mention of Claire makes something tighten inside you. Not because she told Isabelle, but because you know exactly why she did. Claire had been worried. She had noticed the things you had tried so carefully to hide, and somehow that feels both comforting and frustrating at the same time.

You bite down on the inside of your cheek until it hurts, forcing a small smile onto your face despite the uneasiness settling in your chest. Your heartbeat quickens, and your fingers tighten slightly around the cup in your hand.

“It’s just been… a lot,” you admit quietly.

The explanation sounds small the second it leaves your mouth, like it could never fully capture everything that has happened. The fear, the exhaustion, the way the world has felt slightly unfamiliar since that day.

You take a small step backward, more out of instinct than intention.

“The semester never really slows down,” you continue, looking away. “As soon as one set of exams is over, the next one starts.”

“I get that.” Isabelle leans back without hesitation, giving you the space you had so obviously asked for.

There is something about Isabelle that makes everything feel easier than you expect it to. She remembers things without ever making you feel like she is keeping track. Small details that most people would lose somewhere between one conversation and the next simply stay with her. She knows which coffee you hate, which professor you complain about the most, which corner of the library you disappear to whenever you need to finish an assignment. None of it feels intentional or like she is trying to prove that she cares. She just does, maybe that is exactly what makes it so noticeable.

By the time the two of you drift into the kitchen together, listening to her complain about one of your professors while the party continues around you, you realize that you are actually enjoying yourself.

You are not doing it for Claire anymore. You are not trying to convince yourself that this is what you are supposed to want. Somewhere along the way, you simply started enjoying Isabelle’s company.

“You know,” Isabelle starts, shaking her head as she glances toward the crowded living room, “I'm still convinced Professor Reynolds genuinely enjoys making students suffer. I don't know how someone can lecture for ninety minutes and somehow make it feel like three hours.”

You smile into your drink. “That might be a slight exaggeration.”

“Have you ever actually sat through one of his lectures?”

“Unfortunately yes.”

“Then you know I'm right.”

You laugh, and the expression on Isabelle’s face changes slightly, like she enjoys hearing you laugh. It should be nothing more than that. Just a moment at a party. A conversation between two people who have been slowly getting to know each other over the past few weeks.

That is what makes it so frustrating, because Isabelle is exactly the kind of person Claire probably hoped you would meet. Someone from campus who understands your world. Someone who does not look at you like you are fragile after everything that happened and simply sees you as you are. That should be enough. You know it. And for a while, it almost is.

Until your mind slips somewhere it has no reason to go.

It happens so naturally that you barely notice it at first. Isabelle is still talking and smiling, telling you some story about a classmate who somehow managed to submit an assignment three weeks late and convince the professor it had been intentional. But your thoughts have already wandered away from the party. Away from the noise and the people and the version of yourself you are trying to return to.

They drift back to a coffee shop near campus. To a quiet conversation between the scent of roasted coffee beans and a warm jacket that was not yours. Emily sitting across from you, revealing small pieces of herself without ever making it feel as though she was offering something she could not take back.

You hate that she is still in your thoughts. A month has passed since that night, and you have not written to her once. Her number is still saved in your phone exactly as she gave it to you. Her jacket is still hanging in your closet, carefully tucked behind your jackets, like a reminder you keep avoiding.

“You disappeared.” Isabelle’s voice pulls you back, and you realize she has stopped talking.

You blink guiltily. “Sorry, what?”

“You do that sometimes. You’re here, but then suddenly you’re somewhere else.” The comment feels a little too accurate coming from someone who barely knows you.

“I’m just tired,” you reply, sidestepping the truth.

Isabelle looks at you intently but doesn’t push. Instead, she tilts her head slightly. “It’s okay after everything you’ve been through.”

There is something comforting about the way Isabelle accepts your silence. She does not mistake it for rejection, nor does she treat it like a puzzle waiting to be solved. She lets it exist between you, giving it room to breathe until it no longer feels quite so heavy.

Her hand rises almost absentmindedly, catching the loose strand of hair that has escaped once again. The back of her fingers brushes your cheek before she tucks it behind your ear, the warmth of her touch lingering long after her hand has fallen away, as though your skin has not yet realized she is no longer there.

You wait for the familiar rush that should follow. For the way your heartbeat usually betrays you, for that quiet flutter somewhere beneath your ribs, for your thoughts to settle on the person standing in front of you. They don’t. Before you can understand why, Emily returns.

Emily’s hands wrapped around a coffee cup while she quietly asked if you were okay. The steady warmth of her arms around you, grounding not only your body but the chaos you had carried inside your head.

The comparison feels unfair, especially because Isabelle has done nothing wrong. She has been kind. Patient. She has seen you as something other than someone who needs to be careful with every step. She has made an effort to know you, and somehow that almost makes it worse.

A voice calls Isabelle’s name from across the room, interrupting the moment before it can become something either of you has to acknowledge.

She glances over her shoulder before looking back at you. “Sorry. I’ll be right back.”

You nod, watching her disappear into the crowd, and somehow the room feels louder than it did only moments ago. The music, the voices, the movement of people around you. Everything seems to exist somewhere far away.

You are standing in the middle of a party, surrounded by people, yet some part of you feels like you are waiting for someone else to arrive. Or maybe for a version of yourself you are no longer sure how to find.

Not knowing what else to do, you slip outside onto the porch. You are certain of only one thing. You need the cold. You need something real enough to pull you back.

You lean against the railing and look out across the dark campus grounds, letting the quiet settle around you. Behind the glass door, the party continues without you. The music has softened into a distant pulse beneath the conversations and laughter inside.

Someone passes by the window. Someone laughs loudly enough that the sound reaches you even out here. And for a moment, you feel as though you are watching your own life from a distance.

Like you are close enough to belong, yet somehow still standing just outside of it. You hate that feeling, especially because you had tried so hard tonight. You had gotten dressed. You had left your room. You had come because Claire wanted you here, because she had looked at you with that familiar expression that meant she was worried while trying her best not to let it show.

You had told yourself that it was time to stop letting one terrible day define every day that came after it. And for a while, you had. Then Isabelle had brushed your hair back behind your ear, and somehow your mind had gone straight to Emily.

You close your eyes, knowing it is ridiculous. You barely know Emily. That is what you keep telling yourself. And yet, you cannot stop thinking about her. A month has passed since she sat across from you and talked about things she probably does not usually share with strangers. A month since she gave you her jacket and her number. You had told yourself you would text her; you had a reason. The jacket. A completely normal reason.

But every time you had opened her contact, the message had felt wrong. Too simple. Too careful. As though the words on the screen could never possibly carry everything you had left unsaid.

You pull your phone out now before you can overthink it again. Her name is still in your contacts. Emily Prentiss. You stare at her contact for a while.

The last time you had seen her, she had stood outside your building beneath the streetlights, looking at you with that calm expression that made it impossible to pretend you were fine when you were not. She had given you a way to reach her without making it feel like you were asking for something.

And you had done nothing. The thought had crossed your mind more times than you wanted to admit, but every time you opened her contact, you remembered the way she had looked at you, the things she had trusted you with, and suddenly a simple message felt like it carried the weight of everything you had left unsaid.

Your thumb moves before you decide what you want to say.

Hi.

You look at the word, shake your head, and delete the message. You try again.

I hope you’re doing well.

You delete that too. It sounds too formal and way too distant. Like you are writing to someone you barely know instead of someone whose voice you can still remember.

A small breath leaves you as you look at the empty message field.

“This is ridiculous,” you whisper.

Because it is. It is just a text. Except it is Emily you are trying to text. The woman who had sat across from you in that coffee shop and somehow made it feel safe to say things you usually kept buried. The woman whose jacket has been hanging in your closet for a month.

Your fingers move again, and this time, you do not let yourself think too much.

I think I finally owe you your jacket.

You stare at the sentence for a moment longer. You can pretend this message is only about the jacket, but deep down you know it is not the real reason. You want to talk to her, because she will understand.

You press send before you can change your mind. It is a perfectly normal thing to write. You are returning a jacket, that is all. There is nothing unusual about sending a message when you still have something that belongs to someone else.

The reply comes before you have enough time to regret sending it.

Hey stranger. I was wondering when you’d mention my jacket.

A smile pulls at your mouth despite yourself. It is such an Emily answer, dry enough to sound like a joke, but warm enough that you can hear the amusement behind it. You can picture the expression on her face while she is typing it, that small shift in her features whenever something genuinely entertains her, even if she refuses to make a big deal out of it.

You type back before you can overthink whether you should.

You were?

Her answer takes only a moment.

It has been a month.

You look at the screen longer than necessary because you realize that is the thing you keep forgetting. Emily notices everything. She noticed the way you avoided talking about being alone after the mall. She noticed the hesitation behind your answers. She noticed that you needed someone to ask a second time when everyone else accepted the first answer.

I was busy.

It is the easiest explanation, but it is also the weakest one. The small pause before her next message feels like she is deciding whether to call you out on it or not.

I’m sure you were.

You cannot help the laugh that escapes you. There is no accusation in her words, but there is also no pressure. Just Emily being Emily, managing to tease you without making you feel judged.

That sounds like you don’t believe me.

This time, she takes longer. Long enough that you find yourself staring out over the empty campus instead of at your phone, listening to the faint sound of music behind the door and feeling strangely caught between two places. The party you had stepped away from and the conversation you had been avoiding for weeks.

Then her answer appears.

I believe you.

You expect that to be it. It would have been enough. But after a few seconds, another message follows.

And we had some conversations. I also know you.

Her words are simple, almost casual. If you are being honest, you have a feeling there is a deeper meaning behind them. She does not make people feel known by throwing around comforting words. She does it by paying attention and remembering. By seeing the things most people miss.

Before you can find a response that does not sound as vulnerable as you suddenly feel, another message appears.

Are you okay?

Your thumb rests against the screen, and you know the right answer. The answer that avoids the truth. The easy way out of this conversation: Yes. Of course.

It is the one you have given everyone since the mall. The one that keeps conversations easy. The one that lets people move on without worrying. With Emily, those words feel different. She would know you were lying. She would hear the hesitation behind them, notice everything you were trying not to say.

Your phone starts ringing before you decide what to write. For a second, you simply stare at the name on the screen.

Emily Prentiss.

A text had been safe. It gave you time to choose how much of yourself you wanted to reveal. It allowed you to rewrite, soften, delete, and pretend that the reason you reached out really was just the jacket. A phone call offers none of those small escapes. With shaking hands, you answer the phone.

“Hi, Emily.”

The noise from the party fades into the background as you hear her breathe on the other end of the line. She does not rush to fill the silence, and you realize she is giving you the same thing she always seems to give people. Space.

“Hi, Y/N. I’m guessing the jacket isn’t the only thing on your mind.”

It is almost frustrating how easily she does that. How she can ask a simple question and somehow make every carefully prepared answer feel impossible to use.

Yeah, you could tell her it was. You could even make a joke about it. You could say that you really had just remembered the jacket after a month and that she should be grateful you had not forgotten it completely. It would probably even make her smile.

But you know Emily well enough by now to recognize that she would hear the hesitation in your voice long before you could hide it behind a joke.

“I knew you’d figure that out.”

There is something comforting about the way the sound of her voice settles something inside you. The last few weeks, the distance between your conversations, all the moments where you wondered if you had waited too long to reach out, suddenly feel much smaller than you expected them to.

You had spent so much time imagining how awkward it would be. Whether she would notice the silence between you. Whether too much time had passed for things to feel natural again. Whether one simple message could somehow turn everything into something heavier than it needed to be.

But now she is there, on the other end of the phone, talking to you as if the conversation never truly ended. As if the weeks between then and now were only a pause, not a distance.

And maybe that is what you needed to remember. Some connections do not disappear simply because life becomes complicated.

“You’re outside.”

The cold has started to settle into your clothes, but somehow you still do not feel ready to go back inside. The quiet of the evening feels easier than the noise waiting behind the door. “How do you know that?”

“It’s quiet,” Emily replies. “And you sound different.”

A small smile touches your lips. “That is a very Emily answer.”

You can picture her on the other end of the phone. The slight tilt of her head. The way one corner of her mouth probably lifts before she decides whether she wants to admit she finds something amusing.

“I’m not sure if that was meant as a compliment.”

“It was.”

The pause that follows is comfortable. Emily has always been good at that. She never rushes to fill every quiet moment, never mistakes silence for something that needs to be fixed. She simply lets it exist. Still, she knows when there is something left unsaid.

“So why are you outside?”

Your eyes drift toward the door behind you, toward the warm light spilling through the glass and the shadows of people moving inside. The easiest answer would be the truth. “I just needed some air.”

Emily hums softly, not quite accepting the answer and not challenging it either. “During a party?”

The question makes you pause. How does she know you are at a party?

You straighten slightly. “How do you know I’m at a party?”

“She sent you a picture from the party?”

“Yes.”

You glance down at your phone again, even though there is no new message waiting for you. “I didn’t even know she took one.”

“I don’t think she meant anything by it,” Emily says. “Claire is just like that. She captures things when she is happy. Little moments she wants to remember.”

You smile faintly because that sounds exactly like Claire.

“She sent it to me earlier,” Emily continues. “You were in the background.”

Your brows pull together slightly. “I was?”

“Yes.”

There is something oddly comforting about knowing Emily had seen a small piece of your evening without you even realizing it. Not the version of you who sat across from her at the coffee shop, carefully choosing every word. Not the version who admitted things you usually keep buried. Just you, somewhere between conversations and laughter, surrounded by people.

“You looked like you were having a good time.”

The words settle deeper than you expect.

“I was,” you admit quietly.

“I’m glad.”

A quiet pause follows.

Then Emily adds, almost casually, “Isabelle was standing next to you.”

Out of everyone at the party, out of every detail in a picture Claire probably sent without thinking twice, Emily noticed Isabelle standing beside you.

Your mind drifts back to the restaurant. The way Isabelle smiled when she spotted you. The quiet satisfaction on Claire’s face as she watched the two of you talk, convinced she had finally found someone who fit naturally into your life.

Emily had seen it too. Faces, glances, the invisible threads between people. Things that slip past everyone else seem to settle effortlessly into her memory. Because noticing people is simply who she is.

“She looked happy to see you,” Emily says.

Her voice remains calm, almost casual, but you know her well enough now to hear the small effort behind the words.

You swallow, suddenly unsure why this feels so difficult to explain. “I guess she was. She’s been around on campus too. We’ve talked a few times.”

Emily does not interrupt. She lets you find your own way through the explanation, even when she probably already understands more than you have said.

“She’s nice,” you admit after a moment. “She’s easy to talk to.”

Your gaze drifts back toward the window, toward the warm lights inside and the people moving behind the glass. Isabelle is somewhere in there. Claire is probably still convinced she has successfully created the perfect situation.

You are not entirely sure why you are explaining this to Emily. The truth is, she already knows enough to understand what is happening, yet some part of you still needs her to know that this is not what it looks like.

“She really likes you.”

Emily’s words catch you off guard. Somewhere deep down, you have known for a while that she is probably right. Hearing someone else say it out loud is something else entirely. Especially if it’s Emily.

“You think?”

Emily does not hesitate. “Yes.”

There is no teasing in her voice. No attempt to make you see something you do not want to see. Just a simple observation, delivered with the same confidence she uses when she explains a case.

“She was attentive toward you at the restaurant. She remembered things about you. She kept finding reasons to stay close to you tonight.”

You look down at the floor, because Emily is right, and somehow that makes everything more complicated.

You swallow, your chest tightening at what she has just said. You let her words settle, turning them over in your mind, and once again you cannot shake the feeling that saying them cost her more than she wants you to know.

“You always know what to say, don’t you?”

A faint hint of amusement slips into Emily’s voice. “It’s part of the job.”

“That sounds exhausting.”

“It can be.”

The simplicity of her answer catches you. There is no carefully chosen explanation behind it, no attempt to turn it into something lighter. Just the truth.

Her voice softens when she notices the silence that follows. “So why are you really outside?”

You open your mouth, ready to repeat the same answer you already gave her. I needed some air. You know she caught you lying.

You look back through the glass door. Inside, the party continues without you. The music, the laughter, the people you had convinced yourself you were supposed to be enjoying. And Isabelle.

“I don’t know.”

Emily does not rush to fill the silence. You appreciate that more than you can explain.

“I think…” You stop, searching for the right words. “I think I just needed a minute.”

“A minute from the party?”

You hesitate. “No.”

The word leaves your lips before you have the chance to soften it. Only then do you realize how much of yourself you have just given away. Your fingers tighten slightly around your phone. “From her.”

“From Isabelle?” she prompts softly after the silence has stretched between you.

“She wasn’t doing anything wrong,” you add quickly. “That’s the thing. She was nice. Actually, really nice. I wasn’t thinking about the mall anymore.”

You try to push the feeling aside, focusing on the cold wrapping itself around you, on the conversations drifting across the yard, on the music pulsing through the house behind you.

Eventually, you add quietly, “And I think that made it harder.”

“What about it felt difficult?”

“I don’t know.” Emily waits, and you let out a small breath, frustrated with yourself.

“She is interested in me,” you finally admit. “And I think a part of me should be happy about that. Because she’s kind. She’s funny. She makes me feel comfortable. Like Claire said, we would fit perfectly.”

You pause, the words becoming harder the more you try to explain them. “And that’s supposed to be a good thing.”

“It is.” Emily’s voice is gentle.

You swallow. “I know.”

“But?”

You close your eyes. You should have known she would hear it anyway. The one word you never said. You lean back against the railing, looking up at the dark sky above the campus. Your thoughts drift back to the night you spent with Emily, standing like this beneath the stars.

“But it didn’t feel the way I thought it would.”

The confession settles between you, and for a moment, you are afraid you have said too much. You are afraid Emily understands exactly what you really mean. Maybe she has known all along.

“What did it feel like?”

You think about Isabelle standing too close while she talked to you, the way she smiled when she saw you again, the way Claire had looked between the two of you with obvious satisfaction.

It should have been easy. Normal. But then you think about Emily again. About the coffee shop. Her jacket hanging in your closet. About the way she had held you outside the restaurant, not because she had to, but because you had needed it.

“It felt wrong.” The words leave you before you can stop them, and you immediately regret how they sound. “Not wrong because of her,” you clarify quickly. “I don’t mean that. She didn’t do anything.”

“I’m not hearing you blame her.”

You blink. “I’m not?”

There is the smallest hint of warmth in Emily’s voice. “No. You’re saying something about the situation didn’t fit.”

You lean back against the railing, staring out into the darkness beyond the porch. “Yeah,” you whisper after a moment. “I think that’s exactly it.”

Emily doesn’t say anything right away. She lets the silence linger, giving you the space to find the rest on your own.

“She was kind,” you continue quietly. “She made me laugh. I liked talking to her. But the whole time…” You shake your head. “It felt like I was trying to convince myself that it should be enough.”

“She likes me,” you whisper.

“I think she does,” Emily answers gently.

“I don’t know why that doesn’t make me feel relieved.”

“Maybe because being liked by someone and wanting something from someone are two different things.”

Your breath catches slightly. “I think I wanted to want it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think I wanted it to be easy.” And there it is. The truth you have been avoiding, because Isabelle would have been easy. She was close. She was kind.

She liked you without needing anything complicated from you. She did not know the worst parts of your thoughts and had not seen you at your most vulnerable. She did not carry the memory of holding you together when you were convinced you were falling apart.

Emily did, and that was the problem. You do not say her name, you do not have to. There is already a quiet understanding on the other end of the phone that makes you wonder if Emily has already heard everything you left unsaid.

The wind drifts around you, filling the quiet that settles between your words. On the other end of the line, all you hear is Emily’s steady breathing. Somewhere deep down, you had hoped she would have an answer. A few simple words capable of putting everything back into place, but she lets you sit with it.  She never tries to take a feeling away from you just because it is uncomfortable.

“You have a habit of choosing what you think you should feel,” she says after a while.

Your eyebrows draw together slightly. “That sounds very specific.”

“It is.”

“Are you profiling me?”

“No.” The pause that follows is just long enough. “Maybe a little.”

You laugh softly, recognizing the feeling blooming inside you. It is easy with her. You do not have to think about choosing the right words. The kind of easy that does not make you feel like you are trying to perform a version of yourself someone else would like.

Now you know what has been different all evening. Isabelle made you feel noticed while Emily makes you feel known. The distinction should not matter as much as it does.

“You’re thinking again.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“With you?” A quiet amusement enters her voice. “Usually it means you’re about to convince yourself of something that isn’t true.”

“Is that another profiler observation?”

“No.” Another pause. “It’s an Emily observation.”

The warmth that moves through you at those words is instant and frustratingly impossible to ignore. Emily does not have to try. She does not have to flirt. She does not have to make you feel special. She does not even have to stand close enough that you notice the warmth of her presence or remember the feeling of her hand against your back. She simply exists, and somehow that has always been enough.

“You know,” you confess quietly, “most people would probably tell me to go back inside.”

“Most people are probably right.”

You laugh. “But you’re not going to. Right?”

“No.” The answer comes so naturally that you stop for a moment.

“Why?”

Emily’s voice remains gentle. “Because I don’t think you texted me because you needed someone to tell you to go back inside.”

The words settle somewhere deeper than you expect. You look down at your phone, at the conversation that started with a simple sentence you had rewritten five times before finally pressing send.  “Then why did I text you?”

The silence returns, carrying a different weight now. It no longer feels empty. It feels full of everything neither of you has said.

“You know,” Emily says softly, “I don’t think the jacket was ever the reason you reached out.”

You swallow. “I kept telling myself it was because of the jacket.”

“I know.” The answer is so calm that you almost laugh.

“You knew?”

“I suspected.” There is a small pause. “Y/N, you had a month to send me a message about a jacket. You had my number. You knew where to find me.”

Your cheeks warm, because somehow that makes it even worse.

“And yet you waited until tonight.”

You open your mouth, but no explanation comes, because she is right.

“The jacket was just the reason you allowed yourself to press send.”

“That is unbelievably embarrassing,” you whisper into the phone, running a hand through your hair.

“Why?” Emily’s question is gentle, not teasing.

“Because you knew something was different.”

“Y/N.” Her voice is warm now, carrying that familiar patience you have come to rely on. “You’re not nearly as impossible to read as you believe you are.”

A quiet groan escapes you. “That might be the least comforting thing you’ve ever said to me.”

This time, Emily laughs openly. The sound wraps around you so effortlessly that, for a little while, the party disappears. So does the cold. Even Isabelle slips quietly into the background, until all that remains is Emily’s voice in your ear.

“I think…” You hesitate, fingers tightening slightly around your phone. “I convinced myself you hadn’t noticed that something had changed since we last saw each other.”

The laughter on the other end of the line fades into a softer silence. “I think I did notice,” Emily admits eventually. Her voice is careful, as though she is choosing each word before letting it reach you.

Your breath catches slightly. “You did?”

The question comes out quieter than you intended, because you had prepared yourself for Emily not knowing. For the possibility that the entire weight of that evening had existed only on your side.

Emily is quiet for a moment, and you wonder if you asked too much. “I did at the coffee shop, yes,” she clarifies softly.

The memory returns before you can stop it. The quiet corner table. The warmth of the coffee between your hands. The conversation that had gone somewhere neither of you had expected.

“I noticed something was different,” Emily adds.

Your fingers tighten around your phone, suddenly aware of how much you want to know what she means. The question feels too important to rush, too fragile to hide behind a joke. “What do you mean with different?”

There is a pause. Not an uncomfortable one. More like Emily is looking back at that evening herself, trying to find the right way to describe something that had never been simple enough for a single word.

“I don’t know if I could have explained it then,” she admits. “There was just something about that evening that stayed with me.”

You close your eyes for a second, that is not the answer you expected. You had spent a month convincing yourself that you were the only one who carried that evening with you. That the reason you could not send a simple message was because you had somehow made something ordinary into something far bigger than it had ever been. And now Emily is quietly telling you that maybe you were not alone in remembering it.

Emily Prentiss, who always seems so composed, so certain, admitting that there had been something she could not immediately understand.

“I just knew something about it mattered,” Emily adds softly.

The words settle somewhere deeper than you are prepared for. For weeks, you had carried the weight of that evening alone. You had convinced yourself that you were the only one who remembered the warmth of that conversation, the quiet understanding between two people who had barely known each other. Hearing that it had stayed with her too makes something inside you loosen, even if only slightly.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

“For what?”

“For not writing.”

Emily’s response comes without hesitation. “You don’t have to apologize for that.”

“But I wanted to.”

You can hear the faint sounds of the party behind you, but they seem far away now. Like you are standing somewhere separate from the rest of the world, somewhere where there is only her voice and the things you have both avoided saying.

“I missed talking to you.” The moment the words leave your mouth, you wish you could take them back. They are too honest to be spoken.

The line falls silent, and you can hear your pulse in your ears until Emily says your name. “Y/N”

“What?” The word comes out sharper than you intended. Fear is doing the talking now.

“I’m glad you texted.” It is a simple sentence. A kind sentence. The sort of thing Emily would say to anyone who reached out after a difficult time. Except something in her voice tells you this is not just reassurance offered out of kindness. She means it.

“Me too.” Your tongue feels strangely heavy as the words leave your mouth, but they are worth it.

Because you can hear the smile in Emily’s voice. “So… about the jacket.”

Emily decides to change the subject, giving you time to breathe again. You are grateful for that. You are not ready to dive any deeper into the truth behind your words. Neither is she.

A small laugh escapes you. “I should have worn it tonight. It’s really cold.”

“I thought you’d learned from your mistakes.”

“I had, but Claire…”

There is the soft sound of a door opening, and two seconds later, Isabelle steps onto the porch beside you. “There you are. We’ve been looking for you. Claire was ready to file a missing person report.”

“Sorry,” you mumble, glancing down at the phone in your hand.

Just as you are about to tell Isabelle that you’re on the phone, you realize Emily has already hung up. She gave you the chance to return to the party before you had to explain anything. Before you had to decide what this conversation meant.

Claire looks at her and for a moment, neither of them says anything. “I’m okay.”

Emily does not look away. Her eyes remain on Claire for another second, as if she is making sure the words match what she sees. “Okay.”

The smallest smile appears on Claire’s face. “You worry too much.”

“Someone has to.” A quiet breath leaves Emily, almost amused.

It is such an Emily answer that you cannot help but smile slightly.

Claire opens the door and steps out into the cold night air. Emily follows her, walking around the car as Claire reaches back for her bag. You hesitate for a moment, your hand still resting on the door handle. You do not want to interrupt them.

The cold reaches you instantly, a reminder that the warmth inside the car had been temporary. You pull Emily’s jacket slightly closer around yourself without thinking, still wearing it even though you had completely forgotten about it.

You follow Claires gaze and see Josh's car parked a few spaces away, waiting beneath one of the dim streetlights. You can see Josh’s silhouette behind the windshield, and when he notices Claire, the headlights briefly flash in greeting.

A small smile appears on your best friends face, and for a moment, everything feels strangely normal. There is no fear, no unsub hovering around the corner, no pressure to act. Just Claire getting picked up for a date. A date with Josh, the one she had bragged about in the mall. But you don’t ask her why she changed her mind. Maybe she just wants some normality back. Just like you.

Emily stays beside the car, watching Claire carefully as she gathers her things. She does not hover, does not ask again if she is okay. She already did that. Instead, she simply remains there, giving Claire the space to leave while making sure she knows she is not leaving alone.

Claire closes the passenger door and turns back toward the two of you. “Thank you. For everything."

Emily’s expression softens at her words. “Anytime.”

There is no hesitation in the answer. Because you know, Emily would do anything for Claire

“So, I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yes. Have fun,” you smile at her and nod, “Tomorrow you will tell me everything.”

"I will."

"And you’re sure you’re okay if I leave now?"

You close your eyes for just a second, you really thought your best friend wouldn’t mention your fear of being alone. You know she did not say it out loud, but you can hear the real meaning behind her question. And so will Emily. She is a profiler after all.

"Absolutely." You take a small breath, try to mask your feelings. Trying not to show how vulnerable you feel. "I think, I will listen to the new podcast we talked about."

"Okay, have fun. I will see you tomorrow then. Tell me everything about it." Something unreadable crosses her face before she shakes it off and walks toward Josh.

You watch as Josh steps out of the car to greet her, pulling her into a hug before opening the door for her.

Only when Claire is safely inside does Emily finally look away. Josh starts the car and when they leave the parking lot, the quiet returns. Because now it is just the two of you. There is no longer Claire filling the empty spaces with questions or laughter, no familiar distraction to make it easier to ignore the things neither of you has said.

You glance toward the entrance of your building, knowing that this is probably where the evening should end. Emily should get back to her hotel, you upstairs, and both of you should try to get some rest after a day that neither of you will forget anytime soon.

“I should probably go upstairs,” you say eventually.

Emily nods, but she does not move toward the car and you do not move toward your dorm either. The hesitation hangs between you, quiet but impossible to ignore. You know you should go. You know this is where the evening ends. But you do not want to.

Emily exhales softly, her eyes wandering across the empty parking lot before returning to you. “Do you feel like getting some coffee?”

You blink, caught slightly off guard by the question. “Coffee?”

A small smile touches her lips. “Yes. Coffee.”

You glance toward your building again. “It’s late.”

“It is.”

“And you have work tomorrow.”

“I do.”

The fact that she agrees with every reason you could give somehow makes you smile. “And you still want coffee?”

Emily tilts her head slightly, the faintest hint of amusement appearing in her eyes. “Maybe I’m not always as reasonable as people think.”

The answer surprises you, because Emily Prentiss is someone who always seems in control. Someone who knows exactly what to say, what to do, how to handle a situation. Right now, standing under the dim lights of the parking lot, she is simply asking you to stay a little longer.

“Okay,” you answer quietly.

Something in Emily’s posture relaxes, so subtle you could have missed it, but you did not. Maybe because you have spent the entire evening paying attention to every little thing about her.

“Do you have a favorite spot?” she asks, a faint smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “I think I’ve made enough decisions for one day.” She glances at you for a brief moment, one eyebrow lifting ever so slightly. “Wouldn’t want to make my reputation any worse.”

“Not really," you suppress a laugh. "But we could try the new one around the corner. I was told the coffee is exceptionally good. Beans from Chile. Something about green grass notes…”

“Hopefully the beans aren’t pooped out by a goat or something like that?”

You burst into laughter, and Emily’s smile grows wider.

“I don’t know. But I don’t think any student around here could afford something that expensive.”

“You’re right. Let’s go.”

The two of you walk on, and for the first few minutes, you simply enjoy Emily’s company. The campus has grown quiet around you, most of the students having already retreated to their dorm rooms while the two of you head toward a coffee shop, neither of you quite ready to call it a night.

Almost absentmindedly, your fingers brush over the fabric of Emily’s jacket, feeling its softness beneath your fingertips. It is strange how something so simple can feel so personal. It belongs to her. It still carries the faint trace of her perfume, something unmistakably Emily, and somehow that makes you feel closer to her than you probably should.

When you look up, you realize Emily has noticed your movement. Her eyes flick briefly toward your hands before meeting your gaze again, and something unreadable passes through her expression.

“Sorry,” you mumble quietly, suddenly aware of yourself. “Do you want your jacket back?” She is only wearing a thin blouse, and you feel a little guilty about borrowing her jacket.

Emily looks down at herself for a moment, then back at you. “You’re still cold,” she states simply, “Keep it on.”

“But you’re not exactly warm either.”

A small smile appears on her face. “I’ll survive.”

And somehow, the way she says it makes you believe her.

The coffee shop near campus is nearly empty, the kind of place that stays open late for students who have lost track of time and people who are not quite ready to go home yet. There are only two people in front of you, ordering espresso and a black coffee.

At the counter, you both take a moment to decide what to order. The barista looks between the two of you more than once, especially when Emily steps slightly closer and places her hand against your lower back to guide you forward when the line moves.

It is barely a touch. Probably something she does without thinking, but you freeze beneath her touch. Warmth spreads through you, and your heartbeat picks up slightly at the simple gesture. It is ridiculous how such a small touch from her can affect you so much.

The young man behind the counter waits patiently, bobbing his head to a song that is playing in the radio while the faint scent of freshly ground coffee drifts through the café. You study the menu far longer than necessary. You don’t actually read most of it, you’re mostly pretending to.

Beside you, Emily doesn’t rush you. She simply waits, one hand resting lightly against the wooden counter until, eventually, she tilts her head ever so slightly. “Well?”

You look at her, one eyebrow lifting. “Shouldn’t you be deciding for me?”

“I’m making an effort.” A beat passes. “Claire would be very disappointed if I relapsed after twenty minutes.”

You can’t help laughing. “Just a coffee please.”

Only then does she turn toward the barista. “Two coffees,” she orders, before glancing back at you. “Anything else?”

“No. I think the expensive goat-free coffee is enough for tonight.”

Emily lets out a soft huff. “Probably for the best.”

The barista looks amused as he hands you the cups a few minutes later. “Enjoy.”

You look around, searching for a place to sit, and almost at the same time, you both choose the quiet bench in the corner. Plant pots sit in the windows and along the walls, making the café feel even cozier. Pictures hang on the brick walls, and you recognize famous people drinking coffee at some of the most iconic landmarks around the world. There is the Eiffel Tower, the Great Wall of China, the Niagara Falls.

Emily sits down across from you, placing her cup in front of her before setting her keys on the table beside it.

“So, tell me about university. Still hunting for the best lecture notes?”

“I’m trying my best.” You take a sip of the steaming coffee and let out a quiet sigh.

“Is it good?” She takes a sip of her own. “Oh… okay. That’s actually fantastic.”

“Right? Why have I never tried this before? The coffee in the dining hall is complete garbage compared to this.”

“I hated the food and coffee there too. It was never terrible, but it was never good either—just painfully average.” She smiles over the rim of her cup. “So tell me, what are your professors like?”

“I had a professor once who somehow managed to make a one-hour lecture feel like an entire day.”

Emily smiles. “That sounds familiar.”

“You had professors like that?”

“Unfortunately.”

“I thought the FBI would have saved you from boring lectures.”

“No,” she replies, amused. “The FBI just gave me different kinds of problems.”

The conversation continues naturally from there, and somewhere along the way, Emily starts sharing pieces of herself too.

She tells you about university, about choosing classes she regretted, about professors who seemed determined to make their students suffer. She laughs quietly when she remembers one of them, and the sound still catches you off guard.

It changes something in her entire face. She looks younger, less guarded, as if the years between university and now disappear and you are seeing a version of Emily that not many people get to know.

Her laughter feels rare, carrying a kind of openness you do not often see from her. It is something she allows herself only in moments when she forgets to hold back.

The conversation drifts from there. Traveling. Places she has been. Places she would return to. Places she never wants to see again.

“You travel a lot for work, though, right?” you ask.

“Sometimes more than I’d like.”

“Do you still enjoy it?”

She thinks about the question. “Depends on where I am going.”

You smile slightly. “That sounds like a very diplomatic answer.”

“Maybe it is.”

You cannot help but laugh with her. And somewhere between talking about cities, terrible coffee, and the strange things people do when they are exhausted, you forget that this started because neither of you was ready to say goodbye yet.

The conversation drifts naturally from one thing to another. From places you want to visit someday, to the things you miss from home, to the small habits people develop when life becomes too busy. Somehow, the topic of sleep comes up, how little time students actually spend resting, how everyone seems to convince themselves that functioning on a few hours of sleep is somehow normal.

“I think most people are just permanently tired,” you joke.

Emily’s attention shifts toward the window, following the movement of people passing outside. “Some people get used to it.” Something in the way she says it makes you look at her. A moment passes. “I don’t sleep much.”

The words pull you back to the conversation on the porch. The night when Emily had admitted that sleep was not always something she welcomed. That there were memories she carried with her into the darkness.

The words are casual, almost like she did not intend for them to become a bigger conversation. “You don’t?”

Emily shakes her head slightly. “Not always.”

You wait. Not because you expect her to continue. You simply know by now that Emily does not need someone to pull words out of her. She offers them when she is ready.

“The BAU makes switching off difficult sometimes,” she admits after a moment.

“The cases stay with you?” you ask softly.

“Sometimes.” There is no dramatic explanation. No attempt to make you understand everything behind the answer. Just a small truth she allows you to have.

“I guess that makes sense.”

A faint smile appears on her face. “Does it?”

You shrug. “Maybe not completely. But I think I understand a little.”

Emily’s eyes meet yours again, curious but quiet. “Because of the mall?” she asks.

You nod slowly. “I know it was different. I know I only experienced something like that once, while you’ve lived through situations like that over and over again. But I remember how it felt afterward. How your body keeps reacting even when your mind knows you’re safe.”

For a moment, Emily says nothing. You wonder if you have said too much, if you have crossed some invisible line you still do not fully understand when it comes to her. You glance at her cautiously, but if you are honest with yourself, she does not look uncomfortable. If anything, she looks thoughtful, her gaze resting on the coffee cradled between her hands as though she is carefully deciding how much she wants to share.

“I think that’s the part people don’t always understand. Your mind can know something is over long before your body believes it.”

Her eyes drift toward the window, toward the campus outside, where everything continues as usual despite what happened only days ago.

“Everyone expects you to feel better once you’re safe. Like that feeling just comes back on its own.”

A quiet breath leaves her, and the faintest trace of exhaustion crosses her features. “But it doesn’t really work like that.”

You listen without interrupting. Even though Emily is talking about herself, there is something about the way she says it that makes you feel as though she understands exactly what has been happening inside your own head.

“I spent a long time thinking I should be better at it,” she continues, her thumb brushing along the rim of her cup. You tear your eyes away from her fingertips the moment you realize you’ve been staring. “At separating things. At leaving work behind when I walk out the door.”

A small smile touches her lips, almost self-aware. “I’m not always very good at it.”

The honesty takes your breath away. You have seen enough of Emily to know how impossible that should be. She is so practiced at holding herself together that catching even the smallest glimpse of the effort behind it feels strangely intimate.

“You seem like you are,” you admit quietly.

Emily’s eyes meet yours again, a silent question in them. “Like I am what?”

“Good at handling everything.”

She studies you, and you realize that maybe this is something she has heard before. The assumption that because she knows what to do, because she stays calm when everyone else falls apart, she must somehow be untouched by any of it.

“That might be one of the biggest misconceptions about me.”

You look down at your coffee, thinking about that. Because from the outside, Emily Prentiss has always seemed like someone who knows exactly where to put every emotion. Someone who can walk into chaos and find a way through it. Someone who carries the weight of difficult things without letting anyone see how heavy they actually are.

“Being good at something doesn’t mean it doesn’t affect you,” she adds.

Her words settle deep inside you. Maybe that is exactly what you have been doing since the mall, trying to convince yourself that because you survived, because you are sitting here now, laughing and having a normal conversation, you should already feel normal again.

Emily notices the shift in your expression, but she does not ask you to explain it. “You don’t have to pretend it didn’t happen.”

“I thought I was doing okay.”

“You are.” The certainty in her voice makes you look back at her. “You can be okay and still have moments where you’re not.”

You let her words settle between you, understanding that maybe this is the first time someone has said something like that without making you feel as though there is something wrong with you for feeling the way you do.

Everyone else has been asking whether you are okay. Emily is the first person who makes you feel as though the answer does not have to be simple. She has managed to put your feelings into words you had never been able to find yourself. The fear. The exhaustion. The strange feeling of still being trapped somewhere between what happened and the fact that life has already moved on.

You have spent days trying to prove that you are fine. To Claire. To everyone around you. Maybe even to yourself.

But sitting across from Emily, you recognize that being affected by something does not mean you are weak. It does not mean you are stuck. It simply means something happened, and your mind is still trying to catch up.

Emily does not push the conversation any further. She does not ask you to tell her every thought that has been keeping you awake or try to make sense of feelings that you barely understand yourself. She simply stays there, sharing the quiet with you, and that feels more comforting than any answer could have been.

Eventually, Emily glances toward the window, where the campus lights reflect faintly against the glass. “I think we should probably leave before they start cleaning around us.”

A small smile pulls at your lips. “Probably?”

Her eyes return to yours, and for a second, you see a flash of amusement.

 “You’re right. Definitely.”

The familiar dryness in her voice makes you laugh, and the sound feels different from the ones you have forced yourself to make over the last few days. Lighter. Easier.

Outside, the cold air meets you and you pull Emily’s jacket a little closer around yourself, the movement drawing her attention.

“You know,” she offers, “I’m starting to think you’re getting attached to my jacket.”

The teasing catches you off guard. You look down at it, pretending to consider the accusation. “It is a very warm jacket.”

Emily raises an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“Yes.”

A small smile appears on her face. “I’ll take your word for it.”

By the time you reach your building, neither of you seems eager to be the first one to end the evening.

“Now is a good time to give you your jacket back, right?”

“You don’t have to.”

“I just thought… I should give it back before you leave. Besides, I’m practically inside already.”

“Before I leave?”

You look back at her, suddenly aware that you have made the thought more obvious than you intended. “I mean… you’re going back to Quantico.” Your voice softens a little. “And I don’t know when I’ll see you again.”

Emily studies you for a moment, her expression calm but thoughtful. She does not rush to fill the silence or brush away what you said with an easy reassurance. “I’m sure we’ll see each other again.”

The certainty in her voice takes your breath away. It is not a promise she cannot make. It is simply Emily acknowledging that this does not have to be the end of the evening or the last time your paths cross. And somehow, that makes it more comforting.

You look down at the jacket again, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Still. I should probably have a way to return it.”

A faint hint of amusement appears in Emily’s eyes. “That would be practical.” Emily reaches into the inside pocket of her coat and pulls out a card, holding it out toward you.

You take it from her and glance down. Her name. The FBI logo. Her contact information. “Your business card?”

Emily lifts one shoulder slightly. “In case you need anything.”

The explanation is completely reasonable. Professional. Exactly the kind of thing Emily Prentiss would say. But you both know there is more to it than that.

Your eyes move back to her. “Anything?”

For the smallest moment, something shifts in her expression. It is gone before you can fully understand it, replaced by the familiar composure you have already learned to recognize.

“Or if you need to figure out how to get my jacket back to me.”

You smile at her words and tuck the card carefully into your pocket, your fingers shaking slightly. The thought of hugging her crosses your mind, but you hesitate. The last time you had been in her arms, there had been no choice involved. You had been overwhelmed, shaken, and looking for something that felt safe after everything had fallen apart. This time is different. There is no fear pushing you toward her. No crisis making the decision for you. It is simply because you want to.

When you glance back at Emily, you notice the hesitation in her posture. For once, she seems just as unsure as you.

“Goodnight, Emily.”

Emily steps closer, her gaze meeting yours. You find yourself holding your breath, already knowing what is about to happen. Her arms slip around you, the embrace gentle, almost tentative at first, as though both of you are still trying to figure out whether this is something you are allowed to do. Then you feel her relax ever so slightly, her arms settling around you with the same quiet steadiness she has carried throughout the evening.

You lean into her, your hands resting lightly against her back, feeling the subtle tension of her muscles beneath the silky fabric of her blouse. You force yourself to relax, to accept the comfort instead of searching for a reason why you should not need it.

When Emily finally pulls away, she does so slowly, and you remain close enough to still feel the warmth radiating from her. Just before she steps back, you feel the faintest touch against your hair. Was it a kiss? Maybe. You are not sure. It is so soft that you almost question whether it happened at all, whether you simply wanted it enough that your mind filled in the missing piece.

“Goodnight,” Emily says quietly.

You watch her walk away across the campus lot, her figure slowly disappearing beneath the glow of the streetlights. Only when she is gone do you finally turn toward the entrance of your building.

As you walk upstairs, still wearing her jacket and carrying the memory of an evening you never expected to have, one thought keeps returning. The most dangerous thing about Emily Prentiss was never how easily she could read people. It was how easily she made you want to be understood.