"...People are like that." -Naya Rivera

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When you first stepped foot on the sixth floor at Quantico, hands clammy and gripping at the strap of your messenger bag, you couldn't seem to untangle the knot of nerves sitting at the pit of your stomach. Your new boss seemed entirely nice and fair from your brief meeting with her, but you were about to be her first ever personal assistant. What if she could do better? What if she decided she didn't need one at all? She seemed like a perfectly competent woman, so you weren't really sure why you were here in the first place.

You got there early enough that the bullpen was completely empty, save for a purse hanging off the edge of the chair of someone named… you squint as you approach. Jennifer Jareau. You wonder when you'll meet her, and if she'll be as sweet to you as the vibrant technical analyst that barged into your new boss's office during your interview. You relax as the memory of her profuse apologies and shower of compliments directed towards you floods your brain. This won't be bad.

You hesitantly rap your knuckles on the entranceway to Unit Chief Prentiss's office, the door slightly ajar and her head buried in a pile of what you can only assume are official FBI reports of some kind. Her head lifts after one more quick glance to her work, and she beckons you in with a smile.

"You're nice and early," she greets lightheartedly, and the smile on her lips is so casually kind that it relaxes you just a bit.

When she gestures for you to sit in the chair across from her, you politely comply, nervously folding your hands in your lap. You try to give your full attention to the anecdotes she tells, clearly intending to make you feel more at home, but you're distracted by your overthinking and the way Agent Prentiss's long lashes protrude from the lids of her dark eyes. She seems so self-assured and authoritative. I wonder how long she's had this job. You hear her say something about how everyone on the team will be happy to help you out while you're adjusting to this fast-paced environment. I have no idea what I'm doing here. You nod along anyway, making sure you write any important information down on your notepad. You don't want to be caught looking foolish around this entire office of incredibly intelligent agents.

"Can I get you some coffee?" You ask, noticing that the mug by her left hand is nearly empty. She pauses, glancing at the mug and then back at you. You panic for a moment. Was that a weird question? Isn't that what personal assistants do? After a moment, she nods and smiles.

"I take Splenda. Help yourself to a cup too, okay? It's for everyone," she says gently, sensing your apprehension.

You thank her and hurry out, already halfway across the room before you realize that you forgot to grab her mug, now having to awkwardly circle back for it with a forced chuckle. You catch an amused smile on her lips. I'm so embarrassing.

When you exit Agent Prentiss's office, you spot a group of people huddled around one another, murmuring rather loud speculations about "Emily's new assistant." The conversation is seemingly led by the colorful technical analyst whom you've already sort of met. Garcia? You think that was her name. She lifts a jingling wrist in the air, loose bracelets rhythmically clacking together as she brightly smiles and waves to you.

Excitedly shouting your name, she beckons you over to the group and you awkwardly shuffle in, still holding Agent Prentiss's empty coffee mug. Garcia introduces you to the team, and while your heart rate hasn't quite gotten the memo yet, your thoughts begin to settle into a steadier path as you realize how welcoming and humorous everyone is. It's not what you expected from a group of people routinely exposed to so much death and heinous acts of violence.

You're escorted to the coffee machine by Jennifer— she says you can call her JJ— and she kindly points you to the fully stocked cabinets, filled with various sugars and substitutes. She stands by you while you work, and while it's slightly nerve-wracking, you know she isn't trying to scrutinize you when she strikes up friendly conversation to get to know you.

"You seem pretty young. How old are you?" She casually asks, her voice carrying a slight twang on the soft 'o' sound. She tacks on the preferred nickname you gave everyone at the end of her question. Good. She likes me.

When you place the refilled mug on Agent Prentiss's desk, she smiles and thanks you, her voice smooth and sweet. She seems pleased with the color of her coffee, and it encourages you to let out a soft exhale of relief. As she lifts the mug, you notice a faint mauve print attempting to replicate the elegant shape of her mouth on the rim. You wonder if that's her favorite lip color. She wore it during your interview, and it does look really nice on her.

"I'm sorry if it took a while. The coffee is fresh, though," you ramble nervously, hands wringing together. She swallows the warm beverage in her mouth and you observe the way that the smooth skin of her throat shifts as the muscles contract.

"I heard you getting ambushed out there," she softly laughs, and the tightness in your chest loosens at the sound. "Could you do me a favor and take these folders to the eighth floor? It'd be a big help," she says, her voice sweet and almost pleading, as if it isn't your job to do this for her. When you nod, her shoulders relax and she gives you a grateful smile that seems to warm you from the inside.

For the most part, your first day goes really smoothly. Everyone is impossibly kind to you, the work is straightforward enough, and several members of the team even offer to have lunch with you in an effort to get to know you better.

You return from lunch, your chest rumbling with delight at a joke made at Alvez's expense as you head towards Agent Prentiss's office. When you step inside the doorway, parting ways with the group, all you see is an empty takeout container on her desk and a to-go cup. Your stomach sinks with something uniquely unpleasant and you can't help but frown. She could have come to lunch with you guys, but you suppose someone like her must be way too busy.

Before the guilt can twist too tightly in your stomach, you're startled by the jarring ring of her desk phone. Seeing as though Agent Prentiss isn't in the room, it would be your job to answer it and take care of this for her. You can just tell whoever it is that she's not available. When you pick up the line, a deep voice echoes over the speaker with a pet name, and your mouth contorts in discomfort. You interrupt the caller to tell them that Unit Chief Prentiss isn't here right now, that they have her assistant on the line, and you're met with a chuckle before you can even finish the sentence. It annoys you for some reason.

"Okay, that's fine. Can you tell her that Andrew called to see if she's free for dinner this weekend?" The voice asks. You quickly agree and hang up as soon as possible. You don't want to talk to this guy. This is a professional office. That's what you tell yourself to validate the frustration in your gut.

Sleeping through the night is hard. It's especially frustrating when you don't have the familiar grip of your girlfriend's arms around your waist, or her warm chest flush against your back.

Emily's always insisted on being the big spoon. It's something non-negotiable for her. She'd never admit it, though, and you'd never question her on it. It feels too good to be held, and you've spent your entire day waiting for her to climb into bed with you.

That's why you always seem to know exactly when the mattress dips on her side, waking you from the slumber that can never be quite that deep without her anyway. You smile when you feel the soft skin of her arm glide across your waist and the soft puff of her breath against the back of your neck. You don't know why you try to pretend you're still asleep. It never works.

"Missed you," Emily murmurs against your skin where she presses a kiss so soft you can barely feel it. Your once even breathing falters when you take in the smooth, low tone of her voice and her dark hair tickling your shoulder. You feel her lips curl upward against the back of your neck and you know you've been caught.

"You gonna answer me, or are you gonna keep pretending to be asleep?" She teases.

"You're annoying," you smile as you press your back further against her chest. She tightens her hold on you in response. "Did you have a good day?" You ask, and she lets out a soft sigh.

"Define good," she mumbles, and you know what's coming. Emily's cautious about burdening you, but she's always open about the persistent hollow burrowed in her gut by her occupation. "I just wonder if it even makes a difference."

"You helped people. That's always good," you reassure her, and she presses her face between your shoulder blades. It nearly makes you burst with the urge to turn around and squeeze her the same way she so perfectly holds onto you. But you know better. Right now she needs this.

She needs something solid and reliable to hold onto. Needs to feel every minute shift of your body when you take a breath, and the way your skin warms under her fingertips. She holds you tight, but her grip is also so painfully soft and careful that it takes everything in you not to blurt out every mushy feeling in your chest for her. You settle for something simpler, but not any less true.

"I love you," you say, and it's not just to appease or comfort her. You mean it now just as much as you do when she's rambling off a passage of a favorite novel to you, syllables spilling out of her mouth faster than her breath can keep up with them. You mean it just as much as when you've done something admittedly foolish and you see her lip quirk up, knowing she's about to make you laugh by poking fun in that wry, dorky way that only she knows how to do.

"You love me enough to give me a kiss?" She asks with a thin veil of humor, but you hear that vulnerable edge to her voice, like you're the only thing grounding her.

You turn your head to look at her over your shoulder, and your tummy does a pleasant flip when your eyes lock with hers, big and brown and so beautifully soft even in the darkness of your bedroom. Your gaze drops to her lips, perfectly curved into little half-moons at the cupid's bow and slightly parted in anticipation. You forget why you turned around in the first place.

The callouses on her fingers don't stand a chance at taking away from the gentle sensation on your jaw as she carefully cradles it, guiding your face closer to hers. Her lips are nothing but a tickle against yours, and your chest furls with something tight and almost painful when you feel the slight tremble of her mouth. You press your lips more firmly against hers, in desperate need to reconnect after the long hours of distance, but also to show her that you're here. You're hers and you're not going anywhere. She's enough just as she is.

You know your remedy is doing the trick when her hand finds your waist, gently tugging you to face her without breaking the kiss for more than a millisecond. Her arms curl around you almost protectively, but it's just as much for her sake as it is yours.

When your lips part, you finally see the faintest smile start to form as she soothingly strokes your lower back with her thumb.

"Thanks. I love you too, by the way," she says, her voice soft and just a bit lighter than it was when she first sank down beside you.

"Oh, so now you can say it once you get a kiss. Greedy," you tease, because of course you have to get her back for her smart-ass tendencies that you cherish so much.

Your chest feels lighter than it has in days when you hear the tiniest giggle escape her lips, the sound so soft it's almost indistinguishable from a breath. You close your eyes and nuzzle your cheek against her chest, positioning your ear just so, making sure you can hear the steady thump of her heart. You smile when it speeds up ever so slightly at the first hook of your leg over her hip.

"Night," she says softly as she keeps you securely in her grasp, soothed by the silent reassurance that she'll have you in her arms tonight.