#eb800

Friday. It’s Thursday today. Every time she sees you flit past her office in a flurry, she assumes it’ll end with you knocking on her door or inevitably spilling the news.

But the inevitable doesn’t come. You deliver case files, reports, schedules, but never the information Emily wants to hear from you. You manage to ramble about everything under the sun without touching your Friday night plans.

It all settles strangely under her skin.

It’s not that she expects you to, but lately you’ve been camping out at the office as long as she does, fussing and sorting and tweaking out your—hers? yours?—filing system. The dark bullpen isn’t solely hers now; it’s yours now, too. She doesn’t exactly mind sharing it. It takes her a good while to remember the last time she hadn’t.

“Chief?”

Emily blinks. You hover above her, holding on to a paper and frowning in a way that makes her think you’ve been there for a while.

“What?” Her snap is more of a whip crack.

It rolls off your back. “Karen Walker’s witness statement. You were asking for it.”

Emily takes it. You don’t go away.

“Is everything okay?”

The dark scrawl bleeds into an incomprehensible mess. She rubs her eyeballs, the image of you disappearing behind flashing black.

“Get me a coffee.” She murmurs.

It comes out more biting than she intends, but she still doesn’t soften it with her supposedly polished manners. Her tongue is too heavy to lift around pleasantries. Sitting with the knowledge of your date and your silence of it for another day has raised her hackles for reasons she doesn’t care to explain or acknowledge.

Really, Emily doesn’t care if you go out on a date. Why should she?

The clack of your shoes on the floor breaks her out of her thoughts. She takes the coffee and murmurs a quiet thanks, all at once both grateful and resentful of your presence. Hazelnut creamer spills silkily over her tongue, scalding her tastebuds.

You loiter. Emily’s eyes raise to yours.

“Staying any longer?” You blurt out, twisting your watch strap around your wrist. 

It’s 5:38. She gathers if you leave now, you might have just enough time to catch your date.

“Much as usual. Why?” Emily tilts her head. “Got any plans?”

“Well—yes. Supposedly.” 

Her brow arches.

“I mean, if you don’t need me for anything, I’m supposed to go on a…on a date—some Italian place in Georgetown, Filo something, I don’t know, my date picked it. Bit pricey from what I’ve seen.” A small wince pinches your face, but it smooths over. “But I can totally cancel if you need me to! It’s Friday night, you know, you shouldn’t be cooped up all on your own here.” You hardly take a breath after your ramble, still picking at the strap of your watch.

Emily forces a smile. “No, I’m okay. You should go on the date.” Your mouth parts into a small o, ready for protest. She beats you to it. “Really, I mean it.”

“Are you sure? It’s really not that—”

“I don’t need you.” 

Your mouth snaps shut, and Emily internally winces. Jesus. What crawled up her ass?

She clears her throat, speaking slowly, willing her voice to soften. “Like you said, it’s Friday night. Go have fun. I’ve been to that place before, they’ve got great wine.”

“Do they?” You say tepidly.

Emily nods, her insides crawling. You push your shoulders back a little and stretch your lips into a smile, the light from her desk lamp pooling in your eyes. It feels, for some reason, far too much like when she’d stand on the opposite side of her mother’s desk, yelling for her to be human, silently begging for her to act like a mother.

She swallows the sudden tightness in her throat.

“Well.” You say quietly. “I guess I’ll go try it out.”

Emily nods. “Have a nice night.”

“You too, Chief. Don’t stay too long.” Your brows lift pointedly. 

A smile pinches her lips, pressing against the lingering coffee on her teeth. You duck out of her office, and Emily knows she’s horrendously fucked.

Maybe that’s where you get your burst of confidence from. You’ve known her for so long, loved her for an eternity and then some. You’d never have imagined seeing the day when she’d be willingly sat on the sidelines, watching lazily as people danced and writhed and threw back shots around her.

Before you can even think, you’re moving. Crossing over to the empty table, dodging dancers and waitresses until her gaze slowly flicks over to you.

“Is this seat taken?”

Emily’s brow arches. Her mouth curls, a dimple flickering in and out of existence.

“That’s my lap.”

“Doesn’t answer my question.”

You expect a slow appraisal. A bewildered look. Neither come; a glint shines in her eyes, dark onyx gleaming under the tilt of her lashes. She laughs dryly and shrugs a shoulder, spreading her thigh wider for you to reach. “All yours, sweetheart.”

You shamelessly take a seat. Ass on one thigh, you sit sideways on her lap and slot both your legs neatly between hers. 

Emily’s hand curls down from the back of the booth. Her fingers lightly dig into your lower back, a circle of heat radiating through the material of your shirt.

She tilts her head. “Couldn’t find any other seats?” She drawls, her thumb idly tracing up and down.

You shrug, grinning. “None seemed quite this comfortable.”

You’re used to flirting with Emily. A woman like her, it’s hard to hold back—especially when, recently, she’s started to become far more self-deprecating. Making jabs about her hair, her age, her…“lacking performance”. You fight her on it every time. She gives in and indulges your back and forth, but you can tell it never really reaches deeper than surface level.

You want to change that.

Heat radiates from the cushion of her thigh. You press yourself closer, the length of your side to her chest, easily lifting your arm and perching it on her shoulder. “You really are awfully comfortable, Chief.” You murmur, toying with a button on her shirt. “You’ve been holding out on me.”

Emily inhales sharply. “I’m flattered.” She murmurs, her hand flexing on your waist. Those dark eyes lock on yours, pupil swallowing iris whole. “Stay as long as you like.”

With the rumble of her voice vibrating through your chest, her perfume clouding on your tongue, her arm curled comfortably around your waist, it’s hard not to take her up on her offer. You laugh into the hollow of her jaw, feeling the shiver she fights to suppress. 

You situate yourself on her lap like your heart isn’t pounding, shifting your weight and grabbing a lock of her hair and twirling it around your finger, some boldness inside you giving you the boost to act as comfortable as a girlfriend. You’ve never been subtle, but you’ve never been this, either.

Emily, for the most part, doesn’t outwardly seem to mind it. Her fingers continue wandering, toying, dipping just under your shirt and skimming your skin, nails dragging just above the hem of your jeans. All things considered, it’s surprisingly…easy lounging in your boss’ lap, sharing sips of her drink and slowly getting drunk on the way she touches you with the barest tips of her fingers.

“You know,” you eventually muse, a silver lock of hair still twined around your finger, “you should come out with us more often. We miss you.” Emily softens, wrinkles creasing the corners of her eyes, and you get the courage. “I do.”

Her smile is small, more genuine than anything you’ve seen cross her face in ages. She squeezes your waist, her voice warm velvet across your chin.

“I’m here, sweetheart.”

You shake your head, shifting so you’re nearly straddling her thigh. “You’re not. Not like you used to be. And I know it’s not really your fault, but—” you gnaw on your lip, your heart working up a steady pound. One of Emily’s hands shifts to your face. She listens intently, one firm hand along your lower back to keep you from slipping. “I want…” you swallow. “I want you to come back to me.”

Rather greedy of you, considering she was never yours. But Emily doesn’t think so. She stays silent for a bit, turning it over, then she thumbs at your jaw. Tilts your head, murmurs an apology. Seals it with a kiss.

“They’re upstairs,” she says, squeezing your hips, your waist, trailing her lips over your swollen ones. “It’s fine. Just—just let me have this. God, how long has it been—?”

Her question is lost in your mouth. You grip her hips with two firm hands, drag them snugly over yours, and her groan spills onto your tongue, far more wanton than this impromptu couch makeout session deserves. It’s greedy, she knows; if she had an inch of shame left in her it would have swallowed her whole.

“Mommy, Mommy!” 

You both freeze.

Emily huffs and finds herself pushed back against the cushions, your hands shoving her away and darting to your hair. She blinks and tries to spark her brain back online. You’re far more adept at regaining your competence, composing yourself while she stares blankly at your grinning son.

“Sergio wants his snack.” James declares proudly, Sergio half spilling out of his arms. 

Emily regains consciousness. “James, put him down.” 

“But he wants his treat.” He frowns. “Mommy said I can give him his treat next time.”

Did she? It’s hard to focus on much right now. Emily rubs at her lips, feeling the burn of them, the swell beneath her fingers as you get up and take James to the kitchen on the condition that he sets Sergio down. She digs her palms into her eyes with a muffled groan, restlessness humming under her skin. She’s hot, too hot, dampened curls sticking to her neck and the taste of your sighs thick on her tongue.

She needs a vacation. A very child-free vacation. Preferably on another planet.

Her eyes flutter open when the couch dips again, your knees creeping on either side of her waist. Emily grabs the undersides of your thighs and pulls you snug on her lap, uncaring of the heat simmering in her blood. She’s a touch surprised, given your earlier reservations, but a glance at your blown pupils and dark gaze tells her maybe she shouldn’t be.

“That cat is nicer to your kids than he ever was to me.” You complain, your breath hot on her cheek.

Emily hums as she tilts your chin. “Who needs a cat when you have me?” She murmurs, nuzzling kisses under your jaw. “I can be plenty nice.”

She feels the vibrations as you say something, but all noise is lost in her ears. Your pulse speeds under her lips; she can feel your thighs tensing, pressure increasing around her waist as she lavishes you with attention. You arch ever so slightly into her chest and she preens, hiding a smirk in your neck, sly as she slips her hand just under your sweatpants. She doesn’t go so far as teasing her fingers under the band of your underwear, but god she wants to.

“Emily.” You warn breathlessly.

“No, I know. I know.” She groans, her head falling back against the couch. Your chests brush with each heaving inhale—it’s possible she might go insane. “Christ.” She licks her lips, drawing in a shuddering breath. Equal desperation is drawn on your face—a restless frown pulling your brows, your teeth dragging across your bottom lip. 

Maybe you really do need a vacation.

“Listen, what if we get away for a few days? Go somewhere close—hell, just spend a night or two in a hotel or something—”

A thump, and then a wail.

Emily rubs between her brows. You scramble off her lap but she nudges you back down on the couch, taking this turn. She hurries up the stairs when she hears James and Theo bickering, Theo’s usually low tone rising to a distressed whine.

“Hey, hey.” She says as she walks into their playroom, perhaps a touch more impatient than she should be, “What’s going on here?”

The two boys are on the ground, toys haphazardly sprawled around them. None of them seem particularly interesting at the moment. Emily spies the DS in James’ hand and immediately knows.

Theo scowls, glaring at his brother. “He won’t give my Nintendo back.”

“You played for a long time!”

“Because it’s mine!”

“It’s both of yours.” Emily cuts in, bending down to kneel on the floor. James is clutching the device to his chest as if it might be ripped away from him. His mouth is curved into a pout, identical to his brother’s.

“Theo, honey, you’ve had your turn with that. It’s James’ turn now.” She brushes his hair away from his frown, pointedly ignoring James’ gleeful told you behind her.

“He takes forever.” Theo huffs, crossing his arms against his chest.

“You both get equal time.” Emily says evenly, fighting against a smile when he groans dramatically. He’s so like her, in all the subtle ways usually outshined by his brother. “What do you say,” she murmurs, the sound of a video game starting up behind her as James helps himself to the DS, “you and I go make some of that mango ice cream you like?”

Theo tilts his head. “With whipped cream?”

“Duh.”

He considers this. The pinch between his brows deepens in concentration, his thumb pressing thoughtfully against his lip in a way that makes Emily smile. He’s all in all an easy child, not too fond of the fuss; even as his eyes dart behind her she knows he’ll give in.

Finally he nods, solemn and firm.

“It’s too hot today.”

The lingering heat of your body is still clinging to hers. Emily catches the gloss of your lip balm in the corner of her mouth, cocoa blooming on her tongue as her shirt soaks up the dampness on her skin.

“You’re so right, buddy.”

Vivian mumbles a coo, fists leaving the necklace and curling in the straps of Emily’s tank top. Emily feels more of her melt into her daughter, the stress of the day rolling off her shoulders with a long inhale of baby shampoo and the sweet scent of milk. Her eyes itch with the weight of long days at work and sleepless nights at home; yawning, she wraps her arms around Vivian and sifts through her soft hair.

“Sleeping is hard. I get it. I mean, not really,” she carefully lays her head on top of Vivian’s damp one, “but it’s okay anyway.”

“What’s okay?” You ask, coming over with two mugs of tea. Emily smiles and holds the little culprit close.

“Her not sleeping.” Vivian’s babbles vibrate into her cheek, getting more animated as you set the teas on the table and sit down next to them. She’s a bit more your girl than she is Emily’s. “She’s just a baby, I can’t imagine how hard it is for her to just close her eyes and sleep.”

“Very, very hard,” you agree. “She’s lucky she’s cute.” You lean over and gently kiss the tip of Vivian’s nose. The baby giggles, and you both smile. Emily blows raspberries in her cheek to prolong the sound. 

There’s a sort of magic here, she thinks. Between the warmth of your body and Vivian’s soft murmurs, a healing balm that soothes her aches and makes her feel like she’d been tucked into a velvet blanket. It’s something she can’t find anywhere else—nowhere except the safe circle of your arms and your daughter’s incomprehensible babbling.

Your mouth brushes her forehead. Emily tilts her head further into your kiss, dropping a matching one on your daughter’s head. “You haven’t combed your hair yet?” You murmur, gathering it off her shoulders.

Her hair has gone half dry. The water that dripped from it is now absorbed into the fibers of her sweater, shoulders and back soaked into a darker gray.

Emily shakes her head. “Someone was holding me hostage.”

“Rather cute captor, I think.” You say, picking the brush where it had sunk between the couch cushions.

“Totally adorable. I wouldn’t even report her to the police.” Emily murmurs, feeling you split her hair into sections. The brush gently pulls at the ends of her tangled hair, separating the knots. She relaxes further into you, yet another weight lifting off her shoulders and evaporating in the warmth of your small bubble.

You encourage her back against your chest, legs bracketing her thighs. She obliges and takes small sips of the tea you made. One hand on your thigh, the other in your daughter’s hair, she mindlessly watches the show that flashes on TV. Vivian, clueless, drifts in Emily’s arms, lulled to sleep by the rhythmic stroking of her hair and the soft mingling voices of her parents cushioning her ears.

You slip your hands out of her hair, wet them in the bath water, and squeeze up her shoulders. “Whatever strikes your fancy.” You press a kiss to the soapy curve of her ear. “Either way I’m not doing it.”

Emily’s grumble reverberates through your skin. “I used to be cared for in this house.” She drawls.

“And what do you call this?” You gently pinch the back of her neck, brow arching. It’s not really anything, in the grand scheme of things. She was boneless, her arms tired and body aching, discontent with the sorry state of her hair and yet unwilling to muster up the strength to wash it. You know the feeling well, so you nudged her into the bath and settled in behind her, pouring in epsom salt to kill two birds with one stone.

Emily grabs your hand. She laces your fingers together, brings your knuckles to her lips and kisses them. “Thank you.” She says, tucking your joint hands under her chin and leaning further into your back.

“Mm, you’re welcome.” You murmur. Ignoring the bubbles smearing on your cheek, you rest your chin on her shoulder and squeeze her fingers. “I’m glad you’re relaxing, honey. Just keep those pretty eyes open.”

Her skin warms further. She mutters an affirmative, and you skate up and down her side before taking your hand back and turning your attention to her half-washed hair. When she’s showering she usually lathers on both shampoo and conditioner at once to cut down on time, but now you gently tilt her head back into the water and wash the bubbles out. With all the time she spends in the office these days, it’s harder and harder to have her to yourself for more than a few hours. The simple joy of her presence is precious. You savor the silence of her phone, the relaxed slope of her shoulders. The warm small talk unmarred with gory, bloody details.

You wash the shampoo out and shades of gray glisten under the water—dove and slate and platinum. Silver webs at her temples and catches the light, brightening to white as you sift through her hair, easing the bubbles from her scalp. The water turns cloudy, perfumed with the sweet scent of coconut.

You briefly get distracted playing with Emily’s hair, combing through it long after it’s gone shiny and clear. It’s a habit of sorts; she goes boneless whenever you run your fingers through it, purring cat-like at the drag of your nails over her scalp. She’s never once said it, in years of marriage, but the moment she sets her head in your lap her request is clear. You nearly forget the conditioner as you gently detangle the knots you find in your way.

“Sweetheart?”

Emily’s syrup-thick voice shatters your concentration. Her eyes are fully closed now, lashes resting on her warm flushed cheeks.

“Yeah, Em?”

“I’m gonna fall asleep now.”

“Emily?”

“Yes?” She answers immediately. Her eyes meet yours, wide and shiny in the dark; she sits up, the duvet falling down to her waist. “Tell me.”

She knows she sounds desperate. But she’d kneel at the floor next to your bed if you called her over.

You hesitate, scrubbing a hand over your face. “Can I…? Is it okay if…” you heave in a breath and she has to bite down on the urge to tell you to take your time, because that never helps, it only increases the frazzle, “Can I come sleep next to you?” You rush out, slurring, the words breaking.

Emily’s own heart fractures messily down the middle.

“Yeah.” She breathes. “Yeah, of course. Sure you can, honey. Come on over.” She lifts the covers and cool air rushes in, then you. 

Your knee dents the mattress. Your eyes gleam. “Are you sure it’s—”

“Positive.” Emily takes your hand. You hold it, tight, and she gently tugs you into the bed. 

You move slowly, as if it’s painful. As if she’ll change her mind any second and tell you to get out. Emily just shuffles back, until her back hits the edge, as you curl your limbs onto the mattress, making as much room as she can in the slim twin bed she’d never got to sleep in even in childhood. The sheets she shifts back onto are cold, but she ignores the goosebumps rising on her arms, motioning for you to get in closer.

You collapse into bed and gingerly set your head on her pillow. Emily adjusts the duvet around you, tucking it under your body to stop the shivering she knows has nothing to do with the temperature. 

“Sorry.” You whisper.

“Shh.” She murmurs, tugging you closer to the center of the bed, urging you to take your space. “Don’t apologize. Just close your eyes, okay?” She instinctively swipes the loose hairs away from your forehead, her hand molding around your cheek. You sniffle and shuffle closer, your knees brushing hers, head dipping out of your pillow and into her own.

A painful twinge pinches her chest. Emily’s arm curves around your shoulder; she hugs you into her, lets you burrow into her neck, curling yourself small so you’ll fit. Each of your muscles is pulled taut, notched bowstrings under your thin pajamas holding you rigid. You stay that way for four, five, six minutes, unmoving.

“Hey,” Emily says into your hair. “You should try and get some sleep. I won’t let anything happen to you.” Her throat tightens around the words. She was seconds too late, but this time she won’t be. “I swear it.” 

A tremble rocks your body. 

“I’m sorry.” You croak.

“You have nothing to be sorry for. Not one thing.” She rubs circles into your back, dotting a kiss onto your forehead. “You’re okay, baby. Close your eyes, please. You’re safe.”

It happens slowly. But by the next five minutes, you’ve molded into her chest.

“But it’s so early!” You huff, sinking back against the seat. “You can’t have wanted to leave yet. You like to party, I think. You look like a partier.” Your eyes lock with hers, serious despite the glazed shine to them. Still ever the profiler, even with alcohol humming in your blood.

Emily’s lips tingle with the need to smile. It’s nice to see you loose and easy; in the few months since you started at the BAU, you’ve been polite but detached, quiet unless it contributes to a case, and meticulous in your work. Emily saw the way you kept your distance, but she knew it’d fade with time.

Tonight is proof of that. A few drinks in, an hour or so of Garcia’s lively chatter, and you shed all professionalism off your shoulders. In the span of a few hours, the floodgates have opened wide. 

Emily isn’t sure she wants them to fall back closed.

“Y’know, you need a break from all that paperwork,” you say sagely. “Too much paperwork, and all of it’s on your plate.” 

It can’t be comfortable, the way you rest your head on the edge of the window. Your outline shudders with every bump in the road, but you seem perfectly content. Comfortable, even, your legs stretched out near hers and crossed at the ankles.

“Somebody’s gotta do it.” Emily murmurs. 

“Shame it’s you,” you say. The soft slide of your slur is strangely endearing. “You’re far too pretty to spend so much time in the office.”

Her brows arch in surprise. Emily lets out a short laugh, her neck growing hot, the strands of her hair suddenly poking into her skin. She doesn’t reply—can’t, really, because you go on a ramble, seemingly unbothered by the bomb you’ve dropped on her and turning your fleeting attention to some topic she isn’t really able to focus on.

Her cheeks are still warm as your voice fills the silence of the car. Soft and lilting in uneven slopes, your thoughts unwinding like pools of thread, trailing from one topic to another with hardly a pause. It’s nice, Emily thinks, to hear your tongue wrap around unmarred, bloodless words for once. Her ears hardly get reprieve from your rambling until the car stops and you once again fumble with the seatbelt. 

Streetlight pours in through the window. All at once, you’re gold. Your nails, the tips of your lashes, the frown you direct to the buckle.

Emily leans over, her own belt cutting across her chest, and undoes it for you.

You melt with relief. A beam lights up your face, lips stretched wide over your teeth. The sight is still unusual; she stares a little.

“Thanks.”

Emily swallows. Nods. 

“I’ll walk you up.”

“Oh no, no, it’s—”

“I’ll walk you up. C’mon.” Her voice falls softer than she wanted it to. Emily moves almost on autopilot: undoing her belt, getting out of the car, reaching for your elbow when you teeter above the sidewalk.

“You really are a top notch boss.” You mumble, pushing open the door of your apartment building.

Emily presses her lips against a smile. “Don’t expect this treatment every time. One time service only.”

“Part of the newbie package?”

She’d never walked anyone up to their door. A shared ride and a misspelled text minutes later was enough to make her rest easy. 

“Something like that.”

You hum and rub your eye, taking halting steps down the hallway. Emily’s eyes carefully watch for any stumbles, but you lead them safely to your door. 

The key is unsteady in your hand when you pull it out. She watches it thunk loudly against the lock as you try to slot it in, gives you three seconds, then gently takes it. Your mumbled protest goes ignored.

Emily undoes the lock and swings the door open into warm light. Her eyes instinctively flit over your home, inquisitive—nosy—before she catches herself and averts her gaze. She pulls the key out and places it in your palm, then gently nudges you in.

“C’mon. You should get some rest, kid.”

Emily doesn’t fully realize what she’s said until you pause over the threshold, a violent shudder rocking your shoulders. “God, please don’t call me that,” you grimace, face scrunched up with animated disgust. “’M so—god I’m so attracted to you, makes me feel weird to hear you call me that. Please don’t call me that.” You reiterate.

She can’t look away from the scrunch of your nose. The silence rings, and your face crumples into a frown.

“You don’t think of me as a kid, do you?”

Emily’s mouth is dry. 

“No, god no. You certainly aren’t…no, I don’t, I’m sorry,” she says breathlessly. Her skin itches with embarrassment, flaming hot where your slow eyes track. “I see JJ’s kids a lot,” she blurts, “and, you know, take them out to parks and stuff…and sometimes with Reid—you know…” 

God, somebody shut her up.

“Force of habit. I promise. I don’t see you as a kid, far from it—”

“Oh, she’s a rambler,” you laugh, something airy and feather-light. “I believe you, Chief Prentiss. But only if you’ll call me something else.” You say, a touch coy.

“What do you want me to call you?” Her voice comes out breathless.

“My name.” Your blink is slow, lashes kissing your cheeks. “M’first name, not that…L/N bullshit.”

Before tonight, she would’ve thought you preferred it. 

Emily’s glad that’s not the case. 

“Okay,” she says. “Okay, yeah. Y/N.” She tests it out. Your face brightens; her lips curve up before she feels it. “Please get some sleep.”

Still spilling laughter, you touch two fingers to your temple. “Yes, Ma’am. G’night, bye.”

The door thuds closed.

“Emily.” She murmurs to it.

It all balls up into a slow but persistent headache settling at her temples. The pulsing starts sometime after ten, the bullpen buzzing with noise as she drags her blinds down with a rattle. 

Emily’s shoulders slump when she’s out of view. She blows out a breath, rounding her way back to her desk and rooting through her purse. Her search for Advil goes forgotten when her hand brushes against something she definitely hadn’t packed.

Smooth, heavy, and glass, it’s not hard to tell what it is. Emily pulls the Tupperware out, her lips twitching when she sees the fruit you’d packed along with a sandwich, a sticky note pressed flat on the lid and stealing her attention. She peels it off, laughing as she reads your familiar scrawl, your voice echoing in her head.

Fuel up, Chief! You’ve got a busy day ahead of you, and you gotta kiss me by the end of it. Don’t work that pretty head too hard, though. Your frown lines won’t thank you. 

Love you.

Emily doesn’t really think before dialing your number and pressing the phone to her ear. As it rings, she grabs the picture of you on her desk and carefully tucks the note inside the frame, slotting it between wood and glass and your beaming smile.

The tone dies.

“Hey, babe,” you greet sweetly.

“Hi.” Her grin travels through her voice. Whipped and boneless, it’s the same consistency as her mushy heart. “Thank you for packing me lunch.” She says softly. 

God, is she twirling her hair around her finger?

She’s twirling her hair. Jesus.

Emily drops the strand, tucking it behind her ear as you hum into the phone. “I wanted to put some strawberries, but we ran out. Might go get some today.” 

“Blueberries are fine.” She rushes out. “Perfect. I love them. Thank you, sweetheart.”

“You’re welcome. I should’ve started doing it a lot sooner. You’re skin and bones, Emily.”

“Am not.” She frowns.

“Uh huh. You’re worse than a toddler,” you murmur. She can imagine the scrunch of your nose. “Just eat it all, please? I’d like my wife to not wither away before I’m home to kiss her hello.”

Emily rolls her eyes, her lips pressing against a smile. “I won’t. You’re so dramatic.” Really, though, you’re not. Even she has noticed the recent airiness of her clothes, the way they hang less snug than they used to.

“Learned from the best.” You chirp, your laugh warming her insides. She lets you ramble on for a few seconds more, letting your voice dissolve the tension in her neck before you cut it short, “I have to go, Em. I love you.”

“I love you.” She murmurs, smoothing her thumb over the Tupperware and chewing down on another grin. “Take care.”

“Mhm. Come home.”

“You know I will.”

You hang up, and for a small, phantom moment, she forgets her headache. She’s preoccupied with snapping a picture of the note, something golden rushing in her blood and making her smile. It matches the glint of her wedding ring in the sunlight, unapologetically luminescent, both paths leading to you even when you’re miles away.