#emt!reader

Her eyes shimmer. The same charming dimples press into her cheeks, bright white teeth flashing under the clinical light.

“You remember. I’m flattered.”

She’s a magnetic pole, all clean and washed of blood, hair shiny, words steady without the slippery coating of a pain-hazed slur. Her mouth curves with genuine delight and you feel yourself slipping, falling yet again into her honeyed trap.

God. You’ve always been weak when it comes to pretty flirts.

You clear your throat and sit yourself on the short stool next to her chair. “First time donating?”

“No, sweetheart. First time having such a pretty EMT do it, though.” Her eyes burn holes into your face as you snap your gloves on, the sting on your wrists doing nothing to distract you from the way you flush under your uniform. “I didn’t know you guys did that.”

You busy yourself with grabbing a tourniquet and tying it around her arm. “Not all of us do.”

“Just the smart ones?”

Your mouth twitches.

Emily chuckles to herself, soft and low. A nervous swirl rushes through your lower belly, absolutely nothing to do with the needle at your side and everything to do with the smooth curve of her bicep. 

Focus. You aren’t just patching her up like last time. You’re poking a needle into her pale, soft skin—and, with the places your head is going, more than likely to nick a vein or tear her arteries to shreds.

Your spine stiffens even as you feel her looking, your shoulders setting back. “Is that painful?” You nod at the tourniquet. “Too tight?”

“No.” Emily hums. “You’re attentive.”

Too attentive. For, right now, all the wrong reasons. It’s impossible to ignore the way her white muscle tank hugs her torso, clinging to curves you hadn’t seen before. In an attempt to escape her eyes, you latch on to the jut of a collarbone, the dusting of freckles, swells of toned muscle and raven hair curling along her shoulder, her loose ponytail swaying with each turn of her head.

At least she got that one right.

You pointedly ignore her comment and search the crook of her elbow for a vein, gently prodding with your finger until you find it. Here Emily stays silent, though the heft of her gaze doesn’t lessen as you rip open an alcohol wipe and sterilize her skin.

Throwing the pad away, you assemble your needle as the alcohol dries. “Any allergies or phobias? Have you ever fainted during previous injections or blood draws?”

A small groove digs between her brows. “Once, but it was a long time ago. I hadn’t eaten properly.”

“And you have now?”

Her smile returns, strangely soft. “Yes.” She murmurs.

Needle in your palm, you gently tilt her elbow toward you. You look up in time to find a quick breath inflating her chest, gone by the time you blink.

“Nervous, queasy?” You ask, thumb pressing into her elbow.

She shakes her head once. “I’m in good hands.” Those dark eyes bore into yours, unflinching.

“You are. Take a deep breath for me.” You murmur, taking a shallow one of your own before inserting the needle in. “Make a fist and hold it.”

Emily follows your instructions. Her blood flows dark and steady into a tube, pooling in the container as your heart drums a quick beat of relief. It doesn’t matter that your hands are steady, your knowledge sound; the doubt always lingers, only dissipating from the back of your mind when the wine-dark stream pools into a tube. 

When it fills up, you shake it and switch it for the second one, then the third, then fix the bag in place. Most patients, queasy, close their eyes. Emily doesn’t. You know through the heat on your neck and a few too-quick glances back up at her face. She may be feeling it, though, because she’s momentarily quiet, head tilted back.

Cutting off strips of tape with your teeth, you secure the needle to her arm and tell her not to move it.

“Okay,” she drawls, unbothered by the drip of her blood into the rapidly filling bag, “what time do you get off?”

You blink. The echo of her voice immediately plays in your head, coyly asking for your number, pupils blown and hair bloody. A slickness coats your hands, sending you back to the ambulance though your feet are firmly planted on the floor.

“Late.” You blurt out, nothing else.

Emily’s teeth dig into her lower lip, a dimple curving as you release her tourniquet. You don’t know what flusters you more, the velvet shade of her mouth or the shadowy half moon in her cheek.

“I mean—six.” You fidget with the rubber. “My shift’s over at six.”

Why’d you repeat that? You barely smother a cringe and stand, chin ducking toward the table at your side.

“I came looking for you.” She says. She shifts in her chair, tilting her head to meet your eyes. “They said you were gone.”

She came looking.

Jesus.

“We got a call.” You pack up your kit, disposing of the spare wrappers and plastics. “It’s, uh—it gets busy a lot. ER, you know. How were you, by the way?” You suddenly blurt out, remembering. “How was your concussion?

“It was hardly that.” Emily smiles. “Just a little knock, I was fine. My wrist was sprained, though.” She idly waves it, then tucks her long bangs behind her ear. They brush her earlobes, charmingly mussed against her near picturesque pony.

You glance down at the nearly full bag. “You got lucky,” you say, “it could’ve been a lot worse. Was your boss okay?”

“Hotch?” She grins. The breath is stolen from your lungs. “Oh, you don’t need to worry about him, you could lob a grenade at him and he’d somehow still turn out okay. Intense work ethic, that guy.” Another soft laugh, this one taking no care to be gentle with your heart. You swallow down the rise in your pulse, eyes dipping down again to the bag.

Full. Thank god.

You gently peel off the tape and take the needle out. Emily is putting pressure on the gauze before you tell her to, her fingers briefly pressing down on yours. At the touch, your eyes flick up.

“What about you?” She asks quietly.

Your brows tick upward. “What about me?”

“Are you particularly…moral when it comes to certain workplace rules?” You chew on the inside of your cheek as you dispose of your tools and strip off your gloves. “Say, would you be opposed to taking my number?”

You have to give it to her, she’s bold. Bold and beautiful and a distraction you don’t need right now. Simply looking at her drains too much of your time, seconds stacking into minutes as her honeyed voice slips past your ears and curls there, a memory you know you’ll revisit over and over again like you have before.

But she’s here a second time and, really, what are the odds? You don’t like the word fate, and although Emily Prentiss seems to be the type to wring the universe into doing her bidding, you doubt she tracked you down somehow and conveniently managed to show up right at your shift. It was a long shot last time, but now it seems different to your delusion addled brain.

You don’t need distractions, you tell yourself.

But it’s been too long since you’ve let yourself give in to the temptation.

You lift the gauze, your bare skin grazing hers, a touch of cold seeping into your fingertips. “You want me to that bad?” You say softly, replacing it and securing it with tape, your eyes locking on hers when you’re done. 

They really are marvelous eyes. Nothing like you’ve ever seen before, bitter darkness honeyed by the sweetness of her gaze. Bambi, you think to yourself, barely even ashamed because it fits.

Emily swallows. “If you don’t mind it,” she says, all blatant flirtation suddenly gone. “I’d like to get to know you.” She’s self assured, her confidence quiet even in the face of your less than promising reaction. She’ll probably leave without a fuss if you said no, her dignity and her smile intact, yours just unraveling on the floor at the swish of her ponytail.

But you don’t want to say no.

“I don’t mind it,” you say finally, ignoring the distant ringing of alarm bells as you grab the bag holding her blood. Her eyes brighten but you notice, as you move back, she’s paler than she was. You hold out a hand. “Why don’t you sit in the observation area, I’ll get you a snack and we can talk about it.”

Cold hand in yours, heat flaring under your skin at her smile, you take her to the couches and know you’re fucked.

Street Fighter!Simon would find a nursing student or an EMT to call his lovie.

At first, it’s easy to hide it from them. He only schedules dates for the mornings or early afternoons, and he stays away from any area he might bump into someone from the ring. He always wears long sleeves or hoodies, and you’d never catch him dead in a pair of shorts anyways—not outside of the ring.

But then, he falls in love with the way you hold him. Your warm hands sprawl against his chest, and he hides a wince each time to keep your suspicions low. Instead, he focuses on how whole it makes him feel, like he’s finally completed the puzzle that he calls his life. You just made sense to him, so much so that he finds himself moving into your apartment.

Then he starts disappearing half the week, during the night. He writes it off as a second job.

“Gotta save for our future, yeah, dove?” He shrugs, kissing your cheek. “Don’t wanna live in the flat forever.”

You want to believe him, you really do. Relationships are all about trust, aren’t they? He’s never given you a reason to not believe what he says, but it’s hard to feel that he’s being truthful when he sneaks back into the tiny apartment, tiptoeing through the halls, stopping momentarily each time a floor board creeks.

He never says what the second job is. Instead, he hops in the shower before crawling into bed with you, grunting and hissing as he does so. Eventually, you decide you’re gonna get to the bottom of it.

Tailing him isn’t exactly the hardest thing in the world. While Simon did try his hardest to hide this secret from you, he hadn’t thought to turn off his location sharing. The pin on the map leads you to a brick building with a rusting door.

Two men stand outside, both tall with sharp features. One’s got blue eyes and a Mohawk while the other has brown eyes and dark skin. They tense up as they watch you approach them in your hoodie and sweatpants. You don’t exactly look like the most upstanding citizen right now. However, they don’t either.

They sort of just stare at you once you’re in front of them. None of you say anything for a few moments.

“Well?” The brown eyed stranger says, eyebrow raised. “Fifty for entry, and whatever you wanna bet inside is up to you.”

You shake your head in confusion. “I’m sorry. I think I’ve got the wrong place,” you say. You shove your shakey hands into your pockets and step back a bit. “Just lookin’ for my boyfriend. I’ll be on my way.” You start to walk away, muttering under your breath. “God damn it, Simon.”

The blue eyed man perks up at the name drop. “Aw, shite. Hold on,” he calls out. When you turn around, he can see your hesitant expression. He’s not exactly sure how to make you feel safer in the circumstances, so he cuts right to the chase. “Ghost is inside,” he tells you, opening the door. “Go on in. No need to pay.”

“Ghost?” You feel uneasy, and the worried look of the two men doesn’t do anything to make you feel better, but you step in anyways.

When you walk in, you’re met with a crowd, screaming and cheering, gathered around in a circle. They all shout, almost violently, money in their hands. You try to see what’s going on, but it’s hard to get a peek from the back. You try to push your way through the sea of sweating, cheering bodies, muttering soft spoken “excuse me’s” as you do, and eventually, you find yourself in the front of the crowd.

What you see before your eyes terrifies you. It’s the start of the second round, and Simon, your Simon, is standing in one corner of the ring. He’s got a mask on. It’s black, a skull painted onto the front, but you know it’s him. His tattoo sleeve is easily recognizable when you’ve seen it everyday for the past few months.

A bearded man stands outside, giving him a pep talk before squirting water into Simon’s mouth. When he spits it out, it’s got a pink tint to it, and it makes your stomach twist. For a split second, the two of you make eye contact, and you can see the distraught expression in his eyes before he has to turn around to focus on the fight.

It’s hard to watch. Every punch, kick, and choke slam feels like you’ve been stabbed. You can’t even imagine what he must feel. Your eyes squeeze shut, and you almost squeak every time you hear the impact of each blow. By no means are you a stranger to seeing bruises, cuts, or wounds. You’d watch patients bleed out, watched some of them hold their own guts before.

But there is nothing quite like seeing the man you love take blow after blow. He wins the fight, and while part of you is relieved, the other part of you is so angry. How stupid could he be to do such a thing?

He makes his way out of the ring and everyone disperses. That was the last fight of the night it seemed. By the time everyone has made their way out, you find yourself standing in the middle of the empty building, trying to make sense of what you just saw.

You hear the sound of feet shuffling against the concrete floor, and then, his voice. “Love?” He says, soft and timid, unsure of how to approach you.

Finally, you look up at him. His body is beginning to hunch over. He walks slowly with a limp. You can see the way his face twists with every movement of his torso. His big, beefy arms seem as if they’re struggling to hold his duffle bag.

You begin to walk towards him, and you grab the bag and sling it over your own shoulder. “Come on,” you say. “My car is out front.”

The ride home is silent between the two of you. He can tell that you want to blow up at him, but he gets the sense that your concern for his health and safety is hindering you from doing so. He doesn’t want to make things worse, so he just stays quiet.

When you get home, you immediately push him onto the couch and grab your med kit from beneath the sink. You start with the cuts on his face. He’d never come home like this before. You quickly check his pupils for dilation, wanting to make sure he wasn’t concussed. This fight was far worse than what he’d been up against prior, but that’s just what comes with climbing the ladder, pushing through the bracket.

Then you move onto his torso. You unzip his hoodie and pull it off for him, and you feel your bottom lip quiver as you examine the side of his ribs. Some of the bruises are purple, freshly formed. The others are a gross, ugly yellow. “What the fuck, Simon?” Is all you manage.

He takes a hold of your hand before nudging your chin up, forcing you to look at him. “I’m sorry,” he says. “Didn’t know how to bring it up, and knew you’d worry if you found out,” he tells you. “But you don’t need to worry. I’m good at this.”

You don’t ask him how he got into something like this or why. You don’t ask him why he continues to do such a thing when it’s clearly so harmful to his health. That’s a conversation for tomorrow morning.

“Just gotta trust me, lovie,” he whispers. He leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead. “Besides, you’ll take care of me now that you know, yeah?”

If he wasn’t so bruised right now, you’d be shoving him away, annoyed that he could even try to make light out of this. He’s already beat up though. You’d rather take bruised ribs over broken ones. “Need to get you xrayed,” you say.

A chuckle rumbles through his chest. “Don’t think that’s necessary,” he says. “But if it’ll make you feel better—“

“You don’t get a say in this, asshole,” you mumble. Then you stand up. “Come on, let’s go run you a hot bath. God knows how you’re even standing upright right now.”

“My body feels like it’s on fire,” he admits, standing up. He wraps his arms around you, pulling you close. “But I’m only getting in that bath if my pretty little nurse gets in with me.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re still in trouble.”

He smiles down at you, pressing a kiss to your lips. “I know, baby.”

You can’t reply for the nausea in your throat. Emily’s coworker is frowning at you, no doubt mentally tearing this interaction to pieces. It kickstarts your brain into action, practicality forcing its way over the queasy roiling in your stomach. 

“Are you hurt?” You ask him.

He shakes his head.

Jaw set, you meet Emily’s eyes and try to pretend they’re anyone else’s. “Come with me, please.” You say tightly, one hand listlessly extended to her body.

This time, it’s easier to wrestle her into the back of the rig. Emily wordlessly shoves off of the cop car and lets your fingers grip her elbow, lets you drag her to the ambulance and force her to sit on the hard metal ledge. The heat of her eyes follows you as you get your kit, burning holes into your face when you set it down next to her and pinch the sodden tissue she’s holding. Her hand falls away, exposing the bottom half of her face; a blooming cut on her lip stains her chin red.

Your mouth flattens into a thin line.

“Hi,” Emily says again, softly. “I, uh, didn’t know you’d be here.” She tilts her head to meet your gaze.

You don’t let her.

She exhales a low sigh. You ignore it as you toss away the bloodied tissue and scan her face, surveying the damage but not settling on the near magnetic pull of her eyes. What you find is harrowing: bruises on her temple and brow, a black eye, a cut on her cheek. They’re quickly darkening into deep reds and purples, visciously marring her ivory skin. Oh, and not to forget her bloody nose and split lip. Her face is a kaleidoscope of color.

Jesus.

“What happened?” You ask, reaching for the straps of her kevlar. Velcro separates, screeching as you rip the wretched vest off of her body. Shoulders, hips; you free her, then toss it carelessly into the ambulance.

“Can I get a hi first?” Emily retorts tiredly. You finally meet her eyes, the weight of them a physical blow to your gut. The black eye doesn’t help. “Hi?” Her fingertips skim yours.

You swallow thickly. Grab her hand. “Hi.”

A smile flickers over Emily’s face. “Hi, sweetheart. I’m okay, I just got a little banged up.”

A little.

Your lips purse. “What happened?”

Emily laces her fingers through yours. You need to pull away, but you can’t help the way your shoulders loosen under her touch. Her skin is warm, thumb skating over the back of your hand with her head ducked. 

“Doesn’t matter.” She murmurs.

“Emily.” You take your hand back. The movement isn’t quite so gentle; Emily’s brows dip into a frown as she winces, a low curse escaping past her lips. “What?” You demand. Taking her hand again—carefully—your eyes travel until you find a dampness on her shirt sleeve, the blood almost invisible against the navy blue fabric. You cut it off to expose a long cut, the width of her arm, just above her elbow. It’s still bleeding sluggishly, most of it staunched into her shirt.

Nausea stirs again. 

Your jaw is tightly set as you let go of Emily’s arm and snap on a pair of gloves, eyes fixed on your hands and the forceful sting of the elastic. If you look up, if you find the face of the woman you’re half in love with rather than some nameless stranger’s face, you’ll fucking lose it. Already your breathing is shallow, not enough oxygen filling your lungs as you try your best not to breathe in the scent of Emily’s blood.

“Hey,” she says quietly. You let the silence answer as you clean around her cut. It looks deep, deeper than you can manage, but at least it’s clean. Emily’s ragged inhale sours your mouth when you place pressure on it, stopping the flow. Blood blooms on the gauze, and—maddeningly—she still persists. “I’ll be home tonight.” Her voice is only slightly choked. “All on my lonesome. Would you like to keep me company?”

There’s a few things you’d like to do to her right now. You voice none of them.

When you’re certain the bleeding has stopped you grab a roll of gauze, wrap it around her arm. “We could order pizza. Get that cheese crust you like.” The first layer dampens; the second doesn’t. Neither does the third, but you still wrap another layer for good measure.

A low sigh tickles your ear.

“I miss you,” Emily says, velvet soft. 

Work had gotten in the way more than usual these past few days, both yours and hers. You missed her too, more than you think is in any way logical, but you can’t rise to her flirtations when she’s half beaten and bloody. Just the sight of the bruises on her pale face turns your stomach.

You snip the gauze and tuck the end under the layers. Her shirt is in tatters now; you don’t linger on the fact that it was one of your favorites on her.

“It’ll probably need stitches,” you lift your gaze from the bandages around her arm and grab another antiseptic wipe. You don’t mean to catch her eyes. It’s accidental, a stupid move that freezes you in place, stops your hand from meeting the cut on her cheekbone.

Her pupils are blown wide with adrenaline, the black carving out her irises until all that’s left is thin brown rings. And still they’re captivating. Emily shakes her head, tongue darting over her lip. “Honey, talk to me.” She says desperately.

You exhale a short breath through your nose. “What do you want me to say?” You murmur, dropping your eyes from hers and focusing your attention on cleaning her wound. The skin scrunches beneath your touch as she winces; guilt stabs you in the chest. Your heartbeat quickens, the pace of it making your hands shake. Briefly, ever so briefly, your eyes fall closed.

You can’t do this. Fuck, you can’t, not when it’s her.

“I already asked you what happened and you didn’t answer.” You toss the wipe away. Looking down, you take a moment to breathe in before grabbing the antiseptic ointment. She’s fine now, you try to remind yourself. Mostly. At least she’s in one piece.

“Don’t worry your pretty little head about that.” Emily says. Her fingers find your chin; she pinches it gently and tilts your face up, to her tentative smile. It tugs at the cut in her lip. “I’m fine now.”

You can’t tell if it’s profiling or if she can genuinely read your mind.

An exasperated breath parts your lips. “You have a skewed definition of fine.” You huff, dabbing ointment on her cut. Emily’s lashes flutter closed, a frown digging its way between her brows. You bite down on your lips, immediately hating yourself. “Hurts?” You ask quietly.

“Mmm,” she doesn’t verbally confirm nor deny. It’s answer enough. By the time you peel a bandage and are placing it over her cheek she’s opened her eyes. “Maybe you can kiss it better?”

“You’re bleeding.” You say flatly.

“Babe,” she murmurs, frowning as if you’re being unreasonable, “don’t be like that.”

Her too calm tone sparks fire in your blood.

“Like what?” You bite out. “Like someone whose girlfriend is beaten and bloody because of god knows what kind of trouble she was in? How exactly do you want me to act, Emily?”

“Girlfriend?”

You falter. “W-What?”

Emily grins stupidly. “You called me your girlfriend.” Her eyes glitter.

Heat rushes to your cheeks. It knocks over the guilt, the nausea, swarms of butterflies crowding your lungs. God, what are you, fifteen? 

You huff out a flustered breath. “Well, aren’t you?”

You’d had this conversation weeks ago. Not over an intimate, candlelit dinner; rather Emily had found romance in the early morning light of her bedroom. Body warm over yours, she’d grabbed your sleep-pliant hand, murmured into your knuckles if you would be her partner, let her be your girlfriend.

It had taken a few slow blinks of your eyes, chasing the blurriness from your vision and sharpening her tentative silhouette, before you’d said yes.

“I am. It’s just the first time you’ve called me that.” Emily’s arm goes around your waist. Her smile is transcendent and bloody.

“Don’t try to distract me,” you rub at your temple. “I’m still mad.”

“I’m fine,” she says quietly. Her fingers squeeze your side. “Cross my heart.”

The childish promise makes you huff out a humorless laugh. It thins out quickly, dissolves into the air between the two of you.

“You can’t look me in the eye and honestly tell me you’re fine, Emily.” You sigh. This close, you can’t help yourself. You gently cup her jaw, your thumb just shy of the broken skin at her bottom lip. It’s wet with fresh blood, the cut deepening with her careless smiles.

Emily gives you another one. You internally wince, wishing she’d stop. “Okay, well, I’m banged up.” She murmurs, leaning into your hand and blinking long lashes at you. “At least I have you to stitch me back together.”

Stupidly, thoughtlessly, your heart jumps. With no regard for the violence on Emily’s face or the complete lack of privacy of the scene around you. It’s basically your first meeting, reincarnated.

“And if I wasn’t here?” You mumble half heartedly, beginning to crack under her persistent flirtations. “Do you flirt with all your EMT’s or just me?”

Emily gives you a soft smile, a dizzying flash of dimples. “Just you, sweetheart. Only ever you.” 

The saccharine drip of her voice only makes you feel more like shit. Here she is, actually, physically hurting, and taking the brunt of your sour attitude because you couldn’t stand seeing it for yourself. You don’t know how she wipes the pain almost clear from her voice, how she can brave injuries that make you squirm at the thought of bearing them yourself, but somewhere beneath all the worry, there’s awe. 

“That’s reassuring,” you say lamely. You give her fingers a squeeze, attempting to convey what your dry tone can’t as you lean away. “Just please don’t get so banged up next time.” Reaching for another patch of gauze, you gently press it to her bottom lip. Her knee bumps into yours. “You do already have my attention, y’know.” 

A whole lot of it. Who are you kidding, probably all of it is hers.

Emily tucks the gauze into the corner of her mouth. “Like to have it at all times.” She mumbles.

You shake your head, breathing out a slow breath through your nose as the corner of her lip turns up. The ring of bruises around her eye has darkened into purple, capillaries bursting in blooms to chase away the unblemished expanse of her skin. It’s a terrible contrast, unmistakably stark and dripping violence. Still, you try your best not to shy away from her gaze.

“Will you come home with me?” Emily asks again.

You’re nodding before you know it. “Is that okay?” It’s a miracle she still wants you around after your wretched demeanor.

“That’s a stupid question, Y/N.” She says, so bluntly a laugh is forced from your lungs. It bubbles past your lips, making Emily’s smile stretch into a beam.

“Don’t fucking do that,” you scold, grimacing when fresh blood soaks the bandage. “God, you’re an idiot.”

“Your idiot girlfriend.”

It’s no use trying to staunch the blood. Her grin is so wide you discard the gauze and reach for her jaw instead of another one. 

When you finally kiss her, the metallic taste of her blood flooding your mouth, you know you’re in too deep.

Emily gently pulls it from your grip and gives you a thin smile. “Hon, I’m just tired. I need a shower and some sleep, that’s all.”

Your eyes narrow. You cross your arms and watch her move around sluggishly, none of her usual catlike grace as she kicks off her shoes and grabs a pair of pajamas, her head tilted firmly away. Emily’s stubborn, you know. Pushing isn’t always the answer. But now it is.

“Mind if I join you?”

Her expression turns sour. “I said I’m fine. I can shower on my own, I’m not a kid.” She snaps.

You don’t feel the sting of her tone, your attention caught on the way she sways. Alarm bells ring in your ears as you step closer and grab her by the waist, pulling her into you to keep her from toppling. The pajamas slip from her hands and tumble to the floor.

Something’s so very wrong.

“Emily, honey.” Your voice goes low, pleading. “You’re not okay, I know you’re not. Just tell me what—” She hisses suddenly, jerking away from your hand as it flattens on her torso. 

Her damp, sticky torso.

Your palm comes away red. Blood, you think dumbly. Her blood. 

She’s cursing as you lift the hem of her shirt. The fabric peels reluctantly from her skin, sticky and soaked as you bunch it up near her ribs and expose the bloody mess underneath.

“Jesus.” You gasp. 

You can make out a few gashes beneath the blood, cutting across the length of her abdomen and hiding under already darkening bruises. Long but shallow, your brain clocks with ease, blood flow stifled into the black cotton of her tank top. “What the fuck, Emily?” You gape, dropping the shirt. You pull her into the bathroom and make her sit on the closed toilet seat, half stiff with the shock of it as she takes her blazer off.

“It didn’t…it didn’t feel that bad.” She pants, letting it drop to the floor. Her chest heaves under her shirt, the sweat on her collarbone catching the light. You grab the hem of her tank top again; she winces as you help her take it off.

“How didn’t that feel bad? How did it—why didn’t you get checked out?” Your voice is calm for the way your heart spasms unevenly in its cage, your hands steady as you drop her shirt on the floor, jaw set against the violent mess painted across her alabaster skin.

Under the harsher bathroom light, it’s easier to assess the damage: a myriad of fresh bruises, littered all over her abdomen and deepening to blue at the edges; two cuts, dragged across her ribs, one slashed above the other in a crude angle. They’re shallow, and the bleeding has stopped, so that’s your biggest concern out of the way. Sterilizing now.

Repercussions later.

Emily wilts back against the seat, eyes half lidded as you turn the shower on. It drowns out the sound of her thready voice. “They were already taking care of JJ,” she mumbles. “She had—she got shot. This is nothing.”

“You’re not—” a flat laugh tumbles from your lips. “You’re not seriously calling this nothing. Look at you.” 

Emily wets her lips. Her hands tremble as she reaches behind her, mouth pulling in a grimace as she unhooks her bra. “It’s not as bad as it looks.” She tosses it on the ground. “Really, I’ve—I’ve had worse.” She huffs out a laugh and pushes off the seat, immediately swaying when she stands.

You steady her, your mouth pressing in a thin line. “Sit.” 

She doesn’t fight you, looking dazed as you help her back down and kneel at the seat, reaching for her jeans. Your skin burns fever-hot. “I don’t know how much blood you’ve lost. It doesn’t look like like a lot, but I’ll bet you haven’t eaten a proper meal since breakfast, have you?” 

Emily gnaws on her lip, not meeting your eyes. Your head jerks sharply. “Yeah, I wouldn’t be feeling too fucking peachy if I were you right now.” 

You drag her jeans down her thighs, half expecting another quarter of her blood volume to taint her skin, but it’s umarred. The only point of damage seems to be her abdomen, her sluggishness and shaky balance no doubt accredited to the blood loss. It all probably looks worse than it is, you try to tell yourself. Getting her under the spray will make it better.

Just get her into the shower.

You don’t look at her as you help her out of the rest of her clothes, surprised to find tears blurring your eyes but unable to blink them away, your hands working fast and precise. Maybe this shouldn’t be so surprising, though. She always does this to you. Always lets herself shatter to the floor and leaves you to pick up the pieces.

As you’re straightening off the floor, you slip. Your eyes find hers through a film of tears. 

She immediately notices. Her fingers hook in your pants, bunching the material in her fist. “Hey, no. Don’t—please don’t do that.” She tugs, trying to get you to look at her, but you don’t budge. “I’m—”

“Don’t say you’re fine.” You say quietly. You swallow tightly and help her up. “Just get in the shower, Emily.”

It’s not fair to be upset with her, some part of you thinks. Not fair to let her bear the weight of your feelings when she’s already dealing with her own shit. 

But it’s not fair to you, either. She’s a vortex, pulling both of you under. Passively self-destructive, careless with her own life as if she’s got eight more tucked under her belt. It’s all you can think of as you quietly tell her to sit down and take the shower head from its post to position it over her. The water drenches her, soaking her hair, diluting her blood.

“Not joinin’ me?” Emily mumbles. She’s curled in on herself, hugging her knees, hiding the damage. How she bares the pain, you don’t know.

You shake your head. Your chest is too tight as the water runs red with her blood. It circles the drain in rusty loops, returning clear after a few runs and confirming that the cuts aren’t much to worry about beyond soap and bandages, but you’re still queasy. 

You hate that she makes you feel this way, stripping down years of defences you’ve built between yourself and the nature of your work. All the blood, the gore, the carnage, it doesn’t get to you.

But she does.

Between fast rivulets of water and your attention directed to cleaning her wounds, it takes a while for you to realize that she’s crying. Her bloodshot eyes give her away, red circling brown and lodging in your chest like a shard of glass.

“Hey, hey.” You kneel to the floor and grasp her jaw with a wet hand. “What hurts?”

Emily shakes her head. Her chin trembles, face crumpling into downturned lines. 

“Emily,” you murmur, desperation clawing under your skin. “Please, sweetheart.” 

She doesn’t look at you, teeth gnawing at her bottom lip as she fixes her gaze on your throat, tracking your dry swallow. It takes a careful nudging of her chin and several eternal seconds before her eyes meet yours. Even then her mouth stays sealed.

“Tell me.” You plead.

Emily’s breath hitches. “I don’t…I don’t want you to be mad at me.” She finally says, her hoarse voice nearly drowned out by the water. She seems unbearably small now, knees hugged to her chest like a child, her lips pressed against a tremble.

When you swallow, you taste her tears in the back of your throat. They gleam in her eyes, nearly invisible where they spill out and track their way down her cheeks.

Each one is like a punch to the gut.

It’s your turn to shake your head. “I’m not mad, Emily. I’m just—” you lick your lips, fingers curling around the back of her neck, “it hurts me that you feel this way. You’re worth everything.” 

She blinks her wet lashes and more tears roll down the apples of her cheeks, staining them pink. It’s disconcerting, the strangeness of it curling in your gut along with everything else; Emily is far from a crier, and the pool of tears glistening at you froths up a choking knot of emotions that settles under your larynx. 

You set down the shower head, grabbing her face in both hands and wiping the salty warmth from under her eyes. “You don’t have to be shot to deserve medical attention. You don’t have to have a fatal injury to let someone take care of you. You deserve that without anything, Emily.” 

“I’m sorry.” She sniffles. Her chin tilts down. “I’m sorry, I didn’t…” A sob bursts from her chest, uneven and stilted.

“Shh. You’re okay, baby.” You ignore the ache in your knees as you bring her head into your shoulder. Water soaks through your shirt, salty with her tears. “You’re okay. These’ll just need to be bandaged up. They’ll heal in no time.” You murmur into her soaked hair, feeling the tremble of her shoulders under your arm. “How bad does it hurt?”

“Not bad.” She rasps. “’M just tired. Dizzy.”

That’s an easy fix after you take care of her wounds. Your eyes stray to the tub, watching the water run clear and transparent down the drain. 

“Let’s get you out of here.” You say quietly.

___

Emily sags against the pillows, her eyes half lidded as you bandage up the cuts. She holds a towel wrapped ice pack to the bruises, wet hair splayed on her pillow, her face displaying no reaction as you sterilize the wounds and wrap them in gauze. Your hands are careful, gentler than they were; your anger similarly simmers down to the concern bundled up at its core, hot flames doused into something much more uncomfortable lining your skin.

You ask her what happened.

Her tongue drags over her bottom lip. “I had to…restrain our unsub. He had a knife,” she speaks slowly, slurring her words. “Knocked his elbow into me. Among other things.”

You’d noticed the swelling in her abdomen while you were cleaning up the cuts. Her skin was also sweaty, you remember, damp and cold. The dots connect as you’re snipping the gauze.

“There’s a chance you could be bleeding internally.” You say. “If he hit you hard enough. Did he?”

A frown pinches her brows. “Dunno. What counts as internally-bleeding-worthy?”

A humorless laugh puffs from your lips. You bite down on it, half chewing your words beneath your teeth. “It’s best if we go get you checked out. I can’t check for that here.” You place the gauze and scissors back into the first aid kit, meeting her red-rimmed eyes. She goes still but for the tightening of her fingers around the ice pack. “Please, Em. it’s probably nothing, but I just want to—”

“Okay.” She mumbles. Her nose is still red, voice rough around the edges even after she clears her throat. “Yeah, fine.”

You don’t allow yourself to wilt in relief just yet. Not until you get a shirt on her and help her pull on her shoes, your arm cautiously slung around her waist to keep her steady.

“It’s not that I…” she starts abruptly, then trails off. Her gaze flits away, her voice, if possible, lowering further. “I thought I could handle it on my own. Without all the fuss.”

“Why do you think you have to?” You whisper, though you don’t expect a response. “You can handle so many things, Emily. God knows you’re strong enough. But this isn’t something you can deal with alone. You have to let yourself be taken care of, love.” A tear spills down her cheek. You wipe it away, tracing its salty path with a kiss. “It won’t work otherwise.”

More tears drip off her chin. You dry them as they come, your hands firm on her cheeks, kissing away her apologies as they spill into your mouth. They’re ashy, bitter and potent on your tongue—the taste of destruction, coming from the lips of your love.

It’s more of a question. That could definitely mean a concussion, you think, what with her head wound. You reach into your belt for your flashlight, clicking it open and shining it into the car. The woman squints. 

“You’re gonna be okay, we’ll get you out of here in a sec. Can you tell me your name?”

She pauses a little when your eyes meet. You hold your breath, the blankness of her gaze stirring up dread in the pit of your stomach. But then she blinks and it clears a fraction.

“Emily.” She mumbles, slowly. Her brows furrow and she stares at you intently, as if you might have the answer. In the darkness, you don’t know if you’re looking into pupil or iris. “...Prentiss.”

Some of the tightness in your gut loosens. You give her another smile, careful not to let your concern peek through. “How are you doing, Emily? Does anything hurt?” You run the flashlight up and down her body, your eyes sharp for any more serious looking injuries. Her coat seems to have protected her from the seatbelt, but when the light passes over her wrist, you spot some discoloration around it.

“Uhh…” she reaches for her seatbelt. “My—”

“Please don’t move.” Your hand shoots through the window, stilling hers on the buckle. She frowns confusedly. “Sorry, I just need to properly asses your injuries first. We’ll get you out of here in no time, I promise.” You say, your voice slipping into that firm but soothing tone you’ve learned to develop. Emily nods and you give her another reassuring smile as you open the car door. “You were saying something?”

“M’head,” she mumbles. You nod as you check her over, eventually clicking your flashlight closed and sliding it into your belt. Again you spot the discoloration on her wrist.

“Anything else?”

She seems to consider it for a moment, but then she shakes her head. You’ll deal with that later, then.

“Any trouble breathing?” You ask, leaning over her to unbuckle her seat belt. The scent of blood is thick; you try to take a closer look at the gash on her forehead, but it’s dark and her hair is in the way.

“No.”

Still, you check her airway, gently asking and prodding until you’re satisfied there’s nothing more critical needing your attention. When you’re done you instinctively place your hand on her knee and squeeze lightly—a habit of the job.

“Okay Emily, I’m gonna get you out now. Let me know if anything hurts, okay?”

A faint pink spreads across her cheeks. “’Kay,” she mumbles, throwing a furtive look to the driver’s seat. Her companion is long gone, helped out of the car by your coworker; you can distantly hear them at the ambulance.

With the ice, it takes a bit of work, but once you safely get her out of the car, you also help Emily to the ambulance. She’s stiff, not really allowing herself to lean on you even though she sways a little. You’ve dealt with plenty of people like this before, so you don’t try to force her closer, just keeping your arm steady around her in case she slips. Some of the tension in her body loosens when she spots her friend on the ledge of the ambulance.

“They got ya too, Hot—Hey,” Emily cuts herself off, a deep v creasing between her brows, “you said you weren’t hurt.” 

Her tone is accusatory. Which is fair, given the bruising on the man’s cheek and the stilted way his jacket lays on one shoulder, very obviously dislocated. His eyes trail over her, down the blood on her forehead and your steadying arm around her waist.

“So did you.”

Her lips purse. “I’m fine. I jus’ have a headache—”

“A very bloody one.”

“—not a goddamn dislocated shoulder!” She protests, concern taking over her features. Her voice, so far having been fluid and slurry, hardens to steel. “We’re going to the hospital.”

“Not just for him,” you say. “That head wound might cause a concussion, we need to get you a CT scan.”

Emily turns to you and frowns, as if you’re being unreasonable. “It’s just a headache.” She sulks.

“Headaches are a common symptom of concussions after blunt force trauma.”

“But—”

“We’re all going to the hospital, Emily.” The man sighs, his lips pressing together into a thin line when your coworker comes back with his kit. “Just get in so we can get this over with.”

He must be some kind of boss—or at least some years older—because the fight leaks out of her shoulders, despite the firm set to her brows. She resignedly accepts as you get her into the ambulance and on the cot, her eyes squinting as she adjusts to the bright light.

“I’m just gonna check your vitals first.” You tell her. The words are instinctive to you; most patients you deal with are confused and in pain, still in shock from their accidents, and you’ve found that explaining what you’re about to do makes your job a lot easier.

You checked her breathing in the car but you do it again, just to be sure. Emily stays quiet as you do. She blinks rapidly and keeps her eyes down, still adjusting to the lights of the ambulance as you try your best to move quickly. Her blood pressure is next, which she also accepts without complaint. 

When you pick up her right hand, you find reddish discoloration circling her wrist. Her hand trembles in your grip, shaking almost imperceptibly. 

“Do you feel any pain here?” You ask, gently smoothing your thumb over the cold inner skin of her wrist. 

Emily shakes her head.

You frown a little as you gently prod the area. She yelps suddenly, half pulling her hand back into her chest. You drop it, guilt swirling in your gut at the way she grimaces. “Sorry.” You apologize thickly. “It might be sprained, you’ll need an X-ray to make sure.” 

Emily bites her lip and nods, not looking at you as you carefully take the pulse in her left wrist instead. It jumps beneath your fingertips, quicker than normal but still within the range of acceptable; you let go of her hand and grab an instant ice pack from your kit, popping it so it freezes over.

“Hold this to your wrist.” 

She does it silently. Her head is bent, the dark strands of her hair absorbing the fluorescent lights. The outline of her shoulders shivers faintly; you press your fingertips to her coat. “Hey. Are you doing alright?” You ask gently.

It sounds a stupid question even to your ears, especially when she looks up and you see the blood dripping down the sharp line of her jaw, onto the collar of her coat. There’s a small furrow between her brows when your eyes meet, but it loosens a little as she gives you a small smile.

“Yeah, ’m good.” She says. There’s a heaviness to her voice, despite the dimple in her cheek. 

Now that you’re beneath the light and she’s properly looking you in the eye, you’re suddenly aware of her striking beauty. Fluorescent lights and the blood dripping down her cheek hardly diminish her sharp features. Shiny dark bangs dip between her brows, just the same bitter coffee shade of her eyes. Those are ringed with equally dark lashes, and in her pale, bloodless face, the shocking collision has the same effect of a black hole.

You blink, the sightly ragged sound of her breathing snapping you back to the present.

Oh, god, had you been staring? 

Heat bursts through your cheeks as you clear your throat, desperately attempting to be casual. You reach for your penlight, bending your head to be more level with hers. “Keep your eyes open, please.” You instruct as you shine the light into her eyes. 

Her pupils are blown; wide, uneven pools of black that push her dark brown irises to thin rings. They’re almost as dark as her pupils, you note, and not for the first time.

Focus.

“Yep,” you mutter, giving her a small, sad smile as you straighten. “Definitely a concussion.”

“They’re not that big of a deal.” She says flippantly, waving her hand in a dismissive gesture.

A frown draws your brows together. “You have a history of concussions?” That could definitely be a problem, you think as you click the penlight closed.

“I’m a federal agent.” Emily says, as if that explains it. She squints as she tips her chin further up, gravity dragging her bangs over her brows. The darkness of her eyes freezes you in place. “You’re…really beautiful.” She murmurs. 

You suck in a surprised breath. The back of your throat goes dry, aided by the piercing intensity of her gaze. She blinks a few times and leans in closer, dark, spidery lashes kissing her bloody cheek.

“Excuse me?”

 “You’re a little blurry, though.”

“That’s—”

“Too pretty for a job like this.” Emily muses. Her eyes drag over you; the scrutiny makes your heart kick.

She’s your patient.

Trying to move on, you place the back of your hand to her cheek. Emily’s brows shoot up in surprise, not recognizing what you’re doing as you check the temperature of her skin. You shouldn’t rise to her flirtations, you know that. She’s not even fully lucid.

But your mouth moves before you can stop it.

“Well, you’re too pretty to be a federal agent,” you say softly, your voice low as you gauge her skin. Cold, pale. “I bet you get banged up all the time, right? That’s a shame.” You turn to grab a shock blanket. You unfold it, wrap it around her shoulders above her coat. Her dark hair is trapped under it; you resist the urge to pull it out. 

A blush has spread across her cheeks. Shocking red, a close shade to the blood traveling down the length of her face. “We—uh…we jus’ wanted to get food for our team.” She sucks in a breath, “Why’d you put this on me?”  

“You’re pale, looks like you might be in shock.”

“That’s just my natural color,” Emily protests as you reach for a pair of gloves and slip them over your unsteady hands. “Right, Hotch?” She calls out, loud enough for him to hear.

“Keep the shock blanket, Emily.”

“It’s cold out,” you say apologetically. For some reason, you don’t want to gain her displeasure, though—in a situation like this, at least—she seems easily displeased. “And you lost a lot of blood.”

Her whole demeanor shifts. Suddenly a dimple winks at you, its sly curve in her cheek matching the curve of her lips. “You could just warm me up.” Emily suggests, her light tone masking her exhaustion. 

What? “I…uh.” Fuck, your whole body is on fire. You’re sure you’re gaping at her, but she looks entirely serious. 

This is what you get for flirting back. 

“I have to clean your wound.” You blurt out.

“That’s okay, you can sit on my lap and do it.” Her teeth flash as she grins up at you. Dimples. Two. She laughs at the dumbfounded look on your face, the sound gritty and soft. “Hey, c’mon, I’m a big girl, I can handle it. Super strong FBI agent, y’know? I won’t let you fall.” She says earnestly.

“Ma’am—”

“Emily.” The man calls out.

Emily blows a raspberry.

“Buzzkill,” she mutters. Her eyes leave you to glare daggers at his back, and that’s when you finally regain your composure. Taking in a quiet, deep breath, you firmly push away the butterflies climbing up your stomach and grab an alcohol pad from your kit, getting to work on her forehead. The latex of your gloves sticks to your sweat-slick palms.

Stay professional, you tell yourself as you inhale quietly, trying to cool the heat in your body. She’s a patient.

Emily’s eyes are once again on your face, turning your skin to fire. “Do you have a boss like that, too? Bit of a hardass?” She lowers her voice theatrically, the whisper of it echoing in the space between your bodies. “We like him, don’t worry, but he can be a bit uptight.”

You don’t answer, biting your tongue because obviously you can’t be trusted to keep it to yourself. Instead you focus on swiping the alcohol pad over her cheek, gently scrubbing until the blood gives way to pale skin. Few freckles peek up at you as you continue moving your way up to the gash. The blood has stopped, but it’s still thick over the wound.

“What’s your name?” She asks softly. There’s a rasp to her voice, threading through her words, and you wonder if you should give her a bottle of water.

This question is harmless, so you answer it. 

“Pretty,” Emily says, her tone wistful. “Everythin’ about you is.”

Your inhale is audible in the minimal space. You avoid Emily’s eyes as you reach for a square of gauze and press it to her forehead; she takes in a quick breath of her own. 

The gauze quickly soaks through, and you replace it with a fresh one.

“Am I making you uncomfortable?” Her voice is small, thready.

Your heart is in your throat. “No,” you say. Just nervous.

“I’m sorry,” she says, her tone sincere. “I’m not usually like this.”

You gather no one would be themselves after they’d gotten into a car accident, obtained a concussion, and lost a significant amount of their blood volume from a bash to the head. But something tells you this enigma of a woman is different.

“I told you I’m not uncomfortable.” Roundabout way of saying you’re basking in her attention. You clear your throat, “It’s good that you’re talking—helps me know you’re conscious.”

Gently, you swipe her matted bangs to the side and try to get a look at her wound. It’s shallow, but nothing you can treat on your own. As you’re bandaging it, you hear her mutter a curse.

You look down at her, irrational guilt settling in your stomach. “Are you in pain? Do you want some Tylenol?”

Emily blinks dazedly, a small smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. She tilts her head, “If I say yes, will you give me your number?”

“Emily.” Her boss sighs.

She grins.

You flush.

“You called an ambulance? What the fuck, Hotch?”

“You hit your head.” He says evenly. “Head injuries should always—”

His voice no longer registers. Emily’s eyes widen when they meet yours, her heart thumping a few erratic beats against her clammy skin. She barely holds herself back from calling your name, but the way she suddenly sits up gives her away.

A pulse beats violently in her temples. You spin a little, your frown blurring as her vision streaks.

“Lie down, please,” you say, also nudging her back and kneeling at the couch. Your tone is cool and professional, but a worried glimmer shines in your eyes. “I hear you fainted?”

“She woke up a minute ago.” Hotch says—thankfully—straightening off the ground. He crosses his arms, “She hit her head on her desk after she passed out.”

You hum in acknowledgement. The weight of your hand is still warm on her torso, spreading heat across her sticky skin though she’d long since obliged. You seem to notice at the same time as she does, clearing your throat and withdrawing your hand.

“Can you tell me your name?”

Emily’s mouth curls. “You know my name, baby.” She slurs.

You fluster in a way she’s well acquainted with, your cheek rippling as you gnaw on it. “I do. Do you?”

It’s stupid. She’s boneless and still a bit dizzy, not quite so out of it to forget her own name. But she likes obliging you.

“Emily.” She mumbles, steadfastly ignoring the shadows of her coworkers behind you. “Emily Prentiss.” 

She doesn’t know if she’s breathless because of your proximity or because of the whole dramatic ordeal of passing out.

You nod and start asking her routine questions, poking around and taking her vitals. She’s vaguely aware of you checking her breathing and pressing firm fingers to her pulse, cool skin to her damp heat. Your hand nudges hers away to lift the frozen bag of peas from her temple; you switch it out with an ice pack and instruct her to hold it.

The pounding in her head takes a backseat when you start fumbling with her belt, mumbling something about loosening clothing. It clinks, the buckle shifting. Emily’s breath catches.

“Honey,” she murmurs, her head swimming, “I’m in my boss’ office.”

You shake your head sharply. “’S’not like that. You, uh—” you loosen her boot laces, “—you shouldn’t be wearing tight clothes right now. Can we get her a water, please?” You turn to Hotch and Morgan.

“Uh—yeah. Sure.” Morgan says, his brows lifting as he walks out. Hotch watches hawk-eyed as you pull out a glucometer. Emily drinks in your visible flustering as you prick her finger and gather her blood on the stick. The sting is distant, blurring beneath the plush outline of your mouth as it purses into something faintly disapproving.

“That’s low.” You mutter, frowning down at the device. “When did you say you last ate?” 

There’s an edge to your gaze that Emily doesn’t like. She musters a weak shrug. “Dunno. Last night?”

She ignores Hotch’s exhale. Her fingertips go numb from the cold.

“Here.” You grab a rattling bottle from your kit and shake a few pills into your palm. “Glucose tablets. They’ll raise your—oh, thank you.” You take the water bottle from Morgan and extend it to her along with the tablets. “They’ll raise your blood sugar, which is probably why you fainted. Skipping meals—and low water intake, I’m guessing?” You tilt your head.

Emily’s eyes flit away as she swallows the tablets.

A faint hum announces your displeasure. “All in all, favorable factors for a fainting spell. It happens, nothing to worry about once you raise your blood sugar up and get some water in you. But I do need to take you in to get your head checked out.”

“Oh, Jesus—”

“That’ll teach you to eat a proper meal, princess.” Morgan tsks. “Jeez. You’re almost as bad as Reid these days.” His hand lands on her head, albeit gently. Emily almost shoves it off, but she pauses when she sees the worry in his eyes. She huffs instead, muttering nonsense under her breath as he takes his leave.

You rise up from your crouch and glance at Hotch. “I can’t move her until her sugar levels rise to normal again.”

He nods once. “Please, have a seat. I’ll be in the conference room if you need anything.”

“Thank you, sir.”

He leaves and shuts the door behind him. The man’s more sly than Emily gives him credit for, she thinks as he leaves you alone. She blinks at you as you bend over her and lift the ice pack, observing the hot pulsing she assumes is now blossoming into a nice bruise.

When your eyes meet hers, Emily is surprised her body doesn’t physically jolt.

“Do we always have to meet like this?” You murmur, adjusting it back in place after a quick prodding.

She smiles, too enchanted by the slant of sunlight through your eyes to care much about her leftover wooziness. “Nice seeing you again, sweetheart.” She says, pushing damp bangs back.

You shake your head. The familiar purse of your lips makes her bite back on a grin. “You’re a hazard. You should come with a warning label.”

Emily groans softly. “I swear I’m not usually like this.” She mutters, closing her eyes. With last time’s fiasco also on the table, she’s sure her words ring entirely hollow. “God, this is so embarrassing.” 

You make a low sound in your throat, clearly also remembering. “Emily, you popped your shoulder back right in front of me. On your own. I hate to say it, but I think this might be your default setting.”

“Were you impressed, though?” She peeks at you through the gaps in her fingers.

You sigh, a reluctant twitch to your lips. “It was…definitely something.” You busy yourself with packing up your kit and setting everything back to order. “Not exactly how someone imagines their first date.” You look at her through your lashes.

“I’m full of surprises.” Emily mumbles.

“That you are.”