A hopeless romantic who writes to live.

the concept of kate kissing yelena right before her dramatic fall back and both of them feeling so thrilled is sooo 🛐🛐🛐 and you know rooftop kisses became their thing 👀

this was inspired by olivia rodrigo's song drop dead. highly recommend hallucinating bishova scenes to it

it’s quick the first time, just a flicker, barely anything, the kind of glance she could probably deny if she really wanted to. then it happens again, slower, her eyes lingering near your chest before lifting back to your face like nothing happened.

by the third time, she isn’t as subtle as she thinks she is, and there’s something almost delicious about watching someone so composed get ruined by the shape of your boobs beneath fabric.

your shirt doesn’t hide enough, not really. it stretches softly across your chest, the fabric resting over the swell of your boobs and shifting whenever you breathe. you’re not sure whether it’s the cold kitchen air or emily’s attention that makes your nipples tighten, but either way, the reaction is obvious enough that her eyes catch on it instantly.

she sees the little peaks pressing against your shirt. she sees the way your chest rises a little harder when you notice her looking. she sees the way your body gives you away before you can decide whether you want to tease her for it.

and the longer she stares, the more aware you become of every inch of yourself, your boobs feeling warm and sensitive beneath the thin fabric, your pussy already starting to feel wet between your thighs.

you stop mid-sentence, letting the silence settle between you with purpose, and emily only realizes something is wrong when your voice cuts off completely. her eyes snap back up too fast, sharp and guilty despite the calm expression she tries to arrange over her face.

“what?” she asks, and it would almost be convincing if her voice didn’t come out lower than before, rougher at the edges, like she had been thinking about something entirely different from what you were saying.

you raise an eyebrow, staring at her while she holds your gaze with the stubbornness of a woman who refuses to confess without being cornered. the pause stretches.

her thumb strokes once along the stem of her wine glass, a tiny little tell that makes heat curl low in your stomach. then you ask, “were you even listening to me?”

emily’s mouth curves into that smooth, dangerous smile, the one she uses when she knows she’s been caught but hasn’t decided whether she wants to admit it yet.

“of course i was,” she says, far too easily. you stare at her. she stares back. then, like her body betrays her before her pride can stop it, her gaze drops again, dragging right back to your chest for one brief, shameless second.

when she looks up this time, there’s no saving it, and the faintest flush rises across her cheekbones. you laugh, quiet and disbelieving, and emily exhales through her nose like she’s irritated with herself more than with you.

“don’t start,” she says, but there’s no bite in it, no real warning, just that low velvet tone that makes your thighs press together.

“you’re staring,” you say, and the words come out softer than you meant them to. emily sets her wine glass down with a quiet click, slow and deliberate, like she’s making a choice. “i know,” she says. not defensive. not embarrassed. just honest enough to make your breath catch.

the simple admission changes the air between you completely, taking the conversation from playful to charged so fast it leaves you warm all over. she doesn’t move toward you yet, which somehow makes it worse. she just stands there, eyes darker now, letting herself look at you openly, and the weight of her attention feels almost physical, like her hands are already on your skin.

you step closer because you can’t help yourself, because there’s something addictive about watching emily’s composure fray in real time. her gaze dips again, slower now that the pretense is gone, and her lips part just slightly when your chest rises with your breath.

she notices everything. the way your boobs shift beneath your shirt, soft and full enough to pull her attention down again. the way your nipples are hard now, straining against the fabric like your body is begging for her mouth before you even say a word.

the way your thighs press together because your pussy feels slick already, warm and wet and aching from nothing more than being watched by her.

“you wore that on purpose,” she says quietly, and it sounds less like an accusation than a confession of weakness. you tell her you didn’t, but your voice is already thinner than it should be, already giving too much away. emily’s smile turns knowing, almost cruel in how soft it is.

“maybe not consciously,” she says, and her eyes drop again, taking in the way the shirt clings to the rounded weight of your boobs. her attention makes your skin prickle.

it makes your nipples tighten further, your stomach flutter, your pussy throb with that slow, needy pulse of arousal. the dampness between your thighs is impossible to ignore now, your underwear clinging wetly against you every time you shift.

her hand lifts slowly, giving you every chance to pull away even though both of you know you won’t. she touches your waist first, fingertips light through your shirt, dragging up your side in a patient line that makes your stomach tighten.

she’s watching your face now, because emily likes proof. she likes seeing the way your lips part, the way your breath catches, the way your eyes flutter when her thumb brushes just beneath the curve of your boob.

the contact is barely anything, just the edge of a touch, but it makes your whole body feel too warm. your boobs feel heavy and sensitive under her attention, your nipples aching for more pressure, and your pussy gives another wet little pulse like it knows exactly where this is going.

“emily,” you warn, but it comes out more like a plea. she hums, innocent and unbearable, letting her thumb skim a little higher until she’s brushing over you through the thin fabric.

the pressure makes your breath hitch, especially when her thumb grazes the hardened peak of your nipple. your body reacts instantly, your back arching just enough to press more of your chest into her hand.

emily sees it. of course she sees it. her eyes darken like the sight of you getting needy from one touch is almost enough to ruin her by itself.

“what?” she asks, like she didn’t just spend an entire conversation staring at you. you open your mouth to answer, but she kisses you before you can say a damn thing.

at first, it’s controlled, warm, almost teasing, her lips moving against yours with the kind of patience that makes you ache. then your fingers curl into the front of her blouse, pulling her closer, and something in her restraint gives.

the kiss turns deeper fast, her body pressing yours back against the counter until the edge digs into your lower back. her hands slide to your waist, then up, slow and deliberate, as if she’s giving herself permission inch by inch. when she finally cups your chest over your shirt, her palm warm and firm around your boob, you gasp against her mouth.

the sound does something to her. you feel it in the way she groans softly, in the way her fingers tighten, in the way her kiss gets rougher for one messy second before she reins herself in again. her hand fits over you like she’s been thinking about it for ages, squeezing gently at first, then with more confidence when your body melts into the touch.

your boob feels soft and full in her palm, your nipple hard against the fabric, every slow press of her fingers sending sparks down your stomach. your pussy feels wetter by the second, slick gathering between your folds, warm enough that you can feel it soaking into your underwear.

“i was trying to be respectful,” she says against your lips. you laugh breathlessly, tilting your head back as her mouth drags to your jaw. “you failed.”

“miserably,” she says, and then she kisses down your neck like she wants to prove it. her mouth is hot and slow, lips dragging over your pulse, teeth grazing just enough to make your hips push forward without thinking.

one hand stays on your chest, kneading through the fabric, while the other settles at your lower back and pulls you closer until there’s barely any space left between you.

she’s still composed in pieces, still careful, still attentive, but there’s hunger underneath it now, dark and obvious and impossible to ignore. every touch feels deliberate, like she’s been thinking about your boobs under her hands for longer than she wants to admit.

when her thumb rubs over your nipple through your shirt, your knees nearly weaken, and emily’s mouth curves against your skin.

“that sensitive?” she asks, voice low enough to make you shiver. you try to answer, but she does it again, firmer this time, rolling your nipple beneath her thumb until a soft, broken sound slips out of you.

the pleasure goes straight between your thighs, making your pussy clench around nothing. you can feel how wet you are now, how slick and swollen everything feels, how badly your body wants more pressure.

emily pulls back just enough to look at you, and the expression on her face is devastating. smug, affectionate, starving. like she wants to tease you for falling apart so quickly and kiss you for it at the same time.

“you have no idea how distracting you are,” she says, her eyes dropping again, shameless now. “standing there, talking to me like i’m supposed to focus, wearing this little thing like i’m not only human.” heat rushes through you so fast it leaves you dizzy.

you tell her she should have said something, but the words barely survive the way she’s touching you. emily’s fingers hook under the hem of your shirt, slow enough to make anticipation crawl over your skin.

“i was trying to behave,” she says, and there’s a smile in her voice now. “clearly, that was a mistake.” then she lifts your shirt, waiting just long enough for your nod before pulling it up and off you completely.

the fabric drops somewhere near your feet, forgotten immediately, because emily is staring again. only this time there’s nothing between her eyes and your bare skin, nothing to soften the way her composure cracks wide open.

your boobs are exposed to her completely now, warm and soft, rising with your uneven breaths. your nipples are hard from the cool air and from the way she’s looking at you, tight little peaks that make her eyes go darker the longer she stares.

the silence that follows feels filthy in itself. emily looks at your chest like she’s been handed something sacred and obscene, her eyes moving over the fullness of you slowly, taking in the curve, the softness, the way your body is already reacting for her.

her hands settle on you carefully at first, palms sliding over your ribs before she cups both of your boobs with a reverence that makes your throat tighten. then her thumbs brush over your nipples, and the soft moan that leaves you makes her inhale sharply.

your boobs feel almost too sensitive beneath her hands, heavy and warm and aching as she squeezes them with slow, possessive pressure. she watches the way they fit in her palms, the way your nipples stiffen under her thumbs, the way your whole body arches when she touches you just right.

“pretty,” she says, almost under her breath. then, rougher, like the word isn’t enough, “fuck, you’re so pretty.” and before you can even process the way her voice has changed, she lowers her mouth to you.

the first touch of her lips against your boob is slow enough to be cruel. she kisses around your nipple first, soft open-mouthed presses that leave damp warmth behind, while her hand kneads the other boob with steady, possessive pressure.

you can feel how badly she wants to rush, how much effort it takes for her to take her time, and somehow that makes it worse. when her tongue finally flicks over your nipple, your back arches off the counter, and emily makes a quiet sound like she’s pleased with herself.

she does it again, dragging her tongue over the sensitive peak before closing her lips around it. the suction is gentle at first, teasing, but when your fingers slide into her hair and pull, she groans against you and sucks harder.

your whole body reacts to her mouth. heat pools between your legs, slick and insistent, every slow pull of her lips sending another pulse of want through you.

your pussy feels soaked now, wet enough that your underwear clings uncomfortably to you, every shift making the damp fabric rub against your swollen clit. emily knows exactly what she’s doing, and worse, she’s paying attention to every single reaction. when you gasp,

she repeats the motion. when your hips twitch, her hand tightens at your waist. when your fingers tug at her hair, she looks up at you with your nipple still in her mouth, eyes dark and smug and completely ruinous.

the eye contact makes you throb. it makes you feel exposed in the best way, like she can tell exactly how wet you’re getting without needing to touch you there yet. your boobs rise and fall beneath her mouth, one wet from her tongue, the other held firmly in her hand while she rolls your nipple between her fingers.

you feel warm everywhere, flushed and sensitive, your pussy pulsing with every drag of her mouth. there’s a slick ache between your thighs now, needy and impossible to ignore, and the worst part is that emily can tell.

she can tell from your breathing. from the way your thighs keep squeezing together. from the way your hips keep shifting like your body is trying to find friction all on its own.

“this is why i wasn’t listening,” she says against your skin, lips brushing damply over your boob as she speaks. “you were talking, and all i could think about was this.” her hand slides down your stomach as she says it, fingers spreading over the soft, warm skin there before dipping lower.

she doesn’t rush, because emily is a menace when she knows you want something. she kisses across your chest, giving the other boob the same slow attention, tongue circling before she sucks your nipple into her mouth.

your thighs press together, desperate for friction, and she notices immediately. of course she notices. emily prentiss notices everything.

her hand slips between your thighs over your clothes, pressing just enough to make your breath break. “there it is,” she whispers, like she’s found the answer to a question she already knew. your hips roll into her touch, needy and automatic, and she smiles against your chest before kissing lower, then back up again.

she keeps one hand on your boob while the other rubs slow, firm pressure between your legs, not enough to give you what you need, just enough to make you ache for more. it’s maddening. it’s perfect.

you’re hot everywhere, trembling against the counter while emily takes you apart with her mouth, her hands, and that steady, devastating focus she usually saves for interrogations.

“you’re soaked, aren’t you?” she asks softly, and the way she says it makes your stomach flip. not mocking exactly, but pleased. deeply pleased. your pussy throbs at the words, wet and swollen beneath your underwear, and you hate that she can feel how hard you react through the layers between her hand and your body.

you try to glare at her, but it falls apart the second she presses her palm against you again, firmer this time. “all because i got caught staring?” she continues, her voice warm with amusement. “or because you wanted me to?” you say her name, half warning and half surrender, and emily’s smile turns downright wicked.

she kisses your nipple once more, slow and open-mouthed, then lifts her head to look at you properly. “tell me to stop,” she says, and the softness of it hits just as hard as the hunger.

because beneath all the teasing, beneath the dark eyes and the greedy hands, she’s still emily. still careful with you. still waiting for you to choose her back.

you shake your head, already breathless, already ruined enough that pride feels pointless. “don’t stop.” emily’s expression changes at that, something hot and tender flickering across her face before she kisses you again.

this time, there’s no pretending either of you are going back to the conversation. she kisses you like she’s done being patient, mouth deep and hungry while her hands move over you with more confidence. she palms your chest, thumbs circling your nipples until you’re making soft, helpless noises into her mouth.

every sound seems to pull her further under, making her touch rougher, her breathing heavier, her body press harder against yours. she slips one thigh between yours and lets you grind against her, just once, just enough to make you shudder.

the pressure against your soaked pussy makes you gasp into her mouth, your wet underwear dragging over your clit in a way that sends a sharp pulse of pleasure through you.

“good girl,” she whispers against your mouth, and the praise goes straight through you. she feels the way you react, feels the tiny jerk of your hips, and her smile is slow and knowing. “oh,” she says softly. “you liked that.”

you don’t answer, because answering would mean admitting how badly those two words affected you, and emily already knows anyway. she kisses down your throat again, her mouth returning to your chest like she can’t stay away from it now that she’s allowed to touch. her tongue traces over your nipple before she sucks it back into her mouth, her hand sliding lower to keep pressure between your legs.

the combination makes you dizzy. your boobs feel swollen and sensitive under her mouth and hands, your nipples slick from her tongue, your skin hot everywhere she touches.

your pussy feels even wetter now, slick spreading messily into your underwear, your clit aching from the pressure of her thigh and the teasing rub of her palm. every time you grind down, the damp fabric drags against you, and every time you make a sound, emily’s mouth gets greedier.

your fingers tighten in her hair, your head tipping back, your body trapped between the counter and the warm, relentless weight of her attention. emily looks completely gone now, composed mask finally cracked, replaced by something hungry and intimate and almost reverent.

and the worst part is, she still manages to sound controlled when she leans in close, lips brushing your ear. “next time you want my attention,” she whispers, her hand squeezing your boob again while her thigh presses between yours, “just wear this.”

your laugh breaks into a moan when she moves against you, slow and deliberate. “or don’t,” she adds, voice dipping darker. “i seem to get distracted either way.”

Without fail, you’re always here at the same time. 

Like two ships passing in the ... morning. It’s 7:42 in the morning. You wish you were still in bed, and in fact, the only thing that manages to coax you from the comfort of it on workdays is this very place.

Warm, bright coffee shop, with kind baristas who know you by name and who never forget to slide a sleeve onto the cup, no matter how busy they get. 

But also... more recently... her.

You don’t know what she looks like.

But you know her voice.

Low, warm, quieter when she says thank you to the barista, like it’s something she means to give every time.

Some mornings it’s rough around the edges, like she hasn’t been awake long enough to smooth it out yet. Others it’s already sharp, focussed in a way that doesn’t match the hour, like this isn’t so much the beginning of her day as it is a pause in the middle of it.

Her order never changes. The rhythm of it is quick, familiar now, sometimes followed by a pause and then, almost like an afterthought, an “actually, could I also get.”

Like she’s just remembered she hasn’t eaten yet.

she doesn’t linger. But she doesn’t rush out either, and even though she’s there and gone within the span of a few minutes, her voice sure does manage to stick around in your mind, even though she has never once directed it towards you.

And honestly, thank God for that, because as much as you’ve imagined it, what it would feel like to have it directed at you, up close instead of across the room, you’re pretty sure that if she spoke to you, if she said something, anything, you would immediately melt into a puddle on the floor.

There’s something about her. The low edge of her voice, the way it softens without losing its shape when she says thank you, the way she exhales after the first sip of her coffee, like she’s finally allowing herself one small, carefree moment of unobserved indulgence.

But you still notice.

Which is kind of embarrassing.

The way that you’ve thought about her voice saying things to you, even more so.

Thankfully, though, you’re in no danger of dissolving into some lovesick puddle on the floor of this coffee shop, because this, just like all of the previous days you’ve silently encountered each other, is like any other morning, and right on q, your order is being called.

You step forward, transferring your cane into your left hand and reaching out towards the counter with the right, fingers finding cardboard just as the cup is set down in front of you with a familiar ease.

Your fingers find the opening in the lid as you lift it, unable to resist the satisfaction of taking your first sip right at the counter before you bustle out into the cool air. You bring it towards your lips, inhaling the warmth, before beginning to tip the cup.

And then a body clips your elbow, hard.

It jolts your arm and sends the contents of the scalding hot cup straight down your neck and chest.

For a split second everything is heat.

Your eyes swim, a high-pitched choked noise catching in your throat as you gasp. The cup slips through your fingers and hits  the floor. Your hands come up instinctively, fluttering towards the pain, useless, uncoordinated, not knowing where to land.

The heat spreads.

Not sharp yet. Not fully. Just everywhere.

Your breath hitches high up in your chest, stuttering, like your lungs can’t quite figure out how to work around the blossoming burn.

Your fingers finally make contact.

And that’s the exact moment she intercepts.

 a hand closes around your wrist, firm and steady. Not pulling, just stopping.

  Hey, don’t touch that, okay? I’ve got you.”

Oh God. 

It’s her.

Her voice cuts cleanly through everything,  the ringing in your ears, the barista calling out in alarm, the man who ran into you stumbling over apologies as he backs away.

“My name is Emily. I’m a doctor.” 

She’s a... doctor.

You might actually pass out.

 Her thumb presses briefly against your wrist— grounding and reassuring.

“I’m going to get you to some cold water, okay?” she continues. I’m just guiding you  forward. Bathrooms on the left.”

Your mouth opens as you try to say something, anything. But she’s already moving you, her hand firm at your arm, her voice narrating just enough to keep you oriented.

The burn is spreading now, across your chest, your stomach, heat sinking deeper as your teeth clench.

“I need napkins,” Emily calls over her shoulder, her tone shifting without raising, used to being listened to. “Or paper towels. Anything absorbent.”

The words blur together at the edges. 

The heat doesn’t. 

It sharpens, spikes into overwhelming, blistering pain as your fingers instinctively curl which of course, only pulls at the irritated skin of your knuckles and makes it hurt more. 

A broken sound slips out of you before you can stop it.

Her attention snaps back to you immediately.

“Hey,” she says, softer now, closer.

Another gentle press against your wrist with her thumb.

“I know,” she says, low and steady. “We’re going to cool it down in a second, okay? I’ve got you.”

The air shifts, cooler, quieter, the echo of bathroom tile replacing the bustle of the shop as the door swings shut behind you. She steers you towards the sink with practiced ease, one hand steady against your arm.

The sink sputters, then runs cold, as she reaches around you and turns the faucet on.

“Hands under,” she says, already guiding them beneath the stream. You flinch, sucking in a sharp breath as the burn combines and mingles with the almost instant relief of the cold. “Good, keep them there. I’ll take care of the rest.”

You hear the sound of paper towels hurriedly being ripped from the dispenser before Emily quickly moves back to your side.

Only then does she hesitate, just for a brief second.

“Your shirt is holding the heat,” she states, watching you shift back-and-forth on the balls of your feet, still in no small amount of discomfort.

Then, decisive.

“It needs to come off.”

Oh.

You would think that this is where you start blushing. 

You would think that the prospect of this stranger, this deeply competent, attractive stranger with a voice that you may or may not have been fantasizing about talking you through... wildly different circumstances for the past several months having to see you half undressed in the middle of a coffee shop public bathroom would be the final boss of absolute humiliation and embarrassment... but it’s not.

Because the truth is, your boobs feel like they’re on fire.

The fabric of your shirt clings to your chest, damp and hot, pressing and rubbing against all the places that hurt and so, at the end of the day, the decision is made quite easily.

“Do it,” you manage, getting the words out through gritted teeth.

“Tell me if anything sticks,” she says, careful but efficient as she begins to work at the fabric. “I won’t force it.”

You just manage to give a small nod of your head, but nothing pulls. Your arms lift just for a second, just enough so that she can slip the shirt up and over your head. Your gasp is sharp, and you’re not sure if it’s because of the sudden rush of air  against newly exposed burned skin, or if it’s just from lifting your hands out of the sanctuary of the cold running water, even just for that brief second. Emily gently guides them back down, setting your discarded shirt off to the side.

“There we go,” she encourages, and you practically shiver with relief as the cold water runs over your hands and wrists once more. “Just keep them like that.”

She moves over to the sink beside yours, turning the water on cold and holding some of the paper towel beneath it until it’s saturated.

“Okay,” she says, her voice dipping into that calm, authoritative register once more. “I’m going to place these on your chest and stomach. It’ll  feel cold.”

Despite the warning, you still flinch as the paper towel is carefully pressed against your chest, the cold a shock against your flushed skin, letting out a noise that embarrassingly sounds like a squeak.

“I know,” she says immediately, closer now as her free hand lightly brushes your shoulder. “I know. It’s okay.”

She swaps them out quickly, movements efficient, never letting the heat build back up. Every time she presses a new cold towel to your skin, her thumb brushes your sternum or your ribs. You’re not even sure if she’s intentionally doing it. But the touch is human, reassuring all the same, even as she remains focussed on your injuries.

And the whole time, she keeps talking, little things just enough to keep you tethered.

“I’m just cooling them down,” she murmurs. “You’re doing really well.”

Time blurs into a steady rhythm of cold, press, lift, release, each one cooler than the last, the heat slowly giving way.

“Can you tell me where it hurts the most?” she asks softly at one point, one of her hands holding one of the soaked towels against your chest, the other doing the same lower down on your stomach.

You gesture vaguely towards your sternum. “Like, all of that?”

“I want to check the skin, if that’s alright with you,” she says, already reaching for more paper towels.

You swallow, nodding, wincing as she carefully eases away the compress. You try and stifle a whimper but fuck, even just the momentary loss of cold is enough to make your eyes begin to sting. 

Your hand instinctively comes up again, and Emily patiently catches it midair, lowering it back down into the water but briefly leaving hers rested on top. It’s warm, calloused, the pressure just enough to remind you to keep your hands submerged, but still gentle enough to remain comforting.

“Hey,” she murmurs, soft but firm. “I know, I know. You’re okay. It’ll just be a moment, I promise.”

She’s gentle as she examines the skin, careful when she touches, searching around for blisters. Her breath leaves her in a quiet exhale, relief, you think, not alarm.

“Superficial,” she says, and you can hear the tension ease out of her shoulders. “It’s going to hurt like hell for a bit, but it’s not going to scar.”

She grabs another handful of paper towel, wetting it and ringing it out before quickly replacing the compress on your skin.

You almost grown with relief as soon as it returns.

Heat slowly leeches out of you, your fingers first, then your wrists, more slowly your torso and stomach with each towel that is replaced, creating a growing pile beside the sink.

And that’s when you start to shake.

It starts in your hands, small but insistent, and quickly travels up your arms and shoulders, until you’re stood there shivering, from what feels like head to toe. You grit your teeth, even as they chatter, unnerved by this loss of basic control you have over your own body. The pain is mostly passed, the damage already done. Why now has it decided to betray you.

“I d don’t know why I’m shaking,” you mutter, mildly embarrassed, gripping at the edge of the sink with both hands.

“It feels strange, doesn’t it,” she acknowledges, soft and unsurprised. “That’s adrenaline, and your body’s just playing catch-up and trying to come down from it.”

Another compress against your chest, her free hand slowly brushing up and down your wrist until your fingers stop holding so tightly to the sink. She keeps it there, warm and steady as you shake.

“You’re okay,” she says, her voice a soft breath as she remains close. “Just let it happen. It will pass.”

You’re not entirely satisfied by that answer. However, given her proximity to you, how you can hear the sounds of her slow and even breaths, the smell of clean soap that lingers on her skin, you’re willing to suck it up and let your body do its thing if she stays there.

“You’re really good at this,” you say quietly, eyes fixed downward on your hands.

She huffs a small, amused breath.

“I should hope so,” she says lightly. “I’m an attending physician. If I can’t handle a coffee burn, my residency director would rise from the grave to haunt me.”

Despite everything, you snort, and you’re close enough to the mirror that you can see her answering smile reflected back at you.

She’s closer than you thought

The image of her isn’t clear. Nothing ever is. But you pick her out in pieces. The contrast of dark hair threaded with silver, the clean line of her collar.

And her jacket.

You feel it brush against you as she moves— smooth, structured, expensive, in that quiet way that doesn’t need announcing.

God, does everything about her have to be so unfairly attractive? 

You look up to find that her eyes are still intently focussed on you.

Heat blooms, crawling up the back of your neck and into your cheeks.

It has absolutely nothing to do with Burns.

You look away a second too late.

“I know you,” you say after a while, because the silence has grown too still. “I mean, I don’t. But I hear your voice every morning when I come here.”

“You always order one of those vanilla monstrosities,” she observes, and you have to stop your mouth from falling open on its hinges. 

She noticed?

She noticed you?

“As a doctor, I should caution you on how much sugar you’re putting into your body first thing in the morning”

“But?” you ask, curious because you sense there’s something she’s deliberately kept unsaid.

“But,” she continues, and her voice has no right to be as low and intimate as it is and yet... “Every time I watch you take that first sip of it, your entire face lights up and it’s adorable.”

your mind catches on that last word.

Then stalls.

Then completely comes to a hard stop.

“And it kind of makes my morning.”

Her voice goes warm and soft at that admission, and you’re making a point as to not look up into the mirror, because you’re sure that if you did, even you, blind as you are, would be able to see that your face has gone about as red as a tomato. 

“We do seem to come in at the same time in the morning,” she continues, as if she hasn’t just entirely broken your brain.  She rings out another paper towel and carefully holds it to your stomach. “I notice you outside on my walk. you always end up in the building before me.”

“I walk fast,” you manage to admit, lips pulling upward into a smile, praying for your blush to dissipate.

“I’ve noticed,” says Emily. “I’d kill to have your energy at 7:30 in the morning.”

“I only walk that fast because I’m in pursuit of coffee,” you say, trying to sound humorous despite the fact that your stomach is currently being swarmed by an eager, stupidly embarrassing amount of butterflies.

“I’m sorry that you weren’t able to get yours this morning,” she says sympathetically, a wisp of hair brushing against your shoulder as she leans and carefully lifts one of the towels to once again survey the burn.

“Yeah,” you say, letting out a soft sigh, lifting your head to look up at the ceiling partly out of disappointment because you are truly bummed about that coffee. But also, her breath is close enough that you feel it tickling your skin.

Probably unintentionally. 

But you’re still blushing all the same.

“This was not how I wanted my morning to go.”

“I bet,” she says and you bite your lip, trying to control your facial expressions. One of her fingers is carefully tracing along one of the more severe burns on your ribs. “It doesn’t look as bad as it was.But does it feel any better?”

“Yeah,” you say, forcing yourself to swallow as you nod. Yeah, it does a little.”

“Good,” she says, straightening. “Try not to wear anything form fitting or that will put any excess friction on it for a little while.  You can take over-the-counter pain meds and if it spikes or gets worse, not that I think it will but just in case, I’d strongly advise you to come in.”

 “Is there a name that I can ask for?” you ask, turning your head to look up at her directly because apparently adrenaline has made you bold, and you truly can’t help yourself. “I mean, if I need to come in. I know you said your name was Emily... but...”

Along and drawn out pause, then.

The huff of an amused breath.

“You can asked for Dr. Prentiss.”

“Emily Prentiss,” you say, unable to help your smile as you enjoy the way the name so easily falls from your lips. “Thank you.”

“As for Today,” she continues, effortless as she retreats back into composed professionalism. “is there anywhere you need to be right now?”

“Uh... work,” you say, suddenly sheepish, throwing a glance towards your shirt that’s been discarded on the counter, rumple, still damp and undoubtedly no longer suitable for anywhere other than a washing machine. “I might be able to borrow something from someone to put on once I get there but... it’s getting there that’s going to be a problem.”

Emily follows your gaze to the ruined shirt, letting out a considering sigh.

“Yeah,” she says quietly. “That’s not going back on.”

———

10 minutes later, you’re walking out of the bathroom, sporting a barista’s spare uniform shirt that is several sizes too big.

Not that you’re complaining. The server who knows you by name and remembers your order before you even say it whenever she’s on shift had thoughtfully offered it to you. Besides, it’s soft, and loose enough that it doesn’t drag uncomfortably against your chest, and the cool air against your skin is a relief after the lingering heat.

“Better?” Emily asks, waiting for you in the small hallway.

“Yeah,” you nod your head, slightly adjusting the hem.

You feel it more than see it, the way her attention settles on you as she steps closer.

“You’re going out in just that?” she asks, frowning.

“I don’t really have much choice,” you say, shrugging. “I’ll just have to walk fast, which, as you know, I am perfectly capable of doing.”

“It’s cold,” she states, matter of fact, reaching out to toy with one of the, admittedly short, sleeves. “And these won’t be much good.”

“Considering I just survived burns that were practically on my boobs, I think I can handle this,” you say, attempting a grin.

There’s a flicker, a hesitation, Emily glancing down at herself before she gives a quick, decisive.

“Yeah,” she says, “no.”

There’s the sound of fabric shifting.

And then something settles around your shoulders.

“Emily,” you start, your eyes growing wide.

“You’re not going out there in that,” she states, as if it’s already a done deal. “It’s too cold, and your skin’s already irritated.”

You want to argue. But then she’s leaning in close.

“Lift your arms for me.”

You do.

She slowly helps you slide your arms through each sleeve. 

The fabric settles around you like a cocoon, heavy and warm and smelling unmistakably like her.

and suddenly you find yourself becoming a lot more agreeable as she adjusts the collar, fingertips brushing your throat.

“That is better,” you admit, softening as you look up at her. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” she says, clearing her throat, taking a small step back as she slips back into that composed mask of professionalism that you’re beginning to recognize is her shield.

“Now, where is your work? I’ll walk you.”

You blink.

“You really don’t have to.”

“First of all, I want to,” Emily lightly interjects. “Secondly I really should, just in case your burns get worse.”

“In case they get worse,” you say, deadpan, folding your arms as you raise a sceptic eyebrow, “You think my burns can get worse just on the walk from here to work?”

“Yeah,” she says, slow, confident, lips pulling upward into an expression that looks almost amused.

“Yeah, we’ll go with that.”

———

“Text me if anything changes,” Emily says, handing back your phone, her newly saved contact on your screen. “Blistering, increased pain, anything like that.”

The walk had felt shorter than it should be. One moment, the air was sharp and cold against your face, Emily’s Jacket keeping the worst of it at bay. 

And the next, you’re standing at your works entrance, warmth spilling out each time the doors open.

Now you’re stepping inside, and you make it a full five minutes before you realize your mistake.

“Oh my God, whose jacket is that?”

One of your work friends, Jordan, emerges from his cubicle, nearly dropping a clipboard as he points at you like you’ve committed a crime.

“What jacket—”

Oh.

No.

You told her you were going to give it back.

Right at the entrance.

And somehow, between the walk, the cold, the way her voice kept replaying in your head you just... forgot to

The weight of it sits heavy on your shoulders now, inescapable... obvious.

And she...

She said she’d wait until you got inside.

Which means she noticed.

And for some reason, she didn’t stop you.

“It’s nothing,” you say quickly, even as your fingers brush against the soft lining on the inside of the sleeve.

“Right, so, I can confidently state that that’s a lie,” your other work friend, Zoe, who is a walking bullshit detector chimes in, stepping up beside you and folding her arms across her chest, pouting. “I’m offended. You promised me you’d tell me as soon as you were getting some action, and not only do you walk in here wearing a jacket that’s two sizes too big and it looks like it costs three times as much as your paycheque, but you’re blushing. You can’t look me in the eye and tell me that whatever you’ve been getting isn’t good.”

“Actually, I can,” you state calmly, hands on your hips. “The only action I was getting this morning was stripping half naked in a public women’s restroom with a stranger...”

Jordan and Zoe exchange a look, their mouths falling open in tandem. 

“Because I spilled coffee on myself and got burned, hence why I’m wearing the jacket,” you finish, your voice smug, and somewhat prim.

“Okay,” Jordan says slowly, recalibrating. “I can believe all that happened to you, and I can believe that you’re still embarrassed about it.”

“But I know the difference between an I’m embarrassed blush and an I’m in love blush,”. Zoe cuts in. “And you, my friend, are very much sporting the ladder. Now spill.”

“I’m not,” you say, even as your voice goes suspiciously squeaky despite your best efforts. “It was, she was a doctor. She was just doing her job.”

Jordan and Zoe remain silent, which for some reason compels you to keep talking.

“Doctors help people. That’s literally their whole thing. So no, before you ask, she wasn’t into me. She was into preventing second-degree burns.”

“Riiight,” Jordan says slowly, after you’ve finally lapsed into silence.

Zoe tilts her head.

“So just to clarify,” she says carefully. “This not into you doctor.”

“She wasn’t.”

“, took you to the bathroom,” she continues, ignoring you completely. “Helped you take your shirt off.”

“It was medically necessary.”

“, put her hands on you.”

“Just to treat the burns.”

“, gave you her jacket.”

You hesitate.

“Yes.”

“, and then walked you to work.”

Silence.

“Well,” you say, shifting around on your feet and looking down as you feel yourself beginning to blush. “When you say it like that.”

“I’m just restating what you told me already,” Zoe shoots back.

Jordan lets out a low whistle. “Yeah, no, that’s not a neutral interaction.”

“It is,” you insist, even as you feel your ears go pink.

“Okay,” he says slowly. “So, she just let you keep it.”

She didn’t let me keep it,” you correct. “I was just borrowing it until I got to work.”

“Right,” Zoe says, arching an eyebrow as she stares. “So you’re going to have to give it back.”

“Um... yes?”

Zoe tilts her head, watching you a little too closely.

“How are you gonna do that,” she asks lightly, “if you’re not planning on seeing her again?”

You actually... hadn’t thought that far ahead.

 “I guess I’ll just, text her? Let her know that I still have it and she can come and pick it up...”

You trail off, because suddenly you feel it, the shift in the room, the way both Jordan and Zoe’s  focus has sharpened all at once. 

You bite the inside of your cheek, stopping yourself from saying anything else.

Too late.

“You’ll text her,” Jordan repeats slowly.

Oh.

No.

You freeze, and Zoe‘s head snaps towards you.

“She gave you her number?”

You scramble. “I it was for medical reasons.”

“My darling, my love, my sweet and oblivious friend,” Zoe says, fond and exasperated as she places both hands on your shoulders, giving you a light shake with each word that follows. “I need you to think.”

“Okay, chill,” you say, but she is too far gone.

“Would a doctor,” she says slowly, as if she’s walking you through something incredibly simple. “Who knows you can just walk into an ER if your burns actually get worse, casually hand out her number to just anyone?”

You hesitate, glancing away as you scramble for something, anything to counter that.

“No,” Zoe answers for you. “No, she would not.”

You remain stubbornly silent.

“So, you can pretend that you don’t have a crush on this totally not into you doctor.”

“I don’t.”

 “, or,” she talks right over you. “you can look at the sub text, recognize that she wanted you to walk in here wearing her jacket, and you can pull out your phone and text her to come get it.”

“There’s no way she meant to do that.”

But you’re already reaching for your phone

Mmhm,” Jordan says, smirking. “When she comes to get it, I should tell reception that they can send up a doctor...”

“Prentiss.”

You unlock your phone.

“Her name is Emily Prentiss.”

“Dr. Emily Prentiss,” Zoe repeats, her voice teasing and singsong.

“I can already see the wedding invites now.”

———

“You’re late.”

Normally, Emily doesn’t mind the way that charge nurse Aaron Hotchner runs their unit like it’s the Navy, striking fear into the hearts of student nurses and attending physicians alike.

Most of the time, she actually appreciates it, his blatant disregard for hierarchy.

Today is one of those times where she does not.

“Coffee shop incident,” Emily replies, already reaching for a chart. “Scald burn.”

That gets his attention.

“Severity?”

Superficial,” she says, pulling out her glasses as she begins to scan the chart. “No blistering. I cooled it, assessed, she’ll need to monitor it.”

She glances up at him, brief and precise.

“She had a visual impairment,” she states.  “I didn’t feel comfortable leaving until I was sure she was alright.”

“Understood,” Hotch says curtly, and just like that he’s moving on.

From where she’s sitting at the nurses station, Penelope Garcia absolutely does not.

“No way.”

Emily doesn’t even look up from her chart, just sighs as if bracing, running her fingers through her hair. “Garcia,” she says, her tone already warning.

“don’t Garcia me,” she says, already halfway to standing as her chair rolls across the floor. “You said coffee shop, and I thought that makes sense, because people probably spill coffee and get burned there all the time. But then you said she, and I started to have a suspicion. And then you said visual impairment, and I knew it! I knew that it had to be your coffee shop girl.”

“Prentiss has a coffee shop girl?” a newer nurse, Luke Alvez, curiously looks up from his chart.

“I don’t,” Emily says quickly, but Penelope is already cutting her off.

“You so do,” she exclaims, turning eagerly to face Luke. “Every morning, when we’ve walked to the coffee shop together before our shift, there’s this girl, uses  a cane, is adorably awkward with the barista’s, and navigates the place like she owns it. And, wouldn’t you know, every time she’s there, our lovely doctor Prentiss is practically drooling and can’t take her eyes off of her.”

“I don’t,” Emily says evenly, refusing to lift her eyes up from her chart. “She got burned, I took care of it, that’s all.”

“So it was her,” Garcia says, triumphant.

Where did she get burned?” Alvez asks, curious.

“The brunt of it was sustained on the torso,” Emily response, relieved to be directed away from being interrogated about her love life to the more familiar territory that she’s used to discussing with colleagues. “They were all superficial, but still needed to be cooled for a good 20 minutes.”

“Well,” Luke says, looking up with an all two self assured smirk.“That’s one way to get a girl topless.”

Emily only looks up to fix Luke with an unimpressed stare.

Luke remains unfazed, only stretches as he gets up and gathers his papers.

“Sounds like you had a pretty hot date, Prentiss,” he says with a wink.

“That’s inappropriate,” Emily says flatly.

“And yet you’re blushing,” Garcia points out, leaning slightly onto the balls of her feet as she peers at her.

She’d like to say that she’s not. But Emily knows she’s right, can already feel the heat crawling up the back of her neck at Luke’s Insinuation, even though it was, in reality, nothing like that. 

She’s also just never been the best liar. So instead, she attempts to do the second best thing, evade them. 

“Can we move on?” she asks, her voice going brisk and nothing short of professional.

“Sure,” says Alvez, moving past her as he steps towards the patient rooms, clipboard in hand. He almost disappears down the hall before he pauses, considering as he turns back to face Emily.

“By the way, what happened to your jacket?” he asks, sounding far too casual. “It’s cold out there, and you’re not usually one to forget things so...”

He trails off and shakes his head as he turns away, no doubt still smirking as he leaves.

“You gave her your jacket!” Garcia shrieks, practically vibrating as she spins around to face Emily once more.

Emily internally groans, making a mental note to kill Alvez later.

But then her phone goes off, an unknown number flashing across her screen.

Hi, Emily. You helped me out at the coffee shop this morning, and I still have your jacket. I’m so sorry, I must’ve forgotten to take it off when we parted ways. Would you be able to come pick it up at some point later today?

Also, thank you for being so gentle with me this morning. You made what could’ve been a bad start to my morning bearable.🩷

Emily’s Cheeks warm.

“Oh my God,” Garcia says with dawning excitement. not even trying to be subtle as she leans over Emily’s shoulder. “That’s her. That’s her right now.”

Emily pointedly angles the phone away. But it’s already too late.

“Her thank you was sweet,” she continues, softer now.

Emily doesn’t answer.

Her thumb hovers over the screen, just for a second.

Then she types.

I’d be happy to come by on my lunch break.

She sends it before she can overthink.

Then she looks up and turns her attention back to her charts. As she slides her phone back into her pocket, around her the hum of the ER comes back to life, controlled chaos, familiar and predictable.

But Emily, even as she throws herself into work, can’t help but feel that her shift suddenly just got a lot shorter.

She wonders if she’s the only one.

———

The rest of the morning drags.

Not because of the work, but because of the waiting. Her jacket is still around your shoulders, and you tell yourself it’s just because there’s a persistent chill in the office, which is partly true..

But it really isn’t that bad.

You’re halfway through pretending to focus on the email that you’ve been drafting for the past 10 minutes without success when...

“Hey.”

Your head snaps up. You’d know that voice anywhere now. You don’t know how she managed to appear without alerting you’re usually stellar hearing, but somehow she did. 

You look up in time to see her step through your office doorway.

“Hi,” you say, a little breathless in spite of yourself.

Your eyes settle on her in a way that they didn’t really have time to this morning. You focus on the shape of her, the line of her shoulders, and the absence of the jacket around them.

She’s dressed simply, all clean lines and quiet precision. Dark slacks, neatly tucked blouse, everything sitting exactly where it should.

it suits her. Controlled, put together, like nothing ever catches her off guard.

It’s also a far cry from the woman you saw in the bathroom this morning, sleeves pushed up, hands sure and steady against your skin.

You’re not sure which version you like more.

“I hope I’m not interrupting, says Emily. 

“No,” you say quickly. “No, you’re you’re good.”

She makes her way further into your office.

“I brought you something,” she says, “actually, several somethings. But chief among them is this.”

She sets something down carefully on your desk.

You recognize the sound as it makes contact with the wood.

“Figured you deserved it, especially after this morning,” she says, and you can tell that she’s smiling. “Even if I still maintain that it’s a vanilla flavoured monstrosity.”

“You went back for it?” you ask, eyes wide as you gratefully reach for the cup, still warm, even through the thin cardboard sleeve.

“I was pretty confident that I knew your order,” she says casually. “But I did ask the barista that knows you just to be safe. So I’m hoping that’s acceptable.”

“It’s more than acceptable,” you say, after you indulge yourself in taking the first sip. “It’s perfect.”

“Good,” she says, watching you for a moment.

You almost put the mug back down, but then can’t resist taking a second, then third, sip. God, you really missed your caffeine fix this morning.

“And this,” Emily continues, more brisk now, like she’s catching herself, “is for the burns.”

She sets a small round container down beside the takeout cup, then nudges it slightly towards your hand.

“It’s a topical cream,” she clarifies, “aloe based. Just something to help soothe the skin.”

“

“You really didn’t have to do all this,” you say as you look down, slightly disbelieving.

“I know,” she says, then pauses before her voice softens. “I wanted to.”

Your lips part in a quiet Oh.

You shift slightly, now suddenly very aware of the jacket still wrapped around you.

Speaking of ...

“I guess you’re here for this,” you say sheepishly, already moving to shrug it off your shoulders.

“Eventually,” she replies, her voice dipping just enough, low, quietly amused, to pull you up short.

Your hand hesitates, just as it’s about to tug at the sleeve.

You pause,  then let it fall back down to your side.

That wasn’t what you had expected.

But something warm and sudden blooms in your chest, and before you can second-guess it, before you can talk yourself out of it, you speak.

“How about a trade?”

Emily goes still.

A trade?” she asks.

“Mhm,” you nod, fingers brushing against the sleeve as you gather your courage.

“I’ll give you your jacket back,” you say, aiming for casual and not entirely succeeding. “If you... take me out on a date.”

You’re blushing now, and you look down, suddenly nervous, wondering if this is where you find out that you’ve pushed it too far.

“A jacket for a date,” she repeats softly, something warm and unmistakably interested in her tone making you glance back up. “I like it.”

“You,” you swallow, breath catching as you stare up at her. “You do?”

“Mm,” she hums, a faint smile pulling at the corner of her mouth. “I do.”

Her head tilts as she silently takes you in. 

how about,” she continues, easy and certain. “You text me your schedule.” 

She steps closer, and you completely forget how to speak.

“I’ll text you the details, and until then...”

Your breath hitches as she reaches out, fingers light but intentional as she straightens out the sleeve of her jacket, knuckles brushing against your chin as she adjusts the collar.

“You keep this.”

“A are you sure?” you ask, pulse fluttering wildly in your throat.

“Consider it,” her eyes spark with quiet amusement, “an advance on our trade.”

“Okay,” you say, quiet and breathless.

“Good,” says Emily, sounding satisfied. “I like seeing it on you anyways.”

Your brain completely short circuits.

“In the meantime,” she continues, as if she’s just said something completely casual. “If the coffee shop hasn’t scarred you too badly, I presume I’ll see you at the same time tomorrow morning?”

“Yeah,” you nod, trying, and failing, not to sound too eager. “Yeah, I’ll be there.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” she says, stepping back, already turning toward the door.

Just before she exits, she pauses, glancing back, a barely there smile touching her lips.

“I’ll see you at 7:42 AM.”

And it’s a testament to her, the warmth within her voice, the way her gaze lingers for just a second longer before she turns and walks away that somehow, she manages to make the egregiously early hour sound romantic.

And judging by your response, cheeks warming, lips curving into a soft, helpless smile— for quite possibly the first time in your life…

You can’t wait until then.