rhae

She runs incredibly warm, bundled in thick pajamas and a sweater over her top, fuzzy ankle socks pressed to your own bare skin where your pant leg had ridden up. All of her heat bleeds into you; you burn in your entirety, all the places where she has you trapped and everywhere else where you're not.

You find, even so, that you don't want to move.

It's all so different to the arctic, lonely spread of the king-sized bed back in your bedroom. Here, your space is not yours. It's hers, claimed in her sleep, and you don't do anything to take it back. You just listen to the rhythm of her breathing. Even asleep, she's—grounding. Solid.

The rooms don't feel the same without her. The air is too empty, the silence, somehow, too heavy, even more than it would be if she was there, just quietly. The way she takes up space…you're constantly attuned to it, her absence taking a big claw out of your chest, a gaping hole left behind.

Ridiculous. You don't remember ever being so attached to a partner—a person—this strongly before. It's not healthy, it can't be.

She shifts in her sleep and your heart lurches, promptly proving your own point. You hold your breath but she stays asleep, her eyes closed, face lax, knee slipping down from your hip and worming into the part between your legs.

Slowly, you let out your exhale.

At least you know your attachment isn't one-sided.

She doesn't let herself show it, too focused on not overstepping, considering and reconsidering her every move to make sure it won't set you off. (It won't. It won't.) This side of her is one you're fairly enjoying. It's nice, to see—feel—her like this, wholly unguarded. She's usually so careful around you. Here she's entirely unaware of her own boundaries, just giving in to instinct.

Pins and needles begin to numb up your hand. They creep up from your fingers, spread to your forearms, up your shoulder. You hold still for another minute before the feeling becomes unbearable.

Slowly, carefully, you try to slip your arm out.

But her sleep is light. You hear the hitch in her breath, a long, deep inhale before she starts to shift, burrowing into you, her forehead rooting into your collarbone with a sound like a whine. The action is so thoughtlessly tender you briefly stop breathing.

Emily doesn't notice. She wakes slowly, like a flower unfurling, all lazy hums and slow shifts of her limbs. A yawn against your shoulder, her cheek rubbing against the meat of your bicep. It's a slow, sweet eternity before her head tips up, her sleep-hazed eyes meeting yours.

She blinks. A smile spreads across her face, small, close-lipped.

"Hi."

Jesus, her voice. It sends a trail of goosebumps down your skin.

"Hi," you breathe. "Sorry I woke you."

Emily shakes her head. "No, no—" She pauses as she takes in your current predicament. Realization creeps up in a faint blush, staining her cheeks. "Sorry I trapped you." She mumbles, shifting back, freeing your arm.

You find your mouth tugging, find your thumb reaching over to brush off a fallen lash from her cheekbone. It's okay, you should say, but you don't. "You're—really clingy." You hum instead, sweeping the lash from your thumb.

The words unfurl something: her head on your collarbone, your legs entangled on a couch—You're clingy, your voice teasing, fingers threaded though her hair. The indignant huff of her breath, buried beneath your laugh.

Warmth flutters through you.

Emily smiles again, her eyes nearly squinting closed, still soft around the corners.

"I've been told. Sleep well?"

You nod. "Warm," you admit.

Maybe a little too warm, but.

Her gaze sharpens as you carefully shift onto your side to face her. There's a little breathing room between you, your head on your pillow and her head on hers, the sheets rumpled, loose with your movement.

"How are you feeling?" She checks in, her eyes sweeping over your face. "Any soreness?"

"No, I'm fine." You've gotten used to the dull pain in your shoulder. It's more manageable than it was, sometimes quieting down for long enough that you forget and pull an abrupt move, sending it flaring again. It's the only thing giving you trouble, apart from your lingering headaches.

You ignore the pins and needles in your arm and adjust the strap of the sling so it doesn't bite into your neck. Emily notices. She shifts an inch closer, tugs up the collar of your sleep shirt and shifts the strap onto the fabric instead of your raw skin. You exhale, warming under the gentle touch of her fingers, the brush of her knuckles against your throat.

"We should get some aloe—"

"I want you to come back." You blurt out, catching her wrist, keeping her hand there on your shoulder.

Emily pauses.

"To the room," you clarify, softer. The words are clumsy in your mouth, heavy with plain want. "You don't have to stay here. I don't want you to."

Her eyes are dark, impossible to read. You drop your gaze.

"I mean—unless you want to, of course—"

"Honey," she huffs, the corner of her mouth lifting. "Come on." She says it so softly, so matter-of-fact, you feel your blood start to boil beneath your skin.

You swallow, leaning into the hand she cups to your cheek. Every inch of you winds a little tighter at the contact. You can feel the slight rush of her pulse under your finger; the faint cloud of her exhales over your jaw.

Soft as down feathers, Emily's thumb draws slow strokes over your cheek. It catches the corner of your mouth as it comes down.

"Are you sure?" She murmurs, earnest, achingly careful.

You nod. Squeeze her wrist. "I'm sure."

It's like watching a sunrise—seeing her face as it softens, melts, totally, with the pleasure. Her lips press together against a smile and there's the faint shadow of a dimple in her cheek; you itch to touch it, smooth your finger over the dent, memorize its spot, press it in—

"I hog the covers." She warns.

"Hog them all you want."

Emily laughs, and it's soft, it's yours, the gauzy cotton of a cloud draping over your skin, wrapping you in it, your ears reverberating with the sound.

"Yeah?" She whispers. "Okay, then."

-

It comes without warning as you're slipping out of bed. Emily suddenly goes still, her hands curling around the edges of the mattress, head ducking down into her chest. Her voice abruptly tapers off into silence.

You frown at her hunched figure. "Emily?"

She makes a faint noise in her throat. You round the bed over to her side, already knowing before you see her swallow hard, inhale sharply through her nose.

"Nauseous?"

"A little," she says, her voice strained. Her grip is so tight, it turns her knuckles bloodless. She squeezes her eyes shut and shoves in a few more deep breaths, her jaw set. "It's fine. It'll blow over."

You don't get a chance to do anything before she jumps and makes a beeline for the bathroom, her hand clamped tight over her mouth.

You wince and follow her in, try your best to hold her hair back with your one hand, offer some semblance of something. But there's little you can do. Her body wages violent war against her; her skin beads with sweat, bruises standing out under her eyes.

It itches in you, drags under your skin. You've never felt more useless.

You're murmuring nonsense when she finally quietens, her skin damp, chilled where you sweep your fingers. You brush the sweaty bangs away from her face and feel her shiver with the motion, shoulders tremulous. Instinctively, you tug her into you, your lips brushing the skin of her temple.

"You're okay, Em." You murmur, rubbing her arm. "You're okay, honey, you did good."

She slumps into your chest, muffling a weary noise in your shirt. Your heart twists. Pulling up your sleeve over the heel of your hand, you dry the sweat on her temple, feeling it wet the fabric.

"I've got you," you say. The floor is hard and cold under you, your back aching from the awkward position, the added strain of her weight, but you force yourself upright and as steady as you can muster.

You'd already left her once. You're not going to do it again.

-

"It's really not that—"

She dies down at the look you give her. It thrills you a little, the way her jaw snaps, but it doesn't last long before she's giving you a look, imploring.

"Sweetheart."

"Emily. I'm not going to die if you don't make me breakfast. I can make it myself—"

"I know you can—"

"—and anyway, I'm not hungry. So just." You make an impatient gesture with your hand. "Stay put."

The sweat has dried from her forehead, her usual color back in her cheeks, but you're still uneasy. You can still feel the way she'd gone limp against you on the bathroom floor—tremors along her shoulders, the harsh staccato of her breath echoing on the tiles. You could see her heart beating fast under the thin skin at the base of her throat.

On some level you think you know you're overreacting—overcorrecting, flooded with guilt because you'd left her, you'd seen her go through it but you still left her, too absorbed in your own grief—but the image of her pale and drained is too clear in your head for you to care.

Emily seems to have forgotten the whole ordeal. She looks at you with her eyes soft. Too used to it by now, probably.

The thought makes you sick.

"Y/N," she says gently. "I'm okay. I'm not going to die just because I got sick a few times, it's fine."

"A few times," you echo. "Remind me again, it's been how many weeks of this?"

How far along is she? The question briefly unsettles you, a big blank throwing your head into silence.

It's like she reads it on your face.

"I'll be going into my second trimester next week," she says, her smile small, just a press of her lips. "It should ease up by then."

You don't know how many weeks that is, exactly, but you do know it's in the double digits. Early teens, maybe.

Just a couple of weeks now, and she'll start to show. Your stomach cramps at the thought. Just a couple of weeks, and she'll start to show, and then a few months will blur by and you'll have a baby between you, and you'll raise a kid with her even though she still doesn't fully trust that you will, she still doesn't let you in, she doesn't believe that you can or want to—fuck, you want to—she doesn't—

Emily sits up in bed and takes your hand. Hers is warm, her fingers skating over your knuckles, squeezing. Your eyes snap back to hers.

"Sweetheart, I'll be fine," she reassures. Slowly, as if she's explaining it to a kid. "I am fine. I'm"—she huffs out a laugh—"I'm hardly the first person to get pregnant."

A stone sinks low in your gut.

Just pretend I'm the old me. Please just pretend I'm the old me and stop pretending with me, stop lying, let me in, let me help, I want to help—

"Not the first," you say, "but you're mine, and it's—it all feels so—" You break off, losing your grasp on the words.

It's all jumbled in your head, everything you want to say, everything you don't know you have the right to ask. You inhale roughly, eyes fluttering closed for just a second—"It's so much, Emily, god. It's so much and it's all on you and I just—" The desperation rises in you, "I don't want you to pretend with me. You keep up these fronts and you think I don't notice. I do." Your voice goes thin, bending. You swallow it down, queasy at the way her face collapses back into its familiar guilt.

Her eyes flit away from yours; you cup her jaw, bringing them back, bringing her back.

Let me in, let me in.

"Hey." You say raggedly, holding her gaze. "You can admit that it's overwhelming," you whisper, "or that you're exhausted or just—just sick of it all. You're allowed to be, and you can tell me. This can't just all be on you, Emily."

You're startled at how fast her eyes go shiny, brimming with tears. Your chest collapses in on itself. It's too much, for anyone.

And she keeps taking it all without a word.

You speak past the lump in your throat. "I'm here for you," you mumble. "I'm not going anywhere, but you're not being honest with me."

Emily blinks, swallowing hard. It's like all her indifference drains out of her; she grows uncertain-looking—her face sobering, posture curling small, like a scolded child. She doesn't move, doesn't say a word, the room so quiet you hear the silence ring.

You lean your forehead against hers. "Please, baby." You murmur, pleading—for what, you don't know.

Emily sucks in a breath. "I'm sorry," she says hoarsely. "I'm—this isn't easy for me."

Your eyes flood with heat. "I know it isn't."

"Not you," she rushes out, grabs the hem of your sweater in a fist. "I don't mean you."

Her voice goes cracked, desperate. It gnaws at you, hearing her like this, seeing the glaze of tears in her eyes, but you want her to just stop burying it all.

I could've waited. I wasn't hurt, I was just uncomfortable. I could've waited.

It becomes harder to swallow. "You're not alone." You stroke along her cheek, just as desperate. "Do you know that?"

Emily's eyes close. "I do. I do know that. Fuck, hon, I—"

"You can trust me."

"I do," she breathes. "I swear I do."

"I don't have one foot out the door." The words crack, and Emily's eyes shoot open, go wide and round—and fuck, you're making it about you again, twisting it all to bring it back to—

"I'm not leaving you."

Her face crumples, a sharp sob gasping out of her. She clamps a hand over her mouth but it's too late, the sound is already echoing, her tears are tipping over fast, trailing down the length of her cheeks.

You can feel your own tears wetting your face. Emily's shoulders are heaving silently as you bring her into you, wrap your arm around her shoulder and bring her close—still far, too far—your neck tipping forward into the top of her head.

"I'm not leaving you," you whisper into her hair. "Get the thought out of your head, okay? It's not happening." You say hoarsely, damp patches growing on the front of your sweater. Emily sniffles and everything trembles—her hands, clutching your sides, her shoulders, your strained, pounding heart. The sound of her sobs cleaves through the rush in your ears.

You palm the nape of her neck, smoothing over the the taut muscles there.

"It's not happening."

-

"You can't just not tell me this shit." You're crying, tears pattering down onto the floor like rain. Emily is blurry, but you can still see the bruise staining her side, the bandages cutting across her ribs. "Jesus, Emily, do you think no one cares? You think I don't?"

"I didn't want you to worry." She says, almost desperately. "See, you're worrying—"

"Of course I am! I fucking love you, I'll always be worried!"

Emily sucks in a breath. You barely even notice what it is you've said, never mind that it's been on your mind for weeks now, taunting you. You can only stare at the bruise, her skin marred, marked, violent.

"I'm sorry." She cups your face, thumbs at the wet slip of tears. "I'm sorry, honey, fuck—don't cry. Please don't."

You can't not. You're not a crier, not really, but it's all you can see—someone with a boot to her ribs, an elbow, a gun, a knife splitting her skin open. Someone wanting her harmed. Dead.

You still see it as she brings you into her chest.

"You can't keep doing this."

"I know. I know, I'm sorry. I love you. I love you."

-

The near-empty jar of Will's granola balances precariously on your thighs as you sit in the living room, your neck craned down at the phone in your lap, eyes burning from the strain and everything else. Sergio purrs at your side, warding off the void. He's a welcome companion as the sky darkens around you and leaves you with a time capsule of memories.

You wade through it all with bated breath.

You keep your phone's brightness turned low, your eyes still sensitive to too-bright light. You've been combing it through for nearly an hour now, reading back text threads, searching through the photos in your camera roll, gathering bits of your life like an ant collecting crumbs. It's a bit surreal, to be able to poke around. The person in your phone is clearly you; you haven't changed enough in three years to become unrecognizable to yourself. It's more of a relief than anything, but you still find yourself factoring in the newer variables, wondering how they came about.

Your habits are the same. You text dryly, keep few pictures of yourself, have a hundred more or less useless notes taking up space in your notes app. Your social media accounts are as sparse as they've ever been. Your call log consists of the same three people—Emily taking up most of it.

There's no rhyme or rhythm to your searching. You jump from app to app—your photos to your messages and back, opening up a new text thread, scrolling through another album. There's things you ignore: texts asking after your health, some from people you recognize, others whose names are fuzzy; Christmas well-wishes, continuations to conversations you don't have the context for, fourteen new messages from Pen🩷, three missed calls from Emily—11:17 P.M., 11:18, 11:19, December 16.

You're briefly queasy again.

Some of it comes back, the fog drawing thin. Your high-school best friend is still in your life—you're still just as close—though no longer as easy to see. Your eyes glaze over when you read the latest message, dated six days ago.

I'm here for you, anytime you want.

There's a few more from that same vein. Texts from Emily's friends, in varying degrees of familiarity—none from her mother, which doesn't surprise you. (Your lack of surprise, however, does). A name you vaguely recognize turns out to be a coworker you go out with on occasion; you dig through your camera roll and connect the face to the name when you find a picture, shadowy from the weak lighting of a bar.

Pictures of you and Emily, you find, are laughably rare. It's mostly her, or Sergio, or both of them together. They're sickeningly domestic—blurred, or in warm lighting, or posed up close. Emily mid-laugh, mid-yawn; deep in concentration with a book in her hands, Sergio sprawled across her legs.

It feels like you're intruding, somehow. You're not able to go through half the photos before you click back into your messages, an incessant gnawing in your stomach.

You have two new texts from her. Her name sits a few rows down (Em, the contact photo one of her with a beach splayed behind her). You tentatively open up the thread, not knowing what to expect.

December 16, 10:47 P.M.

You

Want anything else?

Em

My wife back.

You 

T-minus ten minutes

Em

That's a little more than ten minutes.

Honey, where are you?

Missed voice call

Missed voice call

Missed voice call

December 13, 10:04 A.M.

Em

Are we out of Advil?

You

There's a strip in my bag

What's wrong?

Em

Mother called.

You

Jesus

Em

Good news, though, she'll be out of state this Christmas.

You

Sweeeeet

December 11, 2:36 P.M.

You

Hey

Do you have a minute?

Em

Tell me.

Voice call

December 8, 7:23 P.M.

Em

Boarding.

It's around five hours, don't wait up.

You

Don't tell me what to do

Em

Seriously?

You

My bad for missing you

And for being a good wife

Em

A perfect wife, you mean.

You

Flattery will get you everywhere

Em

I love you.

Please don't wait up.

December 7, 8:14 A.M.

You

How's the nausea, baby

Em

Not so bad. I at least made it through breakfast today.

JJ caught me, though.

You

Better her than Pen

Em

That's what I thought.

December 3, 6:53 P.M.

You 

Okay so

Does anyone in your office happen to like peanut butter cookies?

Em

Babe.

How much did you make?

You

Well

Emily

I'm still waiting for an answer.

December 1, 5:18 P.M.

Em

In the store, you want anything?

You

Takis!!!

Em

Those things will genuinely kill you.

You

Two takis :))

"Hey."

Your head snaps up at the sound of Emily's voice. You turn the phone off. "Hi."

She sits down next to you, close enough for your arms to brush. Sergio trills and eagerly migrates onto her lap. She gives his chin a few lazy scratches, the sound of his purrs taking up space in the silence.

You notice, as your fingers itch to smooth out the reddened sleep lines on her cheek, that she sits on your good side. She always sits on your good side.

You set your phone down and reach over to stroke an idle path down Sergio's back. With the movement, your shoulder gently presses into hers. She turns to steal a glance at you, her wayward bangs brushing your cheek, lightly ticklish on your skin.

Her free arm shifts against yours and you feel her reach into your lap, pick up the abandoned—depleted—jar of granola, the few grains left inside rattling as she turns it over.

"Hungry?"

"Very." You sift your fingers through Sergio's fur, only a slight bit embarrassed. His purring cranks louder, seeping into your bones.

"What do you say to takeout?"

Her voice is so close, brushing your jaw, that you have to fight not to shiver. You take your hand back and keep your shoulder pressed against hers and suddenly feel it, all around—the stillness, in you, in her, in the house.

There's too much grief clouding you.

"Why don't we go for dinner?" You venture. "If you're feeling up to it."

Emily's eyes snap up to yours. "Yeah," she says, eager if a little surprised. "Yeah, sure."

"Sure?" You reiterate.

"Yes," she insists. "Anything particular in mind?"

You shake your head. "Just nothing fancy. Take me…" your arm loosely hooks around her hers, "take me somewhere I like."

Emily smiles, then. It still throws you off—how it softens her face, the shine of unadulterated pleasure making her glow. Beautiful, your stomach twists, tying itself in knots. Beautiful even with her eyes still shot through with red, the skin around them puffy with sleep, with tears, the heartache clinging to her even now.

"Okay."

-

The neon lights of a 24/7 diner glint off of her hair.

"Is this okay?" She asks, a thread of hesitation ringing in her voice.

You can't fathom the warmth flowing through you. You yourself hadn't known what to want or expect, but standing in front of the restaurant, a sense of rightness clicks. And, warmer than the weight of your hand in hers—

She knows you. Even when you don't.

You turn to kiss her cold cheek and feel the doubt slump out of her. "Perfect." You murmur.

Emily blushes a faint pink, pleased.

Inside, the lights are warm, the leather of the booths soft and worn. The whole place smells like sticky maple and deep-fried chicken. It's familiar, sugar and grease, setting off the hunger in you again.

A young, bored-looking waitress seats you.

"You sure this won't upset your nausea?" You ask Emily as she settles opposite you.

"I don't think so, this place is tried and tested. We've been a couple of times," she shrugs, "seems to be okay. What are you feeling?"

"Breakfast," you say resolutely, picking up the menu and skimming the options. "You?"

"Anything with maple."

Your mouth quirks. Much the same, your eyes skip over the egg combos and head straight down to the griddle dishes.

Belgian waffles, strawberry French toast, cinnamon roll pancakes…

"We missed pancake Sunday." You say idly. The image blooms in your head: your sun-drenched kitchen, Emily in just a t-shirt, humming some aimless tune and stirring pancake batter. You cutting up fruit, dotting chocolate chips on the still wet puddles she scoops out onto the pan. It's a ritual of sorts, implicitly sacred. Yours and hers.

Surprise washes over Emily's face. "Oh," she says. "Yeah—right. Slipped my mind."

"That's quite a serious offense, Mrs. Prentiss."

Her eyes go pinched, smiling. "I'm sorry," she murmurs, velvet-soft as she leans across the table. "How do you want me to make it up to you?"

She's teasing, you can distantly tell. But her voice, already low, drops lower, pours over your skin like honey. She looks at you from under her lashes and it sets you on fire, your wife toying with you, flirting.

"Are you guys ready to order?" The waitress comes over, clicking her pen, saving you.

You lean back into your seat and nod a little too quickly, the heat of Emily's eyes still on your face. You can hear the barest hint of a smile in her voice as she places her order—her menu still closed, hands folded neatly on top of it. You—a few degrees above your normal temperature, the words on the menu blurring before your eyes—go for the pancakes.

Outside, flecks of snow start fluttering down. They streak through the dark backdrop of the evening, sweep up against the window, stick and melt on the glass. A bell chimes as the door of the diner pushes open, a belated gust of wind rushing past you.

It cools your cheeks enough that you can pick up the conversation again.

"So." You look back at your wife. "How did we find this place?"

Emily's mouth softens, pulls up into a half smile. "It's not anything special, really. We were going out for dinner, but we didn't make it in time for our reservation. My flight was delayed coming back," she explains. "But we were starving and everywhere else was packed, so..."

As she talks, threads of memory start to connect.

It was a weekend. You'd been annoyed with her, but—I'm not the one flying the jet, babe.

"Our old complex is close by." You mention.

This earns you a proper smile. Dimpled and all. "Yeah. Yeah, it is." Emily says.

There's a new weight to her gaze, a heavy fondness, her eyes bright with it. It warms you up on the inside as she takes your hand from the table and lifts it up to her lips. "You're doing good," she whispers, kissing the ridges of your knuckles.

Air thins in your lungs, a swooping feeling rushing through your gut.

You're doing good.

You carefully twist your hand in her grip and reach over to cup her cheek. You see the breath rush in her, fast, then slower, quieter, like she's trying to pace herself. The table edge digs into your ribs as you brush your thumb over her cheek, not quite where her dimple lays—too high up.

Her eyes are so dark you can see tiny, twin reflections of yourself in them, pulled over her irises.

"How can you stand it?" You ask quietly.

She doesn't need to ask what you're talking about. She knows, squeezes your wrist, ghosts her thumb over your pulse.

"Because I love you, and you're my best friend."

She says it so plainly. It's near laughable—almost childishly simple. Still, your eyes grow hot, a lump expanding in your throat as Emily keeps her hand over yours, lightly skates her thumb over your skin. "I've always been alone," she murmurs. "Ever since I was a kid. I never had many friends, and the ones I could make—" she shrugs, "it was impossible to stay in touch. That kind of stuck, I think." Her voice seeps into your bones, through muscle, through skin. "Even as I grew up, I wasn't exactly popular. It was hard to…connect."

Your chest twinges. Emily rubs absent, soothing circles on your skin, almost like she can feel it.

"The BAU was my first time feeling like I belonged. Sappy, I know, but—I'd never really had friends, much less family." She says softly, passively. A tiny bit amused, like she's laughing at herself.

"And then, you came along." Her lips tug, brushing the heel of your hand—not quite a kiss, but not quite not. It's enough to send your heart in a tailspin, but then her eyes pin you in place, impossibly dark, brimming with such focus you nearly squirm. She exhales heavily, warmth fogging over your skin. "I've kind of been waiting my whole life for you."

The words burrow deep. There's such a palpable tenderness to them that you have to look away, catch your breath.

You. All of this is for you. Somehow, for some reason.

"Charmer," you muster out.

Emily smiles. She clasps your hand between both of hers and gently lays it back on the table. You barely notice the strain that loosens in your arm, your head overfull with her. She lets you stay in it, a little dazed, but before long she's nudging your ankle under the table, trapping your leg between both of hers, your knees knocking into each other.

"So, does that mean you'll let me sleep in your bed tonight?"

You're surprised when you laugh, so loud you have to clasp your hand over your mouth to muffle it.

-

With a sling, every normal activity takes about ten times longer. Changing; eating; showering; even sleeping is tedious. Brushing your teeth and washing your face take an eternity when Emily's not helping you—she insists, but so do you, that you've got it. Because you have. It just takes about two hours to get through what used to take you five minutes.

You flick open the cap on the bottle of aloe gel and squeeze out a cool dollop. Emily had gotten you the squeezable bottle after you'd struggled with the jar—you don't know when she'd gotten it, only that it was there on your nightstand the next time you needed to switch out your bandage. At the reminder, you find yourself biting down on a smile as you spread the gel on the half-healed burn.

Sweet. She's sweet—in a way that makes you fuss and flounder and go hot despite yourself. It's nothing overly loud or frivolous, just deeply earnest. You've never met anyone so thoughtful.

At least, you think.

Every day, it just becomes more surreal—the fact that she's yours, unwavering and entirely devoted. Funny. So beautiful it physically aches in your chest. You feel like you've done nothing to deserve her, like you just woke up and she was there, hovering over your hospital bed, her eyes glazed with tears.

Honey. Talk to me, please.

Honey, breathe. Honey, you're killing me.

Honey, I'm kidding. Honey, let me in, honey I love you, fuck, honey, there you go—

You wipe off the excess gel with a towel, somersaults in your stomach.

It's a strange thing, to be falling in love with your wife. You love her, you know you do, you feel it. It's dormant, living inside your bones.

But this, it's different. It trips along your insides, burning hot and growing hotter, glowing, in your chest, the pit of your stomach. You look up at yourself in the bathroom mirror, eyes bright, the ghost of a smile lingering around your mouth, and you think—yes.

You're falling in love with her.

-

"Oh—god, I'm sorry—"

"Hm?" Emily turns, to you, topless—nearly entirely topless, a shirt clutched in her hand, and that's—

That's a tattoo. Arched over her hip, curling to wrap around her waist.

A tattoo. She has a tattoo.

"I—" You mouth goes achingly dry. You swallow, hard. "Fuck, sorry, I didn't—I didn't know you were changing. Or that you have a tattoo," you blurt out, cringing as the words echo in the silence. Your back is still to the bathroom door, your feet firmly planted on the ground even as your eyes rove, heat ripping through you.

Your first thought is: she's not as soft as she feels. There's lean muscle in her arms, toned and firm even from afar, her shoulders strong, chest rounded and soft. Your eyes are gluttonous, eating across every inch of her pale skin. They skate up the plane of her stomach, to her exposed collarbones, to the curve to her neck, down to the ink splayed on her side—

The corner of Emily's mouth ticks up. You're still glued in place as she steps closer, much to the dismay of your poor, weak knees.

"I have a couple," she says easily. "You like this one?"

You tell yourself not to look—don't look, don't, don't, don't—but you fail yourself.

Your eyes drop to it.

Up close, it's even more catching—a little faded, worn into her skin. The inkwork is elegant—a string of lilies, arching up, curving around to cup her waist. Pale white stretch marks ripple through it. Loose, curling tendrils of stem reach up just to her ribs; the rest of the tattoo dips below her waistline, snaking down her hip, a petal peeking over—

You avert your eyes, too late, the ink already burned into your brain.

"Sorry," you mutter belatedly, blood rushing to your cheeks.

"What for?"

Your eyes snap back to hers. Emily's smile is now a full-blown grin, more than a little pleased.

"You can look, honey, it's okay." Her voice is faintly teasing. "Touch, even. I won't bite."

You swallow, feeling your back press against the door. "I'm sorry." Your voice is embarrassingly ragged. Her gaze is impossible to hold; you flick your eyes away, rubbing skittishly at your brow. "I didn't mean to put you on the spot."

"So polite," she murmurs, unbearably fond. "Sweetheart, you're my wife. I'm not on any spot."

Your brows scrunch. You look back at her to find a similar look on her face. It fades into a smile when your eyes meet, her shrug easy and careless. "You get what I mean. Really, it's okay." Her voice softens. Coaxing. "If you want to."

It feels like uneven ground. You're bared open, every inch of your want out on display and it's—it's new to you but it's not new to her and even though, in all technicality, she's the one stripped to her skin but you feel exposed down to your bones, falling after she's already fell, her feet steady on the ground while you're still tumbling and tripping over yourself.

Unfair.

But you still can't help yourself.

Swallowing your heart, you let your eyes drift lower.

"Twenty-year-old me was onto something, huh?" She murmurs.

Twenty-year-old you would have straight fainted at the sight. Current-age-you isn't faring much better, really.

"It's pretty." You manage.

"You think?"

"Emily," you inhale, swallowing to dispel the dryness in your throat, "I mean this in the nicest way possible—please put on your goddamn shirt."

She laughs, ducking her head. "Okay, okay. Sorry."

"No, you're not." You mutter, relieved and disappointed in equal measure when she shrugs her shirt on. It becomes marginally easier to breathe, a relentless flame flicking out.

Her smile is in her eyes as she pulls out her hair from under the shirt. "Want me to help? You didn't ice your shoulder today, did you?"

"Didn't, no." You finally find the strength to push off of the bathroom door and make your way to the closet.

You pick a considerably lighter pair of pajamas to account for the clinginess. (King bed, yes, but can you really trust her to stay on her side?)

There's no good reason to let her help you, but you hand her the shirt anyway.

It's become a routine of sorts. You sit down on the edge of the bed and take your arm out from your sling, carefully holding it stiff. Emily kneels down in front of you and reaches for the hem of your sweater, bunches it up to help you get your arm out of the sleeve.

It's easy to pull your good arm out, but the other one needs more maneuvering. Emily guides the collar over your head and gently tugs the sleeve down your injured shoulder.

"Bruising's getting better." She murmurs, eyeing the discoloration around the joint. She sets your sweater aside. "Have you been doing the exercises?"

You wince a little.

"Honey."

"Forgot."

She sighs. "Can we do them now, do you feel up for it?"

You're not sure she realizes it, but her voice does the thing. Sweetens, almost, goes softer than it already is. She doesn't push, but she does this. Gently coaxes and poses it all as a question, gives you the illusion of making a choice when, really, she makes it impossible to refuse.

"Fine."

Emily squeezes your knee, pleased. She helps you slip your pajama shirt on then shifts closer to your left, picking up your hand from its perch on your thigh.

"I've been doing the finger ones." You allow.

She hums. "What about this one?" She keeps your arm supported with one hand and takes your wrist in the other, gently bending it down.

You shake your head. She holds the position for a few seconds then switches, pushing your wrist up until your hand hovers in a high-five. Your head quietens as you let her guide you through the motions. It's nothing tedious or painful, but having her do it is strangely relieving.

Her hands are warm, the room quiet but for the shift of her knees on the floor, the springs in the bed as your weight eases and settles. You feel every thud of your heart in your chest.

Emily is quiet as she moves on to the other exercise—this one to help you bend your elbow. She gently guides your arm, searching your face for signs of pain, a faint crease between her brows. You're not really thinking when press your thumb to it, but she huffs out a sound like a laugh, her skin smoothing out, the crease disappearing.

As she brings your arm back down, she lays a soft kiss to the side of your wrist.

You're acutely aware that she has all of your hurt in her hands. Your biggest physical vulnerability, entirely in her control. She could pull an abrupt move, push or pinch or grab where it hurts, but she doesn't. You don't know why the thought even creeps up; she's almost unbearably cautious, sitting, on her knees, for you. Everything she's done has been to ease your pain. You don't even believe that she'd do anything to hurt you, but she just.

She could.

"You seem well practiced." You remark quietly.

Emily hums. "I've dislocated my shoulders enough for a lifetime."

You frown.

"How many times?"

Her lips purse. "Two on my right, I think. Three on my left."

"Jesus."

"Yeah." She smiles humorlessly. "Perks of the job. They heal a lot faster after that first time, though."

Your nose wrinkles. "It's still awful."

She gives a little hum. "It's not something I ever wanted you to know the feeling of." Her brows draw together, lips thinning as she sets your hand down. Quick and nimble, she grabs the sling and eases your arm back into it, careful to adjust the strap so that it sits on your pajama shirt.

"How's that?" She checks in.

"Perfect," you nod. "Thank you."

She straightens, takes your face in her hands and kisses your forehead. "Bed?"

"Bed."

-

You dream of her.

Groaning, you shift onto your other side, turning to worm your way into Emily's arms. Your head drops on her shoulder, arm curling tight around her waist, pressing you both closer like it'll stop her from leaving. She gracelessly rubs the back of your head, yawning.

"Alaska?" She slurs into the phone. "Y'sure you got that right?"

Despite everything, her soft drawl makes you smile into her collarbone. You go all warm inside when she sounds like this—a gravelly rasp in her throat, her words pulled long and sticky, rounded with the softness of her mouth. Her voice roughens, yet her pronunciation crumbles; it's like she gets sanded down, all the sharpness melted away, purely for you to hear when she's heavy with sleep or—

Your eyes snap open at the sound of Garcia's voice, tinny but clear through the phone, reminding you of the fact that you're very much not the only witness to your wife's less inhibited state.

"Yes, I've got that right. The deputy mentioned it, like, ten times—"

"Lemme guess, salmon city, Alaska." Emily yawns again, letting her forehead loll down and press against yours.

"So close, it's Fairbanks." 

She makes a grumbling sound under her breath, the vibrations seeping into your skin. You go hot knowing the sound carries, the speakers picking up what's yours, delivering it to Garcia's ears.

Sleep leaves your body very quickly.

Garcia tuts. "Up you get, cupcake. It's a ten hour flight. Pack warm."

"No," Emily rasps.

"Jet leaves at six."

"I'm resigning."

"Can't relay the news!" Garcia chirps. "Sorry, hon, in-person resignations only. Don't be late."

She hangs up with a beep and Emily throws the phone somewhere on the bed, groaning again as she curls around you—smothers you, really. You're still stewing as the tip of her nose nudges your cheek, her mussed bangs tickling you all over. 

It's just Garcia. One-of-your-favorite-people-on-this-planet Garcia. Emily's-best-friend Garcia. 

You're being ridiculous. It's fine. She's seen her drunk off her mind, looped up on pain meds. They spend an abnormal amount of time together, and this isn't the first time this has happened. Hell, it'll hardly be the last.

Had she ever answered JJ like this? Hotch?

Your fingers curl into the cotton of Emily's tank top. She exhales, the warmth of it hitting your cheek, and shifts around to rest her forehead on your shoulder.

"I should quit."

"Yeah, you should." You shoot back too fast, your own voice gravely with exhaustion.

"Wow, really?" Emily mumbles. "That was a lil' too enthusiastic."

You search for her hand amidst the covers. It's cold, limp until you thread your fingers through hers and give a halfhearted squeeze. "You just came back, Emily." You say. You can't really make out her features in the dark, only feel her, hear her. "You're exhausted. It's not fair."

She hums thickly, her lips soft on your cheek. "Don't worry your pretty little head about me."

"I can't not. Besides," your voice goes a little petulant as you twist in her arms, huddling close enough to see the faint sheen of her eyes, "no one else should get to hear you like this." You mumble.

Emily's brows furrow. "Like what?" She asks, perplexed.

"This," you whisper, tracing her plush bottom lip. "Mine."

"I'm yours all the time." She whispers back. It's so earnest, so sweetly clueless. Heat crawls up your skin again, this time from your own absurdity. 

Sighing, you press a small kiss to her mouth. Emily cups your cheek, a frown still creasing her forehead. "Baby, what're you talkin' about?"

"Nothing," you mumble, muffled into her hand. "I hate the BAU."

She pets your cheek, strokes clumsily next to your eye. You savor the kiss she drops there, a small bit of lingering warmth to chase away the cold when she slips out of bed.

Amelia has a boyfriend. Which is, you know, fine. Normal, even, for a seventeen year old.

Except when that seventeen year old is the daughter of one Emily Prentiss.

Emily doesn't like the idea. Hadn't, even when Amelia was 13 and had a “relationship” in middle school. Of course, you hadn't been there for that, but Amelia used it as an argument in many discussions with her mother, especially when annoyed about Emily's overprotection.

Alright, you remember what being a teenage girl was like. Your parents were constantly out to get you, even if they weren't, even if they really were worried about drugs, predators or something worse. You know that Amy will see it soon, she'll understand Emily's view on it when she's older, when she's not infatuated. You're sure of it.

That doesn't mean she understands it now.

In the living room, you've been witness to a few arguments. From the day Amelia sat Emily down and said she had a boyfriend, until today, when she sat her mom down, again, to ask if said boyfriend can sleep over.

“Absolutely not,” Emily says, once again.

“Why?!” Amelia exclaims, her face indignant, just like Emily's. “What difference does it make if he sleeps over or not?”

Her mother sighs. You stay very, very quiet.

“The difference is I don't want him to.”

“Oh, great argument, mom.” Amelia scoffs, “very convincing.”

Emily stands up, moving away from the couch to pace away her stress. “I'm your mother, I don't need to convince you of anything.”

Amy presses her lips together for a second. Then, in an honestly shocking action, calls your name. You look up at her, confused.

“Tell her she's being unreasonable.”

Widening your eyes, you notice Emily is also looking at you and waiting for an answer. Her eyebrow raised in a challenge.

“Oh,” you chuckle forcedly, “I'm not getting in the middle of that.”

“Why not?!” Amelia asks, waving her arms around indignantly. “You're getting married,” she gestures at the ring on your left hand, still recent and shocking to you when you look down at it. “You're like, practically, my mom too, right? You should have a say in this.”

Lips parted in surprise, you look over at Emily, whose shoulders have dropped ever so slightly. She nods, “tell us what you think.”

Clearing your throat, you look between them for a moment. God, it's annoying how much they can't see that they're exactly the same.

“Um, I don't see much of a difference if he's coming over, anyway,” you say, finally, and Amelia looks at you triumphantly. She points, making a face at her mother that says see?

In a second, you lift up a hand to stop her. “But, you said you'd just be sleeping, right? So, no harm in keeping the door open through the night.”

Amy scoffs, “that's ridiculous.”

Well, you don't really believe that. You're trying to be diplomatic, whatever, sue you. Of course, it doesn't make a difference if the door is open or not. If Amelia wants to have sex, she'll find a way to do it, at home or somewhere else. You'd much rather it be at home, safely, and you just want some time to discuss it, properly, with Emily before she has a stress induced stroke.

You look at Amy, begging her to understand that you need time to help Emily get used to the idea. She seems to get the hint.

“He can come over for dinner, and then he can stay over. Door open, that's it.”

You both look at Emily, bracing for her reaction. She keeps her arms crossed, lips pursed, but relents. “Fine. No closing the door and for one night. I need to meet him.”

Amelia looks at you gratefully, then thanks her mom, quickly darting away to her room with the excuse of telling Nick the good news. You take a deep breath, turning to Emily, who's still fuming, by the looks of it.

You walk towards her slowly, then softly uncross her arms for her, wrapping them around yourself. Resting your hands on her shoulders, you lock eyes, waiting. Emily sighs, again, like she has the weight of the world on her back.

“Compromises,” you say, trying to get her to understand.

“I guess,” she shrugs. Her lips are still in the cutest pout, though you'd never tell her that.

“Wouldn't you rather they sleep here instead of somewhere you don't know?”

“I'd rather they not sleep together at all,” she says indignantly.

You bite your lip to contain a smile, knowing it'll just add to her distress. “She'll be fine, she's a smart girl. Besides, if she wants to do something more, she'll find the time, even if it is in the middle of the day,” you say carefully. “You remember what being a teenager was like.”

Emily nods, “that's what worries me.”

In the end, dinner comes and goes easily. Nick sleeps over, they keep the door open, and Emily doesn't end up having a stroke. She even likes him, as much as she can. He seems like a good kid, and after dinner they even studied together in the den, so you're guessing this is as good as it'll get when considering 17 year olds.

Emily was touched that Amelia asked for your opinion. She'd smiled about it and kissed your cheek, and you told her she was allowed to say I told you so if she wanted to. She did tell you Amy would come around, and she had, a while ago as well. Now, though, after you got engaged, it seemed she was even more welcoming of your place in her life.

After a half day of work, your boss ends up letting you go home to finish everything remotely. It's a slow day, so there’s no need for you to be at the office, and you'll take any opportunity you can to work from home. As you drive, you call Emily to let her know about your change in plans and ask what she wants for dinner, figuring you'll whip something up in case she gets home late.

At the house, which you, sometimes, still can't believe you can call yours, you finally sigh after getting in, tired from the drive back. It's eerily quiet, which is to be expected. In the middle of the day, on a Friday, Emily at work and Amelia at school, you hope the silence doesn't lull you to sleep over your laptop and you actually manage to get some work done. Deciding you'll grab a coffee to keep you company, you leave your stuff in Emily's office, since you're both still working on redecorating the spare room as an office for you, and start towards the kitchen. You greet Leo in the hallway, scratching between his ears and letting him go when he quickly skips away.

On the way there, though, you hear a noise from the second floor. Immediately startled, you try to rationalize that it must be the wind, or one of the windows moving with the force of it. A beat later, though, you hear it again.

Reaching the second floor, you realize the sounds are coming from Amelia's room. The door is closed, so you guess she must've forgotten the window open, as usual, and there's a branch or something hitting the glass. Hoping there isn't actually an intruder, and praying to whoever is listening that if there is one, they haven't been able to get into Emily's gun safe, or you're about to be in big trouble.

Telling yourself you're being paranoid, you slowly open the door to Amelia's room, bracing yourself for someone to come swinging or pointing a gun at your face.

What greets you isn't that, but something much worse.

Sure, that's really dramatic, though the thought of explaining this to Emily brings immediate nausea, and your eyes widen in shock as you take in the scene.

Amelia yelps, hiding herself under the comforter, as you finally get control of your body back, slamming the door and walking quickly down the stairs. Defeated, you already know you won't be getting any work done today.

Because Amelia is home when she should've been at school. And Emily hadn't said anything, which indicated she was skipping class, a whole other can of worms that you don't want to unpack right now. And Amelia is home with her boyfriend, door closed, when they both should've been at school.

If you’re trying to grasp at silver linings, at least they were both clothed.

Although they were, most definitely, making out on Amy's bed. With the door closed. Skipping school. While Emily was at work, completely oblivious.

And, shit, you're going to have to tell Emily about this.

No matter what Amelia sees you as, no matter that you're finally growing into a proper role in her life. Emily has to know. And, fuck, you were the one who encouraged her to be fine with this relationship, you said Amelia was smart, you said she knew what she was doing,

And now Amelia is skipping school to make out or do God knows what with her boyfriend.

Oh, Emily's never gonna let you make a decision about this ever again.

It takes a few minutes for Amy to come find you, but she does, eventually.

You're sat at the dining table, staring at your laptop screen, pretending to work and not managing to convince even yourself. You see her in the reflection before she makes herself known.

Amelia clears her throat. As you turn, you notice her flushed cheeks, the way she's wringing her fingers together like her mother does when she's uncomfortable. You wait.

“I'm guessing there's no hope in asking you to keep this quiet?” She asks, yet she's already dejected, a self deprecating little smile on her lips.

You stay silent, raising your eyebrows.

“We weren't even doing anything,” she tries. “We were studying and got distracted.”

“Okay…” You nod, willing to hear her out. “And why aren't you at school?”

Amy shifts from one foot to the other, looking down at the floor. “We had a free period, then only an English class after, but there's this test next week and I was worried, so Nick was helping me study-”

At the perfect moment, of course, Nick comes down the stairs, his backpack in hand and looking redder than a tomato. It's an admittedly amusing sight, though you keep your laughter in. Leo skips down the stairs right behind him, probably infatuated with his new friend.

“Hi, Nicholas,” you say, enjoying the way he folds in on himself — it's funny, okay? You're still human, after all. “I think you should go home.”

He nods, quickly kisses Amy's cheek and makes his way out. She doesn't even look up at him, but you're guessing they're okay from her little wave.

“Amy,” you stand up, closing your laptop and walking around the island, moving to grab a glass of water just to have something to do with your hands. “I'm hoping you're going to be responsible enough to tell Emily about this yourself.”

Amelia opens her mouth to protest, but you silence her with a look.

“I'm not going to berate you for having a boyfriend, or wanting to spend time with him. I know your mom gets a little protective sometimes-” You ignore her scoff, taking a sip of your water before setting the glass down. “But she's still your mom, and she has rules for a reason. You skipped school, sneaked in here and did exactly what Emily was afraid you'd do.”

She sits heavily on the couch, keeping her eyes down, biting her lip in an effort to keep her emotions in check. It's cute to see how much she and Emily have in common, even in a situation like this.

“When you tell her about it, you should ask her why she’s so against you having a boyfriend. I'm sure she'll explain it to you.”

Crossing her arms, Amy looks up, “she's trying to ruin my social life.”

You smile despite yourself at her stubbornness, “ask her and you'll understand.”

She stays quiet, most definitely thinking about how her parents are the worst. Well, we've all been there.

“I thought you'd be the cool mom,” she rolls her eyes, leaving the den swiftly, and still slamming her door for good measure.

After a beat, she yells out Sorry! I didn't mean to slam it.

At least there's that.

Emily arrives silently, like always. She takes off her boots by the door, leaves her coat hanging, drops her bag on the couch.

She finds you in the kitchen, after following the smell of dinner, which is waiting for her on the stove. She grins.

God, you’re about to ruin her day.

Emily greets you in that low, raspy voice after an entire day of using it. Her tone would normally have your knees buckling. This time, your shoulders tense. She notices, of course, yet doesn't say anything.

She kisses your cheek, the side of your mouth, taking note of the two glasses of wine on the island. Wraps her arms around you from behind, then murmurs, “you okay?”

You hum in response, pushing the glass towards her softly. Tilting your head, you wordlessly ask for a kiss, to which she complies happily. Sighing into her mouth, you pull back slightly. “I have to tell you something.”

Emily nods, waiting. Before you can say anything, though, you both hear Amelia's footsteps behind you. Turning, Emily smiles at her, heart warming at the sight of her daughter, wearing pajamas with her dark hair in a braid.

“Hey, Hon.” She calls, hand still resting on your shoulder, like she's making sure you won't leave. There's nowhere else you'd want to go.

“Hi, mom,” she says, looking at you and nodding. You nod back, proud she's seemed to take your advice.

“Maybe we should move to the couch,” you suggest, causing Emily to frown immediately and look at the two of you, one at a time, cataloguing expressions and narrowing her eyes, trying to catch whatever it is by reading the faces of the two most important women in her life.

She doesn't say anything, again, and you know that's just her own style of profiling. Quietly assessing before she can get to a conclusion. Still, she lets herself be guided to the living room, sits down without prompting and accepts the glass you bring her. Amelia stands near the couch, shifting on her feet, as usual.

Emily frowns, and, finally, Amy starts talking.

If you weren't so tense, you'd laugh at the rollercoaster of emotions on Emily's face. Confusion, anger, then a shock so genuine you could kiss her, declare how much you love her and how adorable she looks when she's just, absolutely, lost. You don't do any of that, naturally, falling back into your role of spectator and waiting to see if you might need to be the extinguisher for Emily's fire.

For a moment, everything stills. Emily doesn't say a word.

For all her fame at the FBI, for how intimidating she looks, you know she's nothing like that in her personal life. At work, she needs to put up that front to earn people's respect, which is upsetting, but not unreal. At home, she's a loving, caring, understanding mother, even when Amelia tests her patience, even when the cat breaks one of her favorite picture frames.

At home, she prioritizes conversations instead of hard glares, she squeezes your hip when you look upset but won't tell her why, she plays with Amelia's hair when she needs comfort but won't ask for it.

The Emily you know is warm and sweet, truly comparable to marshmallow on the inside when it comes to you or Amelia. The Emily you know looks nothing like the woman next to you right now, who you're pretty sure just gained another gray hair in a span of thirty seconds.

“You did what?” She asks in an almost whisper, her jaw locked, eyes boring into Amelia's own, a mirror to hers.

Amy presses her lips together, then drops herself on the wooden coffee table, immediately placing her hands on her mother's thighs. “I'm sorry, okay? I am. And I won't do it again.”

“Of course you won't,” Emily says, way too calmly for you to trust it. “You're not going to see Nick again.”

Amelia jumps up, “mom! That's so ridiculous.”

Emily sits up, moving to the edge of the couch. Your hand on her thigh keeps her from standing up. “No… What's ridiculous is you making terrible decisions after starting to date this boy.”

“You said she'd understand!” She almost yells, looking at you. A fire behind her eyes that you've only seen before in Emily's.

Lifting a hand to placate her, and keep Emily from saying whatever it is you can see from the corner of your eye that she's about to. “I said you had to ask her, and that she'd explain it to you,” you say it slowly, not wanting to oxygenate the flame even further.

“Explain what?!” Emily finally asks, arms crossed.

Amy takes a deep breath, sitting on the loveseat this time, a little further away from you both. “Why you hate that I have a boyfriend.”

Your fiancée scoffs, “haven’t you given me enough reason? You skipped school, Amy! You defied a rule I specifically set.”

She shakes her head, “you never liked it, even before that.”

“I told you, I don't have to explain anything to you, Amelia. I'm your mother.” Emily grabs her wine glass, taking a long sip. “Fuck, now you've made me sound like my mother.”

You touch her arm, earning her attention. You find it sweet how her eyes immediately soften. “I think she might understand it better if you tell her about when you were a teenager.” Watching as realization dawns in her eyes, you quickly squeeze her hand. “Only if you want to.”

Emily thinks about it for a moment. Amelia taps her foot impatiently. You figure she's glad the attention is not on her for a brief moment.

Seeming to make a decision, Emily turns to her daughter, leaving her glass on the coffee table, but her other hand still in yours. Then, she tells her.

Emily tells her about Rome, and John, and Matthew. She tells her about the priest, the clinic, like it's a story she only heard of. Her voice never wavers, her resolve never falters, though her hand squeezes yours when she says the word ‘abortion’.

“I've always done everything I can to ensure this didn't happen to you,” she explains. “Not because I don't trust you, or because I wouldn't help you do whatever you wanted in that situation because, believe me, Amelia, I would.” Emily reaches a hand in front of her, waiting for Amy to hold it. She does, of course, not even taking time to think about it. “I would move heaven and earth to make it your decision, and I always wanted to be a mother to whom you could come to if anything like that ever happened, unlike the one I had.”

Amy shakes her head incredulously, “you are.”

Emily smiles at her, “something like that changes you, Amy. I know I did what was right for me at the time, and I don't regret it, but it's something that weighs on you. I didn't want you to have to make that decision.” She wipes away a single tear that had escaped, “which is why I always worry when you mention a boy, and why I gave you the talk when you had your first period, even if your grandmother judged it way too early.” She sighs, “I know you're a smart girl. But this decision you made was very stupid.”

Amelia bites her lip, embarrassed. She looks down at her hand that's still clasped with her mother's.

“I want you to date, to have fun. But I don't want you making stupid decisions, Amy, you’re my daughter and you know better than that.”

She nods, her eyes moving to you for a second, then back to Emily. “I'm sorry. And I'm sorry, too,” she looks back at you, “that I said you weren't the cool mom. You definitely are.”

You let out a surprised laugh. Amy smiles back and even Emily, with her tense shoulders, shakes her head with a small grin.

“I'm gonna pretend I didn't hear that so you don't get an extra week without your phone.”

Amelia opens her mouth to protest, but is silenced with a single brow raise. She deflates, leaning against the cushions, defeated. Looking up shyly, “can I still see Nick? Mom, I swear we never did anything more, I would've told you, I promise.”

Emily looks at you with an indignant look, “that's what she's worried about?”

You shrug, “she's in loove,” you sing-song, delighting in Amy's blush.

“Fine, you can see him.” Before Amelia jumps up, Emily continues, “only at school, or here, with supervision. It'll be a while before he can go up to your room again.”

Amy nods, smiling softly. “Thanks, moms.” She hugs you both quickly, leaving her phone on the coffee table and swiftly leaving the room, her footsteps fast on the stairs.

“She called you her mom,” Emily beams, kissing your chin.

“Huh,” you jokingly consider, “I thought having a teenager would be harder.”

Emily stares at you, attempting a glare, “I almost had a stroke!”

“You should've seen my face when I caught them,” you shake your head, sipping on what's left of your wine. “Or Nick's.”

She, finally, guffaws, finding humor in the situation. “Fuck, honey, I'm gonna need a lot more wine to get through the night.”

You nod, grabbing her empty glass and starting towards the kitchen. “Whatever my lady wishes,” you call back with a chuckle.

There was no warning, either. You got home one day and they broke the news on the other. You'd barely arrived, with your suitcase still packed and shoved under your bed, when they told you. They handed you a newspaper cutout. Someone wrote an entire piece on that old ranch.

You immediately knew what ranch it was. Right on the edge of a neighboring town, where sane people don't set foot. There's nothing to see there, after all. No nightlife, no bars, not even a diner. Just endless fields and the prospect of a heatstroke.

You never thought you'd have to go and confirm all of that yourself. Turns out you were wrong.

It's hot outside, but even inside the car, it's sweltering. Sweat is beading at the back of your neck, the radio is on too loud, and your parents are talking too much. You zone out until they start repeating your name.

"What?", you ask, snapping out of it. 

"Honey, this is such a great opportunity for you." Your mother turns around. "Young people need to experience things like this. I'm telling you, you're being all crabby now, but one day you'll thank us."

"If that day ever comes, you have the permission to shoot me."

"Y/N", your father cuts in. "Your mother is right, this will do you some good. Maybe you'll learn some responsibility for once. This year was a fucking disaster."

"James, don't curse."

"Sweetheart, she maxed out her credit card three times."

You roll your eyes and lean back again. Outside, you can see the side of Wyoming you never got to know. Golden fields, barns with peeling paint, wooden fences and dirt roads. A couple horses here and there. Not at all what you wanted.

You've been called spoiled before. By your grandma, your aunt, even your parents. This must be payback. Maybe some twisted way to correct your behavior.

The car pulls out onto one of the dirt roads you keep seeing. You drive past trees and old houses, until the landscape gets sparser. Somewhere in the distance, you see the ranch you saw in the newspaper. There's a pasture right nearby. 

A river, winding its way through trees and tall grass, glistens in the morning sunlight. From all the way over here, you can see the mountain range. You turn your head away.

At first, the ranch seems abandoned. Not a human, not even a horse, in sight. You hold the handle of your suitcase tighter and finally look at your parents.

"Is this a joke?", you ask. "Because if it is, well done. You taught me a lesson. Can I go now?"

"It's not a joke until you've got the money to replace your car", your dad says. He rubs his forehead. "Maybe we should go knock on the door."

"Don't knock."

All three of you turn around at the same time. For a moment that lasts way too long, all you can do is stare — this is not who you imagined owning the ranch. What popped into your mind had been an old man, with weathered skin and white hair. Someone grumpy, mean, who'd barely say a word to you.

You did not think it'd be a woman, and definitely not one this attractive. 

You take her all in, from head to toe. Cowboy hat pulled low, red hair in a braid, worn boots and straight jeans. Sweat on her brows, her hands still dirty from whatever she was doing before you arrived.

"And don't stare, either", she suddenly adds, throwing you a sharp glance. Maybe you weren't wrong about the 'mean' part after all. "Who's that?"

"That's Y/N."

"Bullshit. This is a summer job for high school students."

Your head whips around. "High school? I have a bachelor's!"

Both of your parents start sputtering excuses and explanations at once. You're not willing to listen to either of them, and neither is the woman with the cowboy hat. What she expected was a high schooler, maybe someone who just graduated. It said so in the advert, too. She lets out a sigh, kicks at a pebble and then interrupts them.

"Cut it out", she says. "I don't have time for this. Is she fit for the job or no?"

She's doing her best not to look at you. God knows what made you think it'd be appropriate to show up in shorts and a tiny top.

"Do I look like I am?", you immediately fire. 

"She is", your father says, anyway. "She'll be useful. Besides, she owes me a ton of money, so..."

"I don't need your backstory", she says, finally looking at you. She raises her eyebrows. "I'm Natasha. And if you're someone who'll complain all day, I don't want you here."

Complaining is an art you mastered over the years. It's as innate as breathing. But who said you couldn't tone it down for a month or two?

Part of you knows: for her, you could. You shoot her a smile and reach out your hand, which she gives a long stare before shaking it. You feel her calloused fingers rub against your smooth ones.

"No complaining", you promise, batting your eyes at her. "Now, what's the sleeping arrangement?" 

. . .

You're not sure what you were expecting. All you know is that your expectations were low, and despite that, it still managed to disappoint you.

The mattress is thin. The window barely closes. There's dust everywhere. Worst of all, you get confronted with the nightmare that is a shared bathroom. Not a space to yourself, but one that the other workers on the ranch will intrude on whenever they please.

You tiptoe back into your room, a towel wrapped around your body now. Water drips from your hair and skin, leaving a trail from the bathroom door to your dresser. You grab your hairbrush and startle when someone knocks on the door.

"All settled in?"

"Give me a minute", you say, rolling your eyes. Another knock, this time more impatient. "Jesus, what do you want?"

"I have work for you, so chop chop! Enough spa time."

You almost hesitate. She's your boss, technically. Then again, she's asking for it. You whip around and rip open the door, making her falter right in front of your eyes.

The towel is clinging to your damp skin. Your thighs are plush underneath. A water drop rolls down your collarbone. Your cheeks are flushed, your hair damp, and you can see the exact moment she loses her train of thought — before snapping out of it.

"Get dressed", she barks. "And then come outside."

Natasha leaves the bunkhouse. The wooden door slams shut behind her, rusty hinges squeaking and walls shaking. You smile and turn around to grab your suitcase. Surely she'd appreciate you wearing a more appropriate outfit for work.

By the time you get to the paddock, Natasha's distracted herself with the task of refilling the water and letting the horses back out of their cages. You stop next to the barn and peek inside. She's putting a bridle on a black horse. You can barely see a flash of red hair over the open stall door.

Liho says the nameplate on the stall. It's the only hand painted one. You cross your arms over your chest and lean against the doorframe, idly watching her. She gets up, pats the Friesian's neck and turns around. 

There's something about her that intrigues you. You wouldn't fuck her, probably — she seems too uptight for that. But she also seems so disciplined, so in control, that you wonder whether you could make her drop that persona for even a second.

She grabs a lead and turns back around. The sleeves of her Henley are rolled up, and dried mud is clinging to her boots. She seems distracted enough to give you the illusion of being undetected still. It's exactly why you flinch when she speaks up.

"Go into the hayloft and make some space."

You blink. "What?"

"Hayloft", she repeats. "Make space. I'm getting more hay bales tomorrow, I need the loft door to be free."

"Sounds like a shit ton of work."

"That's because it is."

Natasha leads Liho out of the stall and through the barn door. You quickly step aside. The horse is huge.

"You're not going to show me how it's done?", you ask, giving her a doe eyed look. "I could use some guidance."

She barely reacts. Hell, barely even looks at you — you're in a ribbed top, with a new pair of shorts. It's inappropriate, but she's always been someone to notice bodies, whether she likes it or not. The issue is that you're younger, and that the unspoken rule of ranchers not getting personal with staff keeps lingering in her mind. 

"They're hay bales", she says sharply. "I think you can handle that. When you're done, grab a bag of feed and get it outside."

"And those are...?"

"Feed room."

You open your mouth. Natasha takes one glance at your lips, silently halts every thought that was about to spill, and cuts you off.

"You'll figure it out. Now go."

Slightly miffed but nevertheless amused, you shut your mouth. You're getting her closer and closer to snapping. Natasha turns back around, her hold on Liho's lead a little too tight.

Ten minutes later, all kinds of amusement you felt earlier are gone. What's left is sweat, sweat everywhere, on your thighs and arms and brows. You take a deep, annoyed breath before picking up the next hay bale. It nearly slips from your damp fingers.

"How's it going?"

You almost drop the hay bale. Natasha, sensing you'd have your troubles with this task, decided to leave Liho in the paddock and see how you're doing. Apparently, not even your extremely low expectations were met.

"Great", you mutter, tightening your grip. "Don't you have work to do?"

She eyes the dampness sticking to your skin. "Warm up here, huh?"

You clench your jaw. It's not 'warm' — it's like being boiled alive. Summers in rural Wyoming are hot, but being trapped in a loft with a ton of hay and little to no ventilation? Doing physical labor you are not used to? 

You haul the hay bale to the other side of the loft, where you've been stacking them. The loft door is almost free, aside from one or two hay bales you still have to move. 

"Finish up here", she says, tapping her knuckles against the wall before starting to go down the ladder again, "then get me that feed bag."

Half an hour later, once the horses are in the paddock and having their second feed, you drop into the grass by the fence. Not just the grass is cold, but the air is cooling down as well, which is much welcomed. You're not used to hauling things around, so doing it for an hour straight managed to suck all energy from you.

Natasha isn't impressed. Your complaints fell on deaf ears, but that doesn't mean they haven't been ticking her off. You're trying, she can see that, but you're also exactly what she's always refused to hire — a girl from the city, someone who's had their every wish come true since the day they were born, who rejects any kind of effort. Sweet, yes, maybe a little naive in a sense, but bratty and mouthy as well.

"Get up", she says, closing the fence. "I have work for you."

You stare at the grass, absently smoothing down your baby hairs. The heat made them stick up like little antennas.

"What?", you finally ask, looking at her.

"Work", she repeats. "No rest for the weak. I got some water troughs that need to be scrubbed before I get the horses back into their stalls."

You shake your head. "You're joking. I haven't even had lunch yet!"

She raises her eyebrows. There go the complaints again, she thinks. Her eyes flit to the grass stains on your thighs.

"That's why you pack lunch", she says. "You'll survive. Now go."

You exhale. Your hand absently rips out a few blades of grass. "No", you say, defying her for the first time that afternoon. 

Natasha stares at you. Part of her is surprised it took that long to hear that word come out of your mouth. When she saw you for the first time, just hours earlier, she feared it'd happen much sooner. 

"No?", she repeats. 

"No", you say. "No, I'm not scrubbing your stupid troughs. I'm covered in sweat, I'm hungry, and those hay bales killed my arms. So no."

A few seconds pass. You expect the worst — pack your stuff, call your parents, get the hell out of here. You're not in the position to be demanding things. You're here to work, give it your all, even if you're about to pass out.

Or so you thought. Natasha crosses her arms and nods at the bunkhouse.

"There's stuff in the fridge", she says. For some reason, she's pleased you didn't fold. "What?"

You're staring. Unmoving. "You're joking", you repeat, this time for a different reason.

"Get your ass into the kitchen", she says. "What, I thought you were hungry?"

"I am."

"So?" She nods at the bunkhouse again. "Go on, I don't have all night."

You give her another wary look. When she doesn't react — not a word, nor look — you push up from the ground and wipe your hands on your shorts. 

Ten minutes later, you're back in the barn. You and Natasha work next to each other, scrubbing in silence, and for the first time that day, you don't seem to mind being there that much.

. . .

Early morning. You weren't supposed to get up before 7am — but the stupid chickens are loud, and even after a week of being on the ranch you still aren't used to them, so you slipped into the shower an hour before your alarm would've gone off. 

Natasha's been up for a bit longer than you. Work doesn't allow her to sleep in, after all, and she likes to get her morning chores done as quickly as possible. Feed the horses, check the water troughs, clean the stalls. Only once the horses are outside, she lets herself grab her bowl of oatmeal.

Summer mornings are when she's most alive. Out here on her ranch, they're special. Cold air, golden light. It's like the whole ranch gets to exhale for once. Of course she had to hire the one person that could ruin them for her.

"Up and about already?", you call, shutting the door to the bunkhouse after you. "You wake up this early every day?"

Natasha doesn't look up. "Some people have work."

"I'm working too, aren't I?"

"I suppose."

She can't hear your footsteps in the soft grass, but she can tell you're coming closer. She's right — moments later, the fence moves ever so slightly as you climb onto it.

Her eyes move on their own accord. They find a pair of cowboy boots, bare legs straddling the fence, a pair of smooth hands holding on tight. She looks at your face and raises her eyebrows.

"Can't tell me you don't get lonely out here", you tease. "Where's the rest of the crew?"

"Taking care of stuff", she says vaguely. "You're in a good mood. I don't like it."

You shoot her a grin, the sun hitting all of you. Natasha turns her head away again. You're a disruption, but somehow, you fit into this a little too well. Now that you're not sweaty and pissed off about having to haul around heavy hay bales, you almost seem to like it.

The horses seem to like you, too. Natasha watches Liho come closer, her head bobbing slightly in your direction, ears forward. You reach out your hand without thinking, and the Friesian sniffs it before nuzzling your palm.

"Huh", Natasha mutters. "At least someone's warming up to you."

Liho doesn't like most people. Natasha knows better than to tell you that, though. You'd never let her forget, she's sure.

Your fingers brush along the horses face, up to the top of her head. 

"What shampoo does she use?"

Natasha tilts her head, and you nod at Liho.

"She's very soft", you add. You pause, eyes twinkling. "Hey, when do I get to saddle up and ride one of these?"

Her reaction is immediate and blunt. She slides off the fence with a scoff, empty bowl in hand, and steers Liho away from you. Not just anyone gets to touch her horses, let alone ride them. Letting Liho come so close in the first place is something she didn't expect from herself.

"You've got work to do", she dismisses. "I left some tack in the barn. It needs cleaning."

You roll your eyes, swinging your leg off the fence. "Like I know how to do that."

"Sponge", Natasha immediately fires. "Soap. Condition the leather when you're done. Can't be that hard."

Somehow, her snippy response doesn't stun you in the slightest. Your lips curl a little instead — you expected her to snap out of it sooner or later. She's got a reputation to keep, after all. Can't let herself soften up even a little. Especially can't let herself get softened up by the spoiled city girl.

She watches you head to the barn, one hand pressed to Liho's crest. Out of sight, out of mind, but you never stay out of sight for long.

She's caught herself thinking about you more than once. They're non work related thoughts, too, some curious, others dismissive. She's trying to convince herself you're not all that. You're bratty, so mouthy she wants to slap you sometimes. 

Work is what distracts her best, so that's what she gets started on. She pats Liho's warm neck before leaving the paddock. She's got a new cow coming in around 9am, so she'll have to prep a pen and get some paperwork filled out. One of her horses is injured, and she'll take a look at the injury to decide whether a vet is necessary.

Her plan pans out. Over the next few hours, she doesn't even catch a glimpse of you. You have your list of chores now, ranging from sweeping barn aisles to checking the chicken coop for eggs. Mistrust has started to turn into something more secure.

The sun begins rising, the air starts heating up. Early morning shifts into noon. Natasha's used to how it makes the ranch change within just hours. Everything is sweaty and repressed, too hot to endure. This is when the accidental sunburns happen, when she starts snapping at people. You included.

You're lucky enough not to run into her, though. She gets the horses into the barn so they don't overheat and leaves again. 

It's lunchtime. She eats a bowl of rice and beans, leans back against the wall of the shed, and then dozes off. You round the corner to find her with one arm slung over her eyes and her feet crossed at the ankles.

You can't help yourself. Your eyes trail over her bare arms, tan and sweaty from the heat. Her breathing is slow and even. You're not sure how long she's been asleep, but your footsteps didn't wake her up, so work really must've knocked her out.

You sink down next to her without thinking too much. Grass rustles, and Natasha lets out a quiet breath. It only takes minutes for her to wake up — she's not used to longer naps.

Your head tilts when her arm moves off her face. Drowsy eyes meet yours, and your lips twitch into a smile. She sighs and covers her face again, cheeks flushed from the heat and your proximity.

Her nap was short. She had some sort of dream, anyway, and though the details disappeared the moment she saw you sitting next to her, she distinctly remembers seeing your face.

"Got nothing else to do?"

"Thought you could use some company." You glance at her red cheeks. "You'll burn to a crisp out here."

"I'm fine", she mumbles. She peeks at your face. "Done with work?"

"All done."

"I don't believe you."

You roll your eyes, shifting until you're sitting cross legged. Natasha looks again, finding the grass stains on your thighs and the sweat soaking into your top before she can look for either.

"Alright", she says. "Let's find something else for you to do."

You scoff, watching her get up like it's nothing. You're not used to the chickens, and you're definitely not used to the heat and how it affects everything you do. 

"Now?", you complain. "It's sweltering." 

"Mhm", she hums. She nods at you. "Get off your ass."

You furrow your eyebrows. "No way."

"No?"

You shake your head. You expect some sort of reaction — snapping, getting impatient, anything. Natasha shrugs and walks around the shed instead, disappearing from your sight. When she doesn't return, you hum happily and plop into the grass. The second you stretch out, cold water shoots straight at your legs.

You jolt up with a gasp, trying to pull away, but the stream of the hose moves up to your chest. You roll over and scramble up, Natasha laughing behind you.

"Wasn't that hard", she says, turning the water off. You glare at her.

"You're a fucking asshole, you know."

"Asking you nicely wasn't working", she shoots back. "Come on. The horses need grooming."

You stay rooted in place, your soaked clothes clinging to your body. Natasha nods at you and starts walking. You have no choice but to follow.

. . .

At sunset, everything burns orange.

The animals are fed, the ranch is quiet. Most of the horses are back inside the stable, and the workers are finishing up for the day. So are you — you did the last water check of the day, collected the tools left in the field and then made your way into the kitchen.

You're outside now, getting closer to the pasture. The heat has mellowed, but the grass brushing your ankles is still a little warm. You pause by the fence when you see Liho.

Natasha takes all her horses for rides, but Liho gets special treatment. You lean against the fence and watch her. 

From the other side of the fence, it looks easy. The reins in her hand are slack, her body less tense than when she's doing stuff around the ranch. There's that cowboy hat on her head, too, pulled low enough to hide some of her face. 

Dust gets kicked up, and Liho speeds up a little. Hooves hit the ground, a galloping steady rhythm you'd remember for a while. 

Natasha isn't doing much steering. Instead, Liho is in control. They're partners, you realize, and maybe that's why it looks so easy. Like you could do it too.

Natasha seems more at ease out here. You were mostly staring at the horse at first — the rhythm of her gait, and the sunlight hitting her black fur — but then, your eyes trail back up. A cowboy hat, a red braid down her back, and her top darkened at the spine.

It's hot. She's hot. She's older, competent, her thighs gripping the saddle in a way that makes you think about your own thighs gripping her. You still wouldn't fuck her, but you let your thoughts drift a bit, only enough to get a taste.

Natasha still hasn't spotted you. She's put quite some distance between herself and the ranch, as she tends to do when she takes Liho out for rides. She doesn't always go far, though, so she clicks her tongue and makes Liho turn back around. 

They slow as they approach the fence, and you abandon your daydreams the moment she notices you.

Her eyebrows rise in silent question. You shift, almost leaning your full body weight against the fence, and tilt your head up. 

"That was good."

"That's it?", she asks. "Good?"

"Very good", you drawl, a smile forming on your face. Natasha scoffs, bringing Liho to a stop right in front of the fence.

"Why are you out here?", she inquires. "You're done with work?"

You roll your eyes and lean backwards, hands gripping the fence. "Christ. All I hear from you is work, work, work. You should lighten up a little. Maybe get high sometime."

At the mention of drugs, her face turns disapproving. She grabs the saddle horn and swings herself off Liho's back, landing on her feet. You don't make a move to help her open the gate.

"You're sure you won't let me ride?", you ask, walking back to the ranch with her. 

Natasha glances at you. "You know how to ride?"

"You're doubting me?"

"Thought that was obvious."

You slip into the stable together. Natasha takes the reins off Liho, puts the saddle aside. She's trying to be subtle, but she knows you can tell she's thinking about it. The thought of you on a horse doesn't sit right with her — you may think you know everything, but you don't, and testing that luck on the back of a horse sounds plain stupid. 

She turns around to you leaning against one of the stalls, your hand stretched out to let the horse inside sniff it. She sighs and feels herself cave.

"You'll do what I say", she says.

You look at her. "What?"

"I'll teach you how to ride", she says, waving her hand dismissively. "But you'll do what I say."

It's a bad idea — she can tell by looking at your face. But Natasha's not someone to back out, so it's too late now.

. . .

The heat isn't the only reason your top is soaked. 

It's early afternoon. Though it's still hot, you've passed the peak heat threshold. You were adamant about getting this done today, and since Natasha has plans for the night, you were forced to ditch your usual nap.

You expected this to be easier. You're on the back of a horse, your body rigid. The stallion is only walking, but all his back muscles are moving from side to side, almost like a boat rocking on water.

Natasha furrows her eyebrows — she keeps giving you instructions, but you keep bouncing anyway. She doesn't want to imagine what a trot would look like.

"You good up there?"

You curse, sweat running down the back of your neck. "Fuck. You make it look easy."

"That's the point", she says. "Hey, sit deeper. Heels down, balance on the stirrups. You're starting to bounce again."

Natasha smirks. She chose her easiest horse for you — a Tennessee walker, chestnut brown, thirteen years old and calm enough to deal with someone inexperienced. She loves Rocket almost as much as she loves Liho. He's the gentlest of the bunch.

Yet, you're managing to irritate the stallion like no other has before. He slows down when you tug at the reigns. The movement is far from gentle, and he comes to a full halt with his ears pinned and his tail swishing. Natasha stares at you, her arms crossed.

"What?", you finally ask, all out of breath. You still manage to sound defiant.

"You were bouncing", she clarifies. "A lot. Liho would've sent you flying to the other side of the ranch."

You narrow your eyes, the reigns feeling slippery in your sweating hands. "I think I was doing more than okay."

Rocket stomps, sending dust flying. He doesn't seem to agree with you. Natasha glances at him, then steps to your side. Her hand cups your knee.

"Don't grip", she says, repositioning it. "Relax a little, alright? We'll go slow and steady."

A warm palm pressed right against your knee. You feel it through your jeans, heartbeat thudding as it slides up to your thigh. Natasha looks up, and you meet her eyes. 

Neither of you says anything. She doesn't move her hand, either. It stays on your thigh, feeling the heat radiate from beneath worn denim. 

"Scoot a little."

You kink your eyebrows at her words. She's let go of your thigh to grab the cantle of the saddle, her eyes still locked with yours. You do as she says, making space behind you, and she climbs up.

Her heat is the first thing you notice. It's different than regular summer heat — it's alive, moving, suddenly all over you when her arms reach around your middle. She grabs the reins, but you barely notice them slipping out of your hands.

Then, her scent. You're not sure what cologne she uses, but it's all over you too. Her breath hits your shoulder and she tightens the reins.

"Don't be so tense", she mumbles, getting Rocket to walk again. "Feel how I'm sitting?"

You let out a breathy laugh. "Oh, I feel it."

"Ease into it", she encourages. "Don't lean forward so much."

You rarely listen, but this time, you do. You lean backwards, right against her chest, and Natasha's eyebrows furrow. This is what she wanted, isn't it? It feels wrong, anyway. If anyone catches her all snuggled up with the stable girl, she'll become the talk of the town in no time.

To her frustration, it feels nice as well. Your back is snug against her front, and the fact you're not moving shows you're starting to trust the whole process. When you're not rambling and complaining all the time, you're a delight to be around. 

She does it without telling you first. You only realize when Rocket starts speeding up and you go back to bouncing in your seat.

"Are you crazy?", you protest, teeth chattering. "Slow down!"

"Move with the horse", she replies. "You're all bouncy again."

You want to talk back to her, but Rocket keeps speeding up and forcing your attention on him. The wind is a furious blast at this point, too dry and hot to feel nice. Your eyes are tearing up, your thighs are burning with the effort of gripping the saddle, and the only reason you haven't been sent flying backwards off the horse is Natasha.

She tries to bite back a smirk. Making you suffer has become a fun pastime by this point. She can feel your heart slamming against your ribs where her arm is pressed against your side, panicked as a rabbit, and decides to have mercy.

It only lasted a minute, but it felt like forever. Rocket slows down until he's back to walking comfortably, and you sit there with your mouth shut and your hands locked around the saddle horn.

"Wasn't that bad", Natasha argues, adjusting her hat. "You're still too tense, though."

"Fuck off", you mutter. You glance at her when she dismounts, her eyes full of amusement. "My ass hurts."

"Mhm", she hums. "Try walking."

You don't get it at first, but once your legs hit the ground, you understand — your thighs are sore, your legs jelly. Natasha can't help but think about all the little foals she's watched take their first steps.

"Right in time for the summer fest", she says, closing the gate to the paddock. "You're joining?"

You give her a look. "Me?"

"You", she nods. "Take the night off. Why not?"

Part of her hopes you'll say no. The night will be easier to navigate without you there. Alcohol, loud music, dancing, guys hitting on girls. She'd spend the entire time making sure you don't get into trouble.

You grin and reach over, almost snatching the hat off her head. She swats your hand away.

"Sure", you say. 

Natasha exhales, her hand holding onto the brim of her hat. Of course.

. . .

Just like that, all of a sudden, you fit in. It's unlike any party you've ever been to, but you're not out of place — on the contrary. No one batted an eye when you walked in. No one but Natasha.

It's one of the ranch hands that helped you. She walked past as you were trying on some of the clothes you brought, not that there were a lot, and suggested you borrow some of hers. A sundress and a pair of cowboy boots later, you're stepping into what has to be a repurposed old barn.

You don't see Natasha in the herd of people crammed into the large space. They're moving, constantly, alcohol in their hands and loud music drowning out most of their voices. A man squeezes by, then reverses, his hand stretching out.

"Dance?", he asks. You glance at the sweat forming on his upper lip.

"I'm good."

"No worries", he says loudly, moving along. You turn around and start making your way through the crowd.

Country music is playing. It's a cover of an artist you somewhat know, performed by a local band. Fairy lights are strung across the ceiling, wrapped around wooden beams. It's a warm night, but all the dancing bodies are trapping heat and making it unbearable.

You step over a puddle of beer to reach the small bar they set up. Natasha, sitting on the other side of the room, keeps a close eye on you. You're young, full of dumb decisions. If she isn't careful you'll end up too hungover to work tomorrow.

She's watching you, and she knows others are watching her doing that. Word spread fast. It took one neighbor spotting the two of you on a horse together, and now, the entire town knows. Nobody is sure what exactly they know, but they're talking about it, anyway.

"That's Romanoff's new girl", a woman says. "Sweet thing."

"Whiskey in a tea cup", her friend replies. "They're all the same, ain't they?"

Natasha doesn't look up. You're leaning against the bar, arms crossed atop it. You're on your tiptoes, rocking up and down and smiling at the bartender. He slides over a glass of bourbon.

You turn around and spot her. She's sitting on a wooden stool, her legs spread and her sleeveless top exposing the firm outlines of her arms. You pause for a second, the whiskey glass lifted to your lips, before taking a couple steps towards her.

She gives a thin lipped smile and holds up her beer. "You made it."

"Barely", you say, sliding into the seat next to her. A small round table separates you. "The directions you gave me were faulty."

"I'm sure." 

"Be glad I didn't get lost", you tease. "You'd miss me on the ranch. Don't deny it."

She doesn't. She leans back and looks at you, her eyebrows raised, before nodding at the party happening around you. "What do you think?"

Your eyes sweep across the room. They've started to line dance now — at least a handful have. Kids are running around, disrupting the flow of the dance, and the music has become even louder.

"Very tame", you grin, looking at her again. "Could turn it up a notch. But it ain't bad."

"Ain't?", she repeats.

"You pick stuff up."

Natasha laughs and nods, bringing the beer back up to her lips. She hasn't had a lot of beer yet — only half a bottle — but she has a feeling she'll need more.

The party keeps moving at a breezy pace. Alcohol flows, people chat. Men ask women for dances. Natasha stops talking after a while, her eyes absently scanning the crowd. She only snaps out of it when a man comes up to you.

She anticipated it. She sees the stares, and to be blunt, she understands the stares. The sundress you're wearing is short, barely reaching your knees. Then, the cowboy boots. The face topping it all off.

He grabs your hand and pulls you to your feet. Before Natasha can deflate in her seat, you reach for her and tug her along.

"Can you dance?", you ask. She bumps into someone and curses. It's too loud.

"What?"

"Teach me!", you yell.

You end up in the crossfire of the crowd, bodies colliding, her wrist in your hand. You spin around and get closer. Natasha, who's starting to believe she may have never had a choice in the first place, puts one hand on your waist and grabs yours with the other. 

It's a simple two step. Easy enough, she's hoping. She's done it countless times before.

"Like this", she tells you. "Look at my feet. Quick, quick, slow, slow."

You nod, pressing closer and following her movement. Quick, quick, slow, slow, and you step on her foot.

"Dang it!"

"Don't cuss", she says. "Come on. It's easy."

You find your way back to her, getting closer until your front is almost flush with hers. Cowboy boots stomp and scrape the wooden floors. You feel her breath and watch her face get more flushed.

Your fingers tighten around hers. She lets go of your waist to spin you around and pull you closer again. It's not quite how you two-step, but she thinks she can make an exception here.

"Again", she says. "Two quick, two slow. Don't look at me, look at your feet."

"I am", you lie. You're staring right at her. 

It's the alcohol, probably. Granted, she had less than a bottle, and it was just some beer. She still needs an explanation for this. Why else would her voice soften?

"Doing good", Natasha mumbles, slightly out of breath. "One more."

The song ends way too quickly. You're halfway into a spin when it stops, and you both come to a stuttering halt. You stay glued together for a moment, until it starts becoming obvious to both you and the people around you, and then she pulls away.

You watch her return to her seat. Her attitude flipped, and it's apparent. She's back to being exactly how she was the day you first met her. 

You stand there and stare for a second, breath heaving and brain running on full speed. Do you approach her? Not now, probably. Doesn't sound smart. 

You turn around and go back to the bar for a second drink. Tennessee whiskey, the bartender recommends. He slides over a tumbler full of it before proceeding to ask whether you're free tonight. You shake your head and dip. 

The whiskey is a little lighter than the bourbon was. It's a punch of vanilla and spice, hitting your throat and your blood alcohol levels right away. You linger next to the wall and finish the tumbler in small sips.

You're not looking at Natasha. You're not even sure where she went — her seat was empty when you looked at it again, and now, you can't find her. It's for the better, probably. Maybe you pushed it too far. She's still your boss, after all.

The people around you start dancing again. It's a slow two step this time, and it's mostly lovers dancing to the song now. You watch them for a moment, shake your head at the same guy trying to pull you in for a dance, and then set your tumbler aside. You slip out through the door and into the chilly summer night.

They set up a tent next to the barn. There's people out here as well, barbecuing and drinking beer out of coolers. Your eyes sweep across the tables, but when you don't find what you're looking for, you turn around. 

You saw the river the day you got here. You didn't think it'd be close to the ranch, but you found it when walking to the summer fest. You find your way back to it now.

You hear the water before you see it. Moonlight reflects off the moving surface, the water glittering in the darkness. It smells clean, a little earthy, and you sit down on the piece of timber next to it. 

It's calm out here, quiet. Your thoughts go back to Natasha, to the dance and everything surrounding it. You didn't do anything wrong, you're sure. She could've said no and returned back to her seat. She didn't have to get so close. 

You don't know how long you sit there before you start to hear footsteps. You turn around when gravel crunches, only to look straight at Natasha. She's got her hat pulled low, her face almost covered.

When she noticed you were gone, she freaked out a little. You had alcohol, after all. The area is considered safe, and locals don't see an issue with being out late at night; but you're not from this town, and for some reason, she thought you'd actually get lost this time.

"Christ", she mutters, stopping a few feet away from you. "What the fuck are you doing?"

You shrug. "Wanted to escape the noise."

"Could've told me you'd leave", she snaps.

"Didn't seem like you cared", you shoot back. "You disappeared first."

Her shoulders slump a little. She swore to herself she wouldn't, but she feels guilty. Now that she's looking at your face, she does. There wasn't anything else she could've done, though. That dance tested every boundary she set up for herself.

She kicks at some gravel, then walks up to you.

"I went outside", she clarifies. "I needed some space. Took me two minutes until I came back."

You give her a defiant look, but the embarrassment sits deep in your chest. Maybe you overreacted. You shouldn't have wandered off.

"How was I supposed to know?"

"You weren't", she admits. "But don't do that again."

"You sound concerned", you tease, straightening up. She lifts her eyebrows. "Why's that?"

Gone is the embarrassment. Natasha stares at you, her jaw twitching. She can't explain herself, but lord knows you'll come up with something. Whether that'll end up being true is a question she won't answer.

"I think it's time for bed", she says. "You sound drunk. How much did you have?"

"Not nearly as much as I'm used to", you dismiss and get up. "Now answer my question."

You're face to face now, the distance between you becoming smaller. Natasha feels her body go rigid when it shrinks to inches, you suddenly all up in her space, smelling of whiskey and a perfume you managed to bring.

Heat all over her skin. She exhales, trying not to panic. Everything is still under control. It's late, you're both tipsy, your hormones are acting up. Then, your hands settle on her waist, and her head dips instinctively.

Her lips hover in front of yours. She can almost taste the whiskey she's smelling, and that's when you let out a breathy laugh.

She freezes, her eyes searching your face. You're way too close, yet you're not backing away. You're smiling, daring her, and she refuses to play along and give you the satisfaction.

"Party's over", she says quietly. She takes a step back. "We're going home."

"Tired already?", you say, hands slipping. "I could go all night."

"I'm sure you could", she mutters. You make your way back to the trail that leads to the ranch.

It's silent between you now. You're walking next to each other, side by side, the moon only providing enough light for you to vaguely discern your surroundings. Natasha's wide awake and confused, slightly irritated by her own behavior as well.

She walks you back to the bunkhouse with her hands in her pockets. You look at her when you stop in front of the door, and she takes a breath.

"I'm giving you the day off", she finally says. "Tomorrow."

"What?" You frown. "No. No, that-"

"You're taking the day off", she says, interrupting you. "Go for a walk. Visit your family. Whatever. Just..."

You raise your eyebrows. You thought Natasha would get sick of you. You didn't think it'd happen like this, though.

"I get it", you say. She licks her lips and nods, glancing at the door. "I'll stay out of your way."

The door creaks open. You disappear inside, no more words exchanged, and Natasha tries pushing down the feeling of regret bubbling up. Before she can change her mind and follow you into the bunkhouse, she turns around.

. . .

Without you, the stable feels empty. A dozen horses, grunting and blowing and chugging water, don't fill the silence. Natasha sets the broom aside and pauses, her mind drifting.

You were serious when you said you'd stay out of her way. Instead of joining her on the fence by the paddock for breakfast, as you've been doing the past week, you just...didn't show up. Maybe you were in the bunkhouse, still asleep, or maybe you left the ranch for the day. She doesn't know.

It's hot outside. She's done with work for now, which means she should take a break and get some lunch in. She's been thinking too much though, so she grabs a saddle and some tacks and enters Liho's paddock.

She hopes it'll be easier to distract herself when seated on a horse's back. She'll have to focus, both on the horse and their surroundings, and on herself as well. Maybe she'll stop regretting what she did last night.

Liho can sense the agitation inside her. She sidesteps, flicks her ears at Natasha's fumbling with the cinch. When she jerks the bridle, Liho tosses her head. 

"Sorry, sorry", Natasha mumbles. "All good?"

All she gets in response is a long huff. Natasha bites her lip — now they're both irritated.

She mounts up, anyway. She's sure Liho will feel better after a long ride as well, and though that's true, part of her also knows she's telling herself that to feel better about dragging her out into the early afternoon sun.

At this hour of the day, the fields are empty and endless. People are inside eating lunch and avoiding the heat. They get enough sun around here as it is. No need to soak it up.

Natasha pulls her cowboy hat lower to shield her eyes from the sun. She presses her heels into Liho's sides to coax her into a trot, the vast landscape next to them starting to move by at a quicker pace.

She has no real direction, and neither does Liho. All she knows is that they're getting further away from the town. If she knew, she may have turned around.

The soft lapping of water is what she hears first. Cottonwoods block most of her view, but once they've gotten past those, she spots the river.

You don't see her, but she sees you. You're wading through the water, only in white underwear and with your hair soaking wet. Water drops glisten on smooth skin, the sun lights up each inch of your body, and Natasha loses her train of thought.

That's where you went. Instead of going into the city or visiting your parents, you took a picnic trip to the river. There's a checkered blanket spread out next to it, with an empty plate and a bottle of water, and your clothes tossed onto a piece of wood.

Her eyes quickly find you again. Your bra is sheer from the water, and so are your briefs. She shifts on the horse, trying her best to keep riding before you notice her — but then you look up and it's too late.

Your eyes meet. Neither of you do anything about this. Water splashes against your thighs, you shoot her a smile, and that's when she tugs at the reins and makes Liho turn around.

Within seconds, they're gone. You stay in the water for another minute, then get out and dry yourself off with an old shirt. The way back to the ranch feels much shorter, but maybe that's because you're in a rush.

Natasha hears the gate creak from all the way in the stable. She pauses alongside Liho, whose ears perk up at the noise. She only gets to wonder about it for a few seconds, and then, the door opens.

You slip in, now in a dress and with your face glowy from the water. Natasha stops and stares. Maybe she got a heatstroke during those ten minutes she spent outside.

But no. You're real. You make a beeline for her, and when you're in proximity, she lets out a quiet noise.

"Why'd you leave?", you demand. Natasha exhales in a shudder. "I saw how you looked at me. So why'd you leave?"

She shakes her head, not saying anything. You furrow your eyebrows.

"Natasha", you empathize. "Say something. There's no way you have nothing to say to me."

"I don't", she snaps. "You're making this up."

Your breath is heavy. You step closer, until you're so close that she can smell the river water clinging to your skin and clothes. She swallows, her hands balling into fists.

"Liar", you whisper. She stares, her heart pounding, and then she closes that last bit of space left between you.

Lips, hot and plush and searching, press against yours. Her hands find your waist. You get closer, wrapping your arms around her neck, and part your lips to deepen the kiss. There you go, stumbling into something that might be the biggest mistake you could've possibly made, but neither of you consider it enough to care.

It's like the horses all shut up the moment you kissed. Natasha walks you backwards, her hands squeezing and groping at your now clothed hips. You end up against the wall in the small room that leads up to the hayloft. 

You don't stop. She nods her head to deepen the kiss, and you drum your fingers down her chest until you find the zipper of her jeans. She's got a very specific picture of you in her head — almost fully naked, only covered by small pieces of drenched fabric — and she's desperate to see it again.

"Wait", she pants, fumbling with your dress. "Can I?"

You nod frantically. The dress falls to the floor and Natasha's eyes dart lower. You let her stare for a moment, her hands keeping a tight hold on your hips, before you tip up her head. Her lips find yours again.

"Let's go upstairs", you tell her between kisses. She nods. 

The ground is covered in hay. You end up on your back, with Natasha on top of you. The first time you were in the hayloft, you hated her guts. Things have taken a turn for the better.

You've both been holding back for days, maybe weeks, and it shows. Her lips collide with yours, time after time again, before she starts moving her mouth down your jaw. Your fingers tangle in her red hair and you lift your head enough to watch her mouth drag across your chest.

She watches you take off your bra, her thumbs hooking into the sides of your briefs. You lift your hips enough to let them slide off.

"You're so flushed", you say, smiling at the pink color dusting her cheeks. "It's cute."

"Shush", she mutters. She buries her face in against your stomach, her hands smoothing down your thighs. Spit slick lips start making their way south and you gasp, your hips bucking.

It's frantic and dizzying. She gropes your thighs, her lips pressing against them and sucking marks into the supple skin. You're aching and soaked, each kiss making you more impatient.

"Natasha", you whine, reaching down to grab a fistful of hair. "There."

You guide her between your legs. She lets out a moan as her tongue presses against your cunt. Your back arches at the much needed sensation, and she only grinds her face deeper when she tastes you.

She's messy, you notice through heady arousal. Her kisses are sloppy, slick with spit and your own wetness. Her fingers are curled into your thighs with such force that you're sure they'll leave marks.

Your stomach tenses at her tongue pushes in deep. One hand is buried in her hair, the other uselessly scratching at the wooden floor you're on.  Your hips twitch upwards when she buries her entire face against you.

You'll come way too soon. She's eager, unrelenting, shoving you towards an orgasm you already know will knock all air out of you. You clench around her tongue, your chest heaving and sweaty, and let out another loud moan.

Natasha does hope no one will waltz into the stable while you're up there. Most of her workers stay out unless she asks them to do something, but she can never be sure. It's not enough to make her stop, though — especially not now that you're so close.

Heat floods you. She's eating you out like she's trying to fit all of you into her mouth at once. Energy has coiled deep in your belly, you can't think anymore, and when the coil snaps, it all floods outwards in one overwhelming burst.

Your back arches and your head falls backwards. Muscle spasms all throughout your body, and when they begin to slow down, Natasha lifts her head. You give a lazy glance at her face.

"Fuck", you mumble, still out of breath. Her face is a mess. 

"That bad, huh?"

You grin and reach out for her. She crawls up and kisses your mouth, her fingers brushing your hair aside. The afterglow is hitting you hard, with your muscles limp and your brain on timeout, so Natasha rolls over and pulls you onto her chest. 

It's silent at first. Then, the noises of your surroundings break through the little bubble you created for yourself, and you start to hear the horses downstairs and cows outside. A truck drives past the ranch, the wind howls, and you nuzzle her neck.

"You could give me more days off, you know."

She lets out a weary laugh. "No shot. You'll be up 7am sharp tomorrow. I need you around here."

"Mhm?" You lift your head, eyebrows raised. "You do?"

"Just enough not to kick you out", she mumbles, pressing a kiss to your temple. "So don't tempt me."

You roll your eyes and slump into her chest again. You're not sure how long you stay like this — naked, curled up between stacks of hay, skin hot and heads fuzzy. The only thing you know is that something changed.

. . .

The animals can sense it before anyone else. The horses are restless, hind legs shifting and ears pinned, their tails swishing. The ranch dogs are pacing, following you around, and the chickens haven't left the coop since early morning.

You're still clueless. You're crouched next to the stable, a water trough in front of you. It's the third trough of the morning you're scrubbing. You're starting to get sick of it.

"How's it going?", Natasha calls. You look up and see her leading the horses outside. 

"I'll punch you."

"Yeah, yeah." She grins, walking towards the paddock. Liho stops and stomps, blowing air out through her nostrils. "Hey, come on. What's the matter with you?"

You frown at the Friesian. Liho is calm, usually — at least with Natasha she is. You've never seen her resist the paddock, either.

"Is she alright?"

"She's fine", Natasha dismisses. It's a sunny day, with a clear sky and a light breeze. It's not as hot as it's been the past weeks. "It might rain later. She's a little nervous, but she'll be better once we get her into the paddock."

You nod, reaching for the brush again. Your arms are starting to hurt, but it's the last trough you need to get cleaned, so you're pushing through it.

Over the next few hours, the weather changes. Dark clouds start crowding the sky, drowning out the sun. The temperature drops, and the light breeze turns into a wind that's gaining in intensity. 

You're sitting on the porch of Natasha's house, bowls of potato soup in your hands. She keeps forgetting to eat — not because she isn't hungry, but because she's watching the horses and the rapidly changing weather like a hawk. She's wary of storms.

"You okay?", you ask, licking the spoon clean. She glances at you. 

"Huh?"

"You seem distracted."

"Oh", she says. "It's okay. Just trying to gauge the situation."

You nod, the spoon clinking when you drop it into your empty bowl. You get up, lean over to kiss her cheek, and then make your way into the kitchen. Natasha watches you leave before shifting her focus back to the animals.

By 5pm, the sky has turned a dark gray. It's raining. Thunder rumbles in the far distance. Natasha's in the living room with you when she hears a noise outside.

Not just any noise — it's the horses, outside in the paddock, panicking. High pitched whinnies and sharp squeals, loud enough to travel from the paddock to the open window of her living room.

You lift your head, a frown on your face. "What was that?"

Natasha gives you a fleeting look. Outside, the thunder is getting louder. So are the horses. She gets up and reaches for jacket, her red hair loose for once. 

"The horses", she says, already slipping out through the door with a flashlight in her hand. "I have to go get them inside."

You trail after her. You're not sure whether you'll be of any help — she doesn't let you handle the horses by yourself, and she especially won't let today be the first time she does. You don't get far, anyway.

Natasha whips around. You stop right in front of the porch, feeling the rain start to soak into your clothes and hair. 

"What do you think you're doing?", she asks sharply. "Go back inside."

"I can't let you do this alone", you protest. You can see the paddock from her house. The horses are freaking out, and the storm that's started to roll in is only making it worse. "There's twelve of them, Nat!"

"Y/N, go inside", she repeats. "I'll be fine. Now go."

Truth is, she could use a helping hand. The issue is that you'd be absolutely useless. The horses weigh anywhere from a thousand to two thousand pounds. They've done damage without meaning to before, and now that they're under this kind of stress, she can't let someone who has no experience go near them.

You stand there, staring and doubting her. She's right, though. If you get injured, she'll have far bigger problems than a couple panicked horses.

You don't have a choice. You stay back on the porch and watch her hurry towards the paddock, her body becoming less visible the further she progresses.

It's a huge storm, the biggest of the summer so far. The rain is lashing at her face, the sky briefly gets lit up by lightning. She tries to quickly count the horses — and the result is sobering. She counts twice, and both times, she only gets to eleven.

On the other side of the paddock, she spots parts of the fence torn to the ground. Max is gone. 

She hears footsteps behind her. She whips around, expecting you to have rebelled against her orders and followed her outside, but it's Steve. She wouldn't trust most of the people working on the ranch with a situation like this, but she trusts him.

"Get them inside", she barks, already running towards Liho. "I need to find Max."

"On it!"

Natasha attaches the reins to her halter, then she swings herself onto Liho's bare back. No time, no saddle. 

It's not ideal, but she knew that. The storm is getting worse by the second. Liho's coat is slick beneath her jeans, and paired with her sharp movements, not falling off becomes a challenge. 

There aren't many horses she'd trust in a storm like this, though. When it comes down to it, Liho is the one she can count on.

She charges through mud, her head slightly lowered. Natasha's soaked through at this point, from head to toe, despite the jacket and thick boots. Her heart pounds as she scans the area around them, but Max is nowhere to be found.

Her best bet are the woods nearby. She remembers when another horse escaped once — her mother's, an old mare that passed a few years ago. It'd been storming as well. They ended up finding her seeking shelter in that same wooded area.

"Easy, girl", she pants, guiding her with her knees. They take a sharp turn, and Natasha nearly slides right off. "There we go."

Her hooves are thundering not unlike the storm raging around them. Natasha pans her flashlight between the trees, her eyes narrowed. Trees, trees, nothing but trees. She almost gives up, but she moves the flashlight to the left one more time and finds an all too familiar Appaloosa. 

Natasha exhales. Now comes the hardest part.

You're still on the porch, waiting, cold rain soaking you to the bone. It's been half an hour, maybe. You're not sure. You refuse to check. Your worry has grown rapidly, becoming almost unbearable. Each time you hear movement, you pause. Each time, it isn't Natasha.

Until it is. She's out of breath, her red hair dripping and her white top sheer. Her clothes are clinging to her skin. She looks up and quickly figures out you never left the porch.

"You're fucking insane", she breathes, hurrying up the stairs. "You're shivering!"

Her arms wrap around you. She leans in, her lips as cold as yours when she kisses you. You grab her face, the relief that she made it back safe suddenly the sweetest thing in the world.

"I'm fine", you dismiss. Her forehead leans against yours. "Did you find him?"

"He was in the woods", she says. "I went there with Liho. Getting them both back was a struggle, but we made it."

You make a noise at the revelation, but before you can voice the concerns flooding your head, she grabs you and steers you inside. Warmth hits you, and you only now realize how fucking cold you were.

She leads you all the way to her bedroom. You watch her grab a large towel and put it over your shoulders.

"I'm okay", you insist. She mutters a curse and begins drying you off. "Hey. Nat."

No shot. When she doesn't reply, you cup her face and pull her into a kiss. Sweat, rain, saliva mix between you, but neither of you care. The towel drops to the floor, her hands replacing it, and you press closer and closer as the adrenaline keeps rushing through your bodies.

Her palms are hot as they rub down your sides. You slide your own hands down her chest, pushing gently until she ends up seated on the bed with you in her lap.

"I'm okay, I'm okay", you whisper, placing frantic kisses along her jaw. "Don't you ever scare me like that again."

"You're still cold", she mumbles. Her hands find the front of your shorts. "Fucking idiot. You could've frozen to death."

"True", you hum against her skin. "Warm me up."

Heat shoots through her own body at your words. She opens your shorts and pulls them off, her hands smoothing up your thighs. You let go of her to tug off your top, and when she's met with the view of your bare chest, she lets out a quiet noise and leans in.

Your nipple is pebbled against her tongue. She sucks on it, gently scrapes it with her teeth. Your back arches and pushes more of the soft tissue into her mouth. One of her hands slips between your legs.

You're soaked in more than one way, it turns out. She moans, pumping her fingers into you and feeling how tight you are. You sigh at the stretch and slowly lower your hips to push more of her into you.

The rain hasn't stopped — it's only gotten worse. It's whipping against the windows, the wind howling and the storm raging. But you're inside, safe and warm, her fingers nestled between your legs, and whatever is going on outside is none of your concern.

You roll your hips down against her fingers, then lift them again. Natasha opens her eyes to look up at you. It's a view she could get used to.

Her thumb presses against your clit. You let out a shuddering exhale, starting to ride her fingers faster.

Each thrust makes you more desperate. You're sweaty, hot all over, chasing the discomfort you felt earlier away. She curls her fingers without warning, making you moan.

"Not cold anymore?", she mumbles. You shake your head. "Thought so."

You slump against her, hips still moving. Her hand moves with your hips now, fingers thrusting upward each time you sink down on them, and you feel them hit something that sends shock waves through you.

A deep thrust is all it takes, and you come around her fingers. The orgasm hits you hard enough to make you go still, but Natasha keeps pumping her fingers until you let out a quiet groan.

You end up in her bed together, bodies naked and covers pulled up high. Her head is on your chest, your fingers running through her damp hair. For the first time in hours, the storm outside begins to mellow.

. . .

"I could stay on the ranch", you suggest, watching her wipe the counter. She pauses.

"Bullshit. You've got school."

"I graduated."

"What about your master's?"

You shrug. She sighs and reaches for an apple, which she chops into uneven pieces. You grab a chunk and pop it into your mouth.

You've been having this conversation for days. You haven't managed to come to a conclusion yet. You don't want to leave, Natasha doesn't want you to leave, but she's right — you applied for a master's program at DU and got accepted. Backing out seems like a dumb idea.

You've only been here two months, after all. Your parents would kill you if you threw this opportunity away for a woman you, at least in their mind, hardly know.

"What?", you ask. "Don't think it'd be worth it?"

Natasha glances at you. "I don't know", she admits. 

"I think it would be."

She grimaces. You lean over and peck the frown off her face, then slide off the counter. You go outside, both of you, into the midday sun you've gotten so used to.

The fence has been fixed. Liho walks up to it and you feed her an apple chunk. You stay there for a while — you eat apple chunks, watch the horses. You end up climbing on the fence and balancing on it.

"We've got work", Natasha reminds you. She's standing in front of you.

"What?" You sigh. "Spare me. I've got two days left with you!"

"Work still needs to get done", she says. "That's the number one rule here."

You stare at her, not making a move to get off the fence. It doesn't take long for her to get fed up with you, and once she does, she wraps her arms around your thighs to get you back down.

"Hey!", you protest.

"Feed bags", she huffs, setting you down on your feet. "Now. You know where they are."

You give her a look that makes her hesitate. Then she leans in and kisses your mouth, quick enough to make it an apology, but not long enough to make her cave. Lord knows she'd rather be in bed with you than work.

The day flies by. You meet up a few times — after she repairs the barn roof, before you groom Rocket. You end up in the hayloft, behind the barn. She kisses you, her lips parting and your tongues meeting. You're both sweaty and tired from the heat, but neither of you care.

Time passes no matter how much you try to stretch those last days you have. The thought of leaving doesn't become easier. You were fighting tooth and nail when your parents said you'd work here over the summer, but now, you'd rather summer never ends.

Packing your suitcase feels more like a chore than ranch work does now. Natasha leans against the doorframe, watching you, until you slam the suitcase shut. She hesitates for a moment, then makes her way over to you.

"Got everything?", she asks, wrapping her arm around your shoulders. 

"Pretty sure I do."

It's quiet inside the bunkhouse. Everyone else left for the day — Natasha shooed them into town to grab a few things and to leave the two of undisturbed. She's not sure wants them to see her watching you leave.

She leans in to kiss you. It's tame at first, only a press of lips, but you quickly become more frantic. You grab the front of her top and clash her lips back against yours, a moan escaping you.

You don't have enough time, you both realize, but you end up against the wall anyway. Right as you push her hand between your legs, a car honks outside. You part with a sigh.

"That's it, huh", she mumbles, her cheeks a little more pink than usual. 

"I could tell them to leave", you plead. She shakes her head. "It's not like it's their decision."

"It's not", she agrees, then hesitates. "Come on. I'll get your stuff."

Ten minutes later, you've shoved everything into your parents' car. You poke your head out of the window, absently biting your lip. There isn't much left to say now.

Natasha leans against the fence. Her lips pull into a small smile. She feels her heart in her throat.

"This time, next summer?"

"You know it."

You feel the car start when your father turns the ignition key. It begins to roll, slowly but never slow enough, and you let out a shaky exhale. Natasha tips her cowboy hat, watching you leave until the car is out of sight.

You freeze at her teasing words, every fiber in your body on high alert. What does she mean with that? Does she…?

For a moment, your mind just stalls, caught somewhere between the ridiculousness of the situation and the strange awareness creeping up your spine. Is she just joking like she always does, tossing out comments like that without even thinking about them twice? Or is she aware, fully aware, of the effect they have, of the way your thoughts suddenly trip over themselves the second she speaks like that? She sounds casual, effortless even. But there’s something about the timing, the tone, the way she doesn’t immediately explain herself… like she’s watching you sit with it. Like she’s letting you.

And somehow, that makes it worse.

Turning slowly, you find Emily leaning against the nearby filing cabinet, arms crossed, her mouth curled into a smirk that could end careers. Her gaze? Not anywhere near the copier.

Your heart does something inappropriate in your chest, and you really wish it would stop doing that around her.

“Excuse me?” you say, the attempt at composure cracking halfway through.

“I said,” Emily repeats, taking a step closer, “you might want to stop giving the printer a show. It’s getting ideas.”

You scramble to stand, brushing your hands on your thighs in a desperate attempt to look normal, but the heat in your cheeks betrays you. Emily notices. Of course she does.

Her eyes trail over your face, and she leans in just slightly, voice softer now. “Relax. I’m only teasing.”

“Right,” you mumble, avoiding her eyes and suddenly very interested in the jammed paper again. “Because that’s comforting.”

Emily chuckles low in her throat. “You make it too easy, you know that?”

Your fingers fumble on the paper tray. “Do I?”

“Oh, definitely.” She steps closer, reaches around you, her arm brushing yours, and presses a single button. The light on the copier turns green. “You just needed to reset it.”

You blink at the machine. Then at her. “I knew that.”

“Of course you did.” Her smile grows, satisfied and infuriatingly fond. “You’re just too flustered to think straight.”

You open your mouth to argue, but she’s already walking away, calling over her shoulder, “Let me know if the copier tries anything else. I’ll come supervise.”

You stare after her, pulse in your throat, wondering when exactly you lost the upper hand, and why a small part of you never wants to get it back.